"A Wind Begins to Blow" By Naviya Gupta

Photo by Logan Weaver on Unsplash

A wind begins to blow. It is born as a wispy breeze, and soon grows to a bolder, stronger gale. It travels across lands, picking up scents and sights and textures, and stories.

Finally, it descends upon a kingdom nestled in a ring of mountains. Each mountain peak is hidden by a wispy rotunda of clouds that hang in the rich, silky blue of the sky. The roots of the mountains are peppered with spindly pine trees, forming a sparse forest on the snow-covered ground. A light frost coats the leaves and the sharp smell of pine hovers in the air. A lone woodcutter cuts through a maze of trees, leaving a trail of shallow footprints and whistling to himself. An axe is slung over his shoulder, and he is clothed in warm leather and sheepskin that keep out the icy bite of the cold. The breeze dances at the feet of the woodcutter in rhythm to the high, sweet tune he whistles.

The breeze blows from the mountains towards a sleepy village blanketed by a thin coating of frost. At the center of the village stands a stone fountain. A steady jet of water spouts upward and bathes a stone mermaid sitting in the center. A gloomy peddler idles nearby tossing pebbles into the serene waters of the fountain. His hat rests at a precarious angle on his matted hair and a ratty coat envelops his slight figure. The wind picks his hat from his head, flings it a few feet away, and mischievously circles the peddler. Soon there is a pink tinge to his cheeks, a twinkle to his eyes, and a laugh on the lips of one who has not laughed for days. It circles around the peddler for a while, tickling his skin and filling his heart with mirth. Finally, with a final playful gust, the wind bids the young man adieu and reducing to a breeze once again, snakes through the tiny cottages which litter the village.

The breeze flows through the nooks and crannies of the closely built rooftops, circling the tiny chimneys and seeps through windows. From the slightly ajar frosted window of a large cottage comes the rich and slightly spicy scent of pumpkin and ginger. The wind circles the plump figure with snowy hair who stands inside. She stirs a concoction in a large, blackened vessel and the sides of her eyes crinkle as she laughs along with the children who hover at her skirts. The wind takes some of the sweet scent, weaves it into itself, and takes a piece of the scene with it. It quietly exits through the chimney, its presence unfelt by the inhabitants of the cottage, except for the slight chill that has seeped into the bones of the children.

The wind blows on, stopping occasionally to make its presence felt; flinging away the hats of passersby, tinkling the wind chimes which hang at the entrance of a fortune teller’s tent, jingling the bell at the little candy store owned by a smiling old man, and bringing a little bit of life and laughter to the lives of all those who inhabit this little town.

As the wind heads back towards the forest, growing stronger, colder, it circles a red fox, with golden eyes, making its fur bristle, its ears stand upright. It carries the faint song of the bluebirds who wish for the ice to thaw. The wind shoots to the sky, above the towering trees and takes in the last colors of the Sun as it sets above the snow. The sky has begun to darken now.

Slowly, it begins to blow once again, this time rich with life and stories and the essence of people. Then blowing, forever blowing, it fades into the night.

Naviya Gupta is 15 years old; she lives in Mumbai, India. Naviya pursues ballet as her passion, and in her free time loves to write, play the piano, paint, and read, especially on rainy days. She prefers nights to days, as they are full of mystery and unspoken words. Also, the stars are so much prettier than the sun!