The Feeling of the Earth
an opening passage...
But then as he peered out through leafy branches, the sky tore open--abruptly, distorting, and bubbling out, a darkness looking at first like a black globbed mass, like dark spittle on a French trapper's beard, but then widening, widening, widening...until he, Wore Wolf Teeth, inched back with dread. This deadly vision came from the spirits, not from any bodied foe...Widening, the dark, translucent bubble continued enlarging.
Then the sky tunnel of smoked blackness swallowed the whole horizon and out of the cavernous maw charged, stormed, barraged a drab-gray monster. What dreadful evil spirit? Or could it be a severe warning, an omen to him from the Great Spirit?
He gripped his medicine bag hanging from his neck, crawled out of the brush, stood and said, "I am of the Chaticks-si-chaticks (Men of men)!
Above, the gigantic dark-gray spirit hovered pulsating, threatening, and behind it the blackened sky, endless tar, darkening the world.
Only 3 miles away, horses of an Oregon-bound wagon train skittered and bucked; one large roan knocked its rider to the ground. Men looked up in shock, bewildered by this sudden pitch darkness.
CONTENTS
1 The 3rd Alien
2 Return of Tactilization
3 Driven Out
4 Into the Maelstrom
5 Blue Bellies
6 Shut Down
7 The Bushwackers
8 Orphaned
9 Communion
10 Death and Disunion
11Down Texas-Messed Way
12 North to Alaska
13 Treasure and Loss
14 1st Flight
15 Boulder Dam High-Scalers
16 Counter Culture
17 Summer of Love in the Haight
18 3 Sons of Abraham
19 Descending Among Us
20 Mars Hub
21 The Limitness of Humaness
22 FeelSire Corporation
23 Epilogue
Chapter 1: The 3rd Alien, Nebraska Territory, 1842
New wheel ruts marred the grassy area near Clear Creek. Cursing, the native Pawnee crouched down and examined long furrows all along wet ground for many yards. Alarmed, he turned to stone and scanned nearby land, holding his breath. But no human sounds came, none, only sparrows chittering in clumps of elms hanging over the stream.
The brook’s thin water gurgled, rippling, wide and shallow. Pebbles shimmered on its sandy bottom. Eastward, the stream flowed, winding away amongst his people’s grassy loafed hills. Through tall elms, 50 yards away, a flat stone ridge loomed, their Table Rock. However, no human sound nor a single unusual movement anywhere in the landscape.
He stood and seethed. These wheeled scars had marred their land far too long for many moons! Those pale aliens came from the north and from the east, following the very large wide, flat, muddy Nebraskier River westward that their small creek flowed into. Sometimes these invaders’ wagon teams stopped at little Clear Creek, because of the abundant spring which fed it.
1
Recently the enemies had gotten men of a nearby tribe, the stupid Oto, drunk on firewater—trading that evil drink for many beaver pelts. He cursed, again, silently and watched the land. Thank you Great Spirit that my people, we Chaticks-si-chaticks (Men of men), don’t betray others for drink. We’re not a twisting snake like Oto cowards.
However, then he remembered several seasons ago. True, I sold my last catch of beaver last year to one such group of invaders, ugly haired 2-faces, but did so for needed blankets. But I won’t sell to those scum--defilers--ever again! I, Wore Wolf Teeth of the Chaticks-si-chaticks, swear to it.
He brushed one hand through the single ridge of stiffened hair that roostered up from his mostly shaven head. Then he peered at rock outcroppings to the west and up a large narrow arroyo.
Only 3 moons ago lazy Oto thieves had slunk into his village of Weeping Water while he and other warriors were out hunting bison. Had stolen his prize ceremonial shirt which his spouse had made from the hide of a large deer, one he had shot last winter.
Glancing back east, Wore Wolf Teeth wondered what other evils lay back there, yet to come this way and curse their lives. White aliens had not only corrupted the worthless Oto. Those invaders coming in their wheeled lodges slaughtered many bison, left most carcasses to rot last summer eastward toward the Big Muddy, profaned their land.
When he and several other warriors rode onto that evil scene, terrible stink assaulted them. Carcasses of hundreds of bison lay abandoned by the edge of the Nebraskier—so much rich meat rancid, rotting and bloating, crowded with skin-islands of flies in the hot summer sun.
The killers had skinned every shaggy hide from the fallen beasts, abandoned those corpses, and then left with only the hides piled high in their moving lodges. Greedy scum!
2
On that shameful day, the sun had blazed hot like now. He wiped sweat from his forehead. Yes, the season of sweating. He reprimanded himself for not being there with his fellow braves to stop that slaughter.
Again, he scanned the landscape. Still no human sounds. Finally, Wore walked over to Clear Creek and scooped up a cool drink with his right hand. He would return to his village, speak in the council and maybe they would mount a war party to deal with these new wagon-aliens.
Suddenly, a covey of quail swarled up from a thicket a hundred feet away and winged up over the muddy ruts, skyward. Wore dropped flat, and like a bull snake slithered into heavy brush, listening for the sound of hooves, or boot steps, even muffled breathing. Nothing!
Only the creek’s gurgle. However, nearby birds had stopped chattering. Then as he peered out through leafy branches, the bright sky tore open--abruptly, distorting, and bubbling out, total darkness, a black globbed mass, like dark spittle on a French trapper's dark beard;
then widening, widening, widening, darkening the whole blue of sky!
