Mike jumped out of bed and went into the bathroom. He had a busy day planned with the SystemGraphon deal stalled as it was; last night had dragged into the early morning hours. As Mike dressed for work, he glanced quickly at the clock. Damn, he thought. I should’ve set the alarm.
The power that compels men does so inexplicably. The affected do not understand or even, for that matter, begin to comprehend the power. Such was the case of the lonely figure kneeling on the hard dirt of the barren, windswept mesa, his curved back contrasting dramatically with the sharp edged geometry of the rocky ledge.
“O Bearer of Light, Creator of Day. Give me a sign to chase the darkness away,” he cried.
The early morning sky was a rich royal blue. Thin wisps of dark gray clouds traced with white spotted the dark blue sky. In the distance, the cold, desert sky had begun to lighten. There, the deep rich blue of night started to give way to the softer pastel blue of the day.
As the first golden light peeked over the horizon, a lone hawk floated over the plains searching for early morning thermals; hunting for his daily meal.
In the darkness of the valley below, the soft, haunting tones of a Native American flute floated languidly into the waking sky.
The old man knelt toward the beckoning dawn, resting on the heels of his naked feet. His arms rested easily on the rough cloth of his trousers. His wrinkled hands lay on his knees — palms up as if in supplication. He had welcomed the morning at this place and in this manner numerous times over the ninety-plus seasons he had walked the Earth. It was not just a fascination with ceremony that called him to this place; it was his solemn duty as the medicine man, the Shaman, to understand the earth and its place in the cosmos. The constellations in the rich darkness would guide his people through the many dangers that faced them on earth.
Like the hawk floating effortlessly in the sky, the old man sought sustenance from the life-giving rays. The urgency of this particular morning gave even more purpose to his entreaties. It was the certainty of this date — a certainty known only to Johnny Thapaha.
Johnny Thapaha’s white hair fell gently to his shoulders and was kept off his wrinkled face by a red bandanna tied around the crown of his head. Around his neck was a turquoise bead necklace that ended in a silver and turquoise breastplate in the shape of an eagle with outstretched wings.
His shirt was made from the flaxen cloth favored by older members of his tribe and was loosely gathered at his waist by a leather belt, with an intricate buckle of hammered silver. On the third finger of each hand was a silver ring in the shape of an eagle about to strike.
The chill of the early morning did not deter him from the duty which he had done every morning for many years.
The carefully opened sacred bundle, the symbol of his faith and his position, lay on his lap. His ceremonial pipe rested next to his right knee. Before him, traced in the hard soil of the mesa, was a circle displaying the four points of the compass, the four cardinal directions.
Johnny Thapaha faced the rising sun, encroaching warmth he could only feel but could not see because cataracts had taken away his sight a long time ago. He yearned to know and to understand what had been and what would surely be. Johnny Thapaha’s blindness served to intensify his mental capabilities on the painful images. Lasting images that had been given to him by the traveler so many years ago.
Even at his advanced age and on this lonely windswept mesa, his head was held high and straight. His eyes remained fixed to some distant point only they could see.
Suddenly, Johnny Thapaha’s face tightened. His aged chin lifted toward the rising sun. His sightless eyes focused. His arms rose outstretched as if in welcome. Over the horizon came the long awaited sign. A single shaft of golden light. It was disturbing.
“Cha-le-gai!” bellowed the old man into the solitary ray of rising sun. The sound of his voice reverberated through the hard-surfaced mesas and the canyon below.
The old man’s face sagged in exhaustion. His arms dropped limply to his legs.
A tear formed in the corner of the old man’s right eye, coursed over his weathered-bronzed cheek, hung on the hard edge of his jaw, and finally fell onto the breast of his shirt. The aged head dropped forward, avoiding the rising sun — the giver of life, the messenger of things to come.
The quiet voice of a child came from the shadows just below the crest of the mesa. “Grampa, it’s cold and it’s getting late.”
“Yes, Little Dove, it is getting late. We must prepare to leave.”
Only his grandfather called ten-year-old Jimmy MacLaren by his Navajo name. Jimmy’s Navajo heritage was evident in his brown skin, his straight black hair, and his deep-set, dark eyes that seemed to glow in the morning light. Shivering in his nylon parka, jeans, and running shoes, Jimmy could have been any kid in any neighborhood in America, but he was here on this bleak mesa participating in a ceremony that was as old as his people.
The old man rose slowly. He stretched out his left hand to search for the secret place while clutching the sacred bundle and ceremonial pipe to his breast.
His efforts to locate the secret place were at best struggled and guided only by instinct. Jimmy studiously avoided looking at his grandfather. Even at this young age, Jimmy knew that only the medicine man can know the sacred place. With some effort, the practiced hand found the familiar rock and Johnny Thapaha started to return the sacred bundle to its resting-place.
He hesitated and, in a furtive move, placed the sacred bundle inside the loose folds of his shirt.
“Little Dove, please take my hand.”
Slipping the gnarled, callused hand of his grandfather into his own smooth hand, Jimmy started down the worn path to the ground below and the warmth of his grandfather’s hogan. Johnny Thapaha followed with a labored gait, his back bent by the weight of too many seasons.
The hawk caught the first rising thermals caused by the warming air and soared higher and higher. This would surely be a good hunting day.
1993: The Coffee Shop
The two men sat in the booth in the back of the small coffee shop in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Each had a mug of steaming coffee in front of him; purchased at the counter.
There was a steady flow of customers looking for morning coffee and pastries. The dingy shop was busy.
An unlikely couple. The older of the two had a professorial air. Busy tamping tobacco into his burlwood pipe, he would stop every so often to sip steaming hot, black coffee from his porcelain mug.
The younger man had a large round face upon which sat a curiously small pair of round, rimless glasses. He looked very uncomfortable; his small beady eyes constantly surveyed the patrons and other goings-on of the busy shop. His coffee was heavily laden with cream and sugar. He bolted down his Cherry Danish.
Occasionally, the younger man would look up at this companion as if he were looking for a sign of recognition, familiarity. None came.
“When did you come up?”
“L–Late last night.”
“When are you going back?”
“Immediately.” The younger man fidgeted nervously.
“Why did you call — you know that you aren’t supposed to ever call me,” said the older man impatiently.
“Yes, I know, but…”
“We shouldn’t be meeting in person. Why the rush?”
“Y-you need to see these,” stammered the younger man as he took out a manila envelope and surreptitiously handed it to his booth mate. “Something big is happening.”