The Spirit of Thunder

by Kurt R A Giambastiani

  He arrived home and found no one there. He tethered his whistlers and went into the lodge that his wife’s parents had given them. Speaks While Leaving would be the last to come back from the dance, he knew. Everyone would want to talk to her, to ask her how she felt the dance had gone. He put a few buffalo chips on the coals and laid down on top of their bed, listening for the sound of her return.

  The bed, with its willow-twig backing and its layers of hides, pelts, and blankets, was giving and pliant beneath his weight. The fur of the buffalo hide that covered it was soft and smelled of summer breezes and the scent of his wife’s hair. He drank in the sensations of home. Never before had a one-moon patrol seemed so long. Never had he been so glad to come home.

  He waited for his wife, smelling her smells, seeing her belongings—her folded clothes and her quill work, her clay pots and her cooking tools—all in the places where she liked to keep them. He saw the bundles of medicinal herbs she collected hanging from the lodgepoles. He heard the ringing of the small copper bells she had tied to the over-the-smokes. He was surrounded by her, and yet apart from her; missing her, yet comforted by her presence.

  He did not know that he had fallen asleep, and awoke to the sound of singing crickets. The fire had burnt back down to coals, and in their dim light, he saw Speaks While Leaving sleeping on her back next to him, naked in the summer heat. He watched the light from the coals pulse across her form: her tiny feet, the long lines of her legs, the fullness of her hips and the pouting curve of her belly. Her smooth skin was lit by moving light. He could see the pulse of her heartbeat in the hollow beneath her ribs, and the swell of her breasts as they rose and fell with each breath she took. Her hair was loose and it laid about her head like a dark, rippled sea, while the sculpture of her face with its broad brow, high cheeks, and strong nose was a beauty he would not compare to anything.

  He sighed.

  “So you are awake,” she said in a low voice. She opened her eyes—shadow lashes unveiling onyx beads. The dim light returned her to her youth, removing the tiny lines the years had placed beside her eyes and mouth. “I have been waiting for you to greet me.” She smiled and he caught the gleam of white teeth in fading firelight, and then she moved, reaching out for him. In one fluid motion she was beside him, then atop him, her arms and legs enfolding him, her breasts soft and gentle as they brushed across his chest. He could not stifle his low moan of pleasure.

  “I have missed you, husband,” she said into his ear.

  “And I have missed you,” he said. “More than I knew I could.”

  She reached below and pulled aside his breechclout. “We have been husband and wife for three seasons now. I think it is time for us to make a child.”

  Her words filled him with a fire that tautened his skin. She lowered her hips upon him and swallowed him up him with her own warmth. He held on to her, hugging her close to him, wanting if he could to merge their two bodies into one, to pass his flesh into hers, to become the pure being that together they made. He responded to her movements in kind, and as the light from the hearthpit died, their passion burned the brighter.

  George awoke to the call of the crier, walking through the camp.

  “Today is a no-hunting day. The Little Bowstring soldiers have the watch. Three Trees Together calls the Council to session when the sun is two hands high.”

  George rubbed at his eyes and shook his head to clear it. “Two hands high?” he grumbled. “What could be so urgent?” He heard a footstep outside his lodge door.

  “One Who Flies?” the crier said.

  “Yes. I am here.”

  “Three Trees Together asks you to join the Council this morning.”

  “Thank you, Fire Bear. I will be there.”

  The crier walked away, continuing his rounds. “Today is a no-hunting day...”

  George looked up through the smokehole. The sky was blue and the clouds were without a touch of pink. He had slept late but was glad of it. The previous evening’s dance had filled him with a sense of assuredness and peace and he had gotten his first good night’s sleep in weeks.

  When he dressed and stepped outside, he saw Mouse Road over at her mother’s lodge, walking in small circles and frowning at the ground.

  “What is wrong?” he asked her.

  She frowned even more and George could see she was near to tears.

