The Spirit of Thunder

by Kurt R A Giambastiani

  They all began to talk at once, the angry ones and the excited ones both. He cut them off with a gesture.

  “You,” he said, pointing to Rising Bird, one of the angry voices. “What is your news?”

  Rising Bird was a mature man who was near the end of his years on the path of war. He pointed to the south and east where, for many days, his patrol had ridden through the prairie lands. “On our side of the river,” he said, his voice steady and his words strong. “Many vé’hó’e. Bluecoats, in two of the wooden forts. And others, too. In wooden lodges.”

  “Settlers?” Storm Arriving asked, his brow creased and his eyes intent on the men before him.

  “Yes,” Rising Bird said, and others signed their agreement. “We did not count the bluecoats in the wooden forts, but there are two times ten plus four of the lodges, each with at least two vé’hó’e in them. Some with as many as eight.”

  “The vé’hó’e have brought their animals with them, too,” said one of the other men. “They mean to stay.”

  “They will not,” Storm Arriving said. “Not if I have anything to say about it.” Rising Bird and the other worried men seemed to take heart at his words.

  “Then our other news,” Two Tailfeathers said with a smile, “you will be glad to hear. One Who Flies comes, with Long Teeth, the trader. We found him on our way home. They have been to the north, to Grandmother Land, and they have traded the yellow chief-metal for rifles.”

  Storm Arriving could feel the smile grow upon his face. “One Who Flies? Rifles? Truly?”

  His young cousin and the others all smiled. “He comes,” Two Tailfeathers said. “With many boxes and crates. We will be able to attack the bluecoats now!”

  “He did it,” Storm Arriving said, still smiling. “I did not think he could do it, but he did it.” The former bluecoat continued to surprise him. “Where is he?”

  “He is a hand of time behind us. We left them at Three Owl Creek.”

  “Please, Cousin,” he said. “Tell my wife. And tell Two Roads and the chiefs, too. They will want to plan for a war party.”

  “Where will you be?” Two Tailfeathers asked.

  “I go to meet him.” He turned his whistler back onto the trail and nudged her into a run.

  Even though the sun warmed his back, as he rode down out of the valley and onto the lowlands the air bit his cheeks and the backs of his hands. Down here, the snow was even less, lingering only on the northern slopes, the rest having melted away into the ground under the attentions of the slanting winter sunlight. He rode around the foothills, toward Three Owl Creek, looking forward to seeing his friend after being separated by duty and distance for so many months.

  Three Owl Creek was a hand’s ride away, but before he got halfway there, he saw them: five riders and a long train of whistlers ambling toward home. Three of them were soldiers from the patrol who had stayed with the others as an escort. The trader, whom they all called Long Teeth, was easy to spot as the one bundled up in furs against the cold like an old woman. But it was One Who Flies that Storm Arriving sought, and he found him, riding up and down along the long train of whistlers, inspecting every travois and checking on every tied bundle.

  “Haooo!” Storm Arriving cried out and waved. The soldiers started but then saw him and waved back. One Who Flies looked forward, concerned, but then saw him, too. He recognized his friend and waved with both arms. Storm Arriving heard his distant cry of greeting, and both men toed their whistlers into a run.

  They rode toward one another like boys on a summer field, calling out and laughing. He could see his friend’s broad grin as they grew nearer. Storm Arriving held a hand out to one side and so did One Who Flies. Their whistlers tried to stop as they closed but only slid on the wet grass and patchy snow. The two men laughed again as they passed each other by, their reaching hands missing entirely. One Who Flies slipped as his whistler tried to pivot and Storm Arriving saw him disappear off the animal’s far side. The whistler fell, too, and in scrambling to rise showered the former bluecoat with mud and dirty slush. Storm Arriving leapt down off his own mount and stood over One Who Flies as he wiped dirt from his face.

  “You are a sorry rider,” he said with a grin.

  One Who Flies looked up, his teeth and pale eyes stark in his mud-smeared face. “You must be kind to me,” he said. “I’ve been riding a horse for the past moon. I’m having to learn how to ride one of those creatures all over again.”

