The Boy Who Tamed The Wind

Shortlisted, Cheshire Prize for Literature (stories and poems for children)

I was born in late September as the leaves were falling. When my mother and father took me home, the days were darkening and the nights were getting colder. Not even the arrival of a baby stopped life on the farm from moving on; there were jobs to be done. And so it was a few weeks before they even found time to give me a name. Then they called me Damian. My name means “tamer”.

I don’t know why they chose that name. It was if they knew what was to come – what time would bring to pass. I believe God gave them my name. Nothing else could explain it.

I was raised in much the same way as the rest of the livestock on the farm. I was fed and watered, kept warm at night and tended to when I was ill, but beyond that I just had to fit in, play my part and not complain. There was little time for bike rides, games of football or holidays at the beach. The time we spent together as a family was while we worked – with one exception. Every night my father put me to bed. The routine was always the same: he read a story to me, said a prayer and tucked me in. I loved that time of day best. I learnt things about my father then, just from the little comments he made, the looks on his face and the tone of his voice.

One night will stay in my memory, because my father seemed unusually sad. He said he didn’t have time to read me a story; he needed to do some sums. I asked why. His brow furrowed and his eyes watered as he spoke. “The wind has been blowing hard lately,” he said. “It’s flattened one of the fields of corn. There’s no way we can sell it now.” I was upset to see my father so unhappy, and that night, after my father had gone, I prayed myself. I asked God to stop the wind blowing.

The next day I decided to help God answer my prayer …