The Holy Road

Chapter XLV

At the first forward lurch of the train, its special passengers, in a coach reserved exclusively for their use, made a mighty effort to hold off the temptation to panic. Their eyes shot everywhere at once and their car echoed with spasmodic grunts of fear at the unknown.

All were mesmerized at the speed of the land flashing past their windows and the unearthly power of the great engine pulling them along the tracks. Had they been alone they might have spontaneously jettisoned themselves through the first available exit, but the constant reassurances and relaxed manner of the whites traveling with them kept the tribesmen at rigid attention in their seats.

In a remarkably short time the novices acclimated themselves to the velocity and motion of the alien conveyance and were able to turn their attention to the many other mysteries surrounding them. They were inducted into the use of an onboard toilet, tutored unsuccessfully on the mechanics of time, and given a demonstration of the wonders of writing implements. Before long they tested their palates on white man food and filled the car with smoke from the white man's hand-rolled cigarettes.

They remained on the rain throughout the first long leg across the plains, for their safety would have been at risk in the rough settlements of the frontier. In eastern Missouri, when they were allowed off to stretch their bodies on the unmoving platform of a sizable community, a surprising phenomenon presented itself for the first time — one that would become more common the farther east they journeyed.

Despite the early hour, the platform was crowded with white people who had gathered in anticipation of their arrival. As Kicking Bird and Ten Bears and their friends alighted, the throng drew back in momentary awe, then crept slowly forward, entranced by the living embodiment of their imaginations.

The escort had prepared the twelve exotic men for the experience of crossing the Mississippi River, but as they started over the bridge, one of the Cheyenne, a man named Hollow Horn, was suddenly seized with the certainty that they were going to fall into the water. With a curdling cry he leaped to his feet and chopped at the inner flanks of the car with his ax, hoping somehow to slay the monster before it carried the party to a watery death. He was restrained before he could do much damage, and after the crossing Hollow Horn remained seated in a cocoon of mortification.

For some reason no one traveling with the befeathered men from the prairies had anticipated what effect passing through a mountain in total darkness might have on their charges, and when the idea did occur it was too late.

The train had been climbing through a range of low mountains for about half an hour and several of the tribesmen were dozing when it rounded a sharp curve and disappeared into the black maw of a long tunnel. For a full minute, shrieking Indians flew about in the pitch, the racket they raised drowning out the thunder of the engine ahead.

After a sixty-second eternity, a dim but growing light began to suffuse the car, then all at once they were outside again. Most of the men recovered immediately, but one Arapaho, a man named Striking Eagle, was still on the floor in serious difficulty. His long frame was drawn up in a trembling, fetal ball, and after all attempts to rouse him failed, it was concluded that Striking Eagle had suffered a breakdown. Still encased in his imaginary womb, the stricken Arapaho was carried from the train at the next stop. Adamant in his refusal to go any farther, Hollow Horn also disembarked, leaving ten shaken but stalwart comrades to face the wonders that lay ahead.

Oddly, the one among them who took the new world most in stride was also the oldest. Ten Bears had been asleep when the train entered the tunnel, and though he was jarred awake by the ensuing tumult, the old man simply assumed he had slept through sundown. He had been remarkably composed from the trip's outset, and as light again washed into the car, he followed form. He barely glanced at the aftermath of chaos strewn about him and for several minutes was oblivious of Striking Eagle's collapse.

Instead, the old man gazed serenely through his spectacles at the receding tunnel.

We went through a mountain, he thought to himself. It was made to open its body to this snake of metal and wood we are riding. The whites possess incredible magic.

A few moments later, Kicking Bird slid into the seat next to him and related the trouble with Striking Eagle. Ten Bears peered over his spectacles.

"Maybe a ghost got into him."

"I think he is afraid," Kicking Bird replied. "Someone heard him yell about the sun being killed."

"It's shining now," Ten Bears observed.

"Striking Eagle's mind can't see it. He can't move."

"He needs to get off this thing," Ten Bears said, a hint of condescension discernible in his tone.

Kicking Bird's chin vibrated with a quick succession of reassuring nods.

"They're going to put him off at the next stop."

"How will he get home?" Ten Bears inquired.

"They will wait for a train going west, Then they will put him on that."

Ten Bears stared briefly at the seat in front of him.

"Poor man," he sighed, his voice falling away to silence. A moment later, when he tilted his face toward Kicking Bird's, a smile was hovering, about his mouth. "He'll have to go back through that mountain."

Kicking Bird managed to avoid laughing out loud but his shoulders heaved convulsively.

"Are we going to pass through more mountains?" Ten Bears wondered.

Kicking Bird's levity vanished. He hadn't thought of more tunnels.

"I don't know," he said.

"I wonder if this thing goes through water too. Someone better tell us so we can close these openings. Otherwise the water will come in and we'll all drown."

Starting to the edge of his seat, Kicking Bird eagerly scanned the car's interior, searching for the little Quaker.

"Lawrie Tatum will know," he said absently.

"Oh, leave him alone for a while," scolded Ten Bears. “All you want to do is make that white man talk."

"What if water does come in?" Kicking Bird retorted.

"This thing has gone over lots of water,” Ten Bears grunted dismissively. "If it does go into water, the whites will close these things in time. I'm sure none of them wants to drown. How much farther is it to Washington?"

"Lawrie Tatum says it is one more sleep.”

"Is it the biggest white man village?”

"Lawrie Tatum says it will be bigger than anything we have ever seen. He says our eyes will see many things that do not seem real.”

"I believe him," Ten Bears said, nodding solemnly as he placed his moccasins on the footrest just above the floor.

The old man slid his pipe from its case.

"We should smoke for poor Striking Eagle.”

"Hmm," Kicking Bird agreed.

"I hope the food is better in Washington,” Ten Bears said, tamping a pinch of tobacco into his bowl. "They have so much magic, yet they can't make good meat. It's stringy and filled with grease.”

Kicking Bird nodded mutely.

"It goes right through my bowels,” Ten Bears groused.

"Mine, too," Kicking Bird sighed.