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Alixander Fey -> RE: The Master's Lair (8/15/2009 14:59:14)
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Hear the Wind
“Dillan, it’s time to go.”
The surf drowned her voice beneath a dull roar. Marisa sighed and stepped onto the sand, following a trail of small footprints towards the sea. Rounding a moss-covered rock, she found her son sitting cross-legged beside a cluster of piebald seashells.
“Mom, look at this!” Dillan’s eyes sparkled as he waved a bronze-tinted conch.
“It’s gorgeous,” his mother said, dropping to the sand beside him. “Did you find it yourself?”
Nodding, he raised the shell to the sun. “Watch this!” Sunlight set the shell on fire, blazing orange patterns across its hard surface.
Marisa gasped. “That’s amazing…” Dillan passed her the shell, and she rotated it in her hand, studying the curves and groves. She held it to her ear and laughed.
“What is it?” He snatched the shell and mimicked her pose.
“Well, Dillan?”
His eyes brightened in delight. “I can hear the wind.”
* * *
“Dillan! Time for dinner!”
Marisa slid the hot plate onto the table, wafting the aroma of chicken and rice across the room. Slipping off her apron, she hummed to herself and took a seat. After waiting for almost a minute, she called again.
“Dillan? Are you coming?”
No response. She rose from the table and slipped into his room. He sat on a stool, gazing out the open window. “Dillan, did you hear me calling?”
His head snapped to one side. “No, ma’am.”
Marisa scanned the room with narrowed eyes. “What are you doing?”
Dillan stood and glanced back to the window. “Sitting.” Without apologizing, he trotted past her and into the hall.
Before joining him at the table, Marisa took a clear pitcher from the fridge and poured drinks. Dillan stared out another window, sadness haunting his features. He didn’t look up when she offered him a glass of tea.
They ate in silence for several minutes; Marisa’s worry increased with each passing second. Finally, she spoke. “Dillan, are you feeling all right?”
The boy fixed his eyes on the table. “I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?”
He swallowed a spoonful of rice to appease her. Marisa watched every bite—that is, the few he actually took. Her son seemed content to spin the food in little circles. She ate slowly, giving him time to talk if he wanted. But he said nothing until she was almost done.
“Mom, can we go back to the beach tomorrow?”
Marisa frowned in thought. “If you wake up early enough,” she said. “I have to work in the afternoon.”
She hoped her answer would evoke a smile, but he only nodded and resumed his swirling. She finished her meal, and without an excuse to remain at the table, decided to sweep the floor. Dillan remained silent until she finished.
“Can you open the window?”
Marisa set the broom down and examined her son. Was he running a fever? He didn’t look pale or flush. “Why do you want the window open, dear? Are you hot?”
He shrugged.
She leaned over the table and unhooked the window latches. Struggling, she pushed it open, welcoming a cool breeze into the kitchen. “Now, finish your dinner and tell me what’s wrong.”
He shrugged again but ate faster.
“That’s not good enough, Dillan. Are you sure you’re not sick?”
“I’m fine, Mom.” His face tightened in concentration. “I’m just trying to hear the wind.”
* * *
Dillan sprinted toward the sea in elation. He loved how the sand shifted beneath his feet, how the surf lapped against his calves. He and his mother had spent countless hours on the beach, but he had a new reason for coming today.
He could hear the wind.
Returning to his collection of shells, he found the conch and held it to his ear. The sound was faint at first, a rustling in the distance, but it swelled quickly. Dillan closed his eyes, surrendering to the music, swaying with the melody. It grew louder, consuming him until he could no longer feel, think, or move. He could only hear.
The sound enveloped him: simple, yet so complex. It was a single, gorgeous melody, and at the same time a symphony of one thousand parts, with every instrument present and featured. It had rhythm, cadence, and beat, driving him forward, forcing his pulse to throb faster. His breathing sped, racing with the music. He plunged deeper into the darkness, though not of his own will. The gale carried him forward so swiftly his vision blurred. He flew with the music, gliding on invisible wings that beat to its tune. And
then—
Nothing. The wind stopped.
“Dillan, are you listening?”
He glanced up to see his mother waving the shell. “Give it back!” he demanded.
“Not until you listen to me, young man. I was trying to talk to you.”
He squinted at his mother. Why wouldn’t she leave him alone? “Sorry, Mom.”
