It was so not only with the household of One Bear, but all over the prairie people made ready for the day’s travels. Families were not set up as close here in this informal camp as they had been at Cherry Stone Creek, and there was even more of a distance between bands as between families. As a result, George looked across the gentle land and saw it dotted for miles with small groups, small flocks, and here and there the standing bulk of a waiting walker or the smoky trail of a dying campfire. He judged it a full three miles or more between him and the farthest camp to the south and perhaps another mile to the northernmost.
By the time the sun had broached the horizon by the width of two fingers, its orange light wrought long shadows from a people on the move. George shook his head as he mounted his whistler, for the feat these people performed every morning did not cease to amaze him. Within an hour’s time, a four-mile wide camp of ten thousand families had packed up and was en route. It wasn’t the trim formation of a parade or even the loose organization of a march. It was a picture of the absence of military order and discipline. Some families lagged behind. Some rode ahead. There were walkers and whistlers and dogs and even a few chickens—all pacing along at their own gait and not a few of one group beleaguering those of another. Children squealed and laughed, chased one another, or stood pouting. Men gave orders to women. Women returned the favor. Soldiers rode between the families bent on duty and heedless of the havoc around them. Whistlers yodeled. Hatchlings stayed close to their flocks, peeping like monstrous chickens. Young mothers sang to their babes. Nearby, three boys with bows stalked a fourth. Walkers chuffed their impatience. It was pandemonium, and yet the task had been done. George could not help but compare it to the effort required to get U.S. Army soldiers on their feet in the morning. The contrast only made this daily performance all the more impressive.
To accommodate the frailness of their matriarch, One Bear’s family traveled slowly, as did most other families. She rode in silence amid the parcels and bundles, her back straight, her eyes focused on the west and the sacred mountains that grew ever more dim in the distance.
George rode his whistler in a solitude enforced by his clumsiness with the Cheyenne language. He would try a phrase or two with a family member or a nearby traveler, but no matter how attentively he listened, if they didn’t respond with a “yes,” “no,” or “I don’t know,” he became utterly lost in the conversation. Speaks While Leaving was the only one in her family who could speak French, so he rode onward, as quiet as the grandmother, his eyes and hopes on the horizon opposite the one the old mother watched.
Along the amorphous perimeter there were constant comings and goings. A patrol of five men on whistlers rode in at high speed and spoke to the chiefs of the Kit Fox soldiers who traveled with the families. Within moments, another patrol rode out. It was an activity that would continue throughout the day and George, by noting the men who went out and how long it was until they returned, calculated that at least twenty such patrols were out in advance of the main body. How far they ranged, he had no idea.
When the sun was nearing noon, two familiar faces appeared. Blue Shell Woman rode up on a whistler, Mouse Road behind her. The younger sister waved, standing up on the beast’s rump to get a better view. Blue Shell Woman, in contrast, seemed solemn. She guided her mount up next to George and instead of speaking to Speaks While Leaving, she spoke to him directly.
“Bonjour,” she said, taking great care to pronounce the alien words correctly. “Comment allez-vous?”
Mouse Road mocked her big sister with silent moues and exaggerated gestures. George, however, could not help but be flattered by the elder sister’s efforts and did his best to keep a straight face.
“Ne-a’éše,” he said in his pidgin Tsétsêhéstâhese. Thank you. “Nápévomóhtahe. Nahe’pe, émomóhtóhta.” I am feeling good. My rib, he got well.
Now it was the young woman’s turn to hide a smile, though she was far less successful than George had been, and Mouse Road was seized with a fit of giggles that nearly knocked her off the whistler.
“Éénomóhtahe,” Speaks While Leaving said as she rode up beside him. “Not émomóhtóhta.”
“Ah. Ne-a’éše,” he said, and switched back to French. “What did I say?”
“You told her your rib has diarrhea.”
The blood rushed to his cheeks and the girls renewed their laughter.
