There was no answer.
A sob rose from White Claw’s throat, though he never let the sound escape his lips. Instead, quietly, he placed Blue Shawl Woman’s body over a soft buffalo robe, staring over her for a moment before raising his face toward the lodge’s entrance. He cried, “You! Thunderer! You are a scoundrel and a murderer. Hear me, now. For I swear I will have my revenge upon you.”
No reply was forthcoming save the clap of thunder and a pounding shake of the ground, this one causing yet another wail from a different part of the tribe.
Glancing down, White Claw spoke softly to his mother, as though she could hear him. “Why didn’t you come to the lodge when you could have?”
It was useless. Even if his mother had heeded his advice,would it have made a difference? In the end, if the Thunderer had truly wanted Blue Shawl Woman, would their meager lodge have kept the god away?
The tepee flap fell back, and White Claw’s uncle, Three Moons, entered. Briefly the man stared from White Claw to the woman, then back to White Claw.
“She is gone,” White Claw said simply. “My mother, your sister, has been taken by the Thunderer.”
At first this statement was met by confusion, but soon Three Moons bent over Blue Shawl Woman’s still body. Taking her hand in his, he held it to his face, eyes closed. After a moment, the elder man said, “This is, indeed, an evil day.”
White Claw nodded.
“My son, bear up, for I have worse news. She is not the only one to be stolen. Three other women are gone also. Their spirits have been taken by the Thunderer.”
Silence, long and eerie, met this revelation.
“But come,” voiced Three Moons at last, “let us go and avenge your mother’s death, and that of the other women of our tribe. Warriors are gathering in the center of our village that we might repel this god who comes to steal our own. Grab up your shield, my son; take up your spear, your bow and arrows, while I seek out your grandmother that she might attend to her daughter. Hurry, for our men are assembling.”
White Claw nodded.
Still, though his uncle had departed forthwith, White Claw paused. Laying his hand upon his mother’s breast, he vowed, “I will avenge you, Mother. Fear not.” A tear coursed down his cheek. “Fear not.”
Chapter
Two
There is but one [Thunderer] cannot kill. It is I, it is the Raven.
—GEORGE BIRD GRINNELL,BLACKFOOT LODGE TALES
The Indian Village along the Missouri River, July 1816
“You have done battle with the Thunderer?” one of the more daring of the boys spoke up.
The old medicine man paused mid-story, his wizened glance coming to alight upon the youngster. “Aa, yes, that I have, son. That I have.” He nodded toward each of the elder men present. “As has each of your fathers.”
A general feeling of awe swept through the assemblage. And though many surreptitious glances were cast toward each of the boys’ fathers, no lad uttered a single sound.
Swift Hawk simply sat up straighter, his senses more alert than ever.
“Forgive me,” said the old medicine man, “for again I go ahead of myself. Let us return to that past time, for the worst is yet to come, and it is what happened next that determines your future and that of our tribe…”
Brandishing his weapons,the young White Claw rushed to the center of the village, hatred flourishing within his soul.Aa, yes, he would rid the world of the Thunderer, and he would findhis mother in that up-above world. He would bring her home.
As he reached the village’s center he observed that every elder of the tribe, as well as every young man, stood together. Some raised their arms to the sky, some shouted upward toward the heavens. But, though the clouds grumbled and spit rain, the Thunderer did not appear.
“Show yourself,” came the warriors’ shouts, and White Claw added his own voice to the uproar.
Outside of the people’s chants, no sound could be heard. The heavens were quiet. Too quiet.
And then it came. Lightning rent the sky like a javelin, striking the ground with a pounding strength that sliced the earth beneath them in two. The blast killed three.
Now it might be one’s idea that the people, even the warriors, should have cowered before such a show of vehemence. Perhaps it should be said here that there is no wrath to be borne that compares to the temper of the people, once incensed.
