Originally, Roger considered making Billy Blackhorse Singer in Eye of Cat a Hopi. On later consideration, he made Billy a Navajo because of that nomadic people’s legendary adaptability. In her tale, Kathi Kimbriel shows the compelling power of the more traditional, sedentary Hopi—a people whose myths contain the secrets of the future.

IF I TAKE THE WINGS OF MORNING

KATHARINE ELISKA KIMBRIEL

THEY WERE EARLY; THE SHUTTLE HAD BEATEN EVEN THE SUN to Third Mesa. Silver sky was giving way to growing eastern light as the transport hatch swung open with a harsh metallic crack. Within the frame of rock and dry scrub before her, Brenna saw a jackrabbit shocked out of hiding; it plunged off into the brush, its white tail a flag of warning.

“Any regrets, woman?”

Duncan’s choice of words caused her to tense; then she realized he had spoken in the tongue of her childhood, and her spine relaxed.

“Nay, Duncan,” she answered in the same pidgin, conscious of the fresh-faced soldier behind them. “I told you I’d take this job for you, and neither drought nor death will sway me.” Laying a delicate hand upon his bronzed, gnarled arm, she added, “Just because the military is here doesn’t mean it wasn’t an accident.”

The old man grunted, stepping heavily from the open hatchway into the dirt. “The problem with you, niece, is that you have no fear.” Turning, he accepted the flight packs the silent private held out to him.

Smiling thinly, Brenna shook back her dark hair, trying to capture its fullness in a thong. Even lifted from her neck, it drew a line of warmth where it lay curling down her spine. “Ah, no, Duncan,” she protested, this time in Englaz. “I’m a Celt, and we Celts fear only one thing— that someday the sky will fall upon us. Are we expecting thunderstorms?”

“The Hopi are,” their pilot said suddenly. A tattooed arm gestured toward the foot of the mesa. “The caves are there, and Colonel Asbin’s headquarters over by the road.”

Brenna’s gaze traveled up the sheer stone side of Third Mesa, up into the cloudless sky. Expecting rain? No one bothered to predict the weather out here, much less control it. She saw movement on the cliff; a farmer or shepherd descending a rocky footpath, ready for a day’s work in the valley.

“Hopi sinom,” Duncan said softly, setting the bags at her feet.

“Are they really the little people of peace?” Brenna asked, directing her words to no one in particular.

The pilot shrugged. “Other than making staff nervous with portents of doom, they’ve been harmless enough. At least they haven’t firebombed this dig like the Navajos did the other.” A vague gesture indicated that the aging geodesic tent closest to the cliff would be theirs.

Seizing the stiff strap, Brenna tossed her pack over one shoulder. Duncan’s bad back meant they traveled light— very light, this trip. I need no references, I know it blindfolded, he had told her back in Flagstaff. Studying her uncle’s bent, wiry frame, Brenna hoped so. The elderly man had been desperate for one last visit to the Hopi, and Brenna had wanted a light load after a year away from anthropology. This desolate slice of North America was as good a place as any.

From shadow to sun and then shadow again. The star was edging past the horizon, glittering like molten gold. It would be a standard August day, hot and dry. The green of the tiny farm plots was startling against the dust. How long have they turned that soil? she wondered. A village had existed on this site since 1150 A.D.: Oraivi, the oldest continuously occupied settlement on the continent. How much had the weather changed in that time?

“I recognize that lass,” Duncan murmured suddenly, nodding toward the smiling, sloe-eyed girl who had just left another of the urethane tents. “Ling A-Ttavitt, a decent site artist. You glance inside, eh?” Straightening, the man moved agilely to greet the student, giving Brenna some of the solitude she needed for her observations. Grateful for his perception, Brenna moved quickly toward the slit in the rock.

It was up a wash of shale; sentries stood at the bottom.

Brenna climbed the rubble handily, dropping her bag before the opening. Slipping into the narrow crevice, she was momentarily startled by low-intensity floods blazing at her entrance. The light bounced among mirrors leading under the mesa. So, Dr. Strand discovered the joys of electronic eyes… .

A short, winding corridor led to a wide chamber…The silence was profound. Sifted dirt lay deep at her feet, mute evidence that neither animal nor water had invaded this sanctuary in centuries. Then a Hopi had discovered the new cave entrance…This site might be too old for the memory of the tribe who lived above it, but it would be worth a try. She had no doubt Strand had not bothered to question the elders—only immutable history had interested him. A living tradition would have threatened old Strand.

Both pictographs and petroglyphs covered the walls of the chamber, the former in several colors, the latter deeply incised. Nodding absently, Brenna focused her eyes momentarily on the beckoning darkness beyond. She lowered herself onto a rock near the center of the grotto, studying the paintings in the indirect light. The color was still strong, indicating that the cave had been sealed a long time.

The pictures were interconnected, a story…Curiosity quivered within her; it had been a long time since she had felt any interest in her work. The riots had killed more than bodies…Brenna waited, listening for an inner voice. Nothing. It had been over a year since she had courted the ghosts of the past. Had her gift faded beyond recall? Was she finally—

A tendril of emotion touched her, like a finger of cold air. She shivered, oblivious to the rising temperature outside. There was something … Brenna stood, moving instinctively toward the inner corridor.

“It dead-ends.” A-Ttavitt’s voice was loud in the stillness, her presence startling Brenna.

Masking sudden annoyance, Brenna said coolly: “There’s been a shift, I can see some kind of small opening.”

“Where Dr. Strand was injured.” Brenna’s head snapped around at her words. “It triggered the heart attack.”

The feeling grew, drawing her. Not new ghosts; old ones. There was reverence, gentleness … the same uneasy sensation that touched her in cathedrals. Whirling abruptly, rejecting the thought, she rushed back down the corridor. A-Ttavitt hesitantly followed.

Duncan was waiting for them at the foot of the wash. “Ready for the mesa?” he asked, pausing to wipe sweat from his forehead with a bright red bandanna.

“Yes, old man, lead on and speak,” she replied in the home tongue, slipping an arm around him as they walked. A-Ttavitt’s face was a study in neutrality, hiding curiosity or confusion within.

