Big Nose stepped up alongside. “Why are you doing this?” We don’t care for our enemy dead. We don’t sing songs for the Crow People we kill.”
“I am not doing this,” Storm Arriving told him. “He is. I am simply allowing it. Besides, it is the first respectable thing this whining coward has done. I think that if we encourage him in such things he will not be such an embarrassment when we present him to the Council.” He turned to the vé’ho’e. “You bury your dead in the ground, no?”
“Yes,” the bluecoat said. “In the ground.”
A shiver ran up Storm Arriving’s back. “I cannot imagine the spirits are happy with that, but you may do it as you wish.”
The vé’ho’e chose a spot away from the wreck and Storm Arriving directed the whistler to dig. The hen put her hands on the ground and tore at the dirt with her powerful rear claws. When the dark earth had been churned and broken up, he stopped her. He pointed at the bluecoat.
“Now you finish it.”
The vé’ho’e looked momentarily affronted, then thought better of it. He picked up a bent length of the white metal and began the work of scooping out the grave. He stopped often for breath and to clear his head. Storm Arriving did not move to assist him. This was the bluecoat’s right and duty to bury his dead. To help him would be to cheat him of the honor.
The vé’ho’e slung his comrade’s corpse in a length of white cloth and dragged it into the grave. The man had been young, his face unlined and fresh. Pale in life, the dead man was even paler in death, his skin nearly blue like morning ashes. The bluecoat arranged his dead friend in the grave, setting his clothing to rights, putting his feet together, and placing his hands crossed on his chest. In the ashen hands the vé’ho’e placed the chain of the trinket. Then he closed the shroud over the body.
Storm Arriving watched all this and saw in his mind the burial of his father. It had been a bright winter day and the air had been sharp with cold and filled with the scent of pine trees and smoldering sage. The women had dressed the old man in his finest war clothes and wrapped him in a quilled robe to keep his spirit warm on the journey through the night sky to Séáno, the Place of the Dead. His other-fathers had lifted the body up onto the scaffold and arranged his hands and feet and hair with tender grief. Storm Arriving himself had placed his father’s quiver and arrows beside him, much as the vé’ho’e had placed the tiny trinket.
“Perhaps they are not all savages,” he said to Big Nose.
The warrior shrugged, non-committal. “It only makes them more of a puzzle.”
The bluecoat stood and stepped out of the shallow grave. He then made a mystic sign, touching head, chest, and shoulders. It was like a sign made to Nevé-stane-vóo’o—the four sacred spirits—but all confused. Storm Arriving wondered how these men survived in the world at all.
The bluecoat stood silently for a moment, then said some quiet words in his own tongue. Storm Arriving did not understand the words, but he guessed their meaning and he kept silent. Then the vé’ho’e was done, and began to cover the body with dirt. This last Storm Arriving could not watch and he turned and stepped away.
“There was a third man with us,” the vé’ho’e said as he stopped for breath. “Did you find another body anywhere?”
“No,” Storm Arriving said, refusing to look at the grisly task.
The vé’ho’e was silent for a long moment, and then returned to his work.
After a time, it was done. Storm Arriving found the dark mound of earth oddly fitting next to the crumpled ruin of the bluecoat’s fallen cloud. Neither of them belonged on the smooth blanket of the prairie; they were both things of the vé’hó’e, unnatural and without connection to the land around them.
“Come,” he said. “We are leaving this place.”
Storm Arriving and Big Nose fashioned a travois out of two long pieces of the cloud-metal, strapping it behind Big Nose’s riding whistler and wrapping the sharp ends with pieces of buffalo hide. The bluecoat looked worried as they tied down specimens from the wreckage: more pieces of the cloud metal, a bundle of the strong white cloth, sections of pounded iron and brass.
“What is wrong, vé’ho’e?” Storm Arriving asked him.
“Nothing,” he said. “And my name is George.”
Big Nose laughed. “Tshortsh,” he said, trying to form the odd sounds. “That sounds funny. What does it mean?”
“I…I don’t know,” he said.
