The Cry of the Wind

by Kurt R A Giambastiani

  He stammered his way through the meal, ending his sentences abruptly or remaining awkwardly silent, unable to navigate the banalities without seeing the undercurrents of politics beneath them. Finally, his meal hardly touched and his stomach in an uproar, he stood and threw his napkin down on the table.

  “That is enough,” he said.

  The others stared at him and his rudeness.

  “I am sorry, Roberto, Olivia, for the difficulty I have brought upon your house, but I must be allowed to speak my mind.”

  Roberto, stalled in mid-chew, swallowed his mouthful, and motioned with his hand. “Of course. Speak on.”

  Unsettled, Alejandro took a breath. Several thoughts presented themselves, but none encapsulated what it was he wanted to say. At last, unable to come to anything else, he sat and said, “Would you please pass the marmalade?”

  Roberto blinked, then reached for the glass dish and passed it along to him. “Anything else?” he asked.

  Alejandro sniffed, his knife making small scratching sounds on the toasted bread. “Yes,” he said, and looked at Olivia. “The eggs wrapped in ham, they are uncommonly good.”

  Olivia glanced over to her sister. “Thank you, Alejandro. I shall tell Antonia you said so.”

  Freed from his proscription, Alejandro took to his meal with gusto. “And the coffee! Wonderful. Dark and rich. Is it local?”

  The others stared at him as if he were mad, but he didn’t care. He ate and drank and spoke every commonplace thought that crossed his mind, uncaring of the political references they conjured. Soon, the atmosphere returned to normal, and all was well until a serving-man entered the room and walked to Alejandro’s side.

  “Excuse me, sir,” he whispered, “but the ship you have been awaiting? It has just been sighted off La Punta.”

  Within minutes, Alejandro was on his way. The carriage he had made sure was standing ready took him down Mercaderes toward the wharves. The hood had been drawn back, and he rode in the open air. The weather was warm already, but the breeze had shifted to the northwest, bringing with it the water’s cooling effect. They passed by the caliginous peasant fleet with its tattered and patched collection of sails. At the sunlit Plaza Vieja a de Cristina they turned right and came around the Bank of San Francisco. Alejandro spied the piers where the larger ships put in to port. The driver reined in alongside the railing and the steps that descended from the street to the docks.

  “Wait here,” Alejandro told him, and walked quickly down the stairs to the long boardwalk.

  He spied the ship making its way inward from the channel. Even at a hundred feet long, the combination sail-and-steam vessel was dwarfed by the large ocean-worthy steamers that slept at anchor and at dock in the inner harbor. From the small ship’s bridge, it would have been impossible to see over the deck planks of the taller ships and for a moment Alejandro wondered if it was the right ship at all. But as it nimbly wove a path around a four-masted giant and steered toward the docks, the name Santa Cecilia sparkled in white letters along its bow, and he knew it was indeed the gulf-crawler he had sent up to La Puerta Del Norte with orders to retrieve the man who called himself One Who Flies.

  The ship moved, danced, and jockeyed past anchor lines, dodged lugubrious tugs, and threatened fishing skiffs under sail. It belched black smoke and sounded its horn, issuing twin gouts of steam as it scudded forward through the green water. Men stood at the gunwales, sailors all, and lines uncoiled toward crewmen on the pier. Alejandro squinted, searching the faces on board, but nowhere did he see the man for whom he had sent the ship.

  “Hola, Señor Silveira,” called out a man from amidships. Short, swarthy, with a dark beard and a head bursting with dark-haired ringlets, he stood near the forward mast.

  Alejandro recognized the captain of the vessel, a man of strong temper and a skill extolled up and down the coastal waters. “Capitan de Botella. Greetings! Where is your passenger?”

  De Botella jerked a thumb over his shoulder to where his crew was setting the gangway ramp from the deck to the pier. Behind them was a clump of people who slowly made their way to the rail.