  “My brother,” she said, and George had a sudden fear that something terrible had happened. “He came home last night, but didn’t come to visit.”

  George laughed with relief. “Is that all?” But he saw that he had hurt her even more. He took her hand in his. “I am sorry, Mouse Road. I’m sure that he will come and see you as soon as he can. You heard Fire Bear say that there was a special Council meeting this morning. I have to go to that meeting, and I have a feeling I will see your brother there. I will make sure that he comes here afterward.”

  “Will you?” she said and George heard hope in her voice. It had been a long first winter without her brother. “Do you promise?”

  “On my honor,” he said, and gave her hand a little squeeze.

  Picking Bones Woman chose that moment to come out of the lodge. She saw first her daughter and then George, holding her hand. Her eyes narrowed and her brow creased, and George realized what she was thinking.

  “Good morning, Picking Bones Woman,” he said, letting go of Mouse Road’s hand. “Your daughter has just given me the task of bringing her brother home for a visit after the Council meeting.”

  “Hunh,” the elder woman said, her expression unchanged. “A son should not have to be brought.”

  George kept a smile on his face. “Then that will make my task all the easier.” He turned and checked the position of the sun. “I must go now.” And he hurried down to the river to bathe and prepare for the day.

  He arrived at the Council lodge out of breath and with his wet hair hanging down to his shoulders. The lodgeskins of the tall Council Lodge had been raised to allow the breeze to enter, and George could see that the chiefs were already seated and listening to a speaker.

  Beyond the lodgepoles sat others, men and women respectfully eavesdropping on the Council’s discussions. George looked around for Storm Arriving and saw that he was the one standing in the lodge, speaking to the Council. George caught the attention of one of the young chiefs who guarded the door, but the chief signed for him to wait where he was.

  A man sitting on the ground tugged on George’s leg. “Storm Arriving says that the bluecoats have crossed the Big Greasy again, and that they have built a village on our side of the river.”

  “Damnation!” George said, incensed. “They told us—”

  “Hush,” said another listener nearby.

  George was quiet as they all listened to the rest of Storm Arriving’s report and the discussions that followed. Suggestions ranged from increased patrols to outright attack, and the sixty chiefs of the Alliance seemed split on what path to choose. When nothing new was being said, Three Trees Together raised his hand and gestured to the young chief by the door. The young chief in turn pointed to George.

  “One Who Flies,” he said. “You are wanted.”

  George walked through the ring of spectators to the doorway. All the chiefs inside watched as he entered and walked around the perimeter of the lodge to vá’ôhtáma where Three Trees Together sat. The old chief pointed to an open spot next to Storm Arriving. His friend looked tired but well and, though he was quite formal and reserved as the occasion mandated, George could see a smile of greeting in his eyes. They clasped hands briefly as George sat down beside him, and then all attention was for the eldest chief of the People.

  “Tell me,” the ancient Indian began. “How would the bluecoats react if we made a village across the Big Greasy?”

  Storm Arriving began to translate the chief’s words into French, but George stopped him. “Néá’eše, néséne. Ékánoma’e. Natsêhésenestse.” Thank you, my friend. It doesn’t matter. I speak Cheyenne
.

  Storm Arriving smiled as George turned and spoke to Three Trees Together. “If you were to settle a village across the Big Greasy, the bluecoats would run you off or kill you, as simple as that.”

  Three Trees Together glanced up from his idle study of his medicine bag. “And should we do the same?”

  “No,” George said without hesitation, and heard the stir his words caused among the chiefs.

  “Tell me why we should not,” Three Trees Together said.

  “You are not ready,” George said. “You need better weapons.”

  “Guns,” the chief said. “Rifles.”

  “Yes,” George replied. “Your bows and arrows are excellent for hunting and good in battle against small parties or against others with similar weapons. Against the bluecoats, your weapons must be able to match theirs, or surpass them, if possible.”

  In the silence that followed his assertion, Dark Eagle rose from his seat near the door of the lodge.

