WHEN THE WIND BLOWS (UC)

JOHN SAUL

Prologue
The wind swept down out of the Rockies like a living
thing, twisting its way through the evergreens and aspens,
curling through the ravines before spilling out into the valley
where, gathering a cargo of dust, it ground eastward,
choking the villages and hamlets that dotted the area
like prairie-dog colonies.
The people hadn't known about the wind when they built their
towns, but they discovered it soon enough, and, as with all
such things, they chose to live with it, ignoring
it whenever possible, hiding from it when it got too
bad, wryly commenting about it to each other and comparing it
favorably to the tornadoes they had left behind when
they had migrated westward.
The wind was just one more thing to be lived with, contended with.
And besides, the mines were worth it.
Even the coal mine at Amberton, which, though neither
as rich nor as glamorous as the gold and silver
mines that seemed to be everywhere but there, was worth the
wind.
And so, on a bright spring morning in 1910, the
miners made their way into the tunnels of the mine,
ignoring the wind, intent only on getting through
another day, bringing up the coal to feed the
railroad, and returning home to rinse the black
dust from their throats with endless shots of whiskey
washed down with beer.
LO
John Saul
When the Wind Blows

Within the mine there was no evidence of either the vind or the
spring morning. There was only the flickering yellow
glow of the miners' helmets, the hot, misty,
coal-choked air, and the constant undercurrent
(f fear. Something could go wrong.
In the mines, something always went wrong.
That morning, though, fear mingled with a feeling
greater-than from optimism, for on that morning they were
extending ihaft Number Four, which promised the
largest de greater-than osit yet discovered in the
Amberton mine.
The dynamite had been set the night before, and hrough
the morning the miners worked, checking the uses, laying the
wire, hooking up the blasting mahines. Then,
finally, they were ready.
They gathered outside the mine, the wind lashing at
hem as they prepared for the final moment.
The plungers of the blasting machines were shoved
lownward, and then there was a low rumbling from he depths
of the mine.
The miners listened, then grinned at each other.
It was over.
Hundreds of feet down, there was now a pile of
Tibbie, ready to be loaded and hauled to the
surface, "icking up their tools, they went back
into the mine.
At first no one noticed the water as it seeped
hrough the shattered coal face at the end of Number
""our.
When the first miner felt the dampness through his wots, he
was more annoyed than worried.
But then the water began rising, and soon the mints
realized what had happened.
Somewhere in the depths of the earth, there was a greater-than
ocket of water, and the blast had disturbed it.
They began hunting for the source of the leak, omeone
went to the surface and brought back the bift
supervisor and the owner of the mine. Lumber ras brought
down, and the walls of Number Four
were quickly shored up. But even as they worked, the water
began to rise, and soon the miners were wading.
"At the back," someone cried. "It's coming in from the
back!"
The men surged toward the far reaches of the shaft. Then
they saw it.
What had started as a trickle was now a raging
torrent, spewing from a gap in the wall.
As they watched, great chunks of coal broke away
to be replaced by ice-cold, crystal-clear water
that was quickly stained inky black by the pulverized coal
over which it flowed.
Suddenly the wall of Number Four caved in, and
water rushed over the men, flattening some of them on the
floor of the shaft, pinning others to the walls.
The lucky ones were crushed immediately by the crumbling
wall of the mine.
The less fortunate drowned in the first few moments
of the flood.
For the rest, it was an even more horrible death.
For them, die flood played tricks, picking them
up and sweeping them along, then pressing them up near
the roof of the mine, where pockets of air were trapped,
allowing them to keep their heads above the tide while the
icy water numbed their bodies, allowing them to hope
for a way out where there was none.
The pressure of the inrushing water began
cornpressing the pockets of air, and for the men
trapped against the roof, a new agony began.
Their ears began to hurt, and they swallowed over and
over again, trying to clear the pain from their heads. But as
more and more water-tons of itdrained into the unnatural
shaft that the men had created, the pressure grew; the
pain increased.
Some of them plunged into the depths of the water, then
fought back up, their fingers clawing instinctively at
the roof of the tunnel, trying to find a way
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John Saul
When the Wind Blows

out, even while their lungs filled with water. Soon
their struggles ceased.
For the few who grimly clung to life even when they
knew it was over, the mine had saved one last
torture.
The current stopped flowing, and there was sudlenly
quiet in the blackness.
Each of the men, unaware that he was not alone in lis
survival, began to listen in the sudden silence.
None of them knew what he was listening for.
Voices, perhaps.
The voices of friends, calling out for help.
Or the voices of others, rescuers, perhaps.
The sound, when it came, was low. A distant murnur
at first that grew and swelled to a chorus of voices.
The voices of children, crying in the darkness. Hrying for
their mothers. Crying a lonely dirge of ibandonment.
One by one, the last of the miners began to die.
Dutside the mine, dusk fell. The wind ceased.
Toward he end of the day, it was over.
In the end, all that was left in Number Four was he
sound of the children's voices, still crying, though here was no
one left to hear them.
Down the hill from the mine, in a large house that
itood alone at the edge of the valley, a woman
lay in ler bed, pain racking her body.
She was dimly aware that something had happened, hat
there had been an accident at the mine. And even a the
agony of her labor, she knew that her husband lad
died.
As her baby moved inside her, struggling to release
conself into the world, the woman began to know the iste of
hatred.
Her husband was dead, and her life was over.
She hadn't wanted a child, but her wishes hadn't
lattered to her husband-he had insisted. She had
been clever for a while and lied to him about the ways of
her body, but it had only been a matter of time before
she became pregnant.
And now, as she delivered the tiny gift that her
husband would have loved, he had abandoned her, leaving
to her only the baby and the mine that had killed him.
The doctor, too, had left her, insisting that he was
needed at the mine. The Indian woman who only
days before had delivered a baby of her own, was
perfectly qualified to care for her, he said. But
all the Indian had done was sit by her, muttering
to herself in a guttural voice about the curse
of this day and the children she thought she could hear crying in the
wind.
The woman herself could hear nothing.
Outside, the wind was screaming through the aspens, tearing
at the house, rattling windows and plucking at the
shingles on the roof.
Inside, the woman screamed silently, refusing
to let the Indian woman see the anger and hatred that
were growing within her.
As the child came into the world and began crying softly, the
Indian crossed herself in the tradition of her
religion, while in the depths of her mind she
invoked the ancient spirits of her people to protect the child
who had the misfortune to be born of this day.
Late that night, as the people of the town gathered in front
of the mine to mourn their dead, the woman mourned the
birth of her child.
And all through the night, while the wind blew down from
the mountains, the sounds of children crying filled the depths
of the mine.
For half a century there was no one to hear them.
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Esperanza Rodriguez, her dark eyes set
deep in her lined face, watched silently as the
body of Elliot Lyons was brought up from the
depths of the mine. All her life she had been
expecting something like this to happen. Over and over her
mother had told her the story of what had happened when
she was only a few days old, and the gringos, in their
stupidity, had disturbed the cave of the lost children. They
had died that day-many of them-and the mine had been closed.
For fifty years it had remained undisturbed, its
depths flooded with water, until a month ago,
when Senor Lyons had come from Chicago and begun
poking around. And now he, too, was dead. Dead like
Amos Amber, who had owned the mine and died in the
flood; dead like her own father, who had also been in the
mine that day.
Esperanza had no memory of the flood, but in the
half-century since, as she had grown up near the
mine, her mother had been careful to warn her of what would
happen if the mine were ever reopened. It was
part of the sacred cave now, the cave of the lost children.
Though the gringos claimed the cave was only a
legend, what the gringos thought didn't matter
to Esperanza, for she knew the cave was real, as
did all her friends. It was real, and it had to be
left alone.
Elliot Lyons had not left it alone, and now he
was dead.
Esperanza waited until they'd taken the body
away,
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John Saul
nodded briefly when the doctor whispered in her ear,
then wrapped her shawl around her shoulders, told her
son to stay at home, and started walking toward town,
where, before obeying the doctor's instructions, she would
go to church and pray.
Amberton had never been much of a town-not like the other
Mineral Belt settlements, which had boomed for
years with gold and silver. Amberton had prospered
only mildly, its coal providing a fortune
only for the Ambers, who owned the mine and most of the land
as well.
And then, in 1910, the mine had flooded,
and the people of Amberton wondered what had happened.
Esperanza Rodriguez knew what had happened.
As she paused in the little park at the center of town,
she looked up at the bronze statue of Amos
Amber that kept watch over the village. Her own
father, whom she had never known, had tried to warn
Amos Amber of what could happen to the mine. But
Amos had never been one to listen to the superstitious
mumblings of a Mexican married to a Ute.
And because Amos Amber had not listened to Esperanza
Rodriguez's father, Amberton had suffered.
It didn't show on the surface. The village was
a pretty place, nestled in a valley low in the
Rockies, its Victorian houses neatly
painted in the bright colors that had been fashionable a
century ago. Its streets, though never paved, were
well-kept, and shaded by aspens that had long ago
replaced the firs that once thrived there. It
seemed, at a glance, to be prospering. Its shops
were busy, selling memorabilia of days long gone
when the town had been a center of commerce, and its old
railroad depot, restored and turned into a
restaurant, was, during the summer months,
constantly filled with tourists who paused on their
way to Aspen or Denver, spent a few
minutes absorbing the quaint atmosphere of the
village, then moved on to the next stop on their
Triple A tourist maps.
When the Wind Blows

The tourists never went where Esperanza was going, for the
tiny Catholic Church was near the edge of town, in
the midst of the shacks that were occupied by Esperanza's
friends, the few mixed-breed Indians whose
Mexican, Indian, and white blood left them
fitting into no easily identifiable group. They
existed in poverty, scratching out a living as best
they could by doing the menial jobs that the shop owners
tossed to them. Esperanza herself did not live in
Shacktown- she still lived in the caretaker's cabin
near the entrance to the mine, where she'd lived most of
her life- but every week she came to the church to pray
for the children who, though their graves were marked in the tiny
churchyard, were buried somewhere else.
Today, she didn't stay long.
Today, she wasn't praying for the dead children.
Today, she was praying for the one who was still alive.
Christie Lyons stared straight ahead, her eyes
unseeing, her tiny white hand lost in Esperanza
Rodriguez's large brown one. Tears
flowed down her cheeks, and her chin quivered as she
struggled not to sob out loud.
She hadn't believed it at first. Her father was all
she had, and she was sure that what was happening was all
a bad dream, that any minute now her father would wake
her up and tell her it was only a nightmare.
Dimly, she wondered if they were going to send her
to an orphanage. She supposed they probably
were. If you didn't have any family, where else
could you go?
Though she was only nine years old, Christie
knew exactly what had happened. Her father had
gone to the mine by himself, and he'd fallen down the
shaft. Many times, when she'd gone to mines with him,
he'd told her what could happen if you weren't
careful. Now it had happened to him.
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John Saul
When the Wind Blows

And now she was alone and going somewhere with people she hardly
knew at all.
She looked out the window of the car and realized they were
driving toward the mine. Was she going to have to look at
her father? were they going to show him to her? She hoped not.
Knowing he was dead was bad enough-she didn't want
to have to look at him, too.
She stared up into the face of Esperanza
Rodriguez, who had held her in her lap while
they told her her Father was dead. Now Esperanza was
smiling at her, the way her mother used to smile at
her when she was very little.
Christie didn't remember her mother very well, but
right now, with her father dead, she desperately washed that
her mother would come back to her.
For some reason, she remembered how her mother ised
to wash her hair, making her blond curls light
md fluffy. Now they clung damply to her forehead,
md she wished her mother were there to wash them conor her. But
that, too, would never happen again, for ler mother had died
five years ago.
She felt the man who was driving the car squeeze
ler leg and looked up at him. He was Dr.
Henry, and beven though she didn't know him very well,
she knew le was a friend of her father's.
She touched his hand, and he squeezed her
reassurngly before putting his hand back on
the steering vheel of the car. Feeling hopeless,
Christie Lyons tared out the window, not really seeing
the house hey were approaching.
At fifty-two, Bill Henry was still lean and
ruggedly Landsome. His brown hair was shot through with
gray, md his skin, darkened by the Colorado sun,
was the "lor of saddle leather. He wished he knew
how to conomfort the little girl beside him, but she seemed
to lave drifted away somewhere, and he hadn't the least
dea what to say to her. Unmarried, he had never
really learned the trick of talking to children. And never
had he had to deal with one who had just lost her only
parent.
Rather than risk saying the wrong thing, Bill Henry
kept his eyes on the road and, as he turned the car
into the driveway of Edna Amber's mansion,
examined the details of the house. The comforting of the child
he would leave to Esperanza, or, in a few more
minutes, to Diana Amber.
The house, the largest in Amberton, stood brooding
on a rise that let it overlook the village like a
sentinel. In contrast to the houses of the village, the
Amber place had not been painted in years, and it
had taken on the look of a derelict, its paint
peeling, its shingles loosening. A few
aspens and one or two firs dotted the scraggly
lawn that surrounded the living quarters, and the
outbuildings-a barn and a chicken coop, along with a
carriage house that had been converted to a garage many
years earlier-looked as forlorn as the house itself.
Though Edna Amber still regarded the town as her
personal fiefdom, she had never taken part in its
restoration. Indeed, she had objected to the restoration
every step of the way. Bill Henry supposed that,
to her, turning Amberton into a tourist attraction
meant admitting that the mine would never again produce-and
that was one of the many things that Edna Amber would not
admit.
"We're here," Bill said. Christie, seeming
to come out of her daze, gazed up at him.
"Where?" she asked.
"At the Ambers". They're going to take care of
you."
"You mean they're going to adopt me?" Christie
asked.
"Well, I don't know." Bill wondered how
to explain to the little girl that it was not at all certain
how long she was going to be staying with the Ambers, and that
almost surely she was not going to be adopted by them.
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John Saul
Christie fidgeted, her fingers twisting at the hem
of her dress. She could only vaguely remember
her father introducing her to the Ambers. Then she thought
of the statue in the square.
"Isn't Mr. Amber the man in the park?"
"That's right. But the ones you're going to stay with are his
wife and his daughter."
Christie tried to make sense out of it all, but too
much had happened. All she knew was that her father was
dead and that she was going to live with strangers. She
began to cry.
As Bill looked helplessly on, Esperanza
gathered the child into her arms and cradled her against her
ample bosom.
"Pobrecita," she murmured. "Is all right,
baby." She looked up at Bill Henry. "I
tell them," she said suddenly. "I tell them, but
they don't listen to me."
"Told them what?" Bill asked. He glanced
at Esperanza, but the woman was staring into the distance,
toward the mine.
"The children," Esperanza said. "I tell them not
to bother the children, but they don't listen. See what
happened."
Dimly, Bill remembered a story he'd heard
when he was a boy. He looked across Christie, then
reached out to touch Esperanza. "What are you talking
about?" he asked. "What children?"
She jerked away from his fingers as if she'd been
burned. 'The lost children," Esperanza replied, her
stoice low. "You can hear them when the wind blows.
When the wind blows, they cry. And it was blowing
conoday."
It didn't make any sense to Bill. So what
if the wind lad been blowing? In this part of the country
it vasn't that unusual. On many days the wind
came weeping down out of the mountains, whispering imong
the aspens and caressing the tall grasses that prew
on the floor of the valley.
When the Wind Blows

"I don't understand, Esperanza," he said. "What
children are you talking about?"
Esperanza looked at him pityingly. 'The ones who
are waiting," she said. 'The ones who are waiting
to be born again." Then she opened the car
door and got out. Christie, who seemed not to have
heard the conversation, slid reluctantly out after her.
She looked up at the house and wished she could go
somewhere else. It was too big, and too frightening.
She slipped her hand into Esperanza's. As though
she had read her thoughts, Esperanza leaned down
to whisper in Christie's ear.
"Is all right, little one. I will look out for you. You
see? Up there?" She pointed off into the distance, where
Christie could just make out the shape of a cabin crouching
on the side of the mountain. "I live there. You need
me, you come up there. Okay?"
Christie nodded, then let go of Esperanza's hand
and followed Bill as he led her up the steps toward
the front door of the Amber house.
Diana Amber opened the door and, seeing who was
there, immediately dropped to her knees. She took
Christie in her arms and hugged her close.
At fifty, Diana wore the remnants of her
prettiness well. Her blue eyes were soft, and there
was a sadness in them that touched nearly everyone who had
ever met her. As she gazed at Christie Lyons
she smiled gently. Looking on, Bill realized
that, in a way, Diana reminded him of a
rabbit-warm and soft, easily startled. She
held Christie for a moment, then stood up and led the
little girl into the house. Bill Henry and
Esperanza Rodriguez followed.
Diana took them to the parlor, where Edna Amber
sat working on a piece of needlepoint. Unlike
her daughter, Edna had bright hard eyes that sparkled
with determination, and her body, though she was nearing
eighty and getting stiff, was still strong. She didn't
stand to greet her visitors; she was one of those
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John Saul
women who expects others to rise while she
remains seated.
Christie, unsure of what she was expected to do,
stood quietly staring at the floor. Suddenly her
nostrils filled with a strange odor and she
sneezed.
"God bless you," Diana said. "Do you have a
cold?"
Christie shook her head. "I smelled something, and
it made me sneeze."
Diana sniffed at the air, then smiled. That's
lavender," she said. "Don't you like it?"
"I don't know," Christie said. "What's it for?"
"It's just to make things smell good."
Christie stared up at her. "Why?"
"Why-why because-was Diana floundered, unable to find an
answer for the little girl's question.
For the first time, Edna Amber spoke. "It's to cover
up sour smells," she said. "Like houses that
haven't been properly cleaned, and old people, and
children." She got to her feet and, leaning stiffly on
her cane, walked out of the room. There was a long
silence until she was gone, and then Christie,
comprehending only that the old woman didn't like her,
began to cry. Once again Diana gathered the little
girl into her arms.
"It's all right," she whispered. "Everything's going
to be fine. I'm going to be your mother now, and you'll be
my little girl."
The words struck a chord in Christie. Her crying
abated, and she looked deep into Diana's eyes.
"My mama died a long time ago," she said, her
voice quivering.
"I know," Diana told her. "But now I'll be
your mama."
Christie's expression was uncertain as she searched
Diana's face. "Promise?" she said
at last, her voice shaking.
"I promise," Diana breathed.
Suddenly the little girl dissolved into tears once more,
but this time she slid her arms around Diana's
When the Wind Blows

neck and clung to her. Lifting her up, Diana
laid Christie gently on the sofa, then sat and
cradled the child's head in her lap. As Diana and
Bill talked Christie's sobbing eased until she
lay still.
"Is she all right?" Diana asked. Christie
seemed to have fallen asleep.
"She will be," Bill assured her. "She's still a
little bit in shock, but I'd rather not give her
anything-it seems as though every time something happens, we
try to take something for it. But children are resilient."
He paused, then met Diana's eyes.
"Diana, are you sure this is wise?"
"What?"
Taking her in. Obviously Miss Edna
doesn't approve."
"I'm a grown woman, Bill," Diana said.
"Mother doesn't make all my decisions for me
anymore."
But even as she spoke Bill saw Diana's
eyes flickering around the room as if she expected
to see her mother somewhere, watching her, mocking her,
contradicting her.
Controlling her.
He was well aware that Diana was all Edna
Amber had left, and that she guarded her aging
daughter like a tigress with a cub, prowling around her,
ever wary of any danger. Even Bill, after all the
years he had known Edna Amber, still felt a
certain awe of her. She carried about her an aura
of power that no one in Amberton was immune to,
even while they sometimes wondered if Miss Edna
used her power to protect her daughter or only
herself.
For Bill, Edna's protectiveness had an
extra edge: there had been a time when he had wanted
to marry Diana. It was because of Diana that he had
come back to Amberton at the age of twenty-nine,
finished with school, finished with his internship, ready
to begin his practice. He had come back because he had
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been in love with Diana since they were children together.
But nothing had happened. Miss Edna, always
polite to him, never raising her voice, had seen
to that.
As far as Miss Edna was concerned, Bill Henry
was just a town boy, trying to better himself by marrying
above his station. Eventually she had convinced Diana of
it, and now, more than twenty years later, his love
had mellowed to a mixture of sympathy and pity.
"What's Miss Edna doing?" he asked now.
"She's upstairs, in her room," Diana
replied. "If she needs anything, she'll let me
know." Diana's even features were momentarily
warped by a strange grin that seemed to Bill to be
based more on fear than on amusement. "She pounds
the floor with her cane."
Charming, Bill thought, knowing he wouldn't be able
to keep the sarcasm from his voice if he spoke the
word aloud. Diana's grin faded to a wan smile.
"I've gotten used to it over the years." A thought
occurred to her: "I hope it won't frighten
Christie.""
Bill lit his pipe and waved away the cloud of
smoke that rose from the bowl. "She's likely to be
afraid of everything for a while, Diana.
Losing both parents at her age can damage a child.
You might be letting yourself in for more than you can handle.
She's probably going to have nightmares, and she's
likely to be demanding. She's going to need a lot of
attention."
"She'll get it," Diana said. She paused for a
moment, and when she spoke again, her voice had a
strength in it that Bill had never heard before.
"I want to take care of her, Bill," she said.
"I've been taken care of long enough. It's time
I stopped being my mother's dutiful daughter and had a
child of my own. And maybe I can talk Mother into having
Esperanza help out a little more." She eased
Christie's head off her lap and stood up, and
Bill, realizing that she wanted him to go, stood up,
too.
When the Wind Blows

"If you need me, call me," he said. Diana
touched his arm and nodded. "I will. But I don't think
I'll need anything. I think 111 be just fine."
As she walked Bill to the door, Esperanza
appeared from the kitchen, nodded briefly to them, and
moved on into the living room. Diana stood at the
front door until Bill had driven
away, then she, too, returned to the living room.
Esperanza was kneeling in front of the couch, stroking
Christie's forehead.
"What are you doing?" Diana asked. Esperanza
looked up at her, her brown eyes sad.
"She is dying," Esperanza said quietly.
Diana felt a surge of panic. "Dying? What
are you
talking about?"
The Mexican woman shook her head sadly. "Not
now. But soon. The children will call her, and she will
have to go."
"Stop it, Esperanza," Diana told her.
"Don't say another word."
"But it is true, Miss Diana. You know it is
true, no?"
As their eyes met, and Diana saw the great sadness
in Esperanza's face, she felt a chill.
The same chill she had felt that morning when the wind
began to blow.
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From her front room on the second floor of the
house, Edna Amber watched Bill Henry drive
away. Her body rigid, she leaned on her
cane, held firmly in both her hands, but as the
doctor's old Rambler station wagon disappeared in
a cloud of red dust, she let herself relax. Her
ears, as sharp in old age as they had been when she was
fifty years younger, listened to the sounds of the house.
For the moment there was silence.
She liked the silence, for it meant that the wind was not
blowing. The thing Edna Amber hated most about
Amberton was the wind.
Amos Amber, twenty years older than she and
used to the wind after his years in Amberton, had
assured her that she would get used to it, that the only
wind that was really bothersome was the chinook, the warm wind
that came whistling out of the Rockies several times each
winter, raising the temperature, melting the snow, and
setting people's nerves on edge. She had not gotten
used to it, not gotten used to it at all. Instead, as
the years had passed, she had learned to steel herself
against the wind, learned to watch the sky and the mountains
to the west, learned to watch for the signs that the wind was
coming. Watchfulness had not been enough.
The day Diana was born, the wind had
blown. Ever since that day, she had hated the wind,
always
associating it with the death of her husband and the birth of
her daughter.
She had considered leaving Amberton and going back
to Boston, but she had soon realized she could not.
Despite the difference in their ages, she had loved
Amos very much and had never wanted to leave him.
Besides, there was the ranch to run, and she had an
instinctive feeling that if she left, the ranch would
soon prove to be "unprofitable," and she would lose
it. The prospect of being a young widow with no estate
had not appealed to her.
And so Edna had stayed on, doing her best to maintain
the life to which she felt entitled. The people of
Amberton didn't blame her for the accident in the
mine. She, after all, had lost as much as any of the
rest of them. Over the years she had come to be called
"Miss Edna," living apart from the town in her
toolarge house, tending to her affairs with a much
stronger sense of business than she had ever expected
to possess, and being very careful never to become close
to any of the people she knew.
She had let herself become close to Amos Amber,
and he had died. She had never made the
same mistake again, nor had she let her daughter
make it. Diana, she had decided on that day her
husband died and her child was born, had only one
purpose in life.
Someday, when all else was gone, Diana would take
care of her.
All her lif e Edna had worked toward that plan.
Now, once again, it seemed as if the wind was reaching
out to destroy her. It had reached out to destroy another
child's father, and now that child was being thrust into her world.
She turned away from the window and left her room,
pausing in the wide hallway that ran the length of the
house on the second floor, to listen once more. From
downstairs there was no sound.
Edna went to the back of the house and slowly
-. n ri
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John Saul
climbed the narrow set of stairs. Once, this
staircase had been used only by the servants, but in
recent years it had barely been used at all.
On the third floor a warren of tiny rooms were
jammed beneath the rafters. Once they had been
filled with the Mexican and Indian girls who had
served the Ambers as maids in better
days-Esperanza Rodriguez had lived there with her
mother when she was a baby-but now they were nothing more than
storerooms, filled with the castoffs of the years, a
dusty breeding place for the rats that had slowly
invaded the house.
AH of them were storerooms, except one.
In the corner, facing the mountains, there was a small
room. Edna hadn't been inside it for thirty
years, but this afternoon, as the sun began sinking behind the
mountains, and the deep blue of the sky turned darker,
she opened the door to the corner room and went in.
It was a nursery.
She and Amos had decorated it together, early in her
pregnancy. She had known, somehow, that her baby was
going to be a girl, so she had done the room in
pink.
There was pink candy-striped paper on the walls, ind
the wood trim had been painted white. Over the
iwo dormer windows she had. hung white lace
curiains, which she had stitched herself. All the
furniture was still where she had placed it.
There was a rocking chair and an ornately carved
beradle, which had been Diana's first bed.
When she lad grown bigger, she had been moved into the
crib hat stood in the northern dormer, and finally,
when ihe outgrew even the crib, she had moved to a
Jaybed just inside the door.
All the toys were still there-all the dolls and baby
conoys with which Amos had filled the room before Diana
was born.
And years later when Diana had finally abandoned
When the Wind Blows

the nursery in favor of a room on the second
floor, the nursery had never been opened again.
Not until today.
Edna sank into the rocking chair and stared at the
room.
The wallpaper, once bright and pretty, had faded
years ago. The pink and white stripes, barely
visible now, were brittle and streaked with dust. The
paper was peeling away from the walls, its seams
curled back from the crumbling plaster behind it.
The curtains hung in shreds from their rods,
grayish-brown remnants of the fresh, clean
ruffles they had been fifty years before.
Cobwebs, heavy with dust, filled the corners of the
room, and beneath the crib there was a pile of
cotton batting moldering on the floor. A rat
had apparently robbed the mattress for its nest.
Edna sat in the nursery for a long time, letting her
mind drift over her life. When finally she stood
up, she had come to a decision.
The nursery was a child's room.
Now, for the moment at least, there was a child in the house
once more.
Christie Lyons, she decided, would live in the
nursery.
And, as when Diana had lived there, the nursery would
remain as she had furnished it.
Her eyes, undimmed by age, saw what they wanted
to see.
To her, the nursery was as bright and pretty as it had
ever been.
Christie, she was sure, would love it as much as
Diana had.
The dust swirled around Esperanza Rodriguez's
sandals as she walked home that afternoon, leaving rusty
stains on the hem of her long black skirt, but she
didn't notice it. Instead she looked at the
mountains,
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John Saul
When the Wind Blows

admiring the bands of color that splashed across them as
they rose from the floor of the valley. The aspens,
bright green in their early summer foliage, glistened
in the afternoon sun, garlanding the bases of the hills and
shooting up the gulches that scarred the mountainsides,
like guerrilla armies invading the dark green of the
ancient firs that had conquered the Rockies
centuries earlier. A few yards from the road
Cleft Creek gurgled in its bed, its spring
flood only recently abated, its water still icy
cold. Soon she would take [uan fishing, and the
two of them, she and her son, would be alone near the
cave where los ninos lived. They would spend a day
by themselves, away from the prying eyes of the world, away from
the knowing looks of the gringos who watched them whenever they
went to town, and then whispered to each other.
Esperanza knew what they said, and there were times when
she wondered if they were right and she had done wrong.
When Juan had been born, Theresa Whitefawn,
the midwife from Shacktown, had told her to send
Juan to live with the children in the cave, but
Esperanza had refused. To her, Juan looked
perfectly normal. His brown eyes had laughed
at her, and his tiny arms had waved in the air. If
he didn't grab her finger right iway when she put
it in his fist, it meant nothing. Dnly when he
hadn't begun talking until he was four
3id she finally face the truth.
But still the doubts lingered. He was her son, and le had
been alive when he was born, and she couldn't conend
him away. To send him away would have been a nortal
sin.
Besides, she loved Juan.
He was nearly thirty now, and if he didn't
talk very well and couldn't think very clearly, that was
all right with Esperanza. She could take care of
him, and he enjoyed helping her, as best as he could.
And he was
gentle, despite what other people said. It was just that he
never realized that he was a grown man.
Esperanza, of course, never treated him like one.
She understood, in her own way, that inside his head
he was still seven or eight years old, and she saw
no point in trying to make him be what he was not.
She bought him the comic books he loved and sat with
him hour after hour as he turned the pages and
tried to read the words. But Esperanza herself read
only a little, and for her, English did not come
easily. She preferred the Spanish of her
childhood.
Living quietly together, Esperanza and her son
earned a little money helping the Ambers. They were all
that was left of the once-large staff of the ranch.
Esperanza worked in the house two or three days a
week, and Juan rode the land with Miss Diana,
helping her mend the fence that kept the few head of
cattle from wandering away. They lived in the old
cabin by the mine, and Esperanza tried to keep an
eye out for the children who loved to sneak up the mountain
to play among the rusting mining machinery that, though long
ago overgrown with weeds, was still strewn over the
mountainside.
The stamp press was still there, a relic from a period
when Amos Amber had briefly struck a vein of
gold and had immediately invested in all the equipment he
would need to develop it. The press, and the steam engine
to run it, had barely been used before the vein had
played out, and the miners had returned to their old
duties of hauling load after load of coal out of the
hillside.
Miraculously the mine had not collapsed
during the
1910 flood-Amos Amber had always insisted that it
be constantly reinforced with strong timbers, and although
Amos had died, his timbers had held. Here and
there, however, the honeycomb of shafts was weakening now,
and there were telltale signs of the beginning of
collapse where the constantly shifting
P R
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John Saul
temperatures, the freezing and melting of ice, and the
workings of trees and animals had loosened the earth.
Sinkholes were beginning to appear.
Esperanza, in her constant wanderings of the
mountainside, was well aware of these places, and she
watched them closely.
Only a week ago she had discovered one of the
strange sinkholes not too far from the cave. Los
nifios, she was sure, were stirring. And now
Sefior Lyons had died in the mine.
Esperanza, with the wisdom of her ancestors, was
sure that the children had killed him.
She went into the cabin and found Juan lying on. the
floor, his chin propped in his hands, looking at one
of his comic books. "Juan?"
He grinned up at his mother. "Hi!" Esperanza
sat down on the floor beside Juan and gathered her
skirt close to protect herself from the drafts that
flowed up through the loose boards. She gently took
the comic book from Juan's hands and tipped his face
up so his eyes met her own. "Juan, were the children
crying today?" Juan's eyes took on a puzzled
look, and he shook his head. "No, Mama. I
didn't see any children today."
"Not the children you can see, Juan," Esperanza said.
"The other ones. The ones you can't see."
Juan frowned, then stood up. "Should I go
listen?" he asked.
Esperanza smiled at her son and reached for his hand.
"Both of us," she said in Spanish. "Both of us will
listen."
Together Esperanza and Juan went out into the
evening, but that night the full moon cast a silvery
glow over the valley, and only a soft breeze
drifted
out of the mountains to set the aspens to murmuring.
The children were silent.
When the Wind Blows

Diana Amber let Christie sleep on
the sofa until the sun had set completely. She
wandered through the first-floor rooms, turning on lights
until the whole house was illuminated. Only then
did she return to the living room and ease herself
onto her knees next to the
sofa.
"Christie?" she said softly. The little girl's
eyelids fluttered, then opened. At first Diana
saw only blankness in the little girl's eyes, but
then they slowly filled with a melancholy that tore at
Diana's heart.
"Daddy," Christie whispered. "Please-I want
my daddy."
"He's gone," Diana told her. "Try not
to think about it, sweetheart. All right?"
For a long time Christie lay still, her eyes fixed
on Diana's face, and then a single tear filled
her left eye, overflowed, and ran down her cheek.
She made no move to wipe it away, and when
Diana reached out to touch her face, she shrank
away.
Diana's hand hovered in the air for a moment, and the
softness in her eyes suddenly disappeared, to be
replaced by a flash of anger. And then, checking
herself, she dropped her hand to her side and
smiled. "Would you like something to eat?"
Christie shook her head warily, sat up, and
looked around the room as if seeing it for the first time.
"Everything's old here," she said, her voice filled
with wonder. Her eyes went from the crystal chandelier
suspended from the center of the ceiling to the ornately
carved rosewood mantel that dominated one of the
walls. She ran a hand over the horsehair
upholstery of the Victorian sofa. "It feels
funny."
"When I was a little girl," Diana said, "I used
to slide right off it. And I thought it was lumpy," she
added, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial
level. Christie poked at the sofa, then nodded.
"It is."
r-i i-i
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John Saul
"Would you like to see the rest of the house?"
Christie hesitated, then nodded silently and stood
up. Diana got to her feet, unsure where to begin.
Finally she led Christie into the parlor, where there was
another fireplace, two chairs, and an
old-fashioned square piano.
"I never saw a piano like that," Christie
said. She reached out and pressed a key. A tinny
note emerged from the antique instrument.
"It's a Bosendorfer," Diana explained.
"One of my ancestors brought it out from Boston. Do
you know how to play?"
"A little," Christie replied. "I took
lessons before we came out here."
"Well, maybe I can teach you more," Diana said.
"Did you like your lessons?"
They were fun. But I'm not very good."
"Neither am I," Diana admitted. "Maybe we
can practice together."
"Who taught you?"
"My mother," Diana said. She drifted into silence
for a moment. "But it wasn't much fun," she added.
Christie looked at her curiously. "Why not?"
Diana hesitated, then decided to change the
subject. A sudden vision had come to her in the
parlor, a vision of herself as a little girl, sitting
on the hard piano bench, her mother standing over her,
pounding out the rhythm with the cane she had already begun
carrying, demanding that Diana play the notes
exactly, criticizing the smallest mistakes,
adding hours and hours to her daily practice
sessions. She had hated the piano, and she
hadn't played in thirty years. But now she might
try it again. In retrospect the discipline had been
good for her and would be good for Christie, too. It
might, indeed, be fun. But there was no reason
to tell Christie what it had been like for her. No
reason at all.
When the Wind Blows

They wandered through the day rooms on the main floor,
and for the first time in years Diana saw her home through the
eyes of a child. She had always taken the books that lined
the walls of the library for granted, but as Christie
stared at them, then ran her fingers over the leather-bound
volumes, Diana found herself wanting to touch them,
too.
As a child, she had never been allowed in the library.
It had been her father's, and even though she had never
known her father, she had learned very early to respect his
things. Even now, as Christie took one of the
volumes from the shelves and opened it, she had an
urge to take the book from the child's hand and put it
back on the shelf. But it was, after all, only a
book, and her father had been dead for half a
century.
"Do you like to read?" she asked.
Christie nodded, turning the pages. It was a
volume of bound copies of St. Nicholas
magazine, filled with stories and drawings that
appealed to her. "Did you read these when you were little?"
"Oh, no," Diana explained. "I had my own
books, up in my nursery."
Christie cocked her head and looked up at
Diana. "You had a nursery?"
Again Diana's mind drifted toward the past. "For
years and years."
"Can I see it?" Christie asked.
Diana felt her stomach tighten, and there was a ringing
sensation in her ears. Why had she even mentioned the
nursery? She hadn't been in it herself since-since
when? She couldn't even remember, it had been so
long ago. It had to be at least thirty years.
Yes, that was how long it had been.
She had been twenty, and she had been sick. She
still vaguely remembered the illness. It had gone on
I
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John Saul
When the Wind Blows
37
for months, and for a while she had thought she was going
to die. And then one morning she woke up, and she was
no longer in the nursery.
Instead she was in a room on the second floor-the
"guest room," though she couldn't remember there ever
having been a guest. From then on, that room had been
hers. In all the years since then, she had never
gone back up to the nursery.
"I don't think so," she said, coming out of her
reverie. But Christie was no longer watching her.
She stood perfectly still, the book in her hands, her
eyes fixed on something behind Diana. Diana
turned and saw her mother standing in the library
doorway.
"What are you doingp" Edna asked, her voice
crackling with anger. "What is that child doing with one of
your father's books?"
"Mama," Diana breathed. "I-I thought you were
upstairs."
"What has that to do with it?" Edna's icy blue
eyes raked Diana, then went to Christie. "Put
that book down!" she demanded. Instantly Christie
put the book on a table.
Diana moved close to Christie and slipped her
arm protectively around the little girl's
shoulders. "Mama, she isn't going to damage it.
She's just curious."
Edna ignored her, her baleful gaze fixed on
Christie. For the first time she analyzed the odd
resemblance between her daughter and the child. The soft blue
eyes, the blond hair, the pale complexion. She
had to admit that Christie Lyons was a pretty little
thing. But the way Diana had her arm around the little
girl bothered Edna.
Possessive.
It struck her that Diana was already being possessive
about the child.
"Small for her age, isn't she?" Edna observed
at last.
"Mama, she's only nine-was Diana began, but
Edna cut her off.
"Most nine-year-olds are larger than that.
Except you. You were always small for your age,
too." Abruptly, as if there were nothing more to be said
about Christie, Edna changed the subject. "Are you
going to fix dinner?"
"Yes, Mama," Diana said meekly. "As
soon as I take Christie upstairs and get her
settled in my room."
"No," Edna said. Then, before Diana could
ask
what she meant, she explained herself. "Until I
decide
what's to be done with her, she'll stay in the
nursery."
Edna turned and walked out of the library. At her
side Diana could feel Christie trembling.
And, she realized, she was trembling, too. Her
mother's words echoed in her mind: Until I decide
what's to be done with her. Her mother was going to take
Christie away from her.
She couldn't let that happen. No one would ever take
Christie away from her. Never.
sbbhsswwsw-
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""w*"**ww8w"""
r*blegrter-than 7rter-than 7rter-than
#*#*less-than #**"
The one problem with a restored house, Joyce
Crowley decided as she wrestled with her
wood-electric stove, was that you had to put up with a
lot of inconveniences. The wood-electric itself had
been something of a compromise. Her house, built in
1870, had certainly had no provisions for
electricity. Or plumbing either, for that
matter.
When she and Matt had bought the place ten years
earlier, it had been a crumbling wreck. Its
only saving grace had been its price. The
restoration of Amberton had barely begun then, and
no one, except Joyce Crowley, had been the
least bit interested in taking over the two-story
hulk that sat across the street from the Methodist
Church. The house itself was sturdy enough, though the roof
had rotted badly. It was one of the few houses in
town that had been built of sandstone blocks, but its
featureless form was distinctly utilitarian. Two
rows of four windows each faced the street, topped
by an uninterestingly peaked roof. The front door was
on one side, and the back door on the other, and at
the rear of the house there was nothing. It was,
basically, a square box with a lid on it, but at
ten thousand dollars she had felt it was a deal they
couldn't pass up. And now, after ten years of hard
work, even Matt had to agree she was right. They had
scraped away the layers of paint from both the
exterior and the interior, reroofed, replumbed, and
rewired it, then painted it white with what few fea-
When the Wind Blows
39
tures of interest it had-mostly fancy stonework at
the corners and scallop work under the eaves-cheered up
with reds and olives. Now, sitting only a couple
of blocks from the center of town, it was a landmark, and
all summer long Joyce took a quiet pride
in the number of tourists who stopped to stare at the
house, read the plaque describing its history, which
she had installed by the gate, then stepped across the
street to photograph it. Only Jane
Berkey's pink, white, lavender, and purple
Easter egg of a Victorian attracted more
attention, and Joyce took a certain
not-quitemalicious satisfaction in the fact that
while Mrs. Berkey had had professional help
with her house, she and Matt had relied on no one
but themselves for their own restoration.
Still, it would have been nice to have had a new stove
instead of the wood-electric that had been rescued from
the dump. But in Amberton it was a matter of
pride to have your restoration as accurate as possible,
excluding such details as outhouses, so Joyce
cheerfully made do.
As she tested the meat pie her thoughts turned to her
husband. Matt had been gone all afternoon.
She knew he was terribly upset over the
accident- not only had he held Elliot Lyons
in high regard, but Matt was one of those in town who
hoped that the mine could be reopened and once again
provide a flow of wealth into Amberton.
To Joyce, the mine represented only a source of
pain. Her grandfather had died in the 1910 accident,
and her grandmother had never recovered from it. In
Joyce's view, the mine had never been as good for
Amberton as her husband liked to think. For years
Amberton had been dependent on the mine, and when it
had closed, the town had gone into shock and poverty that
had lasted half a century. Only now was
Amberton beginning to become hopeful again. And it had
nothing to do with the mine.

John Saul
When the Wind Blows

Instead it had to do with the restoration. To Joyce's
nind, the restoration was constructive-it was safe, md
it didn't pollute the environment. She had
silently Ireaded the return of the mine and the black
cloud hat would hang over the valley-a cloud
composed greater-than artly of coal dust and partly of
fear that someday, my day, disaster would strike
again. Though Joyce vas sincerely sorry that
Elliot Lyons had died, there vas a part of her
that felt relieved. Now the mine opjrations would
stop. At least no one else would die.
The back door opened, and Matt came in, his
face treaked with sweat and black dust, his
expression p Plus-or-more. more.
"Well, it's done," he said. He opened the
refrigeraccor, which had been built into the space
once occuried by an icebox, with its antique
facade retained, md pulled out a Coors. "A
damn shame, that's what it so." He flipped the
top off the bottle and pulled at it leeply as
Jeff, ten years old and as darkly handsome is his
father, slipped into the kitchen.
"What's a damn shame?" the little boy asked.
"What happened today," Matt said. "And don't
say damn.""
"You say it," Jeff fretted.
"My father used to tell me to do what he said and lot
what he did. I'm telling you the same thing. Get
t?" Behind his grim expression there was a gleam in
lis eye that let Jeff know he was in no serious
trouale. He grinned at his father.
"The hell you say," he said in perfect
imitation of tfatt.
"Jeff!" Joyce did her best to make her
voice severe, jut failed. She pointed to the
drawer in which she cept the silverware. "Set the
table while your father irinks his beer, okay?"
"Aw . . ." Jeff complained, but not loudly enough jo
that his father would have to scold him. He icooped up some
silver and began setting the table.
"I suppose they'll give up on the mine now,"
Joyce said carefully as she began mashing some
potatoes.
Matt swished some beer around in his mouth, then
swallowed it. "Don't know. Don't know what
happened to Elliot yet."
"Maybe the water babies got him," Jeff
suggested.
Joyce stared at her son. "Water babies?" she
echoed. "What on earth are you talking about?"
"You know," Jeff said, his voice filled with the scom
children reserve only for the ignorance of their parents.
"They wait up in the mountains, and they eat people." His
face turned thoughtful and he frowned. "But I
guess it couldn't have been them, 'cause Eddie
says they only eat children."
"Eddie Whitefawn?" Joyce asked.
'Is that who told you?"
"Unh-hunh. And he knows, too. His grandmother
told him. She told him when Indian kids die,
they go up in the mountains and wait for other kids.
Then the dead ones kill the live ones."
Joyce shuddered, and Matt set his beer down. It
was the same story he'd heard when he was a boy,
with a few variations-the legend of a cave somewhere in the
mountains where the Indians were supposed to have buried
their stillborn. But how could he explain it? He
decided not to try. Instead he reached out to take his
son's arm. Jeff tried to pull away from him, but
Mart's grip was like a gentle vise.
"Now, you listen to me, young man," he said. "There's
no such thing as water babies, whatever they are.
There's nothing in the mountains that eats people-nothing at
all."
Jeff looked at his father suspiciously, then zeroed
in on the weakest point. "If you don't know what
they are," he said, now do you know there's no such
tiling?"
Matt sighed and stood up. Children, he decided, were
endlessly baffling. In the exuberance of youth
T r tilde tilde less-than
John Saul
When the Wind Blows

he had thought it would be fun to have six, but Jeff, with
his unending questions and constant mischief, was as good as
six rolled into one. Now, as this tiny fraction of his
intentions stared belligerently up at him, he
shrugged helplessly.
Tin gonna take a shower, honey," he said.
"Think you can get me off the hook with our little genius
here?" Without waiting for an answer, he left the
kitchen. By the time he'd reached the foot of the stairs,
he'd stripped off his shirt and was yanking at his
belt. The strain of the day had exhausted him, and now,
as he climbed to the second floor, he began
laughing almost hysterically.
And yet there was nothing to laugh about. He could not
erase from his mind the sight of Elliot Lyons's
body, barely recognizable at the bottom of the
main shaft, a bloody pulp loosely encased in
a sport shirt and khaki pants, lying in the muck
on the floor of the mine. It was nearly
incomprehensible to him that it had happened. Over and
over as they had worked together, Elliot had insisted
to him that under no circumstances should he ever work in the
mine alone. Too many things could go wrong.
And yet, today, Elliot had apparently gone to the
mine by himself.
And something had happened.
Matt chuckled hollowly. Who knows, he thought.
Maybe the water babies did get him.
In the Idtchen, Jeff listened patiently as his mother
tried to explain to him that he mustn't take too
seriously the endless bits of Indian lore that
Eddie Whitefawn's grandmother was constantly dispensing.
"What she says isn't any closer to the truth
than the fire and brimstone Reverend Jennings
preaches," Joyce said. In fact, she
privately placed a lot more faith in Eddie's
grandmother than she did in Jerome Jennings, but she
realized that that might be due only to her liking for
Eddie and her dislike of little Jay-Jay
Jennings. Still, when it came to parental wisdom, she
tried to do her best by Jeff, and fair was fair.
"You have to remember that the only things you can believe in
are the things you can prove. Now, have you, or Eddie,
or his grandmother ever seen one of these water babies?"
"No," Jeff reluctantly admitted. He had
a feeling his mother was working up to one of her lectures,
so he decided to get her talking about something else.
"So if there aren't any water babies,
what happened to Christie's dad?"
"I don't know," Joyce told him. "It was an
accident."
"But Dad says Mr. Lyons was real careful,"
Jeff protested. "He says Mr. Lyons was the
carefulest man he ever met."
"Most careful," Joyce automatically
corrected him. "There's no such word as
'carefulest.""
"Aw, Mom," Jeff groaned. "You know what I
meant! I'm gonna go up and ask Dad."
"You'll do no such doing! You'll stay right here and
finish setting the table. And during dinner you won't
mention one word about the mine, or Mr. Lyons, or
anything else that might upset your father. Do you
understand?"
Jeff nodded and decided he'd just have to wait. After
dinner, he'd go out and find Steve Penrose and
Eddie Whitefawn, and the three of them would figure
out what had happened-even if they had to go up to the
mine and look around.
Edna Amber sat in the small parlor, a fire
blazing at her feet even though the evening was warm.
An hour ago Dan Gurley, the Amberton
marshal, had called to tell her that he and
Dr. Henry were coming out to talk to her. And Diana.
Ever since the call, she had been sitting there, her
lips compressed into a tight line, her bright blue
eyes reflecting the firelight. Peo-
"i r tilde
John Saul
pie were going to be coming into her house-people she didn't
like-asking her questions, asking Diana questions, prying
into their affairs.
Of course, it was all Diana's fault. It had
been Diana who had insisted that Elliot Lyons
be hired to supervise the revitalization of the mine.
Edna had known it was wrong, known from the start that they
should have gotten someone from the East, someone who was
competent. But she had given in and let Diana have
her way. And now a man was dead.
She remained rigidly seated when the knock at the
door finally came. If people wanted to see her, they
would have to come to her; she wouldn't make so much as a
move toward them. She was, after all, an Amber.
She continued to sit, waiting, as Diana opened the
door, then led the marshal and the doctor into the small
parlor, where there were, conspicuously, not enough chairs
for them to be seated.
"Good evening, Miss Edna," Dan said.
He stood uneasily in the doorway, wondering if
he should suggest they move to the living room.
"Daniel,"" Edna said. For the moment she
ignored Dr. Henry.
Dan Gurley took a deep breath, then stepped
into the room. Uninvited, he lowered his bulk into the
empty chair beside Edna and gave her his wannest
smile. Her stare remained icy.
"I'm afraid you're going to have to put up with a bit
of inconvenience, ma'am," he said. "What with Mr.
Lyons being dead."
Edna's eyes glittered. "If he fell down the
mine shaft, he could hardly be alive," she
snapped. "I know what happened, Daniel. You
told me earlier, in case you've forgotten. What
I want to know is why it happened."
"Well, now, that's exactly why we're here,"
Dan said, affecting a drawl he seldom used
except for tourists. "I'm afraid we don't
rightly know what hap-
When the Wind Blows less-than Plus-or-more.
j
pened. In fact, we were hoping perhaps you and Miss
Diana might be able to shed some light."
"Us?" Diana asked. She leaned against the
piano, and her fingers unconsciously played with the
buttons that rose in a neat row up the front of
her blouse nearly to her chin. "What could we tell
you?"
"We can't tell him anything, of course," Edna
said. She turned to Dan. "Really, Daniel, I
find this very annoying. What is the point?" She
paused, then frowned. "You aren't suggesting that what
happened to Elliot Lyons was anything more than an
accident, are you?"
"I'm not suggesting anything," Dan said. "All
I'm trying to do is find out what happened. When I
got up there today, the lights were on, and the elevator
was running. It was at the top of the shaft, and there
wasn't anything wrong with it. Given the-was He
paused, wondering how to phrase it most
delicately, then decided to ignore the Amber
women's nerves. "Given the length of the fall, there
wasn't enough left of Lyons for Bill to examine.
Now, all I want to know from you is if anyone
else was up there this morning, besides Elliot
Lyons."
"At the mine?" Diana asked. "Why would there be?
You mean you think someone might have pushed Elliot?"
"I don't know," Dan answered.
"He means he doesn't know what happened,"
Bill put in. "It seems to both of us that
Lyons wasn't the kind of man to stumble into a mine
shaft. All Dan's doing is trying to figure it
out."
For the first time Edna Amber gazed directly at
Bill, and her eyes held even less warmth in them
for him than they'd had for Dan Gurley. "And you,"
she said. "Why are you here?"
"I came to see Christie," Bill said. "I
thought I ought to have a look at her, to see if she's
all right.
F*
John Saul
When the Wind Blows

She's been through a lot today. Even you must realize
that."
Edna's knuckles tightened on the head of her
cane. For a moment Bill thought she was going to rise
to her feet, but she only nodded toward Diana.
"Bring Christie down," she said. Diana started from
the room, and Bill nut a hand on her arm.
"It's all right," he said quickly. "I can go up.
Is she in bed?"
Before Diana could answer, Edna's voice filled
the room.
"Diana will bring, the child down" she insisted. Bill,
his anger rising as he stared at the old woman,
opened his mouth to speak, but before he could find the right
words, Diana put a hand on his.
"It will be better, Bill," she whispered. "I
won't be a minute." Not giving him time to protest
again, she hurried toward the stairs. A moment later
she disappeared into the upper reaches of the house. While
he waited for her to bring Christie down, Bill
turned back to Edna.
"I suppose you're feeling a bit put out by all
of this," he said, his voice hard.
Edna's chin quivered with anger. "I've never liked
you, young man-was she began, but Bill cut her off.
"How you feel about me is of no consequence right now,
Miss Edna. There is a little girl upstairs who
has just lost her only parent. In fact, it was
only luck that she wasn't with him today. Now, there
are some things that have to be done, and some questions that have to be
answered. The mine is on your property, and
Christie Lyons is staying in your house."
Without saying a word, Edna Amber rose from her
chair, her cane quivering in her grip, and
left the room. Bill and Dan remained silent,
listening to her mount the stairs, then start down the
hall. The thumping of the cane stopped momentarily,
then began again as she continued on to the back of the
house.
Only when they heard the sound of her bedroom door
closing did either of them speak.
"Kind of hard on her, weren't you?" Dan asked
mildly.
"You don't know her the way I do." Bill's
voice was bitter. "I can't say I've ever liked
her, and I think the way she treats Diana is
inexcusable. Diana's so gentle, but Miss Edna
only sees it as weakness. And do you know what
happens when Diana shows any kind of emotion?
Miss Edna starts talking about how she's
'excitable," as if it were some kind of disease."
"Oh, now, it isn't all that bad," Dan put
in, but Bill brushed his comment aside.
"Isn't it? Sometimes I think it's a lot
worse. Sometimes I think that old woman is
crazy." Then, as he heard Diana coming down the
stairs, he made himself calm down. He rose
to his feet as Diana came into the little parlor,
carrying Christie in her arms.
Christie, her eyes wide and fearful, stared at the
two men and her arms tightened around Diana's
neck.
"Christie?" Bill asked. "Can't you walk?"
Christie glanced uncertainly at Diana, then
shrugged. Bill reached out to take her from Diana's
arms, and for a moment she seemed to resist. Then she
let go of Diana and let him lower her to the floor.
"Til take her into the living room, okay?" he
asked.
Diana nodded, and smiled at Christie. "Now, you
remember what I told you, all right?"
Christie said nothing, but as Bill led her from the
room, her eyes never left Diana. When they were
gone, Diana gave her attention to Dan
Gurley.
"I can't believe it," she said, sighing heavily.
"I-I feel like I killed him myself."
She lowered herself into the chair that had only recently
been occupied by her mother and stared into the flickering
flames on the hearth.
"Do you know what it's like to be an Amber here,
Dan?" she asked suddenly.
r"less-than
John Saul
When the Wind Blows

Dan Gurley was sixteen years younger than
Diana, and had known her all his life, though only
at a distance. To his knowledge, no one was close to the
Ambers. Now he felt he was about to hear things that
he was sure were none of his business and had nothing to do
with Elliot Lyons at all.
"I'm sure it can't always be easy, Miss
Diana," he said quickly. Her eyes met his,
and for the first time he saw the vulnerability that Bill
Henry had told him was there.
"I don't have many friends," Diana said softly.
"You know, in some ways, I think Elliot Lyons
was about the only friend I had. I used to go up to the
mine sometimes and talk to him. Just talk to him."
"You have lots of friends. . . ." Dan protested.
"No, I don't, Dan," Diana said, her
voice suddenly free of the pathos that had been in it
a moment before. "I'm an Amber, and in Amberton
the Ambers have no friends." She stood up suddenly and
smiled. "Well, now maybe it will be different,"
she said. "You know, they say it's an ill wind that
blows nobody good? Well, this may sound like a
terrible thing to say, but even though what's
happened is tragic, it may prove to be good for
me." Her voice dropped, and when she spoke again,
Dan attributed what she was saying to the strain of the
day. Surely she couldn't be serious. "I've
decided I want to adopt Christie. I've always
wanted to have a child, and adopting her seems like the least
I can do for Elliot. After all, it was my idea that
he come here."
"Your idea?" Dan asked. "How did you know
him?"
"I didn't. But when mother began making inquiries
about hiring a mining engineer, I looked at all the
material we were sent. Mother wanted to hire one of the
men from Boston-she's one of those people who thinks
civilization begins and ends in Boston-but I liked
what Elliot had to say." Diana's fingers
fluttered nervously at her throat. "I suppose
I wanted him be-
cause he was young. It seemed to me that if the mine were
really going to be opened again, it should be by someone young,
who knew all the most modern techniques. So I
begged mother to hire Elliot, and she gave in. And
now he's dead. I just can't help but feel
responsible."
Bill Henry had appeared at the door in
time to hear the last. He crossed the room and placed
his hand on Diana's shoulder. "You didn't kill
him, Diana. Whatever happened, it wasn't your
fault. You weren't even there."
Diana looked up at him, her eyes beseeching.
"Does that matter?" she asked. "Does that really
matter?"
Feeling suddenly uncomfortable, Dan Gurley
stood up and cleared his throat. "I-if you'll
excuse me, I'd better get on up and talk
to Esperanza and Juan.
Bill... r
"Unless you need me, I'll stick around here for a
while. Why don't you stop back after you've talked
to them?"
"Sure," Gurley replied. He put his hat
on his head, then impulsively leaned over and
kissed Diana Amber's cheek. "I'm sorry,
Miss Diana," he murmured. "I really am."
Diana patted his hand and nodded. "I know, Dan,"
she replied. Then she smiled weakly. "I'm
sorry Mother was so awful to you."
Dan shrugged and managed a faint grin. 'It's
nothing unusual. As long as us peons stay in our
place, she's not too bad."
Diana laughed brittlely. "Thanks for putting
up with her. I know it isn't always easy." Then:
"If anybody knows, I do." She walked to the
front door with Dan, then waited until he was
gone before she closed the door and returned to the
parlor. She sat down and for a moment studied the
fire.
"Did you look at Christie?" she asked at
last, though her mind seemed to be on something else.
f
n
John Saul
When the Wind Blows

