The Spirit of Thunder Read online

  “Why don’t you camp closer to the center?” George asked. “We will meet often with the Council in the weeks to come, and it would be a shorter walk.”

  “My mother is old, One Who Flies, and now has only one daughter to help her when I am gone. At the edge of camp, she is closer to the river and it is not so far a walk to get the day’s water. Besides—” He tapped George in the chest. “—we are here already. You have survived the journey.”

  George spied the familiar decorations on the lodge ahead. The buffalo-skins that covered the frame were painted on one side with black handprints over the white spots and jagged lines that represented hail and lightning. The other side had on it blue stars around a white moon.

  Storm Arriving had a small family—smaller now since the tragedy of his sister’s death—and so, apart from the main lodge, there was only one other, the women’s lodge where his mother and sister lived during their monthly cycles.

  Nearby, however, alone and by itself, was a single lodge. The newly-stripped sapling trunks that made the conical frame were still orange where they extended above the skins. The skins, too, were new, and nearly white in the strong sunlight of the late afternoon. The lodge was empty or at least, George corrected himself, it had no living inhabitants.

  “Who will care for him?” he asked.

  Storm Arriving looked at the lonely lodge. “Laughs like a Woman had no family. They were all killed years ago.”

  “Killed? How?” George immediately regretted asking the question, fearing the answer.

  Storm Arriving sighed and furrowed his brow. “It happened during the war against Long Hair. The father of Laughs like a Woman died in the battles. His mother and two sisters died in the fires along the Big Salty.”

  Fires my father started, George thought. “And yet somehow...” Realizing the fullness of the man’s story, George’s emotions threatened to overcome his control. “Somehow Laughs like a Woman ended up dying to save my life.”

  “He thought well of you.”

  “Not at first.”

  Storm Arriving laughed. “No not at first. There were two times on the day the cloud fell when I thought he would surely kill you.”

  “Well,” George said, “he was a Contrary.”

  “That is probably what saved you. Anyone else would have done it. I nearly killed you myself, but my reasons for keeping you alive were different.”

  George did not like discussing those reasons. They had to do with visions and prophecies and a woman who could see into the future: Speaks While Leaving, daughter of One Bear, and the woman whom Storm Arriving intended to marry.

  “So, who will care for Laughs like a Woman?” George asked, getting back to his original question.

  “I will,” Storm Arriving said. “He was a brother to me, my special friend from years past.” He turned and looked at George. “You would be welcome, too, if you wished.”

  George put his hand on the knife that hung from a strap across his shoulder, a gift from their fallen friend.

  “What do I need to do?”

  It was the second time Storm Arriving had made this trip in as many moons. The first time, he had come with his family to lay his sister to rest. Blue Shell Woman had died during a surprise attack by the bluecoats, an attack that had killed more women and children than warriors.

  On that occasion, his heart had been sore and raw. In her funeral bed, his sister had been young and beautiful, still untried by life. She had died on the brink of her own future, and Storm Arriving had wept for her loss as well as his own.

  This time, though, his heart was well. He did not rejoice at the death of Laughs like a Woman, but neither did it pain him. Laughs like a Woman had died well, fighting a strong enemy, and saving the life of a friend. He had died very well. Often, that is all a man can hope for, Storm Arriving thought.

  He rode with One Who Flies and Big Nose, another lifelong friend of the deceased. They rode south toward the traditional burial grounds. In the distance they saw other travelers—small groups—all on similar errands. Of the four hundred warriors who had traveled to the vé’hó’e City of White Stone, less than three hundred had returned, and the landscape was dotted with grieving burial parties all bent on the same destination; all traveling alone, but all traveling together in similar purpose.

  Storm Arriving and his friends all rode whistlers, even One Who Flies, who owned none. His mounts belonged to Laughs like a Woman. Each man had a spare mount and it was on these that they had loaded the body of their fallen friend and all the other necessities of the task before them.

