Wind

Erica W. Weems

The forecast had mentioned inclement weather, but it was time for Aris’s daily walk. It wasn’t too bad, Aris thought, walking up the street. It was hilly in this neighborhood, though the steeper part of the hill sloped perpendicularly from his path toward the Conservatory. He followed the steady incline, blinking against dust particles stirred up by the wind. Only one more block, he thought, as the wind whipped his hair straight over his head. He pushed forward against the bluster and looked ahead in anticipation. The Conservatory was the calmest spot in the city, often completely empty. What a treasure!

He loved having the Conservatory to himself. He felt free to roam where he wanted, unobserved, and he could even talk to himself aloud without anyone hearing him. The roar of the thoroughfare below sheltered his mutterings from the rest of the world; even the birds hopping in the trees would have trouble distinguishing his voice from the ambient sound surrounding them. He could mutter all he wanted, in fact, switching from English to French without seeming like a tumultuous Tower of Babel. He remembered the severe instruction of his teachers in French immersion reprimanding students for mixing languages. They must pick one language, and that language had to be French. He shook off the nagging memories.

Aris turned into the overgrown entryway of the Conservatory. Trimming had ceased for the time being. High turnover at the Parks and Recreation Department had really hit the city’s efforts in upkeep. And was that the smell of urine in his path? He wrinkled his nose, a feeling of disappointment settling into his stomach. Perhaps the coming rain would wash it away.

He thought back to his personal washroom, which smelled of cleanser and wind. It had been unusually windy lately. Gusts had found their way around the crook in the staircase landing just outside his apartment, bursting into his hidden washroom window. They’d pushed his shower curtain against him as he stood in the tub, trying to lather all the spots that were hard to reach. He’d had to constantly struggle against the clinging plastic just to clean the bottoms of his feet. And earlier today, as he returned from the neighborhood market, he’d fought to remain upright against wind speeds that had risen to fifty miles per hour, or so said the advisories, which warned against outings to the beach. The wind was, in fact, picking up right this instant. He was far from the beach, though. He walked resolutely on, descending the steps toward the sage farther down the path.

He came upon a sea of greenish grey. The muted colors reflected the sky. Smoky clouds cast shadows over it and suggested coming rain. Aris felt the damp air, a curtain of mist descending from skittering coagulations of weighty particles. He inhaled, blinking at a beam of light which escaped combative clouds, each vying for dominance in the unruly sky. A whirring sound pierced the air above him, and shadows scurried on the pavement at his feet, tossed to the ground from tree branches that whipped above his head.

A sudden gust blew his bangs into his eyes. “Aïe!” he cried, struggling to get his hair out of his face. There was a crack in the sky, the smell of burnt iron. Was that a flash? He jerked his head back and saw a huge branch break from a tree nearby. A shadow darted over him. The sun faded into mist. Wood splintered around his head. The world went dim.