The Cry of the Wind

by Kurt R A Giambastiani

  “We are grateful for the help you gave us,” he said to them. “Our losses would have been greater. You saved lives today.”

  “But this man,” the scout said, pointing at Knee Prints by the Bank. “He said he came across the river. He said our tribes have made peace.”

  “It is true,” Storm Arriving said, “and you are welcome in Alliance lands.” The two younger men grinned, gripping each other’s forearms in excitement.

  “There is something I would ask you, first,” Storm Arriving continued. He glanced at them briefly, trying to judge these men who less than a hand of time before had been working for the vé’hó’e. The two scouts seemed open and genuinely eager at the prospect of moving into the Alliance lands; they did not seem stupid with the vé’ho’e drink; they looked neither devious nor suspicious. He glanced also at Knee Prints by the Bank and at Whistling Elk, trying to gauge their estimation of these young men. His two comrades knew nothing of what he intended, but their easiness and lack of concern about the scouts spoke eloquently of their opinions.

  “There are others like you?” he asked the scouts. “Others who are working for the bluecoats?”

  The cousins signaled with their hands that there were. “Many others,” Bear Wing said. “It is better than trying to grow seeds in the land. And against you”—He blushed and hung his head—”I am sorry, but we did not know that your people had become friends with us.”

  Storm Arriving pushed the concern away with a wave of his hand. “Our two peoples have greater concerns than our ancient grudges. The bluecoats are our concern, and protecting our territory is our concern. I ask you, rather than coming across the river, would you return to the bluecoats?”

  Knee Prints by the Bank was startled nearly to his feet. “What is this? After the help they give you, you send them back to the bluecoats?”

  Storm Arriving held up a hand. “They can be of help to us still,” he said. “If they return to the bluecoats, they can find others who might also help us. They can send us riders and information. They can tell where the bluecoats are and where they are going. They can be our eyes from inside.”

  “And what of their families?” Knee Prints by the Bank asked. “Shall they stay in bluecoat lands as well?”

  With a flip of his hand, he denied it. “Tell your families to come to us. From what my friend here has told me, your tribe is scattered and lost. Tell your families to come to us. They will be a part of the Alliance. And so will you, whether you return to work among the bluecoats or not. That is all I have to say.” He stood. The others stood, too. He turned and walked away. There were dead men to shroud for the trip home.

  At evening, as they were packing up the goods for the trip north and as patrols were calling in the last straggling whistlers, Storm Arriving looked over the field.

  The sun had fallen toward the place where storms were born and was about to dip below the westernmost clouds. The sky had turned blue and grey and the clouds themselves were solid and heavy. At any moment, he imagined the Thunder Beings might release their hold on the clouds and let them fall down upon his head, just as they had brought down the cloud that One Who Flies had ridden. It would be a fitting end, for he had given the Thunder Beings and the powers of the world no respect in recent days, had called upon them only in times of trial, and had never thanked them for the things that made his world so precious.

  But as he looked upon the cloth-wrapped bodies of his friends, waiting to be taken home, he did not know if he could give thanks. This battle had seen the death of fifty bluecoats, and had gained the People two hundred rifles, kegs of ammunition, crates of food, and boxes of supplies. It was a great victory, and would help cement their newborn alliance with the Crow People. That victory, though, had come at a cost. It had cost the lives of sixteen men—half his strength—and it had cost more, too.

  It had cost them tradition.

  The bodies, wrapped in their white vé’ho’e cloth, seemed to burn as the sun dipped its orange head beneath the clouds. The shrouds glowed with the sunset light, bright and brash against the dark prairie grass. Sixteen men. Men who had died seeking glory, seeking honor. Too many men.

  He could not afford such losses—this he knew absolutely—but it was possible, as he looked at those who remained, as they walked about their duties, loaded goods on whistlerback, tended to the wounded, and cooked some vé’ho’e food over a small fire, he knew it was possible that these men still left to him had been changed by the day. These men might have seen what it was he was trying to accomplish. These men might see the difference.

