The waves rose up on the river’s surface like the hair on a frightened body. The air stirred and churned the branches above which fluttered gently and whipped stingingly in turn. Moule turned to his neighbor,
"This breeze bites like winter. Only week or two away now."
His neighbor might have nodded, or it might have been the wind tousling his hair. He said nothing.
"It’s out of the east though, and that’s a wind of fortune; it cuts straight across from the other side." Moule continued smiling earnestly- hopefully.
Again his friend did not respond. Instead he continued to stare out over the rippling, broken surface. Their boys had crossed the great blue expanse with promises of grain enough to last them through the starving time. They had promised to keep each other safe, had promised to come home. That had been a month ago, and for the last two weeks Moule had followed his friend out to the Willow’s edge.
The wind rose to a whistling, howl. Moule could feel its nails piercing his jacket and velvety fur, he shivered convulsively. They would have to go before the dark closed in, obscuring their trail and inviting the hunters that day-dreamed of mole morsels to come out and meet them. But Moule would give his friend a few more moments. A few more glances across that stained blue ribbon. A last moment of hope to last until tomorrow evening.
Story by Russell Lee Nasrallah
Art by Gelrev Ongbico- “The Wind In The Willows”
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