The Year the Cloud Fell

by Kurt R A Giambastiani

  One man in the middle of the assemblage stood and George recognized him as the senior majority leader, Senator Marcus Duschesnes. Tall, thin, with straight black hair and a hawk-like nose, he stared at George with a black, penetrating glare.

  “Just what do you hope to achieve by this, Mr. Custer?”

  “Senator,” George replied. “I will lay it out for you bluntly so that there will be no misunderstanding. I hope to achieve peace.”

  Speaks While Leaving watched and listened as one by one the ten chiefs of the People, the ten voices of the ten bands, stood before the vé’hó’e leadership and spoke. She watched Storm Arriving and One Who Flies patiently relay the words through the languages, and she watched the hard faces of the vé’hó’e and she saw no change.

  The dark-clothed men with their high, white collars sat and scowled. The chiefs spoke for a long time, and still the vé’hó’e were silent. The chiefs spoke of war and honor and battle and all the bad things the bluecoats had done to the People, but it made no difference to the men who only sat and listened.

  Finally she saw her father step up to speak. He did not speak of war or fighting. He spoke of his family, of the People, of the spirits, and of the earth that he loved and worshiped with his every breath. It was then that something remarkable happened.

  One of the vé’hó’e stood. The man’s face was not hard and stern. It was thoughtful and a bit confused. The vé’ho’e asked a question.

  “How long have your people lived there?”

  It was not an important question, but it was a question, and as a question, it led to an answer. Another man asked another question and her father gave him an answer, too, and when her father asked the man a question in return—

  “Why do you want our land?”

  —suddenly it became a conversation.

  She sighed and the spirits released her.

  She floated up to the ceiling and through it. The dark bulk of the building lay below her. On the ground all around it was a necklace of lights; lanterns and torches that flickered in the wind, each illuminating an armed man or two who crouched behind barricades made of overturned wagons and stacks of crates. Hundreds of soldiers, all intent on the great domed building.

  At last the vision flared white, then darkened to a wavering yellow. She looked up into the cone of her firelit lodge. She felt the caress of her grandmother’s hand, a hand so old that even her calluses had been worn smooth. She heard a drumbeat from a neighboring lodge and heard the blanket of song the crickets wove through the night.

  “You heard?” she asked.

  “Yes, my granddaughter. Your mother has gone to tell the neighbors. Sleep now.”

  “I don’t know if I can,” she said, but she could, and she did.

  “There’s just no way to get a message in there. We even tried tying a note to a brick and throwing it through a window. The illiterate bastards threw it back, note and all.” Meriwether stabbed the poker at the remnants of the evening’s fire.

  Jacob sat nearby on the divan and Custer sat in an overstuffed chair. All three stared into the re-awakening fire.

  “We’re at an impasse,” the general said.

  Custer stood and stretched. “Only until daybreak,” he said.

  “Are you serious?” asked Jacob.

  “Yes. We have enough of a black eye about this as it is. If we look like we’re capitulating or are afraid to act, the press will eat us alive.”

  “But what about George?”

  Custer could not help but frown at the mention of his son. “He has betrayed his country. He’s shamed his uniform and his family.”

  “But, Autie, surely there’s some reason for it.”

  “For collaborating with the enemy? For capturing a Federal building? For holding the entire Senate hostage?” Custer’s laugh was bitter. “No reason is sufficient.”

  Meriwether, without looking up from the fire, asked the question that had been in Custer’s mind since noon.

  “What shall be done with him?”

  “By all rights he should be hanged as a turncoat and spy.”

  “Autie!”

  “Don’t fret, Jacob. I don’t want that to happen. It would kill his mother.” He sighed—deeply, slowly. “He must be held to account, though.”

  “Court martial?” Meriwether asked.

  “At least,” Custer agreed. “If we hand-pick the judges he might get off with a lesser sentence. He’s disgraced—”

  His throat constricted at the depth of it all: the calumny that would be heaped upon his family. He wiped at tears before they could spill.

  “Hellfire. Better he had died in when the Lincoln went down.” Custer cleared his throat. “Daybreak, Meriwether. At daybreak you go in there and you take back that building. Take it back and damn the cost.”

  The chiefs and senators talked into the night, moving from one topic to the next. The chiefs exhibited all of their usual patience as they explained what were, to them, things that required no explanation. Their spiritual bond with the land was especially hard for the congressmen to understand. George was not sure that he understood it fully himself.

  Eventually, one of the representatives from Georgia stood. He spoke French, after a fashion, and stepped up to relieve George of his duty. George was glad for the break. His eyes were dry and red from lack of sleep, his voice was hoarse from shouts in battle and the hours of translating. He was only sorry that a similar relief was not available for Storm Arriving, but like many of the proud men of his nation, he showed no signs of fatigue.

  He left the House Chamber by a side door and started up the stairs, intent on a seat up in the gallery where he might rest, close his eyes for a bit, but still hear the discussions from down on the floor. He stopped, though, at the sound of slow footsteps outside the staircase. Two men spoke to one another in low tones, their furtiveness confounded by the building’s marble halls.

