Windmaster - Chapter 1 pt1

1

New Beginnings

 

The mist gathered as he ascended, the rocky slopes became more and more obscured until he was hard-pressed to even see the rock beneath his feet among the swirling mist. His step was sure though, having trodden this path many times, he had no fear of tripping or stepping out over the precipice that he knew lay just a misstep away from him.

His breath came shorter as the steep climb and cold air left him breathless, I’m getting old, he thought to himself. Finally through the swirling mist he caught a glimpse of his goal and with a few more steps the rocks he sought came looming out of the gloom to greet him, like old friends they welcomed him into their embrace. In among the ragged spikes of rock the mist and cloud cleared and the wind dropped to a whisper. He sat in the centre, closed his eyes and prepared himself.

Glyder sat in meditation among the rocks that formed the Castle of the Winds, the rising wind rushed in again between the natural battlements and tugged playfully at his thick woollen coat and greying hair. Water droplets condensed on his clothes like sparkling jewels, his weathered bare feet braced against the familiar cold worn rock, he felt calm.

From all corners of the world the winds brought whispers to him.

He remembered long ago when he had first become the Master of the Wind Gate, how the experience of hearing the winds had been overwhelming, flooding all his senses with an endless stream of information, bringing sounds and scents and even tactile sensations from a thousand different places. Now though, he was long used to the constant stream of their voices and feelings and he let it flow through him as he sorted through the information for the thing he sought.

His time was almost done here, soon for a fraction of a moment, briefer than the blink of an eye, the winds of the Wind Gate would cease. Then would be his chance, he would cast himself into the abyss and finally become one with the winds, his reward for a lifetime of serving them, to fully return to them at last. He relished the thought of leaving his old creaking body and flying free as the wind.

However before that he had to pass on his task, someone must be Master of the Wind Gate, someone must be there to hear the winds whisper, to guide the Guardians and be guided by them, to link the worlds, so that the balance could be maintained.

Now, Glyder thought frowning, just where has that apprentice of mine got to? The thousand voices of the wind flowed through him, he grasped at some, bringing them into focus for a few moments before letting them go again, searching until he grasped one and instantly recognised it as the one he was looking for.

