Whirlwind

The steady leak from the roof hit the dirt floor with a dull thud. Only the scurrying mice heard. The cows and horses were in their paddocks. The black cat sat lazily in the rafters with her tail hanging over the side slowly swaying. She eyed the mice below with disinterest. A distant rumble of thunder perked her ears.

The animals here were all used to the weather. The encroaching storm gave no concern to these experienced farmhands. As the thunder grew closer, it became sharper. The lightning splitting the air was close enough now that it began to faintly illuminate the inside of the building when it flashed.

Then the downpour began. The steady leak increased in tempo. A puddle forming in the dirt. Just enough water was being added that it didn’t immediately become mud.

The farmer and his son rushed in, closing the doors hastily behind them. They shook themselves of the top layer of water.

The black cat pounced her way to ground level when a flash was followed by a thunderclap barely a second after.

Everyone stirred as the height of the storm increased. The father and son sat on hay bales, listening to the driving rain against the walls. The older man looked about anxiously, knowing just how old and fragile the barn was. The teenage son knew of no fault in his father and home, he had nothing but sure thoughts about the stability of their shelter.

The storm lulled and reared again. The man concerned over the possible damage to the property braved a look through the nearest window. The rain fell nearly sideways against the glass panes making it difficult to see far. He knew the old oak on the other side of the barn’s walls was surely fighting against the wind and rain. Once before, the weather was enough to unsettle the tree. It took years of care to get the roots secure again. He feared it had not had enough time to truly recover.

That was years before the boy’s birth, however. He sat on the hay and as the cat had come near, he scratched behind her ears. She settled at his feet. The father came back to sit with them.

Moments later, a loud crack was succeeded by the crash of wood as the large oak fell into the barn. The cat ran, the horses reared, the cows groaned. The father covered his son.

With the shelter breached, the sky beyond was visible. They could see the funnel cloud forming. The boy lost his sense of security and went with his father eagerly toward the storm cellar. Unfortunately, the doors were pinned down by the branches of the oak.

The two worked together to heave the tree as best as they could. The father managed to hold back a branch long enough for the son to get a door open. He gestured to his father to get in, but they both knew the branch he held would slam down too quick for them both to get into the cellar.

The boy quickly climbed down. As soon as his head was clear of the floor he was plunged into darkness as the door slammed shut above him, the tree giving its full weight onto it.

He crouched in a corner. His father knew where everything was down here. In the dark, he would likely break the lantern before managing to get it lit so he allowed the darkness to remain.

Above, the father made his way out of the branches and looked out of the gaping hole. The cloud was about to touch the ground. Based on his experience, he knew the probability of this spot being in the tornado’s path was too great to not leave anything to chance.

He released the horses that had not already found freedom when their stall doors were slashed open. The cows had unfortunately been largely under where the oak had fallen.

Looking back again, he saw the touchdown and knew his only chance was the cellar inside the house. It was not as secure as the barn was, especially with the irony of the tree fortifying it.

Running towards the house he could hear the howling of the wind abruptly evolve into a roar. The prideful lion racing towards him, a limping gazelle. The screen door was slamming open and shut and the man was battered as his made his way inside. Emerging in the kitchen, he saw the monster through the window over the sink, just a hundred yards from the fallen oak and closing in. He stood there, hoping that if he watched it, it would answer his pleas to spare them.

At last, he was forced to reconcile with reality, and he crouched down to pull open the door into the ground. He quickly went down, skipping steps. Letting the door slam shut above him. He reached back up to secure the latch and had just sat in the opposite corner when he heard the glass shattering above him.

Images of his son filled his mind as he held his eyes shut. They were no use to him open in the dark anyway. He recalled training their old dog to herd the cows and keep his son away from the feet of the horses. He recalled teaching his son how to ride the brown mare. His boy had named her Skye. His explanation that the gray and white patches along her back had made him think of clouds in the sky brought a fleeting smile to the man’s face. He prayed his son was safe. He couldn’t lose him like he lost Joyce.

The roar exploded over him. He held himself imagining he held his son tight. He hoped his son could feel his presence. He hoped his son felt secure. He hoped his son could still feel.

The deafening force rattled the door. The man could no longer think of anything else other than hammering in the hinges so many years ago. When had he last checked their durability?