  “I can’t believe,” said the first one, “that old man Custer would have raised such a simpleton. Does he really expect us to be swayed by a few impassioned speeches?”

  George leaned into the shadows against the cold stone wall.

  “He seems sincere enough,” said the other. “And naïve. We can use that to our advantage.”

  “How so?”

  “We’re his prisoners here. He won’t let us go until we agree to his terms.”

  “Ah,” said the first man. “So we agree to his terms, on the surface.”

  “Correct. Young Captain Custer can give us the excuse to get out of this politically dangerous war before the House elections and give his father a black eye in the process. Then, next year…”

  “We can try this all again,” the first man said. “Only with our party in control of the House.”

  The footsteps came closer, and George saw the two congressmen pass by the entrance to the stairwell. Behind them came their Cheyenne guard; silent and uncomprehending of their cynical plans.

  George squeezed shut his eyes and grit his teeth. They had not heard the words of the chiefs, they had not felt the truth or seen the evil of their actions. They had not changed nor, her realized, would they. They would smile, and wait, and plot all the while, wanting only expediency and gain and damned be the cost, human or otherwise.

  Thoroughly depressed, he continued up the dark staircase, but instead of entering the gallery he took a detour to the rotunda balcony. Two long stories below him, men with their whistlers and walkers lay dozing or resting or talking quietly on the marble floor of the large round room beneath the dome and the entryway attached to it. He had led them here and promised them a victory. They thought they had one, a great coup to count, not realizing that nearby the battle had just been lost.

  He looked up and through the tall windows above him he saw the orange blush of dawn. He wanted a better view of it and left the balcony for one of the offices along the front of the building.

  In the darkened room the square office window was ablaze with glorious colors: b
right orange, rose pink, and royal purple against a ceiling of steel grey. A bank of clouds stretched across the heavens, heading for the sun on a wind that tightened the flags on their standards.

  Red sky at morning, he thought to himself.

  Down on the plaza the army sat behind its barricades, just as it had all through the night. George looked at the sky again. It has lost most of its color in just the past few minutes as the sun rose above the level of the clouds. In the west, distant thunder rumbled.

  “You’re going to get soaked, boys,” he said to the soldiers below. Rain began to patter down on the marble steps.

  George caught sight of a knot of activity over towards the front steps. He saw one man with a cannon rod and another with a torch. The torchlight glinted along the small six-pounder’s barrel.

  George had enough time to run out of the office and shout before the cannon fired.

  The shot slammed into the heavy front door. Fragments of wood flew, biting into the flesh of those nearby. Their barricades of furniture and bookcases blocked the brunt of the explosion.

  “Get out of there!” he shouted, waving frantically. “Back, back! Get out of the way!” He ran for the stairs and leapt down them three and four at a time. On the floor of the rotunda he waved and gesticulated to the soldiers.

  “To the sides! Nóheto!”

  The second round blew through the barriers. It slapped through the torso of one soldier and took off the shoulder of a second before it exploded against the rear wall, sending shards of marble and plaster through the room. A piece struck George in the brow, sending him reeling backward. He brought his left hand to his head and saw that his little finger was gone, and only a shard of bone protruded beyond the high knuckle.

  “Aw, Hell,” he said and took out his kerchief. He wrapped the cloth tightly around his hand. There was no pain, not yet, but he knew it would come. He tied off the kerchief as best as he could; it would not be good for long.

  Custer stood on the balcony, looking down Penn’s Sylvania Avenue. The cannonfire signaled that it had begun. He had wanted to be there when it all started, but he had been overridden by several advisors. Requirements for the President’s personal safety outweighed his personal wishes in this, as in all things. The wind freshened and he heard the sound of rain tapping on the steps and plants below.

  He sipped his coffee and waited.

  George stood in the main entryway, still a bit stunned by the blast. The entryway was open, the doors destroyed, the barrier of stacked furniture in splinters. Several Kit Fox soldiers lay dead or nearly so on the floor, their blood black in the blue light of morning. Outside, bluecoats prepared to enter the breach.

  “Ame’haooestse!”

  George turned as Laughs like a Woman ran up to him. The Indian grabbed George by the collar and hauled him back against the wall. Gunfire shot through the opening and the warriors took cover to either side.

  “No,” George shouted. “Let me go. I can stop this.”

  Laughs like a Woman held on to him with his good hand but George strove against his grip.

  “They won’t kill me,” he said. “I am the son of Long Hair.” He pulled back hard and the worn fabric of his shirt gave way. He ran to the opening and out into the building rainstorm.

  “Hold your fire!” he shouted and held his arms open wide. “I am the son of Long Hair!”

  Storm Arriving ran into the rotunda. Men lay dead and debris littered the floor. Through the blasted door he saw One Who Flies standing out in the rain, arms outstretched. Storm Arriving ran to the door but someone knocked him down. Another man stepped over him and ran outside. Thunder rumbled overhead.

  Speaks While Leaving reached out from her vantage point in the clouds. Her vision was clear, unaffected by the tears that brimmed in her body’s eyes. She saw One Who Flies on the steps, shouting for peace, his arms stretched out like those of his God-that-died-and-lived-again. She saw the bloody rag that wrapped his left hand and saw a man run out of the building. She saw the bluecoats and the man with the white gloves. She heard him shout. She saw the riflemen aim.