 

~~~~~

 

Far away to the west of the Wind Gate in the Silent City a young man walked through the high walled streets among the crowds and market stalls and street entertainers that filled the city. The Silent City was not the peaceful place its name suggested, stall holders shouted their wares and music played and children ran laughing through the narrow paved streets pushing and bumping against the bustle of people.

In fact the reason the Silent City was so called was because on certain days it was the only place in the entire land of Hakaze that you couldn’t hear the constant whistle, or howl, or any sound of the wind at all.

This was due to its location, built in the embrace of a huge mountain, the Silent Mountain, the highest peak in the whole range that ran from south to north along all Hakaze. The Silent Mountain was an extinct volcano and the city sat in its crater, the crumbling crater walls wrapped protectively round the city shielding it from the wind.

The city was built on many tiers, rising up to emulate the mountain that embraced it. High curving walls of interlocking stones surrounded the city, and walkways ran round these walls, and criss-crossed between them on solid stone bridges. The narrow city streets curved along below the towering walls lined with shops, their wooden façades open onto the street, their wares displayed to passers by. A fast flowing leat bubbled along the street, racing past on its way down the mountain, contained in its well worn stone channel with walls carpeted with thick green weed. Carrying the water from one of the many mountain springs safely down and away from the city. Off the curving main streets through narrow alleys, many small courtyards opened out with small shops and restaurants, inns and small theatres. At the centre of each courtyard a stone street-hearth sat silently, coldly waiting for the evening when its glow would give warmth and light.

Once the Silent City had been a defensive stronghold, in ancient times, times now lost to legend when Hakaze had been in upheaval during the wars between humankind and the Spirits, and in more recent history the city had seen the wars of men. But now times were peaceful and the gates to the Silent City were always open and welcoming.

It was through the massive open gates that Glyder’s young apprentice had found himself welcomed into the embrace of the Silent City.

He stood confident but unassuming amid the streams of people coming and going about their affairs. Like a rock in the middle of a river the people flowed around him barely even glancing at the stranger among many strangers.

A stranger was not unusual in a busy city like this, and especially not at this time of year when the festival was happening. People from all across the land flocked to the city to take in the sights and sounds of the Spring Rising Festival. Held yearly on the spring equinox, people all over Hakaze would be celebrating the change from winter to spring.

In the street before him festival goers milled about among a street market. Stalls holding special festival wares, sweet treats and brightly coloured trinkets, toys and charms of luck for the coming season filled the tables. Coloured flags and paper lanterns, as yet unlit, hung above the crowds heads. Between the stalls, and in the more open squares and courtyards troupes of entertainers kept the crowd in good spirits with tricks of magic, elegant dances and wonderful music. There was a good humour in the air, the sound of singing and laughter echoed through the busy streets. Overhead a skyship hummed quietly as it came into harbour carrying yet more visitors to the festival.

Ayr wandered aimlessly through the crowds enjoying the hustle and bustle, stopping here and there to admire a dancer or musician plying their trade to the enthusiastic crowd. He knew the city well; he’d been here many, many times. Now, without realising, he found he had been drawn to his favourite part of the city.

 

In a large square near the very centre of the city grew an enormous and ancient tree, rumoured to be as old as the legendary Wind Willow. Its mighty roots buckled the huge paving stones as if they were paper and it’s boughs spread wide across the roofs of the buildings surrounding the square. The square was constantly dappled with light and shade from it’s ever rustling foliage.

The timeworn tree had seen much in its lifetime. If only it could talk, the tales it would tell would have surprised even the best and most learned of tale tellers. The citizens of the Silent City were very proud of it.

Ayr remembered when it had been hardly more than a sapling, over the years he had watched it grow and prosper and now come into old age, its bark worn and cracked. Among it’s roots stood a small shrine laden with offerings to the tree’s Spirit Guardian and among the branches were tied strips of paper, many old and yellow and tattered, but many fresh white ones now fluttered in the breeze too, for spring was the time to ask wishes of the Spirits and many festival goers had already written their wishes and tied them to the tree’s branches.

Not surprisingly given the tree’s name, this was a popular spot for storytellers, some claimed even to channel the tree’s Guardian Spirit and tell its tales directly, others more modestly claimed no such thing, but it was a fine place to tell a tale in any case.

Today a wizened old storyteller sat on one of the tree’s gnarled roots, wispy white hair covered his head although he was balding on top and his long clean shaven face was wrinkled and gnarled like the tree roots he was sitting on. He was surrounded by children and old folk, the wealthy mingled with the less fortunate, all captivated by the tale he was weaving. His voice caught Ayr’s attention; a word of the tale caught here and there between the shouts of the people on the street beyond the square, drew him in closer to listen.

The storyteller radiated an excited warm energy as he weaved his tale and every person, old or young, who gathered round hung on his every word, enraptured. He was telling the creation myth, a story with which Ayr was very familiar, a story which is still being made, and one which he himself is a part of.

“Back in the beginning the world was whole and humans and Spirits lived in balance and harmony. But one day mankind and spiritkind noticed they were different from each other, and at the moment that they noticed the balance of the world was broken and the world itself cried out in pain as the world was torn in two.

The Spirits fled into the Haze, a world of incorporeal shadows, a trace of our own world, similar yet different beyond imagining. Humankind remained in this world; the Dust as it is known, a solid and tangiable place which is like a faded memory of the world before it was shattered.

