The Cry of the Wind

by Kurt R A Giambastiani

  Speaks While Leaving shrugged, and George saw another glance pass between the two women. “That is true,” she said. “But it is much like Alejandro’s mission here. His viceroy”—she used the foreign word, as the People’s language had no construct for such hierarchical titles—”supports his mission, although he does not endorse it personally. Just so, while the Council could not decide for itself whether to follow the road of war or the road of peace, it was willing to let us try once more to form an alliance with the Iron Shirts. Some look to Ma’heo’o and the spirit powers for guidance, while others look to the world of men. If we succeed, the chiefs will take it as a sign of which path we should walk.”

  “And if we fail?” George asked.

  “You are wrong about what this alliance will bring,” she said to him. “War will not come if we form this alliance, One Who Flies. War will come if we fail.”

  He thought about what she said for several long moments. Alejandro, though not understanding the exchange, was content to let Speaks While Leaving plead her case.

  “Perhaps it is as you say,” George admitted as he recommenced his measured pacing. “But support or no, I still do not see what we can offer the Iron Shirts.”

  “Anything,” she said.

  That stopped him. The surprise he saw on Mouse Road’s face mimicked his own. Perhaps she had not been privy to the Council’s final decisions. “What do you mean, ‘anything?’” he asked.

  “Anything,” Speaks While Leaving said again. “Any peaceful concession required to forge the alliance. They can build their iron roads, we will set aside lands for settlement, and yes, we will even let them dig for the yellow chief-metal.”

  “But Speaks While Leaving—” Mouse Road said.

  “Quiet,” Speaks While Leaving told her in a tone that was uncharacteristically brusque. “Any peaceful concession that you can devise, we must offer.”

  George was skeptical; it was too vague, too open-ended. He remembered the offer that he and Three Trees Together had prepared in proposal to the United States. Specific lands had been delineated, and particular amounts had been calculated. But, he had to remind himself, that was Three Trees Together. He did not know the personality of this new Council; he had not been home to meet with the new leadership. If the Council was as fractured as he had been told, this might be the best they could agree upon.

  “They leave it up to us, then?”

  “Yes,” she said, with another silencing glance at Mouse Road. “As long as it is a peaceful concession. We must avoid war and violence. That is the vision...of the Council.

  “Railroads, settlements, resources,” George said, mulling it over, pacing once more. “There is much there to trade, though we must keep ourselves safe as well. We must be sure we do not trade the yoke of the Horse Nations for a new one owned by the Iron Shirts.”

  “Yes,” Speaks While Leaving said, excitement growing in her voice as he took hold of the idea.

  George looked up at the towering mass of the palace, at the square, cross-topped tower at the corner. “And there are other things, other resources that might interest the Iron Shirts.” He turned to Alejandro and switched to French.

  “Tell me, sir. What else should I know before we are received by her most royal and Catholic majesty?”

  When the hour of their audience came, George and Alejandro were escorted through the palace, down long, lofty-ceilinged hallways, past priceless works of art, to a room that made George gape. While no grand throne room, broad and echoing, it was still one of the most amazing rooms he had ever seen.

  While only fifty or so feet across, it was easily three times that in length; a long narrow room paved with marble tiles placed in a cross-and-square pattern of white and charcoal grey. The walls, between the many open doorways that let in light from the south, were lined with pilaster-flanked bookcases, each twice the height of a man and each filled with hundreds of books. George stared at the bindings—old, thick, worn, yet bright with gilded decorations framing titles in Spanish, Latin, Portuguese, French, German, and even English. Hundreds of books crowded each glance, thousands as he turned his head, tens—perhaps a hundred thousand—as he slowly rotated to take in the entire room.

  And above him, a ceiling to rival the Florentine masters. Atop the bookcases, panels supported a semi-cylindrical vault that ran the length of the long library. The vault itself was divided by arches carved and gilded with the interlocking geometry of Greek keys, and between the divisions, on the panels and on the curved ceiling, were frescoes.

