Wind in Her Sails: Fantasy Short Story

Based loosely on the Slavic folklore figures Moryana and Vasilisa, this fantasy short story tells of an inspired but inexperienced dreamer who wants something grander for her life.

The winds stopped blowing the day Moryana discovered she was betrothed.

The wind existed as a background entity of life. Only notable for nipping at cheeks and tousling hair. Which is why no one noticed its absence initially. The eventual, dire consequences of windlessness, however, demanded attention. Storms stagnated across the continent. Rains stayed tethered directly over the bodies of water they fed from. Mass flooding plagued these areas while droughts choked anything else that remained. Crops failed from the lack of pollen dispersal that the wind so graciously gifted. Sailing ships from the island nations halted, trapped at sea with no heading.

It was months of painful degradation of the continent. And Mory deteriorated along with it. She had always felt a kind of kinship with the wind. It was restless, disorderly. So when the wind disappeared on the day her heart broke, she felt nature mourning along with her.

But Moryana was not paddling furiously out to sea to flee the conditions of windlessness. No, she rowed away because her betrothed waited in the castle perched above the sea.

He was not an awful man, Boris Silyev. Just… dull. She understood political marriage as one of her responsibilities as the coastal kingdom’s heir. But, Moryana couldn’t help but see Boris’ presence as an ending rather than a beginning. Thus, on the warm, still night of her wedding, she rowed.

Despite the ache in her joints, the sweat on her brow, and the salt water inching further and further up her calf, Mory pushed against the ever growing strength of the ocean pulling her down. The first leak had sprung several minutes back when the shore seemed impossibly far behind her and the horizon even further. The second and third leak sprang a few minutes after. It wasn’t until her elbows grazed the ocean water that she felt fear, however. The blisters on her palms burst open as she gripped harder. The moon glimmered above her, taunting as she began to sink out of its view and into the depths.

Drowning happened faster than Moryana expected. In the blink of an eye, the feel of the rowboat beneath her disappeared as it sank. She swam untethered towards the horizon for as long as she could. But eventually, in another breath of a moment, her legs tangled in the long folds of her silk wedding dress and pulled her below the surface.

Moryana thrashed against the constricting grip of the cursed dress. But in her fervor, she ran through the last dregs of her energy too fast and moved too slow. The tightly held breath in her lungs already felt shallow as the water surrounded her. All-encompassing fear bubbled in her chest. She fought to keep it at bay in a dance of desperation and self-preservation.

With a frantic, powerful kick, she ripped free of her dress’ train.

The freedom of movement did nothing to quell her growing terror. She kicked towards the surface, only to find she was no longer sure which way was up.

The darkness of the depths consumed.

The sting of the salt water strangled.

The emptiness in her lungs utterly useless.

She did not welcome the sea into her lungs as much as it forced itself upon her. Like an onslaught of well wishers at a cheerful bridal shower, the claustrophobic choking overwhelmed her.

She did not want to die. She just didn’t want to get married.

What did she want instead?

“The Song of Sacrament is out there.” In the dark, Mory heard a mischievous voice. Her voice. “You just have to know where to look.”

Wrapped in the arms of memory and salt water, a singular face consumed her thoughts. Beautiful, dark curls. Naturally rich, tan skin that grew richer with long days beneath the sun’s caress. Brown, bottomless eyes. Burn scars that blazed across a sculpted, left cheek.

The Song of Sacrament. Mory coveted her book of fairytales as a child and even more so as an adult. The authors of the folk stories wrote of creatures, quests, and objects of magic. But the story she clung to the most? A siren’s sacrifice made physical in the form of a conch that, if possessed, would gift its wielder the ability to commune with the gods.

If she found the Song of Sacrament, she would use it to ask the gods why they hadn’t saved her from a fate of soul-crushing small talk and dinner parties. She would ask the gods where the winds escaped to and then she would embark on a grand, hero’s quest to find them.

If she found the gods, she would ask them to give her a boat that wouldn’t sink and a horizon that never ended.

The water filled her lungs to totality now, but for a moment, she forgot. Her mind grew pleasantly supple and soft as the panic retreated. The ebb of the water slowed to an impossibly lethargic pace.

Was this feeling death’s caress? A languorous slide away from lethality and into memory.

Moryana had time to reminisce now in the deceleration of time.

A face appeared in the hazy darkness. Through the gentle undulation of the black water, her mother’s smile shone bright.

“You’re going to make the most beautiful bride,” her mother said. Moryana forced a grin, but the grinding of her teeth could have eroded mountains. “Welcome your guests. You only have wedding celebrations once!”

And bless the gods for that.

Unable to stifle the bitterness she felt, Moryana took a long drag of her champagne. The ballroom brimmed with laughter and lavish, floral scents. The twisting of colorful, dress skirts and whirling, dancing couples made for a hypnotic illusion of cyclical movement.

Two kingdoms gathered still to celebrate the engagement of Moryana and Boris despite the disappearance of the winds. With the destabilization of agriculture and trade the winds caused, everyone agreed the excitement of a wedding was much needed to lift spirits.

As Mory judged the gathered guests, against the vivid swirls and twirls, a singular figure stood distinct.

