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Quick Pretention

Children of the Storm

The young boy sat on his bed, unable to move, uncertain whether to cry, scream, throw his pillows, or just give up and go to sleep at three in the afternoon. None of those options seemed the best solution, and yet this burning within him told him he must do something.

At that moment his grandfather entered the room, quietly as always, not wearing the disappointed frown the boy's mother and father had worn, but rather an almost concerned expression complimented by worrying eyes. When the old man, his wrinkles majestically hidden by his thick, graying mustache, spoke, his voice was light yet firm, but not raised in scorn. "I hear you had a little trouble today."

Somehow, hearing what, up until now, had seemed to be a major incident suddenly trivialized infuriated the child even more. "He was making fun of Mom again, Grandpa! He was calling her fat!"

"And if you're mother's so fat, maybe you should've threatened to have her sit on him," his grandfather said, smiling. The young boy had not expected such a response, and so sat on the bed, biting his lower lip. The old man sat next to his grandson, wrapping one large arm around his shoulders and pulling him close, the other hand rubbing the child's hair. Without warning, the seven-year-old burst into tears, and the grandfather held him, doing nothing more than quitely saying "It's okay, I'm right here," occasionally while the child exhausted himself through tears.

When his grandson had finally calmed down, the old man spoke again, looking off into space but still holding the child. "Do you know about the origin of Anger?" He could feel the boy's head shake in his arms, and so took a deep breathe, and then told him this story, the same story his grandfather had told him all those years ago, and no doubt a story this child would one day tell his grandson. It was just one of those stories that had to be passed down. . .

I don't know exactly when this happened, mind you, but I know it was a time long before what we know now. Long before men were ruled simply by men. Long before nations waged war over who's God was real. In this time, there was no doubt, because the Gods walked amongst the men, granting them boons in exchange for services. Each village prayed to a different God, who lived in a temple near their village and would speak to them through their Oracle (that's a priest, sonny). The Oracle was the only one able to go inside the temple, and he would take the riches, crops, or other sacrafices to the God, who would then bless His/Her people.

The real name of the villagers of our tale has been lost to time, but we do know that before this tale, they were referred to as The Children of the Sky, for that is to whom they prayed. They would give offerings to their oracle, who would then climb the large mountain next to the village and leave it in the temple. The Sky would then bless the people with clear skies when needed, and rain when it was time for things to grow.

These people knew nothing of anger. Yes, they felt sorrow at death, and jealousy at other power, but never a burning rage at injustice that caused them to lash out. The only anger they could percieve was that of the Sky, when His people had done something wrong and thus needed to be punished with harsh winds, heavy rains, and lightning.

Most of the Children regarded these occurences with fear, but only one of them saw it for what it truly was. Rakaal, Chief of the Village, saw the power in the storms, and thought his people should have the same. He taxed his people, amassing as much gold, valuables, crops, and cattle that he could to appease the Sky so that He might grant them all with a measure of his Power. But the Oracle returned with news that, while the Sky was pleased with this season's offering, and would indeed bless them all with a wonderful spring, He was certain the Children were not ready for the Power of the Storm, and thus He would not share it with them.

It is said that at this point most accepted this decision, but Rakaal was still left uneasy, and began to develop a plan. The villages greatest thief, a young man named Hinosi, was being held in what they used as a jail. Rakaal himself visited the young man the night before he was supposed to be put to death and told him he would be spared if he could climb the mountain, enter the Sky's temple, and steal the power of the Storm for all of the village. Obviously, both choices could be fatal, but there was a chance of life in one, and thus Hinosi agreed to assault the temple.

He waited until a totally clear night, for it was assumed that during these, when the wind did not blow and the clouds could not be seen, that the Sky was sleeping. Dressed to blend in with the rocks and moving quick as the wind, Hinosi scaled the mountain and made his way to the temple with little problem. But, as he crawled through a window of the large, cloud-white building atop the mountain, he found himself assaulted by a fierce wind, and a voice as loud as thunder commanded that he leave.

Afraid of the voice but moreso of his own failure, Hinosi staggered against the wind. Some think it was his force of will that helped him prevail. Others think it was the wisdom of the Sky, who knew both what Hinosi seeked and also its consequences, that allowed the young man entrance into the Treasure Room. Regardless, when the thief found a marble box with carvings of lightning covering its hood, he knew he had his treasure. Despite the warnings of the Temple's resident, he left with his loot and scurried down the mountain to the village below.

The simple thief was given the reception of a hero, and the box was to be opened in front of the entire village by Rakaal himself. Many expected him to pull a lightning bolt out of the box and throw it at a nearby tree, but when the package was finally unsealed, all it released was a wind similar to that which had battered Hinosi in the temple, knocking all of the villagers to their backs. Otherwise, the box was empty.

When the people began to rise, some screamed at their Chief until their voices were raw. Others began to argue that Rakaal had no idea what the box would hold and so was not at fault. The shouts began to fill the streets until the two opposing sides began bucking against each other like the waves on the shore. Soon fists were flying, as was blood, and the center of the village was reduced to that of a brawl. Suddenly, from the clouds no one had notice gather fell a gentle, cooling rain, halting everyone where they stood, and causing each villager to look at him/herself and the battered friends next to them.

Then, as if compelled, they all looked upwards at once, and heard, for the first time, the voice of the Sky - not interpreted by the Oracle, mind you, but the Sky itself talked to them! "Congratulations, my children. The power of the Storm is now yours. But it's not so easy to control, is it? There is a difference, you see, between power and control. I told you that you were not ready for this. Alas, you will just have to learn how to deal with this burden on your own."

And though the villagers, who were from that day known as The Children of the Storm, were the first to release this plague of new emotion, it spread along the wind they had released to the whole world, until all of Mankind was burdened with its power, and the choices it brought with it. . .

And when he was done with telling the story as he had heard it, the old man looked to his grandson, who had been staring at him with wide eyes.

"Was that story real?" the young man asked.

"Does it matter? The meaning was real. Do you understand the meaning?"

"I. . . I think so."

"We are, all of us, a raging storm. And a storm can do many things. It can destroy lands, ravage cities, and it can fill oceans, move mountains, and even power the same things it could destroy."

"And. . . it comes down to how we use it."

"That's right, my boy. Choose how to use your storm."

"Thank you, Grandpa." And with that the boy hugged his elder tighter.

The man merely smiled and returned the gesture. "Hey, that's why I'm here. . ."