“She picked him up and carried him South, to an island where the trees bent to make a leafy bower for their wedding bed. There, the daughter of the Western Wind and the son of the Psylli made love, and the young man gloried in her, watching her inhale and exhale gently, her skin smooth and warm, her long hair wrapping around him. The young man asked his bride about her family, and she told him that she did not wish to share him. It was her nature to travel over sea and land, and she could not be still for long. If she stayed in his arms, the oceans would go still, and the bees would cease drinking from the flowers. If she stayed in his arms, the storms would stop filling the rivers, and the snow would stay in the sky. She told him that she would have to leave him soon, or risk the wrath of her father.”

Augustus had fallen into sleep at last, his dreams dark and twisting, as ever they were, his hands clenching invisible weapons and his mouth forming inaudible words. Around him, the world exploded and showered down upon itself, shining and searing. Inside him, the world ended, again and again.

“The young man did not wish to let his wife leave his side. He tied himself to her body as she slept, and he was thus entwined with her when her father appeared, a roaring rush of fury, tearing the palm trees from the sand, and sending tremendous waves crashing over the shore. Those who lived on the island ran out from their homes and over the beach, but the Western Wind was merciless. He lifted his daughter up from where she lay sleeping and soared into the sky with her. As he flew, waves shook themselves up from the oceans and broke over the land, destroying everything in their paths. Entire forests were uprooted and flew into the clouds, landing in the heavens, where eventually they settled and became shelter for the stars. The young man clung to his bride as she warred against her father, screaming at him and beating him with her fists. Three mountain ranges turned to plains. Seven rivers turned to rain. A shooting star found itself blown off course and into the fingers of a child, where it became a shining plaything.

“At last, the father landed on the sands of Libya, where the young man’s tribe was camped. He swept their camels into the air, and threw their tents from end to end of the desert. He strew their possessions across the mountains and tossed their serpents into the sky. Later, they would rain down, poisonous, mysterious, and full of rage, onto the heads of a neighboring tribe.

“The Western Wind turned his wrath onto the wells of the Psylli, and directed his hot breath into them until they were dry. The young man’s tribe was left without water, and they spoke angrily to their wayward son. He knew he’d hurt his people by falling in love with the Western Wind’s daughter, but this did not stop him from loving her.”