  “What can be better than the rifles of the bluecoats? A rifle is a rifle.” He sat down and George, after a gesture from Three Trees Together, stood to reply.

  “There are different kinds of rifles. Storm Arriving has one—a gift from One Bear. It is just like the ones the bluecoats have. It can make only one shot at a time.” He pantomimed the process of firing and reloading the Springfield Trapdoor that was standard army issue. “You load, you aim, you shoot, and then you must load again.” He turned and pointed to one of the chiefs of the Hair Rope band. “But Red Blanket has a different rifle. His rifle you load once with seven bullets and you can fire seven times in a row before you must reload the rifle. That is better than what the bluecoats have, and it could mean all the difference in battle.” He turned back to Three Trees Together.

  “There are many kinds of rifle, and you must have rifles before you attack. More importantly, bullets are not like arrows. An arrow from one man’s bow can be used by another man. But bullets from Storm Arriving’s rifle will not work in Red Blanket’s rifle. You must all have the same kind of rifle, so bullets and parts can all be shared.” He stopped and tried to encapsulate his feelings. “I am not saying that you have to fight like the bluecoats fight, but I am saying that you need to use the same tools—or better tools—in order to keep your lands.” He sat down, having said all he could think of to say.

  Three Trees Together let go of his medicine bag and put his hands on his knees. “Does anyone feel differently after hearing the words of One Who Flies?”

  Dark Eagle stood again. “I do. I have changed my mind. I think we should increase our patrols until One Who Flies can make enough of the yellow chief-metal to trade for these guns.” The young chief sat down, and George could see that many others agreed with his words.

  “Is it decided then?” Three Trees Together asked. “Shall we double the patrols while we wait for the new weapons?”

  There was no dissent.

  “Good. Then that is what we shall do. One Who Flies, six soldiers have volunteered to work with you. Stands Tall in Timber will instruct you on the proper way to get the chief-metal from the earth. Is there anything else you need?”

  George thought about it and decided that there was. Whether this was the best time to ask for the thing he needed or not...that he left to fate. “In truth, there is one thing I need. I know only very little about digging metal from the earth. Because of this, I might dig in the wrong place, as I already have done. I would like to ask for someone to help me.”

  “One Who Flies, we do not know any more about digging metal from the earth than you do.”

  “Yes, Grandfather,” George said, using the title of respect for elder chiefs. “But I have met a man who does. He has offered to help, in return for a share of what we find. He lives up at the Trading Place. He is a vé’ho’e of the Trader Nation.”

  A rumble of discord rolled around the room and George stood before it built further.

  “He will also be able to provide us with the extra tools we need, and I think he can help us get the weapons we desire, after we have enough of the chief-metal.” He sat then, and let the storm break.

  Dark Eagle rose again. “I do not like this. There was nothing in the vision about a vé’ho’e from the Trader Nations.”

  High Chief, one of the elder leaders, rose as his junior colleague sat down. “I do not recall anything about any vé’ho’e at all, in the vision. Are we to say then that One Who Flies should not participate in this digging for metal? After all, he too is of the vé’hó’e.” As he sat he added an aside to George. “Though I mean no offense by it.”

  George smiled and respectfully avoided High Chief’s gaze to show that he was not angered by the comment.

  Three Trees Together sat forward—his way of asking for the floor without having to stand. “One Who Flies,” he said. “Do you trust this trader-man?”

  “No, Grandfather. Not for a heartbeat.”

  Several chiefs stood to speak but Three Trees Together stayed them with a skeletal hand. “And how will you manage him, then?”

  “I will have six soldiers with me. Between us, we can managed one old vé’ho’e.” Again he hesitated, not liking what he had to say. “And, if he tries to run away or steal what metal we have, he will be killed for it.” Such statements made him uneasy, but ruthlessness was an axiom of war.

  Besides, George told himself, it’s no less than would be visited upon a draftee who deserted.

