THE WIND THIEF is the story of a young thief from India who's on his way to a better life in America when he gets lost in the Sahara Desert. He's rescued by a strange young woman who thinks she can talk to the wind, a gift/curse she believes will save the world from an imminent apocalypse. The thief has no choice but to follow, yet when he gets the chance to escape the woman, he realizes he no longer can.
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THE WIND THIEF
This is the story of two souls who are swept from continent to continent, one in search of a home, the other in search of a war, and both ever a step behind the peace they seek.
THE WIND THIEF is a true book club book, I'm actively looking to connect with book clubs. For those that choose my book for discussion, I'll be happy to meet with members online (or in-person, if within the San Francisco Bay Area) to answer questions.
Ajay turned his face to the burning sun, and smiled. Because really, how funny. To escape Algiers only to become lost by way of this desolate road in he Sahara Desert and so meet danger once again. Like running into someone he'd cheated.
But the smile was brief and ephemeral. He'd survived nineteen orphaned years on this rabid earth — nineteen more than anyone could have expected — only to face death now. Well, he wouldn't do it, wouldn't die. Because he had someplace to go. Someplace he was long overdue and had traveled too far from Mumbai to fail to reach.
After a time he stepped off the path and walked toward a boulder. He scanned the surface for scorpions and seeing none, set his canvas bag on the ground and jumped atop the rock. He swung his pack off his back, squatted and took out a green glass bottle. He swallowed two sips and licked his upper lip while staring at the face of a cliff about two hundred meters across the rubbled field, the yellow bleached so pale the rock appeared almost white except for a small black scar in the middle. Ajay stretched his arm out, thumb up, and squinted. From this distance the blemish was about the size of his thumb. He lowered his arm and studied the contrast of black on white. A sheet of bone with a burn at its center. Ajay lowered his head to his hands. Another minute of rest and he'd have to move on. There were two, maybe three hours of sunlight in which to look for water.
When he lifted his eyes again, the scar on the sheer rock face had shifted. Where before the black had been skewed like two crossed sticks, the mark now resembled a crescent moon that even as he watched bloomed into a spidery stretch of limbs creeping downward. Two arms, two legs, a head.