He awoke to the heavy rainfall pattering against the metal roof sheets. She still slept. The morn dim and gloomy; the rotting doors creaked in the winds. Sea smoke had rolled in through the gaps in the walls and surrounded them like a moist embrace.
He unzipped his sleeping bag which he had used only partly while stoking the blaze throughout the night and shuffled out of it; his breath flowed like a cloud in the dewy air. Inside the barn lay wall-mounted boards like a ladder up to the roof hatch; he climbed up it and lifted the creaky hatch and peeked outside—woods, a water tower, pasture fences, a well.
It poured so hard he worried they would be stuck here for days. He climbed down the dodgy steps as the rains and winds kept barraging. Outside branches cracked and fell from the imposing trees and low rumbles of thunder echoed in the distance; puddles gathered on the floor. A perfect time for coffee, he thought as he rummaged for an instant coffee packet. He placed his mess-tin under the hole in the roof. After a few minutes he placed it on the red-hot coals of the hearth and watched it sing as the wet metal sizzled on the small blaze.
"Hey, kid," he said with a smile as she awoke. "Want some tea?"
"Yeah.” Her face lit up.
They enjoyed their beverages and pondered. He worried. Did we have enough food? How far is the nearest town? What if she got sick?
He rummaged for the map held together by duct tape and fortune.
"This road isn't even marked on the map," he uttered.
“How can that be?”
"Eh… Whatever, guess we'll see soon enough."
He always had a compass around his neck—a gift from Dad long ago. "May you always find your way home," he had said to Sam. He opened the tarnished argent case and tried to make sense of the confused gadget: the pointer kept slowly spinning around in circles; he grunted. Something odd and ominous about the barn: it awakened in the storm as it moved and creaked, as if they sat in the belly of an olden beast that had seen many things and housed many secrets.
Nature continued to batter the barn; raindrops and winds seeped through the cracks. Great towering trees brushed their lengthy arms on the sides and temple. They heated and enjoyed tins of pumpkin and smoked mackerel with sprinkled salt and herbs from the wood. The feeling of time seemed to slow down and stretch.
She always carried books from town to town and replaced them with new ones with every chance like some small and wild bibliopole. On this particular day she read the heavy “Reform of Public Education by James H. Gafferson”; he checked the barn and again decided to open the roof hatch. The air a blend of wood-rot and fresh rain. He opened the dripping hatch and grabbed the mossed ledge: the scenery lay unchanged.
After a few moments of glancing around the fog like in a sweven he marked a feminal figure in a white dress in the middle of some ravennagrass, hair as brown as bark and skin wan as snow. The harsh elements unaffecting. A scent of lilacs; the odor of the dying barn disappears. Just another hallucination. He blinked; she’s gone as fast as she had appeared. Lilacs faded. He closed the hatch and returned to the fire with wide eyes.
“What happened?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
Nightfall neared and with it came the mocking voices and timeless echoes of humanity’s past. The pecking of a woodpecker seemed to circle the barn slowly as if the bird floated around them carrying a tree. Tap, tap, tap. Like mockingbirds the voices flew around the darkness as if drolls of the devil, sounding much deeper than any living thing. Many whispers flooded the darkling nooks like that of a dead choir, and mangled songs of ensembles insulted their ears and their hearts. Not even rats or mice would come to seek refuge in such a wretched barn. The closed doors seemed to be a sigh away from busting open; the planks nigh succumbing to the bombardment. He worried it may flood, leaving them in the middle of nowhere at the heart of the night storm.
He told her a bedtime story about his favorite childhood hero—a man dressed in a bat costume saving the world from countless villains. She was always amused by the comically-dressed heroes of the eld world, for her hero didn’t need any costume to save her.
The faint sounds from the seashells sparked her soul nightly: she imagined a turquoise sky and clear waters as far as the eye could see; they seemed to blur the horizon completely as if it didn’t exist—a mere invention by pompous gray scientists. White sandy beaches and laughter. Birds chirping. A gentle breeze that cooled from the searing sun. She fell asleep with a smile and dreamt innumerable joyful dreams; her smile always brought a smile to his face.
Sometime later in the midst of the night something cracked with a heavy thud, thumping and shaking the walls. A cold wind hit them like arrows of ice and they awakened full with adrenaline. The barn wailed and groaned like a ship drowning in a seastorm of sky-reaching billows. He clicked on his flashlight to illuminate the door frame from which voices seeped in with the winds and rains; they dried out in the light. He closed the doors and placed one half of the cracked plank through the two metal handles, then tied a bit of rope around them.
“Are we safe?” she asked with eyes wide.
“Just the wind. Try to get some sleep.”
She grunted and laid her head on the pillow and closed her eyes; he continued to keep watch and stoked the flame, hearing deep footsteps on the roof and scratches near the walls, among other things. After what seemed like days he rested his eyes for a few seconds and the morning had come.
