Beneath a Wounded Sky Read online

  These items—the robes, the whistlers, and the eagle feathers—comprised the bride-price George would offer to Storm Arriving, Mouse Road’s brother. It was not a rich price, but George was not rich in things valued by the People.

  In the four years since he had come to live among them, George hadn’t had time or opportunity to amass any personal wealth; not by Cheyenne standards, not by anyone’s. His work first as a translator, then as liaison, and finally as an advocate for the People, had kept him travelling the world—to Washington, to Alta California, to Cuba, even to the royal courts of Spain—all in service to the Cheyenne Alliance in their struggle against the vé’hó’e, the men of the White Nations. During those years, the charity of his neighbors and friends had relieved him from the day-to-day struggle that was part of Cheyenne life. Their kindness had made it unnecessary for him to hunt all the bison, to husband all the whistler flocks, and to stalk all the eagles that would have allowed him to manage the wealth of a respectable bride-price.

  And so it was with these meager gifts, some of which were gifts themselves, that George readied himself to cross the camp of the gathered bands, find Storm Arriving, and offer them as a price for an extraordinary woman.

  To George, it seemed neither right to offer any price, nor proper to offer so little. Mouse Road was both un-buyable and priceless. In truth, the fact that such a ritual was even called for still amazed him; it was very far beyond any future he’d ever imagined for himself.

  George and Mouse Road’s courtship had occurred without their intention; it had grown with each furtive look and every trivial favor they had traded over the years. Their love had come upon them unsuspected, like the sun breaking through a clouded sky. George had been particularly unprepared, as his love for her had put him at odds with Storm Arriving, who when asked had denied George permission to stand as suitor to his younger sister. George had tried to honor the edict, but last summer, during the shipboard voyage home from Spain’s royal court, the young couple’s love strengthened and they realized that, according to the customs of the People, they had effectively eloped.

  Unconventional was not the word George would have used to describe their romance. Unconventional was a word best suited to a widow who remarried too soon, or a man who took a bride ten years his senior. No, their romance was beyond unconventional; it was beyond all the established norms of his upbringing, and yet, it did not seem improper. In fact, as he listened to his wife’s quiet humming, as he thought of her strength, her devotion, her clear-eyed view of the world and her powerful love for him, being married to Mouse Road seemed the most proper thing in the world.

  And so he tucked his concerns away: this marriage might have come from the far side of convention, but it was well away from any taint of impropriety. He was satisfied, and glad of it. A smile crept over his lips, though, as he imagined his father’s reaction to his new daughter-in-law. How would President Custer greet Mouse Road when she was presented on his son’s arm?

  The smile faded. Such a meeting would never happen, and George had a more immediate task before him.

  Among the People there were many rules and customs. An elopement could be accepted if, after the fact, the husband brought the bride’s family the price he should have offered beforehand. But, in bringing such paltry gifts to a brother who had explicitly denied the husband permission, well, George realized that Whistling Elk was wrong. Having his gifts thrown back in his face was probably the best of all likely outcomes, not the worst.

  “Come,” George said. “I’ve put this off for too long.”

  “Work grows no easier for waiting,” Limps agreed.

  Whistling Elk picked up the heavy roll of buffalo robes and hoisted them across his back. Limps untied the leader ropes that tethered the two whistlers. George, with his small parcel and its feathers, turned and spoke to his wife inside the lodge.

  “Mouse Road,” he said. “We are going.”

  Her humming continued.

  “Mouse Road? Did you hear me? We are going.”

  Her quiet song neither stopped nor faltered.

  “She ignores you,” Limps said, patting George’s shoulder.

  “She is nervous, too,” Whistling Elk said.

  George understood. Storm Arriving’s response would affect her as well, and more deeply than it could possibly affect him. He squared his shoulders and, with nods of readiness from the others, turned toward the center of camp.

  The whistlers grumbled. A drake and a hen, they were a nesting pair, and more valuable for the fact, but nesting pairs had strong bonds and the drake flashed patches of color across his chameleon skin to show his displeasure at being moved so late in the day—dusk was when he preferred to see his mate settled in for the night, not a time for setting out on a journey. George smelled the cinnamon scent from the drake’s skin and heard his notes of warning reverberate through the bony crest that curved back from the top of his head. Limps spoke a few calming words to soothe the animal, and the drake faded his display, his complaints quieting to a throaty flutter as he consented to being led away into the gloaming.

  The gentle sounds of evening embraced them. In their lodges, families gathered in conversation and laughter. The prairie grass beyond the camp was alive with the music of sleepy songbirds and the shimmer of early crickets. A breeze brought the whisper of distant trees and the sound of water rushing along the rocks of the Red Paint River. The dusty air smelled of sun-dried grass, but the quickening of autumn promised a morning dew.

  George considered his two friends as they walked.

  Limps was a broad-shouldered man of mature years and rough-hewn features. In the twilight, his loose hair was a dark mass that shrouded his face. Only the ruddy glint of sunset in his eyes proved him to be substance and not made of shadow. To strangers, George had never known him to say a word, and even among friends he spoke little. But George had learned that when he did speak, his words had been carefully considered. Together, the two of them had seen births and deaths, war and peace, and George considered the older man a loyal and dependable friend.

