She directed One Who Flies to sit down next to her grandmother and then she lent a hand with the lodgepoles. Her mother lashed the three main poles together. Each pole was nearly three times the height of a man. They raised them and set their bases wide to form the tripod that would support the rest. The end of the rope that bound them was staked to the ground.
Speaks While Leaving began a song as the rest of the poles were laid in the arms of the first three. She sang of a young girl and her fears for her departing lover. Her mothers and aunt joined in the song.
Where are you going?
Why do you ride, beloved?
Are you going to the Ree River?
Do you go there to marry?
The rope was woven in and around them all and staked again. To the final pole they tied the lodgeskin and when it went up, it flapped in the wind like the skin on the sailing canoe Speaks While Leaving had seen once on a visit to the Big Salty. The rope went around again and was staked in its final place, inside the lodge and to the left of the door. Then the skin was pinned together and staked to the ground.
It was hot work, but the breeze cooled the sweat on her neck and face and the song and the many hands made the labor a pleasure. In two hands of time they had raised all of the family lodges, and each woman set about unpacking her own household.
Already the creek was filled with children swimming and splashing. Already the flocks of whistlers had been driven to the western edge of camp. Already the poles for the Council Lodge were raised and the red and black skins of the two sacred lodges were being pinned and staked. It had not taken long for the camp to take shape and establish itself. Speaks While Leaving took a deep breath and set to preparing the guest lodge for One Who Flies.
George lay on his stomach and grunted as Speaks While Leaving and her grandmother pulled at his shirt. The seepage from his wound had dried in a crust that plastered his shirt to the dressing. Speaks While Leaving tugged again and the shirt peeled away with the sound of crinkling paper. Healing Rock Woman clucked her tongue—a universal sound of disapproval, George had learned.
Amid the pain, he felt a warmness spread down his side. His head swam and his entire body shivered with a chill that raced through his soul. A stink rose as Speaks While Leaving cut the ties on the dressing and pulled it away. George had smelled that smell many times before—sour and sickly sweet—growing up in forts and encampments along the frontier. It meant death at worst, and amputation in most cases. In this situation, he was afraid of what it foretold.
He glanced down at the wound and wished he hadn’t. It was swollen, puckered by the restraining stitches. It was livid all around the edges and purple and green towards the gash. It stank of rot and corruption. He bit his lip.
Speaks While Leaving and her grandmother spoke in conspiratorial tones as they conferred about his condition.
“You don’t have to whisper,” he said. “I can’t understand you.”
The ancient crone asked a question. Speaks While Leaving answered and the old grandmother cackled and patted his shoulder. The two women conversed a short time longer—without whispering—and then Healing Rock Woman rose and toddled out of the lodge.
“My grandmother goes to gather some remedies,” Speaks While Leaving told him. “She has the easy task. You and I must stay and clean this out.” She reached for her leather bag and began rummaging through it. She produced a knife, a bottle, and some cloth. George looked away, resting his head on his arm.
“Who was the woman you spoke of this morning?” he asked, taking the conversation far away from the subject at hand.
“What woman?”
“Red Squirrel Woman. The woman whose bones lay nearby.” He took the offered piece of heavy leather and bit down on it as Speaks While Leaving began her work and her tale.
“Red Squirrel Woman lived among the People very long ago, many years before the star fell, how many I am not sure. She was of the Broken Jaw band and was in love with a young warrior named Red Hawk who was of the Ridge People band.” George muffled a cry as his side erupted in pain. More warmth flowed and Speaks While Leaving daubed at it with the cloth.
“But Red Squirrel Woman’s father, Standing Bull, did not like Red Hawk. I should say, he did not like Red Hawk’s father, for many years before he had shamed Standing Bull in his face. So, when Red Hawk sent a hand of whistlers and a quilled robe in payment for Red Squirrel Woman as wife, Standing Bull sent them back the very same night.”
