The Year the Cloud Fell

by Kurt R A Giambastiani

  Down by the river there were other corrals; long ones that followed the river’s edge. Within these were hardbacks; squat, stump-legged beasts. They had plates like tortoise-shell armoring their backs, and a club-like tail at the rear. The Eastern hardbacks—red-eared and blue-throated—had been hunted into oblivion by settlers hungry for meat and their armor plates. The Western varieties like these yellow-speckled hardbacks still thrived, and made passable beasts of burden, from all reports.

  The hardbacks were penned in by the river on one side and short twigs stuck in the soft soil on three others. Any one of them could easily have thrashed the fence with a flick of its tail, but the thought obviously hadn’t occurred to them. Instead, they stood by, peering dully through the line of hip-high twigs as through an impenetrable barrier.

  At the end of the corrals was a small group of houses, and in front of one of these stood a man. His hair was not the blunt coif of the other townsfolk, nor was he dressed like them. He wore clout and leggings and shirt much like Storm Arriving and Big Nose. His hair was long, shot through with grey and braided behind in a long rope that reached to his knees. A long, dark feather stuck out from the braid at the nape of his neck and his shirt was decorated with sewn beads and shells in geometric designs across his breast.

  Storm Arriving raised a hand and spoke as they rode up and stopped. The old man returned the greeting.

  “Hámêstoo’e,” he said. All of the whistlers, including the ones unridden, crouched down at the old man’s word. The Indians dismounted and George followed suit, trying to shake some life into his deadened legs.

  “Stay here,” Storm Arriving said and then followed the old man inside the house.

  George lay the buffalo robe across his whistler’s back and picked up his shirt. It was cold, but it had dried in the night air. He shrugged on the heavy twill and began buttoning. Just as he finished tucking in his shirttails, Storm Arriving reappeared. The pistol that he had taken from George was now in the old man’s belt.

  Storm Arriving exchanged a few words with Big Nose. Then they began unharnessing their whistlers and removing their supplies. The travois was unhitched and laid on the ground. The old man had gone over to the corral. He took a coil of thin braided rope off one of the posts and entered. With gestures only, he separated six whistlers from the rest of the flock. He tied the rope in a noose and slipped it over the snout of the first. An arm-length down the rope, he twisted a loop into it and put it over the second whistler’s snout. The six lizards stood silent and still as he roped them all together. Then, as calmly as lambs, they shuffled after him, out of the enclosure. Big Nose took charge of them and handed over the four whistlers that had originally belonged to him and Storm Arriving. Laughs like a Woman made no move to exchange either of his mounts.

  Storm Arriving and Big Nose inspected the new whistlers, checking eyes, feet, and undertails. Satisfied, they then offered their hands, palms up to the beasts, Storm Arriving to four of them, Big Nose to the remaining pair. The whistlers colored green or blue down to the withers as they sniffed the hands of the men before them. George guessed that it was a good sign, for as soon as the last one had changed hue, Storm Arriving spoke to the old man. The grey-haired Indian handed over the wristbands from the original mounts and led the beasts into the corral with the rest of the flock.

  The new whistlers were banded and harnessed in a matter of moments. George was introduced to the one he would ride. It sniffed him for a longer time than it had Storm Arriving, and seemed particularly interested in the wool of his coat.

  Storm Arriving took two spars of aluminum and one small bundle of the white cloth. These he tied to the pack on the rump of his own beast while Big Nose dragged the rest down to the hardback corral. Then Storm Arriving mounted his whistler and motioned for all to do the same. There were now two whistlers for each rider. The spare mounts carried no burdens.

  “Nóheto,” he said, and all the whistlers rose like piston lifts. They warbled and the flock behind the fence answered. George remembered to grab the first rope just as the beasts leapt into motion. Then they were flying down the river path, turning to the southwest, moving so fast that George felt like he was soaring across the prairie grass.