She brushed curls away from her face in frustration. “Now, I was asking if you minded my leaving for a bit. I’m going to visit Sara. You know where she lives, right?”
He nodded.
His mother returned the shell. “Good. Now don’t leave the beach unless you’re coming straight to Sara’s. We’ll be on the front porch so I’ll probably see you coming.” With a strained smile, she disappeared.
Dillan barely noticed. He had his conch shell back. Without pause, he pushed it to his ear.
And he heard the wind.
* * *
Marisa slumped against the doorframe, tears glistening on her cheeks. Her son crouched beside his bed, taking inventory of his collection.
“Will they be safe, Mom?”
No. “Of course, Dillan.”
He scrambled to her side, wrapping his arms around her waist and wiping his face on her shirt. “Why do we have to leave?” he wailed. “I love the sea!”
Marisa stroked his blond curls and whispered: “Some things have to change, Dillan. It’s the way life works. You’ll love the school there. I know the fifth grade teacher…” Her voice faded into silence.
Dillan raised his chin, rubbing his puffy eyes. “But Mom, we’re moving to the mountains. I’ll never see another shell!”
Bending down, Marisa kissed his cheek. “I know, sweetheart, I know. Go pack up.” With a pat, she sent him to gather the shells into a carefully-insulated cardboard box.
He worked quickly and diligently, covering each shell in a rag before nestling it into the box. Her heart broke to see how much he loved his little hobby.
When the box was ready to be sealed, Marisa stretched a swath of packing tape over the seam. “Don’t worry about your shells,” she said. “They’ll be fine.”
Dillan’s face wrinkled in worry. “I hope so,” he said as they walked into the kitchen. “I love the wind. I don’t know what I’d do without it.”
* * *
If a boy’s eyes could look like they belonged to a corpse, Dillan’s did. Marisa expected him to shatter into a thousand pieces when he saw the box. Instead, he seemed to wither inside. He never screamed or cried; he simply surrendered. His whole body went limp; his breathing slowed. She didn’t even see him blink.
“What… what happened?”
Marisa placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “I don’t know, sweetheart, I don’t know. It must have been an accident with the movers. Maybe a bigger box slid over it…” Her voice trailed off when she realized he wasn’t listening.
The box gaped open on one side, spilling his shells in every direction. The fragments strewn across the ground resembled shards of a rainbow, reflecting the light of the sun in a thousand different hues.
“How…” Dillan gasped. When the shock faded, he dropped to his knees and scoured the pile for a surviving shell. He tore the box open, emptying the remaining pieces onto the ground.
Marisa hesitated to stop him. Dillan’s collection held him in thrall; tearing it away would only hurt him more. Instead, she bent down and rummaged through the pile herself.
Hopelessly, Dillan pushed a few more splintered shards aside. “They’re gone,” he sobbed. “All my shells are broken.”
Marisa refused to stop. Sweeping aside the larger chunks of debris, she found the sole surviving shell. Its end was chipped, but that wouldn’t affect the sound inside. Polishing the conch with her skirt, she passed it to Dillan.
The boy’s eyes sparkled in exultation. Marisa had seen that expression before—on Mike’s face when she had walked down the aisle years ago. How could a little boy be so excited about a shell?
“Mom,” Dillan gasped, “thank you!” He snatched the shell away without hesitation, wrapping her in a hug. The force of his grasp knocked her to the floor. “Thank you so much!”
She smiled and hugged him back, whispering “I love you” in his ear. Without responding, Dillan pulled away and raised the conch. The instant transformation—from cadaverous despair to angelic bliss—astonished her.
“Dillan, why do you love your shells so much?”
The corners of his lips turned upward in a smile. “Mom, I can hear the wind.”
* * *
“Dillan, stop. It’s for you own good.”
Growling, her son lunged for his shell. Marisa spun away, sending Dillan into the wall. His arm bruised, but he whirled around and grasped for the conch again.
“Give it back!” he cried. “It’s mine! Mine!” His mother pushed him away, keeping the shell out of his reach.
Marisa tried to control herself, but weeks of pent-up anger rushed through the cracks in her resolve.
“Dillan, we’ve been here for a month now, and you’ve barely gone outside. You haven’t done anything but listen to this stupid shell! Go outside and play. You can have your shell back tonight.”
Her son’s face twisted in rage; his throat rumbled a low growl. “Give me back my shell. Now.”