  First to debark were two women, both in Indian garb. Their bleached deerskin dresses had loosely tied sleeves, and cinching their waists were wide belts that had been beaded in strong angular designs of blue, red, black, and white. Below the hem of their dresses they wore fringed leggings and moccasins that were also beaded in bright colors. The younger woman carried a leather-wrapped bundle in her arms, while the older bore a burden on her back. Alejandro looked at the older woman again and recognized her as Speaks While Leaving, the wife of one of the warriors who had traveled to Washington the winter before. As she came down the ridged ramp, he realized that it was not a parcel she carried on her back but an elliptical board and against which was wrapped a baby. The child—less than a year old, Alejandro was sure—peered out from beneath protective layers with curious eyes. He walked toward the women but as they stepped onto the dock, they turned, their attention focused back at the top of the ramp, and their hands gripping the railings to steady their rubbery sea-legs.

  Alejandro looked up the ramp and gasped.

  He knew the man who stood on deck, but was shocked at what he saw. It had been only four months since Alejandro had last seen George Armstrong Custer, Junior—the man he knew better as One Who Flies—but the change that had ravaged him was frightening to behold.

  The man who only last winter was negotiating with statesmen and presidents, bartering millions of acres for millions in gold, was gone. The creature that stood in his place was a wraith.

  Instead of his tunic of sun-bleached deerskin, his red breechclout, and his leggings with their long green fringe that dragged on the ground behind him, a white-man’s suit hung limply on his bony shoulders, the thin cloth wrinkled and shiny at the knees and elbows. Instead of a beaded belt and a feather-trimmed knife sheath, a watch chain of dull tin hung between his vest pockets. And where before his shiny blond hair had been pulled back into a single braid, tied off with red cloth, and adorned with the dark curve of a hawk feather, his locks now hung in unbecoming hanks across his face, having been cut crudely and roughly by an untrained hand.

  Most striking, though, was the change in his physical presence. One Who Flies had been lean but possessed of a fitness in both limb and mind; his eyes had owned a falcon’s gaze. The man who stood at the top of the stairs was sallow and unhealthily pale except for a ruddiness around his puffy eyes. He had dropped a quarter of his weight and most of his strength. The skin sagged at his jowls. His gaze was unfocused and unintelligent. His hand shook as he reached for the rail, and his steps spoke of fragility and ill-health. With him was another white man, older by many years, yet who helped One Who Flies descend the ramp.

  “¡Dios mio!” Alejandro said. Speaks While Leaving turned to him with a quizzical look. He pointed to One Who flies. “What happened to him?” he asked her in French.

  “It was a difficult crossing,” the rough-looking man with One Who Flies replied. As they reached the dock, he walked past One Who Flies and stuck out his hand. “Vincent D’Avignon, business partner of young George here, and at your service, sir.”

  Alejandro looked at the offered hand and again at the man who offered it. Vincent D’Avignon had seen hard days and many of them—days that had obviously taught him a rogue’s boldness—but there was a dubiety to his swagger as he tested his way down unfamiliar pathways. Alejandro knew the sort; knew him by the sharp edge to his gaze, by the angle of his hat, and by the eager condescension in his smile. Though the leather of his belt was new, his shoes were worn, and Alejandro would have bet his Sonoma vineyards that the rawhide man before him kept a silver coin inside his shoe, for emergencies.

  He looked at the extended hand again and passed it by, walking instead to the man he wanted to see. “One Who Flies,” he said, putting his hands on the young man’s shoulders. “Do you need to see a doctor?”

  One Who Flies blinked and took a deep
breath. He looked at Alejandro and seemed to see him for the first time. “Don Alejandro,” he said. “How nice to see you.”

  Immediately, Alejandro smelled the reek of liquor. “A difficult crossing?” he said and glared at D’Avignon. “A difficult crossing? He’s drunk!”

  “Yes, sir,” D’Avignon said. “It helped, you know, with the mal de mer.”

  Alejandro stepped back from One Who Flies and understood. The thinness, the vacancy, the mixture of florid and pallid skin. The shaking hand, the unsteady step. D’Avignon smiled in an offensively ingratiating manner that betrayed his culpability. Whether he had been an active participant in the debasement of One Who Flies, or whether he had merely stood by, Alejandro did not care.

  A hand touched his shoulder. He turned to find Speaks While Leaving at his side.

  “He has been ill,” she said.