Wore Wolf Teeth, inched back in dread, forgot about pale invading aliens. This deadly vision blackening the sky must come from the spirits or maybe the Great Spirit, not from any bodied foe. Yet the horrid sight was nothing like his quest dream he had received when becoming a brave a few seasons back on the southern plains.
Widening, the pitch-black translucent bubble continued enlarging until it covered the sky from horizon to horizon. What darkness! The monstrous distortion, strange and horrendous, the spirit even blotted out any sunlight.
3
Wolf Teeth lay still, at one with gravel and stones under him. The distorted cavern above him, endless, coal black horror, threatening to engulf the world. He remembered the murky cave he had climbed down into when a small boy, how it blotted out the sky. And how terrified he had been when he couldn’t find his way out for hours. All that black pitched darkness. But this smoked blackness was much worse, a cavernous maw charging, storming, barraging. What dreadful evil spirit?
Or could it be a severe warning, an omen for me from the Great Spirit? But why?
He couldn’t think of any tribe rule he had violated. But now fearful dread oppressed him. Even 2 years ago when he had counted coup against the Arapahoe, disdaining their warriors and had to pull out a thrown lance from his bleeding arm, while hanging to his stolen horse's mane, even then he hadn’t been afraid. No fear then, no! But alive and glorious, so triumphant; galloping across the plains, we were great victors.
But not now…now a hungry dread ate at his gut like a vulture. This was a scary test. His pulse beat fast, but he gripped his medicine bag hanging from his neck, crawled out of the brush, stood tall and said, "I am Wore Wolf Teeth of the Chaticks-si-chaticks!”
Above, the gigantic dark monster hovered pulsating, threatening, black sky, endless tar, darkening the world.
___________________________
Only 3 miles away, horses of an Oregon-bound wagon train, following previous wagon ruts skittered and bucked; one large roan knocked its rider to the ground. Men looked up in shock, bewildered by this sudden pitch darkness. Chatter and horseplay of their children ceased.
In the 3rd Conestoga wagon, Neil O'Brien stared up into the blackness and held his breath. There wasn’t any scheduled eclipse that he knew about. And this sudden darkness was far worse.
One of their forward scouts shouted back, "Halt!"
4
All the wagons came to a stop. Drivers tensely searched the blackness for any funnel of an approaching tornado. However, there had been no warning of any dangerous weather.
No strikes of lightning, no cracks or rolls of thunder, none. Only utter silence. Neil couldn’t even see his rein hand. Baffled, he hollered back to his wife in the wagon, “Darlin’, you okay?”
“Yes, Neil, is a storm brewing? Our babe’s asleep.” Other mothers in schooners behind them shoved their children under tick beds and waited, very scared. The darkness increased, darkness on darkness.
But then a horrid grayness shot into being. Men pulled out rifles—rather senseless, they knew—and waited. A few little ones started screaming. However, almost immediately, the blackness, the dark abyss of sky vanished.
Instead, the waggoneers squinted into the blazing glare of the summer’s sun and a totally pristine blue sky. Hundreds of voices rushed to fill the still air. Neil turned to Naomi, his sweetheart, who had come up behind him from the back of their wagon. He put his free arm around her shoulders and said, "Strange, almost preternatural. What a dangerous incongruity! Suddenly that vast gigantic storm--largest I’ve ever seen—frightens and bedevils us, but then vanishes instantly."
"Neil, it might be a sign from the Almighty," She leaned closer to him where he sat, reins in hand.
Before he could answer, a scout shouted and the 2 wagons in front of them began moving again. He turned and flicked the reins. His wife backed into the shade of their schooner’s covering and lifted up their 6-month-old daughter Hannah, and softly sang a Quaker hymn.
5
As Neil guided their horses forward, he thought about the strange atmospheric phenomenon, remembering a few texts he had read at law school which had mentioned a similar strange sky a few years back. Sounded like superstition, but what could have caused such an atmospheric disturbance?
No huge storm that he had ever read about in college or law school. Finally, as the wagon train plodded along, he returned to contemplating his and Naomi’s future…about their chances in the Oregon Territory.
He was glad they weren't staying here on the Nebraska plains. Not that it doesn’t have potential—lots of level land for farming, but looks too dry. And I’d miss all the large forests—many oaks and elms. And in the Oregon Territory there were millions of Evergreens. This terrain’s almost treeless except by streams. No wonder some commentators call it a vast desert.
What a contrast to last week when they had camped back near the Missouri River where land stood thick with timber—very verdant and so fertile. He followed along behind the 2 schooners in front of their wagon, and 13 more behind, as their train of immigrants rolled alongside this wide river, the Platte (the word meant 'flat' in French, coined by early explorers). Now don’t get high and mighty about all of your book-learnin. He smirked.
More and more, the rolling hills of eastern Nebraska Territory were lessening, the land flattening, turning to prairie, endless plains as far as he could see. When would they spot buffalo? He corrected himself, Bison; am I picking up ignorant speech? Holding the reins with one hand, Neil took a swig of warm water from his cloth canteen. He momentarily contemplated whether the French term for the wide shallow river was the best, or if they should have kept the stranger, more alien sounding Oto Indian word, Nebraskier, meaning "flat water." But then the matter of the sky darkness came back to him, the dark foreboding and sinister aura of the phenomenon, and he pondered what it could signify.