Marisa stiffened, shocked by her son’s feral response. “No, Dillan. Not until you listen to me.” Fuming, she twirled on her heels and stormed from the room.
She never saw him coming.
Dillan snapped. His muscles tensed as he dove into her side, knocking the shell from her grasp—right into his waiting hands. Tumbling to the floor, the boy folded the conch under his arms. Then he scrambled to his feet and raced down the hall.
Marisa recovered before he entered the kitchen. With a scream, she sprinted after him. Her feet slipped on the kitchen tile, sliding her across the room. She reached the door seconds before her son, grasping his hand just as he turned the handle. “You’re not going anywhere until you give me that shell.”
Dillan looked down at the conch, then up at her. His face twisted from confusion to rage in a heartbeat. “I hate you,” he spat. “I’m not giving you my shell.”
Time stopped for Marisa. Her son’s words dug into her chest like an icy dirk, freezing her blood. Her mouth gaped open, but no sounds formed.
“I hate you.”
The words echoed a thousand times inside her head, each repetition more potent than the last. “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!”
Tears, colder than her punctured heart, slid down her cheeks. Without thinking, she jerked forward. Both hands shot towards the conch, too fast for Dillan to deflect. The boy pulled the shell away, but her fingernails bit into his skin—and his grip loosened.
The shell twirled through the air in slow motion. Both Marisa and Dillan grasped for it, but their hands collided again and they both missed.
A gust of wind swept over them as the conch exploded against the floor. Rainbow fragments spilled across the tiles. A low wail escaped from Dillan’s clenched teeth. Marisa and her son hesitated over the broken fetish. Seconds passed, then minutes.
Dillan exploded with as much intensity as the shell. A scream ripped from his throat, piercing her eardrums and re-piercing her heart.
“I hate you!”
Charging forward, he shoved his mother aside and sprinted out the door
Marisa shifted her gaze from Dillan to the shattered shell. Hands trembling, she knelt down to gather the broken pieces.
* * *
Dillan ran.
His wound still blazed red-hot. When he closed his eyes, he saw his mother lunge. When he opened them, he saw the conch hurl to the ground. When tears blurred his vision, he saw the shell explode. Dillan sped faster, hoping to outrun his own mind—but
nothing could erase the memories.
He sprinted past his neighbor’s house, exited the cul-de-sac, and turned down a dusty, tree-lined road that led to nowhere. In the forest, his memories softened. The images in his mind dulled, easing the pain. His simmering burn began to sear over.
All around him, trees swayed in the breeze, reminding Dillan of the wind. His wound re-opened. I’ll never hear the wind again! Racing faster, he squeezed his eyes shut to stem the tears.
Ahead, the road forked. He chose the left path. The forest thickened, encroaching on the dirt path with thorns and bristles. Dillan increased his speed and ignored the branches that tore at his flesh.
Leaves rustled, a cruel mockery of the wind’s melody. His feet stomped, impersonating the rhythm. His own breathing mimicked the harmony.
Dillan clasped his palms over his ears, blocking the painful sounds. Ducking under a low-hanging branch, he abandoned the path for untamed forest. He unplugged his ears to listen for the cruel impersonation again.
It was still there, so much like the wind, yet so different. He screamed to drown out the sound, but his voice sang a counter-harmony to the fake wind.
With a furious cry, he skidded to a stop and swung at the nearest tree. A flash of pain blinded him, and warm blood oozed from his knuckles. He forgot the wind for a moment—
The forest silenced. The not-wind song stopped.
A conch shell exploded in his mind’s eye.
Dillan ran again, this time empowered by bestial rage. He drove his feet forward, pumping his arms and sucking in hungry gulps of air. In seconds, he returned to the old path. He took the right road, traveling uphill into a sparser patch of trees.
The mocking returned: melody, rhythm, harmony. He even heard his own voice wailing counter-harmony.
Dillan clenched his teeth and ignored the song, forcing his feet to move. Then he realized his feet were offbeat. He slowed his steps to match the tempo.
He faltered. What? How can I be offbeat if I’m making the sound myself?
Realization swelled inside him. His feet weren’t mocking the rhythm. The swaying trees weren’t faking the melody.
Dillan wasn’t imagining anything.
He could hear the wind.
* * *
A soft knock woke Marisa. Her eyes shot open as memories resurfaced: the fight, the broken shell, her runaway son. She jerked upward, tossing the covers aside. “Hello?”
