The Cry of the Wind

by Kurt R A Giambastiani

  Sharp Knife struggled but Storm Arriving gripped him even tighter. “You have a cousin,” he said, “who has a wife he captured from these people. This is true?”

  Sharp Knife quieted, but his hands gripped Storm Arriving’s arms like talons. “Yes,” the man said. “It is true.”

  “And how do you think his wife would react, should we bring a party of Crow People into the Great Circle of the People?”

  Sharp Knife growled. “I do not know.”

  “You do know,” Storm Arriving said. “You know just how she would react. And you know what your cousin would do, as well.”

  Sharp Knife pulled again at the arms that bound him, but Storm Arriving let him go. By the way his soldier moved away instead of forward, he could tell that the point had been made and the crisis was past.

  From the edge of the crowd, the Crow man held his moaning wife and glared at Storm Arriving and his soldiers.

  “You leave her alone,” he told them, and then dragged her unconscious form back into the crowd.

  The crowd itself drew back, surprised and perhaps disappointed by the display of control exhibited by both sides. Storm Arriving spoke again to his men.

  “Remember why we are here,” he said, and with a quick glance and a forward movement of his hands, signed his thanks to Whistling Elk.

  The Crow soldiers who had their charge now regarded them with a different aspect, Storm Arriving noticed. As they headed forward toward the heart of the encampment, they were led not by pushes and shoves, but with beckoning hands, with gestures, and calm words. It was not respect, but it was better than being herded like animals. Storm Arriving felt the tension ease in the men all around him.

  They were led to a tall lodge in the middle of the central arm of the camp, the crowd following them in relative quiet. The lodgeskins had been painted with designs in yellow, red, and black. Flowers, birds, whistlers, and other animals were in the designs, as were men, arrows, and rifles, all in a jumble, the meaning of which was unclear. One thing was easily divined, however. Storm Arriving nudged Whistling Elk and pointed upward.

  The lodgepoles poked up out of the smokehole at the top of the lodge, reaching up into the sunlight. Hanging from several of the lodgepole tips were over-the-smokes, fashioned of scalps taken in battle. Some had black hair that might have come from some of the neighboring tribes, but many had hair that shone brown, yellow, or even red as they twisted in the breeze.

  Vé’ho’e scalps.

  The doorflap to the lodge opened and several men emerged. They were older men with grey in their hair and deep wrinkles in their long faces, but their eyes were still bright, and there was an athletic caution in their every move. These were old warriors, men who bore themselves with a grace and power that had barely begun to fade.

  Storm Arriving gave an inward groan. Treating with men such as these would be much more difficult than dealing with peace chiefs. These were men whom he may have met in battle, and who may even have borne scars put there by his own hand.

  “Broken Fang,” said one of the chiefs to the soldier who had found them. “What do you mean, bringing such refuse into our camp?”

  The soldier named Broken Fang straightened at the rebuke. “These men are from the Cut-Arm people,” he said, naming the People by their tradition of sacrificing strips of skin from their forearms. “We found them on the eastern ridge, and would have killed them, but they said they came to speak to our chiefs, and to talk of peace.”

  One of the chiefs laughed out loud. “Peace? With the Cut-Arm People? They have been our most bitter enemy since the time of my grandfather’s grandfather. This is just a ruse, to keep their scalps on their heads.”

  “I am not so sure,” said Broken Fang, and the chiefs were surprised by the statement.

  “Explain,” another chief demanded.

  Broken Fang looked uncomfortable at having to defend Storm Arriving and his party. “From the very first,” he told the chiefs, “they would not fight us. They did not even defend themselves. We charged them, and struck them all several times, but they refused to move, even when provoked.”

  “And just now,” said another soldier, pointing at Storm Arriving, “that one held back one of the others when Red Wolf’s second wife came to them for help.”

  “You saw this?” asked the first chief of Broken Fang.

  “Yes. I saw.”

  The other chief discounted it. “Just saving their skins,” he said.

