The Year the Cloud Fell

by Kurt R A Giambastiani

  “We are traveling toward the heart of my country. We…we vé’hó’e…we do not live with the land as you do. You live in a place for a short time—a week, a month or two. You accept what the land offers, and ask no more. When you leave, it is as if you were never there.

  “My people, on the other hand, we are more like the Lodge Builders. We stay in one place, and we change the land to suit our needs.” He sighed. “It is what makes us strong, but I think it has also made us cruel. We take from the land, we try to control it, and we think we can do the same with men.”

  Storm Arriving was confused. “I do not see how this affect us. What is it that will happen?”

  One Who Flies sighed, distracted. “Long before the lay of the land changes, you will see other changes—our changes, changes we made to it. Roads, buildings, quarries, mines, railroads—especially railroads.”

  “With the great iron beasts?”

  “Yes,” One Who Flies said. “And they are very important to our plan. There will be many of the great iron beasts in the next few days. We will be following in their footsteps.”

  Storm Arriving smiled. “You have changed since I first met you.”

  “Have I?”

  “Yes,” he said. “You talk more like one of the People. I understand you much more now than I did before.”

  One Who Flies laughed. “The same is true for me,” he said. “Now, when I hear you speak of the spirits of the earth or the sky, I feel as though I almost understand.” He pointed to Storm Arriving’s chest and the fresh scars left by the skin sacrifice. “I even think I might someday understand that. Someday.”

  “But not today,” Storm Arriving said.

  “No,” George said with a smile. “Not today.”

  The scouts led them away from the River of the Santee and across a driftless plain. The horizon evened out as they traveled, as if honed flat. Within a few hands of time, they began to cross an occasional creek. Gradually, the land achieved a slope and a contour. Ahead, Storm Arriving could see the broad, shallow depression of a river as it meandered through the plain. At the same time he saw a smudge in the blue of the horizon. The scouts returned and reported to the chiefs.

  “Bluecoats,” the man said, pointing toward the stain of smoke. “A wooden fort on the other side of the river.”

  Storm Arriving translated to One Who Flies.

  “We must keep out of sight,” he said.

  The chiefs agreed and the party kept far to the west of the fort. The whistlers altered their skins to a mottled green and formed a screen of camouflage for the walkers, who could not change the color of their brown flanks and blue wattles.

  The sun was nearing its evening bed when the scouts returned again with words of warning. One Who Flies listened to the translation with great interest.

  “That will be Washita,” he said. “It is on the east bank of the river. We’ll stay on this side and ford further downstream, after it is dark. Tell the scouts to be very careful. There will be homesteads on this side from here on.”

  The sun set and they continued onward without catching sight of the city on the prairie.

  He sighed.

  “What’s the matter?” his friend asked.

  “It is nothing.”

  “No. Tell me what it is that bothers you.”

  Storm Arriving sighed again. “It is just that I have heard many stories about the cities of the vé’hó’e. I was looking forward to seeing such a place.”

  “You have heard of our cities? From where?”

  He shrugged. “Here and there. A Trader man in Santee country told me many stories of your cities, about how you live in caves and—”

  “Caves?”

  Storm Arriving blinked. “Caves. Is that not the right word?”

  “Caves? He told you we live in caves?”

  “Yes,” he said, slightly indignant. “Caves. He said that you lived in holes in mountains made of stone. He seemed to think it a marvelous thing. I did not have the heart to tell him otherwise.”

  One Who Flies laughed out loud. “I see! I see. Of course.” He smiled and shrugged his shoulders. “They are caves of a sort, I suppose, except we build the mountains ourselves, out of stone we cut from the earth and bring to the city. Don’t worry. Before we are done, you will have your fill of our stone mountains.”

  They forded the river in the twilight at a shallow place that Sings Good—the older chief of the Crazy Dog soldiers—called Oskaloosa. He said it was the site of a great battle during the years before the star fell, a battle between the Sauk and the Fox peoples, both of whom fell when the vé’hó’e came. He knew it only from his own grandfather’s telling, however, and that told Storm Arriving that they truly were at the end of the world. Beyond this place, only One Who Flies could guide them. He looked at the thin, pale-haired man who led them on this warpath against his own kind. He was a vé’ho’e, but he understood the People. He was the man from the vision given to Speaks While Leaving twelve years ago and thus was a man who carried with him the hope of a nation. The former bluecoat’s shoulders did not seem broad enough to bear such a weight, but Storm Arriving knew from past experience that a man’s strength was not necessarily proportionate to his size.

  The waning moon led the sun beyond the rim of the world, and soon there was no light other than that the stars dropped upon them. Along the edges of the land, other stars twinkled. Yellow stars. Firelight stars. Homesteads separated by miles of empty land. Finally, they found a collection of them in their path.

  This place, too, they avoided, and beyond it they found the fabled chemin de fer. The warriors stared at it as it gleamed in the starlight. None of them had seen anything like it and every man dismounted to touch the long bars of iron that stretched out into the night’s embrace.

  The rails were cold and smooth on top.

  “You can hear the approach of the iron beasts through them,” One Who Flies said. Laughs like a Woman giggled at the idea. Many men laughed at the notion, but most knelt and pressed an ear to the metal. They heard nothing.