“We came to this quickly,” Duncan observed in the same speech. In their years of working together, a language of privacy had evolved—a mixture of Gaelic, Cymric, and smatterings of anything else convenient. They normally did not use it in the presence of others.

“This one may be hard to shake,” she murmured, and then turned to the woman, who had moved up on their left. “Forgive me, Ms. A-Ttavitt, but I wanted to tell him of the pictographs, and my Englaz is sometimes a poor language for vivid description.”

“Of course,” A-Ttavitt said politely. Only her eyes held expression; they were wary.

Duncan stopped walking. “Ms. A-Ttavitt, there is no need to escort us. I haven’t forgotten the way into Oraivi. Why don’t you gather up all the disks on the dig, so we can examine them this afternoon. I know how they wander from the boxes.”

Clearly relieved to be dismissed, the frail woman hurried back toward one of the tents.

“Why her distress?” Brenna asked in home-speech.

“She is afraid of the Hopi. Asbin has been spreading all kinds of rumors, including that Strand was murdered by the very people who called him in.” Duncan placed his feet carefully as they continued up the dusty road.

“Any truth to the rumors?”

That slight shrug again, Duncan’s way of indicating that they should mind their own business. “Was Strand a healthy man? Of his old students, you probably knew him best.”

“A heart condition, completely controlled by medication. He was a tough old goat.” She smiled to keep up the premise of their discussion. There might be no monitoring devices on the path, but recent years had taught Brenna caution.

“We are supposed to be discussing pictographs. What do you think of them?’’

“From what immediately rose out of the memory tapes, I would say Hopi or Anasazi,” she responded.

“Humph. Memory tapes. They can’t be relied on. Feel anything?” This was intent; he knew her strange talent for “waking dreams,” and what triggered it. Knew that the sense had been balky of late.

“Possibly. A feeling of … awe … touched me, as if I was in Jerusalem again.” She considered the finger of presence that had beckoned. “There is more to the cave system than the front room. I’ll start tonight. Anything from A-Ttavitt on how they were found?”

“Found or made?”

Brenna smiled at the sharp words. “I think found, if you mean made recently.”

Duncan wheezed in reply. “Ms. A-Ttavitt says a shepherd found them—she doesn’t know why Strand was called in. She respected the old man’s solid technique, but she was no more blind to his limitations than you were.”

They were nearly at the top of the mesa. “A people of peace,” Brenna murmured in true Gaelic. “How certain can we be that it is still their way?”

“They managed to peacefully defeat the mineral exploiters and the Navajo,” was Duncan’s only answer.

By now Brenna was feeling the effort in her legs. “With the help of the government and the Navajos,” was her wry response. “How far would they have gotten if the coal mining had not been destroying the water table? And only the Navajo know why the threat of destroying their ceremonial fetishes caused that land ownership appeal to be dropped.” She stopped walking, leaning against the first rocky outcropping of the wall to catch her breath.

“It is a story they keep close to their hearts, how the Hopi came to be the keepers of the Navajo tiponis.’’ Duncan had no false pride; he sank against the rock, his breathing slow and deep.

After a sharp glance told her the old man was fine, Brenna looked out over the expanse of earth below, watching it flood with color as the sun rose higher. Sculptured rocks, fleecy sheep, rows of cotton, maize, squash…Heat baked them, light burning into their faces and reminding Brenna she had left her UV block in the camp. Feeling the slow pace steal into her bones, Brenna suddenly thought of her grandmother, and the woman’s fierce love of her land. Land that Winifred Carey had died for, as she would have died defending her God. Brenna had not been in Wales during the riots; had not been present during either of the incidents that had destroyed both sides of her family. She’d found that absence had not eased the pain.

“Grana would have liked this place,” she said aloud, lapsing into true Cymric even as she pushed her thoughts away.

“It’s a beautiful region, and the lack of machinery would have pleased her,” Duncan said tranquilly.

“No, I mean the living spirit of the Ian—”

“What did you say?”

At the soft Englaz question, Brenna nearly jumped off the side of the mesa. She whirled, seeking a source. Only a few rolling pebbles…Two sleek, dark heads slowly appeared at a hole in the wall, the children studying her thoughtfully.

“Whose words are those?” the older child asked, her Englaz precise.

Brenna smiled faintly. “It is the tongue of my mother’s people,” Brenna told her in Englaz. “Don’t you have a language you use only with your people?”

As the girl nodded solemnly, Brenna continued: “We are the anthropologists who have come to study the cave pictures. I would like to talk to some of your elders, to see if any of them remember stories about the paintings.” Bending her knees, Brenna peered through the opening in the wall. “Will you take us to them?”

Another moment, as if of decision, and then: “I’ll take you to my So’o. Come!” A gesture as swift as her words, and the girl was up and running, vanishing into the pueblos beyond.

“Wait!” What color was her shirt, how tall— Then Brenna realized the younger child remained, shyly watching out of the corner of an eye. Studying the chubby toddler in turn, Brenna decided that it was male. “Will you take Duncan and me into Oraivi?”

The youngster nodded, waiting for Duncan to stand. Uncertain, Brenna slowly offered the boy her hand. The child considered the pale, slender fingers, the delicate silver bracelet, and then extended a small, round hand in reply. Looking up at her, he softly said something in Hopi, and then began to lead her into the village.

Brenna could hear chuckling from behind her. “All right, expert—what did he say?”

“The word means ‘beautiful,’ “ Duncan answered in their home-speech, moving up to take her other arm. “I’ll leave you to guess if he meant you or the bracelet. The older one is taking us to her grandmother. She used the word for clan mother, so we may get some history after all.”

They were surrounded by sun-bleached adobe walls, jutting out of the mesa. If there was a pattern to the town, Brenna could not make sense of it; they were lost amid the narrow streets, following a cloud of dust.

The adults walking the streets and working before doorways politely averted their gazes, but Brenna heard the soft flow of Hopi voices behind them, and knew their presence had caused excitement. There had been trouble years ago, with outsiders entering the settlement at will— enough trouble that Oraivi had closed its doors even to scholars. Duncan had not visited the area in almost forty years.

