The cruel one’s sister had mourned that the picture of her mother had been burned. Would the boy mourn the pictures of the man burning? There was a picture on his bedroom dresser. The boy was small, round-faced, and laughing. He was perched on the man’s shoulders and pointing toward the sky. They were in the north. The boy was pointing at the wind flitting merrily through a maple’s orange-flame leaves. The next week, the boy had shattered his mirror. He hadn’t laughed like he had in the picture ever again.
The wind rushed north, racing toward the lush, sweet smelling park in the center of the city. It was night. Still and city-quiet. There were no rushing taxis to somersault over. There were no bicycle wheels to catapult from. Even the steam that gushed out of street vents gurgled out in slow fits and starts. The wind moaned and sped faster.
It was too late. By the time it blew under the front door, the anise and cinnamon fire had eaten all the boy’s books. More. It had swallowed everything. Even the marble columns were melting like wax candles. The stone dripped and pooled in melted wax mounds. The roof had caved. The furniture was charred and twisted.
There was nothing left.
Even though this fire was hungrier than the last, the wind still drifted to the boy’s bedroom. It swirled through the flames. They bit and burned and grabbed. The wind shrieked and kicked them back. Then it stopped in the corner of the room. There was an ash pile. A charred-wood, burned-dresser ash pile. The photograph of the boy and the man and the wind was gone.
That had been the only picture ever taken of the wind. You couldn’t see it in the photograph. You only knew it was there by the reflection of joy in the boy’s face.
That was the way with beings though. Some of them spent their entire existence trying to make others see them so they could feel real.
Not the wind though. Not the wind.
It swept from the boy’s home.
The Ward’s illusion contained the fire, so it could only rage inside, imprisoned and invisible in the illusion’s walls. In the morning, when the fire had eaten all it could and then died a glutton’s death, the illusion would still stand, but everything else would be gone.
The wind sighed. The Bards would be next. It had heard the cracklings of the fire. But the wind would arrive too late.
And it did. The Bard mansion was a furnace, empty except for its hateful flame. The trickster wasn’t in his home. Where was he?
Where?
Where?
Where?
The boy wanted the trickster. The wind would find him. Where was he? Where?
It trailed down the sidewalk, humming, moaning, thinking.
After a while, it started to hum a little song to itself. I’ve lost the trickster. Where could he be? I’ve lost the trickster. How silly of me. Where is the trickster? Where did he go? Nobody knows, oh, nobody knows.
It whistled in surprise when a man hurried past, kicking up dirt and sending the wind into a whirl. The buzz of illusion stung it and threw the wind against the sidewalk. It bounced, shook itself off, and chased after the man.
Ha!
Aha!
The wind blew the man’s pant leg and climbed his T-shirt to ruffle the wavy ends of his black hair. The man sent a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his eyes.
Yes!
Not the trickster, but almost as good.
The wind laughed at its luck. This was a man with a secret. It could hear it in the rapid beat of his pulse. Instead of thump-thump, thump-thump, it whispered, se-cret, se-cret. At the wind’s cheerful chuff, the man looked behind him, searching the empty street with his sharp, alert gaze.
The wind sniffed. The twisted, cruel scent was gone. So was the scent of cranberries and allspice. The solange-eyed one only smelled of the air before a powerful thunderstorm and the soap he’d shaved with. The wind brushed over his jaw, rubbing his smooth skin.
Not twisted.
Not cruel.
Was this the solange-eyed one? Or was the man who’d killed the innocent one him? Both? Neither?
The wind didn’t know. He could be both. The wind had never understood Smiths. The armored cabinets of their minds were a mystery it could never comprehend.
