Someone is shaking out the skies.
At least that's what it sounds like. Thunder has been grumbling occasionally throughout the day, but now it rattles through the clouds without pause. Lightning teases the edges of my vision, disappearing between one blink of an eye and the next, while rain has picked up a steady, drumming beat against the ground, raising that special sweet smell that comes from water on sun-baked earth.
I'm curled up around a mug of tea and a good book, relaxed at the sound of the storm outside. I nibble at a few squares of chocolate. Pat and my father are out doing some shopping. Chase is at a friend's house. I stretch contentedly, pleased to have the place to myself.
Then I hear it. A high, terrified squeal cutting through the baritone of the storm. I drop my book and go to the rain streaked window. Outside, Devany is pacing in his corral. Though he's got a small shelter set into the corner, he doesn't use it. Lightning forks over the bruised clouds in a sudden wash of purple. Devany rears up, mane flying with sopping tendrils. He uses his momentum to throw himself forward, straight at the fence of the corral.
I tell myself he won't do it. But my own disbelief is contradicted as his black form curves, up and over. Mud explodes from the impact of his landing. My voice comes back to me in a rush.
"Devany!" I cry. Just then the thunder reaches a more menacing volume. Devany freezes, quivering. The sky holds its breath. Even the rain has sunken away into a drizzle.
Lightning ignites across the sky. Devany bolts, streaking away behind the barn. My legs move faster than my mind. I snatch an old rain coat from the closet and thrust my feet into some boots. The porch door slams behind me in a gust of wind while I struggle across the squelching grass.
Devany is long gone by the time I reach his corral, but there's a trail of hoofprints pressed into the mud, leading across the back pasture. I hurry to follow it, pausing only to grab a lead rope and halter.
Wind blows hard against me, whistling past my ears, seeming intent on making my progress slow and sluggish. I duck my head and squint against the rain, looking over the rise of a distant hill to the beginnings of a forest.
It occurs to me I should have left a note, or called my father. The only thing that stops me from turning back and doing just that is the faint hope that Devany will stop to graze somewhere close by, as is typical with many horses.
But Devany is hardly typical.
I enter the forest apprehensively, using the hoofprints as my guide. Here they grow fainter, finding less purchase in the pine needle bed than the damp grass. Gnarled tree trunks rise up on either side of me, looking distinctly ominous.
"Devany?" I call. Another crackle of thunder sounds overhead.
I pick up my pace, settling into a slow jog. Fear prickles at the back of my neck. I try not to dwell on it, but instead arrange a rambling spewl of sweet-nothings I'll use to calm Devany when I find him.
I will find him.
Suddenly something snaps behind me. I whirl to face it, only to come up empty. Relax, I tell myself. The hoofprints are getting progressively fainter, which cheers me because I take it to mean Devany has slowed his pace.
I cut through a cluster of trees and -
"- Devany!"
The black horse stands slumped under the canopy of an old pine tree. He raises his head and nickers at me, eyes wide with the memory of fear.
"Silly boy," I murmur, approaching him slowly, "scared of a bit of lightning, are you?"
He tosses his head and stomps at the ground, as though he understands my words and is taking offense. I laugh shakily and bring the halter up over his ears.
I walk him back through the forest. As soon as we break free of the trees I feel lighter. Rather than the corral, I instead lead Devany into the barn. There's an old stall filled with a pitchfork, some bags of oats, and three extravagantly striped barrels.
I move all these and put Devany inside, giving him a scoop the oats and a flake of hay. He settles down quickly, but my own heart won't stop its wild rhythm. Finally, at the incentive of my wet toes and cold nose, I leave the barn and go back to house.
As soon as I enter, I know something is wrong. Pat's keys are on the counter, but all is quiet. Too quiet. I cock my head and listen. Ragged breaths are coming from the bathroom. On silent feet I creep up the stairs, pleased when they don't creak. I come to the bathroom and press my ear up against the door.
There's a sickening, retching sound from within, then a few sobs. I close my eyes and back away, half-wishing not to have heard anything at all.
