Island Winds

The bombs had fallen near the village again the previous night, but this time, the house hadn't been hit. Billy and his mother had waited late into the morning around a small fire for news concerning the conflict. The room had a single bay window. It was patched up with cardboard, and harsh winds darted in and around it. Billy peered through curiously as the cardboard flapped. Being situated on a small coastal island, the circulating winds were not unusual in Hamley's Village, but today, amongst the brown leaves and ash, the wind carried a piece of paper. Billy watched as it zig-zagged from unreachable heights down to the dying grass of the yard.

"Mum, there is something out there."

"Stay inside, Billy. Stayed sheltered now," his mother replied.

"But I recognize that paper. I must bring it inside."

Before his mother could react, he pushed aside the cardboard, stepped over the window's up-pointing shards, and into the yard. The sheet had landed on the moist turf and was stuck there only by a corner. The lawn was sparse, and what remained of the surrounding fences was torn apart and jagged. Weeks of blasts had done their damage, and the wind had taken away the debris. Now those same winds blew, and Billy watched anxiously as the paper shook. He scurried over, snatched it from the ground, and returned to the house.

I miss you. We must never give up

It was Lyla's handwriting.

"It's from her, Mum!" Billy exclaimed.

Billy's home and school were here on the island, whereas Lyla lived on the mainland. He had grown close to her in class, but they had been separated since the island had lost power and the school had closed. Few dared venture over Hamley's footbridge, which crossed the strait and was the only link between the two landmasses; the mainland was considered at greater risk to the bombs, and the powerless island had little to offer except shelter to its inhabitants. On the island, only the lonely and despondent would populate the streets. They would gather by fires and hope for positive news, while others would stay home, leaving only to stock up on supplies from what remained in the village stores.

"Your pen pal, Billy? The girl from the mainland?" his mother said. "Leave her be until this is over. Until this conflict ends, it is a time for family."

Billy missed his time in class with Lyla. They had been leaving notes for one another for weeks under the litter bin on Hamley's Footbridge. Each would head out, leave a note, and wait a few days. Upon returning to the litter bin, the reply would be waiting. But by yesterday, Billy had counted eight days since Lyla's last note, so he feared the worst.

"Mum, this note has come from her hand. I just want to see if she is okay. I know where her house is. I will just say hello and come straight back."

"The streets are dangerous; the mainland more so," his mother warned.

She directed her eyes upward, gesturing to the shudders of the beaten house. The island winds were familiar, but many had come to fear them since the bombs had fallen. They whistled through the shattered buildings and rattled the broken brick, delivering a constant reminder of the damage done. They brought bitter cold into powerless homes, heated only by small fires threatened by their force. Billy didn't think of the winds this way. To him, they made the streets sound alive. Those familiar howls were invigorating, energetic, and the island's lifeforce—the defiant cries of a hurting village.

"Mum, the streets are dangerous, but isn't everywhere? This house has been hit once already. The wind is cold, but it always has been. I will be out thirty minutes only, an hour at most, and the bombs only drop at night. I just want to find her, and if that means going to the mainland, then so be it."

Billy's mother looked away. He felt her disapproval but walked into the neighboring room, where an old chest of drawers sat in the corner. He was determined to find Lyla. Aware of his dusty clothes, he opened the top drawer where several of his father's clean shirts were kept. On the top of the pile was a blue one with long sleeves. It was creased but cleaner than the shirt he currently wore. He removed his jacket and shirt before slipping the new one on. The chill of the room fell hard on his chest as he raced to button it from bottom to top. When he picked up his jacket, he noticed it had also become layered with dust, and he shook it before putting it back on. In a tall mirror hung on the wall, Billy attempted to neaten his hair, but his dark curls were stiff with dust and refused to move. With one silent look to the living room, he opened the back door and slipped out of the house and into the street.

Billy began his journey, holding his jacket in tightly as the winds swirled around him. He felt the chill, and dust blew into his eyes; light trash hit him on all sides. The empty wrapper of a sweet he was fond of stuck momentarily to his leg before blowing away. Memories of eating the sweet brought warmth to his cheeks.

