Inspired by a picture of native cliff dwellings.

I had been traveling through the southwest on a belated winter holiday, enjoying the warmer temperatures and the burgeoning growth. It was such a wonderful change from the cold winter weather of Southern Ontario, with calf deep snow and bitter winds. Now I stand in the Verde Valley, looking at the new growth of spring, and feel the joy of new life, new beginnings. All around me there is evidence of spring; on the ponderosa pines, the pinyon Jupiter. The grassland is greening, even the desert scrub shows new growth. The banks of the river and the wetlands nearby echo with the sounds of life, with the silvery tones of the water as counterpoint to the twittering of birds and the clicking, buzzing and rustling of unseen creatures.

Yet as I stand there, immersed in the stark beauty, it is the rocky cliff that draws my heart. The dwellings there pull me, call me. It seems to be welcoming me home. Yet I have never been here before. What is it that calls me, pulls me? Pondering, I move closer, unconsciously following the faint remains of a path, until I am close enough to see the ruins high up in a huge cave opening, facing south. They bring up confused pictures in my mind, a rapid kaleidoscope of people; warriors returning from a hunt, mothers tending children, grinding corn, sewing clothing, elders in deep discussion – a montage of life. And some of the faces that flash through my mind I know. Yet how can that be? Those people were obviously Native Americans I am English/Scottish Canadian. What connection can there possibly be?

I pause, staring in wonder, then move closer until I am standing at the foot of the great cliff. Looking up, I can see places where one could climb, places for hands and feet, leading up. I feel such a strong pull, that before I realise what I’m doing, I am making my precarious way up the cliff. It is a long and tiring climb, but at last I stand on the ledge, looking at the remains of the building, and the feeling that I know this place is stronger than ever.

I walk along the ledge, and find an entrance into the building. I can only see a little, where the sun of early afternoon lights it, but it seems to be empty. I take one step closer, and suddenly, I hear voices – a woman’s voice, chiding a child; several men’s voices, discussing the day’s hunt. As I listen, it comes to me that they are not speaking English – it is a language I think I have never heard. How can that be? The only language I know is English, so how can I understand what people are saying in another language? Fear grips me, and I stand just on the doorstep, unable to move. The voices continue, and my sight starts to fade, until at last, there is nothing but darkness. I feel nothing, my body is gone. What is happening to me?!

 

Deja Vous – part 2

Darkness, nothingness, drifting; what has happened, where am I? Who am I? Am I dead? Is this Limbo? I can feel nothing, no hint of my body. I’m still drifting, but now I can hear something, faint, a soft sound, like fine hair lifted by a soft breeze. I stir, and realise that I did move, so I must have a body. I am not dead. I try again, moving my fingers, and feel something smooth, padded. I am lying on my back, on …. what? Slowly, oh so slowly, things start to come back.

I am … Cheveyo, Spirit Walker? Jamal Spanbauer? Why do both names feel like me?  I shake my head and moan, and a soft hand rests on my forehead. A familiar voice whispers “easy, my son, rest easy, you are home.” I struggle to open my eyes, blinking away the fogginess. Yes, it is my Mother, Algoma, valley of flowers. The name Jamal fades, the almost memories of confusing scenes of many oddly clad people, things moving very quickly along hard wide pathways, tall, impossible buildings that have been haunting me fade and disappear. I am Cheveyo, I am home. I turn to my mother and ask “what happened?” My voice is little more than a whisper.

She sighs, stroking my hair. “My son, we do not know. You went out hunting and disappeared. All the men and older boys went out searching, but all they found was where you had camped last. Your footsteps were found leading away from there, but stopped at a fallen tree.  Then, yesterday afternoon, you came staggering in and collapsed. Do you not remember what happened to you?”

I lay and thought, remembering again those terrifying, impossible scenes. “I remember standing at a corner, the paths of some hard, white material, with wide places between them. They were darker, and filled with some kind of carts or wagons. They moved at incredible speeds, I caught glimpses of people inside. Some were very large, with many people, some smaller with only one or two. There were big square ones, with things painted on the side. The paths were crowded with people in very odd clothing.

“When I looked down, I saw that my skin was dark, and I was dressed in the same odd clothing. Someone beside me called me Jamal, and I knew I was Jamal Spanbouer. This was my home, a place called Tor-on-to-on-ta-rio-can-ada. I was so afraid, and confused, because I knew I was Cheveya Spirit walker, but I was also this Jamal person. We went to a large open place, full of grass, flowers and trees, and started throwing some kind of ball around, I missed the ball, and it hit my head. Now I am here again, and very glad to be home. I never want to see that place again.”

“Rest now, my son. Akula the shaman has been tending you, and you are well now. Rest today, and tomorrow you can go out with the hunters again.” Algoma smiled at her son, relieved that he was himself again.  She touched his cheek and left him. He lay quiet, thinking about what had happened. Was I in the future? he wondered. If so, I am very glad that I will never live to see it happen. Sighing, he drifted off to sleep.

Cheveyo lived a long and happy life, and married Amitola Rainbow, the maiden he had loved for a long time. Together they raised a son Chezmu witty and a daughter Cholina bird. He became chief of the tribe, a wise and fair minded ruler, and the tribe prospered. But always, deep in his mind was the memory of that terrifying place where somehow, he had lived for a short time.

No one ever found out what had happened to Jamal Spanbouer, after he collapsed on the basketball court.