The Eolian Harp

“And that simplest Lute
Plac’d length-ways in the clasping casement, hark!”

Her eyes were the golden warmth of the plains, her scent was wildflowers in spring. As she moved, the wind sang to her. She was life and love and glory itself. She was the right hoof of the summer, she was the end of all things..
But she was cruel. She was flirty and flighty and fickle. Her eyes were burning fires and her scent was decay, and the wind that sang was the wind of a winter gale. She was the bringer of winter, the face of death. She was all these things to him and more.

“How by the dusultory breeze caress’d
Like some coy Maid half-yeilding to her Lover,”

He had run from her, and run from the rest of them, but still the wind would follow him and sing songs of her beauty and kindness and cruelty. The wind, the cursed thing would not leave him be. No matter how far or hard he ran, no matter what he shouted back at its cruel whisperings, it would follow him and scream her name again, and again and again. He had tried to harden himself, he had tried to become something else or someone else, but the wind knew. It was too clever and too much enjoyed his pain.
Tzilan would weep at night, when the wind was still and its mutterings would finally cease. He would weep until his eyes were sore from the dryness. His heart would burn and his lungs would ache as though there were no air for him to breathe. At last, he would sleep, his tattered golden coat stained with sweat and blood and tears. Then, in the morning, the wind would caress him. It would ease the ache of his tired bones, dry the blood of his wounds and soothe his aching brow.

“It pours forth such sweet ubraidings, as must needs
Tempt to repeat the wrong!”

For years, Tzilan would run. Each day he would try to out-run the wind, and each night he would howl and sob. Each morning, the wind would gentle him awake, and he would run again.
To run every day for so many years, to flee the burning pain and the mocking of the wind should have killed him. It did not. The cuts and scratches where he fell faded, leaving no scars. His broad chest became bound with muscle, his legs strong and swift became sure, his feet clever and his ears astute.
At last, one night, he did not cry. There were no tears left, the wind had stolen the howls of grief from him. He did not weep for the wind’s torment, and the voice of the wind laughed. It laughed, and applauded, and at once he found himself laughing too. His eyes were bright and full of fire, his face was the face of the winter gale.

“And now its strings
Boldlier swept, the long sequacious notes
Over delicous surges sink and rise,”

The next day, the wind did not speak to him. The day he had longed for, the day he had dreamt of for so long; the day that almost killed him with despair and longing. Without the wind, he did not even remember her name. She was a vague silhouette of golden coat, blurring into the wind around her. She was cruelty and kindness and she did not matter. All that mattered was the wind, and it had left him. The air was still around him and the heat of the sun as it beat down on him was laughing, gleeful. It knew that the wind had left him and he could do nothing to make it return!

This was cruelty, this was kindness! The wind had transformed her, transformed her memory from a fickle doe sneering at a young stag into the essence of seasons and the source of life! Tzilan bellowed. He screamed to the rivers and the plains and the hills. His voice was the voice of thunder, he called upon the elements and howled down the spiteful, tumultuous wind. His eyes were fire and his face was death, his very body was the end of all things. He had power beyond power and strength beyond strength and he commanded, demanded the wind should speak again.

There was a whisper, a murmur, a fluttering mutter.

“Such a soft floating witchery of sound
As twilight Elfins make, when they at eve
Voyage on gentle gales from Faery Land,”

The wind was beseeching. It was humbled and sad, and caressed him with fondness and apologies. It fluttered across his shoulders and haunches, it played with his mane and curled gently around his ears and antlers, and rushed into his lungs and out again, bringing the scent of wildflowers and the warmth of summer. It muttered thankfulness and fealty, and at last whispered of a place he might escape. A place where they believed in the wind, where they paid it honour and tribute with a God - though of course, Tzilan needed pay no tribute, of course not, to suggest such a thing to a stag who commanded the air!

“Where Melodies round honey-dropping flowers
Footless and wild, like birds of Paradise,
No pause nor perch, hov’ring on untam’d wing.”

He carried the wind with him. He curled it around his shoulders, sent it to catch flowers for him to smell, made it chase after herds of wallabies. It guided him, leading and following, commanding and obeying, the balance of power ever-shifting, its tricksy voice feebly whispering instructions and bellowing acquiescence.

Tzilan and the wind came to the Cape in the autumn, as the world was dying away. It was theirs to command.