There was a sudden uproar about a mile ahead. Voices cried out in great yips and whoops. George saw many riders take off to the north. Other riders appeared in the distance—a dozen or so, riding toward the main group.
“What is happening?” he asked. “Is it an attack?”
“No,” Speaks While Leaving said, smiling. “It is more of the Inviters, our neighbors to the north. They have heard of this meeting and will join us. I expect to see some of the Sage People from the south, as well.”
He looked to the north and saw them. They rode—now hidden, now visible as they crossed over the shallow folds of the terrain. He saw them, hundreds, perhaps a thousand or more riding in on whistlers and walkers to swell the ranks of this army. George had a sudden, sinking feeling.
“Why so many? Why are you all traveling to the meeting place, and not just the chiefs to parley?”
Speaks While Leaving looked at George with an enigmatic expression. “Why does your father want to meet with us when for years he has only wanted to kill us?”
“You’re going to ambush him?”
“No,” she said, and with contempt. “But neither will we let our leaders walk into a trap. They will be well-defended.”
George’s feeling of dread only increased.
Storm Arriving knelt astride his whistler and looked out over the site of the evening’s camp. Beside him, Laughs like a Woman let his own whistler crop at the fragrant grass.
“I hate this place,” the Contrary said.
“Yes,” Storm Arriving said. “I love it here, too.”
The land was rumpled, like a kicked-off robe. The two men, out in advance of the People, were the first of their patrol to arrive. They had stopped to rest their mounts on the last fold of land before the campsite. The low ridge stretched around this, the southern side of the site like a protecting arm. Within its embrace lay a large sloping plain of short grass. Along the northern perimeter curled another, taller ridge with steep cliffs along its inner course. At the base of these cliffs ran Fishing Lizard Creek, and even from this distance the men could hear the conversation as the water tumbled from the deep fishing pond down onto the slick smoothness of the rocky streambed. They could also hear the peeps and chitters of the fishing lizards that lived in burrows and crevices in the stone cliff faces.
Beyond the ridge, the western and northern approaches were open. From the top of the cliffs, guards could see for miles. To the east the cliffs softened and ended while the creek ran ahead into a dense wood of white-bark and shaking-leaf trees that would provide the People with wood, fruits, fish, and small game.
It was a beautiful spot that was a favorite among the People.
Storm Arriving smiled and pointed to the place where the stone of the cliff leaned out over the fishing pond like a nosy neighbor.
“Do you remember?” he asked his companion. “Your uncle? And that big woman from the Sage People?”
“No,” the Contrary said firmly.
“And you went out on the ledge to get a better look?”
“No!” Laughs like a Woman bit his lip.
“And then you slipped and….” He could barely contain himself at the memory.
“I do not remember.” His friend’s face twitched and there were tears in his eyes from fighting his laughter.
“Ah,” Storm Arriving said, wiping his eyes. “He was so angry with us.”
“I do not think it was very funny.”
“Yes,” Storm Arriving agreed. “It was. Those were fine days. I miss those days.”
“I do not think they will ever come again.”
Storm Arriving sighed. “Oh, I hope you are right,” he said, understanding perfectly the Contrary’s reversed words.
They turned as the rest of the patrol came into sight with whoops and shouts. Six men with bows and lances rode up on whistlers. Storm Arriving greeted them. Laughs like a Woman ignored them.
“We saw one of the Greasy Wood People.”
“Here?” Storm Arriving asked, alarmed.
The soldier pointed southeast, grinning. “Not far,” he said. From his belt hung a bloody braid. “He will not see his lodge again.”
Storm Arriving agreed, satisfied. “It is good,” he said. “Was he working for the bluecoats?”
“We think so.” The soldier turned and untied a bundle from his war-whistler’s riding pad. “We found these things on him,” he said as he flipped the bundle open.
In the leather bundle were some chunks of salty-fat, a leather pouch of cut smokeweed, and a bottle of water-that-burns-the-throat.
