1.
The sun set over the mountains, shining its brightest before being engulfed by the gloom. It was followed by a darkening sky; red fading to deep purple, and, lastly, velvety black. Stars became visible, peppering the dark sky with spots of vivid light. The moon rose, a mere sliver in the night, casting only a feeble light on the earth below. All was still –not a breath of wind stirred the leaves on the few trees that dared to cast their gnarled arms skywards, no dirt or snow was carried across the dark ground, and not a single bell tinkled on the harnesses of the horses sleeping under the weak light of the moon. It was almost as if the world was frozen, an illusion broken only by the steady rising and falling of the horses’ flanks as they slept, or the occasional rustling as a person shifted on their blanket. The silence was deeply unnerving.
A shape moved in the dark, breaking the stillness, moonlight washing over them as they stepped out of the shadows. They stood on two legs, arms tense at their sides, head bowed towards the ground. Their eyes were closed, lids fluttering almost imperceptibly. A soft moan rose from their lips, and their eyes flickered open. They were glazed and still, staring off into space, and full of terror. The figure took another step forwards, tripping over a rock in their path, and falling to the ground with a loud thump. The noise seemed magnified by the silence, and a horse raised its head in the distance, letting out a whinny, and causing the bells around its neck to jingle quietly. The figure let out another moan –this one louder. Their eyes shut, and then opened again, deep brown now focused on a point right in front of them. Hands moved up, pushing against the ground and raising their body to a sitting position. The figure dropped their head against their chest. A garbled noise rose from their throat, waking another horse in the distance.
Now the silence was truly broken; bells jingled loudly, and rustlings and stomps filled the night air as the horses shifted anxiously. These sounds aroused the people by their sides, causing a small commotion as figures moved through the night, calming the animals and casting their gazes about for the source of the disturbance.
The shape in the distance sat silently still, knees drawn up to their chest, arms holding them closely, as if they were a life buoy in the midst of the restless ocean. Dark brown hair framed their young face, and the corners of their mouth veered sharply downwards into a frown. Brown eyes darted back and forth, restlessly, searching for something, something hidden in the darkness of the night, something, judging by the sheer terror reflected in their eyes, terrible. Their face was bleached bone-white by the moonlight; eerie and otherworldly.
2.
It all began on an exceptionally humid day in the midst of June, when everyone was locked indoors, air-con turned up to full blast. No sound could be heard, except the whir of the fan, and the low thrum of the air conditioner. Not a single car drove legarthically along the dusty road, and no dogs could be heard barking at squirrels, or other intruders (seeing as they were all collapsed on the living room floors, tongues lolling out of their mouths, sides heaving as they struggled to cope with the intense heat). I remember that day so vividly –the way I spent almost all of it lounging on my bed, drenched in sweat, attempting to read The Golden Compass, but not taking in a single word. How I was finally saved from the monotony by a loud rap at my bedroom door, followed by the loud creak as it was opened swiftly.
“We’re out of milk –I need you to nip down to the corner store. ” My mom stood over me, arms crossed. She hadn’t even bothered to frame the demand as a question, like she usually did. It was the heat; something about it had the potency to fray people’s nerves to snapping point, cause lips to turn downwards, brows to furrow, and words to be sharpened to razor-fine edges.
3.
The darkness under the couch was ever-present, and all-consuming. It was not merely darkness, it was blackness; the complete and utter absence of colour. So dark was it that not even the keen eyes of a cat could pierce it. But, it was not a frightening dark –the opposite, in fact. It was warm and comforting, like the feeling of being wrapped up in your mother’s arms. Certain of the fact that nothing could hurt you, not there. It was a place of lost things, as well –marbles, cards; small items chased under by the cat. A place of lost things, and a place of refuge.
Curled underneath the couch at the present time were four cats. Well, one cat and three kittens. The cat was wrapped tightly around her young, tail curled, eyes open, and ears pricked. Ever watching for danger –though nothing could be seen in the darkness. Her kittens were tiny, {insert size here}, newborn and fragile. Ears still pressed tightly against their heads, eyes still closed to the world. So, so small. They had come into the world mere hours before, and had not moved from the place of their birth. When they were discovered, there would be uproar –their mother understood that. It had happened last time, and it would again. So, she stayed concealed in the peaceful darkness under the couch –place of lost things and refuge.
*******
Hours passed, trickling through Time’s fingers like water. The clock on the wall ticked steadily away, marking each moment that went by with a mechanical click. Still, the house was silent. Frozen in place, as if holding its breath. The cats under the couch were silent too, giving no indication of their presence –save the occasional rustling, and accompanying mews as the mother shifted.
The moon rose higher into the sky, chasing away the last red streaks of dusk with cold, white rays. Shining in through the window with brilliant force, it illuminated the room. The couch, beige in the daytime, was bleached bone-white by the moon. The time-worn table, with its legs marked by innumerable scratches from needle-sharp cat claws sat stoically next to the armchair as the night rolled by. And, still, the house did not stir. No tramping feet down below, or shouts of ‘G’night!’ called up with force, followed by the shutting of doors and clicking of locks. Sounds the cat had come to associate with nighttime –sounds she hoped her kittens would come to hear, as well.
