The Storm

Saturday, August 1st, 1953

The breeze was strong, whipping the thin, wispy white clouds away, and pulling the dark gray line at the horizon closer. Perhaps he wouldn’t have as much time as he had thought. The weather was so changeable, erratic, now that hurricane season was upon them. Small wonder that most of the beach-dwellers and vacationing families had left last week.

Dean’s feet sunk into the sand as seagulls cartwheeled through the clear blue sky. They screamed over scraps of fish, diving into the surf. They seemed a little desperate. Perhaps they sensed the next storm coming and were eager to feed. Especially now, while they could still fly.

He moved along the beach, barefoot. The sand was still damp from the rains, and he felt it slide between his toes. The skin on his feet had become tough, roughened by the constant exposure to salt and sand. He could feel the small journal that Maggie had given him bumping in the sack on his back. It was that, a canteen of water, and a fancy new ballpoint pen. He had run the other out of ink two days ago.

The journal was full of ideas. He had filled the margins with scribbled additions, considered names, even fleshed out characters. His mind passed over the main character he had been outlining. He mentally reviewed the notes he had written over the past two days. His mind had been jumping ever since he had awoken from a particularly vivid dream. The story that he wanted to write, it was in there. He just had to figure out how it would come to the page.

The clouds on the eastern horizon were building again. They stretched as far north and south as he could see and occasional lightning flickered. Dean had spent long enough on the coast to know he had a few hours at most before the maelstrom descended.

Just a mile, maybe two, until I have to turn back.

The beach was empty of anything except Dean and the seagulls. He wondered if the dolphins would be near the cliff outlook today. They weren’t always there, but especially after a strong storm, they seemed to find better offerings. Perhaps the fish were stunned by the ferocious pounding of the sea against the rocks. It would take him almost an hour to reach the cliffs, but why not? All he had was time. Maggie’s words still echoed in his thoughts.

Ahead in the distance he could see someone. He couldn’t make out the details. The further north he walked, the less people he usually saw. The sandy beach became populated with sharp, unwelcoming rocks. This was not attractive to the tourists who gravitated towards the swimming beaches and gentle sandy stretches. Nor was it compelling for the fisherman for that matter, since the rocks tended to jut out and catch at the fishing lines. The only time he saw anyone this far north was when the tide ran out and there were hordes of tide pools to pick through. The ocean life caught in the shallow pools were easy pickings. It seemed that only the locals knew that little secret.

However, right now the tide was not out, much the opposite, and Dean’s curiosity increased as he closed the distance.

A solitary man stood there, gazing out at the sea. He glanced over as Dean approached.

“It looks as if we aren’t quite done with those storms,” the man said.

“Indeed. I imagine we have a couple of hours before it hits.” Dean replied.

The man had jet black hair and green eyes. His thin lips curved into a half-smile as he glanced down and noticed Dean’s bare feet.

“Live around here?” he asked.

“I’m just visiting,” Dean answered. “An extended stay, but I’ll head home in a few months. Just in time for winter, I imagine.”

The raven-haired man nodded, “Midwest?”

“Is it that obvious?”

The man laughed, “I study languages. My focus is on the Far East. In college, one of my professors made a point of identifying every student in his classroom. He could manage it right down to their particular county or city. I picked it up and now it is habit.”

His eyes narrowed and he stared at Dean for a moment. “St. Joseph? No, wait, Kansas City. Am I right?”

Dean smiled, “That’s a pretty good trick, and you must be popular at dinner parties.”

“I imagine I would be if I ever went to them.” The man extended his right hand, “I’m Adolphus, by the way, Adolphus Suisser.” He pronounced the last name with precision, emphasizing each syllable soo-wee-sir.

Dean shook Suisser’s hand, “Dean Edmonds. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Adolphus smiled, his white teeth gleaming. “When I’m not studying languages, or teaching linguistics to foolish and inattentive college students, I like to travel. I’ve never been to Florida. I’ve been to Tokyo, Beijing, Nice, Rio de Janeiro, and dozens of other destinations around the world, but never here. In fact, much of the United States seems to be rather uncharted territory for me. My own backyard, if you will, and I haven’t explored it at all!”

