Aniyé’s Breath

By Yvonne McArthur

I’ve been stuck in this cave for three days. Trapped by a wildergar. Once in a while, I peek through a crack between the barrier stone and the cave wall to see her—the largest and most terrifying of the mountain cats.

Her fur floats around her like feathers as she paces back and forth in the crisp autumn air, fluid as a spear dance. Had I glimpsed her from a distance, I would have bragged for weeks. But not now. No one boasts about getting cornered and probably eaten.

The slimy trickle on the rocks moistens my lips but does nothing for my parched throat and pounding headache. My consolation is if I die from thirst in here, I’ll cheat the wildergar out of a meal. At first, I fancied I could fight my way out. But what use are rocks against such a powerful beast?

How Mamé would scoff if she heard me say that. “You’d wield rocks, Aniyé? Aren’t you a windspeaker?”

I scowl and hunch my shoulders. It isn’t my fault the only sky breaths that converse with me are baby breezes. They laugh, rhyme, play, tease, are notoriously unreliable, and lack the strength to move pebbles, much less fight off claws.

“You shouldn’t hear them anymore,” Mamé says.

My peers have already grown into their adult windspeaking affinities. Brío sings to the chill harvest currents now flooding from the north. Calaido roars with summer storm winds. Farro discovered a kinship with easterlies.

Not me.

I imagine Mamé raising her eyebrows. “It would help if you stopped acting like a child, running off to sulk so far from the village that none of us have found you.”

Sighing, I rest my head on the cave wall. The air is still and cold. Only my breath stirs it. If I put my lips to the crack I can taste freshness, but I like pressing my ear to it better.

This cave is in a narrow canyon, and wind surges along the rim, as smooth and clear as ice melt. Only a few breezes float down, touch the canyon floor, and whisk away. Even if I could reach them with my voice, they wouldn’t carry my words. They prefer shouts and drumming.

I like listening to them, but smaller puffs hold more allure: the air that flows in and out of lungs, the eddies beneath footsteps. And the song of the wildergar’s breath. It starts deep and low, a growling hum, then turns to huffs and sighs. It is more beautiful than the melodics of breezes and the bass of storm winds.

Sometimes, she sits above the cave mouth, no doubt hoping to lure me into fleeing. But I know her breath. I know the song it makes. Even when I can’t see her, I can hear the air moving in and out of her. Tiny powerful air.

Suddenly, the wildergar throws herself against the barrier stone, snarling. I jump back, picturing her tearing out my throat. I imagine my lungs stopping, the air rasping out of me forever.

The real reason I ran is I don’t want to grow out of hearing the thump of air flattening beneath the wildergar’s paws. I’d miss the baby breezes’ foolish songs.

I suck moisture from the wall and grimace at my headache. Enough. I have a windspeaker affinity. It’s time I embraced it.

The wildergar is pacing again: growl, hum, huff, sigh. I force my fingers into the peephole crack and push—the barrier stone shifts. A shudder runs through the wildergar, rippling her fur. She pivots to face the cave mouth.

Her breath song becomes focused, narrow, low. Mine is quick, a running shiver. I’m trembling. Mamé’s voice is in my head. “Don’t you dare die, or I’ll thrash you.”

I chuckle and push the stone again, widening the opening. The wildergar’s ears prick forward, and I grit my teeth. Careful. Push, push, nudge. That’s far enough.

When Papé and Mamé speak to the wind, I hear the vibrations deep in their chests. My wind voice is a thready whisper by comparison. I warble it out, mouth dry. No, no. That’s the wrong rhythm.

A shadow cuts across the crack as the wildergar pounces. Her body slams into the stone and shifts it further. In a flash, one of her claws sinks into my hand. I would scream, but her breath hits my face. I taste it. The rhythm fills my mouth, and I speak. Growl. Huff. I draw it out long and low, reel it in with hums and whispers.

No gale wind would listen to such a thing, and no meandering breeze would echo it back. It’s a child’s song, but I keep singing. This is what calls to me: the tick of a heartbeat, the flutter of an eyelash, raspberry kisses.

Tears slip down my cheeks.

And then the wildergar’s breath leaves her. It comes to me.

Shock stuns me for a heartbeat, and then I force the stone aside. I throw myself through the opening, past that gasping, magnificent creature. She’s collapsed to her side, lungs emptied of air. I stumble over her legs, and her fur feathers across my toes. I almost fall, but baby breezes skitter down the canyon walls, chasing lizard tails. They dash over, skipping and hopping beside me, shrieking with glee, poking me in the knees and back, keeping me upright.

As I run, I toss the wildergar’s air back, breath by breath. Enough to keep her alive.

A gust of wind nearly knocks me over.

I’m out of the canyon.

Turning, I release all of the wildergar’s breath.

Far away, it fills her. She stands on wobbly legs, panting.

I charge down the mountain.

Air gusts and flows and rushes all around me, an ocean loud, huge, and strong. But it’s the smallest breezes I treasure. The wind in my lungs. Tiny gusts coming in, tiny puffs going out.

I’m alive. I’m alive.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Yvonne McArthur is a speculative fiction writer whose goal is to transport readers into worlds of adventure, magic, and courage. Her stories feature spunky characters who take on everything from overly practical parents to teleporting assassins—all while becoming kinder, more courageous, and more connected humans. Her work has been published in anthologies by Twenty Hills Publishing and Ye Olde Dragon Books. Yvonne lives in Guatemala, where she enjoys motorcycle trips with her canine sidekick.

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