6
Several hours passed. Behind him, in the wagon, Naomi was sewing and cooing to their little one. He wiped sweat from his face with his forearm again. So blazing hot! At least that threatening darkness provided momentary relief. ‘Must be 110 degrees at least. Such a contrast to the downpour 5 days ago that had created a muddy mess for their wagons. But this excruciating heat seems to exude moisture. His shirt clung to his chest and back, utterly drenched, as if he had taken a dunk in the nearby river, though its sluggish water didn't look deep enough to get baptized in.
Their 4 horses plugged along the hoof-punched mud trail; he tied the reins to the post, yanked off his dripping shirt, wiped his face and arms, and wrapped it around his neck to ward off more sunburn there. Below his left rib, showed a large scar, the one from his battle in Tennessee against the Cherokee. It welted livid against his dark tan.
Jagged memory assaulted him--his partner holding a small bloody scalp, a child’s, and whooping with delight, boasting to Neil how they'd get rid of all of the red vermin, cursed aliens, the savages which tried to stop their move westward. Blood dripped into Neil’s mind like the sky darkness of hours before, all of it seeping from the small patch of hair hanging like a shredded rattler in his buddy’s hand. Neil cussed! Banished the bloodied memory. He flicked the reins so hard their horses bounded ahead, pulling him too close to the wagon in front.
“Whoa…” he pulled back on the horses—the loud chatter of kids up ahead--and thought of his own baby and Naomi behind him within their wagon. His wife had stopped singing. Probably heard me take God’s name in vain. Scanning out across the shallow water on his left, Neil tried to see the far side of the river. But too much humid haze.
7
Then he turned behind to see what his wife was doing. Their baby, Hannah, lay wrapped tightly in a thin sheet, asleep on the Mennonite quilt covering their small mattress that rested on packing crates. Naomi sat behind the infant, peeling potatoes, her blouse wet-damp against her bosom and pleasingly open at the neck, her long mahogany hair a tumble of wrap up on her head, a few wisps clinging to the sweat on her forehead.
"Hey Love,” Neil asked, “how about bringin’ me some tea?"
She looked up at her man’s back, and smiled. “Sure, Neil.” Naomi reached down under the side of their mattress and pulled out a large stone jar. Then hefted it up, tipped, and poured out brown tea into a glass mason jar. Naomi felt proud of her husband, though sometimes now wished she were still back in Philadelphia and teaching at Penn Quaker School, not out here on this rough, dangerous trek. And wished my parents were still alive.
Naomi edged forward, holding onto the crates so as to not spill any liquid as their wagon rocked and jostled over uneven ground. One wheel slid into a mud-hole and the wagon lurched. But she caught herself with a hand against one of the stays supporting the overhead fabric cover.
Grabbing the reins, Neil calmed the horses as they righted the wagon and plodded on again. He felt her hand on his bare shoulder, turned back and looked down into her luminous eyes, great with kissed closeness, sweat glistening on her forehead and cheeks. Wanted to swoop her up into his arms…but he only visually caressed her, with intensity into her irises, and took the tumbler from her calloused hands, and turned back to watch the horses.
Behind him, his wife’s hand lingered on his shoulder, then slid it down his side and mischievously pinched him. He sloshed his tea, some slurping
over the rim and landing on his legs. He grabbed for her hand but she had retreated. 8 “Just you wait, you ornery sprite, you’ve got yours comin’ later. Is that kind of tomfoolery proper for a young school marm?”
Naomi’s gentle laughter came to him as she picked up their 6-month old daughter, no doubt holding her close, probably giving her to breast. And he thanked God above for his young wife. Later in a lawyer-like moment, he marveled how he still used high-falutin’ literary terms like ‘sprite’. Out here in the wild west of the Nebraska Territory, many pioneers and trappers couldn’t write basic prose, let alone reference out literary allusions. No time for study when ever’ waking moment meant hard work.
Should I have stayed in Rhode Island and finished my law courses? But then I wouldn’t have met Naomi! However then somber images crowded in--and had to bury her folks and 216 other dead bodies interred in the spring thaw ground in St. Louis, decimated by the small pox. Another death haunted him—blood seeping guilt…that dripping scalp of the little savage hangin’ in his friend’s hand…No! I won’t think of that.
Remember good times! Focus on Naomi—making love. Weeks before when they first met, she had looked so severe in her sedate Quaker dress, but she was all heat and passion hidden away within. And that brought back passionate images of their wedding night! Better not dwell on that.
He noticed the horses had slowed, and shook the reins. Maybe if they hadn’t decided to go west, he could have taken her back to Providence, Rode Island after their wedding and shown her his old stomping ground, got her a small frame house, and she could be tending their daughter and walking down to Dutch’s Dry Goods, while he read the Law…but corpses of savages clotted on the ground, their lodges burning and that dripping hair in his friend’s hand. God, Stop it!
9
Neil looked ahead at the 2 wagons in front of him as they rounded a slight bluff and wondered how long before they reached the Weeping Water camp site. Would it be safe? The Pawnee natives were unpredictable. Look how they slaughtered that village of Arapaho several years ago! And their oppression of the Oto. On the other hand, Pawnee hatred of the Lakota might help us, when we get to Chimney Rock. Indians are so tribal…well that’s prejudice thinking…as if we Europeans aren’t. Neil remembered his study of the Napoleonic Wars, and the infighting among American easterners even now.