  “I wish you had not told them that,” Storm Arriving said.

  “Why not. It is true. There just are not any trains coming.”

  “They heard nothing. That is all they know. They do not trust you as I do.”

  One Who Flies considered the statement and nodded. “You are right. I will be more careful.”

  They all mounted their beasts and headed down the iron path.

  It was late. George was not sure how late, but it was late, probably after midnight. No lights were lit and the gridwork of the Davenport-Rock Island rail bridge hung like dark filigree above the star-shot waters of the Mississippi.

  There were two parts to the bridge. The long section with its cantilevered swing-section that would open for heavy river traffic sat atop its concrete pillars in the deeper channel that ran between the near bank and the island. Past it was the short trestled length that ran from the island to the Illinois side. It was the oldest rail bridge across the Mississippi and, George knew, was their only choice for crossing. The great river was far too wide and deep for such a large number to ford without traveling for days to its northern sources. No, he thought. It’s here or nowhere.

  They had crept around the north of town, slipping along the river bank, sometimes wading, sometimes walking through the mud. They now lay in the shadow of a large warehouse that stood on the river road on the Davenport side. Across the river lay Illinois and Davenport’s sister town: Rock Island.

  “Tell the men not to be afraid of any sounds or noises from the bridge or any machinery,” he told the chiefs. “Our only fear is being seen by the townsfolk. It is late, and they all should be in their beds, but we must still be cautious.” He pointed to the nearer span. “There is a walkway that lies beneath the iron road. We will use it to cross. Once across, we will head upstream and pass by the millworks. Does everyone understand?”

  The translation was passed onward and gestures of affirmation we
re returned.

  “Then we go.”

  They made their way up to the roadway, the men leading their mounts. The whistlers went first, four abreast and stepping softly on the bridge planking. There was quite a bit of snuffling and scraping as they were led under the heavy beams that supported the trains. When the walkers were led onto the narrow pathway, they had to duck their heads to pass.

  George heard the planks creak and threaten to crack beneath the unaccustomed weight of the heavy war mounts. The lower pathway was designed for foot traffic, but not this kind.

  “Spread them out,” he rasped. “More space between the walkers. Single file.”

  The instructions were passed on and while the groans of the straining wood continued, they were much less severe.

  Then the first span was behind them and they crossed the narrow island to the second span. George caught Storm Arriving gawking at the stone bulk of the island’s freight station with its square tower and dark windows.

  “You have never been to a vé’ho’e town, have you?”

  “No,” Storm Arriving said. “Only trading posts.”

  “Not quite like caves,” George said.

  “No,” Storm Arriving said. “Not quite.”

  The second span had no pedestrian level below the railway and they were forced to walk along the ties. The whistlers balked at this and George heard their calls of distress as the first ones were led onto the span.

  “Cover their eyes,” he said. “Cover their eyes with a robe or blanket. Lead them slowly.”

  It was painstaking and every sound became magnified. The blinkered whistlers were led across, sometimes one at a time. George looked at the sky and wished he could tell how much time they had before dawn. The night had already been endless and he was sure the sun would start to color the sky at any moment. Morning would bring the early dock and rail workers from their homes, and that could only end in slaughter of one side or the other.

  He jumped as a dog barked from along the far bank. It barked and yipped in alarm. George saw it, a dark shadow amid darker shadows below the last trestle, darting to and fro in front of a small cabin at the water’s edge; back and forth at the limits of its lead.

  “Aw, Hell,” George cursed in a whisper. Then he heard a sound like a snake’s hiss and the dog fell silent. From the murkiness at the foot of a trestle a warrior appeared. He ran to the dog, retrieved his arrow, and returned to the group.

  They made it to the far side without another occasion for worry. The town of Rock Island lay on the downstream side of the bank, so George led them upstream, past the mill and riverfront warehouses. There, in the quiet pastures north of town, they climbed atop their beasts and cut a wide circle around the town, heading south.

  They met the railroad again and followed it through the night.

  “How do you know this land?” Storm Arriving asked him. “Was this your home before you came to us?”

  “No,” George said ruefully. “I did not have a real home when I was young. I guess I was more like you—an always-moving-people.”

  “A nomad.”

  “Yes. A nomad. My father went where the army needed him. We only stayed for a year or two in any one place. Longer than your people stay in one camp, perhaps, but not long enough for me to call it home.”

  “So how did you learn this land well enough to guide us?”

  “I remember some of it from our travels,” George told him, “but mostly I learned of it from books.”

  Storm Arriving was incredulous. He leaned closer and his voice dropped to a harsh whisper. “Do you mean to say that you have never seen this land?”

  “No,” George said. “Not all of it. Not first-hand. But I have seen some of it, and have studied the other areas in depth.”

  “He’kotoo’êstse. Not so loudly.” Storm Arriving looked around at the others riding nearby, but none took notice of their now-whispered conversation. “We have assembled four hundreds of our men for this. Do not tell me that you have never seen this land!”

