When the Wind Calls (Chanmyr Chronicles Companion Story Book 1)

by TJ Muir

  “A trade,” he said, a slight question in his voice.

  “Yes. A trade,” she agreed, deciding that might be the closest she was going to come to explaining, and relieved to be done with the tricky conversation. She knew she had failed miserably at explaining how the world worked.

  After that, the two just sat in silence for a while, watching the ducks below, eating bread, in their very uncomplicated duck world.

  In that quietude, they each seemed to come to terms with the idea that they didn’t really understand each other’s worlds. Zria turned slightly, watching Kijah as she watched the ducks. She looked at him from the corner of her eye, and they smiled at each other. A soft, gentle smile that said, ‘Everything was okay.’ She leaned her head onto his shoulder then, and dropped bread into the water for the ducks beneath her feet.

  The days went by, as they explored bits of each other’s worlds, from the docks and alleys and rooftops of Kijah’s Treyu, to the woods, streams, caves, and hills of Zria’s forests. Iit was as though the outside world went away, was no longer really there. They lived instead among the ducks and forests, where things like power didn’t matter, and they reveled in a perpetual Now.

  ~

  Then finally, a whole week had gone by, betraying the fact that Kijah had been counting the time somewhere in the back of her mind. She met Zria at their usual point, by the central square, backpack filled with lunch and other miscellaneous things that she wanted to share with him, books, a bracelet, and a ring her grandmother had given her. It was supposedly Faenyr, and very old, an heirloom; and she wanted to ask Zria about it.

  She ran up to him, and hugged him close, as she bounced around in her excitement. Her thoughts were racing faster than her words and her body. She reached into her pack, and pulled out the spicy-sweet bread she had grabbed, handing half to Zria. He sniffed it, before tearing off a small piece, tasting it. He smiled, recognizing some of the spices in the bread.

  And then they headed to the practice field, where Gherant had promised to meet them. She spotted Gherant and Flint up ahead of them, leading a pony and small cart behind it. The cart was piled with the unmistakable green and gold: sail cloth. Flyer-sail. Her patience hit its limit, and she broke into a dead run, racing to catch up, Zria’s long easy stride matching her step.

  They spent the remainder of the morning going over the basics of flight and the mechanics of fliers. Gherant explained the mechanics, and the parts. Then he talked them through it as he had the two off them assemble the flier and get it ready for launching. He carefully checked every step, every rope, every fastener, every hook. And he showed them how tight things should feel, having them tug and pull and push on every part. He explained that every flier needed to know his flyer, smiling encouragement to the two eager youths.

  “I remember learning all of this myself, the hard way. So, I am trying to teach you what I know would have helped me when I was learning,” he explained.

  They just nodded over their shoulders, as they worked to fasten the last of the sail over the wings.

  After that was done, Gherant watched each of them hook up their harnesses, and stand holding the flyer in the practice scaffold, pulling turning twisting as much as it was possible, being still on the ground.

  They started on the lowest part of the hill. Just enough to give them a short stretch being actually airborne.

  “Which of you wants to go first?” Gherant asked, satisfied that they were each ready for their novice runs.

  “The Wind calls to Kijah, so it is right that her flight is first,” Zria offered.

  Gherant went over everything one last time, Kijah trying very hard to remain calm and focused. Finally, satisfied, Gherant nodded to her. Eyes bright, she took a deep breath and hoisted the flier up, ran down the ramp, launching herself into the air. Fearless. She coasted through the breeze, only a few hundred feet, before coming to land close to where Flint was waiting, calling out her landing instructions.

  She raced up the hill, and flung her arms around Gherant, hugging him has hard as she could.

  “For a moment, I could just see over the tops of the trees, and even a hint of the river!” she cried, triumphantly.

  Gherant looked at Flint- clearly, neither of them had the heart to tell her she had been seeing the river where there was a break in the tree line. But he congratulated her soundly for an excellent first run.

  They spent the rest of the afternoon practicing that short run. Take-off, a little bit of steering, and landing. By late afternoon, they were all satisfied with their progress. Gherant surprised them by saying they could try a run from the top of the training hill. “Not that much higher,” he explained, “But, it will give you a little bit of a longer flight, and you can go across the entire field before you land.” Kijah’s eyes went wide, as though someone had just handed her the world.

  Both of them did wonderfully. Gherant made sure they had the basics understood, assuring they both flew safely, landing included. Zria flowed through the air, gracefully, flowing with the air. Kijah flew with ferocity, an athlete’s determination and passion- rising and dipping, cutting left and then right, but with an intuitive feel for the limits of the flyer.

  Exhaustion ended the day, tired, sore and exultant.

  “This was the absolute best thing that has ever happened to me!” she exclaimed, feeling the twinge of betrayal. Before this, meeting Zria had been that ‘best thing,’ and some inner part of her felt conflicted now, as she said the words. But she decided there was room in her world for two “best things.”

  “There is a debt of gratitude between us, indeed,” Zria smiled as he said to Gherant, a formal acknowledgment of Faenyr tradition.

  “A yllata I will carry, and look forward to its repayment one day,” an appropriate response, that meant a debt was a good thing, and the repayment would contain a pleasant surprise. There was no direct translation for that Faenyr word. A gratitude-debt.