  If they did not, there was no hope for them at all.

  He turned at a sound and saw Bear Wings and Sand Crane, the two scouts. “We have been talking with some of the others, and we wanted to tell you,” Bear Wings said. “We will send our families to you, but we will return to the bluecoats. We will help you from within the bluecoats, just as we did today.”

  A calm descended upon him, filling him with lightness. He reached out and put a hand on each of the scouts’ shoulder. The sun, bloated and wavering, flattened itself and rolled off the edge of the world.

  “This is good,” he said to them, and “Come, let us eat.”

  And when he ate, he made sure to put some to the side of the campfire, in thanks to the spirits that ruled the world.

  Chapter 13

  Thursday, May 1, A.D. 1890

  Palacio de Gubernior

  La Ciudad de la Habana, Cuba

  The eager sun grew bright behind the slate-dark sea and began to push clouds aside with rosy hands. Alejandro leaned against the iron railing that girded the shallow balcony of his rooms at the governor’s mansion.

  The plaza below with its central fountain shimmered with the coming dawn—the whitewashed stones pale, the street-worn cobbles shiny with dew. The tall, unnatural palms rustled their tough fronds and Alejandro smelled the tidal breeze. Salt, he smelled, and seaweed, too, from the rocks that lined the channel a few blocks away and from the encrusted hulls of the itinerant fishing boats that were piled up along the channel walls like driftwood.

  Across the channel, the shore rose steep and dark, untouched by the rising sun. The far hillside stood high above the piers and shipping cranes, its flanks clad in palms and shadowed greenery, its head topped by the heavy walls of Castillo La Cabaña. The masonry ramparts of La Cabaña commanded the vista above the channel, just as its partner, Castillo Del Morro, commanded the channel’s entrance. He looked toward El Morro, just now beginning to glow with the crisp light of the growing day.

  The Castillo Del Morro sat atop its promontory peak, its walls like an upward extension of the rocks themselves. From within the walls, the lighthouse stood even higher, so that its beacon light might travel the farther, warning those lost, and guiding those bound for home. But the clean lines of El Morro and La Cabana both hid their main purpose. For centuries, they had been the strength that stood over the quiet, lazy streets of Old Havana, and emplaced atop their walls were guns and rifles and mortars: batteries that could destroy any vessel that challenged them. El Morro and its partners at La Punta, Santa Clara, Reina, and Cohima all worked together to protect the coast and the approach to the harbor, but it was La Cabana that chilled Alejandro. At all of the other fortifications their artillery faced outward toward the sea and an encroaching enemy, but the guns at La Castillo Del Cabaña pointed inward, toward the channel and the harbor.

  And at him.

  He tried not to take it to heart, but it bothered him, such weapons pointed in his direction. His doubts about his past actions brought him enough sleepless, moonlit hours, but now, with full knowledge of the games he was fostering, the people he was endangering, and the risks involved, he found the brooding castle’s accusatory fingers increasingly unpleasant.

  The windowed door behind him opened and Victoria slipped out to join him in the dawn. Her hand curled around his waist as she stole easily under his arm and into his embrace. The thick satin of her quilted dress
ing gown sighed and he kissed her hair—as soft as her gown—and took a breath of its luscious scent.

  “It is early,” she said as she regarded the coming morn. “Something bothers you?”

  A small, silent laugh escaped him. “Not really,” he said.

  She sighed. “What then? Do you plan to wait at the window until they arrive?”

  He used to be able to keep things from her but recently—since the day of his dismissal—she had been able to read his every move and with an ease that led him to believe that she had always done so. The difference was that now she no longer bothered to hide it.

  “They should be arriving today,” he said.

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “No,” he said. “It isn’t.”

  The sun rose above the hills, shining into their faces, and she snuggled closer to him. Alejandro held her tightly, suddenly grateful for her presence and her constancy in the face of their future. Together, they stood there and listened to the awakening of Havana.

