The Wind in the Willows

Willow, Montana

1889

Hunk Harte lies back on his wife’s lap. Annabelle playfully twists his blonde curls, kissing him on the top of his head.

The pair of teens gaze up at the starry sky. Annabelle points at a glowing light streaking across the sky.

“Look, Hunk, a shootin’ star!”

“Make a wish.”

“I wish this moment could last forever.”

“Carnsarn-it, Annabelle, you ain’t supposed to tell me, cause then it won’t come true!”

An enormous shadow whisks by.

“Land sakes! That things movin’ lickety split!” the freckle-faced bride marvels.

Flames and sparks shoot out from the sides of the cigar-shaped object. Losing altitude, it skims across the tops of the willow trees, setting them ablaze.

The object crashes into the ground, ripping through the earth, its resting place turning into a giant cloud of black smoke. An earth-shaking blast follows, lighting up the sky. Seconds later, a swift and powerful wind rips through the swamp, flattening miles of willow trees.

Marshal Braxton Law leans over his daughter, preparing to blow out the candle next to her bed.

“Snug as a bug,” his wife, Winsome, whispers.

“Yeah, that fairy tale about the princess works every time.”

Married for a decade, Braxton and Winsome feel blessed to have Hope, their perpetually cute and inquisitive seven-year-old daughter. They are even more thankful to have found each other, meeting when the college-educated twenty-five-year-old lawman tracked a wanted gunman to dirt-poor Calabasas, Wyoming. He bumped into the unschooled seventeen-year-old Winsome while he was taking his prisoner to jail.

The house shudders. The kitchen crockery falls to the floor. The windows blow out, pelting the room with broken shards of glass.

Braxton and Winsome grab each other for support. Rushing to the side of the house, they see a massive object passing by. Setting a cluster of willow trees on fire, it dives toward the ground.

An explosion in the distance knocks the couple off their feet. A blinding white light briefly dominates the sky. It quickly fades, replaced by thick, grey smoke that blocks out the stars.

Checking on Hope, they see she’s still asleep.

 “She could sleep through a war,” Winsome says, relieved. “She gets that from your side of the family.”

“I’ll carry Hope to the buckboard. You go to your brother’s place. Don’t open the door until I tell you to.”

Riding into town, Braxton expects to find that the explosion was caused by a few liquored-up cowhands playing with fireworks. Instead, he sees people running around in a panic, screaming hysterically.

Phinehas “Poot” Backwater is standing in the middle of the street. Poot earned his nickname from his propensity for preaching. Gaunt, and leathery, the sharp-featured, ultra-religious deputy is the physical and ideological opposite of Braxton, who sports curly blonde hair and a neat mustache and always dresses up in the latest elegant styles.

Poot holds up a bible, “And there will be signs in sun and moon and stars, and on the earth distress of nations in perplexity because of the roaring of the sea and the waves, people fainting with fear and with foreboding of what is coming on the world. For the powers of the heavens will be shaken.”

“I know you’re a preacher first, but this situation calls for you to act like a leader, not a soothsayer,” Braxton says. “Now help me get these people off the street.”

“The Lord will provide them with sanctuary!”

Turning to his pasty, jittery wife, Poot warbles, “Beulah, take the women, children, and old folks to the church.”

“God is angry, Phinehas. It’s Armageddon.”

“Perhaps I can parlay with the Lord and get him to spare us righteous folks. Now go on.”

Preston Billick, White Birch’s most successful businessman, gives Poot a dismissive, feral stare. Always well-dressed with his deep black hair greased with pomade, a trimmed mustache, and goatee, Billick pulls at his jacket as if he were yanking on Poot’s neck.

“Crazy bible belter. It’s just a fire.”

“It’s more than that, boss,” his assistant, Harley Mimms says. “Me and Mayor Frick saw a flyin’ machine go by, big as a mountainside. It was trailin’ fire and was faster than anythin’ I’ve ever seen.”

“Is Harley exaggerating, Cornpone?” Braxton asks.

