-Andi Malsheski, Grade 9

The winds were shifting again. They were tireless, and to Dara, it seemed the winds were ever-present. Not in the dark of night, nor the dawn nor midday nor the dim twilight did the spirits in the wind ever rest. To Dara, it was a constant source of comfort, however wild and fierce.

The little desert city of Yorro lay in the shadow of the mountains, so most did not feel the wind as she felt it. Dara felt stifled sometimes, waiting in the shelter of the city walls, almost as restless as the spirits themselves. So every day when most of her duties were done, she slipped from the gates to obsesirve the sunset on the crest of her little hill.

She called it her hideaway, which was not much of a name for such a place. The ridge of steep hills along the mountains faced the city, in plain view. Yet it was far enough away that anyone who observed her from the guard posts would see her only as another fox, clambering up the face of rock. Besides that, the people in the city were rarely concerned with doings of the outside world. For nearly a thousand years, it had remained isolated from the rest of the kingdom. And it was likely to remain that way.

Now that she was perched on her windy hill, Dara removed the veil from her face. Though the flurry of breezes was harder and stronger up here, the sweep of black that protected her face wasn't needed anymore. Farther below, the swirl of rocks and sand was dropped and the spirits carried only cool air up near her. She breathed deeply, not realizing when a slight smile crossed her lips.

Though she disliked the oppressive heat and clamor of the city, Dara could not help but feel a little surge of pleasure when she spared a glance at the walls of Yorro. They were carved of white limestone that glowed in the light of sunset. A brilliant scarlet reflected off the surface and back to the dusk. And as the western sky blazed, Dara's eyes swept across the sandy plains and jagged mountains that were her home.

Home, the voices whispered around her. Murmurs of the desert phantoms echoed in the deep places between the mountains. The voices soothed her frayed nerves and calmed her soul. They were her guardians, and the guardians of her family. She wondered for a moment what the guardian spirits of her mother had sounded like.

Her mother had not been of Yorro. To show for her northern blood, Dara had the bronze hair only common with the Northfolk. Her father teased her about it constantly, asking her if she wished one day to see the far green forests laden with snow and the cold mountains that seemed to graze the sky. Always, Dara denied it--though some sacred, hushed part of her burned with curiosity when thinking of the land of her mother's birth.

"Oh, you'd love it, Sweet," her mother used to say in that low, excited voice, a twinkle in her eye. "I have seen where the cold, clear waters reflect the stars as far as the eye can see. And the lights! When the spirits of the North-lights dance... the colors ripple along the ice with such beauty."

Dara always reminded her stubbornly of the desert moon, hanging low across the sands. "We have our own stars, Mother," she would say, "and Yorro is just as beautiful." And her mother would keep her smile of remembrance, telling her daughter that, one day, she would know of what she spoke ... that the low murmurs of the desert guardians were nothing when compared to the silvery voices of the ice spirits. Spirits, her mother said, that sounded less like dreadful chants and more like high, clear songs.

Chants or no, the quiet hum of words around her made Dara feel more alive than ever. Her guardians held an allure all their own, and whether her mother was right or not, she had no wish to leave Yorro so soon. She looked around, shaking herself from the memories of her past. The northlands were gone from her mind's eye--in their place, the familiar stretch of sands lay around her, dimming in the twilight.

Dara blended into the world around her, descending the hill with a liquid grace that came with the elation of conversing with spirits.

Perhaps one day I will see those cold lands, she thought, looking up at the evening stars. She continued on along the path to the city, guided by a warm breeze. Until then, I am content to join in the song of my home: the song of the desert.