Timeshares Part 6

The following days fly by. I am saddened when Becca tells me we need to leave. We are given food and water for our trip, and Becca has to drag me away.

We find our way back to the clearing. Becca and I lay in the gra.s.s, gazing up at the stars.

"Becca, thank for bringing me on this magnificent journey."

She smiles. "You're not so bad. Maybe you should join the team."

"You mean Timeshares would hire me?"

Becca gives me a serious look. "Sure. You might be asked to risk your life now and again for some good photo opportunities, though."

I am in shock. I have found my dream job. "Do they offer a good employee package? What would they pay me to start?"

Becca looks up at the stars as she answers. "They offer the greatest paycheck anyone could wish for, a reawakened joy of life." How true those words are.

The return trip is a bit more traumatic. A bright light comes out of the sky and blinds me. I wake up in Timeshare's office.

I change back into my modern clothes and meet Becca in the front office. She offers to buy me breakfast. One thing gnaws at me that I need to clear up.

"Becca, you didn't seem too concerned about our crossing paths with the man-eating cats and the huge skull-crus.h.i.+ng bears. Were you just trying to scare me? Or did such things exist?"

"This last trip was only about seven thousand years ago. You will not have to worry about those bears until," she pauses to think and glances at a calendar, ". . . a week from next Tuesday. We need you to photograph the first meeting between the Clovis and the Karquees in 12,560 b.c. Those bears surprise us all the time around that area. Just stand tall and wave your magical staff to scare them, and get off a few good photos in the process."

"You really think that will work? Are they scared by the crystals?"

"I doubt it, but it might buy you some time to run away. Just think how cool those photos would be. And don't worry, I'll frame one and put it on my desk to remind me of your heroism."

She opens the door, and we head to Destiny's Diner.

The Shaman Annie Jones

Annie Jones is the youngest grandma you ever saw and just beginning to write fiction. She has a story in Terribly Twisted Tales Terribly Twisted Tales, and now one in Timeshares Timeshares. She thanks Jean Rabe for sharing her knowledge about writing, which includes everything from soup to nuts and beyond. Annie enjoys working in her yard, digging and planting with hopes that things will grow like they are supposed to according to directions, which is not always the case. She lives in Wisconsin with her husband of many years and one dominating Yorks.h.i.+re terrier.

"I need a vacation," I said to myself. I'd had a stressful month at my job as supervisor of the perfume counter at one of the local department stores in Columbus, Ohio. I'd been thinking a while about a visit to some of the ancient Indian ruins in the Southwest, perhaps Arizona, inspired by my studies of ancient Southwest history. need a vacation," I said to myself. I'd had a stressful month at my job as supervisor of the perfume counter at one of the local department stores in Columbus, Ohio. I'd been thinking a while about a visit to some of the ancient Indian ruins in the Southwest, perhaps Arizona, inspired by my studies of ancient Southwest history.

So this particular July day as I walked home from work, I spied a travel agency sign that was swinging in the breeze like a hand beckoning from a shaded side street away from the bustle of traffic.

The doorway was hung with those long strings of colored gla.s.s beads that were popular back in the sixties. I stuck my head through the beads and they gave a friendly, welcome jingle. There were no computers or telephones that I noticed, just a strange looking little man sitting behind a bare table. His hair was gun-metal gray and hung down to his shoulders. The brown leather vest he wore over a red flannel s.h.i.+rt was ornamented by a string of oddly shaped turquoise beads. His legs were stretched out to their fullest, and I could see brown leather leggings and moccasins beneath the table.

"Come in, traveler." He motioned to me. He looked harmless, so being the trusting soul that I am, I walked in. I was surprised to find the floor covered with about an inch of sand. Nothing like atmosphere, I thought.

"I can tell," he said, "you are looking to take a trip. A trip for a little rest and to find some excitement. Where would you like to go?" He paused. "The Southwest." He answered himself. "Maybe some of the ancient Indian ruins?" His brown wrinkled face looked as if it might crack when he smiled warmly at me.

