“How much farther?”

Hesiahna grimaced at the sound of her sibling’s voice. Veshlith’s hair was brilliant orange today, the curls bouncing slightly in the wind that always surrounded them no matter the form they took. The pilgrimage was meant to be conducted in reverential silence, but Veshlith had been complaining — no, whining — since they set out at the rising of Sun.

“It is the same distance it has always been.”

This from Arpinial, who stood at the head of their little group in fine robes of bright saffron and blue. He was the first created by the Grandmother, preceding Hesiahna by 0.621165 seconds and the rest of their siblings by a few fractions of a second more. That made him the eldest, and, as far as he was concerned, the leader.

Hesiahna had never understood his reasoning. The Grandmother had created them all — all ten — for a purpose, and each purpose was equally important. Should even one of them fail or become lax in their duties, then the Grandmother’s sacrifice would come to naught.

She adjusted the little box in her hands.

Grandmother. Such a strange title. But that was the word the humans used, so that was the word the siblings had adopted. A word, a title, a name for a Power that had no name.

Like Sun. That was not enough for the humans, either.

Hesiahna glanced up, adjusting the box again.

47 Ursae Majoris. That was what the humans had originally called Sun, all those millennia ago when they first arrived in their rattling, falling-apart vessel. They had crafted many, many more names in the years that followed, and many of those names had been forgotten — at least by the humans.

Hesiahna remembered them all.

“Do stop dawdling, Hesiahna, or this will take even longer.” Veshlith was scowling at her, and the wind gusted in response, shaking the branches of the trees around them; leaves swirled and fluttered to the ground and fluffy squirren chittered in agitation.

Hesiahna did not respond, nor did she move more quickly. The pilgrimage was such a little thing; it was the least they could do for the Grandmother.

Perseinne fell back beside her, a small leather bag clutched in his hands. He had adopted the form of a male human child for the pilgrimage this century, his feet bare, his leggings loose around his knees. “Pay Veshlith no mind, sister: our sibling has been in a fine and foul mood for decades.”

“Oh?”

Perseinne shrugged. “They came to me not long after the last pilgrimage to the Tomb. Seventy years ago, perhaps? They had voiced a private request to the Grandmother, which went unanswered. — Before you ask, no, they did not share that request with me. But they were quite vexed at being ignored.”

“The Grandmother was not and is not ignoring them, or anyone else. She is asleep.”

Perseinne did not answer. He just nodded.

They rounded a bend in the path and the trees parted. An outcropping of rock erupted from the ground just ahead and beyond that, at the far end of the rolling hilltop, loomed the Tomb of the Grandmother. Humans, singly, doubly, and in crowds, moved up and down the hill on the various pathways and tracks, in and out of the Tomb. They wore saffron and red and blue, too, and carried boxes and bags and bones and bottles.

The Tomb of the Grandmother.

A human name, of course. It was humans who had built the structure, not long after they first set foot on this new world. They had rebuilt it many times over the millennia, but Hesiahna remembered every iteration of the Tomb down to the tiniest detail.

She remembered everything.

At the sight of that shining spire and rounded dome and those soaring, carved columns, Perseinne left her, skipping ahead. He bounced around the outcropping of rock and was soon far ahead, leaping through the grass. It was not long before Zesha, Posaia, and Demzinna joined him; perhaps they were anxious to present their gifts to the Grandmother, as well. 

Or perhaps they just wanted to get away from Veshlith’s whining.

“I fail to understand why we cannot just manifest inside the Tomb. Or at least on the front steps.”

“The humans walk.” Charitta clasped her hands, her dark red sash sliding across her shoulder. She carried no physical gift, but that was typical. Would her gift be the first song of a baby azure bird? Or the final note of a dying musician’s violin? “Some of them walk for many, many days to reach the Tomb. Some of them die in their quest to pay reverence to the Grandmother.”

Veshlith snorted and the wind gusted again. Behind them, the trees creaked and groaned. Ahead, the grasses danced wildly. The wind tugged hard at Hesiahna’s dress, and the clothes of her siblings, and at their hair and scarves and sashes. Treiteinne gritted their eyes against the fine dirt, the gift of a bright bronze sickle in hand, while Sainial skipped closer to Arpinial 

Farther along the ridge line, Perseinne had stopped. So had Zesha and Posaia and Demzinna, all paused to look back in confusion and concern. Only Zesha’s robes were still, glittering drops of rain weighing them down.

Arpinial spun around, his expression fierce. “Enough, Veshlith.”

Their sibling scowled, lifting their chin. But the wind gradually slowed, gentling to a soft breeze.

Arpinial gestured towards the glimmering dome. “We are within sight of the Tomb. We will complete our pilgrimage. After, you may voice whatever grievances and grudges you hold. But not until after.”

Veshlith turned their head away, bright orange hair lifting and curling, silent.

Arpinial nodded in satisfaction. Straightening his saffron and blue robes, he gestured for the group to continue. When they reached Perseinne and the rest, the ten siblings proceeded towards the Tomb together; a wordless parade.

But not a tranquil one.

