Collision

The old priest smiled softly. The young woman sat in front of him had red streaks down her cheeks like her eyes had recently erupted. And they had. What was she to do? What would you do? It's not an uncommon story and maybe that was another nagging at her soul. What was the point in this? It didn't make her special. It just made her beaten. It didn't make her worthy. It just meant she was empty handed. The priest looked down at the bump which made her vulnerability stick out to about the same degree. "Who could do this?" She let another lava trickle run down her cheek. The toddler running up and down pews giggling. Our young woman's hands gripping her shabby dress so hard that her knuckles had turned the same pasty white as her attire. It was a hollow moment packed full of pain. How is it she, such a small woman can experience more pain that it seems in her capacity to bear? It wasn't fair. It didn't matter that at school she left with little to show. She had learned more than most of those got-it-together's in their more stamped and acknowledged little lives. They were still pursuing the pot of gold. This girl was beaten.

The question on everyone's mind is how? Words that are almost clichés circling the head and tip of the tongue. Sometimes escaping and lost in the void. Monster doesn't speak of half of it. Thirty miles away an almost good looking man who is stuffed like a turkey with charisma that works for three minutes of empty conversation and not much longer and a smile that is worn as a cheap necklace is driving away with the upgrade. Same brand, different model. Slicker, simpler and so damn sexy. It's Apple, it's consumption, it's houses, it's cars, it's Tesco, it's beds, fridges, it's who you know. It's evolution. Keep up or lose out. He was a winner. She was collateral.

And the priest. What scripture to quote? Which doctrine do we apply to this wound? Where's the instructions anyway? Bring back the happy people. Like a song that word "happy" floats around like a feather, aimless. Happy is a yuppie word. He'd heard that somewhere. Maybe that's what he should say. No. This isn't new, this isn't beyond. The priest isn't an innocent old naive. The tide of culture washes him up on shore like flotsam. Froth, a matter of time before all the bubbles burst. While the rest enjoy the pleasure of being the swell of wave. Circular and monotonous but it has its kick. Flotsam just floats. Revolution and rebellion, tyranny and uprising, the next big thing soon dispersed on the sand of existence which soon dispels any power that had once seemingly held threat.

Anyway, the priest has given up caring about waves and flotsam or sand. He's in the capital of a once "great" nation with one of six billion of God's most worthy creatures. In a world as old as time and yet maybe even more. This was oblivion and he was in it and so was she.

The Windy Place

In The Windy Place the people are barely getting by. That doesn't stop the smiles and jeers and competing that you would find in any other less windy place around of course. People adapt. But these people aren't, they think they are of course. But this is only because they are no worse off than their neighbour. Let them tip-toe to death and they're alive they say.

When the wind blows in The Windy Place, roofs fly off, fences get ripped from the ground, people and animals go missing. When the wind blows in The Windy Place you need to be inside, for the wind will completely disrupt everything in its way. Families huddle inside as houses fight to reclaim the ground in which they are planted.

A story is told in the windy place that one time when the wind blew a man outside shouted. He shouted for the wind to be calm. And it was. The people were amazed and came out to meet this man who could silence the wind. They threw a large party for the man, had him as guest of honour, roasted their finest young bull. When the man left, the town erected a statue in his honour, they set days aside to remember the day the man made the wind stay still. The story is still told.

The wind blows. A young member of the town, a podgy little inquisitor leaves his house unnoticed by the huddling family who are too busy being afraid together. The family are using their replica statue of the man to block the doorway and support the house. They huddle behind their things, their things of ritual, of hope for better times and their despair.

Our little podgy inquisitor in the meantime had made his way out of his house, if only his family knew, and through the empty and battered streets. For he could see in the distance a fire, and by that fire, a man. Fighting with the wind and using the piled defences that the people of The Windy Place had heaped in front of their teetering dwellings, he made his way to the edge of town. He stood, clinging to a young tree who was screaming something rotten, staring in wonder at the man and the fire. Between them lay a sweeping bare wilderness of dark thundering winds. Winds that would finish horses let alone our young friend. The man by the fire seemed to see the podgy little daredevil but paid little acknowledgement.

And then our young friend did something rather stupid. He stuck out a foot, and then another. On his third step he was knocked sprawling by the winds and left to cling to rocks sticking from the ground. He did this simply because his fascination was mightier than his fear. He couldn't go back now anyway, he was stuck in the middle, in the void, the wind clawing at him and pulling him around. He held on as tight as he might but the wind was strong. It taunted him. The boy closed his eyes and a tear welled up in his eye only to be ripped right from his face. He had not even the strength to be sad. Our boy had been beaten and he closed his eyes and all went black.

But only for a second. The boy began to feel warmth upon his skin. His face began to tingle with a dancing heat. The wind though still blowing, began to lose its strength, the sounds of horses running over his back subsided for the click clack of the laughing fire which he now felt with merciful increase. He looked up. The man was there sitting by the fire, watching the fire on its merry jingle.

"Not many are foolish enough to leave their houses when the wind blows" the stranger said.

"Well I've never heard of anyone who sits outside with a fire when the wind blows" the boy retorted. The stranger chuckled.

"Why have you got a fire?"

"Why not? It keeps me warm" The stranger smiled. "It keeps me entertained"

The boy had noticed that all this time the man had not once taken his eyes off of the fire as though it were a friend and perhaps the fire and he were talking but not with lips and noise.

"But look at the winds, you could die."

The stranger was silent. And then said softly "I don't pay much mind to the winds. They come and go"

"But people die in the winds."

"Yes, some people do."

"Well I knew I shouldn't go out but I was too bored inside and wanted to see how big the wind was. The grown ups tell me that I shouldn't go out because I could get blown away, but I always thought that sounded fun"

"And was it?"

"Not much. I cried because it hurt"

The strangers mouth slid up in each corner. The boy continued.

"But I don't think the Winds all that bad. I heard a story one time of a man who shouted and the wind became still. My mummy said the whole town threw a huge party for the man."

The boy looked at the stranger who continued to hold gaze with his friend the fire. The boy sighed.

"Well I don't know. We have a statue of him in our house, its big and when it gets windy, we lean it against the door frame to keep it up. But I've never seen the wind stop, so I don't know if the man was all that great."

The stranger seemed not to hear, or if he did, he hid it well. His face danced in the light. He let out a low hum, as though singing  with the fire. His eyes still locked on the prickly orange flame. The wind grew up around and our little friend felt a chill and pulled his small jacket up around his rosy cheeks. Something somewhere across the void, in the town fell over, maybe it was the statue. The strangers voice began to lift and he chanted words the boy could not understand. The wind howled through the landscape. The strangers voice, lifted, began to play with the wind. The fire crackled heartily in the backdrop of sound that rushed into the boys ears and down into him, into his lungs, into his heart. He gasped, the vacuum filled with pure harmony. He felt scared and yet he had never felt so safe in his life. But it was a dangerous safe like riding an eagle or playing with a lion. The noise grew, and though the boy had covered his ears as tight as he could, the sound was in him, it shook him, he thought he would burst. Then, without warning everything stopped. The fire blew out, the wind ceased and in the darkness he couldn't see the stranger. All was left was a thin trail of smoke. He stared in expectation but nothing happened. He made a step into the void, the wind had died but his mind was whirling. What had just happened? Was that the man? Where did he go? The boy felt butterflies, he was excited, safe, trembling and simply terrified.

The boy made his way home with lots of questions hoping he would meet that man again. He didn't know what to say when he got back so he didn't say much about it at all. Although, one thing did change, he stopped calling this place The Windy Place and began calling it something else, he began to call it home.