Free Lament for the Fallen by Gavin Chait

to adulthood. It is not seemly,’ she states primly.
    ‘Our problem is that Malpensans will only adopt Malpensan children while Ilihamers will only consider Ilihamers and that we are unable to distinguish between our wards. Given the confusion, no one will adopt anyone.’
    The nuns nod discreetly at this neat description of their predicament; many carefully scratch at clotted lumps of baby food ruining their staunchly plain vestments.
    ‘The governing factor here is that the men of both nations – our fathers-to-be – refuse to bring into their homes the sons and daughters of the men responsible for the deaths of their brothers, fathers and friends.’
    More steadfast agreement and a susurration of scraping chairs as nuns shift knees bruised by constant kneeling to chase after escaped and errant toddlers.
    ‘What we need is a plan. An approach so daring and so ambitious that it cannot possibly fail.’ Her eyes gleam and her steel-grey hair burns in the sunlight streaming on to the dais where she stands.
    And so Maria Stapirova, the 531st mother superior of the Order of the Lady of Divine Light, lays out an audacious plan before her sisters.
    Three months pass. Three months in which winter gives way to the fledgling kindling of spring and the shadows loosen their grasp.
    The holdings of the Order shelter within a wide and deep valley cut by the last ice age through the Neralanova mountain range that divides the kingdoms of Malpensa and Iliham.
    The thick and high stone wall running across the entrance to the valley serves as both fortification and entrance to the neat and densely woven town beyond the gates.
    Every year, as the winter snows up in the mountains warm, as the meltwater hastens down sheer and jagged cliffs, as the Derissa River swells into a torrent, a wind germinates in ever-gathering swirls.
    The sudden gust that explodes out of the valley has, for thousands of years, been counted as the first true day of spring.
    The force of the wind carries the pungent scent of fresh earth, and moss, and green leaves, and early flowers. It sets the heart racing and fills the imaginings with warmth and sunshine.
    It has been named La Cafeyana and Little Sister and The Duke and Mazenova. Each century seems to throw up a new name capturing the spirit of the age.
    This year, after the war, the wind has no name. No matter. It does not mind.
    One bright morning the conditions are perfect and the wind leaps from the channels and gullies where it has been hiding.
    It races down the cliffs of the mountain, gathering the fragrance of ice and dripping water and moss and ferns. As it nears the irrigated farmlands of the Order it collects the scents of freshly turned earth and the newly growing shoots from sprouting seeds. It husbands its strength before tangling with the woods above the Derissa, snatching the taste of blossoming fruit trees as it passes. Down through the spicy textures of cumin and vanilla and liquorice before being blocked beneath the steep rise up to the village of the Lady of Divine Light.
    There it seems to lie spent. But, no, it is only resting. A ploy.
    It roils and boils and twists and spirals, building itself into an explosive force. And then, born laughing and nameless, it erupts out of the valley, carrying its message of life and light.
    As it goes, in a moment of humour and spirit, it snatches up all the laundry that the nuns have laid out early that morning. Caught unawares, the nuns can only watch as a colourful confetti of skirts and shirts and trousers goes parachuting up into the great blue sky.
    Chuckling at the sport, the wind spreads out over the villages and towns of Malpensa and Iliham, and there something extraordinary happens. For the wind, with what can only be devious forethought, drops the nuns’ laundry neatly on to the washing lines of young couples across the two kingdoms. Astute observers note how some of the billowing clothes appear to steer their way into place.
    The wind