Late afternoon sun slanted between swaying palm fronds, painting the village training ground in a warm, golden glow. The small clearing—a flattened patch of dirt ringed by coconut trees—normally served as the spot where children chased chickens or neighbors set up temporary stalls. But today, the Gale Sage had marked it for my first attempt at what he called the "Gale Dance."
My mother and father stood at the edge of the clearing, along with a handful of curious villagers who'd drifted over after morning chores. My sister perched on a low log, legs swinging, eyes bright with anticipation. I clutched my simple wooden training staff—smooth and cool against my palm—feeling a knot of nervous excitement in my belly.
The Sage stood in the center, robes loose enough for him to shift weight easily. His staff was tucked at his side, and he closed his eyes, drawing in a slow breath. In an instant, a whisper of wind spiraled around him, lifting dust motes from the ground.
He opened his eyes and beckoned me forward with a gentle wave of his hand. I shuffled in uneven steps, toes digging into the soft dirt. My heart hammered—what if I stumbled? What if I couldn't do it?
"Stand with your feet shoulder‐width apart," he instructed, voice calm and even. "Feel the wind beneath you, even if you cannot yet shape it."
I planted my feet where he could see, shoulders hunched awkwardly. I closed my eyes, inhaling the humid air. The wind teased my hair, but it felt more like a curious cat brushing its tail against my neck than a force I could control.
The Sage raised his right foot just a hair off the ground, pivoted on the ball of his left foot, and swept his arms in a broad arc. In that moment, a gentle breeze traced the path of his hands, spiraling outward and stirring a soft swirl of dust. The villagers blinked in surprise, and even my sister fell silent, leaning forward to watch.
He turned back to me, nodding. "This is the first step—a half‐circle pivot called the Gale Turn. Pretend you are a leaf settling onto a soft eddy of wind."
My stomach fluttered: me, a leaf? I stared at the loose dirt under my sandals. It was hard enough to stay upright, let alone pretend I weighed next to nothing. But I tried.
I lifted my right foot, placing the ball down gently, and pivoted my left foot to match. My arms swung out stiffly, elbows locked. Nothing happened—no swirl of dust, no soft gust. I nearly toppled but caught myself, then stumbled forward in an awkward hop, bracing my staff between us as I nearly pitched face‐first into the dirt.
A ripple of gasps rose from the onlookers. A few of the older women exchanged knowing glances—the kid's trying to dance with wind again.
The Sage crouched beside me and placed a gentle hand on my shoulder. "Relax your arms a bit. Imagine your arms sweeping through gentle waves, not stiff branches."
I exhaled and tried again, this time loosening my elbows, imagining my arms as dandelion stems caught in a breeze. I shifted my weight to the ball of my right foot, and—almost unconsciously—my body rotated, my left foot following.
There it was: a soft swirl of breeze at my feet, rustling a patch of grass just enough for me to see movement. I blinked, astonished. A timid half‐smile lifted my lips before I could stop it.
The Sage nodded, eyes alight. "Good. Now, open your arms a bit more—as though you're gathering wind into your palms."
I spread my arms wider, elbows bent just so, and revolved again. The breeze grew slightly stronger, nudging my hair back from my forehead. My chest lifted like a balloon catching air.
The villagers murmured—some in approval, others in concern. I caught a glimpse of old Ibrahim's face, lined and serious: He's doing it. But I also saw Misra frown, as though she thought wind magic was unnatural, meant for strangers and fortunes, not a two‐year‐old.
My sister clapped quietly at the edge of the clearing. "You did it, Aiman! You really did it!"
I flushed with pride. The oppressive heat of embarrassment melted away, replaced by a bright warmth that spread through my chest and fingertips.
The Sage watched me spin one more time. "Now, combine that pivot with a gentle step forward." He demonstrated, gliding forward as he turned, wind trailing his movement like a ribbon.
I steeled myself, lifted one foot onto my toes, and carefully repeated the motion. My left foot pivoted, my right foot stepped forward, and—wonder of wonders—the breeze shifted ahead of me, rustling a line of grass in my path.
Behind me, my mother reached up and wiped her sweaty brow, a glint of tears in her eyes. Father simply nodded, but I noticed he puffed out his chest just a fraction—pride, I knew, right alongside his worry that someday the wind might do more than soothe grass blades.
When the little swirl dissipated, I hopped forward, panting, prouder than I'd ever been.
The Sage offered a rare smile. "Well done, Aiman. That is the foundation of the Gale Dance. Over time, these movements will channel stronger currents."
I grinned at him, then turned to the villagers who had gathered. Some nodded approvingly; others crossed their arms, still uncertain. I could sense their mix of awe and wariness, and for a moment I felt the same.
My sister ran to my side and gave me a high‐five. "Next time, teach me!" she said, eyes sparkling.
"I can't be sure I'll be any good," I said, half‐mischievously.
She laughed. "You're already better than me!"
In the shifting shadows of late afternoon, the wind curled around me once more, whispering secrets I didn't yet understand. And I felt a flicker of hope flare—a promise that, with each step and pivot, I might learn to guide the wind's path rather than be swept away.