The dirt had turned to mud and the storm outside only seemed to get angrier with each passing hour. More cracks in the walls and roof than afore. Fat branches scraped agin the top of the barn and peered inside like annoying swindlers. Their throats dry and their nostrils clogged with snot. Provender nears its end. The barn continued its usual song of cracking and swaying in the wind and the splashes of sharp rain still bombarded the metal roof sheets—a constant ambient cannonade day and night. Thick fog shrouded the surroundings in mystery and thunder roared above. Something scratching at the walls; she awoke and sighed.
“Should we go?”
“Maybe,” he replied, brooding over the sizable puddle that had collected under the leaky roof. “But the storm is still raging. Let’s try to wait it out.”
“Yeah.” She sighed again.
After a warm tinned tomato soup that had seen better days and some light reading, she spoke.
“What are you thinking about?”
“Oh,” he muttered, looking in the distant nook of the barn. “Her.”
“Did you see her again?”
“Yeah...in the fields,” he said, stoking the fire and watching the red sparks rise into the air and disappear like magic.
As the storm raged on bits and pieces of the barn kept chipping away as if the storm some colossal airy beaver. They huddled around the fire singing cheery tunes while he played his guitalele. Time seemed to slip; after a few dozen performances the darkness neared once more.
Perhaps it’s for the best that she couldn’t remember her family, their voices, their smells. Perhaps it’s for the best that the things whispering her name in the dark could be things of any making. Sam—not so lucky. Since the stars disappeared the night came wearing the voice of his wife like a puppet of the devil or some such unearthly thing. Like something from the nethermost depths of purgatory calling him to the nightshade with no soul nor remorse making jest of it all. With time it became plain everyday noise, like birdsong, like rain, like the winds and the pain.
Nura adream; he dozed off while stoking the cinders. They awoke to loud sharp bangs and flashes of light as if daytime had peeked through the curtain of the night for a moment; a smell of brimstone. Dazed and confused he felt for a split second to be back in his military gear, downtrodden in the mud. They looked around in a panic—the roof and side on fire and spread fast.
“Put on your raincoat,” he said while rummaging for his own. The mud floor nigh flooded entire and the campfire close to drowning. Around them the flames quickly roasted the barn alive: the wooden beast roared and cracked and bellowed and hurt their ears.
They put small plastic bags over their boots and tied the ends together to keep their feet dry in the wet muck. Head torches sat comfy on their pates while lit lanterns dangled from the sides of backpacks. With eyes sticky and minds rattled they clicked on their flashlights and hid them in their sleeves and opened the doors and headed into the unknown nightshade. Voices quickly crept around their lights like hellish mosquitoes as they watched the burning barn getting murdered by the tempest and the night. Charred planks thudded where they had slept. Their eyes played tricks on them and conjured shadowy shapes around the lights and flames as if the dark burned as well. No stars shone in the sky, no moon greeted them. The winds blew so hard that the nearby trees caught fire and the rain peppered their faces like needles.
“We need to go,” he uttered with a hint of panic in his voice and grabbed her hand and headed back to the main road as the crackling of fire behind them faded with each passing step. Their boots stuck in the mud; their surroundings unseeable. Whispers circled around them like blind vultures. “No lights. Come. Come…” In-between each whisper a short pause, then a whisper again—a distorted record on an endless loop. A sinister laughter of a madman came from their left, and behind them a thrawn voice like Sam’s uttered: “Nura… Come back… That’s not me…” She took a scared look at Sam—his face and shape vague and benighted; she tightened her grip around his wet palm.
“It’s okay, kiddo.” He reassured her in-between tired breaths. “I’m right here. We’re almost at the road. Watch your step.”
After what felt like hours they reached the asphalt outworn and with faces wet and turned left toward what should be Ashtown. Their lights mostly met their feet and the ground upon which they trod, lighting only a few steps ahead afore melting into the unseeable. The flaming barn had already vanished somewhere behind the trees. “Kiddo… Come back. Come to me,” the night spoke as her grip tightened around Sam’s palm.
“Shut up!” she yelled.
Thunder roared above like a gargantuan beast bellowing from a mountaintop while lightning zipped around them without grace; the snapping of tree spines and thuds echoed in the wood. It seemed as if she would be carried away by the wind like a leaf if not for him pulling her forward. They came upon an overgrown car, almost bumping into it.
“Get in,” he exclaimed as he opened the back door. A cackle from underneath, a weep from behind. She threw her bag in the back and got in, as did he. The doors so rusted they wouldn’t shut completely. Rain pelleted the corroded beast while their heavy breaths lit up in the lights like smoke.
“Damn,” he exclaimed.
“I agree.”
Some squeaks came from the back and the unrelenting weather still seeped in through the marred windows; they tried to shut them with tarps. After long hours the storm passed and the dawning sky awoke.
Wet plastic rubbed and knapsacks rustled as they marched toward the hope of a cozy bed or two. Countless branches and twigs of pine littered the macadam like a coat of green-brown paint. The winds returned to a gentle breeze, softly swaying the leaves and pinetops. A still silence.
With each passing rustle of a step they left the night’s happenings behind; the pallid sun warmed their cheeks like a soft kiss.