A horde of flies circled and he batted at them with his free hand. The horses were sweating profusely and whipping their tails against the endless flies…must’ve swarmed up from Egypt, compliments of Moses. Speaking of the Good Book, he now heard Naomi singing a Scripture passage to their daughter. His wife was versing a line: “Be kind to foreigners, aliens in your midst, angels unawares. Yes, dear Lord, yes.”
Yeah sure, right! Neil frowned. Dark images of the Cherokee war came back. Sometimes the Bible’s downright stupid! Be kind to killers? Savages? That’s what most of the redskins are. Aliens who show no mercy to us or their own kind, other tribes.
Natives were so strange in their thinking, the way they could attack friendly wagon trains out here, without warning, slaughtering everyone, and executing whole families at wilderness farms back in Kentucky.
The savages, even their squaws, mutilated the bodies! Take that German immigrant we found with his entrails torn out of his body, his intestines wrapped all the way around an oak tree…tied there by his own guts left to bleed to death slowly. Dispicable aliens!
But then gruesome images of his best friend with the small bloody trophy seared bleeding script on Neil’s mind, the proverbial writing on his own inner wall, and he cursed loudly. And again harshly, and whipped the horses.
10
“What’s wrong Dearheart? Do you need me?” Naomi asked from in the wagon. “Please don’t take our Savior’s name in vain.”
Neil didn’t answer, but focused with his lawyer mind trying to argue his conscience down. His wife didn’t say anymore, began singing again. The fervent words of the song scalded his conscience. He battled back against the guilt. But trying to justify himself, arguing against the Almighty, the judge of the cosmos was a nigh bit more than his ability. But oh God, why do you emphasize we should care for aliens? Think of your servant; they gutted him to a tree!
Clumps of box elders stood tall with dense thickets of raspberries by the flat river. But Neil couldn’t focus on the scenery. He grimaced and again swung at hordes of flies swarming around him and the horses. What if I was assigned as a defense attorney for savages? This is hard. Well, if I were a savage, then white folks would seem like aliens, too. We’ve taken lots of land. And there’s the broken treaties. Even with the derned Cherokee. But heck…
Neil flicked the horses angrily to speed them up as he realized they had again fallen back a few yards. But suddenly the wagon in front of him stopped.
"Tarnation! What now?" Neil stood up and stared ahead. If the wagon train kept stopping, they wouldn’t make it to Chimney Rock for days, and then would get caught in early snow before getting over the Rockies through the pass.
Neil waited—hopefully the stop wasn’t because the scouts had spotted signs of natives. Out here they were likely to be hostiles. He took off his brown hat and wiped more sweat and grime from his forehead. Then glanced up toward the glaring sun and ran fingers through his wet brown hair. Remembered the strange atmospheric occurrence earlier. He turned back to the hooped opening behind him. Inside, in muted light, on their mattress propped on top of crates, kegs and large trunks, Naomi sat nursing Hannah.
11
Neil grinned wide remembering the rambunctious night only 15 months ago, right after they had seen the justice of the peace. But then he bit his lip at the somber images which crowded in--the shallow grave which he had dug for his wife's parents, their skin all pocked up, only 2 of hundreds of people who had frenzied to death in an epidemic that had descended on St. Louis for months in the spring--
Yelling!
What now?! His warm memories shattered away. Coming at a gallop, one of the scouts dashed up to the wagon in front of them, waving his hat as if warding off storms of bumble bees. And stopped. Loud conversation but too indistinct to hear. Neil quickly looped the reins on the wagon stay, jumped to the ground and hurried forward. It was the short French Canadian, the one with a mangy trapper's hat. How could he wear that thing in this heat?
The trail guide suddenly trotted alongside the wagon toward him. Even before he reached Neil, the guide pulled up on his reins, and shouted in his heavy accent, "Got problems! Scout Lefty hasn’t returned. And there’s horse tracks just up ahead; probably Pawnee. Most of 'em been passive these days, but there was an attack on a train a few weeks bac’. Get out yer rifle ‘n stay eagle-eyed."
Before Neil could answer, the scruffy guide giddied his horse and trotted on past him to the next schooner behind.
_________________________
After his tachyon ship flung out of hyperspace, bursting from the bubbled warp, Uzx Hjxthzgvk mentally felt-skinned many grassy undulating hills and streams below on this alien world and emotionally warmed, wishing he could skxxjh.
And beyond the warm hills lay flat expanses of endless grass and wildlife for miles! 12 "Such tactile wealth!" his skin gloried in joyful anticipation. "What luxuriating wonder." He virtually caressed many strange plants growing up from the grassy terrain near a wide river.
“So much liquid! Visible above ground--zjzhgtqz!" The Orxxjhian smiled at the glory of this new world. This wondrous place would be a tactile for many rotations. So what if it’s a small planet rotating a minor yellow sun.
He would somehow justify the research, though the data feeling into him from the ship emphasized there were no great techno-cities here--no extensive statistics to be analyzed and statted; and these few conscious inhabitants were only skinny primates… with no tails for ritual and support, and a species of such limited basic intelligence at that.
But nevertheless, this world showed promise. He grinned wide with his facial orifice and shifted his feel on the instruments. Data flowed in on one of the primates crouched below, evidently hiding in the odd foliage. Yes, the Terran alien was spying up at their ship using only his visual percepters and the aural lobes in his head. Probably not a threat--obviously incapable of distance-feeling, only has basic self-consciousness, medium intelligence for a primate, pre-literate, dark-skinned, strong energy level and brave, but strangely overly filled with dread....
