Fellowship

Fellowship

 

 

 

The Weatherman said they were bound to get some rain- a thunderstorm or two-

tonight and through the morning. Not that he typically held any faith those

crystal-ball-predictionaries, but the overcast skies looming above him on his

homeward trek had instilled a little hope, however fragile, as they tracked him

eastward. Just to be on the safe side, he put the truck in the garage as soon

as he pulled into the driveway. He didn’t mind getting wet himself, not in the

least, but he wasn’t willing to risk his truck to the elements. He was the sort

that was more scared of hail damage than pneumonia. You know the type.

 

As child, and then as a young man, he had always loved a good storm,

often dreaming of becoming a storm chaser even. Now,

having weathered the relentless monsoon that is life, his relationship with the

darker side of natures’ beauty had only intensified, even as the childlike

awe-of-the-storm of his youth subsided. He felt a certain kinship with the wrath

of the lightning, the roar of the thunder, the calm and the sorrow of the rain,

and the peace the combination seemed to bring when they sang together. Now,

thunderstorms were as if symphonies over warzones to him. Now, thunderstorms

were his church, his sanctuary; not because they necessarily took his mind off

of anything, or offered some vague salvation, but because He never felt alone

when the sky was screaming. He felt no shame in releasing his own emotions as

the sky cheered him on, encouraging him to join and just let it out- reminding

him he wasn’t the only one.

 

The moment he walked inside, he pulled back the shades, shaking the dust from them,

then opened all the windows, all in turn creaking with disuse. Taking note of

the ever increasing breeze blowing though, he checked the venison stew in the

crock and then went upstairs to take a shower. As the water ran through his

hair, he smiled a bit at the thought of standing out in the middle of the storm

later, feeling the exact same sensation in communion.

 

A short time later, he stepped out of the bathroom and walked over to the

skylights above his bedroom, hoping for the patter of rain striking against

them. There was still nothing but silence and mocking skies. He got dressed and

walked downstairs for a bowl of stew and a stiff drink; the type Hemingway

would prefer. Turning on some Robert Johnson, he took his meal to the front porch

to see what he could see. The breeze was intensifying now, but had yet to bring

promise riding upon those cooler, frantic winds that always bombarded the

trees, testing their gall as they blew through.

 

Pacing the porch, he finally saw the clouds, the storm, he had been looking for, moving in

from their beautiful conquest of the lake with all the sound and fury of a

barbaric horde pounding on war drums as they descended upon some helpless

village, propelled by invisible masters of the same design of the harbingers of

the rain.

 

The first drops of rain began to fall, staining the driveway with the blood of the skies,

the entrails of sunlit times. He lit a cigarette and took another sip from his

glass, reaching an arm out from under the cover of his porch to feel the gentle

touch of the storm before it grew into a more determined monster. He took a

seat and leaned back against the door, allowing himself to enter the dark and

should-be-forbidden place of reminiscence; remembering those who had once shared

this moment with him, and those who would never do so again- to speak of arrows

that blot out the sun- but all hit the exact same mark- left of center-chest. As

if on cue, the rains began to increase, preceded by the boom of thunder- the

crack of lightning from somewhere behind his house. He sat for some time locked

in the past and all that should have been, before realizing he had finished his

drink and heading for the kitchen.

 

The wind was blowing caressingly, yet firmly, through the house as he made his way to

the freezer; most of the candles still held their flame defiantly as the ever

cooling breeze did its best to expel the darker spirits from his walls and

shake the dust from the sheets that had forever served as blinds. The thunder,

still distant, promised to aid with the rest. Perhaps, just perhaps, the

gypsies were going to pull through with their predictions this time.

 

He decided to forgo the glass he had been using for the entire bottle so as not to have to

return indoors. A close rumble of thunder nearly made him drop it almost

immediately. He laughed as he made his way back outdoors with the bottle and

his guitar to the sound of gentle rain transforming into a monsoon.

 

The “creek” or rather, the run-off ditch that ran through his property had already began to

flow, carrying with it the dead leaves that had accumulated over a time. Slowly,

they made their way, carried by the water beneath the half-burnt wooden bridge

and down into the valley below his home. He watched the dead leaves as they

departed, and tried to put some sort of metaphoric meaning to them, but only

felt worse for the doing so. So he left them alone and blameless as he observed

and tried to strum a tune to the orchestra around him; even as the clusters of

leaves floating down seemed to make familiar faces towards him as they

disappeared down the hillside. Through the increasing rain, he could still hear

Robert Johnson and a few other selected blues men playing through the stereo

inside. He smiled at the cohesion of it all.

 

Lightning struck somewhere not too distant, by the count before the echo; and then again,

closer, shortly after. The rain fell now with such fury that it was hard to see

across the driveway, just as it was so hard to see what lay ahead in any other

respect. He took another drink, and then another, watching the waters fall and

carry themselves away, listening to the leaves echo their bombardment without

complaint. His guitar did it’s best to provide the harmony, but nature was

always the better musician.

 

He set the guitar down, then the bottle. He removed his shirt, and walked over to the

charred bridge looming over the river of so many different meanings; He stood

there, allowing the water to bombard him, in hopes that in some sort or

fashion, he could be cleansed amongst natures’ cathedral. He knew there were

many things he would never be cleansed of, for they were what built him, what

made him want to be better, what gave him hope- but in his own way, a way he

couldn’t explain, he wouldn’t mind being born again of sorts, amongst the

fellowship of natures’ congregation. The storm, in all its glory, was the only

holy place that asked for nothing in return, nor made any demands, but simply

listened, and replied with “I understand.”

 

 

----------------------

facebook.com/inkandspite

facebook.com/feuerfrei86

inkspitting.tumblr.com

writerscafe.org/inkandspite