The Cry of the Wind

by Kurt R A Giambastiani

  D’Avignon walked over to a small bookcase, the lower half of which was closed off with wooden doors. He opened it, and with an “Ahh!” and the clink of crystal, he stood, placing two small glasses on a nearby reading table. Then he pulled out a cut-glass decanter filled three-quarters with liquor the color of strong tea. The decanter sang a crystal note as the glass stopper was lifted from its long throat. D’Avignon sniffed the contents—a long, appreciative inhalation—and then raised an eyebrow and the bottle in Alejandro’s direction.

  “A little early, but would you care to join me?”

  Impatient, Alejandro gestured. “All right, yes. Thank you.”

  D’Avignon poured. The decanter gurgled and the stopper hissed as it slid home. Alejandro accepted one of the glasses and with a perfunctory nod of thanks, sipped. The brandy was mellow and sharp at the same time, ripe with the taste of cream and oak. Alejandro felt the tension seep out of his muscles. D’Avignon seated himself in a large, brass-studded armchair upholstered in dark leather.

  “Now,” Alejandro said, peering over at his uninvited guest. “If you wouldn’t mind answering my question.”

  “What do I want?” D’Avignon said. “I have it. A drink and a soft, quiet place to rest for a bit was all I wanted.”

  “No. What do you want here? What do you want with One Who Flies?”

  “Ah,” he said with a wink. “Young Custer.” He tossed off the rest of his drink as if it were whisky, rose, and poured himself another. The leather creaked as he sat down again. “I’m concerned for the boy. He’s like a son to me—”

  “Bah,” Alejandro said with a wave and a sneer.

  D’Avignon chuckled. “And you, Don Alejandro? Your interest in him is different?”

  Alejandro bristled at the insinuation. “Of course,” he said, sitting upright. “One Who Flies is a crucial link between Spain and the Cheyenne people.”

  “So it’s only natural that you’d want to have him killed.”

  The small glass slipped from Alejandro’s hand and shattered on the brown tiles. He was on his feet, shards grating underfoot, his pulse pounding in his throat. “Why, you—”

  “Did you think I hadn’t heard? Even on the Frontier, sir, we get the eastern newspapers. And news of that sort, well, it just takes on a life of its own, doesn’t it?” He went to the cabinet and produced another glass, filled it as he refilled his own. “Yes, Harper’s was especially brutal. ‘ Ambassador Implicated in Assassination Plot,’ it said. Young George and his Indian cause are quite popular in the North, you see, and when it was learned that he was the target and not the President, well, you can imagine.” He held out the glass.

  Alejandro took the glass and drained it, not thinking of the brandy’s flavor, bouquet, or its astringency on his tongue. He wanted only its bite to shock his mind back into motion and the breath back into his lungs. Staring at D’Avignon, he slowly sat back down on the couch. When he spoke, his voice was raspy.

  “What do you want?”

  D’Avignon smiled. “I think we both know that Spain won’t be any more interested in an alliance with the Cheyenne than she’d be interested in an alliance with the Cuban rebels. Unless, of course, they had something of value. Something worth trading for. Something worth fighting for.” He sat down in his chair and sipped his brandy. “Now, young Custer and I, we go back a few years. I lived and worked among those people, and I know that the Cheyenne do have something worth fighting for, and it only stands to reason that if you’re pushing for an alliance, then you know what it is, too.” He leaned forward conspiratorially, elbows resting on his knees.

  “Gold.”

  Alejandro swallowed and felt a sudden sweat bead his brow.

  D’Avignon chuckled and leaned back. “Oh, yes. El diablo dorado. And they have it, believe me. They have it.”

  “You still haven’t told me what it is you expect to get out of all this.”

  D’Avignon shrugged and nestled back in the armchair. “I want in,” he said simply. “Whatever it is you’re planning, I want in. Of course, I’m willing to help.”

  “What possible help could you be?” Alejandro said, unable to keep the scorn from his voice.