  Storm Arriving extended a hand to help him up. “That’s not all you’ve forgotten. What are those clothes you’re wearing?”

  One Who Flies pulled at the edges of his vé’ho’e clothing. “Nothing I’m not anxious to get rid of.” He stood back and looked Storm Arriving up and down. “I am glad to see you, my friend,” he said. “I have not seen you in since early summer. It has been too long a time.”

  Storm Arriving beamed. “It has,” he said. “Too long. But what is all this?” He pointed to the long train of whistlers that were now just catching up with them. “You have succeeded?”

  One Who Flies signed his agreement as they both retrieved their whistlers. “Yes, we succeeded. We have over two hundred rifles with us, with ammunition, plus some explosives for this year’s mining.”

  “Two hundred?” Storm Arriving asked, suddenly concerned. “Two hundred? Is that all?”

  One Who Flies stopped, and his smile weakening. “It’s all we could get right away. More will be coming. Many more.”

  “When? How many more?”

  “Next summer. When we have more of the chief-metal. What’s the matter? You knew we weren’t going to get them all right away.”

  “But two hundred? What are we to do now?” Storm Arriving could not believe that this was happening, not after so much work and hoping. “The bluecoats are building forts on our side of the river. There are vé’hó’e in our lands, building lodges, grazing their animals. They are here now. How many vé’hó’e can we kill with only two hundred rifles?”

  One Who Flies looked at him, his expression unreadable, and Storm Arriving felt all of their boyish elation blow away in the icy wind. They stared at one another as the convoy of whistlers and the escort caught up to them.

  “What is it?” he heard Long Teeth ask in the Trader’s tongue as he drew near. “What is wrong?”

  One Who Flies continued to look at him, his gaze cold, his eyes hard. “It seems,” One Who Flies replied, “that our efforts may be insufficient. Certainly they are unappreciated, at least by some.”

  “One Who Flies,” Storm Arriving said. “I did not mean—”

  “What?” Long Teeth exclaimed. “He doesn’t like the deal we made?”

  “No,” One Who Flies said. “Not very much.”

  “Well, then, he doesn’t have to partake of it. I’m sure there are plenty who’ll stand in line for a free rifle.”

  “Yes,” One Who Flies said. “I’m sure there are others who will gladly take what we have brought, and who will have the manners to show some appreciation for our work and effort.” He told his whistler to crouch and climbed up onto her back. The hen stood at his command and fell into step with the others. Storm Arriving stood there, holding his own whistler’s halter rope, boiling with a stew of emotions as he watched them continue onward toward the camp.

  “Why do you argue with him?” one of the Red Shield soldiers asked. “They came to find us.” When Storm Arriving looked at him blankly, he explained further. “One Who Flies did not go home to his own band. He wanted to share the new guns with us first. He wanted to share them with you.” The soldier frowned. “And all you can do is argue with him.” He headed off to catch up with the others.

  Storm Arriving grit his teeth as he mounted his own whistler to follow.

  During the meeting of the war chiefs, One Who Flies ignored him. Not even when Storm Arriving volunteered for the war party and took for his own one of the new rifles did One Who Flies do anything but stare at his hands.

  One Who Flies
showed them all how the magazine under the barrel could hold ten cartridges at a time. He showed them how the rear sight flipped up and how the small slide on it was used for aiming at distant targets. He showed them how to fire the gun, how the lever pushed the spent cartridge out and pulled the new one into place from the magazine. He told them a man could fire from a hiding place or a ditch and have greater protection than a bow and arrow would allow, and he showed them how a man could fire ten shots in the time it took to draw two breaths. He showed them all the things that this new weapon could do, but through it all, he refused to speak directly to Storm Arriving.

  The war party assembled on the last day of Big Hard Face Moon, one hundred and fifty men from all the soldier societies standing in the clearing at the south end of the camp with their wives and families. The first real snowfall of winter drifted silently down upon them. Storm Arriving stood with Speaks While Leaving, saying their goodbyes. One Who Flies stood off to one side, watching the preparations and the leave-takings, his face clouded by stormy thoughts.

