I know her secret. It passes through me. I feel the regrets flavored
lightly with remorse. The sweet, forbidden kiss he gave her still
lingers in her breath and for now, I share it. Her name was Maude.
I will remember that for but a moment and then the next will overtake
me.
A deep inhalation— it smells
of dust, heat and sweat. My chest feels about ready to burst. He
thinks of how good a cold beer would be, how it's two hours to quitting
time and how big the ta-tas were on the redhead that just sauntered
by. My chest expands as he exhales. Charlie is a big man who works
with steel up high and his ancestry is Mohawk. He thinks about green
forests, and what it must have been like when his people owned half
of New York.. He stays with me longer than the other, and then is
gone.
The procession is never ending, wherever
the air goes—I go:
Chloe is dying and she is only twelve. Her breath brings me fast
panting, tastes of fear and medicine. She bites the inside of her
mouth and I share lukewarm tang of her blood. She doesn't want to
die.
Bertie is eighty and wants to die.
His breath is slow and even. Everyone he loves has died, and his
children circle like vultures wanting his money. He sits in the
rocker on the front porch of a boarding house, watching leaves fall
from a tree. I feel his wonder at the red and golden leaves drifting
to the ground. He wishes he could be that unmindful—just let
go, and have something left of the beauty and dignity he once had.
I want to hold these people that come through
me, keep them here, hoard the memories that they give me—but
I can't.
The Maiden's curse binds me
here for eternity, and it was her own undoing as well as mine. I
am allowed to remember, when the west wind blows into the temple.
For now, I know who and what I am, but that goes, blows away and
will come again. This is not lonely, it is what we are. This is
what exists. There is no fighting, only acceptance.
Zephyrus fills my lungs, and
he is in me like the lover he once was. His breath ruffles my hair,
strokes the insides of my lungs, becomes one with my blood and being.
I try not to exhale, to hold him at my center and not let go. Yet
in the end, I must. Air, wind, breath, they must all move to live.
So Zephyrus goes from me.
Then his brothers come, one after the other carrying with them the
secrets, memories and affairs of the world. They are not sweet like
he. Impersonal and efficient, they are merely porters bringing information.
I do not let Boreas, Notus or Euros linger. I push them out the
doors of my mouth, away through the portals of my nose. Yet sometimes
I savor what they carry. These messengers have no consciousness
of what they hold.
If you could see me, you would
not be offended. As an immortal, I am as lovely as the day I was
cursed. I was barely a girl of twenty Summers then. I will not say
Springs because that invites mention of The Maid. I would appear
as a statue to you. The layers of dust that lie upon me would perhaps
even conceal the rise and fall of my chest. I closed my eyes long
ago for there is nothing to see—but the dark.
Enrique is young. His mouth
tastes hot. Everything about him is aflame. He spits words at his
lover, and enjoys the power it gives him. His tongue wags in his
mouth. When Enrique is pleased he drags it along the back of his
teeth and pretends to sharpen his canines..
Ava wants a child. She is
taking drugs to get pregnant. The pills are huge, and she can barely
swallow them. Yet, she chokes them down. The longing I taste on
her tongue is deep and wide. It could swallow her if she lets it,
devour her whole and digest her.
Yoon-Hee eats kimchee, a sour,
spicy cabbage concoction. It smells awful to me, but she savors
it. She wants to go home to Seoul, but her husband is an engineering
student at MIT, with two years left to go. She feels trapped by
her marriage, and wishes she had not married to get away from her
mother. She looks out her windows. Men in small boats are rowing
on hte Charles River. From Yoon-Hee's height, they look like water
bugs skating across the surface of a pond.
I know as much about anyone
as can be conveyed in a breath. The condensed story of their present
lives. Whatever is on someone's mind as they exhale comes to me,
is carried by the wind, and passes through me. I live in the midst
of chaos, constantly changing, moving, never looking back.
Again, Zephyrus enters my
lungs. He has blown through some lovely plain where Spring is just
starting. The plain is strangely void of people so for a few moments,
I am allowed to think only of myself. I can smell and taste the
heavy, swollen drops of rain and the faint hint of trees coming
into bloom. I hear the sound of my own breathing, and gentle passing
of Zephyrus.
Love is a crime when it is
not returned to a God, worst yet to a Goddess. That is the crime
of Zephyrus. I was punished also because he preferred me to her.
This is HER time of year, when she used to come up from the Underworld
and bring back Spring to a grateful Earth. During this time, The
Maid was rid of her dour, dark husband, and threw off all the trappings
of death. She was free to wander in light, bringing greenery and
all colors of abundance back to the land.