  But Storm Arriving saw the glimmer of a question on the first chief’s face. He wanted to speak to the chief, and to tell them all of what they had come to do, but these were savvy men. He could not seem too eager, for eagerness could be misconstrued as fearfulness, and a fearful man would promise anything to save his life.

  The sun stood still in the sky and Storm Arriving was sure his heart had frozen in his breast as the others deferred to the first chief, waiting for his decision on what to do with the interlopers. The chief studied him, studied them all one by one.

  Ask me, Storm Arriving silently urged him. Ask me.

  “Tell me,” the chief said, “why I should listen to a man from the Cut-Arm People.”

  His heart was beating so fast and hard it felt like a herd of buffalo within his ribcage. He felt the tremor in his muscles and feared that his voice might quaver. He prayed for strength, for in front of these chiefs and before the people who were gathered on the slope behind him, weakness was the last thing he wanted to present.

  Then, with signs and words, he spoke to the chief.

  “I thank you for hearing me, Grandfather, but it is not just the Cut-Arm People who wish to speak to you.” He turned to indicate his men as he introduced them. “Three of us represent the tribe you call the Cut-Arm People, but with us, too, are men from our kin the Sage People and the Cloud People. We also bring men from our friends the Inviters, from the Little Star People, from the Cut-Hair People, and from the Earth Lodge Builders. We even bring men from the Wolf People, and from the Greasy Wood People, both long-time enemies of my tribe. We are all here; we have all stopped warring against one another and joined in a great alliance against a common enemy, and it is this alliance that we come to extend to you and the entire Crow People. We can help each other. We can fight this enemy together.”

  The chiefs looked at one another, dumbfounded by the pronouncement. Some wanted to take offense and spoke to one another in urgent words that Storm Arriving could not quite understand. Behind him, the crowd, too, grew uneasy, unwilling to trust or even think of trusting this offer of peace. But the first chief, the one Storm Arriving took to be the principal chief, held them off with a raised hand.

  “What is the common enemy of which you speak?”

  “Grandfather,” Storm Arriving said, pointing to the red-haired scalps overhead, “I speak of the vé’hó’e, whom the Inviters call wasitchu.”

  “The whites?” the second chief exclaimed.

  “We trade with the whites in the north,” said another.

  “But we fight them, too,” one man offered.

  “I would sooner trust a whiteman than these dogs!”

  Things had shifted, and not for the better. The principal chief was listening to the crowd, gauging their opinion, and if these chiefs governed in any way similar to the chiefs of the People, Storm Arriving was losing the argument.

  “Do something,” Sharp Knife said.

  “What can I do?” he said, hearing disfavor grow in the crowd.

  Whistling Elk leaned close. “They must have a reason to trust us. What would convince you?”

  Storm Arriving thought quickly, searching his own mind for what a Crow man could do to earn his trust. Strength would not do it, nor would angry words or heartfelt warnings. Gifts would make him suspicious of the giver, and promises were cheap. A sacrifice of wealth or flesh would mean nothing to him. A Crow would have to sacrifice something from within, something that only he could give.

  His honor.

  “Shall I tell you
why you should trust us?” he asked.

  The chiefs grew still, and Storm Arriving turned to speak to the crowd as well.

  “Shall I tell you why you should trust us before you trust the whites?” he said, loud enough for his voice to echo through the vale. “Because it is time. Because the whites come at us from the east, just as they come at you from the north. Because neither of us can fight them alone. And because it is time, time for those of us who have lived on these lands forever to say, ‘Enough!’”

  He turned back to the chiefs but kept his words strong enough to reach the crowd.

  “Someone must come forward and be the first. Someone must say I have more in common with you than I do with them. Someone must say, even with all our war and all the blood we have shed, I know you, and you know me. Someone must be the first to forgive the other. And I will be that one.”

  He turned once more and addressed the throng on the downhill slope.

