by Joan Arling

Feedback is always welcome: joanarling@e-scribblers.com.

Copyright © 2009 by Joan Arling. All Rights Reserved.

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The air was still, deadly quiet over the plain. The sun’s light took on an eerie hue as silvery ice particles filtered it in the upper layers of the atmosphere. Slowly the winds that had brought them descended from the stratosphere, sharply decreasing the temperature of the warm humidity that had until then rested high above the ground, and when the water condensed, towering clouds appeared, only to be torn apart by blasts that would have caused a rerouting of air traffic, had the occurrence lasted long enough to be noticed by control. The storm winds came down further, making ragged clouds race through the lower levels of the atmosphere, but still the leaves on the single tree standing in the middle of nowhere hung motionless. Then suddenly the aerial phenomenon was over, the clouds dispersed, the ice dissolved, and the air returned to the quiet state of before. The leaves on the solitary tree hung in the sunshine as if nothing had happened. The time had not yet come.

Robert O’Hara wanted to light another cigarette, but thought better of it. Smoking was, of course, forbidden in here, and he would not have left the bleak, small room for anything. He resumed his paces, six from the door he was denied passing through to the window looking out over the wind-swept clinic park, six back from the window to the door he was denied...

“God, I can’t stand this!”

The other occupant of the small room turned to him, “You know, wearing away the carpet won’t make it happen any faster. Your first?”

Robert winced at the words, at the same time thankful for the distraction. “Yes. Pretty obvious, isn’t it?”

“Quite so.”

“The damn... excuse me, the nurse wouldn’t let me in.”

The sound of steps announced the nurse approaching. As she opened the door, the draught created by the leaky windows and the new opening increased the howling of the wind. She looked at Robert, and smiled, “It’s a girl, 48 cm, 2800 grams. Both she and her mother are well. If you’d like...?”

Her name was shortened to ‘Tara’ before she even learned to walk. She acquired speech reasonably fast, but early on she omitted the middle syllable of ‘Tamara’, and before long her parents adopted the short version.

Her Mom and her Dad watched her first steps as proudly as parents have done since the beginning of history. However, Tara virtually skipped learning to walk, and opted for learning to run, instead. Run as fast as her skills would permit. If it took her longer than others to stay upright, it was only because she was always, literally, a step ahead of herself. “Little Whirlwind”, her father would say, with a smug smile on his face.

That nickname was apt. They soon took to placing moveable objects out of Tara’s reach, as Tara seemed to find nothing wrong with things falling from a variety of surfaces, or travelling beautiful trajectories from her tiny hands to a wall or the floor, whichever came first. By the age of two, the throwing of objects had stopped, but she still had little regard of things standing in her way, or of vases, dishes, or other breakables having the bad fortune of being located near the edge of the table. Her father chalked it up to the mindless energy of the young, but her mother did not not take it as lightly, and she consulted a psychologist.

“She should go out more, you know, play with her friends. The presence of other children will make her adapt, and I’m not talking about peer pressure or anything. It is absolutely normal for children to conform with the group.”

“But she is out every possible moment. Only her friends are, well, ‘invisible’. When we ask her, she only says that she cannot pronounce their names.”

“That is quite a common phenomenon. A lot of children have imaginary friends, often elves, or fairies. It is probably a protection mechanism against the adult world, where most everything has to be accounted for. But it is rarely a matter for concern, only if it lasts well beyond the age of six or so.”

“Look, Doctor, the other day she came running to tell me that she had seen the winds in the fields. The thing is, she spoke of them like they were persons. When we went by a closed gate, she became very agitated, complaining about her not being able to pass that gate when all her ‘sisters’ could — she was obviously still talking about the ‘winds’. Do you really think there is nothing to worry about?”

“Well... that is certainly interesting. But yes, I’d put it down to a very fertile imagination. Look at it this way: this may well be an early manifestation of creativity. Once channelled, she may well use the gift for creating works of art — don’t put her on too short a leash.”

More assuaged than convinced, Violet O’Hara decided to watch her daughter’s behaviour rather than intervene. When Tara entered school she became less outspoken about her ‘friends’ (or sisters, as she still occasionally referred to them), and she behaved much more normally, judged by common sense standards. However...

“Tara, it’s time for school! Are you coming down?”

“On my way, Mummy!”

“Tara! How many times do I have to tell you to close doors after you?”

She turned and looked completely innocent. “But Mum, it’s not fair to keep the winds out!”

“Look here, we’ve had to replace panes five times already. Do you think it is OK for your beloved winds to break them again and again?”

Tara looked thoughtful. “If you didn’t replace them, they could not be broken again. The winds don’t care for barriers.”

Her mother rolled her eyes; she’d been there too many times for her liking. Still, once more would probably not hurt.

“Windows keep off cold and rain. That is, as long as they’re not broken! Would you rather have us freeze when the weather is bad?”

“Me, I’d just lie in bed under my warm cover. Then the cold couldn’t get at me.” Tara was at a loss why her mother would ask questions that stupid, but she thought it wiser to keep her opinions to herself.

“Well, just close doors behind you, will you? Now come, school’s waiting!”

She closed the door behind her carefully, thankful that Tara was occupied with skipping in the direction of the car.

All the classroom windows were open on that quiet summer day. As usual, the attention the pupils paid her teacher left something to be desired, they would much rather have been playing outside. Tara had her gaze fixed on the horizon, when she noticed a movement outside. Disregarding the admonishing looks from her teacher, she went to a window and looked at the single tree whose branches moved despite the still air. She waved, and suddenly a gust filled the room, picking up papers from all the desks and scattering them all about. Tara let out a yell of joy, and clapped her hands in rapture.