It was a place of contrasts; a land dominated by smell and touch. A warm, capricious wind brought odors to her nose, of bread baking, ground cornmeal, newly washed wool; the sharp, familiar fragrance of sheep was strangely comforting. In a way, part of her heart had come home. Around Oraivi all things orbited, the spiritual center of the Hopi universe.

Another corner, and they were among a group of children. Solemn, colorfully dressed in blue cloth pants and traditional long-sleeved shirts, they actually stared at the newcomers in amazement, and were no less awed by the urchin leading them in. Brenna had a sudden fear of an irate Hopi mother rushing up to snatch away her son, but no adults materialized. Duncan sat down on a bench beside the small doorway, and gestured for her to do the same. Before she could join him, the little girl suddenly appeared from inside the pueblo, seizing her other hand.

“My So’o is asleep, but my brother is coming when his funny computer finishes spitting up,” the girl announced. “What’s your name?”

“Ah…Dr. Meghan Stewart,” Brenna chose to say. “What’s yours?”

This unleashed a flood of answers from the throng, rendering it impossible for her to hear any one name. In the midst of the shouting children and Duncan’s amusement, Brenna felt a tug on her sleeve. She had to bend forward to hear the small boy’s hesitant Englaz.

“What your real name?”

The question so astonished Brenna she merely stared in response. She did know that the Hopi were like many Amerindians, having both Englaz and tribal names. But the protocol involved …

Duncan was fighting to control a laugh; he knew how nervous children made her, with their wise eyes and cutting tongues.

Something in the small face, the dark eyes answered her. “Brenna,” she murmured to him.

“Renna?” the child attempted.

“B-erenna,” the woman emphasized, making the soft “pop” of the consonant.

“There is no ‘B’ in Hopi,” Duncan explained.

“What means?” the tiny boy persisted, as if trying to understand something obscure about her.

Means? Oh, yes— “It means ‘raven-haired woman,’ “ she told the pair holding her hands, hoping her voice did not carry to the noisy group beyond. They were now about five bodies deep in pushing, squirming youngsters.

“Appropriate,” said a voice close to her ear. Both children lifted their heads at the word, and the gathering began to quiet down. Looking over her shoulder, Brenna saw a slender man. Dark eyes studied her intently. Lifting her head to meet his gaze, Brenna wondered how long he had been standing there. “Go on,” he said finally to the group of children. “They will be here for some time.” Duncan helped a tiny girl vacate his lap, and the crowd began to melt away. The Hopi looked pointedly at the children holding Brenna’s hands. Sighing, the young girl let go and grabbed for the little one. A few swift words in Hopi, and the child released Brenna.

The woman hesitantly waved goodbye, and the two children wiggled fingers back at her before running after their playmates.

“I hope you’ll forgive their curiosity,” the man said simply. “We have few visitors, and never … a fair, raven-haired woman. They are used to the military ignoring them.”

“Of course,” Brenna said, not wishing to turn aside any courtesy. Then her humor took hold. “Is your computer finished…spitting up?”

The man stared blankly at her a moment, and then a smile flashed across his face, revealing startling white teeth against polished copper skin. He pulled a small, square disk from his shirt pocket. “Schematics. When the laptop prints the final result—”

“I see,” she answered, smiling shyly. “I’m Dr. Meghan Stewart, and this is—”

“One of the few people left who studies individual regions instead of just Amerindians,” the man finished for her. “My grandmother cherishes the eight-part 3D series you did on Hopi culture. She will be pleased that she lived long enough for you to return. I am David Lansa. Will you come in for cool water or coffee?” With a faint smile, he backed into the adobe home. A moment of hesitation, and Brenna followed him.

The main room was larger than she had expected, its whitewashed ceilings higher. Brenna’s eyes rested on the huge stone fireplace, the focal point of the area. Despite the growing heat a fire was burning brightly, water boiling in a pot. Ladders led up to a higher level; muted sunshine above hinted at solar panels. Other rooms stretched beyond the main living space, the narrow corridors bearing a vague resemblance to the passages below the mesa.

“Please, be seated,” David suggested, ushering them to low seats by the cooler, inner wall. He paused by the fireplace mantel, retrieving several mugs, and took out a sealed tin. As he prepared the concoction, Brenna recognized the odor of real coffee. A strange blend of old and new, this man who carried schematics in his worn shirt pocket. A shagged, feathered haircut in the latest style, and faded indigo pants of a material she had not seen in years. Cotton clothing was something the average person could not afford. Rubbing her hand down the smooth, semipermeable fabric of her skin-tight, flaming red pants, she kept her thoughts to herself.

Finally David Lansa handed them mugs of steaming coffee and then folded cross-legged to the woven floor mats. “What address do you prefer, doctors?” He eyed Brenna steadily. “You have many names.”

“Duncan will suffice for me, as always, but my niece will have to speak for herself.” He glanced briefly at Brenna as he spoke.

She understood his meaning. She never introduced herself as Brenna; it was a nickname Grana had given her as a child, and had been kept within the family. Something in the little boy had called it from her.

“My parents named me Meghan,” she started slowly. “Somehow I have never felt tough enough to be ‘the strong one.’ What name do you prefer?”

“I?” The Hopi studied her for a long moment. “Kúivato. David Lansa is simpler. Lansa means the spear or lance, and since the millennium my family has been the thrown weapon of the Hopi. We are almost a splinter clan unto ourselves, though we have no rites in the yearly cycle. We go out and abroad, paving the way to modern society, choosing the best of the new world to bring back to our people.” After a moment, he added: “I do not know what ‘David’ means.”

“Are you of your grandmother’s clan, David?” Duncan asked, sipping at his coffee.

“Parrot,” the man confirmed. Duncan nodded thoughtfully.

“The reason we have come, Mr. Lansa, is to ask if your elders can tell us anything about the pictures in the caves.” Brenna leaned forward, balancing the mug of strong brew on the edge of her seat.

“Caves? I thought…there was just the one.”