“I’m not sure what I saw,” Mayor Frick replies. Known as “Cornpone” because of his gift for storytelling, the diminutive, bald Mayor casts his sightless out-of-kilter left eye in Braxton’s direction. “I saw Halley's Comet shoot across the sky once. It looked like a flaming snowball. But Harley’s right, this looked like a flying ship…One that was in distinct distress.”

“Whatever it is, you can feel the heat of it,” Billick adds.

“Better get used to it, Billick,” Poot says. “It’s the feel of fire and brimstone that all you rich Simon Legrees got comin’.”

“Whatever this thing is, Poot, it’s sure scrambled what’s left of your mind.”

Braxton retrieves a pair of field glasses from his saddle bags. Looking at the horizon he says, “There’s a lot of smoke about ten miles away. It could be coming from the willows near the swamp.”

Cornpone shivers. “This reminds me of the Battle of Spotsylvania. Smoke everywhere. Couldn’t see anything. And screaming. Lots of screaming.”

“This isn’t a war, Cornpone,” Braxton says.

“Could be the beginning of one.”

“An invasion?” Harley asks. “You mean moon men?”

“Don’t let your imagination run wild,” Braxton cautions. “We need to get out there. Whoever lives near the swamp may need our help.”

Biting his lower lip, Cornpone declares, “The Conifers, Logans, and the Troups are out there. The Troups have five kids and the Conifers have seven.”

“Probably a thousand degrees out there. We should wait until the ground cools,” Billick says.

“You heard the Marshal, Preston, there are families out there in a peck of trouble!” Cornpone replies.

“You think anything that took a direct hit from that thing is alive?” Billick asks.

“Somethin’’s comin’,” Harley says pointing up the street.

Billick and Harley draw their guns, sending a hail of bullets in the direction of the incoming commotion.

“Cease fire, you chuckleheads!” Braxton yells.

A burning buckboard driven by Hunk Harte emerges from the smoke.

“Lucky you two can’t hit the broad side of a barn.”

The remains of his clothes are smoldering, and his exposed skin is singed, but Hunk has managed to hold onto his scorched wife with one arm while driving the frightened horses with the other.

Their charred hair smoldering, the horses collapse as their hearts give out.

“The sky is on fire!” Hunk screams as he’s helped down from the buckboard.

“Hunk, Annabelle, go to the church,” Braxton commands. “Doc Adams is there. He’ll take care of your burns. Tell him we’ll send for him if we need him. We’re going out to the swamp.”

Hunk shakes, holding Annabelle close. “Everything and everybody out there is destroyed. If me and Annabelle hadn’t been five miles from where that fallin’ star hit, we’d be ash too.”

Cornpone investigates the deep trench leading toward the swamp.

“The prisoners at Andersonville dug ditches like this when they were trying to escape. What do you make of this, Marshal? It’s got to be fifteen feet wide and just as deep.”

“Could be from a comet.”

The men cough as the smell of the scorched earth invades their lungs.

“If a comet hit, wouldn’t it have burnt down all the willows?” Poot asks. “Some are layin’ down like matchsticks blown over by the wind.”

“Dang powerful wind,” Harley comments.

“Fan out, follow the trail to the end,” Braxton says. “If you see anything, fire a shot in the air.”

Winsome pushes the horses to their full extent down the rutted dirt road.

“Stop, mama!” Hope shouts.

Winsome pulls back on the reigns. The horses snort nervously as Winsome struggles to hold them in place.

Two figures block the roadway. One is supporting the other.

Winsome pulls Hope against her for safety as the two figures move toward them.

The pair have smooth grey skin, heads twice the size of their bodies, short hands with elongated fingers, and wide, unblinking dark eyes.

Winsome nearly faints.

“Demons! Please, don’t kill us. Don’t hurt my little girl!”

The healthy creature lets out a chirping response akin to a cricket.

“Don’t worry, we can help,” Hope replies.

The creature chirps again.

“Do you understand what it’s sayin’??”

“You can call him Hal, mama. The injured one is his brother, Mal. They want our wagon.”

Astonished by her daughter’s calm demeanor, Winsome asks, “How do you know that dear?”

A scratchy male voice inside of Winsome’s head says, “Your daughter is correct.”

