The Year the Cloud Fell

by Kurt R A Giambastiani

  Storm Arriving talked to him of his wound and how he felt. The bullet had pierced the meat of his right biceps. Though it was not his strong arm, it did keep him from holding his bow. It did not keep him from punishing the sword, however.

  “How is his arm?” George asked Storm Arriving.

  “He says it is swollen and sore, but the bleeding has stopped.”

  “Good. Please tell him that if he wants, I will show him how I was taught to use such a sword.”

  Storm Arriving relayed his words. “He says it is not difficult.” George sighed but smiled.

  He saw a man leading one of the great lizards. Storm Arriving went to talk to him. The beast was bloody, exhausted from the climb and the battle, but its demeanor was anything but placid. Its head was up, its eyes alert, reacting to every movement and sound. The men came toward George, the walker’s body twisting in an ungainly, two-legged walk.

  “Hámêstoo’e,” the man bid the beast. It lowered itself to the ground.

  It was huge. George couldn’t bring himself to approach it. Storm Arriving grabbed him by the arm and marched him up to the blood-spattered head. Then Storm Arriving slowly backed away.

  “Face her,” Storm Arriving whispered. “Meet her eye. Show her your resolve.”

  He did so, staring up at her. Head cocked, she stared back at him, first with one eye and then the other. She opened her mouth and breathed in. George readied himself for the roar but it never came. Instead, she growled, a much more dangerous sound, and George felt emotions sweep over him—rage, grief, resentment. She extended her neck, coming closer to him. He could feel her heat, smell the blood that covered her maw. Her breath washed over him, and she blinked, the white membrane flashing across the huge yellow eye.

  “Scratch her,” Storm Arriving said quietly.

  He did not want to, but would have to sometime. Now was as good a time as any. He reached out and touched her jaw.

  The beast’s hide felt much like a whistler’s—warm, supple, but it was a bit harder, a bit coarser. Back from her head, she was covered with fine hairs, like the silken strands on a pale woman’s arm. The walker opened its mouth and George froze.

  He scratched her skin, lightly at first but then with a little more vigor. The walker craned its head back over its neck, its mouth agape, its tongue lolling out to one side. From deep within its body came a rumble that was more felt than heard, and the emotions tied up in George’s chest relaxed, relented, and disappeared.

  “She is yours now,” Storm Arriving said with a chuckle. “And forever.”

  “Are you serious?”

  Storm Arriving nodded.

  “What about her former rider?”

  “Walkers know death,” the Indian explained. “They do not mourn for one lost if they see him dead. But for one lost outside their seeing, there is great grief. Dull Knife was her rider, and he fell from her back and she saw him dead. She has chosen a new rider now. There is no greater loyalty, but she will demand her own measure in return.”

  George rubbed his stubbled chin and shook his head. At last he shrugged and dropped his hands to his sides.

  “Aw, Hell,” he said.

  He mounted his walker—a process that involved using the beast’s leg as a stepstool. The riding gear was much the same as on a whistler except that the pad of buffalo hide also had a back brace of woven wicker. When the walker stood, George understood why. Unlike whistlers, the walker’s spine was not quite level to the ground when it stood. The brace aided in keeping the rider from sliding down the long back and tail like they were a bumpy staircase banister. Otherwise, it was just the same. George slipped his feet into the trailing loops and pulled the first rope up over his knees. Then, with a gentle touch, he pivoted his mount and headed down to the road. Storm Arriving joined him on whistlerback.

  It was a much higher vantage than on whistler-back, and while the beast did its best to avoid them, still an occasional branch caught George across the face.

  “They are not used to the forests,” Storm Arriving said as George cursed loudly for the third time.

  Once on the road, it was much easier and they settled into an easy, mile-eating trot.