  “Ah. Good, you do speak French,” he said.

  She made a sign with her hand. “Yes,” she said.

  “How long has he been...ill?” he asked her.

  Another sign. “We do not know,” she said. Her French was well formed and, like that of D’Avignon, carried the flat accent of the Québécois. “He went to the City of White Stone, but never returned to us. We went to find him. We found him among the vé’hó’e.”

  Alejandro knew that word. He had heard it often during his time among the Cheyenne. One Who Flies had explained it as a word of many meanings, few of them complimentary. Vé’ho’e. Trickster. Spider. Enshrouded. Entangled. With a glance at D’Avignon, he had an idea how some of the connotations had arisen.

  “My apologies,” he said to Speaks While Leaving. “I have been ungallant. I do not believe we have been properly introduced. I am Alejandro Miguel Tomás Silveira-Rioja, and it is my pleasure to welcome you to the island of Cuba.” He put a hand to his waist and bowed.

  “I am Speaks While Leaving,” she said. “And this is my husband’s sister, Mouse Road.”

  The shy young woman behind her realized she was being spoken of. Speaks While Leaving spoke to her sister-in-law in words made of wind. Mouse Road signed with her hands.

  “She is proud to meet Speaks for the Iron Shirts.”

  Alejandro bowed to Mouse Road as well, but chose not to tell Speaks While Leaving that he no longer deserved the title the Cheyenne had given him as Ambassador to the United States from New Spain. The disgrace of his dismissal still galled his pride, but he reasoned that the knowledge of it was irrelevant to his plans with these people. If the Cheyenne women wanted to think of and refer to him as the Ambassador in their quaint vernacular, it would only serve his purposes.

  “And who is this?” he asked, indicating the baby on her back.

  In a flash, seriousness fled from her face. She smiled and looked at her feet in unfeigned modesty. She slipped the board off her shoulder and brought it into her arms. The leather and wicker creaked as with strong but gentle hands she pulled aside the cloth that hid most of the baby’s face.

  “This is Blue Shell Woman,” she said. “My daughter.”

  Alejandro leaned in to see the tiny dumpling, brown as a nut, round-cheeked, with eyes that soaked up the world. The baby stared at him, her open mouth shiny with drool. He grinned at the little girl and waggled his fingers, but the cherubic face dissolved into fear and she let loose a long, healthy wail. He chuckled as Speaks While Leaving consoled her daughter.

  “She does not like hair on the face,” Speaks While Leaving said, pointing to his moustache. “She did not like the captain either.”

  “Not to worry,” he said with good-nature. “I will not take it as an insult.” He motioned toward his carriage. “Shall we head onward? Your luggage shall be brought after us.”

  He led them along the dock and then up the stairs to the waiting carriage. Havana was a place of many cultures. Among its elite were businessmen from America, Creoles from New Spain, and aristocrats from Old Spain, while its peasant masses were the descendants of Portuguese pirates, Negro slaves, and Indian natives, many of whom also carried the blood of the ruling class in their veins. But even with such a fusion of peoples on its streets, still the two Cheyenne women drew sidelong looks and open stares. The dockmen were especially rude, making gestures and calling out to them in words Alejandro was thankful the women did not understand. Even the carriage driver was taken aback by the appearance of such unusual creatures, and it took a sharp ahem to put him into action.

  The women climbed up with trepidation as the carriage rocked on its springs. Alejandro helped One Who Flies up into the box as well, but directed D’Avignon to ride up with the driver. When D’Avignon bristled, Alejandro gave him an honest glare.

  In quiet English, he let D’Avignon know how things stood. “I do not know what your role up to now has been,” he said, “but it is now changed. If you are lucky, I may find you of use. Either way, do not think you can fool me as to your sort.”

  D’Avignon raised one eyebrow, but chose not to argue. With a bow, he retreated and walked around to climb up beside the driver.

  The streets were alive with morning business. Grocers threw back the covers from their market stalls and presented their wares to the city. Crates bore vegetables of red, green, and yellow. Netted globes of cheese hung like surplus clappers for silent bells. Sacks gaped, showing depths of brown rice and golden corn. Fruits showed off their sensual colors, glistening strings of smoked fish hung from awning posts, and dried chilies brightened every stall with wrinkled wreaths of fiery red and sooty black. Cooks and mamacitas came to buy for their day’s needs, inspecting the goods with a critical eye and arguing each price with veteran skill.