  The chiefs who had risen to voice objections were satisfied by George’s words, and retook their seats. Three Trees Together looked around the lodge for a long moment, giving ample time to anyone who still wanted to speak. None did.

  “Then I suggest,” the old man said, “that you prepare to pay this trader-man a visit.”

  George and the six soldiers assigned to the mining crew left that very day. They took a northerly route to the trading post, crossing the Big Greasy many miles upstream in a place where it ran fast but remained fairly shallow.

  George felt very different this time as he rode down into the trading place. He was no longer a nervous vé’ho’e on a common errand. Now, he rode at the head of an armed war party on walker- and whistler-back. Now, he was once again a soldier with a clear purpose.

  As they rounded the final bend before the trading encampment, he told his walker to sound off. Her bellow echoed off the valley walls. The white traders ran out of their shacks and then shrank back toward their homes in trepidation.

  “Nóxa’e,” he commanded, and the mounts all came to a halt. George surveyed the scene: dirty, unshaven vé’hó’e standing before him, nervous and unsure amid a sorry collection of dilapidated homes. These were men living on the fringe of their own world, outcasts eking out a marginal life on the boundaries between two opposing cultures.

  These were the men I feared to meet, he marveled silently. These were the men I feared I would not impress.

  He looked at them. They stood staring up at George and the others, dumbfounded by the sudden appearance of a handful of capable men. Only one of them was not wavering between cravenness and cowardice.

  Vincent D’Avignon leaned against the jamb of his doorway. His hands were in his trouser pockets and his right foot was casually crossed across his left. He looked at George with a constant eye and a lopsided smile, and when George with a touch made his huge walker crouch to the ground, the old trader laughed out loud with a harsh, crow-like cawing.

  “I was hoping I’d see you again,” he said, but even his assuredness failed when George and his six companions dismounted and walked slowly in his direction.

  The Indians had dressed for war. They had painted their faces with handprints, stripes, tears of blood, and arcane symbols. Some wore headpieces made of spiky badger fur, fox tails, and grouse plumes, while others simply wore a few eagle feathers in their braids. All of them carried one of the short but powerful horn-and-sinew bows that were the mainstay of the Cheyenne arsenal. None of them looked like they were there to trade.

/>   “What...can I do for you,” the old trader said as they stopped in front of him.

  “Monsieur D’Avignon,” George said. “I should like to speak with you.”

  D’Avignon grinned. “I knew it,” he said in a whisper. “I knew you had found something. Mais oui, come inside and we will talk.”

  There was not enough space in the small, two-room cabin for the piles of D’Avignon’s trade goods and eight men as well. Gets up Early—the Little Bowstring soldier who had slipped into the role of George’s lieutenant during their journey—asked two of the others to stand guard and prevent the other traders from overhearing their conversation.

  D’Avignon dragged a spavined, plank-backed chair in from the tiny back room. “Good to see you again, Young Custer. Have a seat and tell me all your news.”

  George put a friendly hand on the trader’s shoulder. “I think perhaps it is you who should sit down.

  D’Avignon’s grin lost some of its toothy enthusiasm. His gaze skipped from George to each of the soldiers in turn. George turned the rickety old chair around and offered it to their host. D’Avignon wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

  “If you insist,” he said, and sat down.

  George decided to employ one of the methods he had seen his father use many times in dealing with both superiors and subordinates, generals and quartermasters, his wife and his children. George and his sisters had called this tactic “Pitching Woo” but in reality it was simply his father’s technique for presenting a skittish potential collaborator with a nice, appetizing carrot before revealing what was usually a very big stick.

  He took a few steps away from the trader—all that the small room would allow—and with his arms folded across his chest, he turned and smiled agreeably.

  “I believe we have something you’d like to have a part of.”

  The trader leaned forward in his chair. “You made a strike?”

  George rocked up on the balls of his feet and bounced. “Without a doubt we have, and we are prepared to offer you a share. Enough to make you a very rich man.”