An Anasazi Story by Jeff Posey.
A breeze upon the spiral’s door
is unpredicted, ephemeral
spirit without purpose
The lines of the sun
The shadows of the moon
darkness and light, predictable
walls sighted to the lines
Alive long after The People
Have danced and moaned their last
The man with the stone tools tapped all day tracing the charcoal spiral marked upon the doorway column. On the first day of spring a morning shadow bordered one side of the spiral and on the last day of spring a shadow bordered the other. The shadow point of a nearby roof pierced the spiral’s center on the longest day of the year. As the man worked, children suspended their never-ending games to watch.
“What if it’s in the wrong place?” asked the boy who questioned everything.
“Then we will move the sun to make it right,” said the stone carver without missing a tap. Flakes of stone and dust fell away leaving a pecked pattern that erased the charcoal lines.
“No one can move the sun,” said the boy.
“Yet the sun moves,” said the stone tapper. “How can that be?”
“No people can move the sun.”
“So who moves the sun? Do any of you know?”
“The Creator,” whispered a little girl.
“The Sun God moves himself,” said another boy.
“Is there anything that would make it stop moving?” asked the boy with the questions.
“The sun stops for only one reason,” said the man.
“It stops only to stare at boys who ask too many questions.” He kept tapping.
“Is it stopped right now?” the boy asked.
The tapper kept working. “Yes.”
“When I stop asking questions, will it start back again from where it stopped, or will it jump ahead to where it should be?”
The man stopped and looked at the boy. Then he turned back to his tapping. “It will start up from where it left off, which could be days from now if you keep asking questions.”
The children watched him work.
“Then your spiral is in the wrong place,” said the boy.
“What?” asked the man.
“If the sun doesn’t jump ahead to where it’s supposed to be from when you started tapping, your spiral will be in the wrong place.”
Again, the man turned and looked at the boy. For a long time he stared. “It is a good thing,” he said, shaking his head and turning back to his work, “that you are the son of a farmer.”
“Because if you were the son of a spiral-maker, this stone I hold would be tapping some sense into your head.” The children laughed, and the the spiral-maker held up his tapping stone as if to go after the boy with questions, who squealed and ran.
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