Winds of Change

WINDS OF CHANGE

         When the sun has just risen and the wind from the pass has just turned, I often like to sit by the river and contemplate our life here. The quiet time between the turns of the wind, I find is always the best, for it allows a good quarter hour of near silence but for the gurgle and slap of the water on the bank.

         I have a place in the cleft of a rock, facing the water where I can sit. The rock is scoured from the fierce valley wind that pushes past it twice every day. The wind has carved it into a marbled sculpture full of whorls, curves and edges. It once must have been a giant but now scarcely reaches my height.

         It has only been a year since we came to this foreign world and its strange season, yet I am sure that somewhere we can make a stand and become self sufficient. My husband is positive that the rest of the villagers can find a way to protect our crops from the near ceaseless wind that scours the land. I am not so sure. A few runted tubers have been the only success; hardly enough to feed one family let alone a dozen.

         Pietr, my husband, puts on a brave face and a smile whenever he talks of the progress they are making but I can see behind the smile. Soon we will have to think about uprooting ourselves and make the long, dangerous trek to find a better place. He thinks I do not see how much our supplies are being used, but I notice. He takes a lesser portion for himself at every communal meal and the elders I have noticed doing the same more recently.

         The land across the river is grey and bare but for the wind etched boulders. It is an alien landscape, few living things can survive there. Now we are the aliens in this land. I stretch my legs as I feel the first sharp thrust of wind from the pass, now coming from the opposite direction. A daily almost metronomic occurrence, the wind will gather strength until the middle of our elongated day when no one can be outside. It will go through its cycle without a care for the lives it cuts through.

         I stand and brace myself for the walk back to our home. The silvery plates salvaged from the ship, hastily arranged to protect us from the wind, glint a pale yellow from the rising sun.

         We must think about moving soon, I ponder.

         I look down at my, as yet small, swelling belly and wonder if I will live long enough to see my baby greet this strange new land.