Journals of Journeys Journals of Spiritual, Emotional and Life-Altering Journeys

The Transcontinental Railroad by Z-dude

“The Transcontinental Railroad”

Spear on my back, arrow in my right hand, and bow in my left. Lay ahead of me, the buffalo that roamed and feasted on the grassy meadow, the mighty kill. I kneeled down, then fell on my stomach, then went into a full out crawl. I pulled the bow up, aligned the arrow, and pulled back the string until my muscles couldn’t take any more.

The horn blew, the buffalo stepped forward, and then came the noise that echoed through the valley that my people often heard before the buffalo fell. I didn’t think it was possible, or true, until the buffalo fell. What followed was the laughter, heard far away, from the terrible machine that always passed and made weird noises like an extraordinary animal.

The waste of meat, bones, and the hide that was used to make my tepees. My family needed it, needed it all. The tepee needed patching due to the water wear, we needed more eating utensils, and I needed more weapons now that my father had risen up to be one with the bear in the sky.

The gold stake was driven nineteen moons ago. Since then the black smoke maker rumbled in the night. The buffalo had been disappearing since, and if the buffalo were disappearing, my people were to go along with them.

Three weeks before the driving of the golden spike:

I sit down on the log along with Kohla, my sister. The fire burns and rises up to point to the stars above. The sticks crack in a rhythm tonight, and the sparks rise and dance in the cold wind. I grab a rock of obsidian, along with another rock, and start rubbing them and sharpening them for better and newer arrowheads so I can hunt with ones that are sharper than my father’s old, worn arrowheads.

The shouting starts from the tepee behind me, I drop the obsidian and run to the entrance. There, in the middle Koluku, a friend of mine and tribe mate, stands with a wooden club. The light shimmers through the tepee, shining gold on the walls. I follow it to the red hair on the white man’s head.

The man was murmuring to himself with his hands on his shins and blood seeping through his fingers. I grimace. Koluku raises the club, and strikes as hard as possible. The man screams in agony, his hand crunched where the club struck.

I walk forward, raising my hand in front of Koluku’s chest. Crouching I stick my hand out to grasp the white man’s chin. I turn his head so he is staring into my eyes. Fear, hunger, pain, and shock is etched in his eyes, it sunk down into his brain. I let go and shoo Koluku.

I run out of the tepee and to the warm fire, and lean to the buffalo meat in the center. A handful is as much as I can take. I run back and grab the crippled hand of the white man and place the meat in it, then nod. His hand shakes and quivers as he pulls it to his mouth. The meat falls on the red dirt he sits on.

Tears form under his eyes then fall to the meat. He shivers tremendously, and then cries out in agony.

Present

I walk towards the dead buffalo, my hands shaking as I put them on the animal’s back. The tears formed the same way they always do, the Irishman's and yours. The tears fall on the mammal’s fur that shimmers in the sun, and ruffles in the wind. My legs aren’t broken, my hands are not crippled, but the pain is the same as the Irishman’s. The pain of knowing your death.

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This was written by my son, Z-dude, for his history class project. When I first read it, I was moved to the point of tears. What an incredible story, don't you agree?