The Land. Robert K. Swisher Jr.

rode into camp with the news. One day’s ride away were over 200 warriors from the south riding towards the pueblo painted and dressed for war. Immediately the chief ordered the pueblo to be deserted and the march to the box canyon one day away to begin. Everything that was not needed would be left behind. Only the animals, weapons and food would be taken. Shelter could be made when they got to the canyon. The chief did not show his fear but deep inside he knew if they did not make the canyon they would perish and the women and young men would be taken as slaves to be traded to other warrior tribes from the south.

      Man of Darkness sat and listened to the noise of the tribe as they hurriedly packed important items. But deep inside himself he knew that this danger was not the full extent of his dream. His dream was like the pictures carved on the face of the peak several miles from the camp. The strange peak that rose out of the hills that was an evil place, a place of the ancients. The place where man had been long before his people. Men who left only crude scrapings on the rocks as if to warn others of the peril man walked through with each of his days.

      At dawn the tribe moved out. The old were tied to drags behind horses. The women and children carried whatever items they could and circling the mass of dust and animals the warriors rode in full battle dress. The tribe would not stop until they reached the canyon and its safety. But even here the chief knew there would be a great battle and many of his people would be lost. Although the sun rose in all its splendor there was blood on the horizon and a deep sadness in the heart of the chief.

CHAPTER 3

       THE SPEAR POINT

      Although Shining Moon was anxious to return to the tribe, he would in no way cut short his duties looking for the danger. Instead of riding directly towards the location of the tribe, he cut large zigzags over the land. Never for a moment could he let his love make him deviate from his duty. Although there was not a moment during the day he could not feel the presence of Flying Bird beside him, he knew that his happiness was not the primary function of his life.

      Shining Moon rode and looked out across the land around him. At times he felt there were many eyes that watched him. Eyes of men long dead and gone who had walked this land. In the far distance he could see the pointed peak that forever had been a place avoided by the tribe. But it was strange — even as a child when the older men told him of the peak and its bad medicine, he had always been drawn to the peak. At times when he was young he would stand and look towards the horizon and the peak, and it was as though he was drawn to the strange spiral-shaped formation that loomed up out of the rolling pinon and cedar studded hills. Many times he had walked towards the landmark but the nearer he drew, the more the fear entered into his body, and he would reach a point where he could not continue.

      But when he was seventeen years old he had ridden his first pony out away from the tribe and straight for the peak. And this time he was not afraid, and as he drew nearer he felt a great strength overcome him as though the souls of many brave men entered into his body. He was confused at the stories of bad medicine he had heard during his lifetime. Stories of evil spirits that would take the manhood from men and make women lose their voices. Stories of ancient people who would come out with the night and spread disease and hunger upon people who invaded their place of rest.

      He rode his pony up to the peak that looked as though a giant hand had reached down from the sky and taken a great handful of dirt and then closed its hand and let the earth trickle through its palm until it was a tall spiral and then with careful balance had picked up a great flat rock and placed it on top. It was a tall spiral with a top like a table. And then with rain and snow and time the sand structure had become rock.

      Shining Moon had dismounted from his pony and walked to the rock, and once by the spiral he was amazed by the etchings ground into it. There were round faces that smiled and other faces that frowned. There were marks where men had stood and ground out images of deer and bison and other men. There were large ovals of women’s breasts and serpents that spiraled around the rock. Shining Moon had stood and run his fingers over the etchings, and he knew that in time past a man like him had stood here and carved out the faces and images. And he also knew the man was now a part of the earth around him, long dead and turned to dust. His soul a part of the trees and living things that were life.

      To Shining Moon, this was not an evil place, but a place of time. A place where man had worked and tried to discover his soul and heart. Here was the mark of men trying to transcend the ages. Men just like him. And then Shining Moon, who had never drawn or thought of drawing, searched around the spiral peak and found a hard-pointed stone, and returning to the peak he spent many hours scratching at the hard rock. When he was finished, he stood back and looked at the horse he had carved on the face of the rock. To him it was not a beautiful horse, but for all time, whoever saw this figure would know it was a horse. And for a moment, Shining Moon felt immortal. He felt beyond the grasp of time and death, love and hate, hope and dreams. He was a part of the timelessness of the rock. His soul would forever stand with the rock. And another man in another age would stand and look at his horse, and he would know that he was not alone. That there was an affinity between men. And Shining Moon was proud, but also a little bewildered. Never again in his life would he feel not needed but would always know he was a part of the chain. A small link that was mankind. From that day forward he was no longer a child, but a man. A man strong and unafraid of the world. But he would never return to the rock. It would never be the same. He would still at times look at the spiral from a distance and be able to retrace the strange faces and images of the ancients and see the horse he had etched upon the stone.

      As the sun set, Shining Moon dismounted from his horse. It was still warm but one could feel the touches of fall approaching. Shining Moon gathered enough wood for the evening and then started the fire. The fire flaming, he took out the spear point. Over the past five days the rough obsidian had now become a 6-inch point, the first cuts being taken to form the center line sloping to each side and the point. Now he could take small chips bringing the edge of the point to razor sharpness. With each day the point became more and more a thing of wonder. Even to Shining Moon, he did not understand how he could have created such a beautiful point, although he knew it was love that guided his hand.

      When at times during the day he would stop his pony, he would take from his pouch the point and hold it up to the sun. With the sun rays the point seemed to come alive and dance in his fingers. He could see the flowing dress and hair of his love. Inside the point he could feel the beat of her heart and the warmth of her breast, naked against his chest. Inside the point lay the seed to their children and the desires of his passion. And always after he put the point back into his pouch, he did not yearn for Flying Bird but felt her around him, her eyes guiding him and watching over him in all things that he did.

      Shining Moon looked closely at the point and smiled, and then he took it and began chipping carefully on the edge. Soon in a few days it would be finished, and then he would take his drill and drill a hole though the end of the point. Through this hole he could put a thong, and Flying Bird could hang the point from her waist. Around him the night grew dark and the stars emerged bright and shiny and timeless. And for Shining Moon there was no time, no darkness, just the earth and the night and the feeling of warmth that came upon is heart.

      In the morning Shining Moon once again mounted his pony and started his zigzag pattern back towards the people. It was a glorious day. On the horizon two hawks rode the updrafts for hours, looking for the scurrying rabbits or ground squirrels, and all around Shining Moon was peace and contentment.

CHAPTER 4

       THE FLEETING

      After a full day’s traveling, the Chief Black Bison knew his people were tired, but he also knew they dare not stop. The enemy would have found the abandoned pueblo by now and would drive their ponies on trying to catch up with the slow moving people. Black Bison was a good man and had been a good leader.

      But after many years, Black Bison was growing tired. There had been so many things he had missed in his life. There was never time to sit and enjoy his children or his wife. His life must be the people. There was always some dispute or danger, some decision, filling his mind. If it was not the medicine men with their dreams and incantations, it was some man wanting