On recent trips to the bridge, Billy had grown prouder of his quaint village. The buildings were blemished with black ash and thick dust, but the unique curvature of the dry stone down each edge had retained its charm. And while the absence of lighting from the houses and shops left the streets dulled, the lack of glare rendered the reddish cobbled roads more distinguished. Turning the first corner, he headed down Cottage Lane, walking alongside a damaged wall, jumping on and off where the bricks had fallen. It had formed the south perimeter of the village gardens, and ornate metal railings crowned the parts that still stood. Billy knew Lyla loved this park. She would tap at the railings, playing it like a xylophone, and it would make him laugh. He picked up a stick and dragged it along the metal, causing a stuttered ring. As he approached the wall's end, he began another jump but hesitated as he noticed a crack through the center of the brick.

"You be careful, lad," a voice called from over the street. It was the postman, Duncan Seymour, perched on a stack of two suitcases. He wore his postman's uniform. It was torn and marked with mud and dust, and his cap was lying on the floor beside him under a metal tin. He was drinking whiskey from a bottle.

"There are worse things out here than crumbling walls, lad," Mr Seymour continued. "These winds are carrying all sorts. Where are you going?"

"I received a letter, Sir," Billy replied.

"Letter? The post hasn't run for weeks."

"This isn't that kind of letter."

"I see. Well, what do you plan to do with this letter?"

"Find the girl who sent it, Sir."

"What, out here? Young girls are not seen walking around here much. They are home with family." Mr Seymour took a drink from his bottle. "Where is she, anyway?"

"The mainland, Sir."

"The mainland?! That was hit very badly last night."

"But I must try." Billy turned and walked away from Mr Seymour.

"Get yourself home, lad. It is way too dangerous. And I suggest finding a bottle of this."

Billy put his head down and began to walk more quickly. He waited for another call from Mr Seymour or a hand on the shoulder, but it never came. He turned a corner to the right onto Main Road. The stretch was long, and at the far end stood a church. A fire was burning outside, and people sat around it, warming themselves. As Billy approached, he counted five: two men and three women. Billy recognized one of the men as the village priest, who called to him.

"How are you today, young Billy?"

"I'm fine, Father. I am on my way to..."

"Has your dad sent you out for supplies again?" the priest interrupted.

"My dad was killed in the fourth blast. We buried him in the yard. I did most of the digging while Mum wrote some words."

"I'm sorry to hear that, Billy," said the priest.

"When was the last service you performed, Father?" said one of the women.

"Six weeks ago, now," the priest replied to the woman. "Folk have been dealing with it themselves, as Billy just described. I hear many from the mainland are being mourned collectively."

"You do right helping your mother, Billy," the woman said, rubbing her hands together.

"Yes, you acted with strength and showed great support," the priest added. "How old are you now?"

"Twelve, Father."

 "Very good," the priest said. "Well, you must send your mother our condolences and love."

"Poor child," another one of the women said. "So little hope to be had in this village."

Billy thought of Lyla. "But I have lots of hope, Miss," Billy exclaimed.

"That's the spirit, Billy," the priest said. "Now, be on your way home, wherever that may be now. Stay sheltered from these winds."

The group nodded in agreement, and with no further word spoken, Billy continued toward the bridge with greater urgency. He felt the fire's warmth replaced by the wind's chill, and he held his arms in tight. Grey skies had been carried over the island, and the daylight had dimmed. Around the next corner and across Saville Lane was Manor Square. It was home to many beautiful statues and a popular area for villagers to meet during the day and trade supplies. He would often see Lyla there with her family, and they would run away and hide behind market stalls.

Billy entered the Square. It was busy but quiet, and the shadows usually cast by the tall statues were absent under the grey skies. Many decorative slabs were cracked, but the greater floral spectacle they formed across the floor was still discernible. As Billy crossed, the people watched him with a curious sadness. Fires burned on all sides, and those warming themselves beckoned him to join, but he continued forward. A man playing a guitar was on the floor cross-legged at the Square's end. Billy was drawn to the gentle melody, and as he approached, he realized it was Mr Slattery, the music teacher from where he was schooled.

"Billy?" Mr Slattery said, looking up from his instrument.

"Hello, Mr Slattery. How are you? I must keep..."

"Oh, I'm as well as is possible in the current day," Mr Slattery interrupted. "The days are tough, but I can pass through them comfortably with this guitar."

"The music sounds very pretty. It reminds me of school."

"Yes, we must get you back there. Are you still playing your guitar?"

