Rain pounded the palm‐thatch roofs of the village like stones thrown by an unseen hand. Every gust carried the scent of salt and earth; heavy, humid, tinged with promise and peril. Tiny streams of water pooled in the roadways, transforming mud into slick clay that splashed against the ankles of villagers hustling to secure shutters and tie down fishing boats before the next squall hit.
I was born into that storm—quite literally. The midwife, a squat woman named Buyaan with a laugh as loud as thunder, held my mother in a cramped wooden hut on the far side of Windstead Isle. My father, Amir, paced outside, hands clasped behind his back, peering through the downpour like he expected the monsoon itself to carry some dire message.
Inside, my mother, Faridah, breathed through another contraction. Her skin gleamed with sweat, mingling with rainwater that seeped in through cracks in the walls. Oil lamps flickered as slabs of lightning cast their shadows. I didn't know it then, of course, but every elder within a hundred miles of that hut paused mid‐prayer or mid‐chore when the storm's wind bent low and a gale roared right through the doorway—only to vanish as quickly as it came.
"Push, Faridah," urged Buyaan, her voice barely audible above the howling outside. "Let the storm herald him."
My mother's eyes were closed tight. Even in hindsight, I can picture how she summoned strength that most women don't need until they've faced decades of hardship. Windstead wasn't a rich place—just a cluster of wooden huts and a few sturdy piers where fishermen tied up boats built from driftwood. The land was flat, dotted with coconut groves, and the monsoon shaped life more deeply than any ruler or law.
I gasped my first breath as another gust swooped in, extinguishing the lamps and plunging us into darkness, save for a brief, blinding flash of lightning. In that moment, the rest of the world seemed to hush: the pounding rain, the creak of the hut's beams, my mother's ragged breathing—all stilled.
Then, just as suddenly, a crisp, swirling breeze snaked through the doorway. I heard my own wail cut through the silence—sharp, urgent, as though I was demanding attention from the world outside. That gale rattled the lanterns back to life, and for a fraction of a second, I felt as if the wind itself had carried me from nothingness into existence.
As I came into the world, villagers—still trying to latch windows and drag wooden planks over holes—paused in their tasks. Some ducked back into doorways, glancing toward the hut, whispering, "A child marked by the storm." Others crossed themselves, muttering for blessings.
My father appeared at the doorway, wet hair plastered to his forehead, his face pale in the lamp glow. He carried a rolled bundle: my new‐born form, swaddled in a damp, sea‐scented cloth. He ducked low, mindful of the low eaves, and held me up to my mother's face.
"I—" he choked, blinking back the shock -- "—have never seen a child arrive with such wind."
My mother reached out, her hand trembling as she touched my cheek. She winced with pain and relief in the same instant.
"Aiman," she whispered—my name, meaning "blessed by the storm." "Ferried in by the gale."
If they noticed anything peculiar beyond my first breath, they didn't speak of it. Instead, Buyaan wrapped me in a dry blanket, tucked me beside my mother's chest, and offered a gentle nod to my father: "He's healthy. Strong lungs. As if the sea itself spoke through those first cries."
That night, I lay between two hearts: my mother's, warm and rhythmic despite exhaustion, and my father's, beating with a mixture of awe and worry. The hut's walls shook with thunder, but neither of them flinched. I nestled deeper into my mother's arms, lulled by her steady breath. Somewhere outside, the furious wind roared, painting the world in sound and promise.
When I blinked awake later—dawn's gray light filtering through soaked leaves against the hut's doorframe—I found them both watching me, eyes heavy but hopeful.
"Is he… normal?" my father asked quietly, as if testing the question aloud. I studied him from my swaddling, eyes wide, curious despite being only a day old.
My mother gave a tired smile. "Normal," she said, though her gaze drifted to the open doorway, where a lone coconut frond quivered, lifted by a gentle breeze. "Perhaps he's just… different."
Over the next few days, as the monsoon battered the village in earnest, I did exactly what newborns do: nursed, cried when hungry, and slept through any lull in the storm. But the elders, who gathered at a distance, low‐voiced and solemn, believed I carried more than just the usual cries of infancy.
