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Godstorm

In which a wild girl tries to warn the stupid rivertown folk of impending doom

By RileyPublished 3 years ago 4 min read
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Godstorm
Photo by Matt Hardy on Unsplash

They haven’t seen me for many years. The rivertown folk. Some have begun to forget my face. I like it that way.

The last hint of light winks itself out, but the woods have been dark for some time--a moonless night. It makes no difference if my eyes are open or not. I don’t need to see the lights of the rivertown to find my way there; the folk are noisy enough.

A dry wind passes over me. I feel the soft leaves as my toes slip into the grainy soil. It’s cool. Various Night Stalkers are about. I hear their footsteps, their breath, their heartbeats.

I hear Men coming.

They speak of their conquests and families all in the same breath. The horse, slave to them, drags their cart, head down. I catch her eye, but her look is old and broken. Guns are tucked in their cart. I smell their kill.

What am I doing?

Mother would surely disapprove. But I should warn the rivertown folk, shouldn’t I? If only because they are stupid. They don’t know what’s coming. They don’t know like Mother and I do. They can’t feel such things in the air, in the water. I can taste it, like the wind itself is on fire.

Some say it will come like ten thousand horses down the mountains. Avalanche they call it. Some say it will come as a hush, and then thunder will crack stone. The rivertown folk say it won’t ever come.

The Godstorm.

I don’t listen to their voices, their words. I hear something different--the same thing Mother does--and it tells me it is close.

Mother, too, is close.

I follow the river bank. The river is strong here. The boatmen use its power to travel to other villages with foodstuffs, trinkets and metals and stories. They can keep such things.

I do enjoy watching them come and go; even more when their boats overturn. I jump in to help them, and they never see it’s me, but they know it is someone they know, someone they would like to forget.

I creep up to a window of a small cabin and stare in. A family prepares dinner. I keep watching. They are not preparing for what is to come--

Breath.

I hear a small breath, so close I smell the sweets he stole a taste of before dinner. I catch a small boy peek around the corner. I should have heard him sooner, but he is a whisper, a hush.

I shoo him. He doesn’t move. He stares without a word. I point to him to leave. He furrows his brow, like he doesn’t understand. He smiles, and opens his mouth wide, but nothing comes out. He can’t speak. Stupid boy.

That’s fine. I don’t want to hear his talk. I prefer growls, bellows, and screeches. Only human voices keep me up at night.

The boy grabs my hand. I’m about to pull away, but I let him lead me. Why? Already I can’t stand him, but it’s like he knows why I’m here. He brings me around the house to the front door. I stand at the foot of the stairs, staring. He motions for me to follow but I cannot move.

“It’s you.” A voice booms behind me. I spin, ready to pounce. “Easy there,” he says. “I mean no harm.” In the soft lantern lights he is tall like a moving tree, with thick limbs, and a shaggy top of leaves. Gentle eyes. He’ll fall like any other evergreen.

I snarl. I know I look wild. Good. It draws others out from their homes. They look scared. Even better.

But the boy doesn’t flinch. Fearless boy. He’ll be afraid after I tell them all what’s coming.

I open my mouth.

The rivertown folk look like the boy... confused. What aren’t they getting? They can’t be this stupid. The storm is coming! Leave! To the storm caves! No matter what I say, their faces screw up in worry or pity. They walk away.

The wind follows.

The boy grabs my hand. I yell at him to go away. He stays his ground. He opens his mouth and roars. He keeps roaring. He mocks me? No. He mimics me.

He mimics me.

I realize that no words escaped my mouth in the telling. Only wild sounds, sounds only I know.

I throw the boy’s hand away. The wind picks up. The trees bend. A distant murmur.

The Godstorm approaches.

I run into the Deep Forest to join Mother. Her embrace. Her everywhere.

Her mist becomes rain. Then it becomes pouring. Then it becomes drowning.

Trees.

Hillsides.

Cliffs.

All fall.

The Godstorm came quietly. Now it breaks everything. I run through it all. Mother. Mother!

I race back to the rivertown. Their smells are gone. The river has swelled, swallows the buildings by the shore; what was my old house dies with them. Lightning lights up the flood, the people running, slipping, dying.

The boy. He’s alone. I run to him, but the wind surges and topples a mighty tree onto him. He’s consumed by needles and branches.

I should be gone, but here I am tearing through a fallen treetop for a stupid boy. I am wet. I am blasted. I can’t hear anything but water and thunder. I can’t see anything but for what lightning shows me. I can’t feel Mother. I only feel the boy’s hand as I grab it, but he won’t move. I can’t feel anything from his body. No beating. Blood mixes with rain and mud beneath him.

The wind dies. The rain stops. The clamor--silenced.

Hush.

The Godstorm moves on.

I settle beside the boy and curl into a ball under a blanket of silence.

I feel Mother again. I feel the blood, too.

fantasy
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About the Creator

Riley

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