"She's fine, all things considered," Bill
assured her.
Once more silence fell over them, and then Diana
shifted in the chair and met Bill's eyes.
"I'm going to need some help," she said.
"Anything. You know that."
"Elliot Lyons had no family. His parents
died years ago."
"What about brothers and sisters?"
Diana shook her head. "I don't think he or
his wife had any. From what he said, I
gathered he and Christie were alone."
"Then what happens to Christie?" Bill asked.
"I'm thinking of adopting her." She held up a
hand to prevent Bill from saying anything, and plunged
on. "Bill, I've been thinking about it all afternoon,
and it just seems to me like the right thing to do. I just-was
She broke off as she realized that Edna was standing at
the parlor door. "Mother. I didn't hear you come
down."
"No, I don't suppose you did," Edna said.
"But I heard you. I heard you saying that you're going
to adopt that child."
"I-I'm just thinking about it, Mother," Diana said
nervously. "I mean, she doesn't have any place
to
gbbless-than
"Is that any of our concern, Diana?" Edna
asked. Diana's eyes widened in dismay.
"Mother, he was my friend. It's the least I can do
to take his daughter in!"
"Is it," Edna remarked. "Well, we'll talk
about it later, between ourselves." She turned to Bill
Henry. "I suppose you have several things to attend
to, don't you, Doctor." It was a dismissal, and
Bill decided not to challenge it. Diana
had had enough for one day, without having to referee a
battle between her mother and himself. He got hastily
to his feet and picked up his bag.
"You know how to reach me," he told Diana as she
walked him to the door. "If you need me, call.
For anything."
"I will," Diana promised him. They were both on
the porch, and at the same time both of them
remembered. Bill had no car. "Do you want to come
back in?" Diana asked. Bill glanced back
at the front door, then shook his head.
"If s a nice night, and I can use the walk,"
he said. He gave Diana a quick kiss, then
hurried down the steps and started along the driveway
toward the road. Diana watched him go, then turned
back to the house to face her mother.
Edna wasted no time in coming to the point.
"You will not adopt that child, Diana," she said.
"I'll do what I have to do, Mother," Diana
replied, her tone as cold as Edna's.
Edna stood up, so her eyes were level with her
daughter's. "Are you defying me, Diana?" she
asked.
Diana met the old woman's gaze steadily.
"Yes," she said at last. "For once
I'm defying you." Then she turned and walked from the
room. Edna stood rigidly in front of the fire
as Diana went to the living room, woke Christie
up, then led her upstairs. A few minutes later
when the old woman, her bones weary with age,
climbed the stairs herself, Diana's door was
closed.
Edna paused for a moment and considered knocking on her
daughter's door. Then she changed her mind and went
on to her own room.
As she carefully lowered herself into bed she thought of the
nursery upstairs.
The nursery that had been empty so long.
She had made a mistake. It should have stayed
empty.
-i r tilde
n! I n

P*****1*caret
It was almost eleven when Jeff Crowley slipped out
of bed, pulled on his clothes, and opened the window of
his room. He scrambled over the sill, suspended
himself from the ledge for a second, then dropped to the
ground. He waited, listening, then crept around to the
side of the house, got his bicycle, and,
pedaling as hard as he could, rode the half-mile out
to Shacktown. Steve Penrose and Eddie
Whitefawn were waiting for him.
"Where you been?" Steve asked him. Steve was a
year older than Jeff, and it had been his idea
to wait until their parents had gone to bed before sneaking
out to the mine. That way, Steve explained, they
weren't so likely to get caught. Now, not waiting
for Jeff to answer his question, Steve mounted his bike,
with Eddie riding double, and the three of them started out of
town.
As they passed the Ambers' they looked up at the
house and saw that one light was still glowing on the
second floor.
"I bet it's Miss Edna," Steve whispered in
the darkness. "Someone told me she never goes
to sleep."
They went on by, neither of the other boys questioning
Steve's words, pedaling hard as they climbed the
grade that led toward the mine.
"We better leave our bikes here," Steve told
them. The three boys dismounted and pushed the bicycles
under a patch of scrub juniper, then began walking
up the road. Soon they were at the foot of the mine
tailings, and they left the road to scramble
up the slag heap.
As they climbed, the wind began to blow.
Suddenly Jeff stopped.
"Do you hear something?" he asked. The other two
boys listened intently. From above them a sound was
barely audible, like faraway voices muttering
softly.
"It's the water babies," Eddie Whitefawn
whispered. "Let's get out of here." He started
to turn around, but a movement at the foot of the
tailings stopped him. "There's something down there."
He pointed, and Jeff and Steve peered into the
darkness.
Below them, silhouetted in the moonlight, a shape was
moving up the slag heap toward them.
Jeff's heart began to pound and he suddenly wished
he'd stayed home. With the other two boys he
shrank to the ground. "What'Il we do?" he asked,
his voice quavering.
"Stay still," Steve whispered. Though he was as
frightened as the other two, he was determined not to show it.
The wind picked up, and the strange noises grew
louder.
"They're coming," Eddie whimpered. "I want to go
home."
The dark shadow beneath them, coming steadily closer,
advanced through the blackness.
"Let's run for it," Steve said.
"Run where?"
Steve pointed off to the left. "That way. Back
to the road, then down to our bikes."
They huddled together, wishing there was some* thing else
to do. But as the wind blew ever stronger the moaning
noises seemed louder, and the shadow, still moving toward
them, seemed to grow.
"Let's go!" Steve yelled. The three of them
bolted, slipping and skidding across the loose rubble that
John Saul
When the Wind Blows

made up the slag heap. The wind snatched at them,
and down the slope they could see the shape veering off,
moving parallel to them. Then they were on the road and
pounding down the hilLike They dashed by the hulking
object just as it, too, reached the road.
An arm reached out, and a hand closed around Jeff
Crowley's arm.
He squealed in fright and tried to wriggle loose, but
couldn't. Then he heard a voice, close to his
ear.
"You guys playing?"
Jeff stopped struggling and yelled to Steve and
Eddie, who had paused a few yards down the
road, unsure what to do.
"It's Juan," Jeff called. "It's only
old Juan."
Sheepishly Eddie and Steve came back up the
road and stood staring at Juan Rodriguez. His
face, smiling happily in the moonlight, beamed
at them. "You guys playing?" he repeated.
The three boys looked at each other, and it was
finally Steve who spoke. "We came out to look
for the water babies," he said. Juan nodded, though
his expression didn't change. "Now, you listen,
Juan," Steve went on. "Don't you tell
anyone you saw us, you understand?" Again Juan nodded,
and Steve, followed by Jeff and Eddie, began
backing away. "Now, don't forget," Steve said.
"Don't tell anybody!" He glanced at his
friends, then back to Juan Rodriguez. "If you
do, we'll come back and kill you!" Then he turned
and once more began running down the road, his friends at
his heels.
As he watched them go Juan Rodriguez's
smile faded from his face. He hated it when
the other children teased him.
Hated it a lot.
Unhappily he turned and started back toward the
cabin, listening to the voices of the children as he
walked. Not the voices of the children he had just talked
to, but the other children, the children his mother told him about.
The dead children. It was the sound of their voices that had
lured him into the night while his mother slept.
The dead children, it seemed to Juan, Weed him better
than the live ones. The dead ones talked to him and
never ran away from him.
Sometimes he wished all the children were dead.
Diana Amber awoke and glanced at the clock
by her bedside. It was three in the morning, and she
lay still for a moment, listening to the wind.
It had come up sometime while she slept, and now it
moaned in the night air, its dry, tingling heat
stifling her. Close by, Diana felt Christie
Lyons stir in her sleep, then roll over.
She slipped an arm around the child and drew her
closer, cradling the child's head against her breast. She
drew comfort from the presence of the little girl;
Christie's body, in contact with her own, somehow
made her feel complete.
She closed her eyes and tried to go back
to sleep, but the wind forbade it. And in the back of
her mind, something was nagging at her.
Her mother.
Her mother wouldn't approve of Christie's sleeping
with her. She had promised Edna that even tonight
Christie would be in the nursery. She had made up
the bed in the nursery that afternoon, but when she had led the
sleepy child upstairs, she hadn't been able to leave
her alone.
Not on her first night in the house.
Instead she had brought her to her own room and slipped
the little girl into her own bed. But what if her mother
awoke in the night, and began prowling
PR1""
John Saul
through the house? Reluctantly Diana got out of
bed, slipped into a robe, then leaned down to pick
up the sleeping child.
As she was lifted from the bed Christie's arms curled
instinctively around Diana's neck, and she
murmured something into Diana's ear.
Mama? Had she called her Mama?
"I'm here, sweetheart," Diana whispered.
"Mama's here." She left her bedroom and
silently moved down the hall to the back
stairs, then up to the third floor. In the nursery,
the bed, already turned back, lay bathed in
moonlight, but to Diana it looked far too large
for Christie. She hesitated, then carried
Christie across the room and lowered her into the crib.
Chris caret tie, only vaguely aware of what
was happening, curled herself up within the confines of the
small space. Then Diana went to the bed,
stripped the top sheet from it, and tucked it around
Christie's small form. She studied Christie's
face for a time, envying the peace she saw in it, then
left the nursery, quietly locking the door behind
her.
In her own room Diana's bed suddenly seemed
enormous to her, and lonely. She thought of Christie,
sleeping alone on the floor above.
What if she woke up?
Wouldn't it be terrifying for her? But as the wind
rattled the old house, Diana remembered when she
had been a child, and how much she'd loved the nursery.
Though its pink and white cheeriness had never brought her
peace, she had liked the fact that it was high up,
away from the rest of the house. Sometimes she had felt
almost safe, tucked snugly up under the eaves.
But there had been other times, too.
She put the memories out of her head, turned
over, and buried her face in her pillow.
She couldn't remember. She wouldn't remember. It
was all so long ago, and the memories were dim, and
When the Wind Blows

she would leave them where they were, undisturbed,
forgotten.
Except, she knew, they weren't really forgotten.
Just put away to be taken out some other time. But not
now.
In her own room Edna Amber also lay awake,
listening to the wind and the creaking of the stairs. Diana,
she knew, was trying to deceive her, but it wouldn't work.
Diana had always tried to deceive her, ever since she was
a baby, but it had never worked. Tonight was no different
from any other night.
An hour ago, unable to sleep, she'd gotten up
and gone to the nursery. It had been empty, and she'd
known immediately that Diana had taken the child to her own
room. She'd crept to Diana's door and
listened. Even through the heavy oak she'd been able
to hear them breathing, Diana's breath rasping, that of the
child smooth and even. As she'd listened, her heart had
pounded, and fury had raged through her veins.
The child was going to take Diana away from her.
Already it was happening.
Diana, her Diana, was already pretending that the child was
her own.
For tonight she had decided to do nothing about it.
But tomorrow she would think, and soon she would know what to do.
Diana, of course, would have to be punished. All
her life Diana had needed punishment. But what
about the child?
Christie's aching body woke her the next morning.
She tried to stretch, but the confines of the crib wouldn't
allow it. Her eyes opened and for a moment she wasn't
sure where she was.
Above her paint was flaking from the ceiling, and the sky was
obscured by the dirt on the window a few inches from
her face. She moved stiffly, sitting up.
conp pi n p
n n r
m
John Saul
What was she doing in a crib? And where was she?
This wasn't her room. Her room was brightly
painted, and yellow and blue, and it was decorated with
her collection of Pooh animals. Slowly it
all came back to her. Yesterday.
Her father had died yesterday. She was at the
Ambers", in the nursery. She remembered it
only dimly from the day before, and now, in the bright light
of morning, she stared at its peeling paper and rotting
curtains, the dust balls drifting across the floor.
In the corner, she thought something moved, but when she
looked again, there was nothing there-only a scurrying
sound that seemed to come from inside the wall.
She looked around the room for a clock. There was
none.
She climbed out of the crib and went to the door. It was
locked.
Fear gripped her, and she started to call for her father,
but then she remembered that her father couldn't come to her.
Not now, not ever again. She began to cry, then sank
down onto the bed just inside the door and let herself
go. She sobbed loudly, her small body shaking, but
still no one came. Finally, shivering in the chill of the
morning, she pulled a blanket around herself and,
curling up once more, lay still.
Her sobbing slowly subsided, and her body began
to relax. She wanted to go back to sleep, but she
knew she couldn't.
She got out of bed and went to the window. Up the
hill, and off in the distance, she could see the
mine. She looked down. Beyond the window ledge the
roof sloped away, dropping off abruptly to the
peak overhanging the kitchen. For some reason she thought
that was sort of exciting. If she needed to, she could
get
When the Wind Blows

out. Her fear began to abate, and she looked around the
room more carefully. It looked like a baby's
room. There was a cradle, and the crib, and some stuffed
animals, and one of those things you used to change a
baby. What did they call it? She couldn't think
of the word.
Once more she rattled the door and tried to think why
it would be locked. She listened carefully, hoping
to hear Miss Diana moving around downstairs, but
all was silent. She wished she could go down, but then
decided it was just as well that she couldn't. If
Diana-she remembered vaguely that she was
supposed to call her Aunt Diana now-wasn't
up yet, she might run into Miss Edna.
She didn't like Miss Edna, and even though Miss
Edna had barely spoken to her, she knew that Miss
Edna seemed to be mad at her, but Christie
couldn't figure out why.
She sat down on the bed again and tried to decide
what to do. The best thing, she guessed, was just to wait
quietly and hope Aunt Diana came soon.
She lay down again and tried to go back to sleep, but
sleep wouldn't come. A terrible loneliness came
over her and, once more, she began to cry.
She was still crying when Diana came into the room an
hour later.
Diana touched the key gingerly. Who had locked the
door? Her mother? Had Edna come upstairs during the
night and locked Christie in, as she had locked
Diana in so many years ago? Diana's flesh
crawled as she remembered those nights when she had
lain awake, terrified by the locked door but never
daring to let herself cry.
She opened the door. Christie was sitting on the
bed, looking at her fearfully, tears streaming down
her face. The sight of the tears touched a nerve in
Diana, and she was suddenly angry.
John Saul
When the Wind Blows

"What's wrong?" she demanded. "Why aren't you in the
crib? And why are you crying? Good little girls
don't cry."
Christie shrank away from her, and Diana suddenly
reached down and grabbed her arm.
"Good girls don't cry!" she said once more. She
whirled Christie around and swatted her across the
buttocks. Christie, shocked and terrified,
shrieked and tried to wriggle free, but Diana
held her firmly by the arm. Then she sat down on
the bed and stood Christie in front of her.
"Now, listen to me," she said. "I know you're
frightened, and I know you're upset. But you have to be a
brave little girl and make me proud of you. And I
can't be proud of a little girl who cries, can I?"
Christie numbly shook her head. "Then you won't
cry anymore, will you?" Christie shook her head
no.
Finally Diana smiled at her and kissed her
gently on the cheek. "Now, I want you to get
back in your crib and wait there till I come for you.
All right?"
Still too shocked by what had happened to do more than nod
her head, Christie crossed the room and climbed
back into the crib.
"Maybe you'd better stay there all day," Diana
said. "But I'm not sick," Christie protested.
"Of course not, baby," Diana told
her, her voice reasonable but her tone relentless.
"But you're terribly tired. Let Mama take
care of you today, and you'll be better tomorrow. All right?"
Christie frowned. If she wasn't sick, why
did she have to stay in bed? And what was going on? Her
real mother had never treated her like this. Or had she?
Christie couldn't remember. It was all very confusing
and frightening, and suddenly Christie didn't want
to get up after all. All she wanted to do was go
back to sleep. . . .
Jeff Crowley woke up that morning with a sense of
excitement. He was remembering the night before, when
he and Eddie and Steve had gone up to the mine. He
knew they shouldn't have. If his parents found out, his father
might whip him. Or at least give him a long
lecture-he couldn't remember the last time his father
had actually hit him. Sometimes, in fact, he
wished his father would hit him. Then at least he wouldn't
have to feel so lousy about being a disappointment to him.
He could just take his punishment and forget about it, like
Steve Penrose did. The lectures, he
decided, were worse. Still, maybe his parents hadn't
discovered what he'd been up to last night.
Maybe Juan Rodriguez would believe
Steve's threat. Of course, they wouldn't
really kill him, but if he thought they would, maybe
he wouldn't tell.
He got out of bed, pulled on his jeans and a
T-shirt, and went into the kitchen. While he was
eating his cereal Steve Penrose appeared at the
back door.
Steve stood on the back steps, his hands shoved in
his pockets, looking uncomfortable. For a moment
Jeff was sure that something had gone wrong. He
glanced over his shoulder nervously, waiting for his mother
to move out of earshot.
"Did your mom find out what we did last night?"
he asked when he was sure he wouldn't be overheard.
"Naw," Steve replied. "Juan won't tell.
I scared him too good. I just gotta do somethin' this
morning. You want to help?"
"What is it?" Jeff asked warily.
"My mom talked to Kim's mom and Mrs.
Gillespie, and they say Kim and me and Susan
have to go out to the Ambers'."
"What for?"
"We're supposed to pick some flowers and take them
to Christie Lyons. "Cause her dad died. You
wanna go?"
Jeff turned the matter over in his mind.
He knew
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When the Wind Blows

that when someone died, you were supposed to take flowers
to their family, but he thought that was only at the
funeral. Maybe when a kid's parents died, it was
different
"Okay," he agreed. "Let me tell my
mom." He disappeared into die house and reappeared
a couple of minutes later, carrying a pair of
tennis shoes. He sat down on the back steps and
put them on. "I don't see why I have to wear
shoes," he complained. "Mom's always afraid
I'll step on a snake or something." "I know,"
Steve agreed. "My mom's the same way."
Janet Jennings, who had been known as Jay-Jay
since the day she was born, was waiting with Kim
Sandier and Susan Gillespie when the two boys
met them in front of the drugstore, and Jeff
groaned to himself. He didn't like Jay-Jay,
mostly because she had a habit of always getting him
into trouble, then blaming it on someone else.
Besides, Jay-Jay was fat, and Jeff always thought
she looked dirty.
"Why don't we just buy some flowers?" Jay-Jay
suggested. "Then we won't have to spend all day
hunting for them."
Kim, who didn't like Jay-Jay any better
than Jeff did, shot her a scornful look.
"It won't take all day. The Ambers" field
is full of them. All we have to do is pick them."
The five children started out of town, Jeff and Steve
kicking at rocks and cans, while the girls
chattered among themselves.
"How come she's staying at the Ambers'?" Susan
asked of nobody in particular.
"Because her father worked for them," Kim replied. "Where
else would she stay?"
"Well, if you ask me," Jay-Jay offered,
"anyplace would be better than out there. My mother
says Miss Edna's crazy as a loon."
"Then why'd she let you come with us?" Steve
taunted.
"Who said she knows I came?" Jay-Jay shot
back. "The only reason I'm corning is that I
want to see what that old house looks like inside.
Mom says nobody's been inside it for
years."
"Well, your mom's full of it," Jeff put
in. "Dr. Henry and Marshal Gurley were there
yesterday, and Christie's dad used to go out there all
the time."
"What do you suppose is going to happen to her?"
Steve asked.
"They'll probly make her go live with her
uncle," Kim suggested. "That's what happened
to Billy Simons."
"Mom says she doesn't have any uncles,"
Jeff said. "Mom and Dad think they'll have
to adopt her out." "I thought they only adopted
babies out." Now it was Jay-Jay's turn to be
scornful. "Anybody can be adopted out," she
told Kim. "That is," she added spitefully,
"if anybody wants them."
They turned off the road and began picking
columbine, daisies, and Queen Anne's lace,
until each of them was holding a large bouquet.
Then, cutting cross-country, they started toward the
Amber house, looming in the distance.
"What if Miss Edna answers the door?"
Susan, the shyest of the group, asked.
"She won't," Jeff assured her.
"Dad says she never does anything but sit in the
parlor and boss Miss Diana around. Anyway,
she's just an old lady."
"Well, she scares me," Susan admitted.
"She always looks like she's mad about something, and the
way she looks at you is weird. Like she wishes
you were dead, or something."
"Maybe she does," Steve teased. "Maybe
she's just waiting to catch you by yourself, then-was He
sliced his finger across his neck and hung his tongue out.
Susan glared at him.
'That's not funny, Steve Penrose," she said,
then retreated into silence as her friends all laughed.
John Saul
When the Wind Blows

Edna Amber stood at the parlor window, holding the
lace curtains back so she could watch the children's
progress across the field. They seemed to be coming
toward the house. She called out to Diana, reaching
up with her cane to punctuate her words by thumping the
ceiling.
"Diana? Diana, I want you!" She waited a
moment, and when she failed to hear Diana's
footsteps hurrying along the upstairs
corridor, thumped again. "Diana!"
A moment later Diana appeared at the door.
"I was in the kitchen, Mother."
Edna glanced at the clock standing in the corner. "It
won't be lunchtime for at least an hour."
"I was making some cookies for Christie," Diana
said hesitantly, sure of what was going to come with the
admission. Her mother didn't disappoint her.
"I don't want you getting attached to that child,"
Edna said. "She won't be here but another day or
so, and there's no sense you getting yourself all worked
up"
Diana sighed impatiently. "Mother, it's only a
batch of cookies. That's hardly what I'd call
'getting myself worked up," whatever that means."
Edna glared at her. "Don't you sass your mother,
young lady," she snapped. Then she pointed toward the
window with her cane. "You'd better take care of
them," she said. "I don't want them on the
property."
Diana went to the window and looked out. She
recognized all five of the children coming through the gate.
She knew Jeff Crowley best, though she had
spoken to each of them at one time or another. But
never before had any of them come to the house. She
hurried to the door to meet them.
They stood close together on the porch, clutching their
bouquets. Jeff Crowley, his face serious,
finally spoke.
"We came to see Christie, Miss Diana,"
he explained.
Diana's hands, hidden in the pockets of her
apron, clenched into fists, but she smiled at the children.
"Well, isn't that nice," she said.
"Is she here?" Kim asked. "Can she come out?"
Diana's smile dissolved into a frown. "She's
upstairs, sleeping," she explained. She
hesitated, then spoke again. TP-ERHAPS you could
come back another day. I'm afraid she's still
terribly upset, and I don't think she wants
to see anyone."
The children glanced at one another and finally Steve
Penrose offered Diana his bouquet. "Would you
give her these?" One by one the other children surrendered
their flowers. Then there was an uncomfortable silence.
Til take them to her as soon as she wakes up,"
Diana said at last. She smiled at the children once
more, then quickly retreated inside the house. She
leaned against the closed door for a moment, her heart
pounding. Why had they come? They hadn't been
invited. Did they really only want to visit
Christie? Or was it something else? Maybe they had
come to spy on her. She tried to dismiss the thought.
I'm just not used to children, she told herself as she went
back into the kitchen, her arms still full of the flowers the
children had brought. She stood at the sink, her nose
buried in the fragrant blossoms, then began
hunting for a vase. But as she remembered that the
flowers had been brought to Christie, she suddenly
changed her mind. She slammed the cupboard shut and
returned to the back porch. Her face set in
bitterness, she dropped the flowers in the trash.
Perhaps the children wouldn't come back again.
From her window on the third floor Christie watched
her friends retreating into the distance. She was sure they
had come to visit her, but
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When the Wind Blows

if they had, wouldn't Aunt Diana have called her?
She decided she must have been wrong: they must have been
bringing the flowers to Diana and Miss Edna.
But it was her father who had died. Why should the
flowers have been brought to someone else? She sat on
the bed and wondered what to do. Finally, in spite of
what Diana had told her, she decided to go
downstairs and find out what had happened.
She dressed quickly in the same jeans and shirt she
had been wearing the day before. It occurred to her that
maybe this afternoon Diana could take her home to get
some of her clothes.
When she was dressed, she went down the back stairs
and slipped into the kitchen. Working at the counter,
stirring a bowl of batter, she found Diana.
"Aunt Diana?"
Startled, Diana whirled around and stared at
Christie. "I thought you were staying in your room."
"I saw some kids," Christie explained.
"Jeff, and some others. I-I thought maybe they were
coming to see me."
Again Diana felt her heart begin to race, but as
she faced Christie she was careful not to let her
nervousness show. "Why would they want to do that?" she
asked.
"They're my friends," Christie said. "Didn't they
come to see me?"
Diana shook her head. "They were picking flowers in
our field, and they came to ask if it was
all right."
"But I saw them leaving, and they didn't have the
flowers anymore," Christie protested.
"Didn't they leave them?"
"Yes," Diana replied. "But I threw them
away. Miss Edna's allergic to flowers."
Christie stood still, trying to make sense of it all,
but like so much that had happened since yesterday, it
didn't make any sense.
Slowly she climbed back up to the third floor and
went into the nursery.
She spent the rest of the day sleeping fitfully and
wishing her father would come and get her.
But she was beginning to realize that no one was going to come
for her ever again.
She was all alone in the world.
conp pi r
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On the day of the funeral for Elliot Lyons,
nearly the whole town turned out, gathering together on the
small plot of land neatly enclosed by a black
wroughtiron fence, where the dead of Amberton waited
patiently for their resurrection.
It was a bright, clear morning that promised
warmth in the afternoon, and the valley, spreading away from the
village, was still a vivid green with not a hint yet
of the dusty brown that would prevail as the summer wore
on. Above Amberton the sky formed an immense
dome that seemed to dwarf the village. It was the
sort of day that made the citizens of Amberton
glad to be alive, yet at the same time managed
to remind them of their own mortality.
Now, as she stood in the shade of the willows that
huddled over the graveyard like silent mourners,
Diana Amber was glad she had not followed her
impulse to leave her coat at home. But it was more
than the morning air that was giving her a chill. She
had never liked funerals, and it seemed to her that she
had been to so many. Since she was a child her mother had
insisted that it was the duty of the Ambers to attend every
funeral, whether or not they had been close to those who
had died. Though Edna insisted that the purpose was
only to pay their respects to the dead, Diana had
always silently suspected that it was also Edna's
intent to display the flag-the Amber
flag-lest anyone suggest that the Ambers had stayed
away out of a sense of shame over the number of deaths
their own wealth had cost
Though the mine had been closed for nearly
half a century, Edna had continued her tradition
of never missing a funeral, and there were those in
Amberton who joked among themselves that the only proof
of Edna Amber's eventual death would be her
failure to be among those present at her own
funeral. Today was no exception. She stood next
to her daughter, one hand grasping Diana's arm,
while the other held the head of her ever-present
cane. On the other side of Diana, Christie
Lyons stood, her eyes fixed on the coffin resting
on planks above the open grave.
Christie's face was placid, belying the turmoil
that was inside her. More than anything right now, she
wished she were in the coffin with her father, going wherever it was
that he had gone. But that would mean she would be dead, and
sad though she was, she wasn't quite sure she
wanted to be dead. What she wanted, she guessed,
was for her father not to be dead either. She wished she could
close her eyes, pray very, very hard, and then open
her eyes and see her father standing there, telling her that
he wasn't dead after all and that everything was going to be
all right But that, she knew, wasn't going to happen.
Still, maybe if she prayed hard enough . . .
Unconsciously she squeezed Diana's hand, and
when Diana drew her closer, Christie
didn't resist She never knew what to expect from
Diana. Most of the time Diana seemed to love
her, but sometimes, for reasons Christie could never quite
understand, Diana seemed to be angry at her. She
was starting to get used to it though, and had decided that
once she learned what she was supposed to do, things
would be all right. So far, today, they had been all
right.
She pulled her eyes away from her father's coffin and
looked at the crowd that was gathering in the
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John Saul
cemetery. Most of them were strangers to her, but she
waved shyly to her few friends.
Crowded close together were Jeff Crowley, Kim
Sandier, Steve Penrose, and Jay-Jay
Jennings. As Christie waved they smiled
hesitantly at her and whispered among themselves.
The funeral began, and as Reverend Jennings talked
about her father, Christie began to cry. It was, at
last, real. Both her parents were gone now, and she
would never see them again.
Diana Amber tried to listen to the minister's words,
but as Jennings droned on in bis steady
monotone, her mind began to wander. Her eyes
drifted to Bill Henry, standing with Dan Gurley,
and for a moment their glances met. There was a warmth in
Bill's eyes that told Diana that even after all
the years that had passed since their long-ago
courtship, he still cared for her; it wasn't the love
she had once seen in his eyes, but something
else-something that made her vaguely angry. She
felt robbed of something, and she wanted it back. If
it hadn't been for her illness, she would have married
Bill, despite her mother. But now it was too
late.
She thought about that for a while, trying to remember what
had been wrong with her. It was gone; the memory of that
illness locked away with the other memories.
Sometimes, when the wind blew, she would feel the
fringes of the memories, like faraway voices calling
to her, but they never seemed to come close enough for her
to really grasp them.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the tightening of her mother's
grip on her arm, and as she shifted her attention from
Bill to the woman beside her, Diana realized that it
was as if Edna had known what she was thinking. Edna's
blue eyes blazed, and her face was drawn into an
admonitory scowl, but as soon as she had
Diana's attention her expression cleared and her
grip eased. Then both women were again listening
When the Wind Blows

to the words of Jerome Jennings as he eulogized the
life of a man he had barely known.
Across from the Ambers, Dan Gurley nudged
Bill Henry and spoke just loudly enough so only the
doctor could hear.
"Still runs the whole show, doesn't she?"
Bill nodded, feeling oddly embarrassed by the knowledge that
the marshal had witnessed what had just happened.
Diana had lived her life submitting to her mother's
domination, and it was no secret. Still, Bill wished
she would find the strength to break away from her mother.
Perhaps, he reflected, the child would do it People would do
practically anything for a child they cared about And Diana
certainly seemed to care about Christie.
Til bet Miss Edna's going to love having the
reception this afternoonea*" he heard Dan saying. The
whole town tramping through her house? Huhl"
"What makes you think ifs going to be in the house?"
Bill whispered. Then, as Dan Gurley's
expression shifted from amusement to puzzlement,
Bill began edging his way through the crowd,
intent on being at Diana's side when Reverend
Jennings eventually came to the final prayer.
As the people of Amberton moved slowly past them,
offering a few murmured words of sympathy
to Christie and uncertain smiles to the Amber women,
Diana again began to drift. A sound was coming to her,
as though from within her mind. It was a sound she had lived
withfor many years now, though it usually came to her at
night when the wind was blowing.
But today was bright and clear, and the wind was
still.
And yet the sound was there. A baby, crying out for its
mother.
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John Saul
Instinctively Diana knelt next to Christie and
took the child in her arms.
"It's all right, baby," she whispered.
"Everything's going to be all right."
Christie, who had been standing silently through the
service, looked into Diana's eyes, perplexed.
It almost seemed as if the woman were talking to someone
else.
Tm all right, Aunt Diana," she
whispered.
"But you were crying," Diana whispered back.
Christie shuddered, remembering what had happened when
Diana had found her crying in the nursery. She had
been careful not to cry since that morning. "No, I
wasn't," she insisted, stiffening in Diana's arms.
"But you were," Diana insisted. "I heard you."
And then, with her father's body being lowered into the ground,
Christie did let herself cry. This time Diana
only soothed her.
A few feet away, Bill Henry stood watching
Diana comfort the child. Her love for Christie was
apparent, and Bill wondered if perhaps her adopting
the little girl might not be the best thing that could happen,
not only for Diana, but for Christie, too.
Then his eyes locked on Miss Edna.
There she stood, both hands on her cane now, her
face a study in anger as she watched her daughter
hold the crying child. Whatever was to happen, Bill
decided, was not going to be easy. Not for Diana, and
not for Christie, either.
"It seems to me," Edna said as Diana carefully
maneuvered their ancient Cadillac out of the
cemetery, "that if they want to have a reception, they
should have Lt at the Crowleys"dis"
Diana glanced across Christie to her mother, but Edna
was staring straight ahead.
When the Wind Blows

"Well talk about it when we get home, Mother,"
she replied.
"There really isn't any point in talking about it at
all, is there? I mean, it's done, and everyone in
town is going to be there, and no one really cares what
I want, do they?" Edna began tapping the end of
her cane against the floorboards of the car.
Instead of saying anything Diana merely gunned the
engine, and the Cadillac lumbered forward, its
transmission grinding at the strain.
"You're going to ruin a perfectly good car if you're
not careful," Edna snapped. The Cadillac, a
1934 touring car, was one of the few things Edna was
willing to spend money to maintain, and it looked
brand-new, its green paint shining in the sunlight,
its top folded down, its fender-mounted spare
tires standing proudly on either side of its long
hood. For Diana, though, the car-its upkeep, and
her driving of it-was only one more source of
criticism, and she wished she could convince her mother
to trade it in for something more practical. It
was, however, one more thing she knew she would never
accomplish.
Let me get home, and let me get Christie out
of the car and let people start arriving before I go crazy,
Diana prayed. I won't respond. No
matter what she says, I won't respond. And
then everybody will be there, and for a while 111 have other people
to talk to, and afterward it will be over, and she can start on
something else.
And what she'd start on would be Christie, Diana
knew. For three days her mother had been insisting that it
was wrong for them to have Christie in the house; that sooner
or later Diana was going to have to face reality, and
reality was that the child was going to become a ward of the
state. Thus far she had not weakened in her
opposition to Diana's wish to adopt the child. Over
the years Edna had made it all too clear that she
had no use for children, that she had
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fl....H...F
John Saul
done her duty in raising Diana, and that all she
wanted in life was to be left alone with Diana
to grow old in peace. But Diana still clung to the
idea that somehow she would be allowed to keep
Christie, to raise her as her own. To have Christie
belong to her as she, Diana, had belonged to her mother.
Diana paused to let Edna out of the car, then drove
around into the garage. Christie helped her pull the
rickety sliding door closed, then followed her
through the back door into the kitchen.
"Why doesn't Miss Edna want people to come out
here?" Christie asked as Diana began helping
Esperanza Rodriguez, who had been working in the
kitchen all morning, pull a series of dishes out
of the refrigerator. As she waited for an answer
Christie stole a spoonful of potato salad and
ate a deviled egg.
"Oh, she's just tired," Diana replied. How
could she explain her mother's attitudes to a
nine-year-old? Should she say that her mother was a snob
who thought she was better than anyone else, or should
she try to explain that Edna was just getting old? But
Edna wasn't "just getting old"-she'd never wanted
anyone in the house, not, at least, anyone from
Amberton. Even today she'd drawn the lines
clearly. If Diana insisted on having a lunch
here, Edna would allow it, but it would have to be
outdoors. Even for a funeral Edna would not have her
home invaded by the townspeople.
"She doesn't like me, does she?" Christie
asked.
Diana stopped what she was doing and looked at
Christie, who was staring up at her, her pale blue
eyes large and frightened.
"caret fs not that she doesn't like you," Diana said
carefully, searching for the right words and wishing she knew
more about how to talk to a child. "If s just that she's not
used to you. It's been a long time since I was a little
girl, and she's forgotten what little girls are like."
When the Wind Blows

Christie shook her head. "She scares me," she
said. "She doesn't like me, and she scares me."
Diana sat down at the table and pulled Christie
onto her lap, while Esperanza, who was
quietly listening to their conversation, kept working. "How
does she scare you?" she asked.
"I-I'm not sure," Christie stammered. 1
guess if s the way she looks at me."
"How does she look at you?" Diana pressed.
Christie thought for a moment. When she spoke, her
voice was barely a whisper. "Like she wishes I was
dead."
Diana's breath caught, and in the depths
of her mind she again heard the haunting sound of a crying
child. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Esperanza
crossing herself.
"Nol" she said sharply. "She doesn't wish you were
dead. She doesn't wish that at all. I know it!"
She lifted Christie off her lap and stood up, as
if trying to shake off the sudden fear the child's words had
caused her. She glanced around the room, searching for
something to do, something that would make her forget
Christie's words. She could feel Esperanza's
eyes on her, and that only made her even more
nervous.
Suddenly there was a knock at the back door, and
Diana turned in confusion, her fear of a moment ago
turning into an odd sort of panic for which she knew
there was no reason. Her hands went to her hair,
smoothing it. I'm all right, she told herself.
I've got to be all right.
"Come in," she called. The door opened, and
Joyce Crowley appeared, her arms filled with a
cake box and a large brown bag.
"Hi! I thought you might need some help, and I
brought along a few things, just in case." She
stepped inside, let the door slam shut behind her,
and, never having been in the Amber house
before, looked cu-
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John Saul
riously around the big kitchen, with its enormous
range, three ovens, and walk-in refrigerator.
"God, I wish I had something like this in my house."
She set her packages on the table, then faced
Diana. Her cheerful grin faded and was replaced
by a frown. "Are you all right?" she asked. "You
look like you just saw a ghost."
"I'm fine," Diana said. 'Tired, I
guess."
Joyce nodded. "That's why I'm here-I figured
you could use some help. Where do you want all this
stuff?"
"Outside," Diana told her. As Joyce's
frown deepened she felt compelled to make some
explanation. "It's such a pretty day, and mother
thought-was
was TV-UFF said," Joyce cut in, winking at
Diana. "Whatever Lola wants, as the old song
says. Right?"
For the first time in three days the tension in
Diana broke. Though they had known each other for
years, they had never been friends, but suddenly she
felt close to Joyce. "I wish it could be
different," she said softly. "I really do. But I
guess you know how it is."
"The whole town knows, Diana," Joyce
replied, her roice gentle. "So well have the
reception outside. Who blows? It could start a
whole new tradition!" She mrned to Christie, who
was standing unobtrusively igainst the sink, and
smiled.
"Would you like to help us out?"
Christie nodded automatically, though she was still
hinldng about Miss Edna. There had been something n
Diana's voice-she wasn't sure what-that had
made ler even more frightened of the old woman. But,
try is she would, she couldn't think of what she might
lave done that would make Miss Edna hate her.
lalfheartedly she began carrying out Joyce
Crowley's nstructions.
With Christie helping, the women began taking the
elates of food out to the backyard, where a picnic
ta-
When the Wind Blows
77
ble had stood for years, unused until today. And
then the people came, and as Diana listened to them offer
Christie their condolences, she began to wish that they had
stayed away, that they had left her alone with, the little
girl she was already thinking of as her own. But she hid
her feelings and made herself smile at each of them.
Esperanza Rodriguez moved adroitly through the
crowd, listening to the gringos chatter among themselves,
doing her best to clean up the mess as fast as the
whites could make it She spoke to no one, only
nodding and smiling when she was occasionally spoken to.
She knew what they were talking about-Senor
Lyons, and how he had died. But none of them knew
the truth, and even if they had asked her,
Esperanza wouldn't have told them, for they would only
have laughed at her again.
In the clump of aspens that flourished behind the Amber
house, the children were sitting together, and Esperanza
drifted over to listen to them. Children, she had decided
years ago, had a lot more sense than their elders.
They listened to the old stories and understood that things were
not always as they seemed. One day, perhaps, she would
tell them the story of the lost children, and then they would
understand why they must not play near the mine.
But today was not the day, and Esperanza merely
listened to the children talk.
There's no such thing as water babies," Jay-Jay
Jennings was saying. "My father says that's just a
legend the dirty Indians talk about"
"They're no dirtier than you," Steve Penrose
told her. "And they're sure not as fat!"
Jay-Jay leaped to her feet, her face red and her
fists clenched. "You take that back, Steve
Penrose!"
"Make me," Steve said, grinning up at her.
Jay-Jay glared at him for a moment, then burst
into tears and
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John Saul
ran off to find her mother. "She sure is a
crybaby," Steve commented when Jay-Jay was gone.
Kim Sandier shrugged. "Who cares? I can't stand
ber." Then she looked eagerly at Jeff. "Did
you really bear them?" she asked.
"Well, we heard something? Jeff said slowly.
For the fourth time he tried to describe the strange
sounds be and Steve had heard a few nights before, but
as Christie approached he fell silent
"Hi," Christie said. Her friends looked
at each other nervously, and she wondered if they'd
been talking about her. Then Kim smiled at her.
"Are you going to live here now?" she asked.
"I don't know," Christie said uncertainly. She
sat down and picked a blade of grass. "I
guess so." Then: T wish I didn't have to,
though."
"Why not?" Susan Gillespie asked, her head
cocked in a way that was habitual with her, as if she
were never quite sure of what she was hearing. "Don't you
like it here?"
Christie wasn't quite sure what to say. Though she
was frightened a lot, she didn't want to sound
ungrateful toward Diana. Then she remembered the
things she'd heard about Miss Edna before she had gone
to live with the Ambers. "Miss Edna scares me,"
she finally admitted. "It seems like she's mad
all the time."
"She's just cranky," Jeff told her. "like
Mrs. Berkey."
"Jay-Jay thinks she's crazy," Susan put
in.
"And I think Jay-Jay's crazy," Steve said.
"Maybe we should sic the water babies on her."
All the children laughed except Christie,
who looked puzzled.
"What are water babies?" she asked. The children,
suddenly embarrassed, and wishing they hadn't talked
about what might have happened to Christie's father, fell
silent. Christie looked from one of them to the other.
When the Wind Blows

"What are water babies?" she asked again, but before
anyone could answer her, Esperanza Rodriguez
stepped into their midst, leaned down, and took
Christie's hand. Pulling the little girl to her feet,
she looked severely at the other children.
"The babies are something children should not even talk about,"
she said severely. Then she led Christie away.
The rest of the children, left alone, stared at each other
nervously. For the first time it occurred to each of them that
maybe-just maybe-the water babies might be real.
Bill Henry was the last to leave, and when he offered
to help Diana clean up, she told him it
wasn't necessary.
"Because of Edna?" he asked.
Diana nodded. "It was a nice day, and I'm
glad everyone was here, but I'm sure you noticed
Mother wasn't what you could call the life of the party."
She paused, remembering how Edna had
sat silently in the shade of the willow, nodding
curtly to anyone who spoke to her but making no
effort to make the townspeople feel welcome.
Instead her blue eyes had gazed stonily into the
distance, and she seemed to be off somewhere in her own
mind, as though she had shut out what was happening around
her.
Diana shook her head as so'ffddlodge the memory,
and when she spoke, her voice was bitter. "Wouldn't
you think she could have at least said hello to everyone?
Would it really have been so hard for her?"
"She'll never change. But she's going to have to talk
to me, at least for a few minutes. Or, anyway,
she's going to have to listen to me."
Diana met his eyes, then turned away to look
across the yard to the chicken coop, where Christie was
crouched in the dirt, watching a batch of newborn
chides scratching for gravel.
"Ifs about her, isn't it?" Diana asked, her
voice dull.
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John Saul
"Yes."
Diana turned back to Bill. Her voice was
filled with the new determination that he was not used to.
"I won't let her become a ward of the state."
"A ward of the state?" Bill repeated, puzzled.
"Mother says that's what she is, unless she has some
relatives, which she hasn't Elliot told me.
That's one of the reasons we were friendly, I think-neither
of us had any family. Except I have Mother, of
course." Her glance flickered toward the house, to the
second floor, where Bill could feel Edna standing
behind a window, watching them.
"Maybe we'd better go in and have a chat with her."
"Shouldn't Christie be there?"
Bill hesitated. "I think you and your mother ought
to decide what you want to do, first."
Diana shrugged. "Mother already knows what she wants
done. She wants Christie sent away. And I
think Christie knows it-she as much as said so."
"It might not be that easy for her," Bill said. "Not
if you've got guts."
Diana looked at him, her eyes suddenly eager.
"Bill, what are you saying? What's happened?"
"In his will, Elliot named you guardian."
Diana's eyes widened and she stepped back
slightly, her heart racing. "My
God," she breathed. Involuntarily she turned
to gaze at Christie once again. When she spoke,
her eyes remained riveted to the child and her voice was
low. "Are you sure? There's no mistake?"
"I'm sure. I've read the will-it all seems very
clear, and very legal."
"But he never said anything to me. Never even mentioned
it And he hardly knew me."
"Maybe he was afraid you'd refuse," Bill
said gently. "It's a big responsibility. And
as for not knowing you, maybe Elliot knew you better
than you think."
When the Wind Blows

At last Diana's eyes left the child, and she
faced Bill Henry once more. "Did you say it
would be a responsibility?" she asked. For the first
time in years Bill saw her face truly light
up. "Bill, having Christie for my own is the
biggest joy of my life." She turned away from
him and began walking resolutely toward
the house.
Edna Amber was waiting for them in the parlor. As
Diana came in, followed by Bill, she looked
coldly from one to the other.
"I saw you look up at my window," she said.
"I know you've been talking, and I presume it
has something to do with me."
"Not directly, Mother," Diana said.
"But indirectly?"
Diana chewed at her lower lip for a moment, then
instinctively turned to Bill for help.
"It has to do with Christie Lyons," he told
Edna. He saw the old woman stiffen. "Diana
has been appointed her guardian."
"Appointed? Appointed by whom?"
"Her father," Diana said, her voice taking on a
maliciously triumphant tone. "Bill just told
me. In his will, Elliot asked that I be named
Christie's guardian if anything happened to him."
"That's ridiculous," Edna snapped. "Why would
he
do that?"
Diana sagged into a chair like a punctured
balloon. "I-I guess he thought I was the best
one to do it," she said lamely.
"Well, he was wrong." Edna stood up, went
to her daughter, and placed her hand on Diana's
shoulder, but when she spoke, it was to Bill Henry.
"Of course, you know the very idea is
unthinkable."
"To whom?" Bill asked, not bothering to conceal the
anger he was feeling toward the old woman.
"To everyone," Edna stated as if it should be obvious.
"Diana, with a child?" She snorted her con-
conp pi n r*
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John Saul
tempt. "Impossible!" Her hand fell away from
Diana's shoulder, and she went back to her couch, as
if the matter were closed. Silence hung over the
room while Diana stared at her mother, her face
reflecting the confusion of feelings that was churning
inside her. But when she broke the silence, her
voice was filled with renewed determination.
"I'm sorry, Mother, but I'm not going to refuse
to do it."
"Then I shall simply have to refuse for you." Edna
turned to Bill Henry. "Diana cannot possibly
accept the guardianship," she said. "I want you
to notify the authorities and have them come and get
Christie. Tomorrow would be best, I think."
Bill glanced at Diana, who was now on her
feet, her fists clenched, her face pale. Before
she could speak, he went to her and put a
gently restraining hand on her arm.
"I'm afraid it's not that simple, Miss
Edna," he said. "The decision isn't yours
to make. Lyons appointed Diana Christie's
guardian, and unless she refuses, the courts will
follow his instructions."
"Against my wishes?" Edna's eyes glared
dangerously.
Bill smiled, enjoying the old woman's discomfort.
"Unless you have a compelling reason why Diana
shouldn't be made guardian, I don't think you have a
say in the matter at all. It's up to Diana."
"I see," Edna said. "Very well, Dr. Henry.
You've conold us what you had to tell us. Now, if you
don't nind, I think we'd like to discuss this between
ourielves."
Diana stood up. Her voice, though shaking
slightly, vas still strong. "There's nothing to discuss,
Mother." rhen: "Bill, will you come out with me while I
tell conhristie?"
"Wouldn't you rather do it by yourself?" Diana grinned at
him crookedly. "One thing Moth-
When the Wind Blows

er's right about-I don't know much about having
a child. But 111 learn. For right now, though, I may
need some help, and I could use your bedside
manner. Okay?"
"Sure." Suddenly he wanted to say something
to Edna Amber, something to soften her defeat, but as he
looked at her, he realized that if she were defeated,
it didn't show in her face. For a second his eyes
met those of the old woman, but he quickly broke
away from her furious gaze. He followed Diana
out of the room, pulling the door shut behind them. A
moment later there was a crash as Edna Amber vented
her rage on a crystal vase. As she heard the
shatter of glass Diana's only reaction was a
tightening in her jaws.
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When the Wind Blows

Edna Amber woke promptly at five o'clock in the
morning, as she had every morning for fifty years.
Ordinarily she would have propped herself up and
spent the next hour reading, but this morning she left
her bed immediately and laboriously climbed the stairs
to the third floor.
She paused outside the nursery, listening, then
unlocked the door and silently let herself into the
room. On the daybed, Christie lay sleeping, her
arms akimbo, her hair half hiding her face.
Edna stood over the bed, looking down into the peaceful
face. The past had come back to haunt her, and she
was suddenly afraid.
It was hard for her to believe that this tiny child had the power
to destroy her, yet she knew it was true. An
impulse seized her, an impulse to lift her
cane and smash it down into the sleeping face, to wipe
away forever the soft blue eyes that reminded her so
much of Diana when she had been the same age. But
she wouldn't let herself do it. The child, after all, had
done nothing. It was Diana who was to blame,
Diana who was insisting that they bring the child into the little world
that she had so carefully constructed for them. But in the
end it was going to be the child who suffered. One way or
another, she knew this child would leave her house.
Her lips tightening with determination, Edna
turned away from the sleeping child and returned to her own
room. An hour later, when Diana
brought a pot of coffee up to her, Edna was propped
up in her bed, a book open on her lap. She
set the book aside and smiled at her daughter.
"I suppose I ought to apologize for the vase,"
she said. Diana looked at her warily. "Oh,
don't worry- I'm not going to," the old woman
went on. "I suppose I've forgotten how, if
I ever knew. But I don't like fighting with you,
Diana. I never have."
"Then let's not fight," Diana replied.
"You know as well as I," Edna went on, as if
Diana had not spoken, "that I can't let that child stay
here. Don't you?"
Diana suddenly felt tired. It was going to start
again and go on all day. And the next day, and the next.
How long? Until she gave in? But she had always
given in to her mother. This time she wouldn't
*Tfou can't take her away from me, Mother.
Elliot gave her to me, and she's mine."
"If he'd known about you, he wouldn't have written that
will. You know that."
Diana felt panic rising in her. There was nothing
wrong with her-nothing at all. Wouldn't her mother ever
leave the past alone?
"That was years ago, Mother. It's done."
"Nothing's ever done," Edna replied. "The past
is all there is, Diana. No matter what you do,
or what you pretend, the past is there. You can't
ignore it."
"You can't ignore it, you meanl" The words burst from
her in a torrent. "You won't let me forget, you
won't let me live, you won't let me-was She
groped for the right words, then found them. Her voice,
strident a moment before, was suddenly calm. "You
won't let me grow up, Mother. You want me to be
your little girl, until the day you die. But that's the
past, Mother-your precious past. I'm not a little
girl anymore. I haven't been a little girl for
forty years. I'm a
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John Saul
woman, Mama, and there's nothing you can do about it And
now I'm going to be a mother, too. A motherjust like
you."
Diana's eyes, locked to her mother's, seemed
to issue a challenge, then she turned and left the
room. Edna, feeling suddenly drained, sagged
back against the pillows.
In the kitchen, Diana began preparing breakfast for
herself and Christie. This morning, when she had
awakened, she had decided that today was the day her life
was beginning again. The funeral was past. Christie was
hers now. This morning, she would begin establishing a
routine for the child and begin the long process of making
Christie her own.
She began preparing breakfast for Christie,
unconsciously duplicating the meals her own mother
had fed her when she was a child. She set a single
place for Christie at the table, and when the little girl
appeared a few minutes later, there was a glass of
orange juice sitting by itself in front of her
chair. Christie stared at it mutely, then looked
at Diana.
"Is that all there is?" she asked shyly.
"That's only the beginning," Diana told her. "But
it's bad for you to mix your food when you eat it.
Start with the orange juice, then you can have your eggs."
Mystified, Christie drank the orange juice.
At the bottom of the glass there was a shapeless,
colorless mass of what seemed to be some kind of
jelly. Christie stared at it in disgust.
"There's something in my glass," she finally said.
"Vaseline," Diana explained to her,
smiling across the room. "It's very good for you-it
lubricates your stomach so you won't get
indigestion."
Christie felt her gorge rising as she realized
she was expected to swallow the glutinous mass. She
stared at it for a long time, wishing it would go away.
"Do I have to?"
When the Wind Blows

Diana came to stand beside her. "It's good for you," she
repeated. "All the time I was growing up I had a
tablespoon of Vaseline before every meal. It didn't
hurt me, did it?"
Christie swallowed and reached into her glass with the
spoon. "My father never made me eat
Vaseline," she said.
"Maybe your father didn't love you as much as I
do."
Christie gazed up into Diana's face, but
Diana was still smiling at her. Yet there was something in
the set of Diana's expression that told her it would
be useless to argue. Shutting her eyes and taking a
deep breath, Christie thrust the lump of
Vaseline into her mouth.
It oozed between her teeth, a flavorless,
shapeless bit of slime that she couldn't swallow no
matter how hard she tried. Suddenly she began
gagging and ran across the kitchen to throw up her orange
juice into the sink.
When she returned to the table, Diana had another
spoonful of the stuff waiting for her.
"Don't try to chew it," Diana explained.
"Think of it as a pill." Somehow Christie
managed to swallow the second dose.
Diana began serving breakfast.
First the eggs, soft-boiled.
Then a piece of toast
Finally a bowl of cereal.
After what seemed like an eternity, Christie got
through the strange meal.
When she was finished, she washed die dishes as
Diana watched her, and listened as Diana
explained the daily chores that she would be
responsible for.
Edna Amber watched from her window as Diana and
Christie crossed the yard and let themselves into the
chicken coop. The two of them, she reflected,
looked for all the world like mother and daughter, much as she
and Diana must have looked years ago.
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John Saul
When the Wind Blows

Except that Christie wasn't Diana's
daughter. Edna turned away from the window and began
to dress.
Half an hour later she took the car keys from
thenhook by the kitchen door and went to the garage. She
tugged at the heavy sliding door and for a moment feared
that it wasn't going to open. Then, with a protesting
squeal, it began to move on its metal rollers.
Edna pushed it wide, then maneuvered herself into the
old Cadillac. She stared at the dashboard,
studying it. It had been years since she'd last
driven the car, but she told herself it was like swimming:
once you learned, you never forgot She started the
engine, pushed the gear shift into reverse, and slowly
backed out into the driveway. Out of the corner of her
eye she could see Diana, standing in the chicken yard,
staring at her.
She ignored her daughter and kept the car steadily
moving down the drive until Diana, blocked by the
mass of the house, disappeared from her view. In
front of the house, she turned the car around,
then proceeded down the long driveway. For the first time
in nearly twenty years Edna Amber was driving
herself to town.
Ten minutes later she eased the car into the noparking
zone in front of the town hall, a narrow, twostory
clapboard building with a bell tower rising from its
roof. The bell was still used to warn the town of fire and
to call the volunteers to man the engine. She left
the keys in the ignition and wondered exactly what
she was going to say to Dan Gurley.
As Edna sat in the old Cadillac the marshal
sat in his office, unsurprised that Edna Amber
had come to town today. Indeed, when he had seen her
drive up, he had smiled to himself, remembering his
conversation with Bill Henry the night before. It was the
little girl; Edna Amber, he was sure, wanted
to talk to him about Christie Lyons.
He was on his feet waiting for her when the door
to his office opened and she came in. He offered
her his
hand, but she ignored it. Instead she simply seated
herself, and for a long moment stared at him.
"I find I need your advice, Daniel," she
began.
"Anything I can do, Miss Edna,"
Gurley replied cordially, easing his large
frame back into the chair behind his desk.
"It's not an easy thing," Edna continued. "It
concerns Diana, and the little girl, Christine
Lyons."
Gurley raised his eyebrows. "Is there a
problem?"
"The problem, Daniel, is that I want Christie
taken somewhere else."
"I see." Gurley swung his chair around and stared
out the window for a moment. Then, without turning back
to face Edna, he spoke. Is it me you want
to talk to, or a lawyer?"
"When it becomes necessary to talk to a lawyer,
Daniel, I will," the old woman said tartly.
"I came to you because I thought you could help me. I
want to know how to have the child taken away from my
daughter."
Now Gurley swung around to face her again, his
usually placid expression knotted into an angry
frown. "I thought Bill Henry already explained that
to you: it's not up to you."
"Dr. Henry told me that. What I need to know
is under what circumstances it would be up to me. Can you
tell me?"
Dan shrugged. "I suppose if you wanted to try
to prove that Diana wasn't competent to raise her,
the courts might be inclined to set the will aside."
"She's not competent," Edna stated.
"Are you prepared to go to court to prove it?"
Edna sat silently for a long time, turning the question
over in her mind. She had known he would ask it, but
had put off deciding how she would answer. Now she
could put it off no longer.
"I may be," she said at last. "I don't
want to hurt m@ldaughter, Daniel, but I
feel I have to do what's right."
n! conp pi r
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John Saul
Dan Gurley felt himself getting angry at the
old woman. "Right for whom? Diana? Christie
Lyons? Yourself?"
Edna's eyes narrowed, and Dan could see her
determination hardening. Tor all of us," she said
firmly. "There are things you don't know, Daniel.
Things nobody here knows. I hope they are things I
can take to my grave with me. But if that child is
allowed to stay in my house, I can't be responsible
for what might happen."
Gurley rose from his chair and came around the desk
to stand in front of the old woman. He looked down
at her and let his face settle into its most serious
expression. "I don't know what you're trying
to say, Miss Edna, but to me it sounds almost like a
threat. If it is, let me tell you that no matter
what happens now,
111 remember your words. As for any legal action
you may be contemplating, I'd think twice, if I
were you. You'd have to sue Diana, and I should think that
any lawyer she retained would advise her to sue you
right back. You're not a young woman, Miss Edna,
and everybody in Amberton knows you're-what?" He
paused for a moment, then flung the word in her face.
"Eccentric?"
Edna Amber rose out of her chair, her eyes
blazing with fury.
"How dare you!" she demanded, but the marshal only
met her gaze with a calm he had practiced for
years.
"You came to me for advice, Miss Edna," he
said. "I'm giving it to you. I know you resent
suddenly having a child in your home. You're used
to having Diana's attention all to yourself, and now you
won't have that anymore. As far as I'm
concerned, you're welcome to try to convince Diana
to give up the child. But I wouldn't try to take it
to court, Miss Edna. Instead I'd try to get
used to tilings the way they are.
When the Wind Blows

life does not always go the way we want it to. Not
even for you."
With tension crackling between them, the marshal and the old
woman silently challenged each other. In the end it
was Dan Gurley who looked away, shifting his
attention to the bright day outside.
"It's summer, Miss Edna," he said
conversationally, as if a moment before he hadn't been
locked in wordless battle with her. "It's going to be
hot this year. Hot and dry. Folks are going to be
edgy. Seems to me like the best thing we can all do is
try to stay quiet, try to
"It's a summer like all others, Daniel," Edna
replied. "And I intended to spend it like all others.
At home, alone with my daughter. Perhaps I still
shall." She picked up her purse and left Dan
Gurlests office. He heard the door close behind
her, but remained by the window until he saw her
move slowly down the steps of the building and
climb into her car. Only when the Cadillac had
pulled away from the curb did he turn back
to his empty office.
Diana led Christie into the shed above the root
cellar. Lining the walls were sacks of food, and she
carefully began explaining to the little girl what each
of them was for, and how much of it was to be given to the
chickens each day. But even as she talked, she
wondered with half her mind where her mother had gone and
why she had gone alone.
There had been a moment of panic when she saw the
Cadillac leave the garage, but then, as Edna
proceeded steadily along the road toward
Amberton, the panic had lifted, leaving only a
vague sense of unease.
She should have felt relieved. It had been years
since her mother had gone anywhere alone, and Diana
knew that she should be happy that her mother was at last
doing something for herself. But deep inside, she
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John Saul
also knew that the reason for Edna's trip had to do with
herself. Herself and Christie.
"Do they really eat gravel?"
Christie's question interrupted her thoughts. "It's for
their gizzards," she explained. "They need the
gravel to help them digest the seed they eat"
"Yuck." Christie's face creased in disgust.
She looked at the various bags, sure she would
never remember what all of it was. What if she
fed the chickens the wrong food? Would Diana be
angry with her? She'd have to be very careful not to make
a mistake. But what if she did? The question nagged
at her, worried her. Life was so different now.
Everything was new, and there was so much she didn't
understand. "Can't we go see the horses now?" she
begged. She understood horses and liked them a lot
better than chickens.
Diana nodded and began securing the latch on the shed
door. "Always be sure this door is closed tight
Chickens are stupid, but they know where their food is,
and if they get in here, they'll eat themselves to death."
Christie nodded solemnly, and they started across to the
stable. "Do you know how to ride?"
Christie bobbed her head eagerly. "I took
lessons in Chicago, but it was with an English
saddle."
"Then well start you out with Hayburner
until you get used to Western. He's big, but
he's gentle. I think if you fell off him, he'd
try to pick you up and put you back on."
They went into the barn. In the second stall an
immense dappled gray whinnied at them, his head
hanging over the gate as he watched them move toward
aim.
"Is that him?"
"That's him. Do you want to pet him?"
Christie, happy to be back on familiar ground,
let "o of Diana's hand and approached the
horse. "Hi,
When the Wind Blows

