“How much trouble?”
“We must leave the country.”
She took it like a blow, stepping back with the force of it. “Leave the country? But surely the viceroy—”
Alejandro sneered. From his coat pocket, he produced the viceroy’s letter, and held it out to her. “The viceroy has recalled me.”
Her cheeks colored as she read. “You should say he has abandoned you!” She tossed the letter on the desk and walked away from him, her hands in tiny balls at her sides. “I know what you were trying to do, Alejandro, and he should have been thankful for your daring. An independent Indian nation would have opened a door for the Spanish throne.”
“He was just looking for an excuse,” Alejandro said.
“Serrano-Ruiz was a fool not to support you completely.” She came close to him again, took his hand up in hers, kissed it, and held it to her breast. “He has always denied you your proper place at court. But he has missed his chance. You will find another champion.”
“Who?” he asked her. “Anyone who took on such a challenge would still have to deal with Serrano-Ruiz.”
“Anyone but someone higher than Serrano-Ruiz,” she said plainly.
“Higher than...higher than the viceroy?”
“Yes,” she said with a smile. “You must apply to the queen.”
He could not think of a response. The queen? María Cristina? To hope to engage the queen regent in his plans was...it was ludicrous.
“Why would Serrano-Ruiz allow me to take my case to the queen?”
“It is simple, my love. He will allow you to go to María Cristina because he believes you will fail, and by going to her, it marks you as a desperate man.”
“And if he is right? If she refuses?”
“Then she refuses, and the viceroy wins. But if she agrees....”
Alejandro shook his head, trying to maintain his sense amid the whirl of ideas and events. “Why would María Cristina want to involve herself in this mess?”
Victoria’s smile dazzled in the sunlight.
“Act boldly,” she said, “and bold things will happen.”
Chapter 4
Big Hoop and Stick Game Moon, Waning
Fifty-seven Years after the Star Fell
Winter Camp of Closed Windpipe Band
Alliance Territory
Storm Arriving scowled in frustration and stared at the logs that burned in the hearthpit of One Bear’s lodge. He took a measured breath himself and tried to explain it another way.
“If we wait until spring, it will be too late,” he said. Of the several men who sat around the fire, there were three whose opinion he hoped to sway. First was One Bear, his father-in-law and a respected peace chief of the Great Council whose stature had only grown with the sudden void left by the passing of Three Trees Together. Then there was Two Roads, the leader of the Kit Fox soldier society and a war chief for nearly twenty years, whose word would convince many others. And last there was Stands Tall in Timber, the holiest man among the People and the keeper of the Sacred Arrows. The others who completed the circle around the fire—while certainly influential men in their own rights—could not play as pivotal a role as the chiefs. The chiefs were key to not only winning the support of the Closed Windpipe band, but critical to building consensus among the entire People. If he could convince these three, they would convince others.
“To us,” he continued, “winter is a waiting time. We wait for the spring. We live off the stores and supplies gathered during the warmer moons. Our whistlers huddle close together and prepare their nests. Our walkers sleep under their leaf mounds until the sun’s road climbs higher into the sky. We wait.”
He looked at the men. The firelight glowed on their dark faces, glinted from their dark eyes. They were old men with hair as white as the snow outside the doubled lodgeskins, and young men with hair still as black as the night between the stars. They were elders, storytellers, medicine men, and soldiers. They were his friends. They were his family. They were his people, his clan, and his band, and they were the ones who he was trying to save.
“We wait,” he said, “but the bluecoats do not. For them, the winter is a building time. It is when they replenish their stores, not when they deplete them. It is when they grow fat, not when they grow thin. If we wait until spring to begin our work, the summer will be gone before we can act. The bluecoats will not wait for us. As it is, they will rise before we do. They will act in the spring. They will rise with the first grass and we will spend this year the same way as last year: running from them instead of chasing after them.”
Two Roads furrowed his brow as he considered what Storm Arriving had said. The war chief stared into the fire, his hands on his knees, and took a breath but One Bear broke the silence before Two Roads.