“There is something beyond the front grotto; we haven’t examined it, yet.”

David did not change expression. “Silena mentioned only the one room. He was the man who found it—he had lost a sheep, and thought a coyote might have dragged off the remains.” The man paused to drink some coffee. “May I ask if you’ve spoken to Asbin yet?”

“Briefly,” Brenna said, her mind’s eye returning momentarily to the shadowed televid image of a man as neutral as his cinder-block building—silver hair, gray NorAmerican Forces uniform, eyes the color of old snow.

David Lansa’s eyes seemed to smile grimly. “He told you little of the incidents here?”

“We know that two accidents have taken place,” Brenna told him, her gaze never leaving his face. “And that Strand’s work has been removed by estate authorities.” This last grated; the legal intricacies were so involved Strand’s results would be duplicated before the originals were released. After consideration, she added: “Asbin suspects the paintings and carvings are fakes, to hold up construction of the control site.” It was a struggle to control a cynical smile; “control site” was such an innocent name for what was essentially a cluster of anti-terrorist launching silos.

Duncan leaned back against the wall, settling in. David’s face was expressionless. One slender finger traced the rim of his mug; the pause was a long one.

“I sent for Dr. Strand,” the Hopi said finally. “Not because of his reputation, but because I knew he had just finished a semester and could arrive immediately. I feared the military hearing of the site too soon and tampering with the paintings. I know what I think they are—at least the first chamber, I have not been deeper into the cave— but what matters is what you tell the military they are. The NorAmerican Forces intend to gut that cave for their control room.”

When the silence had gone on too long, Brenna asked: “Has Asbin confronted your elders with his theory that Navajos or Hopis killed Dr. Strand?”

David’s eyes hardened like basalt. “They questioned villagers for days. Desperation can drive people to horrible deeds, but no Navajo or Hopi killed Dr. Strand. Why would we? He was on the verge of proving the caves of Hopi origin, guaranteeing their safety.” His voice softened. “But this would be the best site, and the political stability of both hemispheres deteriorates. I often wonder what Asbin’s orders truly are.”

Despite the growing heat, his words chilled Brenna. She had been naive enough to think that she’d left nuclear threats behind when she left Europe. War escalating among a myriad of ancient enemies scattered throughout Asia, Africa, Europe— When will we learn we are Human first, and that all other names are merely changes of clothing? She knew she had not kept up with international news, the past year or so, but information had only made her feel worse—

A woman stepped into the room, breaking off Brenna’s thoughts. Nodding politely to their guests, she spoke swiftly to David in Hopi. The young man acknowledged her words by setting down his mug. “My great-grandmother is awake,” he said softly. “I do not think she can help you, but she will see you now.” With that, he rose to his feet, leading the way into the inner sanctuary of the house to a tiny, wizened woman whose memories spanned a thousand years.

Ten thousand years, Brenna thought. That, David had said, was how long people had lived on the mesas. The image held her silent as she followed Duncan carefully down the footpath, their halogen flashlights provided by the Hopi. An hour had stretched into meals and a day. David had been correct—the pictographs, even the caves, had been beyond the collective memory of the Hopi elders who came to speak. Brenna had sat enthralled by their stories, as they related their tales of the last hundred years and of legends older than themselves.

One clan history in particular intrigued her. All the clans had special ceremonies that demonstrated their powers, gifts from the Creator Taiowa to aid rainfall, fertility, planting, and healing. These ceremonies determined each clan’s place in the pecking order of Hopi life, an order that began with the ruling Bear Clan and continued on down.

All except the Coyote Clan. They were as they had been from the very beginning: the guardian clan. The ones to scout ahead the paths of their people’s journeys to be sure they were safe; the ones who brought up the rear of every ceremonial procession, guarding against evil. Coyote Clan was named in the ancient prophecies—the last to leave any legendary village along the path of the Hopi migration to Oraivi; the ones who would “close the door” upon this world, the Hopi’s mythological fourth world. The ones to herald the end of all things.

“Where will they be if the legends die?” she murmured, and then caught herself up. Another saying of her grandmother’s. Severed from her past, Brenna felt an elusive kinship with the Hopi, as they struggled to retain their beliefs in a world leeched of faith. To face every ghost, to learn from past lives, understand what those people were and meant to be … even as her own presence stirred latent images quiescent in the very air around her. Images engraved in the memories of the stones themselves.

Shivering in the cooling desert air, Brenna shoved the thoughts back into the depths of her mind. It was gone, all of it—no sense in raking through her own pain. It was but a grain of sand in the weathering of the world.

“Let’s go to the caves,” Duncan said suddenly. “The waxing moon beckons. Perhaps we should have taken David up on his offer of Coyote guards on the site.”

“Were you planning on explaining it to Asbin, or were you going to leave it to me?” she murmured, considering her possible level of authority. Asbin had sent a soldier up earlier, to ask when she was returning to the camp. To ask, not to demand—it was not the usual military tone of voice. David’s farewell threaded the river of her thoughts.

Kúivato, she had called him, and he had shown no surprise at her memory. It means “Greeting the Sun”; David is simpler, had been his response. But you did not give me a name. Brenna, she had told him, because it felt right… .

“I think they’re grooming David to be chief. The elders obviously think quite a bit of him,” Duncan went on as they neared the bottom.

“I thought chiefs must be of the Bear Clan,” Brenna said, forcing herself to concentrate on his words.

“Bear Clan is dying out. The rulers of the next world will be Parrot Clan. David seems intelligent and farsighted; I think he’d make a good chief.” Duncan paused before the entrance to the cave, flicking his small flashlight to wide beam. The young soldiers shifted nervously before it. “Go on in, Brenna. I want to talk to them.”

Brenna did not argue. Military guards, no matter how distressed, held no interest for her. Lights blazed as she entered the passageway. She paused, watching the play of light and shadow flash across the rock walls. Vivid drawings leapt out at her, mellowed by the indirect radiance.