Hayburner." She reached up and scratched the
horse's neck. "My name's Christie. You're
going to take me everywhere, and we're going to be best
friends. How do you like that?"
Hayburner pawed the floor of his stall, and his
tongue emerged from his mouth to investigate Christie's
hand for a possible sugar cube. "He likes mel"
Christie cried. "Aunt Diana, he likes
me!"
Diana grinned. "He likes everybody,
sweetheart. I think he's some kind of a
freak-he looks like a horse, but he acts like a
dog."
"He does notl" Christie protested. She
opened the stall and went in. Hayburner backed up
to make room for her, then began nuzzling her.
Diana quickly moved forward.
"Be careful-he's not used to you yet."
"Yes he is. See? He loves me! Can we
put a saddle on him? Right now? Please?"
Diana hesitated, disturbed by the look of pure
joy on Christie's face. She cast about in her
mind for an excuse but found none. "Why not?" she
said. "Come on-you might as well learn the tack
room."
They went to the back of the barn and began sorting through the
various saddles.
"What about this one?" Christie asked. She pulled
a piece of canvas off a saddle that stood on a
rack in the corner. Though it was obviously old, it
was polished brightly and smelled of saddle soap.
Diana frowned slightly, then shrugged.
"All right-it was my saddle when I was a little
girl-it'll be perfect." They chose a blanket
and a bridle, tihen Diana picked up the saddle.
Returning to Hayburner's stall, they
began saddling the horse, while the big gray
continued snuffling at Christie. When they were done,
Christie led him outside.
"Do you need a block?" Diana asked. She
started toward the barn, but Christie was already
scrambling
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into the saddle. "Let me help you," Diana
cried, hurrying toward the struggling child.
"I can do it," Christie protested. "I'm not a
baby, and my teacher in Chicago said you have to be able
to get on a horse by yourself."
The words stung Diana, and she watched helplessly
as Christie put her left foot in the stirrup and
swung herself up onto Hayburner's back. The
horse craned bis neck to peer up at her, then
began walking slowly around the corral. Christie
whispered to him, squeezed him with her knees, and he
broke into a trot.
"How's it feel?" Diana called.
"It's neat! It's different than the
saddle I used in Chicago. Wider."
"Easier on the horse, harder on you."
Diana climbed up onto the top rail of the
corral and watched as Hayburner trotted around the
corral once more. Christie, she realized, rode
better than she had sxpected. In a way,
Diana felt disappointed-she had hoped to be able
to teach Christie riding, just as her mother had taught
her. Then, as she watched the girl md the horse
moving together so naturally, she began cono wonder if
she'd made a mistake. In her heart, she
3ould feel the horse coming between herself and
Christie.
"That's enough," she suddenly called. Christie
ooked up, startled by the anger she heard in
Diana's mice, and quickly reined Hayburner to a
halt next to Diana.
"Can Hayburner be my horse, Aunt Diana?"
she isked. "Please? I love him, and I can
tell he loves me oo."
Diana was silent for a moment, her emotions in
upleaval. Finally, reluctantly, she nodded.
"All right," ihe said slowly. "He's yours. But
I won't have you geting too attached to him, do you
understand? He's old, ind he could die."
When the Wind Blows

The happy smile faded from Christie's face.
"Why would he die?" she asked.
When she spoke again, Diana's voice was muted,
and Christie had to strain to hear the words.
"Because that's what happens," Diana said. "You
love things, and they get taken away from you. Or they
die."
As the words sank in, Christie's eyes brimmed
with tears, and she patted the horse gently.
"You won't die, will you, Hayburner?" she
whispered to him. The horse pawed at the ground
nervously and tossed its head, then started toward the
barn.
As she watched them go Diana remembered the words
she had just uttered and wondered where they had come from.
Surely not from herself. They were such cruel words, and
she had seen the hurt they had caused Christie.
And yet she had said them.
She climbed slowly off the corral fence and started
toward the house, still wondering what the words had meant.
They had come from somewhere deep within herself, from a part of
her mind that she didn't like to think about.
The part where she buried things.
But somehow the things never stayed buried. Instead they
kept coming back, demanding to be acted upon.
She went into the kitchen, letting the door slam behind
her as she had slammed doors on so much of her past
PI
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*plus minin*r plus plus *plus plus
plus plus plus *greater-than **plus r
plus plus plus *plus **plus plus
w**plus plus *plus plus **less-than
Kim Sandier and Susan Gillespie scuffed
along the road, then veered into the field that lay between
them and the Ambers" corral.
"Wow." Kim's voice was awed, and Susan, who
had stooped down to investigate a rock, looked
up. Kim was pointing ahead. "She's got a
horse!"
Susan stood up and gazed across the field to see
Christie leading Haybumer around the corral. "Do
you think she'll let us ride it?" Susan asked.
They broke into a run, entranced by the
possibilities of access to a horse. Arriving
at the corral, they scrambled up the rails, and
Christie brought Haybumer to a halt next to them.
The big gray gazed placidly at the two
newcomers. Kim put out a hand to pat him, and the
horse snuffled affably.
"Is he yours?" Susan asked.
"I guess so," Christie began uncertainly.
"His name's Haybumer, and Aunt Diana gave
him to me this morning. Isn't he neat?"
"Gave him to you?" Kim demanded suspiciously.
"To keep? I mean, could you sell him if you wanted
to?"
"Why would I want to?" Christie countered.
"I didn't mean you'd want to. I mean, is
he really yours, or do you just get to ride him?"
Christie glanced at the house nervously,
remembering Diana's strange words. "He's
mine," she insisted.
"Anyway, that's what Aunt Diana said." Then,
as if to prove the horse was really hers, she turned
to Susan. "Want to ride hi with me?"
Susan nodded eagerly, and after Christie had
mounted, she scrambled from the corral fence onto the
horse, her wiry body perched behind
Christie. As Kim looked on enviously
Haybumer obligingly trotted around the corral.
"Can he gallop?" Susan asked, her arms
gripping Christie's waist. Christie nodded.
"Well, make him," Susan begged.
"There isn't enough room in here," Christie told
her. She reined the horse to a halt, and Susan
clambered back onto the fence. As Kim was about
to take her place the three girls heard a voice
calling from the house.
"Christie? Christie!"
All three of them turned toward the sound and saw
Diana hurrying toward them. Instinctively Kim
settled back onto die fence.
Approaching the corral, Diana ignored the two
other girls, her attention focused on Christie.
"What are you doing?" she asked, her voice edged with
annoyance.
"Just giving Susan and Kim a ride," Christie
replied, wondering what mistake she had made
now.
"You barely know how to ride him yourself," Diana
protested. "You could get hurt."
"Haybumer wouldn't hurt anybody," Christie
said. "He didn't mind. He likes
us."
"He really does, Miss Diana," Susan
added. For the first time Diana shifted her attention to the
two other girls.
"What are you doing out here?" she demanded.
Susan and Kim exchanged a worried look, then
Kim spoke for both of them. "We just came to see
Christie."
"To see Christie" The words echoed in Diana's
ears
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John Saul
When the Wind Blows

and anger surged through her. Her first impulse was
to order them off the property. And yet, even as she
was gripped by the same surge of jealousy she'd
felt earlier as she'd watched Christie ride, the
voice of reason whispered to her. If she sent them
away, what would they tell their parents? That she was
crazy? That she wouldn't let anyone see
Christie? She made herself calm down, and forced a
smile. "Would you like sometihing to drink8*"
she offered. "Some lemonade, maybe?"
Again Kini and Susan exchanged a look. "We were
going for a hike," Susan explained. "We thought
maybe Christie could come with us."
"Can I?" Christie asked.
Again the strange anger swept through Diana, but this
time she didn't try to overcome it. "No," she
said, rhen, feeling compelled to provide a reason for
her refusal, she went on. "Juan's coming, and
we're going to ride fence with him."
Christie slid off Haybumer and dug her toe
into the ground. "Do I have to?" she asked.
"I thought you'd want to." Diana's voice was
harsh, md Christie felt trapped.
"All right." She gave in.
Diana's face cleared and she smiled. "You can go
for i hike another day. All right?"
Christie shrugged helplessly. "I guess so."
A few minutes later she watched her friends start
iff toward the hills. Wishing she were going with hem,
but knowing she couldn't, Christie obediently ollowed
Diana back to the house.
Juan Rodriguez reined in his horse and waited
for Diana Amber and the little girl to catch up with him.
t had been that way all afternoon, like a
game. He vould ride ahead and try to find
breaks in the fence, hen see if he could fix them before
Miss Diana and he little girl caught up with him.
Mostly he had
plenty of time to finish the work, because Miss Diana was
talking to the girl, showing her things, and telling her how
things used to be.
To Juan, it didn't matter how things used to be.
The only tiling that counted was the present, and he was
having fun. His favorite days were the days he got
to go riding with Miss Diana.
Now he paused and watched the two of diem
approach him. He wondered if it was always going
to be like this, if the little girl was always going to go with them.
He'd been watching her for the last few days,
wondering if she was going to be nice to him, or be like
the others-like those boys who had teased him the other
night. From what he'd seen she looked like a nice
little girl, and his mother had told him to keep an eye
on her. He'd made it a game, hiding himself in the
scrub juniper, watching her whenever she was outside
but never letting her see him.
"HiPeople he called now as they drew up beside him.
"All fixed!" Diana dismounted and carefully
inspected the splice that Juan had worked
into the barbed wire. It had taken him years to master
the simple task, and she always made a show of
praising his work, while he happily nodded his head,
eager to get on to the next break in the fence.
"Very good, Juan," Diana told him. "Think we
should keep going?"
Juan looked toward the mountains, and his eyes
squinted in the bright afternoon sun. Then he licked his
finger and held it in the air.
"Wind coming," he told Diana. She glanced
westward and nodded.
"Looks like it. Why don't we do a few more
miles, then call it a day?"
"You're da boss!" Juan dug his spurs into his
mount, and the horse reared, pawed at the air for a
moment, then broke into a gallop.
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When the Wind Blows

"I wish he wouldn't do that," Christie said as the
Mexican disappeared in a cloud of reddish
dust. "All he has to do is squeeze him. He
doesn't have to kick him."
"It makes him feel like a cowboy," Diana
replied placidly. "Besides, the spurs aren't
sharp."
"He still doesn't need to kick him," Christie
repeated stubbornly. She looked around at the
rolling landscape, mostly grass, dotted with
patches of aspens, some cottonwoods, and an
occasional willow. Here and there outcroppings of red
sandstone thrust upward toward the sky. "How big is
the ranch?"
"A township." Then, as Christie looked blank,
she explained. "That's thirty-six square miles.
Each square mile is called a section, and there
are six hundred and Forty acres in each section."
"It's a whole town?" Christie breathed, and
Diana laughed.
"Except that there isn't any town on it. It
sounds ike a lot, but it really isn't, not
anymore. Most of it ust sits here, waiting for a
cow to come around."
Again Christie looked around, this time searching or
cattle. There were none to be seen.
"We haven't had many cattle for years.
After the nine closed, mother tried to keep up the herd,
but tow we just lease gracing rights. We still have a few
if our own just for fun." Her voice dropped as she
beazed across the valley. "It must have been somehing,"
she mused. "Can't you just see it? Once, there rare
probably ten thousand head out there, and who nows how
many men to run them." With Christie beide her,
Diana surveyed the land and wished that it reie still the
way it had once been, long before either i them was
born. "I'm glad I'm here."
Diana heard the whispered words and turned
to Ihristie. "Are you? Are you really?" Christie
nodded, the beauty of the ranch over-
whelming her. "I wish my mother was here. I bet she
would have loved it."
"Do you remember her?"
"Only a little bit. But I miss her a lot."
Diana glanced at the child, but her face was
expressionless. The brief flash of jealousy she had
just felt passed as quickly as it had come. "Come on,"
she said.
The two of them shook their reins, and their horses
started forward again, walking slowly along the fence.
For a long time silence settled over them, but then, as
the first breezes of the coming wind caressed them,
Christie spoke once more, her voice shaking and
choked with emotion.
"Aunt Diana?"
"Hmm?"
"Could-could you be my mother now?"
Diana pulled her horse next to Christie's and
reached out to touch the girl's cheek. "Is that what you
want?" she whispered. The little girl nodded
mutely. "Then 111 be your mother," Diana
promised. She straightened in her saddle and looked
for Juan Rodriguez, but he was nowhere to be seen.
She glanced up at the sun, which was lowering toward the
mountaintops, and shivered slightly as the wind began
to blow, then gently slapped her horse's neck with the
reins. The horse moved placidly forward, with
Hayburner keeping the pace. Ahead of them a
grove of cottonwoods clustered around a small
spring, and Diana guided her horse toward it.
Juan was probably there, sleeping in the shade.
The snake, a five-foot diamondback, lay
curled in the shelter of a rock, its eyes watchful,
its tongue darting in and out as it searched the area for
prey.
It moved restlessly as the vibrations of horses"
hooves disturbed its environment, and its
sinewy body slid further beneath the rock.
As the horses came into its territory a tremor
went
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John Saul
through its body, and the rattles at the tip of its
tail whispered softly. It moved away from the rock
and disappeared into a jumble of sandstone near the spring.
Christie pulled Haybumer to a stop and slid out
of the saddle. She looped the reins around a
low-slung branch of one of the cottonwoods and
started toward the spring. "Is it okay to drink the
water?" she asked as Diana, too, tied her
horse to the tree.
"Well, it hasn't killed me yet," Diana
replied. The wind was blowing stronger, and the
cottonwoods began to creak. Diana, well
aware of the way such trees tended to drop branches
with no warning, decided to let the horses, too, have
a drink from the bubbling spring. She untied their
reins, and they ambled toward the water.
As Hayburner's hooves disturbed the sandstone
ocks a small stone came loose and clattered
into the pool. Immediately there was a flash of movement, and
iten the loud buzzing of the diamondback's
rattle.
"What was that?" Christie asked. She looked toward
Diana, totally unaware of the snake that was now
soiled watchfully a yard from her feet.
"Don't move," Diana whispered. "Hold
absolutely still." 7
She stared at the rattler, its thick body coiled
ightly, its tongue flicking the air as its
triangular lead bobbed in the sunlight. Its
rattle, standing itraight up from the center of its
coil, was vibrating mgrily, and its eyes, black
slits in the sides of its lead, seemed to project
hatred toward the little girl vho had invaded its
privacy.
Suddenly, as the wind gusted around her, one of the
larkly closed doors of Diana's memory flew
open and he saw herself, at the same age as
Christie, playing lear the back door of the house.
There had been a snake that day, too.
It had flashed out from under the back porch, its
When the Wind Blows

body writhing, and drawn itself into a coil close
to her feet. As she had stood paralyzed with fear she
had heard her mother's voice drifting
dimly from the kitchen as if from another world.
"It's come to punish you," her mother had said. "You're
an evil child, and God has sent the snake to punish
you." And then there had been silence for what seemed
to Diana to be an eternity.
Now, as her eyes fixed on the snake that threatened
Christie, she heard her own voice.
"What have you done, Christie?"
Christie heard the words, and her mind churned.
Wasn't Diana going to help her? What should she
do?
For Diana, the moment was one of pure terror. She
knew she had to mov?, to take some action. The
snake's head was moving faster now, and she had a
terrible feeling that at any second it would strike,
its mouth agape, its fangs ready to sink deep
into the soft flesh of Christie's leg. And yet she
couldn't move. She stood frozen, her mother's
voice echoing in her ears, asking her what she had
done that had made God send a snake to punish
her.
That day, it had been the cook who had saved her,
bursting through the back door, a broom in her hands.
The snake, whirling at the noise behind it, had been
struck by the broom, and as Diana had fled
across the backyard it had retreated under the porch.
Today, there was no one to save her. She had to do
something. And then it happened.
She became another person. The rage that was
bottled up in her subconscious, the fury that had
lain festering within her since she was a child, burst to the
surface and gave her the strength to do what had to be
done.
And her body, the body that had been frozen in
horror a moment ago, responded to the insistent will
of the angry child within her.
She bent over and snatched up a rock.
PI
John Saul
When the Wind Blows

With her newfound strength, she hurled the stone at the
snake, and the serpent, distracted by the sudden movement,
struck at it, its mouth wide, its fangs bared.
Christie, screaming, hurled herself toward Diana.
"It wasn't my fault," she sobbed helplessly.
"I didn't do anything, Aunt Diana. It
wasn't my fault!"
Diana stood still, her arms around the child, her mind
whirling. The doors of her memory had
slammed shut, and there was nothing left of the last Few
moments.
She tried to concentrate on what Christie was
saying. Her fault? How could what had happened have
been Christie's fault? It made no sense.
She didn't notice that the wind had slackened as
quickly as it had come up.
Juan Rodriguez rode into the cottonwood
grove and Found Diana and Christie sitting on
their horses.
"I found more holes," he announced proudly, his
conace glowing with pleasure. "That way!" He pointed
greater-than ff into the distance, but Diana ignored his
gesture.
"Never mind, Juan," she said, her voice shaking.
We're going home. We ran into a snake, and
Christie's rpset."
"Snake?" Juan asked. "Where?"
"It was in the rocks," Diana explained. Juan
disnounted and started toward the spring. "Juan!"
Diana aid sharply. "It was a rattler. Leave
it alone!"
His face reflecting his disappointment, Juan
obedisntly climbed back on his horse. "Can I
go play now?" le asked.
"Don't you think you'd better go home?" Diana
conountered.
Juan shook his head.
Diana shrugged. "Okay, but don't get lost!
I don't vant to have to send the marshal looking for
you."
"I won't," Juan promised. "I never get
lost." Then, waving good-bye, he spurred his
horse and trotted out of the grove.
A moment later Diana and Christie left the
grove, too, and as they started homeward Christie
was silent for a while. Finally, however, she reached out
and took Diana's hand. '1 didn't do anything,"
she said softly. "Really, I didn't, Aunt
Diana."
Diana squeezed the little girl's hand. "Of course
you didn't, sweetheart," she said. 1 guess I
was just as scared as you were."
Assured of her forgiveness, Christie suddenly
grinned and slapped Hayburner's neck with the reins.
"Come on," she shouted. "Ill race you back to the
barn!"
Juan pulled his horse to a stop and looked down
at the still water below him.
He'd discovered the pool when he was a
boy. It was carved into the side of a hill, ringed
by dense foliage, the waters that fed it springing clear
and pure from the depths of the earth. Juan thought of it as
his own, and it occupied a special place in his
dreams. He liked to come here, strip off his clothes,
and swim naked in the cold waters, then sprawl on
a rock in the sun and look out over the plains,
dreaming his dreams.
Juan dreamed that someday he would grow up and be like the
other people his age. Then he would go to school and learn
all the things that everybody else knew. Until
then, though, he didn't mind living the way he
did. He liked the ranch, liked helping Miss
Diana with the fence, and he liked being outside, wandering
around in his little world, exploring things.
Most of all, he liked this pool.
But today, it was spoiled for him.
Today, two little girls were swimming in his pool.
He watched them for a few minutes until they saw
him. Then, as they ran screaming to hide in the fo-
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John Saul
When the Wind Blows
107
liage, Juan Rodriguez kicked his horse again
and rode away. But he would be back; it was, after
all, his pool
The heat of the late afternoon was beginning to fade as Bill
Henry urged his old Rambler up the Ambers'
driveway. He saw Juan Rodriguez leading
a horse into the barn, and tooted his horn, but if
Juan noticed him, he gave no sign.
Bill parked his car in front of the house and took the
steps onto the porch two at a time. He pressed
the doorbell, then, hearing nothing from inside,
knocked loudly. A moment later Edna Amber
opened the door and stared at him.
"Yes?"
Bill smiled uneasily. "Good afternoon, Miss
Edna. [-I just thought I'd drop by and say
hello."
"To me?" The old woman made no move to invite
him in.
"To you, and Diana and Christie.""
"Ill tell Diana you're here." Edna Amber
closed the
3oor and left him standing on the porch. A minute
yent by, then another. The door reopened and
Diana, ooldng preoccupied with something,
nodded to him.
"Bill? What are you doing out here? And why didn't
rou come in?"
"I wasn't invited in," Bill told her.
"What's going on iround here? Your mother at least
used to let me in he house, even if she made me
feel like I should bow hree times and back out of the
room she was in."
Diana led him toward the kitchen. "She's making
hings difficult, that's all," she said. "She
didn't even ell me who was at the door. Just
"someone." Oh, well, hell get over it.
Want some lemonade?"
"I'd rather have a gin and tonic. Does she allow that
ort of thing in the house?"
"Mother's a tyrant, not a prude." They stepped
into he kitchen, where Christie sat at the table,
leafing hrough a catalog. "Christie, look who's
here." As
Diana pulled a bottle of gin out of a cupboard,
Christie looked up and grinned at Bill.
"Hil Guess what happened to us today?" While
Diana mixed Bill's drink the little girl
excitedly told Bill about the snake.
Diana listened to the tale pour forth from
Christie and realized that, from Christie's point of
view, she had saved her life. And yet, try as
she would, she could remember nothing except that she had
been suddenly, helplessly angry. Then-nothing. A
blank. And yet something had happened, something that had
given her the courage to pick up a rock and throw it
at the snake, something she would never have done under
normal circumstances. Since she had been a child the
sight of a snake had paralyzed her with terror. But
today something had happened. Something she had neither been
aware of nor could control.
As she set Bill's drink in front of him,
Diana was suddenly wary. What if he realized that
she had no memory of what Christie was talking
about? Would he think she was crazy? If he did,
he, too, would try to take Christie away from her.
But he seemed to be paying no attention to her.
Instead he was listening intently as Christie began
telling him about her horse.
"Horse?" Bill replied, feigning disapproval
"What horse? Kids your age don't have
horses."
"I do," the little girl announced. "Want to see
him?"
Bill glanced questioningly at Diana.
"It's Hayburner," Diana explained,
relieved to have the subject of the snake left behind.
"Seems it was love at first sight, and since you
can't live on a ranch without a horse, he is now
Christie's. As you can see, she's currently
shopping for cowboy clothes."
Bill sipped at his drink. "Why don't you just
take her to Penrose's?"
"I'm going to, but not till tomorrow. And tomorrow,
apparently, is a long way off." She smiled.
"So far, I think she's spent about three hundred
dollars."
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John Saul
Christie looked up from the catalog again, her face
suddenly worried. "I'm only looking," she said.
"And looking doesn't cost a thing," Bill told
her. He turned his attention back to Diana.
"How's it going?"
Diana glanced quickly at Christie, then went to the
sink and fixed herself a drink. "As well as can be
expected, I suppose." Her voice dropped a
little, and she tipped her head in Christie's
direction. "Why don't we go into the
parlor?" she suggested.
They were silent until they'd seated themselves in the tiny
front room, then Bill spoke.
"Your mother was in town this morning," he said finally.
"I know," Diana replied, her voice pensive.
"I saw her go."
"Do you know why she went in?"
Diana nodded. "She told me. She still doesn't
want Christie here." She paused, then changed the
subject. "Why don't you stay for dinner?"
"Here? With your mother?"
"It'll be all right," Diana said, and Bill thought
he heard a trace of desperation in her voice.
When she went on, he was sure of it "111 make
it all right, BilLike"
The four of them sat stiffly at the dining room table,
and for a while Bill thought that maybe Diana was going
to be able to deliver on her promise.
But as Edna Amber sat at the head of the table,
dressed for dinner in a severe black dress that was
years out of fashion, a pearl choker around her
neck, and her hair piled regally on top of her
head, her cold silence threw a pall over the
meal. It should have been all right, Bill reflected.
A stranger would have seen nothing amiss in the
scene: a middle-aged couple, their young daughter,
and a grandmother gathered together for a meal. But it was a
charade, and Bill wondered for a fleeting moment if
Diana had planned it as a charade. Then, as he
saw her misery in
When the Wind Blows

the situation, he realized she couldn't have. She had
simply made a mistake and hadn't the
techniques to rectify it.
Several times she tried. First she attempted
to include Christie in the conversation.
"Why don't you tell Miss Edna about the
snake?" she suggested. Christie looked eagerly
toward Edna, but Edna only glared at Diana.
"Talk of snakes at the dinner table?" she asked.
"Really, Diana, I thought I raised you to have a
certain amount of taste."
A few moments later, as the silence had threatened
to become embarrassing, Diana asked Bill if
anything interesting had been going on in town. From the
head of the table, Edna's imperious voice instantly
came to life.
"There has been nothing of interest in Amberton in
sixty years," she said. "And I hardly
think things have changed since I was there this morning."
As Diana's face reddened the silence gathered
once more. Christie, feeling the tension at the table,
only nibbled at her food and soon pushed her
plate away.
"May I be excused?" she asked, her voice
barely audible and her eyes large.
"Of course, dear," Diana told her. She
watched sadly as the child scurried from the room, and
wished she had been able to save the evening. Determined
to try once more, she turned to Bill and smiled
brightly. But before she could speak Edna rose from the
table. Bill scrambled to his feet, but Edna
ignored him, speaking only to her daughter.
"I don't know what you're trying to accomplish with
this, Diana, but I trust that even you can see that
you're making a fool of yourself. Please come to my
room before you go to bed tonight."
Without so much as a word to Bill Henry, she, too,
left the room.
John Saul
When the Wind Blows

When they were alone together, Diana gazed bleakly at
Bill.
"I'm sorry. I-I hoped . . . oh, I
don't know what I hoped." She was on the verge of
tears.
"It's all right." Bill moved to the end of the table and
took her hand in his own. "What did you expect?
She stayed right in character. She always does."
Diana sighed heavily, dabbed at her eyes with her
handkerchief, then regained her control.
"I know. I guess I thought maybe if you were here,
she'd at least not say anything too horrible
to Christie. Well, that part of it worked. But I'm not
sure this wasn't even worse."
"Well, look at it like this. No matter what
happens now, things can't get any worse."
Diana gazed into his eyes.
"Can't they?" she asked. "I wish I could believe
that."
She began clearing the table, and Bill Henry wandered
into the library, where Christie was sitting in a large
wing chair, a book open in her lap.
"Hi," Bill said. "Okay if I come in?"
Christie glanced up from her book, and there was something
in her eyes as she looked at him that struck Bill
as odd. Christie seemed frightened, as if she were
afraid she was doing something wrong. "Are you
all right?"
Christie nodded and closed the book. "I-sometimes
I'm not supposed to look at the books," she
stammered.
"Sometimes?" Bill repeated. "What does that
mean?"
Christie wriggled in the chair. "Nothing," she
whispered, not sure how to explain to the doctor that she
never knew when she was going to find herself in trouble.
Bill lit his pipe and settled into an easy
chair. "It must mean something," he commented. He
gazed critically at Christie. "Do you like living
here?"
Christie hesitated, then nodded.
"But it's different from the way it was at home, right?"
Again Christie nodded. "Sometimes it's scary," she
said.
"Scary? How?"
Christie's eyes moved over the room once more, and
it struck Bill that she was trying to see if anyone
might be listening. Finally she started to speak.
"Sometimes I think everything's fine, but then other
times-was She broke off, her eyes fixed on the
door. When Bill followed her gaze, he saw
Diana, smiling uncertainly.
"Are you two having a private chat, or may I
join in?"
"Nothing private," Bill responded.
Diana came into the room and glanced at the clock.
"I think it's time you were in bed," she said
to Christie. The little girl hesitated, then got up
to leave the room, pausing to peck Diana on the
cheek. Then she was gone.
Diana moved to the wing chair Christie had
recently occupied, and sat down. "What were you
talking about?" she asked.
"We weren't, really. We'd just started. She said that
sometimes it's scary, living here."
Diana's expression turned grim, and she
hesitated before she spoke. "It's Mother," she said
finally. "She's not used to Christie yet, and sometimes
she scares her. That's all."
"But everything's all right between you and Christie?"
Bill pressed.
"Of course it is," Diana replied. "Why
wouldn't it be?"
"No reason," Bill said quickly. "I was just
wondering."
"Everything's fine," Diana assured him. Then she
m
I fl..Ti,
stood up, glancing once more at the clock. "It's
late, isn't it?"
Taking the hint, Bill Henry got to his feet,
and a few minutes later, feeling disturbed by the whole
evening, he was on his way back to town.
And in the house, Diana Amber was even more
disturbed.

wwwwww8"wgreater-than wwwwwwwww less-than
KWWW-TWWW.
Christie lay in bed, listening to the sounds of the night.
She wished she were downstairs. There were lots of
rooms on the second floor-why couldn't she have one
of them? Why did she have to stay up here?
A wave of loneliness swept over Christie. She
got out of bed and went to the window. The night was
clear, and she could see the mountains glowing in the
moonlight. Below her, in the chicken coop, the hens
were clucking softly in their sleep, the sound clearly
audible in the still night air.
She turned away from the window and looked around the
nursery. She hated it. It smelled sour, and always
there were noises in the walls-scufflings and scratchings
that she was sure were rats. She dreamed about
them sometimes, seeing their yellow eyes glowing in the
darkness, brown teeth dripping saliva. Just thinking
about them made her snatch up one of the stuffed
flnimals and scurry back to bed. The toy was no
comfort to her; it was musty and felt dead, and what she
wanted was something alive.
The chicks.
Maybe she could sneak one of the chicks up to her
room.
She put on her bathrobe and a pair of sneakers.
She paused at the door, trying to remember if
Diana had locked it that night. Finally she reached
out and touched it.
tjLJ caret Just caret Jjl
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When the Wind Blows

It was locked.
She went back to the window and slowly raised it, then
slipped out onto the ledge. Slowly she crept
down the slope of the roof until she was over the
kitchen. She eased her body over the edge until
at last her legs touched the ridge of the kitchen
roof. Moving downward once again, she
paused at the edge of the eave and looked down. Should
she risk the jump? What if the doors were locked?
How would she get back in?
She thought about it for a few seconds, then made up
her mind. If the doors were locked, she'd find
another way. If she could get out of the house,
surely she could get back in. Holding her
breath, she jumped from the roof. A moment later she
was scurrying across the yard.
As she approached the chicken coop the hens stirred,
then, sensing no danger, tucked their heads back under
their wings and went back to sleep.
Christie listened carefully. The faint sound of the
peeping chicks reached her. She tried to locate the
sound. Even in the dim light, she could see that one
of the hens seemed to be fluffed up more than the others.
Christie slipped a hand under the bird and found a
chick. It wriggled frantically but calmed down as
Christie gently stroked its head. When it was
quiet, she stood up and started back to the house.
The kitchen door was unlocked, and Christie
slipped inside, being careful not to let the screen
door slam behind her. In the pantry she found an
old shoe box full of spices. She emptied the
box and gently put the chick inside.
Keeping her tread as light as possible, she crept
up the back stairs to the third floor and let herself
back into the nursery.
But there was no way to relock the door. Well,
maybe Diana would think she'd forgotten to lock it.
Safely back in tibe nursery, Christie sat
in the rocking chair and opened the box. The chick was
huddled
down in one corner. It looked frightened to her. She
reached down and touched it. The chick ducked its head
and scuttled to the opposite corner of the box.
"It's all right, baby," Christie whispered to it.
"I won't hurt you. I'm your friend."
She captured the chick in her hand and held it
until it was once again calm. Then, putting the
chick back into the box, and setting the box on the
floor next to the cot, she took off her robe and
curled up under the covers.
Somehow just knowing the chick was there made her feel
better. Soon she drifted off to sleep.
Edna Amber waited until almost three before she
left her room. She had been awake all night,
but that was all right. As she got older she needed
less sleep, and tonight there had been a reason to stay
awake.
She had heard scuffling noises in the night and had
gotten up from her bed to investigate them. She had
watched as Christie lowered herself to the kitchen roof,
then jumped to the ground.
She was puzzled when Christie went out to the hen
house, and it wasn't until she saw the child
returning to the house with something cupped in her hand that
Edna realized what she was doing.
Bringing in a chick to keep her company.
It was when the wind began to blow that Edna began
to formulate the idea.
Now, pulling on her robe, she climbed the stairs
to the third floor and quietly let herself into the
nursery. Christie was sound asleep, but on the
floor beside the cot was the box.
Edna picked the box up, opened it, and smiled at
the sleeping chick.
Then she wrung its neck.
She dropped the chick back into the box, replaced
it on the floor, then, pausing as she straightened
up, brushed Christie's cheek with her lips.
9 9 -friend caret But
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John Saul
When the Wind Blows

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "Really, I am."
Christie stirred in her sleep, but didn't wake
up.
As the moon set and the glow of the night faded
to blackness, Edna Amber returned to her bed.
Diana woke at seven and lay in bed, listening to the
stillness of the morning. She had slept badly,
worrying about Bill Henry's reaction the night
before. She knew that sometime during the night the wind had
come down from the mountains, bringing with it the nightmares that
had plagued her sleep. It had been that way since
she was a little girl, and she had always looked forward
to the beginning of summer when the winds would be over for
another year and she could sleep peacefully.
Only twice had they come in summer, and Diana
remembered those years very well.
The last time had been the year her mother had sent her
to the hospital. It had been an awful year for
Diana, and the summer winds had been too much for
her. Everyone in Amberton had become edgy that
summer, but Diana had fallen into depression. She
had fought constantly with her mother that summer, but did not
know why, really. Over the years, she had discovered that
fighting with Edna was nearly useless.
She never won.
But that summer, she had tried. She remembered one
day in particular.
The wind had been blowing that day, and the car had refused
to start.
"What did you do to it?" Edna had asked.
"Nothing, Mother. It's just old."
"Don't be silly, child. You must have done something."
"I didn't, Mother. Cars just aren't built to be
driven for twenty years."
"If you take care of them, they'll last." Her
mother's voice had taken on the querulous tone that
Diana had
learned to dread. "But you don't take care of
anything, do you? You never have."
"Mother, that's not truel"
"Are you calling me a liar, Diana?" Edna had
rasped.
"No-was
But it was already too late. Edna's hand had flashed
out and struck her cheek, as it had since she was a little
girl, and Diana had fallen silent, knowing that
to say anything more was to risk further punishment.
Instead she had crumpled in the face of her mother's
fury, until, after an hour, Edna had
relented and gathered Diana into her arms.
It was that night, during dinner, that Diana had
suddenly begun clawing at her face, and Edna
eventually had had to call for an ambulance.
At the hospital, they called it agitated
depression, and tried to explain to Diana that it
stemmed from her relationship with her mother. If she were ever
to get over it, she would have to learn to stand up to the old
woman.
After a few days she had come home, and for a while she
had tried. But as time wore on she had come
to realize that peace in the house was better than the
constant fights that occurred whenever she disagreed with her
mother.
There hadn't really been anything she thought worth
fighting for, until recently.
Until Christie.
Now, for the first time in her memory, she was standing up
to her mother, and Edna was giving in.
And this morning, the wind had stopped. Diana was
getting out of bed when the scream ripped through the morning
quiet.
It came from upstairs.
She grabbed her robe and ran out of her room. A
few feet away, her mother was standing at the
door of her own room, staring at the ceiling.
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John Saul
"What's that child screaming about?" she demanded as
Diana dashed by. Diana ignored her.
She took the stairs two at a time, then burst
into the nursery.
Kneeling on the floor, her face ashen and tears
running down her cheeks, was Christie.
In the shoe box, the chick lay dead, its tiny
eyes popping from their sockets.
Diana gently took the box from Christie and stared
at the dead bird. "Christie, what happened?" she
breathed.
Christie tried to speak, but couldn't. Instead she
began sobbing and threw herself facedown on the bed.
"Stop crying," Diana ordered. Her sympathy
for the child's misery was turning into annoyance. "Just tell
me what happened."
Christie rolled over on the bed, her eyes red and
her cheeks stained with tears.
"I-I woke up, and-and I was going to pet my
chick."
"But where did it come from?" Diana asked.
Christie sniffled. "I brought it in last
night. I was lonely, Aunt Diana. I just did
it so I'd have some cornpany."
"I see," Diana said, her voice suddenly
cold. "And how did you get out of the nursery?"
There was a moment's hesitation while the little girl
looked at her warily. "It wasn't locked,"
Christie finally said, her voice unsteady. "I-I
guess you must have forgotten to lock it last night."
She began crying.
As she watched Christie's face crumple a
strange inger welled up in Diana. She shouldn't
cry. Little lirls should never cry. When little girls
cried, they had to be punished.
"I didn't leave the door unlocked," Diana
said. "And were won't have you wandering around at night."
Christie shrank away from her, suddenly afraid of
ivhat was coming.
When the Wind Blows

"Take off your pajamas."
"No," Christie wailed. "Please-no!"
But she knew there was no escape. She had done
something wrong, and she would have to pay for it. She
dropped her pajama bottoms and leaned over.
Slowly, deliberately, Diana began
to spank her.
Her hand moved like a metronome, lashing the little
girl's backside until it was red and sore.
Only when Christie finally stopped crying did
Diana stop.
"There," she said at last. "Now, go to bed, and
don't get up for at least an hour."
Christie stared up at her, her eyes filled with
confusion. "I'm sorry," she said at last. "I
didn't mean to kill the chick."
Diana ignored her. She stood up, picked up
the box, then left the nursery. On the second
floor she found her mother waiting for her. As she
started to pass the old woman Edna suddenly lifted
her cane and knocked the box from Diana's hands.
It fell open, and the chick rolled out onto the
carpet. Edna stared at it.
1 don't believe it," she said. "What in
God's name has that child done?"
"It's only a chick," Diana replied,
struggling to keep her voice steady. "Will you just go
downstairs while I get rid of it? Christie's
in her room, crying. Please don't ask me what
happened."
Edna looked at her appraisingly, and
Diana felt a sudden chill of fear. "When you're
done, I think we'd better have a talk," the old
woman said. Diana nodded mutely.
She waited until her mother was gone, then took the
box downstairs. Opening the back door, she
dropped it into the trash barrel. She stared at the
box a moment, then replaced the barrel's lid and
returned to the nursery.
Christie was lying on the bed. She had stopped crying
and was staring at the ceiling. When Diana came into the
room, Christie didn't look at her.
John Saul
When the Wind Blows

"I thought you were a good girl," Diana said, her
voice cold. "Perhaps I was wrong."
Christie's eyes, wide as a fawn's, suddenly
met Diana's.
"I didn't do it, Aunt Diana," she
whispered. "Really, I didn't."
"I'm not talking about the chick," Diana said.
"I'm talking about your disobedience. I don't want
you leaving this room at night. Do you understand?"
Christie nodded mutely.
"As for the chick," Diana went on, "I
suppose it must have suffocated." Inside, Diana
felt something. A twinge, almost like a memory, but
somehow different. She tried to grasp it, but it was
gone. "Or maybe it didn't," she said suddenly.
"Maybe you did kill it. You loved it, and people always
hurt the things they love." She stared balefully at
Christie for a moment, then turned and left the
nursery.
When she was gone, Christie lay still. The world closed
in on her, and suddenly she wished she were still a baby.
Nothing bad, she thought, ever happens to babies.
Her thumb disappeared into her mouth.
Soon she drifted into a fitful sleep.
Edna was waiting in the kitchen but said nothing until
Diana had poured herself a cup of coffee and joined
her at the table. When at last she spoke, her
voice was quivering with rage.
"And just how do you explain this?" she asked.
"For heaven's sake, Mother," Diana replied, her
voice reflecting the anger she was still feeling, but
suddenly wanting to protect Christie from her mother's
wrath. "It was only a chick. Besides, she says
she didn't do it."
"Does she, indeed." Edna responded
sarcastically. "And whom does she think
did do it?"
Diana sighed heavily. "Mama, I didn't
even ask her. She doesn't know its neck was
broken. I told her it must have suffocated."
"Did you?" Edna remarked. Her sharp eyes bored
into Diana. "Now, what would make you say a thing like
that?"
Again Diana had the strange sense of something half
remembered, and she stared at her mother. "What are you
talking about?" she asked.
"I'm talking about you, Diana," Edna said
quietly. "Have you forgotten what happened when you were
the same age as Christie is now8*"
"Mama-was
"It was a kitten, that time. Esperanza's kitten.
Don't you remember? It wandered into the nursery one
night. I found it the next morning. Its neck had
been wrung, Diana."
Diana's cup clattered against the saucer as she
set it down, coffee slopping over the rim.
"Are you saying I killed that chick, Mother?" she
asked.
"Did you?" Edna countered.
"Mama! Of course I didn't!"
Edna sat across from her. When she spoke,
there was a sadness in her voice.
"You were always a bad little girl, Diana. I'd
hoped that age would change you. It hasn't, has
it?"
The room seemed to tilt, and Diana felt a
dizziness overcoming her. What was her mother doing?
She had the feeling she was going to come apart and her
insides were going to fall out.
"Mama, please-was
But Edna was relentless.
"Diana," she asked, her voice suddenly
reasonable. "If Christie didn't kill the
chick, who did? There's no one here but the three of
us."
Diana reluctantly met her mother's eyes, and
when
H u jjLja
John Saul
When the Wind Blows

she spoke, her tone belied her words. "I-I
don't understand."
Edna smiled triumphantly. "Did you know the
wind ivas blowing last night, Diana?"
Diana nodded and chewed at her lower lip.
"It kept ne awake."
"It always keeps you awake, doesn't it?"
Edna's tone lad become almost hypnotic, but
Diana shook her lead emphatically. "Not always,"
she replied, her raice shaking. "Not anymore.
It used to, but it doesn't uiymore."
Edna went on. "And you used to do strange things
ivhen it blew, didn't you, Diana?"
Panic welled in Diana, but she forced it down.
"I ivon't listen to you, Mother!"
Edna stared into the depths of her coffee cup, then
smiled at Diana. "Maybe Christie didn't
kill the chick, Diana," she said softly.
"Maybe she isn't lying at all. caret nd if
she isn't, it's even more important that she eave
here, isn't it?"
Then, as Diana sat shivering at the table, Edna
rose md left the kitchen.
There was a knot of fear in her stomach, and no
natter how she tried to will it away, it remained here,
gnawing at her.
Could her mother be right?
Could she have killed the chick herself and not renembered
it?
Dimly the incident with Esperanza's
kitten came greater-than ack to her. She had put
it out of her memory years igo, but now it was back,
and she knew that it had lappened the way her mother had
recounted it. [Tiough she had no memory of having
choked the kiten, she knew she must have done it.
The fear began to close in on her.
What if her mother was right? What if she had cilled
the chick and didn't remember? But it couldn't
be true-she wouldn't let it be true. If it was,
then she was crazy, and they could take Christie away
from her. And that couldn't happen. She wouldnt let it
caret ShTknew she was going to cry but couldn't help
herself. Slowly at first, and then faster, the tears
began to fall.
F equals *backslash
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A week later the children came back.
This time there were three of them. Jay-Jay Jennings,
Kim Sandier, and Susan Gillespie. Diana
saw them coming across the field, and as they neared the
back door she spoke to Christie, her voice
cold.
"Why don't they use the driveway?"
Christie looked at Diana warily,
wondering what to say. She was discovering that she couldn't
predict her guardian's moods, so when she
spoke, she was careful of her words.
"It's a shortcut," she explained. "We know
all kinds of them. Like, to get from our house to the
Crowleys', it's fastest to go through the
Gillespies' backyard and over Mrs.
Berkey's fence."
"But the Crowleys live on this side of town,"
Diana objected.
Christie's smile faded: she had made a
mistake. "I didn't mean this house," she
whispered. "I meant our house-my house."
Diana felt a flash of anger. This was
Christie's bouse now. The other house-the house she
had lived in with her father-was in the past. Almost of its
own volition her hand rose to slap Christie's
face, but a soft tapping at the back door stopped
her. Christie quickly slid off her chair to let her
friends into the kitchen as Miss Edna appeared at the
dining-room door. Seeing the old woman, the children's
greetings died on their
lips, and Diana glanced nervously from her mother to the
children.
"Mother, wouldn't you like your coffee in the
parlor?" she asked.
"When you have time." Though she spoke to Diana, her
eyes remained fixed on the children. Now Diana,
too, shifted her attention to the youngsters.
"You're all out early." She made her smile
welcoming, though she could feel the familiar anger
building inside her.
"We're going swimming," Kim explained. "Can
Christie go with us?"
Diana searched her mind for an excuse. "Well,
I thought-was
But Christie, sensing the refusal to come, pled her
case.
"Please can't I go, Aunt Diana? We
won't go far." She looked to her friends for
support. "It's not far, is it?"
The children shook their heads, and Kim Sandier
explained: "It's just a little ways past the mine."
"You mean the old gravel quarry?" Diana
asked.
"All the kids swim up there," Christie assured
her.
Diana searched her face, wondering if what
Christie was saying was the truth. In the back of her
mind she was beginning to have a suspicion that
often they told you what they thought you wanted to hear.
Finally she shook her head. "I don't think so.
I thought we'd go over to-was She hesitated, then
decided to turn Christie's own words against her.
"comto your house today. We have to get the rest of your
things."
As Christie's face reflected her disappointment,
Edna Amber suddenly spoke. Though she hadn't
moved from her position in the dining-room door, neither
had she missed a word of what had been said.
"Oh, for Heaven's sake, Diana, let the child
gol You and I can go get her things-there can't be all
that
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John Saul
When the Wind Blows

many of them, can there? Besides, it would be nice to be
by ourselves for a while, wouldn't it?"
Diana glared at her mother. Edna appeared not
to notice. And yet, though Edna's face was
placid, Diana's resistance crumbled.
"All right. But be careful, and be sure you're back
by noon."
Christie ran upstairs to get her bathing suit and a
towel. Silence hung over the kitchen while she was
gone. The children, sensing the tension, edged out the door,
leaving the two women alone. Only when Christie
reappeared, promised once more to be careful, and
left, did Diana speak.
"Why did you do that, Mother?" she asked. "That
quarry's dangerous, and you know it."
"You used to swim up there when you were a child," Edna
countered. "You're still alive, aren't you?"
"We don't even know if Christie can swim!"
"Well, if she can't, she'll learn today," Edna
said coldly. Thither that, or she won't come
back."
As Diana stared at her Edna Amber began
sipping her coffee.
"How far is it?" Christie asked.
They'd been walking for half an hour, and, though
they'd passed the mine ten minutes ago, there was
nothing around that looked to Christie like a quarry, or
that seemed to hint of water. The brush and juniper of the
valley floor had given way to a stand of aspen,
and the road, since they'd passed the mine,
had been replaced by a steep trail.
Jay-Jay looked at her scornfully. "I thought
you said you were there before."
"Well, I've heard you guys talk about it,"
Christie said defensively. "Besides, all I said
was that the kids swim there all the time. I didn't
say I ever had. Have you?"
Jay-Jay nodded. "Me and Linda Malone were up
there last week. It's really neat." She carefully
avoided
mentioning how frightened they'd been when Juan
Rodriguez had suddenly appeared above them. That,
in fact, was why Linda had refused to come today.
They paused in the aspen grove, and Kim, the
tornboy of the group, began passing around the canteen
that was slung from her belt. Christie sucked at it
thirstily.
"I wish I had one of these."
"Maybe Miss Diana will buy one for you," Kim
suggested.
"I don't like to ask for things. . . ." Christie
replied. For a moment she was tempted to tell her
friends how frightened she was most of the time. Ever since the
chick had died, and Diana had made her feel like
it was her fault, she had tried to be
extra careful, and yet every day she seemed to make
some kind of mistake.
Then, as if she'd read her thoughts, Susan
Gillespie flopped down on the ground next to her
and asked her a question: "What's it like, living there?"
Christie shrugged. "It's okay, I guess," she
said, wanting neither to admit that she was frightened most of the
time, nor to say anything bad about the Ambers.
Besides, she wasn't exactly sure what Susan
wanted to know.
"I heard Miss Edna's a witch," Susan
said, cocking her head in the odd way of hers that always
made people wonder if she was asking a question or stating a
fact. Christie stared at her.
"A witch?"
Susan nodded. "I even heard she eats raw
meat. Yuck!"
"Well, she doesn't," Christie said. "She
eats the same thing everybody else does."
"My mother says she's crazy," Kim put in.
"Not crazy like the people at the loony bin. Just . . .
strange."
Christie looked at her curiously. "Strange
how?"
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John Saul
When the Wind Blows

"Well . . ." Kim began, but then hesitated.
"Well, what?" Jay-Jay demanded, her voice
petulant. "If you weren't going to tell, you
shouldn't have started to!"
Kim looked uncertainly from face to face, wishing
she hadn't begun. All her friends except
Christie seemed to be challenging her. "Well,"
she said again, then took the plunge. "Mom says
Miss Edna used to lock Miss Diana up."
Suddenly the attention of the group was riveted on
Kim.
"Lock her up?" Susan breathed. "Where?"
"In the attic," Kim said.
Christie felt a sudden pang of fear. Each
night, when Diana took her upstairs, the last
thing she heard was the key turning in the lock. Was that
why Diana locked her in? Because she'd been
locked in, too? "Why would she do that?" Christie
asked.
"How should I know?" Kim shrugged. "But Mora said
when Miss Diana was a little girl, Miss Edna
used to lock her in her room, and she even
had to send her to the hospital once, but that was when she
was already grown-up."
"You mean Dr. Henry's?" Jay-Jay asked
doubtfully. She was sure Kim was making the whole
thing up, but Kim shook her head vehemently.
"That's not a hospital. That's just an office.
Miss Edna made them take Miss Diana to the
loony bin. But Mom said they should have locked Miss
Edna up. She said if Miss Diana was crazy,
it was Miss Edna's fault."
"What was wrong with Miss Diana?" Susan
asked. "I think she's nice."
Kim shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe Miss
Edna beat her up."
Christie frowned, remembering the spanking she'd
received from Diana. "Why would she do that?"
"Search me," Kim said. She looked at her friends
i
and rolled her eyes. "Mom said I was too young to
understand."
The rest of the kids groaned sympathetically. "My
dad always tells me that," Jay-Jay said. Then
she giggled. "Especially when I ask Tiitn about
sex. Then he turns red and says it."
Agreeing that parents were strange people, the four
girls continued on their way to the quarry. But although
she walked along with the rest of them, Christie soon
stopped listening to their chatter. Instead she was turning
over in her mind the things they had said
earlier. "Witch . . . weird . . . crazy .
. . lock her up."
What did it all mean?
They eventually arrived at the quarry, and for a long
moment Christie could only stare at it.
The pool was nearly round, and on the far side of it
the hillside rose nearly straight upward. In the
stillness of the morning the water made a perfect
mirror, and the trees surrounding most of the pond were
reflected on its quiet surface. Here and there a
boulder protruded from the water.
"You can dive off the farthest one," Kim told her.
"The others are only good for sunbathing. Come on."
Kim led her to a clearing, where the other two girls
were already putting on their bathing suits. "Last one in
the water's crazier than Miss Edna!"
Jay-Jay whooped. She dashed out of the clearing, and a
moment later there was a splash as she hurled her
chubby body into the water. Susan followed her,
leaving Christie and Kim alone in the clearing.
Christie looked around uneasily.
"How do you know there isn't anybody around?" she
asked. Kim was peeling off her clothes.
"Nobody's ever around here. Sometimes we don't
even bother with our suits. Hurry up!"
Christie started changing into her bathing suit.
"Kim?"
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John Saul
When the Wind Blows

"What?" Kim was fidgeting and glancing out to see
vhat the other girls were doing.
"Do you think Miss Diana could be crazy?"
"How should I know?"
"I don't know. But sometimes she scares me."
"How?"
Christie shrugged. "I'm not sure. Sometimes she
eems to love me, but sometimes she gets mad at me
or no reason."
"My parents are like that." Kim said. "That's the rouble
with grown-ups. You never know what they stant you to do,
then they get mad at you when you bn't do it. Are you
coming?"
Still turning Kim's words over in her mind,
Christie beot into her suit and followed
Kim onto the narrow trip of beach.
The water, bubbling up from an invisible spring ielow,
was clear and cold. Christie dipped her toes in,
ben jumped back.
"Chicken!" Jay-Jay taunted her from a rock a
few ards from the shore. "Come on!"
With the other girls already in the water, Christie jok
a deep breath and plunged in after them. She ame up
for air, sputtering and kicking.
"It's cold!"
"No, it's not," Kim told her. "In a minute
you'll turn umb, and then you won't feel it!"
Christie struck out for the boulder on which Jay-Jay
nd Susan were lying and scrambled up onto the
sunaked granite. On the edge of freezing just a
moment efore, her feet were now suddenly burning.
"Get back in the water," Jay-Jay told her,
giving her shove.
She went under, and when she came to the surface,
usan's face was grinning down at her. "Splash the
jck where you're going to lie. It cools it off."
"Why didn't you tell me before I climbed out?"
"It's more fun to watch people burn themselves."
Jay-Jay giggled. Christie began splashing,
making sure she covered not only her spot
on the rock, but Susan and Jay-Jay as well.
Suddenly Jay-Jay jumped in beside her and shoved
her under the surface. Her feet hit the bottom,
and Christie let her knees buckle until she was
crouching below the surface. Then she pushed up and
burst from the water, screaming at Jay-Jay.
Jay-Jay screeched and paddled frantically
away. Christie started to follow her, then changed
her mind and climbed once more onto the boulder. She
settled down next to Susan and felt the sun begin
to take the chill of the water out of her body.
"This is neat," she said.
"Yeah," Susan agreed. "I just hope we can
keep on coming up here."
Christie propped herself up on one elbow.
"Why shouldn't we?"
"Well, up till today, nobody knew we came
here. At least Miss Edna and Miss Diana
didn't What if they make us stop?"
"Why would they?"
"Miss Diana didn't want you to come with us,"
Susan pointed out. "What if she says it's too
dangerous and tells us we can't swim here
anymore?"
"Then I guess well have to stop,"
Christie replied.
Jay-Jay, hauling her body out of the water,
plopped down next to them. "Or sneak up here
anyway," she
said.
When Christie stared at her, she grinned
maliciously. "If we only did what our
parents said we can do, we wouldn't do anything, would
we?" Then, an idea suddenly striking her, she
stared at Christie. "Is Miss Diana your mother
now?"
"What do you mean?"
"Is she going to adopt you?"
"I don't know."
R JjLike JjLJ-GO