Big Nose laughed again. “Sounds funny and means nothing. We should call him Makes No Sense.”
“No,” Storm Arriving said. “That is not a good name either.” He called to the Contrary in the language of the People. “What shall we name the vé’ho’e?”
Laughs like a Woman frowned in thought. “I think that Ame’haooestse is a bad name for him,” he said.
Storm Arriving smiled, taking the Contrary’s reversed meaning. “You are right, Hohnóhka.” He turned to the bluecoat. “Your vé’ho’e name is hard for us to say and means nothing. My friend there has suggested we call you Ame’haooestse. It means One Who Flies. Do you accept this name?”
The bluecoat looked at them sheepishly. “Amehoo?”
Storm Arriving smiled and shook his head. “Listen carefully. Ame’haooestse. The last part is very quiet. Ame’haooestse. Now you.”
“Ame’haooestse.”
“Good. That is good. You accept it?”
The soldier straightened, still serious. “I accept it.”
“Good. In the Trader’s tongue I am called Storm Arriving. This is Big Nose and that is Laughs like a Woman. Now prepare to ride. We are leaving. I do not wish to sleep in the shadow of this thing.” To the others he turned. “Mount. We ride. Soon we will see our families.”
George stood there as the Indians whooped in excitement. The mercurial nature of these men troubled him. In less than an hour they had gone from angry shouts to respectful silence to friendly banter and now cheerful song. He did not know which of these emotions—if any—was feigned, but he could not believe they were all genuine. Grown men did not behave that way, now boyish, now all in earnest.
And then there was the puzzle of their roles. The tall, lean man called Storm Arriving seemed to be the leader of the group, but he also did most of the work. The one called Big Nose seemed subordinate, but did less. And Laughs like a Woman, with whom the other two only argued, kept apart and did nothing. There was no order to it. The Indians were a complete cipher to him.
There were six whistlers in all. Four would carry riders, one would drag the travois and the last, belonging to Laughs like a Woman, would be riderless. Storm Arriving and Big Nose strode to their beasts. At a command the whistlers crouched to the ground. The men climbed aboard and at a second quiet word, the beasts stood. It looked simple enough but George remembered his first time bareback on a horse. Caution was called for.
Storm Arriving nudged his beast and it walked up next to George’s.
“Touch her back and say ‘Hámêstoo’êstse.’”
George did so and the whistler simply craned its head around to see who it was that disturbed it.
“Again,” Storm Arriving said. “With less fear.”
The beast’s back as high as George’s head and it looked down upon him from a height of eight or nine feet. Trepidation seemed a logical reaction. Nevertheless, he touched the beast again and looking it squarely in the eye said, “Hámêstoo’êstse.”
The whistler snorted.
“Hámêstoo’êstse.”
With one eye staring straight at George, it crouched. Even with its belly on the ground, its head was level with George’s own.
There was no saddle. None of the men had one. There were only a few loops and lengths of rope decorated with discs of beaten silver and feathers wrapped with colored string. A folded pad of buffalo pelt was draped over the whistler’s back.
“Now,” Storm Arriving instructed him. “Lift yourself onto her back. Straddle her with your feet in the riding loops and t
he first rope over your knees.”
George looked first at the bits of rope and then back at Storm Arriving to see how the Indian sat his mount. He did not so much sit as one would a horse; rather, he knelt, legs wide and shins fitting into natural depressions along the beast’s back.
George put a hand on the spine of his beast. The leathery skin was soft and warm. He lifted himself onto its back. The “saddle” was simply a triangle of rope. The vertex of the triangle was attached to a loop that encircled the whistler’s keel-like breast. The corners of the triangle’s base lay on either side of the beast’s spine and from each hung a loop. George folded his legs up underneath himself and slipped a foot into each loop. The pad of buffalo hide lay beneath his backside.
“Place the first rope over your knees,” Storm Arriving said, pointing.
