[q]

In this world I shall not find,

any comforter like the Wind,

...the Winds have brothered me.

[/q]

- Margaret Widdemer

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"What kind of time do you call this?"

"Three in the morning, same as most people."

"Don't give me none of your smart-arse remarks!"

"Don't ask me stupid questions then."

Greg brushed past his father, Sam, in the lull born of surprise his remark bought him. The silence was longer than usual, Greg getting halfway up the stairs before, "How can you talk to me like that!" came from below, reverberating in the narrow hallway where his father still stood.

"It's easy," Greg replied automatically, "I open my mouth, expel air from my lungs using a combination of diaphram and chest muscles, varying the pitch, volume and tone of the sound produced with a complex interaction of vocal cords and tongue and lip positioning. The results are lexis, more commonly known as words."

Greg didn't bother to listen to the reply, which he knew would be pointlessly irate and meaningless. As he stepped into his room, he pulled the door shut behind him, flicking the bolt across with an habitual motion. Once safely encased, he relaxed once more, comforted by the familiar surroundings. Photographs of storms and hurricanes pushed the last remnants of confrontation from his mind. A smile forming upon his face, he stepped assuredly across his unlit room, years of memory guiding his feet. He fell onto the cool, smooth surface of his bed, and lay still, watching the sky through ever open windows, finally caressed into sleep by the gentle whisper of the wind.

Greg woke to the loud voice of his father bellowing up the stairs, informing him he would be late for work if he did not get his lazy behind - or words to that effect - out of bed. Greg was never sure why his father thought only that part of his anatomy needed motivation, but he forced himself upright regardless.

The kettle had just boiled, so Greg pushed a couple of pieces of bread into the toaster while he poured himself a large mug of industrial-strength tea.

"So," Sam asked between mouthfuls of cereal, "what the hell did you get up to last night? And don't give me your crap about just 'walking.' Nobody stays out that late just walking."

Greg glared reproachfully at his father over the rim of the mug he had been about to sip from. "If you aren't going to believe me when I answer, is there much point you asking in the first place?"

"I'll believe the truth, Greg. That's why I'm asking. I want the truth. I'm trying to give you the benefit of the doubt, here. I don't want to assume what you're up to, but Boy, you're not giving me many options here. And it's scaring me."

"What is so incredibly unbelievable about wanting to walk at night?"

His father sighed. "Just the once, yeah, whatever. Needed to clear your head, couldn't sleep. I'd buy that. But it's almost every night. Every damn night. That don't add up."

"You keep telling me you couldn't understand mathematics, Dad. Why should there be any surprises that my logic doesn't add up for you?"

"I don't care about your smark remarks," Sam snapped back, clearly annoyed again, "It doesn't change the fact you refuse to give me a straight answer."

Greg slowly took a mouthful of hot tea, savouring the flavour, letting it sooth him a little before he replied. "The fact," he said slowly, "is only that you won't accept I have given you a straight answer. I like walking at night. It's peaceful, and yes, it does give me time to think. Why is that so damn strange?"

"How much thinking do you need to do?" Sam snorted. "It's damn crazy, that is. Wandering about by yourself at night like that. Thinking. Yeah. Either you ain't sane, or you think I ain't."

"Only the insane have strength enough to prosper," Greg quoted.

Sam looked at him wide-eyed. "So, what? You trying to say you are crazy, and that somehow that's a good thing?"

"Only those who prosper, truly judge what is sane," Greg finished, watching his father carefully.

"Oh. So I'm the insane one now?" Sam said.

A small, sad smile showed itself at the corners of Greg's mouth. "Nevermind Dad, nevermind." Greg stood, gulping down the last of his tea as he did. "You think whatever you want to think. Not that you need my permission to do that anyway. Goodbye, and I'll see you later."

"How much later, huh?" Sam replied. "I want you straight home from work, hear me?"

"Maybe. Maybe not. The prospect is hardly appealing," Greg answered, and with a final shake of his head, he set off down the hallway, and out into the refreshing breeze of early morning.

His car was parked a little down the road, which gave him a few moments to enjoy the freedom of early morning. Caffeine was overrated, Greg decided. Fresh air was all the stimulant he needed.

The uninspiring vehicle that served as his transportation was where he had left it the night previous, which Greg found a little disappointing. He no longer even bothered locking it, but it seemed no one else wanted it either, even for free.