George felt her tug at the wound. He looked back and saw her pulling at the stitches and cutting them free. The swelling was visibly lessened. She shooed his curiosity away. He resumed his previous position and she picked up the thread of her story.
“Red Squirrel Woman was heartbroken, but the worst was ahead. Another man, an older man who was a friend of Standing Bull and who also hated Red Hawk’s father, sent over only three whistlers and no blankets or robes for Red Squirrel Woman’s hand. Standing Bull accepted them.”
The light from the doorway darkened as Healing Rock Woman returned. She carried a wooden bowl filled with water. Speaks While Leaving had removed all of the stitches and the wound, though swollen and discolored, remained closed. George’s entire torso throbbed, but the feeling of impending rupture was gone.
From within the bowl Speaks While Leaving pulled out what looked like a thin, finger-long slice of fresh liver. Dripping, dark, and shiny, she held it carefully between thumb and forefinger. When it convulsed—a slow, twisting ripple that ran the length of its body—George recognized it as a leech. He turned away, not wanting to see more, but when he felt the cold thing on his skin, felt it move of its own accord, he shuddered in revulsion. Speaks While Leaving reached into the water once more.
“Red Squirrel Woman refused the match, but Standing Bull insisted and kept her close so that she would not elope with Red Hawk during the night. The next day, once it was clear to the camp that Standing Bull would not return the marriage gift, the match was sealed. Red Squirrel Woman was desolated.
“She cried for three days and begged her new husband to strike the drum and throw her away, but he would not. He held her close so that she would not run off with Red Hawk, and he took her without her consent and beat her when she fought.”
Speaks While Leaving laid a damp cloth over the wound and the leeches that she had planted there. She patted his shoulder in a manner most maternal to calm him as she finished the tale.
“The next morning, she was gone. Her husband went to Standing Bull, shouting that his wife had run off with Red Hawk and that he wanted his three whistlers back and two more besides for the dishonor. It was then that Red Hawk came upon them with many soldiers behind him.
“Red Hawk spoke: ‘I did not run off with your wife, though it were better if I had. She is there, hiding in the woods, sent there by her father’s vengeance and her husband’s evil ways.’
“Standing Bull went to the forest to bring his daughter back to her husband. When he returned, she was not with him.
“Standing Bull spoke: ‘Red Squirrel Woman is dead. She has hung herself from a red willow tree.’”
Speaks While Leaving took a breath. “Normally, to meet death at your own hand is considered the murder of one’s self, but in this case the Council decided that Standing Bull was guilty of murder by driving his daughter to kill herself. He was banished from the people, according to the law, and the sacred arrows were renewed to remove the blood of the People from them. He went to live with the Little Star People. He lived among them for many years before he was allowed to return to the People.
“For his part in the tragedy, the husband was beaten, also according to the law. Red Squirrel Woman’s body was placed up on the high bluff, overlooking the camp, so that we all would remember her when we come to this place.”
George did not say anything for a few moments. “That is a sad story,” he said.
“Yes, but it is the only sadness that lives here,” she said.
The grandmoth
er said something to Speaks While Leaving. Then she placed her hand on George’s injury and began to sing softly.
“What is she doing?” George whispered.
“She is asking the spirits to help you,” Speaks While Leaving told him. “She asks them to make the leeches hungry so they will drink all of the bad blood. You must rest now, and let them do their work.”
“Which?” George asked. “The leeches or the spirits?”
“Both,” she said, and he heard the smile in her voice.
The chant was soothing, starting on a high note and tumbling down gently like water over riverstones. Healing Rock Woman sang it four times, once to each direction of the compass. She sang it a fifth time with a hand raised to the sky, and then she touched the ground and sang it a sixth and final time.
“Rest,” Speaks While Leaving said. “We will be back in a hand or two to refresh them.”
George shivered, suddenly cold. Speaks While Leaving put a hand to his brow. She unfolded a nearby blanket and tucked it in around him.
“Rest,’ she said again, and the two women left.
George lay there, shivering as the fever poured ice into his belly. He hummed to himself the tune of the chant Healing Rock Woman had made over him.