  The whistlers changed color as they ran, matching the pale green of the sea of grass they traveled. Their necks were straight out ahead and their tails straight out behind. This was not the twisting plod of the previous night’s trek. Unfettered by the travois, the whistlers now loped along in a fluid gait that barely jostled the rider as the ground sped past beneath. The effect was exhilarating. The air was fresh, the newly-risen sun was on their backs, the sky was blue with puffs of brilliant white, and the rest of the world was a soft, rolling green that broadened the eye’s horizons and brought a smile to George’s lips. He thought it beautiful; beautiful in the way when all things are perfectly suited to their place. Such was this: the strange men around him, the limitless land, the improbable beasts they rode, all at home beneath the bright sun in a boundless sky. Everything was precisely where it belonged.

  Everything except me, he reflected. I am the stranger here.

  He tried to imagine horses on this landscape and failed. Horses belonged in the glens and meadows, on the rutted roads and cobbled streets of the East. They were a civilized creature, a thoroughly husbanded animal, and while George could envision a scene in which they did battle here in a cavalry charge, his misty mind’s eye could see neither the thin-limbed stallion nor the towering dray at home in this too, too-open land.

  No, George thought to himself. This is a land of giant lizards and savage men. It is no place for a gentleman’s sorrel.

  A long line of trees lay ahead, stretching far to either side. From the lead, Big Nose spoke to Storm Arriving, who pointed at a place off to one side. Big Nose touched his whistler’s neck, guiding it toward the spot indicated. The other mounts, George’s included, turned to follow.

  The edge of the wood drew near. George saw thick undergrowth between the slender boles, but he could not see through to the forest’s far edge. They approached still at speed and were not slowing.

  “Do not guide her,” Storm Arriving said over his shoulder. “There are whistler paths all over this land. They will find the way. Just keep your head low.”

  George only nodded and felt the roughness of the first rope in his grip.

  Big Nose spoke to his beast. The whistler raised its head and yodeled a call that the others answered. Then it looked left and right at the approaching trees. It veered to one side. George held on as the others followed. Then they were in it.

  Pale trunks flashed by and the scent of greenery was strong. The underbrush was less thick here and George realized that they were on a well-established track. To either side grew brambles and bushes. Saplings reached in close and low-hanging boughs cut at his head.

  “Stay low,” Storm Arriving commanded, and George obeyed, following the Indian’s example and leaning down until his chest was atop his mount’s withers.

  The whistlers were dark green now as they sliced through the forest in a single sinuous line. Brindled patterns swam across their hides as they moved. George smelled the dark earth upturned by their passage. He heard the calls as the leader spoke to those behind. They twisted and veered along the narrow path until suddenly George heard water and they were splashing across a ford in a shallow stream. A mob of small fishing lizards scattered before them in a blur of legs and tails. Then it was upward, and back in among the trees on the other bank.

  More trees and more careening turns. George could think of nothing but staying mounted. Hands in a cramping grip on the first rope, legs tight along the whistler’s sides, he rode with his rear raised slightly above the bobbing spine and his face low to the beast’s spice-scented skin. Each turn brought forth a grunt of pain and exertion as he fought to stay on. At last, he saw brighter light through the trees and in a rush they were out of the wood and once more on the open land.

  George forced
his hands to release the first rope. His breath was ragged and heavy. The whistlers left their single file and regrouped into a flock around him.

  “Do we have to travel so fast?” he asked. “Won’t the whistlers tire?”

  The Indian snorted. “This is not fast, One Who Flies. This is a traveling speed. They will run like this for a day and a night without problem.”

  “Show him fast,” Big Nose said. “Show One Who Flies what a whistler can do that the vé’ho’e warrior’s domesticated elk cannot dream about.”

  Storm Arriving squinted in thought. Then he unhooked the halter rope of his spare whistler and handed it to Big Nose. He grabbed on to his first rope.

  “Nóheto!”