  The whistlers ran across the landscape with effortless strides. They were large, lizard-like creatures with long, powerful hind legs. Their forelegs were smaller and used only for digging up roots or pawing through mud or snow to find forage.

  Storm Arriving’s whistler fluted a call to the others, and the sound reverberated through the long bone crest that curved up and back from its head. Whistlers used many calls, and each one meant something different.

  “Squirrel-dog village,” Storm Arriving warned his companions. He used the Trader’s Tongue as One Who Flies did not yet speak the language of the People. “Let us slow a bit.”

  The whistlers dropped back to a long trot and Storm Arriving heard the first short yaps of the small squirrels-that-bark-like-dogs. Ahead, little squirrel heads poked up out of their holes and then ducked back down into their burrows.

  At a full run the whistlers could easily have harmed themselves if they stepped in one of the burrow openings. At this speed, though, they could see and avoid the dangers.

  They ran across the squirrel-dog village without difficulty and Storm Arriving pressed the pace again.

  “When will we get there?” One Who Flies asked.

  Storm Arriving looked at the sun, now just past the top of the sky. “Before the sun sets,” he said. “We have made good time. Two days out, maybe three back.”

  “Why longer on the way home?”

  “Because,” Big Nose said, “the People have already moved on to the north to follow the herd. We have to catch up with them.”

  “Ah, yes,” One Who Flies said hesitantly. “I see. And you know where they have gone?”

  Storm Arriving laughed. “Don’t be such a vé’ho’e,” he said. “We will find them. It will not be hard.”

  One Who Flies smiled and rode on. Storm Arriving noticed that he rode almost like one of the People now. He looked comfortable on whistler-back, straddling his mount’s narrow spine, his feet in the loops, his legs tucked up, almost kneeling as he sped along. He rode as one should ride a whistler, as part of it, not sitting on one’s rear like the vé’hó’e rode their horses.

  Crazy vé’hó’e.

  They rode on without further conversation, and Storm Arriving watched as the land around them began to change.

  They were coming to the edge of the long blanket of buffalo grass that had covered the flat plains behind them. The constant whisper of his mount’s feet through the short blue-green blades began to give way to soft thumps and scratches as they ran over hardier blue-stem grass and spots of bare earth.

  The Sand Hills were ahead, rising out of the featureless prairie like the humps of buffalo bulls above the rest of the herd. The hills created a harsh terrain of butterfly sage, prickly pear, and salt-sedgegrass. The folds and creases in the landscape made it easy for a man to lose his way. Here, the sun and the westerly wind were important allies that helped direct any who traveled across the dunes.

  They headed into the hills and for hours coursed up and down their flanks. As evening came and the air began to cool, they caught the taste of the wind off the Big Salty. The whistlers caught it, too, and sang a long rising song to greet the tang in the air. The riders crested the top of a tall hill and saw, in the distance, their goal.

  The westering sun made the shadows long and turned the hills before them into bright ridgelines separated by dark, shaded slopes. Beyond the hills, however, they could see the
glittering waters of the Big Salty. Each wavelet shone like a star in the pale road of water that led off to the misty horizon.

  “Why do you lay your dead to rest here?” One Who Flies asked.

  “It makes the journey shorter for the spirits.” Storm Arriving could see that One Who Flies did not understand. “Wait until tonight. Then you will see.”

  They started off again, riding into the slow rhythm of chilly climbs up shadowed inclines and warm descents down each hill’s sunlit flank.

  The sun was preparing to set when they reached the bluffs at the rim of the sea. All around this northern limit of the Big Salty—in front of the riders and as far as they could see along the coast to either side—the higher lands of the prairie ended in cliffs so high that from the bottom a man could not shoot an arrow to clear the top.

  All along the base of the cliffs was a wide belt of forests and swamps in which lived creatures similar to the lizard-like denizens of the plains.

