Metal Storm: Weird Custer A Novel

by William Sumrall

  “Libbie, I feel inclined to vomit!”

  “Shhhh! Now, Margie! Listen to the drums and whistles; Poquerhienee is exiting her tepee this selfsame moment! She is by rite required to witness the competition, because she elected that they fight for her.”

  A cloud of grasshoppers took flight as Poquerhienee walked barefoot to the creek’s edge, and sat down cross legged on a quilted blanket beneath the shade of a stout cotton wood tree, which emitted a small shower of white dander with each gust of hot wind. Some of the white windfall alighted on the raven black hair of the sanguine beauty, which had been brushed straight and fell over her slender shoulders. Atop the narrow shoulders was a gazelle neck and to this was a head that bore the face of primordial beauty.

  The forehead was sloped slightly back and the eyebrows were plucked. The eyes were dark coals, set closely together and bisected by a nose ridge that started high. The ridge descended at an even angle into a petulant, petite nose, whose nostrils flared slightly at the scent of roasting antelope. The lips were full, darkly pigmented and rested nicely above a perfectly formed chin. The cheeks were high set, but not overly so, and she had a somewhat Aztec appearance, large hoop earrings depended from either ear lobe. She was not heavily breasted, but her hips were amply formed, and the snugly fitting dress of buckskin did not hide her luscious curvature.

  Her dress was adorned with religious imagery and studded with brass. Around her neck draped necklaces of beads and bear claws. She wore bracelets of beaten copper and rings of gold and silver acquired as gifts. She smiled, revealing teeth white as ivory as other women and younger girls sat and kneeled beside her, wishing her a long and productive marriage. Her two champions remained in their tepees with their supporters, their gods, and their hopes and dreams. They spoke incantations and painted themselves with magical designs to give them strength in the fight to come.

  Margaret sipped a cooling drink as she fanned herself. Gnats and blue bottle flies were a constant nuisance, as well as the painful bite of the ubiquitous horsefly. She had removed her white sunhat and unbuttoned her blouse as far as modesty would allow. The cleavage of her sweaty breasts showed prominently as she set down the drink and fanned herself more vigorously.

  “Well!” expostulated Margaret Custer Calhoun, “I have to say that Poquerhienee displays a fine countenance.”

  Libbie sat on a folding field chair, she wore a broad white sun hat, underneath which her hair was tightly spun into a bun. She wore a white short sleeved blouse unbuttoned to the breast line and a gray riding dress. Her boots sat atop the bed sheet which covered the ground where the two sisters in law sat.

  “Do you imagine Poquerhienee removing her animal skins boldly in a private audience for you?” asked Libbie, there was a cruel teasing tone inflected into her melodic voice.

  Also present was the barely perceptible trace of jealousy in the melodical tenor of Libbie’s ensconced barb. Quickly the tone changed as Libbie followed the question with one of her redundant, philosophical expostulations. Already the author of several bestselling books, she always tried to speak in prosaic form.

  “We will remember this pleasurable day as imbued in a tint that compounds myriad hues and colors into a pastel of rainbow. It would be impossible to subtract one single flavor of color so perfectly aligned and explain how its singularity paints the cavalcade of colors. The day promises to be long and clear, in the stead of soaring buildings and traveled streets, we have lofty clouds and gurgling streams. Happiness is readily categorized into the immediate needs and fulfilments in this wondrous abode.” expostulated the ebullient Libbie Custer.

  Libbie continued to fan herself with one of the coveted folding fans, decorated with the artistic drawings of the Japanese language.

  If I could but articulate my thoughts in such an eloquent way as you, thought Margaret to herself, as she was momentarily hypnotized by the motion of Elizabeth’s fan.

  Libbie waved the fan back and forth slowly, creating an airflow that cooled the skin of her partially exposed chest. The fan was shaped like the sector of a circle and made of thin paper mounted on slats that revolved around a fulcrum so that it could be closed when not in use.

  “Oh Libbie, you have such a way with words.” murmured the recalcitrant Margaret, “You know I only have eyes for you.”