R fi.
John Saul
When the Wind Blows

"'Cause if she did," Jay-Jay went on,
"someday (u'd own all this. You'd own the whole
ranch!" Christie's expression turned somber.
"But she'd have i die for that to happen," she said.
"She and Miss dna both."
"So what?" Jay-Jay said blithely. "Sooner
or later rerybody has to die." She lay down
once more and on she fell asleep in the warmth of the
sun. But Christie did not sleep. Instead she
wondered. Did everybody really have to die? It
didn't seem fair. . . .
And yet her parents had died, and sometimes she id a
strange feeling that she was going to, too.
"This house used to belong to the Traverses."
Diana glanced at her mother as she parked the Cad-
ac in the driveway of the house that had, until two
eeks ago, been occupied by Elliot and Christie
fans. Two hours had passed since breakfast.
Diana
id been feeding the chickens when Edna had come
it to the coop and insisted that they follow through
Lth Diana's plan to collect the last of
Christie's be-
Qgings. Most of them, however, had been delivered
r Dan Gurley several days ago and were already in
e nursery. Diana had suggested that she finish the
E greater-than with Christie some other day, but Edna
had in-
conted.
'Well do it today," she had said, "and
we'll do it
getter."
Now, instead of getting out of the car, Edna was
iring at the house, her mind apparently lost in some
m memory.
"The Traverses?" Diana asked. "I don't
remember
em. Who were they?"
Edna's sharp blue eyes appraised her daughter.
here are a lot of things you don't remember, aren't
sre?" she asked, her voice not ungentle. When
Diana
made no reply, Edna opened the car door and
eased herself out. "Are you coming?"
They let themselves into the house, and Edna quickly
scanned the living room. "Fakes," she sniffed.
"Cheap copies of second-rate junk, every stick
of it"
"Elliot wasn't rich, Mother," Diana reminded
her.
"Nor did he have any taste, apparently. Which
room was the child's?"
They explored the house, finally coming to the small
room at the rear, which had obviously been
Christie's. They found two suitcases
in the master bedroom and began packing them.
Christie's remaining clothes fit easily into one,
and her few toys into the other.
"She doesn't have much, does she?" Edna asked as
Diana snapped the catches of the second
suitcase.
Diana ignored the comment and carried the suitcases
into the living room.
"I wonder if Christie will want any of this?" she
said. On the coffee table she found a photo album
and sat down on the couch to look at it. From cover
to cover it was filled with pictures of Carole and
Elliot Lyons and Christie. They looked
to Diana like a happy family, and she found herself
feeling resentful of their apparent contentment. Her
hands trembled as she turned the offending pages. She
wanted to destroy the album, with its proof that
Christie was not
truly hers.
"Is something wrong?" Edna asked. She had sensed
the tension in her daughter's hunched shoulders, the
tight grasp with which she clutched the album.
Diana glanced at her mother and closed the album.
"No," she said, her voice too sharp.
"Everything's fine. Why shouldn't it be?"
Wordlessly Edna took die album and began going
through it. When she finished, she closed it, but she
didn't give it back to Diana.
R B..li
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John Saul
"What are you going to do with this?"
"Why, I-I hadn't really thought about it," Diana
hammered.
"Don't lie to me, Diana. I asked what you were
oing to do with it."
"Keep it; I suppose. Keep it for Christie.
When she rows up, she'll want it."
Edna's hand flew up, and she struck Diana across
le cheek. "I told you not to lie to me," she
hissed. When your mother asks you a question, you answer
er."
Diana gasped and touched her face where Edna ad
hit her. "I'm sorry," she whispered. Then:
"I was oing to burn it."
"Burn it?"
Now Diana cowered miserably on the couch. "I
on't want her to have it, Mother. Can't you underand? All
it will do is remind her of-of them. But le's mine
now. She's my little girl now, and I
want sr to forget all this. Can t you understand that?"
Edna's lips tightened, and she reached out to touch
iana's hand. Instinctively Diana flinched.
"When we
3t home, perhaps I should put you to bed," Edna
id, her voice suddenly gentle. The words struck
Diana like another blow. When te'd been a child, her
mother had sometimes put her
bed, locked in her room, for days at a time. She
rank further into the couch, her eyes beseeching.
"No." Her voice quavered, and now she reached out
touch her mother. "I don't need to go to bed," she id
desperately. "Ill be fine, Mama. I've
been all beht for years now, haven't I? It's just
that I'm not ed to having her yet" Her voice took
on a childish ality. "Give me a chance,
Mama. I can be a mother,
3-I know I can. Please don't make me go
to bed." As her daughter began to cry Edna stood
up and nt over her, her eyes suddenly blazing.
"Stop that," e said. "Stop that this instant, do you
hear me? You
When the Wind Blows

know what happens when you cryl" On the
couch, Diana shook.
Edna raised her hand, preparing to strike her
daughter once more, then slowly made herself lower it.
"Don't, Diana," she said, almost to herself.
"Don't let's start again."
As Diana continued to cry Edna stood still, closing
her mind to the sound. Finally Diana's sobs
abated.
She stirred on the couch and sat up. Her mother was
standing over her, looking at her oddly. "Mother, what
happened?" she asked.
"You started crying," Edna told her.
"But why?" Diana asked. "I was sitting here,
looking at something." Then alarm filled her face.
"You said something about putting me to bed."
"You seemed tired, Diana."
Now Diana frowned, puzzled. She tried
to remember exactly what had happened. She had
been looking at the old photo album and had felt
angry. But then what had happened?
Diana didn't know. And the gap in her memory
terrified her. Feeling numb, she followed as her
mother led her from the house.
B (jL.*
M
n n
ii not.
I When the Wind Blows 137
* It would happen on nights when the wind was ilowing.
Esperanza would lie in her bed, unable to deep, and
soon she would hear the creaking of the
back stairs.
Then there would be footsteps, pausing outside her
door, as if someone were listening. The footsteps would
move on, and she would hear die door to the nursery
open and close.
And then there would be the muffled sound of voices, and the
sound of Diana screaming.
The next day Diana would stay in her room, but
sooner or later Esperanza would find a reason
to sneak into the nursery.
She would find her friend in bed, crying softly. When
she asked Diana what was wrong, Diana would
only look at her sadly and shake her head.
"I had a nightmare," she would whisper. "I
dreamed
, I was a bad girl and I got punished." Her
eyes would
I grow wide as she remembered the dream. "And wher
I got punished, I cried." Once,
after she had said that
there was a long silence, and then Diana had reachec
out and squeezed her hand. "Don't cry,
Esperanza,"
she had said. "Don't ever cry. Only bad children
cry
and then they get punished."
Esperanza never had cried, not even when he mother
died. Instead she had done what most of this
Shacktown girls her age did. Though she was
on] fourteen, she got married and moved out of the
hou; into the cabin by the mine, where her husband wi the
caretaker. A few years later, soon after she b
came pregnant, Carlos went away, and she never
sa him again. Even then Esperanza did not cry.
It wasn't until Juan was born, and the old
Indi women told her she should take him to die
cave live with the other children, that Esperanza let hers
shed tears. She remembered that day now as she sat
the nursery.
The women had come and looked at Juan, and 1
H JjLJJ
Pin caret caret caret ti. .
John Saul
When the Wind Blows

told her that she mustn't keep him. For a while
Esperanza had believed them. But as she watched her
baby, and let her tears flow, she had decided it
was wrong. The cave, she knew, was only for dead
babies-the tiny ones that never breathed when they were
born but came into the world as if they were little old men and
women, their faces wizened and wrinkled, looking as
though they had lived their lives before they were born.
Their little bodies would be taken to the cave, and
prayers would be said over them, and then they would be left
there, to await the day when they would be reborn.
Esperanza knew it was true. Sometimes, when the
wind blew, she could hear them crying, for her cabin was
near the hidden entrance to the cave. Their voices,
lonely and terrified, would drift down the mountain,
crying out for the mothers that would someday come for them.
Having heard the stories, Esperanza could not send
her son to live in the cave. So she had spent a
day and a night letting her tears flow, and had come
to her decision. Juan had not been born dead, so
he must not be sent to the cave. Instead she must keep
him.
And so the years had gone by, and Esperanza had
begun to think that everything was going to be all
right.
But now the lost children were stirring, and a man had died, and
Esperanza was terrified, for she knew that one of the
children in the cave was the child of Diana Amber.
She knew because she had been awake one night, not
long after Juan had been born, and she had heard a
strange sound outside her cabin.
She had heard a baby crying, and she had gone to her
window and looked out
There, moving through the night, she had seen a woman
walking up the hill, carrying a baby in her arms.
The baby had been crying, and Esperanza had
remembered Diana Amber's long-ago words.
"Only bad children cry, and they get punished!"
She had known that Diana Amber had been sick, and
as she watched she realized what the sickness had
been.
And in all the years since then, as she continued to work
in the Amber house, no one had ever spoken of
Diana Amber's child.
It was as if the baby had never existed, and it had not
been Esperanza's place to ask questions.
But somehow, she knew, it was all tied together. The
nightmares Diana had told her about, that
Esperanza knew were not dreams at all,
and the baby that had come from Diana's "sickness'" and
been taken to the cave.
And now a child had come to live in the nursery once
occupied by one of the lost children.
As she looked around the faded room Esperanza
shivered.
Somehow los ninos had been disturbed, and she was
sure that as they awakened, people were going to die. For the first
time since Juan had been born, Esperanza
Rodriguez began to cry.
Diana Amber stared nervously out lie living-room
window.
She had come home two hours ago and found
Esperanza in the nursery, crying, but had been
unable to find out what was wrong. Finally she had sent
the woman home, then spent the final hours of the
morning unpacking and putting away the last of
Christie's belongings. At noon, when Christie
had not come back from her swim, Diana had gone to the
window and begun her vigil.
The wind was picking up, and a dust cloud was forming,
making everything indistinct. In the distance a figure
was moving, but she couldn't see it clearly.
U JjL. R R
John Saul
When the Wind Blows

As she watched, it disappeared; whoever it was, was
going the other way.
By one o'clock Diana could stand it no longer.
"Something's happened," she told her mother.
Edna scowled as she looked up from her needlework.
"What's happened is that you've gotten nervous.
Sit down, Diana."
"No, Mother. I've got to go find her."
Edna rose to her feet, leaning on her cane. "You
can't go running off every time you get a feeling something's
wrong with that child. What about me? What if you're gone
and something happens to me?"
Diana's stomach tightened, but her resolve was
strong. "You'll be fine, Mother. You've never been
sick in your life, and you're not now. But
Christie's only a little girl-hardly more than a
baby. Fm going to look for her."
She turned and left the room before Edna could say
anything more. When she was gone, the old woman stayed
on her feet, moving to the window. She watched
Diana go to the barn, then, a few minutes later,
lead her horse out Only when Diana had mounted the
horse and started off toward the hills did
Edna return to her needlepoint As she worked she
listened to the wind. It was growing stronger, moaning around
the old house, causing its beams to creak. It was an
evil wind, Edna thought. She wished Diana had not
gone out in it But ever since that child had come to live with
them, Diana had changed. And the change, Edna
knew, was not for the better.
The four girls sat on the strip of gravel that
separated the quarry pond from the foliage that
surrounded it. The sun was overhead, and in the
protection of the hillside there was no breeze.
"I'm hungry," Jay-Jay said.
Kim Sandier shrugged. "I told you we should have
brought some sandwiches."
"Does anybody have a watch?" Christie asked.
"Aunt Diana told be to be back at noon."
"Well, it's after noon now," Kim told her.
"Look at the sun."
Christie squinted into the sky. The glare quickly
blinded her, but her ears picked up a low moaning
sound. "Whaf s that?" she asked, cocking her head
in unconscious imitation of Susan Gillespie.
The other three girls listened intently.
"The wind," Jay-Jay said. "It's starting to blow
again."
She and Susan scrambled to their feet. "Let's go
home," Susan said. "I hate it when the wind
blows."
"Then let's stay here till it dies down," Kim
suggested.
"That's dumb. It won't die down till tonight"
JayJay followed Susan to the clearing where their
clothes were piled, while Christie hesitated.
"I better go, too," Christie said at last,
afraid of what might happen if she were late.
"I promised Aunt Diana."
"So go." Kim's voice was petulant. "I can
stay here by myself. I like it better when I'm the only
one."
Christie went to the clearing, pulled her clothes on
over her bathing suit, then went back to the little beach.
Susan and Jay-Jay were waiting for her.
"We're gonna take a shortcut," Jay-Jay
announced. "You want to come with us?"
"Does it go by my house?" Christie asked.
Jay-Jay shook her head. "Nah. It starts by the
mine, but you can take the road. We cut down the
other side of the hill. Come on." As if the matter
were settled, Jay-Jay, with Susan following her,
disappeared down
the trail.
Christie hesitated, watching Kim, but Kim was
studiously staring at the pond.
--LJU
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m
John Saul
When the Wind Blows

"Are you sure you don't want to come with us?"
Christie asked her.
Kim shook her head. "If you want to go, go.
Nobody had to be back at noon except you."
Still Christie hesitated, but when Kim continued
to ignore her, she turned away. A few moments
later she caught up with the others.
"Is Tfini mad at us?" Susan asked.
Christie shrugged. "I guess so."
"Kim's weird that way. Everything's fine, and then
all of a sudden she's mad about something. Just leave her
alone-she'll change her mind and catch up with us."
"But should we leave her out here all by herself?" It
seemed to Christie that the quarry was lots of fun with the
rest of the ldds, but she didn't think she'd like to be
there alone. The others, though, didn't
seem to be worried.
"Kim likes to be by herself," Jay-Jay said.
"Come on. I want to get home before it gets too
bad." Suddenly they were out of the dense vegetation of the
hillside, and the heat and force of the wind struck them.
"Yuck!" Susan pulled a bandanna out of her
pocket and tied it around her face. "Hey!" she
yelled. "I'm a bandit! Stick 'em up!"
Falling happily into the game, the three girls
quickly forgot about Kim Sandier.
Diana felt the hot wind in her face as she
urged her borse along the trail that led up into the
hills to the juarry. Dust, kicked up from the
valley floor, was swirling around her, getting in
her eyes and nose, conhoking her. She wished she had
brought a kerchief
3ut didn't consider going back for one; she was
sudlenly consumed with a need to find Christie.
As she wound into the hills she began to hear the
raice.
A baby crying.
Like an echo from the past, it was calling to her, needing
her, wanting her.
Crying for her.
A confusion of emotions tumbled through
Diana's mind. Part of her wanted to go to the baby,
to cornfort it.
But another part of her, a part she couldn't control,
wanted to stifle it, as her own crying had been
stifled when she was a child.
She spurred the horse on, and in her mind the crying
grew louder, tormenting her.
Childish anger flooded her, and she lived again the
times so long ago when her mother had made her cry,
then forced her to stop. Her eyes glazed over as she
rode through the howling wind.
The voice grew louder, and she felt she was getting
closer to it. If she could find it, and silence it, she
might be free
of the past.
The horse picked its way through the loose rock that
littered the trail. Moving steadily, it wound up the
flank of the hill, then paused at the top.
Diana could look down on the quarry from there.
It seemed deserted.
But in her ears the crying of the baby grew and built,
tortming her, calling her. Why couldn't she find it?
Where was it? Ahead of her? Around her? Inside of
her? She couldn't be sure.
But the sound was driving her crazy.
Somehow she had to find the baby, for the door to her
subconscious was wide open now, and the memory was
clear. "Crying babies must be punished."
Unaware of the world around her, heeding only the driving
forces of her mind, she gave herself to the wind. . . .
R (g.fl
John Saul
Juan Rodriguez squatted in the mine entrance and
watched the three girls go by. By the direction they
had come from, he was sure they had been up at his
pool. But they were gone now, and he could enjoy the
water by himself. It would be good today-the heat was building,
and the wind blew dust in his eyes.
As soon as the little girls were out of sight, Juan
began the long walk up to the pool. He didn t
hurryJuan liked to look at things as he walked,
and he stopped several times to examine wildflowers
or watch the butterflies as they flitted around his
head.
He veered off the trail as he drew closer to the
quarry, and began climbing the hill so that he could do
one of his favorite things: creep up to the edge of the
bluff and peek down onto the pond, to see if
anything was in it. Sometimes he could see a turtle
or two, and once there had been some kind of
an animal in the pond.
And last week, those children.
He dropped to all fours and crept through the aspens
that covered the crest of the hill. Then he poked bis
head over the lip of the precipice and looked down.
Below him, the pool lay clear and still.
But then he realized that someone was there.
Even though three little girls had passed him on their
way down the hill, there was still one in his pond.
Slowly Juan backed away from the ledge and got
lp. As quietly as he could he began to make his
way
3own the hill. Today, since the little girl was all
alone, le wouldn't go away. Instead he would
surprise her.
After her friends had gone, Kim sat by the pond for i
while. Maybe she should have gone with them after ill. It
was lonesome all by herself. Though the wind
When the Wind Blows

couldn't reach her, she could hear it all around her,
whistling in the trees and scouring the hills.
She got up and stuck a foot in the water. Now that
the day had grown hot, the water seemed even
colder. Maybe she ought to dress and go after
the others.
She heard something.
A rustling, coming from the aspen grove.
Something was in the woods, moving toward her.
"Hello?" To her own ears, her voice sounded
small, and she realized she was frightened.
But it was the middle of the day. What could happen in the
middle of the day?
Maybe her friends were playing a trick on her.
"Jay-Jay? Christie? Is that you?"
There was no response, and Kim decided to get
dressed. She stripped off her bathing suit and
picked up her underwear.
A few yards from her a twig cracked.
Kim froze.
"Susan? Who's there?"
There was no answer.
Kim had put on her underwear when the familiar
figure stepped into the clearing. She felt the fear
drain out of her.
"Hi," she said. Then she realized that something was
wrong. "Are you all right?"
Suddenly her fear came rushing back to her, and she
began backing away.
It was the eyes. There was something about the eyes
that didn't look right.
"Are you mad at me?" she asked.
There was no answer, but the eyes remained glued
to her, as if fascinated.
Instinctively Kim began pulling on her jeans,
but then realized that she wouldn't be able to run if she were
caught with her feet halfway into her pants. She
dropped her clothes and began backing toward the
John Saul
When the Wind Blows

beach, the strange eyes still on her, never leaving her.
They made her skin crawl.
"Leave me alone," she begged. What was wrong?
She wasn't sure if the eyes could even see her
now.
Screaming, she turned and fled.
Hands suddenly closed around her arms, and she was
pulled to a stop.
This time the eyes were only inches from her own, and as they
bored into her, her heart began to pound, and she had the
sudden feeling that she was going to die.
She screamed again, and the hands suddenly whirled her
around, then one of them left her arm and covered her
mouth.
Though she could no longer see those strange eyes,
she could hear the sound of heavy breathing close to her
ear.
She was lifted from her feet and carried toward the
water.
She struggled, but the arms held her fast. Then she
was in the water.
She twisted and thrashed about, but succeeded only in
turning over, so that she was looking up-up at the
surface of the water and, beyond that, at the weirdly
distorted face of her attacker, like a dark shadow
against the brilliant blue of the sky.
She held her breath as long as she could, but finally the
pain in her chest grew too great, and she exhaled,
the air bubbling from her lips.
She began coughing and choking as the water flooded
into her mouth, but still she couldn't get loose.
And then, as the water filled her lungs, a strange
peace settled over Kim Sandier, and she stopped
struggling.
The hands let her go, but she only drifted now,
uncaring if she ever breathed the air again.
And then, for Kim Sandier, life turned gray, and the
gray turned to black. It was over. Diana
Amber backed away from the pool of water.
The crying of the baby faded away, and Diana
Though the wind had eased, she felt oddly
disoriented. Had she taken a wrong turn? She
looked around.
No, she'd just come too far.
The quarry was behind her.
She clucked to her horse and turned him around.
Suddenly she was no longer worried.
Somehow she knew that Christie was fine.
The child had simply lost track of time, that was all.
But it was all right-there was really no reason for her to have
been back by noon. Why not let her enjoy herself?
Feeling content, Diana started toward home. As
she came near the mine she decided to stop at the
cabin and see how Esperanza was. She tied up
her horse and rapped at the door. A moment later
Esperanza appeared, but the look on her face when
she saw Diana was one of disappointment.
"Esperanza?" Diana asked. "Are you all
right?"
Esperanza nodded, then stepped out onto the porch
of the cabin. Her eyes looked first toward the mine,
then swept the hillside above it.
"Juan," she said, her voice worried. "Have you
seen Juan?"
Diana frowned. "Why, no," she said. "Is he
missing?"
Esperanza hesitated for a moment, then shook her
head emphatically.
"No. He's just . . ." Her voice trailed
off, and she shrugged, as if the matter were of no
importance.
"He just wanders off sometimes," Diana finished
Diana finished
R R JjLJ-PEOPLE
John Saul
When the Wind Blows

for her. Then she squeezed Esperanza's arm
reassuringly. "But don't worry. He knows what
he's doing as long as he stays on the ranch."
Esperanza knew Diana was telling her the truth,
but still she was worried. Ever since she had been in the
nursery that morning, she had had a feeling that something
was very wrong, and Diana's words did not comfort her.
Dan Gurley was considering the possibility of
taking the rest of the day off to go fishing when Juan
Rodriguez came into his office and sat down
opposite him, bis hat in his hands, his expression
fearful.
"Juan? Is something wrong?" Dan made his
voice as gentle as he could. Juan, he knew,
lived in fear of men in uniform. It had been a man
in a uniform who had found him, four years ago,
exposing himself to two little girls in the back corner
of Penrose's Dry Goods store. That man had
been Dan himself. If it had been anyone but
Juan, Dan would have wasted no time in charging the
oflFender, but, knowing Juan as he did, he had
called the state hospital at Pueblo and talked
to one of the doctors about the case. Finally he had
taken a day off and, on his own time, had driven
Juan to Pueblo so that the doctor could interview
him. After the interview, he had brought Juan home
again. The doctor-his name was Hilbert, if Dan
remembered right-had told him that Juan
Rodriguez's exposing himself to the little girls was on
about the same level as a five-year-old playing
doctor. So Dan had explained the situation to the
children's mothers, who had reluctantly agreed that there
wasn't much point in pressing charges. Then he
tried to impress upon Juan the importance of
keeping his pants zipped up in public. Mostly,
to his own sorrow, he had only succeeded in
terrifying Juan. And now Juan sat before
him, wringing his hat, his eyes filled with fear.
"What is it, Juan? Can't you tell me?"
"A-a little girl," Juan stammered. "Up at
my pool."
"What about her?" Dan felt a sudden pang or
anxiety.
"She's-she's not wearing anything," Juan went on,
and Dan had a sinking feeling in the pit of his
belly.
"And she's dead." Juan swallowed and looked
pleadingly at the marshal. "I didn't do it, Mr.
Gurley. Really, I didn't."
Dan's stomach turned over, but he tried to keep
his face calm. He stood up and went around to put
a hand on Juan's shoulder. "Are you sure she's
dead, Juan?" he asked.
Juan's head bobbed. "I know it. She was in the
water, and she wasn't moving. Are you going to put
me in
jail?"
Dan tried to sort out the confusion of thoughts that was
churning in his brain. Surely Juan must be wrong.
It had to be a mistake.
He came to a decision. "Come on," he said.
"Let's go up there and see exactly what
you found. Then we'll decide what to do."
He led Juan out of his office, and the two of them
got into his Chrysler. Juan, though still frightened,
looked eagerly at the switch that activated the
siren. "Can I turn it on?" he asked.
Dan ignored the question and started the engine. As he
pulled away from the curb a thought crossed his mind,
the kind of incongruous thought that often intrudes in
moments of stress.
"Where's your mother?" he asked. "Didn't you tell
her about the girl?"
Juan shook his head emphatically. "Oh, nol
If something's wrong, you have to tell the police."
He paused, then spoke again, his voice faraway,
as if he were talking to himself. "Why was she up there?
It's my pooll She shouldn't have been there."
Dan made no answer, but as he drove out of town
he had the horrible feeling that this time Juan's in-
R IjLJJ caret
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John Saul
volvement was not going to be as innocent as that of "a
five-year-old playing doctor."
Juan reached out and flipped the siren on. Dan
made no move to stop him. After all,
Dan thought, he's really only a little boy.
But he wondered if the people of Amberton would
remember that when Juan came to trial.

KJ less-than WMJ"
Edna Amber listened as the screaming siren drew
closer to the house. She waited until it had faded
away, apparently headed toward the mine, then reached
up with her cane and pounded on the ceiling.
"Diana? DianaThat She waited, then pounded again.
When there was still no answer, she sighed heavily and
started up the stairs. Ever since that child had come into the
house, things hadn't been right. She shouldn't have to go
looking for Diana-a daughter should pay attention
to her mother.
She found Diana in the bathroom.
She was kneeling by the tub, washing Christie.
"What on earth do you think you're doing?" Edna
demanded.
Diana glanced up at her. "Giving Christie a
bath,"
she replied. "She's nine years old," Edna
snapped. "Surely she
can bathe herself."
"I can, Aunt Diana," Christie said.
"Really, I can."
Diana wrung out the washcloth. "But I want
to help you. All mothers help their babies bathe."
"I'm not a baby," Christie protested. "Mom
stopped giving me baths when I was four."
"And you're not her mother," Edna added. "Come
downstairs, Diana."
Diana hesitated, and Edna struck the floor with
her cane. "Didn't you hear me, child? Come
downstairsl"
Diana dropped the washcloth in the tub. "I'm
sorry,
was RLJ caret
John Saul
When the Wind Blows

sweetheart," she told Christie. Til be right
back." She got to her feet and followed her mother
downstairs.
Christie fished around in the tub, found the washcloth
and squeezed the water out of it, then pulled the plug.
She got out of the tub.
Ever since she'd come home, things had been
strange. She knew Aunt Diana had been over
to her house-the rest of her clothes were up in
her room, neatly folded. But what about her father's
things? What about the album? Where was it? After lunch,
she had asked about it, but all she had been told was
that she could have it when she was older.
When Diana had then insisted on giving her a bath,
she'd objected, saying she'd been swimming all
morning, but it hadn't done any good. Finally she'd
had to submit, and as she sat in the tub she felt like
a baby. It occurred to her now, as she pulled on
her clothes, that, in fact, Diana was treating her more
and more like a baby. She didn't like it, but she
didn't know what to do about it.
She remembered what her friends had said, about Miss
Edna locking Diana in her room when she was a little
girl. Why had she done that? And why was Diana
locking her in every night? She wished she had someone
to talk to about it, but there was no one. She was beginning
to feel terribly frightened.
Fully dressed, Christie started downstairs, but
in the living room she could hear Aunt Diana and
Miss Edna arguing. It was about her-she was sure of
it. She decided she didn't want to hear it.
Instead she went through the kitchen and outside.
She wandered over to the chicken coop, and the chicks
flocked around her, cheeping to be fed. She
started to pick one of them up, then, remembering the
tiny body in the box by her bed, hesitated. She
glanced toward the house, wondering if anyone was
watching. She couldn't be sure. Her gaze swept
the yard and stopped at the barn.
Hayburner.
She would visit Hayburner, and the horse would make
her feel less lonely.
Edna waited until they were in the living room before
she spoke. Then she turned to face her daughter and
searched Diana's eyes. "What are you doingi
caret she asked at last, her voice containing both
anger and concern.
Diana's face reflected her puzzlement. What
had she done now? Why should her mother be mad at her?
"I was just giving Christie a bath," she began, but
Edna cut her off.
"In the middle of the day? And giving a nine-yearold
a bath? Diana, are you all right8caret
"Of course I am, Mother. Why shouldn't I be?"
Edna paused. Then: "Didn't you hear the siren just
now?"
"Siren? What siren?"
Now Edna's face tightened, and she glared at her
daughter. "Not five minutes ago, Dan
Gurley went by, with his siren on. You must have
heard it," she finished, her voice almost
desperate.
"I didn't hear anything, Mother," Diana said
quietly.
"Well, I didn't imagine it," Edna
snapped.
Diana's expression turned to exasperation. "Mother,
if Dan Gurley went past here with his siren on,
I would have heard it. There was no water running, and
I'm not deaf."
"Aren't you?" Edna asked. Again she searched her
daughter's face. "Diana, I don't think we
can keep that child here any longer. She isn't good for
you."
Sudden fury flashed through Diana. She understood
what her mother was up to. "Not good for me, Mother? Or
not good for you?" Her body quivering with anger, she
turned, left the room, and hurried upstairs
to finish giving Christie her bath.
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John Saul
When the Wind Blows

The bathroom was empty. Diana went to the
third floor and into the nursery. It, too, was
empty.
"Christie? Christie, baby, where are youPeople
There was no answer, and Diana was about to leave the
nursery when something outside caught her eye. She
went to the window and looked out.
Christie was coming out of the barn, her face smudged,
her clothing covered with bits of straw. Diana's
eyes blazed as she stared at the little girl.
That was the trouble with children.
You gave them a bath, and they went right out and got
dirty again.
Still, she temporized, it wasn't the baby's
fault. Not really.
Babies have to be taken care of.
And living things-things like chicks and horsesattract
them.
Shaking her head sadly, Diana left the nursery
to go down and bring her naughty baby in from the yard.
Dan Gurley stared down into the clear waters of the
pond and swore softly. Even from where he stood,
he knew who the little girl in the water was. With that
wiry body, and the long brown hair, it could be no
one but Kim Sandier.
She was facedown, her hair spreading out like
a halo, arms akimbo, as if she were practicing a
dead man's float
Dan ran down the hill and made his way through the
thicket to the gravel beach. He waded in, picked
Kim up, and carried her ashore. Though he knew
it was useless, he tried to revive her, first forcing the
water from her lungs through artificial respiration,
then trying mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.
Juan Rodriguez stood next to him, clucking
sympathetically. Dan gave up at last and stood,
his breath Doming in panting gasps. He waited
until his breathing was normal, then looked sharply
at Juan.
"She was in the water when you found her?"
Juan nodded.
"I thought you said she was naked," Dan said, eyeing the
panties the girl was clad in.
Juan shrugged, but made no reply, so Dan
tried another question. "Why didn't you pull her out?"
"I was scared, Mr. Gurley. I don't like dead
people."
"But she might not have been dead yet, Juan."
Juan looked at him, his brown eyes as clear and
innocent as a cocker spaniel's. "But she
didn't move. I watched her, and she
didn't move."
Dan sighed, knowing he would get nothing else out of the
young man. "All right, Juan. Come on-lets get
her out of here."
He picked Kim up and carried her back through the
thicket. He paused there and stared at the clothing that
was strewn around.
A bathing suit, crumpled in the dirt, and next
to it a pile of clothes, neatly folded.
Except for the underwear, which Kim still wore.
His first thought was that it had probably been an
accident. If Kim had been swimming alone, she
could have had a sudden cramp and, with no one to help
her, drowned.
Now he wasn't so sure.
It looked as if she had been getting dressed.
Had she suddenly decided on one last dip? But
she would have put her bathing suit back on, or gone
sldnny-dipping, wouldn't she?
To Dan, it looked as if something had surprised
her.
Something, or someone.
He spoke none of his thoughts to Juan, who was
fidgeting nervously next to him.
"Should we take her clothes?"
"No. Leave them here-111 come back for them." With
Juan following him, Dan carried Kim back
to his car, which was parked near the mine entrance.
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John Saul
When the Wind Blows

Standing by his car was Esperanza Rodriguez. As
she saw the body of the little girl in Dan's arms,
she crossed herself, then went to her son. She looked
into his eyes, then, as if satisfied with something,
whispered in his ear. Juan listened, nodded his head,
then got into the marshal's car. As Dan started the
engine fuan smiled at him and spoke.
"My mama says everything's okay," he said.
"She says I didn't do nothing."
Dan sighed and put the car in gear. He didn't
bother to turn the siren on as he drove back
to Amaerton-there seemed no point in it. As he
passed the backslash mbers" he saw Diana in
the yard, talking to Christie Lyons and leading her
toward the house.
After he'd taken Kim's body to Bill
Henry's office, le'd have to come back out here and
talk to Diana ind Miss Edna, and Christie,
too. Two deaths on the anch in nearly as many
weeks.
It was like the stories he'd heard of the old days,
vhen the mine was going. Except that now the mine vas
closed.
Bill Henry came out of his office and shrugged.
"I don't know. I haven't opened her up, but so
far here isn't much. Some bruises on the
surface, but here're no breaks in the skin."
Dan scratched his nose and nodded. "Did you check
or a sexual assault?"
Bill nodded. "Nothing. Hymen intact, and no
traces f semen." Bill paused and glanced out the
window at he police car where Juan Rodriguez
still sat placidly i the front seat. "Were you
thinking of Juan?"
"I'm not sure," Dan said slowly. "I guess
I must ave been, except the docs in Pueblo
told me he was armless. But you never know, I
guess. What do you unkr
Again Bill shrugged. "Unless you have some reason
greater-than rather thinking otherwise, I'd call it an
accident. But I
won't write that down-I want her opened up
by someone who knows what to look for. Have you told her
parents?" "Not yet. I called Alice
Sandier-she's on her way
down here."
"It's going to be rough. Kim's all they had."
"I know. I think that's the worst part of this job,
having to deliver the bad news. Then I'm going
back up to the quarry. There's still some looking around
to be done, and I've got to let the Ambers know
what happened."
The front door of the office burst open, and
Alice Sandier stumbled in, her eyes wild.
"Where's Kim?" she demanded. "What's happened?"
"You'd better sit down, Alice," Bill said,
the tone of his voice telegraphing to the distraught
woman what had happened.
Alice sank to the sofa and listened numbly while
Dan explained. When he was done, she looked at
him steadily.
"It was no accident," she said. "Kim's a good
swimmer. She's been swimming since she was four."
Then, as if for the first time realizing the extent of the
tragedy, she began to cry. "I mean she was a good
swimmer," she added, her voice breaking.
She sat still for a moment, then glared at Dan
Gurley. "Juan killed Kim," she said.
"He's a sex fiend, and he always has been. Why
is he sitting out in your car?"
"There's no evidence that he had anything to do with it,
Alice."
Alice Sandier was suddenly screaming, her face an
ashy white. "Nobody else in town would do a thing
like that," she wailed.
Bill Henry sat beside her and took her hand.
"Alice, so far it looks like an accident Dan
can't arrest Juan simply because he found Kim."
But Alice was unconvinced. "He-he did it,"
she said brokenly. "He killed my baby." Then,
her grief
. B 9-M
JP-LIKE Fl fl fl i
John Saul
When the Wind Blows

welcoming her, she buried her face in her hands and
gave in to her tears.
Dan Gurley pressed the Ambers' doorbell and
ivaited uncomfortably on the front porch.
Except for Kim's clothing, there had been
nothing around the quarry. Finally he had given up his
search, gathered andte clothes together, put them in his
car, and driven lown to the Ambers'.
The door opened, and Edna Amber stared at him
suspiciously.
"What's happened?" she demanded.
"May I come in?"
Edna reluctantly stood aside as Dan stepped
into
3ie foyer, then led him into the parlor.
"Is Diana here?" Dan asked.
"She's upstairs."
"Could you call her?"
Edna hesitated, and for a moment Dan thought she vas
going to refuse. Then she went to the stairs,
greater-than ded the ceiling with her cane, and called
to Diana. A few seconds later Diana
hurried down the itairs. She came to an abrupt
stop when she saw who vas there.
"Dan. Mother said you went by earlier. Is somehing
wrong?"
Briefly Dan explained what had happened.
"My God," Diana breathed when he was finished.
Christie was up there this morning, too."
"Christie?"
"And some others. Jay-Jay Jennings and Susan
Gilbbspie. They came by on their way up to the
quarry, nd Christie went with them."
Then maybe I'd better talk to Christie,"
Dan sugested.
Diana's eyes flickered toward the stairs, and her
finers plucked at her skirt. "Do you have to?" she
asked nally.
Dan frowned. "Is there some reason why I
shouldn't?"
"She's-well, she's only a little girl,"
Diana said lamely. Edna shot her a sharp
look.
"I'm going to have to talk to all the girls who were with
Kim," Dan said. "Could you have her come down?"
Diana chewed on her lip. "Of course," she said
at last. "But don't upset her-please?" Then
she went upstairs to get Christie. When she was
gone, Edna turned to Dan.
"I warned you," she said.
Dan frowned, wondering what she was talking about.
"I beg your pardon, Miss Edna?"
"I told you something would happen." The old
woman's eyes glittered almost triumphantly.
"A ranch like this is no place for children.
No place at all."
"Diana was raised here," Dan countered, still
unsure of what she was getting at.
Edna's eyes narrowed. That was different I'm her
mother, and I had lots of help. Someone was always
watching Diana. But there's nobody here now. I
can't have children wandering all over the ranch wherever they
please."
They've been doing it for years, Miss Edna,"
Dan informed her.
If they have," Edna muttered angrily, "this is the
first I've heard of it."
Dan was sure the old woman was telling him the
truth. He was aware that the children had, until
recently, steered well clear of the house. And if
Christie Lyons were not living there, they would
undoubtedly still be avoiding the place. But none of that
had any bearing on Kim Sandler's death, and he was
about to say so when Diana returned to the parlor with
Christie next to her.
The little girl looked at him worriedly. Was she in
trouble with the marshal now, as well as with Diana?
"Is something wrong?" she asked.
p disr jjL..ja nf *"
John Saul
When the Wind Blows

Dan knelt by her and took her hand gently in his
own. "Well, something happened today, and I need
to talk to you about it."
Christie regarded him warily. "Am I in
trouble?"
"No. At least I don't think so." Dan
smiled at her reassuringly. "Did you do something you
shouldn't have?"
Christie shook her head.
"Then you can't be in trouble, can you?"
Memories of the last week whirled in her head.
"What happened?" she asked.
Dan ignored the question and asked one of his own instead.
"Were you up at the quarry today?"
"Unh-hunh. I was swimming with Kim and
Jay-Jay and Susan."
"You all went up together?"
"Unh-hunh."
"And you all left together?"
Now Christie shook her head again. "Kim didn't
go with the rest of us. She stayed."
"By herself?"
Christie nodded silently, and Dan went
on.
"How come she didn't come back with the rest of tour
Christie shrugged. "I don't know. I guess she
didn't vant to."
"Was she mad at you?"
Christie hesitated and glanced at Diana, hoping
for upport. There was none, and finally she turned
back o the marshal. "Sort of," she admitted.
"And were you mad at her?"
Now Christie shook her head emphatically, her
blue yes reflecting the fear that was growing inside
her. No," she said "Did something happen to Kim?"
Reluctantly Dan nodded. "She had an
accident."
Christie's eyes met his, and when she spoke,
her oice was steady. "Is she dead?"
Though Dan was sure the ingenuousness in her voice was
sincere, he watched her carefully as he answered
her question. "Yes, she is. She drowned."
Christie's hand tightened on Diana's, and
Diana knelt beside her. "It's all right,
sweetheart. No one said you had anything to do with it."
"But how could she drown?" Christie asked. "She
swims better than any of us."
"We don't know," Dan told her.
"That's what we're trying to find out. Now, I
want you to think very carefully. Did you see
anybody else up there? Anybody at
all?"
A tear formed in Christie's right eye. She brushed
it away, but when she spoke, her voice shook.
"No. The kids said nobody ever goes up there."
"What about Juan? Did you see Juan up there?"
"No!" She pulled away from Dan Gurley and
wrapped her arms around Diana. "Please," she
asked, her voice tiny. "Can't I go back
upstairs now?"
"Of course you can, darling," Diana murmured.
"I'll be up in just a few minutes."
When Christie was gone, Diana faced Dan
Gurley. "What do you think happened?"
"I don't know. It looks like an accident, but there
are a couple of odd things. She was wearing only her
underwear, and there seem to be a few bruises on her
body. Nothing serious, but Bill wants them
looked at by an expert."
"I see," Diana said pensively. Then she met
Dan's eyes. "Juan?"
Dan shrugged. "I don't know. I hope not, but
until I know exactly what did happen
up there, I'll have to hold him. He's in jail right
now."
Diana shook her head sadly. "Poor Juan.
He seems so-well, he seems so harmless."
"Maybe he is," Dan said, trying to express more
hope than he was feeling.
*caret JU equals ft
John Saul
A few minutes later he was gone, and Diana was
about to go back upstairs when Edna stopped her.
"Diana?"
"I have to go up to Christie, Mother."
"In a minute. I want to talk to you."
Diana sighed and sat down.
"Diana, didn't you go up to the quarry today?"
Diana looked at her mother blankly. "I started
to, but I didn't. I-I changed my mind."
"But when you left here, you were so worried."
"I know-was
"What happened? What made you stop
worrying8*"
Diana thought about it. In truth, she didn't know.
But she couldn't tell her mother that, nor could she
explain to her mother what had happened up on the
mountain that day-the wind screaming at her, the
confusion, the minutes she had lost. It would only
give Edna ammunition to use against her.
Besides, her mother always wanted answers. Simple
answers. Suddenly she smiled.
"I just decided you were right, Mother. You told me I
was being silly, didn't you?"
"But the wind was blowing when you left, Diana. I
always worry about you when the wind blows."
"That's in the past, Mother," Diana replied.
"Can't we forget about all that? Please?"
As Diana left the room to go up to Christie,
Edna sat very still. She wished she could forget about the
past. But try as she would, she could not. The past was
too much a part of the present, and it could destroy her.
Somehow Edna would have to find a way to use the past
to control the present. If it wasn't already too
late.

wstwwstoww
Jeff Crowley wished he could go home.
He, along with his parents, was at the Sandlers'.
All afternoon the word of Kim's death had rippled through
Amberton, passing from one person to another among the
shopkeepers and over the back fences, and late in the
afternoon people had begun arriving to offer their
sympathy to Alice and George, and to discuss what
had happened.
Now, at nine o'clock, only the Jenningses and the
Gillespies were still there, along with the Crowleys.
While their parents sat talking in the living room,
the children huddled in the kitchen, their ears pressed against
the door, eagerly listening to every word.
"It could have happened to any of them," Jerome
Jennings was saying.
But it didn't, Alice Sandier thought bitterly
to herself. It happened to Kim. Why Kim?
Involuntarily she glared at Jennings. Why
couldn't he take his prissy wife and his brat and go
home? She chided herself for being uncharitable and tried
to make herself believe that he was right-that it could have been
any of the children. Deep in her heart, though, Alice
was positive that what had happened to Kim was no
accident. "Juan Rodriguez should have been arrested
years ago," she said aloud.
The Reverend Jennings, who prided himself on being
fair-minded, clucked sympathetically. "Now,
R EL ft..friend
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John Saul
When the Wind Blows

now. What he did then wasn't all that serious.
Still, considering his background . . ."
"And for that matter, it's the Ambers' fault, too,"
Alice went on, ignoring Reverend Jennings. The
rest of the people in the room were staring at her now. "I
warned them years ago," Alice explained. "I
told Miss Diana that the quarry was dangerous and
that it should have been fenced off. But did those
high-andmighty women do anything? NothingI Nothing
at alLike Well, maybe if it had been one of their
own who was dead-was
"Alice, that's not fair," Joyce Crowley
protested. "I'm sure Diana and Miss Edna
are as sorry as anyone else about what happened.
And the quarry's not being fenced off doesn't make
what happened their faultl"
Alice Sandier sighed heavily and shook her head.
"I don't know," she said at last. "It just seems
to me that they're every bit as responsible as Juan."
In the kitchen, Jay-Jay looked at her friends,
her eyes glowing maliciously. "Besides," she
whispered, "maybe Juan didn't kill her at
alLike Maybe Christie did!"
The others stared at her, agog.
"That's dumb." Jeff said.
"It is not," Jay-Jay shot back. "When me and
Susan left, she stayed, didn't she?"
Susan nodded reluctantly. "But it was only a
couple of minutes," she said, her voice revealing
her uncertainty.
"It was ten minutes," Jay-Jay insisted. "I
had my watch on, and I looked," she added
smugly.
"You did not," Jeff countered. "You're just trying
to get Christie in trouble."
"How do you know? You weren't there!"
"It doesn't matter. Everybody knows you're a
liar!"
"You take that back, Jeff Crowley!"
Jay-Jay shrieked.
"I won't! It's true!"
Joyce Crowley appeared at the door.
"All right, what's going on?"
"Jeff called me a liar," Jay-Jay shouted,
her face red
with anger. "Jeff!"
"Well, she is. She said Christie drowned
Kim!" "I did not," Jay-Jay said
sulkily. "I said she might
have." "Good Lordl" Joyce Crowley breathed.
"What would
make you say a thing like that?"
Jay-Jay glanced at her friends, but Susan and
Jeff were both avoiding her eyes. "I was just
kidding," she hedged. Then her face set
stubbornly. "But she still might have." She repeated
her story to Jeff's mother, but when she was done
Joyce shook her head doubtfully.
"Jay-Jay, why would Christie do something like
that? Kim and Christie were friends."
"Maybe they had a fight," Jay-Jay suggested.
"And maybe you're letting your imagination run away
with you. Now, all of you, settle down."
"Can't we go home?" Jeff begged.
"In a few minutes," Joyce promised. As
she returned to the living room Matt looked at
her questioningly.
"What was that all about?"
"Oh, nothing," Joyce said. She saw no point
in repeating Jay-Jay's story, since
privately she agreed with her son that Jay-Jay
was a liar. Minister's children, she thought. What makes
them such little stinkers? Aloud, she tried
to pass the incident off. "I think they're getting
tired, and I am, too."
A few minutes later the group broke up, and as
they drove home Joyce told Matt what had
gone on in the
kitchen.
"Oh, Lord," Matt sighed when Joyce had
finished. "I hope Jay-Jay isn't going to start
spreading that tale around. A thing like that can make a child
an outcast. Hasn't Christie had enough trouble
already?"
"But everybody likes Christie," Jeff said.
B jjl. ni n
John Saul
When the Wind Blows

"Everybody likes her a lot better than they like
old Jay-Jay!"
"I only hope it stays that way," Joyce said
softly. "But it's such a small town. . . ."
Diana lay in bed, listening to the sounds of the house.
The day had exhausted her, but sleep wouldn't come.
She tossed restlessly in her bed, willing herself
to relax.
Finally she went downstairs, prowling the
rooms like a restless cat. She had the feeling she was
looking for something but had no idea what.
She went over the day carefully.
The blank spots were still there, and nothing she could do would
fill in the blanks.
And then, after Dan Gurley had left, Christie
had once more disobeyed her.
She'd told Christie to stay upstairs, but late
in the afternoon, she'd gone upstairs. The nursery had
been empty.
She'd found Christie in the barn.
The barn door was open, and when she'd stepped into its
gloom, at first Diana thought it was empty,
except for the horses.
And then she heard Christie's voice, coming from
Haybumer's stall.
"Good boy," the little girl's voice was crooning.
"Are you my good boy?"
Diana moved slowly through the barn until she could
see into the stall. Christie was standing next to the
horse, her arms around his neck, nuzzling him.
The horse stood still, his huge gray body looming
over the tiny girl, his brown eyes placid. And
then his head moved, and his eyes seemed to fix on
Diana's face.
A strange sensation passed through Diana.
It was as if the horse were challenging her.
And then, as if to confirm the feeling, Hayburner
suddenly whinnied and pawed at the ground.
Christie looked up and saw Diana at the gate.
As Diana watched, Christie seemed to shrink
back against Hayburner, and the horse, too, backed
a few steps farther into the stall.
"What are you doing?" Diana asked. "You're
supposed to be in the nursery."
"I-I got lonely," Christie explained.
"Then why didn't you come to me?"
Christie's eyes darted around the stall like those of a
trapped animal. "You-you were mad at me." Her
voice had dropped to a whisper. "I wanted to be
with Hayburner. He's my friend."
"He's not your friend," Diana snapped. "He's
only a horse, and he doesn't give a damn
aoout you! If you want a friend, come to me."
Christie cowered away from Diana's words, and
suddenly, as if hearing herself for the first time, Diana
realized how she must sound. Instantly she was sorry
for what she'd said. "Christie? Oh, Christie,
I didn't mean that. Of course Haybumer's your
friend. But I am, too. If you're
lonely, you can always come to me."
Christie seemed to relax a little, and Diana reached
out to touch her. Once again Christie huddled against the
horse.
"It's all right. I'm not going to hurt you,"
Diana whispered. "I wouldn't hurt you. I love
you."
A memory stirred in Christie. What had
Diana told her a week ago, when her chick had
died? "People always hurt the things they love." And
Diana had hit her that day, as if she'd done
something wrong. But she hadn't done anything wrong,
except sneak out of the nursery, and Diana hadn't
known about that. Had she? Or had she spanked her that
day because she loved her? It didn't make sense,
any of it She waited,
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clinging to the horse, as Diana came closer to her,
then picked her up.
Was Diana going to hit her or kiss her? She
didn't know.
Diana gathered Christie into her arms and
lifted her off the floor. "Come on, baby," she
whispered. "Ill take you into the house, and well be
together. Maybe
111 start teaching you the piano. Would you like that?"
Mutely Christie nodded her head, and Diana
carried her out of the stall. But as she turned to close
the gate Diana's eyes focused once more on the
horse. Christie belonged to her.
And yet the horse seemed almost to be claiming
Christie.
Now, as she sat in the darkness of the house, and the wind
began to blow, Diana remembered that moment. And she
remembered a time when she was a little girl and a stray
dog had wandered up to the back door. She had made
friends with the dog and begged her mother to let her keep it
For a while the dog had been hers, sleeping in the
nursery with her, romping in the yard with her, making up
for all the friends she had never been allowed to have.
And then one day the dog had been gone. Diana had
never known what happened to the dog. Not until tonight,
when, with the wind rattling the old house, and the memory
of Hayburner's eyes fixed on her own, it all
came back to her.
She was in the barn, playing with her dog. She heard
her mother's voice calling to her, but paid no
attention to it. And then Edna was in the barn, glaring at
her.
As Diana looked on, Edna had gone after the dog
with an axe, and, his brown eyes fixed pitiously
on his little mistress, the dog had died. The memory
crashed out of Diana's subconscious
When the Wind Blows

and flooded her being with hatred. She turned from the
window and walked through the house to the
back door.
She left the house and, with the wind buffeting her,
started across the yard to the barn, where, so many years
ago, her pet had died. . . .
Christie woke up the next morning and, as she was
beginning to do every morning, hesitated to open her eyes.
What was going to happen today? Was she going to do something
wrong and make Diana mad at her? Miss Edna
would be mad at her anyway, but she was getting used
to that. With Miss Edna, at least she knew where she
stood. But what about Diana? Last night everything
had been all right, after that moment in the barn when she
thought Diana was going to hit her. But then Diana
had seemed to change, and the rest of the day had been
okay. They'd sat at the piano together, and
Diana had helped her start learning the notes.
Then, after supper, they'd played checkers.
And last night, Christie was almost sure Diana
hadn't even locked the nursery door.
She got out of bed and tried the door. It was
unlocked.
Did that mean it would be all right to get dressed
and go downstairs?
She listened for the sound of voices downstairs, but the
house was silent. Then she went to the window and looked
out. The sun was high in the sky, and she could hear the
horses whinnying in their stalls.
She decided to surprise Diana by feeding all the
animals before breakfast
She pulled on her jeans and a shirt, slipped her
feet into a pair of sneakers, then went down the
back stairs as quietly as she could.
Outside, she decided to feed the chickens first,
saving the horses for last
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When the Wind Blows

The chickens flocked around her as she
carried their feed into the coop, and began pecking
madly as she poured the grain into the container. She
changed their water, made sure the automatic
valve was functioning properly, then started toward the
barn.
She pulled the barn door open, and the horses, their
heads hanging over the gates to their stalls, turned
to peer at her and snuffle appreciatively.
All except Hayburner.
Christie frowned and started toward his stall.
"Hayburner?" she called softly. When there was no
responding snort, she ran to the stall and pulled the
gate open.
On the ground, his mouth foaming and his great brown
eyes rolling in misery, lay Hayburner.
Christie froze, staring at the horse. He saw
her and struggled to get to his feet but couldn't.
Instead he rolled over onto his back, his hooves
flailing at the air.
"Haybumer!" Christie screamed. "What's
wrong?" She moved into the stall and crouched by the
horse, who seemed to calm down as she took his
head and held it in her lap.
"Hayburner?" she said once more, her voice
suddenly tiny as she realized the horse was
dying. "Hayburner? Please don't die." Her
mind whirled, and she tried to think what could be wrong.
Only one answer came to her. "I didn't mean
to hurt you. I only wanted to love you. Please
don't die. Please?"
But it was as if the horse had been making himself live
only until she got there. His eyes rolled once
more, his great tongue emerged from his mouth to lick
Christie's hand, and then his breath rattled, and he
gasped one last time and lay still.
Holding his lifeless head in her lap, Christie
began to cry.
When Diana found Christie, she was sitting in
Hayburner's stall, the dead horse's head still
cradled in her arms. The little girl looked up at
Diana, her eyes, usually so filled with life,
drained and empty.
"He's dead," she whispered. "Aunt Diana,
why is he
dead?"
Diana pulled her eyes from Christie and looked
quickly at the horse. A memory stirred within her,
men was gone before she could grasp it. But it had to do with the
barn and a dead animal.
An animal for whose death she was somehow
responsible.
"What did you do to him?" she asked now. Christie
stared at her, her eyes brimming with tears. "I
didn't do anything to him," she said. T was going
to feed him, and I came out here, and he was sick. It
was awful, Aunt Diana. He was lying here, and I
could tell he was hurt And I came in and tried
to help him, but I couldn't And then he died."
She gave in to her grief and began sobbing, clutching
the horse's lif eless head to her chest, burying her
face in its mane. Diana watched the scene for a
moment, then reached down and pulled Christie to her
feet. "I warned you," she said softly. "Didn't
I warn you
that you hurt the things you love?"
As Christie shivered in the warmth of the morning,
Diana held her close, loving her as she had
never loved her before.
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plus plus plus plus plus **plus
plus *
Joyce Crowley arrived at the Amber ranch in the
middle of the morning, with Jeff sitting next to her
on the hard seat of Mart's pickup truck. As
she jounced to a stop and jumped out of the cab, she
reflected that a car-a real car-had been at the top
of her list of things to buy once the mine was running
again and Matt was steadily employed. But now the car
would have to wait. Joyce, however, was used to putting
things off, and she reflected that as the tourist industry
grew in Amberton something for Matt was bound to turn
up. Meanwhile she made-do. After all, even the
Ambers were making-do with their ancient Cadillac.
Ignoring the front door, Joyce and Jeff
started wound to the back of the house, then saw Diana
corning out of the barn.
"Hi!" she called. Diana looked up,
hesitated, then raved. But as she approached them
Joyce could see n her face that something was wrong.
"It's Hayburner," Diana explained.
"Christie's horse. He died this morning."
"Oh, no," Joyce groaned. "What happened?"
"I'm not sure," Diana said pensively.
"Christie found dm in his stall this morning. He was
still alive, but he conouldn't get up. He
died while she was trying to help lim."
"How horrible for her," Joyce said. "Where is
she? Is he all right?"
"She's in the house." Diana glanced uncertainly
at Jeff. "I-I'm not sure she wants to see
anyone. She's terribly upset." She started
toward the house, with Joyce and Jeff walking with
her. "I've got to call the vet and have him come out
here to see what happened. And take Hayburner
away," she added.
They went into the kitchen and found Edna sitting at the
table, sipping a cup of coffee. She frowned when
she saw the two Crowleys but spoke to neither of them.
Instead she directed her attention to Diana.
"What8ness wrong with that child now?" she asked. "She
came through here crying about half an hour ago and
wouldn't say a word."
"Ifs Hayburner," Diana explained. "He's
dead."
Edna set her cup down and. stood up. Her eyes
suddenly fixed on Jeff. "Really, I can't
understand why anyone would want children." She turned and
left the room, still not having acknowledged Joyce's
presence. An uncomfortable silence fell over the
kitchen as Diana tried to think of what
to say. It was Jeff who finally spoke.
"Can I go up to Christie's room?" he asked.
Diana, caught off guard by the question, hesitated.
She didn't want anyone going up to the nursery-not
anyone but herself. And yet how could she say no? She
thought quickly. "Why don't I bring her down?" she
said lamely. "That might be better."
"Oh, let him go up," Joyce urged. "If
it's a mess, don't worry-his room's always a
mess. Besides, I need to talk to you about something."
Still Diana hesitated but could think of no rational
reason for refusing. It was just a feeling, and she put
it aside. "Use the back stairs," she said,
pointing to the pantry. "It's on the third floor."
As Jeff left the kitchen Diana poured coffee
for herself and Joyce.
"Ifs nothing terribly serious," Joyce said as
she took the cup Diana offered her. "At least,
it isn't yet. But a
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When the Wind Blows
175
couple of things happened at the Sandlers' last night
that I think you ought to know about."
Diana sat down and stirred some sugar into her
coffee. "At the Sandlers'?" she repeated.
Choosing her words carefully, Joyce began
explaining everything that had been said the night before.
Jeff paused on the second-floor landing and
looked down the wide hall, which seemed to have rooms
opening off either side of it. Why wasn't
Christie's room on this floor? It seemed to him
that there ought to be space. He decided that maybe
Christie had asked to be all the way upstairs.
He paused again in the gloom of the attic and decided
it was creepy. "Christie?" he called. He
listened and thought he could hear a snuffling sound coming from
one of the little rooms tucked under the eaves. He went
to the door and knocked. "Christie? It's me."
There was a silence and then the door opened, and
Christie, her face blotched and tearstained, opened
the door. "Jeff?"
"Hi. Can I come in?"
"What are you doing here?" Christie asked. Jeff
thought she looked frightened.
"My mom wanted to talk to Miss Diana, and she
brought me with her. They're downstairs
drinking coffee." He made a face. "Can I
see your room?"
Christie stepped uncertainly backward and let
Jeff into the nursery. He looked around, his eyes
widening at the stains on the wall and the dirty
curtains hanging over the window.
"This is weird," he said.
"It used to be Aunt Diana's, when she was a little
girl," Christie explained. Suddenly she saw the
room through Jeff's eyes and realized how dismal it
really was. "I wish they'd paint it," she said.
"Why don't they?"
"Search me," Christie said, shrugging. Jeff went
to the window and looked out.
"Heyl You can see everything from up here. There's the
mine, and you can see right into the barn, and-was He broke
off as Christie suddenly burst into tears.
"Hey-what's wrong?"
"I hate the barn!" Christie burst out. "That's
where Haybumer lived, and now he's-was Unable to go
on, she sank down on the bed and buried her face
in her hands. Jeff looked at her worriedly, then
went over to sit by her.
"I'm sorry he died," he offered. "Was he
sick?"
Christie shook her head violently. "He was
fine," she said through her sobs. "There wasn't
anything wrong with him at all, and then he died."
The two children sat silently while Christie tried
to stop weeping. And then Jeff remembered that Miss
Edna hadn't seemed to care at all that the horse was
dead.
"Maybe somebody poisoned him," he suggested.
Christie stared at him. "Poisoned him? What are
you talking about?"
"Maybe somebody who didn't like him, or was mad
at you, put something in his food."
"Like who?" Christie demanded.
"Well-was Jeff hesitated, wondering if he should
tell her what had happened in the kitchen, then made
up his mind. "Miss Edna?"
Christie frowned, and Jeff plunged on.
"Well, she sure didn't care that he was dead, and
she thought you were dumb for crying about it."
Christie was silent for a while, turning the idea
over in her mind. "She doesn't like me," she said
at last.
"She doesn't like anybody," Jeff declared.
"She's meaner'n Mrs. Berkey." He left the
bed and went to the window once more. He
looked out for a while, then, still looking out the window,
spoke to Christie. "Wanna get even?"
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"How?"
"Play a trick. Come on." He started for the
door, but Christie hesitated.
"I'm supposed to stay here until Aunt Diana
tells me it's okay to come out."
Jeff regarded her scornfully. "Well, she
let me come up here, didn't she?" Christie
nodded uncertainly. "Well, then, you can come down,"
Jeff went on. Together the two children left the
nursery and made their way down the back stairs.
"If rumors start going around, I don't know what
might happen," they heard Joyce Crowley saying
as they came into the kitchen.
"Rumors about what?" Jeff asked. His mother
looked at him.
"Rumors that aren't any of your business," she said
pointedly. "Why don't you two go out and play?"
Diana forced herself to ignore an impulse to send
Christie back up to the nursery. It's
perfectly normal for Christie to play with Jeff,
she told herself. There's nothing wrong with it-nothing at
all. Still, she felt uneasy as she watched the two
children go out the back door, and found herself wishing that
Joyce had left Jeff at home.
Reluctantly she turned her attention back
to what Joyce had been telling her. The
townspeople-particularly Alice Sandier-were
talking about her and her mother.
"I know what they'll say," she said quietly.
She put her cup aside and faced Joyce. "First
they'll say I was irresponsible, then theyTl
make it worse. Half the people already think Mother's
crazy, and some of them, think I am, too." She
paused, then went on. "But I'm QO-THAT crazy,
and Mothests not crazy. In a way, Alice is
right, though-I should have fenced the quarry, but Vf other
thought it was too expensive. She can be diffi-
3ult, and I guess I haven't helped the
situation by always knuckling under to her. But I've
stopped that, foyce."
When the Wind Blows

