The Spirit of Thunder

by Kurt R A Giambastiani

  The question surprised Storm Arriving and he hesitated before he translated it. What was the old grandfather really asking? Was One Who Flies not welcome to stay? Or was he hoping he would stay? The questions raced through his mind and he could see as he translated the chief’s words that One Who Flies was asking them, also.

  “I...I do not know.” His hands fell to his lap as he searched for an answer. His words were halting as if unsure of themselves, as if they were new and had never been spoken before. “I am a...traitor...to my own country. I will never be welcome there. Never.” His hands began to move again, palms up, and then they fell still once more. “But even if I was welcome there, I do not think I would return. Things are too different.”

  Now his hands moved without words to guide them. They grasped at the air as if searching. Three Trees Together said nothing, giving One Who Flies time to find what he wanted to say. When One Who Flies spoke, it was in a soft voice, heavy with emotions barely held in check.

  “I would like to help the People. I think I can help. But I know that you may not want my help. I am a vé’ho’e. I am the son of Long Hair. I am the enemy. I would understand if you no longer wished me to be here.”

  “Do you miss your family, One Who Flies?”

  It was a dangerous question, and the answer was slow in coming.

  “Yes. I miss my family. My mother and my two younger sisters. I wish I could tell them I was safe and well.” He looked at his left hand, the one that was missing its little finger, lost in the battle at the City of White Stone. “They may still worry about me and I would like to put their minds at ease.”

  Three Trees Together sat back and began to fill his pipe. “It is a hard thing, to be banished,” he said. “When a man of the People kills another, he is banished from our society. He will often go to live with the Inviters or he and his family may live alone. Many years will pass, but eventually the smell of death will leave him and he can come back to the People.”

  “I do not think my people will ever forgive my crime,” One Who Flies said.

  “Hmm,” the old chief said. “That is unfortunate. I think you will make a good man someday.” He reached over and took a small twig out of the smoldering fire. The tip of the twig glowed orange and left a rising trail of smoke in the still air.

  “You are welcome to stay with the People until you want to go back among the vé’hó’e. But now, I think you should leave me. In a few days the bands will be leaving for winter camps, and you have some business to take care of, don’t you?” This last was said to Storm Arriving.

  “Yes, Grandfather,” Storm Arriving said. “I do.”

  “Then go.” He waved the glowing twig. “You have wasted too much time already.”

  Storm Arriving nodded to One Who Flies and they rose.

  “Thank you,” One Who Flies said.

  “Go,” the old chief said with a wink and a gap-toothed grin. “Get this man married.”

  Speaks While Leaving poked at the fire. She and her mother sat before the hearthpit on the packed earth floor of the family’s lodge. They both sat with their knees together and their feet tucked in close to their left as did all women of the Closed Windpipe band.

  Speaks While Leaving’s father sat at the vá’ôhtáma, furthest from the door, and talked quietly with his mother. Healing Rock Woman worked on a sewing project while she spoke with One Bear. She kept most of her work hidden in a large sack, and pulled out only the section she was quilling. That way, no one could see the whole of the design until she was done and it was ready to give away.

  It was a quiet evening. The air in the lodge was still strong with the lingering scents from the evening’s meal of braised antelope meat and a porridge of cracked maize and rose hips. From a nearby lodge came the chatter and laughter of the seed game being played. Speaks While Leaving would have liked to attend the gaming, but tonight was not a night to be out gambling with her friends.

  She put another piece of wood on the fire and embers rose from it like flying stars trying to reach the sky.

  “Leave it be,” Magpie Woman said. “It is burning well already.”

  “Yes, Mother.” She put her hands in her lap and sat, outwardly quiet.

  “My granddaughter-who-can-see-the-future,” Healing Rock Woman said from her place near the back of the lodge. “Can you not tell what will happen tonight?”

  Speaks While Leaving smiled. “No, Ke’éehe. My father has not made his mind known to me. I can only guess.”