The night ended, and the first streaks of dawn began to appear on the horizon. The sky was blood-red outside of the small window, marred only by clouds of the same hue. The cat was beginning to feel pangs of hunger, yet she dared not move from her place. The kittens were stirring by her side, nuzzling blindly at her belly in search of the life-giving milk. Their noses were soft and questioning, pushing into her stomach, and nudging each other away. She longed to move –the space under the couch, which had seemed so appealing hours before, was beginning to become uncomfortable. The wooden floor was hard on her back, and her muscles were beginning to protest. Tail flicking in mild irritation, the cat strained her ears. Nothing. Not a sound –save the regular ticking of the clock on the wall. Were the people –the house’s loud, rowdy inhabitants –hiding, like predators waiting for the kill? Or, were they truly, genuinely gone? The cat did not know. And so she waited.
*******
Dawn had vanished by the time something happened. Gone were the violent red streaks of morning, replaced by a clear, unbroken plane of blue. Stretching from horizon to horizon, it was marred by nothing –not even a cloud.
This something arrived with a crash. A crash, a clatter, and a click. A key in the lock, door opened, and pandemonium released into the no-longer silent home. The cat shied even further under the couch, stirring up dust as she pressed her back against the wall. She nestled her kittens closer. The people were home –and with them, the noise. The ear-deafening screeching, screaming noise. Grubby hands, the sensation of being jerked off her feet. Squeezed and petted. Fondled and fed. The people were a nuisance –even a danger, sometimes. They could even be useful, but they had no right to steal away her young. No right. A visceral feeling of protectiveness rose up in her, as the loud arrival of the humans brought back the memories of the injustices done to her.
“Moca!” A voice rent the silence. “Here, kitty! We’re home –back from Grammy’s!” It was accompanied by the rattling of food, a sound that caused the gnawing in her stomach to increase sharply. The voice rang from the floor below, followed by footsteps. Moca pinned her ears against her head –the noise was growing louder, drawing ever nearer to her hiding her place. They were climbing the stairs now, and the thumps seemed magnified thousand fold.
“Melanie! Grab your bags, we can worry about the cat later. Bring them up to your room.” This voice was much deeper, and it had a gravelly, growly undertone. The footsteps retreated, accompanied by the sound of fabric dragged across the floor. More feet, tramping on the hardwood. Moca cringed. Noise, noise, noise.
4.
Nowadays, most people believe the wind to be just a force of nature. Moving air; that is all. We see nothing special about it, nothing extraordinary. For most, it is a hindrance. Our eyes are clouded; we see only what we expect to. If we believe the wind is nothing special –then it is nothing special. I mean, what is the intrigue in moving air?
It is laughable. Or, would be, if it weren’t so tragic. We, the humans, have blinded ourselves to reality, as effectively as if we had gouged out our eyes with a fork. It makes me feel sick to my stomach. I walk through crowds of blind people every day, and it seems that I alone can see the holes where their eyes should be. Empty, unseeing. It terrifies me.
The wind. It was what saved me –in the end. But, it was also the thing that caused me to require saving. Strange, how the world works, don’t you think? Enigmatic and beautiful –and so, so dangerous. Take caution. I advise you to watch your step. But –wait. How can you watch your step if you are blind? How can you follow the path laid out for you, how can you foresee the obstacles?
You can’t. And therein lies the problem. We fall because we cannot see the potholes in the road. Every day, people are doing it. I see that too. I watch them rise to the top, basking in the glow of victory. And, then, stomach sinking –for I know what is coming- I watch them stumble. Stumble and fall. Their worlds topple down, and there is a bitter taste in my mouth –because I knew it could have been prevented. If only they weren’t so blind.
It was the wind that pushed me into the chasm; gave me that little nudge that sent me toppling down. Falling, falling, falling. And it was the wind that brought me out, carried me gently in its arms, and set me down on the other side. We are the blind children. The wind is our protector. Or, was supposed to be.
You see, there is only so long something can put up with our arrogance. We slandered the wind, called it names, and, eventually, abandoned it. We no longer believe in its power. It is merely a force of nature; moving air. We seek to harness it, to control it. And, so, the wind turned from protector to the cold hand of fate. It no longer shielded us from obstacles, but, instead, shoved us headlong into them, gaining a sort of vindictive pleasure from watching us fall.
We turned it against us.
****
It all began on a Saturday -I remember this fact lucidly. The day was warm, sun shining brightly above my head. The grass was a brilliant green, extending in all directions. Only a few clumps of trees scattered throughout the park, and none of them near me. The air smelt sweet; of spring flowers and sunlight. There was not a cloud in the sky. It was a clear, unbroken plane of blue, stretching from horizon to horizon, and then dipping down to touch the earth. I used to believe that if I ran far enough, I'd come to the end of the world.
I miss those days. Long for them, with a deep aching that -I know- will never go away. But, then again, what adult does not dream of childhood -just as what child does not dream of becoming an adult? All we have left are the slowly fading memories.