I decide that Pat deserves some measure of privacy. If she wants to tell me, she will. Pushing away my curiosity, I slip back down the stairs, then thump noisily up again. Halfway I call cheerily,
"Dad? Pat?"
If I wasn't listening for it, I wouldn't have noticed the faint scrambling sound in the bathroom. But I am, and the sound brings on a fresh wave of unease in my gut. The toiler flushes, and then Pat says,
"I'm here, Era. I was feeling a little under the weather, so I left the last bit of shopping to your father and came home early."
Her voice is surprisingly collected, but I can detect a subtle note of pain in the breathless way she finishes her words. I frown to myself. Something is definitely not right.
"That's too bad. How are you feeling?" I ask.
"Much better. I think that yogurt from this morning might have been expired. I'll be fine."
Pat emerges from the bathroom and clatters past me down the stairs. Her face is once again pale, except for a flushed streak running across her cheek.
"Curiouser and curiouser," I mutter under my breath, then decide I must really be dazed if I've resorted to quoting Alice.
I follow Pat into the kitchen. She sits herself on a stool at the counter, leafing halfheartedly through an old brochure. I set the kettle on the stove and rummage through the cupboard until I find some squashed boxes of tea. Apple cinnamon, chocolate mint, earl grey... I snatch up something called Christmas Spice, on account of its gingery aroma. That's supposed to settle stomachs, isn't it?
I select a cheery mug from the cabinet over the sink. It's a slightly yellowed thing with teddy bears amusing themselves amongst balloons and eccentrically coloured bubbles.
"Nasty weather," Pat remarks. As though offended, the rain swells to a still faster rhythm.
"Mm-hm."
"Looks like you've been in it."
It takes me a few seconds to make sense of Pat's words. Then I realize with a jolt I'm still wearing a sodden raincoat. I hasten to pull it off, then go to hang it sheepishly on a hook in the hall.
"Um, right, about that-"
Just then the door bursts open, and my father stumbles in with the fruit of his errands. Several boxes are balanced precariously in his arms. They're garnished with a few ominously swaying bags.
I leap to my feet and snatch up a bundle of tomatoes just before they tip over onto the floor.
With some carefully selected pokes and pulls that would make any Janga master proud, I wriggle out a box and bag, then introduce them to their host, the counter.. My father manages to do the remainder with minimal spillage, though Pat still ends up reaching for the dishcloth by the end of it.
My father is soaked through his coat. Raindrops are dripping off him onto the floor, and gathering in puddles. Pat goes to get a rag as well.
"Pat, you should be resting. Don't bother yourself with that, I'll clean up." My father gently eases Pat back into her seat. As though on cue the kettle tenses a shrill whistle and a generous shriek of steam.
For a minute no one says anything. My father scrubs at the floor, I pour the tea, Pat - ever restless - begins to put away groceries. My father leaves the room to change into something dry. For the time being it would seem Devany's adventures are destined for secrecy. Probably for the best, anyway.
I catch a glimpse of Pat's face somewhere between grabbing a jar of jam and putting it away in the fridge. A surge of panic flushes over me at the sight of her now yellowed complexion.
"Pat, I think you should probably take some medicine or something..." The words feel thick and clumsy on my tongue. Useless. Weak.
"Y-yes... I..." she trails off. "I'll go upstairs to bed."
I watch her leave the kitchen, then sigh and rest my head against a cabinet. The bitter feeling inside me threatens to rise up, and the knowledge of the wall of indifference I know it will create - sweet oblivion to everyone else's problems - is infinitely tempting.
But I push it away. My father sticks his head in from the hallway, running a towel through his wet hair, and says,
"Oh yeah, someone at the post-office said there was a cougar in the area. Killed a cow back at Elmer Creek Farm, and Mr. Bennet spotted it crossing Silverstone Bridge - in broad daylight, no less. Keep an eye out, alright?"
He gives a shake of his head and disappears back into the hall.