Wilcox, Daniel. The Feeling of the Earth (p. 13). Kindle Edition.
Then the sky tunnel of smoked blackness swallowed the whole horizon and out of the cavernous maw charged, stormed, barraged a drab-gray monster. What dreadful evil spirit? Or could it be a severe warning, an omen to him from the Great Spirit?
He gripped his medicine bag hanging from his neck, crawled out of the brush, stood and said, "I am of the Chaticks-si-chaticks (Men of men)!
Above, the gigantic dark-gray spirit hovered pulsating, threatening, and behind it the blackened sky, endless tar, darkening the world.
Only 3 miles away, horses of an Oregon-bound wagon train skittered and bucked; one large roan knocked its rider to the ground. Men looked up in shock, bewildered by this sudden pitch darkness.
CONTENTS
1 The 3rd Alien
2 Return of Tactilization
3 Driven Out
4 Into the Maelstrom
5 Blue Bellies
6 Shut Down
7 The Bushwackers
8 Orphaned
9 Communion
10 Death and Disunion
11Down Texas-Messed Way
12 North to Alaska
13 Treasure and Loss
14 1st Flight
15 Boulder Dam High-Scalers
16 Counter Culture
17 Summer of Love in the Haight
18 3 Sons of Abraham
19 Descending Among Us
20 Mars Hub
21 The Limitness of Humaness
22 FeelSire Corporation
23 Epilogue
Chapter 1: The 3rd Alien, Nebraska Territory, 1842
New wheel ruts marred the grassy area near Clear Creek. Cursing, the native Pawnee crouched down and examined long furrows all along wet ground for many yards. Alarmed, he turned to stone and scanned nearby land, holding his breath. But no human sounds came, none, only sparrows chittering in clumps of elms hanging over the stream.
The brook’s thin water gurgled, rippling, wide and shallow. Pebbles shimmered on its sandy bottom. Eastward, the stream flowed, winding away amongst his people’s grassy loafed hills. Through tall elms, 50 yards away, a flat stone ridge loomed, their Table Rock. However, no human sound nor a single unusual movement anywhere in the landscape.
He stood and seethed. These wheeled scars had marred their land far too long for many moons! Those pale aliens came from the north and from the east, following the very large wide, flat, muddy Nebraskier River westward that their small creek flowed into. Sometimes these invaders’ wagon teams stopped at little Clear Creek, because of the abundant spring which fed it.
1
Recently the enemies had gotten men of a nearby tribe, the stupid Oto, drunk on firewater—trading that evil drink for many beaver pelts. He cursed, again, silently and watched the land. Thank you Great Spirit that my people, we Chaticks-si-chaticks (Men of men), don’t betray others for drink. We’re not a twisting snake like Oto cowards.
However, then he remembered several seasons ago. True, I sold my last catch of beaver last year to one such group of invaders, ugly haired 2-faces, but did so for needed blankets. But I won’t sell to those scum--defilers--ever again! I, Wore Wolf Teeth of the Chaticks-si-chaticks, swear to it.
He brushed one hand through the single ridge of stiffened hair that roostered up from his mostly shaven head. Then he peered at rock outcroppings to the west and up a large narrow arroyo.
Only 3 moons ago lazy Oto thieves had slunk into his village of Weeping Water while he and other warriors were out hunting bison. Had stolen his prize ceremonial shirt which his spouse had made from the hide of a large deer, one he had shot last winter.
Glancing back east, Wore Wolf Teeth wondered what other evils lay back there, yet to come this way and curse their lives. White aliens had not only corrupted the worthless Oto. Those invaders coming in their wheeled lodges slaughtered many bison, left most carcasses to rot last summer eastward toward the Big Muddy, profaned their land.
When he and several other warriors rode onto that evil scene, terrible stink assaulted them. Carcasses of hundreds of bison lay abandoned by the edge of the Nebraskier—so much rich meat rancid, rotting and bloating, crowded with skin-islands of flies in the hot summer sun.
The killers had skinned every shaggy hide from the fallen beasts, abandoned those corpses, and then left with only the hides piled high in their moving lodges. Greedy scum!
2
On that shameful day, the sun had blazed hot like now. He wiped sweat from his forehead. Yes, the season of sweating. He reprimanded himself for not being there with his fellow braves to stop that slaughter.
Again, he scanned the landscape. Still no human sounds. Finally, Wore walked over to Clear Creek and scooped up a cool drink with his right hand. He would return to his village, speak in the council and maybe they would mount a war party to deal with these new wagon-aliens.
Suddenly, a covey of quail swarled up from a thicket a hundred feet away and winged up over the muddy ruts, skyward. Wore dropped flat, and like a bull snake slithered into heavy brush, listening for the sound of hooves, or boot steps, even muffled breathing. Nothing!
Only the creek’s gurgle. However, nearby birds had stopped chattering. Then as he peered out through leafy branches, the bright sky tore open--abruptly, distorting, and bubbling out, total darkness, a black globbed mass, like dark spittle on a French trapper's dark beard;
then widening, widening, widening, darkening the whole blue of sky!
Wore Wolf Teeth, inched back in dread, forgot about pale invading aliens. This deadly vision blackening the sky must come from the spirits or maybe the Great Spirit, not from any bodied foe. Yet the horrid sight was nothing like his quest dream he had received when becoming a brave a few seasons back on the southern plains.