  “Ha!” the old woman scoffed. “Guess, indeed. Even a one-eyed hardback could see that—”

  There was a disturbance outside; the sound of many feet and the fluting of whistlers. There was much whispering, and then the sound of feet running away.

  “Speaks While Leaving?”

  The voice came from outside the door to the lodge and by the accent, she knew who it was. She took breath to speak but her father spoke first.

  “Qui parle?” her father asked.

  “Un Qui Vole,” was the reply.

  “Entrez.”

  The doorflap opened and One Who Flies peered inside. Speaks While Leaving gasped as the former bluecoat stepped into the lodge.

  He was not wearing his vé’ho’e clothes. Instead, he wore moccasins and full-length leggings with long green fringes down the side. He wore a breechclout painted with symbols of grasshoppers and storm clouds. He wore a deerskin tunic with a wide belt of braided hide. Over his left shoulder was the strap of his sheathed hunting knife, and on his right shoulder and on his left hip had been pinned the white, flag-like tail of a timber-deer-waving, the ancient symbol of love. His hair had been pulled back—as best as possible—with a piece of leather, and his face had been shaved clean of the stubble of beard that was so unusual amongst a people who did not grow beards at all.

  It was a startling transformation, and she saw by her parents’ exchanged glances that she was not the only one who thought so.

  One Who Flies took a step further in, away from the door. He walked to his right, to the guest portion of the lodge and, after a gesture from her father, sat down next to him facing the fire.

  “How are you?” he asked her father in the Trader’s Tongue. “I hope you are well.”

  Unfortunately, her father had expended his entire knowledge of the Trader’s Tongue with the conversation at the door, so now he turned to Speaks While Leaving with an expectant look.

  “He asks after your health, and hopes you are well,” she said to him in the language of the People.

  “I am well,” One Bear said, “as are we all.” He pointed to his guest’s garments, “You have changed your clothes.”

  Speaks While Leaving translated and saw One Who Flies smile at the words. He plucked at the fine garments he wore.

  “I must admit, these are borrowed clothes. I did not have any clothing appropriate to my visit here tonight.”

  “And how,” One Bear asked, “do you find wearing a breechclout instead of the all-over-leggings you usually wear?”

  One Who Flies considered his answer. The breechclout was an important symbol of a man’s virility and maturity, and Speaks While Leaving worried that her vé’ho’e friend might say something inappropriate.

  “It is,” he said, “colder than expected.”

  Speaks While Leaving blushed at the words but translated them anyway. Her father was wide-eyed, shocked by the candor of the reply, but Healing Rock Woman began to laugh, and by the smile that spread over the face of One Who Flies, they all realized that he had made a joke.

  “You surprised me,” her father said. “You are not known for making jokes.”

  “It is something I am trying to change,” One Who Flies said. “But in truth, I have come here to ask you a question. It is a question about which there is no joking.”

  One Bear sat straighter and assumed his position as the head of the family, a chief of the Closed Windpipe band, and a man of long and solid reputation. “What is it you wish to ask?”

/>   One Who Flies swallowed hard as the purpose for his visit arrived. “I come on behalf of Storm Arriving,” he said, “son of Yellow Hawk, respected soldier of the Kit Fox, and a man whom you know to be brave and honorable. He requests the privilege of being taken as husband to your daughter, Speaks While Leaving, and in honor of her he gives you several gifts which wait outside. Among these gifts are eight whistlers—two drakes and six hens—three buffalo robes taken during the Hard Face Moon when the fur is thick, two Trader-wool blankets, and a metal cooking pot.”

  As Speaks While Leaving translated her own bridal negotiation, tears filled her eyes. The list comprised everything of value that her betrothed had to offer and more. It was an honorable bride-price for any man to give, much less Storm Arriving, who was not rich.

  “I hope that you receive these gifts,” One Who Flies went on to say. “But Storm Arriving will accept whatever answer you make.”

  As soon as Speaks While Leaving had finished translating his words, One Who Flies stood. To wait for an answer would have been the height of rudeness and so, without another word, he left the lodge.