  The frond-leafed forests were home to huge hardbacks with spiked tails and horn-faced beasts larger than a buffalo bull. Man-sized shadow-hunters stalked their prey in packs, springing in ambush from behind the huge boles of fern-trees. In the salt swamps lived whistlers with duck-like bills and no crests, but twice as large as any beast found on the prairie. There were also water-walkers, two-leggeds so small that they could walk on the water plants at high tide as they hunted for the mud-skimmers that hid in the cool shadows.

  But beyond the forests and the swamps, beyond the rocky islands and the bars of white sand that protected the shore was the Big Salty. The air above it was hazy with spray and filled with diving lizards. In flight the man-sized creatures were graceful and agile, turning easily with a flip of their paddle-like tails or the slightest change of their leathery wings. On the cliffs where they nested, however, they were clumsy and gruesome, hobbling and twisting like crippled old men, their wingtips folded up behind them like unused walking sticks. It was these creatures, though, that Storm Arriving and his people depended on to help speed the journey of their loved ones’ spirits. If the three men worked quickly, Laughs like a Woman would be on his way to Séáno before the moon set.

  Storm Arriving searched the coast to the east. “Where is it?” he asked of Big Nose. His friend scanned the nearby shoreline, squinting against the sunlight that came in low from the west. He pointed to a bluff some little distance away where the dark green sedge was thinned by the pale clumps of white sage.

  “Hip-ip,” Storm Arriving said, urging his whistler into a run. They were there within moments and the mixture of the heavy salt air and the redolence of sage crushed under his whistler’s feet filled the coolness with a sacred scent.

  He stretched his hand out toward the west. The sun was three fingers off the horizon, the growing crescent of the waxing moon more than a hand behind.

  “Plenty of time,” he said.

  They unloaded the whistlers of their burdens. Storm Arriving’s carried the poles and rawhide strips that would form the catafalque upon which their friend would spend his last earthly night. Big Nose took down from his spare mount the bundle of buffalo robes in which they would wrap the body. When they were done they went to help One Who Flies and together the three of them took down the body of Laughs like a Woman and the articles that would accompany him on his journey.

  Laughs like a Woman had died in the chief-city of the Horse Nations, the City of White Stone. One Who Flies had led four hundred soldiers and chiefs to that city, hoping to talk to the vé’hó’e chiefs and demand an end to the attacks on the People and their land. They had succeeded but, One Who Flies warned them, only for a time. The vé’hó’e would send the bluecoats again, possibly within a year’s time. This small victory had cost the People a hundred soldiers; brave men like Laughs like a Woman. Storm Arriving wondered whether the loss might not be too great a price for the limited gain they had achieved.

  Laughs like a Woman had been dead for ten days. To prepare his body for the journey back to his own lands, they had wrapped it tightly in long lengths of white cloth. Even so, the body had begun to ripen and the carrion smell was strong, even through the layered windings.

  They laid him down on a bed of white sage and set to building the catafalque. Poles were set deep in the soft, sandy earth, and other poles were lashed between them as beams. With rawhide strips they created the lattice that would support the body. One Who Flies worked hard to help despite the recent loss of the small finger from his left hand. As the sun met the horizon, they pounded stakes in beside the poles to stabilize them.

  Overhead, the sky darkened through a host of blues. The red light from the setting sun touched the thin, feathered clouds and made them glow with a shell-born pink, and the wings of the flying lizards soaring beneath them burned with ruddy fire.

  Storm Arriving instructed One Who Flies with gestures alone. Words seemed somehow profane in this sacred place, and the three men continued their preparations in silence.

  On the lattice they laid out a fine buffalo robe; of thick fur and soft, supple hide, it was sewn with thousands of colored porcupine quills. It had been the finest thing Laughs like a Woman had owned.

  And it still is, Storm Arriving thought.

  Together, they lifted the shrouded body up and laid it on the fur-lined bed. Beside him they lay his bow, his quiver and arrows, and a bundle that held his finest shirt and leggings. Storm Arriving regretted that they could not dress Laughs like a Woman in his best clothes—the necessities of war had prevented it. More important, he felt, that they had brought him to his homeland and to this place. The spirit of his body, once released, would find the spirit of these fine clothes and all would be well.