  “I am Storm Arriving, son of Yellow Tail of the Tree People band, and my line has suffered at the hands of the Crow People. My great-grandfather, Black Knife, lost two of his sons to Crow raiders. After my father’s birth, my grandmother, named Sky Woman was carried off during a Crow raid; she was taken to the woods, raped, and then cut open and left for the wolves. My father, a rich and generous man, had his entire flock of whistlers run off and stolen by your soldiers, ruining his fortunes and making him a man who had to live on the charity of others for many years, until I was old enough to help him build them back. All of these things have befallen my family, brought by you.”

  The litany tore at his pride, and gripped his heart with shame, but to stop now would be to achieve nothing.

  “I said that someone must be the first, and I tell you that I will be that one. I say to you all, here, in your midst, and of my own free will, that I forgive these wrongs against my family. I forgive all wrongs my family has suffered at your hands, and say that now and forever, I will seek neither revenge nor retribution against you.”

  His words hung in the cold sunshine, buoyed up by the stone cliffs and the stunned silence of those around him. No one spoke. No one moved. No one was sure what was to be done next.

  “My name is Whistling Elk,” said a clear, strong voice. “My father was Running Bear who died fighting a Crow war party at Little Sheep River, thirty-eight years after the star fell. I will be second. I forgive all wrongs done to me by the Crow People, and promise to never seek revenge or retribution against you.”

  “My name is Sharp Knife, and I will be third.”

  The testaments and exculpation proceeded through the entire party and when they were done, Storm Arriving turned to the chiefs of the Crow People.

  “That is why you should trust us.”

  The chiefs conferred among themselves. Storm Arriving looked up at the heavens, at a sky as pale as a year-old robin’s egg strewn with white scarves that billowed in distant winds. Though the air was cold, the sun shone with a gentle warmth and a touch as tender as a lover’s hand, and he thought of Speaks While Leaving and their last parting.

  They had argued before, the two of them, but this felt different. With her, he could never make himself bend. Though he loved her more than any other person in the world, too often he found himself on the other side of the argument, unwilling to give, unwilling sometimes even to listen. He was always aware of whom he had married—Speaks While Leaving, seeress, visionary, a woman whose life was already legend—a fact he could never forget. His spirit fought hers, struggled for its own place next to hers, but he always felt overshadowed or, more truly, outshone.

  But here, in this place, it was he who shone. Here he was the one making legends come true and, as the sun rained down on his face, he felt it light him and only him. This was his realm; more than just battles, but surrounded by his soldiers, speaking with chiefs and warriors, determining the fate of peoples. He might not be able to see the future, but he could affect the present by influencing the course of nations. This was his destiny. This felt right.

  Looking back down toward the Crow chiefs, however, he wondered what this role might cost him.

  The chiefs had come to a decision, but the principal chief addressed not him, but the crowd of villagers.

  “These men may stay among us for a time, while we think over what it is they have said here, and what they offer us. I, Grey Feather, and the other chiefs who stand here with me, vouch for their safety. Any person who goes against this will meet harsh treatment.” And to Storm Arriving and the others he said, “You may camp down by the river. Broken Fang will show you where. We will call for you in the morning.” He turned and walked back inside the lodge, the other chiefs accompanying him.

  Storm Arriving exchanged glances with his colleagues. Sharp Knife looked worried. Knee Prints by the Bank was surprised. Whistling Elk, though, was smiling, and as they turned to head toward their camping place, he put an arm around Storm Arriving’s shoulders.

  “You see?” he said enthusiastically. “It has been an interesting time, no? This will make a wonderful story when we get back home.”

  “If we make it home,” Sharp Knife said. “We are still a long way away.”

  Whistling Elk chuckled. “But closer now than we were a short while ago.”

  Storm Arriving had to agree, but he was reluctant to hope. The crowd had not dissipated, and Broken Fang had to push his way through as he led them down toward the river. The faces that glared at them were still angry and distrustful, though they no longer threatened.

  Near the river was a clearing where pines leaned out over the snow-covered banks, and the sound of trickling snowmelt could be heard from under the river ice. Broken Fang and his fellow soldiers tied the whistlers’ halter ropes to a sapling.

