The midday sun blazed overhead, turning the dirt road beyond Windstead's coconut groves into a ribbon of heat. I toddled alongside my father, carrying a small bundle of sweet rice cakes, eager to deliver them to a neighbor. My wooden staff rested against my shoulder, and the Gale Sage walked a few paces behind, his robes brushing the dirt with every measured step.
The fields on either side swayed gently, palms rustling with a breeze that felt both lazy and watchful—almost as though it sensed something was about to happen. Villagers tending to coconut orchards paused in their chores, squinting into the glare. Children scrambled after a tethered goat, and a pair of distant merchants guided a caravan of carts toward the market. That caravan—loaded with bolts of dyed cloth, baskets of spices, and woven baskets of dried fish—drew my curiosity. The traders exchanged friendly waves with my father as they passed.
"Beautiful day for a journey," one of the merchants called over, smiling broadly despite the awkwardness of pushing laden carts through midday heat.
I waved back, imagining the exotic lands where those spices were grown. As the carts rolled by, I glimpsed the merchants' faces—lined and weathered, yet bright with determination.
Then, without warning, the birds scattered, screeching in alarm. A sudden ripple of activity spread through the caravan, and the carts ground to a halt. I frowned, uncertain. The horse's ears pinned back; the goats brayed fretfully. In the next heartbeat, my father's hand shot out, grabbing my arm.
"Stay close, Aiman. Something's wrong."
Ahead, beyond the farthest coconut tree, a ragged group of riders charged into view—six of them, cloaked in dusty hides, faces partially masked. They brandished rusty blades and crude bows, their mounts snorting and stamping as if sensing violence. The caravan's horses whinnied in fear.
"Bandits!" one merchant shouted. "Defend the carts!"
Men and women leaped to action, searching for anything that could serve as a weapon: farming hoes, wooden mallets, even a few prone coconut trunks turned into makeshift clubs. The bandits hovered at the edge of the road, encircling the merchants like circling vultures. Smoke curled from a brazier that one bandit had set beneath a wheel, beginning to singe the cloth bales. The air filled with the acrid tang of burning fabric and rising panic.
I felt my heart clench. I wanted to help. At just two years old, my help boiled down to nothing more than curious questions and awkward toddling, but inside, a fierce urge rose—an urge that felt like a spark in my chest.
"Father…," I gasped, glancing at the Gale Sage. His eyes were already narrowing, reading the field like a seasoned chieftain.
"Stand back, Aiman," my father said, voice low but determined. He lunged forward, wielding a hefty wooden mallet he grabbed from a nearby vendor's stand. "Everyone, stay behind me!"
Despite the danger, I couldn't help myself. I tightened my small fists, remembering the Sage's lessons: stillness, then motion. My pulse hammered as I closed my eyes, feeling for the air beneath me. I pictured a gentle swirl, but this time bigger—enough to push intruders away. The hum in my chest rose into a pulse.
I raised both hands—palms cupped as if holding a bowl of air. I thought, Send it forward.
A gust eddied around me, gathering strength I hadn't anticipated. The wind spiraled upward, whipping the hem of my shirt and lifting stray leaves into a dervish. I opened my eyes, releasing the swirl toward the nearest bandit.
The man staggered, buffeted by the sudden onslaught. He stumbled from his horse but didn't fall. No one else expected it, and the caravan guards blinked in shock as dust and leaves sprayed across the field. A smaller gap opened among the bandits—enough for one of the merchants to shove his cart wheel into the fray, sending arrows spinning into the air to distract the thieves.
I felt a flicker of pride—until I realized I'd misjudged my spin. The gust, strong but sloppy, veered to one side, knocking a nearby villager—Old Musa—off balance. He clutched his shoulder, toppling to the ground with a grunt. The wind knocked his straw hat into a pile of dung afterward, leaving him coughing in a cloud of dust.
A wave of guilt surged through me. My chest tightened. Old Musa, a cinnamon‐skinned man with a belly that shook when he laughed, lay on his side, rubbing his arm. I'd hurt him through my reckless attempt.
The Gale Sage sprang forward, placing his staff against the ground. With a low hum of incantatory syllables—so soft I barely heard them—the air around him stirred fiercely. He shaped a rolling vortex that swept between the bandits, carrying leaves, dust, and shouts of confusion. The merchants seized the chance: one brandished a heavy iron hook to bar a cart wheel, another flung a bag of spices into the melee to disorient any pursuers. The bandits, buffeted by the torrent of wind, scattered, horses whinnying as their riders tumbled into ditches or scrambled back onto saddles, fleeing toward the horizon.
Within moments, the threat dissipated. The once‐smoldering brazier lay cold; bandit tracks crisscrossed the dirt as far as the eye could see, fading into the scrub. Silence returned—broken only by the merchants shaking their heads, tending to splintered cart wheels, and counting missing cloth bolts.
My father rushed to Old Musa's side. "Are you all right?" he demanded, worry etched in his voice.
Musa sat up slowly, wincing as he tested his arm. "Just a bruise," he muttered, though tears pooled in his eyes. "But…that child saved you… and nearly broke my arm." He gave me a wry, half‐smile. "Boy, you gave me a fright."
I knelt beside him, shame burning in my cheeks. "I… I'm sorry, Musa."
He patted my hand. "No harm done, little one. Just next time, keep it gentle." He offered me a crooked grin. "First rule: never make the wind angry."
I nodded solemnly, heart pounding with relief and embarrassment. The Sage was already kneeling beside Musa, pressing a hand over his arm and murmuring quiet words. A faint breeze danced between them, lifting the edges of broken leaves and whisking away the last of the spice dust.
Father placed a firm hand on my shoulder. "Power without precision can hurt the very people we wish to protect," he said, voice gentle but unwavering.
I swallowed hard. "I didn't mean to hurt him." The words came out a whisper in the hot air.
The Gale Sage looked up at me, his eyes both kind and serious. "Intent matters, Aiman. But the wind listens only to your heart. If you don't guide it exactly, it will slip away. You saved the merchant, but you nearly harmed Musa. That is the balance you must learn." He rose, adjusting his staff. "Come, little one. Return him home. We will work on controlling smaller gusts until your heart and wind move as one."
I glanced back at the caravans as merchants bent to help one another repair splintered wood, while some shared water with wounded guards. The distant smell of singed cloth still lingered, a reminder that missteps could be painful.
I lifted my chin and met Father's eyes. "I will learn."
He nodded, relief and pride mingling. Mother and my sister joined us, their eyes wide but soft with understanding. As we began the walk back to the village—winding past coconut trees and twitching grass—I held the memory of that gust heavy in my chest.
Tonight, I thought, I would close my eyes and find that still place again—and this time, be gentle enough to let the wind know exactly what I needed it to do.
And so, though the sun still burned overhead, my small figure walked home with lessons firmly rooted in my heart: precision, compassion, and the knowledge that true strength meant guiding the wind with both might and mercy.