  On George’s other side was Whistling Elk, and a man more different than Limps was hard to imagine. Whistling Elk was what the People called a Man Becoming Woman; a human possessed of both male and female spirits. In the culture of George’s birth, a man like Whistling Elk would have been ostracized, an outcast; five years ago, George himself would have shunned such a creature. But here among the People, Whistling Elk was accepted, even revered for his dual nature.

  Though male in body, in all outward manners Whistling Elk was a woman. He dressed as a woman of the People; his hair was braided and twisted into an elaborate topknot. His gestures were feminine, his voice high and lilting, and he was gentle in touch and word. A talented healer, he was also a cherished storyteller who could tie one story to the next until the evening fires were all burned out. But in one aspect, this unusual man was absolutely identical to Limps: he was a fearless and experienced soldier with many coups and victories to his name.

  Together, the three of them also shared something else: a growing concern for their friend, Storm Arriving.

  They walked slowly between the lodges of the Tree People band, the band of Mouse Road’s family. On any other day, George would have described their pace as leisurely, but on this occasion he knew they were dallying. Limps was silent—not surprisingly—but so was Whistling Elk, which was a behavior unheard of in the loquacious storyteller. Their minds were all set on the man they were heading to meet.

  George’s relationship with Storm Arriving had been a marvel of extremes. They met as harsh enemies, each viewing the other as an uncivilized, incorrigible savage. But during George’s time with the People—first as a captive and then by choice—they both learned the falseness of their prejudice. George had regarded Storm Arriving as kin long before his marriage to Mouse Road made them brothers. But kinfolk argue, and brothers fight, and in the last year their friendship had been strained.

  Storm Arr
iving’s refusal of George’s suit for Mouse Road had been the first difficulty. The assassination of their revered chief, Three Trees Together, by a white man’s bullet had been the second. The old man’s death not only fractured the unity of the Council, but it also affected George and Storm Arriving in very different ways.

  For George, the death of Three Trees Together had been a blow that sent him reeling into a pit of self-loathing and despair, whereas for Storm Arriving, it had been the fuel that fired him to an incandescent rage and hatred of the vé’hó’e. Both men were transformed by the event, but in divergent directions, and their disharmony increased.

  Now, as George paced his way from the edge of camp toward its center, his heart traversed a darkened path toward unknown perils. His destination: a lodge at the middle of the People’s encampment—the common lodge for soldiers of the Kit Fox society where Storm Arriving had been living since his divorce and his rejection of family and friends. But the distance felt much greater than what was described by the land over which he walked. To George, it felt a world away.

  What reception would he receive from this man, a man he once knew nearly as well as himself but who now was almost as alien as he’d been on the day of their first encounter? And how would he react to that reception?

  Their slow, silent passage drew undesired attention. Everyone knew the turbulent story of Storm Arriving and Speaks While Leaving and their long now-together-now-apart relationship. They also knew the story of Mouse Road and One Who Flies, as George was known among the People. The intertwined tales of these two couples—two sisters by marriage and two brothers in arms—had been told and retold around a thousand lodgefires, fodder for entertainment on cool summer nights and snowbound winter days. To many, tonight was just another part in the long saga that had been playing out for years—many years longer than George’s time among them, in fact. As George, Whistling Elk, and Limps made their way through the camp, they accrued a following of the curious, young and old; people wanted to be there when this new chapter was tied to the tales that had already been told.

  Brave stars peeked out over the massive heads of the Sacred Mountains. George watched the stars wink as the three men, with their whispering crowd of shadows, walked into the camp’s circular heart. All around them, family lodges glowed like lanterns beneath the purpling sky, and before them stood the large lodges of the Council, the soldier societies, and the holiest of the People’s artifacts: the Sacred Arrows and the Sacred Buffalo Hat. Unlike those of nearby families, these larger lodges were dark. It was late summer, and the season of hunting, of gatherings, of celebration, and of war was coming to an end. The People were starting to turn their attention to the serious business of surviving the prairie’s harsh winter.

  But one lodge was lit. The Kit Fox lodge glimmered with a thin, lonely light. As he approached, George could see the dark circle of the open interior; in its center, a small round patch of glowing embers. Seated cross-legged before it was Storm Arriving, his face a crescent moon of wavering firelight, his body half in light, half in deep shadow. He stared into the coals.

  The whistlers, hoping they had finished walking for the night, crouched down near the staking post and made themselves comfortable. Whistling Elk unshouldered his burden and put the bundle of robes on the ground.

  Go ahead, Whistling Elk signed to George. Talk to him.

  George knew that Storm Arriving was aware of their coming. The approach of three men and two unhappy whistlers could hardly have gone unnoticed in the quiet camp, even without the entourage of onlookers. George was also sure that Storm Arriving knew exactly who stood outside, and why. The soldier’s studied disregard of them spoke with sharp eloquence.

  “Storm Arriving,” George said softly.

  Silence.

  “Storm Arriving,” he said, a bit louder. “I would like to speak with you.”

  Silence. George looked at Whistling Elk.

  Again, Whistling Elk signed.