The poets didn't write about
how she threw off her marriage, during the sunlit times, the way
a snake sheds it skin. Even though she was consort to the Lord of
Death, they make her seem ever the Virgin, ever the perfect daughter
to her mother, Ceres. They recount her apotheosis, her power, and
spoke her name in awe. Call her Core, Persephone -- these are not
her real names, merely labels like "The Maid" because her real name
was too frightening, too powerful to be spoken by mortals.
Now it is gone. Zephyrus moves
on and I can tell you no more. The cycle starts anew: Boreas, Notus
and Euros follow. My memories are clouded by the present musings
of others.
Tom thinks about killing his abusive
father. His breath is full of bile, swallowed secrets, and frustration.
I can taste whiskey on his breath. He is drinking secretly in his
room, and his thoughts wander to the silver, well-oiled pistol hidden
beneath his mattress.
Krishna is in love. He has
had hot curry and his sighs burn. His parents arranged his marriage
and he knows the girl. He has never seen her whole face, but her
eyes—he dreams of them. Dark, liquid, and passionate thoughts
course through his mind. He believes her lips will taste like cinnamon
and honey on their wedding night.
Monica's inhalation is foul.
Her tongue is hard and the inside of her mouth full of scabs. I
can feel them when she runs her tongue across them. She licks her
lips and I can share the rime of salt. Her thoughts are disconnected,
jumbled, saturated with poison—her own and the things others
have done to her. Sex, rape, robbery— a litany of horrors revolves
before me. Filled with longing, Monica's wishes for an ending, or
the comfort of a needle's quick pinch.
Leo pulls the bow across his
cello. The instrument makes a reasonant, round sound. It vibrates
through his body, down into his soul. He is only twelve, and already
plays like a master. He wishes his mother would let him play baseball,
but she is afraid he will hurt his hands. When he plays, Leo puts
all the regret for missed opportunities into his music. People call
him a genius, but he knows it is the only way he can survive the
loneliness.
There is stillness, yet again, before
I am pushed and forced to go wherever the air goes. I will be pulled
from msyelf again before I can finish telling you my own story.
The Maid, Persephone, Core, Prosperpine— call her any of a
thousand names, had just come back from the realm of Hades. It was
Spring, she was in her full power, full of new life, vigor and desire.
What is renewal, but desire? She stood there at the entrance to
the dark places and she was full of need. Who wouldn't be after
being in the black among the dead for months?
Zephyrus blew by and The Maid
was smitten. His warm breath filled her lungs and she wondered what
it might be like if he filled all her senses. She fell in love instantly,
but he would not return her love—for he already had me.
The Maid beckoned Zephyrus
to her side, and being of a courteous nature, he went, . She tried
to kiss him, but he spurned her saying, "I have already taken Chloris
as my wife"
The Maid tried to persuade
him that they belonged together. She recited how she was the Goddess
of Spring, of all renewal. "I know you are the favorable wind,"
she flattered him. "The blessed one that bringst rain, flowers,
and sweet air. Are we not a perfect match?" The Maid pressed herself
against him, showed her breasts. and bade him taste, if he would.
"I am spoken for and I am
far below you. Your charms are many, but even one such as you cannot
break a bond of true love," Zephyrus said. Then he recommended his
three brothers, and bade her take one of them for her lover. "Why
not take strong, forceful Boreas to your side? Think of the two
of you standing together, feared and strong. His breath has the
coolness of Spring. You would temper him."
"Boreas has two faces, neither
of them lovely. I want you," The Maid said, and stroked the breezy
tendrils of his hair.
"Or, what of stormy, passionate
Euros? He burns with hot wind, the same way your passion blisters.
With him, you would make a better match. He would better understand
your power," Zephyrus eluded her slender hands.
"He is unpredictable and I
can stuff him a bag to do my bidding. And Euros likes to pretend
he is a sea monster to frighten sailors. I do not want him," The
Maid shuddered. She put out a hand to touch Zephyrus' billowy shoulder,
and stopped his escape.
"Or what about Notus? Warm,
subtle Notus, full of mystery and deep steam. He alone would understand
your mystery, part the veils of fog that surround you," Zephyrus
shrunk at the touch of her hand, and found he could not move.
"Notus?" The Maid snorted.
"No one has ever seen him completely. Rumor is he hides among the
fog because he uglier than Boreas. I will not have someone like
that."
No, no—now they return
and I want to continue this and finish it. Zephyrus comes to me
and it all starts anew. I must hold him for a brief moment before
he goes, and the others return.
