It
was a dark and not-yet-stormy night, but the radar map and the Weather Channel
both agreed—the storm was coming. I could see it flickering at the southeastern
horizon, cloud to cloud lightning, a mild incandescent light show.
I
knew I needed to put the chickens up before it hit. They’d already gone to roost,
but I still had to latch the doors and close the nest boxes behind them, and I
didn’t want to do it in the rain. I opened the back door, urged the dog to get
his business done too, but he didn’t want to go out. This was not unusual—our
dog hates nature in all its forms—so I shoved him out bodily and left the door
open for him to come back inside.
And
the door slammed itself shut behind him.
I
hadn’t touched it. The wind must be
getting up, I thought, and opened it again. There was no wind, however. The
trees were still and silent, not even a rustle of breeze. I stepped onto the
deck just as the dog shot back into the house.
The
door slammed shut behind him, yet again.
I
headed for the chicken house in my bare feet. I started off walking, but then I
realized how deep the silence was, as if the air had thickened. As if there
were no animals, no night birds, no insects. Just this dull cottony silence
broken only by the sound of my footsteps.
I
started running. My imagination shifted into overdrive, and I had the sensation
that I was about to be sucked into the air, like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz. So
I ran faster. I hastily locked up the chickens—silent too, hunched inside their
roost—then galloped back inside and shut the door behind me, breathing hard.
And
then the wind rippled to life, and the first rain pattered down, and the heavy
air dissipated.
My
family has a complicated relationship with wild weather. We thrill to thunder
and lightning, crowding onto our porches to watch storms coming, retreating
inside only when the rain becomes horizontal and the sizzling bolts too close
for comfort. My mother, however, has lost two homes to tornadoes, and she tells
me that the feeling I had was probably one passing overhead. Or if not a
tornado exactly, a pressure system of some sort, the eye of a meteorological
black hole, dense and sucking and dangerous.
She
is probably right. It is a reasonable explanation. But I am Southern born and
bred, with ancestors hailing from the coasts of England and Ireland. We know
that some nights are darker than others, that some winds don’t come from the
compass directions. We remember the old tales of the Wild Hunt, and the Fey,
and the Banshee. We understand that sometimes it is best not to think too hard
about doors that slam themselves shut.
It
is a bright morning as I write this. The breeze is still cool-ish, not yet
warmed by the baking sun. The birds fight the squirrels over the sunflower
seeds I have put out, and the chickens make crooning noises as they scratch and
peck.
But
there’s another summer storm coming tonight. And I plan on being safely inside
when it does. With a candle lit against the darkness. Just in case.
* * *
Tina Whittle
writes the Tai Randolph mysteries for Poisoned Pen Press. The fifth book in
this Atlanta-based series—Reckoning and
Ruin—was released last year. Tina is a proud member of Sisters in Crime and
serves as both a chapter officer and national board member. Visit her website
to follow her on social media, sign up for her newsletter, or read additional
scenes and short stories: www.tinawhittle.com.
