Jake stayed behind with the horses—and the cat, while Pete, Morgan, Ben, Dr. Mendez, Veronica, Joshua, and I trekked the last leg of the journey on foot. We stomped across tall grasses, around bushes and trees, over and between boulders, and through a small stream. “Hang in there,” Pete said, his breathing heavy. “What you’re gonna see is worth the trouble gettin’ there.”
The huge sandstone outcropping, which Pete referred to as a cave, revealed itself slowly, camouflaged as it was by a periphery of bushes and trees. Rays of sunlight filtered through a break in the clouds and highlighted the flattened soil in front of the rock shelter’s rough, oval mouth, creating what appeared to be a massive welcome mat. However, I felt more than welcomed. I felt drawn, hardly able to resist the urge to break from the group and sprint through the shallow cave-like opening.
The shelter’s interior was in shadow, so it took several seconds for my eyes to adjust. Even so, I glimpsed only a dim and distorted view. Pete pulled out a pocket flashlight and flipped it on. Instantly a beam of light exposed details of the inner cave walls that incited a collective gasp.
“There they are,” Pete said, “straight ahead, right in front of us.”
Hands, a great family of hands, hands of all shapes and sizes, intertwined and pointing in all directions, were imprinted on the overhang’s interior wall. As we approached for a closer look, Pete said, “It’s an ancient mural created by the Esselen. Beautiful, huh?”
We could spend hours here and not fully appreciate the significance of the archaeological treasure now exposed to our eager eyes.
I sensed Pete’s excitement at sharing this ancient artwork as he pinpointed the white and ochre colored dots, lines, even modern graffiti, interspersed around and between the hands. “This rock art, painted back as far as 4,000 years ago, contains messages sent from the grave. The Esselen believed that ev’rything is alive, including rocks, and that ev’rything has a spirit. What I think they’re showin’ us here is their belief that the invisible world is full of mystical forces, prob’ly what scientists in modern times would call energy.”
“Too bad about the graffiti,” Morgan said softly, pointing out some recently imprinted initials.
“Yeah,” Pete said. “Technically speaking, these rock art sites are open to the public, but the exact locations are usually kept secret to keep out looters and vandals. Once these caves get damaged, they stay that way forever. Anyway, the Esselen believed that rocks hold memory and that if ya put your hand over a hand carved or imprinted onto a rock, ya can tune into ev’rything that ever happened there. We’re not supposed to touch the rocks ’cause the bacteria and oil on our skin causes the pictographs to deteriorate, but it’s okay to hold your hand an inch or so away from the wall’s surface, if you’re into givin’ the tunin’ in thing a try.”
He set the flashlight on the cave floor and held up his hands to demonstrate. Joshua and I walked up to the wall and, without touching its surface, swept our out-stretched hands over the ancient hands, each attempting to find a print similar to our own. Energy surged through my fingertips and palms as my hands hovered over the exact spot where an Esselen, possibly even one of my ancestors, had left his or her mark.
Joshua closed his eyes and started to tremble as if no longer in control of his arms, legs, and body. The sight disturbed me, and I turned to Dr. Mendez with the silent question. What should we do?
He shook his head and pressed a finger to his lips.
In an attempt to discover what Joshua was experiencing, I, too, closed my eyes, and almost immediately opened them again. “Mother!” For a moment, I had imagined that the woman who’d given birth to me twenty-eight years before had come back and touched me through the hands on the wall.
I sensed rather than saw Veronica’s jolt of surprise. “Who did you hear or see?”
“No one,” I said, reaching for Joshua and pulling him close. “I heard and saw no one.”
“No offense,” Veronica said, “but this place reminds me of a huge, dark birthing chamber, with all the hands shooting out of what appears to be a Yoni fertility symbol, which would explain your reference to mother.”
“I don’t know,” I said, unable to explain what I had just experienced.
“Come to think of it,” Veronica said. “It would be kind of hard for a woman in labor to manage the long trek getting here. Even a strong Esselen woman used to such tough conditions.”
