The storm was almost upon them. Black and boiling, clouds crowded the horizon, seething outward across the sky, blotting out the light. A wind, sharp and chill, sliced through clothing into skin and heart, whipping the land into a dusty haze. Trees swayed and tossed, unable to flee. With flashes and crashes, the storm tumbled near.
Holding his wide-brimmed, straw hat tight to his head, Joe gawked at the massive rush of thunderheads above and bellowed to Bob, his friend and neighbor, “Never seen the like! This is gonna’ be bad!”
Eyes wide, fixed on the sky, Bob bellowed in reply, “We gotta’ git outta’ here! I’m for my cellar! Come on!”
Squinting against the dust and dirt in the air, Joe watched Bob try to sprint toward his home some three hundred yards distant, set atop a huge bulge of rock. Buffeted mightily by the wind, Bob staggered wildly instead, arms out like a scarecrow, zigging and zagging a path homeward, fading rapidly from view into the growing maelstrom of flying debris.
Joe spat, pulling his hat from his head to cover his face. “Fool. He’s never gonna’ make it. He’d a been better off in my place.” Pivoting, Joe pulled open his front door and entered his cabin, wrestling with the door as it tried to spring from its hinges and fly away. With angry exclamations and several moments of fierce effort, joe heaved the door shut. “This is gonna be real bad,” he murmured, staring out the rattling front window of his abode.
Joe was right. The wind tore savagely at the ground, and trees, and Joe’s sturdy log cabin. Rain sheeted down in impossible torrents. The thunder dropped Joe to his knees, hands over his ears, crying in terror at the constant, pounding pulses. And then it got worse. Much worse.
Two days later, when Bob crawled out of his hole in the granite dome on which he’d built his house, there was only water and sky to see. The small forest encircling his rocky mound was gone. His house was gone. And search as he might from his elevated vantage point, Bob could see no sign of Joe’s home. Or Joe. They, too, were gone. Bob’s rocky hill had become an island in a vast lake.
“I told him to git up in the rocks. Put his cabin on something solid.” Bob shook his head, sighed heavily and sagged onto a nearby boulder. “Never would listen to nobody.” He looked over at the open cellar door exposing the black hole in the stone it had taken him an entire year to dig out. “He sure liked to make fun a’ me, diggin’ away, while he sat on his porch smokin’.” A frown pulled Bob’s mouth down, lips pressed hard together, brows furrowed. Wearily, he wiped his face with his hand. “Easier to build on the soft earth,” he muttered, “It feels good to build easy, sittin’ on the porch in the warm sun.” Pushing himself off the boulder with a grunt, Bob walked to the water’s edge, staring out at where Joe’s cabin had been. “But storms are bound to come and then what?”
Golden in the sunshine, a straw hat, wide-brimmed, shredded and dented, drifted past. Watching it, Bob thought of his dear, departed mother and one of her oft-repeated remarks. “And great was the fall of it,” he intoned, echoing her.
Holding his wide-brimmed, straw hat tight to his head, Joe gawked at the massive rush of thunderheads above and bellowed to Bob, his friend and neighbor, “Never seen the like! This is gonna’ be bad!”
Eyes wide, fixed on the sky, Bob bellowed in reply, “We gotta’ git outta’ here! I’m for my cellar! Come on!”
Squinting against the dust and dirt in the air, Joe watched Bob try to sprint toward his home some three hundred yards distant, set atop a huge bulge of rock. Buffeted mightily by the wind, Bob staggered wildly instead, arms out like a scarecrow, zigging and zagging a path homeward, fading rapidly from view into the growing maelstrom of flying debris.
Joe spat, pulling his hat from his head to cover his face. “Fool. He’s never gonna’ make it. He’d a been better off in my place.” Pivoting, Joe pulled open his front door and entered his cabin, wrestling with the door as it tried to spring from its hinges and fly away. With angry exclamations and several moments of fierce effort, joe heaved the door shut. “This is gonna be real bad,” he murmured, staring out the rattling front window of his abode.
Joe was right. The wind tore savagely at the ground, and trees, and Joe’s sturdy log cabin. Rain sheeted down in impossible torrents. The thunder dropped Joe to his knees, hands over his ears, crying in terror at the constant, pounding pulses. And then it got worse. Much worse.
Two days later, when Bob crawled out of his hole in the granite dome on which he’d built his house, there was only water and sky to see. The small forest encircling his rocky mound was gone. His house was gone. And search as he might from his elevated vantage point, Bob could see no sign of Joe’s home. Or Joe. They, too, were gone. Bob’s rocky hill had become an island in a vast lake.
“I told him to git up in the rocks. Put his cabin on something solid.” Bob shook his head, sighed heavily and sagged onto a nearby boulder. “Never would listen to nobody.” He looked over at the open cellar door exposing the black hole in the stone it had taken him an entire year to dig out. “He sure liked to make fun a’ me, diggin’ away, while he sat on his porch smokin’.” A frown pulled Bob’s mouth down, lips pressed hard together, brows furrowed. Wearily, he wiped his face with his hand. “Easier to build on the soft earth,” he muttered, “It feels good to build easy, sittin’ on the porch in the warm sun.” Pushing himself off the boulder with a grunt, Bob walked to the water’s edge, staring out at where Joe’s cabin had been. “But storms are bound to come and then what?”
Golden in the sunshine, a straw hat, wide-brimmed, shredded and dented, drifted past. Watching it, Bob thought of his dear, departed mother and one of her oft-repeated remarks. “And great was the fall of it,” he intoned, echoing her.
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