Spring Moon, Full
Fifty-seven Years after the Star Fell
Lodge of the Governor
Havana, Cuba
Wordlessly, Speaks While Leaving took her daughter from the serving woman and entered the suite of rooms she and Mouse Road had been given. Mouse Road came in after her and swung the heavy door closed on its creaking iron hinges.
“Tell me,” the young woman said.
“I do not know what to tell,” Speaks While Leaving said.
“By my blood, that is a lie.”
Speaks While Leaving looked at her sister, stunned by her boldness. Mouse Road stood hands on hips, her stance, her glare, even the set of her chin speaking of her resolve. The young woman’s conviction pushed at Speaks While Leaving, setting her back on her heels, forcing her to reconsider her words.
A lie? Yes, she realized. A lie.
Shamed, she turned away from such brutal regard and went to the bay window. “You are right,” she said as she sat on the padded bench and leaned back against the sill. “I do know what to tell. I just do not know how to tell it.”
Cradling her daughter, she pushed the window open and let in a night fragrant with the scents of salt sea and night-blooming flowers. Down at the quays, ships creaked with the incoming tide, while in the streets surrounding the governor’s massive home people strolled, lamps were lit, and vendors began to close for the night. The townsfolk filled the air with songs, banter, and arguments. Mothers called to children and husbands. Somewhere a piece of crockery broke. A barking dog was silenced by a curse. A group of young men whistled at a passing pair of women. The vibrations of life echoed from the whitewashed walls, from the red-tiled roofs, and from the cobblestone streets.
“Such a place,” she said as she regarded the closely-packed city. “So many people and so much industry.”
From the upper-story window, she could see over the roofs of the lower buildings, but rather than streets dividing the homes, she saw canyons carved in the solid residential blocks. She imagined the people walking those streets, sandals scuffing the stone, slowly wearing them down, exposing the homes lit by warm lamplight and filled with the scents of cooked corn and grilling fish. She reversed it all, with her dreaming eye, and saw the streets refill. The homes submerged into the earth, and the verdant land was covered over with grasses, vines, trees. Thickets of jungle ran to the rocky limits of the shore, dense and impenetrable, as dark as the waters beyond them. Eyes opening, the jungle fled, the streets cut their paths into the earth, and the city reappeared.
“These vé’hó’e are so different from us. They live so close and act so rashly.” Northward, toward the horizon, the clouds were piled high. Blue Shell Woman squirmed in her arms and Speaks While Leaving wished she had taken some food from the table to supplement the breast milk that had been the baby’s main nourishment since leaving home.
Mouse Road came over and sat down with her on the bench. “Tell me,” she said again. “What happened down there? Why did One Who Flies get so angry with the Iron Shirts?”
Speaks While Leaving shrugged, trying to decide where to start. “The chief to whom One Who Flies spoke last year...he will not speak to us again of an alliance. But he has given his consent for us to speak with the Queen of the Iron Shirts. The journey, however, is long and far.”
“And One Who Flies has refused to go?”
“Yes,” Speaks While Leaving said. “He does not believe what Don Alejandro tells us. He thinks Don Alejandro does not have the support of his own chief.”
Mouse Road picked idly at the pattern woven into the upholstery of the bench cushion. “And you?” she asked, almost nonchalantly. “What do you say?”
A knock at the door put aside any response Speaks While Leaving would have given though, in fact, she did not know what her answer might have been. Mouse Road stood and walked to the door. Opening it, she stepped back, revealing Victoria, Don Alejandro’s wife.
“May I come in?” she asked.
Speaks While Leaving signed her permission but caught herself. “Please, Doña Victoria.”
Victoria entered, the fabric of her dress rustling like wind through the fronds of the odd, branchless palm trees that stood outside the window. She moved as if across an ice-bound pond, gliding smoothly, or floating, as if her feet did not touch the ground. She sat beside her on the window seat, and took Speaks While Leaving’s hand in hers.