"How did you know?" I was surprised that he had guessed correctly.

"Oh, sometimes I can tell just by studying a person some. I have a brochure right here, and I know you will enjoy this trip." He pushed a packet to the edge of the table. A gold ring worn smooth by the years gleamed on his finger.

I checked the itinerary, and to my astonishment, the trip was scheduled for today, a little earlier than I had been planning to leave. The brochure, filled with colorful pictures, told me I wanted to go to Verde Valley near Sedona, Arizona.

"Hurry home, pack light, return here within two hours, and we will send you on your way." He had a strange but familiar singsong voice.

At that particular time, being brain dead from stress at work, it did not strike me as somewhat unusual having plans made out for me on such short order. So I rushed home, packed items I deemed necessary in my backpack, along with a few articles of clothing tucked in-I had plans to replenish my closet in Sedona. In less than two hours, I was back at the travel agency, backpack slung over my shoulder.

"First, we must get a picture of you. Please step into this little nook over here." He guided me to a bright capsulelike container that I had not noticed the first time I went in. He mumbled something about being an "accidental visitor" or "accidental tourist" from the other side.

"Accidental Tourist?" I mused. I'd seen that movie years back. I mused. I'd seen that movie years back.

He mumbled something else about me being his first customer, so to speak.

"Speak of what? Accidental what?"

He didn't answer.

"Just sit right there on the little stool, and we'll get you going, ma'am. Let's see if I've figured out how to use this contraption correctly," he said as he fumbled around with various colored b.u.t.tons on the capsule. "Oh, and give my regards to the G.o.ddess if you should happen to see her."

I was just about to ask him the cost of my vacation and about airline reservations and such-he hadn't even asked my name or to see a credit card. But he shut the door and quick as a blink, I was no longer in the little chamber, or anywhere else in Columbus, but standing in the middle of a narrow dirt road surrounded by mountains of red rock, backpack still slung over my shoulder. I was startled, angry, frightened-a dozen things at once. Upon gathering my wits, I began following the road with hopes of finding someone who could tell me where I was.

The temp, I was certain, must have been somewhere around 118 degrees. I imagined myself melting right into the ground as I hiked over the rough terrain. After a short distance, I saw a path leading off the road to a grove of trees and decided some shade would be most welcome.

When I had packed my backpack I had actually given myself over to thoughts of survival. In case I happened to wander off the beaten path, I had packed a flashlight, a box of matches, a bottle of aspirin, some packages of peanut b.u.t.ter crackers-the orange kind that kids take to school in their lunch boxes. I also had a neatly folded yellow poncho decorated with leopard spots and six small bottles of Gatorade.

As I sat on the ground, leaning back against a tree, sipping my Gatorade, I saw that at the base of a cliff in the distance was a ruin that must have been deserted for decades.

Suddenly I stopped worrying about how I got here.

Ruins! This was just what I wanted to see.

I walked toward the cliff for a closer look and sensed a foreboding pall descending on the area. Being a lover of ancient Southwest history, my heart was touched as I looked at the small handprints that had patted the clay mud flat to make an outer wall for one of the rooms. The prints were not much bigger than a child's. The walls were in pretty good shape with some crumbling, but years ago someone had lived behind them.

Several of the prints were a little larger than the rest and had an odd indent on the third finger of the right hand. I was certain the prints were the same size as mine. Reaching up, I placed my hands, fingers spread, into the hardened prints.

"My G.o.d, a perfect fit." It was as if a bolt of lightning hit me. I fell, from heat exhaustion or surprise, and I've no idea how long I was out.

As I finally came to, I was aware of people standing around me speaking in a language I did not understand. I concentrated, and after a few moments it sounded as if they might be using an offshoot of Spanish. I speak a few words of that language-I studied it for two years in high school-but the dialect was wholly unfamiliar to me. Still, I managed to make out a few words: "woman," "strange" or "odd," and "pale." All of them were obviously directed toward me. Could they be speaking an Indian language?