  No one spoke for a time. Even her grandmother stopped in her quilling while the women waited for One Bear to speak. His decision, whatever it was, would be final. If the gifts were still outside the lodge in the morning, the offer was refused.

  One Bear sat at the back of the lodge, immobile. Finally, he sighed and glanced at his wife. “It is more than I gave for you,” he said.

  Magpie Woman smiled at her husband. “I know,” she said.

  “It does not mean that I love you less,” he said.

  “This, too, I know. Shall we bring the gifts in?”

  Storm Arriving did not sleep. When the sun peeked over the horizon in the morning, it found him just where the moon had left him, sitting outside his lodge, wrapped in a buffalo robe.

  With first light, One Who Flies came, fresh from his morning bathe and, without a word, sat down beside him. So, too, came Big Nose and, when the sun was two fingers above the horizon, Two Roads and several of his Kit Fox brethren came as well, men to whom he owed so much. They all sat down and faced the morning sun. Its light warmed them and pulled the moisture from their hair and clothing. No one said a word. They simply waited.

  Standing Elk came running in from the east. “They come!” he shouted, and all the men stood and let out a great whoop of jubilation. All except Storm Arriving.

  He remained cross-legged on the ground. His friends, jumping and shouting for his joy, pulled him to his feet. Big Nose retrieved a piece of charred wood and went around laughing and smudging the men’s cheeks and brows with thumbprints of sooty black, the color of victory, but Storm Arriving could only stare.

  From around a distant lodge, the procession came into view. Ten whistlers walked, heads nodding and voices fluting with high spirits. Their ropes and bridles were festooned with furs and feathers and jangling bells of brass and silver. Each mount bore a gift—a bundled robe, a folded blanket, a stack of hides. From one hung a rifle and a shield. On another were a bedroll and a willow-wood backrest. But the one in the middle carried the greatest gift of all.

  Speaks While Leaving sat on an immense drake. She wore a dress of whitened buckskin upon which had been sewn hundreds of elk teeth and long strings of red-dyed leather that swayed with the drake’s every step. Her waist was cinched by a wide belt decorated with quillwork of concentric circles in black and red, representing the sun and the moon, days and nights. On her wrists were gauntlets of stiff hide, also quilled with the auspicious symbols. Her leggings, like her dress, were of whitened buckskin, and her moccasins were new and had never touched the ground. Her hair was plaited in two braids bound by white leather windings and eagle’s down, and along the part of her hair had been drawn a line of red paint—red for home and warmth—to match the small red circles painted on her cheeks, her chin, and her brow.

  She sat atop the whistler, serene and beatific, her unwavering gaze locked on the face of her beloved, her smile peaceful.

  All the neighbors gathered as the bride-party approached. The old women began to sing.

  Breathe life into life.

  Bring happiness home.

  See your future, see your past.

  All is one.

  The party stopped in front of the elated crowd. One Bear stood next to the drake that carried his daughter, and Storm Arriving saw his new father-in-law’s happiness. Magpie Woman was there, too, but Storm Arriving dared not look at her. She was now his mother-in-law, and custom forbade them to speak for years to come. In time, after the proper exchange of gifts, the taboo could be lifted, but for now their friendship was at an end.

  “Storm Arriving,” One Bear said, his voice deep and strong. “You have courted my daughter for a long time, and in some strange ways.” There was much laughter at this, and Storm Arriving’s friends poked at his ribs until he smiled.

  “But you have won her heart, and offered generous gifts for her hand. My heart is happy to see in your faces the great love you share. And so, I bring her to you. I bring also these gifts in thanks for the many years of happiness I know you will bring her. Tonight, stay with your family to celebrate your marriage. Tomorrow, you will join your new family with the Closed Windpipe band.”

  Big Nose and Two Roads and the others whooped and surged forward. They took a blanket and held it by the edges, beckoning to Storm Arriving. Moving as in a dream, he stepped up to the tall drake. He reached up to his beloved and she slid off the mount and into his arms.