Shrugging, he turned it round, using someone else's driveway. Greg let the breeze through his car windows blow away the remnants of irritation. There was something so calming about moving air, like a constant caress from a lover. Greg grinned at himself. Next, you'll be saying it talks to you, he thought.

Maybe his father was right. Perhaps he was spending too much time inside his head, thinking and pondering. He was starting to let his imagination take the lead.

Sighing, he flicked the radio on. The rush of air past his ear as he drove drowned out the majority of the sound. The remaing noise was a discordant mess, and Greg returned the radio to silence.

How could he explain to his father how the wind made him feel? The enjoyment of standing upon a hill, letting a storm rush past you, over you, through you. It was the only time he truly felt at peace, felt as if he belonged. He knew what Sam's reaction to that would be. He half laughed, half shivered at the thought.

A generic sports car roared past him, rhythmic bass beats pounding out, the equally generic boy racer behind the wheel obviously eager to get to nowhere in particular. Greg smiled to himself as the red traffic lights just ahead caused the driver to come screeching to a stop. Taking his foot off the accelerator, Greg let his car coast towards the junction, watching the glow of the opposing signals for tell-tale amber. When it appeared, Greg accelerated again, hitting the line just as the lights for his direction started changing.

He laughed as the sports car disappeared from view, stuck behind an old couple in the nondescript brown vehicle that seems so popular amongst the over seventies.

"See, now that is the problem with Dad," Greg said to no one in particular, "he doesn't think, he just does. He sees what he wants, and then travels in a straight line as fast as possible to get it." He shrugged. "The trouble is, there's always so many things in the way. You need to think, you need to go around, in, over, under, through." He paused in sudden thought. "Like the wind, I guess. Yeah. See, he should be more like the wind. Like me. That's what Dad's problem is."

Around him as he drove, the air danced and sang, as if pleased with what it heard.

Greg swung his car into his usual parking space, pleased to be able to stretch and move again after being strapped inside the vehicle. Not that the drive was long, he just hated the restrictiveness inherent in driving.

He squinted up at the office block which would be his prison for the next eight hours. Greg did not dislike work, as such. It was...uninspiring; unchallenging and of no great consequence in the great scheme of things. Though to be fair, Greg admitted, not many things meant much at sufficiently large a scale. He sighed, thinking for once he would like to do something worthwhile with his life.

At the end of the day, Greg smiled as he felt cool air moving across his face. For all its usefulness, he could never like air-conditioning. The air was too dry and stale. It felt lifeless, in some strange way. Each breath was the same air you'd drawn in countless times already. Outside, however, the air was fresh and cool. Greg took in a deep breath, and turned away from the car park where his transport patiently waited. His legs cried out for motion after sitting all day, and the commons were only a few minutes walk.

Around him his workmates hurried past, in a vain attempt to catch a train with a free seat. Others sped past in their armoured, wheeled cubicles, shutting themselves off from everything outside. Greg laughed at them all, and smiled as a breeze gently ruffled his hair.

Huge ornate iron gates guarded the entrance to the park, one of the few bastions of nature remaining in the city. It was usually empty at this time of day, most inhabitants seeking warmth and light as the day drew to a close. Trees stood quiet and solemn under unmoving grey clouds, only an occasional ripple disturbing the still leaves.

Greg followed his usual route through the park, sometimes strolling along the paved tracks, other times taking his own private shortcuts. Many times he came here, fleeing the oppressive unnaturalness of concrete during lunch breaks and afer work. By now he knew the park almost as well as his garden at home.

On one of his cross-country detours, a sudden shout shattered the silence. Greg stopped short, surprised. He was well away from any path, and this was not a popular area of the park. Curious, Greg started towards the shout. Perhaps someone had got lost, he thought. It sounded like a woman's voice. Probably nervous to be out here after dark.

After a few steps, however, he heard angry voices, muted as though the pure night air was ashamed to carry their sound.

"I told you to make sure she was quiet, Harry. Now we're going to get the attention of the entire neighbourhood."

"She kicked me," a second voice, presumably Harry, protested.

"I don't care if she bit your dick off," replied the first speaker, "If you can't keep a girl like that under control you deserve eveything you get."

Greg's first instinct was to try and help immediately, but likely all he could do by himself was to end up bleeding to death under a bush. If he ran, he could get back to the main road in a few minutes maybe - hopefully someone would be able to help. He just hoped it would be soon enough.