  He was gone as if the others were standing still. His whistler’s legs were a blur in the high grass, and he was a hundred yards distant in two breaths. Storm Arriving was crouched down along the beast’s back, a quickly diminishing figure, and then was gone. George remembered the wild flock he’d seen from the deck of the Abraham Lincoln and searched for Storm Arriving hidden in the grass ahead. He did not find him, though, and they loped past the spot where he was sure the Indian had disappeared.

  Storm Arriving sped in upon their rear and tagged George with the end of his bow before George even knew he was there. Storm Arriving let out a whoop of victory and smiled broadly showing white, even teeth. His whistler trumpeted a loud, long note. It snorted once but was otherwise unaffected by its sprint. Storm Arriving brought it back in with the flock.

  “That is only a small feat,” Storm Arriving said, riding next to George.

  “They are amazing animals,” George replied calmly, but his thoughts were frantic. How could they hope to beat these people. The Union horses were no match against such abilities. Their mounts were faster, more agile, able to hide in open fields. They effectively nullified the U.S. Cavalry, and could outmaneuver any infantry with ease. The Army could not win a running war against these people. They would have to fight a different kind of war in order to take possession of this land; a patient war, a slow war, not the quick one for which his father wished. They would have to press their advantages in weaponry and technology and supplies. This was information critical to the strategies of the commanders back home. He only hoped he would have the chance to deliver it. Though unchained, he was still a prisoner. He resolved to keep that fact fresh in his mind.

  “Where are you taking me,” George asked his captors.

  Storm Arriving looked at him with a suspicious eye, as if sensing his shift in perspective. “We will join the People along the Red Paint River, in the shadow of the sacred mountains. From there I do not know. The chiefs will decide.”

  “How far is it to your encampment?”

  Again the squinted eye and furrow in the Indian’s brow. “Two days,” he said, and that was all.

  Two days, George thought. The smooth-running whistlers ran comfortably along as fast as a horse could gallop. Two days. Hundreds of miles, even if they stopped to rest. He would be deep in the heart of this vast unknown country; lost, alone, a hostage to be used as a bargaining chip. George felt a deep and sudden distress at his predicament and, just as suddenly, felt sure that his next trip to Washington would be as a corpse.

  He looked out across the land as they sped along. It went on and on, a million square miles of the unknown, and in it, one fairly frightened whiteman, hoping for a miracle.

  She stood on the well-worn track, facing the river and the morning sun. She hoped they would come soon. She had arrived at the river before sundown and spent most of the night searching for the track. Now she waited for them to emerge from their nesting thickets in the woods behind her and come down to the river for a morning drink. In her hand she held the long loop of rope she had woven from river rushes. The free end was tied securely to her wrist.

  The morning air teased her, pushing stray hairs into her eyes and tickling her calves with the tips of rough-edged grass. She had removed her leggings after her long run. It was immodest to do so, but they were wet from wading across creeks and from coursing through the dew-sprung grass of dawn. Besides, she reasoned, there was no one near for miles and it let the breeze cool the sweat that glossed the back of her knees.

  It is not as if I had taken off my rope, she reassured herself. She shifted her stance onto her right foot and felt the familiar caress of the thin rope that twined its way from her waist, around her thighs, and down to her knees. Every Tsétsêhéstâhese girl wore the rope as the symbol of her womanhood and of her chasteness. Pity the man who touched it or what it guarded without the girl’s permission. Men had been sent to Séáno for much, much less.

  Conscience at rest, she stood with her leggings draped across her shoulder and waited. The sun inched upward in the paling sky and the breeze cooled her naked legs.

  The grass behind her rustled and she froze, then forced herself to relax. She had allowed her attention to drift and it had nearly cost her the only chance she was likely to get. The breeze was full of their scent—a musk that in this season added the aromas of dark, fern-lined nests and fallen, crumbling wood to their familiar spice. She heard three, maybe four of them approaching from behind her. She stood with her back to them to entice their curiosity. Slowly, she lifted her left hand up near her shoulder while, with her right, she tightened her grip on the stiff loops of the noose she had made.