  George could not afford to lose this man’s trust, so he endeavored to explain. “Listen to me,” he said. “Twenty-five years ago my countrymen fought a great war: a civil war with one half fighting against the other. It was fought all across the land, and it became an important part of our history.”

  Storm Arriving signed his understanding. “So have the tales of our battles with the Crow People and the Cradle People been passed along from father to son. They tell the path of the People.”

  “Precisely,” George said. “And so when I studied to become a soldier, I studied all of the great battles to learn from the generals that came before me.”

  “Like your father.”

  George shrugged. “He was a crafty tactician.”

  Storm Arriving grunted. “But he had no honor.”

  George continued past the insult. “I have learned of this land through those battles. I have studied the maps and read the memoirs of every officer on both sides of the war. Just as I know that the sun will rise in the morning, so do I know that this iron road will turn to the southwest at the next town—a little place called Avon—and from there we must take a path east to find the next iron road, called the Great Western Line. We will pass close to where one of our greatest presidents lived and worked. That railroad will take us on our way across the river called the Wabash.”

  Even in the blue light of the stars the Indian’s sidelong glance was apparent. His companion was still not convinced.

  “Wait,” George said. “In an hour or so, you will see that I am right.”

  Storm Arriving sighed. “I will wait. Even if you are right, you must never let the others know what you have told me. They would not give you the chance to explain.”

  In a short time they came to a small town. From the crest of a gentle rise they saw it, dark and somnolent in the deep night.

  The town of Avon was much like any town on the Frontier—a few streets that ran parallel to the rail line, a few storefronts along the main street, a few rutted roads leading out into the surrounding farmlands. It was a small, peaceful town and, at this hour, it was quiet and dark.

  The silver rails ran past the buildings and onward, curving to the southwest as they left the town behind them. From the heart of the town a road emerged, heading due east in a line that did not waver.

  “We take the road from here to Springfield,” George said in his most confident manner. “From there, we take the Great Western Line to Decatur and the Illiniwek Central across the Kaskaskia River and on to Sandoval. Then, the Ohio and Mississippi Line crosses the Wabash into Indiana where we turn south with the Evansville-Crawfordsville line that crosses the Ohio River.”

  Storm Arriving looked up at the eastern stars and measured the sky with his hands. “How far can we go in five hands of time?” There was no longer any doubt in his voice.

  Inwardly, George sighed, pleased that he had kept this, his most important ally.

  “The Kaskaskia. We can make it to the woods along the Kaskaskia River.”

  Custer was awakened by a knock on the door. Cardigan Two lifted his shaggy head from his paws and whined. Old Tuck slept on.

  “Yes,” Custer said. He sat up and swung his feet off the guest room bed. “What is it?”

  The door opened. It was Douglas.

  Custer squinted at him. “I thought you said you only stayed awake while the family was up.” He yawned. “I was dead asleep.”

  “You’re awake now, aren’t you, sir?” He held out a small platter. On it was a folded piece of paper. “This just came.”

  The president took the note and read it.

  “Get Samuel here. Jacob, too. That will be enough to start.” He looked at Douglas. “We’ve been invaded.”

  Chapter 13

  Saturday, May 29th, AD 1886

  Near the Kaskaskia River, Illinois

  Before dawn, they had found a large wood with a creek. They had settled down within its concealment to rest themselves and
their mounts and wait out the daylight hours. It was a bucolic setting, one in which George would gladly have stayed for some time. He yawned and stretched and felt the dappled sun upon his skin.

  Overhead, branches swayed in an unfelt breeze, their broad leaves layered every imaginable shade of green between him and the blue sky. He could smell the fertile earth beneath him and the spice of the whistler against which he reclined.

  Nearby, several warriors talked quietly in their whispered tongue. They played a guessing game called “Hands,” passing the time until evening came.

  The others were all around. Some leaned back against their whistlers and slept—as did Storm Arriving and Laughs like a Woman, now George’s steady comrades—or told stories, or just sat quietly and listened to the wood around them. The walkers were all bedded down in the densest part of the wood. There was little movement, for movement meant noise and noise meant risk and risk was something they already had in abundance. The stream that had slaked their thirst and washed the dust off their bodies flowed through the woods with a friendly exuberance. It plished and splashed between rounded boulders rubbed clean by its constant attentions. It flowed, leading the forest along with it, until less than a half mile away, it met its goal: the Kaskaskia, a meandering tributary of the stately Mississippi. If George listened very carefully, he could hear the thrum of a paddlewheel barge as it carried its cargo against the river’s current.

  There were more people here in this land and there would be more the further George led them. The final two miles of last night’s journey had brought them within earshot of four homesteads. Even the woods in which they now bivouacked were within sight of a farmer’s house and barn. Their proximity had concerned George greatly until he learned that the Red Shield soldiers had been charged with picket duty. Just as they would give warning should anyone from the homestead come toward their position, they would also keep any member of the war party from exploring beyond the perimeter.

  George looked to the west, and far beyond the shrubs and ferns and trees that hid them from the world—beyond, too, most likely, the great rivers they had crossed the previous night—he saw the white tops of thunderheads blazing in the sunlight. They stood like some colossal, Antaean trees, their dark slate blue trunks shaded by their own overhanging branches.