  George stared at the massive, baroque work above him. The panels—ten in all—showed scenes of piety, trial, and martyrdom, any one of which would be considered a masterpiece. Over the panels, scenes of biblical figures arched across the apex, bordered and buttressed by prophets and patriarchs. The more George looked, the more he saw. Between the golden supports were carved and gilded placards, icons of the saints. Oval bosses of stamped gold shone like gentle suns from the beam joinings, and in corners and peaks throughout the room hovered a host of plump, winged cherubim.

  “¡Madre de Dios!” Alejandro whispered, his voice filled with a reverential awe, as if they had been ushered into not a library, but a cathedral. “I have heard of the wonders of this place—as a child I sat at my father’s knee and heard the tales of Phillipe Segundo—but never did I imagine even a tenth of such glory.”

  They walked slowly, almost lethargically, down the long book-lined hall, staring. Chairs and small tables were arranged in small groups to either side, tall candelabra standing guard with fat candles upraised. Precious miniatures from the reaches of the Spanish Empire stood on shelves and reading tables: intricately carved jade statuettes, porcelain figurines of exquisite detail, carved boxes of blood-red cinnabar. Pieces of free-standing artwork commanded the middle of the hallway—a bronze eagle on a marble pedestal, a carved Apollo, and at the end, an ancient armillary sphere nearly as tall as George. Every glance brought richness to the eye; from the wealth of knowledge and literary thought to the magnificence of gold and art, the room was a staggering trove of captured talent.

  As George stood, wordless amid the splendor, he wondered if there was a more extraordinary room in the palace. Had they been brought here to be impressed? Humbled? Or simply because it was convenient?

  The sound of heavy, booted footsteps and the clank of metal echoed through the passageways. George and Alejandro straightened and stood side by side, old military habits responding to the unmistakable tread of approaching soldiers. Four men in ceremonial uniform entered, their crested morions and cuirasses buffed to a high polish. They wore puffed pantalons, tight leggings that tucked into their hard, high boots, and carried pikes wrapped in the colors of Spain. At their hip, George noticed, was not rapier, dirk, or a pistolier to match the period of their costume. There, the ever-practical Spanish military had placed a modern revolver in holster, a fact that told him that these men were not just here for decoration.

  The first two soldiers took position on either side of the door, while the other two crossed the room and stood behind George and Alejandro. George felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up, but forced himself to keep his gaze on the doorway. If the soldiers wanted to make him nervous, fine; but he’d be damned before he’d let it show.

  A thin man wearing a black suit and an orange sash entered. He carried a long walking stick and, as he stopped at the door, he struck the tiles with it three times. The wood rang like a bell, and the man, in Spanish even George could follow, announced, “Her Glorious Catholic Majesty, María Cristina Deseada Enriqueta Felicidad, Queen Regent of Spain.” He struck the tiles again and with a bow, backed away to the side.

  The woman who entered was neither tall nor regal, but she walked at the head of her entourage with the stately grace that befitted a queen. Her dress was neck to floor a widow’s deep black, made of taffetas and silk. The cuffs and bodice seams were frilled with black lace, and black pearls and beads of faceted onyx had been sewn int
o a cross-hatch pattern across the leg-o-mutton sleeves. The only color she wore was the chain of double-linked gold around her neck, and the delicate, black-and-gold Damasquinado cross that hung from it. She was short, small-waisted, her still-dark hair done up in braids coiled into a bun. Her face was rather plain, with overlarge eyes that accentuated the impression of mourning, though in those eyes George saw no hint of sadness. Evaluation, he saw there, and skepticism, perhaps, but with Alfonso XII dead these five years past, he would have been surprised if her weeds were more than a sartorial nod of respect for her late husband. This was, George reminded himself, the woman who had the presence of mind and personal charisma to convince her country to name her regent for a child she still carried in her womb. Had Alfonso XIII been born female, he wondered what might have happened to the Spanish monarchy. As Queen María Cristina and her entourage approached, George and Alejandro bowed deeply and held it until she stopped before them. Straightening, George saw that four men had entered with her, all fair-skinned, unlike the tanned peasantry he had met during their journey, all with moustaches or beards, all in dark suits. Two of them stood to one side of their queen while the other two—most likely aides—hung back.