“Mom?” The door creaked open and a head of blond curls bobbed into the room.
Marisa froze. Was he still angry? “Dillan?”
“Morning, Mom.” The boy inched forward, pulling himself to the foot of her bed.
Her eyes widened. “Morning already? How long were you outside?”
“All night, Mom. I just got back.” Dillan dipped his head in shame.
For a few tense seconds, neither spoke. Marisa shifted her gaze every time it met his, unwilling to show her fear. Finally, her son broke the silence.
“I’m sorry, Mom.”
Marisa leaned forward, wrapping him in a hug. “No, Dillan. I’m sorry. I know how much you love the wind. I shouldn’t have—”
“No, Mom,” Dillan said as he held her. “I should’ve listened. It’s my fault.”
Marisa brushed away her tears and squeezed him tighter.
“And, Mom,” he continued. “I’m really sorry for… hitting you like that. Are you hurt?”
She shook her head and kissed his hair. “No, Dillan. I’m fine. I’m just glad you’re back.”
Wiping tears from his own eyes, the boy pressed his face against her shoulder. “I didn’t mean what I said, Mom. I love you more than anything. Promise.”
Marisa couldn’t answer him—the words choked in her throat. She rocked him back and forth as they cried together.
After several seconds, Dillan pulled away and met her eyes. “Mom, are you still mad at me?”
“Of course not!” Marisa kissed him on the cheek and stood. “Now, let’s go get some breakfast.”
Smiling, Dillan took her hand and followed her into the kitchen.
* * *
Dillan ran again.
The forest streaked past him in a green blur. Trees swayed with the melody of the wind, blending with his counter-harmony and the rhythm of his footsteps. He thought he could hear another voice singing with him, but that feeling faded as the music absorbed him completely. There was only one voice: the wind’s. No other sound could add or detract from such incomparable beauty.
Sweeping over the knolls and around the thickets, Dillan sailed like a ship with the wind at its back. His feet barely touched the ground; the wind made running effortless.
The music of the forest animals fascinated him. They did not add their voices to the wind’s song; rather, the wind itself sprang from their throats unbidden. The choir of nature—all voices the wind’s—swelled as Dillan delved deeper into the woods. The music sped; his feet moved faster. The symphony slowed; his pace decreased.
The song surpassed anything he had experienced before. If the conch shell had been a recording, this was the live performance. He was awed to be in the presence of such an amazing musician.
The music changed keys and styles, transforming into a staccato march. The wind pushed him farther without adding strain to his muscles. He laughed and sang along, his hair whipping in every direction. Nothing could be better than this. This was the wind.
An instrument faltered. The rhythm collapsed. The harmony slid off-key. Adding to the cacophony, the counter-harmony—that other voice from before—screeched like a preying eagle.
The wind stopped singing, leaving an empty echo where its music should have been. What's happening? Why can't I hear the wind?
His leg snapped with a sickening crack. Dillan looked down to see the ground rushing towards him. He crashed into a bed of pine needles, cones pricking his exposed skin.
Something was wrong. He couldn't move his leg. Dillan tried to roll over, but pain seared him like a hot iron.
His shin was broken.
The echoing silence hurt more than his wound. The wind stopped, its music fading into memory.
Why couldn’t he hear the wind?
* * *
Marisa heard the groan before she saw her son. She dashed into the living room, already afraid. “Dillan?”
The boy dragged himself onto the couch, holding his leg at an awkward angle and wincing with every step.
“Dillan!”
Pain marred his boyish features. “Hey Mom,” he said at last. “I uh… fell.”
"What were you doing?" Marisa rushed to his side to examine his shin. “Climbing trees?”
“No, I was just ru—ugh!” His voice cracked when she found the break. “Don’t touch!”
“You broke it,” she said. “Badly.” Splaying him across the couch, she propped his leg on a pillow. “Don't move.”
Marisa disappeared into the kitchen, returning with gauze wrap, a bottle of pills, and a splint. Kneeling in front of him, she took his shin in both hands. “The bone has almost set itself. I just need to move it a little.” She paused, tightening her grip on his leg. “This will hurt.”
Dillan grimaced as she shifted the bone but refused to cry. “Aahh…”
Marisa laid the splint across his calf, securing it with tape. “That should hold.” As she counted out two pills, her motherly instinct overpowered her nurse’s mind. “Are you okay, sweetheart?”