  “For one thing, I could keep my mouth shut about your recent misdeeds,” D’Avignon said, eyebrow arched. “Of course, I know that a knife in my ribs will do that, too, so I’m willing to be of service in other ways. For instance, let’s say you’re able to negotiate some mining rights as part of this alliance. Well, when I was with them, I prospected at least a dozen major sites. I could easily lead a small contingent right to the choicest locations.” He winked again. “Even a privately-funded contingent, if you catch my meaning.”

  The reins had slipped from Alejandro’s hands, and to get them back, he would have to involve himself with this weasel. It was a distasteful choice, but a clear one.

  “Very well,” he said. “You work for me, now. But one false word and, believe me, you’ll get that knife in your ribs. Agreed?”

  D’Avignon grinned with long teeth. “I am your obedient servant, Don Alejandro.”

  “Good. Now make your obedient self useful. I want One Who Flies lucid and presentable for dinner this evening. There is much to discuss.”

  With a bow and a flourish, D’Avignon departed, leaving Alejandro with an unsettled stomach to match the pain in his head.

  For the rest of the day, the household was whispered tumult. In every hall and through every open doorway, servants could be heard gossiping, trading information in hushed tones, eyes wide with interest or disbelief as they discussed the new houseguests with ill-contained excitement. Throughout the house he found them, in pairs and trios made suddenly quiet by his appearance and then, their confabulation disrupted, they dispersed. He could not fault them for their excitement: two Indian women, a wily frontiersman, and the rebel son of an American president provided fertile ground for wild imaginings. Such speculation was human nature, or so Alejandro told himself until he went upstairs to dress for dinner and found a gaggle of housemaids peering around the partially-opened door that led into room set aside for One Who Flies.

  “Ahem,” he said. The serving women turned with a collection of gasps and giggles, and Alejandro was appalled to find foremost among them his own daughter, Isabella. The maids departed with curtsies and quick feet, leaving Isabella alone, her hand still on the door’s handle. He reached forward and pulled the door gently to.

  “It’s not what it looks like, Father.”

  “Oh? And what do you think it looks like?”

  Isabella blushed, and Alejandro grew concerned.

  Young and destined to be as beautiful as her mother, Isabella had been brought up in a world of Spanish privilege and Catholic propriety. While he had ensured that she had never known want, her mother had ensured that she never knew sadness. The result was a daughter on the brink of womanhood who was naïve and as impressionable as warm wax.

  The previous summer, when One Who Flies had visited them in San Francisco, Alejandro had taken note of his daughter’s obvious fascination with the young and charismatic Custer. He had allowed her infatuation to continue because it had served to drive a wedge between One Who Flies and his Indian friends, thus binding One Who Flies closer to Alejandro and his advised plan of action. Of course, at that time, he had not planned that One Who Flies would be around long enough to prove a problem with Isabella.

  As he looked at his pink-cheeked daughter, he realized that things had changed.

  “I thought you were unwell,” he said.

  “I am feeling better.”

  Yes, he thought, knowing the tonic that had roused her.

  “Then go and dress for dinner.”

  “Yes, Father. I will.” She hurried away, slippered feet padding silently down the carpeted hallway.

  A short while later he descended the stairs and walked quickly to the salon where Roberto, Olivia, and Victoria were waiting. The women sat together in close conversation while Roberto stood near a
bookshelf, inspecting the titles on the spines.

  “Ah. Good,” Roberto said, heading to a side table. He poured some sherry sack into a stemmed glass and held it out.

  Alejandro took it and sipped. “Any sign of our guests?” he asked.

  “None. Been up there all day. Difficult crossing, I heard.”

  “Yes,” Alejandro said, knowing there was more to it than that. There was the sound of hurried footsteps and rustling fabric from the hallway. They turned to find Isabella rushing in, flushed and bright-eyed, the sweeping hem of her dress swaying with her zeal. She caught herself with a hand on the door jamb and recaptured a parcel of her dignity with a small curtsy to the group of adults.

  “Good evening,” she said. Smiling, she walked to her uncle and kissed him on the cheek.

  “Evening, child,” Roberto said, taking in her coiffure of upswept curls, her dress of pale beribboned blue, and her lace-trimmed, off-the-shoulder neckline. “What a sight you are. Lovelier every day.”

