Short Story #2: The Dancing of the Wind
The second of my short story vignettes. These are written in one-go, no revisions, no rewrites. I hope you enjoy.
Smooth, hard stone supports me as I sit here. Eyes closed, I listen to the world around tirelessly, but unhurriedly, breathing around me. The spring sun has only just melted the soft snows of the last winter, leaving the air crisp and cool. The perfect canvas for the waking sunlight to paint patches and swathes of faint warmth across. Those patches and swathes of faint heat pass over me erratically, but almost predictably. The leaves in the trees above me shatter and splinter the soft solar gaze into a dappled mosaic of faint warmth and light. The light comes and goes, moving across my neck, my back, and across the riverside stones in a gentle, comforting caress. I do not need my eyes to see the light upon my body — I feel it ever so faintly. My hair and clothes are tugged, coaxed, pulled to and fro by the gleeful wiles of the spring wind. The breeze touches me everywhere the warmth does, as if drawn to it. Chasing what the distant star leaves behind. The wind always wants the few things it cannot reach, doesn’t it?
Smooth, hard stone supports me as I sit thoughtlessly. The world has its own music for me, should I care to listen. Eyes closed, I feel the steady drumbeat pulsing through my veins. The tempo is slow, but strong. Its constancy is soothing. If I focus just enough, and keep myself just open enough, I can feel my heartbeat throughout my entire body. I attune myself to the beat, and turn my ears now to the next musician. Where my heart is the strong metronome that defines this song’s tempo, the trickling and gurgling of the river in front of me creates a rhythm that is as connected and fast as my heartbeat is separate and slow. It’s a calming rhythm, despite its speed. The notes of this rhythm are simple; there are only three. There’s the defined plink of a water droplet leaping into the air, only to dive back towards its fellows. The low, lazy bloop of a bubble popping just below the surface is the opposite of its predecessor. Between the high note and the low there is the happy gurgle of the water as it rushes around each stone on the riverbed; striking itself and its surroundings, laughing like a gaggle of schoolchildren. All of these notes are held together by the constant shhhh of the water’s own movement through the world.
Smooth, hard stone supports me as I sit listening. We have all of our instruments. I wonder how long it will take for our singers to appear. I’ll just sit here and wait with the wind, I suppose. We’re both eager to hear today’s new composition. I blindly grasp at the instrument in my lap. The solid, polished wood was familiar beneath my fingertips. I know without looking that the bright brown wood formed two tubes, joined at one end to create a “V” shape. My roving fingers dance over the carved dragon’s head that guards one of the exit apertures. My double flute is an old friend, but I’m loathe to play him right now. It doesn’t seem right to interject myself into this gathering of ancient musicians. I’m simply not worthy of playing alongside them just yet.
My hair is tugged and whirled in every which direction in a sudden flurry. I feel the cold, but not uncomfortable, rush catch the bottom of my shirt and wrap itself around my chest; but only for a single moment. Ieoithne is getting impatient too, she wants me to play. More importantly, she wants to dance.
If I do disturb the sanctity of the moment, and play my simple human music, she will dance invisibly around me. I know that if I match the rhythm of my heartbeat and the countermelody of the river, I will be able to hear the budding leaves and branches of the trees around me be pulled and tugged just like my hair. I know that if I open my eyes, I’ll see the effects of Ieoithne’s dancing — a column of swirling leaves and twigs that seem to fly and float of their own accord. I know that I’ll smile at the sight of it, knowing that I am bearing witness to the joyful and spontaneous dancing of the wind.
But doing so would intrude upon the carefully constructed music of the ancients. I open my eyes and gaze into the water. The breeze strokes my cheek, and for a brief moment I see honey-gold eyes staring back at me from the water. My heartbeat quickens, the tempo rising from that of a gentle tune to that of a proper dancing reel. I cannot break away from those smiling eyes.
A falling twig breaks the surface of the water, and the spell is broken by the ripples.
Still entranced, I stare at where the eyes used to be. I shake myself and glance at the vibrant colors of the grass and trees around me. Nothing is out of the ordinary, right? As I turn to look again upon the sunlight-spotted river, a falling leaf catches my eye. A red-orange maple leaf, falling pointedly towards me. Where did that come from? It’s early spring. That’s bizarre. I can’t help but follow this oddity with my eyes. It spins as it spirals down, carried gently by the wind. It sways to the left, and the breeze changes, pulling it back to the right. The cavorting of this out-of-season leaf is oddly compelling.
Ieoithne tousles my hair again, and the leaf falls directly into my lap — right on top of my flute. I can’t help but smile now. I close my eyes again, and stifle a chuckle. The only sounds of mine that will pierce the composition before me are the sounds of my flute — the music borne of mankind’s love of the wind. The leaf is pulled from my lap and blown into a loop in the air, before landing neatly upon my head. I can’t restrain the laugh this time. She’s much like an impatient child today.
I reach for my flute, raise it to my lips, and begin to play. I don’t need to open my eyes to see her, because I can hear the leaves dancing with the wind.
