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The Girl Who Knew the Wind
She knew the wind.
It wasn’t one of those things that she made up. And while of course, there was plenty of that, this time, she meant it.
She could feel the wind as if it was part of her. Often she would leave, just to sense it, and she would stand at the clifftop for hours, just letting the wind caress her hair and cheek.
Sometimes the wind was joyful. Those were lovely days. They would run together, picking golden grapes under the cooling sun, and the wind would yell in a crisp voice and wrap her long gauzy wings about her. They were sisters on days like those.
Other times she was angry. Those nights were less pleasant, but there was something about the raw power of the wind that convinced the girl she would never get enough. It was melancholy, listening to the wind rage and scream about the house, but a greedy melancholy. She never tired of hearing the wind howl. But on those days they were strangers to each other. Enemies, even. How could that clawing, enraged wind be the same that had held her during that rosy drop of a day last summer? and so they would argue and the wind would be locked out on dark nights, a victim of her own anger.
And other times she was sad. It was mostly at twilight and dawn, when she would traipse along the gray-washed copses and quietly, quietly cry. The girl didn’t know what to do on days like those, so she mostly sat silently and let the cold breath of the breeze surround her. Everything was dark and black on those evenings. The wind would stir and turn restlessly, not quite knowing why she felt so much sorrow.
On the nights when she felt it the most, she would turn violently despairing, sobbing and screaming into the navy-dark skies. The naked trees would bear the brunt of her horror, and the girl, for her own safety, would rush to the house and lock herself in, alone. The wind would rattle the doorhandle and plead—in that smoky, not-quite-clear voice of hers that sounded as if it was always being swept away—to be let in. “Save me,” she would cry, “I am so alone.”
But the girl would grit her teeth and shake her head, for she knew that if she opened the door even a crack, the wind would seize her and run with her to the cliff’s edge and she would be flung off into the dark and griping depths below.
The wind was a vengeful spirit.
One morning the girl woke to find the wind gone. She ran all about the moors for days, it seemed, crying and searching for her friend the wind. But she was gone. And when the girl looked down at her hands, they were gray, wrinkled, old. She had grown up.
The girl still lives at that house, on the edge of both the sea and the moor, and all she talks about is the wind. If you ask her one day she will tell you how they used to run, and how she sometimes can still hear her, laughing—laughing, in a place far from here.
© C.S.G.
It wasn’t one of those things that she made up. And while of course, there was plenty of that, this time, she meant it.
She could feel the wind as if it was part of her. Often she would leave, just to sense it, and she would stand at the clifftop for hours, just letting the wind caress her hair and cheek.
Sometimes the wind was joyful. Those were lovely days. They would run together, picking golden grapes under the cooling sun, and the wind would yell in a crisp voice and wrap her long gauzy wings about her. They were sisters on days like those.
Other times she was angry. Those nights were less pleasant, but there was something about the raw power of the wind that convinced the girl she would never get enough. It was melancholy, listening to the wind rage and scream about the house, but a greedy melancholy. She never tired of hearing the wind howl. But on those days they were strangers to each other. Enemies, even. How could that clawing, enraged wind be the same that had held her during that rosy drop of a day last summer? and so they would argue and the wind would be locked out on dark nights, a victim of her own anger.
And other times she was sad. It was mostly at twilight and dawn, when she would traipse along the gray-washed copses and quietly, quietly cry. The girl didn’t know what to do on days like those, so she mostly sat silently and let the cold breath of the breeze surround her. Everything was dark and black on those evenings. The wind would stir and turn restlessly, not quite knowing why she felt so much sorrow.
On the nights when she felt it the most, she would turn violently despairing, sobbing and screaming into the navy-dark skies. The naked trees would bear the brunt of her horror, and the girl, for her own safety, would rush to the house and lock herself in, alone. The wind would rattle the doorhandle and plead—in that smoky, not-quite-clear voice of hers that sounded as if it was always being swept away—to be let in. “Save me,” she would cry, “I am so alone.”
But the girl would grit her teeth and shake her head, for she knew that if she opened the door even a crack, the wind would seize her and run with her to the cliff’s edge and she would be flung off into the dark and griping depths below.
The wind was a vengeful spirit.
One morning the girl woke to find the wind gone. She ran all about the moors for days, it seemed, crying and searching for her friend the wind. But she was gone. And when the girl looked down at her hands, they were gray, wrinkled, old. She had grown up.
The girl still lives at that house, on the edge of both the sea and the moor, and all she talks about is the wind. If you ask her one day she will tell you how they used to run, and how she sometimes can still hear her, laughing—laughing, in a place far from here.
© C.S.G.