“The reason the cave’s mouth isn’t lettin’ in more light is ’cause of all the bushes and trees blockin’ the sun,” Pete said defensively, probably misinterpreting Veronica’s comment and my reaction as criticism and disappointment, rather than appreciation of his big surprise. “It’s big enough for a small tribe to hold a ceremony,” Pete continued, “like bringin’ in young men for fertility rites when they’re goin’ from boyhood to manhood. Guess we’ll never know.”
Dr. Mendez touched the small of my back, signaling that it was time to leave the large grotto-like shelter. “Come on, Joshua,” I said. “Better head back to camp before dark.”
If Veronica, too, had sensed something out of the ordinary, she wasn’t showing it. My sister was, after all, an expert at masking her feelings and thoughts.
When Morgan came out of the cave, he took me into his arms and rubbed my shoulders and back. “I’m here if you need me. Always remember that.”
Pete took off his hat and slapped it against his thigh. Dust misted out in a cloud of disappointment. “Might as well set up camp and call it a day.” He glanced at me and then looked away. “No entertainment tonight.”
The lack of entertainment didn’t bother me. I had other things on my mind, like what had happened to Joshua and me in the cave and how the clouds had turned dark and the air moist and chilly. Morgan and Ben exchanged glances. Veronica looked at the clouds and shook her head.
After dinner, Pete joined Joshua and me next to the campfire. “I meant for the hands in the cave to be a big surprise and that you’d get a real kick out of ’em the way I do.” His lips moved as if he were talking to himself and then his face brightened. “Ever heard of Robinson Jeffers?”
“The poet?”
“He lived in Carmel . . . built himself a house outa rocks and called it Tor House. Even though I didn’t get much schoolin’, I like his poems. Can’t say I understand ’em all, but I like the sound of ’em. He wrote a poem about the hands in the cave.”
“You’re kidding,” I said, glad that his mood had lifted.
“I tried to memorize the lines for my tours, but . . .” Pete paused and studied his hands.
“What would you say if I told you I’ve been hearing and seeing things?” I asked.
“You mean things other people don’t?”
“Something like that.”
Pete scanned the troubled sky. “Out here, a person can believe almost anything. I’ve heard some mighty convincing stories about spiritual sites and such. Some have scientific explanations like positive and negative ions, but not all.”
If the collective consciousness theories Dr. Mendez had talked to me about bore any truth, it would be possible for some kind of energetic whorl of lingering memory to gather in such sites, consisting of the thoughts of all the people who’d previously visited or meditated there. Coherent memories of intense moments of like-mindedness would be available to tap into by anyone with the ability to do so.
“Joshua and I sensed something in the cave,” I said. “Right, Joshua?”
I felt rather than saw Joshua nod.
“You mean somethin’ bad?” Pete asked.
“Gosh no. The experience was exhilarating, like the surprise you promised as a grand finale. I loved the hands. They had energy and seemed to be sending a message from thousands of years ago.”
“Did you like the hands, too? I asked Joshua.
He huddled closer to me before giving another nod.
I squeezed his hand— “I thought so” —and then turned back to Pete. “Tell me more about the poem.”
Though Pete’s smile was no more than a lipless slash, it clearly expressed his pleasure in sharing Jeffer’s message. “The first two lines go like this:
Inside a cave in a narrow canyon near Tassajara
The vault of rock is painted with hands . . .
“Sorry, can’t remember the rest.”
Softly, as if carried by the breeze, Dr. Mendez recited the remaining lines of the poem, which spoke of a multitude of hands and questioned whether the brown, shy people who painted them intended religion or magic with the sealed message.
I savored the words, not wanting to let them go.
🗲🗲🗲
Soon after came a bright flash, as if a megawatt spotlight had flicked on and off, followed by a crackling sound and another long roll of thunder. Heart racing, knees shaking, I crawled out of my sleeping bag and grabbed my clothes. I heard that it’s rare to experience a thunderstorm first thing in the morning, but when they strike, they pack a punch.
