From The Collections Of Rhye

The winds, the man, the child.

Do you hear them? They are calling out to him again.  You could almost feel their touch; cold yet imminent, like the approaching death. Pay heed to their ballad; lose your attentions to the winds.

The night was lost in its velvet stupor, broken by the oddity of star light appearing at irregular junctures. In graceful hues, winds lapped against the flora in an enigmatic enchantment.  The display was graceful; nature’s sonnets, those that often appear under the musings of frail bards, while their appearance in reality is indeed an oddity.

I digress,
No story has it's beautiful shades without the darker hues, thus, it is so in ours.

In a distinct manner, a voice was carried away by the winds into the darks of Anjuna; the gathering mound of the creatures of the night. The slow rumble of the sea argued with the retaliation of winds, while the voice showed prominence of scared sobs. The salty breeze followed the voice in a gentle thread, cautious of what might await it at its source. Alas, as chance would have it, a sad sight graced its display.

Under the background of a picturesque seashore, two figures lay sprawled in the dirty sands of Anjuna beach. One lay quite motionless while the other cried at the top of her voice for help; her throat sore and voice hoarse.

The motionless figure bore distinctive signs of an exuberant teenager, suggested by her audacious clothing, and the indications she hosted on her person. A silent murmur of convulsions gripped her every odd second, while she lay in the sand, too lost to comprehend her position. The other disturbance to the otherwise scenic beach, was a girl significantly younger than the other.

She was crying her eyes dry, with no tears to wash her dirty cheeks. She had run out of them, in the insignificant prelude of this story.
The little girl cried, while the teenager convulsed in pains; no help came, so the girl cried some more.

The winds in the north and the breeze from the sea had finally congregated at the source of this untimely ruckus, and had hurled sand and debris in their manner of attempting to soothe the anguished cries.

Through this animated stage appeared yet another figure; old, frail and stooping.

He was pulling a cart through the sand with little effort, while a shroud hid his face from view, protecting him from the usurped wrath of the Goan winds. In a glance he was indistinctive and his age had long caught hold of his joints.

Yet, if one lingered a moment longer there was more to notice. The oddity was insignificant, as if he was born to it, but it was there; it always would.
Through the calculated tantrums of nature, the 3 figures met- the man; the teenager and the little girl.

The old figure approached the little girl with cautious care, and asked her such
“What vile circumstance is it my child, that hounds you to anguish as such?”
To this the sobs deepened and the girl moved protectively over the motionless form, startled by the address; another convulsion festered in it's hold.

At last hopelessness stood his ground and the girl pointed at the convulsing form “it’s my sister, she won’t wake. She wouldn’t return home….out with friends she went….no! She did not return home, so I came for her. She won’t wake….my sister! She needs to, back home we need to be”
Then she cried again.

The old man held out his soothing hand and the cries lost their luster. With than done, he bent a little more at the motionless figure and frowned. The teenager seemed to have consumed something her young body did not agree with, and now it was at war with it.

He pulled a root and shoved it down her throat. For a moment the arguing palms and the arcane night stood still, and then in the next, the motionless figure broke its stature and jerked, to empty the contents that festered within her.

She was back; Weak and frail.
Something treacherous had gnawed at her being.

With these sanctimonious turn of events the figures moved in silence. The weak had made her place onto the cart; the old pulled it; while the child trotted along with cautious care.
They journeyed under the song of the sea. The winds had decided to follow them to settle the conclusion of this ludicrous theater.

The lights on every path they took seem to lose faith in themselves and flicker out. The old man lit a dry old lantern and set it alit onto the cart. Its light was dazzling. Everything under its dominance would scamper.

Shadows wailed and wild creatures burnt way from the light. As long as the lantern would burn, the darks of the night could do them no harm.
Unable to contain her curiosity the little girl asked thus
“Who are you sir, that moves through the nights while it sings and the winds cuss?”
“Me?” he ventured such
“I’m a mere being you see...”
“Yes! Just a being, hurt by the turmoil that charged ye’.”
“Yet I’m whatever you want me to be.”
“A manifestation of what my constitution has decreed.”
“Blasphemous and cryptic” thought she. The winds followed and the night tickled her strings.
“Why do you shroud your face?”
“What settles under that veil and lace?”

The winds had reeled and paced and the night bore a song on its strings.
His voice grew strong and commanding, he charged her thus “Neither shall you see my face, nor notice the flicker of the veil and lace.”
“What settles under the darks of it, are secrets mine to keep”
“Their natures bore consequence: significant and deep”
The winds had tasted blood of the chase, now they ran losing all pretense and cast; while the night struck her strings high and fast.
“Sir, this charge you speak of, isn’t it a fantasy; unwise and crass?” She asked.
To her he said this “Hush now child! Whatever shall come to pass, I’m the myth pronounced by your fore pass.”
“Heed their songs and listen hence, do not look for my face nor turn to till I’m gone. There will be consequence then; alas.”

The winds then howled and raged and the night and her song hit their crescendo; the string bled as if staged.
The note was solemn when they reached the end; the cart stopped its creaking at the front door of an indifferent house.

The little girl heaved her sister off the cart and made for the door, as she was to turn to mutter her thanks, a voice bore into her senses and whispered such
“Hush now child, whatever shall come to pass, I’m the myth pronounced by your fore pass. There shall be consequences alas; if you were to turn to me; offer me no thanks let me be.”
It was a solemn note indeed.
With him went the wind; its rage diminished and hollow. While the night wore thin as light burnt at the stretch; warm and mellow.

You shall question this tale, as it is in your right. You might ask of the man old and frail. Inquire of his stories and him, but the truth be told, there is no truth; just him.

All I have are stories alas. I offer you a reminder that he had a name amongst your elders. ‘Rakkno’ – says the old language; the protector. A legend passed down within the flush of paddy fields and burns of dried fish. A myth of a myth; a being no man shall ask to see, but your protector if need be.

Now I leave you with a choice. You can either pay heed to my rantings or ignore it like any other.

No matter your choice; there will be a point in this absurd play of time, when you shall be in need. Then a figure shall come from within the bellows of the wind, sand and sea.  I caution you; do not question the shroud on his face, or approach the secrets behind the veil and lace. There shall be a deep consequence.

For, the winds shall continue to keep to your pace and night shall sing in grace, irrespective of your fate.