Dear Mrs and Mr O’Hara,

As her teacher, I write on behalf of Tamara. I must admit that I am quite concerned about her behaviour. She is obviously a very intelligent child, as all the tests certify. Yet she often seems to be disconnected from reality. It is not at all unusual that girls have ’invisible friends’, or act in other ways that tend to disquiet adults, but in my experience Tara should be past that stage by now.

Tamara has some very firm conceptions that seemingly cannot be shaken in the face of facts. Above all, she believes that wind is not a natural phenomenon, but that ‘the winds’ are persons with distinct personalities. She listens to them, maintaining that they tell her stories, even calling her to become one of them. When in such a phase, she is unable to follow the lessons, and is virtually unapproachable by both me and her classmates. I do sincerely hope that this is just a passing stage in her development, but I am uneasy enough about her current state that I want to most respectfully suggest you take her to a psychologist to gain more insight. Just to be on the safe side.

Yours sincerely,

Helen Mayberry.

The weather forecast had been anything but encouraging. A tempest was coming up, and everybody was urged to stay inside, close doors and windows, and bolt the blinds, if available.

Clouds began to tower until they looked virtually black from below. The wind picked up and soon reached storm velocity, without showing signs of relenting. And then it began to rain. The torrents from the sky, that had the earth swamped in minutes, were soon joined by hail. Pieces of ice as thick as a thumb were driven almost horizontally against the wall, producing a sound like a mad drummer in the midst of his life’s solo.

Suddenly there was a crash as the window of Tara’s room was hurled open, breaking the panes. Her parents ran upstairs, flung open the door to her room, and stood transfixed by the sight that met their eyes: Tara stood in front of the broken window, her clothes drenched, and she was bleeding from several cuts caused by the flying shards. She had her eyes closed and her arms open, and she seemed oblivious to the presence of the adults. Within minutes, the wind settled, the clouds dissolved, and the afternoon sun heated the wetness into clouds of vapour while there was still hail lying all around.

Tara opened her eyes and turned around, “Hi Mum, Dad! My friends came to see me, but they’re gone already...” She looked at the glass lying on the ground. “Oh. Don’t be mad at them, please? They were so excited to see where I live.”

“I don’t expect to ever understand this, but can we be at least clear on that point? ‘Friends’, ‘Sisters’, or what?”

Tara looked at her mother without comprehension. “What’s the difference?”

“TARA! Come down! At ONCE!” Tara stood on the roof of the stable, a little uncertain of her footing, but her gaze steadily fixed on the horizon. When her mother’s voice registered, she looked down the considerable distance, and wondered what the intensity was about. “But Mummy, I can look so far from up here. And I believe I can fly!” “NOOO!” But Tara was already running, her little arms stretched out in imitation of the birds’ wings she had seen the wind carry. Reaching the edge, she jumped, and hit the ground with a thud that made her mother’s heart stop.

Tara awoke in a white room that made her uneasy. She looked about her, even though the movement made her feel disoriented. “Mum?”

“Oh, Little One... You’re back, thank God!” Violet O’Hara almost levitated from the seat she had been occupying all of the day, and most of the night before, and hurried over to the bed. “I’ve been so worried... Are you in pain? Can I get you anything, like French fries, or something? I’m certain I would have to smuggle it past the nurses, but... ” Her voice faltered.

“No, Mummy, I feel alright. A little dizzy, perhaps. My arms and my legs hurt, though.” Her face took on a forlorn expression. “I was so certain I could do it.”

“Fly? Oh, my precious! Flying is what birds do. Please never ever try to do this again! I almost died when I had to pick you up.”

“But I will learn, Mum.” She yawned. “I’m so tired”, and with that she fell asleep.

She wondered what the therapist would want to hear from her. Her only wish was to go where the winds went, and her only problem was that she couldn’t. Yet, she thought. She doubted that the therapist would be able to do anything about that.

“What they tell me? They talk about the refreshing feeling of rising very high, where they get cooled down and thinned out at the same time. About how they drink in the vapours out over the sea, and how different that tastes compared to the vapours from a lake. How the sun sometimes heats them up so much that they just have to run in order to spend the energy. Sometimes they meet to dance together, and when they are many, they love to form interlocking spirals. When they’re really into a fling, lots of tiny things fly around like they wanted to participate. They laugh a lot about that.”

The therapist blanched at the innocent description of a – what, hurricane, cyclone? She was no meteorologist, but she’d seen the satellite pictures in the news.

“And when they tell you their stories, how do you feel about it?”

“It makes me happy for them, and at the same time I am sad that I cannot go with them. I belong with them, and they know it. That’s why they come see me time and again. They are waiting for me to get ready.”

Tara got out of bed with the strange feeling that her body only followed her soul unwillingly, kind of lagging behind. She tried to ignore the slight disorientation, slowly navigating the stairs, then taking a careful aim at the door, making certain that she had a firm grip on the handle before opening it. Once she was out of the house, progressing became easier. She walked through grass wet with early morning dew, and sat down with her back against the tree, closed her eyes, and let the air caress her skin.

It felt like drifting off into a slumber, and when she lost the connection, it was only like the slightest of tugs. She rushed straight up, dislodging some of the leaves on her way, and moved in dancing circles, which were soon matched by her sisters’. She dived down again, and circled the tree, against which the body of a girl leaned, apparently in a deep, dreamless sleep.

“Do you think you’ll have any more need for this?”

She swirled around the tree once more, trying to remember something that seemed to connect her to the still figure. Then, rejoicing in the welcome from her many sisters, Tara swung herself up, and joined them in their race towards the horizon, not looking back once.

The End

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