Storm Arriving picked up the bottle. “Do you remember what the Council says about this?” He uncorked the bottle and poured the contents out. He watched the faces of his patrol as the brown liquid gurgled onto the ground. Only the young soldier who had taken the scalp was upset. He fumed through flared nostrils.
“This angers you?” Storm Arriving asked. “Why?”
“I am angry because you think that I was going to keep it. I only brought it back to show you. I left it full so you would know we did not drink any of it.”
“And what if the bottle you found was empty? How would you prove yourself then?”
“I…I would ask those who were with me to vouch for what they saw.”
“And if you were alone?”
The soldier was flustered and angry—a dangerous combination in a young man. He spoke through clenched teeth. “I would have only my word of honor.”
Despite the breeze, the evil water filled the air with a smell that bit at the nose. The whistlers sounded their anxiety and began to shift their feet. Storm Arriving shook the empty bottle twice, and corked it.
“The Great Council of chiefs has barred any of the People from possessing this water that makes vé’hó’e crazy. There is no excuse for having it.” He tossed the empty bottle back to the angry young soldier. “Next time, trust your honor first.”
Laughs like a Woman tapped Storm Arriving on the shoulder. “There are no more of them out there,” he said.
“He is right,” Storm Arriving said to the group. “Where there is one scout, there will be others. We must ensure the safety of the camp.”
He sent them all riding off in pairs to search the surrounding lands. He and Laughs like a Woman rode to search the wood.
The air quivered with the sounds of rushing water and fluttering leaves. It turned from warm and heavy to cool and light as the two men moved from the grass-clad meadow in amongst the quiet boles. They separated—Storm Arriving took the creekside path and the Contrary stayed upslope.
They progressed slowly, halting their mounts more often than allowing them to walk. They listened to the forest, the creek, the dappled leaves above them, listening for something out of place and letting their whistlers taste the air for any sign of an enemy.
He found it difficult to concentrate on his tasks, though. His mind kept wandering. He did not like this move of the summer camp to a place so far east and south. It was against tradition, against time-honored paths laid down in the Grandmother Earth by the ma’heono. The buffalo did not come this way at this time of year, and for the People to come here now was against the very way of things. And why, he asked himself? Why come here? Because Long Hair wants to talk with the Council? When has Long Hair ever wanted to talk to the People?
His thoughts bounced around in his head and gave him neither peace nor answer. They just rattled up there like seeds in a dried gourd, making no sense, but refusing to leave him alone. They kept at him, like—
The birds, he thought. They do not sing.
The brush behind him hissed. He ducked but the arrow caught him, drawing a hot line up his back. He shouted as he grabbed his war club from his belt.
“Nóheto!”
His whistler leapt to the order and he let it slip from beneath him. It ran on and Storm Arriving slid off and crouched in the brush. The ferns before him tore apart as his attacker came out of hiding and pulled back his bow to fire again. Storm Arriving swung before the bowstring sang and the man went down with a howl. He hit him again and something cracked—not the club. With a quick move he had his knee on the man’s chest and his knife at his heart. Four hands clasped together on the hilt of the blade as the men struggled. The tip broke the skin of the man’s chest and his eyes widened.
Storm Arriving spoke with effort and force. “No puppies from. The Greasy Wood People. Will spy on us. For the bluecoats.”
The man’s strength began to fail. The knife inched downward. Four arms trembled, two with fear, two with anger. The blade continued. The man pushed the air from his lungs to avoid it. To breathe would only bring his chest closer to the knife. His position was desperate, for to breathe was to live, but to live was to die. Storm Arriving looked down into his enemy’s eyes. They were dark, the brown nearly swallowed by pupils made wide by the nearness of death. The man’s face grew red and turgid with pounding blood as he fought the need for air.
They struggled, quivering, nearly motionless, until the man’s body overrode his fear. His body chose life, and with that breath, that gasping breath, it brought his chest up onto the knife.