  Bristow Station was just down the line from Manassas Junction, on the banks of the Broad Run. It straddled the railroad; a bundle of houses and shops along clean-cornered streets surrounded by the varicolored fabric of family farms. The sun shone upon the town, and the light of late morning cast short, stark shadows along the flower beds and curbsides. It was Monday, and a hand or so before noon. Women strolled from store to store on weekly errands. Men made deliveries or stood before their businesses, waiting for custom to walk their way.

  George straightened his white shirt, dirty and stained though it was, and slapped the dust from his army britches. He raked his fingers through his blond hair and put on his most military manner.

  “Stay a little behind me,” George said. “They’ll be less likely to shoot if they see me first.”

  “Less likely,” Storm Arriving said. “That is comforting.”

  At a quarter mile from the center of town they were noticed. George saw the people in the streets slow and stop as they squinted for a better look. At an eighth of a mile, people had come out of the shops to peer down the road and guess at the nature of the strange apparition. At three hundred yards some of the onlookers were nervous; glances were exchanged and some began to move towards the storefronts. At two hundred yards, the nervousness had grown to panic, and at one hundred, the streets were empty.

  George slowed their pace as they entered the town. He rode straight-backed and with eyes front. He did not look at the pale, gawking faces that lined the windows.

  A man came out of Winton’s Dry Goods store with a shotgun. George’s mount saw it, turned, and roared. The sound rattled the window glass and the man dropped the weapon in the dirt and fled back inside his store.

  They followed the wires that swagged between the telegraph poles. They led him into the heart of town, along the railroad, and right to the station.

  They stopped in front of the small building. The shakes of its roof were twisted and cracked, and its clapboard siding was the same. Through its windows he could see a desk, a chair, a counter, and one balding, middle-aged man whose fear and his spectacles teamed up to make his eyes the size of Morgan dollars.

  “You, sir,” George said and pointed. The man pointed to himself with a shaking hand, hoping he meant some other man.

  “Yes. You, sir. Come here, please.”

  The man nodded and went quickly to the door. He stepped outside but came no further.

  “Hámêstoo’e,” he said and his walker squatted down. George stepped from its back onto its knee and thence to the ground. Storm Arriving remained mounted, gaze sweeping the deserted street, alert for more trouble. George did not think there would be any.

  “I have a very important telegraph message to send,” he said as he walked over to the station keeper. As he came closer the man underwent a transformation.

  Terror gave way to wonder and his stance lost it submissive crouch. He stood up straight and smiled broadly, then laughed.

  “Well, I’ll be,” he said. “You’re the one. You’re young Custer.” He ducked back inside the station house and returned in a moment with a newspaper. He held it out and pointed to the picture of George as a young cadet. “They’ve been looking high and low for you, son. Why we’ve even gone to war over it.”

  “At war?” George said, stunned. “With whom?” He took the paper. Missing and presumed dead, read the caption next to his name.

  “Why, with them,” the man said, his gaze slipping over to Storm Arriving.

  “Listen to me,” George said. “There has been a grave misunderstanding. I must get word to the President.”

  “Your father,” the keeper said with a giggle.

  “Yes, my father.”

  “President Custer. President George Armstrong Custer.” The man was tickled by his proximity to ce
lebrity. He waved to the storefronts around his block. “It’s all right,” he called. “It’s President Custer’s boy!”

  Faces peered out through cracked-open doorways.

  “It is a very important message.”

  But the station keeper was not listening. People came out of their shops and he beckoned them over.

  “Look! It’s President Custer’s boy. The one who’s been lost all this time.”

  “Sir—”

  “What’s he want, Harold?” The people were walking towards them.

  “Sir—”

  “Says he has to send a message to his father.”

  “What kind of message?”

  George turned to his walker. “Hó’ésta!” he commanded them. He plugged his ears as the beast took breath but still he heard the roar through his very bones. When he unplugged his ears the street was deserted again and the station keeper was cowering on the ground. George squatted down and spoke slowly.

  “I have a very important telegraph message to send.”