  George felt the wind chill his face. Raindrops pelted his brow.

  “Wait,” he said again. “Hold your fire.”

  Beyond the barricade General Meriwether said, “Aim,” and six riflemen leveled their weapons. George saw a white-gloved hand raised high, saw the general’s familiar face twisted by hatred and disgust. From behind, George heard a man’s voice.

  “Hová’âháne,” the voice cried out.

  No.

  The white glove descended.

  The riflemen squinted.

  Someone stepped up beside him…

  “Fire!”

  …and then stepped in front of him.

  She cried out in horror as Laughs like a Woman was struck down.

  Storm Arriving cried out again as his friend fell to the cold stone steps.

  “Hová’âháne!”

  Custer smiled at the sound of gunfire. “Give ‘em Hell, Meriwether,” he said and took another sip of coffee.

  George stumbled as the former Contrary fell against his legs. He reached down for the man and rolled him onto his back.

  His chest was a massive wound. His eyes stared up into the clouds. Rain beat down upon his face.

  Lightning reached down from the sky and lit the steps with white light. Thunder pounded on the heads of men and shook the ground beneath their feet.

  “Again!” came the command from the barricades. “Ready!”

  Storm Arriving saw the bluecoats work the levers of their rifles. He ran out and down the steps. As they lifted their weapons to their shoulders, he placed himself in front of their target, just as his friend had done.

  “Aim!”

  George looked up as Storm Arriving stepped between him and the riflemen. He heard a man swear.

  “Take them both down. Aim!”

  Speaks While Leaving struggled against the vision. She had to act.

  “Do something!” she screamed. She fought and turned on the thunder beings that held her up. “Do something,” she said, but his tearful eyes told her no, he would not act.

  She reached over and grabbed the skin of the thunder being’s arm. Her fingers dug and she ripped from his black skin the lightning bolt that graced his arm. She turned and threw it down upon the scene below, just as the white glove came down again.

  “Fire!”

  Lightning sizzled through the air and stabbed the marble steps as the rifles fired. A concussion of sound and hot air slammed into everyone nearby. George caught Storm Arriving as he fell back and Army soldiers were knocked from their feet.

  Thunder boomed across the plaza and through the city. It reverberated back down from the very clouds that sent it.

  Storm Arriving got to his feet and extended a hand. George took it and stood. The body of Laughs like a Woman lay between them, his blood cleaned from his body by the pouring rain.

  “God damn it,” Meriwether yelled. “You missed them both!” He lifted the flap on his holster and pulled out his pistol. The Colt’s long barrel glimmered in the grey light. “I’ll shoot you myself, you traitorous bastard.”

  “General Meriwether, sir.” It was a colonel at the general’s side. “Sir, he’s the president’s son.”

  “He’s a traitor!”

  “For God’s sake, sir.” The colonel’s hand was reaching for the pistol. “Think of what you’re doing!”

  Please lower your weapon.”

  George could see the Meriwether struggling with his decision. The riflemen looked up at their commander.

  “Sir,” said one of them. “Don’t do it, sir.”

  The furrow across the general’s brow was washed away in the rain and he lowered the shiny Colt to his side.

  “Thank you, sir,” said the colonel.

  Raised voices echoed in the building behind George. He turned and saw Duschenes and several others make their way past Indian soldiers. One Bear and Two Roads were close beh
ind the congressmen. They all stopped at the top of the steps. The chiefs stood tall, glowering down upon the scene.

  “Who is in charge, here?” Duschenes demanded. The rain drummed down upon his head and shoulders. He looked at the assembled soldiers, American and Indian both, and reiterated his request.

  “Who the hell is in charge?”

  Meriwether finally stepped forward. “I am, Senator.”

  “Thank you, General,” Duschesnes said, suddenly civil again. “Would you would please send up a surgeon? Several men have been wounded and need attention. Then, if you would please clear away all…all this.” He indicated the barricades and the soldiery. “We are in the middle of an important dialogue, and I do not wish to be interrupted again. Now, gentlemen, if you would rejoin us inside?”

  George realized that the senator was addressing him and Storm Arriving.

  “You can wait for the surgeon inside, out of the rain. There are some topics that require further discussion and we require both your help and the help of Mr. Arriving. If you please?” He gestured toward the door with an open hand.

  George looked down at the body at his feet, then up into the face of Storm Arriving.

  “I am sorry,” he said, meaning the body at their feet and so much more. “I am so, so sorry.”

  Storm Arriving closed his eyes and fought against his emotions. He knelt to pick up the body and George bent to help. Together they lifted him and carried him slowly up the steps. As they walked, Storm Arriving began to sing. Two Roads and One Bear joined and together the four of them bore the body inside.

  Chapter 15

  Hatchling Moon, Waning

  Fifty-three Years After the Star Fell

  The Place Where Laughs like a Woman Was Killed

  The morning sun shone down upon them from an unbroken sky. Storm Arriving stood at the top of the steps. One Who Flies stood at his side, his wounded hand wrapped in white bandages.