The Whispering Wind

Caila Grigoletti

She was suffocating. The cold stone slab beneath her became the anchor to the earth. She screamed till her voice broke under the strain. What sort of torture is capable of repressing the soul? To put a cage on that which makes you strong, what makes you special, is a kind of misery that would drive a man, let alone a child, mad. 

A voice chanted a spell in a language she could not decipher over her own screeching. They ignored her pleas for release, for mercy. The words became louder and drove the wind, the trees, and the stones into a frenzied mania that hungered for every piece of her. She was the sacrifice that would soothe their ravaging lust for what lurked beneath her skin. 

What the elements craved, struggled against the pull of the magic. An invisible, wounded beast of a power that clung to every corner of her body. It felt like this frightened spirit that she knew like a sister, a best friend, a lover was desperately holding on while forces beyond imagining worked to separate them. It cried out to her in desperation, it wanted her to reach out and grasp its hand. But she couldn’t. The pain swallowed any desire to hold onto the very thing that she knew was the source of this torment. If the gods wanted it that badly, they could have it. Just make this agony end! 

A swirling mist formed above her, and it settled right over her head. A whistling sound began to rise and the very air she breathed got sucked from her throat. The power inside left with a pained exhale into the mist. Her lungs tighten when the last tendrils of magic left her body. Exhaustion swept in and my back fell against the stone with a harsh thump. The mist swirled with starlight and a hundred thousand colors blended into the air. An unearthly moan erupted from the stone pillars surrounding the altar and that …was when she awoke. 

Yelaina Crestwatch reminded herself that she no longer rested on that stone slab; although the ground she slept on was nearly just as uncomfortable. The chanting no longer murmured in her ears, replaced by the snoring of the male performers. That unsettled sensation in her chest, whatever remnants she felt from that choking terror, began to ease into nothing. 

She sat up without disturbing Isolde, her tent mate. Her heavy, even breaths remained steady when Yelaina planted her feet and heaved her body out of the canvas closet. How she had drawn the short straw for the ninth time in a row she did not know but sharing such a small shelter with a woman prone to snuggle in her sleep could only be tolerated for so long. Despite the chilled night breeze that slipped beneath the layers of her travel clothes, a walk sounded like the perfect remedy to relieve the pounding sensation in her skull. 

The four brightly painted wagons sported colors that rivaled the oranges and golds of the surrounding trees. Bright blues and rich purple wooden structures resembled a ramshackle village on the open hillside that separated the dense forest with the plains. Grander tents that could house a small family comfortably sat nestled against those wagons, the roof of canvas held by a retractable pole at the top of the cart housed the lucky few who won the lottery to sleep in a warm fur cot rather than on the ground. Horatio and his wife Finnula always slept in the largest of those tents. A privilege of being the leader of a merry band of performers who are just happy to be employed. 

The lime green fabric cottage on their left slept another couple whose acrobatic routine began in the bedroom and required a soft bed to rest their precious muscles. 

Hyram occupied the teal tent on the far left and judging by the lantern light casting his shadow against the cloth, he was working on another one of his poems late into the evening. Finally, in the fuchsia monstrosity on the right of Hyram should have been Myrinné, but the flaps over the entrance remained drawn to show no one occupied the garish tent. 

Yelaina felt the pull of temptation to sneak inside and sleep there instead before the exotic dancer returned from the unlucky stranger’s bed she decided to grace with her presence. The mixture of adrenaline and desire to avoid being kicked in the stomach by said dancer upon her return kept her from wandering inside. The bonfire in the center of the shantytown still burned thanks to the attentions of the figure sitting beside it. He, like her, decided to escape his tight sleeping arrangements and took his place on one of the forgotten stools. Yelaina recognized immediately which one of her companions it was by the curl to his henna hair and the tarnished bronze flute in his hand. 

“Taidenn my good man, why don’t you play a jaunty tune for me?” she greeted before squeezing his shoulder in amicable welcome. Taidenn smiled at her with the charm and grace of someone bred for a life on the stage. That free-spirited grin could be seen from every corner of a room. 

“And wake Finnula? I’d rather be trampled by a team of horses before disturbing that old bat,” he whispered with a conspirator’s ease. She pulled up a spare wooden stool next to his and reached her hands toward the fire to warm the stiffness already sneaking its way into her bones. “Why are you not sleeping with the rest of them?” 

“Same reason as last night. And the night before that and the night before that,” she admitted with no shame or trepidation. To confide in Taidenn became a habit after spending decades with the same performers doing the same plays and concerts over and over again. Others came and went as easily as the seasons, but somehow through all the change and struggle of their troupe, these two managed to stick it out and stay together. They joined the Oracles of Music around the same time and over a century later the one thing that hasn’t changed is their friendship. 

“Your nightmares have been coming more frequently these past few weeks,” he remarked with a pitying timber to his voice. “Can you think of anything that might be triggering them?” 

She shook her head before casting her eyes downward at her feet. “I don’t even fully remember them when I wake up. It just feels like I’m gasping for air and cannot escape whatever is holding me down.” 

Taidenn did not reach out to touch her, he only made those mistakes the first few nights he witnessed her sleeping terror and it ended with him severely bruised from wayward punches or kicks. 

“I could play you a lullaby, if you believe that would help,” he offered instead. In a comical fashion he lifted the flute from his lap and drummed his fingers on the keys. Despite the dull spots on the bronze, the love and appreciation he showed this instrument is evident in the shimmering mouthpiece and the utter lack of scratches or dents on the metal tube. 

Then, a much better idea occurred to Yelaina. “I would much rather listen to that piece you composed last week outside the White Pig Tavern.” 

Taidenn’s honey gold eyes widened, and a bashful scowl appeared on his face when he realized he had been caught. 

