Conjuring Dreams or Learning to Write by Writing
Page 24
Stormmistress
Stormna stood alone in the stillness, a slender strip of gleaming blue-black splashed against a featureless expanse of bleached blue sky. Below, the landscape stretched, no longer lush and green, but desiccated, seamed and faded with the relentless sunlight that had transformed everything into dust.
A sizable village rose from the dust to the east, barely distinguishable in the shimmering heat of the afternoon sun. At the foot of the lone upthrust of stone, the villagers waited, withering in the scorching temperatures, dust-colored themselves. Even the lonely crag she stood upon thirsted, dehydrated to the same uniform taupe that drought had painted this corner of the world.
Only she had color, she and her caravan, glittering with purple and gold, unfaded like a jewel in the heart of an endless desert. But she was the treasure . . . and the end to the desert.
She stood quietly, studying the landscape that she loved for its very trauma, her eyes the same pale blue as the sky. The villagers below, despite their discomfort, were silent also, not even shifting their feet on the hot ground for fear of breaking her concentration, some not even breathing. The wind was absent, too. There was only the oppressive stillness like a weight on the people and the land.
Stormna raised her arms and the wind responded instantly, pulling her hood from her dark head, toying with the hem of her cloak. She opened her thin lips and sighed. With gleeful pleasure, the wind answered, almost singing in its joy. The thirsting dust began to dance in the arms of the wind. Stormna's cloak whipped behind her, leaving her pale arms bare to the sun, to the breeze. Her eyes deepened in hue and the sky darkened in response. Clouds began to cluster at the edge of the horizon, white and fluffy at first, but darkening as they approached.
The wind speed quickened, pressing the clouds forward at frightening speeds. The clouds, crowded and hurried, grew grayer and angrier, bubbling and cratering with unused power. By this time, Stormna's hair had blown free from its pins and whipped furiously about her head in a black cloud, reflecting the silvery darkness of her eyes. Her gown of blue-black silk was plastered against her body in the hurricane, her cloak pulling against the white skin of her throat in its eagerness to dance in the wind.
She gestured grandly and the lightning flickered across the boiling sky from her hand into the clouds. At the foot of the escarpment, the crowd gasped. The angry clouds answered Stormna's taunts with lacings of delicate lightning and the deafening roar of thunder.
She laughed and tossed her head, delighting that the wind took her laughter from her lips. Smiling, she teased the sky with a two-handed gesture that sent fiery fingers of lightning in every direction. The clouds roiled with fury, twisting and groaning with suppressed energy, spewing thick bolts of power that charged the air even further. At her feet, the ground exploded in light and sound. With the force of the wind about her, she laughed again, but then heard, just over the keening of the gale, the muffled sound of a child weeping.
Her arms dropped. Instantly, the wind died away and the clouds retained their lightning. Stormna strained her ears and heard again the frightened crying of a youthful voice.
Without a word, with none of the dignity that had attended her ascent, her conjuring, Stormna slipped and slid down the rocky hill. The villagers stood still silently, with only the soft shifting of their feet to indicate their concern. The village-master rushed forward as she leapt to the ground and strode toward the glittering caravan.
Blessed with only short legs, the village-master was forced to run to catch up with Stormna's leggy stride. Breathlessly, he ventured, “Stormmistress?"
Without sparing a glance at the balding man running to keep up with her, Stormna barked, “Gold!" The village-master scrambled in a pocket and pulled out a pouch heavy with yellow gold, then dropped it in her outstretched hand. She weighed it with the same hand, smiled slightly and then tucked it into her golden belt, never slowing her pace.
Badly winded, the village-master gasped, “Stormmistress!" as Stormna approached the steps of her caravan. Stormna stopped beneath the eaves, then turned and faced the little man, her eyes wild and glowing with energy and magic. The village-master recoiled, but his village needed the rain they had paid for. “Stormmistress?"
Stormna smiled and negligently snapped her fingers, slipping inside her caravan at the instant the downpour doused the village-master. Inside the caravan, a child curled, frightened, in the corner of her bed, tears staining her pale cheeks below the tightly closed lids.
“Tempestt, child," Stormna gentled, stroking her slender hand over the fine black hair. Tempestt opened her eyes, her eyes stormily gray, silvered with tears. “Why are you crying?"
“I was sleeping, mother, and the crashing woke me. The sky was light and dark again."
“You were frightened by the thunder, child? Don't you remember the other storms?" Stormna asked her, rocking her daughter on her lap soothingly. Tempestt shook her head. “No matter, child. Soon, I'll teach you why you never need fear the storm."