“My son-in-law is a fine soldier,” One Bear said. “And I am proud of him. His words, though, are a soldier’s words, and consider only the soldier’s path. We must also consider the other paths of life, and the actions that are appropriate to those paths.” He hesitated as he pondered his next words. “For many years we have walked the path of war against the vé’hó’e, and yet it has not helped us. We have taken the vé’ho’e weapons from the bluecoats, and we have used those weapons against them. We have taken the spirit of thunder from their iron roads, and we have used it against them. And now, Storm Arriving counsels us to adopt the vé’ho’e ways of war, to give up our traditions, to war in the depths of winter, even if it means abandoning our families’ needs. I cannot see that this will help us.”
He paused long enough for Whistling Elk to stretch good manners and slip into the gap to speak. “Storm Arriving is not speaking of making war, but of preparing for war,” he said in his soft, melodic voice. Whistling Elk was a man-becoming-woman known for his storytelling, his healing talents, and his bravery in battle. With his dual nature of both male and female, he often saw things in a way that eluded others, and thus his word carried special weight among the People. “The bluecoats push into our southlands, and we move away, crowding the Crow People to our north. If we do not act now and parley with the Crow People, we will soon be faced with war on two fronts: north and south. Storm Arriving merely suggests that we act now to prepare for this.”
“Preparing for war is the path of war,” One Bear said, reasserting his right to be heard with a brief glare sent at Whistling Elk. “Three Trees Together was leading us away from the path of war, and in his memory, I say that we should not run to it now. Using vé’ho’e ways has not helped us, and so I say we must return to our old ways. We need to renew our virtues. If we fast and make sacrifice and reconnect with the powers of our world, if we reestablish our bond with Maheo’o and the great spirits that stand at the four corners of the world, we will benefit from their strength. The People will be protected. The vé’hó’e will not find our camps. The lands they take from us will not support them. They will grow weak while we grow strong, and then...then the time will be ready for us to strike and push them from our lands.”
He held his right hand palm down and then turned it palm up, signifying his refusal. “I reject this preparation for war, and in my name and in the name of Three Trees Together, I shall work for peace.”
Hands signed and voices murmured as some of the group accepted the reasoning of One Bear as truth. Storm Arriving felt his stomach tighten.
“Not I,” came the rumbling gravel voice of Stands Tall in Timber. The Keeper of the Sacred Arrows stared into the flames, his eyes narrowed by hard thoughts. “Three Trees Together was my closest friend. From childhood we grew, living and fighting as brothers against the enemies of the People. I sang his death song on the steps of the great White House where Long Hair lives. I bore the stain of his blood on my hands and in my eyes. I bear that stain still.” He looked up from the flames, and his gaze swept the faces of those gathered in the lodge. “I will not work for peace simply because it is not war. The Crow People have been our enemies since before the star fell. We have worked long to weaken
them so that they would not threaten our northern border, and yet still they are strong. It is time we tried to use that strength, instead of fighting against it.”
“Three Trees Together would never condone this,” One Bear said.
“Three Trees Together is dead,” Stands Tall in Timber said. “You can pray for peace if you wish. I cannot tell you what to do. I shall be praying as well, but I shall be praying for vengeance, and for victory.”
One Bear folded his arms over his chest and Stands Tall in Timber leaned forward, elbows on his knees. Both men stared into the fire once more, their choices made, their opinions solidified. Storm Arriving knew that One Bear was lost to him; he would never be able to convince him of the wisdom of his plan, just as One Bear would never be able to convince Stands Tall in Timber that he was wrong. That meant two large factions of the tribe would line up behind the two men. He was glad for the backing of Stands Tall in Timber, for an endeavor such as this done without the benediction of the Sacred Arrows was sure to fail, but it still left Two Roads still undecided. As a war chief, he was often the last one to argue for war, but if the opinion of Two Roads could be won, it would break any deadlock, and so Storm Arriving made his appeal directly to the leader of the Kit Fox soldiers.