  She smelled of sage and rosemary. The elk’s teeth on her dress—a gift in themselves worth ten whistlers—rattled and chattered. Her scent, her warmth, her touch; the gifts arrayed before him; the friends and family—old and new— surrounding him; it all swarmed his brain and made him giddy. He looked at his new bride, the woman he had loved since boyhood days. She beamed at him and nuzzled his cheek.

  “Put me down,” she said. “Plenty of time to hold one another ahead.”

  He grinned and set her upon the blanket his comrades held taut. As a new bride, her feet would not touch the earth for several days. The men cheered again, and carried her into the family lodge.

  Picking Bones Woman and Mouse Road stood by the doorway with his mother’s friends. They held blankets and new clothes—their gifts to the bride. His mother and sister were happy for him—he knew this without thinking on it—but there was a sadness, too, in their eyes, and perhaps, as well, a bit of worry. The marriage of a son or brother always meant a loss as the groom went to live among his bride’s family. With winter coming, the bands would go their separate ways. Picking Bones Woman and Mouse Road would soon be alone.

  The men, including One Who Flies, emerged from the lodge, having deposited their charge within. The women then entered, to dress the bride in their gifts and to begin preparations for the evening’s feast. Mouse Road hesitated at the door, gazing back at her brother. Then she, too, entered.

  The problem of Mouse Road still dogged at him, but when he saw One Who Flies standing quietly, smiling but not comprehending the jabbering celebrants around him, Storm Arriving saw a solution, or at least part of one. He went over to One Who Flies.

  “The Tree People have taken you in the place of Laughs like a Woman,” he said. “Your name and his are tied together.”

  “I am honored by it,” One Who Flies said.

  “Since I will not be with them this winter, I would like you to spend the winter with the Tree People.”

  “What do you mean, you won’t be with them?”

  Storm Arriving wondered at how much One Who Flies really understood of what was had transpired. He seemed to have missed so much, it only strengthened Storm Arriving’s resolve.

  “When a man marries,” he explained, “he goes to live with his wife’s people. Forever. Tomorrow, I will no longer be of the Tree People.”

  “Ah,” One Who Flies said. The worry in his friend’s voice was obvious.

  “Would you wat
ch over my mother and sister?” Storm Arriving asked. “It is a thing I would have asked of Laughs like a Woman.”

  One Who Flies nodded—his way of signing agreement.

  “There is another reason for this...”

  One Who Flies looked up from beneath a troubled brow, expectant.

  “My friend, you need to learn to speak the language of the People. Not enough of us speak the Trader’s Tongue, and none of us speak the language of your people. You must be able to speak to any of us. You have learned some, but not enough. Not nearly enough.”

  The door to the lodge opened. Mouse Road came out and started off on an errand.

  “Mouse Road,” Storm Arriving called. “Come here, my sister.” She did so without a word.

  “I need you to do something,” he said to her. “It is very important and will take much of your time this winter.”

  With a move of her hand she signaled her agreement.

  “I want you to teach One Who Flies how to speak our language.”

  His sister paled and looked at One Who Flies as if he were a rogue walker. Then she pointed her thumb to her chest.

  Me?

  Yes, he signed.

  I don’t want to, she said.

  I am your brother, he told her. Do this, and with his hand palm up, added, Please.

  She sighed.

  “Good,” he said. “And teach him the proper way to make signs, as well. He looks like a raven in a tree whenever he nods his head. By the time the bands gather together next summer, I want him to speak as well as you.”

  She acquiesced, sullenly, and after a final glance at One Who Flies, headed off.

  Of this One Who Flies had understood enough. “She will be a reluctant teacher,” he said in the Trader’s Tongue.

  “Perhaps,” Storm Arriving said. “But she will teach you.” He slapped his friend on the back. “Come. I want to swim in clean water before the feast. There will be games and dancing and more food than even you can eat. Maybe a pretty face in the crowd will please your heart.”