He nodded bravely and hid his tears. Relieved, she kissed him. “You'll be fine. I know it hurts, but everything will be all right.”
“It's not too bad,” he lied.
Marisa sat beside him, leaning his head against her shoulder and browsing for something to distract him. “Sara's coming in two weeks.”
Dillan's eyes narrowed. “Sara? Coming here?”
Marisa nodded. “She's a meteorologist, you know. She can tell you a whole lot about the wind.” After a short pause, she added: “If you still like listening to it.”
“That sounds nice,” he said. “I love the wind.” Then, so quietly his mother could barely hear: “I wish I could hear it again.”
* * *
He had to get out of the house.
Dillan didn’t enjoy lying to his mother, but he had no choice. He would be confined indoors as soon as Sara arrived.
Inside, there was no way to hear the wind. Not that he had much chance outside, either. Where should he start looking? Pleasant memories drew him back to the forest, where he had spent so many days running. He decided to begin there.
Beneath the verdant canopy of leaves and pine needles, Dillan hunted for visible signs: swaying branches, twirling leaves, anything to evidence the wind’s passage. Strangely, the air around him felt… still. Unmoving. Stagnant. He licked a finger and raised it; nothing.
He circled the labyrinth of trees until the road forked. As he surveyed the sparse vegetation surrounding the rightward trail, another memory surfaced: on the day his conch shell broke, he had taken both paths. Only after following the right trail had he heard the wind.
Dragging his broken leg, Dillan turned right.
After minutes of his agonizing step-and-pull routine, he understood why the trees grew sparser as he traveled farther. He was climbing a mountain. The ground hardened until it was mostly rock. The forest surrendered to dry desert mountain in less than an hour. Cool air brushed his skin—what a relief to feel the wind again! Now he needed to hear it.
As the trail gave way to the natural grooves of the mountain slope, Dillan closed his eyes, listening for the wind. He imagined the melody of the conch and the larger orchestra from his runs, searching for the familiar song. Nothing.
Wispy fingers brushed across his face, a slight, silent breeze. Following the gust, he continued up the mountain trail.
The path twisted sharply—and then he heard it. Music wafted over the jagged rocks, gentle at first, but growing. The wind!
Sprinting forward, Dillan burst into the clearing ahead. Immediately, the power of the wind’s voice threw him back.
If the conch had been a recording, and the forest a live performance, then this was the composer himself directing the band, the song flying straight from the author’s imagination.
Dillan fell to his knees in reverence. The wind whirled around him, ten thousand instruments played with perfection. Instinctively, he cocked his head back and joined the song. His voice rang a powerful counter-harmony, just like it had during his runs. A second singer matched him, that strange echo from the forest. He ignored it and sang louder.
As the music swelled, Dillan surveyed his surroundings. The plateau ended in a rocky cliff that plunged to the valley below. Opposite him, another mountain ended in the exact same fashion. The twin cliffs formed a canyon that ran miles in both directions. It resembled an old riverbed whose water had evaporated long ago. The critical part of Dillan’s mind—the tiny sliver still unconsumed by the majesty of the sound—realized why it was so clear: the canyon formed a makeshift wind tunnel, channeling the air and magnifying its power.
To each side, steep mountain faces towered over him. He felt imprisoned until he realized the slabs of stone only enhanced the wind’s gorgeous sound. This place was perfect, created for the wind. Dillan shivered.
He did miss the trees. Hearing their branches sway with the music had made the forest unique. Only the hardiest of vegetation survived here: a few scraggly bushes and a sycamore tree.
Something jutted from the cliff face to his right. He closed his eyes, pushing the distractions from his mind as the song rose in a crescendo. His voice rang with the wind, building the intensity of the music—
But Dillan faltered. He opened one eye, glancing askance at the strange formation. With a sigh, he decided to examine it. After answering his curiosity, he could focus solely on the wind.
The closer Dillan drew to the anomaly, the more curious he became. Someone had bored into the mountainside, leaving a gaping hole nearly six feet in diameter. In the center of the opening, a stone statue stretched from the rock: an eagle with wings spread, talons clawing a small plate.
Dillan stumbled back, awed. Trembling hands reached forward, stroking the statue’s life-like wing. “What are you?” he asked aloud.
The eagle’s beady eyes tilted down slightly. He followed their gaze to the platter in the statue’s grasp.
“Oh.”