“Prayer and fasting and sacrifice are good things,” he said as he pulled aside the yoke of his tunic, showing the scars of the skin sacrifice he bore on his breast. “One Bear himself guided me through the ritual, and I hung from the pole for an entire day. That was the first time we went to the City of White Stone. But when we went, still we died. And still the bluecoats came. And still they kill our families, our wives, and our children.” He stood.
“Any man who is not convinced, any man who is not sure if war is the path we should take, come with me. There is someone I wish for you to hear.”
He walked away from the central hearth, careful not to interpose himself between any man and the fire’s light. Then he made his way around the edge of the lodge, pushed open the doorflap, and stepped outside.
The air grabbed him with chill hands, tightening the skin on his face and causing his loins to rise. The snow was knee-deep, and he plowed his way through it toward the packed snow of the well-trodden path. Once there, he turned and waited to see if anyone would follow him out.
The lodge glowed with the light from the fire, and he could hear someone speaking in a low, calm voice. All around him, fir trees stood like white-shrouded sentinels, and from the gap between them, the crescent moon smiled.
Or is it a frown? he asked himself. I suppose it depends on which way you look at it.
The doorflap opened again, and Storm Arriving felt his heart leap. A figure emerged, and he saw that it was only Whistling Elk.
“That was not very subtle,” Whistling Elk said, crunching through the snow to stand next to him.
“No,” Storm Arriving agreed. “But I need to make the point. Without Two Roads, I will never gain enough support.” He glanced at the storyteller. Whistling Elk wore a woman’s dress and when he sat before a fire he sat as a woman did, with his knees together and feet to one side, instead of cross-legged like a man. But he had the heart of a warrior, full of bravery and passion. “Thank you for speaking up, back there. I was beginning to feel all alone in this.”
Whistling Elk ducked his head and smiled at Storm Arriving’s expression of gratitude. “I only wish I could have done more,” he said. “As you said, we need Two Roads, and I do not know where he stands.”
Other men began to come out of the lodge.
“We will see soon enough,” he said.
First came Long Braid, a respected soldier of the Red Shield society. Behind him came Sharp Knife, one of the Little Bowstring soldiers. But when Two Roads emerged, Storm Arriving breathed a sigh. A few other men came out after Two Roads, but it was the leader of the Kit Fox soldiers that he had hoped to see.
Two Roads, the hawk feathers he wore in his braid shining in the moonlight, came up to Storm Arriving.
“Take us to this person you want us to hear,” Two Roads said.
In all they were eight men, and Storm Arriving led them off down the path. Their footsteps made the snow creak, but that was the only sound in the night. No one spoke as they walked down the slope, away from the more sheltered areas of the vale in which the Tree People had encamped. He led them past the watering place where the women came every morning to crack the ice and dip their waterskins, but when he turned away from the sledding hill where the children played, they all now knew to whose lodge they were headed. He heard one man harrumph.
“Why should we listen to him?” Long Braid asked.
Storm Arriving did not answer.
“He’s not to be trusted,” Long Braid went on. “None of the Wolf People should be trusted.”
“Storm Arriving trusts him,” Whistling Elk said.
“Storm Arriving saved his life. He has a soft heart for him,” Long Braid said. “It has clouded his reason.”
Two Roads stopped and turned to face Long Braid. “If Storm Arriving thinks this man has words I should hear,” he said, “then I want to hear them.”
They began walking again, and Long Braid did not say anything more. They left the path and crunched their way through the deeper drifts. As Storm Arriving pushed through the smooth, unbroken waves of snow, the moonlight glinted from them in sparkling stars.
Finally, the dark cone of a lonely lodge could be seen against the pale field of snow. Storm Arriving frowned at the lack of firelight. Even after being with the People for over a year, the family within was still struggling to find a peace with their new neighbors.
They stopped a few yards from the lodge.
“Haaahe,” he called out in greeting. “Are you there? It is Storm Arriving.”
Furtive movement and whispered conversation came from within, and the doorflap opened. Knee Prints by the Bank stepped outside, his grey hair blue in the moonlight.