Old, extremely old…Brenna could feel the weight of eons in their lines. A-Ttavitt’s readings were on filatape, carefully tacked beneath each image; Asbin was selective about what he would force them to repeat. Tomorrow Brenna would bring her black box in and start on the corridor paintings—thank the powers that be for the paintings; petroglyphs were harder to date—

“Blessings, child, here’s an interesting sight,” Duncan murmured as he came up behind her. “What’s all the fuss about? These are plainly Hopi symbols. See, here is the nakwách of brotherhood,” he began, pointing to the curious carving that was reminiscent of the Chinese yin-yang symbol. “Brenna, this is—this is the Creation Myth! I’ve never heard of it being on a cave wall. No wonder Strand was so excited. Damn it, what a time for this to turn up.”

“What do you mean?” she asked softly in home-speech.

He did not look at her, his gaze on a carving. “There’s a warhead in orbit.”

The silence in the cave was absolute. Brenna directed her flashlight toward the ceiling, looking for more carvings or paintings. Ancient campfires had burned within this place … the carbon build-up needed measuring…She considered asking who had launched the device, but thought better of it. Did it really matter what terrorist or nationalist group was flexing its muscles this week? Eventually one of them would launch a makeshift device, a faulty control box activating the head or damaging the targeting mechanism, and then …

“They can’t declare an emergency overriding historical Class One statutes without a seven-day grace period,” Duncan murmured, stepping farther into the cave. “There should be time to image them, date them…leave something for the future.”

“Future?” The bitterness churning just beneath the surface welled up in her. Fragments of the past, obliterated in the name of age-old hatreds, divisions—”If we destroy the past, can we have a future without repeating every mistake we’ve ever made? What happens when we’ve killed all the legends? Grana always threw that in my face, when I told her religion was dead. What is left, now that reason, too, has failed us?”

“Not our question, lass. Clear your mind and reach out. I’m going to try and see into that second chamber.” Without pause Duncan started patting his clothes, looking for the flashlight he’d snapped off and tucked into a pocket.

Wordlessly Brenna extended her own to him, touching his cheek in thanks for the anchor he had provided to her life. Piecemeal wars, ravaging the roots of humanity— Sighing, she tried to push it aside, settling on the big flat rock and opening her mind to whatever power lingered in the cave. All she could do was relax; the energy chose whether or not to acknowledge her presence.

Once again a feeling of unease. That gentle feeling of incredible strength, unfathomable depth—she drew back, pulling into her own consciousness. Usually it was visual images, 3D color imprints of the past, of the individuals who had painted and carved their records. This sensation had been present before, but never dominant, never overwhelming everything else. It reminded her too much of the state of meditation…prayer … of all she had lost when the Highlands burned, the land and all her father’s family save Duncan. The sensation had vanished, then…or did you cease to open yourself to it?

Brenna had no desire to meet up with her own dead.

She heard Duncan rattling around in the back, sliding pebbles, his grumbling—a sharply caught breath.

“Brenna! Good Lord, Brenna, come and look!”

Leaping to her feet, Brenna moved into the passage. Duncan’s legs were visible ahead, still protruding from the opening into the other chamber. Abruptly the light dimmed—a large beam had burnt out, only the flood by the outer door remaining. Brenna was plunged into murk, her reference point a needle slice of Duncan’s reflected light.

“Ah, Duncan,” she began quietly, uncertain where to put her feet. In response the man activated the back button of his flashlight, red light erupting briefly at her knees, and—

The ceiling broke loose, chunks of rock hailing down before her, dust rising in choking clouds, obliterating light and sound and—

Brenna spent the following day in the ancient dome. She accepted Duncan’s death stoically, a selfish corner of her heart thinking it was inevitable—she had lost everyone else, why not Duncan? How ironic to finally meet Asbin over her uncle’s body. Ignoring her cuts and bruises, she remained on the cot, clutching a piece of the rock that had fallen on them. It was a stalemate; she could scarcely think, but she would not leave.

She’d had nightmares; tons of rock, falling on her, annihilating the heritage of her people, destroying the remnants of Celtic history. A man with Asbin’s face chipping away at hieroglyphics, petroglyphs, erasing the past. Her grandmother’s voice, arguing, scolding, warning her of people with agendas, how could she have been so foolish, scientists were always expendable— Pe cymmerwn adenydd y wawr, a phe trigwn yn eithafoedd y mor: Yno hefyd y’m tywysai dy law, ac y’m daliai dy ddeheulaw.

She woke with the words of the psalm on her lips, sitting bolt upright on the cot.

“Brenna, can you hear me?” David knelt beside her, shaking her gently.

“How long?” she whispered.

“This is the second morning. You were…chanting … in your sleep, in another tongue,” he said quietly.

“Home-speech,” was her terse reply as the dream flooded back to her. “From psalms. It’s about—it’s about running from God. ‘If I take the wings of morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea, even there shall thy hand lead me, and thy right hand hold me.’ David, I dreamt that the legends died.”

“Have they?” After a moment he set his hand lightly over hers. “I am sorry. He was a fine man.”

There was a long moment of silence, and then Brenna asked conversationally: “Perhaps the legends have not yet died. Where is Asbin?”

“Squatting in the blockhouse like a spider. There are six guards left; two on Asbin’s quarters, four guarding the troop carrier and A-Ttavitt cataloging fragments, as you instructed.” At her blank look, he said gently: “The last order you gave your assistant. All nations with missile capability have been put on alert, the Americas included. Only a half-dozen soldiers can be spared for rocks.”

“Then I might as well continue working,” Brenna whispered, exhaustion creeping through her bones.

“Asbin wants you to continue.”

“Why?”

It was more rhetorical than anything else, but David said: “I think he hopes this is another false alarm, and that he will have time to entrench.”

She heard the judgment in his voice. “But—”

David shrugged. “I think his superiors have abandoned him. And I am grateful we are in the middle of nowhere…the center of my universe.”

Standing, Brenna moved past him, pausing in the open arch to greet the sunrise. No joy in it—”Please follow me.” She walked briskly toward the cave opening.

One of the soldiers appeared as she neared the entrance. His young face was devoid of emotion. Had he caused Duncan’s death? Paranoia was being passed like a virus… .