I do not believe in their spirits, he told himself. It is merely a pleasant tune. That is all.
Still, he hummed the chant six times before he allowed himself to drift off to sleep.
Custer stood his post in the reception line, greeting the guests and dignitaries as they filed into the Diplomatic Reception Hall on the southern side of the White House. It was to be a small gathering—some twenty-eight guests, if he remembered correctly—a dinner in honor of a visit from the Archbishop Corrigan from New York.
The room was awash with black coats, white gloves, and starched collars. The handful of ladies present did their best to add a splash of color to the somberly-dressed gathering, but neither their pastel satins, their winking jewels, nor the deep red of the velvet carpets could compete with so much sobriety. It was not simply the clothing of the clergy and gentry that was so black. It was the mood. Word of the formal declaration of war had finally wormed its way beyond the stony walls of the Capitol and into the ear of the public. The city was afire with rumors and speculation and the word of war marched across the banners of the press in black letters half a hand high.
More black, Custer thought. The town is draped with it. And my mood is no help, either.
The War Department had sent orders out to Stant that morning, but Stant had not yet wired back his confirmation. Custer had approved the choice of Stant as commander of the operation, but doubts had been dogging him all afternoon.
At his side, he felt Libbie’s nudging reminder. He returned from his private thoughts to see the archbishop approaching along the curved carpetway, a covey of cassocked priests in his wake. Conversation in the large, oval hall suddenly became muffled, as if a cloak had been thrown over it. All as the guests watched, anticipating the meeting of the host and his guest of honor.
“Your Excellency,” Custer said. “Welcome.”
“Mr. President,” Archbishop Corrigan said as he took Custer’s hand in a grip designed to crush. He stood tall and straight and looked directly into his host’s eyes. Custer could smell the cigar his guest had left outside.
Neither man inclined towards the other—Corrigan was just as determined to be unimpressed by their meeting as was Custer.
“The Church is very distressed by the recent news,” the archbishop said.
Well, Custer thought. The first shot has been fired before we even made it up the stairs.
“It is a distressing situation, your Excellency,” he replied, hoping to avoid a direct confrontation here in the foyer of his home. “In fact, I’d like to ask your advice on a few points concerning the public understanding of the situation. Perhaps after dinner?”
Corrigan raised a bushy, grey eyebrow. “I know when I’m being put off, Mr. President.” Next to Custer, Libbie cleared her throat. “But you are correct. This is not the place for such a discussion. We will take it up at a more appropriate moment. And this lovely creature must be the famed Elizabeth Custer. I’ve read a great deal of your work up North, Madam. Your descriptions of frontier life are especially popular with the children.”
Thank you, Lord, for Libbie, Custer thought and turned to the next guest in line.
Two callow clergymen and one tipsy senator later, he caught sight of Samuel standing at the foot of the east staircase. The old man tugged at his ear: a request for his presence. Custer raised a hand to him as he might to any other new arrival, only his gesture was a signal; three fingers raised and thumb and pinky tucked close to the palm: a request of three minutes time to make a graceful exit. Samuel responded with a shake of his head and another tug at his earlobe. No, he meant. Urgent. Now. He turned and left the room through a side door.
Custer turned to his wife. “I’m sorry, Dear,” he began.
“Oh, I saw him. Go on, if you must. Abandon me here to the onslaught.” She smiled but under her breath she added, “I sometimes wonder just who it is that runs this country.”
He bowed out of the line and followed his aide’s route of retreat. Samuel was waiting in the conference room beyond with Jacob Greene, the Secretary of War. The Secretary was quite agitated.