It made sense. Dillan had heard the wind firsthand. The conch was fantastic, but it couldn’t compare to the enchanting song of the cliff. Surrounded by such perfection, how could he not worship?
Whatever natives discovered this place had erected an altar for sacrifice.
He mused over what to give the idol. Could anything he owned show his appreciation for the wind? Dillan shook his head and returned to the canyon.
The wind snapped and twisted around him, building in power as the climax neared. He joined the song again, losing himself for the rest of the afternoon.
Nothing else mattered now. Dillan had found the wind.
* * *
Sara arrived a day late. Her flight had been delayed by the last of the season’s hurricanes, forcing her to spend the night in an airport. Marisa drove to meet her at lunchtime, leaving Dillan alone at the house. Usually, she would have trusted her son to stay out of trouble, but he had started sneaking out every time she turned her back. He spent the past three days in the mountains, for reasons that eluded her.
“It’s all right,” Marisa reminded herself as she pulled into the parking lot. “I’m going to fix everything today.”
Sara met her at the airport’s only terminal, tossing a pair of bags in the trunk before hopping into the passenger seat. They arrived at the house with Chinese take-out and found Dillan lounging on the couch. Marisa sighed in relief when he greeted Sara with a smile. At least he could pretend things were normal.
They ate quickly while Sara asked casual questions about the house, Dillan’s old friends, and the nice weather in the mountains. She tactfully omitted mentioning Dillan’s new friends or hobbies: Marisa had already explained that the boy was disturbed.
After lunch, they brought Sara’s things to the guest room. She unpacked while Marisa and Dillan waited on the couch. Minutes later, Sara returned with a small black sack. “I brought you something, Dillan,” she said with a smile.
He raised an eyebrow and sat straighter. Sara opened the bag and offered the boy a yellow-tinted conch. Dillan’s mouth gaped open. Reaching for the shell, he turned it in his hands and cradled it against his chest. “Thank you,” he choked.
Dillan pushed the conch to his ear, face expectant. Marisa tensed in anticipation, hoping this would be enough.
His face paled in a blank, dead expression.
Dillan caught himself quickly, smiling before Sara noticed. “Thank you so much!” he said again. “It’s wonderful.”
Sara sparked a light conversation, but Marisa could barely concentrate on her words. She had seen Dillan’s face. Something was wrong with the shell.
He couldn’t hear the wind.
* * *
Long after retiring to sleep, Dillan woke to a knock at his door. His mother stood by the foot of his bed. “Mom?”
“What’s wrong with the shell?” she demanded.
Dillan wrinkled his brow. “What do you mean? I like it. It’s pretty.”
His mother leaned closer, face intent. “Don’t lie to me,” she hissed. “You can’t hear the wind, can you? It’s broken, isn’t it?”
“Mom, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he lied. “I like it.”
“Can you hear the wind?”
“Yes.”
Her expression hardened as she scooted closer. “I saw the look on your face. You were disappointed. Why?” Angry tears formed under her eyes.
Turning away to avoid his mother’s gaze, Dillan tried to explain. “Mom, it’s just not the same. The shells are… nice. But they’re nothing like the real wind.”
His mother stormed from the room without a word. Dillan winced as the slamming door dislodged a picture from his wall.
* * *
“So,” Dillan asked, reaching over the breakfast table for the plate of eggs, “how long can you stay?”
“Five more days,” Sara replied. “Two weeks is all my vacation time for the next century.”
Dillan laughed and glanced at his mother. “We should have gone to see her, instead of making her come all the way up here.”
Marisa shook her head. “I can’t escape the hospital for that long. I thought it would be easier out here in the middle of nowhere, but we only have a handful of nurses, so…” She trailed off.
“And besides,” Sara picked up, “I’m tired of the beach. I love the weather up here.” Dillan grunted in quiet agreement and returned to his breakfast. Sara pried further. “The wind is amazing, isn’t it?”
The boy’s eyes widened in shock, but he kept his face down. “It’s very windy,” he agreed. “I like it.”
Sara nodded and took another bite of eggs. “Too bad it’s almost over.”
Dillan’s fork clattered against the table. “It’s almost over?”
“Well, would it snow in the summer?” Dillan shook his head. “Of course not, it’s the wrong season! The wind has cycles and patterns too—ever heard the expression ‘hurricane season?’ The wind only blows a certain way at a certain time of year. We’re right in the middle of a season change. I bet the wind’s not even blowing right now.”