  His response surprised Zria, who cocked an eyebrow.

  “I have a cousin, Taojhi, a very dear and close kin. She is Shendahal, and I have half grown up among her family,” Gherant explained. That time had taught him the nuances of the language and the things that did not truly translate between the two cultures.

  Zria nodded, understanding. “Come find us, in Treyene, and there will be welcome for you. Better, there are good winds on the plateau, in the summers” he added, “for a more experienced flier as you, it would carry many delights in the wind,” and he smiled.

  Kijah felt a stab of jealousy, a tiny flare that she quenched with a quick breath. She didn’t want to share Zria with anyone, and here he had just extended an invitation to Gherant that she had never been given.

  “The plateau? Are you heading upland?” Gherant asked, the tone of his voice as an inquiry.

  Zria nodded. We are going North, for the Spring festival. To participate in the K’hatta ceremonies-for the spring planting.”

  Gherant understood then, that Zria’s parents probably had some rank within the tribe, respect or regard. They possessed a strong magic. Zria had said participate rather than ‘attend’; Gherant understood the way he used it, likely meant that Zria’s family, or parents, would be involved deeply and guiding the spiritual practices that came when the gods changed their course, through the seasons and the birth of a new year.

  Kijah was devastated, as she felt the world fall out from beneath her feet. Her absolute best day had also become her worst day. She was losing her special friend.

  “But, you’re coming back, right? You won’t be gone for very long, will you?”

  “That is not known to us. What lays before, is not known, not seen, yet. Perhaps the fates will bring my path back to here. But the path now leads the other way.”

  Gherant watched what passed between them. His expression showed that had seen it before, too many times. Chanmyr were bound to areas, put down roots, stayed mainly in one place. As a result, they didn’t understand that fundamental difference bet
ween themselves and the Faenyr. While the Faenyr had communities, villages, and even what would pass for small cities-- they didn’t feel the same anchor that humans did. They might live in one area for many years. And then suddenly, something in the world would shift, and they would move on. No anger, no resentment, not out of a sense of loss or adventure even. They followed a kind of cosmic flow that was invisible and elusive for humans to fully grasp.

  This reality hit Kijah now. A reality that crashed down on her, painfully. She had been envisioning a future. One that had Zria in it. He had not been sharing that same goal, or dream. How could she have misread things so badly? She wanted to scream, her heart was breaking. She had found a connection so precious, so special, that she thought it could never end. And yet, it would end. Anger. Betrayal. Grief all flooded through her, competing for the top spot of emotions. Her perfect world was going to end. And soon, by the sound of it. Too soon.

  Part of her wanted to go with Zria. To run away, leave Treyu behind. She could do it. She imagined what her life might be like, with Zria, with the Faenyr. Except he hadn’t asked her to go with him. She crushed that truth down to a place where she didn’t have to think about it. If she did, she might doubt everything she needed to believe in, and that would break her heart.

  All four of them felt the shift in the air, the unspoken tension. And none knew a way through it, to a resolution that didn’t cause hurt. Gherant and Flint spoke of flying, and modifications they wanted to try on the new flyer.

  On the walk back into the city, Zria reached out to hold her hand. Kijah sensed that Zria wanted to comfort her from something he did not completely understand. She pulled her hand away, angry and self-protective, hugging it to herself. Just moments before, it seemed, she had been proud of herself; now, she felt like she wasn’t good enough, and was being tossed aside in an unfair and uncaring world. He looked at her, confused. He had no idea what he had done wrong, but was acutely aware of her distress.

  She wondered what he saw in the colours around her. Excitement had turned to dismay, to heart-pain, distress, and a hint of something that was still undecided. He had intended to comfort her, which only seemed to make it worse. After a few minutes, she dropped her hand and allowed Zria to take it. She wished with all her heart that she could just keep holding on. If she didn’t let go, he couldn’t leave. And she wouldn’t be left alone.

  Chapter 4

  The next two weeks were bittersweet for Kijah. Her moods went from one extreme to the other, as she tried to savour each moment. She lay awake each night, staring at the moons. She played it out in her mind, where she kept trying to convince him not to leave, and trying to work up the courage she needed to ask him to take her with him.

  They saw Gherant and Flint several times, and even had a few more afternoon flights, after Gherant and Flint had finished their other things. They didn’t need the flight-tutoring sessions, so a few practice flights didn’t require an entire day. Kijah reveled in her air-time. She felt free, and tasted something wild, untamed, in the Wind. She was limited in how much she could do, on the small training slope, but she never tired of each experience, pressing the bounds of what she knew, learning the feel and touch of steering and guiding the flyer. When she was in the air, she could forget about the pain she was feeling. It was just her and the wind.

  ~

  The grey light of morning was breaking through, the misty grey lifting. Kijah raced through her chores. Bumper jumped up on her leaving muddy smears streaked from shoulder to waist. She sighed, frustrated and annoyed, but learning better patience. Besides, she knew she wasn’t truly angry at Bumper. But she still needed to change her shirt.