“Ma chère,” she said, “I wanted to talk to you. These men, their passions become so quickly roused. I just thought that we might speak plainly, woman to woman.”
It was hard enough for Speaks While Leaving to consider this alien creature to be a human being, much less a woman like her, but she did not mention this to Victoria. Instead, she glanced over at Mouse Road who, with a shrug, sat down on the buffalo robe they had laid out in the center of the room, unable to guess at what this vé’ho’e woman wanted.
“Of what did you wish to speak?” she asked.
Victoria smiled and patted Speaks While Leaving’s hand. Though the woman was pale to the brink of death, Speaks While Leaving could see that she was still very attractive with smooth, dark hair, large eyes, and a generous smile. But her waist was unnaturally narrow, her hips grossly wide beneath the heavy fabric of her dress, and her bearing—though dignified—was so stiff that Speaks While Leaving wondered if the woman was in constant pain from some old injury.
“I understand that you are reluctant to make this journey, but I wanted to make sure that you saw the whole of the situation. You mustn’t let the passion of the men override your purpose.”
“My purpose?” she asked before she realized it. The room faded around her, and she sat in a garden, the sun shining in hard lines of light and shadow. She felt the influence of the sky, and the cradling hands of the earth. The air was alive with birdsong and heady with a scent she did not know. She felt Blue Shell Woman in her arms, twisting and fussing, and looked down at her little daughter. “My purpose?” The view faded and she was once again in the lamplit room with Mouse Road and Victoria. Victoria was looking at her a little strangely.
“Yes,” Victoria said hesitantly. “Your purpose. The reason you came here.”
“Tell me, Doña Victoria. Why do you think I came here?” Speaks While Leaving tried to keep the room around her, but it kept wavering. The wind of the prairie ruffled the fringe of her dress, and she heard thunder in her mind. The thunder of the sky became the pummeling sound of the herds on the grasslands of home, the chest-filling drumbeat of a Sun Dance circle, the hooves of bluecoat horses pounding their way into battle, the concussion of cannonfire, and the explosions that followed. Through the din of battle, she could hear Victoria’s voice, calm and sincere.
“I think you came here to try to save your people,” the lady of the Iron Shirts said to her. “One Who Flies sees only the obstacles that lie in your path. He fears for your safety—yours, and Mouse Road’s—and though he is a good man, a brave man, his concern for you two blinds him. My husband, on the other hand, sees only the possibilities. He does not realize how much of his own reputation—and therefore his family’s future—he is risking in this. My husband sees the opportunities an alliance can bring, and likewise, he is blinded.”
Speaks While Leaving felt Victoria’s hand grip hers more tightly, felt the soft warmth of this vé’ho’e woman’s skin enfolding the roughness of her callused fingers. She closed her eyes to shut out the visions of war that filled her sight.
“But you are not blinded by these things,” Victoria said. “You see all too well both the threats and the opportunities that lie ahead for your homeland.”
“Yes,” Speaks While Leaving told her. “I see them.”
Again the gentle pressure on her hand. “Then you know that you must look beyond the dangers.”
Blue Shell Woman squirmed again in her mother’s arms, and the vision broke loose, flying like feathers in the wind, releasing her. Looking down at her daughter, Speaks While Leaving wonde
red at the possibilities.
What sort of life lays ahead for you? she asked her daughter. What sort of land will you receive when I am gone?
“How long would the trip be?” she asked Victoria.
“A few months, at least,” Victoria said. “It is a long way. But I think you would be home by autumn.”
Speaks While Leaving looked up at Victoria’s face. The woman was intent, eager, waiting to see what she would decide. “But if One Who Flies does not agree to go...?”
Victoria breathed out a quiet chuckle. “If you decide to go, or, more to the point”—she glanced over at Mouse Road—”if she decides to go, he will go.”
The look in her eye told Speaks While Leaving that this was a wily woman beside her; a woman used to working in the background. Like the wife of strong chiefs among the People, she made things happen quietly, with subtle, steady pressure. Perhaps this was the sort of role that Speaks While Leaving herself would play. Perhaps in this way, she could work to bring about the future she envisioned.
