Where The Rain Is Made - Keta Diablo (smart books to read TXT) 📗

struck a chord of sarcasm. “Before I die, you mean?”

She withdrew her crooked fingers from beneath the blanket with a solemn nod and handed him an object through the bars. He turned the familiar relic over in his hand—a time-honored whistle made from the wing bone of an eagle. The spirit of Maheo washed over him, like it always did when he communed with the People.

“They won’t know you’ve returned from the future.” She tucked the blanket securely about her shoulders. “The same as before.”

He wasn’t certain how it worked, but whenever he returned to the People, life picked up where it had left off. No one, not even the tribal holy man,
knew he’d been gone.

“Are you ready, I Am The Wind?” She glanced over her shoulder as if to confirm not a soul could hear their conversation. “The Sacred Council waits.”

“What of you?” He peered through the bars and followed her gaze. “What will you tell my jailers after I’m gone?”

“I’m not called Stands-In-Light without reason.” She shrugged. “I’ll be gone before they realize it.”

His thoughts shifted to the moments ahead. Soon he’d be standing in front of the Sacred Council. The usual formalities would play out, and then he’d
be asked if he’d accept. He knew he would. He always did.

Spreading his feet, he allowed his arms to fall at his sides and drew a deep breath. “I’m ready.”

She closed her eyes, lifted her face skyward and began the deep, reverent chant:

"I walk alone on the edge of time,
traveling far and near.
Born of the sun, kissed by the wind,
the call of the raven screams in my ear."

His vision blurred and the metal bars twisted, reminding him of slippery, silver cobras. Ribbons of scarlet and midnight black detonated behind his eyes before a rush of blood surged through his rain. The hammering began, slowly at first with a gradual scent to volatile. Fascination gripped him when his arms went numb and shifted into massive, black wings. Soon his spine launched into spasms, every beleaguered ligament and muscle stretching as if ripped from their vertebrae. The familiar burning in his chest spiraled up his throat, spreading outward like a white-hot flame.

The power of the raven to surged through his veins. He tumbled through a dark tunnel faster than a meteor falling from the sky, struggling to emerge
on the other side.

Brother to the open sky, ally to the distant sun, he’d soar above the clouds to where the rain is made.
* * *
Ethan stood before The Sacred Council of Arrows, acclimatizing his vision to the shattered fragments before him. Physically spent, his heart trying to
dispel the ventricular contractions, he fought to school his breathing. He couldn’t count the number of times he’d traveled through time, yet the
incredible impact it had on his body to revert from man to raven or vice versa still astounded him. To undergo the process twice in one day would tax his body beyond measure.

Drawing on endless hours of training, he collected his wits, mindful of the usual scents in the sacred burial ground--moldering, ancient smells of the
dead. With the exception of Stands-In-Light, the Council was an assembly of corpses resurrected from the grave to serve the People.

He stood along the Tongue River, like he had so many times in past lives. Present life too. For centuries the Tongue had wandered for miles through Montana and Wyoming, yet today, not one remnant of the Cheyenne’s sacred burial ground remained. Therein lay the beauty of meeting the Council here.

Seo’otse, dead spirits, sat on the ground before him. He studied each one individually: Vo’kaa’e, known in the white man’s tongue as White Lances;
Kâhamaxe, his Cheyenne name meaning The Stick; Wolf That Speaks, a dignified, mystical guide; Stands-In-Light, the High Priestess; and three others, The Pacer, Man-Who-Paints-His-Shirt-Black, and Whirlwind, the father of all ghostly souls. Not a time traveler among them, but prior tribal members empowered to send wanderers through time to help the People.

White Lances rose. “Ethan, Stands-In-Light summoned you, gave you the basics of the mission?”

“Yes, Vo’kaa’e.” Ethan shoved his trembling hands, a result of the transformation, into the pockets of his trousers. “If I accept, I’ll be sent back to a turbulent time, one of death and great sorrow.”

White Lances nodded.

“What messages do I carry this time?”

The Stick lifted his head, his obsidian eyes glinting beneath the crescent moon. “For one,
Black Kettle should move his village.”

Ethan had studied the history, knew impending tragedy hovered over Black Kettle’s camp. “It will be my honor to persuade him.”

“Battles will be waged, villages destroyed and the Dog Soldiers will retaliate.” The Pacer’s sorrowful voice drifted across the stagnant air.

“Many will die.” Ethan met the man’s eyes and saw the flicker of pain before he looked away.

“You will lead them, of course.” Man-Who-Paints-is-Shirt-Black offered a subtle smile.

“Perhaps it will relieve the pent up rage in your heart.”

“That brawl in the bar. I didn’t seek it.”

Black Shirt waved him off.

Her tone unrepentant, her chin resting in her hand, Stands-In-Light spoke. “The Council reminds you, a leader guides with a calm spirit, a commanding presence. If you are to guide the People through the chaos, it’s imperative you harness your fury until it calls out from the battlefield.”

“Yes, High Priestess.”

“You are a valued wanderer, “Whirlwind interjected. “It’s always our hope you return safe and sound.”
Ethan choked back a laugh, the reason behind the compliment clear. “So I’m alive to accept the next mission?”