  “Perhaps so, Margie, but you are one with developed appreciation for beauty, only ladies of culture and distinction can appreciate the inherent beauty of the female form. To see the bold admiration of your eyes while I am in my most naked state makes my heart palpitate. You may imagine how Poquerhienee appears absent her raiment, but she prefers the obscene vulgarity of male anatomy, and will never aspire to our cultural refinement.

  “Often,” Libbie continued, “I would leave my door boldly open while I undressed, knowing that you watched surreptitiously from your bed across the hall, feigning sleep. How impatiently I awaited the diminution of your temerity,”

  “Libbie, I would spy upon you through the keyhole of the doorknob when you came to visit!” confided Margaret.

  “I know. From the very first time I was a guest at your father’s home, I knew you were spying through the keyhole, and I knew the moment would come when my mechanizations saw fruition and you timidly would implore me undress openly to your audience. But I knew that the timidity was a façade – a veneer behind which was developing a lady of the highest estheticism possible.” responded Libbie to Margaret, there as a tone of approval in the tenor of her voice.

  The fantasy of being present while Poquerhienee undressed had infused Margaret with a vigor that surprised her, and she stood abruptly from the field chair when she espied the first contestant stepping forward out of the opening of the buffalo skin tepee.

  The tepee was one of the large ones; a conical structure standing about twenty feet high, owing to the fact that it was in this case, a semi- permanent structure immediately outside the fort. This large dwelling was constructed of four redwood lodge poles tied at the top using rawhide and pegs. The poles flared out at the base, and around it were tanned buffalo hides stitched together with rawhide thong, this formed a sheath that kept the structure cool in the summer and warm in the winter. At the top were two adjustable smoke flaps, from which arose a wisp of smoke from a small fire within. The tepee was decorated with many drawings of celestial objects, horses, and the warrior’s deeds in battle. Tufts of buffalo hair, dyed porcupine quills and beads also adorned the outside of the structure. The warrior had to stoop to exit the four foot doorway that had been cut into the hide.

  “Oh, look, Margie! What a grotesque example of our Indian allies! Look at how tall and well-proportioned he is! His body could have been sculpted by Michelangelo!” ejaculated the exuberant Libbie in a jocular manner of expression.

  The resemblance to the David of which Libbie had alluded was not lost on the watchful eye of Margaret. However much the resemblance to Michelangelo’s David may have been, it stopped at the neck and in no way could have been compared to the hatchet-like face and sneering mouth, the lips of which were pulled back to reveal teeth sharpened to points. The teeth, stained brown by a lifetime of chewing tobacco reminded Margaret of the nightmarish man ogres in the bedtime stories her mother would read to her during childhood.

  This hideous man stood by the creek side, flexing his muscles and limbering up. His magnificent tattoos stood out on his glistening brown skin, heavily oiled in bear grease to make his opponent’s grasp all the more difficult. He gazed at the oblivious Poquerhienee fifty feet away, who pretended to ignore him as she laughed and talked with her female friends. Teeth That Rip Flesh spat green tinged phlegm into the sluggishly moving water and watched as dozens of small fish struck at and fought over it, until it was gone and they had vanished into their fairy haunts in the crystal clear water.

  Teeth That Rip Flesh looked at the image that reflected up at him; head shaven to deny his opponent purchase, a large scar from a knife fight that began at where his hairline would have been
and extended at an angle horizontally down his sloped forehead, across his right eye and terminating at his jawline beneath his earlobe. Although he could discern light and movement with the ruined eye, images appeared blurry and he was for the most part blind in it. Both ears had been largely bitten off in previous hand to hand combats and only vestigial cartilage remained of the outer auditory organs.

  The tall, muscular warrior’s mouth was tattooed with short, blue vertical dashes, the lips were permanently stained blue and the chin was tattooed with a series of bold, black vertical strokes. The body was adorned from the shoulders down in intricate hieroglyphically designed patterns, the skin having been traumatized by sharpened objects such as knives, needle awls, and flints. The pigments consisted of compounds including plant dyes extracted from nuts and berries, along with ground up minerals. The tattoos that covered the massively built Arikawa invoked magical strength and protection, having been carefully imbued into the man’s skin by an old wizard, inside a tepee that covered an ancient well from which he invoked the names of horrific gods.

  “He certainly has the appearance of a ruthless competitor, Libbie!” Margaret said to her sister in law as she shuddered at the pagan visage that sang a prayer to his unnamable gods.

