Only one thousand left to go.

Every time Sou’wester saved a life, he felt his burden lift ever so slightly from his soul. That was, if what he had was a soul—he assumed he did, but he couldn’t quite tell. Actually, he wasn’t sure what he was—hadn’t known for almost a century. People used to call him a ghost or a fey if they caught sight of him, but nobody believed in those things anymore. Most considered him an urban legend, a story made up by overly imaginative or perhaps alcohol-addled minds. Those who swore they had seen him, or had even spoken with him, had taken to calling him Sou’wester, a fitting title since he was nine-tenths wind. It was the remaining one-tenth that made him different, though; the remaining one-tenth that drove him to seek out those in need in order to atone for a grievous misdeed that he could not remember committing. It was that one-tenth that made him self-aware.

He had fleeting memories of a past when he’d been as human as the people whom he attempted to save whenever he could. He had been a young man then, and he could not recall a wife or children, but occasionally the sight of a living little girl would briefly trigger the knowledge that he had been an older brother, with dear little sisters. He wished he could remember their names, but he couldn’t even manage his own. Instead, all he had left to cling to from that past life were vague images. But he did cling to them, drawn to the slightest suggestion of something he once knew.

Sou’wester let the wind carry him along the beach, twisting and turning him in all directions. He could direct the wind if he chose, force it to carry him wherever he felt like going. When he had no goal in mind, he allowed the winds to follow their nature. Freeing them to do as they please was his only comfort besides the relief he drew from preserving souls, lessening his burden.

An odd scent in the air brought him back to the day he had been restored to consciousness. He remembered the last moment he had been human, alive and tangible, on a ship in the harbour. Then the incident that still caused him so much remorse had blasted its way into history, vaporizing him instantly, leaving behind only a handful of his sediment adrift in the wind. He had been partially responsible for that tragic circumstance—Sou’wester was sure of that—but “how” was another one of those things he couldn’t remember. . . .

Sou’wester paused in his reveries, catching sight of a girl who struck him as close in appearance to one of his sisters—the youngest one. He had to get closer.

The girl on the beach was probably six or seven, here with her mother and father, along with a teenage couple, a girl and a boy. The mother sat, book in hand, the father and the teenagers tossing around a Frisbee. Sou’wester approached the little one, directing the wind to form tiny gusts to mould patterns in the sand: swirls, stars, flowers, and squiggles. His playmate’s eyes widened.

“Mommy! Mommy! There was a face in the wind!”

Sou’wester hadn’t meant to startle her. The mother tried to comfort her, thinking her daughter had had too much sun, or had lost herself in daydreams. The father jogged up as well, leaving the two teens to set out for a swim.

But the girl refused to settle.

Disturbed by her anxiety, Sou’wester prepared to withdraw and leave the family alone. At that moment the boy splashed to shore, calling out fearfully, “She swam too far out!” He gasped for breath, glancing helplessly out at the water. “The current has her and she can’t fight it . . . it’ll carry her out to sea!”

Sou’wester started pulling in all of the surrounding winds, wrapping them around the smattering of matter at his core. The air along the beach now still, he blasted seaward past the father, who had plunged into the waves, struggling toward his frantic daughter. Sou’wester blew past the drowning girl, then stopped and turned toward shore.

The winds fought Sou’wester with their great power and concentration, threatening to break away from him before he was done and scatter his fragments in all directions. If that happened, it might take him years to reassemble himself, delaying the progress of his tally. Although failure could prove to be a devastating blow toward his efforts to achieve release, Sou’wester could not let the girl drown.

He struggled more fiercely, bringing the air currents under control. With as much force as he could muster, he released the captive winds in one incredible gale. They attacked the water between Sou’wester and the beach. The result was a mini-tsunami, a great wave that lifted the girl up in its rippling grasp. Like a giant watery hand, it carried her most of the way back to the shore, picking her father up along the way and pushing him in that direction, too.

When Sou’wester finally dropped the winds and the wave collapsed, the father and daughter were left mere inches from dry land, coughing and gagging, propped on their hands and knees in the water. The man got to his feet quickly, but the girl, very shaky, crawled the last distance to collapse on the sand. Hoping not to startle her as much as he had her sister, Sou’wester condensed his sediment as he had done before.

“Are you well?” he breathed. The words caused what little physical mass he had to vibrate, a visual echo of the sounds. He knew the answer before she had spoken, as he felt the burden of one more life lifting from his conscience. He had saved her.

She nodded, staring up at him tearfully from where she lay in the sand. “You rescued me. I thought I was dead for sure,” she finally managed to gasp. “Who are you? What are you?”

“They call me Sou’wester,” he whispered.

Then he let go of the pretense of any physical form, fading into nothingness, and allowed the winds to carry him away.

Only nine hundred and ninety-nine lives left to go.

__________

Accountant, author, and illustrator Chantal Boudreau was born in Toronto but has lived in Nova Scotia for most of her life. A Horror Writers Association member, she has five novels published between two series: Fervor and Masters & Renegades. Her website is writersownwords.com/chantal_boudreau.