Ways of The Wind

(Preface: This story contains reference to natural disasters and the violence that can be caused by them.)

How did I end up here in this place, in this palace, in this utopia of grandeur, dining with royalty and diplomats? I ponder how long I have been here and how far from home I am, as my eyes carefully scan the high ceilings of the vast library near the dining hall, where I await supper. Pacing leisurely, exploring in wonderment, my fingers gently brush the books one by one. I feel the texture change from one text to the next as my eyes take in the golden pillars and finely crafted art on the ceilings. Ceilings so high they seem to open up to the sky. Patterns of sapphire and turquoise, tile and stone accentuated by gold and bronze decorate the surface above. Hoping not to get lost in thought I purposefully bring my focus to the view in front of me. Books about science and history, literature and languages, alchemy and philosophy pass before me, as do sporadic appearances of hand-crafted lamps and artifacts. Everything in this home, if you can call it that, has been carefully curated to portray the intellect and prominence of the residents and their positions here in Cisiero. The thought leads me to a deep sigh as my hand simultaneously falls to my side. I meander over to the nearby hand-crafted wooden desk, close to the center of the room, cluttered by books, scrolls, and paper. I sift through the chaos out of curiosity; partially out of speculation and partially of a desire to organize the storm of documents splayed out before me. In all honesty the disorder slightly prods at my natural inclination for alignment. A cadence of order unfolds as I casually pick up and scan book after book, paper after paper, rearranging, or rather, arranging the sea of parchments. 

I am a long way from home, from the parched land and dust polluted air; a long way from the collapsed society I have known most of my life. The land my friends and I were from would have once been considered a wasteland. There was little water to sustain us directly, let alone produce any kind of crop, aside from very small cover crops. Our ancestors had adapted long ago to eating pricks and poms, and drinking very little to nothing. Our people had developed systems to collect the rain when it fell, which was not often especially after Stazia hit, and becoming less and less. Everything changed after that. 

I shake off the ache rising as images of Stazia surface, moving my hands to continue shuffling papers. Moments pass and it rises again, how our province was plagued by a supernatural destructive force that manifested in the form of a devastating dust storm. There was no way to predict the storm, it would come suddenly and lay waste to anything in its tracks. At some point we lived amongst the hurricane of dust and debris, until we didn’t. The last day we dwelt on the surface was seemingly still. The sun was shining, but not too brightly with light cloud cover. It was declared a market day and one of celebration. The people were buzzing with movement and delight. The atmosphere vibrated with fresh life. It had been a while since we had been able to come out from our mud hives, a while since we had seen some of our friends; a while since our bodies had taken in the sun. The residue of the last storm kept us inside longer than usual. It had taken more time for the dust to settle, and we had to protect our lungs. But this day the aroma of sweet prickles and poms filled the air and we enjoyed the simple pleasure of breathing. 

I could feel the warmth of the sun kissing my skin, my arms, and face blushed with delight. I remember the tug at my side nudging me to open my eyes and inviting me to participate with my other senses. A small soft hand took mine and tactfully tugged me onward. I recall catching a glance of the joy filled, nurturing smile on my sister’s face as she led me forward. We were driven by giggles of determination to celebrate. Children were running around, some huddled up in pockets on the ground playing games. Adults also participated in different sorts of games, particularly the men and their games of strength. Wrestling playfully, yet competitively as men do, they showed off their brute skills. Voices recited stories as arinians acted them out. While in another direction stringed instruments and songs arose like incense up into the air, as the davinians harmonized together; an infusion of ecstasy to the ears. The tinkers traded gadgets and the alchemists traded any elements they came by on their excavation of the desert. There was a man who had accumulated a variety of furry and scaly desert friends, who would bring them on the rare occasion of a market day for the young ones. Rjet loved animals and took any opportunity to snuggle them, so that is where we headed. Though we had our challenges, gazing off into the distance where soft dunes and opalescent painted skies went on for what seemed like forever, left us breathless. 

Tangible images of scenery, people, and of the natural world, as well as corners of maps are exposed as I continue to sort through the disarray. It’s hard to believe that some days ago I  blew in on the tail of the wind. It sounds simple, but the blood, sweat and tears that went into building my wind sailor was no small feat. Before my recent journey I thought the world to be so miniature, to be what I would now consider a pinprick on one of these maps. The unexpected sound of a mediocre slam of a window catches me off guard as the wind blows it open. And just as the breeze brushes my face, I am swept away to a dark wrinkle in my memory. 