Suddenly there was a yelp of surprise and pain, and a girl of about twenty burst through a bush in an explosion of leaves, clothes torn and several bruises on her face.

"Oh for...that takes the fuckin' biscuit, that does."

A burly man shouldered his way through the newly created hole, and sprinted after the fleeing woman. A second followed sheepishly, limping a little.

Greg found himself running after them, cursing himself for being so stupid as he did so. He knew that there was no time to fetch help anymore - the attackers would be in too much of a hurry after such a commotion - but there was little he could do still.

He saw the first man, who appeared to be the nominal leader, grab the woman and throw her to the ground. A blade flicked out from his fist, pointing at her prostrate figure like a steel finger.

"Stay still this time bitch. And keep your mouth shut, too. Understand me?" The man looked up and saw Greg, "Aw, shit, I told you this would happen if you didn't keep her quiet. Harry, do something about this noble rescuer, will you? And Harry? Try not to screw it up, okay?"

"Whatever you say, Joe," Harry grinned as he revealed a knife of his own, opening it with a flick of his wrist and an audible crack.

A slight breeze picked up as the man advanced toward Greg, who could not decide between trying to run, or keeping his eyes on the knife. A few leaves and other floral detritus fluttered about Greg's feet as the wind grew stronger. As Harry closed, a sudden gust picked up a discarded newspaper, and wrapped it around Harry's face.

"What the hell?" Harry exclaimed, just before Greg sent a kick into his groin. Greg aimed another at Harry's head as he fell, just to make sure he stayed down.

Joe did not look happy. "So, just like always, I have to do it my god-damned self. Don't worry, boy...it'll be quick. I'm in too much of a hurry to play."

The wind shook the upper reaches of the trees as if in response, which was in turn answered by a cracking sound. Joe looked up in time to see a dead branch tumble out of the tree above him. It landed with an unhealthy sounding crunch across his forehead, and he dropped wordlessly.

As he fell, so did the wind, leaving Greg speechless in a silent woodland. It seemed to Greg for that second as if all sound had been removed from the world; nothing moved for an endless fleeting moment. Then the girl groaned and struggled to her feet.

"Bastards," she said, walking over to where Joe had crumpled, "Bastard. Bastard. Bastard," she shouted, emphasising each word with a kick to Joe's ribs.

"You okay?" Greg asked, realising it was a redundant, but unsure of what else to say in the unexpected situation.

The girl stopped, and gave him an unhappy smile. "Yeah, thanks." She brushed an errant stand of hair away from her face, and tried to smooth out her clothes. There were several revealing rips across her dress, and Greg found something interesting on the ground to look at instead.

"I only bought this last week as well. Men are such assholes. Ah, present company excepted." She grinned briefly, then held out her hand. "Catrin."

"Greg," he replied, returning the handshake while trying to find somewhere safe for his gaze. Catrin noticed his embarrasment and grinned again. "I think it's a bit late for modesty, Greg."

Greg said, "I guess so," still feeling a little lost by everything, "you seem to have recovered well."

"Yeah, well. Shit happens. Water under the bridge and all that. Though I think maybe I'm too shaken to be freaked. Mind walking me back to the street? I could do with getting home before the shock sets in."

"Sure. Quickest way out is down this slope."

"You seem to know your way around the park pretty well."

"Yeah, I often come in here after work, or at lunch breaks. It's peaceful. Well, most of the time anyway."

Catrin smiled. "I can imagine."

"Is this the part where I ask for your number?" Greg said as they passed out of the park gate.

"Probably," Catrin replied, raising an eyebrow, "but then I would smile cryptically, say, 'thank you very much for helping me', and vanish mysteriously, never to be see again."

"Hmm. I don't like this film very much anymore."

"I agree. The beginning was awful."

"So...you need anything else, or are you okay from here?"

Catrin shook her head. "I know my way from here, thanks. I can grab a taxi not far from here. Fortunately those assholes were too distracted to bother with my purse."

"Well, if you're sure. I should be heading home anyway."

Catrin gave him a final smile. "Thank you again, Greg. Maybe I'll see you around sometime." With that, she turned, and walked away. Passers-by stared at her torn clothing, but she ignored them, and strode along the pavement as if nothing were amiss.

Greg watched her go, and continued to stand long after she passed out of sight. Around him the wind seemed to swirl, wrapping him in its embrace. Comforting and familiar, Greg relaxed at its touch, and finally forced himself to start the long walk back to his car.