“You ain’t gonna kill us?”

“No. It goes against our directive.”

“Your which?”

Even though Hal has no mouth, Winsome can clearly hear his response. “Our laws.”

Winsome brushes back her thick red hair. “The fire, the explosion. Did you attack us?”

“No. It was a malfunction.”

Winsome’s brow crinkles.

“An accident,” Hal’s sandy voice says. “Our buckboard crashed.”

“How will you get home?” Hope asks.

“I do not have the answer. But your buckboard will help.”

“Where are you people from?” Winsome asks. “I heard people on the East Coast was different, but this?”

A vision takes shape in Winsome’s mind.

Blue and white clouds surround a set of stairs. Winsome climbs the stairs, walking toward a bright, inviting rainbow. The rainbow frames a massive gold city.

Waking from her vision, Winsome asks, “Did you just gimme a glimpse of heaven?”

“Heaven is in your mind,” Hal replies.

“These people are angels, Hope. We gotta help them. Get down from the buckboard.”

Winsome and Hope stand by the side of the road as Hal helps Mal into the buckboard.

“Will you be safe here?” Hal asks. “We can provide you with a protective shield.”

“My brother’s place is just down the road,” Hope says. “Be careful. Not everyone is as understandin’ like us. Some people have a hankerin’ to hurt folks who are different.”

Reaching down from the buckboard, Hal opens his palm.

Winsome picks up Hope so that she can touch Hal’s palm.

A blue haze forms over Hal and Mal. When it dissipates, Hal and Mal’s appearances have changed. They now appear to be young, bearded farmers.

“Where are you gonna go?” Winsome asks.

“To join our people.”

“They’s others?”

“We have been on Earth for centuries.”

Preston Billick and Harley stand amid a clump of fallen and scorched willow trees. The two men take in the curious sight of hundreds of pieces of shiny metal lying in the field.

Billick picks one up. It feels surprisingly light and airy. Billick pulls at it. It extends, then snaps back into its original shape.

“You see that? It’s like rubber.”

“Neat parlor trick, but it ain’t no natural occurrence. Besides, what can you do with it?” Harley asks.

“Everything,” Billick responds.

A gunshot catches the men’s attention.

A second shot sends Braxton, Cornpone, Billick, and Harley scurrying toward the area Poot is searching.

Braxton arrives first. Cornpone picks up a piece of metal the size of his hand, muttering “Crimnany!”

Poot stands over a body, his gun still smoking.

“What did you do, Poot?” Braxton asks, taking away his gun.

“It was lookin’ up at me. It got into my mind. So many pictures, so many words… I saw places with green fountains, two legged-horses with horns… Blue-skinned people with long arms and wheels for legs … Then I heard a voice… It said, ‘Please help me… End my pain…’ So, I did.”

“Never trust a zealot for a simple response,” Billick comments.

The men close in on the body, recoiling in surprise.

“It’s a kid!” Harley says.

“Are you suggesting a child burned up ten miles of willow trees?” Braxton returns.

“Maybe he had a mess of nitroglycerin.”

They look down at the body’s smooth grey skin, enlarged, hairless head, and large, bottomless black eyes.

“This isn’t a child,” Cornpone says. “It isn’t even human.”

“You know what this is?” Billick asks. “This is a creature from Mars!”

“Horse feathers. How do you know, Billick?” Poot returns. “He could be like Harley said, from the Moon.”

“It could be from Uranus for all I care.”

“Don’t be rude, Preston,” Cornpone counters, his good eye squinting. “I heard tell they found one of these spacemen wandering around in the woods near Troy, New York.”

“This more of your blarney, Cornpone?” Harley asks.

“No, this is gospel.”

“Well, what did they do with him?”

“They shot him.”

Poot gives the others a wide, self-satisfied grin.