“I know what you mean.” Dean stared out at the dark storm clouds to the east. “Except for the annual vacations when I was a young child. I haven’t seen much. It is a situation I hope to rectify soon.”

Adolphus’ eyes traveled to the walking stick in Dean’s hand. “I noticed your fine stick when you approached.”

“Have a look at it if you wish.” Dean held the stick out to him. He had bought it recently in town at a local shop that catered to the tourists. The intricate carvings had attracted his attention. The artist had created smooth polished dolphin bodies suspended in surf in the gleaming wood. Tiny waves curled in an infinite froth around them.

Dean realized that wasn’t really what Suisser was asking. Instead it was an inquiry. One that gave him an easy out if he didn’t wish to explain.

“I broke my leg in a car crash earlier this year,” Dean said as Suisser examined the walking stick. “I don’t need it much anymore. Only when I’m tired or I’ve walked too far.”

“Such detail. I must get one for my sister, Hannah. She is quite fond of dolphins.”

“The shop in town may still have some left.”

“I will have to make a stop in town, then.” He handed the walking stick back to Dean. “I’m sorry to hear of your injuries. I understand they are introducing legislation that will require newer car models to have a restraint system in place. It’s supposed to save lives.”

“I had not heard that, but it is good to know.”

Too late for June and the kids.

“May I ask what happened?”

Dean looked away, “A truck came into my lane. It was raining and I was distracted. There was no time to get out of the way.” He said nothing more. He didn’t want or need a stranger’s sympathy.

He could feel Suisser’s eyes on him. Instead of returning his gaze, Dean stared at the dark clouds. They roiled, moving towards the shoreline. A particularly large bolt of lightning carved its way through the gray and he could hear the low grumble that followed. The storm was still a distance away. The wind was picking up and he could feel the humidity rising. It didn’t look like he had two hours at all. In fact, he would be lucky if he made it back to his cottage before the storm hit.

Suisser made a clucking sound. “A truck, my word, and in your lane, no less! Whatever brought them there, I wonder?”

Tension began to coil inside Dean. It had been a long time since he had been near anyone else, much less idly passing the time of day. He was unused to it. Unused to people in general. He felt like a rusted garden gate that objects anytime someone walks through it.

Why did I even stop to talk to this man?

“It was raining. The driver swore there was a man in the road, but in that downpour? Not likely.” Dean bit back any other words. This was not the time or place to share his loss. “In any case, I had better be heading back. The storm is moving faster than I had first imagined.”

“Indeed,” said the man, turning back to stare at the dark clouds scudding towards them. A bolt of lightning lit the sky, reaching down, fingers of energy crackling, spiking down into the ocean. “I’ve kept you long enough, Mr. Edmonds. I fear it is high time we both headed back to our respective shelters. Good day to you, sir.” He bowed and turned to the north.

Dean turned and did his best to walk faster. The storm was getting closer, and he could already feel a fine mist of rain drifting down through the air.

Funny, I’ve not seen any beach houses to the north.

The highway wasn’t in that direction either. It veered inland, avoiding swampland, before gently flowing back to the coast. Still, the man had definitely headed in that direction. He mulled over it for a moment and then dismissed it. He could feel the story he wanted to write moving within him, it was high time he put it to paper.

His leg ached in protest as he pushed his way through the sand. He dug the walking stick in deep, using it to propel himself forward. The wind was now whipping with a frenzy, the boom of the thunder growing louder. As he closed the distance, his beach front cottage in view, the heavens opened. There was no gentle start, but a drenching downpour instead.

Mere yards away, he saw the brilliant pulse of lightning splitting the sky, the air, and Dean could smell the ozone. The hairs on his arms stood on end. The Farmer’s Almanac sure did seem to be spot on for August. The storm had taken less than an hour to arrive. He stepped inside of the beach front cottage. Water poured off of him, pooling in a large puddle on the floor around his feet. He shut the door behind him and began to strip, shivering. As he stood there, fighting with his sodden clothes, the lights flickered and then went out.