Widening, the pitch-black translucent bubble continued enlarging until it covered the sky from horizon to horizon. What darkness! The monstrous distortion, strange and horrendous, the spirit even blotted out any sunlight.
3
Wolf Teeth lay still, at one with gravel and stones under him. The distorted cavern above him, endless, coal black horror, threatening to engulf the world. He remembered the murky cave he had climbed down into when a small boy, how it blotted out the sky. And how terrified he had been when he couldn’t find his way out for hours. All that black pitched darkness. But this smoked blackness was much worse, a cavernous maw charging, storming, barraging. What dreadful evil spirit?
Or could it be a severe warning, an omen for me from the Great Spirit? But why?
He couldn’t think of any tribe rule he had violated. But now fearful dread oppressed him. Even 2 years ago when he had counted coup against the Arapahoe, disdaining their warriors and had to pull out a thrown lance from his bleeding arm, while hanging to his stolen horse's mane, even then he hadn’t been afraid. No fear then, no! But alive and glorious, so triumphant; galloping across the plains, we were great victors.
But not now…now a hungry dread ate at his gut like a vulture. This was a scary test. His pulse beat fast, but he gripped his medicine bag hanging from his neck, crawled out of the brush, stood tall and said, "I am Wore Wolf Teeth of the Chaticks-si-chaticks!”
Above, the gigantic dark monster hovered pulsating, threatening, black sky, endless tar, darkening the world.
___________________________
Only 3 miles away, horses of an Oregon-bound wagon train, following previous wagon ruts skittered and bucked; one large roan knocked its rider to the ground. Men looked up in shock, bewildered by this sudden pitch darkness. Chatter and horseplay of their children ceased.
In the 3rd Conestoga wagon, Neil O'Brien stared up into the blackness and held his breath. There wasn’t any scheduled eclipse that he knew about. And this sudden darkness was far worse.
One of their forward scouts shouted back, "Halt!"
4
All the wagons came to a stop. Drivers tensely searched the blackness for any funnel of an approaching tornado. However, there had been no warning of any dangerous weather.
No strikes of lightning, no cracks or rolls of thunder, none. Only utter silence. Neil couldn’t even see his rein hand. Baffled, he hollered back to his wife in the wagon, “Darlin’, you okay?”
“Yes, Neil, is a storm brewing? Our babe’s asleep.” Other mothers in schooners behind them shoved their children under tick beds and waited, very scared. The darkness increased, darkness on darkness.
But then a horrid grayness shot into being. Men pulled out rifles—rather senseless, they knew—and waited. A few little ones started screaming. However, almost immediately, the blackness, the dark abyss of sky vanished.
Instead, the waggoneers squinted into the blazing glare of the summer’s sun and a totally pristine blue sky. Hundreds of voices rushed to fill the still air. Neil turned to Naomi, his sweetheart, who had come up behind him from the back of their wagon. He put his free arm around her shoulders and said, "Strange, almost preternatural. What a dangerous incongruity! Suddenly that vast gigantic storm--largest I’ve ever seen—frightens and bedevils us, but then vanishes instantly."
"Neil, it might be a sign from the Almighty," She leaned closer to him where he sat, reins in hand.
Before he could answer, a scout shouted and the 2 wagons in front of them began moving again. He turned and flicked the reins. His wife backed into the shade of their schooner’s covering and lifted up their 6-month-old daughter Hannah, and softly sang a Quaker hymn.
5
As Neil guided their horses forward, he thought about the strange atmospheric phenomenon, remembering a few texts he had read at law school which had mentioned a similar strange sky a few years back. Sounded like superstition, but what could have caused such an atmospheric disturbance?
No huge storm that he had ever read about in college or law school. Finally, as the wagon train plodded along, he returned to contemplating his and Naomi’s future…about their chances in the Oregon Territory.
He was glad they weren't staying here on the Nebraska plains. Not that it doesn’t have potential—lots of level land for farming, but looks too dry. And I’d miss all the large forests—many oaks and elms. And in the Oregon Territory there were millions of Evergreens. This terrain’s almost treeless except by streams. No wonder some commentators call it a vast desert.
What a contrast to last week when they had camped back near the Missouri River where land stood thick with timber—very verdant and so fertile. He followed along behind the 2 schooners in front of their wagon, and 13 more behind, as their train of immigrants rolled alongside this wide river, the Platte (the word meant 'flat' in French, coined by early explorers). Now don’t get high and mighty about all of your book-learnin. He smirked.
More and more, the rolling hills of eastern Nebraska Territory were lessening, the land flattening, turning to prairie, endless plains as far as he could see. When would they spot buffalo? He corrected himself, Bison; am I picking up ignorant speech? Holding the reins with one hand, Neil took a swig of warm water from his cloth canteen. He momentarily contemplated whether the French term for the wide shallow river was the best, or if they should have kept the stranger, more alien sounding Oto Indian word, Nebraskier, meaning "flat water." But then the matter of the sky darkness came back to him, the dark foreboding and sinister aura of the phenomenon, and he pondered what it could signify.
6
Several hours passed. Behind him, in the wagon, Naomi was sewing and cooing to their little one. He wiped sweat from his face with his forearm again. So blazing hot! At least that threatening darkness provided momentary relief. ‘Must be 110 degrees at least. Such a contrast to the downpour 5 days ago that had created a muddy mess for their wagons. But this excruciating heat seems to exude moisture. His shirt clung to his chest and back, utterly drenched, as if he had taken a dunk in the nearby river, though its sluggish water didn't look deep enough to get baptized in.