Those dark curls caught Mory’s eye, but it was the scar that revealed the other woman’s identity. Even across the ballroom, Moryana could see the long-healed wound. The flickering candle light danced across the valleys and divots of the woman’s stretched and reformed skin. The burn scar did not frighten Mory. It shined out like a beacon.

Moryana had not realized her feet were moving until she found herself standing inches away.

“Your Highness.” Moryana felt the other woman’s purr as an ache in the hollow of her chest. That voice rebounded and volleyed about within her until it found a sweet home at the tip of her tongue. She swallowed it down and curtseyed to hide the wobble of her throat.

“Your Highness,” she repeated back to the other heir. “Vasilisa, it is a pleasure to finally meet you.”

The toothy smile barely smoothed Moryana’s nerves. “I’ve come a long way to celebrate your nuptials.” Vasilisa regarded Boris as he scarfed hors d'oeuvres.

A blush flowered across Mory’s cheeks. “I understand it wasn’t an easy journey for you and your people. The island kingdoms are in a bind with the wind excusing us of her company. ”

Vasilisa’s smile remained steady despite the reminder of the changing conditions of their world. “Indeed. Nevertheless, we manage.”

The conversation at a logical end, Moryana knew the appropriate thing to do was continue the tour of the room. Instead, she blurted, “Is it true?” A cocked eyebrow was Vasilisa’s only response. Mory’s eyes darted down into the depths of her champagne. “Your scar? Is it true that you received that burn from a chimera?”

A tendril of hair feathered down over Vasilisa’s shoulder and into Mory’s line of sight. Bending her knees and tilting her head, the other heir silently requested she reconsider her embarrassment. Moryana refocused her attention back towards that scar.

Looking left and right, Vasilisa stepped close enough Mory could smell the sweet saffron of her perfume and the ale on her breath. “What if I told you I’ve faced more creatures of legend than people in this room?”

As if on queue, the dozens of dignitaries and politicians transformed in Moryana’s imagination. Chimera, sirens, griffins, and more shrunk at the sight of Vasilisa. They fled before this assured, imposing woman. The burn upon her skin and the lingering fire in her eyes revealed her prowess against the mythical dangers of the world. Mory knew, just a nose’s distance away, that Vasilisa could take on any manner of evil beast and walk away with only surface wounds.

“Tell me everything,” Mory breathed into the space between them.

Vasilisa’s voice matched her radiant grin as she said, “The world is so much bigger than you could ever imagine.” The evening flew by with shared whispers about faraway places, giant beasts, and unimaginable odds. And for the first time in months, Mory felt a reopening of life’s possibilities.

Foolish girl with foolish dreams. Despite this peaceful moment wrapped in a saccharine memory, the adventure Mory sought had already come to an end. Her grand plans of paddling over the horizon and towards tantalizing danger proved a naive one. The thrumming of untapped potential below her skin was merely a childish hope.

The crush of the ocean around her proved equal to the suffocation of this loss.

Moryana felt the arms of death encircle her now. The gods themselves must have swept down to take her to the afterlife. As she propelled upwards, the water grew brighter and the strong arms around her tightened.

Even as she broke through the calm waters and into open air, she could not fully comprehend the breath in her lungs. It wasn’t until she flopped onto the deck of the sailing vessel, she began to understand she was not dead. Over her coughing and retching of salt water onto the wooden deck, Mory recognized the voice that spoke.

“Rescuing a runaway bride? I am truly a hero from your storybook, Moryana.”

Finding Vasilisa standing above her, Mory would have laughed if she wasn’t trying to catch her breath.

“How… did…”

“I had a suspicion you might do something deliciously reckless.” Vasilisa squatted and flicked away a piece of hair plastered to Moryana’s face.

With her dress slicked against all her curves, she felt exposed but not shy in Vasilisa’s presence. Getting to her feet, shakily, the nearly drowned woman found her bearings.

About to offer back a snarky retort, the words froze as she fully appraised the man that had pulled her from the water. His general physique was human but the webbed fingers, large dorsal fin, and the pufferfish-like, spiky texture of his skin indicated he was something different. He smirked at her gawking, bowed slightly, and departed.

Aghast, Mory said too loudly, “Who was that?”

It was then she also noticed the ship was moving.

Fractured half thoughts were all she could muster. “But the winds?” Finding the large sails, she saw the tension within them, propelling the ship forward with the force of… breath. Giant gobies - amphibious fish - the size of a small house sat on the upper deck and puffed into the sails. Crew members patted them encouragingly, smearing muck and salt water over their skin.

Only Vasilisa’s laugh could have pulled Mory from her utter shock. “Take a deep breath, Moryana. Remember that big world I told you about? It’s happy to have found you. You’ve got a lot to learn.” Vasilisa threw a thick rope over her shoulder, already in motion and half way across the main deck. “And we have much to do.”

“What exactly are we doing?”

“Looking for the Song of the Sacrament, of course.” The wild woman threw a suggestive glance over her shoulder. “Tell me… what do you know about sea drakons?”

For only the second time in months, Moryana smiled. And she could have sworn, in that moment, the smallest of breezes kissed her cheeks.