The One Who Yawns

by Mike Mayak

AUTHOR’S NOTE: The draws for the November 2023 Flash Fiction Draw Challenge were: Historical Fiction, set in a Railroad Car involving an Antique Cola Bottle.

I realize that the term used for First Nations People in this story is out of fashion today, but it is what my narrator would probably have used about one hundred and fifteen years ago. I offer my apologies. —-mike

It was the middle of the night. The train car was rocking back and forth. I was starting to breathe easier; we were halfway there. The old man, wrapped in a blanket with ancient designs sat in the seat facing me. I was just glad there weren’t that many people in this railroad car and that most people couldn’t tell one old Indian from another.

What we were doing was a mercy. “The One Who Yawns,” to translate his name, was being held prisoner by the government and was no danger to anybody. He told me the Spirits had let him know that his time was short.

And maybe the spirits had told me the same thing.

There was a loyal old man in his tribe who felt moved by the spirits to pretend to be The One Who Yawns and take his place so The One Who Yawns could go home.

It wasn’t that difficult to swap one old man for the other. As I said, most White people weren’t going to bother looking too close. Not in 1906. So I was taking him to his home to die in the ways of his people.

I reached into my coat pocket. I had forgotten about the small bottle I had gotten from the ice chest on my way back to my seat. I handed the bottle to the man who (for the duration of the trip) was calling himself “Fire on the Prairie.” I pried open the lid and indicated that he should drink.

“It’s something new,” I said. “It’s really good. It’s fizzy.”

Suspiciously, The One Who Yawns smelled it, sipped it and then took another sip. He gave me a slight smile.

We rode on in silence.

Just before dawn we stopped at a little town and stepped off the train. As the train pulled away two more Indians walked up, much younger than I was. They explained that they had brought horses and that The One Who Yawns was going to ride with them. Home.

The One Who Yawns nodded at me slightly. “Thanks,” he said quietly. Then he handed me the empty cola bottle and gave me the biggest smile I had seen in a long while.

Then they rode off.

My own friends, with a horse, would arrive several hours later. I couldn’t go back to Fort Sill, so I planned to hit the Oregon Territory. Which is where I was when I heard that the man the world thought was The One Who Yawns had died a prisoner of war and had been buried at the cemetery there.

Last I heard of the real The One Who Yawns, he had outlived his double and was awaiting the call of The Great Spirit.

Maybe that same spirit allowed me to live to be 103 years old, to tell you the story I’ve kept to myself for over sixty years and explain why I have an empty soda bottle set on the mantle, in a place of honor.

—end—

AUTHOR’S ADDENDA: Oh, and The One Who Yawns was a real person. He is believed to have died in 1909 and to be buried in Ft. Sill, OK. —–mike