Heads nodded in unison.

White Lances slumped to the ground. “Do you accept, I Am The Wind?”

“I do, Sacred Council.”

“Refresh an old man’s memory. What name do the People call you?”

His question came as no surprise. Kâhamaxe often forgot minor details. “Meko, noble one.”

“Ah, yes, the word for leader.” The man pinched his forehead as if to blame a headache for his forgetfulness. “You’re excused now, Meko.”

Ethan offered a deferential bow and turned to leave when Stands-In-Light’s austere voice stopped him. “We spoke earlier of dreams?”

“Dreams . . . yes.”

“Mind you don’t sacrifice the interests of the People to chase them.”

A warm, alien emotion crawled through his gut. “Yes, High Priestess.”

Ethan removed his hands from his pockets, clasped them behind his back and fixed his eyes on the invisible burial platforms. A unified chant rose in
the room, the same lament Stands-In-Light invoked while visiting him in jail. In short time, he’d be among the People in the sacred land of his ancestors, a Dog Soldier, the most revered warrior of the Cheyenne.

His last thought before leaving his present life concerned his prized garden. Who would water the flowers and herbs in his absence?


Chapter Two

Near Denver City
June, 1864

It rained last night. Warm air blowing over the Rockies from the Gulf of Mexico had conjured up a violent thunderstorm, rare for this part of the
country. Francesca Duvall missed the sound of rain dashing against her window. She missed New York. Four years ago, she’d bid a final, tearful farewell at her mother’s grave and steeled herself for the overland journey.

She hadn’t been able to dispel the gold fever consuming her father, LeGrande, or dissuade her brother Marshall, two years her junior, from the
wanderlust claiming their souls. Now their home stood along the Platte River near the mining camps of Charles City and Auraria in Colorado. A lonely life for a young woman of eighteen whose father insisted she dress like a boy.

“Miners are an unscrupulous lot,” her father often said. “They’ll slake their lust on the nearest woman while I’m panning for gold.”

She’d grown accustomed to binding her chest with strips of cotton fabric, donning a pair of Marsh’s old britches and one of his cotton shirts to camouflage her soft curves, but that didn’t mean she liked it. Her long, black hair tucked beneath an old straw hat completed the masquerade.

Everyone in camp believed the old widower Duvall broke his back day after day flashing for gold in Cherry Creek while his two motherless sons kept the
home fires burning.

Francesca cracked open six eggs and tossed them into the skillet next to a slab of bacon. Battling impatience, she walked onto the porch, cupped her
hand over her brow, and searched for Marsh across her father’s wheat field.

The scent of damp earth reached her nostrils and next, the enticing aroma of dew-kissed bluebells and prairie grass. The land was so eerily still, she
jumped from her skin when the hoarse trill of a raven in a nearby cottonwood split the air.

She scanned the flat windswept prairie and cupped a hand over her mouth to call out for Marsh. In the distance, black ribbons of smoke snaked skyward and scattered under the clear blue sky.

Cesca clasped a hand to her throat. Mrs. Peabody, their closest neighbor, insisted the day would finally come. “The Cheyenne and Arapahoe are on
the war path,” the woman had said. “Not all went willingly to the reservation, and now the country blazes with terror.”

Cesca’s father had agonized over the woman’s admonitions, threatened to abandon his claim and head back east. Shanghaied by an almighty lust for
gold, he dashed the notion the moment Mrs. Peabody had fled to safety.

The woman swore on the Good Book not a soul would survive. “Anyone with a whit of sense would flee. Gold or no gold.” True to her word, Elmira had taken flight last week in a buckboard, her jowls aflutter, her keen eyes wide and alert.

Her brother’s voice came to her now on the wings of panic. “Run, Cesca, run!”

He sprinted over a small knoll, his hand clasping his side. His sandy locks shone brilliant beneath the harsh rays of the morning sun. Terror struck his
blue eyes and Francesca felt the color drain from her face.

With fright choking her, Marsh pushed her into the cabin. He ran to the sideboard, pulled a derringer from the drawer and shoved it into her hand. “Through the bedroom window!” he shouted. “There’s little time!”

“Oh, Marsh!” Sobs cracked her voice. “We’re going to die!”

“No, Cesca!” He grabbed her arm and dragged her to the other side of the room. “You’ll live if you do exactly as I say.”

The pounding of hooves against the earth reached them, and next, the triumphant cries of banshees. Cesca peered through the open door and nearly crumbled. Riding well-muscled ponies, ten braves trampled through her father’s field. Their faces awash in hideous black, blue and yellow war paint, they advanced on the small cabin.

Marsh lifted the sash and pushed her through the open window. “Run as fast as you can to the river, hide in the tall grass.”

“Oh, please don’t ask me to leave you. Come with.”

“You must listen!” He grasped her shoulders through the open pane, his expression grim. “Do you know what they do to white women? Please, Cesca, go now!”

Through an open field she sprinted and glanced over her shoulder, stunned to see the invaders had already entered the house. Gunshots bounced off the trees. Papa’s rifle. Marsh would try to hold them off until she made it to the river. His face loomed before her—so innocent and brave. Agony gripped her heart. He’d forfeit his life so she might live. The thought that she’d