The faculty of observation was never highly developed in Thea Kronborg.  A great deal escaped her eye as she passed through the world.  But the things which were for her, she saw; she experienced them physically and remembered them as if they had once been a part of herself.  The roses she used to see in the florists’ shops in Chicago were merely roses.  But when she thought of the moonflowers that grew over Mrs. Tellamantez’s door, it was as if she had been that vine and had opened up in white flowers every night.  There were memories of light on the sand hills, of masses of prickly-pear blossoms she had found in the desert in early childhood, of the late afternoon sun pouring through the grape leaves and the mint bed in Mrs. Kohler’s garden, which she would never lose.  These recollections were a part of her mind and personality.  In Chicago she had got almost nothing that went into her subconscious self and took root there.  But here, in Panther Canyon, there were again things which seemed destined for her.

Panther Canyon was the home of innumerable swallows.  They built nests in the wall far above the hollow groove in which Thea’s own rock chamber lay.  They seldom ventured above the rim of the canyon, to the flat, wind-swept tableland.  Their world was the blue air-river between the canyon walls.  In that blue gulf the arrow-shaped birds swam all day long, with only an occasional movement of the wings.  The only sad thing about them was their timidity; the way in which they lived their lives between the echoing cliffs and never dared to rise out of the shadow of the canyon walls.  As they swam past her door, Thea often felt how easy it would be to dream one’s life out in some cleft in the world.

From the ancient dwelling there came always a dignified, unobtrusive sadness; now stronger, now fainter, ­like the aromatic smell which the dwarf cedars gave out in the sun, ­but always present, a part of the air one breathed.  At night, when Thea dreamed about the canyon, ­or in the early morning when she hurried toward it, anticipating it, ­her conception of it was of yellow rocks baking in sunlight, the swallows, the cedar smell, and that peculiar sadness ­a voice out of the past, not very loud, that went on saying a few simple things to the solitude eternally.

Standing up in her lodge, Thea could with her thumb nail dislodge flakes of carbon from the rock roof ­the cooking-smoke of the Ancient People.  They were that near!  A timid, nest-building folk, like the swallows.  How often Thea remembered Ray Kennedy’s moralizing about the cliff cities.  He used to say that he never felt the hardness of the human struggle or the sadness of history as he felt it among those ruins.  He used to say, too, that it made one feel an obligation to do one’s best.  On the first day that Thea climbed the water trail she began to have intuitions about the women who had worn the path, and who had spent so great a part of their lives going up and down it.  She found herself trying to walk as they must have walked, with a feeling in her feet and knees and loins which she had never known before, ­which must have come up to her out of the accustomed dust of that rocky trail.  She could feel the weight of an Indian baby hanging to her back as she climbed.

The empty houses, among which she wandered in the afternoon, the blanketed one in which she lay all morning, were haunted by certain fears and desires; feelings about warmth and cold and water and physical strength.  It seemed to Thea that a certain understanding of those old people came up to her out of the rock shelf on which she lay; that certain feelings were transmitted to her, suggestions that were simple, insistent, and monotonous, like the beating of Indian drums.  They were not expressible in words, but seemed rather to translate themselves into attitudes of body, into degrees of muscular tension or relaxation; the naked strength of youth, sharp as the sunshafts; the crouching timorousness of age, the sullenness of women who waited for their captors.  At the first turning of the canyon there was a half-ruined tower of yellow masonry, a watch-tower upon which the young men used to entice eagles and snare them with nets.  Sometimes for a whole morning Thea could see the coppery breast and shoulders of an Indian youth there against the sky; see him throw the net, and watch the struggle with the eagle.

Old Henry Biltmer, at the ranch, had been a great deal among the Pueblo Indians who are the descendants of the Cliff-Dwellers.  After supper he used to sit and smoke his pipe by the kitchen stove and talk to Thea about them.  He had never found any one before who was interested in his ruins.  Every Sunday the old man prowled about in the canyon, and he had come to know a good deal more about it than he could account for.  He had gathered up a whole chestful of Cliff-Dweller relics which he meant to take back to Germany with him some day.  He taught Thea how to find things among the ruins:  grinding-stones, and drills and needles made of turkey-bones.  There were fragments of pottery everywhere.  Old Henry explained to her that the Ancient People had developed masonry and pottery far beyond any other crafts.  After they had made houses for themselves, the next thing was to house the precious water.  He explained to her how all their customs and ceremonies and their religion went back to water.  The men provided the food, but water was the care of the women.  The stupid women carried water for most of their lives; the cleverer ones made the vessels to hold it.  Their pottery was their most direct appeal to water, the envelope and sheath of the precious element itself.  The strongest Indian need was expressed in those graceful jars, fashioned slowly by hand, without the aid of a wheel.

When Thea took her bath at the bottom of the canyon, in the sunny pool behind the screen of cottonwoods, she sometimes felt as if the water must have sovereign qualities, from having been the object of so much service and desire.  That stream was the only living thing left of the drama that had been played out in the canyon centuries ago.  In the rapid, restless heart of it, flowing swifter than the rest, there was a continuity of life that reached back into the old time.  The glittering thread of current had a kind of lightly worn, loosely knit personality, graceful and laughing.  Thea’s bath came to have a ceremonial gravity.  The atmosphere of the canyon was ritualistic.

One morning, as she was standing upright in the pool, splashing water between her shoulder-blades with a big sponge, something flashed through her mind that made her draw herself up and stand still until the water had quite dried upon her flushed skin.  The stream and the broken pottery:  what was any art but an effort to make a sheath, a mould in which to imprison for a moment the shining, elusive element which is life itself, ­life hurrying past us and running away, too strong to stop, too sweet to lose?  The Indian women had held it in their jars.  In the sculpture she had seen in the Art Institute, it had been caught in a flash of arrested motion.  In singing, one made a vessel of one’s throat and nostrils and held it on one’s breath, caught the stream in a scale of natural intervals.