Then you'd better start showing that to the town," Joyce
told her. "Let them see that there's nothing
wrong with you, and that Miss Edna isn't-well, that
she isn't hiding you out here. Thaf s what they
think, you know-that for some reason, Miss Edna keeps
you here, hidden away." She paused, wondering whether
to tell Diana any of the things she'd heard over the
years, then decided now was as a good a time as any
to get it all out in the open. "So they start
speculating on why, and the word crazy pops up.
You've got to show them it isn't true, Diana."
Her voice dropped. "If you don't, and they start
talking about Jay-Jay's story-let alone
Alice's hysteria-I can tell you what will happen.
TheyTl start saying that your craziness- or Miss
Edna's-is rubbing off on Christie. So you have to show
them that there's nothing odd going on out here, and there never
has been."
"But what can I do?" Diana asked, her heart
pounding at the thought that Christie might be taken from
her. Joyce shrugged helplessly, then had an
idea. "Maybe if you could get the kids out here?"
she suggested.
The lads?" Diana's heart pounded as she stared at
Joyce. "After what happened to Kim, I can't
imagine that their parents would let them come anywhere near
the ranch."
"Some of them won't," Joyce agreed. "But
youTl notice I brought Jeff along today, and
I'm sure there are some others. Not everyone in
Amberton is irrational. It just seems like it."
"I see," Diana said. Then she chuckled
hollowly. "So tell me what to do. How do I,
at the age of fifty, learn how to become the mother of the
year, with the children flocking around me?"
"You don't do it all at once," Joyce
laughed. "But I do have an idea. The Fourth of
July picnic's coming up in a couple of weeks.
I think you should go."
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John Saul
"Christie and I?" Diana asked. She hadn't
been to a town picnic in years-not since she was a
teen-ager and had gone to one with Bill Henry. "And
Miss Edna, too, if you can talk her into it" "But
why? We don't go to the picnics. . . ." "That's
exactly the point," Joyce said emphatically.
"You have to show that you're no different from anyone else.
Let people see that there's nothing strange going on out
here." She smiled suddenly. "Lord knows, you grew
up here, but for the last thirty years people have hardly known
you. And what they don't know about, they
gossip about."
"I don't know. . . ." Diana said, her mind
whirling.
"WelLike think about it," Joyce urged her. She
stood up and searched in her purse for her keys.
"Shall I call the kids?" Diana asked.
Joyce shrugged. "Why? Let them play. Send
Jeff home if he gets out of hand."
Together the two women left the house, and Joyce
got into the truck.
"Think about it," she repeated. "Okay?" Then, as
Diana nodded mutely, she put the truck in gear
and started back toward town.
As she watched the truck disappear in a cloud of
dust, Diana tried to sort out her emotions. Part
of her knew that Joyce was right, that for both her own and
Christie's sakes, she should break out of the tiny world
that her mother had constructed for her and that she had lived
in. But another part of her resisted.
That other part of her wanted to withdraw and take
Christie with her.
tier.
Jeff started for the barn, but Christie stopped him.
"I don't want to go in there," she said.
"Well, where else are we going to get a
rattrapPeople" Jeff asked.
Christie's eyes reflected her puzzlement.
"What do we need a raftrap for?" she asked.
When the Wind Blows

"To get even with Miss Edna," he replied, his
voice exasperated. "You'll see. But we need a
trap."
"Maybe in the shed," Christie suggested.
They crossed the yard and went into the shed near the
chicken coop. In the floor there was a trapdoor,
and Jeff reached down and pulled it open.
"Wow," he breathed. "What's this?"
"It's the root cellar," Christie explained.
"Aunt Diana says they used to keep vegetables
down there. She says they never spoiled down there."
"It's like a fort," Jeff said. "Come on, let's
go down into it."
Christie looked into the dark cavern doubtfully.
"I don't know," she said. "It's probly full
of spiders."
"Or even snakes," Jeff added, grinning
mischievously.
"Stop that," Christie said. "Besides, I thought you
wanted to look for a trap."
Sighing, Jeff kicked the trapdoor shut and began
poking through the collection of farm tools that were
scattered around the shed. "Here's one!" he cried.
The trap, ancient and rusty, looked to Christie as
though it would break if they tried to set it, but when
Jeff tested it, it held. He set it on the
floor of the shed, then prodded it with the handle of a rake.
It snapped closed, its jaw leaving a slight dent
in the hardwood.
"Now we need something to cover it with," Jeff
said. "But where are we going to put it?" Christie
wanted
to know.
"Wherever Miss Edna might find it," Jeff
replied. "Is there anyplace she goes all the
timer'"
"I don't know." Then she thought of something. "How
about the chicken coop? She collects the eggs every
morning. Anyway, almost every morning."
"Neat," Jeff said. "Come on."
They left the shed and went into the chicken coop. A
few minutes later they came back out again.
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John Saul
"That'll get her." Jeff's voice was more confident
than he was. He knew that if his parents found out
what he'd done, he'd get a lot more than a
lecture from his father. He faced Christie. "You
won't tell, will you?" he asked.
Christie shook her head.
"Cross your heart?"
Christie crossed her heart
Jeff glanced uneasily at the house, wondering
if anyone had seen them go into the coop. It didn't
seem like it
"What shall we do now?" Christie asked.
Without thinking, Jeff suggested the first thing that came
into his head. "We could go up to the mine."
Remembering her father, Christie felt her happy
mood slip away. "By ourselves?" she whispered. T
don't think we should." In truth, she didn't
want to go at all, but she didn't want to admit
it to Jeff.
"Then let's ask my mom and Miss Diana,"
Jeff suggested. "Maybe they'll take us."
Suddenly the idea was less frightening. With Aunt
Diana and Mrs. Crowley along, it might not be
so bad.
"Okay. Let's ask."
They found Diana sitting by herself at the kitchen
table, still sipping coffee. Joyce was nowhere to be
seen.
"Where's my mother?" Jeff asked.
Diana smiled at him. "She went home. She
thought you'd want to stay and play with Christie."
"Oh." Jeff paused, then grinned at Diana.
"Would you take us up to the mine?" he asked.
Feeling suddenly shaky, Diana set her cup
down and looked at the children. "The mine?" she asked.
"Why would you want to go up there?"
"Just to see it," Jeff said. "My dad was going
to take me up, but he never did. Please?"
Diana remembered what Joyce had told her, and
When the Wind Blows

decided she was right-she had to stop giving in to all her
irrational fears. "All right," she said. "Let's
do it We'll hike up. Christie, I want you and
Jeff to clean up in here, while I change my
shoes. All right?" She didn't mention that she also
intended to call the vet and see to it that Hayburner's
carcass was gone by the time they got back. As the two
children began carrying the coffee cups to the
sink, Diana left the kitchen and went to the living
room to make her phone call. Edna was waiting for
her.
"I don't like strangers in my house," the old
woman said without preamble. Diana glanced at her
mother, picked up the phone, and began dialing.
"Well, you can relax, Mother," she said. "Joyce
is gone, and I'm taking the children for a hike."
"Now?" Edna asked.
Diana immediately sensed Edna's impending objection
and moved to forestall it.
"Right now," she said. "And I'm calling the vet
to come and get Hayburner. I want to have his body
gone before we get back. Will you take care of it for
me?" Then, before her mother could reply, she was talking
to the vet, explaining the situation. When she was done,
she hung up the phone and hurried upstairs to put
on her walking shoes.
Left alone in the living room, Edna was
dumbstruck. What had gotten into Diana? She
had never tried to tell her what to do before. Neverl
It was that Crowley woman, Edna decided; that
common miner's wife. What could she have told
Diana
this morning?
Edna had tried to listen, but all she knew was that
Mrs. Crowley had done most of the talking. And
now, only a few minutes later, Diana had
failed even to consult her before making plans.
Quivering with anger, Edna went to the kitchen. The
children, working at the sink, froze when they saw the fury
in her eyes. "Outl" she commanded. "Out
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of my kitchen! Do you understand?" Terrified, Jeff
and Christie scurried into the yard, and as they waited
for Diana in the shade of the willow tree, Christie
decided that Jeff had been right-Miss Edna was
meaner than Mrs. Berkey, and she hoped the trap
broke her fingers.
When Diana came downstairs a few minutes
later, Edna glared at her. "Where are you going?"
she asked.
Diana, sensing that she had somehow gained the upper
hand, if only temporarily, savored the moment
"You don't need to know, Mother," she said. Then she
walked out of the house. A moment later she listened
to the crash of Edna's cane knocking a stack of
china to the floor. The sound of Edna's
anger made her smile.
As they hiked up to the mine Diana told the two
children about the brief gold strike her father had once
made, then, when they were at the top of the tailing, led
them into the old stamping house. She carefully
explained to them how the machinery had worked, pointing out
the chutes the ore had come down and the cam shaft that
lifted the eight iron hammers, one by one, then
dropped them onto the ore, breaking it up for the
smelter.
"Of course," she finished, as the children stared at the
huge steam engine that had once driven the
triphammers, "all this stuff was hardly used. The
vein ran out, and it was back to coaLike"
"Can we go inside the mine?" Jeff asked.
Diana led them out of the engine room, and they
approached the mine entrance. In a large equipment
locker she found flashlights and a lantern. She
lit the lantern, then gave each of the children one of the
flashlights.
"Now, you must both stay very close to me," she told
them. "Don't forget, this is an old mine, and
nothing much has been done to it."
When the Wind Blows
183
been
"Daddy put in an elevator," Christie said.
Diana nodded. "The next job would have been shoring
up the lower shaft."
They moved through the dimness of the tunnel, and the children stared
wide-eyed at the ancient planking that had been used
to prevent the walls of die mine from collapsing.
Everywhere water seemed to be seeping through, and the floor
of the mine felt squishy.
"Can we go see the elevator?" Jeff asked.
Diana led them farther into the shaft, and as the darkness
closed around her, she began to feel nervous. It had
been years since she had been inside the mine, and the
last time she had been as far as the vertical shaft that
dropped into the depths of the mine was when she had been a
little girl.
Then they were at the precipice. Jeff shined his
light into the darkness below.
"Wow," he breathed. "How deep is it?"
"I-I don't know," Diana said. She had
barely heard him, and her breath was suddenly coming in
short gasps. In the pit of her stomach the knot of
fear she had put aside only an hour ago was
gripping her again, and in her mind she was hearing a
voice.
It was her mother's voice, and it was reaching out of the past.
"Hes down there" she heard Edna telling her.
"He's down there, and it's your fault. Do you
understand?"'
Suddenly Diana was a little girl again.
Three years old? Four?
Too little to understand.
But still, she knew what her mother was talking about.
Her father was down there, and it was, somehow,
her fault
That was why her mother hit her. Because of her father. Even
though it didn't make
U @. R Fll Lfl
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John Saul
any sense to her, she knew that she had done something
terribly wrong, and her father had died, and her mother was
very angry at her.
That was why her mother came into her room at night and
beat her.
Because she had killed her father.
And as the memory of that day almost fifty years
earlier burst into her consciousness, Diana began
to shake.
"Get me out of here," she whispered. "I have to get
out of here!"
At her side, Christie looked up into Diana's
face. Even in the dim light of the lantern she could
see that something was wrong. Diana's eyes were wide,
and she was sweating.
Suddenly Christie, too, was afraid.
And then, from behind her, she heard a voice.
"Madre de Dios."
Christie spun around, and there, hurrying toward them,
was Esperanza Rodriguez.
She took Diana by the hand and began leading her
toward the mouth of the mine. The two children, frightened
into silence, stayed close behind. When they were back out
in the sunlight, Diana sank to the ground. Slowly
her breathing returned to normal.
When she felt she could trust herself to speak again, she
looked deep into Esperanza's eyes.
"Esperanza," she said weakly.
"SfThat
"Esperanza, do you remember when we were children, and I
had-I had nightmares?"
"Si."
Diana reached out and gripped Esperanza's hand.
"They weren't nightmares, were they?"
Tears welled in Esperanza's eyes. "No,
Miss Diana," she said softly.
Diana sat still, willing herself not to cry. Not in
front of the children. Whatever happened, she mustn't
When the Wind Blows

let them see her cry, mustn't let them see the
fear that suddenly held her in its grip.
But even as she forced her panic down, she wondered
what else was locked in her memory.
What else had her mother done to her?
What terrors were locked inside her?
She got to her feet and smiled weakly at the children.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I-I guess I'm just
too old for
the mine." The children, in the innocence of their years,
smiled
at her. That's all right," Jeff said. "Lots of
people are
afraid of the dark."
Shortly after noon Edna Amber went down to the
chicken coop.
She was still filled with resentment. She had watched
Diana go off with the two children an hour earlier, and had
sat for a while, trying to decide what
to do next.
Finally she had cleaned up the broken china, realizing
that no matter how inexcusable Diana's behavior
had been, breaking china would solve nothing. And then
she had had to deal with the veterinarian, who had insisted
that he couldn't simply dispose of the horse. Instead
he would have to do an autopsy on it, to see what had
killed it. And she would have to pay for the autopsy, then
try to collect the money from the
state.
Once he and his assistants had taken Hayburner
away, she had decided to fix herself an omelet-
another thing Diana should have done for her-but when she
opened the refrigerator, she found no eggs. She
had gone to the chicken coop to get some.
Now she stared at the pile of oats that sat in one
corner of the hen house.
Hadn't Diana even taught the child what to feed the
r fi.sioni nil iRather
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John Saul
chickens? And where to put the food? Left where it
was, it would only attract rats.
She picked up one of the food pans, then stiffly
stooped down to brush the oats into it.
As she touched the pile of grain the rattrap
sprang.
Edna screamed as the heavy wire trap closed on
her fingers.
She dropped her cane and struggled with the trap, but the
spring was too strong. As the fingers of her right hand
began to swell and turn red, she cursed out loud.
"God damn that child! God damn her to hell!"
Then she got to her feet and, with the trap dangling from
her damaged hand, began trudging back to the house
to call Bill Henry.
She hated the idea of having to call the doctor, but
there was nothing else she could do.
Her right hand throbbing with pain, she began clumsily
dialing the telephone with her left.

u less-than #*?"8ble"
Bill Henry pried the trap lose from Edna
Amber's fingers, set it on the kitchen table, then
gently massaged the damaged hand. There were deep
grooves where the jaw of the trap had bitten into her
flesh, and the ends of her fingers were swollen and turning
black. The skin, however, was not broken. "At least
we won't have to give you a tetanus shot,"
he said.
"Are they broken?" Edna asked. She flexed the
fingers experimentally, and pain shot up her arm.
"I don't think so. I can take some X rays
if you want, but I think they're just badly
bruised. You should be fine in a couple of days.
HoVd it happen?"
Edna's face tightened in anger as she remembered.
That child." She spat the word out as if it tasted sour.
"She put a rattrap in the hen house and covered it
with oats. Can you imagine? Oats!"
Bill frowned. "Why would she do that?"
"Why do children do anything?" Edna asked bitterly.
"I don't understand why Diana insists on keeping
her here. She's no more equipped to be a mother than-was
Words failed her, and she glared at Bill. "com
than I don't know what!" she finished.
Bill bathed her injured hand with alcohol, then
rubbed some ointment on it.
"What's that for?" Edna asked, peering at her hand
suspiciously.
. B I Jl
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John Saul
When the Wind Blows
189
"Nothing, really. It's some zinc oxide, and if s
more to make you feel as though I've done something than
for any good it will do you."
"A placebo."
*8Exactly."
Edna got up and went to the sink and proceeded to wash
the salve off, then dried her fingers. "I don't
approve of such things, Dr. Henry," she said.
She returned to the table and sat down again. She
studied Bill's face for a moment, then looked
away from him.
"I want you to help me."
Thafs what I'm here for."
The old woman ignored his comment. "You have a-was She
paused, as if groping for words, then went on. "coma
certain amount of influence with Diana. I want you
to convince her to send Christie away."
Bill shook his head. 1 can't do that," he said.
"Why not?"
Now he leaned back in his chair and folded his arms
across his chest. "Lots of reasons. Mostly, I
don't see any reason for it. If you want to know
the truth, I think Christie's good for Diana.
Ifs time Diana had someone in her life other than
you."
"Don't be impertinent, young man," Edna
snapped.
Tm not." Bui's voice became more intense.
"I'm telling you the truth, Miss Edna. You've
had Diana to yourself for years. But you're not going
to live forever. Have you thought about whaf s going to happen
to Diana when you die?"
The old woman frowned at him. "What are you
talking about? I have no intention of dying, not for a long
time yet"
"But it will happen. And what happens to Diana then?
Whafs her life going to be like? Have you thought about that?"
The old woman stood up and began pacing the
floor, unconsciously massaging her injured hand.
"Of
course I have. And frankly, I don't know what
to do about it. I don't know what I can do. Diana
can't take care of herself, you know."
Bill bristled. "I don't know, Miss Edna,
and neither do you. You've never let her have a chance
to take care of herself. You've kept her cooped up
here, like your hens."
"There are reasons for that," Edna said, her voice
cold.
"Well, if there are, I don't know about
them." Edna's mind raced. Perhaps she should tell him
die truth. If she told him the truth, perhaps
he'd understand and help her. She turned to face him
and braced herself with her cane.
"Did you know that Diana once had a baby?" The
question hit Bill like a physical blow. He sank
back in his chair, suddenly feeling dizzy. Then
he recovered himself.
"No, I didn't," he said, forcing himself to keep his
voice under control. What on earth was the old lady
up to now?
"No one else does, either." Edna's eyes
glittered as she spoke. "It happened thirty
years ago. You were away at school, I believe.
The father was a man named Travers."
"I don't remember anybody by that name." "You
wouldn't. He wasn't here long-I hired him for the
ranch, but as soon as I found out what he'd done,
I fired him. I don't think he was here more than
six months. I doubt if many people remember him."
She paused, then delivered the second blow.
"Even Diana doesn't remember him."
All Bill could do was stare at her, and when he
finally found his voice, it had a hollow sound to it.
"I beg your pardon?"
Edna sat down at the kitchen table again, and as she
went on with the story she stared at her hands, rubbing them
occasionally, though Bill wasn't sure if
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John Saul
When the Wind Blows

it was because of the pain, her own nervousness, or both.
"Diana doesn't remember Travers. She
doesn't remember the baby, either. She doesn't
remember any of it."
Bill's hands fell to the tabletop, and he shook his
head as he tried to sort out bis thoughts. "You've
lost me," he said. "What do you mean she doesn't
remember? You don't have a baby and not remember."
"The baby was born dead," Edna said. She sat
down again, facing him. "When I told Diana about
it, she became hysterical." Her voice softened,
and Bill thought there was a look of something akin
to satisfaction in her face as she continued. "She
screamed for hours, but eventually she went to sleep.
When she woke up, she'd blotted it all out of her
memory. All of it, Dr. Henry. She had no
memory of being pregnant, no memory of
Phillip Travers, no memory of the
birth-nothing! Nine months of her life, gone!"
She paused, then: "I think she must have thought it was
her fault that the baby died, and blotting it out of her
memory was the only way she could handle her
guilt." She grinned humorlessly. "Of course,
back then we didn't know about such things, did we?"
Bill stared at the old woman. Was it possible?
Could any of it have really happened? For a few moments
he was silent.
"Where was the baby born?" he asked at last.
Edna smiled coldly at him. "Right here. I
wanted Diana to go to a hospital, but she
refused. She wouldn't even go away to one of those
homes they had back then. So she stayed here. I
delivered the baby myself."
"And where is the baby?"
"I buried it," Edna said, and the words seemed
to Bill to be almost a challenge.
"You buried it?" He stared at the old woman,
aghast. "You delivered a baby, and you buried it?"
For the first time Edna Amber's voice rose in
anger, displaying her emotions. "It was dead, Dr.
Henry. It was born dead! What would you have had me
d8caret
"What anybody else would have done," Bill told
her, his voice quivering with his own barely controlled
rage. "Call a doctor when she went into labor.
You could have killed her, Miss Edna. And how do you
know the baby was born dead? Did it ever occur to you
that you might have killed it yourself? Assuming, of
course, that any of this is true."
Edna rose to her feet and stood over Bill, her
eyes blazing with fury. "How dare you, William?
I told you all this for only one reason: I want
you to understand that Diana is not the person she seems
to be. I've protected her as much as I can, and
I'm still trying to protect her. But her mind isn't
quite right, William. She has-spells! Can't you
understand that a woman like Diana has no business
trying to raise a child?"
Now Bill, too, was on his feet.
"I understand a lot, Miss Edna. I understand that ever
since Diana was a child, you've held on to her.
You'll do anything to keep her to yourself. I don't know
why-I'm not sure most of us can ever understand the
motives of someone like you. Selfishness, I
suppose-pure selfishness." He knew he was
going too far, but he was helpless to contain the
bottled-up rage of thirty years. "You
don't care what you do to Diana, do you? Not as long
as you keep her here, with you. But I won't be a part
of it, Miss Edna. I won't help you destroy
what might be Diana's last chance to have a normal
life."
Bill Henry picked up his bag and with Edna Amber
still glaring at him, walked out of the house.
The afternoon was bright and clear, and as Diana led
Christie and Jeff along the trails that
crisscrossed the ranch, she breathed deeply of the
spring air. The new wheat was coming up, and for a few
weeks, until
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John Saul
When the Wind Blows

the summer heat set in, the valley would be
gloriously green, broken here and there with the upthrusting
red rocks that dotted the area. Though her mind was still
occupied with the memory that had come to her in the mine,
Diana was determined not to betray her emotions to the
children.
She paused in a small stand of aspens and
cottonwoods and sat down on a boulder.
"Getting tired?" she asked as Jeff and
Christie flopped onto the ground at her feet.
"I like it out here," Christie replied. She sat
up and looked around the grove. "Could we come out here
and camp sometime, Aunt Diana?"
Diana glanced around, trying to see the grove through a
child's eyes. There was a natural spring, bubbling under
the spreading branches of the cottonwoods, and a large
rock that even to Diana's eyes resembled a table.
She smiled.
"I don't see why not. We could bring some canvas
and string it up for shelter."
"I have a sleeping bag," Jeff said eagerly, the
idea of an adventure immediately appealing to him. "And
I bet we could borrow Mom's and Dad's,
too."
As she considered it Diana began to like the idea.
She decided that Joyce Crowley was right-she should
get more involved with all the kids. Her mother, of
course, would object, but for once Diana didn't
care. Then she thought of the wind and her strange
memory lapses. She glanced up at the mountains
and wondered if her mother were right Did the wind have some
sort of strange effect on her? Did it make
her behave irrationally? But today the mountains stood out
against the blue of the sky, every detail etched
in the clear sunlight. The day was still; perhaps, for this
year, the winds were over. She dismissed her
worries. "Maybe next month," she said.
"Ill tell you what Why don't we talk about it
at the picnic?"
"On the Fourth of July?" Jeff asked. "But you
never go, Miss Diana."
"I never had a reason to go," Diana replied.
"Not till this year. If 11 be a first for Christie
and me both."
Jeff frowned. "What about Miss Edna? Will she
be
there, too?"
"Well, I don't know," Diana said carefully.
"But I don't think so. She doesn't like that sort
of thing."
"Didn't she even take you when you were a little
girl?" Christie asked.
Diana smiled bitterly. "No. But that doesn't
mean I didn't go. I'd tell her I was going
riding, then Td leave my horse somewhere and sneak
off to the picnic by
myself."
The two children stared at her. Was it possible that she
really had once done the same things they
did themselves? They grinned at each other.
"Didn't she ever find out?" Christie asked.
"Yes"
"What happened?"
The smile faded from Diana's lips, and her eyes
clouded. "She told me never to disobey her again, or
something terrible would happen."
Now the childrens* eyes rounded in anticipation. "Did
you?" they whispered in unison.
Diana's voice dropped to a whisper. "Only
once."
"What happened?" Jeff asked, his voice as low
as
Diana's.
Diana paused, then looked at the children.
"Something . . . terrible," she said. A tear
suddenly welled in her left eye, and she hastened
to wipe it away, then got to her feet. "Come
on-it's getting
late."
The children looked at each other and silently wondered
what might have happened, but both of them knew that
whatever it was, Diana wasn't going to tell them.
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John Saul
When the Wind Blows

It was one of those things, they were sure, that was on the
list of things they were too young for.
As they began the long hike back the three of them
fell silent, but as they neared the house Christie
suddenly asked a question.
"Aunt Diana? What if Miss Edna
doesn't want us to go to the picnic?"
Diana hesitated only a moment, then reached over
and patted Christie's hand. Then we'll go without
her."
"But . . . won't something terrible happen?"
Diana chuckled softly. "Don't you worry,
honey. That was all over with a long time ago. I
grew up, remember?"
Christie turned the matter over in her mind. "But
she's still your mother, isn't she?"
Now it was Diana who thought for a few moments before
speaking. "Yes," she said at last "She is."
Edna Amber was waiting for them when they came in, and
Diana immediately knew that there was going to be trouble.
"Jeff, I think you'd better go home," she said.
Edna stood in the dining-room door, her
left hand holding her cane, and her right hand wrapped
in a large bandage. Jeff, realizing what must have
happened, began backing out the door.
"I-111 see you tomorrow, Christie," he said. Then,
remembering his manners, he spoke to Diana.
Thanks for taking me hiking, Miss Diana."
"You're very welcome, Jeff," Diana said,
watching her mother as she spoke. "Come back any
time." As Edna's eyes narrowed she repeated her
last words. "Any time."
Then Jeff was gone, and the two Amber women and
Christie were alone.
"What happened, Mother?"
Edna's cane came up and pointed at Christie,
who cowered against Diana.
That child!" Edna burst out. "Look what she's done
to me! Just look!"
She pulled off the bandage and held up her damaged
hand. Diana recoiled from the sight of the bruised,
swollen flesh.
"I don't understand," she said. "What do you mean
Christie did that to you? She wasn't even here,
Mother."
"She didn't have to be here," Edna hissed. Her
angry eyes fastened on Christie, she
repeated what had happened. "A rattrapl" she
finished. "A rattrap in the henhouse!"
Diana turned to Christie.
"Did you put a rattrap in the hen house?" she
asked. Christie, her arms wrapped around
Diana's waist, nodded.
"It was Jeff's idea," she whispered,
frantically groping in her mind for a reasonable
explanation. "He said that rats like to eat the
chicks."
"It wasn't set for a rat, and you know itl" Edna
railed.
As rage contorted her mother's face Diana searched
for a way to protect Christie. "It was my
fault," she said at last. "I wasn't watching
what the children were doing, Mother. I was talking
to Joyce."
It worked. Edna's furious eyes focused on
Diana, and she emitted a crackling laugh. "You
were talking to Joyce," she mimicked. "And what was
so important that you let the children run wild?"
"Mama-was Diana began, but Edna cut her off.
"Be quiet!" The old woman's voice lashed out
like a whip. "You shouldn't have been talking to her at
all! You re an Amber, and don't ever
forget it!"
Diana's control suddenly snapped. "How can I
forget it?" she burst out. "How can I ever forget it,
when you keep shoving it down my throat? Who cares?
Q FL disP1 fll Lf
John Saul
When the Wind Blows

Mother, who the hell cares about the Ambers anymore?
What are we? We're the people who made all the
money off people dying, that's who we are! It wasn't
coal that made us rich, Mother! It was people! All I
can remember is that because of us, people died!"
Edna stepped back, shaken by the outburst. Then, her
voice suddenly gentle, she spoke to Christie.
"Go upstairs, child. Go upstairs, and don't come
down until someone sends for you."
Christie, stunned by what she had just heard, ran up
the stairs.
In the nursery, she tried to block out the sound of the
two women arguing, but it was impossible. First she
heard Diana's voice, shouting unintelligibly,
and then Miss Edna, her voice softer, but somehow
even more frightening.
Christie put her fingers in her ears, but still
the sound penetrated. She lay down on the bed and
put the pillow over her head. That did no good either.
As the argument raged on, two floors below her, she
took off her clothes and got into her pajamas. She
picked up the teddy bear that was propped up against the
wall by the bed and went to the crib.
Being in the crib made her feel better, safer-as
if in the tiny crib with its four fencelike walls,
nothing could hurt her.
She lay very still, the bear cuddled against her chest, and
tried to shut out the sounds that were filling the house.
Her mother.
She would think about her mother.
If only she were still a baby, her mother would still be with
her, and none of this would be happening.
She slipped her thumb into her mouth and began sucking
on it.
That, too, gave her a certain amount of comfort.
HbleP
Above her, a limp paper bird swung slowly at
the end of a string.
Dimly, in the far reaches of her mind, a memory
stirred. When she was a baby, there had been a
mobile of birds hanging above her crib.
She could remember watching it hour after
hour, the birds soaring slowly in circles.
Christie drew her legs up tighter and pulled the
teddy bear closer to her chest
Watching the bird floating above her, she began
to forget about the present.
Yes, things had been better long ago, when she was
a baby.
Her mother had been with her then, and everything had been
fine.
If only she were still a little baby. . . .
Hours later, Diana crept into the nursery and
looked down at the sleeping child.
"Christie?" she whispered.
Christie stirred in her sleep, and her thumb came
out of her mouth.
Diana reached down and touched Christie's hand.
The hand closed on her finger.
"Baby? Are you awake?"
Again Christie stirred, but this time her eyes opened
slightly.
"Mama?" she asked softly.
"That's right, sweetheart," Diana crooned.
"It's your
IT-LFLLTLFLT
She picked Christie up and took her to the
bed.
Cradling the sleepy child in her arms, she sat down
and gently rocked her.
"Mama?" Christie's eyes gazed up at her.
"Mama, don't leave me."
"I won't," Diana whispered. "Your mama
won't ever leave you alone again."
Still holding Christie in her arms, Diana stood
up
R 4
John Saul
again and left the nursery. She went down the back
stairs to the second floor and moved along the
hall.
When she was in front of her mother's room, she
paused.
"Little girls never leave their mamas, do they?" she
asked, facing the closed door. Then she answered
her own question. "No, they never do. They stay with their
mamas forever and ever, and they never grow up."
She went on down the hall to her own room,
slipped inside, and closed the door behind her.
"Their mamas don't let them," she whispered as she
put Christie on her own bed and tucked the covers
around the half-asleep child.
When she was done, she slipped into the bed, Christie
nestled at her side.
A moment later she was sound asleep.
Down the hall, Edna Amber's door opened, and
she stared at the now empty halLike
Outside, she could hear the wind howling.
She knew that Diana had been in front of her
door a moment ago, and that she had been speaking.
But what had she been saying?
The wind had drowned out her words.

iwwww8stw"*www8*w*wjwwww8ww8wwww*
7eff?"
Jeff Crowley looked up from his breakfast. His
father had a strange expression on his face, an
expression that was unfamiliar to Jeff, but that an
older person would have recognized as quizzical.
"Did you have a good time out at the Ambers'
yesterday?"
Jeff bobbed his head. "It was really neat. Miss
Diana took us up to the mine, and hiking, and we're
going to have a camp-out."
"A camp-out?" Matt glanced uneasily at his
wife, but Joyce seemed unconcerned. "WherePeople'
"There's a bunch of trees, with a little spring
in it, and a big rock." Jeff scratched his head
thoughtfully. "I'm not exactly sure where it is."
"But if s on the Ambers' property?"
"I guess so." Jeff shrugged. "What does it
matter?"
"What does it matter, Matt?" Joyce echoed.
"Who all's going to go?" she asked Jeff.
"Me and Christie, and any of the other kids that want
to, I guess."
"And Diana's going with you?"
He wondered if he should tell them what had
happened to Miss Diana at the mine. He
decided not to. "Yeah," Jeff said.
Matt noticed his son's hesitation, but Joyce
spoke before he could press Jeff further.
John Saul
When the Wind Blows

"What about the other kids?" she asked. "Will they
go?"
"I can talk them into it," Jeff said confidently.
"I bet I can even talk Jay-Jay into it.
I'll tell her she's chicken if she doesn't
go."
Now Matt did interrupt "You do, and
111 have your hide."
Jeff looked at his father, perplexed. "Why?
Jay-Jay's always doing that. Every time she thinks up
something, and the rest of us don't want to do it, she
says we're chicken."
"Jay-Jay may do that, but that doesn't make it
right," Joyce told her son. "Anyway, what
could she think up that you or Steve or Eddie wouldn't
want to go along with?"
Suddenly Jeff was wary. He didn't want
to risk being a tattletale, and he was afraid his
mother might call Jay-Jay's. 1 can't
remember," he said, remembering the time Jay-Jay
had suggested they throw rocks through Mrs. Berkey's
window. He got up from tibe table. "Can I go
over to Steve's?"
"Okay, but the next time Jay-Jay says you're
chicken, you just ignore her," Joyce said.
When Jeff was gone, Matt looked uneasily at
his wife.
"Do you think it's a good idea?" he asked.
"The camp-out? I think it's a wonderful idea.
It'll be great for the kids, and good for Diana,
too."
"Do you think she can handle it?"
"Can anybody handle a bunch of lads on a
campout?" Joyce countered, but Matt ignored her
attempt at humor.
"She doesn't know anything about kids. And don't
forget all the talk we've heard all these years."
Joyce stood up and began clearing the table. "And
that's all it is-talk," she said. "There's nothing
wrong with Diana that getting out more won't cure."
Tm not so sure," Matt said. Then, seeing that
Joyce was about to launch into a lecture, he slid
his chair back from the table and glanced at his watch.
Td better get going. I promised Phil
Penrose I'd take a look at his roof today."
He smiled wryly. "From mine superintendent
to handyman. Some life, huh?"
Joyce kissed her husband. "Something will turn
up," she told him. "It always does."
When he was gone, Joyce poured herself another cup
of coffee and sat down again. Perhaps, she thought, she
should pay another call on Diana.
Just to make sure.
Bill Henry hadn't slept well.
All night he'd kept going over and over the
strange story Edna Amber had told him, and
by dawn had decided the only thing to do was
talk to Diana. After breakfast, he dialed the
Ambers' number.
To his relief it was Diana who picked up the
phone.
"If s Bill," he said.
"And a glorious good morning to you."
Her tone reassured him, and Bill began
to relax.
"I slept like a log last night," she went on.
"Motherhood appears to be good for me."
As she spoke the last words Bill's moment of
ease evaporated and when he spoke again, his voice
took on a serious tone. "Diana, could you have
dinner with me tonight?"
There was a slight hesitation, then: "Can I bring
Christie along?"
"I was hoping it could be just the two of us," Bill
replied. The last thing he wanted was to have someone
else there.
"I don't know." Diana's voice was pensive.
"Christie's pretty young to stay by herself."
"She won't be by herself," Bill pointed out. "Your
mother will be there."
Now there was a long silence, and when Diana spoke
again, she sounded wistful.
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John Saul
When the Wind Blows

"Can't we include her? Please?"
Bill shrugged; perhaps they could talk after dinner.
"Okay. Shall I pick you up about six?"
"Fine. See you then."
As he put the phone back on the hook Bill had
mixed feelings. He was pleased that Diana had, for the
first time in his memory, accepted an invitation without
consulting her mother first. But there was something else, too.
Was she afraid to leave Christie with Miss Edna?
That made no sense at all. Granted, the old
woman wanted Christie out of the house, but he
couldn't imagine that she would actually harm the child.
Then he remembered that only a few days ago
Edna Amber had come to town by herself, for the first time in
years, to talk to Dan Gurley. Why?
Checking his calendar and finding no appointments,
Bill left his office and walked the two blocks
to the town hall.
Dan glanced up as Bill came into his office.
"If ifs a crisis, I don't want to hear about
it," the marshal said sourly.
"It's not." Bill told Dan about Diana's
apparent fear of leaving Christie with her mother. Dan,
as was his habit, scratched his nose while he
listened.
"Well, Miss Edna was pretty upset that day,"
he said when Bill was done. "But it seemed to me that
she was more worried about Diana and herself than mad at
the kid. She was just pissed off that something had finally
upset her applecart."
"Did you tell her that?"
Dan grinned, remembering. "Yep. And she got
downright abusive about it, too. Still thinks she runs
the town. I guess she always will."
Bill moved to the window and stood staring out into the
peaceful streets of the village. "Do you think she's
any threat to Christie Lyons?" he asked, his
back still to the marshal.
Dan shrugged unconcernedly. "I can't see why
she would be. But who knows? She's an old tiger,
and it seems to me like she's defending her cub. If
you can call a fifty-year-old woman a cub."
Bill shook his head sadly. Then he brightened.
"Things seem to be changing out there. Miss Edna
actually called me yesterday. She caught her hand
in a rattrap, which she seemed to think
Christie had set specifically to catch her."
"Getting paranoid, is she?" Dan asked.
"Looking for an excuse to force Diana to send
Christie away, is more like it."
"I'm sorry for Diana." Dan sighed. "But
it's her own fault. She should have cleared out of there
years ago."
"Maybe she will yet," Bill said, thinking about the
evening ahead. But to himself, he admitted that he
doubted it.
Christie rummaged through her clothes and finally found a
pair of jeans. As she pulled them on she thought about
the night before.
Sleeping in Aunt Diana's bed had been nice.
She had awakened twice during the night, but the soft
warmth of Diana's body next to her own had made
her feel safe, and when she had wiggled, Diana
had pulled her closer and stroked her until she had
fallen back to sleep.
She put on a T-shirt, then found her sneakers
under the bed. The one good thing about the nursery, she
decided, was that she didn't have to keep it too
neatMiss Edna hardly ever came upstairs, and
Aunt Diana didn't seem to notice if she
left things lying around.
Her shoes tied, she bounded down the back stairs
to the kitchen.
She looked out the window. Off in the distance she saw
some children playing in the field.
"Aunt Diana?" she called. She went to the
diningroom door and called again. "Aunt Diana!"
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When the Wind Blows

"Ha! La muchacha!"
Christie, startled, turned to see Esperanza
Rodriguez coining down the stairs. "Is Aunt
Diana up there?" she asked shyly. "No,"
Esperanza replied. "But Miss Edna-she is in
the parlor. Do you want to go talk to her?" Christie
shook her head. "She doesn't like me."
Esperanza chuckled, her large bosom heaving.
"She don't like anybody, that one. But nobody like
her, either, no?"
Esperanza moved slowly into the kitchen, and
Christie followed her. "Why doesn't she like
anyone?" she asked. Esperanza shrugged and
settled herself at the kitchen table, where she
began shelling peas from a bowl she held on her
lap.
"Life has not been what she wanted it to be," she
said softly. "Not for Senorita Diana, either. And,
since her baby, this has not been a happy house.
If it ever was," she added.
Christie stared at Esperanza, her eyes filled
with puzzlement. "Aunt Diana had a baby?"
"Si," Esperanza said, nodding. "But it died and
went to live with the children."
Christie frowned. "What children?" Esperanza
stopped working and met Christie's eyes. "The ones
in the cave," she said. "Up on the hill, behind the
mine."
Christie scratched her head, trying to figure out
what Esperanza was talking about. Then an idea
occurred to her.
"Are they the water babies?"
"Si," Esperanza said. She took the peas to the
sink, then began peeling some carrots. "But who are
they?" Christie asked. "Little children," Esperanza
said. "Little babies who were never alive. They wait
in the cave, and someday they will live again."
L
Christie stared at her, wide-eyed. "You
mean they're ghosts?" she breathed.
"Oh, no. To be a ghost you have to live. And the water
babies never lived." She paused for a moment, then,
under her breath, she said something else: "Except for
one."
Suddenly another voice filled the room, and
Christie whirled around to see Edna Amber's tall
form looming in the dining-room doorway.
"Esperanza, what are you telling that child?" the old
woman demanded. Under Edna's wrath Esperanza
seemed to shrink.
"Nada, senora," she said. She dropped the
carrot into the sink and scuttled out the back door.
When she was gone, Edna turned to Christie.
"What was she saying?" she demanded once more.
"n-nothing," Christie told her, desperately
trying to keep from bursting into tears. "Just a story."
"A story?" Edna asked. "What land of story?"
Christie, her eyes darting like a rabbit's, searched
the room, but there was no refuge.
"About the children," she whispered. "The children in the cave."
Edna's eyes bored into her.
"It's a lie," she said. "There is no cave, and
there are no children. She's an ignorant,
superstitious peasant, and you mustn't listen
to her. Do you understand me?"
"Yes, Miss Edna," Christie breathed. Her
eyes fastened onto Edna's cane, which the old
woman had lifted from the floor and now held hovering
in the air.
"Don't hurt me," Christie whispered.
"Please don't hurt me."
Edna glared at her, then her eyes softened, and she
slowly lowered the cane.
"Hurt you?" she asked. "Why would I want
to hurt you?" She glanced out the window and saw the
chil-
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When the Wind Blows

dren playing in the field a hundred yards away.
"Go on," she said. "Go play with your friends."
Christie, as if released from a trap, fled out the
back door.
Today Joyce Crowley was walking out to the Ambers',
since Matt had taken the pickup truck. As she
neared the driveway she stopped for a moment to watch the
children playing in the field.
They were playing tag, and Christie Lyons seemed
to be "it." Jeff and Steve were there, along with
Eddie Whitefawn and Susan Gillespie.
Jay-Jay Jennings, if she was with them, was nowhere
to be seen.
Suddenly Jeff saw his mother and came running over
to her. "Hi!"
"Hi, yourself. You getting hungry?"
"Unh-hunh."
"Well, I'll tell you what. I'm going over
to talk to Miss Diana for a few minutes. When
I'm done, why don't we take all your friends
home for lunch?" "Oh, boy! Can we?"
"Why can't we? Ifs our house!" Joyce tousled
her son's hair and watched while he rejoined his
friends. Then she continued along the road.
As she approached the house she heard Miss
Edna's imperious voice, railing at Diana.
"I won't stand for it, Diana," Edna was saying.
"I won't have you getting involved with William
Henry again! Do you understand me?"
Joyce, embarrassed at overhearing an argument,
quickly crossed the porch and pressed the bell.
Silence fell in the house, and a moment later
Diana opened the door, her face
strained. "Who is it?" Edna called from the living
room. "Joyce Crowley, Mother," Diana
called back. She dropped her voice. "Let's
go into the kitchen." She
*
quickly led Joyce through the dining room and offered her a
cup of coffee.
"Got any lemonade?" Joyce asked. "It's
getting hot out there."
"Seven-Up okay?" Diana asked as she searched
the refrigerator.
"Fine." Joyce paused, then decided to plunge
right into the reason for her visit. "How did it go
yesterday? With Jeff being here, I mean."
Diana brought glasses and the 7-Up to the table and
sat down. Had Jeff told his mother what had
happened up at the mine? "We had a good time," she
offered. As she saw the look of relief that passed
over Joyce's face, she realized that Jeff had
said nothing. "And I didn't crack under the strain,"
she added, forcing herself to smile over the nervousness she
was feeling.
Joyce chuckled ruefully. "Was I that
obvious? WelLike Matt always says I'm totally
transparent."
As Joyce's expression turned desolate
Diana suddenly laughed. "Don't apologize
to me, Joyce," she said. "Except for Bill
Henry, you're the only person who's ever even
bothered to talk to me about my life."
Joyce's eyes flickered toward the kitchen door.
Then she reached out to touch Diana's hand. "Is it that
bad?"
Diana was still for a moment, then shook her head. "I
suppose it used to be worse. I guess it's just
that she doesn't want me to grow up, Joyce."
Diana took a deep breath and stood up.
"Well, I'd better find Christie and fix some
lunch."
Joyce, too, stood up. "She's outside with the
rest of the kids. I invited them all over to have lunch
with Jeff. Christie, too. Is that all right?"
Diana's hesitation was almost imperceptible.
"Of course," she said. "Just make sure she comes
home by four, okay?"
Joyce agreed and let herself out the back door. As
D ft dis.*
John Saul
she disappeared around the corner of the house, Diana
slowly fingered her glass.
She wished Christie weren't going to the Crowleys'.
She had wanted to fix lunch for Christie herself.
Indeed, she wanted to do everything for Christie.
She decided that Christie was spending too much time
with the other children.
Entirely too much.

*#****8"bled
"I have an idea," Jay-Jay Jennings said.
Jay-Jay had arrived at the Crowleys' after
lunch, and the children, six of them, were sitting in the shade
of a large willow in the Crowleys* yard. So far,
Jay-Jay had said nothing about her idea that
Christie might have drowned Kim, though they had
spent much of the afternoon speculating on what might have
happened to their friend and talking about the funeral that was
to take place the following day. Jeff, however, had
seen Jay-Jay staring at Christie, and when she said
she had an idea, he was sure it had something to do with
her.
Susan Gillespie turned to Jay-Jay
eagerly. "Well, tell us," she urged.
Jay-Jay smiled slyly at her friends. "You know
how the wind's been blowing every night?"
"Yeah," Steve Penrose said. "So
what?"
"Well, I heard that when the wind blows, you can hear
the water babies crying."
"Big deal," Jeff muttered, knowing what was
corning and remembering his own trip to the mine only the
day before.
Susan, however, was intrigued. "Really?" she
asked.
"That's what I heard," Jay-Jay said. "Why
don't we go find out tonight?"
The other children looked at each other uneasily, each
of them wondering what the other was thinking.
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When the Wind Blows

It was finally Susan who spoke. "Til go. But
what if there isn't any wind?"
"Then we won't go, stupid," Jay-Jay
replied.
"I don't know," Jeff said. "I'm not
supposed to go up to the mine by myself."
"You mean you're chicken," Jay-Jay taunted
him.
"I am not!"
"Are too!"
"Me and Christie were up there yesterday," Jeff
said. "We didn't hear any baby crying."
"But the wind wasn't blowing," Christie said.
"So what?"
"Maybe that's why you didn't hear it. Besides, if
you're not supposed to go to the mine, why did you go
yesterday?"
Jeff squirmed, but he knew he was caught.
"All right, 111 go," he agreed reluctantly.
"If my parents will let me," he added.
"If we ask our parents, none of us will get to go,"
Jay-Jay sneered. "Well have to sneak out"
Suddenly the idea took on the feeling of a great
adventure. It was as if an unspoken dare hung
over them, and none of them was willing to be the first
to back out. Christie, however, was nervously digging
at the ground with a twig.
"What about you?" Jay-Jay challenged her. "Are
you coming?"
Christie seized on the first excuse that
came to mind. "I don't know if I can get out,"
she said unhappily.
"Anybody can get out, if they want to."
Jay-Jay smiled at her, but the smile was mean.
She turned to the others. "She's just afraid of
Miss Diana."
"I am not," Christie flared. What she was
afraid of was the story Esperanza had told her that
morning, but she didn't want to admit it
"Then come with us."
Christie glanced from one face to the next, hoping
someone would come to her aid, but Susan Gillespie
seemed suddenly entranced with the buttons on her
shirt, while Steve Penrose whittled furiously
on a stick. Only Jeff and Eddie Whitefawn
were looking at her.
"Are you going?" she asked.
Jeff hesitated. He wanted to say no, but he
couldn't make himself do it. "I guess so," he
mumbled, privately wondering if he could find a
way out of it. Eddie Whitefawn only shrugged.
"Then 111 go, too," Christie said, putting on
a brave expression.
But inside, she was terrified.
As Christie began walking home the wind
came up, and by the time she got back to the ranch it was
blowing hard from the west, buffeting her, and making her
lean into it. When she finally got inside, she found
Diana waiting for her, a strange look in her
eyes.
"Where have you been?" she demanded. Christie stared at
her, puzzled.
"At Jeff's. Mrs. Crowley said she told
you. Didn't she?"
Diana tried to calm herself, but it was difficult
Most of the afternoon she had been fine, but half an hour
ago, when the wind came down out of the mountains, she
had begun to be nervous. Finally she had gone to the
window, where she had watched for Christie, anger
building in her with each passing minute. Christie
should have been home by four, and it was now four-thirty.
She shouldn't have let Christie go to Jeff's. She
was too young-much too young-to go off by herself.
"Come upstairs," she said. "It's time for your bath.
We're going out for dinner tonight."
Christie's eyes lit up. "We are? Where?"
"El Rancho. Dr. Henry's taking us."
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When the Wind Blows

Suddenly Christie remembered her plans for that
night. What should she do? If she wasn't home,
she wouldn't be able to meet the rest of the kids. But would
they believe her when she told them what had
happened?
Jay-Jay would accuse her of making up an
excuse, and the other kids would believe Jay-Jay.
"Do I have to go?"
"Don't you want to?" Diana asked,
Christie's objection only angering her further.
"I don't like Mexican food," Christie lied.
"Well, maybe Dr. Henry will take us
someplace else."
"What time will we be home?"
"I don't know," Diana said, her voice taking
on a note of exasperation. "About ten, I should
think."
Her friends were going to meet at nine. Christie thought
fast. "But I wanted to watch television tonight Can't
I stay home with Miss Edna?"
Diana scowled at her. "No, you can't, and thats
final. Now come upstairs so I can give
you your bath."
Obediently Christie followed Diana upstairs
and let herself be undressed. Though she still didn't like
it, she was getting used to the idea that Aunt Diana
liked to bathe her, and had stopped objecting to it.
Besides, Diana seemed to be mad at her again, and
she was frightened.
Diana filled the tub with water, and Christie got
in and sat down. Diana soaped the washrag and
began scrubbing her.
There. Now your hair."
Diana poured shampoo onto Christie's hair and
began massaging it. Some of the shampoo got
into Christie's eyes, and she began struggling.
"Hold still," Diana said.
"But there's soap in my eyes," Christie
complained. She began crying and rubbed furiously at
her eyes.
t
"Stop that!" Diana snapped. "Good babies
don't cry!"
Christie, unable to see, tried to splash water on
her face, but missed. Instead water cascaded down
the front of Diana's blouse.
"How dare you?" Diana demanded, a blind
rage suddenly seizing her. Her right hand lashed out and
caught Christie's cheek.
Christie, terrified, screamed. The scream seemed
only to intensify Diana's rage.
She dropped the washrag from her hand and grabbed
Christie, her hands closing around the child's neck.
"Don't do that," she hissed between clenched teeth.
"I can't stand it when you cry! Do you understand me? I
can't stand it!"
Christie struggled desperately as Diana forced
her head under the water, flailing her arms as she
tried to get a grip on the edge of the tub. Her
lungs felt as if they were going to burst, and she was
sure she was going to drown.
Suddenly the bathroom door flew open.
Esperanza, her eyes wide, stared at the strange
scene in the bathroom.
"jMadre de DiosFrom she gasped. Moving as
swiftly as her bulk would allow, she lunged for the
tub and, pushing Diana aside, lifted Christie
out of the water.
Coughing and choking, the terrified child shivered as
Esperanza wrapped a towel around her.
"What happened?" Esperanza asked. Crouching on
the floor, an ashen-faced Diana, her
eyes wide, stared up at her.
"I was washing her hair," Diana said, her voice
faltering. "She got soap in her eyes and started
struggling." Her eyes, strangely blank,
appealed to Esperanza. "It's all right now, though,
Esperanza." Esperanza hesitated, and Diana
shakily stood up. "Really, it's all right.
Thank you for helping me."
John Saul
When the Wind Blows

Esperanza, her eyes narrowed with suspicion,
reluctantly left the bathroom.
When she was gone, Diana reached out toward
Christie, but the little girl shrank away from her.
"Let me dry you off," Diana said, her voice
low. Christie, too terrified to object, shivered
as Diana began rubbing her body with the towel. When
she was done, she wrapped the towel around Christie and
picked her up.
"Can't I get dressed now?" Christie begged.
Til dress you, baby," Diana told her. "I
like to dress you. Won't you let me?"
Christie's heart pounded, and she nodded her head
meekly.
Diana carried her up to the nursery and found a pink
dress with ruffles. Christie looked at it and bit
her lip.
"I hate that dress," she whispered. "It makes
me look like a baby."
"But you are a baby," Diana said. "You're my
sweet baby, and I want you to look pretty."
Diana dressed Christie, then stood back
to admire her. "Such a pretty baby," she
crooned, and the tone of her voice only frightened
Christie more.
Outside, the wind howled down from the mountains.
Diana took Christie by the hand and led her down to the
second floor, to her own room. She sat
Christie on the bench in front of her vanity
mirror.
She began combing the child's hair, humming softly
to herself. Christie tried to sit perfectly still,
afraid that if she moved, something terrible would
happen.
Slowly Christie's hair began to dry, and when it
was no longer damp, Diana parted it in the middle,
then began weaving two large braids. Silently,
her eyes wide, Christie watched in the mirror as
Diana worked.
When the braids were done, Diana began winding
them together, piling them on top of Christie's head and
fastening them with, large hairpins.
"There," she said at last, stepping back. "How do
you like it?"
Christie stared at herself in the mirror. The hairdo
was an exact copy of Diana's own.
"I don't know," she said softly. "I liked it
better when the braids were down."
"But most little girls want to put their hair up like
their mothers'," Diana replied.
Christie started to protest that Diana was not her mother,
but before she spoke she caught a glimpse of
Diana's face in the mirror.
There was something in Diana's eyes that warned
Christie not to argue.
"All right," she said.
While Diana dressed, Christie went
downstairs to the living room, where Edna Amber sat
leafing through a magazine, her injured hand lying still in
her lap. As the little girl came into the room Edna
glanced up. Her eyes widening, she put the
magazine aside.
"Good heavens, child," she said. "What have you done
to yourself?"
Christie squirmed with embarrassment.
"Aunt Diana did it," she whispered.
"Well, it looks terrible. Come here."
Obediently Christie crossed the room and stood in
front of Edna while the old lady pulled the pins
from her hair and let the braids drop to her
shoulders. "Thafs better. Why did you let her do
that?"
"She wanted to," was all Christie could say.
"And why are you all dressed up?" Edna asked,
suddenly suspicious.
"I'm going out to dinner with Aunt Diana and Dr.
Henry."
"Oh, you are, are you." Edna replied. "Where's
Diana?"
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When the Wind Blows

"Upstairs," Christie said, suddenly nervous.
Edna thought for a moment, then spoke.
"You go up to your room. Stay there until I call
you. Do you understand me?"
Christie nodded and was about to leave the room when Edna
suddenly took her hand.
"Did she give you a bath?" she asked.
Again Christie nodded.
"All right," Edna said, releasing her hand. "Now go
on up, and stay there."
Christie turned and left the room.
When she was gone, Edna sat still for a moment, then went
to the foot of the stairs. "Diana? Dianal"
"In a minute, Mother." Diana's voice
floated down the stairs. Impatiently Edna
struck the bottom stair with her cane.
"Nowr
A moment later Diana hurried down the stairs.
Edna glared at her daughter, her blue eyes
glinting.
"What do you think you're doing?" she demanded.
Diana gazed at her, and Edna saw the strange
empty look in her eyes.
"I'm getting ready for dinner," Diana said, her
voice oddly childlike.
"With that young man?"
"I told you, Mother."
Edna's eyes narrowed. "You told me nothing," she
said. "Ever since that child has been here, you've
ignored me. You can't do that, Diana."
"Mama, I don't know what you're
talking about." She glanced at the clock in the
hall. "Mama, can't we talk about this some other
time? Bill will be here any minute."
Edna's voice dripped with sarcasm as she spoke.
"And then you can take that little girl, and your man friend,
and pretend you're a family. Isn't that right?"
When Diana made no reply, Edna repeated her
last words. "Isn't that rightFrom
beo out with (e home by
"No, Mama," Diana whimpered.
"Stop sniveling and look at me," Edna
snapped. Diana raised her eyes and met her
mother's. "She's not your little girl, Diana. You
don't have a little girl. Do you understand me?"
"Mama-was
"Do you understand meFrom" Her left hand struck
Diana across the cheek.
Diana seemed to shrink within herself. "Yes,
Mama," she said softly.
"Very well, then," Edna said. Her voice turned
suddenly gentle. "Now go upstairs and finish
dressing."
Diana's eyes brightened a little. "You mean I can
go?" she asked.
"You can go," Edna replied. "You can go out
with your young man, but you must promise to be home
by eleven. All right?"
Diana bobbed her head. "Yes, Mama."
When Bill Henry arrived at six, Diana was in
the living room, sitting primly on a
straight-backed chair. It was Edna who opened the
door for him.
"Dr. Henry," Edna greeted him. "Diana's
waiting for you. Diana? Your young man is here."
Diana rose from her chair and came into the foyer.
Bill smiled at her, then his smile faded. There
was something in Diana's eyes-what was it? They
seemed blank-empty.
"Diana? Are you all right?"
Diana looked at him and smiled wanly. "I'm
fine," she said. "Shall we go?"
"What about Christie?" Bill asked. "Isn't
she corningj'
"Christie's not feeling well," Edna said
smoothly. "You two go along now, and have a good
time." Bill and Diana started out the door.
"Diana?" Diana turned back to face her mother.
"Remember, be home by eleven."
"Yes, Mama."
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When the Wind Blows

Edna stood at the door until Bill's car had
left the driveway, then slowly closed it and went
to the stairs.
"Christie?" she called. "You can come down now."
A few minutes later Christie, dressed in her
usual jeans and T-shirt, with her feet clad in
sneakers, came down the stairs. "Are they gone?"
she asked.
"They're gone," Edna told her. "Tonight the two of
us will stay home by ourselves."
As they left the ranch Diana sighed heavily and
straightened up on the seat next to Gill. He
glanced over at her and forced a smile.
"What happened?" Bill asked. "Is Christie
really sick?"
Dimly Diana remembered her mother talking to her,
telling her something. But before that-nothing. She had been
waiting for Christie to come home, and Christie had
been late. She frowned and tried to remember, but it
was all cloudy. Oh, God, she was having another
of her memory lapses. She mustn't let Bill
know-mustn't let anybody know.
"Her stomach was upset," she explained,
remembering her mother's words. "I decided it would be
best for her not to come." Would it work? Would he believe
her?
She heard Bill talking to her, but her mind was
whirling. It was the second time she'd had one of her
spells in three days. But what about the day she'd
ridden up to the quarry and gone right past it? Had she
had another of the strange spells? No, that day
she'd just been daydreaming. Then she was aware that
Bill was no longer talking. Was he waiting for her
to say something? She had to pull herself together. She had
to. B
"Pardon me?" she asked.
"I said I could have taken a look at her," Bill
said.
"It's nothing," Diana said quickly. "She'll be
fine by morning."
But there was a nervousness in her voice that told
Bill there was something going on-something more than Diana
had told him. If Christie's stomach was as bad
as Diana had made it sound, she would have asked him
to look at the child. No, it was something else. Something
in Diana's eyes when he had picked her up. As
if she weren't quite aware of what was
happening.
It worried him, as Miss Edna's strange story
had worried him.
Joyce Crowley watched her son as he picked
at his dinner. Finally, when he started to get up after
barely touching his food, she spoke.
"All right, young man. What's going on?"
Jeff looked at his mother guiltily.
"Nothing.""
"Don't tell me nothing," Joyce said. "You've
been up to something, or are about to be. Which is it?"
"Nothing," Jeff insisted. Now his father, too, was
staring at him, and he shuffled his feet nervously.
"Jeff, your mother reads minds like a medium,""
Matt told him. "Yours and mine both. If she
says you're up to something, you're up to something. Now,
do you want to tell us about it, or do I have to take you
out behind the shed?"
"I haven't done anything," Jeff wailed.
"Ah," Joyce said, the beginnings of a smile
playing around her lips. "We're getting somewhere-we
know you're not in trouble yet Now, why don't you
tell us what's going on before you get in trouble?"
In a way, Jeff felt relieved. It was
annoying to have a mother who always knew what you
were going to do before you did it, but on the other hand, he
knew that she'd kept him out of a lot of trouble.
Like the time he'd been going to build a tree house,
and she'd found him sorting through a pile of old
lumber. "It won't hold you," she'd said. He'd
looked up at her. "What do you mean?" She'd
grinned at him.
R a jjLjp
n
John Saul
When the Wind Blows

