what was out there. For the Indians, that
would be another kind of death.
Maybe the Lakota thought that by killing us,
they could just put that particular death off a little while
longer.
“I am going away,” Floyd had told me, right
before he died. “I want you to write me a letter.”
I was sitting there, silently, just like
Clark wanted me to. Not asking about “Fives” or anything else. I
thought Clark wouldn’t mind if I asked who Floyd wanted the letter
sent to, though.
But Kentuck never got to tell me. I went to
find some sheets of paper and one of those feather quill pens
everybody uses. I couldn’t use my vidpad in front of him. Though
maybe, if he was dying, why not? It wouldn’t mess up history too
much for him to have seen it, would it?
Anyway, when I got back to where Floyd was
laying, he was gone. Just like that. From nothing more than what
seemed like a real bad flu. Lewis called it something else — like
that thing babies get — cholera? No — colicky, that’s it. Cholic.
I didn’t know that could kill you.
“We name this river Floyd’s River,” Clark
said at the funeral. We buried him on a hill in a really pretty
spot, and the men in the Corps fired off their guns. Cruzatte
played a sad fiddle tune, and Seaman howled, so it was an official
military event. I’d never been to anyone’s funeral before.
“We name this hill Floyd’s Bluff. Both will
bear his name for ages afterward, and those names will tell of his
great deeds. He was a brave and worthy man. And now he’s gone.”
Clark wasn’t a preacher and there didn’t
seem to be much more to say. He turned to the other captain.
“Meriwether?”
Meriwether shook his head. “Kentuck was
among the most cheerful of us,” he added. “The universe doesn’t
always reward cheerfulness. Perhaps, in honor of our friend, we
should all remain cheerful, out of spite. May God take his
soul.”
No one said anything else, but really, how
could they? They were all trying to figure out what Lewis
meant.
Everybody took a turn putting a shovelful of
dirt on Kentuck’s body. It was wrapped in an American flag, and I
could actually see his feet sticking out from it, down in the hole.
I put some dirt on him, too.
That must be why there always seems to be a
tiny part inside grownups that seems a little sad, because if you
live long enough, you see it. You know .
People go. Places, things.
You love them, and they still go. Thea knows
that now. Look what happened to her mom.
Even being unstuck in time, like I am, you
don’t get “do overs.” Not really. You can’t hold on to
everything.
Or anything. Sometimes.
Standing on Floyd’s Bluff, I couldn’t
remember from school if anyone on the Lewis and Clark expedition
actually died. What if they hadn’t, originally? What if I caused
that by being here, by changing history?
That’s what’s going through my head now,
here on Good Humor Island, with this big museum gun in my hand,
pointed at people I hardly even know. I’m pretty sure Lewis and
Clark survived, but what if my changing things means, this time,
they don’t?
What if things go really wrong in the next
few minutes, and a lot of us don’t even make it out of here?
“Eli?”
It’s York. The Indians seem fascinated by
him. They were touching his skin before. They’ve seen French fur
traders coming down the river, but they’ve never seen a black man.
It’s hard to imagine a time in America when having different skin
color was unusual.
“What is it, Mr. York?”
“You ready to fire that thing, if you have
to?”
“I’ve never fired a gun before. I’ve never
killed a person.”
“Well, me neither.”
“And I’m not going to start now! This isn’t
some Comnet game!”
“Some what?”
On the shore, the Indian boy, with his bow
and arrow, is watching me talk to York. You can see his eyes follow
us every time we shift positions.
I’d like to throw my gun down, to show how
ridiculous I think this all is, but
would be another kind of death.
Maybe the Lakota thought that by killing us,
they could just put that particular death off a little while
longer.
“I am going away,” Floyd had told me, right
before he died. “I want you to write me a letter.”
I was sitting there, silently, just like
Clark wanted me to. Not asking about “Fives” or anything else. I
thought Clark wouldn’t mind if I asked who Floyd wanted the letter
sent to, though.
But Kentuck never got to tell me. I went to
find some sheets of paper and one of those feather quill pens
everybody uses. I couldn’t use my vidpad in front of him. Though
maybe, if he was dying, why not? It wouldn’t mess up history too
much for him to have seen it, would it?
Anyway, when I got back to where Floyd was
laying, he was gone. Just like that. From nothing more than what
seemed like a real bad flu. Lewis called it something else — like
that thing babies get — cholera? No — colicky, that’s it. Cholic.
I didn’t know that could kill you.
“We name this river Floyd’s River,” Clark
said at the funeral. We buried him on a hill in a really pretty
spot, and the men in the Corps fired off their guns. Cruzatte
played a sad fiddle tune, and Seaman howled, so it was an official
military event. I’d never been to anyone’s funeral before.
“We name this hill Floyd’s Bluff. Both will
bear his name for ages afterward, and those names will tell of his
great deeds. He was a brave and worthy man. And now he’s gone.”
Clark wasn’t a preacher and there didn’t
seem to be much more to say. He turned to the other captain.
“Meriwether?”
Meriwether shook his head. “Kentuck was
among the most cheerful of us,” he added. “The universe doesn’t
always reward cheerfulness. Perhaps, in honor of our friend, we
should all remain cheerful, out of spite. May God take his
soul.”
No one said anything else, but really, how
could they? They were all trying to figure out what Lewis
meant.
Everybody took a turn putting a shovelful of
dirt on Kentuck’s body. It was wrapped in an American flag, and I
could actually see his feet sticking out from it, down in the hole.
I put some dirt on him, too.
That must be why there always seems to be a
tiny part inside grownups that seems a little sad, because if you
live long enough, you see it. You know .
People go. Places, things.
You love them, and they still go. Thea knows
that now. Look what happened to her mom.
Even being unstuck in time, like I am, you
don’t get “do overs.” Not really. You can’t hold on to
everything.
Or anything. Sometimes.
Standing on Floyd’s Bluff, I couldn’t
remember from school if anyone on the Lewis and Clark expedition
actually died. What if they hadn’t, originally? What if I caused
that by being here, by changing history?
That’s what’s going through my head now,
here on Good Humor Island, with this big museum gun in my hand,
pointed at people I hardly even know. I’m pretty sure Lewis and
Clark survived, but what if my changing things means, this time,
they don’t?
What if things go really wrong in the next
few minutes, and a lot of us don’t even make it out of here?
“Eli?”
It’s York. The Indians seem fascinated by
him. They were touching his skin before. They’ve seen French fur
traders coming down the river, but they’ve never seen a black man.
It’s hard to imagine a time in America when having different skin
color was unusual.
“What is it, Mr. York?”
“You ready to fire that thing, if you have
to?”
“I’ve never fired a gun before. I’ve never
killed a person.”
“Well, me neither.”
“And I’m not going to start now! This isn’t
some Comnet game!”
“Some what?”
On the shore, the Indian boy, with his bow
and arrow, is watching me talk to York. You can see his eyes follow
us every time we shift positions.
I’d like to throw my gun down, to show how
ridiculous I think this all is, but
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