  From a similar tepee on the opposite side of the creek emerged Pretty Man; a man of about twenty years, perhaps fifteen years younger than the brute he opposed. Although similar in height and build, their appearance could not have been more diametrically opposed. This Arikawa warrior had thick black hair, the hairline beginning low on the high set forehead, and was tightly braided into a single ponytail, secured with a band of rawhide. His aristocratic face bore an unscarred and Roman-like visage. He began stretching exercises as he limbered for the coming contest.

  Pretty Man looked first at Poquerheinee, who lounged lazily with her entourage beneath the venerable cottonwood, which had shaded many a young maiden during these events. She ate blackberries from a porcelain bowl as she swatted at gnats and flies. The high pitched whirring of thousands of cicadas intermingled with the drums, flutes and singing. Added to the cacophony of eerie music were the scents of the cooking fires, fueled by a combination of dried wood and patties of dehydrated horse dung. Several small dogs had been spitted and were being roasted slowly over subdued, gray coal beds.

  The cawing of crows that competed with turkey buzzards and countless mongrel dogs for refuse discarded onto the rubbish heap outside the fort was ignored by Pretty Man. Libbie and Margaret continued to fan themselves as Libbie intimated to Margie the background of the contest about to ensue.

  “Behold the young Hercules as he stretches and limbers his muscles, Margaret. Juxtapose his image in your mind’s eye against the tattooed leviathan that awaits him at the water’s edge. Do you discern a likeness between the two red men?” questioned Elizabeth to her sister in law.

  “Well, no, actually. The much older one appears as a hideous demon, while the younger is of a much more agreeable countenance, almost handsome if such can be said of an aboriginal man, or any man.” answered Margaret.

  Elizabeth Custer began laughing,

  Margaret openly watched Libbie’s breasts jiggle from the laughter and she was mentally aware of the cruelty intoned in the melodic expostulation. Libbie looked up at Margaret, who was still standing.

  “They are close knit, Margaret!” she said, smiling, "It is the Native American dearest to me who intimated this random factor into the morbid equation of lust and passion! I must express my utmost gratitude unto my very best Native American friend, who most dearly adores me as I do her, Et-nah-wah-ruchta! Why, we were speaking intimately, as all close friends do, as she assisted me with my bath one day. Well! She told me that the combat was of a familial nature, peculiar to us perhaps, but not to our stalwart Native allies. These very same Hectors who unknowingly emulate the heroes that traversed the pages throughout the many great works of Classical Greece!"

  Several dozen more braves rode up on ponies painted in ceremonial designs. These were in the form of circles and lightning bolts. Large red loops were painted in ochre around each eye, and solid dots adorned the flanks of each animal. Some of the braves brought their wives on horseback with them. Many of the men were drunk by now, on fort whiskey and warm, flat ale made from the seed of forage grasses that had been germinated, steamed, and allowed to ferment. This strong, foul tasting concoction was drunk from bowls made of wood and stoneware.

  Small cast iron pots simmered with bird brain stew at the side of coal beds, while large caldrons of buffalo stew (also called tanka-me-a-lo) hung suspended over glowing embers, heavily flavored with wild onion, juniper berry, and cayenne peppers. Buffalo jerky was abundant. Strong, white teeth of children ripped and tore at it, while old toothless men and hags gummed with determined perseverance. Corn bread, acorn and fry breads were carefully tended in iron skillets atop rocks that contained the cooking embers. Steady dripping of fat from roasting antelope spitted on cottonwood saplings hissed as they fell on the glowing coals with the turning of the crank.

  Some of the fat was captured and added to steaming pots of succotash. To the feast were additional delicacies of rabbit, raccoon, and opossum. Skillets filled with grasshoppers fried and popped in hissing pork lard. Cayenne pepper, ground to a powder was dusted over these and the crunchy locusts were hungrily devoured. Muscadines, blackberries and raspberries were on hand in prodigious quantities. Rock hard Indian corn of myriad colors softened in kettles of boiling water and succulent quail roasted on thin cottonwood branches held by hand over horse dung fueled flame.

