Page 97 of Echo North

The Winds are here, wherever I am: East with a shining sword, South with his spear, West with a spinning wheel. There is a fourth power here, too, an unharnessed, teeming energy. I can’t see it, but I canfeelit.

I know it is the North Wind, or what’s left of his magic: a current of time and death and loneliness; a torrent of story, as strong as the world itself.

The three Winds gather it up, East and South coiling it around their sword and spear, West channeling it into the spinning wheel. He winds it up, winds and winds and winds, and the sadness and pain pull out of me. I can breathe again. I couldn’t before.

I am in a cold square room. Pricks of light hurt my eyes, and in the center sits a man at a desk, writing in a book. Life pours out of his pen, magic and laughter.

I pace toward him and he lifts his head.

I know him: his fierce dark eyes, his kind brown face. It is Ivan, the storyteller—the North Wind who once was. He smiles at me, lifts his pen from the book. Silver ink drips on the page. “What would you wish of me, Echo Alkaev?”

The light sharpens; it’s coming from the doorway on the other end of the room: there East and South stand watch, fierce and strong, spear and sword raised high.

I touch the left side of my face; it is smooth and soft and for some reason that troubles me. I dreamed once it was rough with scars.

“Send me back. Send me back so I can try again. Send me back so I can save him.”

“Dearest girl.” The North Wind smiles. He beckons me close and draws a mark on my cheek with his silver pen. It feels soft, like a gentle kiss. “You already have.”

And I straighten to see the West Wind beside me, his golden wings spread wide. “Come, Echo. We have very far to fly.” He helps me onto his back and I wrap my arms around his neck, my feet holding tight beneath his wings.

He carries me to the door, and his brothers East and South pull it open wide.

Beyond is …

I do not know.

Starlight.

Emptiness.

I am flying in the dark on the West Wind’s back, riding through the tides of time itself. On and on and on we fly, and I feel myself unwinding, the threads of my life falling to pieces, caught up on the spinning wheel.

I forget who I am and why I’m here and where we are going. I only know I am safe, with the West Wind’s wings beneath me, that all will be well.

I am lost in a sea of stars.

I am wandering, wandering.

But still I can feel the pulse of my heart, and it saysdon’t let go.

We fly toward a very great light, and my eyes tear at the brightness.

And then I am falling, spiraling down and down and down.

But I am not afraid.

Don’t let go,says my heart.

Don’t let go.

DARKNESS, LIGHT, AIR. IAMhelpless and small. Someone is weeping. I’m cradled in warm arms.

I sleep and sleep.

Papa is singing to me. I like to hear the sound of his voice. I reach up tiny hands and tug on the ends of his beard.

I grow. Old enough to be told the story of my name. Old enough to wonder what it might be like to have a mother. Old enough to know my father is the kindest man who ever lived.