'The Fury'
by Rose EdwardsA bin lid bowls along the darkened street, causing a cacophony of sound, as it
bounces off gates and pavements. The rubbish, from the over turned bin,
following in its wake, like an animated cartoon. Earlier that morning, the sky had been bright and clear in the autumnal air. No
one noticed the wispy breeze disturbing the crisp leaves, tossing them into the
air in gay abandon. Within half an hour, the gusty breeze had people instinctively clutching their
coats about them. Their steps became more urgent as the temperature dropped. A
glance at the darkening sky showed the clouds beginning to gather, changing
from pale grey to dark threatening bluey purple. By five o'clock the sky becomes a mass of clouds, heavy with rain. The wind has
become fierce, it takes a conscious effort to stand upright, and folk are
beginning to lean into it. Their hair is streaming behind them, or whipping
into their faces, depending on the way they are heading. Suddenly, a roll of thunder shakes the heavens, villagers jump, hearts lurch,
and faces show fear, primeval fear, of the unknown. Seconds later, another
crack and bang from the thunder rend the sky. A magnificent flash of forked
lightning crackles across the rolling clouds. The sky, around the lightning,
turns a metallic grey, then the silver scar in the sky slowly fades. Hot on its
heels, another peal of thunder, rising to a crescendo, causing the ground to
shake, almost like a mini earthquake. Imclearbluemediately, the rain begins, a few seconds of large spots, then a deluge.
Within minutes, the solid sheet of water falling from the heavens impairs
visibility. People scurry for cover. The street soon deserted, as the villagers
disappear into shops, or houses, anywhere to escape the fury. A couple of
motorists fumble with keys, as they desperately try to get into their vehicle. Men, and women rush up paths, dragging the toddlers behind them, visualising
the heat and dryness of the home.
Once inside sodden clothing is removed and hair towelled dry. The kettle soon
boils merrily, and the preparation for the evening meal begins. Pots and pans
rattle nervously on cookers, housewives slamming them down, to drown out the
melee outside. Outside, the screaming rage of the wind causes shivers to run up the spine of
many inhabitants in the village. The rain clouds spit their contents down onto
the cowering houses. In someone's garden, a shed door bangs noisily to and fro,
trying to tear free from its hinges. Street - lights begin to flicker on, one
by one, their light reduced to a faint gleam through the blinding rain. More
lightning shoots across the swirling sky, showing the houses with roofs slick
and wet. The tortured trees, bending in the force of nature, their branches
thrashing madly, silhouetted against the harsh glare of the lightning. The storm batters against windows, the rain sounding like bullets, such is the
force of the wind. The forces of nature, angry to be denied entrance to the
homes, unable to reach the fearful people within. The flickering lights,
threatening to plunge them into darkness. The village seems to shrink into it-self, like an army closing ranks against
the enemy. Nearby, the rectory standing in its own grounds, seems alone against the
roaring forces surrounding the building. No protection from friendly
neighbouring houses. A large tree, uprooted, lies helplessly on its side in the
neighbouring graveyard. Shining wet marble statues bear witness to the battle
between the aged tree, and the young growing storm. Urns and flowers fly about
the eerie cemetery, rolling between the graves and tombs. Shrubs join the
ghostly dance; the shrieking wind and the booming thunder provide the maniacal
music. Back in the beleaguered village, the wind wails up the drainpipes sounding like
a lost soul, seeking its other life.
Water pours down into the ineffectual drain, into grids unable to cope with the
volume. Puddles form, gradually turning into torrents, frantically looking for
an opening, almost like a sea creature looking for its ocean. In the street a
similar scene, the gutters like mini rivers, rushing over the spilling grid, in
the road, great sprays of water swathe the air, as a car rushes by. The lone car racing through the lanes passes a cottage hospital, forlorn in its
solitary stand against the buffeting wind. The rain runs solidly down,
distorting the lights in the panes of the ward's windows. The day staff rush
out, running to their cars, as the night staff rush in, to escape the weather.
The wind and rain whip around their bodies. In the gloomy entries, feral cats squeeze into any nook or cranny where there
is room for their bedraggled bodies. The cats' eyes gleam in the watery
reflections from the puddles rippling in the pale moonlight. Perhaps they envy
their domesticated cousins, warm by the hearth in the humans' homes, sleeping
cosily before the fire. In a shop doorway, a policeman stands shoulders bowed, his cape dripping. His
helmet offering little protection against a storm of this magnitude. His
thoughts turn to the warmth of the station, and a cup of tea. It will be a
welcome break after the misery of his beat. Strange clanging sounds cause him to peer out into the tumult. The sounds come
from the children's park nearby, the chains of the swings rattling against the
metal posts. The roundabout spins madly in the rampant wind. Beyond the park, a small copse is battered by the ferocious wind. The trees
sway as one in the force of the attack. That morning, in the crisp air, people
had strolled through the crunching leaves, brown, reds, and gold, now all a
sodden, mucky, black mess. Deep in her earth, a vixen curls her brush around her cubs. Her ears cocked,
afraid of the noise above. Few animals will venture out this night, hunger will
wait for the storm to pass. The gam-keeper sits in front of his blazing fire,
his newspaper and drink to hand, music playing. He is glad to be in his warm
haven, not having to trudge through the woods, facing the pandemonium outside. A mile or so away, a small fire erupts in a garden shed. An electric wire has
broken free; sparks from it ignite some papers and paint rags. The flames
flicker into life, quickly flaring and growing; they shake their fiery arms in
glee, adding to the madness of the night. The glow and strange shadows, created
by the wind and fire, add to the kaleidoscope of colour. The silver of the
lightning and blue black of the sky, joined by the red, orange, and yellow of
the flames; suddenly, all eclipsed, by the metallic umbrella of another huge
flash of lightning. In the ensuing dawn, a faint pink glow rises as the sun attempts to rise. As
the sky lightens, the ravages and the damage of the night are revealed. Trees
and fences lie tangled on the ground. Dustbins and sodden rubbish litter roads
and gardens. People peer through their windows to survey the destruction, the
sound of the wind still echoing in their ears. Wonderment at the forces of
nature will be the topic of conversation for some days. "Did you see...did you
hear..." then later, "Do you remember...?" Exaggerated accounts of experiences
will be discussed for some days. Children emerge to begin their dawdling journey to school, resplendent in blue,
red, and yellow wellington boots, rooted out from cupboards. An adventure,
splashing through huge puddles. Slowly the watery sun surveys the village, as its inhabitants begin another
day, some off to work, others to make a start on the debris to be cleared away. The storm has passed; the night has gone
A calm descends', Nature's won.
The savaged glades, the fallen trees,
The wind likes blades around our knees.
The howl of wind across the park,
The faint light rises, to chase the dark.
The noise has gone, but still we hear,
The storm, now gone, the fear still there. The End
Copyright Rose Edwards 2000
all rights reserved. All characters are fictitious in this story and no
reference is intended to any person living or otherwise.
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