  A single long blast from an old, heavily dented bugle ushered a silence among the milling throng of revelers. The shirtless village sachem, a stoutly built man of six feet, with graying black hair and a ridiculous pair of oversized silver earrings began speaking. The heavy beer gut of the man swung back and forth as he paced about the foot of a large boulder, he paused in his oration in order to climb and stand atop it. Speaking in Arikawa, the tone of his voice was high pitched, with nasal inflections.

  Quite drunk, he tottered while he spoke. Et-nah-wah-ruchta translated the sachem’s oratory to the two officer’s wives as best she could.

  “Running Bull say two esteemed warrior vie for breasts of Poquerhienee.”

  The sachem’s rotund belly, burned nearly black from doing nothing but fishing and drinking beer for sixteen hours a day was shiny with sweat. It was a reservoir of latent energy, full of explosive power.

  “…say she choose make’ em fight. Running Bull say…”

  At that moment Running Bull lost his balance in mid-sentence and fell sideways off the uneven precipice of the thirty foot high boulder. He did not shout as he fell. Striking the ground face first, his head split open on a flat surfaced rock, like a watermelon. As several hundred tribesmen ran to their leader, Libbie and Margaret could not stifle their laughter, provoking an urgent warning from Et-nah-wah-ruchta to be silent. A fierce looking Cree emerged from the throng surrounding the sachem. He wore a ceremonial head bonnet of eagle feathers that extended down to the ground behind him. Casting a savage stare at Teeth That Rip Flesh and Pretty Man, then glowering at Poquerhienee, he shouted in his native tongue:

  “Fight!”

  Instantly the solemnness of the moment was lost, and the respected sachem lay forgotten by his tribe, but not forgotten by the hordes of blue bottle flies that already swarmed the massive skull injury.

  Both men ran naked at full pace, their parts swinging wildly, and leapt into the chilled water. The conundrum of the festivities was disrupted further by thunderous applause and cheering as the men disappeared beneath the water, swimming toward one another. Breast stroking and frog kicking underwater to add momentum to their speed.

  “Libby, I have for the life of me never seen a sight more disgusting! The way that the uncircumcised members of these two hoodlums swung and slapped about as they made for the water almost made me retch!”

  There was no sign of either combatant a
s Margaret spoke. Poquerhienee for the first time seemed to show interest as she scanned the water’s surface for any sign of turbulence.

  “Shhhh! Margie! Be cognizant of where we are presently stationed. We are guests here and privy to a special event. If you wish to watch Et-nah-wah-ruchta undress me tonight then you will be respectful of our Indian allies.”

  The crisp admonition of the older white woman to her younger in law was overheard with anger by the enraged Et-nah-wah-ruchta, who had intended on bedding with her husband soon as the victor entered the tent of Poquerhienee. Adding insult to injury was the fact that now Et-nah-wah-ruchta would have to perform for two of these strange white women, who seemed to detest men but preferred their own sex.

  Suddenly an explosion erupted from the water as the two men porpoised up. One with an arm lock around the other’s neck, both gasping for air in the chest deep water. Libby was startled by the sudden grasp of Et-nah-wah-ruchta’s hand on her wrist, the strength of which frightened her. The black, heartless eyes of her Indian maid servant were transfixed on the struggle ensuing. Her other hand was clenched into a fist, shaking it with each shaking motion of the two combatants.

  “Et-nah-wah-ruchta, let go, you’re hurting me!” cried Elizabeth Custer, trying to pull away from the powerful grip of the Arikawa woman.

  Margaret watched in alarm as Libbie began to writhe and twist in an attempt to extricate her wrist from the iron grip of Et-nah-wah-ruchta, who seemed hypnotized by the death struggle taking place fifty feet away in the creek.

  Teeth That Rip Flesh struggled to maintain consciousness as his pulse pounded in his ears. The arm lock Pretty Man maintained was constricting the veins and arteries of his neck, as well as his windpipe. His eyes were open, and bulged out of their sockets in an obscene, bug eyed aspect. His naturally dark complexion was nearly blackened as the veins in his forehead stood out to the point of rupturing, and his face purpled to the shade of indigo. Without thinking, Teeth That Rip Flesh relinquished the grip on the arm-bar that crossed his throat, and using both hands seized the long ponytail braid of Pretty Man, and yanked it forward in an overhead motion with all of his strength.