He recalled installing the doors in the barn cellar with his son ten years ago. The boy had proudly handed his father the bolts.

These hinges had been put in place by him with his own father many years before he had met Joyce.

The door was punched through by some appliance; then it and the machine were torn away. The gnarled maw of the kitchen floor threatened to regurgitate the man. He held close to the bars wishing the ground would swallow him long enough to ride this out.

He held strong enough to pass the worst of it. As the air slowly settled, he released his grip and tentatively made his way to the stairs. They were still intact. He climbed them and pushed aside the debris to be able to stand in what remained of the kitchen. He looked out where the window had been. The oak was used as a broom to sweep not only the short wall it had crashed through, but the longer south wall as well.

He ran towards the barn. He felt pride, amazement, and thanks as he appreciated what still stood of the building. As he made his way to the main doors which had been blown askew, he could see the remains of the animals unable to escape. His father had tried to teach him to feel no attachment toward them and think of them as mere creatures, but he had never been able to manage that. Tears strewn his face already as he locked his blurry eyes on the cellar door blown completely free of the room that had been in its charge.

He stumbled toward the hole, over the limbs of the tree. Debris carried from far off littered the area. He called out with no response. He peered down into the pit and heard nothing. The wind that still swirled, ceased. The thunder from lightning still slashing the sky, went mute.

His boy lay motionless, covered by a branch of the oak. The man could see blood pooling by his arm. The boy’s face barely visible through the twigs and leaves.

He jumped down and assessed. The blood was not flowing fast. He had hope. He searched for the source and found the point where his son’s side was pierced by the tree. He could see that what currently slowed the process was the shirt forced into the wound by the impact. He tried his best to push some more fabric to work at slowing it further.

He checked for a pulse in his wrist first. When that failed, he went to his neck and felt it faintly. He would not lose him like he lost Joyce.

He cleared the debris over him and gently pulled him free, being careful of the wound. He checked the pulse again; it was slowing down. He propped him on his side to utilize gravity in holding the wound closed while he retrieved the first aid supplies from the bolted container in the corner.

He wrapped gauze around the base of the two-inch piece of wood that stuck out several inches from his son’s lower abdomen. Applying pressure, he then wrapped an ace bandage around the midsection to keep the object stable and maintain pressure on the wound. He remembered the time he had done this on himself as a teen.

He couldn’t save Joyce; he still had a chance to save his son.

He sat there holding him for several minutes. He needed to gather his strength for pulling him out of the hole. It would be a long time before emergency services came out this way. It would do no good if he injured himself senselessly in the meantime.

When he decided to go at the task, he first climbed out to clear the debris as best he could. Returning to his son’s side, he felt his pulse once more. It hadn’t decreased; he held hope that perhaps it had even increased slightly.

Carefully holding him up, he climbed the broken stairs. Once they were out he laid his son down, gently propping him against a large branch. He caught his breath and watched his son’s breathing become noticeable, a good sign.

***

The man found himself startling awake. He’d passed out. The late afternoon was now late evening, the setting sun casting its deeper hues ignorantly across the destruction.

He realized it was the cat that had woken him. She had been pawing at his face, sitting on his chest as he’d slumped over. She skittered over to the boy who had fallen over on his undamaged side.

The man felt a pang of despair as he scrambled over to his boy. He easily noticed the blood soaking through the bandages. He pressed against the padding. The blood was drying. He felt a pulse, it was stronger than before. The breathing however had become shallower.

The man held his son close and soon fell back to sleep.

***

He was once again woken suddenly but this time by lights in front of his eyes. He opened them slowly. The pain of his restricting pupils minute compared to the ache he felt throughout his battered body.

The cat was agilely jumping through the debris, guiding the rescuers toward him and his son. He had never disliked Mimi, but he kept his distance from her after Joyce’s passing, feeling a fresh wave of sadness every time he saw her. As the cat leapt toward them, she interrupted a beam of light and Paul saw his wife in that instant. Her long black hair, her arms outstretched in the silhouetting beams of light.

The cat landed; she settled in his lap, he barely had the strength to lift his hand to pet her. His eyes teared up. With his son Morgan held close and the cat mewling to the rescuers, he felt oddly at peace.