  On her way out, she paused long enough to grab some breakfast- something she could eat on the way. Her mother leaned against the doorway, watching, silently.

  Kijah looked up, startled, worried that she was about to get into trouble. “Everything’s done,” she said hastily, defensive. Her mother just looked at her.

  “What?” Kijah finally asked, trying not to snap. But that all-knowing silence was unbearable.

  “You’ve been with that boy, han’t you?” she asked, but with a soft touch in her voice. Mother’s intuition was strong, and she well knew the signs.

  Kijah wasn’t sure how to answer. The hurt side of her wanted to lash out and get angry -- at anyone and everyone. But there had been no challenge in her mother’s tone. She looked up, and locked eyes with her mother. A brief moment of recognition passed between them. All the pent up hurt and betrayal she was feeling burst to the surface.

  “Oh Ma,” she wailed, flinging herself into her mother’s arms, crying her hurt into the one place she knew that would understand it. Her mother just held her, stroking her hair, soothing what she could, of her golden child’s crushed heart. She sniffled and hiccupped, and her mother used her softest dusting cloth to wipe her face, as though only the lightest softest touch were bearable now, and could perhaps soothe the pain, and brush it away.

  A whole whirlwind of emotions coursed through her, confused and jumbled. Parts of several questions formed, and she struggled through them.

  Finally she found an unlikely question. She asked, “What was my father like?”

  Her mother paused, looking deeply at her little girl, who was in this moment, growing up, and becoming an adult in a world with the kinds of pains that parents couldn’t fix.

  “A lot like your young man, I imagine,” she said, a softening, a far-away look, a gentle smile as she recalled something from her far past. “Bright and shiny and golden, in all ways. Like the sun, that feels warm on a winter day, lighting up the whole world. He was a wonderful man. A rich beautiful singing voice, like your voice,” her mother said. “You look so much like him,” she said, sounding both wistful and happy at the same time.

  “I will tell you more about him,” she promised, “but right now, I think you have someone waiting for you?” She smoothed Kijah’s hair, tucking it back behind her ear. “Enjoy your time together, and don’t be angry, and try not to feel hurt. The hurt you feel? He didn’t intend that. Never that. Try to remember that, and enjoy your time together. And, know that he may well come back into your life. That will be a choice you will have to make, later, if it does happen.”

  ~

  And came the day, when Zria departed. She had been afraid that he might just leave. She understood that the Faenyr didn’t always have the same senses as humans. What did partings and goodbyes mean to the Faenyr? She really didn’t know; and she knew she didn’t know. She knew now, deep in her blood, that the differences between them were more than words and money.

  But part of her was also Faenyr. And that blood was waking up. It understood what her mind could not. That each has a path, and that paths came together, and separated and returned, like a weaving.

  She spent a lot of time afterwards, wandering around, revisiting the places they had been together-- remembering it all, storing it away, lest she forget some tiny treasured memory: a smile, a song, a hug or a kiss. She practiced the things he taught her, playing the songs, reciting the stories and poems, and reading the colours.

  All the little things were both her salvation and her pain. Everything she did now, was changed because of Zria. And now, Zria was the change. He wasn’t there to share things with, to talk to, to ask silly questions.

  Reading colours was her biggest diversion. She spent hours in the woods, watching trees, and animals, and birds. She learned how to make herself still, so that they didn’t mind her. She would make a nest for herself, or climb up into a tree where she could go unnoticed. And then she would just watch. Their colours, as with people, told whole stories. What they were thinking or feeling, if they were hungry, scared, sleepy.

  Up in the branches, she had a nice little nest- something Zria had shown her to make. She listened to the birds and the breeze that rustled through the forest. And she watched the trees. They too had colours. The soft swaying lulled her to more peace than she had felt in a whil
e. The wind was whispering, she could almost hear it. Bu the harder she tried, the further away it seemed. Finally, she drifted off into a half-sleep, warm sun caressing the golden child. The wind came, and carried her, and she flew across the land. It brought her to a far off place—unlike anything she had ever seen. Magnificent and broken. Ancient beyond anything she could have conceived.

  And the wind spoke to her. Not quite in words, but the message was there for her.

  The wind would lead her, and carry her far. But before she could fly, she had to find her feet first, and learn to be wise, and trust that invisible wind. She would have to choose, one day, between her feet and her wings.

  She woke up with a start. She wasn’t sure if she had truly been flying, or if it had just been a dream. She wondered if there was a difference, or perhaps dreams could be as real as waking things. And she had no idea what that message meant. She wished she could go back and find it again, but when she tried to reach out, she just felt a blank space.

  She had no idea what it meant, what any of it meant. She wanted to make sense of her life, and the world, but she just didn’t know how. And the one person who could help, was gone. So she went through her days, going through motions, hoping for the missing piece that would help things make sense. Eventually, her wandering brought her up the ridge. The Mountain called her, and she followed.

  She stood on top, at the edge of the meadow, where fliers launched themselves into the vastness that was the sky. Feet, or wings? She didn’t know what that question meant at the spiritual level. But she listened, with wiser ears now. And she heard the Wind. It sang. She didn’t need words to feel the power and freedom there. And she hurled herself off of the edge, and into the Wind.