The Stolen Wind

"You're not supposed to be here," said the old man, but kindly. "I picked this hollow because nobody comes." "I came," said Pia. "Why are the bells not moving?" The old man considered her. He had pale, tired eyes. "Sit down, then," he said. "I will tell you, since you are clearly the kind of person who notices." Pia came down into the hollow. She sat on a flat rock. The man set down his clay pot. "I am — what would you call it. A wind-keeper. There aren't many of us. We collect winds when they have done damage. We hold them for a while. We let them go when they have calmed." "Why is THIS wind here?" "This wind sank a fishing fleet, two hundred miles north of here, last month. Fourteen boats. All the crews lost. The wind was very, very angry. I caught it as it came south. I have been holding it in this hollow for three weeks." "Holding it?" "In the bells. In the pot. In the air around the tent. It calms down, eventually. They always do." Pia thought about this for a long while. "How long until you let it go?" "Another week, possibly two. I cannot let it out yet. It would still be too rough." "But the village — the mill is stopped. The boats can't fish. People can't earn." The old man looked at her seriously. "Yes." "Do you not — care?" "I care. But I also care about the people on the next coast over, where this wind would have gone if I hadn't stopped it. They