"It was damaged in the fifth blast, Sir."

"That is most unfortunate. If there is one thing the war should leave us with, it's music…"

As Mr. Slattery spoke, the guitar's acoustics resonated in the wind, and the sound hole voiced a low hum. Billy tried to concentrate on his teacher's words but found the hum pleasant and distracting.

"I'm sorry, Mr Slattery. I was distracted by the hum of your guitar."

"Isn't it wonderful? Yes, I would miss the winds if they disappeared. They tell me the village is still fighting."

"Yes, Mr Slattery. They make the village sound alive."

"Exactly... Alive! The winds are as much a part of this village as the people. They sing to us and, soon enough, will sing a victory for us. Now, where are you heading?"

"I wish to find my friend, Lyla. You know her from school. She also has a guitar... and plays the piano."

"Yes, Lyla, sweet girl. But where is she?"

"The mainland, Sir. We leave messages underneath the old litter bin on Hamley's Footbridge, but this one was brought to me only by the wind. I want to see that she is okay."

"But… the bridge was taken out in last night's blast. Much of the mainland was hit very badly. These people in the Square await news concerning their friends and loved ones."

Billy's shoulders dropped. 

"Billy?" Mr Slattery said. "Are you okay?"

Billy took the note out of his pocket.

I miss you. We must never give up

"I have to try, Mr Slattery,” he exclaimed, running off toward the bridge.

"Be careful," Mr Slattery shouted from behind.

Billy darted around the first corner, leaving the Square, passing people and fires left and right.

"Where are you going?" a man in the street shouted.

"Be careful out here," another said.

A dog lay on the sidewalk ahead, and as Billy passed, it jumped up as if wanting to play. Billy continued straight, and the dog lost interest. He ran to the end of the street, turning right, left, and through the alley opposite, which led to the Hamley's Strait. As he exited the alley, he stopped sharply, and he was met with the water and the ruins of the footbridge. The structure stood fractured and useless at each end, while its arch had vanished. Thin fragments of green and red floated atop the water, reminding Billy of the bridge's beauty, but the waves thrashed at the island’s edge and strait was uncrossable. Dejected, he paced back and forth, kicking at stones and branches wedged into the dirt. He looked for the litter bin, but it was nowhere to be seen. He paced in circles as the wind chilled his neck and ears until he heard a voice muffled by the wind. He stopped his kicking and listened, hearing the voice again almost immediately. Across the strait, Lyla was standing, waving her arms, calling.

Billy ran to the edge, but the strait was deep. He took the letter out of his pocket and waved it above him. Lyla nodded. Her red hair was billowing wildly. He longed to make contact, hug her, hold her in any way. The paper in his hands was creased but dry and crisp. Lyla's beautiful words stared back at him. 

I miss you. We must never give up

Spotting a smooth surface on a nearby wall, he laid the sheet down. A region of dirt moistened by splashes from the strait was to his right. He pressed his thumb into the dirt and then onto the sheet, leaving a thumbprint, punctuating Lyla's words with a piece of himself. Concentrating hard, he went to work. He curved the sheet, corner to corner, and folded it in half. Beginning with the corners at one end, he folded the sheet bit by bit until he was left with a perfectly formed paper plane.

Billy waited for a moment of calm. The winds were powerful, but they eased as if only for him. As he threw the plane, it sailed forward, only to curve upwards. He grimaced as it rocketed toward the sky, but the wind returned, and the plane was sent to the left, wobbling in all directions, and then lower until it was caught by a second gust and sent skyward, this time way up. The plane was tossed across eddies, flipping over and under until it vanished against the grey skies. Billy looked at Lyla and saw she was fixated on the aerobatics. She gasped; the plane, thrown from an air pocket, had come back into view. It glided elegantly but to the right and toward the water, but as the winds lightened, the plane found its wings, curving to the left and in Lyla's direction. She waited with her arms stretched wide, twenty feet away, fifteen feet away, ten, five, before a final gust sent the plane upward and above her head.

The winds paused, freezing the plane in one of its pockets, and Billy listened as the waters calmed. The plane began to fall. He watched it topple downward like a dying bird, landing safely in Lyla's hands. He met her gaze momentarily until she closed her eyes, and he watched as she held the letter to her chest and smiled.