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Cloud Hauler
12 March 2008 19:26He is the cloud hauler.
A tall man with long arms. The year is 1865. He is dressed in a well-cut black suit. The suit itself is creased shiny at the joints with inattention, and he is dusty.
For the moment.
While most men in this time ride horses, the cloud hauler rides a bicycle. A heavy monster with large springs under the saddle, it is a dark metal steed that will not shy at lightning or bolt at thunder.
His legs are thick and his carriage, while lean, is well muscled.
He’s paid well for what he does. His throwing arm is respected in the six towns he services on the coast. His accuracy with a knife or ax is legend.
His accuracy with a lasso, however, is whispered with disbelieving awe. The tales need faith to be believed. None scoff outright but few dare to lend the claims full credence. They shake their heads with a smile and go about their daily business.
He is a tall tale for children. Whatever bar he’s in, he only drinks water. The cloud hauler’s small eyes glint darkly, set in a face made of shrewd silence. His is a solitary existence.
The cloud hauler, when called on, is summoned by telegraph. He rides out to the town in question, his wheels spinning up dust and leaving the trail of twin snakes in the dirt behind him.
Whether called on to relieve a drought or pre-empt a flooding, the process is the same.
He must throw his lasso up onto a jut of the thunderhead, the cloudprow, the cumulus spur, and tie the other end to his bicycle. Then with great will and strength of focus, he must pedal slowly forward in the desired direction. The rope will be taut and his jaw will clench with the effort. His legs will shake at the inches gained.
His feet must not touch the ground as he pedals away for if he does, the electrical current pounding its way down the rope will go to ground through him and render him a cinder.
The cloud will try to stay, much as a petulant child would be dragged away from a fair. It will retain its cohesion so long as its simple intelligence remains fat with rain, lightning and dark intent.
The cloud hauler must drag the cloud to a clear patch of uninhabited prairie. There, the cloud can lose attention and become distracted by separate notions. The sun will dissipate it as it loses the reasons for its zeal. The cloud will lighten, drift into smaller wisps, and stop crying. It will no longer strike the ground beneath it.
The smaller elements of cloud will drift without care, seeking each other out in the fullness of time until a critical mass will once again churn electricity and hatred for the towns beneath itself and the cycle will start again.
The cloud hauler may only touch the ground after the lightning and rain has stopped and not before. Soaked and wild-haired, he will put his feet down, reborn and cleaner that most in this age, and pedals quickly but aimlessly back to town for payment. This is the only time he smiles.
He thinks to himself of a time where the cities outnumber the miles of clear prairie with great fear. He will not live to see it but he wonders how those future cityfolk will deal with rainclouds.
tags
A tall man with long arms. The year is 1865. He is dressed in a well-cut black suit. The suit itself is creased shiny at the joints with inattention, and he is dusty.
For the moment.
While most men in this time ride horses, the cloud hauler rides a bicycle. A heavy monster with large springs under the saddle, it is a dark metal steed that will not shy at lightning or bolt at thunder.
His legs are thick and his carriage, while lean, is well muscled.
He’s paid well for what he does. His throwing arm is respected in the six towns he services on the coast. His accuracy with a knife or ax is legend.
His accuracy with a lasso, however, is whispered with disbelieving awe. The tales need faith to be believed. None scoff outright but few dare to lend the claims full credence. They shake their heads with a smile and go about their daily business.
He is a tall tale for children. Whatever bar he’s in, he only drinks water. The cloud hauler’s small eyes glint darkly, set in a face made of shrewd silence. His is a solitary existence.
The cloud hauler, when called on, is summoned by telegraph. He rides out to the town in question, his wheels spinning up dust and leaving the trail of twin snakes in the dirt behind him.
Whether called on to relieve a drought or pre-empt a flooding, the process is the same.
He must throw his lasso up onto a jut of the thunderhead, the cloudprow, the cumulus spur, and tie the other end to his bicycle. Then with great will and strength of focus, he must pedal slowly forward in the desired direction. The rope will be taut and his jaw will clench with the effort. His legs will shake at the inches gained.
His feet must not touch the ground as he pedals away for if he does, the electrical current pounding its way down the rope will go to ground through him and render him a cinder.
The cloud will try to stay, much as a petulant child would be dragged away from a fair. It will retain its cohesion so long as its simple intelligence remains fat with rain, lightning and dark intent.
The cloud hauler must drag the cloud to a clear patch of uninhabited prairie. There, the cloud can lose attention and become distracted by separate notions. The sun will dissipate it as it loses the reasons for its zeal. The cloud will lighten, drift into smaller wisps, and stop crying. It will no longer strike the ground beneath it.
The smaller elements of cloud will drift without care, seeking each other out in the fullness of time until a critical mass will once again churn electricity and hatred for the towns beneath itself and the cycle will start again.
The cloud hauler may only touch the ground after the lightning and rain has stopped and not before. Soaked and wild-haired, he will put his feet down, reborn and cleaner that most in this age, and pedals quickly but aimlessly back to town for payment. This is the only time he smiles.
He thinks to himself of a time where the cities outnumber the miles of clear prairie with great fear. He will not live to see it but he wonders how those future cityfolk will deal with rainclouds.
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