Storm Arriving felt the man’s heart pop under the blade, felt the arms go slack, saw the life go out of those all-black eyes, and heard his final treacherous breath run out again in a phlegmy wheeze that played with the spittle on his paling lips.
Storm Arriving stood. He felt every dose of life within him, each made precious by the struggle. He shouted up to the rustling branches and the sky beyond, a barking Kit Fox call to the spirits.
“Ai! Aioo! I am Storm Arriving, soldier of the People! Aioo!”
He grabbed the dead man by the hair and took his trophy from him. The body fell back to the bracken and Storm Arriving cried his victory once more.
Laughs like a Woman rode up, Storm Arriving’s errant whistler in tow.
“Any others?” Storm Arriving asked.
“Yes,” the Contrary said, meaning no.
“Good.” He took a buffalo-hair rope from his whistler’s back and looped it around the feet of the Greasy Wood man. The other end in hand, he climbed atop his mount. The blood that ran down his back had already started to dry.
“I will not have him here to foul the air or water. I will take him out to the plain and leave him there as a warning to others.” He turned his mount toward the forest edge. “I do not want any company.”
Laughs like a Woman remained mute. They rode off together, dragging the bloody corpse.
By the time Speaks While Leaving and her family arrived at Fishing Lizard Creek, many of the People had already established their camps. More lodges went up as they approached. The air buzzed with voices and whistler calls and the songs of lodge-raising. Barks Like Thunder did his best to live up to his name. He barked and squirmed until his young captor was forced to let him out of her grasp. The puppy yipped and growled and charged everything they passed until his quarry turned to challenge him in return, at which point he retreated to hide amid the whistlers with their hatchlings.
One Who Flies rode close by, silent now as he generally was during the second half of the day. Once the sun passed the top of the sky, fatigue descended upon him like a stone eagle. He roused a little at the puppy’s noisemaking and looked around at the scene.
“I think I slept,” he said.
His skin was very pale and the light seemed to penetrate him as if he were made of tallow. She nudged Two Cuts closer, hoping he was only suffering from too much sun. His wrist and cheek were hot to the touch. From the look in his eye, he knew what was wrong.
“I
t has gone sour, yes?”
She signed agreement.
He sighed and shook his head. “I can’t seem to do anything right…even heal.”
“Do not despair of it,” she told him. “With a wound like this, it would have been unusual if it had not gone sour.”
He looked at her from beneath a furrowed brow. “I must be well for the meeting.”
“We will see,” she said.
“No. I must go to the meeting. It is my only hope of going home.”
“Then you will either be sick or well when you go. Now calm yourself and stay quiet. We will look at the wound as soon as the lodges are raised.”
The Closed Windpipe band gathered in its traditional spot, immediately south of the east-facing sun road that welcomed the light of morning and creation into the heart of camp. One Bear led his family to an open spot near the center of the area, for as a chief he wished to be accessible to all in his band. Once there, he pointed down to the ground. There they would raise the family’s main lodge—the big seventeen-skin lodge—and all around it, in a circle like the circle of the lodge itself, would be the family’s other lodges; those for Speaks While Leaving’s other-mothers, and the women’s lodge where the women would spend their moon-time. The circle of the lodge, the circle of the family, the circle of the band, and the circle of the People. Raising the lodges was like rebuilding the family and the band all over again, each time better than the last, and the gathering of the bands in the summer months meant a time of plenty, of stories, and of friendships renewed after the separation of the winter moons. This was Speaks While Leaving’s favorite time. She took a long look around before she dismounted. A hundred-hundred people, all joined together in a circle—a family around a cookfire, birds in a nest, petals on a flower—now here to share and meet, soon to disperse with the promise of reunion in the next year.
“Little Dreamer,” her mother said, calling her by an old nickname. “Will you be helping us today?”
She hid her smile behind her hand. “Yes, my mother,” she said and bid Two Cuts to crouch.
The Year the Cloud Fell Page 17
