Chapter 30: The Man in White

The longhouse door creaked open against a gust of snow-laden wind, revealing four silhouettes backlit by the storm’s gray glare. Wind Rider’s fingers twitched toward his absent rifle—left outside in ceremonial deference—as his eyes adjusted to the newcomers.

The tallest figure wore a white parka that shouldn’t exist in this century, its synthetic fibers still shedding snowflakes that beaded instead of melting. The man’s hood framed a face weathered beyond its years, his close-cropped beard frosted with ice. When he shrugged back the hood, Wind Rider saw the faded eagle insignia of a U.S. Army officer.

“Jesus Christ,” the man in white murmured—not in Comanche or French but in English, his voice raw as if unused for months. His cracked lips split into a grin when he spotted Wind Rider’s cracked boots. “Those are fucking standard-issue ICBs. Where the hell—”

The Potawatomi chief – recognizable by the otter pelts crossed over his chest – elbowed him sharply. The Sioux elder beside them cleared his throat, his breath clouding as he spoke in accented French: “We bring greetings from the Three Fires Council.” His gaze flicked to Walking Stick’s staff. “And condolences for Last Summer’s flood.”

Grandmother Flint stepped forward, her vertebrae braids clicking. “You smell like lightning too,” she announced, sniffing the white-clad soldier. “But stale. Like storm clouds trapped in a cave.”

The man barked a laugh, then switched to fluent Sioux with hand gestures Wind Rider didn’t recognize. The Ojibwe chief – a wiry woman with porcupine quills woven into her hair – leaned in, sniffed the soldier’s sleeve, and recoiled. “He reeks of the metal birds!” she hissed in Algonquin.

Wind Rider’s pulse hammered against his ribs. He’d seen that parka before—in a pre-mission briefing about Cold War-era Arctic gear. The soldier caught his stare and winked with glacial slowness, like a man moving through syrup.

Walking Stick’s staff thumped against the packed earth. “You know this ghost?” he asked Wind Rider in Comanche.

Before he could answer, the white-clad stranger switched languages mid-breath—from Sioux to bastardized French peppered with English obscenities. “Name’s Captain Elias Graves, 10th Mountain Division.” He slapped his chest, making the synthetic fabric crinkle unnaturally. “Got tossed here in a tornado amid a blizzard—storm came down like God’s fucking hairdryer.” His gaze flicked to Winona’s belly, then away. “Took me six months to stop puking from temporal displacement sickness. These lovely people,” – he jerked a thumb at the stoic Sioux elder – “figured I was some kind of lightning-struck prophet. Been teaching them how to make penicillin from moldy bread.”