“Doctor, no outsiders are allowed to enter the cave unless—“

“David Lansa is an engineer. He is going to check the structural support, to try and anticipate landslides,” Brenna announced, climbing the entry rubble. She stopped moving at the sight of three newcomers walking up the shattered rock behind her. Two of the Hopi were young men, perhaps David’s age. The third man was much older, graying yet still hale, with the ageless eyes of all Hopi elders.

“This is Pamosi, Paul Fog, the leader of the Coyote Clan, and two Qaletaqa—Guardians. They have offered to watch outside the caves,” David explained.

“For what?” the soldier asked, his reserve raffled.

“Evil spirits?” Brenna suggested, and then propelled herself past him into the cave.

The passage was broader than she remembered; higher. The aging floods blazed on—the soldiers had patched the defective one back together, Brenna noted. The passage to the second chamber had been cleared of rock and reinforced, Duncan’s body undoubtedly sealed in a bag and awaiting transport. The soldiers had created a ramp to reach the second chamber.

What was Asbin thinking of? What was he doing, supervising this crumbling site? What am I doing here?

“I am an ecological engineer, Brenna. But I will help you as I can,” David said, coming up behind her. He had brought a pocket halogen, and was carefully examining the wall and ceiling porta-struts in the brilliance of its white light.

Brenna reached for the only disconnected floodlight, wrestling it onto the ramp. She would see the second chamber—all of it—without any more delay. “Why did our pilot tell us your people are expecting rain?” she asked between shoves.

“Let me help. Because it is time for the Snake-Antelope Ceremony, to bring rain for the final maturity of the crops. It is almost complete; I will arrange for you to see the Snake Dance on the last day.” David pushed the floodlight to the top of the ramp, switched it on, and shoved it ahead of himself into the grotto.

Brenna half-expected to see the carvings defaced, but the dream had not been literal. There were no fresh scars— all was what Duncan must have seen. She climbed over the flood, wondering if she had totally misunderstood Asbin; if he neither helped nor hindered because it did not matter, it had never mattered, it was all illusion … all mere appearances. In the end they would be destroyed.

Before her were petroglyphs—an entire wail of them. Brenna sat upon a ledge, carefully leaning back, her eyes taking in the details. From the passage came a sound of exclamation. Flicking a glance to one side, she realized that surprise, not injury, had prompted the gasp—David was also staring at the wall. After watching him sink down upon the ramp of rubble, Brenna turned back to the carvings.

It was an unusual grouping; divided into four areas, each area divided again, making a total of eight sections. One set of carvings had a line jutting across a corner, as if to symbolize a break. Brenna considered the designs…human figures, bear tracks, snakes, cornstalks, nakwách brotherhood symbols. Stone dust lay in piles beneath the mural, undisturbed for centuries.

One chip of stone was different—darker. Standing, Brenna moved to the wall. After the rockslide, this would never be considered an undisturbed site…She picked up the fragment. Portions of carvings were on either side. “I wonder what this is from,” she said aloud. “David, you must be my Hopi source.” Somehow she couldn’t trust A-Ttavitt now. “I know these carvings only in relation to world petroglyphs. I can determine their age, but without something concrete leading to a known people, I can’t begin to prove their source is the Anasazi or any other prehistorical group.”

“How do you normally determine source?” David asked, taking the fragment from her. His face stilled as he looked at it.

Brenna considered the question, and then grinned without mirth. Why not? Who would believe him, if she chose to deny it? “The energy left in the carvings…reanimates…and shows me the circumstances under which the image was created,” she said swiftly, embarrassed to hear the words spoken aloud. Only Duncan had known for certain of her talent, although Brenna believed Grana had suspected.

David did not smile. “You mean the spirits reveal themselves to you?” he asked.

“Who said anything about spirits?” she retorted, moving to the petroglyphs. “Are any of the carvings familiar?”

“I think I know precisely what they are. The Hopi have four sacred tablets, stones of prophecy we have held in our hearts for centuries. These carvings match the ones on the tablets.”

Brenna swiftly turned. “Exactly? Your tablets are copies of this wall?”

“Or the walls are copies. Our legends say we entered this world at the spiritual center of the universe, but we had to make our migrations to the four corners of the continent to weed out all the latent evil of the previous world.” This was half to himself. Brenna felt a chill as she watched David examine the dark rock fragment. “Oraivi is the site we finally returned to, all clans, dependent on our mighty Creator for rainfall and life. To think that our Emergence and Ending might be the same place.”

He looked up, smiling, as if to reassure her he had not lost his mind. “Never laugh at a legend. It may come back to haunt you. May I borrow this? I’d like to take it to the leader of the Fire clan. We may be able to help you after all. And you, us.”

Brenna nodded, mystified, as David stood to leave. “Interpret your dream, Brenna. I think it will answer almost everything.” And he left.

The dream? First engineer, then mystic, and now psychologist—

“Dr. Stewart?” The light from the first chamber was blocked by several shadowy figures. It was the elusive Asbin, looking pinched, a living skull with haunted eyes. Ling A-Ttavitt was among the group amassed at his back.

“Colonel,” she said neutrally.

“We must prepare to evacuate; our orders are to leave at 0600 hours. The defense effort has reached Crisis One proportions, and—”

“Where could be safer than a million miles from anywhere?” Brenna asked conversationally.

Asbin blinked, and then seemed to regroup his thoughts. “Surely you wish to be with your family at—”

“My family,” she interrupted him, “died in this cave. If the world is changing irrevocably, let me try to save a piece of the past. I can be packed in five minutes.” Her gaze flicked beyond him to the shade that was A-Ttavitt. “Bring me the black box. Put it in the first chamber, and start imaging the pictographs.” To Asbin she said: “I am making progress, and prefer to remain here tonight.” The look she gave the officer was direct as she gestured at the petroglyphs. “I’m a Celt, colonel, and Celts aren’t afraid to die.”

Asbin considered her a moment, and then pivoted toward his following. “Get the imager,” he told the motionless A-Ttavitt.

Only then did the site artist start out the stone corridor.

