131. The South Wind, Notus
The South Wind, Notus
Pallas called for him
with a horn made from adamantine.
He raised it to his lips and a haunting
song escaped its hollow insides.
The sound that returned was a storm’s call,
the rush of wind between clouds,
and then, the grey swirls of a hurricane
made its way toward us.
For a moment, every tree in the orchard
shook and even Atlas’s calm demeanour
seemed a little perturbed.
The hurricane stopped at our feet,
disappearing to reveal
a boy scarcely more than a child.
He had grey hair like his hurricane
and the ashen eyes of a storm’s heart.
He stared up at his uncles
and then scowled. ‘What is it?’
Pallas gave him an indulgent smile.
‘You are needed.’
‘Oh,’ the boy said sulkily,
‘I did not expect you to call upon me
at this time. I was raining down on a
village with a perfect thunderstorm.’
Now this irritable nephew of Pallas and Perses
was a child after my own heart.
‘Notus,’ Perses said to him, more impatient
than Pallas, ‘we need you to take us
to where the bright-dark feast is held.’
The boy grumbled but raised his hand,
and a small hurricane expanded into
one so large it looked terrifying.
Perhaps I was mistaken about this boy.
The idea of travelling by hurricane
did not seem all that appealing.
But as the others stepped inside,
Pallas held out his hand to me,
the last of us outside the stormy winds.
I turned to look at Atlas, who smiled at me.
‘Thank you, great one,’ I said.
And with that, I walked into
the hurricane’s swirls,
hoping that this would be
the only time I travelled this way.