The Chronicles of Ether Drive 7'

CHAPTER 7 – THE ARCHITECTURE OF CONTROLLED CHAOS

An ordinary day in the House of Winds was never as dull as Mistral claimed, nor as "wow" as Sirocco would say, but it had a bit of everything, as Eolus correctly records.

For instance, on the Tuesday I’m telling you about, Mistral was on the backyard swing doing what he did best—idling away and grumbling every now and then like an expert in... life, parenting, creative writing, women, clever and nosy little girls... an expert in everything. Meanwhile, Eolus was struggling to teach Sirocco how to count to ten.

—Try one more time, you can use your fingers to help! the bookworm mouse urged the ginger kitten. The latter, settled comfortably on a round, fluffy black plush pillow, began to count again, using his index finger:

—O-one, t-two, t-three, f-five...

—Kid, you’re going to drive even this Zen mouse crazy! Mistral muttered, opening only one eye. Are you hungry? Why did you swallow four?

—What is a Zen? Are you Zen, Eolus? Is it a breed or a species?

—Well, there you go! He doesn't even know how to count, but he talks about breeds and species as if he became a biologist after an hour of watching "Animal Planet." You tell him, Eolus; I don't have your patience or the mood to waste my siesta on such puerile things.

Eolus tactfully stroked his whiskers, looking toward the large window of the House of Winds, where the sky had already changed about eight times in the last hour.

—Kid, look outside. See this weather that can't make up its mind? One minute it’s so sunny you’d think summer is coming, two minutes later it’s drizzling like the sky has a sneeze, and after another five minutes, a wind comes along that gives you a broomstick hairstyle, even though you just wanted to count to ten.

Being Zen means being like a rock in the middle of this mess outside:

You don’t argue with the clouds: A mouse who isn’t Zen would get upset: "Oh, it's raining again, my fur is getting wet!" A Zen mouse opens his umbrella (or goes into a library, like me) and says: "What a cool sound the drops make on the roof, it’s like drums at a concert!"

The rainbow in your belly: Even if it’s gray and wet outside, you can have sunshine in your pocket. Zen means not letting the rain outside enter your inner house. If Mistral is like a drizzle nagging at your ankles, you be like a soft wool sweater that doesn’t let the cold through.

The wind that "cleans": See how this wind scares the leaves? Well, bad thoughts are like dry leaves. If you are Zen, you let them all fly past you. Did "four" fly away? Let it go; maybe it left with the wind for other lands, maybe it went on vacation!

So, Sirocco: Being Zen means wearing all the seasons at the same time and not getting mad at any of them. When it rains, you dance; when it’s sunny, you laze around (but not like Mistral, with grumbling, but with a smile!).

—See, Mistral? Eolus shouted toward the swing. Even the sky is more Zen than you. It goes through all states and doesn't complain to anyone about being "jaded"! then, turning with parental gentleness toward Sirocco:

—Come on, with more attention this time!

—O-one, t-two, t-three, f-four, f-five, s-six, s-seven, n-nine, te-ten, e-eleven! Done!

Eolus gave a long sigh, but with a smile that lifted his whiskers all the way to the frame of the glasses—lost this time in the grass, Anemo’s glasses—and looked at Sirocco’s paws, which now looked as if they were making light signals for airplanes.

—Kid, I see your math is like the weather outside: one moment we have sun with eleven rays, the next a cloud comes and we’re left with nine! But listen here, because this is the essence of Zen in the "House of Winds" version. Pay attention, kid, because now we’re entering the Zen of the wandering fingers! We agreed we’re only counting the front paws, right? Well, here’s how it is:

When you end up with eleven fingers on just two paws, it means you’re so full of energy that your enthusiasm manufactured a spare finger, just "to be there"! Zen means not being scared that math has run off through the yard. A mouse who isn’t Zen would have put his head in his hands, but me? I’m happy that you’re... extra! It’s like having a serving of pudding and, bam!, another spoonful of whipped cream appears out of nowhere. When you forgot eight, he probably rolled onto his side and decided to take a nap, since this weather outside invites sleep anyway. Zen is letting eight sleep peacefully. Don't wake him with shouts! The world doesn’t fall apart if eight is having a siesta; we simply move on to nine with a smile.