The wind caressed my face, tugged at my hair, pulled on my clothing like a petulant child trying to catch my attention. Well, that's how I saw it at least. We humans tend to project ourselves and our ideals onto everything we see -so nothing is quite the same through two different sets of eyes (or should I say minds?). I clutched the cherry-red kite ever tighter in my grubby hands, pulling it closer to myself. No way was the wind gonna snatch my kite again.
"Dwayne, that kite's for flying, y'know! If you're just gonna stand there, then there's no point in even being here at all!" My eldest brother came up behind me, and grabbed me by the shoulders. I startled.
He guffawed, and tried to tug it from my hands. I clutched it ever tighter, and squirmed. "Gerroff me! Gerroff me!" If I wasn't going to lose my new kite to the wind, then I definitely wasn't going to lose it to my brother. "It's mine!" I whined, trying to break free of his grip. He had come up behind me, arms over my shoulders, big knobbly hands gripping the edges of my red kite. "You're gonna rip it," My voice had lowered to a whisper, a pleading edge in it.
With a sudden jerk of his arms, my brother pulled the cherry-red kite free. "Nope," he answered, gloating. He raised the kite high in the air, far above where I could reach. I looked up. Boy, he was tall.
"James, give it back!" I jumped -just as he'd wanted me to- arms above my head, reaching for the kite.
"Jump, little squirrel! Jump, jump!" James mocked me, brown eyes shining with a fiendish pleasure.
"I hate you!" I snarled, voice dripping vemon. And, at that moment, I meant it. I hated how he was so much taller than me -even though he was only five years older. I hated how his hair was a nice, light brown, and was never tangly like mine -everyone said he was so handsome, and they just ignored me completely. I hated how he strutted about the house like he owned it, how he always picked on me. It wasn't fair. It just wasn't fair. Tears began to prick at the corners of my eyes, and I wiped them quickly away with a grimy sleeve. "Give it back!"
"Awww, is ickle Dwayneykins cwying? Does he need his mommy?" James curled his lip in a mock-pout, brown eyes widening innocently.
His taunting succeeded only in fuelling my anger. Curling my small hands into fists, I locked eyes with him. Green boring into brown. He stared back insolently. "Give it back, James! It's my kite. Mum said you were s'posed to take me to the park so I could fly the kite." I crossed my arms. "I can't fly it if you have it." Tears no longer threatened to spill out of my eyes. Good.
"Right you are, little bro," he answered, a smirk playing on his lips. "Which is exactly why I have it. Mum's not here, Dad's not here." He let his gaze drift to my clenched fists. "Whatcha gonna do? Fight me?"
I wish I could've.
He seemed to read my answer on my face. "Dwayne, Dwayne, Dwayne," James said, sounding like a schoolteacher, chiding his favourite student. "What are we going to do about you?" I made no effort to hide my confusion. What was he rambling on about? "You're scrawny, weak. Heck, I can still make you cry."
My fists clenched even tighter; nails digging into my sweaty palms. Knuckles white with the strain. I tried to drown out his words; pretend I couldn't hear them -that they weren't true. "Shut up," I said, voice weak. "Shut up!" He wasn't speaking anymore, just watching me, but I didn't care. "Shut up, shut up, shut up!" My voice had risen to a yell, attracting curious stares from the other parkgoers. But I was oblivious to them. How had this visit to the park gone so terribly wrong?
I had been eager to go, smiling and bouncing at the door. Lacing up my sneakers quickly, calling James' name. He had been reluctant to take me, but Mum had forced him. Looking back, I realize that this was his revenge. Revenge for being forced to spend time with his little brother, time that could have been spent doing better things. All these years later, it still makes my temper flare. Was I really all that bad?
"I'm not talking, Dwayne," he pointed out, surveying me with calm brown eyes. My polar opposite. I had blonde hair, green eyes, fisted hands, anger so white-hot that it was tangible. I wanted to strike out at him, to inflict on him some of the pain that he was causing me. It wasn't fair.
He had lowered his arm, but hadn't released his grip on the kite. Bright-red -the colour of my anger. It's tail stirred fitfully in the wind, twitching like that of a mildly peeved cat. "Please, James. I just want to fly my kite." The tears came again, blurring my vision. Oh, how I hated my brother. Hated him, because he was right. I was ten years old -too old to cry. Tears were for babies.
"I know you do,"
I looked up at him, trying to blink away the wetness in my eyes. Our arguments often ended like this; me submitting to him, and he, asserting his dominance by giving me what I wanted -at a price.
"What d'you want me to do?" I murmured, kicking at the grass with a shoe. Brown dirt showed through the green. I figured that just asking outright, cutting to the chase, would make it more bearable.
James was not of the same opinion. "Who said anything about you having to do something?" He feigned surprise. "A good taunt helps strengthen you up. Makes you more've a man. You need to learn, Dwayney. I'm doing you a favour."
Ha. The mere thought was laughable, at the time. So audacious was he that he could tell a lie such as that to my face. Something so transparent that we both knew the truth. And he knew I knew.
I extended an arm to receive the kite. Skinny and pale, branching from me to him, so very close, yet impossibly distant. The cool wind teased its way through my hair, sent little shivers up my bare arms. I raised my eyes to meet his. "James?"