"Well," she'd said, "if I were you, I'd be
planning to build a tree house with that But before I
did, I'd put the boards across a couple of
rocks and stand on them to see if they'll hold me."
Jeff had tried it, and the boards had broken. Now
he stared at the floor as he told his parents what
was going on.
"Some of the kids are going to sneak out tonight," he said.
"Are they?" Joyce said. So far, it sounded like no
more than childish mischief. "And what are they going
to do?"
"Go up to the mine and listen for the water babies,"
Jeff said. Joyce and Matt looked at
each other.
"I thought we already discussed the water babies,"
Matt said.
"Aside from the fact that you know perfectly well
you're to stay away from the mine,"" Joyce added.
"Unh-hunh."
"And you were going to go up there anyway?" Joyce
sighed heavily. "Jay-Jay Jennings dared you,
didn't she?" she continued before Jeff could answer.
Jeff stared at his mother in wonder. How did she
know? He nodded his head.
"All right, who was going?"
"I-I don't know," Jeff said miserably.
Then, as his father stared at him, he rattled off the
names. When he was done, he turned to his mother, his
eyes brimming with tears. "If they find out I
told, they'll be mad at me."
Joyce realized he was right. That was the problem with
kids. You raised them not to be tattletales, but
then you had to get them to tattle so you could straighten out
their messes. Somehow it didn't seem fair.
Suddenly an idea occurred to her. She knew it was
mean, but it was irresistible. Besides, there seemed to be
a certain justice to it.
"This was Jay-Jay's idea?" she asked.
Jeff nodded.
"Are you sure?" He nodded again. "All right," she
said. "I'm going to call everybody's mother and tell
them that Mrs. Jennings called me. Then everybody
will think that Jay-Jay told."
"Joyce," Matt protested. "You can't do that."
"Of course I can," Joyce said placidly. "I
shouldn't, but I'm going to."
As Jeff watched in awe his mother went to the phone and
began dialing.
She reached all the parents and explained to them what
had happened. All of them agreed to keep an eye
on their kids, except for two.
Claire Jennings insisted that her daughter wouldn't
even think of doing such a thing, and hung up on
Joyce.
Diana Amber wasn't home, but Joyce
explained the situation to Miss Edna, who listened in
silence.
"I see," Edna said when Joyce was done.
"Well, I'll do what I can."
"You'll make sure Christie doesn't go out
tonight?" Joyce asked.
"I'm an old woman, Mrs. Crowley," Edna
replied. "Sometimes I fall asleep very
early."
As she hung up the phone Joyce had an uneasy
feeling.
And yet, she reflected, she'd done what she could.
Despite her inclinations, she couldn't be
responsible for everyone in town.
Particularly not for Edna Amber.
Besides, surely Miss Edna wouldn't let herself go
to sleep until Diana got home.
Would she?
B J caret Just?
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When the Wind Blows

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Bill Henry finished the last scrap of his
enchilada and leaned back. Across from him, Diana
stared at her nearly full plate, then met his
eyes. She smiled thinly.
"I guess I wasn't hungry after all."
"Not hungry, or can't eat?"
"Is there a difference?"
Bill nodded. "Diana, what's going on out at
your house? I can't help you if I don't know
what's happening."
"What makes you think I need help?" Diana
asked guardedly.
Bill shook his head sadly. "I know you,
Diana. I've known you all my life, even though
I don't see you much. And the look in your eyes tonight
tells me that something is very much the matter. I think
you ought to tell me about it."
There's nothing much to tell. Mother's just being extra
difficult lately."
"Because of Christie." It was a statement, not a question.
"Because of Christie," Diana agreed. "I guess
you know she wants me to send her away."
"She told me," Bill said. Now Diana
looked at him sharply.
"She told you? When?"
The other day, when she got her hand caught in he
rattrap."
Diana toyed nervously with a fork. "She didn't
even tell me you were there."
Bill shifted in his chair, wondering how best
to approach the subject. As he ordered after-dinner
drinks for both of them, he decided to be direct.
"Diana, Miss Edna told me something else that
day." Was it his imagination, or did Diana appear
to flinch? "She told me you had a baby."
For a moment Diana thought she was going to faint. She
felt the blood draining from her face, and a
bone-deep chill passed over her. "She told you
what?"
Bill reached over and took her hand, and his eyes
searched hers as he repeated his statement. "She said
you had a baby about thirty years ago."
Images began flashing through Diana's mind. A
man, a man not at all like Bill, but with a
magnetism to him that she couldn't resist. A broad
chest and strong arms, and a chiseled face that was
vaguely like her father's had been when he was young and had
posed for the faded daguerreotype that still sat on her
mother's dresser. But who was he? She couldn't
remember.
Another memory lapse. But was it really? Had there
ever been such a man as she had just seen in the depths
of her mind, or was it only her imagination? And then
she heard Bill Henry speaking a name.
Travers."
Her mother's words came back to her. Elliot
Lyons's house had once been the Travers
house, but the name had meant nothing to her. "I don't
suppose it would," her mother had said. But now the
face, and the image of the strong torso, and the
name all came together. There had been a man named
Travers, and as Diana sat mutely at the table,
barely comprehending the words Bill Henry was
speaking, she began to have a sensation in her loins.
Heat.
Heat, and an odd sense of satisfaction.
Deep inside, Diana realized that what her mother
John Saul
When the Wind Blows

had told Bill Henry was true. Though there was no
trace of a memory, her instincts told her that she
had once had a child, and that a man named Travers was
the father. But what had happened to the child? She forced herself
to concentrate on what Bill was telling her.
"She said the baby was born dead, and she buried
it."
Dead? She'd had a baby, and it was born dead?
Again a tide of memory rose, but this time her mind
screamed out that her baby hadn't been born dead, that
it had been alive.
But why couldn't she remember anything about it?
Why couldn't she see the face of the child?
Why couldn't she remember holding it against her
breast, stroking it, nurturing it?
It was one more rent in her memory, but this time it
wasn't a small gap. This time it was a yawning
black hole, threatening to swallow her up.
What did it mean? She had to think. Desperately
she grasped at the threads of reason she could feel
slipping away from her, and another image came
to mind.
Christie.
What would happen to Christie?
They would take Christie away from her.
Surely, if they found out that she had had a baby,
and the baby had died, and she could remember none of it,
they would take her little girl away from her.
As that sure knowledge solidified in her mind she felt
an unfamiliar strength begin to build in her. No
one would ever know what had happened. She would deny her
mother's tale, and she would be convincing. When she
spoke, her voice was steady, and she even managed
a faint smile.
"She never stops, does she?" she asked.
Bill Henry, who had been watching Diana
carefully, and had seen a variety of emotions pass
over her
face, none of which he could truly interpret, let
himself relax a little. "It isn't true?"
Diana managed a humorless laugh. "Of course
it isn't. But it's easy to see what Mother's up
to. Can you imagine me being allowed to keep
Christie if that story were true? I'd be declared
insane!"
Bill finished his drink and called for another round
before he spoke again. When he did, he chose his
words carefully. "It seems like a rather complicated
tale."
"But it's perfect," Diana pointed out. "They'd
take Christie away from me, but leave me with Mother.
Don't you see? That's the beauty of it. It all
happened-according to Mother-thirty years ago. Since then,
Mother's been taking care of me and apparently doing a
good job of it. Why send me off to an institution at
this late date? Simply take Christie away,
and put things back the way they've been for the last
thirty years." She laughed bitterly now. "It's
really Machiavellian, when you think about it."
"But is it true?" Bill asked.
Diana's eyes, clear and blue, met his, and
search as he would, he could see not a flicker of
doubt in them. "Bill, that's not the kind of thing a
woman forgets. It would mean a blank space of
months in my life, and believe me, there
isn't one." She gazed at Bill's face,
searching for a trace of the love she had once seen in
his eyes whenever he looked at her. She thought she
saw what she was looking for, and a pleading note came
into her voice. "You believe me, don't you?" She
let her voice quiver a little. "Don't you?"
Bill nodded and took her hand once more. "Of
course I do," he assured her. "And if Miss
Edna spreads that tale any further, I can't
imagine anybody believing her."
Now Diana smiled coquettishly. "But you did,
didn't you? Admit it."
For the first time that evening Bill chuckled. "I
i e a. iiujp
and n n
John Saul
When the Wind Blows

don't know. At first, not at all. But then I
guess I must have believed her enough to think it was worth
asking you. Anyway, it's over." He signaled the
waiter for the check.
"Then let's talk about something else," Diana
suggested while they waited. "Something a lot more
cheerful than my mother's tales of my
sordid past."
"For instance?"
"For instance, the Fourth of July."
"What about it?"
Diana smiled at him, sure now that she was safe.
Tm taking Christie to the picnic. Want to come
along? I haven't been to a picnic in years, and
haven't the least idea of what happens at them
anymore. You can serve as interpreter for me,
explaining the native customs."
"Sounds good to me," Bill said, letting himself
relax. But then a thought occurred to him. "But what
about your mother? Will she be along?"
And suddenly, for Diana, the light moment was over.
"Not if I can help it," she said bitterly. Then
she laughed, even more bitterly. "I wonder if
she'll even let me go."
Bill's voice turned serious. "Diana, you're
a grown woman, and you can do what you want to do. She
doesn't own you, Diana. You can do anything you
want to do, and she can't stop you."
Diana looked at Bill, and once more her mood
swung. "I can, can't I?" she asked. "She
doesn't run me anymore, and she never will again.
Never."
But inside, Diana still felt doubts lurking.
Doubts, and the awful knowledge that there were many things she had no
memory of.
What were they, and what might they do to her? She had
no way of knowing.
At nine o'clock that evening Jay-Jay Jennings opened
the window of her bedroom and slipped out into the night.
The air was hot and dry, and the wind was blowing hard, but
there was a full moon. She crept around to the front
of the house. Standing in deep shadows, she peeked in the
living-room windows. Her father was sitting in his large
reclining chair, an open Bible in his lap, fast
asleep. In a smaller chair next to him, her mother
was knitting and watching a special on television that
Jay-Jay knew wouldn't be over until eleven.
She had two hours before either of her parents would stop
in to kiss her good night on their way to bed.
She returned to the backyard and climbed a picket
fence to drop into the Gillespies" backyard, then
looked around for Susan. There was a light on in
Susan's room, but the shade was drawn.
Jay-Jay rapped on the window, then waited. After
what seemed to be an eternity, Susan opened the
window.
"Come on," Jay-Jay said. "It's
nine."
"I can't go," Susan whispered. "My parents
found out."
"So what?"
They told me if I went, they'd cut off my
allowance. Nobody's going-Steve said his parents
found out, too, and Mrs. Crowley called my
mother."
"She called my mother, too," Jay-Jay said.
"But my mom told her I wouldn't do such a thing and
hung up on her." She giggled. "Are your folks
watching T.v.?"
"I guess so."
"Well, then, come on," Jay-Jay urged. "They
won't even know you're gone."
Susan hesitated, torn. But then the door to her
room opened. Jay-Jay ducked down into the
shrubbery.
"Susan?" Florence Gillespie asked. "Are
you talking to someone?"
ft -I bar Us equals *
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H
John Saul
When the Wind Blows

"No," Susan said, closing the window. "I just
heard a cat or something. I was just looking."
"Well, keep the window closed. I don't want
the wind filling the house with dust Why don't you come
out and watch the movie with us for a whileFrom"
Susan, knowing she was supposed to be in bed already,
eagerly accepted.
"Can I watch the whole movie?"
"Well see," her mother told her. She snapped
off the light in her daughter's room and pulled the
door closed. As she led Susan into the living
room Florence wondered how long Jay-Jay would
wait in the shrubbery before going home.
But Jay-Jay, realizing that her friends had all
chickened out, was already gone from the Gillespies' yard
and was hurrying along the street toward the road to the
mine.
As she left the town behind, Jay-Jay veered off the
road and cut across the big field. On the other
side lay the Amber house. If Christie had
chickened out, too, she might give up and go home.
It wasn't much fun, she decided, being brave
all by yourself.
She approached the big old house
slowly.
At night, silhouetted against the moonlit sky, it
seemed even larger than it was. Lights glowed in
windows on the ground floor, and on the third floor
another window was lit. Jay-Jay decided that must
be Christie's room.
She picked up a rock and tossed it as high as she
could against the side of the house.
She waited for a moment and then threw another.
Christie's face appeared at the window.
"Christie!" Jay-Jay called softly. "It's
me! Jay-Jay!"
"Where's everybody else?" Christie hissed
back.
"They're going to meet us up at the mine,"
Jay-Jay lied. She was sure that if she told
Christie no one else had come, Christie would
back out of the adventure.
Christie thought about it Would Aunt Diana have let
her go?
No, she wouldn't have.
Still, Aunt Diana wasn't home.
Til be down in a minute," Christie hissed.
She closed the window and pulled her jeans back
on. When she was dressed, she crept down
the back stairs and listened from the kitchen. All she
could hear was the droning of the television.
She opened the back door and slipped out into the
night. Jay-Jay was waiting for her.
"Come on," Jay-Jay said. "Let's go before we
get caught."
The two girls scurried around behind the barn, then
began walking parallel to the road that led up to the
mine. The wind, growing stronger, was howling out of the
hills like some strange bodiless monster. Christie
suddenly reached out and took Jay-Jay by the hand.
"I don't like this," she whispered, but Jay-Jay
knew the magic words.
"Don't be chicken," she said. "It's only
wind."
Unhappily Christie kept going.
Twenty minutes later they stood outside the mine
entrance, almost invisible in the shadow of the hill.
"Where's everybody else?" Christie whispered.
Jay-Jay still didn't want to tell her they were
by themselves. "Maybe they went inside," she suggested.
She started toward the mouth of the shaft, but still Christie
hung back.
"I don't want to," she whispered.
"Jay-Jay, I want to go home."
"Chicken," Jay-Jay taunted her. "Chicken,
chicken, chicken!"
Reluctantly Christie took a step forward, but
JayJay had disappeared into the darkness.
"Jay-Jay? Where are you? Jay-Jay? Jeff?"
She waited, but the only sound that came back to her
was the moaning of the wind.
H
m
John Saul
When the Wind Blows

And then, in the dim light, something moved. "Who is
it?" she asked.
There was no answer, but again the shape moved. It
seemed to be coming toward her. Christie Lyons
turned and fled down the hill.
Diana waited until Bill had driven away from
the house, then let herself in the front door. It was
just before ten. At least her mother couldn't criticize
her for being late. She was beginning to feel a headache
coming on, so she went to the kitchen, found an aspirin,
and washed it down with a glass of water. Then she went
to the living room, where Edna was asleep in front
of the television. Diana started to wake
her, then decided to leave her alone. Instead she'd
go up to the nursery and spend some time with Christie.
She climbed the stairs to the third floor and listened
to the wind shriek around the eaves. Tonight they would
probably lose some shingles.
The nursery door was closed, but a light showed beneath
it. Diana tapped softly, then pushed it open.
"Baby? I'm home." The room was empty.
"Christie? Christie, where are you?" There was no
answer, and Diana dashed down the stairs. "Mother?
Mother! Where's Christie?"
Edna awoke with a start and peered sleepily at her
daughter. "Up in her room, of course. What time
is it?" "She's not in her room. I was just up
there." Panic was building in her now, but she tried
to be calm. "Mama, where is she? Where's my
baby?" Edna stood up and came toward Diana.
"Calm down, Diana," she said. Outside, she
could hear the wind still blowing, and in her daughter's
eyes she saw the familiar look of fear and
confusion. "Calm downl She must be here." Edna,
fully awake now, remembered Joyce
Crowley's phone call. "Unless she went with her
friends," she added.
Diana's eyes were wild. "Went? Went
where?" "Some of the children were going up to the mine-was Edna
began, but before she could go on, Diana was screaming.
The mine? She was going up to the mine? Why?"
"Diana!" Edna reached out to grasp her daughter's
arm, but Diana twisted away.
"No . . . she can't go up there, Mama. It's
too dangerous. Mama, don't let her . . .
I've got to find her . . . got to stop her!"
As Edna watched helplessly Diana ran out into the
howling winds of the night.
Christie's heart was pounding in her chest, and her
breath was coming in gasps, but she kept running. Then,
coming toward her, she recognized Diana. Her fear
of the afternoon forgotten in the terror of the night, she
stopped running.
She was safe. Whatever she'd seen, it couldn't get
her now.
"Aunt Diana? Aunt Diana, help!"
Diana paused, the wind lashing at her in the
darkness. Had she heard something-someone-calling to her?
She took a hesitant step forward. "Baby?
Is that my baby? Mama's coming, pretty baby.
Mama's corning for you."
Christie froze. There was something in Diana's
voice, and in the way she moved, that frightened
her even more than whatever she had left behind at the
mine. Diana's voice sounded the way it always did
before she hit Christie. Panic swept over her,
and she began to cry, but even in her fear, she
remembered what happened to her when she cried.
"Good little girls don't cry." The words echoed in
her mind, and she fled from Diana.
"Baby," Diana muttered. "Baby, where are
you?" She looked around, but suddenly there was nothing for
her but the darkness and the wind.
R caret like
John Saul
Once again she began plodding up the hill toward the
mine.
Jay-Jay Jennings giggled to herself. Christie, she
decided, was a scaredy-cat, just like the others. But
she, Jay-Jay, wasn't. It was kind of fun,
being in the mine alone, and if she stayed long enough,
she would find out if the stories she had heard were
true.
She felt in her pocket for the tiny flashlight she
had brought along and ventured deeper into the mine.
The darkness closed around her, and she turned on the
light. She flashed it around, then reached out to touch the
wall of the tunnel. Feeling her way
along, she moved toward the vertical shaft.
She listened carefully, but all she could hear was the
sound of the wind.
Then, when it seemed as though she must be far from the
entrance, she heard another sound.
It was like a baby, and it seemed to be crying.
Was it the wind? Jay-Jay couldn't be sure.
And then, behind her, between her and the entrance, she heard a
voice.
This time she knew it wasn't the wind.
She could feel a presence in the mine, as an
animal can sense approaching danger. She snapped
off the light and waited.
She heard a voice, calling out in the darkness.
Cowering low to the floor of the mine, Jay-Jay
didn't answer.
And then there was only the wind, and the strange sound that was
like a baby crying.
Diana paused just inside the mine, listening to the
howling wind.
She could hear her baby crying now, calling to her,
is it always did when the wind blew.
The dark void in her mind opened, and she
rememDered.
When the Wind Blows

There had been another night, many years ago. She
had been carrying a baby that night, and it had been
crying.
And then she had lost the baby.
Maybe tonight she would find it
Find it, and make it stop crying.
She plunged ahead into the darkness, oblivious to the
blackness that surrounded her, following only the
voice that was guiding her.
"Baby?" she called. "Baby, where are you? It's
Mama, come to get you."
There was a sound ahead, and then a tiny light glowed.
"Miss Diana?" Jay-Jay called softly.
"Miss Diana, is that you?"
"I'm coming, baby." Diana's voice floated
toward her in the darkness. "Mama's come back for you.
Mama wouldn't leave you here."
The light came nearer, and suddenly Diana could
see the face.
It was the face of a child, and it was crying.
In her mind the old memories stirred once more.
"Good babies don't cry."
In the darkness Diana reached out, and soon there was
silence.
With the baby's crying blessedly stilled, Diana
Amber left the mine and began walking home.
Esperanza Rodriguez, in the tiny cabin, had
heard nothing. Since she had stepped out of the cabin a
little while ago and seen Christie Lyons running
down the hill, she had been on her knees, praying
for Juan.
Praying that soon they would realize that her son had
done nothing and release him.
Perhaps, if God listened to her, it would even happen
tomorrow. . . .

fi.


Christie burst through the front door, tears streaming
from her eyes, her face smudged with dirt. She were
stopped in the foyer, trying to catch her breath, and it
his was there that Edna Amber found her. She led the
sobbing child into the living room and seated herself on the
sofa, Christie beside her.
"What happened, child?" she asked. Christie shuddered
and rubbed at her eyes with her fists.
"Aunt Diana," she whispered. "I was running
home, and I ... I saw her." "Where?"
"Up the hill. On the way to the mine. She was
talking, and at first I thought she was talking to me, but
she wasn't, Miss Edna. She wasn'tl"
"Who was she talking to?" Edna asked, her voice
quavering with a growing fear.
"I don't know," Christie wailed. "A baby.
It was like she was talking to a baby."
Edna sighed heavily and patted Christie. "All
right," she said. "You go up and wash your face, then go
to bed." i
Christie looked at her, her eyes wide. "I'm
scared," be she whispered. "I'm so scared."
"Do as I say," Edna told her, and there was an
edge to her voice that made Christie obey. But before
Christie left the room, Edna spoke once more.
"Christie?" The little girl turned to face her.
"Christie," Edna
repeated, her voice low and urgent. "You must never
teand anybody what happened tonight. Do you understand
me?"
Christie stared at the old woman for a long time,
trying to decide what she meant. Not talk about
what? Going to the mine? Seeing Aunt Diana?
What? Finally she decided that Miss Edna must
mean everything that had happened. Silently
she nodded her head, then went upstairs. Fifteen
minutes later she was in the crib, curled up with her
knees against her chest, her thumb in her mouth, trying
to understand what was happening to her. It was impossible.
Edna was waiting for Diana in the foyer, and as her
daughter came in, the old woman looked at her
sharply. Her eyes, as they had been earlier that
evening, were glazed and empty.
"Diana? Are you all right?"
Diana smiled peacefully. "I'm fine, Mama.
Everything's all right now, and I'm fine. My
baby's stopped crying."
A chill passed through Edna, but she said nothing,
sure that until the wind died down, Diana would
remain lost in the depths of her own mind. Edna
knew that when the spell was past, Diana would have no
memory of it.
Diana kissed her mother's cheek, then, her mind still
peaceful with the knowledge that she had cornforted her baby, she
went upstairs to the nursery.
Christie lay huddled in the crib, a blanket
wrapped around her, her thumb in her mouth. As
Diana approached her, she shrank deeper into the
crib.
"Baby? Baby, is something wrong? It's
Mama."
Christie's eyes, wide and frightened, peered up at
her. Diana reached down to stroke Christie's
cheek, but the little girl flinched away from her, her
heart pounding. Quietly Christie began to cry.
13aret com9
John Saul
When the Wind Blows

Diana froze. As the crying sounds reached her
ears, the dark side of her mind responded. Her
eyes suddenly clouded over, and her hand knotted
into a fist
"Stop that!" she hissed. "You aren't supposed
to cry. Do you hear me? Stop that!"
Christie trembled in the crib and tried
desperately not to cry, but her fear was too great A
sob escaped her lips.
Diana's fist flashed down, striking Christie in
the ribs. She moaned and drew her body into a
tight ball.
"Don't you cry!" Diana's voice rasped.
"Don't you dare cry!"
Again she raised her fist, and Christie clamped her
hands over her mouth, determined to keep
silent, knowing that if she screamed, it would only be
worse.
Time after time Diana battered at the little girl, her
voice sinking into guttural mutterings as an
unreasoning fury drove her on.
And then, as Christie wondered if she were about to die,
an eerie silence came over the house. The wind had
stopped.
Christie lay still in the crib, her scream frozen in
her throat. Above her, Diana's face glowed in
the moonlight; her eyes were slowly losing their
manic glaze. She reached down and touched
Christie's bruised body.
"What happened?" she asked. "Christie, what
happened?" But Christie, too terrified
to respond, lay still, her legs pulled tightly up
against her chest, her thumb in her mouth.
"Did the wind frighten you?" Diana asked. "But
it's all over now, sweetheart. Mama fixed it
for you. Mama will always fix it."
Then she was gone, and Christie heard the lock
click into place. She lay staring into the darkness,
wanting more than anything in the world to run away. But
she was too frightened to move.
Edna sat in the living room, her eyes
fixed unseeingly on the television, an unopened
magazine on her lap. Sometime during the night, she
was sure, the telephone was going to ring.
As the silence lengthened she began to believe that perhaps
it wouldn't. Perhaps, as Diana had said, everything was
all right. She glanced upward, wondering what was
happening upstairs. The house was strangely still, and
Edna suddenly realized that the wind had died down.
And then the telephone rang. As Edna stood up
to answer it, her magazine fell unnoticed from her
lap.
"Yes." she said. Everything was not all right, after
all.
Dan Gurley's voice seemed to drift over the
line from a great distance.
"Miss Edna? Is Miss Diana there?"
"She's gone to bed. Can I help you?"
"I don't know. Reverend Jennings called me a
few minutes ago. Jay-Jay appears to be
missing."
Edna's lips tightened, but when she spoke, her
voice was flat, emotionless. "What has that got
to do with us?"
"I've done some checking around, and it seems some of the
kids were planning to go out to the mine tonight."
Gurley paused, and when he got no response,
went on. "As far as I know, only Jay-Jay
actually
went."
Edna's mind worked furiously, but she needed time
to think. "Perhaps you'd better come out here, Daniel,"
she said at last.
There was another pause, then the marshal spoke again.
"I'll be there in ten minutes, Miss Edna."
Edna hung up the phone and went to the bottom of
the stairs.
"Diana? Diana!" Her cane crashed against the
banister, resounding through the house. Getting no
reply, Edna mounted the stairs, moving as fast as
her stiff
mssmMtt
i-I
John Saul
When the Wind Blows

legs would allow. She went to Diana's room and
entered without knocking. Sitting in bed, a peaceful
smile on her face, was Diana.
Edna's eyes blazed with fury as she stared at her
daughter, but Diana remained
impassive, her gaze expressionless. "Mama?
What is it?"
"Get up," Edna told her. "Daniel
Gurley is on his way out here, and he wants
to talk to you."
Diana frowned slightly, but got out of bed.
"What could he want at this hour?" Tm sure
he'll tell you," Edna replied. Five minutes
later Dan Gurley arrived. Without waiting to be
invited, he went into the parlor, then waited for the two
women to seat themselves. "Did you see Jay-Jay
tonight?" he asked at last. "Certainly not," Edna
snapped. "If I had, I would have called you, and
her parents, too." "Diana? Did you see her?"
"No," Diana said. "I was out with Bill Henry
tonight."
"What about Christie?" Dan asked. "She was here
with me all evening," Edna replied. "May I
talk to her?"
"What on earth for?" The old woman stood up.
"It's bad enough having you disturb us at this hour," she
said. "I won't have you upsetting Christie, too."
Dan hesitated, then gave in, realizing that even
if he argued, Miss Edna would not be moved.
Besides, finding Jay-Jay was, for the moment
at least, more important than arguing with the Ambers.
"All right," he said. "Sorry to have disturbed you.
Ill just go on up to the mine and have a look around."
A few minutes later, when Dan was gone and they were
alone, Edna faced Diana.
"What happened up there tonight?" she asked. Diana
looked puzzled. "Wherep"
"At the mine. You went up there, Diana."
"I didn't," Diana insisted. "Bill brought
me home, I said good night to Christie, and I
went to bed."
"That's not true, Diana." There was desperation in the
old woman's voice now. "Diana, did you do
something to Jay-Jay Jennings?"
Diana shook her head, totally baffled. "Mama,
we don't even know if anything's happened
to Jay-Jay. She's probably already home."
"I hope so," Edna said darkly. "For your sake,
I hope so."
"What do you mean, "for my sake"? Mama, what
are you talking about?"
"I don't want to send you to the hospital again,
Diana. But I might have to."
The hospital?" What was she talking about? "But,
Mama, why?"
"A child died, Diana, and another one is missing."
Diana stepped back from her mother. "Mama-you
don't think-you can't-was
"Listen to me, Diana," Edna said. "I want
to protect you. I've always wanted to protect you.
But how can I? You won't let me!" Her voice
rose. "You've never let me!"
Now Diana's voice rose, too.
"Protect me from what, Mama? What have I done
that you want to protect me from?" Suddenly she
knew. "You mean my baby?" she asked, her
voice low.
Edna paled. "He told you."
"Yes, Mama, Bill told me. Is that what you
think you've been protecting me from all these years?
My own memory?"
Edna sank onto the sofa and stared up at her
daughter. She had made a mistake, telling
Dr. Henry about the baby. Now she tried to think.
How much did Diana know? Only, Edna was
sure, as much as she had told the doctor. She
let herself relax a little.
John Saul
"Maybe I should have told you," she said softly.
"But it was so many years ago. . . ."
Tou mean maybe it doesn't matter anymore,
Mother?" Diana asked. "God, Mother, it was my
baby!"
"It was nobody's baby," Edna shouted. She
glowered at Diana, her hands shaking as she clutched
her cane. "It was born dead!"
Diana, her face pale, sank into a chair.
"Tell me about it," she said.
"There's nothing to tell," her mother replied. "It was
born dead, and that's all there is to it."
"Thafs not all there is to it," Diana cried. "For
God's sake, Mother, can't you understand? All my
life I've wanted to have a baby, and now, when
I'm fifty, I find out that I had one, and you say
thafs all there is to it?"
Edna shook her head sadly. "Why dig it up
now, Diana?" she asked. "It happened so many
years ago."
"And for so many years," Diana replied, "I've
been so unhappy. What else happened to me that you
never told me about, Mother? Besides the fact that you used
to beat me."
Edna glared at her. "I never-was
"You did, Mother. I remembered. Up at the mine,
when I was with Christie and Jeff, I
remembered. You blamed me for my father's death,
didn't you? And you beat me."
Her face ashen, Edna rose to her feet. "How
dare you?" she demanded. "How dare you talk to your mother
that way?"
"But it's true, isn't it?" Diana demanded.
"Maybe it is!" Edna drew herself up and seemed
to tower over Diana. "You were an evil child,
Diana, but were raised you as best I could. And
don't you ever forget that I'm still your mother, and I still
know what's best For you. I always have, and I always will.
But that's
When the Wind Blows

never been enough for you, has it? No matter what
I've done, you've always resented me. Well,
maybe I should have let you marry Bill Henry;
let you have more children!"
"Maybe you should have," Diana whispered.
Edna raised her hand and struck her daughter. "So
they could die, too? Never!"
Stunned, feeling the blood rushing to her cheek,
Diana stared at her mother, and as she gazed
into Edna's angry blue eyes, a memory stirred
in her.
Just for a moment, she heard a baby crying.
caret that wasn't born dead," she whispered. "My
baby wasn't born dead, was it?"
Again Edna struck Diana.
"Don't say that," she hissed. "Don't you ever
say that again. It was dead, Diana! Do you hear me?
If was born deadThat
But as she made her way up the stairs a few
minutes later, her hand held to the cheek where Edna
had slapped her, the thought remained in Diana's
mind.
It wasn't dead.
My baby wasn't dead.
She repeated it to herself over and over again as she bathed
her cheek with cool water and the pain slowly
subsided.
But if it wasn't born dead, what happened to it?
She went to her room and undressed, slipping into her
nightgown.
Then, her mind still whirling in confusion, she went
up to the third floor.
She stopped when she came to the nursery door and
listened.
Inside, a child was crying.
Her child?
"Baby?" she called softly, unlocking and opening
the door. In the crib, she could see her baby. It
was crying. She went to it and picked it up.
John Saul
When the Wind Blows

"Baby," she whispered in the stillness of the night
"You mustn't cry. Mama doesn't want you
to cry. Mama, loves you."
In Diana's arms, Christie Lyons forced herself
to be still.
Dan pulled his car up to the mine. As he turned
to park near the entrance, his headlights swept the old
caretaker's cabin. He frowned as he gazed at the
squat dark building sitting fifty yards away,
then shut off the engine, got out of the car, and
approached the cabin. He knocked on the door and
called out softly, "Esperanza?"
When there was no answer, Dan tried the door. It
was not locked. He opened it and stepped inside the
cabin. He switched on his flashlight and looked
around.
On the bed, her eyes watching him suspiciously,
a blanket clutched around her, was Esperanza
Rodriguez. Dan found the light
switch, and the cabin was suddenly bright.
"It's only me, Esperanza," he said. The
woman's dark face relaxed, but only a little.
"What you want?" she asked. "Juan? Is it
Juan? Did something happen to mi hijo?"
"Now, calm down, Esperanza. This has nothing
to do with Juan. He's in the jail, and I'm sure
he's sound asleep."
Esperanza pulled the blanket tighter around her and
sat up in the bed. "Then what do you want?" she
asked.
"If s one of the children," Dan told her. "One of the
children is missing." When Esperanza's face
remained impassive, he spoke again. "I need
to ask you some questions, all right?"
Esperanza nodded silently.
"Did you see anyone up here tonight?" he asked.
Again Esperanza nodded.
"Can you tell me about it, please?" For a moment
Dan thought she was going to refuse, but then she began
speaking, slowly, as if wanting to be sure she got
all the words right.
"I was in bed, and the wind, it was blowing. Then I
heard something, so I looked out the window. It was a
little girl. So I went out the back door
to see what she was doing, and she ran away."
She fell silent and stared at Dan as if
expecting him to accuse her of lying to him.
"And that's all?" he asked.
Esperanza's head moved again, her black eyes
fixed on his.
"You didn't go into the mine to look for someone
else?"
"I don't like the mine," Esperanza told him.
"Los ninos are in there."
Dan nodded, remembering the legend of the children that the
Indians thought lived in the mountain.
"All right," he said. "You go back to sleep.
I'm going to have a look around."
But Esperanza was getting out of bed. "You come
back," she said. "I make coffee, and you come
back and tell me what you find. Okay?"
Dan agreed, then left the cabin.
He approached the dark entrance to the mine and paused,
flashing his light inside. There appeared to be nothing.
"Jay-Jay?" He called. There was no
response, and he flashed his light around again, then
began walking into the tunnel.
Just inside he found the power box and threw the main
switch on. The lights cut through the
darkness, and Dan turned his flashlight off. He
moved slowly through the mine until he was at the edge
of the vertical shaft. Sighing heavily, he stepped
into the elevator and started down.
He found Jay-Jay at the bottom.
B JLJ
John Saul
When the Wind Blows

Once again, the black floor of the mine was stained red
with blood. The body, a shapeless mass of mangled
flesh and bone, was almost unrecognizable.
"Jesus . . ." Dan Gurley whispered. He
got back into the elevator and, as the cage rattled
slowly upward, his stomach began heaving.
When he was back outside, he breathed deeply of the
night air, but it wasn't enough. Leaning on the
fender of his car, he vomited into tike dust.
When he returned to the cabin a few minutes
later, Esperanza handed him a cup of steaming
coffee and read in his face what had happened.
"Estd muertaFrom' she asked. As he nodded she
crossed herself and muttered a quick prayer. As Dan
sipped his coffee she lowered herself into a chair, shaking
her head sadly.
"Los ninos," she murmured. "Bad things are
corning," she told Dan. "The children are restless."
"Bad things have already come, Esperanza," Dan said
quietly. "Three people have died."
"It is because of the mine," Esperanza said. "The mine
must be left alone."
"No," Dan replied. "It's not the mine,
Esperanza. The mine is only a hole in the
ground. They were just accidents, that's all."
But Esperanza knew better, and when Dan finally
left her cabin, she fell to her knees and began
to pray.
Jerome and Claire Jennings were silent as they
drove home from the marshal's office, but once they
were inside their house, Claire stared dully at her
husband.
"It's the Ambers' fault," she said bitterly.
"Claire," Jennings said. "You can't mean that."
"I can. It all goes back to them, just like everything in
this town goes back to them in the end. If they hadn't
tried to reopen that mine, none of this would ever have
happened. It's just like Kim Sandier, and
her not even buried yet. The quarry should have been
fenced, and the mine closed."
She began sobbing inconsolably, and
Jerome slipped his arm around her.
"It's the will of God," he whispered.
Claire jerked away from him, her eyes suddenly
angry. "The will of God? What kind of God would
kill an innocent little girl in a coal mine in the
middle of the night? It was something else, Jerome, and
you know itl Don't talk to me about God!"
"Claire-was
Tm sick to death of God! Why can't He leave
us alone? First Elliot Lyons, then TT-I'M
Sandier, and now-now-was She couldn't finish and began
sobbing again. The doorbell rang, and Jennings stood
up to get it, but Claire clung to his hand.
"Come in," he called. The door opened, and
Joyce Crowley stepped inside.
"Claire," she said, her voice filled with
sympathy. "Oh, Claire, I'm so-was
"Go away," Claire Jennings said brokenly.
"Get out of my house and don't ever come back. This
is your fault, too, you know!"
"My fault?" Joyce echoed. "I don't
understand-was
"It was your son's idea to go out there, wasn't it?
Even though you tried to blame it all on
Jay-Jay? How could you?" Suddenly she
was on her feet, an accusing finger pointed at
Joyce. "Jeff! It was Jeff and you and your friend
Diana!" Joyce stared at her, then shifted her
gaze to Jerome, who could only shake his head.
"She doesn't mean it," he whispered.
"I mean it," Claire hissed. "My baby's
dead, and you all might as well have killed her
yourselvesl"
"Claire, you can't mean that," Joyce began, but
by now Claire was becoming hysterical.
"I do!" she shouted. "It was you, and Diana
Amber, and that little brat Christiel Maybe
Jay-Jay was
John Saul
right-maybe Christie Lyons did kill Kim
Sandier! Well, I only pray they'll turn on
you next! Now, get out of here and leave me alone!"
Stunned, Joyce backed out the front door. As
she made her way home she could hear Claire
Jennings's words echoing in her ears, and she knew that
something had begun. Claire, in her grief, would
talk to tier friends, and her friends would listen to her, no
matter how irrational she was. Within a few days
Amberton would be split down the middle. There would
be those who would know that Jay-Jay's death
had been accidental, but there would be the others, too.
There would be those who preferred to gossip.
It never occurred to Joyce that the gossips might be
right.

greater-than plus **plus plus plus
**plus plus plus plus plus *
The late-June sun was beating down on the
cemetery, and in the dry heat dust swirled near the
ground. Even the trees-the willows whose shade was
usually inviting-seemed tired and forlorn.
Edna Amber, her face stony and her gaze fixed
steadily on the small coffin that contained the remains
of Jay-Jay Jennings, tried to ignore the
whispering of the people around her. Over the years she had
grown used to being talked about, though she liked it no
better now than she ever had.
Today, though, was worse than anything she could
remember. It had been bad enough three days ago at
Kim Sandler's funeral, when the townspeople,
numbed with shock at the death of Jay-Jay Jennings
only hours before Kim's service, had stood in the
cemetery, staring at the coffin of one child while thinking
of another. And every now and then they had glanced toward
Diana Amber and whispered amongst themselves.
Edna had quietly realized that the people, rightly or
wrongly, were already beginning to gossip.
And now, three days later, Alice Sandier and
Claire Jennings had done their work, whispering to their
friends that in the end, all of what had happened came
back to Diana Amber, and her negligence. In a
strange way it amused Edna that she didn't seem
to share the blame with her daughter-apparently she had
reached the age when, though still respectable, she was no
longer considered responsible. And yet, as
*equals JiUj
John Saul
When the Wind Blows

she steadfastly closed her mind to the whispering, she
realized that something had to be done. A gesture had
to be made. And as the funeral began an idea
began to form in her mind.
For Diana, who stood next to Edna with
Christie's hand firmly grasped in her own, it was
even worse. She couldn't ignore the whispering, and
even though she couldn't hear all of what was being said,
she understood the gist of it.
Somehow she was being held responsible for
JayJay's death.
Joyce had called her the day after Jay-Jay had
died and tried to explain what was happening, but
Diana hadn't been prepared for the coldness
emanating from the group gathered at the grave site.
The chill seemed to reach out to her like a serpent,
threatening to strangle her.
Slowly the little cemetery filled with the friends of the
Jenningses andwiththe curious, too: those people who, though
they had had only an acquaintanceship with
Jay-Jay Jennings, were suddenly aware that something was
going on in Amberton and had come to whisper and stare.
Esperanza Rodriguez was there, standing close to her
son. Dan Gurley, using the gossip of the town
to reinforce his own conviction that Juan Rodriguez was
guilty of nothing more than having discovered a body,
had released him the day before. With his mother, he stood
at the edge of the crowd, watching.
Eventually the Crowleys arrived. Joyce led her
husband and son over to the Ambers. Diana smiled
gratefully at Joyce and leaned over to whisper in
her ear.
"It's almost like they think I killed Jay-Jay
myself."
Joyce nodded sympathetically. "I know. I've
been getting some of it myself. If I ain't
with "em, I must be agin 'em, as the saying goes.
It's like being a stranger, even though I grew up
here. Matt didn't want to come at all, but I
won't give people that satisfaction."
Diana shook her head sadly. "Well, at least
they're not after Juan anymore."
"Great!" Joyce said, her voice bitter. "Now
all you have to do is lock yourself in jail till someone
else dies!"
"Joyce!"
Joyce grinned crookedly. 'Tomorrow sorry. I
guess this whole thing has me more upset than I
thought." She paused and nodded to Mrs. Berkey, who
was glaring at her. Mrs. Berkey did not return
the greeting.
A few moments later Jerome Jennings stood up,
and the crowd fell silent. His sonorous voice
cracking with emotion, he began praying for his
daughter's immortal soul.
When the service was over, Christie looked up at
Diana.
"Are we going to the Jenningses", like when everyone
came to our house when my father died?" she asked,
"I-I don't think so," Diana stammered. She
looked to Joyce for support, but it was
Edna who spoke.
"Well go home," she said. Then she paused and
turned to Joyce. "I don't suppose you'll be
going to the Jenningses' either, will you?"
"I doubt it," Joyce said dryly.
"Then come to our house," Edna said. If she
noticed the shocked expression on Joyce's
face, she gave no sign. "Diana will make some
lemonade, and we'll have a chat."
Without waiting for an answer, Edna walked away from
the grave site, her back straight, her cane
held confidently. As she made her way through the
crowd she spoke to no one, but a path seemed to open
before her. When she was out of earshot, Joyce turned
to Diana, her expression so comical that Diana
almost laughed out loud.
"Did she mean that?" Joyce asked.
John Saul
When the Wind Blows

Diana, as shocked as Joyce by the invitation, could
only shrug. "She must have."
Matt, standing with his wife, scratched his head. "I
wonder what she meant by "a chat"?"
Now Diana did permit herself a small
chuckle, though there was little humor in it. "With Mother,
that could be anything," she said. "But she must want
something. You know how Mother feels about the-was She
broke off, embarrassed.
"comthe peons?" Joyce finished for her.
"I-I wasn't going to say that," Diana
stammered.
"Of course you weren't," Joyce agreed, patting
Diana's arm. "You're too polite. But let's
not kid ourselves." She brightened. "However, since most
of the town is no longer speaking to me, I might as
well be received at court. Do you think you can spike
my lemonade with gin?"
"I can try. Do you want to follow us out to the
ranch?"
Joyce shook her head. "I'm going to hang around
here and see just who is still speaking to me."
There was the sudden blaring of an automobile horn,
and Diana looked quickly toward the parking lot, where
Edna was standing next to the old Cadillac. "We'd
better get going. See you in an hour?"
"Probably sooner," Joyce replied wryly.
"I have a Feeling I only have about twenty minutes
worth of Friends left." Then, tucking her arm through
Matt's, and taking Jeff with the other hand,
she began circulating through the crowd, speaking
to everyone.
Very few people returned her greetings.
"Shall we use the living room?" Diana asked her
nother as she lifted a large cut-glass pitcher
down Prom a high shelf.
"I said I wanted to have a chat," Edna replied.
"I iidn't say I wanted my house invaded.
Well use the would."
Diana didn't protest. She began squeezing
lemons, while Christie, her face pale, sat
silently at the table.
Diana looked at her worriedly. "Are you all
right?"
There was a silence, and then, her voice quavering, her
eyes brimming with tears, Christie asked a question.
"Why is everybody dying?"
Diana set her knife down and moved to Christie,
slipping her arms around the shaking child. "They aren't,
honey," she said softly. "It's just been a terrible
three weeks, that's all. Sometimes it happens."
Christie shook her head doubtfully. "Am I
going to die, too?" As Diana's eyes suddenly
darkened Edna decided it was time to intervene.
Tor heaven's sake, child, don't be
morbid. Why don't you make yourself useful and get
the glasses out? And use a stool!"
"I can reach," Christie said, hastening to obey. She
crossed the kitchen and reached up to the shelf where the
glasses stood. One of them teetered for a moment,
then crashed into the sink. Once more she had made a
mistake, and she turned to see which of the Amber women
would mete out her punishment.
Edna, however, was stalking out of the kitchen, and Diana
was simply staring at her.
"I'm sorry," Christie apologized as she
began picking the shards of glass out of the sink. "It
was an accident."
Diana smiled at her gently. "Don't worry
about it. It happens to everyone now and then." Diana
finished squeezing the lemons and added water to the
pitcher. "Want to taste this?"
Christie made a face at the pitcher. "Not till
you put the sugar in." As Diana began adding
sugar the little girl looked at her expectantly.
"Well, am I?" she asked.
"Are you what?"
"Going to die."
John Saul
When the Wind Blows

Diana paused, then shook her head. "No, you're
not. You're going to stay here with me. You'll always be
my little baby, and I'll always take care of you.
All right?"
Christie was silent for a long time, turning the matter
over in her mind. Finally she nodded her head.
"Okay." The matter apparently put to rest, she
put the glasses on a tray and took them
outside. As she was setting them on the picnic
table, the Crowleys came up the driveway, with
Jeff standing up in the bed of the pickup, his arms
spread out on the roof of the cab.
When the truck came to a stop, he climbed out and
faced Christie. "Guess what? The
Gillespies and the Penroses are still speaking
to Mom, so we're not lepers after all." Then he
looked at his father quizzically. "Dad, what's a
leper?"
"It's what you're going to be if you don't stop
telling everyone every word your mother says," Matt
replied, swatting at Jeff's backside but
missing.
Diana came out the kitchen door with the lemonade
pitcher, and a moment later Edna, too,
emerged from the house.
"Matthew," Edna said formally, extending her hand in
what Joyce could only think of as a regal
gesture. "Thank you for coming."
"Thank you for inviting us, Miss Edna," Matt
replied, matching her formality so perfectly that
Joyce had to stifle a laugh. Edna, if she
noticed it, chose to ignore the parody.
"Is lemonade all right, or would you like something
stronger?" she asked. "I think Diana keeps some
liquor over the refrigerator. There's bourbon and
gin, if I'm not mistaken."
"Mother," Diana protested. "You're making it sound
like I hide it."
"Well, don't you?"
Diana reddened and looked helplessly at Joyce.
"All women hide the liquor, Miss Edna,"
Joyce said
quickly. "It's more fun to have a drink if you can feel
sneaky about it."
Edna suddenly smiled. "Well, then, I think
111 just be sneaky, too. Diana, why don't you
bring out whatever we have and some soda water."
"Soda water?" Diana echoed. By now the group
had drifted over to the picnic table,
except for Jeff and Christie, who had headed for the
barn.
"Your father drank bourbon and soda. If it was good
enough for him, it's good enough for me."
Diana went back into the kitchen, and Edna lowered
herself into a redwood chair that was sheltered from the sun
by a large aspen. After she was seated, the Crowleys
settled into chairs, and as Matt shifted
uncomfortably, Joyce decided to take the bull
by the horns.
"You wanted to have a chat, Miss Edna. What
about?"
Edna waited before answering, and her eyes drifted
toward the mountains. The lines in her face, usually
so harsh, seemed to soften. "The mine," she said at
last. "I've decided it's time to do something about it."
Joyce looked quickly at Mart's face, but it was
carefully blank. She returned her gaze to Edna
Amber.
"If you mean you want to hire someone else to try
to reopen it, I don't think Matt is interested,"
Joyce
said.
Diana emerged from the house once more and poured them
all drinks. When the glasses had been
distributed, Edna spoke again.
"Reopening it is not what I had in mind," she said,
staring at the golden liquid in her glass. When she
looked up again, there was a smile on her face.
"I was thinking more in terms of blowing the damned thing
up." A shocked silence hung over the little group as
the
three others stared at her. Diana recovered first.
She tried not to let her voice
9-i
m
John Saul
When the Wend Blows

reveal the sick feeling that had suddenly developed
in the pit of her stomach. "Mother, what are you
talldng about?"
"Exactly what I said," Edna replied
calmly, warming to the idea that had come to her at the
cemetery. The more she thought about it, the better she
liked it. "It seems to me that it's time we
destroyed that place."
"Why now?" Matt asked, his voice deliberate.
"People have been dying in the mine for generations, Miss
Edna. It's not as if this is anything
new."
Edna's gaze drifted to Diana, whose eyes had
once more clouded over. As she returned her
attention to Matt she was convinced of the wisdom of her
idea.
"I am not a stupid woman, Matthew," she said
at last 1 am aware of what the mine has caused
this town in terms of human suffering. I am also
aware of the material comfort it has given Amberton.
I'd hoped that Elliot Lyons would have been able
to find a way for us to enjoy the comfort while avoiding the
suffering. Well, he lost his life trying, and since
then we've lost two more."
"Kim Sandier died at the quarry, not the mine,"
Matt pointed out
Edna brushed his comment aside. "It's the same thing.
As far as I'm concerned, the quarry and the mine are one
and the same. You may think I've become senile, but
I've come to think that the mine is evil. I want it
destroyed."
Diana found herself objecting, but not understanding why.
"Can't we just close it up again?"
Edna's eyes shifted to her daughter and when she
spoke, her voice was clear and cold. "But we've
already done that once, haven't we? It
doesn't work."
Joyce Crowley shifted in her chair and shielded
her eyes from the sun with one hand. "Doesn't work,
Miss Edna? I'm not sure I follow you."
"Perhaps you won't be able to," Edna said. "If s
just that over the years I've come to feel that there's some-
thing very strange about that mine. It's as if it demands
a price for everything that is taken out of it-a price
exacted in human lives. Do you know how
Diana's father died?"
Joyce frowned. "It was the flood, wasn't it?"
Edna nodded grimly. "It happened the day Diana
was born. It was a summer like this one-the chinooks were
blowing into July, and we'd had a bad year; four
men had already been lost in a cave-in. And while
I lay up in my room, giving birth to Diana,
the mine flooded."
"And you've never forgiven me for that, have you?" Diana
asked, her voice barely audible.
"Don't be ridiculous," Edna snapped. She
turned back to the Crowleys. "Of course, the
investigators said the flood was no one's fault,
but I've never believed it. I've always blamed the
mine."
"I beg your pardon?" Matt asked.
"I said I've always believed the mine itself killed
my husband, and the rest of them, too," Edna said
evenly.
Matt Crowlests eyes narrowed. "I don't get
it."
"Nor do I," Edna said. "I've no idea,
really, if there is anything to "get," as you put
it. But there are the stories-the stories that when the wind
blows, you can hear children crying up there. The Indians
believe those children are crying for their parents.
"And the day I lost Amos . . . well, I thought
I heard something. I've never been sure, of
course, but I thought that for just a moment, there was
something." Suddenly she seemed to come back into the
present, and she drained her glass. "Of course,
whether I heard something or not doesn't matter
anymore. What matters is that no one else must
die. Matthew, can you arrange to blow the mine up?"
"Well, I don't know-was Matt began.
"If you can't," Edna interrupted before he could
finish, "111 hire somebody else. But I'd
prefer it was you.
John Saul
When the Wind Blows
257
Sfou know the mine, and you live here. I may be a
stupid old woman, but I've gotten it into my
head that the mine has something against Amberton. Or
maybe just the Ambers. But whatever it is, I want
someone from this town to destroy it. I want you to do it,
Matthew."
Diana had sat listening to her mother in silence. As
Edna had talked a feeling of desperation had grown
in her.
"Mama," she said now, "you don't mean it. You
can't mean it."
Edna's eyes met her daughter's. "I mean every
word of it, and the sooner it's done, the better."
Diana rose to her feet. "No. I won't let
you do it, Mama. How can a mine be evil? It's
only a ... a place."
"It's more than that, Diana," Edna said softly.
"It's much more than that. There are things about that mine that
I will never speak of, but you know what they are." Her
eyes held Diana's for a moment more, then shifted
to Matt Crowley. "Well, Matthew?"
"Ill have to think about it, Miss Edna," Matt
replied, his voice carefully neutral.
Edna got slowly to her feet. "You do that. And when
you make up your mind, let me know. You
may have until after the weekend. If you won't do
it, 111 call someone in from Pueblo." She started
toward the house, then turned back once more. When
she spoke, it was as if Diana weren't there.
"Don't let Diana talk you out of it," she said.
"Diana has as many strange ideas as I do, but
mine are based on a long life and wide
experience. Diana's, I'm afraid, stem from being
too sheltered. That, of course, is my fault, but
there's nothing I can do about it now, except keep
sheltering her. And I intend to do that."
Her cane held firmly in her healed right hand,
Edna Amber started toward the house. When she was
I
gone, the Crowleys sat silently for a moment,
embarrassed by her last words.
"Does she do that often?" Joyce finally asked,
forcing a smile.
"No," Diana replied, her voice freighted with
sarcasm. "Only when there are people here, or when
we're alone. It hardly ever happens at all."
Joyce shook her head sadly. "Why don't you
move out of here? You can't let her go on treating you
like that. You just can't."
"But where would I go?" Diana sighed.
"She's right, you know. I have been overprotected.
I couldn't support myself if I had to, and I have
no money oi my own. I'm trapped. Besides, Mother
won't let me."
"Diana, it isn't up to your mother," Joyce
protested. "It's up to you! Why can't you understand that?"
"Because it isn't true!" Diana exclaimed. She
twisted a button on her dress as she continued
speaking. "I don't have a life of my own
anymore, Joyce. Maybe I never did. But
if I did, I gave it up years ago. Mother's
an old woman, and no matter what she says, she
needs me. And she won't last forever. Someday-was
She dropped the sentence, feeling suddenly ashamed of
herself.
Matt poured himself another drink. "What about the
mine?" he asked. "Do you think she means what she
says?"
"I haven't any idea," Diana replied.
"Let me talk to her when we're alone, all right?
I can't imagine she really means to go through with it."
"Yes, she does," Joyce suddenly said. "I'm
not sure why, but I think she means every word of it."
Her husband and Diana stared at her, but she only
shrugged her shoulders.
"Let's not talk about it now," she said.
For the rest of the afternoon they carefully avoided any more
talk of the mine.
John Saul
When the Wind Blows