  “Go talk to him,” Speaks While Leaving said. “Do not leave with an uneasy heart.”

  “I do not think he wants to talk to me.”

  “Go,” she urged him. “If he does not talk to you, he will talk to me. Tell him that.”

  Storm Arriving chuckled in spite of his sorrow. “We will be home soon.” He kissed her hands and walked off toward One Who Flies.

  The former bluecoat was wrapped in a buffalo robe. He had once more put off his vé’hó’e clothing and taken up the attire of the People. Many people had given him gifts in thanks for the rifles he had brought to them, and his garments were quite fine. His hair was still long, and someone had given him the tail feather from a red-tailed hawk and a leather lace. He had tied back his hair and stuck the feather in at the nape of his neck. His features were troubled and sad, but when he saw Storm Arriving walking toward him, his countenance took on an even harder edge.

  Storm Arriving did not confront his friend face-to-face, but walked up and stood beside him, watching the farewells.

  “The rifles are a good thing,” Storm Arriving said. “They will make us strong against the bluecoats.”

  One Who Flies did not speak at once, but after a few moments said, “Yes. They will.”

  “I am sorry,” Storm Arriving said, “that I did not show the proper respect for what you did. The People are grateful. I...am grateful.”

  He heard One Who Flies sigh and saw that he had covered his mouth with one hand. His brow was furrowed and his eyes were bright with tears. “It’s not that,” he said and he pulled his buffalo robe closer about his shoulders.

  “What then?” Storm Arriving asked. “Tell me, my friend. What is it, then?”

  One Who Flies breathed in through clenched teeth, his eyes still watching the scenes of quiet tenderness that passed between soldiers and their loved ones.

  “I have brought you weapons,” he said, his voice shaky with emotion. “I know it is the correct thing to do. But you put it so plainly when we met...I had never thought of it that way.”

  Storm Arriving thought back. “What was it that I said? I do not remember.”

  “You said...you said, ‘How many vé’hó’e can we kill with only two hundred rifles. His breath caught in his chest, and then frosted in the cold air. “I am a vé’ho’e,” he said. “I am one of them, and I am making it possible for you to kill my people. I don’t know how to feel about that.”

  Storm Arriving heard his friend’s words and took them into his heart. He tried to feel the emotions his friend must feel, but knew that it was wrong, that his friend was wrong.

  “No,” he said to One Who Flies. “This—” He touched the hawk’s feather that his friend wore in his hair. “—And these.” He touched the thick skin of the buffalo robe that he wore and the supple deerskin of his leggings. “They are things of the People, not of the vé’hó’e. And so are you.” He held up the new rifle that One Who Flies had brought back for him. “And this, this too is now of the People, thanks to you.” He looked toward the men and women who bid one another farewell. “And they, they are your people. You are no longer one of the vé’hó’e. You are no longer of the Horse Nations. I do not know when it happened, but it did. You have seen the heart of the land, and you have felt the spirit of the world. You are not of that other place any more. You are a real person, now. You are one of us.”

  One Who Flies looked at the snow that was gathering on the ground at his feet. “But people will die,” he said.

  Storm Arriving put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “That is true,” he said. “We are at war, and one way or the other, people will die. If not them, then us.” He took a step forward and turned to look One Who Flies straight in the eye. “Who shall it be?”

  One Who Flies met the challenge of his gaze, and Storm Arriving saw the tragedy and the struggle that lay within him. The snow had started falling more heavily and thick, feather-like flakes clung to his hair and settled on his robe-covered shoulders. He reached out and touched the barrel of the rifle that Storm Arriving carried.

  “Be careful,” he said. “I will bring greetings to your mother and sister.”

  Then he turned and walked away.

  Storm Arriving watched him go. He felt a touch at his shoulder and turned to see that Speaks While Leaving was beside him. “What did you tell him?” she asked.

