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A Name to the Wind
by Tim Powers

“‘Krullen hebben’? What language was that?”

“He meant you have curly hair.” The little girl’s teenage companion pulled her along by the hand across the gravel path. Fully a third of the population of Paris had already left the city for the Provinces, and only a few people were visible on the broad lawns and paths of the gardens. “It’s a phrase of Belgian French,” she added, speaking pure Parisian French herself.

“Oh.” With her free hand the little girl drew out a lock of her straw-colored hair to peer at it, then looked wistfully back over her shoulder. The late afternoon wind was cold, and dry leaves of linden trees tumbled around their worn shoes.

“He didn’t have chocolate, Vivi,” said her companion.

Vivi nodded. “It’s been ever so long.”

The air shivered at the familiar thump of German bombs—to the north, probably on the far side of the river, but the older girl glanced mistrustfully at the overcast sky.

“Back to our hotel.” It was their private term for the Metro tunnels.

Vivi sighed, now picking at the collar of her worn blue cotton dress. She glanced at the wide water of the bassin. “I remember when we made boats out of leaves and twigs, Elodie.”

“We’ll do that again one day.”

“Promise?”

The older girl nodded. “Hold me to it.”

They began trudging back toward the east wing of the Luxembourg Palace and the Rue de Vaugirard beyond, but both spun around at the crunch of heavy boots from behind; the heavyset man who had spoken to Vivi back by the statue of St. Genevieve was hurrying across the gravel path toward them.

He was evidently one of the Belgian refugees who had fled to the city in the last month. His upturned overcoat collar made a tangle of his dark hair, and a ragged beard and moustache hid everything but his eyes and bony nose until his mouth opened.

“Come back, with me,” he said, in heavily accented French. From under his coat he pulled a long knife and waved it at the girls. “Or you will come to harm. Yes, for chocolate.”

Elodie darted a quick glance at the loose gravel underfoot, and then at Vivi’s ill-fitting shoes. She caught her breath, then straightened and scowled at the man. “We will not,” she said, emphasizing her Parisian pronunciation, “and you will—”

But little Vivi interrupted.

“Look, fool!” she piped up, pointing behind the man at a row of elms bordering a nearby terrace. “You think the hunchback Gillies did not follow you? See their white faces peering from among the trees!” She shoved two fingers into her mouth and, to Elodie’s visible surprise, whistled shrilly. “Ah,” she said, lowering her hand, “they come, with their sticks, for a reckoning!”

The man looked over his shoulder. The shadows between the elms were shifting in the cold wind. He moaned softly, gave Vivi a frightened look, then made the sign of the cross and went clumping hurriedly past the girls toward the Rue de Vaugirard.

Elodie had stepped back, away from Vivi, who was swaying and breathing rapidly.

There were no figures among the elms. Elodie’s voice was steady as she asked, “Gillies?”

Vivi had straightened and was now looking around at the wide paths and lawns with evident disapproval. “I know where I am.” She squinted up at Elodie. “What? Oh—that man was from Wallonia, in Belgium, by his speech.”

Vivi’s own vowels were now more distinct, and hinted at a Spanish origin.

Elodie was staring at her, and Vivi went on impatiently. “The Gillies are figures in their ancient Carnaval de Binche—hunchbacks, white wax faces, with sticks to drive away evil spirits.” She shrugged. “Credulous peasants.”

“What do you—” Elodie began, but her voice faltered.

The little girl stretched and took a deep breath. “This child,” she went on, exhaling, “should not be out in the streets.” She clapped her small hands as if to emphasize the point. “But here I am at last.”

Elodie rubbed a hand across her mouth. “You.”

Vivi shook her head. “Me?”

“You—cannot have her.”

Vivi’s eyebrows raised. “Have who?”

“I’ve kept her from you—from all of you.”

For a few heartbeats neither of them spoke, and the wind in the trees was the only sound. Then, “She’s mine,” said Vivi’s voice flatly. She touched her chest. “She’s me.” She cocked an eyebrow at Elodie. “Who do you imagine I am? A devil?”

Elodie was scowling down at Vivi. At last she sighed and said, “No. You’re a … reincarnation.”

“Ahhh!” Vivi rocked on her heels, peering up now at the older girl. “ And who are you?”

“Another who knows about directed rebirth.”

“Oh? Then you know that this body is mine.”

“I know my friend was you, in a past life—she does have the identifying tattoo.” Elodie hiked up her own threadbare corduroy skirt, revealing a coin-sized tattoo on her pale, narrow thigh: the image of a horned head with three circles for eyes.

“I was someone else, too,” she said, “in the nineteenth century.”

She lowered her skirt. “But you’ve missed your chance, with my friend. She has been in that body for eight years now—she’s had strong experiences in it, she has deeply imprinted memories.”

Again the distant detonations rolled across the empty gardens. Vivi looked away and sniffed the air. “Bombs? Whose? What year is this?”

“1914. The German army is approaching Paris.”

Vivi’s head nodded, squinting north. “Ignorant armies clashing.” She looked up at the taller girl. “You know that the wraith you call your friend was nothing but a mimic spirit, which took root here,” and her hand tapped her head, “like a dandelion seed that drifted into a cultivated garden.”

Elodie just shook her head.

Vivi’s voice went on, “Her ephemeral experiences and memories don’t matter—I’m properly in residence at last.” She looked up at Elodie. “You have the tattoo—you and I are both reborn. How old is the body you’re in?”