When the world broke apart it didn’t separate completely, in places the Haze and the Dust still touched and merge together, where this happens you can pass from this world to the other. But you should beware for each of these gates between worlds is guarded by a Spirit Guardian specially tasked with guarding them.

After the breaking of the world mankind lost the ability to clearly see the Spirits. Fear and hatred of the different blinds us to them and the gateways where the worlds merge, but we can still feel them. Maybe you’ll walk into a place that seems all mixed up and confusing, or a place where magic seems to occur and strange sights can be seen, from time to time a man from this realm accidentally wanders into the other. Sometimes they return with incredible tales, and sometimes they are never seen again.

Many of these places where the realms merge are known and revered or feared by humans, we build temples and shrines near them, reaching out our hands in friendship to the Spirits through these places so that one day our differences can be set aside and the world will be rejoined as one.

Although the distance between us seems great, the broken worlds are still closely connected. The wind blows through both worlds; it takes energy from this one into the other and brings energy from the other into this in an eternal cycle.

If that wind ever stopped blowing the balance that holds the worlds together in a tenuous grip would be lost, and that will be the end of all things.”

The old teller paused a moment, he sat back looking grave, the audience sat patiently awaiting the rest of the tale, although all but the youngest must have heard it a thousand times before. Ayr shifted his weight, anticipating what he knew came next with a smile.

“Now you all know about the Wind Gate, the merging of the Haze and the Dust is greatest there, and there also the winds between the worlds blow strongest.”

“Tell us about the Barefoot Samurai!” a young voice piped up excitedly from the audience, interrupting the tale. The children around the questioner murmured and hushed the child but the old man was unperturbed by the interruption, he just chuckled and continued.

“I was just about to young sir! Now there is a delicate balance between the Haze and the Dust and keeping the harmony between realms is a sensitive matter. As such a Master is appointed to watch over and maintain the balance between the realms. This Master is known as the Windmaster, but some call him the Barefoot Samurai, he treads softly in this realm and the other and listens to both equally. It’s claimed he’s half human and half Spirit. Only by being both can he know and maintain the balance of both realms. It is said that Spirits are immortal but the Master of the Wind Gate being half human is not, though he certainly outlives many times a normal human’s lifespan. Yet if he were here today he might look as young as you youngsters, or as old as me.

But even the Windmaster must grow old and every ten thousand years a new Windmaster must come, so the ancient scrolls say. The changing of the Master is a time of great peril for the world, if a new Master is not ready when the old Master passes on, the balance will begin to break down and the worlds will start to pull apart. Throughout our history these have been times when great chaos and destruction swept this realm and the other.”

The crowd murmured amongst themselves as the teller took another break. Ayr stood at the back listening to snatches of conversation.

“He walks barefoot on the earth listening to all the ten thousand things, knowing all the ten thousand things,” a mother was telling her children.

“It’s said that he walks as silently as a Spirit and can vanish in an instant like one too. He can live a thousand years consuming nothing but the morning dew.”

“I’ve heard he carries a wooden bokken yet he’s never been bested in battle, they say his bokken can best a sword made by the finest sword smith from the purest metals.” one young man was telling his friends clearly eager to impress them with his knowledge.

 “Some stories paint him as a hero, a saviour, but in others he is the most evil villain. Many folk say he’s really a Kuei, an evil spirit.”

The young man leaned over to a group of girls who had turned to listen to him, “He might enchant you with his flute playing and steal you away into the other realm, showing you a mystical land of beauty and wonder at the price of your sanity.” the man said with glee, setting the girls all giggling.

 Ayr rolled his eyes at this, the teller began speaking again and the crowd hushed to hear him, but Ayr had heard enough. In any case he was distracted at this moment by the fierce growl of his stomach, reminding him of his current predicament. One of the children listening at the back of the crowd hearing his rumbling belly, turned to look, taking in the sight of the young man standing behind him, wearing the simple clothes of an apprentice, overalls over a simple cotton shirt, and a grey woollen short coat with wide sleeves, a bokken, a wooden practice sword was tucked through his belt but oddly his feet were bare for the time of year when frost still regularly covered the ground. He was a little on the short side but had strong arms, his black hair reached his shoulders and was unkempt, falling constantly across his eyes so he had to keep pushing it away. His face was young and unlined, but appearances can be deceiving, his features were indistinct, ordinary and forgettable, but his eyes were of piercing flowing hues of blue and grey. A playful light sparked in them as if at any moment he would burst into laughter, and yet they seemed the eyes of an old man, a deeper knowledge and sadness lay hidden in their depths. The child in his innocence saw nothing of this though. The child beamed a huge smile in Ayr’s direction, he grinned back before slipping away to attempt to satisfy his hunger, grumbling under his breath to himself.

“Surviving on dew for a thousand years, I wish that were possible.”

 

~~~~~

 

Glyder, far away, paid witness to the tale teller too, he chuckled silently to himself, yes, the Windmasters had built quite a legend over the years. Now Ayr had taken up the tale and already left quite a mark on it. The wind had brought whispers of Ayr’s exploits to him for thousands of years. He’d watched over the youngster from afar, he’d cried and laughed in equal measure as the youngster explored the world and his place in it. He’d made mistakes and learned lessons that had cost him dear, been in many a perilous scrape and made quite a tale for himself. Glyder’s own legend, still remembered in the more ancient stories, had been quite a tale in its time too, he thought nostalgically to himself.

Glyder let his mind drift away from the Silent City, satisfied with his apprentice’s progress. Ayr’s journey had been long, he had experienced pain and kindness, fear and hatred, the tale was nearing its conclusion, but he still had a lesson or two to learn, it wasn’t yet time.