Christie and Jeff climbed up to the hayloft and
gazed out over the ranch. In the shimmering heat of the
afternoon it appeared that there was a lake in the middle of the
valley, but both the children knew it was a mirage.
Below them, they could see the three adults talking, but
they were too far away to hear what they were saying. Off
to the right, Christie could just see the slag heap
spilling from the mine. She stared at it for a moment,
wondering if she should tell Jeff she had been there
with Jay-Jay that night. Then, remembering that
Miss Edna had made her promise never to talk
about it, she changed her mind.
"Are all the kids mad at mei caret she asked.
"Nah. Why should they be mad at you? All you did
was chicken out like the rest of us. Besides, nobody liked
old Jay-Jay anyway. All she ever did was
try to get us in trouble."
"She never tried to get me in trouble."
Jeff made a face at her. "That's
what you think. All she did was tell everyone you
killed Kim Sandier."
Christie stared at him, her eyes wide. "When
did she say that?"
"The day Kim drowned, when we were over at the
Sandlers'. Everyone was saying Juan did it, but
JayJay said you did."
Christie's brows knotted in anger. "Nobody
believed her, did they?"
was "Course not. I told you, everyone knows she was
a liar. My mom even told everyone that it was
Jay-Jay who tattled about going up to the mine.
She knew Jay-Jay'd say she didn't, but no
one would believe her."
"Who'd your mom tell?"
"Everyone. Didn't she call up Miss
Diana?"
Christie shook her head. "Aunt Diana
wasn't home. But if she called Miss Edna,
wouldn't she have told me not to go, or something?"
"Didn't she?" Jeff asked. "That's what
everyone else's mom did."
The beginnings of an idea began to form in Christie's
mind. "Maybe Miss Edna wanted me to go," she
said.
Jeff scowled at her. "Why would she want you to go
up there?"
The idea grew in Christie's mind. She was almost
afraid to tell Jeff about it, but she couldn't stop
herself.
"Maybe she wanted something to happen to me,"
she said slowly.
Now it was Jeff who became thoughtful. "My mom
said Miss Edna wants to have Miss Diana all
to herself."
Now the idea was growing between the two of them. "Maybe
she wanted to get rid of me," Christie said.
"Maybe she wanted me to die."
Jeff stared at her, suddenly frightened.
He looked down and saw Miss Edna coming out of the
house. As she crossed the yard she glanced up and,
seeing the two children, pointed at them with her cane.
"Diana," they heard her say in her rasping
voice, "make those children get down from there. One of
these days they're going to wind up dead, and it won't
be my fault."
Christie and Jeff looked at each other, and their
nine-year-old hearts began pounding.
*caret JffLJ
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greater-than "vr"88j caret by "*less-than
caret by "caret less-than
The day after the funeral Dan Gurley sat in his
office, his feet propped up on his desk, thinking.
No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't get the
deaths of Kim Sandier and Jay-Jay Jennings out of
his mind.
Something was wrong.
Perhaps it was the fact that the girls had died in such a
short span of time.
Dan had been the marshal in Amberton for fourteen
years, and in all that time there hadn't been an
accidental death of a child.
Now there were two.
Try as he would, Dan Gurley could not accept
die idea that the deaths had been accidental.
He dropped his feet to the floor, stood up, and
left his office.
The day was quiet-only a few tourists were wandering in
and out of the shops, and here and there a dog lay curled in
the dust of the street, sleepily watching the cars going
back and forth.
Dan nodded greetings to the people he knew and
smiled at the ones he didn't, but again and again kept
rerunning what had happened; kept coming back to one
thing.
In peaceful little Amberton two children had died, and
Dan had had to release his only suspect. Now,
without a suspect, he would soon face a large
faction of the town, led by the Reverend Jerome Jennings
and
his wife, who were demanding that something be
done.
No one had said anything to him yet, but Dan could
feel it in the air-people were beginning to look at him, then
shake their heads as if they thought something were wrong with
him. And yet there were others-the Crowleys and their
friends-who seemed ready to accept the deaths at face
value, as the accidents they appeared to be. The
trouble with that, Dan thought, was that none of the "accident
faction" had yet lost a child. When one of them did-and
Dan had a gut feeling that sooner or later one of
them would- everything would change.
He found himself in front of the little frame house,
painted in shades of olive-green and gray, which
served as Bill Henry's office as well as his
home.
Dan paused, then realized that without really
thinking about it, he had known he was coming here. His step
suddenly purposeful, he strode up the walk and
went into the reception room. It was empty.
He tapped on the office door, and when Bill
called for him to come in, he opened it and stepped
inside. Bill looked up. Smiling at Dan,
he took off his glasses.
"Thank God," he said, forcing a lightness into his
voice. "I was afraid it might be a patient."
"Nope," Dan said. "Just need to talk to you about
something."
"That's what I'm here for," Bill replied.
"Fire when
ready."
Without preamble Dan dumped the strange idea that
had been building in his mind squarely in Bill's
lap. "What do you think of Diana Amber as a
suspect?"
"A suspect for what?" Bill asked.
"Kim and Jay-Jay," Dan replied.
Now Bill stared at him. "Diana?" His voice
was incredulous. "How can you call Diana a
suspect?"
Dan tried to smile, but failed. "By reaching real
backslash that
n
dis*
John Saul
When the Wind Blows

far," he said. "She's a suspect on the basis
that she was in the area when Kim drowned, and she was near
the mine the night Jay-Jay died. So that makes
her a suspect, right?"
"Oh, come on, Dan. She was at home in bed when
Jay-Jay died."
"So she says," Dan agreed. "But she lives
near the mine. I told you I was reaching." He
sighed as Bill's expression failed to soften.
"Dammit, I don't like it any better than you
do, but so far she's all I can come up with. And you must
have heard what a lot of people in town have been saying."
"Then why talk to me about it?" Bill asked, his
voice cold. "I can think of a hundred people-hell,
two hundred-who would be more receptive to that idea
than I. Why'd you come here?"
Dan leaned against the wall and folded his arms across his
chest. was 'Cause you're a doc, and I've got a
weird idea."
"I'm not sure I want to hear it,"
Bill said. Then, seeing the unhappy look on
Dan's face, he relented. "Okay, let's
hear it. But I warn you, I'm going to tear it
to pieces if I can."
"It has to do with the wind," Dan said. "The wind was
blowing the day Kim Sandier drowned, right?"
"I don't remember," Bill said. "It's been
blowing a lot lately."
Dan nodded. "Thaf s what I was thinking about. I
know it was blowing the night I found Jay-Jay in the
mine."
"Can't you get to the point?" Bill asked.
"I'm not sure there is a point," Dan replied.
"I'm just thinking out loud. Since I don't have any
idea what happened to those kids, I'm trying
to figure out what could have happened."
"All you've said so far is that Diana could have
killed them," Bill retorted. "As far as I'm
concerned,
that's not possible. If she had, she'd have been the first
person to tell you."
"What if she didn't remember?" Dan suddenly
asked.
Bill felt an icy chill of fear pass through him
as he recalled his conversation with Edna
Amber. Had she told the same story to Dan
Gurley? "What gave you that idea?" he asked as
casually as he could.
"Nothing concrete," Dan admitted. "It's just that
the wind affects people strangely. Makes them behave
funny. And I just got this idea-was
"Well you can forget it," Bill said. "There's
nothing wrong with Diana Amber."
"Isn't there?" Dan asked, his voice
dangerously quiet. "I know it's none of my
business, but about ten years ago Diana spent a
couple of nights in the hospital down in
Pueblo. The mental hospital. Do you know what
that was all about?"
"No, I don't," Bill said, his voice tight.
"And you're right-it isn't any of your business, or
mine either."
Dan chewed his lower lip thoughtfully and scratched at
his nose. "If it comes to it, I suppose I could
subpoena her medical records," he said at
last.
"On nothing more than an idea? You know better than
that, Dan."
"It's more than an idea, Bill. She was in the
area when the kids died, and she was once in
a mental institution. That's exactly the grounds we
used to hold Juan Rodriguez. The only
difference between the two of them is that Juan's a
poor, retarded half-breed, and Diana's a
rich, well-educated white woman. Now, do you
want to tell me whatever you know about Diana, or shall
I go up there and arrest her?"
"You won't do that," Bill said.
The two men's eyes met, challenging each other, and
in the end it was Dan who backed down. "No," he
*equals J? n
to In t caret from caret right-brace 1 . l
John Saul
When the Wind Blows

said at last, "I guess I won't. But I'll
be keeping my eye on her," he added.
"Particularly when the wind blows."
Diana and Christie spent the morning of the Fourth of
July in the kitchen, happily building a
macaroni salad that would serve sixteen. Ever since
Jay-Jay's funeral, the weather had been calm,
and the tension in the Amber house had eased, though
Christie could sense the constant strain between the two
women she lived with. But as the week had
gone by, and Diana had shown her nothing but love,
she had begun to think that maybe the bad times, the times
when people had died and she had never known what to expect
from her guardian, were over. Slowly she had begun
to relax. Now, confident that she wouldn't be punished
for it, she filched a piece of boiled egg as
Diana scanned the cupboard.
"What about tuna?" Diana asked. "Shall we throw
some in?"
"Yuck," was Christie's automatic response.
"It might be good," Diana protested. "We can
at least try it."
She took the can off the shell, opened it, and shook it
into the salad. When she'd stirred it in, she offered
a spoonful to Christie, who made a face, tasted
it, then grinned. "Hey! It is good. What else
can we put in?"
She began going through the pantry and eventually piled
several things on the sink. Diana looked them over,
then approved all but the marshmallows.
"My dad always used to put them in fruit salad,"
Christie objected as Diana put them away.
"That's fruit salad. This is different. The
olives, pimientos, and water chestnuts are
plenty." While Christie began opening the
little cans, Diana started cleaning up. As she
wiped the sink Edna appeared at the kitchen door.
She stood silently, her face fixed in an
expression of disapproval, watching them.
"Are you sure you don't want to change your mind and
come, Mama?" Diana asked.
"Why would I? I've never gone to their little parties,
and I'm too old to start now."
"But it's going to be fun," Christie said.
"We're going to have games, and contests, and
fireworks. You'd have a good time, Miss Edna.
Reallyl"
"I hardly think a nine-year-old knows what would
amuse a woman of eighty-odd," Edna observed.
As Christie's happy expression crumbled Edna
turned to her daughter. "I think we'd better have a
little talk before you go, Diana," she added. Then she
turned to leave, and Christie and Diana listened
to her cane thumping on the stairs as she labored up
to the second floor.
"Isn't she going to let us go?" Christie asked
anxiously when they were alone.
"It's not up to her," Diana declared. "Finish
cleaning up, and I'll go talk to her."
Leaving Christie in the kitchen, Diana
climbed the stairs. Edna was in her room, standing at
the window, staring out. She seemed to be looking at the
mine.
"Mama?"
Edna turned, and her clear blue eyes held
Diana's. "I don't suppose there's any
point in trying to talk you out of going to that picnic,"
she said.
"No, Mama. If it were just me, I wouldn't go.
But I don't want Christie to miss it."
"She could go with the Crowleys," Edna suggested.
"They seem a decent enough couple."
Diana took a deep breath. "I'm going,
Mama. Bill Henry is picking us up, and that's
all there is to it."
Edna sighed and lowered herself into a chair. Over the
past few days her age seemed to have caught up with
her, and she felt too tired to argue with Diana.
"Very well, but I want you to promise me something.
If the wind comes up, I want you to come home right
away."
conp jjlj
John Saul
When the Wind Blows
267
Diana's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What
makes you think the wind will come up?"
"I didn't say it would," Edna corrected her.
"I said if it does. You know how the wind affects
you."
"It gives me a headache, sometimes," Diana
admitted, her voice guarded. What was her mother
getting at?
Edna wrapped an afghan around her shoulders,
despite the growing heat of the day. "It does a lot
more to you than that, and if it begins blowing, I want you
at home."
"All right, Mama," Diana said. She, too, was
tired of arguing with her mother, but she couldn't keep her
exasperation out of her voice.
"And don't use that tone of voice with me, young
lady," Edna automatically responded.
Anger welled up in Diana, but she knew there was
no point in expressing it. Her mother would only
match it, and soon they would be involved in one of their
battles. In the end she was certain to lose.
"I'm sorry, Mama," she said, injecting her
voice with as much contrition as she could muster. 'Til
leave you some lunch."
Edna glared at her balefully. "Are you
sure it won't be too much trouble?" The acid in
her voice stung Diana, but she tried not to show it.
"It won't be any trouble at all." She left
her mother's room and hurried downstairs.
"Christie? Are you going to change your clothes?"
Diana surveyed the little girl and wished she could
convince her to change from her jeans into a dress. She
would be so much prettier. But she knew it was
useless-all the kids would be wearing jeans. "Okay.
What else do we need?" "What are we going
to put the salad in?" Diana thought for a minute.
"A picnic basket. There's one upstairs. Come
on."
They climbed up to the third floor, and Diana
unlocked one of the storerooms. As she rummaged
around, searching for the ancient wicker basket that she
remembered having seen up there, Christie began
looking around.
Something caught her eye.
"That's my suitcase," she said, pointing to the top
shelf.
Diana straightened up and looked where the child was
pointing.
"No, it's not," she said uncertainly. "Why would it
be up here?"
"It is mine," Christie insisted. Using the
shelves as a ladder, she scrambled up and pulled
at the suitcase.
"Leave it alone, Christie," Diana said
sharply, but it was too late. The suitcase crashed
to the floor, and the lid flew open.
Out of it tumbled the Lyons family album.
Christie stared at it, then at Diana.
"Why did you put it in here?" she complained.
Diana, flustered, tried to think of a reason.
Vaguely she could remember having put the
suitcase on the shelf, but she couldn't remember
why.
"I don't know," she said softly. "Take it to your
room, if you want to."
As Christie picked up the album and left the
storage room, Diana continued hunting for title
picnic basket. And as she hunted she tried
to remember the day she had brought Christie's things
home. But all she could remember was that on that day,
the wind had been blowing.
Bill Henry slid his car into a spot between the
Crowley's pickup and the Penrose's new Chevy
and grinned at Diana. Though he was still concerned about
his talk with Dan Gurley earlier in the
week, he had not mentioned it to Diana, nor did
he have any
conp % jjl pi
n! in
m
John Saul
When the Wind Blows

intention of spoiling the picnic for her by telling her
today. Perhaps he would never have to tell her at all.
"Sure you're ready for all this bucolic
excitement?"
Tm going to love it," Diana assured him. "I
don't know why I've let Mother keep me from coming
all these years. Christie, isn't that Jeff over
there?"
Christie scrambled out of the car and ran off toward the
baseball diamond, where Jeff and Steve
Penrose were trying to find enough people for a softball game.
So far the square wasn't crowded, but here and there
various people had spread blankets on the tables,
reserving space for themselves and their friends.
Diana noticed that the Jenningses and the Sandlers had
chosen a spot as far away as possible from the area
near the statue of Amos Amber, where
Joyce Crowley and Rita Penrose were unloading
baskets of food. While Bill lifted
Diana's basket from the trunk of the car, she
hurried toward the two women.
Diana tried to concentrate on the chatter that
Joyce Crowley was determinedly keeping up, but as
the square began filling up she was acutely aware
that many people seemed to be avoiding her.
The mothers of Amberton were keeping their distance.
On the baseball diamond, Steve Penrose had
finally succeeded in getting a game going, though he
didn't think he had much of a team. He was pitching,
and Jeff Crowley was catching, but he was stuck with
only Christie and Susan Gillespie to cover
everything else.
"Come on, Susan," he yelled. "What are you
doing in right field? Nobody hits out there."
Susan obediently trotted up toward first base,
and the next ball went flying over her head into right
field.
"I don't wanta play," she shouted, but ran after
the ball anyway. By the time she had fielded the fly
a home run had been scored.
The other team, seven boys, hooted and jeered.
Steve Penrose shrugged and walked off the
field.
"Come on," he called. "This isn't even fair."
The rest of his team joined him, and the other team began
a game of work-ups.
Bill Henry was the first to see the four children coming toward
the tables. "Beat 'em already?" he asked Steve.
Steve made a face but said nothing.
Diana, seeing that Christie's eyes were filling with
tears, asked her what had happened.
The other kids didn't want to play with us," she
said. "They wouldn't choose up sides, so we said
we'd be a team. But there aren't enough of us, and Susan
and I aren't any good anyway."
"Susan can't throw, and Christie can't catch,"
Jeff added. Then his eye began to twinkle. "But it
didn't matter because none of us can hit anyway."
Steve Penrose suddenly started laughing. "Who
cares about that? We would have just chased balls for them
all day. We never could have gotten them out."
"Sounds like you quit while you were ahead," Joyce
Crowley said.
"We were six runs behind," Jeff told her, then
looked perplexed when the adults laughed. "Can we
eat now?" he said.
Late in the afternoon the breeze picked up,
and instinctively everyone looked toward the mountains.
The clouds that had been visible all day were roiling in
the distance, and the people of Amberton looked at each other
and nodded.
"Off-season chinook," someone said. "Gonna blow
all night."
Dan Gurley glanced up at the sky, then
casually
i JP P P
m
John Saul
When the Wind Blows

strolled over to the little group that included Diana
Amber.
"Enjoying yourself?" he asked. Bill shot him a
look of warning, but Dan ignored it.
"It's fun," Diana said, smiling at the marshal
in spite of the headache that was beginning to prod at her.
"I've missed a lot in my life, haven't I?
Do you suppose it's too late to catch up?"
"I doubt it." Dan sat down on the blanket and
stretched his long legs out. "Hear your mother wants
to blow up the mine," he said suddenly. He watched
Diana carefully and was sure he saw her
flinch.
"I think it's a good idea," Bill said quickly.
Dan glanced at him, then his eyes returned
to Diana.
"What do you think?"
Tm not sure," she said. "I know how dangerous the
mine is, and I know all the horrible things that have
happened there, but I have the oddest feeling. It's as
if, with the mine destroyed, something will be taken away from
me, something that I don't want to lose."
"What?"
"That's what bothers me. I don't know. All I
know is that it would be like . . . losing a child."
Dan Gurley frowned. "That's an odd thing
to say," he observed.
Suddenly Diana felt trapped. She looked from
Dan to Bill, then back to Dan again. were they
looking at her strangely? She couldn't be sure,
but she knew she had made a mistake.
The wind was blowing harder, and her headache was getting
worse.
The children's games began, and Diana tried
to concentrate on them but it was difficult. Something was
happening in her mind. Sounds were coming to her, calling
to her.
The three-legged race began, and Diana was dimly
aware that Christie was out there, her left ankle tied
to Jeff Crowley's right, but she couldn't seem
to make out exactly where Christie was.
Instead she saw herself on the field, but it was another
field, a field near her house, and she was playing
with Esperanza. And then she saw her mother moving
toward her, her face angry, her clenched fist
raised in the air.
"No," she whimpered. "Please, no ..."
Beside her, Bill Henry squeezed her arm.
"Diana? Is something wrong?"
It seemed to bring her back to reality, and her vision
cleared. But her head still ached, and dimly, in the
back of her mind, she could still hear a voice.
A baby, crying out to her. She forced herself to ignore
the sound.
Tm fine," she said. "Just a little headache." She
searched the field, then saw Christie.
The little girl was running, leaning heavily on
Jeff, and anger suddenly welled up in Diana.
Where was she going? Was she running away? Her head
was throbbing. Suddenly she called out Christie's name
and took a step out onto the field.
Christie turned at the sound of Diana's
voice, and the motion threw her and Jeff off-balance.
They fell to the ground, and Christie felt a sudden
pain in her leg. When she looked at it, blood was
pouring from a deep gash in her calf. Horrified
by the sight of the blood, she began screaming.
Diana, along with everyone else, was running across the
field now, but inside her head chaos raged.
Images, real and imagined, mixed together. The baby
was calling to her, screaming in agony, and ahead of her
she could see it, lying on the ground, its face
contorted with pain. She had to get to it, to ease its
pain and make it stop crying.
But there were people around it now, and she couldn't get to it.
Someone was lifting her baby, carrying it away.
9-H- P
John Saul
When the Wind Blows

strolled over to the little group that included Diana
Amber.
"Enjoying yourself?" he asked. Bill shot him a
look of warning, but Dan ignored it.
"It's fun," Diana said, smiling at the marshal
in spite of the headache that was beginning to prod at her.
"I've missed a lot in my life,
haven't I? Do you suppose it's too late
to catch up?"
"I doubt it." Dan sat down on the blanket and
stretched his long legs out. "Hear your mother wants
to blow up the mine," he said suddenly. He watched
Diana carefully and was sure he saw her flinch.
"I think it's a good idea," Bill said quickly.
Dan glanced at him, then his eyes returned
to Diana.
"What do you think?"
"I'm not sure," she said. "I know how dangerous
the mine is, and I know all the horrible things that have
happened there, but I have the oddest feeling. Ifs as
if, with the mine destroyed, something will be taken away from
me, something that I don't want to lose."
"What?"
"That's what bothers me. I don't know. All I
know is that it would be like . . . losing a child."
Dan Gurley frowned. "That's an odd thing
to say," he observed.
Suddenly Diana felt trapped. She looked from
Dan to Bill, then back to Dan again. were they
looking at her strangely? She couldn't be sure,
but she knew she had made a mistake.
The wind was blowing harder, and her headache was
getting worse.
The children's games began, and Diana tried
to concentrate on them but it was difficult. Something was
happening in her mind. Sounds were coming to her, calling
to her.
The three-legged race began, and Diana was dimly
aware that Christie was out there, her left ankle tied
to Jeff Crowley's right, but she couldn't seem
to make out exactly where Christie was.
Instead she saw herself on the field, but it was another
field, a field near her house, and she was playing
with Esperanza. And then she saw her mother moving
toward her, her face angry, her clenched fist
raised in the air.
"No," she whimpered. "Please, no ..."
Beside her, Bill Henry squeezed her arm.
"Diana? Is something wrong?"
It seemed to bring her back to reality, and her vision
cleared. But her head still ached, and dimly, in the
back of her mind, she could still hear a voice.
A baby, crying out to her. She forced herself to ignore
the sound.
"I'm fine," she said. "Just a little headache." She
searched the field, then saw Christie.
The little girl was running, leaning heavily
on Jeff, and anger suddenly welled up in
Diana. Where was she going? Was she running away?
Her head was throbbing. Suddenly she called out
Christie's name and took a step out onto the
field.
Christie turned at the sound of Diana's voice,
and the motion threw her and Jeff off-balance. They
fell to the ground, and Christie felt a sudden pain
in her leg. When she looked at it, blood was
pouring from a deep gash in her calf. Horrified
by the sight of the blood, she began screaming.
Diana, along with everyone else, was running across the
field now, but inside her head chaos raged.
Images, real and imagined, mixed together. The baby
was calling to her, screaming in agony, and ahead of her
she could see it, lying on the ground, its face
contorted with pain. She had to get to it, to ease its
pain and make it stop crying.
But there were people around it now, and she couldn't get to it.
Someone was lifting her baby, carrying it away.
p n p pi
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John Said
"No," Diana mumbled. "It's my baby. You
can't take my baby away from me."
But they were.
Diana Amber, her head throbbing with pain, the wind
moaning loudly in her ears, watched as Christie
Lyons was carried away.
She couldn't let it happen. She lurched forward,
determined not to let them take her baby away from
her.

KWWWWWWWWWWWW*
Diana opened her eyes and looked up. She was
lying on her back, a blanket covering her body.
Bill Henry's face loomed above her.
The wind, in its capricious fashion, had faded
away as fast as it had come up.
"Diana?" Bill's voice seemed far away, as
if he were speaking to her through a tunnel. "Are you
all right?"
"Wha-what happened?"
"There was an accident"
Fear clutched at Diana and she struggled to sit
up, but Bill restrained her.
"It's nothing serious," he told her. "Christie
tripped and fell on a piece of glass.
When you saw the blood, you fainted."
Diana heard the words, but they had no meaning.
Blood? What was he talking about? She couldn't
remember any blood. All she could remember
was- what?
It was gone, all of it.
She sat up slowly. "Christie? Where's
Christie? Is she all right?"
Tm okay, Aunt Diana."
Diana looked around and saw Christie standing near
her, a bandage wrapped around her right calf. "It
isn't as bad as it looks," Bill told her.
"There was a lot of blood, but I didn't have
to take any stitches. It won't even leave a
scar." He looked into Diana's eyes
*-r
con*
John Saul
When the Wind Blows

and took her wrist, checking her pulse. "In
fact, I'm more worried about you than I am about
her."
Her eyes searched his, looking for a clue. What
had she said? What had happened to her, and
why couldn't she remember it? Desperately she
tried to sort it out in her mind, but there was nothing there.
Only one more of those terrible voids, as if she had
stood still and time had passed her by. She tried
to get up, but Bill stopped her.
"Just lie there awhile," she heard him saying. "You
only fainted, and you'll be all right in a few
minutes. Between the sun, the wind, and the blood, it was
just too much."
Diana closed her eyes but couldn't relax. She
could feel her heart pounding, and her whole body
felt clammy, as if she'd just thrown up.
But everything was all right. All that had happened was that
she'd fainted. Everybody did that now and then,
didn't they? Except that other people remembered what
had happened, and she didn't.
She mustn't let them know. If they knew, they'd
think she was crazy, and they'd take Christie away
from her. Again she struggled to sit up.
"I'm all right now," she insisted when Bill still
tried to restrain her. "I just feel like an idiot,
that's all. Is there any water?"
Joyce Crowley handed Diana a glass of iced
tea, and she gulped it, though she wasn't really
thirsty.
"Thank you."
She looked around now and saw that she was surrounded by a
crowd of people. As they saw that she was recovering they
began to drift away. Soon no one was left but
their own small group, which Dan Gurley had
joined. He was staring at her.
"I'm not sick," Diana said quickly. Too
quickly? She searched the faces around her, but except
for Bill, no one seemed concerned. Only Dan,
whom she was al-
most certain was eyeing her strangely. But before he
could say anything Matt Crowley distracted him.
"What do you think? Calm enough for the fireworks?"
Dan seemed to forget about Diana as he scanned the
sky. "Looks good to me. Shall we start setting
up?"
As the two men walked away Diana spoke
to Christie. "Honey, don't you think we ought to go
home?"
"I want to stay for the fireworks," Christie said.
"My leg doesn't hurt. Really it doesn't!"
Then, her eyes pleading with Diana: "Besides, we have
to plan the camp-out!"
The camp-out. Diana had forgotten all about it, but
suddenly that day with Jeff and Christie
came flooding back to her. Except for that moment in
the mine, it had been a good day; out of the house, away
from her mother. And there had been no wind to plague her
mat day.
Today had been a good day, too, until the wind had
come up. But the wind was gone now. Everything was fine.
In Shacktown, Esperanza and Juan
Rodriguez sat on the porch of one of
Esperanza's friends and watched the fireworks in the
distance. The Shacktown people never went to the picnic, but
instead gathered together in front of their houses while
their children played in the dusty streets. It was hot, and
as the day wore on, bringing the searing wind, tempers,
everedgy, frayed, and fights broke out.
This year the people of Shacktown were talking about what was
happening in the cave of the lost children. Ever since
Jay-Jay Jennings had died, the women had been
murmuring among themselves, sure that Jay-Jay's
death had not been an accident. But they were equally
sure that no human being had been responsible for it
either.
J caret Just equals JL
John Saul
No, it was the children, angry over their rest being
disturbed. The women of Shacktown were sure
that los ninos had reached out and taken Jay-Jay, and
they were also sure that more was going to happen.
It was the wind that convinced them. This year the wind had
blown too much, and too late into die year. And
to them the wind and the children were inextricably entwined, for it
was only when the wind blew that they could hear the children
crying.
Eddie Whitefawn listened to his elders talk and
wondered if he should tell them about the night
JayJay had died, and how he had been there that
night, and watched as Miss Diana had come to the
mine. But the mine was forbidden to him, and he knew he
would be punished if bis grandmother found out what he had
done. So instead of speaking out Eddie listened and
remained quiet.
Esperanza, too, listened to the talk and nodded her
head wisely, knowing that what the women were saying was
true. She wondered if she should speak to Miss
Diana and warn her to watch out for the little girl, but
deep in her heart she knew she wouldn't Miss
Diana was a gringo, and wouldn't understand.
Besides, Esperanza realized as she watched the
rockets burst into the night sky, there was such a thing
as fate. A person could be as careful as possible,
could pray and watch for signs, but in the end
fate was all that mattered. It was fate that had given
her her place in life, and fate that had sent her
Juan. If fate chose to send the children screaming
vengefully from the cave, then it would happen.
There was nothing she could do, though she would continue
to pray. . . .
The last of the fireworks flared in the night sky, and
Diana gratefully got into Bill's car for the
ride home. She was tired and wished that they could have
left a long time ago. Ever since her fainting
spell, she
When the Wind Blows

hadn't felt well, and she slumped against the door
as Bill drove out of town.
"It wasn't such a good day after all, was itr he
asked, breaking the silence.
"I guess not." Diana sighed.
Bill glanced at her, and there was something in his look
that made her suddenly wary. And when he spoke she
was frightened.
"What was it exactly that made you faint she heard
him ask.
What was he saying? Was he testing her? Trying
to find out if she remembered?
"The heat," she said. "And the blood. I've never
been able to stand the sight of blood." She made herself
produce a sound that wasn't quite laughter. "I
guess I wouldn't have made a good doctor's
wife, would I?" *
"Well, I don't suppose we'll ever know,
Bill said, turning into the Ambers' long
driveway. As they approached the house, they could
see lights blazing from the living-room window.
"Damn," Diana said softly. "I was going
to invite you in."
"Do it anyway," Bill suggested.
"Oh, no." Diana sighed. "Why make a bad
day worse? Mother will have a long list of complaints and
do her best to make me feel guilty for having
left her alone so long. Well," she went on,
"I just won't let her do it." But in her mind she
wasn't so sure.
Bill parked the car and walked her to the door,
carrying Christie. As Diana put her key in the
lock Christie stirred and woke up. She
scrambled out of Bill's arms and scooted through the
front door.
As Diana was about to go inside Bill gave her a
quick hug. "Keep up the fight," he
whispered, then was gone into the night. Diana stood
on the porch, trying to interpret what he might have
meant by the comment until his taiUights had
disappeared, then
p B-caret But-a
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John Saul
When the Wind Blows

went into the house. Edna was in the living room,
listening to Christie chattering about the picnic.
"And Aunt Diana fainted!" Diana heard
Christie saying excitedly. "It was right after I
cut my leg, and everybody thought she was dead or
something!"
Edna's eyes left Christie and shifted
to Diana. "Go to bed, child, and let me talk
to Diana," she said. Christie said good night to both
of them and went upstairs. Only when she was gone
did Edna speak to Diana.
"What did she mean, you fainted?"
Instantly Diana became wary. "It was hot, and
I ate too much too fast, and I fainted. That's
all."
"What time did it happen, Diana?"
Edna's voice was low and her blue eyes were
flashing. Diana hesitated and Edna spoke again.
"I can find out. I can call your friend Joyce
Crowley, and she'll tell me exactly what
happened. You fainted when the wind was blowing, didn't
you?"
"Yes, Mama."
"What else happened?"
"I-I don't know, Mama," Diana said
miserably. She shrank back as if expecting her
mother to hit her.
"Don't tell me you don't know," Edna raged.
"When I ask you a question, I expect an answer.
Now, tell me!"
"I already told you, Mother," Diana shouted back
at her. "I don't know what happened. I was
watching the children, and then I fainted. I don't
remember anything else."
"That's always your excuse, isn't it? You don't
remember. Do you really think you can live that way,
remembering only what you want to remember? It
won't work, Diana. I tell you, it won't worki
What will you do when I'm not here to protect you?"
Diana felt her patience beginning to slip.
The strain of the day, the strain of being on her
guard, caught up with her.
"Maybe you've been protecting me too long,
Mother." Her voice rose as her temper gave
way. "Maybe if you stopped protecting me,
I'd be all right! But we won't know that until you
die, will we?"
"Don't you dare speak to me that way, young lady,"
Edna hissed, rising to her feet. She raised her
cane, then lashed out at Diana with it.
Pain shot through Diana's body as the cane smashed
against her ribs, and she stared at her mother, her eyes
glazed and filling with tears.
"Mama," she whimpered. "Mama, don't.
Please, don't."
"You're disobedient!" Edna's voice was hoarse, but
her blue eyes, blazing with anger, seemed to glow in
their deep sockets. "I'll teach you to obey if
it's the last thing I do!" Again she raised the cane,
but this time Diana moved.
Muffling a scream that was a combination of fear and pain,
she fled from the house.
When she was gone, Edna slowly lowered the cane. The
anger that had filled her had disappeared as suddenly as
it had come, and she felt weak. Slowly, her legs
unsteady, she climbed up to the second
floor and went into her room.
She'd made another mistake.
She shouldn't have hit Diana, not with the cane. A
slap would have been enough.
But it was her own fear that had caused it, and the fear was
growing.
She was going to lose Diana.
After all these years, she was finally going to lose
Diana.
Then, alone, she would die.
Somehow she must find a way to keep Diana with
her.
She got into bed but didn't let herself go to sleep.
Instead she thought. Somehow she would find a way
to keep her daughter.
in n tilde
John Saul
When the Wind Blows

Diana's side throbbed with pain, but she didn't
stop running till she was away from the house, far enough
away so that she knew her mother couldn't come after her.
Then, even in her confusion, she realized she was being
irrational. How could her mother come after her? She was an
old woman, and she had to use a cane
even to walk.
But the feeling persisted, and deep down, Diana
knew that all her lif e she had lived with it.
Her mother hated her, and her demands upon Diana had
nothing to do with protecting her. It had to do with enslaving
her.
But why? It couldn't be because her father had died. No,
it had to be something else.
But what?
Whatever it was, it was frightening-terrifying.
If only her mind wouldn't keep blanking out on
her. If she could remember. If she could only
remember. Somewhere, lost deep within the black void
of her memory, was the explanation for her mother's
hatred.
She plunged on through the night, wanting to turn
back but unable to.
The answer was at the mine. Something had happened there,
and she had to know about it, had to remember it.
A fragment of thought came into her mind. Maybe she
was crazy and should get help. But if she did that,
they'd take Christie away from her, as they'd taken
her baby away from her.
Taken her baby?
No, her baby hadn't been taken. It
had died.
But if it had died, then why could she still hear it
crying? It must not have died. It must have been taken
somewhere.
Taken where? By whom?
Her mother. Only her mother was there when she'd
had the baby. So her mother had taken the baby somewhere.
Taken it away, and given it to someone.
Or killed it.
She was approaching the mine now and she stopped.
Suddenly it all began making sense.
That was why her mother wanted the mine blown up-her mother
had killed her baby and put it in the
mine.
Somewhere, in the maze of shafts and tunnels that
honeycombed the hill, her baby was waiting for her.
Her mind whirling with chaotic thoughts, she entered the
mine. Its musty dankness closed around her. A part
of her wanted to turn around and run home, leaving the
mine and leaving the horrible ideas that danced in her
head, mocking her, tantalizing her, torturing her.
Her baby wasn't dead.
She wouldn't let it be dead.
It was her baby, not her mother's, and her mother had no
right to take it away from her.
But that's what her mother had done. That had to be what
her mother had done.
Taken her baby from her, and killed it.
Just as she wanted to take Christie away from her.
Diana felt a chill pass through her body, and she
began sweating. She'd made a horrible mistake.
She'd left her mother alone in the house with
Christie, and her mother was angry.
In her mind's eye she saw the cane arcing toward
her and remembered the helpless feeling she'd had.
And then the scene shifted. She pictured Christie,
sleeping in the nursery, curled up in the crib.
And Edna, standing over her, her eyes raging, her
fury unspent.
She saw the cane rise into the air, her mother's
gnarled hands gripping it, suspending it for a moment
over Christie's sleepy face.
n 1 equals 4
n n t
n
John Saul
And then the cane was coming down, crashing onto the head
of the sleeping child.
Diana screamed, and the sound of her own voice
seemed to release her from her vision. She
turned and ran from the mine, fled from the blackness of the
hole in the mountain, fled from the fear that came out of the
night.
She ran until she was home, and as she pounded up
the stairs to the third floor, her breath came in
choking gasps.
Panting, she burst into the nursery.
In the crib, her eyes wide with terror as she stared
up into Diana's tormented face, was Christie.
"Baby," Diana babbled. "Oh, baby, did
she try to hurt you? I won't let her hurt you,
baby. Not again. Never again."
A scream built in Christie's throat. It was
happening again! Just as she was beginning to feel safe, it
was happening again. Paralyzed with fear, she let
Diana pick her up and carry her downstairs.
Whatever happened, she must not cry.
Diana laid Christie on her bed and bent over
her, prodding and poking at the little girl as she searched
for the bruises she was sure must be there. Finally
satisfied that she had reached Christie in time, she
went down the hall to her mother's room.
Throwing the door open, her face contorted with rage,
she began screaming. "I won't let you do itl I
won't let you kill her again! Do you hear
me? I won't let your
She slammed Edna's door and returned to her
room, locking herself and her baby inside.
In her own room, Edna Amber stared at the door
for a long time after Diana had left.
Then, for the first time since Diana had been born,
she began to weep.
It was all going to happen again and there was nothing she could
do to stop it.

HWWWWWWWJWWWWWWWWWWWW*
For Christie Lyons the next four days were the
strangest of her life.
The day after the picnic Diana moved her out of the
nursery, bringing the daybed down to the second floor,
where it was installed in a corner of Diana's room.
Edna watched them move the bed and tried to object,
but Diana refused to listen to her. Finally, as
Christie looked on, Edna raised her cane and
lashed out at her daughter. But instead of cringing under
her mother's fury Diana reached out and caught the
cane, wrenching it from Edna's grip.
"Don't do that again, Mother," she said. "If you ever
try to hit me again, 111 kill you. Do you understand
me?"
"Diana . . ." Edna whispered. Her voice
carried the same note of fear that had been in
Diana's own voice all her Me.
"Do you understand me?" Diana demanded again, savoring
her victory. Edna stared at her fiercely, but
Diana was relentless. "I know what happened,
Mother," she said. "I remember. I remember what
happened to my baby, and I swear, Mother, if you
try to do anything to me or to my little girl, 111
kill you." And then, as the fire in Edna's eyes
began to fade, Diana once more repeated the words that
Edna had for so many years used to torment her. "Do you
un-
ni in n p p
John Saul
When the Wind Blows

derstand me?" Edna, her eyes suddenly dull,
nodded her head.
After that Diana was with Christie every minute of every day.
At first Christie was wary, constantly worried that the
strange expression would come into Diana's eyes, and
that she would receive another of the beatings that had become a
part of her life.
On the second day, Diana gave her a
piano lesson. For hours the two of them sat at
the old Bosendorfer, and while Christie played
scales Diana counted the rhythm, her voice
droning hypnotically. Then she began to talk, but
Christie wasn't sure what she was talking about.
"Mama . . . please, Mama, don't make me
... I don't want to, Mama . . . please
. . . please . . . please . . ."
The word itself became a cadence, and Christie played
on, tunelessly, one note at a time, each note
punctuated with the sound of Diana's pleading voice.
"Please . . . please . . . please . . .
please . . ."
It only ended when Miss Edna came in and demanded
that they stop.
And they stopped. Diana stared at her mother for what
seemed to Christie to be an endless amount of time, then
finally took Christie by the hand and led her out of the
room.
From then on, each day was spent on horseback,
roaming the ranch. Most of the time Diana didn't
speak to Christie but simple looked at her,
smiling a distant smile that Christie found somehow
frightening.
And at night the terror would begin.
They would go to the room on the second floor,
Diana in her bed and Christie on the daybed, and
Christie would try to fall asleep.
But soon Diana would begin muttering, then tossing in
the bed and crying out. Christie would try to wake
*
her, but Diana seemed trapped in her nightmares,
and Christie could never wake her up.
But each night, very late, Diana would suddenly
get up and come to the daybed, where she would stand over
Christie, staring down at her, not speaking, with that
strange smile on her face. Christie would wait
for the beating she was sure would come. So far it never had.
On die fourth night, she tried to run away.
They went to bed as usual, and Christie lay
awake, waiting.
Near midnight, Diana began to moan softly, and
Christie lay still, listening.
Finally she could stand it no longer. She was terrified,
and there was no one to comfort her. And then, as Diana
began tossing in her bed, Christie remembered what
Esperanza had told her on the first day she had come
to this house, pointing out her cabin near the mine: "You
need me, you come up there."
Tonight, Christie was sure, Diana was going
to beat her.
She slid off the daybed and crept from the room. She
went up the back stairs and into the nursery. As she
opened the door she saw a large rat scurry from
under the crib and disappear into a corner. Shuddering and
forcing back a scream, she began looking for clothes
and finally found a pair of jeans and a flannel shirt
on the floor of the closet. She dressed quickly,
keeping as silent as she could.
She was about to leave the nursery when she heard
footsteps on the stairs.
She looked frantically around the room, but there was
no place to hide.
She started for the window, but it was too late.
The door opened, and Diana was standing there, staring at
her.
"What are you doing?" she asked. Her voice sounded
reasonable, but Christie fidgeted nervously.
"I-I was looking for something."
contion n n n
John Saul
"You were running away, weren't you? You got dressed
so you could run away. Isn't that right?"
"Aunt Diana-was Christie began.
"Isn't that right?" Diana shouted. She
raised her arm and slapped Christie across the face.
Christie shrieked and rubbed at the stinging bruise.
"Don't ever try to run away," Diana hissed.
"Little girls can never run away from their mothers. Do you
understand?"
Christie nodded mutely.
"Do you understand?" Diana demanded.
"I understand, Aunt Diana," Christie whispered.
As she watched, Diana relaxed, and as Diana
led her back down to the second floor, Christie
did begin to understand.
As long as she didn't cry, and did exactly as
she was told, she would not be punished.
From now on, no matter what happened, she would act
as though she wasn't afraid, and she would never cry.
She wondered, though, what would happen if she
failed.

mw plus plus plus plus "plus *
Matt Crowley had decided to accept Edna
Amber's job offer for several reasons, not the least
of them being that he needed the money. Furthermore, he
and Joyce had decided that if the mine and its
everpresent threat were gone, Amberton would be able
to get back to normal. He'd talked it
over with Dan Gurley, and the two of them had
decided to make the explosion an event for the whole
town. Today, five days after the picnic, he was going
to begin the job.
He parked bis pickup near the entrance to the mine and
got out. He stood for a few minutes, enjoying the
summer sun, then walked slowly toward the black
hole that yawned in the hillside. Reluctantly
he went inside.
Nothing really had changed since the last time he had
been there, except that now as he stood in the gloom,
waiting for his eyes to adjust, he had a feeling of
unease. Three people had died there in the last few
weeks, and Matt found that he was no longer as
confident about the mine as he once had been.
Today he was going to plant the dynamite that would
destroy the mine.
He found the switch box, opened it, and turned on
the electricity. A soft glow lit up the
tunnel. Carrying a case of dynamite, Matt
began walking back toward the elevator. He
paused only to find a miner's helmet and switched
on its light as he loaded the explosives into the
elevator.
John Saul
When the Wind Blows

He was about to press the button that would start the little
car on its long descent into the depths of the mine when
he remembered one of Elliot Lyons's prime
rules. Never, under any circumstances, go down
into a mine alone. That, as far as anyone knew, was
what Elliot Lyons had done. And Elliot was
dead.
Matt stepped out of the elevator and walked out of the
mine.
He knew he should go back to Amberton and find
someone-Dan Gurley, perhaps-to help him. With
two of them working they could plant the dynamite in
only a few hours. But today Matt wanted to work
by himself. It was quiet on the hillside, and the afternoon was
warm, and there was really no rush.
He decided to leave the dynamite where it was and
prowl the hillside around the mine, looking for
fissures and sinkholes that would indicate the
beginnings of cave-ins. When the mine went, there was
going to be a major hole in the local scenery, and the
more he knew about the weak spots below, the more
effectively he could place the explosives.
He followed an overgrown trail that
threaded up the hill from the mine entrance. He walked
slowly, examining the ground carefully, searching for the
depressions that would tell him that just below the surface
the earth had fallen away.
An hour later, having found nothing, he lowered himself
to the ground and leaned back against a rock. He
glanced around, not really looking for anything- which was
probably why he found it.
He had been looking for depressions in the ground.
What he found was a cleft in the hillside.
A tangle of brush nearly covered the hole, and
Matt had to break most of it away before he could get
inside. Even then he had to stoop over, for the
crevice was no more than five feet high. By the time
he was ten feet in, the blackness had surrounded
him, and he began to have a sensation of being suspended in
a
vacuum, even though he could easily touch the walls
on both sides of the tunnel.
He called out and listened to his voice echoing around
him. The shaft went a long way, and if he was going
to explore it further, he'd need a light.
He left the cave and scrambled back down the
hillside to the mine, picked up his helmet, then
returned.
It seemed to be a natural formation. There were no
pick marks on the walls, and the floor was covered
with the bones of small animals. Over the years it
must have been used as a den by some sort of predator.
Though wolves and cougar had once been cornmon enough
in that part of the country, none had been sighted for
years. Perhaps a coyote had used the
cave.
Matt shined his light into the depths of the tunnel and
called out once more. Though he knew it wasn't
possible, the light seemed to reduce the echo of his
voice. He began walking along the shaft, testing
the floor with each step before he put his weight down.
Forty yards in, the floor dropped away.
Matt stretched out on his belly and edged carefully
forward. He moved his head out over the precipice.
Far below, the light caught something.
At the bottom of the vertical shaft there was water.
Its surface was perfectly still and almost invisible.
And beneath the surface there was something else.
Bones.
The pond seemed to be filled with tiny bones, heaped
together in a jumble.
Mart's stomach turned as he began to suspect that
what he was looking at was a watery grave
filled with the bodies of infants.
In a cold sweat he backed away from the lip of the
shaft, stood up, and made his way once more into the
daylight.
For a long time he stared at the hole in the
hillside. He shuddered as he realized what it had
to be.
conP R r
John Saul
When the Wind Blows

The story his son had told him about the water
babies. He had a sick feeling that he had just
stumbled onto the source of that story.
Edna Amber herself opened the door, and when she saw
who it was, she stepped back to let Matt in.
She led him to the kitchen and offered him a cup of
coffee.
"You don't happen to have a beer, do you, Miss
Edna?"
"There hasn't been beer in this house since my
husband died. A drink?" she suggested. "But I'm
afraid you'll have to fix it yourself."
"Coffeeil be fine," Matt told her. As she
found him a cup Matt noted that the old
woman had aged in the last week.
"Are you all right, Miss Edna?" he asked as she
brought him his coffee.
She smiled at him, but there was a sadness in her
eyes that Matt had never seen before. Always, before, there
had been a spark in those blue eyes, a spark that
could ignite into anger at any moment. But today, the
fire was gone.
"I'm just getting old," she said. She lowered herself
into the chair opposite him and folded her hands on the
table. "You've been up to the mine. I gather you're
going to do as I asked."
Matt hesitated, then nodded. "I'm going
to try."
"What do you mean, you're going to try?" Edna
asked, a bit of spirit returning to her voice. "Either
you're going to do it or you're not."
"Well, it might not be that simple. I found something
today that I don't understand. Did you know there's a
cave on that mountain?"
"It's riddled with shafts, as we all know," Edna
said.
"No, I don't mean the mine. Outside. Farther
up the hill and off to the left. A natural
cave." For the mo-
ment, he decided, there was no point in telling
Miss Edna what he'd found in the cave.
Edna frowned. "I've never heard of one."
"Well, that's the thing, Miss Edna. I don't
know if it's connected to the mine or not. I don't
think it is-it seems to have water at the bottom, and
if it were part of the mine, it would have drained, wouldn't
it?"
"Are you asking me or telling me?"
Telling you, I guess. It seems like before I go
blowing things up I better know what I'm doing, and
that cave bothers me. You don't know anything about
it?"
"Nothing at all."
"What about Miss Diana?"
"She's not here," Edna replied, and Matt was
sure he heard a catch in her voice, as if
something was not right. "She's gone off somewhere with
Christie. I don't know when they'll be back."
"Gone off? You mean on a trip?"
"Heavens no! No, they took horses and went off
into the hills." Edna's voice dropped and her
eyes seemed to cloud over. "They've done that every day
since the Fourth of July. I wish they wouldn't."
Then her eyes cleared and she looked once
more at Matt Crowley. "Didn't Mr. Lyons
know about this cave?"
"If he did, he never mentioned it, and it wasn't
on any of his maps. That's why I came by-I
thought you might have an old map, from back when the mine
was first dug."
Edna shook her head. "I gave Mr. Lyons
everything. If it wasn't on the maps he had, it
wasn't on any of them. What difference does it
make?"
Matt shrugged. "Dunno. Maybe none. But if
there's some kind of water system down there, or
caves or something, it just seems like we better know
about it before we go messing around."
Edna pondered Matt's words and finally nodded. "Very
well," she said at last. "You go ahead and do
hi in r n n
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John Saul
When the Wind Blows

what you think best, Matthew. But I warn you-that mine
must be destroyed before it destroys us."
As he left the Ambers' a few minutes later and
started toward town, Matt reflected on
her words.
The mine was becoming an obsession with the old woman.
That was the trouble with getting old. Things stopped working
quite the way they should and you got funny ideas. And
Edna Amber was definitely getting funny ideas
about the mine.
Or was she? Maybe, sincere though she'd seemed,
she knew more than she was telling him. Maybe she
did know about the cave and what was inside.
Matt decided he'd better talk to Dan
Gurley about it.
Christie stared nervously at the quarry. "Did we
have to come up here?" she asked.
"I thought you liked this place," Diana said. T
thought we could have a swim and lie in the sun for a
while."
"I don't know," Christie said doubtfully. "I
don't like it here anymore. The last time I was here
was when Kim . . ." Her voice trailed off.
"But what happened to Kim doesn't have anything to do
with us, does it?" Diana asked. "I thought we'd
have a nice swim and then lie in the sun."
Christie let the matter drop, afraid of what
might happen if she pushed too hard. A few
minutes later, in the same clearing she and
her friends had used, she and Diana put on their
bathing suits.
They swam for a while, then climbed out onto one of the
rocks. They lay silently for a few minutes, and the
heat of the sun drained some of the tension out of Christie.
She let her mind drift and thought of her friends, whom
she hadn't seen since the picnic. And that reminded
her of the camping trip.
"When are we going on the camp-out?" she asked.
Diana stirred. She hadn't thought of it for days, and
now the very idea of it annoyed her. Still, she'd
promised, and if she didn't follow through, she'd have
to come up with a reason. She tried to find one that would
work.
She could claim she was ill.
That would only give her mother an excuse to send
Christie away.
Suddenly she felt trapped, and it was Christie and
Jeff who had trapped her.
Jeff, really. If it were only Christie, the
camp-out would be fun.
Yes, she decided, the problem was with Jeff.
Her mind went back to when she was a child.
Her mother hadn't allowed her to have playmates.
At the time she'd resented it.
Now, though, she understood why.
Her mother had wanted her all to herself.
As she wanted Christie all to herself.
And yet she had promised.
"In a day or so," she said at last. "Well go
in a day or so."
She would have to go through with the trip, but once it was over,
things would change. After the camp-out, she would keep
Christie home.
And Christie would be all by herself.
As Diana had been all by herself.
p ft equals JUBLE
n n
plus plus plus plus plus *plus plus
plus plus plus plus plus plus *r plus
*plus *plus plus plus "plus plus
*plus plus plus *r plus andr plus
*plus *
Though none of it showed in her face, inside, Edna
Amber was raging. That Diana-her Diana-could have
threatened her was nearly beyond her credibility. "Til
kill you" Diana had said. "Do you understand me?"
Even now, days later, Edna was still numb from the
shock of it.
She listened helplessly as Diana talked
on the telephone to Joyce Crowley. Though she
could not hear the other woman's words, she knew what
they were discussing.
Diana was going to take Christie and Jeff on a
camping trip.
Edna knew she should try to stop the trip, but how?
She couldn't talk to Joyce Crowley. What would
she say? That Diana had become a killer?
Never. Even if Mrs. Crowley believed her,
all it would mean would be her loss of Diana.
She waited until Diana hung up the phone,
then spoke to her, but her voice, the voice that for
years had rung through the house-ordering, directing,
demanding-had dropped to the feeble whisper of the very old.
"Diana? Are you sure what you're doing is
wise?"
Diana smiled at her mother, taking an odd
satisfaction in the uncertain look in the old
woman's eyes, the trembling of her hands, and the
tremor in her voice. "It's none of your concern,
Mother. What I do with my
When the Wind Blows

little girl is between the two of us. It has nothing to do
with you."
"Everything has to do with me," Edna protested, but the
coldness of Diana's stare made her shrink back.
"I just-I just don't think you ought to do it," she
finished lamely.
"What you want no longer concerns me, Mother,"
Diana told her.
"So I'm to be thrown away?" Edna asked, a little
of the old fire returning to her eyes. "After all the
years, after all I've done for you, I'm to be
discarded?"
"All you've done for me? I know what you've done
for me, Mama. You've kept me here, made me a
prisoner here. And for what? So you wouldn't be alone."
"No . . ."
"Yes, Mama."
"It was for you. It was all for you . . ."
"Don't say that, Mama. Not anymore. I've
grown up, and I'm going to be grown-up. Don't
try to stop me."
Christie appeared at the door, and the two women
fell silent, both of them watching the child. "Aunt
Diana? Are you going to give me my bath?"
Diana smiled at her. "Of course I am. Are
you ready?"
Christie nodded and stuck her thumb in her
mouth.
"What are you doing, child?" Edna asked. "You never
used to suck your thumb."
Christie looked hurt, and a tear welled in her
eye. She wiped it away before Diana noticed it.
Diana lifted her off her feet and hugged her
close.
"It's all right, baby," she whispered. "Don't
you listen to her. All right?"
Christie nodded, her thumb never leaving her mouth, and
Diana carried her out of the room. When she was
alone, Edna Amber began to weep.
JUS caret iJust?
n
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John Saul
When the Wind Blows

Dan Gurley listened to Mart's story, then
looked curiously at Matt. "You sure you
didn't spend the day drinking up there?" he asked.
"If you want, we can go up there right now and 111
show you," Matt offered. Though it was nearly six, the
sun was still bright in the sky, and there was at least another
hour of daylight.
"Dead babies," Dan said heavily. "What
makes you think they aren't just some kind of small
animal?"
"I don't know," Matt said. "It's just a feeling
I've got. That, and the story Jeff picked up from
Eddie Whitefawn." He repeated the story of the
water babies to Dan and, when he was done, lit a
cigarette. He took a deep drag on it, then
stared at its glowing end. "Who knows?" he said.
"Maybe there's something to
lt" was * 1
Dan stood up and picked up his hat. "Okay,"
he
said. "Let's go up and have a talk with Esperanza.
If anybody will know anything about it, she will."
They left the office and drove up to the cabin by the
mine.
"Sure you don't want to take a look?" Matt
asked. Dan glanced up the hill, then shrugged.
"Oh, what the hell. Might as well."
Matt led the way up the trail and guided Dan
into the cave. Using his flashlight, Dan took over
the lead and moved slowly into the tunnel, his light
picking up the bones that littered the floor.
"Looks to me like rabbits and
squirrels," he said.
"That's here," Matt replied. "Wait'll we
get to the end."
A few moments later Dan was lying on his stomach,
shining the light down into the pool.
"Son of a bitch," he whispered. "How long do you
suppose those have been here?"
"Dunno," Matt replied. "But they sure look
old. What do you think?"
"I think we should see if Esperanza knows anything
about this, and then I think we should figure out a way
to get those bones out of there so we can find out what they
really are. No sense getting all shook up over
what might be nothing, now, is there?"
The two men made their way out of the cave and back
down the hill. They knocked on the door of the
cabin, and a moment later Juan appeared in the
doorway. When he recognized Dan, his happy
smile faded and his eyes took on the expression
of a frightened
rabbit.
"I didn't do nothing," he said.
"Now take it easy, Juan," Dan said gently.
"Nobody says you did anything. Is your mother
here?"
Juan shook his head.
"Do you know where she is?"
Juan nodded.
"Can you tell me?"
"She went to church," Juan said. "She said she
has
to pray." "Pray?" Matt asked. "Pray about
what?"
"I don't know."
"Okay," Dan said. Til go find her." He and
Matt were about to leave when Juan suddenly stopped
them. "You going to make the mine go boom-boom?" he
asked.
"Where'd you hear that?" Matt asked.
"In town," Juan said. "Eddie told me."
He paused and shuffled his feet. "Can I help?"
"Help? Help with what?"
"The boom-boom," Juan said. "I could help
you."
Matt thought about it only a moment before shaking his
head. "I don't think so, Juan. It's pretty
dangerous. I'm gonna use dynamite."
Juan nodded. "I know about that. You make holes and
put it in."
j-
m conp r fi
n n
"That's right."
"I could drill the holes," Juan said eagerly.
"Please? I wouldn't touch anything. But I like
to drill holes."
Matt still hesitated, but then Dan spoke up.
"Why don't you let him?" he asked. "You can't do
the job all by yourself."
"I thought you were going to help out," Matt said.
Dan nodded. "I was. But now I'm not sure I
can."
"Something come up?"
"Yeah. Nothing much, but it's going to keep me busy
for a few days." He didn't want to tell Matt
that he was investigating Diana Amber. Ever since
her strange fainting spell at the picnic, he had
felt an urgency about it that he couldn't quite explain,
even to himself. "Got to go down to Pueblo," he said
evasively. "Some people I want to talk to."
Matt grinned at him, knowing Dan was being
pressured by Claire Jennings and the Sandlers.
"Going job hunting?"
"Maybe," Dan said, "maybe not. What about it?
Going to give Juan a try?"
"Why not?" Matt shrugged. "I can show him where
to drill, then put the stuff in myself."
Juan smiled happily and clapped his hands.
"I'll be careful," he said. "You'll see.
I'll be real careful."
"Okay. Tell you what. Come down to my place
tomorrow, and well load up the truck. All right?"
Juan nodded. "Okay."
"Slow down," Dan protested. "I want someone
to look at that cave before you do anything. Let's
hold off for a few days, okay?"
"Anything you say," Matt agreed.
"And I'll talk to Esperanza. In the meantime I
don't think either of us should mention the cave. You know
how people gossip around here."
When the Wind Blows

In the gloom of the Church of the Savior that stood on
the edge of Shacktown, Dan Gurley could make out
the figures of several people praying. He found
Esperanza in the front row, on her knees. He
touched her shoulder, and she looked up at him,
startled. He signaled her to follow him out of the
church. She crossed herself once more, then got to her
feet.
When they were outside, Dan asked her about the cave.
Her dark eyes filled with terror.
"Madre de Dios," she muttered. Then, her
face pale, she scurried back inside, leaving
Dan alone on the street
Christie sat in the tub, enjoying the feel of the
water as Diana sluiced it over her. Being given
a bath, she had finally decided, wasn't so bad
after all. All you had to do was lie there and keep your
eyes closed when your face and hair were being washed.
And as long as she didn't cry her splashing
didn't seem to bother Diana anymore.
What bothered her was living in Diana's room.
Even though she hated the nursery, sometimes she
missed it Up there she had at least been by herself
sometimes.
Now she was never by herself, except for a few minutes
this afternoon when she had managed to sneak up to the nursery
while Diana was on the telephone.
Her things were gone, even her photo album.
Someone-Miss Edna, she thought-had taken them out of the
nursery and hidden them somewhere. Maybe if she told
Aunt Diana about it, she could get them back.
"Aunt Diana?" she asked.
"Hmm?"
"What happened to my things8*
"What thiags, honey?"
i
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John Saul
When the Wind Blows

"Stuff like my album. I can't find it."
"Isn't it in the nursery?" Diana asked.
Christie shook her head. "I looked, but it
isn't there."
Diana frowned. She didn't have the slightest
idea what Christie was talking about. What album?
The Amber family had never kept an album.
Late that night, Edna Amber climbed wearily
to the third floor and let herself into the nursery.
She sat in the rocking chair for a while, her mind
blank, her eyes wandering over the furnishings of the
room. Slowly thoughts began to form in her mind, and
soon she found herself remembering the days when Diana
had been a child.
When had Diana begun forgetting?
Edna didn't know. Over the years the past had
become confused for her, and she knew that,
fight it as she tried, some of Diana's madness had
worn off on her.
And madness, she was finally admitting to herself, was what
it was.
In the terrible honesty that comes with old age she
realized that it was her own fault.
She had been too hard on Diana. She should never
have let the rage she felt against her child vent itself. But
it was either that or go crazy herself, and for a long time it
looked as if Diana was going to be all right.
And then, one day nearly thirty years ago,
Diana had come in after an afternoon of riding. Her
clothes had been torn, and her face was smudged with
dirt.
Edna had asked her what had happened, but Diana
had only looked at her fearfully, burst into tears
and run up to the nursery. She had locked the door
and had not come out again until the next day. And on the
next day, when Edna had again asked her what had
happened, Diana had seemed puzzled.
"Happened when?" she had asked.
"Yesterday," Edna had replied. "When you came
home from riding, you were a mess."
Diana's eyes had remained puzzled. "But I
didn't go out riding yesterday," she had
said. "I was in my room all day long."
No matter how hard Edna had badgered her, she
had never wavered from her story.
The months had gone by, and it had soon become
obvious that Diana was pregnant.
But she wouldn't admit it.
Finally, when the pregnancy had become undeniable,
and Diana still refused to acknowledge that it was
happening, Edna had taken charge. And Diana,
happily spending her days in the nursery,
acquiesced to all of Edna's suggestions.
She stopped going out, stopped seeing her friends,
stopped calling them. When they came to visit, Edna
told them that Diana had gone away for a while.
In a way it was true.
As the pregnancy developed, and Diana continued
to ignore it, Edna realized that somehow her daughter
had split part of herself away. Diana, Edna
realized, had simply decided she was not
pregnant.
Very quietly Edna set about finding out who the father
was. It hadn't been difficult-one of the ranch
hands, a man named Travers, began hanging around the
house, and eventually Edna spoke to him.
It was his idea that he was going to marry
Diana.
Edna paid him off and sent him packing.
It was her pride that kept her from sending Diana
away or even seeing a doctor.
To Edna, as to Diana, pregnancy without marriage
was worse than death. When the baby came, Edna
would see to it that it was disposed of.
And then the baby came.
Somehow Edna had managed.
The night it was born, the wind had blown, and
conp r r
John Saul
When the Wind Blows

Diana, unprepared for what was to happen, had had a
difficult time.
Near dawn, she had given birth to a baby
daughter, a beautiful child.
After the child was born, Edna had taken it to the nursery
and put it in a bassinet. And the child had begun crying.
When Diana woke up, after sleeping through the next
day, the baby was still crying.
Diana ignored the sound.
Edna asked if Diana wanted to see her baby.
"What baby?"
Edna bit her lip.
"Your baby, Diana. Your baby girl. Don't
you want to see her?"
From the nursery, the baby's crying was clearly
audible.
"I don't know what you mean, Mama," Diana
said
Edna, unsure of what to do, did nothing. She
left Diana's room and went upstairs to tend to the
baby.
But the baby, as if sensing its mother's rejection,
kept crying.
The crying went on for four days, and on the fifth
day, the wind began to blow again.
That night, Edna woke up from a fitful sleep and
listened to the sound of the wind screaming down from the
mountains. She listened for the baby, but couldn't hear it
crying.
She went up to the nursery to be sure it was all
right.
The cradle was empty.
She went downstairs again to the guest room, where
Diana had delivered her baby and was now living.
It, too, was empty.
Edna searched the house, then went out into the
night. She began walking toward the mine.
Halfway there she met Diana coming down the road,
her night-
gown covered with a robe, which she clutched tightly
against the wind.
There was a strange look in her eyes, and she
didn't speak until Edna had led her back to the
house. Then, when she was back in her bed, she
looked up into her mother's eyes.
"It's the strangest thing," she said. "Did you know that
when the wind blows like this, you can hear something?"
"What?" Edna asked, though she knew the answer.
"A baby crying," Diana said. "But it's stopped
now. I made it stop." Then she drifted off
to sleep.
Edna Amber sat up all night that night, trying
to decide what to do. By dawn she made up her
mind.
She would do nothing, and spend the rest of her life
taking care of her daughter.
She would not have to live in shame, nor would
Diana.
She was sure she could do it: Diana hadn't the
slightest idea of what had happened, and Edna could
only pray that she would never remember.
Edna would protect her and take care of her. After
all, Diana was all she had, and she loved her.
Besides, there was no way to bring the baby back.
Edna came back to the present and glanced once more
around the nursery, still remembering.
It had worked.
The years had gone by, and Diana had insisted on
keeping the nursery just as it was. She was saving it,
she said, for the time when she would get married and have a
baby of her own. But really, Edna knew, Diana
had kept the nursery for herself. At times she had
even slept in the nursery, holding the teddy bear
to her breast, cradling it as a mother cradles a child.
Edna controlled Diana's life as best she could,
and for a long time things were all right. There had been
contion n n n
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John Saul
the problem with Bill Henry, and then, ten years
ago, the two nights Diana had spent in the
hospital in Pueblo. But except for that, the
years had not been bad.
Edna had coped.
But now it was coming apart. Diana was remembering.
Edna looked around the nursery once more and
decided that it was time for it, too, to be taken apart.
When Diana took Christie away for the camping
trip, she would begin.
Then, when the nursery was dismantled, she would decide
what to do about Diana.
Edna knew in her heart that the time had come when
Diana could no longer be controlled.
But Diana was still her daughter, and she wanted to put
off what she must do as long as she could.
Besides, the wind wasn't blowing, and when the wind
didn't blow, Diana was all right.
It was late in the season. Maybe the wind wouldn't
blow again that year.
And maybe Christie wouldn't cry.