The boy glared at her. “The wind is going away?”
“If it’s not gone now, it will be when school starts.”
Panic flared in Dillan’s eyes, and he pushed his chair back.
“Dillan, where are you going?” his mother asked.
“My leg is hurting me again. I’m going back to bed.”
* * *
Dillan sprinted towards the canyon.
She was wrong. He had waited five full days to prove it. With Sara’s help, his mother’s vigilance improved: she caught him every time he tried to sneak away. As soon as Sara left, Dillan returned to his mountainside sanctuary.
The wind would never leave him. Sara was wrong, and he knew it.
He rounded a bend in the path and skidded to a halt on the plateau. The cliff stretched before him majestically, its chasm sparkling in the sunlight. Crossing the dusty mesa in three painful bounds, he reached the edge of the canyon. Dillan steadied his breathing, relaxed, and opened himself to the song…
The wind answered him with silence.
No, no, no. She was wrong. Fighting panic, Dillan cleared his head and listened again. He extended his hands, expecting to feel the breeze across his skin.
Nothing. The wind had abandoned him again. Blood draining from his face, he slumped to the ground and dangled his legs over the edge.
“I just want to hear the wind!” he shouted. “Is that too much to ask?”
His words bounded off the opposing cliff and returned, louder than before. With a sob, he collapsed backwards, searching the clouds above for an answer. “I just want to hear the wind!”
His voice echoed again. Then, in a soft falsetto, Dillan sang his harmony. His notes seemed out of place without the melody of the wind. Instead of a triumphant celebration, he wove a mournful requiem.
And the other voice joined him.
At first, Dillan thought someone had followed him to the cliff, but the music followed his harmony too well. The deeper parts of his mind insisted that he knew the voice, but he couldn’t remember why. Instinctively, he switched to melody.
Together, Dillan and his unseen partner transformed the wind’s song into a funeral dirge, set in an enchanting minor. When the song ended, they started again.
This time, the harmony changed. The second voice raised the key. The song had no words, but this alteration spoke clearly: there was a way to hear the wind again. Always before, Dillan had found a way. He had lost the wind countless times, but never for long.
The music shocked Dillan; he stopped singing and allowed the voice to take melody. His hair stood straight, his skin tingled, and tears rushed to his eyes.
He would hear the wind again. There had to be a way! There was always a way!
Forgetting his broken leg, Dillan leapt to his feet. How to find the wind? He glanced around, scanning the plateau. “Of course!”
He needed to go higher. Climbing the mountain peak would take precious time. But to his right, next to the ancient idol, a massive sycamore stretched towards the sky. Thick roots supported its weight; gnarled branches grew hundreds of feet into the air.
Perfect. Dillan grasped the closest limb with both hands and pulled himself up. He caught his balance against the trunk—wincing as he placed too much weight on his broken leg.
The second voice swelled, reminding Dillan of the wind. Yes, this would be hard. But the wind was worth it.
Finding another branch for support, he hauled himself upward. His left foot found purchase against a gnarled cancer in the tree, which he used as a prop to reach the next limb. Singing along with his fellow mourner, the boy inched higher and higher.
A crisp gust weaved through the branches, and the tree swayed. Dillan—and the voice—stiffened. Their song changed keys, rising to a new level of excitement. This would work. Dillan could almost hear the wind.
Every three minutes, wind rustled the leaves. Dillan swayed with the tree, enjoying a hint of the wind’s music. Each new breeze hiked his adrenaline another notch. Just a little farther and I’ll be able to hear the wind.
After three or four brushes from the wind, Dillan’s muscles trembled with exhaustion. He needed to find a thick branch and rest. He changed pitch, asking his friend for approval. The voice agreed. Spotting a perfect limb, he stretched one foot forward—
He stretched the wrong foot. Unable to support his weight, his shin snapped again. The harmony twisted to a painful dissonance. With a muffled cry, Dillan tumbled forward.
His body spun out of control, missing most of the branches by shear luck. His back crashed into one of the largest limbs, bouncing him away from the tree.
Dillan hit the ground hard, breaking two ribs and a wrist. Blood seeped from a dozen gashes on his side. His head pounded, and darkness swirled on the edges of his vision. Tilted at an awkward angle, his neck faced the idol carved into the cliff. He had missed the offering plate by inches.