  From the street came the rustic disharmony of an ox-cart; hooves tapping arhythmically along, wheels gritting on the cobbled stones, and the driver whistling to himself as he headed toward the wharf. Farther off, a flower vendor’s selling song echoed down the whitewashed façades of the old buildings. Women emerged from back-stairs doorways, baskets in hand, their sandaled feet scuffing toward the greengrocer’s or the dairyman’s for onions or eggs. Horses burred in irritation as their days commenced, and men groused at their beasts’ attitude. Soon would come the wails of the trains, bringing sugar from the distant mills down to the port. The loading cranes would begin to crank, and the bellowed calls of steamships would sound across the calm waters of the inner harbor as tons of molasses and turbinado left Cuba, bound for the markets of America and New Spain.

  The cathedral bell hit its low, dolorous note, calling the faithful to matins, and Victoria crossed herself, murmuring a quiet prayer.

  Alejandro wished he felt her faith, her belief in some design greater than the one which men themselves put in motion. In his estimation it was easier for women to believe in such a world where the divine mingled with the mundane; bringers of life, creators in their own right, they were closer to that ideal than were men. Men were closer to humanity’s savage past, relics of their own bloody history, and Alejandro could convince himself neither of God’s eternal presence nor of Man’s essential goodness. He considered the future, and how events of his instigation might embroil those near him, even to this provincial island that stood in the middle of the Columbian Gulf like a stone fence separating the United States and Spain. Like the Great Plains of the north, Cuba also bestrode a less literal gulf between nations. War, were it to come to the prairie, would come here as well.

  “Is it worth it?” he asked, and Victoria looked up at him in what was now a rare moment of incomprehension.

  “Is what worth it?”

  “This,” he said, taking in the harbor, the castles, and the whole world with a simple sweep of his hand. “Is what I intend worth risking this?”

  She turned under his arm and faced him, still holding him tightly. He looked down into her face as she looked up to study his. Her eyes were so dark, so impossibly deep, and her lips, pursed now in concentration, so enticing. Even the lines that had crept along the corners of her eyes and the creases of her mouth did not detract from her beauty. She was still the woman he had married, but was also so much more.

  “Tell me what you risk,” she said.

  “You,” he said. She dismissed the thought with a sound but he persisted. “You and Isabella,” he said. “Your future. Our future. And Roberto and Olivia, who were good enough to allow us to come here.”

  “What about them? Olivia is my sister. Of course we could come here.”

  He did not want to make her peevish and so tried to explain the thoughts that rambled in his head. “My dear, Olivia may be your sister, but Roberto is governor of this province. I have put him in an awkward situation; if he supports my plans, he is at odds with our viceroy.”

  She huffed and took her arms from around his waist. Hands on hips she looked up at him. “He is my brother-in-law, Alejandro. What kind of world is it becoming when a woman cannot visit with her own sister and brother-in-law?” Slyly, a tiny smile laced the limits of her mouth.

  Alejandro nodded and sighed. He put an arm around her shoulder and turned back to the vista of the plaza, the fountain, the whitewashed buildings, the cobbled streets, and the harbor sparkling with newborn light.

  “Very well, my dear,” he said, resigned. “A visit with your sister. That is a fine enough fiction for now, but what when the ship arrives? Roberto has been so helpful. I hate to bring him more trouble. He has enough already with the rebels that attack his rails and his mills.”

  “Roberto will take care of Roberto,” she said. “He is clever enough to avoid trouble, and faithful enough to keep secrets. My sister would not have married him otherwise.” She patted her husband’s belly. “But enough of politics. Let us prepare for breakfast. If the ship is to arrive today, I want you to have something on your stomach first.”

  They turned and went inside to dress.

  From the outside, the governor’s palace was a rather low, two-story building of uninspired architecture. Without the fountain and tended gardens of the plaza that graced its entrance, it could easily have passed as a group of apartments, the home of an old family, or perhaps even a brokerage house. Its stucco walls and simple entrance arches were unremarkable in almost every aspect. It had no carriageway, no towers, no courtyard, no corbels, no oriels, no grand doorway, no soaring gables, and no visual interest other than three small triangles of brick and tile along the front façade, the centermost of which was topped by the flagpole and the black, yellow, and red colors of the Kingdom of Spain. A squat square of yellowed whitewash and faded terracotta, it was the most unimposing seat of power Alejandro had ever known.