I was lying sprawled on the ground with my backpack to the side hanging onto my arm. As I pushed myself up with a moan, a gasp went up from the group, and some of them scurried away into the rooms under the overhanging rocks. Others s.h.i.+ed away, but stood their ground. A dog, tail between its legs, barked from some distance back. A little girl, with her finger in her mouth, held onto her mother's hand and gazed at me unafraid. They all wore primitive clothes.

"Where am I? Is this a movie set?" When I spoke, an excited garble of words went flying around the group. "Donde?" I said. Spanish for "where?"

One of the men boldly stepped up and knelt by my side. He didn't look like any tourist, but he somehow looked familiar.

He pointed to me and spread his arms wide. (Where are you from?) I understood that gesture, but didn't know the words to answer.

"Hola," I said. Maybe he understood Spanish.

"Whole-la?" he responded. He clearly didn't understand.

How could I ask where I was? Maybe I was dreaming all of this. Maybe I was still in the photo booth in the travel agency and had hit my head.

Still, I decided to humor him, figment of my imagination or not. We did much gesturing with hands and nodding of heads and rolling of eyes, trying to make ourselves understood. While all of this was going on, the others began slowly drifting back to stand in a circle around us, but keeping a safe distance in case I made any sudden moves.

By pointing to him, and then to the people, and finally back to myself as I waved my arms to take in the area, I again asked where I was.

"Sin-agua," he said. He flung his arms wide to indicate the area.

"No water? Sinagua?"

"Sin-agua."

The History Channel junkie in me came to the fore and a revelation hit me like a proverbial brick. If I wasn't dreaming, I was with a small group of nameless people who, years after their disappearance, had been called Sin-agua for lack of a better name, but also because of the lack of water in the area. Thus Sinagua-no water. I remembered a two- hour special I'd watched about them last year. They had been extinct for more than a thousand years. They had mysteriously faded into history. How could I be with a people that had simply vanished?

After some decision was reached that I was harmless, two of the women lifted me to my feet and led me into one of the rooms, where it was surprisingly very cool. The wall held a decorative pattern of handprints made by the person who had patted the clay into place. Upon seeing the handprints, I remembered placing my hands in a perfect match.

Hours went by.

That evening the people were amazed that I could take a tiny piece of wood, rub it, and make a flame. They were astounded that I had a yellow magic stick that light would come out of at the mere press of a b.u.t.ton, and everyone had to light the flashlight and scream in surprise and laughter.

The peanut b.u.t.ter crackers didn't last long; they were pa.s.sed around, with each person taking a bite. The Gatorade was sipped out of the plastic bottles with suspicion-until the sweet liquid hit a tongue, then a smile would light up the face.

Days pa.s.sed.

They honored me by declaring I fulfilled the prophecy that a white G.o.ddess who could work magic would come to them. My image was cut into a large flat rock and outlined in black like several other forms painted there.

I found that they were a gentle people of small stature who farmed with very little water. From a river a little distance away, water was carried daily in pottery jars, and to their protest, I insisted in joining in as helper. Channels had been dug to the river for irrigation of their crops. This was a well established, organized little community.

As more days pa.s.sed, I helped add rooms by using pieces of broken pottery to loosen the earth, mix it with water, and build more inner walls to make a sleeping area for myself.

My cla.s.s ring became impacted with mud, and I was constantly digging earth from the grooves. The imprint of my ring made it obvious where I worked, and everyone knew which walls I had built. It became somewhat important to them that everyone have a small section of wall with the imprint of the "G.o.ddess' " hand, a wall that should stand forever strong against the elements.

The man who had first come to my aid was a shaman-a healer and wise man. Since I had been declared a G.o.ddess, I was allowed to help him gather roots and bark, or a scorpion when needed, and other items he used to make his healing salves and potions.

