Over the open ocean on a bright morning, a puff of white cloud floats happily. Then the temper of the air changes, and when the mists and steams grow a cold thunderhead over the water—when its gray darkening meets with the sun’s many colors under a fluffy white cotton of hope—you have found the home of the four-headed god. From within the massive cloud you hear a conversation, and the house of winds revolves over the waves to choose which scented breath of the season will blow from its open door and come down to greet you.