This is my middle road. This is my road of trust.
Blue Shell Woman wriggled again and began to cry.
“¡O, pobrecito!” Victoria said. “She must be hungry. Shall I have something sent up for her? Some fruit or some porridge?”
“Yes, Doña Victoria. I would be very grateful.”
“Leave it to me,” her hostess said as she rose. “I am glad we had a chance to talk,” she said, glided across the room, and left.
“So am I,” Speaks While Leaving said as she stared at the dark door.
Mouse Road came over. “Are you all right?” she asked.
The breath that Speaks While Leaving took was long and filled with sadness, but when she let it out, she felt lightened. “Yes,” she said. “I am fine.”
“What did you talk about?”
“About traveling across the sea to see the Queen of the Iron Shirts.”
“You are going?”
“Yes—”
“Then so am I!”
“No,” she said. “It will be dangerous. It is a long journey.”
“I do not care,” Mouse Road said. Her eyes glinted with excitement. “And we’ve come such a long way already, how much longer can it be?”
“As you wish,” she said. “To tell the truth, I would be glad for your company.”
“When do we leave?”
“Wait. You remember what One Who Flies said.”
“Yes...”
“Well, the Iron Shirts will not listen to two women of the People. They will only listen to men. They will listen to One Who Flies, the son of the famous Long Hair, Chief of the Horse Nations. I must find a way to convince him to go with us.” Speaks While Leaving peeked over at her sister-in-law’s face. “Do you know how I might be able to do that?”
Mouse Road smiled. “I think I might have an idea.”
Chapter 15
Wednesday, May 21, A.D. 1890
The White House
Washington, District of Columbia
Custer gave Libbie a lopsided smile as he felt the familiar tabletop with his fingers. It was incredibly out of place, this big workhorse of a table, its oak heavy and dark, its taloned legs and its broad surface scarred with ages of service, but it had been Custer’s longtime friend, having traveled with him through service both military and political. He had found it in a stable he had purchased up in Michigan Territory, cloaked in canvas, piled high with tools and crates. As old as the nation itself, the table had seen hard use before he had found it, and harder use since. Custer had brought it with him from Michigan to Missouri, through the nightmare of the Kansa Campaign, and back up to Santee Territory before returning home for a brief time in Michigan. From there, he had brought it to Washington, from the Capitol to the White House, and now he had brought it from his offices down the hall to this room, the library, where he spent his days.
But while the table held its own against the hundreds of leather-bound spines that flanked the room, it did less well when compared to the library’s finer furnishings such as the plush Queen Anne chairs, the glittering chandelier, or the curved-leg side tables. Next to them, it seemed as clumsy and out of place as he himself felt next to Libbie. Scarred, ungainly, inelegant, it did not grace the oval room; it invaded it.
And Custer was perfectly fine with that. It was precisely what he had wanted; the last phase to the library’s transformation. Sitting at his table, leaning against its comfortable strength, he felt like a man again. His damnable wheelchair, the hated symbol of his continued infirmity, stood close at hand should it be needed, but it stood there empty. Custer sat in a chair at his table, a normal man ready for a normal day’s work.
Well, he thought as he looked at Libbie, standing beside him—knowing the assistance she was here to provide—perhaps not completely normal. Not yet.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” she asked him.
“Yes,” he said, or a close approximation of it, still unable to eradicate the lateral lisp that the stroke had wrapped around his tongue. “Are you?”
She took a wide-eyed breath of air and sighed. “I think so,” she said.
“Don’ le’ him rattle you,” Custer said, struggling with the words. “He’ jus’a New Yor’ banker. No’ a Firs’ Lady.” Though slurred and lisped and filled with elisions, Libbie was so familiar with his speech patterns that she understood him perfectly. Which was, of course, why he had asked her here.