I showed him my bottle of aspirin and animated how they should be taken with water. But he took one out of the palm of my hand and chewed it up. He wrinkled his face at the sour taste and decided water was indeed needed to wash it down. As we gestured and talked, we traded words. He would touch his nose and say "achin," and I would touch my nose and say "nose," and so forth.

As best he could, he explained to me that he was also a shape s.h.i.+fter. He could change himself into another form, from a man to an animal, and could also move himself from one place to another in a wink.

He never demonstrated this art to me. I was skeptical!

He showed an interest in my cla.s.s ring. His face lit up with delight when I slipped the ring off one day and offered it to him in the palm of my hand. He insisted he must make me a gift in return, as it was the tradition of his people.

The chosen item was his turquoise necklace which had beads that had been cut into unusual shapes and was very valuable to him-definitely more so than my ring was to me. He lifted the necklace over his head and gently placed it in my palm, pus.h.i.+ng my fingers closed over it. After he left, I slipped the beads into my pocket.

The next morning, long before the sun had risen, I awoke to a sound of the people rus.h.i.+ng around and low urgent whispers. They were preparing to move in a hurry and were grabbing what they could carry in their arms.

"Que?" What? I asked.

"Chindi." I was told in low, frightened tones.

"Chindi?" Not a familiar word.

The shaman rushed into my room and using sign language pointed at himself, then to his eyes. "I will see . . ."

He touched me on my shoulder with his index finger then turned his hand sideways and stretched his arm out pointing behind me. "You in the time to come."

He was gone in a blink, and a gray cat ran out the doorway. I didn't see the shaman after that, and I didn't have time to think of what he'd been trying to say to me.

Some of the people had left already, going farther north. Others were still gathering possessions when, with a whoop, what could only be described as devils began pouring into the settlement.

My G.o.d, I thought. Chindi . . . devil . . . Aztec!

I could hardly believe my eyes. Where had they come from? The Aztec nation was extinct, like as the people of the Sinagua area. What had I stumbled upon?

Had I found myself back in time?

Or was I just dreaming?

The women who tried to fight back had their brains bashed out against the rocks. The children died, too. The men, whether or not they fought back, were overpowered and tied together, wrist to wrist.

I hid!

I was cowering inside my room when I remembered my ancient history studies that said that the Aztecs held in reverence a jaguar G.o.d. Quickly, I dug my leopard spotted poncho from my backpack, slipped it on, and pulled the hood over my head.

With flashlight in hand, and summoning what bit of bravery I could muster, I spread my arms out to make myself appear as large and threatening as possible, ran out into the center of the compound, and shouted, "Stop right there!"

I stomped my feet and flapped my arms and sang "Yellow Submarine" as loud as I could-all the time waving my lit flashlight.

It had some effect.

The Aztec warriors stood frozen in their tracks as they stared at me, the jaguar woman.

"Be gone, devils!" I shouted in a language none of them understood. A jaguar G.o.ddess speaking words from heaven, and whose flashlight batteries had just burned out!

I was hoping they would turn tail and run, but being from a fierce nation, once the initial fright wore off, they quickly realized I was a jaguar G.o.d impostor. The leader of the warriors came closer to me with suspicion, not wanting to make any hasty decisions. He reached out and touched my poncho and jerked back as if it had burned his hand.

Once he found he was still alive after touching the plastic, he reached out again, wrapped his big hand around the back of my neck and pushed me toward the living quarters. He wrenched the flashlight out of my hand and flung it into the scrub. As he jammed my face up against the wall and drew back his war club, my hands shot out and landed in two of the handprints. That was the last thing I remembered until I woke to a group of tourists standing around me.

"Give her some air," someone said as they held my head and fanned me with their hand.

"Stand back, I think she must have fainted. Must be this heat."

"She wasn't here a second ago. Where did she come from?"

"Did you see? She just popped up out of nowhere!" The aches in my body told me I hadn't been dreaming. Somehow I'd been in the past. Well, I was back in the present now, and with a group of concerned sunburned tourists looking down at me.

A park ranger brought water from a nearby refreshment stand and gently removed my poncho.