  “Yes, sir,” the man said. “Right this way, sir.” He stood and scurried into the office. George turned to Storm Arriving.

  “Keep a sharp eye. Call if you need me.”

  The station office smelled of tobacco smoke and mildew. The sunlight struggled to make an impression on the windows. The station keeper produced a pen and inkwell, then a sheaf of paper.

  “You just write down what you want to say while I set things to rights.” He sat down at the telegraph desk and started working the key.

  “I’m sorry about that out there,” George said.

  “Don’t worry about it, Captain Custer.” The man smiled sheepishly. “After all, here y’are coming to me for help after being lost for weeks amongst the savages, and all I can think of is myself. It’s me who ought to be apologizing.” The key tapped back as the operators on the far end made ready. “Are you finished with the text, sir?”

  “Almost,” George said. He looked over what he had written.

  FATHER

  AM ALIVE AND RIDING TOWARDS HOME STOP SHOULD ARRIVE SOON BUT HAVE COMPANY WITH ME STOP TELL THE TROOPS NOT TO SHOOT STOP

  It wasn’t enough. He needed to be sure that his father knew it was from him. “What’s your name?” he asked the station keeper.

  “Me? Godfried, sir. Harold Godfried.”

  George added a final line to the message:

  AUTHENTICATE MESSAGE WITH HAROLD GODFRIED OF BRISTOW STATION.

  He handed the message over. “Can you send this and make sure it gets through to the President?”

  Godfried read the message and puffed up with pride. “Yes, sir,” he said.

  “Good work, Godfried. I won’t forget this.”

  “Thank you, sir. Nor will I.”

  George left the little station house and climbed back onto his mount. Godfried followed to the door but did not come outside.

  “Make sure that message gets through,” George said, loudly enough for the hiding neighbors to hear. “Lives depend upon it, Mr. Godfried. Many lives.” He saluted. The little station keeper stood straight and returned the honor.

  “Nóheto.”

  As they rode from town the street filled with people. The message would be delivered. He rested easily on that score.

  “Now all we have to do is get there.”

  “Mr. President. Mr. President!”

  Custer heard someone bound up the stairs from the second floor. He turned to see Samuel run past the library’s open door.

  “I’m in here,” he called. Samuel’s frantic footsteps slid to a stop and came pummeling back down the hall. The old man skated into the door jamb. He had several papers in his hand and a broad grin on his flushed face.

  “He’s…alive,” the aide said between gulping breaths. “Young George…He’s alive.”

  Custer was up and across the room. He snatched the papers and read them one by one.

  “I’ve already confirmed it, sir. Godfried says it was definitely George. ‘Saw him with my own eyes,’ he said. He also said George rode in on one of those giant lizards.”

  Custer paged through the messages again. “Good Lord and all that’s holy.” He reached out to steady himself and Samuel grabbed hold. “He’s alive!” His sight blurred with sudden tears and he felt himself begin to lose control. He took a deep breath and composed himself.

  “Does Libbie know?”

  “Not yet, sir.”

  “What about Meriwether and Greene?”

  “They’re awaiting your instructions.”

  “You heard from this—” He checked the messages. “This Godfried?”

  “Yes, sir. Personally.”

  “And George wasn’t forced to send this?”

  “I doubt it, sir. Godfried said there was one Indian with him, but he went on to say that it looked like George was in charge of things.”

  Custer shook his head. “I just can’t believe it.” He laughed as relief swept over him. “All right, then. Tell the men to relax. No, have them line the streets from Long Bridge to here. I don’t want those lizards wandering through the city. And get Speaker Carlisle and Senator Duschesnes over here—invite them politely, of course. They’ll want to be here when George arrives.”

  “Carlisle might be able,” Samuel said, “but I doubt that Duschesnes will be free. They’re debating your appropriations bill on the floor today. They want to resolve the issue before the June break.”