“What has that—” She shrugged. “Fourteen years.”

“I hear traces of a British accent. Who were you fifteen years ago?” She clapped her hands again.

Elodie looked out across the empty, wind-rippled face of the bassin. “A person, in London.”

“Elderly?” Elodie didn’t answer. “A man, a woman?”

“A person,” Elodie said. “What sex were you, before?”

“It doesn’t matter. Clearly you were found by our brotherhood when you were reborn, and brought to one of our nurseries, given the tattoo, and protected while you regained your previous life, your memories. This child—me—was also in a nursery, to have got the identifying tattoo. How is it that I am not still there?”

“She escaped—”

Vivi snorted. “Escaped? Wandered away from her rightful protectors, as children do.”

“—and I found her homeless in the streets. I’m her protector now.”

“You were. And I’m grateful that you kept this body safe. Where is that nursery? You know I must return there.”

“Where you would be helped to establish yourself firmly, yes? Uproot my friend, displace her, and not need to keep clapping your hands just to stay on top.” Elodie stared down at Vivi’s squinting face. “Why do you imagine I’d tell you where it is?”

The little figure of Vivi shrugged. “Well, chica, because I’m going to go searching for it in any case.” As if reminded by Elodie, she clapped her hands. “And you’ve just seen the sort of dangers an eight-year-old child might face, in this Paris of 1914. You have no acquaintance with me—but do you want your imaginary friend’s body to be found in some alley, murdered, probably being eaten by the city’s dogs?”

The jovial smile that accompanied this was ghastly on the child’s face.

Elodie shook her head and began walking north, in the direction of the Rue de Vaugirard.

Vivi came hurrying after her, clumsy in her secondhand shoes. She called, “Wait!” but Elodie had already stopped and crouched by the edge of the path. The chilly wind tossed her dark hair around her face.

“Your cheeks are hollow,” said Vivi, catching up. “Your clothes are ragged. This poverty is needless, you know. We’ll welcome you back. The will-o-the-wisp that you thought was your friend is gone. Come, with me—”

“Her name is Vivi.”

Vivi’s hands clapped rapidly several times. “That doesn’t matter. Give a name to the wind, or to one of these dead leaves.” Vivi’s hazel eyes widened in a show of earnestness. “But any real memories will be kept, in this head—I will probably even dream them! In that sense the shadow you remember will—”

Elodie had picked up two dry linden leaves and now stood up. “These gardens are a nursery.” She began walking back toward the edge of the bassin, slowly enough for Vivi to keep up.

“A poetic notion,” said Vivi impatiently, stumbling after her. “But where is the building, the nursery I belong in?”

Elodie crouched again, at the edge of the water. She broke off the stiff stems of the dry linden leaves and carefully poked them through the centers of the leaves.

“Watch this,” she said, and beckoned.

Vivi sighed, but knelt beside her.

Elodie reached out both hands and set the leaves on the surface of the water. The stems stood up from them like tiny masts. Elodie blew on the leaves and they moved out across the water.

Then she gripped Vivi’s thin upper arm. “Vivi,” she called, “look! Our boats, as I promised!”

Vivi’s arm shivered under her hand.

Vivi coughed and cleared her throat, then said, “There they go, off to fairyland!” She reached out to stir the water, and the boats rocked farther out. “Did I faint? We were over there.”

“No. That is, yes, in a way. We—”

“The man in my dreams was here.”

Elodie bit her lip. “Yes.”

“I felt him, coming up, when that man had a knife.” She frowned up at Elodie. “But I was awake.”

“He shouldn’t come out when you’re awake. We’ll find ways to make him go away altogether.”

Vivi nodded doubtfully, watching the leaf-boats recede across the water. “I’m hungry, Elodie. Would he have got us something to eat?”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m sure I can find something.” The irregular distant thunder of bombs rolled across the gray sky. “Get up, we’ve got to get to our hotel.”

Vivi got to her feet. “Elodie,” she said, “am I really…me?”

Elodie caught her hand. “More and more every day,” she said, and her voice carried a fair degree of conviction, “with every thing you see, every thing you do. Come on—the bombers may move south, and it’s a walk to the Sorbonne Metro tunnel.”

Hand in hand, the two girls began trudging away toward the Rue de Vaugirard. On the bassin behind them, the two little linden-leaf boats moved on, out of reach now from the shore.

Tim Powers won the World Fantasy Award twice for his critically acclaimed novels Last Call and Declare. Declare also received the International Horror Guild Award. His novel On Stranger Tides inspired the Monkey Island video game series and was sold to Disney for the movie franchise installment Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides. His book The Anubis Gates won the Philip K. Dick Award and is considered a modern science fiction classic and a progenitor of the steampunk genre. Powers won the Dick Award again for straight science fiction post-apocalypse novel Dinner at Deviant’s Palace. Many of his novels, such as Last Call and Alternate Routes, are so-called “secret histories,” which use real historical events in which supernatural and metaphysical elements influence the story in weird and compelling manners. Powers grew up in Southern California and studied English at Cal State Fullerton, where he met frequent collaborators James Blaylock and K.W. Jeter, as well as renowned science fiction author Philip K. Dick, who became a close friend and mentor. Powers is a practicing Catholic who claims “Stories are more effective, and more truly represent the writer’s actual convictions, when they manifest themselves without the writer's conscious assistance. I concern myself with my plots, but I let my subconscious worry about my themes.” Powers still resides in Southern California with his wife, Serena.

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