The door to the library opened and Samuel entered, a sheaf of papers under his arm. Custer tried to remember when Samuel had ever entered a room without a sheaf of papers under his arm and couldn’t recall such a moment. Behind him came Douglas, bearing a tray with cut-crystal tumblers, a seltzer bottle, and a whisky decanter. With a glance, Custer directed Douglas to place the tray on the low table near the chairs that faced his worktable. Samuel came forward and put the papers down on the table.
“You’re sure you want this meeting?” Samuel asked as he began organizing the papers.
Custer glanced at Libbie and she answered for him. “He’s sure.”
Samuel divided the papers into three piles. Each of the piles he further divided into sections, laying out memos and reports in a cascaded order, allowing quick access to any item. He pointed here and there as he turned them around to face Custer.
“Here are the troop numbers we spoke about, and here, the summary of cables we’ve received from Yankton.”
“‘Amue’...” Custer tried.
“These are the transportation numbers, and these—”
“‘Amue’!”
Samuel looked up, startled, his hands trembling over the papers.
“I ‘emem’,” Custer said. “I’ see’ ‘em.”
“He remembers,” Libbie translated. “He’s seen them.”
“‘Ang.”
“Thank you.”
“Of course,” Samuel said, “Of course. You’re welcome, Mr. President.” He stepped back, chagrined, and began to leave but Custer stopped him and, with a debilitated hand, directed him to stand by him, opposite Libbie.
“I ‘ee’ you here.”
And for the first time in several days, since Libbie had first told him of her husband’s plans, Samuel smiled and stood a little straighter.
“My pleasure, sir,” he said, and took up his post at his commander’s side.
Custer familiarized himself with the position of the papers Samuel had laid out. He knew what was in each one, but he wanted to know precisely where each one was in their respective stacks. With his left hand, now nearly as strong as it had been but still not as clever as he wished it to be, he carefully fingered through the pages. Military movements, troop strengths, cables on engagements, and supply requisitions were all in the first pile. In the second were transportation numbers, memos on railway usage, and industrial reports. The third was not a pile, but a simple brown folder. Custer reached over to it and opened it, closed it, and opened it again, practicing his movement. The last thi
ng he wanted during this encounter was to look inept.
As with most things in Custer’s life, he had viewed the coming meeting with a military eye. He’d picked his ground, even changed the terrain by bringing in his old worktable and creating an office within the small world of his library. He had arrayed his allies in reserve on either side, and before him had reviewed the reports and memos: his troops. He reached over and opened the folder again.
And you are my cavalry, he told it.
This meeting was the opening of a new campaign. He’d been preparing for it for weeks. Perhaps it would end up no more than a skirmish, perhaps a battle in itself. He did not know for sure, but he felt prepared, and his best advantage was the fact that his opponent didn’t know it was coming.
A sharp rap sounded at the library door.
“That will be Morton,” Samuel said.
Custer glanced at Douglas, who crossed quickly to the door and opened it.
Levi Morton stood framed in the doorway. Short and pale, he looked like he’d been pinched out of uncooked bread dough, though his expression was pure pickle: sour and wrinkled. He was backed by two taller, more imposing men who followed him as he walked in.
Custer knew Morton’s aides by reputation as well as by sight. The shorter—still a head taller than Morton—was a lawyer and former New York prosecutor named Chaucer. Muttonchopped and ostentatiously moustached, he peered over his narrow reading glasses with a constant expression of mild disbelief. Morton’s second aide was Yancy, a tall, aged man who still walked with the rigid precision instilled in him by decades of military service. In the past few months, the two of them had assumed increasing roles of power, until now they were treated as Morton’s lieutenants, speaking for him in meetings and conferences.
Together, the three men walked toward Custer’s table and formed a skirmish line before it, evenly spaced, Morton in the middle, his two aides guarding his flanks. Morton’s gaze lingered long and questioningly on Libbie.
“Well?” he said with an imperious impatience. “I’m here. What’s so all fired important?”
The Cry of the Wind Page 19