Hesiahna’s gaze darted between her siblings, the children of creation, firstborn of the Grandmother. There had been harmony for so many millennia, the ten working in concert to maintain the world that the Grandmother had created — a warm, wet, living world where the humans could thrive; not the sphere of lava and sulphur it had previously been, where they were burn or suffocate; not like the cold metal shells they had endured for so long, where they would freeze or starve.

Where had that harmony gone? When had it disappeared, given way to discord and disagreement?

Hesiahna cast her mind back, remembering. Coming into being at the will of the Grandmother, her siblings at her side. The Grandmother naming them, naming their powers: fire, memory, growth, beauty, wind, water, earth, song, craft, and curiosity. The Grandmother carving her planet-self into new shapes, volcanoes churning out waves of lava while dark clouds filled the sky. The first rain. The first oceans. The humans’ ship a winking star that drew closer and closer, its heart thudding, stumbling, clattering. The first fish. The first trees and seeds. The first squirren and wolven  The arrival of the humans, astounded, grateful, in awe when Grandmother spoke to them and offered them refuge on her world-self. The first birth. The first harvest. The first death.

The crowds of human pilgrims thickened around them now, some moving quickly, others moving towards the Tomb at a more meditative pace. There were kamela, too, snorting and grunting, carrying those who could not climb. A few of the humans cast vague smiles towards the ten siblings and nodded in greeting, seeing only other pilgrims.

The wind surged again, then settled.

Hesiahna glanced over at Veshlith, finding their arms crossed and their face set in a stubborn scowl.

The dirt track gave way to a wide path paved with white stones. The dozens of other tracks and roads converged near the base of the hills and at various points along the slopes; until, finally, they all narrowed down to this single promenade, leading directly to the the Tomb.

Ah, yes. Hesiahna glanced back towards the outcropping of rock, and then towards the Tomb again. She remembered it clearly, as she remembered everything.

Four centuries ago, when they had all gathered to honor the Grandmother. There had been hundreds of humans present that day, all making their own pilgrimages; some sweating and exhausted, others perfumed and dressed in fine clothes; all carrying their own gifts.

One group of pilgrims had gathered on that outcropping of rock, within sight of the Tomb, to rest and share stories. They had traveled from across the ocean. Their journey had been long: by kamela and foot, by boat and by barge, and then by kamela and foot again. They had been excited, grateful to see a new land, to taste new foods, to smell new flowers and grasses.

Veshlith had stopped to listen, to exchange stories with them. Their sibling had delayed for so long that Arpinial had finally gone back to claim them and drag them to the Tomb to leave their gifts.

After that, Veshlith had been noticeably … dispirited. Sometimes morose. Sometimes argumentative. Sometimes silent. Not the Veshlith who had been born of the Grandmother’s will so many millennia before, given life and purpose.

Hesiahna quickened their steps, coming even with Veshlith. She reached out, touching their arm, but their sibling shrugged away the touch.

The ten siblings paused at the crossroads at the base of the pathway, taking in the sweeping stairs and the looping ramps that led up and up to the brilliant blue doors, thrown wide for the masses of pilgrims. Demzinna sighed in appreciation, smiling as their eyes traced the graceful columns and the arch of the dome. Charitta clasped her hand again, and Sainial nodded firmly in approval.

“I will wait here.”

Hesiahna’s head whipped around and she stared at her sibling in astonishment, and not a little outrage.

Arpinial was not outraged. He was furious. Flames roared to life around his head, running down his arms and legs, but leaving his robes untouched.

Pilgrims screamed in fright and kamela reared, stampeding away from the sudden fire. Humans tripped over one another, stumbling and rolling. Some fled into the Tomb, calling on the Grandmother to protect them. Others retreated down the sides of the hill in a flood of colorful clothes and smashed gifts.

Within moments, they were alone. The ten siblings stood before the Tomb of the Grandmother, expressions varying from confusion to anger to sadness, the white paved roadway turned yellow-orange by Arpinial’s flames.

“The mind of this world gave you life, and you will show her proper respect and gratitude.”

“Yes, and once that was enough. But no longer.” Veshlith uncrossed their arms and the wind gusted, screaming around them, around the hill, around the Tomb. Grasses shredded, pulled up by their roots. The trees creaked and cracked, some falling, other lifting into the air to spin and roll.

One tree crashed into the distant outcropping of rock, splintering into thousands of pieces. The debris rose higher into the air, swirling and twisting, the bark a dark brown, the inner wood pale in Sun’s light.

Away and away, the wind carried the broken fragments of the tree.

Hesiahna blinked when she felt Perseinne take her hand, clasping her fingers tight. She had been watching the bits of the tree, caught up in their rise and fall and rise as they moved further and further away ….

“Why is it no longer enough?” She didn’t need to yell. Her siblings would hear her no matter how Veshlith’s winds roared. “What would be enough?”

Veshlith turned to look at her, orange hair rioting.

“Was it the pilgrims’ tales? Four centuries ago, we came to the Tomb, as we do every one hundred years. The humans told you of the places they had visited, the sights they had seen.” Hesiahna paused, and Perseinne squeezed her hand in encouragement. “But you are the wind, sibling, beloved Veshlith. You have visited all of these places, seen all of these sights.”