  “Thank you, Uncle. I wanted to look nice for our guests.”

  Alejandro felt his right eye begin to twitch.

  “Ah,” Roberto said. “And here they are.”

  One Who Flies led the group, his head held high but still uneasy in his dark suit, high-collared shirt, and necktie. His clothing neither flattered, fit, nor was stylish enough for the evening’s gathering. He had no gloves, his shoes were in need of polish, and the arms of his jacket were too short, revealing an unfashionable width of cuff and sleeve. Alejandro took note of it all and determined that the young man’s clothing situation would be rectified before sundown the next day.

  D’Avignon walked in behind One Who Flies, looking little better that the younger man but at least wearing clothing that fit. The men’s appearance, however, was of little concern to the others, for it was the women who attracted every eye.

  Mouse Road was resplendent in her native costume. She had looped her braids up on each side, pinning them with silver disks from which hung long feathers and beaded strings. Her dress of fawn-colored hide was partly open at the left shoulder, and around her neck she wore a choker of tubular shells, a short necklace of silver beads, and a longer drape of beaded leather. She wore a coil of brass around one upper arm, and on each wrist were quill-sewn gauntlets of leather trimmed with fur. Her heart-shaped face was calm and lovely.

  Behind her, Speaks While Leaving entered like a grand dame, accompanied by a household maid who had been given charge of her infant. Dressed in a fashion similar to her sister-in-law, her wide, beaded belt accentuated her more mature form to great advantage. While eye contact, as Alejandro had learned, was considered rude among the Cheyenne, it did not keep her from looking about the room, her dark eyes lively as they evaluated what they saw. She took in everything—walls, decorations, draperies, furniture, glassware, lampshades—with detached interest. Far from the fearful, intimidated primitive that Alejandro had expected her to be in such a setting, Speaks While Leaving stood unfazed, aloof, and in control.

  “Bon soir,” she said to the gathering.

  “Good evening,” they replied.

  “One Who Flies,” Isabella said, walking toward him, hand extended. “How good it is to see you again.”

  Alejandro hoped the young man would remain as dumb as he had down at the docks, but was disappointed as One Who Flies took his daughter’s hand, bowed, and kissed her fingers.

  “A pleasure, Señorita. Let me introduce you to my companions.”

  D’Avignon glanced over with a wink and Alejandro wished the sly old man hadn’t been so successful with his first assignment. But as One Who Flies introduced Mouse Road, Alejandro saw something that made him smile. She eyed Isabella surreptitiously, but with a dislike that was so frank and obvious that it dispelled every concern Alejandro had about his daughter’s virtues. She would never get anywhere with One Who Flies, as long as Mouse Road was present.

  They went in to dinner, Isabella insisting on a seat next to One Who Flies, and Mouse Road maneuvered herself to a seat across from him where she could keep them both in full view.

  The meal progressed from a cool melon soup, to salted greens, to braised duck in orange sauce. While Isabella kept up a steady interrogation of her neighbor, Mouse Road worked with quiet determination to manage the unfamiliar utensils while keeping an unfriendly eye on her competition. The conversation, commandeered by his daughter, drifted amiably from subject to subject like a meandering breeze and held about as much consequence. Roberto, Olivia, and Victoria smiled indulgently at the young woman’s obvious enthusiasm for their guest, while for his own part, One Who Flies responded politely to her queries, with attention to her anecdotes, but with nothing approaching anything as strong as interest. He nodded and smiled and made small ahs of comprehension, but Alejandro could see that his awareness was tied to the deepening frown lines anchored at the corners of Mouse Road’s lips. The depth of her displeasure governed him, and One Who Flies made several attempts to bring others into the conversation. Isabella, however, was irrepressible. Finally, though, it was Speaks While Leaving who sent the idle talk in a decidedly different direction.

  “Ambassador,” she began, and Alejandro saw the looks exchanged among the family members. With a subtle lift of his hand, he quelled their corrections and let her continue.

  “What are our plans?” she asked. “When shall we speak with your viceroy?”