  George cleared his throat. “Storm Arriving, please. I would like to speak with you.”

  Storm Arriving continued to stare into the coals.

  Whistling Elk sighed theatrically. “He’s going to be stubborn,” he said, loudly enough to be heard by the group of followers. A few chuckles peppered the circle around the lodge entrance. “I think we should change his name to Eats Rocks for Supper.”

  More laughter rolled through the gathering.

  What are you doing? George asked him in signs.

  Whistling Elk mimed prodding the nearby whistlers with a stick. “But it puzzles me,” he went on. “He has been in there for days and nights, all alone. He talks to no one. I would think that a man who divorced his wife at a public dance would be glad to be rid of her. But not this one.” He turned to speak directly to the people who had tagged along. “Not Eats Rocks for Supper. No. He just sulks.”

  George could see smiles through the twilight, and heard the change in tone as Whistling Elk turned to goad his target.

  “And he sulks for good reason. Here is a man with much—a voice often heard in Council, the highest regard of his brother soldiers, a loving and respected wife. True, he lost his daughter to the red fever, but who here has not lost a young babe or sibling to illness? Is that reason enough to turn your back on your friends? No,” he said, echoing the murmurs of the crowd. “No, that is the time when friends can be of the greatest help. But what does Eats Rocks for Supper do? He sulks. He feels sorry for himself, day and night, night and day. I feel sorry for him as well, and you should too! For he is probably the sorriest—”

  “Enough.”

  Storm Arriving stood in the opening to the lodge.

  “Ah, you do speak,” Whistling Elk said. “Good.” He nodded to George and took a step backward.

  “I need to speak with you,” George said.

  Storm Arriving stared at him, impassive, unaffected.

  “We have nothing to say.

  “You are wrong,” George said. “We have a great deal to say.”

  “Then say it,” Storm Arriving responded. “But do not expect me to listen.” He began to walk past them but George put a hand on his chest to stop him. Storm Arriving looked down at the hand in disbelief, shocked at the affront.

  George and Storm Arriving were of a similar height, but Storm Arriving was by far the more powerful man. George’s gentle, academic upbringing among the elite of the White Nations, his youth spent in light farmwork and his early manhood spent in heavy bookwork could not compete with the world that had formed Storm Arriving.

  Decades of riding whistlers and hunting buffalo had given Storm Arriving a muscular torso. Hard work and quick fighting had made his legs and arms strong and agile. Long winters had inured him to the privations of his tribe’s nomadic life, stripping him of every ounce of fat, hardening every soft line.

  His dress was common to warriors of the People: long, fringed deerskin leggings; a breechclout of red cloth; a tunic of elkhide, decorated with shells and beads in geometric patterns. The right side of his head was shaved clean to showcase the seven silver rings that hung all around the pierced fringe of his ear, and the rest of his hair was pulled back into a single braid, tied at the nape with red leather and two eagle feathers. His dark skin was like teak, and when his black eyes looked up from George’s hand, they flashed with anger.

  If he wanted to, he could have thrashed George in the time it took to draw a single breath, and they both knew it.

  George had a choice, a choice he’d been considering during the long walk to this place, and he knew it would mark their relationship forever. His mind whirled, considering once more all the possibilities, judging the ramifications, gauging each possible outcome. Humor, anger, passivity, command; these choices and others he discarded. Storm Arriving had changed in the last year. His tireless campaigns against the U.S. Army had wiped away everything kind and friendly from his soul. As George met this new man’s gaze, he saw nothing but the soldier, the strategist, the ruthless victor of t
errible encounters. If George was to have the barest chance of being heard, if he was to have a hope of penetrating the bitter armor that Storm Arriving now wore around his heart, there was only one path.

  “I come to you humbly and with great respect,” he began, allowing his voice to reach the gathered crowd. “I come to apologize for having disobeyed your directions, and for eloping with your sister against your wishes. I come also to bring these gifts, and beg you to accept them as a bride-price.”

  “Gifts,” Storm Arriving said. “Insults. I should throw them back in your face.”

  “How funny,” Whistling Elk interjected. “That’s just what I told him you would...do.” The glares of both men stopped further remark from the storyteller.

  George opened his hands before him in supplication. “I know that these gifts are insufficient, but they are all the wealth I have. I know that you are too respectful of me to ignore my request to consider them.”

  Storm Arriving growled and pushed past, but George reached out again to stop him.

  In a blurred heartbeat, Storm Arriving grabbed George’s arm, yanked him sideways across his leg, and dumped him on the ground. He slammed a knee into George’s chest and cocked his fist before a shout from Whistling Elk halted his blow. Storm Arriving was not breathing hard; George was not sure he was breathing at all.

  “Yes,” George said, as calmly as he could with a man kneeling on his ribs. “You are too respectful. We have been too much to each other for you to ignore this request. I know that you will do the honorable thing and give these gifts full and proper consideration.”

  The cold hard gaze lost none of its razor edge as Storm Arriving looked at the robes, the whistlers, and at the parfleche that lay in the dirt a few feet away.

  “What is in that?” he asked.

  “Eagle feathers,” George managed to say.

  “How many?”