  The whistlers came closer, cautiously but not fearfully. The first one scooted around her, stepping off the familiar track and passing to her right. It was a mature hen, about eight summers old. Speaks While Leaving avoided her gaze as she passed; she did not want them to feel challenged.

  A second one came up, this time on her left. Braver, it sniffed her upraised hand. She felt the warm breath briefly and then it, too, stepped off the path and around her. As it passed she saw it was a juvenile male.

  She could hear now that there were only three in this nesting group. This last one would be the adult male and the only one suited to her needs. The yearling was not strong enough and she would not take a nesting hen. She only hoped that the drake would be fooled by the uneventful meetings of the two before him.

  He came up close and took a long draught of her scent. Slowly, she lifted her noose, keeping it low and hidden from the drake. Satisfied she was no threat, the drake took a step.

  As he came forward she threw the noose over his beak and back over his crest. He recoiled with a shriek. She let go of the noose but kept hold of the end tied to her wrist. The rope tightened as he pulled away, the noose cinched closed high around his neck. He shrieked again, wailing in distress. He paled to grey and green in a pattern designed to camouflage himself in the springtime grass. The juvenile fled through the grass towards the river. The hen stood in startled alarm but did not move to aid the drake. Her concern was for her nest; her mate would have to take care of himself.

  The tall whistler gave up on defense. He flashed red and white in anger and kicked out at Speaks While Leaving with his rear feet. She kept the distance between them even—running forward when he tried to flee, dancing backward when he attacked—for she did not want to test the strength of her rope. She also kept the rope low and out of reach of his sharp-edged beak. His front claws, too, he used against her when he got close enough, though the buckskin of her right sleeve turned the worst of his bruising blows. In order to subdue him, however, she had to get close.

  She held her leggings in her left hand. She had tied the fringes together to make a whole that was an arm’s length wide and as long as her legs. The whistler gave up on pulling away, having learned that it only made the noose around his neck grow tighter. As he stood there panting, shivering, trying to think of what to do, she lunged. She threw the buckskin over his eyes. He flailed with his spaded fingers, trying to attack the blinding leather. Speaks While Leaving grabbed both ends of the leather before he could knock it free. Then she stepped in close and wrapped a loop of the rope around his snout to hold the buckskin in place. As she stepped a
way again, she looked down to see blood. A tear in her sleeve revealed two long scrapes on her upper arm. The scent of blood would not make her efforts with the drake any easier, but there was no time to do anything about it. The whistler stood away from her at the limit of the rope. He wove his neck from side to side trying to peer out from under the blind, and tore at the ground with his feet. Speaks While Leaving watched him closely as the darkness of the blinder began to calm him.

  The hen showed a renewed interest. A well-aimed stone sent her running back down toward the river.

  And so she was alone with her prize. All that was left to do was to convince the drake to carry her across hundreds of miles of prairie. She prayed to Ma’heo’o for strength.

  Once she was sure that the hen and her yearling would not return, she removed the leather from the drake’s eyes. He startled but did not bolt—a good sign. Still avoiding a direct gaze, Speaks While Leaving took a casual step towards him. He pivoted and stepped away from her, keeping the full length of the tether between them. She took another step toward him; he took another step away. Within moments she had him walking at a steady pace, calmly, away from the nesting grounds.

  They walked in a straight line for a while. Then Speaks While Leaving changed their direction slightly to make him accept her as the one-who-is-leading. Every boy and girl of the People learned the ways of whistlers. She knew they were not willful unless mistreated. They were creatures of the flock and followed the ways of the flock: they took direction easily. The flock was one creature with a thousand eyes. When there was a need to move, one started to move and the rest would follow. After a hand’s breadth of time he was walking with only an occasional glance in her direction, and at that point she stopped.