  “Welcome, Don Alejandro,” the queen said, as casually as if greeting an old friend. “We are pleased to see you in El Escorial. Our viceregal cousin, Lord Serrano, has told us much of your aspirations concerning the natives of the New World.” She spoke French—ostensibly for George’s benefit—though her clipped diction betrayed her Austrian upbringing and told George that María Cristina was likely more comfortable speaking in lingua franca than in the tongue of the country she professed to rule.

  “Your Majesty is most kind to take notice of my interests, though I assure Your Majesty that my aspirations are for nothing but the greater glory of Spain.”

  The tiniest of smiles touched the corner of her mouth. “Indeed,” she said, neither question nor statement, but equal portions of both.

  “Your Majesty,” Alejandro said, “may I introduce the man I have come to know as ‘One Who Flies,’ the acknowledged ambassador from the Cheyenne Alliance, George Armstrong Custer, Jr., son of the President of the United States.”

  The mention of his father took George by surprise, though he knew he should have expected it. He bowed, a little late, but not egregiously so.

  “Welcome, One Who Flies,” the queen said. “We were shocked to hear of the attack on your father’s life, but gladdened to learn he has survived it. His recovery, we are assured, is well underway.”

  There was a look that passed between the queen and Alejandro that George could not interpret, so he simply nodded, acknowledging her notice. “I thank your Majesty for the news. It was a bad business that cost both sides dearly.”

  “Yes,” she said thoughtfully. George, working against years of courtesy among the Cheyenne, made himself look the queen in the eye as was the etiquette among vé’hó’e. She regarded him frankly, chin up, head cocked slightly, studying him. “We heard that one of the native chiefs had also died in the attack. He was a friend of yours, we take it?”

  George was acutely aware of the fringe of the medicine bag he wore beneath his shirt. “He was a great friend, Your Majesty. A great friend and a wise leader.”

  “A terrible loss, then,” she said. “Our condolences.”

  George nodded, accepting her commiseration.

  “¿Su Majestad?” said one of the men who had entered with her. The tall, bespectacled gentleman then asked the queen a question in a tone so peremptory that it surprised George. The man stood by one of the reading chairs, offering it to her.

  “Yes, of course,” the queen said as she moved toward the chair. “By all means, to business. You gentlemen know Don Antonio Cánovas del Castillo, of course, our advisor from the conservative faction? And this,” she said, gesturing to the other prominent man beside her, “is our Premier, Práxedes Mateo Sagasta. You may speak freely before them, as their opinions weigh heavily in any of our decisions.” She lowered herself slowly onto the chair and sat on the edge, poised, as if ready to leap up on the moment. “Don Alejandro, if you will translate for us?”

  “Un placer,” Alejandro replied with a bow.

  “Speak to us of your proposals,” she said, and as Alejandro translated, he stepped back, leaving George to lead the negotiations.

  George spoke to her of the Alliance’s desire for peace with the United States, especially after a lifetime of war. The queen regent listened attentively as he outlined the situation, the forces arrayed, and the current prospects for the allied tribes. But while the queen’s attention was given solely over to him, and while she nodded in response to his recitation, it was not she who asked the pointed questions.

  “Do you expect Spanish troops to solve your problems?” Cánovas asked.

  “Not at all, sir,” George replied. “I hardly need point out that the military prowess of the Cheyenne and their allied tribes have kept both American and Spanish colonists at bay for three hundred years, and without help from either side.”

  “Then what do you expect?” the tall man asked.

  George noticed that María Cristina did not look from questioner to responder, as would most anyone following a conversation. Instead, she watched only him.