Their 4 horses plugged along the hoof-punched mud trail; he tied the reins to the post, yanked off his dripping shirt, wiped his face and arms, and wrapped it around his neck to ward off more sunburn there. Below his left rib, showed a large scar, the one from his battle in Tennessee against the Cherokee. It welted livid against his dark tan.
Jagged memory assaulted him--his partner holding a small bloody scalp, a child’s, and whooping with delight, boasting to Neil how they'd get rid of all of the red vermin, cursed aliens, the savages which tried to stop their move westward. Blood dripped into Neil’s mind like the sky darkness of hours before, all of it seeping from the small patch of hair hanging like a shredded rattler in his buddy’s hand. Neil cussed! Banished the bloodied memory. He flicked the reins so hard their horses bounded ahead, pulling him too close to the wagon in front.
“Whoa…” he pulled back on the horses—the loud chatter of kids up ahead--and thought of his own baby and Naomi behind him within their wagon. His wife had stopped singing. Probably heard me take God’s name in vain. Scanning out across the shallow water on his left, Neil tried to see the far side of the river. But too much humid haze.
7
Then he turned behind to see what his wife was doing. Their baby, Hannah, lay wrapped tightly in a thin sheet, asleep on the Mennonite quilt covering their small mattress that rested on packing crates. Naomi sat behind the infant, peeling potatoes, her blouse wet-damp against her bosom and pleasingly open at the neck, her long mahogany hair a tumble of wrap up on her head, a few wisps clinging to the sweat on her forehead.
"Hey Love,” Neil asked, “how about bringin’ me some tea?"
She looked up at her man’s back, and smiled. “Sure, Neil.” Naomi reached down under the side of their mattress and pulled out a large stone jar. Then hefted it up, tipped, and poured out brown tea into a glass mason jar. Naomi felt proud of her husband, though sometimes now wished she were still back in Philadelphia and teaching at Penn Quaker School, not out here on this rough, dangerous trek. And wished my parents were still alive.
Naomi edged forward, holding onto the crates so as to not spill any liquid as their wagon rocked and jostled over uneven ground. One wheel slid into a mud-hole and the wagon lurched. But she caught herself with a hand against one of the stays supporting the overhead fabric cover.
Grabbing the reins, Neil calmed the horses as they righted the wagon and plodded on again. He felt her hand on his bare shoulder, turned back and looked down into her luminous eyes, great with kissed closeness, sweat glistening on her forehead and cheeks. Wanted to swoop her up into his arms…but he only visually caressed her, with intensity into her irises, and took the tumbler from her calloused hands, and turned back to watch the horses.
Behind him, his wife’s hand lingered on his shoulder, then slid it down his side and mischievously pinched him. He sloshed his tea, some slurping
over the rim and landing on his legs. He grabbed for her hand but she had retreated. 8 “Just you wait, you ornery sprite, you’ve got yours comin’ later. Is that kind of tomfoolery proper for a young school marm?”
Naomi’s gentle laughter came to him as she picked up their 6-month old daughter, no doubt holding her close, probably giving her to breast. And he thanked God above for his young wife. Later in a lawyer-like moment, he marveled how he still used high-falutin’ literary terms like ‘sprite’. Out here in the wild west of the Nebraska Territory, many pioneers and trappers couldn’t write basic prose, let alone reference out literary allusions. No time for study when ever’ waking moment meant hard work.
Should I have stayed in Rhode Island and finished my law courses? But then I wouldn’t have met Naomi! However then somber images crowded in--and had to bury her folks and 216 other dead bodies interred in the spring thaw ground in St. Louis, decimated by the small pox. Another death haunted him—blood seeping guilt…that dripping scalp of the little savage hangin’ in his friend’s hand…No! I won’t think of that.
Remember good times! Focus on Naomi—making love. Weeks before when they first met, she had looked so severe in her sedate Quaker dress, but she was all heat and passion hidden away within. And that brought back passionate images of their wedding night! Better not dwell on that.
He noticed the horses had slowed, and shook the reins. Maybe if they hadn’t decided to go west, he could have taken her back to Providence, Rode Island after their wedding and shown her his old stomping ground, got her a small frame house, and she could be tending their daughter and walking down to Dutch’s Dry Goods, while he read the Law…but corpses of savages clotted on the ground, their lodges burning and that dripping hair in his friend’s hand. God, Stop it!
9
Neil looked ahead at the 2 wagons in front of him as they rounded a slight bluff and wondered how long before they reached the Weeping Water camp site. Would it be safe? The Pawnee natives were unpredictable. Look how they slaughtered that village of Arapaho several years ago! And their oppression of the Oto. On the other hand, Pawnee hatred of the Lakota might help us, when we get to Chimney Rock. Indians are so tribal…well that’s prejudice thinking…as if we Europeans aren’t. Neil remembered his study of the Napoleonic Wars, and the infighting among American easterners even now.
A horde of flies circled and he batted at them with his free hand. The horses were sweating profusely and whipping their tails against the endless flies…must’ve swarmed up from Egypt, compliments of Moses. Speaking of the Good Book, he now heard Naomi singing a Scripture passage to their daughter. His wife was versing a line: “Be kind to foreigners, aliens in your midst, angels unawares. Yes, dear Lord, yes.”