  Storm Arriving tucked a parfleche filled with dried meat beside the body, folded the ends of the buffalo robe over him, and stepped away from the scaffold.

  The fire had gone out of the sky and was replaced by fires on the nearby bluffs as other mourners completed their rituals. Above, the moon brightened, stars gathered their courage, and the flyers became dark-winged shadows against a darkening sky.

  Storm Arriving kindled a small fire and fed it with gathered sage and juniper. Big Nose took out his drum, a piece of shaved buffalo hide stretched taut over a rim of bent willow-wood. He began to sound a rhythm.

  The drum’s voice was low and basic—a heartbeat in the air—and the sweet smoke from the fire was like the breath of the world. One Who Flies squatted near the fire, respectfully silent, as Big Nose began to sing. The craggy-faced warrior sang of brave deeds and a hero’s death. He sang of the impermanence of life and of the eternal earth. He sang, and One Who Flies fed the fire.

  Storm Arriving stood up and went to the whistlers. He picked up the halter rope of the spare mount that One Who Flies had led here. Laughs like a Woman had not had many whistlers—the life of a Contrary was one of deprivation and solitude. Of his few, however, this one, the one that had borne his body to this place, had been his favorite. It was a huge drake and had been Laughs like a Woman’s war mount for seven years. If Laughs like a Woman had given him a name, he had kept it to himself, for he had never told Storm Arriving what it was.

  Storm Arriving led the drake over to the scaffold. It snuffed and crooned at the smoke from the sagebrush fire and the dark green color of his muzzle flared red and white in agitation. Storm Arriving calmed the beast with soothing words and gentle scratches in the place-that-whistlers-love, the spot on the withers which neither beak nor claw could reach. The big drake relaxed and the angry hues drained from his skin.

  “Hámêstoo’êstse,” Storm Arriving said, and the whistler lowered himself to the ground. He continued to soothe the beast, lulling him into a state of near-sleep.

  The pulse of Big Nose’s drumbeat and the cry of his song touched Storm Arriving’s heart. The scent of the smoke from the fire enfolded him as he stood beside the whistler. The smoke cleansed him, purified him. On the catafalque behind him, Laughs like a Woman lay dead, his spirit awaiting rel
ease. Laughs like a Woman had all that he needed for his journey—food to eat, finery to wear, a bow and arrows for the eternal hunt. He only needed one more thing. A mount.

  Storm Arriving drew his knife from its sheath and in one quick move he cut deep across the whistler’s throat. The blade was sharp and gave little pain. The drake’s eyes widened in surprise, then glazed as his blood drained out. He lay his head down on the bed of sage, breathed once, twice, and died. The drake’s spirit would soon be free to join Laughs like a Woman on the road to Séáno.

  Storm Arriving looked up. The flying lizards were closer now. Drawn by the songs, they were moon-silver phantoms that flew past in the night. Their chatter was chilling, oddly human, like old men complaining about the lateness of dinner. One flyer, more brazen than the others, landed on the scaffold. It was the size of a boy, but its wings extended over the edge, reaching nearly to the ground. It folded up its wings, tucking the tips up under each arm, and looked at the trio of men that stood nearby.

  Its beak was long and black and lined with the tiny teeth that gave it its name in the language of the Sage People. It glared at the men, the iris of its eye bright yellow, glinting in the firelight. Storm Arriving heard a flap and a rustle and another flyer landed, this one on the ground near the drake at the foot of the catafalque. The first flyer raised its head and cried up to the stars and the moon with a high, keening call that raised the hairs on Storm Arriving’s arms.

  The whistlers began to pull at their tethers. With silent looks, the three men agreed it was time to go. They climbed atop their mounts and bid them rise. In moments they were on their way, but after three strides, Storm Arriving pulled up and looked back.

  Another flyer had come to ground near the slain whistler, but along with the other two, it only crouched and stared at the retreating men, as if waiting for some privacy before beginning the feast that would release the flesh-bound spirits and send them on their way.