The Storm

As lightning flashes and bangs in the night, I sit naked before my fire. With a hickory baton, I beat on the small pot drum. Match the resonant thumping to the rhythm of my heart.

Another crash of thunder shakes the very walls, rattles the thatch overhead.

Lowering my drum, I walk to the door, throw it open, and stare out at the night, torn as it is with lightning that flickers and Dances among the high-packed clouds that obscure the sky.

The air hangs heavy, the scent of rain filling my nostrils.

An instant later a wicked flash of lightning contorts its way across the sky. Bent and twisted. As though in eternal agony. The quick double flicker burns itself into my eyes, sears a path across my brain, and snakes its way through my souls.

Stunned, I collapse onto the beaten ground before the Clan House veranda. Even as I sprawl there, nerveless and limp, the rain slashes down.

Blinded by the fierce black-on-white afterimage, I stare sightlessly up into the unleashed torrent. Feel the huge cold drops as they smash into my face.

In that moment, I see: Night Shadow Star is looking up into the night. I could be an owl, circling silently overhead as I stare down into her eyes. She is standing by the river; a canoe is grounded on the beach. A low fire burns, two men, cross-legged, sit on either side of it. They are talking as men do in companionship.

But it is Night Shadow Star who draws every bit of my attention. She remains as beautiful as ever. Her face unforgettable if I should live a thousand years. Only now her hair is down in a Trader’s braid. A simple cloak hangs from her shoulders; an unadorned fabric skirt is tied at her hip.

I turn my head from the rain, letting it drain from where it has pooled in my eyes. Then I struggle to my feet, raise my arms. Again, lightning curls just over my head. White, hot, it burns through my eyes and lights my insides. Makes my bones shine white, glows through my guts. My liver turns that same shade of pale as a stone in the heart of a bonfire.

I am the lightning. Frozen for that one actinic moment, cast through the Sky World, discharged from the Thunder Being’s taloned foot. I sear the world, stretch my burning essence through the heavens, displacing eagles. In that moment, the whole of the earth cowers beneath me.

“The storm. Call the storm.”

The words thunder down around me as the glow fades from my flesh.

Fixing my entire soul on Night Shadow Star and the river, I pull my knife from my belt, extend my arms to the tempest, and slice down the insides of both my arms, crying, “Brother Lightning! Go! Find Night Shadow Star! Unleash your Power. Drown her! Wash her down into the river. And when her Lord Piasa rises to save her, blast them both!

“Strike her! Wound her! Hurt her where her heart lies! Take from her what she loves more than life! Show her your Power and sicken her souls. Blind her so that she doesn’t see me. Deafen her so that she hears not my approach! Send her to me, stumbling and alone, without her protector!

“Set my world free!”

In answer to my plea, a bolt of lightning forks and strikes on either side of me. Pillars of a light so intense I am knocked from my feet even as the blast breaks my ears. For long moments I can’t catch my breath.

Nothing.

I am only an empty husk, unable to breathe. To feel. Even to know.

The first sense that returns to my numb body?

Rain.

I gradually grow aware of the pounding, as if it will batter its way through my hollow skull. Beat my flesh into the very mud. Splinter my bones.

A series of thunderous booms, the flashing of lightning in the clouds, finally begins to register in my vision and hearing.

And still the rain falls, ceaselessly trying to hammer me senseless where the lightning has failed.

As the storm lessens, I begin to take heed of my surroundings.

I am sitting in the mud, water streaming down my body, blood washing down my arms in watery sheets.

Looking around, it is to see some of the people of Joara, standing like ghosts, staring anxiously at me. The measure of their disquiet can be seen in their postures, in the solemn way they gape. As if they have found something more unsettling than thunder and lightning.

And it is me.