Sirocco took a deep breath and began again bravely:

—O-one, t-two, t-three, f-four, f-five, s-six, s-seven, eee-eight, ni-nine... Done!

Eolus wiped a small tear from the corner of his eye:

—Oh, these spring allergies are killing me! Not to mention that Mr. Mistral forgot about the coffee bean he promised me, little one. When you counted only nine because you forgot the very finger you were pointing with... ooh, that’s high-level Zen! It’s like looking for the remote while you’re holding it in your hand. It means you’re so focused on the road that you forgot about the "car" taking you there. You are one with the counting, Sirocco! Let’s go one more time!

—O-one, t-two, t-three...

While the furry ones are busy with their school, a few steps away at the wrought-iron table, a certain girl with a top-knot, her knees on the chair and half-perched on the table to be closer to Anemo, seemed to be having a work meeting with him. The situation was somewhat comical because the adult-child roles seemed to have switched. Fleur had adopted the air of an indulgent grandmother hearing about her grandson’s mischief straight from his mouth. She was taking notes, making sketches, maps... things that smart top-knotted girls are very good at.

—So, Mr. Anemo, she said without looking up, you really stood in front of Mrs. Daisy with that shoe that went "Splat!"? And she thought it was an... experiment?

—A literary experiment, Fleur! Anemo muttered, covering his face with his palms. I was a walking disaster. One foot in a white sneaker, the other in a wet plush slipper with its tongue sticking out. And Daisy was waving that yellow glove like she was directing traffic toward my madness.

Fleur snickered, coloring the slipper’s tongue a bright pink.

—Let me, uh, let me understand, you were running after inspiration, shadow thieves, and pipe dreams living in a neighborhood like this? Let's be serious, who could steal a shadow like Mrs. Queen's or Mrs. Aura's, your mother's? Better write about how life is stranger than fiction-ing...

—Fiction, Anemo corrected her, slightly amused but looking unusually normal for a man who usually had his head in the clouds.

—You're right!

—Write! Start with the pendulum that goes "Scrape-clonk." Write about how Mrs. Aura Gale walked in on you like a female version of Argus, while you were trying to hide your foot under the sofa. Write about that purple letter for Remi Storm, which Mistral saved from Sirocco’s claws!

Anemo began to type with furious speed. He was no longer the stiff writer hunting for rare metaphors. He was the man who had lived "the weight of fear" in a house slipper. He described everything: the crumpled envelope with the invitation for Remi, the barking of the perfumed Cocker Spaniel, his mother’s eagle-eyed gaze, and the feeling of exile in his own home.

—Done, Fleur! "The Chronicles of Ether Drive" Chapter...

The cell phone on the table—well hidden by a multitude of sketches, crumpled balls of paper, the ever-present coffee mug, and Fleur's colored pencils—buzzed with the harshness of a seismic warning, cutting through the garden’s silence. Anemo frantically searched for the source of the ringing in the chaos on the table and finally answered, already feeling the granite coldness of Archibald Peter Stone's voice—the man who always managed to bring him back down to earth.

—Anemo! I hope the noise I hear is that of keys, not the wind blowing through your empty pockets, Stone thundered without any introduction. Tomorrow is Wednesday. If I don’t have proof in my email by tonight that your shadow thief is something more than a sketch, we’re through! What you’ve sent me so far is, it's a giant stutter, Gale; you’d have been better off sticking to your love poems or the philosophical ones. And if you’re interested, the medical examiner calls the heart "cord"!Did you get it?!"

Despite the thundering voice pelting him with reproaches, Anemo replied with a Zen that would have been the perfect illustration for Aeolus’s lesson.

“I’m working on something... new, Archi...Stone! A change of direction. Sending it right now!” He finished, hitting "enter" on his battered laptop, where the little girl had stuck a heart-shaped sticker. His heart was beating like a galloping pendulum, but the smile on his face was worth a million, and so was his secret "editor."

“Who was it? Mr. Stone, the one with the grounding?”

“He wants substance, Fleur. He says my shadows are just dust. You know, Fleur... I think I’ve just stopped writing about clouds and started writing about the earth.”