So much for using the typewriter.

He used the lightning flashes to guide him as he located the kerosene lamp and matches on a shelf.

More than a mile to the north, on a high cliff, a man and woman stood. Around them the storm raged, but in a tight circle there was nothing but the lightest breeze. Their clothes remained dry. Lightning forked through the sky and the surf below pounded against the tall rocks.

“I hear there are dolphins that feed here,” Suisser said, addressing the tall, raven-haired woman who stood there.

“The dolphins fled to deeper water when the storm approached.” She said, barely acknowledging his presence. “Your report?”

“Ah yes, straight to the point. The Primera Veu, and the Council itself, is not known for dissembling.” The woman’s brilliant green eyes narrowed in response. Adolphus gave an obsequious smile and bowed again, “My apologies, I meant no offense.”

“You and your family have much to answer for, Adolphus.” Behind her, the lightning spiked, striking the stone cliff. He could feel the power thrum through the stone. “There are those with the Fer Complir who suspect you conspired to hide Conor’s birth.”

Adolphus barked out a short, bitter laugh. His lip curled in disgust, “Believe what you will. I had no part in my aunt’s subterfuge. The news was as shocking to us as anyone else. In truth, I would think that the Arbre Genealogic would be the ones the Fer Complir should be looking at more closely. Were they not responsible for attending each birth?”

The woman said nothing, but her jaw tightened as her hands moved in time with the lightning. Adolphus was sure she was egging it on, enjoying the violence of it, even as she maintained the bubble of protection around them.

How it must gall her to no longer have The World call to her, he mused. Perhaps that is why Anna acted as she did. Perhaps it was not enough to serve in Council as Mother. To be without a world, to never have the chance to see their home world, it ate at the world-less Protectorates. His mother had been much the same.

“Well? You have met Edmonds. What do you think?” She asked, jarring him out of his thoughts on magic and closed portals to a home world he would never see.

“He knows nothing.”

“How can you be sure?”

“He doesn’t believe the driver’s account of why the truck crossed into his lane.”

“So he saw nothing else? Nothing of Conor? Nor Zenobia?”

“No.” He paused, frowning. “I thought that we had confirmation. Hasn’t Mona been claimed by Fyrsta Heim?”

“Yes, Mona Saronica was confirmed as Fyrsta Heim’s Protectorate last year. But we haven’t found Zenobia’s body.”

“Ah, I see. And Conor...”

“Is still missing. We will find him. It is only a question of when.”

“And time is on his side.”

The woman gave a small snort, “I suppose you could say that.” She relaxed, her shoulders slumping. The lightning slowed, as did the wind.

“As it should be.” Anna said to him, turning to leave. It was obvious the conversation was over.

“Quod ut is mos persevero futurus,” Adolphus answered.

Anna gave a brief nod and walked away. The storm followed her.

Hours later, in the tiny beach house to the south, Dean worked away. The storm had ended as suddenly as it had begun, and the power had flickered on moments after the last rumble of thunder died down. In that moment, he had found himself seized by it, that feeling he had been waiting for and hoping he could find. It was a moment of clarity - a crystal clear image of the story that had been hovering about in the back of his brain. As if unlocked by the storm, the plot had revealed itself. He knew it, whole and encompassing, an idea which begged to be put to paper.

Words and dialogue crashed wildly through his thoughts. And riding the wave, he sat down at the table, stared at the typewriter and turned it on. It rewarded him with a steady hum. Dean slipped in the first piece of paper and began to type. His fingers wanted to fly, like his thoughts, but he was still unused to the key positioning. Still, he typed for hours. The ideas surged. The twists and turns of the plot clawed at him.

Anyone passing by the small beach cottage would have heard it. A steady tip-tap, tap-tap, as his fingers sought out the keys, creating magic.