Wound of the Sky

Dust of the Earth

I would hear the song one more time, then the storm would batter me to death. That is what I hoped for. It had passed twice already, and the hail thundered down with such fury that the roof cracked beneath the blows. Rain leaked in and soaked my bookcase, and the bruised dawn glowed behind the fissures. The winds shifted, the new gaps in the shingles howled mournfully, and I felt sorrow that even the house had a voice when I did not.

Great Master Winding Path had gone out in the middle of the night to work a protective spell against the storms. She still had not returned. Her room was empty, and the candles on the altar had all burned out. Senior Apprentice Silver Peak had stayed behind; he had stayed awake late into the night, chanting with Master Winding Path, and I could now hear how he snored loudly from the far corner of the house. When I felt sure that no one would see me leave, I knelt before the altar, touched my forehead to the ground, and made the sign of repentance in the dust. Then, I drew back the heavy bolt from the front door and went out, to be taken by the storm.

Outside, the hills and fields were white with hailstones. The wild black-green tatters of the storm had circled around and begun to re-form over the distant hulk of Wound of the Sky, as they did every time the mountain unleashed its malice. The winds and hail would hit again soon. As the door shut behind me, the voice of the wind rose, deep and terrible, from above the far away peak. My heart leapt up with the sound, and I heard my birth-song ring out on the breath of the storm:

dust of the earth

rise up rise up

rise up in clouds

and fury

The verse swelled at the back of my throat like a sob, and I struggled with all my might to choke back the next words, the ones that would reply. I had learned well from the Master: The voice of the wind was poisoned with the voice of the Bleak Ones, and I must fear their words more than I feared death. I had learned the same lesson more simply as a child, from my tearful, frightened mother: The words I had breathed in at my first breath must never be breathed out, ever. What I had never learned was how to stop the rush of joy I felt as they roared in my ears. I grit my teeth, clamped my hands over my mouth, and silently prayed that the heavens would split and crush me, as they had crushed everything else. I would let myself hear the words, yes, but above all else I must never, ever speak them.

I steadied my mind and contemplated my mother's tears, and my master's stern frown. The song within me went taut, but quiet. I walked further, out into the fields, to be away from the house.

The boiling darkness of the storm opened on the horizon like an embrace. Fallen hailstones clattered about my feet. I tried to imagine these as the last moments of my life. I felt sad only that Master Winding Path would be disappointed in me.

I came to the poplar tree we had planted in the spring that Master Winding Path first took me into her home. It should have stood tall enough to catch the first rays of dawn as they crept over the mountains, but the storm had torn it savagely limb from limb, and it was bent almost to the ground. I wondered if it would ever grow straight again. I began to cry.

As if in reply, a dread stillness fell. A shiver crept through the air, and seemed to become a whisper in my ear. It said, softly:

"It is because the words are not yours to hold. You are wrong to resist. You will raise your voice, and breathe them out at last, or all in this wretched place will join their voices, and scream."

A blast of wind roared out from the blackness with such force that I could barely stand, and the storm resumed its chant,

dust of the earth

rise up rise up

rise up in clouds

and fury

I raised the contemplation once more: my mother's tears, the master's frown. I hated myself for the thrill of excitement I felt as the cursed words passed through me. I was ready for my life to be swept away at last, along with all the evil ringing in my heart.