The sound of heart wrenching screams devastates. People run fiercely for whatever cover they can find, whatever they can cling to, as tidal waves of dust sweep through the region and brushing away all its arms can carry. This time the force was taking homes with it, no stone unturned, buildings being either annihilated or disintegrated into residue that has no path, but to follow its likeness. Men, women, and children, entire families disappear into the thick clouds of swarming sand. This time the earth trembled beneath our feet and split open, taking companions with it. Some perish as they are swallowed by the land, while others are shown mercy by the welcoming of it. I am one of them. 

Everything happening so quickly I barely had a moment to reach out for my sister. But it was too late. While the earth gives way beneath me, she is far enough away for the quake not to harm her. I watch as one by one her feet lift from the desert floor. The mighty force hoisting her up before me. She paws out needily for everything and anything. Her hand latching onto one of the only poles left stationary from one of the market stands. Momentarily relieved yet increasingly tortured, I wrestle effortlessly to get unstuck and dig myself free. I keep my eyes on her as I rebel against my circumstance, as dust and sand continue to pound on me, barely able to see or breathe. We call out for one another, as sand continues to vigorously bury me alive and finger after finger of her grasp slips. As my mouth loses exposure, I reach inside for whatever is left. Crying out still, hoping the reach of our voices would extend the stretch of our arms and we be able to embrace one another. Tears run like rivers down our faces. The dust nuzzles me all around like a blanket, and just before my eyes are forced closed, she vanishes.

A single tear rolls down my face as I watch the candle in the lantern flicker.

“What are you doing here?” 

I look up a bit startled to see tremendous deep brown eyes skeptical peering back at me. My body is still radiating from memory, the only thing I can make out from them at this distance is that the eyes are wide, like the eyes of a child. Eyes of possibility. Yet somehow a combination of compassion and hostility. All enhanced by thick, caterpillar like, and perfectly arched ebony eyebrows. 

“This library isn’t open to everyone”, the young lady voices confidently, with a light undertone of territorial protectiveness. The statement is delivered in a manner that may also be taken as if it is a question. My hands immediately cease their movement as I size her up from across the room. The eyes are attached to who seems to be an average sized Cisieronian woman, still thin, but slightly more muscular. She is prominent in stature.  

“Oh, I was only admiring the craftsmanship of the foyer and it led me to this impressive room... which led to me appreciating the collection of books and the art, and the design and detail of the furniture and the space. Then I was drawn like a moth to the beauty of the desk, and well, my compulsion led me to tidy the anomaly covering it. Yeah... short answer, waiting for dinner to be served.” I say, my body having returned to harmony.

“Most people are congregating in the lounge…” She begins to say as what seems like a discipline, but somewhere in between decides to lift her judgment. “...speaking about their ‘noble’ conquests, and politics, and goods. You’re right, you’re better off here. This is actually where I come to escape the aroma of arrogance.”

A look of inquiry comes over me, as I momentarily ponder the degree of seriousness in the statement. After a brief silence our eyes affirm one another and we subtly laugh, breaking any sign of tension. A soothing sentiment of familiarity comforts me as the bell rings for dinner. ‘Time is on time’, I think. She remains positioned at the door, I assume to escort me to the dining hall. I instinctively move towards her at a mild pace, in no hurry, increasingly taking in the intricacies of her appearance. Her delicate face and ivory skin are complemented by midnight locks of silky, flowing hair. Even closer now, I see that under long lashes her eyes are lovely, soft yet fierce, seasoned with a dash of mystery.

As I approach her side she naturally takes my hand into both of hers and gazes into my eyes, welcoming me officially. The freckle under her left eye reminds me of home. A frail tingling sensation seems to rise from my arms into my chest, unveiling something like a gift hidden in my heart. Deemed unacceptable, my mind stubbornly resists, but after a short battle apprehensively surrenders to the question, “Have we met before?” 

She releases my hands and walks a few steps ahead of me. Looking back she says, “Time is on time”.