Tiny Specks

Tiny Specks

They had woken to the rain falling in solid sheets, water bashing the roof, pounding the steel, the inside no longer safe, weather roaring its way in. Opening the front door they saw a rolling sea of brown water, rocks and rubble hitting the side of the house. The shock created opposite reactions. 

    “We are moving out,” Jacko shouted above the noise. He saw her eyes on the plants they’d been growing. His rage rose with the storm, her endless crazy decisions, ignorant of her own ignorance. 

   “What about the flowers, I’m sure I could bring some inside.” Sarah flinched when she saw his face.  

  He’d experienced nature’s violence before, knew with every soaring muscle and vein of his body they had to escape. And she wanted to move towards the water. He pulled her back roughly, she never grasped when she must listen to him. 

    Imagine – he could let her have her head and people would say he failed to protect his wife, watched her die rescuing some pots of flowers. “We are not going out there,” he said, closing the door and locking it, as if a bolt could hold back the power of the water. 

    They moved around a small space in the kitchen indecisively. Seconds passed with their mouths dry, heartbeats raised. Neither touched the other but felt each other’s heat. He watched her turn towards the laptop. Then he saw the puddle of water, licking under the side door. 

     “We are leaving, through the back, not the front. Forget those things, now we are going.” His voice thudded with certainty. He couldn’t stomach the fear in her face and turned towards their exit route, calculating the route of the unleashed river.  When he turned back he saw she had piled things off the floor onto chairs and beds. He took hold of her hand and pulled her towards the other side of the house. The rear of the yard was flooding, the river spreading, speeding between the two houses.

    “Get on my back.” 

    She did as she was told and he carried her through the driving water.

    The rain was never going to stop. The mountains had split into lakes and giants were tossing their contents over the villages. Within second they were drenched, skin sizzling with fright, eyes pushing from their sockets. Once Jacko had got her to dry, higher ground, he sped back over rocks to survey the house. Saw the river clean everything away, pots, wood, tools, an old fridge full of newly burst flowers, flicked into the brown inferno, gulped down in milliseconds. Impossible not to feel respect for such mighty indifference. 

    He sensed her behind him and shouted above the roar: “Go back, where it’s safe. Don’t follow me.”

    “I want to see what’s happening,” she shouted. 

    He turned his back waiting for her to return to the safe place he’d deposited her on minutes earlier. When he looked over his shoulder he saw she’d obeyed him. He didn’t want her anxiety pricking him, munching at his forehead, taking his attention away from what needed to be done. 

    His friend Longshot appeared to check him and his spirits lifted in a swerve of conviction. Together they’d defeat the mud. They started to work their muscles in unison, shouting above the water, ripping away the filthy lino, forcing it out over the river or through the back door. He didn’t see his wife until she got in the way of Longshot sweeping. 

    “I told you to stay away.” His eyes glittered with rage.

    “This is my house as well, how can I?” Her voice sounded funny, like a sharp twig, ready to break.

    He turned away quickly, calling his friend to hold an end of sand filled carpet.  He didn’t like to see her moving things. She was putting them on the steps when she should have carried them up to the top, making a pile that teetered on the edge of falling, wasn’t quick enough to rescue the pillows before they tumbled into the mud. His head throbbed with the effort of not noticing what she was doing.  He watched in despair as she dived for the pillows, failing to rescue them. “Why can’t you do it right? Instead you make it worse, you don’t listen to me, oh no, you go ahead and make it a disaster.”

    Longshot laughed nervously. “Hey Jacko, chill, she’s trying to help.”

    Sarah left them and without her they worked like well-sprung machines until only an inch of squelch remained. Exhausted and exhilarated, they were painted in mud, clothes stuck like skin. They noticed the rain had stopped. 

   No water in the taps but plenty gathered in buckets. Jacko ran for clean T shirts and shorts and something fiery to drink. As they threw the rum at the back of their throats his wife returned. He could see her clothes were glued to her body and mud smeared across her arms and legs. 

    “You have to get out of those wet clothes. I told you to stay away from the rain,” he said, guiding her to another room. “Do you want a drink?” He didn’t wait for her reply, leaving in a gallop to re-join his friend.

    Longshot waved his glass for more and they drank together, the rum hitting empty stomachs and radiating through their bodies. He paused in his rage. She was English and had never experienced a storm like this, didn’t know the times you were a tiny speck of nothingness. He stared at the river, white and brown foam calmer, fallen branches now visible as they rolled downstream towards the sea. 

    Sylvie arrived, calling out: “How goes my English girl? Seen anything like this before?”

   Sarah emerged in clean clothes. “Never in my life. The river is like a sea, something out of the bible.” 

   Sylvie laughed loud. “Come on chick, we got work to do.” She gathered up some buckets and headed nearer the swollen sliding mass of the river.

    Sarah followed, picking her way carefully over the wet rocks. Sylvie filled the buckets from a barrel full of the rainwater and swung one towards Sarah.

    “Here, can you carry this?”

    Sarah bent down and lifted the bucket, willing herself not to react to its weight, the strain that ripped through her shoulder and back. She got it to the house, having spilt a little. Sylvie was behind her, effortlessly swinging two full buckets she threw over the mud. Sarah copied her but her water sat feebly on the surface, rather than dashing the dirt. They adopted a rhythm, Sylvie bringing two buckets, or even four, to Sarah’s one, Longfoot throwing the water, Jacko sweeping it clear.

    “You doing good girl,” Sylvie said. “Look at them arms now, you building strength.”

   “If you say so,” Sarah shook her head as she glanced at her bicep and then at Sylvie’s.  The words weren’t convincing but she appreciated the comforting.    

    The floor was as close to clean as they could get it for now and all four stood back, scoping the improvement. Jacko poured more rum, offering a cup to Sylvie, hesitating before raising his eyebrow to Sarah. She always drank rum well-watered with juice. She held out her hand for a cup and copied the other woman’s movements. He noticed her shudder as it thumped down her throat and handed her the water bottle quickly. She gulped some down and smiled at him.

    “Better than a cup of tea.  Although I might make some. Clever how you put your sockets three feet off the floor, I’ve only just worked out that’s if water gets in.” She stopped as she saw them grinning.

    “Electricity gone, who knows when we’ll get it back.” Jacko said. “Once the wood dries, we’ll catch a fire. Only power is the river and the sun just now.” 

    Sarah shook her head and waved her arm round. “And the strength you have.” She wanted to say more but remembered the unstoppable, greedy, terrifying wall of water, proclaiming their flimsiness.  The difference between the two understandings stretched her mind and settled her.  

    Her, Jacko, their two friends were in a delicious calm. They’d survived as tiny specks in the face of a storm.