 Spirit
Dancer
ISBN 1-932344-79-9
"What ancient secrets may still lay buried
in the earth or in the hearts and spirits of those who dare to question their
destiny?"
Among the hallowed ruins of Mesa Verde, Colorado, Alex
Nakai searches for an answer to a question that could rock the archaeological
community to its foundation. Journalist Jessica Sinclair is determined to use
Alex's discovery as a stepping stone in her career. But the spirits of an
ancient sacred ruin have another agenda that will send Alex and Jessica's
missions spinning in a new direction and bring Alex forthright with his own
Native heritage and spiritual destiny.
Passions hotter than the sun of the desert
southwest and ghosts who haunt an ancient ruin pull Jessica and Alex into a
drama that spans the bridges of time and draws them into a world of mystery,
romance and the timeless battle between good and evil.
Reviews
“Through this wonderful story, the author takes us on a
spiritual journey back to our Native American roots awakening the ancestral
blood flowing through our veins. Great book! If you like to read about the
Southwest, you’ll love this book.”
“I loved the use of imagery in this book. It made me feel
like I was actually living the story. I loved following the journey of Alex and
Jess and couldn’t wait to see what would happen next. I am definitely looking
forward to the next book of the series.”
"Excellent concept for a romance,
mystical fiction novel... I hear it is the
first of many - wow! Keep them coming Sharon, this is a fabulous book with a
stunning cover!"
“As someone from the Southwest, Spirit Dancer by
Sharon Silva was a nostalgic trip home. Well done. She captures the culture
and mysticism of the region and makes you fall in love with the characters from
page one.”
“Sharon Silva’s vivid descriptions capture the mystery and
allure of the ancient people of the Southwest. The character’s plight grips the
reader from beginning to end. What a great book!”
“What an awesome book! So much detail and insight into the
spirit world. It gives amazing hope for past lives and lives yet to come. The
characters are vibrant and intertwine in a captivating style!”
“Last night I finished reading Spirit Dancer. I had
to finish it. I couldn’t put it down. What a page turner!!!! The plot is very
well crafted, the characters endearing and the locations so well described I
could see them in my mind’s eye. Write on Sharon! I can’t wait for Volume II.“
“When I picked up Spirit Dancer and read
Sharon’s poem, the Anasazi, I knew
I had to read her book. And I was right. It connected me with my own heritage
and my own roots. I want to thank Sharon for writing this book. I loved it. I
lived the adventure and will live it again as I read the book again and again.”
Excerpt
Chapter One
Spirits seemed to walk the canyon rim that morning, rising as
clouds of mist from the waking earth. Alex Nakai dropped softly to his knees in
the moist earth, squinting into the sun that peeked through an apricot cloud
above the mesa top. Light sparkled in the water droplets that clung to the
nearby piñon and juniper trees from last night’s rain. The thin spines of a
yucca plant cast its shadow next to his own on the sandy canyon floor and he
resumed his tedious task.
With a gentle determined hand, he brushed at the cool dirt in the crevice
between two sandstone slabs. Bit by bit, each parting grain of sand fell away to
reveal the tiny skeleton he labored over. He’d thought it was the remains of a
small animal, possibly a rabbit. Now with each stroke of the soft brush, the
realization came.
The perfectly preserved skeleton of an ancient infant, its tiny spine, arms and
legs curled in a fetal position, lay exposed to the warming rays of light. A
burst of air escaped his lips as a mixture of feelings ran through him ending
with a heaviness in his chest. His jaw clenched against his gut reaction. He put
his hand to the bridge of his nose and pushed at the corners of his eyes,
defying a tear to attempt an escape.
Remnants of an ancient burial cloth clung to the bones and a thin strip of
beaded rawhide was still visible around the tiny skull. Next to the delicate
bones lay a crushed, but still distinguishable piece of pottery. Tiny and
fragile, like the child itself, the vessel had no doubt carried the nectar of
the gods into the next world.
He picked up a small shard of the pot and rubbed it between his fingers.
Examining it with a careful eye, he squeezed it tight to his palm. This fragment
of the past could prove to be greatly significant to his career. It could prove
to be the key to the mysterious connection that had haunted his mind for months.
Now, it faded into oblivion next to a storm brewing in his soul.
Kneeling in the heartland of his ancestral past, he felt his native history for
the first time. Myriad thoughts and feelings vibrated through him. Life. Death.
Roots. Beginnings and endings. A rebirth of the spirit, his spirit, seemed
destined to begin. Images of things that were, and those yet to be, walked on
moccasin-covered feet through his mind. The remains of a long dead civilization
were intertwined with his own ancestral dawning in the sanctity of a tiny grave.
Ashes to ashes and dust to dust. It gave new meaning to his oneness with the
earth. Yet it symbolized a new beginning that festered in his soul, unidentified
and nagging. Here lay undeniable proof of ancient suffering, of his people’s
painful history and of the loss of not just life, but of a way of life. It
touched him, slammed him face first into his own mortality, into his own fragile
existence, and into his own heritage.
He moved his dirt-covered finger gently down the tiny skull and arm then
carefully covered it again, returning the sands of many ages to their rightful
home.
“I’ll not disturb your sleep, little one,” he whispered as he patted the earth,
sealing their secret away for eternity. For a moment, he studied the tiny piece
of the vessel in his palm, then pushed it deep into his pocket. Sitting back on
his knees in the cool moist earth and looking up into the morning sun, a
haunting picture formed in his mind’s eye.
The buckskin clad chieftain rubbed the dark wisps of hair on the baby boy’s head
and smiled as he brought the soft roundness to his lips and kissed it, savoring
the smell of the child’s newness. Holding him skyward, to the full moon
overhead, he offered his son for the blessing of the gods.
“Sin atsa, you shall be called,” the leader said with great love and
pride. “Song of the Eagle. It will be your song that one day will carry the
prayers of the people to the gods. For you are the next chosen one among us.”
The chief lay the baby in its mother’s arms and she cuddled the child to her
breast beneath the warmth of the buffalo robe that encircled her shoulders. The
man chanted and danced around the fire that burned in the fire pit of the great
temple.
“Hay na na. Hay na na,” the chief repeated over and over as the flames of the
fire reached skyward, sending tiny sparks along with the hope of the future high
into the smoke filled night air.
Alex sat back on his heels, eyes closed and face to the sky. The vision in his
mind was gone now. The imprint of this moment and its emotion on his soul would
not vanish so quickly.
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