--------------------------------------------------------------------------- [u][b]Early September: Gota de Guerra, La Mancha, Spain [/b][/u] --------------------------------------------------------------------------- A person used to activity, to moving forward with their life and its purpose, begins to fray from the pressure of pent up anxiety and angst when they are stuck doing nothing for too long. Taytu had this problem, and she knew why. But what she wasn't sure about was the truth of the anxiety she sensed in the country surrounding her. Spain seemed anxious and seething with angst. But was that her projecting her feelings onto an innocent people? This question for a normal person would be trivia. But for Taytu, who latched her identity on her ability to read a society, this uncertainty nibbled at her soul. She had other reasons to doubt herself. For most of the time she'd lived in America, she'd envied it. Its polish, its strength, its unmatched modernity. But Las Vegas changed that. She now pitied America, and feared it. She hadn't read it correctly until it tried to kill her. Spain was just alien. How poorly might she misread it? What might be the consequences? Who was she now? She simmered in these feelings, on top of a hill, in a modest mansion surrounded by vineyards. The property was owned by Spain's new Viceroy, the perilous Delgado, but he never visited it. Taytu took it he owned the property for its produce and not for the quaint white estate perched overlooking it all. La Mancha reminded her of the American Great Plains. It was a vast stretch of uninspiring nothing, broken up by fields and villages. It was a place where it was hard to imagine lives being lived. Taytu hadn't spoken much with the people who called this land home, but she imagined their lives taking on more the quality of rotting than anything she called life. She lived on wine, cheese, and worry. Noh lived there too, but he'd befriended the caretaker, and the two of them went partridge hunting several times a week. So was that national anxiety real? She read ominous signs in little things. More military aircraft flew over the plains than commercial. There was activity for them in Morocco. She read the newspapers. There were always lines between the lines, unspoken truths, obvious in the things left unsaid. In the few people she did meet, mostly just servants and those working on the estate, they left more things unsaid than the papers could. It took her longer to heal than she'd wanted. The gunshot itself hadn't been so bad, but the infection was hard to shake. Even now, two months later, the flesh on her side was tender, and the scarified tissue unseemly. But it was not dangerous any more. She could have left. Should have left. And would have, if her homeland hadn't erupted in a war of its own. The unease sometimes came up in conversation. You could tell it was there where so many words caused tension. "It was this time of year forty six years ago that the Great War began." the old ponderous voice of [i]Dejazmach[/i] Wendem Cherkos said like a warning from beyond the grave. Wendem was Ethiopia's Ambassador to Spain, who came to check on Taytu often enough to be her caretaker. It'd been him that brought Benyam Felege's suggestion she stay in Spain until circumstances become easier to understand. "Forty six years is a meaningless number." Taytu said, "And that war started in August. It is September." She said these words, but any rationality in them fell dead, victim to the feeling of the times. "Maybe the omens that worry me are not in the years. Instability and war is normal now. Nothing feels permanent anymore." "Nothing is permanent." Taytu grumbled. "What things are often means less than what things feel like. Sometimes stability is a self fulfilling prophecy. So is instability." She could not answer that. "What am I here for?" she asked bluntly. "Not to be home and in danger." Wendem said. Taytu perched on her chair like she was ready for action, to jump up at any moment and fight, or argue, with the first person to come through the door. Wendem didn't reflect her stance in any way. In his old age he gladly surrendered support of his body to the leather sofa. An existential discomfort seemed to possess Taytu's muscles. She sighed and recrossed her legs. "I have to do something." "I have been discussing the possibility of Spanish support for the crown in the war. They aren't interested. Understandable. I don't know that you can help, but that is the only diplomatic goal we are pursuing right now." "Would it be better if I relocated to Madrid?" Taytu asked. "I don't think so. You were placed out here for a reason. The political atmosphere in this country is still very tense. You would be endangering yourself." "I can't do anything in the middle of nowhere." Taytu pouted. They were quiet for a stretch, listening to the house settle, the clocks tick. The restlessness in Taytu's soul welled up so that it needed an outlet of some kind. She reached to pour herself a glass of wine though she was not thirsty. "You could speak to members of the [i]Cortes[/i]. You still have the honor of being royalty, in a country that respects that honor. Deputies of the [i]Cortes[/i] would be pleased to make your acquaintance." Taytu stood and thought for a moment, wine glass in her hand. "Schedule a meeting. Here, I suppose." "That would be best." "Are you making progress in any of your goals? Arms, whatever?" "I am afraid not." "Well." Taytu looked out the window, sunlight making the dry hills glow. "I'll see what I can do." "Good." Wendem did his best to smile, his face-muscles lifting his jowls in much the same way a child picks up a heavy sack of grain. Then his eyes lit up. "One more thing!" he pulled a bundle of papers from his robe and put them on the table. "Newspapers from home. The latest." Taytu looked at them. "Thank you." she said, expressionless. -- In La Mancha you can see all around for miles. There are no trees, and few hills to block the horizon. The sky is as blue as blue, and the plains golden. Taytu stood in the shade of the eves and looked out over the white plaster walls, across the vineyard, toward the small village in the valley. From this place, you couldn't tell Spain was undergoing political crisis. What could a crisis be in such a landscape? A busted cart? There were people who dreamed of living in a place like this. Taytu wasn't one of them. What she saw was perfectly pointless desolation. She'd come out to feel the sun on her skin, one of the few joys in this pastoral wilderness. Noh arrived, riding on horseback, accompanied by Francisco, the caretaker, an old man who wore a straw hat to protect his bald head. Birds hung from their saddles like grape clusters. Three slim dogs kept pace. Noh dismounted quickly. Francisco took a moment. He looked up at Taytu. "Señora." he