Old Ibrahim, the fisherman who claimed to talk with wind spirits—though most called him a harmless eccentric—stood by my father's hut, stroking his white beard even as raindrops slid down his weathered face. "That child," he said, more to himself than to anyone around, "he came in on the gale's back. It's a sign. Mark him well."
My father met the farmer's worried gaze. "He's just our son."
Ibrahim offered only a cryptic smile. "The winds have ears and eyes beyond ours, Amir. You'll see."
In those days, I knew nothing of legends or wind spirits. I only sensed that each exhale of my mother somehow carried the pulse of something far larger—the monsoon's heartbeat, the island's breath, the storm's secrets.
When I reached my second birthday, the monsoon was still a part of daily life. My earliest memory—though I can't claim it's fully mine—was the day I chased a stray hat across the dirt road. It was rain-washed and battered, flopping in the wind like a wounded fish. But I wanted it, reached out my tiny hands, and… the hat flew back to me, as if guided.
Laughter bubbled in my chest, and the children around me stared, mouths agape. My mother, watching from the threshold of our hut, narrowed her eyes, pride warring with concern.
"Who told you to do that, Aiman?" she teased, though her voice was half‐winged with awe. I blinked up at her, wonder fluttering in my small chest, more questions than words.
Over the months that followed, occasional whispers drifted through the village: "The child tamed the wind," one aunt would say. "He'll be the Stormborn, or cursed by the gale," murmured an old crone with rheumy eyes.
My father's pride never faltered, but at night, he'd stand in the doorway, eyes fixed on the horizon where the sea met sky, as if waiting for a secret message. My mother stained her mother's apron with tears and laughter in equal measure—joy that her boy could do remarkable things, fear that the same power might one day tear him from them.
Inside our small hut, though, things felt like any other childhood. I tucked my sandals under the cot and padded to my mother's side before dawn, as her voice wheezed in sorrowful lullabies. I learned early that life on Windstead hummed to the rhythm of monsoon rains and gentle breezes. When the sky was gray and rain pattered on the roof, everyone slowed—boats stayed docked, nets dried on racks, and wood‐plank pathways glistened with moisture. But when the wind dropped, even for a moment, everything felt stretched taut, as if the world were holding its breath.
Buyaan, the midwife, became my first mentor. She'd kneel beside me, her bony hand tracing invisible patterns in the air. "Find the calm in the storm, young one," she'd say, her tone matter‐of‐fact as she fussed over my tiny frame. "There's wisdom in the breeze if you listen."
I didn't know what "listening" meant until one late afternoon. I toddled after my father along the crowded village path, where men hauled nets and women shouted over fish sales. A sudden crack of thunder froze everyone midstride. A jagged streak of lightning painted the water in brilliant white. Then, just as quickly, everything went quiet. A gust of wind snapped down the tarps overhead. All eyes turned to me.
My father's voice trembled, though he tried to keep it light. "Aiman, come inside. That wind's not a friend."
I lifted my chin, staring at the sky, mesmerized by how the clouds twisted into great gray dragons. Then, with the faintest circular motion of my small hand, I willed a breeze to lift a fallen net and deposit it neatly onto a drying rack.
The entire village gasped. My mother, rushing to me, caught my elbow gently. "You've—" she faltered. "You didn't tell me you could do that."
I blinked, both startled and proud, as if I'd invented something brand‐new. In the warm rush of their astonishment, I realized that power could be wondrous—and terrifying—in equal measure.
That night, my parents huddled close. Rain rattled the roof in steady, comforting rhythm. Father took Mother's hand. "Our son… he can bring storms or calm them. We'll need to decide which he should be."
Mother pressed her forehead against Father's shoulder. "As long as he's safe," she whispered, "do what he must."
I drifted off to sleep, my small chest rising and falling. In my dreams, I soared on a cloud—weightless—listening to the winds' soft laughter.
Outside, the monsoon continued its relentless song. But inside our little hut, I slept in the knowledge that the world had changed the moment I entered it. I was Aiman, Gale‐born, and whether the wind would shield or shatter me remained to be seen.