  Roberto cleared his throat and Alejandro sent him a daggered look. He caught Victoria’s glance, and saw her cautionary advice.

  “I apologize,” he said to Speaks While Leaving, “but there seems to be some confusion. We will not be speaking with the viceroy in this matter.”

  Before he could explain further, Speaks While Leaving turned to One Who Flies and began to talk to him in her native tongue. For the first time that evening, One Who Flies became animated beyond what was minimally necessary.

  “Please,” Alejandro tried to interrupt.

  The two spoke a little more until Mouse Road, who had prior to that moment had remained entirely silent, began to speak. The Cheyenne words were crisp, alien whispers that tumbled from her lips. The young woman spoke at length, marking the progress of her thoughts in the tablecloth, delineating each one with gestures and signs. She pointed to Alejandro and then fell silent.

  Alejandro looked at his family. They shrugged.

  “If we are not to speak to the viceroy,” Speaks While Leaving said, “then how will we work toward an alliance with your country?”

  “Again, my friends, I apologize. This must seem quite puzzling to you all.” He took a sip of his wine and tried to gather his thoughts. “The truth of it is, our viceroy does not feel he is able to make such a decision. Now wait, before you get upset again, let me explain.” He sat back and put into his next words as much ardor as he could muster. “The Viceroy Lord Serrano has given me his express permission to take you and our case for an alliance directly to the Queen Regent herself. It is a great honor for us to do this, and I am sure that Queen María Cristina and her advisors—”

  Now it was One Who Flies who began to rasp Cheyenne words to the others. The women questioned him, and he responded with growing fervor and visible anger. Back in his eyes was the raptor gaze of the Custer men, and back in his arms and spine was the strength that Alejandro had known him to possess, only now that strength and that sharp eye were directed at him, against him.

  “It is out of the question,” One Who Flies finally said, once again in French. He pointed at Alejandro. “You have us here on a false promise, sir, and I will not allow it.”

  Alejandro played the innocent. “What falsehood, One Who Flies?”

  “Yes,” Speaks While Leaving said. “What falsehood? Hasn’t he said he will help us work toward an alliance?”

  “But with whom?” One Who Flies asked, rising from his chair. “Not with the viceroy. With the Queen Regent. And do you know where the Queen Regent lives? In Spain. Across the ocean.”

  To
Speaks While Leaving this clearly meant nothing.

  “Across the ocean. Across a water far greater than Big Salty. It will take us months. The trip that brought us here will seem a morning’s stroll to the journey to Spain. And why?” He looked at Alejandro. “Because the viceroy gives his permission? No. Because the viceroy will not back us, you mean. No, I will not have it, sir. I will not allow you to drag us across an ocean on some wild scheme to try to convince your Queen to form an alliance when you could not even convince your own viceroy. No, sir. It will not happen, sir.” He stepped back from the table, turned, and left the room.

  They all stared after him.

  Dios mío, Alejandro thought. Without One Who Flies, without him as intermediary, without his cachet as Custer’s son, we haven’t a hope.

  He turned to Speaks While Leaving. “You must convince him,” he said. “We must speak to the Queen Regent or we must fail.”

  She looked to her sister-in-law, worry creasing her brow. She glanced after One Who Flies, betraying her reluctance.

  From the other end of the table, Roberto whispered in Spanish. “They must go. All is at risk. My reputation as well as yours is on the block.”

  “Press her,” Victoria said, also in Spanish.

  “I implore you,” he said to Speaks While Leaving. “Go to him. Convince him. I fear the very future of your people is at stake here, for without an alliance with Spain, what hope do you have.”

  Tears brimmed in her eyes, and a muscle pulsed along her jawline. She made a sign with her hands and the two women stood. The men stood as well, and watched as they left the room, heading upstairs.

  Alejandro sat, feeling sweat trickle from his hairline down his temples and the back of his neck. He glanced over at the one guest who had not left.

  “If he does not go,” he said to D’Avignon, “you will hurt for it.”

  D’Avignon nodded, and rose. “The meal was delicious, Doña. And if you will excuse me, I must speak to a man about a journey.” He bowed to the ladies, and departed.

  Chapter 14