Brenna left Ling A-Ttavitt working in the first chamber and strolled into the second, the black box swinging from one hand. David Lansa was taking a long time…She became conscious of hunger, of how long it had been since she had eaten. Dust sifted down into her hair. Interpret your dream. No, thank you. Her dreams were often frightening. Better to work on the walls. Carefully she positioned the instrument, sampling one of the incised lines, seeking trace elements from carving tools, exposure rates, organic materials. The light sequence flashed as the box began compiling information. Why had she taken this job? To please Duncan. And she would finish it, to honor his memory.

Where was David? Who could interpret these, now that Duncan—

She felt a pang at his name, the first real mote of grief she had allowed herself. The delicate chill slid around her, encouraging the emotion—encouraging? Shaking, Brenna set the black box down on the dirt floor. It hummed along, oblivious to her discomfort.

Something was aware of her thoughts, her feelings. Or someone. A question rose from her subconscious. Vainly she tried to suppress it. What if … what if what she had felt all these years was not pure energy, but cognizant spirit? What if … Brenna sat down in the deep dust, ignoring the waves of silt rising into the stale air. Soundlessly she felt the pieces of her dream fit themselves into a giant picture. The Celtic heritage destroyed, ripped apart by the Eurasian Forces. Her guilt at not being with her family … of living when they had died. Her fierce crusade to protect the relics of other pasts, other peoples. And her strange link to Grana, to the old woman’s belief.

The scientist bowed her head to her knees, uncertain whether she was unbalanced by grief or one of the privileged few able to tap into the universal consciousness. What it was, why it spoke to her— Whispering aloud, she addressed it in a language she understood: “I have done nothing of myself. I am but a vessel to be filled with what must be remembered.”

Amazingly, there was no bitterness in the thought; only wonder. Later to think it through, to wrestle with this possible intelligence, to demand explanation and understanding of those wars, deaths, pain. Now there was only the moment; she had a source to explain the petroglyphs to her. Only a slip of thought, in the home-speech: I will remember…and so will others. You have my word.

Presence grew within her, welling up like water so pure she was certain she would never thirst again. With presence came understanding. Staring at the petroglyphs, Brenna knew their meaning, tried to verbalize their prophecy. It was like the echo of a voice whispering from the past… .

After the clans reach their final home, the time will come when they will be conquered by a strange people. They will be forced to pattern their land and lives after these strangers, or be punished horribly. They are not to resist, for a deliverer will come. Their lost white brother, Pahana, will bring them the missing corner of the Fire Clan tablet, deliver them from their conquerors, and point the way toward a universal brotherhood of mankind. Until that coming, to leave the Hopi way will bring evil upon the tribes, and then the Bear Clan leader must be beheaded to dispel the evil.

The land between the two rivers is yours. Other tales…Brenna suddenly came back from the shadows, the ancient, quivering voice of a clan leader fading into the silence. She had seen the fire, the fire that had blackened the ceiling above her, the great man giving the tablets to the clan leaders, the making of prayer sticks and the chanting. The youths carving the story on the walls, copying the tablets. Tears had crept down her cheeks sometime during her trance; idly she brushed at the dusty tracks with the back of one hand. Ah, Duncan, I will save this cave for you… I will remember it.

Preoccupied, Brenna lose to her feet, lifting the black box in passing. With any luck there would be enough evidence from the lab tests to narrow the dates, confirm her vision, give the Hopi back their sacred chamber—

Slanting sunlight drew her out of her thoughts. It was getting late; she would have to— And then Brenna was outside, and she forgot what she was going to do. The two Coyote Clan Qaletaqa still stood guard, but Pamosi, their leader, was waiting at the foot of the path. He gestured for Brenna to follow him.

Momentarily she held her ground. Other visions had told her that the people of peace had shed blood in the past, when they felt their way of life threatened. Then she moved to the clan leader’s side.

Old Pamosi did not speak as they walked up the trail, his gait the equal of any man in his prime. Several times he stopped to let Brenna rest, but he offered no information, not even to explain David’s absence. When they neared the top, Pamosi let her walk ahead of him, moderating his pace.

A silent crowd was waiting for them. Brenna slowed, confused, when she realized that four lines of cornmeal had been drawn across the trail. Pamosi had halted also; he waited quietly behind her. Searching the weathered faces of the gathering, Brenna realized that the village elders made up the majority of those present. She recognized David standing on the fringe of the group, his warm eyes reassuring. The elderly Bear Clan leader stood in the front; last of his line, spokesman of his people. Bright eyes peered at her from a wrinkled face; the man’s withered hand did not shake as he extended it, palm up, to the young woman.

Brenna fought to control her trembling. David had the carved rock fragment—what else did the leader expect? She stood motionless while the sun went down into a sea of sharp flame and the air grew cold. Even the cave spirit held back, waiting.

Tragedy in their past…but in the beginning they were people of peace. Ah, well…she’d always been a creature of intuition. Brenna extended her hand palm-down to clasp the aged leader’s hand.

A murmuring grew, like the roar of a seashell in her ears. The old man still held her hand, and Brenna could see his eyes fill with tears. David was suddenly beside them.

“I—don’t understand,” she started softly.

David’s answer was laughter ringed in warmth. “You think too much, Brenna! You hold in your hand the nakwách. You are Pahana, bringing universal brotherhood to the people of peace.”

“I am the Pahana? David—” her voice dropped to a hiss. “The Pahana is a white man—”

“Oh, I know,” he said, his smile contagious. “The clan leaders had trouble with that, too. But you have fulfilled their prophecies, Brenna. They cannot deny you!”

In the midst of the crowd’s excitement, a man behind them cried out something in Hopi, and all voices ceased, snuffed out like a torch. Brenna and David turned to face Pamosi and the breathless young man beside him. The youth continued speaking, his face strained and his words trembling.

David grew very still. “The warhead has dropped from orbit. It landed in India.” Turning to the Bear Clan leader, he whispered something, even as Brenna looked away from the gathering, unwilling to face the Hopi as mass destruction mocked the advent of their universal brotherhood.