Heavy hands gripping, they
are holding Imolde down. She fights against the pain. Her mother
told her that they would cut her. She bites her tongue, but the
cries stll come from her. Her breath is heavy, dry, and full of
confusion. The buzz of flies, lowing of cattle, and the reassuring
voices of women surround her. This is how you become a woman in
her tribe. The offending bit is excised, taken away so a good man
will have her as wife. If Imolde is brave, her father may be paid
many cows for her bride price. She must endure long enough for them
to finish, and to mark her forehead with yellow ochre to show she
had finished the ordeal.
Brie is dressed in a fine silk
suit. Her body within it is tight and sculpted, and every movement
she makes is as precise and wound as a clock. Her hair is fine and
white as gossamer, and tucked into a tight knot at the nape of her
neck. Brie sits behind a smooth, lacquered desk that feels like
cold glass beneath her hands. Her breath is shallow, fast and tastes
only of mint. She pulls a mirror from the desk drawer, eyeing herself
trenchantly. She hates what she sees— her nose is too big,
eyes too small, and chin too weak. Brie can still see the small
ovals of ears beneath her hair. Sometimes she wishes she could cut
them off completely, remembering her nickname "Dumbo" from grammar
school.
Eldon's breath reeks of boredom,
bad coffee and stale cigarettes. Blurs dance before his eyes, and
his respiration is deep and slow as bellows. Images of things he
dislikes dance behind his eyes—his co-workers, the boss, his
wife and children. But there is no hatred, just a dead grey wall
of self. His movements are like the slow ooze of a slug. Everything
about him is so dead, so heavy that people rarely notice him. Somewhere
a small green spark tries to flicker in him, but it fades—blown
out with the dusky smoke of his cigarette.
Now they are gone— all
the brothers, and I am left to myself for a moment. What was I saying?
Yes, now I remember. The Maid has Zephyrus in her grip and would
not let him go, even though he offered his brothers and spoke of
his wife.
"Why would I have one of them?"
said The Maid. "Aren't you the fairest? Isn't your breath the sweetest,
your hair the finest, and your form the most pleasing?"
"I would not say that. I do
not judge things by appearance alone. I can be fickle and blow where
I will. I can tease and then be off. You do not want someone like
that," Zephyrus begged.
"Poor excuses, very weak, indeed!"
said the Maid.
"We are but small gods. Why
would one like you dally with one of us at all?" Zephyrus said.
"I do what I will, and I have
chosen you," The Maid replied.
"I cannot do what you want.
My heart is elsewhere," Zephyrus said.
To disobey The Maid is to incur
her wrath. "You prefer a mortal to me? An ugly, aging frump
—someone who will be dust while you are still what you are
now?" she declared.
"Yes! I chose Chloris for whatever
time we may have together," Zephyrus said.
"Then I curse you, your brothers,
and your wife," The Maid said. Her form wavered and she became a
force, disintegrating until only her voice remained. "From
this day the Four Winds will find little rest. They shall blow through
the world without ever taking human form again. They shall fill
the lungs of all creatures, and occupy all the spaces where other
things aren't. They shall stuff the voids and vaccuums of Earth.
The Winds will bring all the secrets the world, but no one shall
hear or share them save Chloris. And her I curse, sentence her to
the throne in the cave of winds—from whence she shall never
move. All the winds shall pass through her, in and out with her
breath. In this way, she who was wife to one shall be wife to all.
Upon this declaration, I seal my word, and so it shall pass for
eternity."
In uttering this The Maid sentenced
us all to fate. A curse is never spoken or a pact sealed if it harms
another without the one invoking it being given a penatly. As powerful
as she was, even the Maid's power had limits. In making the Four
Winds be everywhere, in everything, part of her had to go along
to enforce her will. It took centuries, but in time she grew pale.
The luster left her hair, her eyes grew dim, and her skin sagged
like that of a mortal woman.
Eventually The Maid learned
what she had done, and there was no undoing it. Her powers of renewal
were also tied to that for all the Gods, and in time, they faded
as well because of her curse, pulled into the same cycle as the
Winds.
Now Spring is brought by the
winds, not by The Maid. The ocean currents flow because of them,
the tides rises and fall at their will— not Poseidon's. The
clouds move driven by Zephyrus, Boreas, Notus and Euros. They bring
the rain and thunder, not Zeus. And a mortal woman lives forever,
and knows all the secrets of the world, even though she cannot remember
any of them— for they come and go like breath.