  “We will keep your weapons,” he said, “but you can have your animals. If you want to ride away in the night, it will be all right with me.”

  “What if someone attacks us in the night?” Sharp Knife asked.

  “No one will,” Broken Fang said. “You heard what Grey Feather said. He vouched for your safety.”

  That wasn’t enough for Storm Arriving. “Grey Feather also said that anyone who defied the ruling would be dealt with harshly. I do not want to be left defenseless should someone decide to risk it.”

  “You call us liars?”

  “No,” he said quickly. “I say that many of you have good cause to hate us, and though I have vowed never to make war upon you again, the Crow People have not made such a vow.”

  Broken Fang looked to his fellows, and relented. “We will keep your rifles,” he said, and then turned over their knives and other weaponry.

  The night passed uneasily, and even though they set watches to guard against possible attack, no man slept but in winks and nods. They huddled close together, encircled by their whistlers’ hunched forms, listening to the wails of renewed grief that their appearance had brought, and the sounds of raised voices as people argued old causes over dying fires. Through the night, Storm Arriving wondered what might happen. Even when his watch was through and he leaned back against his whistler’s soft warmth, his gaze was drawn toward the tall lodge up in the central arm of the camp. The lodge glowed with firelight, and the dark designs on its skins seemed to dance with one another, even though the fires in neighboring homes had been doused. His whistler sighed—a huge, heaving motion that settled him closer along her side—and he struggled against sleep, watching to see if the light went out in the chiefs’ lodge, hoping that it would not, hoping that the chiefs would talk through the night, for he knew that hard decisions never came quickly, but only in their own time.

  He awoke not knowing that he had slept. His side ached where the Crow soldier had kicked him the day before, and as he rolled over, the ache bloomed into a pain that drew his breath short. He lay back, waiting for the pain to ebb, and peered at the world.

  The sky draped between the valley walls was heavy with cloud and glimmering with the encroaching dawn. He looked up tow
ard the chiefs’ lodge. It was dark in the growing light, and no smoke rose from it. The chiefs had disbanded, but he had no notion of when.

  Knee Prints by the Bank was on guard, and he smiled a good morning as Storm Arriving emerged from beneath his blanket.

  Did you see them go home? he asked with his hands, pointing up to the lodge.

  Yes, Knee Prints by the Bank signaled. Not long ago.

  Storm Arriving smiled, hopeful for the first time.

  When the sun had risen enough to light the western rim of the valley, they were called back to the tall lodge. This time, however, they were ushered within and seated on the right-hand side. A new fire had been laid in the central hearth, and across the fire from them sat Grey Feather and several other chiefs, some of whom they had not met the previous day. In front of them lay the rifles that Storm Arriving and the others had brought with them.

  “We cannot accept your offer of peace,” Grey Feather said, and Storm Arriving felt his jaw drop open. He was about to speak when Grey Feather held up his hand.

  “We must first have some assurances,” the chief added.

  Storm Arriving felt his heart begin to beat again. Not trusting his voice, he signed with his hands. Yes. What do you need?

  Grey Feather indicated the chiefs with him. “We all agree that the whites are a danger to us. They make like friends, and they trade for our furs, but they bring us the crazy-water that burns the throat, and they take our lands and our game. They have driven an iron road across the land up north, and they kill our buffalo shamefully, taking only skins and tongues, leaving the rest to rot in the sun. They are a dead people, unconnected to living things, which is why their flesh is so pale. We fight them, but they keep coming.”

  Storm Arriving motioned, now eager to speak, and Grey Feather gave him permission. “That is why we must join our forces,” he told the chief. “You cannot do it alone. Neither can we. But if you help us in the south, we will help you in the north. If we work together, we will be stronger.”

  Grey Feather frowned and looked down at the rifles that lay before him. “You ask too much,” he said, “without offering anything in return. Peace between our tribes would be one thing, and if that was all you asked, we should agree, but we will not agree to help you unless you help us first.”