“Asbin’s receiver is stronger than ours,” David said softly. “Let us see what he has picked up on satellite.”

The clan leaders began to descend to the desert floor.

It was hard for Brenna in the darkness, doubly bitter when she saw the shuttle lift off. It was Pamosi who picked her up when she faltered, carrying her like a small child.

Silence reigned on the flats, broken only by the shout of the young Coyote guard who still waited by the empty cave. The camp had been stripped; only the urethane tents and Asbin’s headquarters remained. At first they thought Brenna alone had been left behind, until they approached the cinder-block building. They could hear weeping within.

The electronic eye was broken. Brenna knew there had to be an emergency switch, and tripped the lock with a swing of her arm; the panel responded, sliding open. Static and garbled voices struck them like a gust of wind. Ling A-Ttavitt huddled near the doorway, sobbing hysterically, oblivious to their arrival. Asbin’s seated profile was just visible in the gloom beyond. David started toward the man, speaking his name. It seemed unreal to Brenna, who focused on A-Ttavitt, pulling her to one side while a village elder stepped over them and adjusted the delicate tuning of the receiver.

“He is dead,” came a voice. Brenna looked up, and wished that she had not. Despite the growing darkness, she could see a dark spot on Asbin’s forehead. Self-inflicted? Was this the cause of A-Ttavitt’s frenzy? The result? Why didn’t the soldiers take A-Ttavitt and the body? Was this because of the warhead, or their abandonment, or … Brenna held the tiny woman close, willing herself not to think.

Everyone seated themselves on the floor, listening to the babble of languages coming in over the airwaves. The Bear Clan leader flipped the dial at will, seeking the strongest signals. Some of the voices were calm, islands of tranquillity in the face of disaster. Others were edging hysteria, as reports continued to flow in. It had not stopped with the orbiting warhead. For the first time, Brenna truly understood the word “escalation.”

She listened with little comprehension, drawing meaning from inflection as the night wore on. Myriad stars appeared in the night sky, a glittering wall of obsidian beyond the open door. David sat down next to her, although she did not remember him leaving Asbin. No one stirred; their entire existence was bound up in sound.

“ ‘Beloved,’ “ Brenna said at one point, and David shifted beside her. “Your name means ‘beloved.’ “ He did not speak.

At last the broadcasts began to thin. Brenna first noticed the absence of the squeaky-voiced announcer. Signing off, their transmissions cut off? One strong signal vanished literally between one word and the next, and Brenna wondered if a satellite had been destroyed. How long to launch another one…? Other signals faded—losing power, afraid to provide a target, allowing EBS to kick in?

Then the Bear Clan leader flipped the communicator switch, silencing the gibbering machine. Stillness wrapped itself around the group, weaving among them like a physical force. Even Ling A-Ttavitt had ceased to weep.

Momentarily, Brenna thought of protesting the man’s action; only a moment. Then she noticed the silence…and the presence beyond the waiting. She began to wonder if the Hopi, like herself, could hear stone speak.

The group waited awhile, but the night offered no other messages; finally the clan leaders began exiting the blockhouse, supporting the steps of the eldest among them. Brenna waited until most of them had left before she helped A-Ttavitt stand. Sighing, she turned to David, trying to think of something to say, but gentle fingers to her lips stopped her. Only Pamosi waited with them.

David reached over and took Ling A-Ttavitt’s arm. Together they helped the woman out the doorway. Behind them, Pamosi raised his arm, closing the door.

The flames rose higher, licking, curling at the ceiling— collapsing on themselves as Brenna came back to herself. A gust of cold wind rounded the corner, tickling her feet. With a sigh she shook back her silver hair, smoothing the warm woolen dress over her exposed, wrinkled hands. This time she had seen the Coyote-Swallow race at Sikyatki, the legendary home of the migrating Coyote Clan. She glanced at the entranceway; the light was dim. It was late, and she was tired… .

“Grana!” The clear voice echoed against the chamber walls, and the fire leapt in response.

Smiling, Brenna shouted: “Who are you? Come in!”

A hesitant youth slid into the outer corridor, barely discernible behind the flames. “It is Chöviohóya, Grana. Chief-father has prepared our dinner, and asks that you bid the spirits farewell for a time. Tonight is satellite night, remember.” The boy began to back out.

“Young Deer!” she said softly in the home tongue, and he paused; he was one of the few who had learned it, and would deny her nothing when she spoke it. “Don’t you like my cave?”

“Of course, Grana.”

“Then why do you leave so swiftly? Do you fear it?”

“I fear nothing!” he said adamantly, takings one step back inside.

“Not even the sky falling? Even the bravest warriors of all feared the wrath of the gods. I think it is not the cave that you fear, but what is inside yourself.” Silence. Brenna held tightly to her smile, controlling the corners of her mouth. “I can help you face it, young man. You can learn much from listening to the Great Spirit, and always return to walk in the light of day.” Slowly the boy slipped into the first chamber, studying his grandmother with no small amount of awe. He had David’s face, but her own father’s broad shoulders and long legs. Shooting up like the corn…“Sit by me.”

David would be wondering about them. But, after a bit, he would understand, and rejoice.

“What can you teach me, Grana?” the youth asked, his voice hushed.

“What would you know first? You are born of three great heritages, Chöviohóya. What would you know?”

“Will you tell me of the beginning, when the guardian spirit Masaw gave the sacred tablets to our people? And about the white warriors, who feared nothing but the sky falling?”

“That part is past, child,” she said gently, “for I have seen the sky fall, and I do not fear it anymore.” Brenna cleared her throat. “After the clans reached their final home—”

*

AFTERWORD

This is one of those stories that began as a dream, of a thin man with sunken features chiseling away at petroglyphs on a wall. The symbols were in vertical rows, as if they were a language, and I was filled with grief at their loss.

Stories

with threads into myth always make me think of Roger, so it’s no surprise I asked him about an earlier incarnation of this piece. He counseled cutting a subplot and a few characters, and encouraged me to stick with it. And so, like one particular Zelazny character, I toss this story like a jewel into the darkness, and hope that it will sparkle with the colors of life.

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