  Storm Arriving shrugged. “Nothing he did not already know,” he said. “But perhaps something he was not ready to accept.”

  Within a few days the war party had ridden across the Sudden River and was approaching the place where the bluecoats had built their wooden forts. Storm Arriving, Red Bear, and Sees Far were in charge. Red Bear was younger than Storm Arriving and still impetuous. Sees Far was older, and knew the value of caution. Together, the three of them made a good balance.

  The weather had followed them, laying down snow in their path. The whistlers disliked this cold, wet weather, and despite their riders’ attempts to cover and cloak them as they rode, the beasts piped their complaints often and to any who would listen.

  From sky to earth the world was white. Clouds hid the sun. The snow concealed the land. They were only a short distance from the Sudden River, but already the warriors were cloaked in bleached deerskins and their whistlers had paled their bodies to hide themselves in the wintry landscape. The wet flakes that clung to the riders’ buffalo robes only helped to camouflage them.

  “Over there!” shouted one of the soldiers and Storm Arriving turned to see where the man pointed. Off to the east he saw black shapes standing tall: dark giants in the wintry distance.

  “Thunder beings,” said a man nearby, and “The Spirits walk the earth with us,” said another.

  Storm Arriving ignored them. “I do not think so.”

  “What then?” asked the soldier beside him.

  “I do not know,” he said. “Let’s find out.” He started that way but none others followed. As he rode closer, the veils of falling snow pulled back to reveal the truth.

  The dark shapes became the trunks of tall, straight trees all stripped of limbs and bark. They had been upended and set in the ground, a group here, another there. The snow had only just begun to drift up at their bases, clinging to the barkless sides in bright patches. There were four groups in all, framing the four corners of the new bluecoat fort. In between the unfinished corners, more logs lay on the ground in snow-covered mounds the height of a man. Storm Arriving saw a deep track in the ground, a path used by the vé’hó’e, slowly being obscured by the falling snow. The track lead off toward the southeast in a straight line. It was not hard to guess where that path might lead.

  “Come,” he shouted to the others, and waved them on. “Do not sit like pot-bellied babies. We go. By tonight we will see how our new gifts perform.”

  They rode on though the thickening snow, following the straight path that was becoming ever-fainter in the white land. The storm intensified and they ca
lled back their scouts rather than risk losing men. The struggling winter light could only color the snow an icy blue and all the world’s shadows merged together. They rode onward through the gloom, their line now single-file. The day passed, the men were silent, but the whistlers called to one another with cautious songs to keep the flock intact.

  Storm Arriving heard the crack of a rifle shot from his left. Another shot, and whistlers and men alike shouted in alarm. The snow was thick and the light was dim but through it Storm Arriving could see the dark bulk of the vé’hó’e fort. They had ridden right up to it and nearly passed it by.

  Soldiers scattered as more gunshots broke the quiet air. The bluecoats were firing at them from the walls. Storm Arriving fired back. The kick of the new weapon surprised him with its force and he nearly lost his seat. His whistler, unused to such noise, shied and turned unbidden. He worked the lever and the used shell sang. He aimed, cursed, tried to settle his mount with pressure from his feet, and aimed again. He could barely see the heads of the bluecoats as they peeked out through the slots high in the wall. White faces through white snow, dark blue cloth against dark wooden walls. He fired, but the shot carried high and did not even hit the wall. Others were missing their targets as well, as most were still aiming as if they were firing a bow. While they could fire faster than the bluecoats, they were not doing any damage and blossoms of fire were coming back at them from atop the wall.

  “To the rear,” Storm Arriving shouted. “Pull back! Keep together!” The soldiers retreated and the wooden wall was lost behind a curtain of snowfall. The war party gathered together and the leaders assessed the situation.

  “What are you doing?” Red Bear said. “Why did you call off the attack?”

  “We were not ready,” Storm Arriving answered him. “We were not in a good position.”

  “I agree,” said Sees Far. “But what is the best thing to do now? I do not think we should attack them now?”

  “I agree,” Storm Arriving said.