“Haaahe,” he said, greeting them.
“I have brought some friends,” Storm Arriving said. “We wish to talk to you.”
“About what?”
“About the vé’hó’e, and what you told me the other day.”
Knee Prints by the Bank looked at the men for a long moment and then, in obvious decision, beckoned them within the lodge.
It was very dark within the lodge without a fire. The wife of Knee Prints by the Bank was blowing on the few coals she had banked against the morning, breathing life back into them and feeding them with small twigs. As the men sat down and as a flame was born in the coals, the conditions of the lodge became clear.
Knee Prints by the Bank and his wife, his two sons, his daughter, his sister-in-law, and his wife’s mother all lived in the one lodge. As recently as last fall, the wife’s elderly father had also lived with them, until an infection in a wound in his foot began to creep up to his calf, to his thigh, and finally reaching up to sour his heart. But even with the old man’s passing, they were still seven people in one lodge, without even a separate lodge for the women during their moon-time.
The lodge itself was in a sad state, made from cast-off skins. They did not even have an inner lining to help insulate against the winter’s cold. The light grew, and Storm Arriving saw that the women still wore their vé’ho’e-style dresses, and that Knee Prints by the Bank still wore his shirt of thin Trader’s cloth, all habits born of their time across the Big Greasy. He did not have to wonder why they were not doing better. Knee Prints by the Bank was not a young man, but his sons were not yet old enough to hunt with great proficiency. And, being members of the Wolf People, it had been difficult for them to make any friends among the People, their old enemies. Their vé’ho’e clothes and habits were necessitated by their poverty, not by their desire.
The small fire provided light though no warmth, and Storm Arriving could see his breath as he spoke. “I have brought these men to hear your words about the vé’hó’e, and why you came across the Big Greasy. I think it is im
portant for them to hear what you have to say and to hear it in your voice”
The women of the family huddled with the children, keeping one another warm as Knee Prints by the Bank sat cross-legged in the vá’ôhtáma, the place of honor at the back of the lodge.
“You all wish to hear this?” he asked.
The men all signed or spoke their agreement.
“As you wish.” He straightened his back and folded his arms across his chest. “When my father was a boy, my people used to hunt the lands up and down along the Big Greasy. By the time I was a boy, the vé’hó’e had pushed us out of some of the best lands to the east and south. We kept moving away from them, wanting only to live our lives. We would give them one area in exchange for peace, and when they broke their promises, we gave them another area, hoping that it would appease them. More and more land we gave them, and the land we reserved for ourselves became smaller and smaller, until at last we were left with a tenth of what we needed, and the smallest part of what we started with.”
“Why did you not fight them?” Long Braid asked, his disdain palpable in the words he spoke.
“We did fight them, but the vé’hó’e fight in strange ways. They do not stop when they are beaten, and they do not fight to victory. They fight to the death, always to the death. Death means nothing to the vé’hó’e. They make war as if they have an inexhaustible supply of soldiers, and perhaps they do.”
Storm Arriving remembered finding Knee Prints by the Bank and his family along the shores of the Big Greasy. “Tell them what made you leave your reserved lands,” he prompted.
Knee Prints by the Bank shrugged. “We were starving. We were sick. The vé’hó’e law said we could not leave our reserved lands to hunt. And then the vé’hó’e made another law. This law said that they could take our reserved lands and divide them, giving each man his own piece of the land. The bluecoat agents came to us and said we should make a mark on a piece of paper, and they would give us each a piece of our land. I said I do not need to make a mark. The land is already my land, but the bluecoat agents said that if I did not make a mark, I would not be given a piece of my land. I asked them, how can I live on a piece of land so small? I can shoot an arrow from one side to the other it is so small. How can I live this way? How can I hunt? How can I feed my family?” Knee Prints by the Bank paused in his tale and laughed; a sad, mournful thing. “The bluecoat agent said that I would plant seeds and grow crops.” His eyes glared at the small fire.
The Cry of the Wind Page 4