The swirling dark eddies of the stream must have been some form of invitation to the padding of the child’s feet. There was a rustle followed by a splash while the house with its dim lights slept. That is all I want to say about that, for some acts are not a matter of pride.

Once, I noticed a basket with two small white eggs, early vestiges of spring. Then I saw a dove sitting on those eggs the next day. A wind swept through and swiped mother and hatched fledglings off their surface, smashing them on the ground. Such is the way of the whirlwind sometimes; it is unexpected and seems to move by its own purpose. People often call me the bad guy, but I am not sure that is treating the narrative properly.

The child with padding feet belonged to Joe Bell, the premier attorney in the county. I should know, for I have been scoping this area out for centuries. Joe Bell put the upright in upright citizen and was the guest speaker for many prayerful occasions. Such meetings always make my skin crawl.

You could practically smell the goodness on Joe, like a bar of soap wrapped in a lamb’s wool. His was the son of Robert and Ida Bell, progenitors of the home place, grand town ancestors, and quite upright themselves. They raised Joe on the golden-lined red letter Sunday readings, singing hymns, and sucking the milk of tradition. It was as if the man was infused with this glorious kind of unearthly goodness.

I recollect the feeling of clouds, the sensation of a light other than the sun, and a speedy descent. Such is life. I suppose that is why people like Joe piss me off so badly. They seem to have the favor I never really found. Of course, it could be said that I brought this on myself. There was a war raging in the heavens, and I did picture a new bruised heaven and a decimated earth. I still work for that goal.

Gradually, I hatched a plan to swipe Joe Bell and his family from their perch. I would be their whirlwind.

First, a house fell on his nieces. My tools were good for latching and unlatching. Then, there was the matter of the herd. I started a fire with some lightening nearby and drove the whole of them into the swiping water of the sea. It swallowed them entirely. As a crescendo, there was the lamentable incident with the youngest Bell. It was an unblinking low moment in my career. Joe Bell’s wife had all she could take, working through her grief like a steam shovel, and went running out the door to her mother’s house. That was the last anyone saw of her.

I did a little reconnaissance and found that none of this seemed to make Joe’s goodness waver. I saw him two days later, delivering a brief message about loss. The piety in his countenance almost made me throw up. It was as if the small sprout was growing wings in front of me. How the townspeople crowed over it, gobbling his tear-stained words. Something told me that even if they had thrown rotten beefsteak tomatoes at him, Joe Bell would have preached on. He worked his life out that way and seemed to have every blessing even in the absence of life’s treasures.

It struck me that perhaps if I attacked him bodily, the harm might bring my desired result. I gradually introduced some poison to poor Joe, forcing boils to appear on his skin. All of these actions came with permission, of course, checked and balanced with the highest authorities – that part should be noted. With each new wave of attack, I had to make requests, stamping documents and presenting the details at court. Each request was approved with passive silence. I am not the only criminal around here.

I hid in shadows and watched while various townspeople came by and urged Joe to seek some nonexistent sin in his life. He scratched his boils and gave the interrogators theological answers. It did not matter if they were religious leaders or bankers; Joe’s thoughts were firmly rooted. They gave him grand designs and proofs from ancient texts, they quoted their best-known songs and poems of expression, but Joe continued in his steadfast way, correcting them at each turn with the swift knife-like wit of a wise rabbi. I had to give it to guy – he knew his footing.

Over and again, I eavesdropped on these conversations. I had taken his possessions, physiognomy, and now used others to attack his philosophy. Furiously, I racked my brain for the next order of attack. Eventually, I had to leave. The whirlwind was picking up and my skin does not handle the weather so well sometimes. The light is now uncomfortable for me, not to mention the booming voice. The old man can make quite a show when he wants.

I did not see Joe Bell until a few months later. He had a new wife and they were expecting. The old crashed-in barn had been raised again, and even his relatives were replenishing their coffers. Animals strayed back to him, baptized by the sea and rising with a new gleam in their eye. Joe’s smile told me he was happy with his circumstances, but the nervous look in his eye was unmistakable. Each flash of a storm brought great spasms in his belly.

I thought for a moment that he caught my image, twisted serpentine on a branch over his head, but I made sure that when he double-checked I was gone. Time had run out with this experiment, so I threw on my coat and hat and trampled to the next town. There, a man named Daniel was in need of a deal. I packed my simple wares, put my tools in their respective pouches, and wandered down the winding road dragging my stick and stamping with my cloven hooves.