George grasped the two forward sides of the triangle. He lifted them up and slipped his knees underneath. Settling into place, the loops held his feet back and along the beast’s side. The “first rope,” as Storm Arriving called it, snugged his knees down. The position, combined with the plushness of the thick fur of the buffalo hide, made for a secure and relatively comfortable seat. He was not sure, however, that either condition would remain true once the beast was in motion. The whistler’s back was much narrower than a horse’s, so sliding off would not be as great a threat, but George was sure it could still happen.
There were no reins, there was no bit or bridle. There was only a halter around the beast’s head, and the lead was tucked into the rope that went around the whistler’s breast.
“You will direct her with a touch of your hand to her shoulder or with a kick of your heel against her side. She will turn toward your touch. Hold onto the first rope only in starting off or in need.”
“How do I get her to stop?”
The corner of the Indian’s mouth twitched in a tiny smile. “You ask her,” he said. Then with the touch of two fingers, he turned his beast around. Big Nose and Laughs like a Woman signed to him their readiness.
“We go,” Storm Arriving said. He whistled a three-tone command and all the whistlers headed off.
George grabbed the rope across his knees more out of instinct than out of memory of his instructions. The whistler’s long-legged walk was a slow rolling gait with a sideways sashay. Rocking along with the beast quickly nauseated him and caused his head to pound. By watching the others it became apparent that the best riding method was to keep one’s head level and straight while the legs and hips moved with the beast. He found the effect, however, unsettling. The sensation was like his body had been disconnected somewhere between his hips and his navel.
The wind freshened in their faces. As one, all six whistlers raised their heads to sniff the air. One of them whistled a quiet, questioning phrase. The others echoed it; George heard his beast’s whistle reverberate through its bony crest.
Laughs like a Woman, riding apart from the group, spoke a few words. He gazed heavenward and the whites of his eyes were stark in the black of his painted mask. The other Indians looked to the sky, too.
“He says there is more rain coming,” Storm Arriving explained. Then, as if in afterthought, he said, “Do not attempt to ride away or escape. If you run, you will be killed, One Who Flies. You understand me?”
George nodded. With his pounding head, the burial of Elisha, and the unusual experience of riding whistler-back, he had momentarily forgotten to be afraid. The Indian’s words reminded him.
As they rode onward, westward, George looked back over his shoulder. The wreck of the Abraham Lincoln lay like the desiccated carcass of a huge monster on the wind-blown prairie. Aluminum ribs exposed and bent, fabric flapping like torn skin, it was a saddening sight. George looked at it. He thought of the shallow grave amid the metal spars, and said a quiet prayer. Then he thought of Lescault—floating down to the Missouri, unburied, unshrouded—and said another.
He wiped at angry tears. The magnitude of his failure was immense. Two men dead. An aircraft destroyed. Worst of all, his own behavior. His fear—especially when the only possible threat came from a woman bent only on tending his wounds—it was shameful. He had traded on his father’s fame to spare his own life. It was an act that was as pragmatic in its inception as it was humiliating in afterthought. That he had done it at all he found disgraceful, but he found greater guilt in the fact that he had done it without thinking. In his mind he heard his own whining pleas and he clenched teeth and fists at the memory.
He looked away from the wreck and faced the wind. A raindrop touched his cheek, then another. He rode on, head up, and let the heavens hide his tears.
From within the cool embrace of a stand of riverside alder she had watched. She had watched as the warriors and the one they now called Ame’haooestse had discovered one another. Their voices had carried across the quiet prairie. She had listened as the warriors bickered about what was to be done. And she had given thanks to the spirits when they had finally decided to spare him and take him to the Council. That was the most important thing of all. One Who Flies must meet the People. That his escort included Laughs like a Woman—a hohnóhka and therefore one of the chosen of the thunder beings—only increased her confidence in the vision.
Speaks While Leaving watched now as the men rode toward the glow of early evening. One Who Flies sat his whistler easily but not confidently.
Her hen snuffled at her side where it lay in the undergrowth, keeping dark and silent. The beast’s face became blotched with white and crimson. She patted the whistler’s crest to soothe its agitation and impatience at their long immobility.