greeted respectfully, untying his birds. Taytu smiled coldly and said nothing. "I will take these and clean them." Francisco said, taking Noh's birds with big rough hands. "Thanks Pancho." Noh replied. The old man went around the house in the direction of the out-building he called home. "We saw three bombers heading south." Noh told her. He approached, shotgun slung over his shoulder, looking as if he'd almost gone native. "Changing bases." Taytu said. "I've never seen one before we came here." Noh was next to her in front of the door now. "They don't sound like other planes. They are like big eagles, there is something ominous about them." "It's the bombs. You know they are there." "They are darker though. And their hum is lower." "I haven't notice." Taytu was not looking at him. He stared at her a moment, and went inside. She looked out, over the fields, watching the workers at their vines. She went inside soon afterwards. Noh had picked up one of the newspapers from the tousled pile she'd left. "What is this one?" She peered over his arm. "I asked for that one specially. It's the Anglo-Abyssinian. Printed in New York." "Why would you want it?" he said. He read over it, and she could see the subtle hints of distress playing on his face. "They like the Begmeder rebels." He held it up. It showed a picture of her brother, crowned, standing near a white woman. "Is this true?" he pointed to the headline. [i]Emperor's Foreign Girl[/i]." "Undoubtedly." she scoffed. He held it in his hand, staring. "You knew he was like that. You've heard the stories." "I have heard rumors, but I did not hold stock in them. It is not important, maybe. It is the modern world." "You make it sound like he has chosen a good wife." she said. Her heart was beating faster now. She felt like a hunting dog, having caught the scent for the first time in a long time, was hot on the trail like it was the only thing in the world. "That is his whore. My brother's whore. That is who he is." "I don't know..." "I know! I lived with him! He was like a monkey, running wild! There was no controlling him! I have cultivated myself, but what has he done?" "He is the country." "Then God help us all!" There was a pause. The profound rural silence filled the void. She was angry, but her anger was an ecstasy of a kind too. A real feeling. Something she could grab onto in the desolation she was stuck in. He broke the pause. "You make it sound like there is no hope. Like this war is over." Did she make it sound like that? Instead of answering, she smouldered. Was it over? That didn't seem right. In the mind of her countrymen, Sahle was the Emperor. He was the nation in a sense. In her mind, he was her brother. Did she not understand her own country? She understood the power of the monarchy. She understood it more than Sahle. But she didn't feel it. Did that matter? "I can..." she was going to complete that sentence with [i]do my part[/i], but her mouth dried up, and she didn't feel like finishing the words. The pause. The silence. She didn't like him anymore. Noh seemed like a golem, a being without its own soul. Had she ever liked him, or had he just been there? In America, he had been her golem. Now he was just another of her brother's. It was just her. It had always been just her. -- A day passed. Nothing happened but existence. The expanse surrounding them on all sides seemed to grow. A car puttered down the dusty road. It was an overly polished thing, slick lines and ostentatious ornaments, a sort of modern aristocratic coach. The man who stepped out of the back had the body of a military man gone old. Strong jawed and muscular, but in a way that harshly defined wiry muscles and the features of his skull. He was grey haired, clean shaven, and wore the tight suit of a Spanish gentleman, along with a tilted [i]sombrero cordobés[/i]. As far as politicians went, he was quite attractive, but he was a attractive in the sense a magazine model is attractive. She didn't intend to do anything but look. "Good morning, your majesty." he greeted her, smiling. "Deputy Conde." she held out her hand. He kissed it. They went inside. There was cheese, wine, and ham. Both of them had wine. "This is your place?" he asked, looking around. "Viceroy Delgado's" she replied. He said nothing, and inspecting the room as if he had not heard her. "Sit down, [i]Señor[/i]" she offered. "After you." he insisted, motioning toward a richly upholstered arm chair. She obliged and sat down. He sat across from her. "What do I owe this invitation?" he asked sweetly. She sipped. "I wanted to get in contact with the important people in this part of the country. The Embassy put your name at the top." "Well, I don't pretend to such importance, but we all have roles to play." "Yours is an elected official? That is very interesting to me. In Ethiopia, we do not have elected officials. Is it like in America?" "We do not rule the country, we only advise his majesty." Conde was looking uncomfortable. That annoyed Taytu. Wasn't it already trouble enough that her homeland was embroiled? Did she have to balance the trouble of this place too? "That is admirable." Taytu replied, "Do not think I am a Republican. I mean, what would I be in a Republic? I am a stranger in a strange land. I only want to understand what I am talking about." Conde looked more and more out of place. "What can I clear up?" he asked. She sipped. "You are an advisor by trade? Well, I could use advice. You know my country has broken down into civil war? You have heard this?" He nodded. "Yes." she said solemnly, "That puts me in a strange position. I am a servant to my country. What can I do for it when I am so far away? I wish to serve my country." Conde relaxed some, and took a sip. His jaw, which had looked painfully welded to his face, seemed to loosen. "You want to ask for help, your majesty? In your war?" "That would be a service." Taytu replied. She'd underestimated him. She always underestimated the ones she found attractive. Old fat men had to be wily. The attractive ones only needed to look strong and let the rest fall into place. "Your country has some of the crusader spirit now, under Delgado..." Conde raised a hand. "I am not in a place to raise a crusader standard. Do you think there is a place for an advisor like that? There is one advisor in this country. Just the one man. If I stick up my head for something so irrelevant, do I not look like competition? Or maybe another party? I am not an ambitious man. Let me sit in my office and drink wine. Delgado and his friends can have the government." "I expected more spirit." she said blandly. "Well, it is not there." Conde replied. "I am honored to have met you, your majesty, but if you are looking for friends in the government, I am afraid I cannot be useful to you." There was that profound silence. Rural oblivion.