Whisperwind Wilma's Arc

Chapter 2 of 2

Wilma slipped down from the spire still laughing, ready to chase her whisper east. But the prairie air below had gone flat. Her gust hit it like a hand hitting a wall. The saskatoon scent she carried hung in place, then sank into the dry grass. A knot of dried straw spun once at her feet, lost its turn, and slumped into a still golden heap. That heap marked the dead spot. Her message had no road forward. She pushed harder. She circled the heap and tried to lift it, tried to drag the scent through the heavy air. Nothing moved. A child somewhere east was waiting on a porch, and Wilma could feel the minutes peeling away. The frustration built in her chest like a held breath. It pressed and pressed until something broke loose. A small, knotted creature tumbled out of her, covered in stuck-on letters from every word she had swallowed. It hissed at the still air and kicked the straw heap. Wilma stared. Her own anger had grown legs. The imp stomped in a circle, spitting half-words. Wilma almost shouted at it. Then she saw the weathered barn behind the dead patch, doors open wide, stacked hay bales inside, rope and tools hung along the back wall. A building could hold a gust. A building could box the air and force it to gather. She herded the imp inside and slammed against the bales, swirling tight between the walls. The imp screeched and spun with her. The loose straw lifted. The scent of berries lifted. The barn filled with a thickening pressure that had nowhere to go but the open doors. She shot out in one packed burst. The dead patch broke. The gust punched through the still air and kept going, carrying the berry scent and a thin trail of glowing straw east across the grass. Wilma felt the porch-waiting feeling click back into place inside her. But the imp came with her. It clung to her edge, still muttering letters, still kicking. She had her momentum back. She had also brought her temper along for the rest of the trip.