Looking Through a Window

Looking Through a Window

You looked out the window and, not for the first time, thought about how wrong the weather forecast had been. Sure the weather prognosticators covered their tail bones with the ‘80% chance of’ gimmick, but that was passed as usual from person to person until it became 100%. You had accepted that broken telephone message, so you felt you had no cause to doubt it. It was going to be a so-called ‘typical’ mid-June day, sunny and warm, ideal for picnics, or sitting in your backyard drinking beer and eating junk food. The experts had declared it so. You had made your plans accordingly. You had moved a few things to make room for a six pack of beer in the refrigerator.

But as you looked out the window, you saw that the 20% you did not know about seemed to be about to prevail. There was a small but highly visible and menacing cluster of very dark clouds moving quickly from the west. You probably felt that you would see them lit up by lightning very soon. Then you expected that you would hear the thunder’s loud voice almost immediately.

But you saw no lightning strike at that time. Nor did you hear thunder’s dread rumble then either. Instead, as the dark clouds drew nearer, you heard two voices, following that three bodies, the two talkers walking, and the third one silent and being carried. The one was a little girl. She did not move one bit. Not at all.

They stopped a little more than 20 yards away from your window. You looked at the one who was carrying the little girl tucked, but not kindly held, under his right arm. Even though he was dressed in the clothes of times long past and wore his hair likewise, you could, and I hope you did identify that he was a man that should never be trusted. You probably could not rightly identify the object strapped loosely to his back, but you should have thought that it would be used for no purpose that served good at that time.  

The woman beside him, if you looked carefully enough, did not appear to want to continue the walk, and was occasionally pulled, literally dragged towards what was to become their destination. You could see that her clothing was worn and torn, far from new,. And if you had looked a little harder, and maybe had been gifted with a little more light with which to see her, you would have noticed that her skin was of a distinctly darker shade than that of the man, but not so much so that of the little girl. But you would have had to be able to see through the blanket that covered her to learn anything like that about her.

You saw them stop by what was then an old oak tree. Its presence may have surprised you, as it is now just a large stump that these days marks the boundary between your newly purchased property and the farmer’s fields beyond. Then it was just part of the same owned but little-used piece of land. You then saw the man set the little girl’s body down and detach the object strapped to his back. You saw, unsurprisingly, that it was a shovel.

You watched, dumbstruck, while he started digging in a manner that looked like he was in some kind of race with time. It was early morning then, as it was when you looked out the window and saw the scene before you. He did not want his identity to be revealed by the dawning light.  Soon the hole was deep enough to satisfy his dark purpose. At that point, you saw the child’s body stuffed, ungraciously, into the hole. Then her and the cheap, ragged blanket that was wrapped around her body were covered with earth that was then packed down with a repeated slamming of the blade of the shovel. Then you saw the disreputable man drag the poorly treated woman with him away from the site with much haste. He turned his head around several times to see whether anyone was watching. After a while he was satisfied that no one had seen them.

You saw that as they left, that the lightning then struck, hitting the tree directly, deeply scarring it black. It would fall some years later, leaving only the ruined remains that a later owner of the land would cut down to the stump that is there today. The thunder immediately followed, deep, loud, and ferocious, like a large predator unhappy in a cage, or being forced to learn demeaning tricks.

Now it is completely understandable that you are wondering who or what it is that I am. Am I a hallucination, an undigested bit of cheese as Charles Dickens would have said, talking back to you in your sleep. But that is not so. The one speaking to you now is more real than that, although no longer human. You know the land behind your house has long contained much magic.  It was sacred to the First People for ages and ages, as was the homeland of Hinnon, the thunder spirit. It watches, can punish, and can, hopefully reward as well. You are now listening in your sleep to one who has been so punished. The man you saw with the shovel is me, although I have changed form somewhat since that time.

You must know that I didn’t kill the girl, at least not purposely. She was sick and we didn’t take her to the doctor.

The thunder spirit wants you to balance out the evil done with a good deed on your part. It wants you to put a marker over the grave, and indicate her name and the year or her birth and death. You are to write the name Katherine on the grave, for that is what her mother called her, but not her father, who wanted her never to be born or named. Now, as for her last name, you might be surprised, and, then again, you might not.

The thunder spirit, and I too now want you to take good care of little Katherine’s grave. For she is kin to you, generations back. As am I. It is up to you to undo the past, Mr. Johnson. You are the future for Katherine now, and for me.