  She knows the questions already, he said to himself. She is not ruled by these men, though she lets others believe so.

  “We expect nothing,” George said, now aware of who was actually in control of these proceedings. “We only hope. And what we hope for is support, friendship, advice, and a fighting chance to protect our lands from those who would take them away. Your Majesty, gentlemen, for a thousand years the Cheyenne and their allies have lived lives that are independent of any technology or industry beyond that which a man or woman can perform with their own hands. The time for that culture is fading, and though they have been able to forestall the inevitable, the tribes must change in order to survive. They must learn a different way of life, keeping what they can of the old as they adapt to the new.” He looked directly at the queen regent. “But in order to survive long enough to effect this change, we need the help of Spain. Without it, a culture, a way of life, and an entire people will surely be wiped out.”

  The queen did not react to his plea. Her features remained calm and composed, with a look of general but unexcited interest, and George suddenly doubted his earlier assessment. Perhaps she was just a puppet, and these men beside her the puppeteers.

  Or perhaps, he thought, she has already made up her mind.

  “But why should Spain assay this risk?” Sagasta now asked, his lilting Castilian words and his high, effeminate voice at odds with his appearance. Where Cánovas was tall and aristocratic, with silk lapels, thinning grey hair, and moustache and beard trimmed in a classic imperial, Sagasta was short and unassuming, his blunt chin and wide mouth covered by a rough grey beard, and the dark waves of his hair ruffled and unkempt. “What you ask for seems easy enough to give—friendship, support, advice—but even such innocuous bestowments will earn us the ire of your eastern neighbor. To make friends with you will surely make us an enemy of the United States. What inducements are there to such a situation?”

  “The ruling Council of the Cheyenne Alliance has empowered us to offer many things to the Spanish crown in return for their promise of support. This will not be Spanish charity, but a true alliance, with benefit seen by both sides.”

  “What sort of benefits?” Cánovas asked, pressing for more detail.

  “Railroad easements,” George said. “Permanent settlements. The lands we were prepared to cede to the United States, we might cede to Spain instead. And there is another resource that Spain might find of interest.”

  Alejandro cleared his throat and, glancing over, George caught his querying look. Inwardly, George smiled; were he to tell the queen and her men about the mineral riches in Cheyenne lands, he could expect an alliance to be made on the spot. He could also expect it to be broken with the first
Spanish foot set in Alliance territory.

  “What resource is this of which you speak?” asked María Cristina.

  “Souls, your Majesty.”

  For the first time since the audience had commenced, she looked to her ministers. It was an answer that none of them had expected.

  “Do you mean...?” Sagasta began.

  “Sir, while many of the Cheyenne people are quite devout in their own faith and their own beliefs in a higher power, there are, just as with any people, those whose faith is not as strong. There are those who are unsure, shaken, and disillusioned with their faith, especially so in times of crisis such as this. Such people might find comfort in the Catholic faith.”

  “The Cheyenne leaders would allow this?”

  “The Cheyenne have had a long history of tolerance toward other religions. How could they not? Their neighboring tribes often have very different views on God and other matters spiritual. Itinerant priests have traveled in their territories for centuries. In order to coexist, they have learned to be tolerant, and they accept that a man’s conscience is his own domain. And while it was not discussed in specific, I’m sure the Council will agree to grant safe passage to all Catholic missionaries for the purposes of spreading the Word of God, provided that they receive in return assurances that the...excesses of zeal...that have marred past centuries will not be repeated.”

  It was his last card, and he had played it as well as he could. The queen regent looked over at her two ministers. Cánovas and Sagasta whispered briefly together and then nodded to their monarch. María Cristina seemed to take something from that nod, something that did not please her. She stood, her expression thunderous, her mouth twisted as if the words she held within were bitter.

  “We thank you for your pains in bringing these proposals before us, but we have heard nothing here that persuades us. Spain’s place in the New World is firm, and the balance of power there is set. What you ask will surely upset the scales, and that is not something we desire.”