None of these things registered with Dillan. His mind focused on one thought.
He had heard the wind.
* * *
Dillan slumped in the leather couch, adjusting one of his many bandages. Sara’s conch sat in his lap, his only surviving connection to the wind. With a sigh, he brought the shell to his ear.
How had this ever impressed him? The music was nothing more than a lullaby: the harmony too simple, the melody too repetitive, the rhythm too dull for anyone but a child. Its familiarity soothed him only until he remembered how much grander the real wind sounded.
A noise at the doorway interrupted him. “How are you feeling?” his mother asked as she brought medicine from the kitchen.
Dillan groaned. “Better than yesterday.”
She smiled and knelt beside him, counting pills in her palm. “Will this teach you not to climb trees with a broken leg? You’re going to miss your first week of school.”
He rolled his eyes. “Oh, no! What am I going to do without school?”
His mother laughed and handed him the pills. “I’ll get you a glass of water.” Disappearing, she left Dillan to his thoughts.
He reminisced about the utter thrill of racing through the forest, propelled not by his own feet but by the wind. He
remembered sitting on the side of the cliff, singing with the grand orchestra that echoed for miles down the canyon walls. He thought the canyon was the wind at its best. How foolish of him. How… childish.
He had heard the wind, and there was nothing like it.
“Here you go.”
Startled, Dillan dropped his shell. Shaking his head, he took the water from his mother’s hand and drank it. “Sorry about that,” he apologized as he bent down to retrieve the shell. “I was thinking.”
His mother sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “About what?”
“The wind.” Holding the conch to his ear, Dillan faked a pleased look. “It’s very pretty.”
His mother bent down to kiss his forehead. “That’s good, Dillan. You sit there and listen to your shell. No more sneaking out, ever.”
He forced himself to smile. “Yes, ma’am.”
“I’m going to take a nap. Call me if you need anything.”
Dillan waited for almost thirty minutes, nodding to the dull music of the conch. His mother couldn’t expect him to sneak out again—not in this condition. Still, he wanted to be careful. If she caught him, he would never be allowed outside again.
Hobbling to his feet, he found a pen and a scrap of paper. He slipped them into his pocket and fumbled for the door.
He was going to hear the wind.
* * *
Dillan stood before the idol, humming a gentle melody. The music was different today, an apology for his fall. He tried to assuage his new friend’s grief by returning to their song of hope. “I know how to hear the wind,” he announced. The altar’s voice rose in pitch, excited by the news. ‘How?’ it asked. Dillan smiled and ignored the question.
How strange that he had never questioned the identity of his companion. Of course this idol would mourn the wind’s
departure! Without it, no one would stop to pay their homage. The ancient shrine bemoaned the wind’s absence with a passion Dillan couldn’t understand.
Taking the conch from his pocket, he placed it on the offering plate. “Here,” he said. “This should keep you company until the wind comes back.”
Pressing the slip of paper against the eagle’s wing, he scrawled a quick note to his mother. His simple statement explained everything. She would be happy for him, like any mother who watched a son chase his dreams.
Leaving the note on the altar, Dillan faced the cliff again. The voice rose in pitch, a buzz of expectation in the background. With both hands outstretched, he joined the song, voicing his emotions in a beautiful descant that danced above the melody.
As the idol’s last notes faded into memory, Dillan heard the wind.
* * *
Terror pulsed through Marisa as she raced up the rugged mountain path. She hadn’t intended to leave Dillan alone for so long. He was delusional, entranced with the wind to the point of obsession.
She had followed him enough times to memorize his route. Curving around the last corner, she stepped into the open air of the plateau.
Marisa sighed in relief. Her son was not here. She stopped to catch her breath.
It didn’t matter where Dillan went as long as he wasn’t in danger. She scoured her memory for some other place he might go. Every time she followed him, he came here. Where else was the wind so strong?
Marisa shivered as she met the eagle’s hungry gaze. She paused just long enough to see a conch lying on the altar.
The same shell that Sara had given Dillan.
With a scream, Marisa sprinted towards the idol. She snatched the shell from the altar, hurling it against the cliff face. It shattered in a brilliant explosion.
Then she noticed the slip of paper perched on the edge of the offering plate.
A gust of wind blew hair into her eyes, but it was the tears, not the hair, that blurred her vision as she read his note:
Goodbye, Mother.
Now I can hear the wind forever.
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