An excerpt from the story, Where the Winds Blow, published by ADDA, 2023

“MARK that date!” roared King Ayabingi, slapping a mighty hand on the calendar that hung on a wall in the Throne Room and shredding it to pieces. The calendar had been replaced every day for the past month. “The International Convention of Storms will not be missed!”

There was no possibility of it being missed. This momentous event, held every five years, brought together all the world’s influential winds. On this occasion, it was going to be hosted by the North Wind at his Ice Palace in the frozen North.

“Prepare them young ones to travel with me!” thundered the King, “it is time for their category ranking.”

“With us, you mean,” said the Queen, “what makes you think I will miss this? Besides, my fearsome husband, you’ve never gone that far north before, and with your sense of direction – ”

“That’s what I said,” interrupted the King. “We, will take the younglings.”

What neither said aloud was that, anticipating a disappointing ranking, they were both feeling rather protective of the eldest young prince.

Leaving a trusted steward to govern in their absence – an old hurricane who had long retired from active duty and now spent his time reminiscing to anyone who cared to listen – they soon departed for the Ice Palace, with the two young princes and princess in tow.

Set among the shimmering Northern Lights was the glittering Ice Palace, home of Boreas, the North Wind, ruler of the cold and deadly winter storms. The rainbow of colours reflecting off frozen panes and icicled turrets delighted the young tropical guests, who knew about lightning in its many forms but had never seen this type of fiery magic before.

“The cold fires of the northern skies,” whispered the Queen to them as they passed through a high, arched doorway into a great hall. “Lit by Aura, Queen of the North.”

As they emerged into the vast hall, King Ayabingi seized the great ivory conch that swung from his belt and put it to his lips. He blew a mighty blast that echoed and re-echoed in that enormous space. In the harsh bellow of the conch were the voices of a thousand tropical storms, all roaring at once. Storms do not announce their arrival quietly.

Boreas greeted them with as much warmth as was possible for an icy wind to produce. “Welcome, my friends!” he roared, I trust the hurricane season will be a terrible one this year!” Beside him sat his pale, beautiful queen, her eyes changing colour from green to violet and pink, with occasional flashes of silver.

Iscar peered up at him and was impressed by what he saw. The North Wind was enormous, tall and broad, though not as tall as his own father, Iscar noted. His snow-white hair hung like shards of ice on his shoulders, and his beard was a frosty tangle that reached down to his waist. As he caught Iscar looking at him he suddenly smiled, and his glacial blue eyes sparkled with a friendly light.

“What do you think of my home, child of the tropics?” he boomed, his breath adding another layer of ice to the walls and ceiling. Iscar said he liked it very much, though he thought the ice and the lights were rather chilly; he found them beautiful nonetheless. The North Wind looked pleased with his answer.

The Great Hall quickly filled. From North America, came Spinning Wind, Chief of Storms, a graceful and deadly tornado. He funnelled his way through the door amidst a glittering shower of sharp icicles that came raining down from the ceiling, pulling nearby objects, and smaller attendant winds, into his vortex. He disentangled the objects and struggling winds as he halted, setting them upright with one smooth move. But he didn’t apologise, a storm never apologises for being a storm. A dozen enthusiastic young tornadoes followed in his wake. It was going to be a rough year for those states in the tornado belt. Iscar had been spared the indignity of being upended by the entrance of these fierce winds only because his mother had the foresight to grab a handful of him, discreetly, anchoring him in place.

From the continent of Australia, the ominous rumbling of a didgeridoo announced the arrival of the Great Elder, a powerful cyclone who had left a swath of destruction on his way to the Convention. With him were many grandchildren who had come of age to be ranked. Australian meteorologists gathering data were already anticipating an excess of deadly storms that year.

Close on the heels of the Australian contingent, the Monsoon Empress of the Indian sub-continent swept in with a flash flood that almost swamped the hall. Lightning flashed from her eyes, and the roiling rain clouds of her long, black hair whipped around her. A great emerald set in gold on her forehead enhanced the darkness of her hair and eyes. In preparation for an epic monsoon season, she had brought her three daughters, one son and four nephews for ranking. Close behind came a handsome pair, the Typhoon Emperor and Empress of East Asia, stately and dangerous in their controlled entrance, something their three enthusiastic offspring had not yet mastered.

Standing out among the gathering of storms was the dusky figure of the Saharan Sand Storm, Queen of African tempests. She was the last of the great storms to arrive, though she had not kept them waiting. She descended without warning upon the gathering, enveloped in a dense cloud of golden desert sand that quickly turned the hall pitch black before condensing into rippling robes around her proud figure. She wore a circlet of red gold to which a burning sun disc was fastened. Below the disc, her amber eyes burned with a matching fire. In one hand, she held an iron-bladed assegai that she struck upon the floor upon arrival, sending a deep rumbling roar through the hall and shaking the remaining icicles down upon the company.

The Conference lasted for exactly one week, and no time was wasted. There were reports from every corner of the planet, presenting plans and proposals for the next five years, amid seasonal upheavals. There was also an all-important seminar on the negative impact of human activity on the Earth’s climate and whether global storms should consider this cause for concern, or if the impending climatic catastrophe could be an asset to their fury.

On the last day of the Conference, the young storms were ranked according to their strength and potential. During the physical assessments, they all did their best to impress. And they did impress, ending their trials with flourishes, knowing their category rankings would be high and in keeping with expectations for their future as full-blown storms. All triumphed but Iscar, who, fully aware that his failings as a hurricane were now painfully obvious, hated every moment of the assessments. Yet the judges noted that his endurance level was exceptional, surpassing even the stronger storms, for he could keep blowing at a steady pace, long after the others had blown themselves out.

He had been expecting this, but as the firstborn son of the Hurricane King and Queen, Iscar could not quite hide his feelings on hearing that he was most definitely not a hurricane. He did not even rank as a squall: he was given the official rank of a strong but variable breeze. Still, he held his head up proudly as the ranks were conferred and accepted them without rancour. The North Wind must have noticed his disappointment, for as he bade farewell to his tempestuous guests he leaned forward and said quietly, “It is possible, son of great ones, to make an impact without raising a storm.”

Iscar had now officially lost his title to the new Crown Prince and Princess of Tropical Storms. Cora did not have much to say, but Cove, feeling the power of his new title, delighted in humiliating Iscar even more by conferring the title “Prince of Pocket Hurricanes” to his older brother. He pronounced this within earshot of several other young storms, and the resulting laughter burned Iscar’s heart, though his expression remained impassive.

On their way home, the royal young hurricanes and breeze, familiar now with the route, detoured to explore new paths. Changing direction on a whim is normal windy behaviour, so it was not until some time after they had arrived that everyone realised the new Crown Prince was missing. King Ayabingi was not pleased. In fact, he was extremely displeased. Cove was expected to begin training for the hurricane season, and being absent did not reflect the sort of responsible behaviour expected from a future Hurricane King.

A search was launched for the missing prince. But as time passed and, one after another, the searchers came back empty-handed, the Hurricane King’s rage climbed higher and higher. Finally, he dismissed the searchers and prepared to go out himself. His ominous darkening and furious flashes of lightning were sure signs that things would go badly for the young truant when his father laid his hands on him. On the ground, warnings of an imminent hurricane, a possible category five, were being issued by meteorological offices.

Cosmata Lindie, an Indigenous artist and writer, hails from Kwakwani, on the upper Berbice River, and now resides in New Amsterdam, Berbice. She’s a self-taught artist, nurturing her passion since childhood, primarily in oil painting, with occasional forays into acrylics, pencils, and watercolours.

Link to the full story https://www.addastories.org/where-the-winds-blow/