“It’s not finished yet, and I cannot believe you snuck away from your set just to spy on me playing.” The admonishment was warranted. He always managed to keep his songs private until satisfaction for the work matched the talent he possessed. She did end her set two songs early because the crowd grew too rowdy and obnoxious for her tastes. After she disappeared behind the bedsheets the innkeeper used as their curtain, Yelaina scurried away from the overcrowded taproom to the hallway that separated the bar from the kitchen. Horatio ushered the jugglers on stage to kill the remainder of her time. Between the raucous cheers of the villagers and the clangs of the kitchen staff cooking tonight’s dinner, it was a miracle she heard the muted tone of his flute at all. 

The string of notes he weaved into the air sounded somber and yet so full of majesty that her heart nearly broke inside her chest that she was the only one that listened to his music. Images began to form behind her eyelids of a winter-stricken world and this song played to bring hope to those shivering families around the fire that one day spring would come. She heard bits and pieces between the next wave of guffaws or drunken singing, but the choral section of the song remained in her ears and now she wanted to hear it in full. 

“Please, for me? You know how I love to hear your music,” she whined like a petulant child. Uncharacteristic though her plea may be, it certainly worked to relieve the rosy flush to Taidenn’s cheeks He looked down at his flute in consideration. “I promise not to spy on you again.” 

“You will break your word the instant I try to practice in private, I am sure,” he chuckled, and yet he cleared his throat and placed the freshly polished lip plate to his mouth. Her excitement overcame any shred of patience she possessed. She leaned forward and rested her elbows on her knees like a toddler ever so eager to listen to their bedtime story. The owls and the foxes that sprung out from the trees became his audience. 

Taidenn took a deep breath through his nose then exhaled into the flute. A soft low note poured out of the instrument and lingered in the air for five and a half beats until his fingers began to work their magic. The rush of awe she experienced remained true and she closed her eyes to enjoy the music without the outside world invading her pleasure. A story began to gather and create itself in her mind and those shivering families she imagined began to smile when the song erupted from their village elders to match flute. The trilling notes unfolded into something akin to remembering a beautiful moment in one’s childhood. It felt wonderfully pure and full of so much history that it seemed impossible this song had been composed a week ago. 

Note after note, melody turned into ecstasy. What came out of Taidenn’s flute became magic, heart, and passion. A thrilling and sobering experience in one movement of music. She did not realize she was humming along until he gently bumped her shoulder with his elbow. Yelaina’s eyes shot open, and she straightened up, effectively destroying the reverie she basked in. He caught her curious stare with a knowing look in his gaze that told her he did not mean to stop her from following his lead, he wanted her to sing with him. She nodded in response and counted the measures until the chorus. 

“Laaa, la-la da- da dum la la laaa.” Her voice cascaded into the world with a softness only a trained professional could maintain without losing any gravity behind the notes. This time, Taidenn closed his eyes and listened to her singing mimic his music then later harmonizing effortlessly to create another layer to the piece. Their feet tapped the ground to keep time in synchronous ease. Yelaina’s heart swelled to see her friend enjoying this moment as much as she, the bond between composer and performer already cemented in this nameless song. 

When he blew out the remaining notes in a steady vibrato pattern to the conclusion, her singing died with it and the world became still once again. They shared a satisfied nod and silently agreed that the next free moment they had would be spent writing lyrics to this tune. 

The moon cast an eerie light over the trees and the wind seemed to carry the smell of fresh apples. And then a soft whistle began to build in the forest, turning into a low, beastly moan of rage and memory. Her heart felt strangled in her chest. She knew that sound. The calling groan of earth and wind that sparked her nightmares in her sleep. Taidenn looked curiously at Yelaina’s wide eyes and stiff posture. 

“What is it?” He couldn’t hear it. She did not respond. Yelaina suffered under the power of such a primordial sound of pain and longing that only responded to her presence. The call of the woods beckoned her to rejoin them, to fill that hole in her chest that the witches took twenty years ago. A cluster of stars glimmered in the darkness above the oak branches, their hypnotic light lulling her into a state of frozen wonder. She wanted to turn away from that sound, that light, a promise of returning what was stolen. 

“Yelaina!” Taidenn shouted, gripping her shoulder to force her head away from the tree line. When her eyes met his, silver tears glistened in the corners, but the sound snapped into silence. “What’s the matter with you?” 

“Nothing,” she laughed, “nothing at all.” The weak smile she forced onto her lips did not convince him and when he tried to press further, “Seriously, I am alright. Just had a moment of deja-vu, I suppose.” He nodded hesitantly and kept an eye on her until she wiped away the tears. “I’m going to go back to sleep.” Her declaration left little room to discuss what had stirred her so suddenly. After mumbling ‘good night’ in a hurried voice she hiked back the thirty meters to her tent and kept her back to the woods. That whistle still echoed in her ears, but she did not acknowledge it. And although she tried to sleep, the moonlight outside and the curtain of stars glowed through the sheer fabric of the tent. The howls of wolves and hooting owls muffled that keening note, but she felt its pull more than heard it. Night faded into dawn, and she still kept her eyes averted to the forest, training her focus on the hills ahead, and the new day that awaited her.

Caila Grigoletti is a senior Writing major with a double minor in Communications and History. She plans to pursue a master’s degree in writing when she graduates in the spring of 2022. Besides reading fantasy fiction and gaming, she is also a voice actress for a role-playing game podcast group called “The Bardic College”. She hopes to one day change the lives of young women everywhere with her scripts, novels, or short stories to keep reminding her readers that it’s never too late to have an adventure.

Rose Ross is an art student who has a desire to learn how to render interesting lighting effects.