Grindle had been working as a weather wizard in Sparkbog for almost a year when the mudgullet took up residence on her letterbox. She’d ignored the issue for some time, but today, the red flag was up.
Rolling up her sleeve, she reached for the box as slowly as possible, stretching over the pond that had formed around it. The mudgullet opened its beak in a throaty hiss, drawing back its head in warning. She would have to move quickly and hope she was faster than the bird when it struck at pond fish.
She turned as if to walk away, paused, then spun around. She didn’t quite catch her balance, and her foot planted in the vernal pool. In one awkward motion,she yanked the thin handle on the box and withdrew the letter, earning a peck from the mudgullet.
The letter was from the mayor, informing Grindle that her job was ending. She was stunned. She hadn’t wanted this position in the first place, but Sparkbog couldn’t afford a real weather wizard and there simply had been nobody else. So Grindle had done her best to keep this soggy hamlet from being battered by storms.
But now she was to be let go? She should be glad to leave the Weather Tower. But instead, her pride filled her with a twisted sense of stubbornness and indignation. The way the mayor was treating her—as if this was Grindle’s fault!
Grindle observed the clouds of yet another thunderstorm forming overhead and put the letter aside for now. Maybe, if she could prove her worth in the month before the full year was up, she could keep her job. True, she lacked formal training as a weather wizard. Yes, she was making it up as she went along, combining traditional magic with trial and error. And yes, some of her attempts had made the issues worse, but she wasn’t the cause of it all. She stormed up the tower stairs.
Atop the Weather Tower’s observation deck, Grindle breathed in the electrically-charged air. The storms were unfairly redirected this way by the other cities’ weather manipulations. The floods, the ruined crops, the town’s shrinking population—all blamed on her, when they should be pointing the finger at the weather wizards of Kami-Nihkia and Tavlyn. She needed to focus. She breathed out slowly and raised her hands towards the sky.
“Dancing One,” she whispered, “Threader of the Winds, turn aside these storm clouds from this weary place.” She opened herself to the elemental goddess of the air, feeling the pull of currents shift around her as she activated the spells to balance the elements.
They’re casting me out. The thought came, unbidden. After all I’ve done, standing in the rain, in the wind, in the cold. The air trembled around her. A flash of lightning split the sky, and before Grindle could still her thoughts, the clouds shattered, freeing the fire trapped within.
A tongue of lightning arced across the sky and licked the Weather Tower in a blinding flash. The windmill, jutting out from the top of the Weather Tower like an awkward stovepipe, took the full force of the charge, exploding in a shower of sparks and splintering wood. One of the great wooden vanes shattered clean off, spinning away.
A split second later, the sound cracked like a whip. Grindle jumped, her heart hammering. She’d meant to turn the storm aside, not ignite it! Now the Weather Tower was damaged and she’d lose her job for sure! This was worse than the time she accidentally made it rain indoors, or that freak hailstorm last market day. She bolted to the nearest quenchorb, preparing to put out the inevitable fire.
But there wasn’t a fire. Instead, there was a strange sound—a deep hum vibrating through the stones beneath her feet. The remaining vanes of the windmill groaned, twitched, and began to move again. Not with the wind, but with something deep within the tower. Something inside had caught the lightning’s power.
Once, the tower had been designed to harness the wind, channeling its energy through intricate gears, valves, and pumps meant to keep Sparkbog’s floods at bay. But the fickle winds had never been adequate for this vision.
Now, as the tower stirred to life, an idea sparked in Grindle’s mind. But she needed help to realize it.
The next morning, chimes from the weather sensors jolted Grindle awake. Drawings and notes lay scattered around her where she’d fallen asleep at the foretelling station. Silver threads swirled alarmingly within the weather scrying globes and barometric dials ticked rapidly, predicting more trouble by the week’s end! She threw on her damp coat and ran out into the rain.
The blacksmith’s workshop was filled with the scent of burning coal and the sound of ringing steel. The workbenches contained not just the typical tools, knives and household items, but strange contraptions. Sparkbog’s most valuable resource was the ancient artifacts preserved by the bog, but excavating them was difficult—impossible during floods.
“Can I help you?” Hestaphine looked up from the sheet of metal she was hammering.
“More storms are coming—big ones,” said Grindle. “If we don’t do something, Sparkbog’s going to be underwater when the week is out. I have a plan to harness the storm’s energy, but I’ll need your help.” She pushed a sheaf of papers towards Hestaphine.
The blacksmith wiped her hands on her apron and glanced over the drawings. “It won’t work,” she said. “Not in a week. Unless you’re a time wizard?”
“I already begged the weather wizards of Tavlyn and Kami-Nihkia. They won’t help. There’s no other way,” said Grindle, her tone pleading.
Hestaphine resumed her hammering, a thoughtful expression on her weathered face as she worked.
Just then, the mayor appeared in the shop. His fine shoes were muddy, his coat was dripping—and above his frilly collar that was becoming unstarched, his expression was pinched with disapproval. Grindle snatched up the drawings, but it was too late.
“What’s this?” he demanded. “Plans to alter the Weather Tower? Sparkbog’s historical landmark? I forbid it! And may I remind you, your employment ends soon.”
Grindle headed back to the Weather Tower, hanging her head in defeat. The mayor’s words echoed in her mind. I forbid it. If only such a declaration could stop the coming storm.
The mudgullet was still perched on the letterbox. It opened one yellow eye, in what seemed to Grindle like a pitying look, before shaking its head.
Grindle leaned against the tower’s door, watching the rain drip from the eaves. What was she supposed to do now? Watch the town flood again?
She wasn’t sure how long she’d been standing there when a voice cut through the rain.
“Well? Let’s do this.” It was Hestaphine, holding her toolbox.
Grindle smiled. After all, what’s the worst that could happen? The mayor couldn’t fire her twice.
For nearly a week, Grindle and Hestaphine worked tirelessly, hauling metal rods, reactivating ancient runes, and assembling a network of lightning rods and magical conduits. Rumor was that, informed of the coming megastorm, the mayor suddenly had to visit his sister in another town.
By the sixth day, the first peals of thunder rolled across the sky. Lightning flickered in the distance. It was here. From the top of the Weather Tower, Grindle felt the storm’s pressure in her chest. The network of rods on the rooftop hummed in anticipation. She pressed her hands to the stone walls, feeling the magic ripple through the tower.
A few heavy drops began to fall, darkening the balcony outside, then the rain began to lash sideways. The timing between the lightning and thunder shrank until the storm was directly over Sparkbog.
Lightning struck, but instead of hitting the town, it skewed west and hit a rod on the Weather Tower. Sparks erupted, but this time the energy raced down the conduits. A pump rumbled and roared to life, then another. The floodwaters below began to churn, swirling as the great pumps heaved to action, forcing water uphill through thick iron pipes that snaked toward the high ridge beyond the town.
But the storm wasn’t done yet.
(To be continued in Part II…)