"less-than was?"?""by *
Two days later three men from Denver-a geologist
and two archeologists from the university-arrived in
Amberton. Matt Crowley led them up to the
cave, then waited while the three men did their work.
While the geologist examined die tunnel, one
of the archeologists put on a wet suit and scuba
gear and, with the aid of a rope, descended into the pool
at the bottom of the shaft.
The water, cold and crystal clear, was
deeper than the diver had expected. The pile of
bones lay twentyfive feet below the surface.
Though he worked quickly, depositing the bones in
plastic bags, then sending them to the surface on a
second rope, his air supply was nearly
exhausted when he finally finished the job and returned
to the surface. A few minutes later the three
scientists emerged from the cave.
"Well?" Matt asked.
The geologist spoke first.
"It's a natural cave. Nothing more than a
fissure in the sandstone. The water's been
collecting for centuries, but it's rain water,
seeping in from above."
"What's that mean as far as the mine's concerned?"
The geologist shrugged. "Nothing much. When you blow
it, the cave'll probably collapse and dump the
water into the mine, but it won't do much damage. If
you're worried about tapping into a spring or some-
n n r
John Saul
When the Wind Blows

thing, you can stop-the mine would have flooded years ago
if there were something like that down there."
Satisfied, Matt turned to the archeologists.
"What about the bones? Are they human?"
The archeologist who had hauled the bones up after his
partner collected them nodded. "They're human, at
least all the ones I've gotten a look at.
Babies, not more than a few days old, if that.
Their skull plates hadn't even fused when they were
dumped in here." "How old are they?"
The archeologist shrugged. "Can't say for sure. A
hundred years-probably a lot more. But they're not
recent, if that's what you're worried about. I'll
know better tomorrow, when we've had a chance to spread
"em out and look at 'em." He glanced at the
mouth of the cave, nearly hidden behind the shrubbery.
"When you planning to blow it?"
"Couple of days," Matt said. "We been holding
off till you guys got here. Any point in
waiting?"
The archeologists shook their heads, and the diver
spoke. "Not as far as I can see. I got everything
out of the pool."
"And I got the rest," the other one added. "There's
nothing on the walls, and the bones on the ground aren't
anything. Doesn't look like anybody ever lived in
the cave. Still," he added, "it'd be nice
to excavate it."
"It'll never happen," Matt said. "The woman
who
owns the property wants it blown as soon as
possible."
The scientists packed their gear, and they all started
down the trail. When they reached the mine, Esper-
anza Rodriguez was sitting on the porch of the
cabin,
watching them with angry eyes. Matt Crowley
waved
to her, but instead of returning the greeting, she only
went inside the cabin and shut the door.
"What's eating her?" the geologist asked.
Matt hesitated, then decided to say nothing. These
men were strangers to him, and he liked Esperanza.
He didn't want to expose her to ridicule.
"She just likes to keep to herself," he said.
When the men from Denver were gone, Matt drove
into town to tell Dan Gurley what had been found.
"You tell anybody about the bones?" Dan asked
when Matt was done. Matt shook his head.
"Figured we might as well wait till we
knew what they were," he said. "No sense stirring
up the town."
Dan nodded his agreement. "Then let's keep it that
way. With two kids dead, no telling what might
happen if this got out. Okay?"
"Fine. Can I start setting the dynamite tomorrow?"
"Okay by me. You still going to have Juan help you?"
"Sure," Matt replied. "Why not?"
"I dunno," Dan said thoughtfully. "I just have a
feeling that Esperanza isn't going to like it. She
might not let Juan do it."
Matt grinned. "And he might not tell her he's
going to," he said.
The next day Jeff Crowley appeared at the
Ambers".
By noon, Diana was in the barn, helping the two children
saddle the horses that would carry them up to the aspen
grove. A fourth horse would carry their gear, and it
was that horse that was giving them trouble.
"It's going to fall off," Jeff remarked as he
looked at the old mare, which was loaded down with
sleeping bags, a tarp, boxes of food, and an
ice chest.
"If it's tied right, it'll be fine," Diana
told him. "Pull the rope tighter."
Jeff tugged at the rope, and the horse stamped its
feet and whinnied angrily.
"What are we going to cook on?" Christie asked.
"Do you have a stove?"
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John Saul
When the Wind Blows

"Well build a fire," Jeff told her.
"We're going camping, stupid."
"Don't you call me stupid," Christie flared.
"Then don't ask dumb questions. Haven't you ever
been camping?" Jeff was feeling like an expert,
having gone hunting with his father the winter before.
"What if I haven't?"
"Oh, brother," Jeff muttered. He had a
feeling that he should have stayed home-everyone knew that
girls weren't any good on camp-outs.
Diana, pleased that the spat had died a natural
death before she'd had to do something about it, tied the last
knot, then checked the load to be sure it was
balanced properly. "Okay, let's take the
horses outside."
The children scrambled onto the horses, and as they
emerged from the barn Diana glanced toward the house.
Her mother, who had stayed in her room all morning,
was still nowhere to be seen. For a moment Diana
considered going into the house to see if she was all right,
but she was sure that if she did, Edna would find some
reason why she must stay with her.
"Let's go," Diana called. Holding the lead
for the pack horse, she led them out of the corral.
From the house, Edna watched them go. She scanned the
sky and nodded to herself. So far, there were no clouds
piled up over the mountains, and the weather report that
morning had not mentioned any storms coming in from the west.
Maybe everything was going to be all right. Only when
the little caravan was out of sight did she start up the
stairs to the third floor.
She looked around the nursery, wondering where to start.
The toys.
She found a box and began putting the stuffed ani-
mals into it. She held each one of them for a moment.
They were all left over from Diana's childhood.
Diana, unlike most children, had never put her
toys away. Instead she had always kept them in the
nursery, even after she had finally moved downstairs,
and Edna, afraid of upsetting Diana, had never
objected to it. But now the teddy bear, its fabric
beginning to rot and smelling of years of dust, seemed
ready to fall
apart.
Edna piled the stuffed bear and all his friends into the
box, then took down the paper bird that was suspended
over the crib. That, too, went into the box.
She took the last of Christie's clothes out of the
closet and wondered what to do with them.
The guest room. She smiled bitterly as she
realized that even though Diana had occupied it for
thirty years, she still thought of it as the guest room.
She would put Christie's things in the guest room,
and after Diana was gone, Christie could keep it.
She would decide what to do with Diana's things
later.
The curtains-those white lace curtains that looked
so pretty half a century ago-fell into shreds as
Edna took them down. They, too, went into the box
with the toys.
Edna took the box down the hall, unlocked the
storage room, and opened it. She pulled the string,
and as the light went on she gasped.
The floor of the storage room was covered with the shredded
remains of what had been the Lyons family
album.
"That poor child," Edna murmured to herself, but even as
she uttered the words she wasn't sure whether they were
for Christie or for Diana. She put the
box from the nursery on a shelf, then began cleaning
up the mess on the floor.
Sometime, when things were settled, she and Christie would
try to piece them back together.
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John Saul
When the Wind Blows

Leaving the storeroom, Edna went to inspect the
nursery once more. Except for the cradle, the
crib, and the rocking chair, it was empty.
Edna went back downstairs and found a hammer and
some nails.
With tears flowing down her cheeks, she nailed the
door of the nursery closed. . . .
Matt Crowley pressed the button, and the
elevator whined to life, shuddered, then began its
long descent into the depths of the mine. Beside him,
Juan Rodriguez looked nervously up at the
cables from which the car was suspended.
"It's all right, Juan. Those cables won't
break."
Juan shuddered, suddenly wishing he hadn't come.
1 don't like this place," Juan said. "My mother
says there are spirits here."
"Naw. You don't believe in ghosts, do you?"
Juan squirmed and shuffled his feet. "My mother
does," he said. "She says there are babies here,
and when they cry, people die."
"Well, don't you believe that," Matt said,
though in his mind's eye he suddenly saw the pile of
bones the team from the university had pulled from the
cave the day before. "That's just a story to scare people."
"But people die here," Juan protested. "And I
heard the babies cry once."
Matt decided to change the subject. If Juan
kept talking, he would certainly scare himself into going
home. "You know how this stuff works?" He indicated
the box of dynamite, and Juan looked at it
doubtfully.
"It blows up," he said.
"Only when it's fused, and so far this stuff isn't
fused. Now, all I want you to do is drill
holes for me, then I'll put the dynamite
sticks in the holes, install the fuses, and wire it
I don't want you even to touch the dynamite."
caret won't," Juan promised.
Thafs right. All you have to do is drill the holes
where I tell you."
"Okay."
The elevator rattled to a stop at the bottom,
and the two men got out. Together they went through the mine,
Matt marking the places where he wanted holes
drilled. Then he gave Juan an auger and told
him to start drilling.
Juan, eager to please, began working while Matt
opened the box of dynamite and started preparing the
fuses. By sunset the job would be finished, and tomorrow
afternoon, if all went well, the mine would be
gone.
They worked slowly and carefully, and by late afternoon the
mine was riddled with dynamite. When the charge was set
off, the supports of the shafts would be blown away,
and the mine would fall in on itself.
Matt fed the wire out carefully as the elevator
took them back to the surface, then laid wire
along the floor of the tunnel until he came to the
entrance. When he and Juan were finished for the day, he
left the roll of wire next to the equipment box.
In the morning he would return, run the wire down
the hill, and attach the blasting machine.
"Done," he said.
Juan scratched his head. "How do you set it off?"
"A cinch," Matt told him. He opened the box
and took out a blasting machine. "I attach the
wires to these terminals, then, when I push the
plunger, this box generates a charge. When the rack
hits the pin at the bottom, the charge is released,
and the detonating caps go off. They set off the
dynamite. Boom!" He put the blasting machine
back in the box and dropped the lid closed, then
switched off the power. The lights strung along the
walls of the mine went out and plunged them into gloom.
"Let's go home."
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John Saul
When the Wind Blows

As they left the mine Matt glanced instinctively
up at the mountains, then pointed and grinned at
Juan. "Looks like we might have heard your mother's
babies in a couple of more hours," he said.
A cloud bank was building above the Rockies,
towering into the sky. Juan looked at it worriedly.
"I wish Mama was home," he said.
"Isn't she?" Matt asked.
Juan shook his head. "She's in church. All
day. Maybe all night, too."
"You mind staying by yourself?"
Juan ground the toe of his boot into the dirt and
shoved his hands deep in his pockets. Without looking
at Matt, he nodded.
"Then you come home with me," Matt told him.
"Jeff's off camping, so there's nobody there but me
and Joyce. If you want, you can even spend the
night."
Juan's eyes lit up. "Really?"
"Really," Matt assured him. He glanced once
more at the mine and got into his truck. Tomorrow, if
all went well, they would come back, attach the
blaster, and push the plunger. And then, at last, the
mine would be gone. He started the engine, jammed the
truck into gear, and roared off down the hill.
Eddie Whitefawn cut across the Ambers"
pasture. He was searching for Jeff Crowley. It
was only an hour since he'd heard that Jeff was
going camping with Christie and Miss Diana, and he
hoped he could talk Jeff out of going. Not that he
wanted to tell Jeff that he'd seen Miss
Diana up at the mine the night
Jay-Jay had died. He didn't. That, he was
sure, would only lead to trouble with the marshal, and he'd
long ago learned that the less you said, the more trouble you
stayed out of. Still, he didn't want anything
to happen to his friend.
He paused at the edge of the pasture.
The yard surrounding the Ambers' house looked
empty, and Eddie had a sinking feeling that he might
be too late. He trotted over to the barn and went
inside.
The stalls were empty, though he could see the signs
of their recent occupation. Eddie scratched his head and
wondered what to do.
He emerged from the barn into the bright sunlight and stared
speculatively at the house. All the stories
he'd heard about Miss Edna came into his head.
Finally, gathering his courage, he made up his mind
and approached the back door.
He knocked, then, when there was no response,
knocked again, louder. Finally, feeling almost
relieved that no one had answered, he turned
to leave.
"Who are you, and what do you want?"
Startled, Eddie whirled and peered through the screen
door at Miss Edna.
"M-Miss Edna?" he asked, his voice shaking
with nervousness. "It's Eddie Whitefawn."
"What do you want?" Edna repeated.
"I-I was looking for Jeff Crowley. Is he
here?"
"No." From the other side of the door, Edna watched
the little boy. He seemed nervous and looked as though
he was about to ask another question. And why had he come out
here looking for the Crowley boy? "Why did you think
he'd be here?"
"I-I heard he was going camping with Christie and
Miss Diana."
"Well, he did," Edna said.
Eddie looked up at her. "Where?" he asked.
"Up in the hills, I suppose," Edna
replied. She wished the little boy would go away. There
were so many things still to be done, and so little time. But then
Eddie asked another question, and Edna's heart began
to pound.
"In the hills up by the mine?" he asked.
Edna felt her knees begin to weaken and had to
m conp r n
John Saul
When the Wind Blows
315
lean against the doorframe. Why had he mentioned the
mine? Did he know something? And then it came to her.
The people in Shacktown, most of them, had no
telephones. On the night Jay-Jay died, and
Joyce Crowley had phoned all the mothers, she
might not have been able to reach Mrs. Whitefawn. .
"Maybe you'd better come in," Edna said at
last, pushing the door open. Hesitantly Eddie
Whitefawn stepped into the kitchen.
Edna offered him a glass of milk and sat him down
at the kitchen table.
"Why do you think they might have gone up near the
mine?" she asked, seating herself opposite him.
"I-I don't know," Eddie stammered.
"Don't know, or won't tell?" Edna countered.
"I-well, I just thought-was Eddie stood up.
"Maybe I better go home."
"Si* down," Edna rasped. Eddie sank back
into his chair.
"You were at the mine the night Jay-Jay fell,
weren't you?"
Eddie's eyes grew wide. How had she known?
Was she a witch after all, like some of the kids said?
Terrified, he nodded.
"And did you see anything?" Edna demanded.
Eddie hesitated, thinking furiously. If he
lied, would she know? He decided she would.
"Miss Diana," he whispered.
"What about her?"
"I-I saw her. She went into the mine, and there was a
scream, and then she came out again."
Edna sighed heavily and sank back in her chair.
He knew. He knew, and sooner or later he
would tell someone. And then it would all come out. All
her secrets that she had intended to have die with her.
"All right," she said at last. She smiled at
Eddie. "Have you told anyone you saw my daughter
that night?"
Eddie shook his head.
"But you should have," Edna said. "You should have told your
grandmother and the marshal. Why didn't
you?"
"I didn't want to get in trouble," Eddie said,
his voice little more than a whisper.
"Well, you'd better go back to town and tell your
grandmother," Edna said. Eddie stood up, his relief
that nothing was going to happen to him showing on his face.
He started toward the back door. Just as he was about
to leave, Edna spoke again. "Eddie? Before you go, do
you think you could do something for me?"
Eddie looked at her questioningly.
They forgot to feed the chickens before they left. Do you
think you could help me do it?"
"Sure," Eddie agreed. "Where's the feed?"
"I'll show you," Edna said, getting stiffly to her
feet. Leaning on her cane with one hand, the other
resting on Eddie's shoulder, Edna led him out to the
toolshed. "It's in here." Eddie opened the door
of the shed and stepped inside. Edna followed.
When their eyes were used to the dim light, Eddie saw
the sacks of feed leaning against the back wall and
started toward them. Once again Edna stopped
him.
"Not that," she said. "There's a different kind, down
in the root cellar." With her cane, she indicated
the trapdoor, and Eddie obediently pulled it
open. "I can't see anything," he said. "It's
dark." "The seed is on the floor, right behind the
ladder,"
Edna said.
Eddie scrambled down the ladder but still found nothing.
He climbed back up and stuck his head out of the
trapdoor.
"I didn't find-was
That was all he said before the silver head of
Edna Amber's cane crashed down.
Edna stood still for a moment, staring down at the
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crumpled body on the floor of the root cellar.
Then she shook her head sadly and used her cane
to push the trapdoor closed.
Now no one knew what had happened up at the
mine, and no one ever would.
Slowly she started back toward the house, leaning
into the wind that was whistling down from the mountains.

uw8*"blew*"*
4 plus ***plus **plus plus *plus
**plus plus i
Joyce Crowley was finishing the supper dishes when
there was a soft knock at the back door. She
wiped her hands dry, then opened the door.
Esperanza Rodriguez was standing on the stoop,
obviously upset. When she spoke, her words
tumbled from her mouth in rapid Spanish.
"Yo venga a vet mi hip" the old woman said.
Joyce looked at her blankly, and Esperanza
struggled to find the English words. "My son," she
said at last "AquiFrom'
Joyce pulled the door wide. "Come in," she
said. "Juan is in the living room-sala."
Esperanza bobbed her head but made no move
to leave the kitchen. She looked at Joyce
pleadingly.
"Juan? Your mother's here," Joyce called. A
moment later Juan appeared at the kitchen door
and, when he saw his mother, wrapped his arms around her and
hugged her. The two of them chattered in Spanish for a
minute, but Joyce couldn't understand any of it.
Finally Juan turned to her, his eyes unhappy.
"What is it, Juan?" she asked. "Is something
wrong?"
"Mama says I have to go home," he said. "She
says the people are mad at me."
"Mad at you? Why?"
"For helping Mr. Crowley at the mine."
"But why would they be mad at you for that?" Joyce
asked. She glanced at Matt, who had also come
into the kitchen. He seemed uneasy.
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John Saul
When the Wind Blows

was "Cause of the children," Juan said, his voice
clearly reflecting his fear.
"Children?" Joyce asked, immediately thinking of Jeff.
"You mean up on the ranch with Miss Diana?"
Juan shook his head. "Spirits," he breathed, his
eyes wide.
Joyce turned to Esperanza. "You mean the water
babies?" she asked. Esperanza nodded, her
eyes as terrified as Juan's. When she spoke
again, Joyce's voice reflected the exasperation
she was starting to feel. "You really believe that?"
Again Esperanza nodded. Then she spoke, searching
for the right words.
"Los rdnos-the children-they live there. The people- my
people-they say Sefior Crowley is going toah, como
se dice-was Her English failed her, and she made
a gesture indicating an explosion.
"Children?" Joyce asked, ignoring the gesture.
"What children?"
"Los muertos!" Esperanza said. "Los ninos
muertosr
Joyce looked helplessly at her husband.
"Matt, what's she talking about? What dead children?"
"We'd better call Bill Henry,"
Matt said without answering her question. "He speaks
Spanish, and he knows her people."
Esperanza waited restlessly in the kitchen until
Bill Henry arrived, then she spoke to him for a
long time in Spanish. Finally, when she was done, he
turned to the Crowleys.
"She says that she heard you were going to blow up the
mine. She says you can't do that."
"Why not?" Joyce asked. "She said something about
dead children."
Bill nodded. "I'm not sure I follow it all,
but there's a legend that the Indians used to take
stillborn babies up there and put them in a cave.
She says the spirits of the children live in the cave,
waiting to be reborn."
The water babies," Joyce said, nodding. "The
story of the water babies. But-but that's
ridiculous!"
"Maybe it's not so ridiculous," Matt said.
Briefly he told Joyce and Bill about the
cave, and what had been found there. "So maybe the
legend's true," he finished. "At least as far as
putting stillborn babies
there."
Esperanza had been listening, and suddenly
she spoke again in another rush of Spanish,
gesturing as she talked.
"She says you can hear the children," Bill
translated. "She says when the wind blows, it
frightens the children and makes them cry. If you go up
there, you can hear them."
Matt Crowley suddenly laughed out loud. "But
that's just the mine. When the wind blows, sometimes it
echoes in the shafts and sounds sort of like a baby
crying. I heard it once when I was working with
Elliot Lyons. But it doesn't mean anything."
Bill explained what Matt had said
to Esperanza, and her eyes flashed with indignation.
Scowling, she grasped Juan's hand and began moving
toward the back door, speaking rapidly as she
went. She opened the door and turned to face the
three people who were watching her. She spoke once more,
then pulled Juan out into the gathering darkness, letting
the screen door slam shut behind her. After she was
gone, there was a silence, broken finally by Joyce.
"What did she say?"
"She said that it doesn't matter what we think, that
even though the bones are gone, the children are still there, and
if we do anything to the cave, we'll have to pay. She
doesn't care whether we believe her or
not. All she wants is for Juan not to be
involved, so that whatever happens, the children of her people will
not be harmed."
Joyce sank into a chair and rested her chin on her
hands. "My God," she said softly. "I thought
supersti-
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John Saul
When the Wind Blows

tions like that had disappeared years ago. But they
haven't, have they?"
"Apparently not," Bill said. "And apparently
there's something to it. After all, the bones were there."
"So what are we supposed to do?" Matt asked.
"Do we go ahead and blow up the mine? Or do we
give in?"
Bill shrugged and listened to the wind, which was coming up
stronger. Suddenly he grinned. "Maybe we should go
up there later on and listen. Who knows? We might
hear something."
"Yeah," Joyce said. "We'd hear Diana,
trying to keep Jeff and Christie under
control."
"Diana?" Bill asked.
"Didn't you know? She took the kids for a
campout. They're up there right now. Is something
wrong?" she added, seeing the look on Bill's
face.
"I don't know," Bill said slowly. And yet he
did. Only this morning Dan had come to him once
more, hammering away yet again at what had happened
at the picnic. Finally Bill had had to admit that
when she'd awakened from her faint, Diana had
seemed to have no memory of what had made her
black out. At last he had told Dan the
strange story that Edna had told him and that Diana
had denied. Dan, his expression grim, had gone
back to his office, intent on talking to the
hospital in Pueblo. Now Bill turned
to Matt. "I think we'd better go talk to Dan
Gurley," he said.
Leaving Joyce alone, the two men went out into the
night
As night closed in and the wind grew stronger,
Diana felt her head begin to hurt. Next to her,
Christie and Jeff were finishing their supper, and as she
watched their faces she began to hear the
strange sound that had haunted her life.
"Listen," she said. "Do you hear it?"
Jeff cocked his head. "Hear what?"
"My baby," Diana said. "Can't you hear my
baby
crying?"
The children looked at each other. What was she talking
about? No one was crying, and all they could hear was the
wind in the trees. Christie began to grow nervous.
"A baby?" Jeff asked, his voice uncertain.
"It's in the hills," Diana said. "It's coming from
the hills."
She stood up and stepped away from the fire.
Christie and Jeff joined her, staring off into the
darkness, straining their ears to hear whatever Diana was
hearing.
"Can't you hear it now?" Diana asked.
"What8ness she talking about?" Jeff whispered
to Christie. Christie looked up at Diana and
saw that the strange blank look had come into her
eyes. Her fear grew, and she took Jeff's
hand, clutching it tightly in her own.
"I don't know. But don't cry."
"Cry?" Jeff repeated. "Why should I cry?"
But even as he spoke he felt tears
welling in his eyes. "I want to go home," he
said. He rugged at Christie's arm, and Diana,
disturbed by the sudden movement, looked down.
"What are you doing?" she asked. "What are you
doing to my baby?"
"Nothing," Jeff whimpered. He dropped
Christie's hand and began backing away, fear
twisting at his stomach. Something was wrong, and he
wasn't sure what to do. The tears in his eyes
spilled over, and he tried to choke back a sob.
Diana stared at the little boy, and as the wind screamed
around her and the crying child tormented her mind, her
memory opened once more.
She was a little girl, and she was behind the barn, playing
with a little boy.
The little boy was teaching her a game.
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John Saul
When the Wind Blows

He called it doctor.
And then, while the little boy had his pants down, her
mother had appeared.
She had watched, waiting silently, while her mother
beat the little boy, knowing that when it was over, it
would be her turn. And when her turn came, she forced
herself to endure the beating silently, rage building
up deep within her to replace the tears she wasn't
allowed to shed.
Now she felt that rage building inside her again, and
as she stood in the night, her mind confused, she saw
once more the little boy and the little girl.
But she was the mother now, and the little boy had been playing
with her little girl all day.
Playing what?
She searched her mind. Had they been playing
doctor?
They must have been, for they looked scared. Scared and
guilty.
Filthy children.
Filthy, sinful children.
Diana, in the grip of her madness, moved forward and
struck Jeff Crowley across the face.
He screamed, clutched at his cheek, then began
sobbing, but Diana's fists flew through the air,
pummeling him, lashing at him. Floating through his
terror, he could hear Christie's voice.
"Don't cry, Jeff. Please, don't cry!"
Christie watched in horror as Diana struck
Jeff again. The force of the blow sent him,
writhing, to the ground. She tried to pull Diana
away from him. "Stop it, Aunt Diana," she
begged. "He didn't do anything. Don't hit him
anymore!"
Diana didn't hear her. She had picked up a
stick and, raising it over her head, she brought it
crashing down into Jeff Crowley's face.
"Filthy," she was whispering over and over again.
"Filthy, evil little child. Stop crying. Do you understand
me? Stop crying and take your punishment."
Blood gushed from Jeffs nose, and Christie, able
to stand it no longer, burst into tears and fled into the
night. Behind her she could hear Jeff's cries,
fainter and fainter, and the dull thudding of the stick in
Diana's hands.
Where could she go?
Home? To Miss Edna?
But where was she? Which way was home?
She paused and looked around. Nothing seemed
familiar. And then she came to a trail.
The trail that led to the mine. The mine and Esper-
anza's cabin.
Esperanza would help her. She would go
to Esperanza, and the old woman would come back with
her, and they would help Jeff.
Tears streaming down her face, Christie began
stumbling along the trail toward the mine.
JeSo Crowley's body lay still at her feet, and
Diana, the bloody stick still clutched in her hand,
searched the darkness for her little girl.
She, too, must be punished.
"Baby?" she called.
There was no answer, except for the wind.
And then, once more, she heard it.
It was faint, but as she moved off into the darkness it
began to grow louder.
Listening to the crying of the child, Diana hurried down the
trail toward the mine. She had to find her baby and
make it stop crying.
"She's up in the mountains with the kids?" Dan
asked. It couldn't be true.
"It might not mean anything," Bill said. "But I
thought you ought to know."
in in pi r less-than ri
John Saul
When the Wind Blows

"It's a damn good thing you did," Dan replied
grimly. Half an hour earlier he'd had a
call from Denver, and ever since he'd been
trying to decide what, if anything, he should do.
The bones had been analyzed.
All of them were human.
All of them were infants.
All of them were over one hundred years old.
All except one.
One of the skeletons, its parts fragmented, had
turned out to be much more recent than the others. If
Dan could believe what the archeologist told him,
it was between ten and fifty years old.
And, unlike the others, its arms and legs were
broken, its ribs mangled, and its skull plates
battered.
To the scientist it appeared that this baby had not been
born dead, but instead had been beaten to death, sometime
shortly after its birth.
Tonelessly he repeated the information to Bill and
Matt. Matt looked puzzled, but the blood
drained from Bill's face.
"Diana's baby?" he asked at last.
Dan nodded. "Seems like it might be."
"But Miss Edna said she buried it. What's going
on?"
Dan's eyes were hard as he faced his friend. "I
think something is way wrong out at the
Ambers", and I think we better go find out what
it is and where Diana and those kids are, too."
Though Matt Crowley wasn't sure exactly
what was going on, and neither Dan nor Bill took
the time to explain it to him, he went with them anyway.
Somewhere, his son was out there, and the wind was blowing.
Kim Sandier had died while the wind blew.
Jay-Jay Jennings had died while the wind blew.
And Diana Amber-what did she do while the wind
blew?
Did she kill?
Dan gunned the engine, nipped on his siren, and
put the car in gear. The other two men braced themselves
as the car lunged forward. "You trying to wake up the
whole town?" Matt asked.
"I have a feeling the whole town may be awake tonight
anyway," Dan said, his voice grim.
When Edna Amber opened the door, Bill Henry
saw at once that something had changed.
She seemed to have shrunk. Her back, usually so
straight, was bent, and her shoulders were stooped. Her
blue eyes, the twin sapphires, which had sparkled
fire for so many years, were pale and streaked with red, as
if the old woman had been crying.
"Miss Edna?" Dan asked. "May we
come in?"
Edna nodded and held the door open for them. She
stood aside and let them precede her into the little
parlor at the front of the house. When she spoke,
her voice was weak, and she seemed to have trouble finding
the right words.
"Do you want to see Diana? I-I think she's
gone out somewhere." Her eyes moved nervously around the
room, as if she were looking for something. "Yes," she
repeated. "I believe she's gone out."
"We need to know where Diana went," Dan said.
"And we need to talk to you about Diana's baby."
Edna's eyes, rheumy and tear-filled, went
to Bill. "I shouldn't have told you," she said
reproachfully. "I should have kept it to myself."
Td have found out anyway, Miss Edna," Bill
said
gently. "She thinks I killed it," Edna said
quietly. "She
thinks I killed her baby."
"And did your
Edna was silent for a long time, and Bill wasn't
sure she had heard the question. But finally she nodded.
"Maybe I did," she said.
ni in r p
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John Saul
When the Wind Blows

things I must do, and I want to be alone." She
paused, then: "I've never been alone, you know.
I'll have to get used to it."
Reluctantly they left Edna Amber by herself.
When they were back in the police car, Dan glanced
at Bill and Matt. "Any ideas?"
"Jeff said there's a stand of aspen and cottonwood
with a spring," Matt said. "Know where it is?"
Bill nodded. "On the way to the quarry."
"Is there a road?" Dan said.
"Go toward the mine, but turn left about a quarter
of a mile before you get to it. That'll get us pretty
close to the place, but we'll still have to walk some of the
way," Bill replied.
Diana plunged through the night, as though the sound of the
crying baby were a siren's song, luring her on. The
bloody stick with which she had killed Jeff
Crowley was cradled in her arms.
The wind tore down from the mountains, filling the air
with mournful keening, and slowly the doors of
Diana's memory swung wide.
It was a night like this thirty years ago, when the wind
was blowing, but all she could hear was the steady crying of a
baby.
She was in bed, but it wasn't her bed. It was a
strange bed, in a room that wasn't hers.
Instinctively she knew that the baby was in her bed,
in her room.
She crept through the house, searching for the source of the
sound. And then, in the nursery-her nursery-she found
it. In the cradle there was a tiny baby, its fists
waving helplessly in the air, its eyes screwed
shut, though tears were running down its cheeks.
Diana stared at it, hating it.
It was crying, and no one was punishing it.
It was wrong. Crying babies had to be punished.
And there was something else.
As she looked at the baby she began to remember.
It was her baby.
She'd been a filthy, evil little girl again, and now
there was a baby.
She crouched over the cradle and touched the baby, and
its cries grew louder.
What if it woke her mother? She would come in and find
the baby and realize what Diana had done.
And once more, as she had been so often in her
life, she would be punished.
She had to hide the baby.
She picked it up and wrapped it in a blanket,
muffling its screams, then took it from the house.
She carried it through the night, wondering what to do with
it, where to hide it.
And that night, for the first time, she heard the sound that
guided her, and that had stayed with her ever since.
A baby, crying. Not the baby in her arms, not her
own baby, but another. And suddenly she knew.
"Ill take you to them," she whispered. "I'll
take you to the other babies." She began following the
sound, and it led her up to the mine, then past it on up
the hill, until she stood at the entrance to a
cave.
And there, as the baby in her arms kept crying, she
picked up a stone and made it stop.
The baby had cried, and she had punished it.
Now, thirty years later, as the memory
unfolded, Diana realized what she had done.
It hadn't been her mother who had killed her baby.
She had done it herself.
As she stumbled on through the wind and darkness, she began
to cry.
ni to R
r" ri


E-"*"*8*"8ble"8"bar
Edna Amber watched the white Chrysler disappear
into the night.
Soon, she was sure, the ranch would be teeming with people,
and they would find Diana, and everyone would know their
secrets. She couldn't let that happen.
Even though Diana was lost to her, she was still her mother.
Edna put on a coat and went out into the night.
She heaved the heavy garage door open and got into the
ancient Cadillac. As she backed it carefully
out of the garage, she wondered if she would get there in
time, and if she would be able to do what had to be done.
Matt Crowley should have already done it. He'd said
he would, but he hadn't.
That was the trouble with children. They said they'd do things, but
they didn't.
Well, she'd do it herself.
She was old, and she was tired, but her memory was still
good, and her husband had taught her things she'd thought
she'd never need to know.
Tonight she was going to need that knowledge.
After tonight . . . after tonight, there would be nothing.
She drove carefully, putting the old car into its
lowest gear to grind slowly up the hill toward the
mine.
The wind battered at the car, but Edna didn't
mind. The Cadillac had taken worse in its time,
and the wind had never bothered her.
That was something she had never understood about Diana.
She knew there were people who blamed things on the wind, but
Edna had never really believed them. It was just that people
didn't want to be responsible for themselves.
That was Diana's problem. She had never wanted
to be responsible for anything.
Now it was too late.
Everything was over, and all Edna could do was try
to hide the mess, just as she'd been hiding messes for
Diana since the day she'd been born.
Christie staggered up the steps of the dark cabin and
pounded on the door.
"Esperanza? Help! Please-help me."
She could hear nothing over the screaming of the wind, but still
she knew that the cabin was empty. She tried the
door, but it was locked.
She would have to try to get back to the house. She
pounded on the cabin door once more, then turned
away. But as she was about to start down the
steps, she sensed a movement in the darkness. She
shrank back into the dark shadows of the porch and watched
as Diana came toward her.
As Diana drew close Christie began to hear
her talking, mumbling almost to herself.
"Mama? Mama, I've been a bad girl. Are
you going to punish me? Mama? Where are you,
Mama?"
Diana passed the cabin, her eyes staring straight
ahead, and disappeared into the mine.
Christie stood on the porch, trying to figure out
what had happened.
Aunt Diana was crying. Why was she doing that?
She'd never cried before.
And then Christie saw lights approaching, coming up
the hill. She waited on the porch of the little cabin
l tilde i bar comless-than ri r-bar
f * com*
m
John Saul
When the Wind Blows

and finally recognized the Ambers' ancient
Cadillac as it shuddered to a stop. Miss Edna
got out, then stood by the car, as if she were
looking for something.
"Miss Edna?" Christie called softly. The
old woman swung around, and her gaze fell on the
little girl.
"Where is she?" Edna asked. "Where's my
daughter?"
"In the mine," Christie whimpered. She left the
porch and went to Miss Edna, staring up into her
face. "She killed Jeff," Christie whispered.
Edna looked down at Christie, then gently
stroked her cheek.
"In the mine?" she asked. "Did she do it in the
mine?"
Christie shook her head. "He's back there," she
said, pointing toward the aspen grove a half-mile
away. "I- I ran away."
"I see," the old woman said softly. Her eyes
were sad as she touched Christie's face once more, but
she knew what she had to do. No one must ever be able
to tell the Ambers' secrets. "Come along," she
said, taking Christie by the hand. "We must find
Diana."
With Christie stumbling along beside her, she started
toward the dark entrance of the mine.
Esperanza Rodriguez hurried through the
night with Juan at her side. Ever since they had
left the Crowleys', she had been talking to him,
questioning him, trying to find out what he had been doing at
the mine.
Now she knew that the dynamite had been laid, and
that tomorrow, unless she did something about it, it would be set
off.
The spirits of the children would be locked in the mountain forever.
She must see that it did not happen.
The wind pulled at her long dress, and she
clutched her shawl tighter around her head. They were
close to
home now. In the distance she could make out the dark
shape of the mine.
Would they be coming to the mine tonight? Would tomorrow be too
late? She forced herself to move faster.
As they drew near the mine the wind suddenly stopped,
and Esperanza stopped, too. In the sudden quiet
of the night, she listened.
There was no sound coming from the mine, and yet, in her
heart, Esperanza knew that there were people there.
And the children.
She could sense the presence of the children. She could feel
them waiting-waiting for something to happen.
"You must go in," she whispered to Juan.
"You must go in and take away the wires. We must
save the children."
Juan nodded and, leaving his mother behind in the darkness, he
started toward the mine.
The three men stood in the grove of aspens, trying
to accept what they had found. Jeff's body lay
on the ground, his face battered and covered with
blood. Matt Crowley stared at his son, then
gathered the limp body into his arms, cradling it
against his chest.
"Why?" he murmured. "Why?"
Neither Dan nor Bill had an answer for him. As
they watched Matt silently grieve for his son,
each of them wished that this night would end, that they could go
home and leave Matt to comfort his wife. But each of
them knew that the night was not over. Somewhere, Christie
might still be alive, but for how long?
"We'd better go," Dan said softly.
"Diana's out here, and she's got Christie with
her." Matt carried Jeff's body as Bill and
Dan led him out of the aspen grove.
Bill listened to the wind as he walked down the
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John Saul
When the Wind Blows

gentle slope toward the car, and suddenly he was
sure he knew where Diana had gone. "The mine!"
he said. "She's at the mine!" Dan started the
engine and gunned the car back down the hill.
Edna Amber, with Christie by her side, moved through
the darkness. Ahead of her, she could hear Diana
whimpering, calling to her. By her side, Christie was
crying softly.
"I want to go home," Christie pleaded.
"Please, can't we go home?"
"We are home, child," Edna whispered. She stopped
and let go of Christie's hand. "Stand still," she said.
"Just for a moment. Can you do that?"
"Why?" Christie protested.
"It's only for a moment," Edna told her, her
voice gentle. "Can you do it?"
"I-I guess so," Christie replied.
Edna stepped back in the darkness and took her cane
in both hands.
"I'm sorry," she said softly.
The cane lashed through the blackness. There was a dull
thud as it struck its target. Then, only the
pitiful whimpering of Diana crying out
to her.
Eddie Whitef awn opened his eyes.
His head hurt, and for a moment he couldn't remember
where he was, or what had happened. And then it
came back to him.
He was in the root cellar. Miss Edna had tried
to kill him.
He lay still, listening, but there was nothing to be heard
except the creaking sounds of the toolshed as the wind
battered at it.
Eddie shifted on the cellar floor, then decided
that except for the pain in his head, he wasn't hurt.
He groped around and found the ladder, then slowly be-
gan climbing it. Feeling his way up, he touched the
trapdoor and pushed.
It gave way.
It was night, and Eddie wondered how long he'd
been in the root cellar. Then, over the wind, he
heard another sound.
A siren.
They were looking for him. His grandmother had missed him,
and now the marshal was looking for him. He went to the
toolshed door and pushed it open.
A few yards away, the Amber house blazed with
light. Eddie slid around the corner of the
shed into the shadows. He could still hear the siren, but it
seemed to be going away from him. He looked up the
hill, and far away he could see lights, the moving
lights of a car as it ground up the road toward the
mine. They were looking for him there.
Glancing back toward the house once more, Eddie
began running across the fields, his eyes fixed on
the taillights ahead of him.
Edna Amber moved carefully through the darkness, using
her cane and her daughter's voice to guide her.
It seemed to float out of the darkness, strangled and
low, crying one word over and over again.
"Mama . . . Mama . . .mama . . ."
"I'm coming," Edna muttered. "I'm coming . . ."
Only inches from the edge of the main shaft, Diana
had sunk to the floor of the mine, her knees drawn
up against her chest, her thumb in her mouth. She was
rocking herself gently when the tip of Edna's cane
suddenly touched her. She jerked her thumb from her
mouth.
"Mama? I'm a bad little girl, Mama."
"I know," Edna said, her voice quiet and calm.
"You're a very bad little girl."
Diana nodded in the darkness.
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John Saul
When the Wind Blows

"I killed my baby, Mama. I'm a bad
girl, and I killed my baby."
Edna sighed and moved closer to Diana, then prodded
her with her cane. Diana didn't resist; instead
she only huddled further into herself and whimpered.
*Tou have to get up, Diana," Edna said.
Diana didn't move.
"Diana, I'm your mother, and you must do as I say.
Get up!"
Diana got unsteadily to her feet. Her hair
had come loose, and she instinctively brushed it
away from her face, though there was no one to see her.
"Are you going to punish me, Mama?"
"Yes," Edna said sadly, "I'm going to punish
you. You were a bad girl, and Mama has to punish
you."
"All right, Mama," Diana said. She stood still
as Edna raised her cane and groped in the darkness
until its tip came to rest against Diana's
breast.
A moment later, with Diana offering no
resistance, Edna shoved hard on the cane.
Diana staggered slightly, then fell backward
into the mine shaft.
Edna stood still, her cane still hovering in the air, and
listened as Diana, falling through the darkness, cried out
to her once more.
"Maaaaa-maaaaaa . . ."
And then, as Edna waited in the darkness, the lights in
the mine came on. Edna blinked in the sudden
brightness, then turned and began walking back toward the
mine entrance.
Juan threw the power switch and stared into the mine.
He saw Christie Lyons lying in the dirt
twenty yards away, and beyond her, Miss Edna
walking toward him.
He stood still, watching her, as she approached him.
She pointed to the roll of wire.
"Help me," she said.
Juan looked curiously at the old woman. Was
she here for the same reason his mother had brought him here?
She must be-she was trying to do something with the wire. He
went to her and picked up the roll.
"Bring it here," Edna told him. She began
walking deeper into the mine, and as he followed her
Juan carefully wound the wire back
onto the roll. Soon they were at the elevator, and
as Edna directed him, he set the roll of wire
into the cage. But when he started to get in, Edna
stopped him.
"Go away," she said. "Go away now and leave me
alone."
Juan hesitated. His mother had told him to save the
children. Then he remembered Christie Lyons. That
must have been what she meant.
He went back toward the entrance and stooped to pick
up Christie's body. Holding her gently in his
arms, he carried her out of the mine.
When Juan was gone, Edna Amber made her way
slowly back to the equipment box, opened it, and found
a pair of wire cutters, which she slipped into the
bodice of her dress. Then she picked up the
blasting machine.
Her bones aching, and her muscles weary, she
dragged herself back toward the elevator.
Dan saw the faint glow of light ahead and pressed
the accelerator. The Chrysler leaped forward,
spitting gravel from its rear wheels.
In front of the mine, Esperanza Rodriguez
stood with her son, who was holding Christie Lyons
in his arms. Esperanza looked at him
uncomprehendingly.
Dan glanced around and saw the old Cadillac
parked near the cabin. His face grim, he started
into
the mine.
Bill Henry took Christie from Juan's arms and
started toward the cabin, with Juan trailing after him.
"What happened to her?" he asked.
bar -i i tilde i
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John Saul
When the Wind Blows

"I saved her," Juan said proudly. "She was in
the mine, and I saved her, just like Mama told me
to." He unlocked the cabin door and opened it for
Bill, then looked uncertainly at Christie.
"Didn't I save her?" he asked.
"I don't know," Bill said quietly. "We'll
see." Gently he lowered Christie onto
Esperanza's bed.
Dan Gurley paused just inside the entrance to the
mine.
"Miss Edna?" he called. "Diana?"
He listened for an answer, but all he could
hear was a low, whining sound. He stood very still for a
moment, his imagination hearing the mine's long-silent
machinery groaning into life. Then he realized that it
was no ghostly echo he'd heard but the clanking of the
elevator.
He reached over and threw the main switch. The
lights blinked out, and the whining of the elevator faded
into silence. He picked up a miner's helmet,
switched on its light, and started into the darkness.
When he came to the edge of the shaft, he looked
down. Thirty yards below him he could see the
elevator cage, and inside it, Edna Amber.
"Miss Edna? It's Dan Gurley."
"Go away, Daniel."
"Miss Edna? What are you doing?"
There was a silence, and when Edna spoke again, her
voice floated up quietly, as if she were very
tired.
"It doesn't concern you, Daniel. None of it
concerns you. Just leave me alone."
"Where's Diana?"
There was another long silence, and Dan was afraid the
old woman wasn't going to answer him. Then she
looked up at him, and in the eerie glow of his miner's
lamp he could see her smiling.
"She's gone away, Daniel," she said, her
voice echoing. "I've sent her away."
The old woman got slowly to her feet, and for the first
time Dan could see what she was doing.
At her feet was the blasting machine. Wires leading
away to the depths of the mine were attached to its
terminals.
"Jesus," Dan said softly to himself. "Miss
Edna . . . ?"
"Go away, Daniel," the old woman said again.
"Please."
She leaned down and grasped the plunger of the blasting
machine with both hands.
As she began putting her weight on it, Dan
Gurley turned and fled.
Eddie Whitefawn felt the first rumblings of the
explosion as he reached the top of the slag heap. He
saw Esperanza Rodriguez standing in front of the
mine entrance and called to her, but she seemed not to hear
him.
And then he saw the marshal charging out of the mine.
"Run!" Dan bellowed. Eddie froze for a
moment, then started scrambling back down the tailing,
Dan Gurley at his heels.
The earth shook beneath their feet, and the
explosion burst from the mine entrance, belching black
filth mixed with fire and the acrid fumes of
dynamite.
Esperanza Rodriguez did not move from where she
As the force of the explosion moved toward her, and the
ground quivered beneath her feet, she began praying
softly for the souls of the lost children.
As the entrance of the mine crumbled in front of her, a
boulder came loose and rolled toward her. Even
if she had tried, she would not have been able to get out of
its way.
r-i i-i
John Said
In the cabin, Bill Henry heard Dan Gurley
scream, and felt the explosion. He decided it would
be safer to stay where he was.
Christie Lyons, her chest heaving, was beginning
to wake up. Her eyes fluttered open, and she
looked up at Bill.
"Mama?" she whispered. "Where's my mama?"
"It's all right," Bill whispered to her.
"Everything's going to be all right."
But as rocks and debris from the mine rained down on
the roof of the cabin, and Christie-fear etched deeply
into her face-began to cry, Bill wondered
if anything would ever be right for her again.
Only when the last echoes of the explosion had faded
away, and silence hung over the night, did he
pick Christie up and carry her outside.
By dawn, all the people of Amberton had gathered at the
mine. They stayed there long into the morning, clustered in
small groups, murmuring among themselves. Over and
over again Eddie Whitefawn told what had
happened to him, and over and over again Bill Henry
tried to explain Diana Amber's strange
sickness. The townspeople put the story together as
best they could, but in the end they could only agree on
one thing.
Everything had begun and ended with the mine, and now the mine
was gone.
And the Ambers, who had started everything so many years
ago, were gone, too.
At last there would be an end to tragedy, and the people of
Amberton could put their fears away.
Epilogue
n

Christie Lyons was twenty-nine when she came
back to Amberton.
As she drove into town she realized that little
had changed. It was as neat and tidy as ever, frozen
in time like a tintype from the past. Penrose's Dry
Goods, its sign freshly painted, was still open for
business, and Christie thought she recognized Steve
Penrose's father leaning against the door, chatting with a
woman whom she was almost sure was Susan
Gillespie's mother.
The people, like the town, had an eternal quality to them.
They looked not much different from the way they had
looked twenty years ago. It was as if Amberton
were a play, and as the set remained the same, so also
did the cast.
In a way, Christie was glad the place still looked
familiar, but in another way, it saddened her. It
brought back those strange weeks twenty years before,
when her life had suddenly come apart at the seams.
She hadn't realized it then, of course, but now she
knew that what had happened to her then had damaged her
permanently, and that the scars engraved on her
personality would never heal.
That was why she had returned to Amberton-to try
to erase those scars.
She smiled at the little girl who sat beside her.
"What do you think of it?" she asked.
Her daughter, whom she had named Carole,
for Christie's own mother, looked around without interest.
caret want to go back to Los Angeles," she
said, her voice sullen.
In some ways, Christie shared her daughter's
feelings. She had liked Los Angeles, liked
the bigness of it, and the way no one there ever noticed
her. But as Carole began to grow up, and Christie
began to think about what might happen to her in the
schools, she had come to a decision.
Christie wanted her little girl to grow up normally.
She didn't want to come home one day and find
Carole staring blankly at the television screen,
her eyes glazed over from an afternoon of pills and
grass.
It had happened to a friend of hers only a month
ago, and it had frightened Christie.
She had known since Carole was born that one day she
would leave Los Angeles and come back
to Amberton. But when Carole was a baby, there would
have been too many questions and not enough money.
Now there would be no reason for anyone to question her story
of a divorce-no one need ever know that she had never
married Carole's father at all.
Now there was enough money, and she wouldn't have to worry about
finding a job as well as taking care of the
ranch. She had saved scrupulously, and she had enough
to get by for a year. By then the mine, leased out to one of the
oil companies, would be producing again.
The ranch, left to her by Edna Amber, had been
held in trust for her, the taxes paid by leasing the
grazing rights to the land. When she was twenty-one, it had
been turned over to her, and she had continued leasing it,
but always, in the back of her mind, she had believed that
one day she would come back.
Today was that day.
She passed Bill Henry's office but didn't
stop. She was in a hurry to get out to the ranch,
to see the house
i
John Saul
When the Wind Blows

in which she had lived for only a few weeks, but which
held so many memories for her.
Painful memories that she knew she had to confront.
She left the town behind and drove along the bumpy
road that led to the Amber ranch.
No, she said to herself. The Lyons ranch. The
Ambers are gone, and it's mine now.
"Is that our house?" Carole said,
interrupting her thoughts.
The house stood bleakly against the hills, its paint
long ago scrubbed away by wind and rain. Christie
had a sudden urge to turn the car around and drive
away, but she knew she couldn't run away
anymore.
She parked in the driveway and, taking Carole by the
hand, led her up the steps to die front door. She
fished in her purse and found the key that had been sent
to her by the last tenant, who had moved out a month
ago.
The house smelled musty, and as her daughter looked
around curiously, Christie hurried to open the
windows. She wished, fleetingly, that the wind would
blow and flush the stale air from the house.
She put the thought from her mind.
Ever since she was a child, she had had trouble with wind-it
brought nightmares, and when the Santa Ana blew in
Los Angeles, she would often find herself waking up
at night, crying softly and sucking her thumb.
She knew it was connected to what had happened here when
she was only nine, and she knew that when the wind roared
down out of the mountains, she was going to have bad
spells-spells when she wouldn't remember
exactly what had happened.
That, too, was one of the things she was going to have to face.
The doctors had told her so-indeed, they had urged
her to come back to Amberton years ago to come
to grips with the things that had been
erased from her memory. Only when she understood
exactly what had happened, they said, would she be
all right.
She wandered through the house.
Nothing much had changed-the furniture, more threadbare
than ever, seemed on the verge of collapse, and
everywhere Christie looked Miss Edna's presence
seemed to loom. It was strange-there was nothing that
reminded Christie of Diana; nothing at all. It
was as if it were Miss Edna's house, and Diana,
though she had lived there all her life, had left
no mark.
Christie heard feet pounding down the stairs, and then
Carole appeared.
"Mommy, there's a room in the attic, and if s
nailed shut. What is it?"
Following her daughter to the third floor, Christie
had a feeling of foreboding.
She stopped at the door to the nursery and stared at the
nail heads embedded in its surface.
"The nursery," she whispered. "What on
earth-7*
"Let's open it, Mommy!"
Christie found a hammer in the pantry, then went
back upstairs and began prying the nails loose.
They resisted her efforts, screeching as she pulled
them out, but eventually all of them gave way.
She opened the door.
Except for the rocking chair, the cradle, and a crib
standing in one corner, the room was empty. The
wallpaper had finally fallen away. Cobwebs
dangled in the corners, and dust coated the floor.
"You lived here?" Carole asked, her blue eyes
like saucers.
"For a few weeks," Christie replied, her mind
reeling.
Here, in this room, she was finding Diana.
She could feel Diana's presence, almost hear her
voice, calling to her, reaching out to her.
n
John Saul
When the Wind Blows

"Let's go downstairs," she said. "I don't like
this room. I never did."
She hurried out of the nursery and went down
to the kitchen. She found some coffee in the pantry and
made a pot.
A few minutes later Carole joined her, carrying
a box.
"I found this in one of the closets," she said.
Inside the box was a pile of album pages,
torn to shreds. As she pieced them together Christie
recognized her mother, then her father.
"They're mine," she said, her voice filled with
wonder. "After all these years. Look, honey, these
are your grandmother and grandfather."
Carole looked curiously at the pictures.
"What happened to them?" she asked.
"They died," Christie told her. "When I was a
little girl, they died."
"Were they sick?"
"My mother was," Christie said. "And after that, Father
died in the mine."
At mention of the mine Carole's eyes lit up.
"Can we go up there?" she asked.
"I suppose so," Christie told her. "There's
not much to see, though."
Carole frowned. "Why did Mrs. Amber blow it
up?"
"She was an old woman, and she had
funny ideas. She thought the mine was evil."
"How can a mine be evil?" Carole wanted to know.
"It's only a hole in the ground, isn't it?"
Christie took a deep breath and wondered how
to explain what had happened up there. Even she still
wasn't sure.
"Of course it is," she said. "It's just a hole,
and we're going to dig it out again."
"Are we going to be rich?"
Christie laughed and hugged her daughter. "WelLike
if
it all works out, we're not going to starve. But I
don't know if we're going to be rich."
There was a knock at the back door, and a young man
with black hair and brooding brown eyes stuck his
head in. He smiled tentatively, then more
broadly. "Christie! It's really you, isn't
it?"
"Eddie? Eddie Whitefawn?" Christie stood
up and ran to Eddie, throwing her arms around him.
Eddie hugged her, then winked at Carole. "Hi!
I used to know your mother when we were just about your age."
Christie felt a rush of pleasure at seeing
Eddie. Though they hadn't been good friends, the two of
them had survived that last night at the
mine.
"What are you doing out here?" she asked.
"I'm going to work on the mine," he said. "I've
got a degree in mining engineering."
"Just like my father," Christie said. For some reason she
suddenly felt uneasy, but didn't know why. She
picked up one of the pictures and offered it to Eddie.
"Do you remember him?" she asked.
Eddie nodded.
"Mr. Crowley always thought a lot of him. Said he
was the best mine man he ever worked with. In fact, he
could never understand what happened to your father."
Christie's eyes clouded over, and Eddie wondered
if he shouldn't have mentioned it. He glanced at his
watch, then up toward the mountains. "Look, why
don't we have dinner tonight? Catch up on things,
okay? I've gotta get up to the mine and do a
couple of things, and it looks like the wind's going
to blow."
"Don't you work when it's windy?" Carole asked.
She'd never heard of such a thing-in Los
Angeles everybody ignored the wind.
Eddie looked at the little girl, and the smile faded
from his lips.
ri i-i ri
John Saul
"Not if I can help it," he said. "I guess
I'm still a believer in my Indian superstitions."
"About what?" Though Carole asked the question,
Christie, too, listened to the answer.
The children," Eddie said. "When the wind blows, you can
hear the children up there. They're crying."
That night, as Christie lay in Edna Amber's
bed, trying to fall asleep, she listened to the wind.
It was howling tonight, battering at the old house, and she
could feel the house tremble under its fury.
And mixed with the wind she thought she heard something else.
A child, crying for its mother.
She got out of bed and went across the hall
to Diana's room, where Carole was sleeping.
But Carole wasn't sleeping.
She was curled up, her knees against her chest, her
thumb in her mouth. She was crying softly. When
Christie knelt beside her, the child looked at her, her
eyes wide with fear.
"It's all right, baby," Christie whispered.
"Mommy's here. Mommy will always be here."
But in her heart she was terrified, for she remembered
what Eddie had told her over dinner that evening.
"It's not just the sound of them crying," he had
said. "Ever since we were little, something's been happening
in Amberton. It started right after you went away."
"What?" Christie had asked. Eddie had been
silent for a moment, but then his eyes met hers.
"Our babies die," he had said softly. "When the
wind blows, all our babies die."
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JOHN SAUL'S first novel of psychological
and supernatural suspense, Suffer the Children,
became an
immediate phenomenon in 1977, leaping onto
national bestseller lists and selling more than one
million copies. Each year since has seen the
publication
of a new bestselling novel of horror-among them
The God Project, Nathaniel, Brainchild,
Hellfire, The Unwanted, The Unloved,
Creature, and his latest,
Second Ch. Mr. Saul lives in
Seattle, Washington, where he is at work on his
next novel.
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IWHMMTHF
I THE CHILDREN WILL CRY...
I The children were waiting. Waiting for centuries.
Waiting for
I someone to hear their cries.
I Now nine-year-old Christie Lyons has come
to live in the house on
I the hill-the house where no children have lived for fifty
years.
I Now little Christie will sleep in the
old-fashioned nursery
I on the third floor. Hisby 'caret HH-JUST
behristie;
His
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JIB HI
I THE CHILDREN MUSTDIE
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