  On the inside, however, it was indeed a palace, packed with the accumulated wealth of the Spanish Empire. A long line of lords, mayors, governors, generals, and princes had called this place home and each had brought within its walls their portion of the gold, silver, sugar, rum, fabrics, ores, and timber that passed through the arms of Havana’s gentle harbor. As Alejandro descended the staircase, his feet trod on the filigree patterns of Persia, his hand caressed the satiny banister of dark, Philippine teakwood, and above and around him was a vast fortune in gold leaf, carved wood, painted oils, glazed ceramic, sculpted marble, and forged bronze. At his side, Victoria relished their surroundings, unabashed by the opulence. Every station, every nook, every wall was adorned with an artisan’s craft or an artist’s work. From the woven carpets to the high ceilings, it was a jumbled banquet of talents that could not fail to impress.

  They walked into the dining hall and found their hosts already at table. Victoria went to Olivia’s side and kissed her elder sister’s cheek. Alejandro noted again the remarkable similarity of the two women—but for Olivia’s silvered hair, she was nearly identical to her younger sibling.

  “Where is my niece?” Olivia asked.

  “Still abed. You know,” she said and placed a hand on her stomach.

  “Ah,” Olivia said knowingly.

  Roberto had risen when Victoria entered, and now he turned to Alejandro to escape the veiled discussion of feminine woes. He extended his hand. “Good morning,” he said in his usual brusque manner. “Slept well?”

  Victoria glanced in their direction, a reminder in her look.

  “Yes,” Alejandro lied, keeping his restlessness to himself. “Quite well. And how are you today?”

  “Well enough. Well enough,” Roberto said. He gestured toward the sideboard with its platters and urns. “Help yourself. There’s plenty. Antonia cooks for a regiment.”

  Olivia insisted that her household breakfast in the fashion of the unassisted buffet rather than with a served meal. She cited as her reason that it was more efficient, giving th
e servants more time to see to other morning duties rather than dishing up for those capable of ladling their own meal. Looking at the spread of foods before him, though, Alejandro questioned Olivia’s logic. Rolls, muffins, and corn breads were piled high alongside bowls of fresh and dried fruit, and platters of cured meats and steaming sausages. There were eggs in three varieties, sardines in oil, gruel of both corn and barley, and sweet rice pudding. With this and more besides, Alejandro doubted that the staff would have an easier time of it. But it was Olivia’s house, and Olivia’s domain, and the last thing Alejandro intended was to advise her in the running of her own home.

  “The rebels,” Roberto started as he returned to the table. “At it again. Last night. The Chavez sugar mill near Luyano. Killed a guard and set a fire.”

  Alejandro looked over at his wife, but it was Olivia who spoke first.

  “Not at breakfast, Roberto,” she said. “You two will have hours to discuss your rebels and your mills and your strategies, but later, please. Later.”

  Roberto shrugged and subsided, and Alejandro turned back to the sideboard to compile his breakfast meal, but everything before him brought to mind the situation their wives had asked him to ignore. The fish reminded him of the harbor only blocks away, and the orange juice and the poached eggs wrapped in paper-thin slices of aged country ham reminded him of the valleys of California where the viceroy’s estates lay green and fertile. The silvered urn dispensed its black stream of coffee, reminding him of the hillside orchards where the rebels hid, as the sugar with which he sweetened it reminded him of the coastal fields tall with sugar cane and of American businessmen who poured their money into the island’s economy, eager to reap Cuba’s riches.

  As he sat down at table, he spread on his toast the taste of the Spanish sun captured by marmalade served in a crystal dish, and when Olivia asked if the weather was too warm for him, he could think of nothing but the coming ship and the passengers that were so important to his plans.