Veshlith dropped their arms. The gusts softened to rolling surges of air, but Arpinial continued to burn. Charitta and Demzinna were weeping, hugging one another. Posaia was crouched close to the ground, fingers digging into the dirt, and Treteinne was clutching their sickle, face furious.

“Yes,” Veshlith snapped. “I have been everywhere on this world that is Grandmother; seen everything there is to see. To the humans … they are awake for such a short time. To them, everything is new and wonderful and unique. But not to me, not anymore. Not after so long.”

Hesiahna released Perseinne’s hand and moved towards their sibling. “What was your request of Grandmother? What did you ask her?”

Veshlith’s jaw ticked and the wind quieted to nothing. The air was still. A stark, eerie silence after the noise of the storm. Even the human pilgrims, gathered in a colorful wave around the base of the hill, were mostly quiet, waiting; aware that something extraordinary was happening, but not understanding it.

“I am wind, sister. I am movement. Action. Kinesis. I have explored every leaf in every forest on this world-that-is-Grandmother. I have tasted every grain of sand in every desert, touched the ice on every mountain peak. There is nothing new for me to see, to taste, to touch. I am confined. Trapped.” Their head tilted back to look up and up and up. “I want only to be free. To move. To be the wind.” 

Hesiahna reached out and touched their arm, and this time they did not flinch away. A moment later, Charitta was there, wrapping her arms around Veshlith from the other side, and then Demzinna from behind. Perseinne approached next and took their hand.

Arpinial hrumphed, Sainial nodding along as he spoke. “You cannot leave. You are of this world, just as we are. Grandmother set each of us a task, a responsibility. Without you — well, as you said, you are the wind.”

Posaia dragged their fingers through the hard-packed soil, creating furrows in the dirt. “Without you, who will sculpt the deserts and mountains, carry earth from one place to another?”

Zesha spoke for the first time. A fine mist clung to his shoulders, droplets of water dripping free to slide down his robes and moisten the ground at his feet. “Who will dance with me to make the storms? Who will carry the water that rises from the sea to the clouds, all across the land?”

And Treteinne, their sickle loose at their side. “Without you, who will carry the seeds that come to nest in the ground, to grow the trees and the flowers and the crops?”

Charitta and Demzinna were nodding, and Sainial was watching, hand pressed to her mouth, eyes wide.

“I understand, sisters, brothers, siblings. I do.” Veshlith drew a deep breath, and Hesiahna felt the tug on her clothes. “I understand the magnitude of what I ask. But I cannot help my longing. And it has not lessened these last centuries. It has only grown stronger.”

“Then ask again,” Perseinne said. “And we will ask with you.”

Arpinial’s fire flashed.

“Yes,” Hesiahna nodded. She turned her gaze from Veshlith to her other siblings, the children of creation, settling finally on Arpinial. “We will ask with you. If Grandmother is so deeply asleep that she cannot hear your voice alone, perhaps she will hear all of us in concert. All speaking as one. In harmony.”

Arpinial crossed his arms, scowling. This time, Sainial did not mirror his movement; instead, her expression was thoughtful.

“But what you would ask,” Arpinial argued, “would cause great disharmony.”

Demzinna shook her head. “Our sibling is in pain. That cannot be allowed to continue.”

“Grandmother had compassion for the humans.” Hesiahna’s gaze darted for a moment back up to the sky, seeing backwards, remembering. “She changed herself so that they would not perish. Made a home, a sanctuary of herself. If she can feel such compassion for creatures so strange, so different from herself, and go to such lengths to care for them — even giving us life — surely we can demonstrate compassion for one who is so like us? Our sibling? Our Veshlith?”

Long moments passed. Arpinial’s flames continued to burn, but gradually, so gradually, they retreated; until finally they were but a halo around his head, red and orange and searing blue. 

“Very well,” he said.   

He turned on his heel and marched up the paved white pathway. Then up the wide stairs and beneath the soaring columns and through the bright blue doors. Sainial followed; and Charitta and Demzinna, still hugging Veshlith, Perseinne holding their hand; and Zesha and Treteinne and Posaia, dribbling dirt; and finally Hesiahna, little box in her hands, remembering it all.

***

In the centuries that followed, the stories that the humans told of that day would change. Some were short and terse. Other elaborate and fanciful. Epic poems would be written, and beautiful mosaics would come to cover the walls of buildings, and tapestries would be hung, telling the tale.

The Tale of Old Wind and New Wind. The story of the day the Grandmother awakened and her voice echoed through her Tomb. The story of how the wind left the world laughing, and the Grandmother’s breath became a new wind, a wind to carry seeds and rain, to sculpt mountains and deserts, to conserve and transform the beautiful creation that is the world.

And, so the tale says, every now and then, Old Wind will return to the world-that-is-the-Grandmother, to say hello, to share what they have seen of the universe beyond, to tell of the places that they have visited. And on those nights there is fire in the heavens to greet them and, if you listening closely, you can hear them all, the Children of Creation, welcoming them home.

[Written by Rebecca Buchanan.]