“You sapheads are thinking small,” Billick says. “You’ve all looked at the ground. Marshal Law’s trying to ignore them, but you’ve seen those shiny pieces of metal lying about. That’s what’s left of his ship. Look, we’ve found someone from another planet. And the pieces of metal from his ship are unlike anything produced on Earth. Do you know how important that is? We need to capitalize on this, put him on stage. We sell the metal to the government and the town will get rich. And I don’t care what happened in Troy, Poot, or whose voice you think you heard, your trigger-happy reaction cost us a live spaceman and a lot more money.”

“He was in pain.”

Cornpone shakes his head. “We can’t have this. We’re trying to make statehood. You think they’ll give it to us if the story gets out that we found a little grey man and his crumpled space wagon?”

“Listen to reason, Cornpone. We could all be in high cotton.”

Braxton pokes Billick in the chest. “You mean you could. You listen, Preston. Most people here are simple, God-fearing folk like Poot. We bring this creature into town, and it’ll start a panic. They’ll start questioning God…”

“And you know you can’t question the ways of the Lord,” Poot interrupts.

“Then they’ll start questioning the law, which is me. I’ve got a daughter who’s going to be something big one day, and I don’t want her to be frightened because she thinks that little grey men are coming to get her. So, here’s the plan, boys. Some fool figured out how to make a flying machine, but his plan to land it wasn’t so good. As far as I’m concerned, this little fella was that human being. He died upon impact before he spoke to Poot, and before we could get the doc out here to help him. He was so severely burned in the crash that it was hard to tell he was human, but he was. Out of respect, we decided to bury him here.”

“Bury it?” Billick protests.

“We’re not gonna turn him into some sideshow, whether he’s human or not. Gather up all the pieces of metal you can find. Then we’ll scratch out a grave for this poor fella.”

Harley recites the Lord’s Prayer as he digs. “This is disrespectful. We just buried the poor boy last night. Now you wanna dig him up and turn him into a wooden Indian. God’s going to punish us for desecrating one of his creatures.”

“You’re starting to sound like that crazy deputy. Are you sure he’s one of God’s children, Harley? Let me put it to you from a more practical standpoint. You know as well as I do that as soon as they run a railway spur through town my stage line and livery stable will be finished, and so will you. We need a new form of revenue. This little fella and these pieces of metal could be it.”

“You can still make money off your general store,” Harley points out.

“You want to be richer, not poorer, don’t you?”

“Sure.”

“Then dig faster.”

“This’d go a whole lot quicker if you’d lend a hand.”

“We only have one shovel, Harley.”

Harley pauses. “You hear somethin’ funny, boss?”

Billick’s ears home in on a piercing, whirling sound.

Harley drops the shovel as he and Billick cover their ears.

A shadow obliterates the stars above them.

“What in the blazes is that?” Billick asks.

“A flyin’ cigar. And I suggest we take cover before we both get smoked.”

Harley climbs out of the grave, running behind a stack of fire-decimated willow trees.

A massive object hovers above Billick. He shakes his fist at it.

“Finders keepers, claim jumpers! You’re not stealing my goldmine! This little fella is mine!”

Billick pulls out his revolver, firing at the craft above him.

A light engulfs the grave site, bathing Billick in a blinding white haze.

The scorched earth around Billick floats upward into the open maw of the hovering object. The corpse rises from its grave. Billick reaches for it in vain as it passes through his hands and into the vessel. The pieces of metal strewn around the field drift upward like glittering snowflakes.

Scrambling around on the stripped earth like a guilty cockroach, Billick fights against the pull of the light. Despite his protesting “Noooo!” the light lifts him off the ground, propelling him into the object’s maw.

The object spins frantically, bathing the area in light, then darts off toward the stars.

The ground begins to vibrate, shaking violently. Harley cowers, burying himself in the dirt and ash.

Harley slowly lifts his head when the ground is still again.

The deep brown earth and dark green grass have been restored. The willow trees sway peacefully in the wind.

Winsome became Willow’s most famous citizen, sculpting abstract statues she called Hal and Mal. Braxton quietly became Willow’s richest resident when he invested in the mass production of flying machines designed by Wilbur and Orville Wright. Hope became Willow’s first female mayor.

The town’s abundant willow trees enchanted visitors and tourists seeking a tranquil place to rest and reflect.

Visitors swore the willows could speak to them.