“If this is one of your pranks, Autie, it isn’t funny.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Stant has telegraphed.” Greene was a stocky man. He waggled a pudgy hand that held a sheet of paper with block letters hastily written upon it. Custer took the message and read:
ORDERS RECEIVED VIA COURIER
CANNOT LEGALLY PROCEED
REQUIRE CONFIRMATION HIGHEST LEVEL
STANT
“The old warhorse balked,” Greene said. He pulled at his moustaches and paced across the room like a rotund cat. “What the Devil can he mean, ‘Cannot legally proceed’?” He pointed at Custer with an accusatory digit. “You told me he had what we needed. You told me he would lead the others in this action.”
“No, Jacob. I said he was the only man who could lead them. It is still up to us to convince him.”
“Could, would, should. It doesn’t matter now. He’s balked at the fence and won’t jump over. ‘Cannot legally proceed.’ What rubbish!”
“Don’t worry,” Custer said, walking over and putting a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I know just what to say to him. Samuel, take a message upstairs to the telegraph and have it sent to our General Stant.” Samuel sat down at the desk and took out a piece of stationery. Custer dictated his message. “Reference Lincoln’s General Orders Number 100, Section V, Articles 101 and 102 Stop. Orders confirmed Stop. Proceed with action Stop. Sign it ‘Autie.’”
Samuel scribble the words and left the room through the rear door. Greene watched him go.
“Refresh my memory,” he said.
“Article 101,” Custer recited. “Deception in war is consistent with honorable warfare. Article 102; the law of war makes no difference on account of sexes.”
Greene turned and plopped himself down into a wing-backed chair. He took out his handkerchief and pressed it to his brow. “Do you think that will be enough to move him?”
Custer hooked his thumbs beneath his vest and walked to the front window. The lamps—with their satellite moths—lit the curved steps of the South Entryway, but no further. Lightning bugs drew lazy lines in the gloom beyond.
“I don’t know,” he said. “For Stant to question an order, no matter how distasteful…it took a bit to bring him to that point. I don’t want to insult him with a direct order, but I’ll give him one if I must. We’ve got to be ruthless in this.” He turned back toward his Secretary of War.
“Come along, Jacob. There is nothing we can do at this point except wait for his reply and hope he overcomes his reservations on the matter. Let’s get back to the party. Samuel will inform us of any further developments.”
<
br /> Greene scowled up at his commander.
“Come on,” Custer urged him. “Libbie’s waiting. She hasn’t had a chance to talk to you in weeks.”
The Secretary sighed. The leather chair groaned as he stood. “Very well,” he said, resigned. “I suppose you’re right. But if that old warhorse of yours comes back with anything other than a smart salute and a ‘Yes, sir, Mr. President,’ he’ll get more than a direct order as my response.”
Custer nodded and put his hand to the door that led back to the reception hall. “Let us hope it doesn’t come to that,” he said. Then he put on his best company smile. “Ready?”
Greene straightened his waistcoat and brushed back his whiskers. “Onward, General.”
Custer opened the door and the sounds of a dozen conversations floated past them. He saw the archbishop look up from across the room. The prelate extricated himself from his conversation and began his path towards his host. Custer cleared his throat.
“Onward, into the fray,” he said, and strode into the room.
Chapter 8
Hatchling Moon, Past Full
Fifty-three Years After the Star Fell
Fishing Lizard Creek, near the White Water
Standing In Water leaned back to throw, his gangly limbs all knees and elbows. Speaks While Leaving watched as he kicked out and hurled the small, brown ball. The boy with the bat swung. His teammates cheered and whooped as he ran toward the first bag.
“Hová’âháne!” One Who Flies shouted. “Nóxa’e, nóxa’e!” He turned to her. “Tell him he has to hit the ball before he can run, not just swing at it.”
She translated and the boys groaned and complained. “They think you are making up the rules,” she told him.
“Making them up?” He laughed. “I suppose it must seem that way to someone who has never played the game before. I grew up with baseball. I never had to learn it.” He scratched his head and squinted into the sun that had come out from behind the clouds. “I never realized how complicated it was until now.” He shrugged and laid back with an exaggerated sigh. “Tell them to decide which rules to keep and which to ignore. As long as they have fun, I guess.”
The Year the Cloud Fell Page 18
