Echoes of Forgotten Wings

Chapter 5: A Storm Approaches

There was a strange density in the atmosphere of the village, as though the earth too was pausing. The surroundings were oppressive, even without the sun, and everyone in the village could feel it in them. Ivo was the first one to realize this even before opening his eyes this day. It was an inconspicuous yet a deeply rooted aching that had settled in his bones as an awareness that instinctively tightened every muscle in him like one gets when waiting for a thunderstorm.

Outside his window, the sky was too dark. Not because it was a rainy day but because it was overly dark. It was not the dull gray normally associated with rain-bearing clouds. Instead, there was a thick blackness that swirled in countless shades of anger. Foul-looking clouds engulfed the horizon, obliterating any sunlight while intruding on the passing day. Though they kept changing shape, gnashing with one another, fought against any ray that threatened to break out.

And Ivo also found no peace at night. Again dreams pounded him in the same way storm clouds were doing. This time however, the images' blurriness, focus on the shades of grey woods, and perplexing sounds were not present. Instead, there were dramatic newly images – beasts that had wings and were huge and angry were fighting in the air over a burning landscape. Their wings were all spread out, some were shining while some were sharp and rough like the wing of the dark clouds. All of the wing pairs were incredible in the way that all had different colors and designs, some bright and sparkly as the center of galaxies, others black as the very night sky, yet all were horrible and beautiful.

The struggle between these creatures was not simply a matter of land; there was an inherent value even more important than that. Ivo felt it in one of his dreams; the feeling of hopelessness, of bare existence. This fighting seemed to fan the flames of a rage passioned by the need to protect, to save; more than just territory – balance. And in the middle of the storm, he felt the familiar tug, the same feeling that he always felt when he touched the feather or looked at the mark on his arm. It was not only a night vision. It was a scintilla of a memory, a reverberation of what was or what may be.

He rid himself of the dregs of the vision when, out of bed, he stood up and rubbed his eyes as though in an effort to wipe out the impressions in his head. The weight of it however persisted, it was like a burden on him even as he wore clothes and fastened the feather pouch across his chest. In the meantime, the sound of the village served as background noise. People lifted their eyes to the skies in fear and spoke in hushed tones to each other; they were clearly unsettled, a far cry from the normal routines of the day.

As he opened the door to step outside, the wind charged at him, strong and harsh with no consideration for his being, invading the village streets. The wind was so strong that it blew dust around and even threatened to break the windows. Although it brought with it the scent of wet earth and rain, there was something else in the air, very moist and earthy, almost metallic; it was a scent like the ground had heard and absorbed countless past things. The same feeling was shared with the villagers. This was evident in the way they tackled their domestic errands – a lot of them were speaking to each other but looking up from time to time, warning themselves of a shadow that seemed to be hanging over all of them.

The tattoo on Ivo's arm was alive under his arm's sleeve, the skin underneath was hot and tingling, as if it was in tune with the unnatural energy the storm bore. Ivo winced as he felt it pulse, each pulse a reminder of the connection he had with the storm that was drawing closer. The connection between him and the storm felt like it was intertwined with the mark and the storm.

The wind picked up, and so did his attention to what lay beyond the trees. The upper parts of the trees did not just sway but flailed indefatigably, their coloured figures bending and snapping in the wind, like agitated individuals who have been restrained and are now struggling against their restraints. Above the treetop's level and along the contour of the horizon, the eye could see the maelstrom's core. It was a long tube shaped wall of unmistakably dark and hazy aeriform body that was rotating in a cylindrical manner. But it was more than just a tempest; it commanded, it was, a something eliciting deep reverence, primal.