Whistle of Wind

The air was damp and smelled earthly sweet in the dimly lit study that, considering the looming sun outside, felt surprisingly cool.

With an abruptness, the door opened. From it entered a woman with long flowing white hair, impossibly young-looking for her age, who then sat across him. Her skin was beautiful, the color of walnut, he thought as her quick words cut in.

“I am not here to serve you, nor are my people”

“O-of course not”

“Do not pretend to sit there and ignore what we have learned of you, of your land under your rule”

I said nothing, stewing in a kind of misplaced guilt.

“My superiors warned me of this kind of welcome, and we, I, have come to soothe any discontent. As such I have brought gifts.”

From my bag I unpacked a pristine, jet-black leather bound book and a box of pure weight karambs the same ones that so heavily weighed me during my journey across Aylin.

Placing them gently before her I waited in silence. Receiving nothing, I continued.

“These are Karambs said to have belonged to the great elders. And this notebook is the finest paper of our people, one we hope you can share your insight.”

“I have been given many gifts in my time, and none hold so much weight in my soul as an open mind, and clear,” her eyes pierced mine, “intentions.”

She stands and gathers the items, turning towards the door. Confused, I follow her.

“I-I had hoped to gain your support as the current oracle in studying the natural phenomena of this region. In fact, with today’s festivities-”

“Todays festivities”, she accused, eyes lost for several moments in thought. I became uncomfortably aware of my poor choice of words. “You disgrace me with stolen goods. You have nothing to be gained from the “studying” of wind. There is no data that can help you know, no science.”

The last word she chewed on before spitting at my feet.

Walking out the door, the air heavy, as I hurried after her.

She was already stopped paces away, up to her shins in the lush grass that seemed to cover every part of this region, muttering as a huge gust tore between the both of us. Turning back to me, glancing over her shoulder, she said, “If you leave behind all you have studied, perhaps then you will learn by experience. You see, life sings through all of us.”

Walking away, her back seemingly forever turned away, I felt I had failed. I had nothing further to do but bear witness to the ceremony.

* * *

The valley itself was small, tall mountains lining each side except the one facing high the sea. At this time of year the winds were said to pick up suddenly, with a force not understood by this realm.

The structure we had gathered around, which stood nearest the sea, was wide and made of a foundation of earthen clay. Its high beams embodied a delicate movement. Imperfections in the wood giving the doorways on each side a soft bend, creating a slight lean like a pliant blade of grass. Openings on and around each doorway that seemed too vast to call windows were covered by large sail-like swaths of cloth, and they peeked in and out of the openings in the breeze.

Suspended atop its foundation was a sea of chimes. Made of an unknown substance, they were every size and color. They bobbed amidst each other floating with an unseen force in a contented way, as the salt air rolled in, bringing a smattering of notes.

Gathered at the west-most entrance to the structure was a large crowd of people, travelers from all across who had come to bear respect and witness.

“50 karambs to witness the miracle of sound,” emits a tall spindly man, dark of skin and void of hair, surprisingly sonorous as the wind rips quickly through the gathered travelers. A grumble runs through the group as they each toss what I know as a years worth of wages into the urn, it’s clanging a humble introduction of the festivities to come. “All who have paid to witness the mystery of the wind are repaid in time, only one does not know how or when. That is how it has always been told!”

The man carries the urn in my direction and I quickly drop my payment into its depths.

As it was, I gave a small jump as the oracle appeared on the other side of the structure, visible as a ghost through the while billowed cloth. She spoke no words, allowing the cry of the sea to speak for her, and stood dressed in silken robes the same emerald blue as the ocean below.

I braced myself for the ceremony to come.

Moments passed, filled with an anticipating howl coming from the beach which grew stronger with every inhale. Behind her each chime began to circle in its spot, vibrating, driven downward to an unseen point in the floor.

Some recall the woman placing one bare foot in the air before ascending lightly as if taking a flight of stairs. Others recall her jumping off the plateaus cliff edge. I remember her standing on tiptoe, arms raised to the sun before diving off into what should have been sudden death. And silence. I remember silence, and a strange anxiety for a life I had never known. I blinked as that moment of silence replaced itself with am impossibly strong gust of wind.

It was as if nature itself was howling, circling around the valley, crying in our ears, and forming around the floating woman as if in strict conversation. The chimes which had been forcibly still were now singing with an aching song, impossibly slow moving in so vast a storm and emitted so beautiful in melody the woman beside me cried out in longing.

The oracle’s arms extended out and slightly before her as she rose higher into the sky, further out above the ocean, head tilted slightly to one side as if resting upon a loved one. Although it was much too far to tell, I thought I noticed most her lips, moving rapidly in a whisper only the wind and water could hear.

The memory of a bird I had seen as a child flashed in my mind, a small delicate thing and bright blue. I had come across it, noticed its stillness and climbed closer into the brambles for a closer look. What struck me were its eyes. Just the size of little seeds, seeing but unseeing, and I realized the life had gone out of the little thing.

For weeks after I sat and stare at the birds in the sky, wondering when they too would drop.

Brought back from my reverie, a violent vortex had formed a kind of encasement around the oracle, her body shielded by an opaque layer of wind. I screamed in terror, the pressure in the atmosphere suddenly painful. As the force of wind surrounding her undulated and hardened, a final whistle of the chimes sang out to us and she was gone.

Now on the cliffs edge against the white sandy rock, was a small chime made of a beautiful emerald.

Those who had witnessed that day would spend quiet moments of their life thereafter, recalling her last miracle, and would feel such a feeling of longing in their bones, vibrating into the very center of their marrow, ringing and ringing and ringing.