Yeah sure, right! Neil frowned. Dark images of the Cherokee war came back. Sometimes the Bible’s downright stupid! Be kind to killers? Savages? That’s what most of the redskins are. Aliens who show no mercy to us or their own kind, other tribes.
Natives were so strange in their thinking, the way they could attack friendly wagon trains out here, without warning, slaughtering everyone, and executing whole families at wilderness farms back in Kentucky.
The savages, even their squaws, mutilated the bodies! Take that German immigrant we found with his entrails torn out of his body, his intestines wrapped all the way around an oak tree…tied there by his own guts left to bleed to death slowly. Dispicable aliens!
But then gruesome images of his best friend with the small bloody trophy seared bleeding script on Neil’s mind, the proverbial writing on his own inner wall, and he cursed loudly. And again harshly, and whipped the horses.
10
“What’s wrong Dearheart? Do you need me?” Naomi asked from in the wagon. “Please don’t take our Savior’s name in vain.”
Neil didn’t answer, but focused with his lawyer mind trying to argue his conscience down. His wife didn’t say anymore, began singing again. The fervent words of the song scalded his conscience. He battled back against the guilt. But trying to justify himself, arguing against the Almighty, the judge of the cosmos was a nigh bit more than his ability. But oh God, why do you emphasize we should care for aliens? Think of your servant; they gutted him to a tree!
Clumps of box elders stood tall with dense thickets of raspberries by the flat river. But Neil couldn’t focus on the scenery. He grimaced and again swung at hordes of flies swarming around him and the horses. What if I was assigned as a defense attorney for savages? This is hard. Well, if I were a savage, then white folks would seem like aliens, too. We’ve taken lots of land. And there’s the broken treaties. Even with the derned Cherokee. But heck…
Neil flicked the horses angrily to speed them up as he realized they had again fallen back a few yards. But suddenly the wagon in front of him stopped.
"Tarnation! What now?" Neil stood up and stared ahead. If the wagon train kept stopping, they wouldn’t make it to Chimney Rock for days, and then would get caught in early snow before getting over the Rockies through the pass.
Neil waited—hopefully the stop wasn’t because the scouts had spotted signs of natives. Out here they were likely to be hostiles. He took off his brown hat and wiped more sweat and grime from his forehead. Then glanced up toward the glaring sun and ran fingers through his wet brown hair. Remembered the strange atmospheric occurrence earlier. He turned back to the hooped opening behind him. Inside, in muted light, on their mattress propped on top of crates, kegs and large trunks, Naomi sat nursing Hannah.
11
Neil grinned wide remembering the rambunctious night only 15 months ago, right after they had seen the justice of the peace. But then he bit his lip at the somber images which crowded in--the shallow grave which he had dug for his wife's parents, their skin all pocked up, only 2 of hundreds of people who had frenzied to death in an epidemic that had descended on St. Louis for months in the spring--
Yelling!
What now?! His warm memories shattered away. Coming at a gallop, one of the scouts dashed up to the wagon in front of them, waving his hat as if warding off storms of bumble bees. And stopped. Loud conversation but too indistinct to hear. Neil quickly looped the reins on the wagon stay, jumped to the ground and hurried forward. It was the short French Canadian, the one with a mangy trapper's hat. How could he wear that thing in this heat?
The trail guide suddenly trotted alongside the wagon toward him. Even before he reached Neil, the guide pulled up on his reins, and shouted in his heavy accent, "Got problems! Scout Lefty hasn’t returned. And there’s horse tracks just up ahead; probably Pawnee. Most of 'em been passive these days, but there was an attack on a train a few weeks bac’. Get out yer rifle ‘n stay eagle-eyed."
Before Neil could answer, the scruffy guide giddied his horse and trotted on past him to the next schooner behind.
_________________________
After his tachyon ship flung out of hyperspace, bursting from the bubbled warp, Uzx Hjxthzgvk mentally felt-skinned many grassy undulating hills and streams below on this alien world and emotionally warmed, wishing he could skxxjh.
And beyond the warm hills lay flat expanses of endless grass and wildlife for miles! 12 "Such tactile wealth!" his skin gloried in joyful anticipation. "What luxuriating wonder." He virtually caressed many strange plants growing up from the grassy terrain near a wide river.
“So much liquid! Visible above ground--zjzhgtqz!" The Orxxjhian smiled at the glory of this new world. This wondrous place would be a tactile for many rotations. So what if it’s a small planet rotating a minor yellow sun.
He would somehow justify the research, though the data feeling into him from the ship emphasized there were no great techno-cities here--no extensive statistics to be analyzed and statted; and these few conscious inhabitants were only skinny primates… with no tails for ritual and support, and a species of such limited basic intelligence at that.
But nevertheless, this world showed promise. He grinned wide with his facial orifice and shifted his feel on the instruments. Data flowed in on one of the primates crouched below, evidently hiding in the odd foliage. Yes, the Terran alien was spying up at their ship using only his visual percepters and the aural lobes in his head. Probably not a threat--obviously incapable of distance-feeling, only has basic self-consciousness, medium intelligence for a primate, pre-literate, dark-skinned, strong energy level and brave, but strangely overly filled with dread....
Wilcox, Daniel. The Feeling of the Earth (p. 13). Kindle Edition.