  The carriage passed through smoke redolent with grilling meat, and through the moister aromas of horse and ox. They passed a woman who carried squalling baby in one arm, while with her free hand she kept a grip on a brace of equally unhappy chickens. Carts clattered, carriages rolled, horses clopped and cantered. Dockmen called to one another, stray dogs barked at nothing, and seagulls cried like hungry cats, eager for the dropped or discarded morsel.

  Alejandro watched his female passengers as the carriage maneuvered through the morning’s throng. Mouse Road stared, unabashedly gaping at everything, her gaze sweeping from side to side, from rooftop to streetcurb. She laughed at a group of boys chasing a burro, and was saddened by the brokedown carthorse struggling against its load.

  Speaks While Leaving, however, maintained a dignified façade. She sat quietly, holding her swaddled babe in her arms, but Alejandro saw that her eyes were alive with interest, glancing around her, taking in as much as did her younger companion. Her features, though, betrayed neither interest nor boredom, and she maintained a queenly demeanor as they traveled the short distance back to the mansion.

  They drove in through the wrought-iron gates, and Victoria was waiting for them along with Roberto and Olivia. Alejandro glanced nervously at One Who Flies and was relieved to see the young man pulling himself together, straightening his ill-fitting clothes, and pulling the hair from his eyes. The carriage rattled to a halt and servants came forward to chock the wheels and drop the step.

  Alejandro stepped down first and then turned to aid the women. They descended cautiously, their every step another foot farther into an unknown world. One Who Flies alit without revealing his infirmity, though the change in the young man’s condition was impossible to conceal.

  Victoria came toward One Who Flies, her hands extended and worry on her face. “Mon cher,” she said, almost in tears. She clasped his hand in hers and looked up into his eyes. “Dear boy, are you all right?”

  One Who Flies bowed slightly, accepting her concern. “It is good to see you again, Doña Victoria.” He turned to his companions. “May I introduce Speaks While Leaving, of the Closed Windpipe band, and Mouse Road, of the Tree People. They are wife and sister to one you may remember: Storm Arriving, who was with me when last we met.”

  “Of course,” Victoria said. “I remember him well. And how is your husband?�
�� she asked Speaks While Leaving. “He is well, I hope?”

  Speaks While Leaving shrank a bit at the question. “Forgive me, but I cannot say. He has gone to war against the bluecoats.”

  “Oh dear,” Victoria said, flustered by the Cheyenne woman’s candor.

  Alejandro stepped into the breach, completing the introductions of Vincent, and of Roberto and Olivia, their hosts. “But I am sure our new arrivals are tired from the long trip.”

  “Yes,” Olivia said. “Let me show you to your rooms, where you can rest and refresh yourselves.”

  “That would be most welcome,” Speaks While Leaving said.

  When they had all been escorted upstairs, Alejandro allowed himself to slip quietly away to one of the sitting rooms. The drapes had been pulled back to let in the forenoon light and the arched doorway stood open, allowing the fragrant breeze to wander in from the side gardens. He plopped himself down onto a fainting couch, one heel dragging across the grouting of the large, hexagonal floor tiles. He closed his eyes and put his fingertips to his forehead to massage the welt of pain that throbbed between his eyebrows.

  “Wondering what to do now?” asked a voice.

  Alejandro sat up and saw D’Avignon, a dark shadow leaning against the garden doorway.

  “What do you want?” he asked, lying back down on the couch.

  D’Avignon entered the room, looked around, and headed toward a cabinet. “Nothing much,” he said as he opened the cabinet, peered within, and closed it. He walked to another cabinet. “I just thought we had gotten off on the wrong foot back at the dock.” He opened the second cabinet, looked inside, and closed it, too.

  Alejandro did not like this bantam rooster of a man, but he had the sense not to say so. On the other hand, he was not about to let this...parasite...overstep his station.

  “I’ll ask you again: what do you want?”