Betatakin, 2082
“I think we need a piano. Do you think we can get a piano?”
Edward thought about that for a moment. He didn’t like to refuse his wife’s requests or to tell her that some things were impossible, but nevertheless, he had to on occasion. A piano?
Glancing up from his desktop where he reviewed the data from his most recent research project, he stared at the red rock stone walls of their home. Betatakin. Their fortress.
He turned to look at his wife of ten years. “A piano, Grace?”
She smiled and his heart warmed. She always had that capability, no matter how troubled either of them were. “Just a small one, Edward. Perhaps one of those digital models. Cyan’s musical ability is growing right along with all of her other creative pursuits. We need to nurture it.”
She was right, of course. Her instincts about what Cyan needed were spot on. The two were inseparable. But what else was to be expected? There was just the three of them and the guards, and he worked constantly on this or that government project and wasn’t available. Why wouldn’t Grace and Cyan be close?
But a piano?
“What about a flute?”
“Flute?”
“Yes. It fits better here, I believe. Just think about it Grace.”
“I’d like for her to keep her fingers busy.”
“The flute would do that.” And the sound more natural to their surroundings. A piano worried him. Too big. Wieldy. A flute was portable.
“Not the same.” She paused then and studied his face. Edward didn’t say anything back. She nodded. “All right. A flute it is.”
He dipped his chin in quick agreement. “Next time I send the crew out for supplies, I’ll have them pick one up.”
“And music books, too.”
“Of course.”
“We’ll need some tutorials. I know how to play the piano and could teach her. I don’t know how to play the flute.”
Ah. Now I see. She wanted to teach her. “I’m sorry, Grace.” And he was. Sad, even. She wanted to share something with her daughter that she knew how to do. It was that the sound of a piano ringing through these rock walls… Would the rock absorb the tones or reflect? The flute was better. Less likely to be detected, even though they were buried in the bowels of the earth with a rock front interface—the technology of detection could pick up micro-sounds.
“You’re right, Edward, as always. I didn’t think. A flute it is, and please ask them to find some tutorials.”
She smiled. Grace wasn’t mad. She was rarely mad. Fearful and mistrustful, yes, but never mad. Even after everything that had happened with them the past ten years or so. Somehow Grace never got mad.
Him? That was a different story. He wanted more than what he could provide for his family. There was some comfort, yes, knowing that he was keeping them safe. His government and corporate work was plentiful for him and kept him busy, but the university’s protection was why he really sought the deal with them. They would provide security. He would do their bidding. Whatever experiment or research they wanted.
And that’s what he’d done for ten years. Doing their bidding kept them all safe, their family intact. No matter how difficult it was for any of them. No matter that it had turned him into a fact-finding, research-supported machine. No matter that there was no social life for Cyan or Grace. All they had was each other.
But they were safe.
And he had them, too, of course. But he also had his work. Thank God for his work….
****
Cyan climbed the ancient ladder and pulled herself up and out of the kiva. She wasn’t supposed to be there but she liked it. The space was like a basin in the ground, where she, and she alone, could think and be herself. When she was in the kiva, she always prayed and meditated. Her mind became clearer and she connected with the ancient spirits who lived at Betatakin before her.
Anasazi. Pueblo Indians. Perhaps ancient civilizations before that. Cliff dwellers. Now she. They all had prayed there. Lived there. Some laid to death there.
She could only assume that being laid to death in the cool quiet place would be comforting. Inside the kiva there was no turmoil, just peace. The vibrations within her body stilled and became calm, uniting as one solid and pleasant hum. When she was outside, her senses were always on high alert—she was continually in tune with everything going on around her, whether she could physically see or hear it, or not.
Inside the kiva, the vibrations rested. She rested.
Which was why she had to steal away. Her mother understood. Her father, not so much.
Oh, he was only fearful when she was out of his sight. She tried to assure him that she was quite capable of handling herself. She was nearly ten, after all.
Quite capable.
She neared the edge of the rock face and looked out upon the vast Arizona desert. Isolated. Miles of red rock, scrub trees, yucca, cacti. There was activity here she could sense even if she couldn’t see it. But if she kept still long enough, she would become one with the reptiles, insects, the birds, and other wildlife.
She sat and crossed her legs, the red rock soft and cool against the backs of her thighs. She pulled out the flute she had stashed in a cloth bag strapped over her shoulder, crisscrossing her front. This was another thing she was not supposed to do—play the flute outside.
Ben Yazzie had taught her. Despite her mother’s wish that she learn to play the classical flute her father had had brought up from Phoenix, she had abandoned it months ago only to learn how to play a Native flute from an old Navajo man. Ben Yazzie was a sheepherder who lived in an old mud hogan a few miles away. At times, his sheep would wander. And one day when Cyan had escaped the red rock walls of her home, they had stumbled upon each other. She had been sitting on a desert rock trying to practice her scale on the metal flute.
Ben Yazzie had taken one look at the thing, screwed up his face and said, “You hurt my ears. You startle the desert.” Then, he took it from her and flung it far. Before she could protest, he pulled out a Native flute from his knapsack, wiped the mouthpiece clean with his flannel shirttail, and handed it to her.
“Here. Take this. I will teach you.”
Cyan was speechless and somewhat afraid, but she took the flute. The moment the wooden instrument was in her hands, it felt natural. “Thank you.”
Ben Yazzie pointed with his lips toward the area where the flute had landed. “Not right. This one better.”
And for weeks, Cyan learned to play under his tutelage. And while she was learning the music, she was also learning so much more from Ben Yazzie.
Listen to your surroundings.
Be aware.
Pray to the east every morning.
Thank the Creator for your blessings.
Respect the four mountains.
Trust your gut. Trust your spirit guides.
Do not look for trouble.
But there was no trouble here. There had not been trouble here in years. Far be it from her to be complacent, but their lives had been humdrum for quite some time.
Cyan looked out across the desert, pressed the flute to her lower lip, and pursed to blow into the instrument. The soft, soothing wail of the Native flute wafted through the cliffs.
Her chest swelled. Eyes closed. The music poured from somewhere deep within her. Soul deep. She lost herself in the music thinking of Ben Yazzie and how she had not seen him for some time. Perhaps she would steal away to his hogan one day soon.
But then, another man appeared, at first in her mind’s eye. Then, in her meditative state she saw him full-on and heard him speak. It was not the first time she had met him, although his presence startled her somewhat. She did not know his name.
“I am here to warn you,” he told her.
She felt a sliver of fear trip up her spine and tried to push it away. “From what?” she asked.
“Conserve your energy. You will need it in the future. Do you not feel it?”
Perhaps her thoughts of complacency earlier were coming back to haunt her. She’d been ignoring the vibrations for a while now. She was safe here, at Betatakin. They’d been here a long time. No one knew how to find them, she was certain. Yet, the vibrations didn’t lie.
“How soon?” She knew best not to ignore the signs, however they came.
The Anasazi warrior stood before her in full regalia. Ready for battle. To defend. “Are you here to help me?”
His chin dipped in a nod. “One day.” Then, he pursed his lips and pointed his face out toward the desert. “Do not think you are alone. You are never alone.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means what it means.”
It was then Cyan realized she had stopped playing the flute, although the music had still been going on in her head during the conversation.
His words returned. “There will be great sadness. Prepare your soul. Your heart. And of those you love.” Those words left her with a painful thud in the pit of her stomach. This was a dire warning.
She blinked. The warrior was gone. Cyan scanned the empty horizon in front of her. Do not think you are alone.