“I know,” she whispered. “You want to follow. And we will follow. But later, Dear One. Agreed?”
The beast snuffled again and nudged her hand. Her spice filled the air beneath the trees. Speaks While Leaving caressed her hen’s long nose until her colors quieted and darkened once more.
Branches snapped in the woods downstream. Speaks While Leaving motioned her whistler to silence. Bushes rustled and she froze in place. She saw a shadow in the forest gloom. A man crouched amid the brush and berry bushes of the river’s edge. Through the leaves and advancing gloom of a cloudy evening she could not see who or even what sort of man he was. Only his furtive movements helped to identify him as an enemy.
The man crept out onto the prairie. He stayed low, limping badly and holding one arm. He glanced westward after the receding patrol, now well out of earshot in the freshening wind.
The sun dipped below the clouds on its way towards night and the prairie was lit by a strong, copper light. The man squinted westward and shaded his eyes. Speaks While Leaving saw blue cloth and a wink of brass.
Vé’ho’e, she thought. And a bluecoat. A survivor!
“Eya,” she whispered. “This is not good.” She tried to think of what to do. The bluecoat limped onward toward the wreck.
Speaks While Leaving hid her pouch of medicines and her saddlebag beneath a bush. Then she looked around her, searching for a weapon. She found a long branch but it was rotten with age. The bluecoat disappeared behind the wreckage. The next branch she tried was still sound. Silently, she slipped onto her whistler’s back and tucked her feet into the loops. With her tree limb at her side like a war club and one hand twined into the first rope, she spoke to her mount.
“Nóheto!” Let’s go!
The whistler burst from cover like a rabbit. Speaks While Leaving held on. With her heels she directed the beast to the right around the front of the fallen cloud so she could attack the bluecoat with the sun behind her. The whistler’s neck and tail were straight out fore and back. Its short arms hung low to part the tall grass and make way for the long legs to push through. Speaks While Leaving touched the whistler’s flank with her left heel and she leaned into the turn as the whistler swung around the wreck.
The man was ahead of her, fumbling with a box. She shouted a war whoop as she rode down upon him. He looked up as she swung. The club hit him in the shoulder. Wood and bon
e snapped and the bluecoat howled in pain. She heeled in as she sped past.
“Nóxa’e,” she said, and her whistler slowed. She slid off to pick up a piece of metal to replace her broken club when there came a pistol shot and her whistler shrieked and pulled away.
She looked up.
The bluecoat had a gun, from where she did not know.
She leapt on her hen’s back.
“Nóheto!” and the whistler’s legs leapt up and sped them away. She heard a sharp crack and the hen crumpled. She leapt clear as they hit the ground. Her whistler thrashed in the grass. Speaks While Leaving got to her feet but a third shot snapped over her head and sent her back down.
A tearing howl slashed the air. Helpless against her whistler’s agony, Speaks While Leaving could only grimace.
The bluecoat would come for them both, would shoot them both. At least that was what she would do were their places reversed. Thus she took no chances. She crept away through the tall grass, back towards the river.
As she reached the forest edge, the pistol fired once more and the whistler’s painful calls were stopped. She wasted no time. She recovered her pouch and bag from the cache and ran to the river’s edge. After a quick look back she lifted the hem of her dress and stepped into the bite of the cold, knee-deep water. Wading upstream would be faster than fighting through the thick growth, and it would be quieter as well.
The pain of the cold water was quickly washed away by numbness. Looking back, she saw no pursuit. Halting, she could hear nothing but the whisper of the river, the sounds of chattering sparrows, and the patter of a rainshower on the growing leaves of the woods. The vé’ho’e was not pursuing her. She was safe, but now the problem was magnified. The patrol was riding off to the Council and the bluecoat would be running to tell his own chiefs of the disaster and more. She found herself between the two, alone, unarmed, and on foot; unable even to ride to catch up with Storm Arriving and One Who Flies. She could only think of one thing to do.
She’d have to run through a night and a day to reach the place in time.
The Year the Cloud Fell Page 5