  “Yes, that’s right. Well, invite him anyway, as a courtesy. Now where’s Libbie?”

  “She and the girls are staying with the Vice President’s family.”

  “All right. Get them back over here. Go. Hurry. But get those orders issued first.”

  “Yes, Mr. President.” He smiled and ran off down the stairs.

  “I didn’t know he could run that fast,” Custer said to himself. “Hellfire, I didn’t know the old persimmon could run at all.”

  He chuckled, then laughed until the tears came to his eyes. He did not wipe them away.”

  The vision light faded and Speaks While Leaving floated in a cloud-studded sky. Below her the curved arm of a broad river reflected the blue and white patchwork from above. She flew, soaring in her airy home, and saw the green pastures of the land beyond the river. The land was scarred by roads that dug into the flesh of the earth. She saw a small grid of square lodges and the spirits that controlled her vision brought her down toward it.

  People lined the main thoroughfare of the little village. They stood in small groups and she could hear their chatter as she sailed between the buildings. Her point of view came to rest on the high spire of a tall white structure. There was a wind that chilled her until it blew the clouds away from the sun’s face. She was bathed in light and warmth and it felt good after the cold of the vision.

  She heard a scream. A woman on the street below pointed down the road. All the people turned to look, and then shrank back away from the street.

  Her viewpoint shifted and she saw the cause of their fear.

  “I see them,” she said, and hoped her body said it, too. “They are magnificent.”

  They filled the road from side to side for the length of a bowshot. At the front, alone atop an immense walker was One Who Flies. He sat the beast as if born to it and the creature chuffed twice as they entered the town. Behind him were the chiefs and all the whistlers. She saw her father and Two Roads, and near the front she saw her beloved.

  “I am here,” she said to him, but he did not hear her. He looked so strong and fearsome, his head held high, the feathers in his hair and on his bow and on his whistler’s harness all streaming in the wind.

  She reminded herself that there were other women in the camp besides her and she scanned the host that trooped so regally, trying to see every face. She called out their names as she saw them, but as she did so she saw that there were many she knew should be there who were not. The ambush at the mountain pass had taken a heavy toll.

  At the end came the rest of
the walkers. They looked lean and headstrong. They would need to eat in a few days or they would start to get obstinate.

  They passed by her high vantage point and through the town and once again she was flying. Ahead, in the distance, was the river. Across it was a long bridge. White-winged gulls wheeled in the air, chasing large boats that plowed the gentle waters.

  On the far bank along the river’s edge lay a sward of green. Beyond that, however, it was as if everything natural had been scraped away. A mat of buildings covered the land as far as she could see. Near the river rose a spike of white stone taller than every tree in the world. To the right of it was a huge building of the same white stone. It was the biggest building she had ever seen and the sight of it chilled her so that even the sun was helpless to warm her again.

  “If they can build such things as this,” she said, “what hope can we possibly have? How can we possibly overcome them?”

  The war party began to sing as they approached the river. Speaks While Leaving was not sure she wanted to see what would be coming, but she felt on either side of her a presence. She looked and saw flying alongside her two black-skinned warriors with lightning bolts painted upon their arms—thunder beings, who guided her flight. She recognized them from her vision so many years ago; the thunder beings who brought the cloud to earth.

  Sunlight flashed off the wavelets that adorned the deep green waters. Gulls in the air below her spun and pinwheeled like children at play. Huge boats spewed black smoke and carved long V’s into the river. Along the bridge and along the streets of the city, bluecoats waited.

  She shut her eyes, but still she saw.

  Custer stood on the south steps of his home and watched through the binoculars as the horde of hideous lizards surged onto the bridge deck. It was a disgusting sight. The beasts lurched and swaggered their way across, a huge herd of the misshapen, prismatic creatures in the front followed by a contingent of great toothsome monsters. There were hundreds of them, and hundreds of the Cheyenne riding them. Custer looked but could not see his son amid the crowd.