“Crikes.” Squill waved downcanyon, past the original whirlwind. “There’s another one!”
“And another,” shouted Neena.
A new pair of whirlwinds came corkscrewing up the canyon in the wake of the first. Somehow they maintained their individuality despite bumping into one another and off the sheer canyon walls. As the travelers turned they were not surprised to see additional whirlwinds of varying shapes, sizes, and colors filling the upper end of the chasm from side to side, crowding in behind the black giant that had first raised their apprehensions.
There was no way out now, nowhere to run. Both ends of the gorge were completely blocked. Buncan pointed to a cluster of prodigious boulders that lay heaped against the nearest wall. One had been reduced by wind and water to a high, sweeping curve, a frozen, buff-colored wave. While no all-encompassing cavern, it did promise some shelter from the onrushing winds.
“Over there!”
Snaugenhutt put his mass in motion, wishing loudly for the half-barrel of hard liquor they didn’t have with them. Once beneath the arc of stone, they arranged themselves as compactly as they could behind the rhino’s armored bulk. Flecks of mica sparkled within the rock as they waited to see what would happen when the two onrushing clusters of wind slammed into each other. Would they simply pass around or through, or would the opposing cyclonic forces tear themselves to pieces?
They got their answer when the fust two whirlwinds to enter the canyon paused in their advance and turned toward the mound of boulders. Highly concentrated gale-force winds sent dust and sand flying and muddied the surface of the small stream that flowed through the canyon.
“I saw them first.” The voice of the smaller vortex was a breathy rush of syllables. Somehow Buncan wasn’t surprised. He’d often listened to the wind moaning and howling in the treetops of the Bellwoods, and if it could howl and moan, why not also speak?
“Not so!” The larger, far more intimidating storm seemed to bend in the middle to peer down at them. “It was I who first sensed their presence.”
“What does it matter?” wondered a third from behind the first two. Wind had set Snaugenhutt’s armor to clanging. It tore at the travelers’ clothing and hurled specks of dust into their eyes, making them blink and squint. Averting his face, the rhino locked his knees and held his ground.
Buncan had to shout to make himself heard. The canyon was filled from side to side with pushing, shoving storms, each violently roiling the air around it, each competing with its neighbor for a place to set its turbulent foot. The din was overpowering.
“It matters to me,” replied the first whirlwind. “I saw them first, so they’re mine.” The second bumped up against it, but the smaller storm held its air. Storm currents contended tumultuously and suspended objects were wrenched from one brawling eddy to another, whole trees, chunks of rock, bits of plant matter, even live animals flashing dazed expressions.
“I didn’t know whirlwinds fought among themselves,” Buncan muttered.
“Fought, ‘ell.” Squill pressed against Snaugenhutt’s armor, one paw clamped determinedly over his hat. “I didn’t know the bloody things could talk.”
“Not all of them. Only the educated ones.”
Buncan and Squill turned to the merchant, who was now sitting with his back pressed against the curving stone.
“How did you know that?” Buncan asked him.
“Because I have encountered one such previously.” Gragelouth was trying to shield his eyes with his hands. “It stole my entire inventory. Extracted everything from my wagon and wrapped the contents about its exterior for all the world like a demure maiden draping herself in the finest linen. It was a small whirlwind, no more than ten times my own height, and utterly amoral. They’re very curious and, as I learned to my dismay, highly acquisitive.
“I first realized it was capable of communication when it complimented me on my choice of merchandise. Though this revelation allowed me the opportunity to argue for its return, for all the good it did me I might as well have been remonstrating with these rocks. I was told to consider myself fortunate that it did not have the resources to accumulate me in addition to my goods.” He gestured at the vast, howling storms. “I do not think it necessary to point out that these are strong enough to do so.”
“So they collect objects for fun?” Buncan asked.
“Not for fun.” The explanation was supplied by a modestly decorated maelstrom which had managed to slip in close past the two angry combatants. “We are simply bound to collect things. It’s what we do.”
How did you conduct a conversation with something that had no mouth, no eyes, no face, no features of any kind save those acquired objects held suspended with its body? While Buncan wondered, Neena inquired.
“You mean you go lookin’ for stuff intentionally?”
“We do. Then we meet several times a year at a predetermined rendezvous like this canyon to swap swirling stories, gusty gossip, and found objects.
“ ‘Ere now,” Squill protested angrily, “I ain’t no ‘found object.’“
“You are so an object,” explained the unrepentant eddy, “and you’ve been found.”
“So those two?” Buncan indicated the quarreling minicyclones.
“Want to collect you,” their interlocutor explained. “Each is claiming right of initial perception.”
“We object,” the huddled Gragelouth announced. “We are intelligent beings and we have our own priorities.”
“Oh, you wouldn’t be collected permanently,” the whirlwind moaned. “After a while the novelty of you would get old. With time even the most diverting acquisitions lose their attraction. For example, I’m thinking of trading this.”
A petite offshoot of the central vortex protruded horizontally from its parent’s flank. Clasped unsteadily within this gyrating pseudopod was a cracked but still intact ceramic bathtub. Buncan was relieved to see that it was unoccupied.
“Collected this on the other side of the world not three months ago. Beautiful, isn’t it?” There was unmistakable pride in the whirlwind’s voice. The airy pseudopod con-toned, the bathtub rotating along with it.
“See, the white finish covers both sides.”
“Very pretty.” Buncan made sure he had a firm grip on his precious duar. It was still too early to panic. Thus far they’d only been threatened verbally.
“Even a short stint as ornaments would hinder us in our own search,” Gragelouth pointed out.
“Don’t intelligent people have a say in whether they’re collected or not?” Viz stayed hunkered down behind his little shield. Even a casual gust of wind could sweep him helplessly to his doom.
“That’s a question of ethics,” the whirlwind replied unhesitatingly. “As a force of nature, I’m not required to have any. And by the way, our existence isn’t an easy one, you know. Life isn’t all open fields and low-pressure centers. Maintaining one’s appearance and posture in calm air is a real straggle. You don’t know what’s it like to be tightly wound all the time. Collecting helps us to relax.
“Being a found object’s not so bad. We take care to sweep up food and water for the ones that are alive, and you get to do a lot of free traveling.”
“Excuse me if I decline the “onor,” said Squill. “I never ‘ad me ‘eart set on pukin’ me way around the world.”
“Why haven’t you taken the opportunity to suck us up while those two are fighting?” Battling the wind, Buncan clung with one hand to Snaugenhutt’s heavy armor.
The vortex skittered backward, unintentionally pelting them with sand. “I’m not into living creatures, myself. Too much work to keep them alive. I prefer inanimate objects. But you might as well resign yourselves. Once those two have settled things between them you’re going to be collected, voluntarily or otherwise.”