Nashoba was tracking deer along the Wichita River when a snake spooked his horse. Ordinarily he would not have lost his balance, but lately, he had fallen victim to Head In Clouds disease. He had thrown stones at She Who Loves Butterflies, and she had not responded. The horse warned him, then reared into the air. Nashoba came down hard, hit his head, and his horse was off and running, most likely back to the village where maybe She Who Loves Butterflies would notice he was missing.
Nashoba meant wolf in Choctaw, his grandfather Restless Wanderer had been a part of the great Choctaw tribe that had broken off and came to Texas. It was hard country, but the buffalo did come through and the wild horses pounded across the plains. As Nashoba became conscious and stood on his feet, he felt oddly out of place. Things looked different, things felt different. The river bank was somehow transformed. He must have gone further than he imagined, now he must be careful and on the lookout for renegade Apaches. He walked along the trail and ahead he saw a strange board and some sort of enclosure – proof the white men were about creating their carnage. What was this? There was a board with futuristic symbols that read: LUCY PARK. Where was the hunting ground?
All around him was brown grass, no buffalo could graze here. The trees were dying too and the river, once powerful and swift moving was low and slow. Just then, Nashoba heard an unfamiliar noise – the fair people, but they did not look like the ones he had always known. He jumped behind a hedge of yaupons that were deftly hanging on to life and watched fair-skinned settlers walking around. They were wearing peculiar clothes and kept close along the path. Nashoba followed the pale children to an opening where they ran to a white woman who was also wearing a shirt with symbols on it. She surveyed the children with her painted eyes as the wind caught wisps of her cropped hair. Three large metal colored boxes sat on a large gray rock.
Nashoba had never seen anything like it, he kept rubbing his eyes. The woman took the three smaller children and put them into the Metal Box which had the marks: YUKON. The metal box at once became a wagon with no horses like a moving monster. It took them ahead into the distance. How could this be? Another strange emblem ahead was stamped: WATCH FOR ANIMALS.
Nashoba had crossed over into another place, a place that was brown and suffering, a place where people no longer looked like any he knew. What was this? Why was he here? Nashoba knew he must turn around, track backward along the river, his village was there somewhere. He had to go back.
Wonderful and exciting tale Lana.
Thanks Holly! xx
xx
Reblogged this on John Cowgill's Literature Site.
Thanks, John!
You are welcome LT.
Endearing….
Thanks, Poetpas!
Much obliged Lt 😊
Collision of past and future? That’s what happens when you catch Head in the Clouds Disease. A great story and an intriguing perspective, Lana. 🙂
Thanks, Joan. As you can see, I’ve had my pen dipped in experimental ink lately 😀
Very good !
Thank you!
You have hooked me with you experimental ink! Well done – ready for more of this Indian tale!
Thanks Jo!
Maybe we all should go back? 😉 Wonderful story, Lana, I’m a huge time travel fan. 😄 And poor guy, head in clouds disease is awful. 😉 xoxo
I’ve been know to suffer some from head in clouds disease 😀 Yeah, sometimes I look at this world, in particular this country, I feel what it must have been like for native Americans and how they seem much better with the land and animals that we are, and how much closer to nature and respectful they are. It is one sad history there. xoxo