Rain pattered on the canvas walls, and while I dressed, the patter turned into a downpour. I opened the tent flap and peered through the sheet of rain. The entire force of men, dressed in rain gear, scrambled to load our supplies onto the horses. Morgan greeted me with a dimpled smile. “Pack up. I’ll take care of your tent.”
Pete tossed me a wrapped sandwich. “Best eat this now.”
“Are we close to Tassajara?” I asked, my heart weighing heavy.
“Yep,” Pete said. “Almost at the end of our journey.”
Joshua stepped out of his tent, and I gestured for him to join me. He looked pale and listless, and I wondered if this was because of the storm. What an unfortunate thing to happen, just as we had reached the place I had hoped would incite Joshua to speak again.
While I rolled up my sleeping bag and gathered my belongings, I encouraged Joshua to eat part of the sandwich Pete had given me. He did so reluctantly, sharing portions of it with Gabriel, who would have eaten the whole thing, if I hadn’t intervened.
Ben opened the flap of the tent and handed me two disposable ponchos with attached hoods. “I’ll check Joshua’s mount. Join us when you’re done.”
I slipped a poncho over my head and waited for Joshua to finish eating before helping him with his. By the time we reached the others, Ben had tacked up Joshua’s horse, put his supplies in a waterproof bag, and secured it over the saddle horn.
Joshua mounted, and Ben handed him the reins, warning him to stick close to the doctor and me. Joshua nodded, his eyes unfocused. Even the cat, who Ben had nearly buried beneath the folds of a blanket inside Joshua’s saddlebag, couldn’t help the child now. This trip had been a bad idea.
🗲🗲🗲
Ben, Morgan, and Dr. Mendez set up camp for the last time, and for once, Joshua didn’t join in. Instead, he and Gabriel found a large, slick rock and planted themselves on top like newts. Veronica erected her tent without adding a word to the conversation. Jake fixed a pot of coffee and then built a fire to comfort and dry the wet and weary travelers. What an introspective group we’d become.
Once I’d erected my wet tent—which took me twice as long, with ten times as much fumbling as it had taken Veronica—I invited Joshua to join me next to the fire for a game of cards. The only game I knew was solitaire, but that didn’t matter. At this point, nothing would have interested the child, except, maybe, the miraculous return of his parents.
Even Gabriel seemed out of sorts. Instead of winding his body around Joshua in his usual cat-like manner, he roamed the camp in an aimless circle. Morgan and Ben checked the horses with extra care, making sure to hobble and tie them securely.
“We’re goin’ to combine lunch and dinner,” Pete said, “so we can have evr’thing packed away come dark.”
He motioned to Joshua. “I could use a little help serving the meal. You game?”
Joshua nodded and trudged to his side.
“We’re only havin’ campfire beans and cornbread,” Pete said. “Nothin’ fancy, but it’ll have to do.”
Jake piled more wood on the fire, and Dr. Mendez volunteered the last of his wine. All but Pete accepted gratefully. Jake scooped large portions of beans onto our plates, and Joshua followed balancing a platter of sliced bread.
I watched the child for signs of distress, but he seemed pleased with his new role as camp server. He waited patiently while each person took a slice of Pete’s last supper offering.
“This’ll be our last meal together,” Pete said, “ ’cept for a quick breakfast in the morning. The storm wasn’t part of the plan, but that’s how it goes.”
The Rolling Stones’ lament, You Can’t Always Get What You Want, flooded my mind, which spoke to my current disillusion with the trip and its therapeutic value for Joshua. But then I recalled the last part of the lyrical hook, which sounded a lot like something Dr. Mendez would say to me about now—that I might just get what I need.
“Funny you mentioning this being our last meal together,” Morgan said softly, “today being Holy Thursday and all.”
Lent was almost over. Two more days until Easter Sunday.