Unexpected as Nature

Posted by Minni

It became evident to me, scrolling through ancient mythology that floods have recurrently signified a beginning. To initiate new creation, all that is old must be washed away and thus, purged of old reminiscence, a new leaf of life is overturned. So it came to be, during the rain season of the year nineteen hundred and eighty-seven in Belize, Central America, as a ruthless rainstorm rampaged through the flora upsetting the very foundation of leaves…

I
The Flood
A break in the storm was not yet forecasted on the ominous eastern horizon where, looming low to the earth, were clouds swollen with a bluish black. The once silent waters of Cocoa Creek were now tormented with relentless rains, thrashed by wild winds. The creek was roaring and boiling over the shallow banks. Footpaths had transformed to flood veins and were surging, pulsing across the gigantic stone ledge which stood hitherto above water. Clouds filled dark with moisture clotted the sky with a hopeless gray, smashing all that separates day from dawn into oblivion. The voice of the rampant water seemed as if it would never silent, ripping through the canna grass that held fast to the banks and the stone ledge. Only those too indolent to plant thier roots deep were torn from their rock beds into the live river. A ghostly wail was dispersed from the banks, and thunder shook the heavens: as the day tore onward the fury of nature came down upon the untamed jungle, haunting the very foundations of the earth. The groaning grass blades blended eerily with the screams of the wild wind unleashed, and ripping through the behemothic fig tree towering proudly over the river. Together they created a symphony of horror heralding lost lives in the wild darkness.
Rain continued streaming down in buckets. For five days the storm held out without a sign of weakening. The only force holding an old chicken coop from plummeting into the deadly swirl was the most fragile plank of rotted rosewood. One more tug from the lethal liquid tentacles would drag the chickens to a watery grave. Two hens in the coop that had remained living thus far clucked nervously and clung for balance as they perched tediously on the highest roost, the flimsy structure swaying to and fro in the voracious current. Then, within the blink of a keen eye, it was gone: sucked into a murky stampede...there was nothing more final.
When the day finally gave way to evening, the storm only gained more power and now the night roared onward, driven by an uncontrollable force. A pot-licker dog with a pink nose stood atop a heap of flotsam, howling at the top of its lungs into the night, though the hungry seemed to swallow its cries. Death seemed to draw ever nearer now, all around, it was enclosing fast in tightening rings of peril. The dog stared up at a decaying house tucked into the branches of the fig tree: it stared on in half hopes of a salvation which now seemed light years away. It longed for rescue from the deadly liquid circles that tore clockwise around the little island on which it perched. The dog wailed even louder at the sight of a human figure carefully making its way down the deteriorating wooden stairs out of the tree house which was covered in lichens and moss. The figure, somewhat shielded by a torn yellow raincoat, struggled though the rushing waters towards the stranded dog. The figure helped the dog off of the island of debris and guided it back towards the tree through the current.
Together they were fighting the force of the run off water, every footstep a perilous venture. Man and animal fought the force of the water’s will with all their might. They were different beings by far though they shared that common desire...the desire to survive. Both were in the seemingly endless struggle for life. There was a strong gust of wind and the figures raincoat blew off, exposing the figure and revealing a man. A man the dog knew well, for it was the same muscular frame that never hesitated to bring the staff down upon its back when lard was missing form the frying pan. Together, they arrived on the slimy steps that led up to the tree house. The dog bolted up the stairs first, followed by the man, and both saturated in remnants of the outside flood, though the droplets that fell from their bodies hardly reflected the intensity of the outer night. Vigorously, the dog shook itself sending a spray of muddy floodwater throughout the bantam structure.
“Pinto!” A girl cried. “You saved him Da!”
“He lucky you ‘round,” the man grumbled. “He ass be dead long time.”
The little girl viewed the emaciated dog fondly. “He’s shaking. Can I put a towel on him Na?” Sarah looked at her mother who was sitting in the corner next to a rusty kerosene lamp. She held a two year old baby tightly as the house rocked back and forth in the wind. Another little girl stood at her side her eyes darting here and there, fear written upon her face. The moaning water seemed to getting louder every minute.
“Everything’s wet honey,” Na answered quietly. “Pinto will be fine.”
“Are the chickens going to be okay do you think?” She asked, running to the window.
“Sarah, stay ‘way from the window, yah hear?” Da exclaimed irritably.
“Is the chicken coop still there?” Sarah asked. It had been days since anyone had ventured outside and news was more than welcome.
Da grumbled. “I don’ know! Me cah do everything a’de si’ame time!” He took off his wet shirt and threw it onto the creaking wood floor. “Me los’ da raincoat Mary K.”
“How?” Na asked sincerely confused, no sarcasm sharpened her tone.
“How you tink?” I’ de blow outside! Ya no know what I go trough all a’ dat fo’ wa good-fe-nuttin maga dog!”
“Calm down Charles,” her voice lowered almost to a whisper, “There’s nothing you can do.”
“Carm down? Ya tell me fe carm down? How me goin carm down when da house de blow out de tree, eh?”
“There's nothing you can do.” She shook her head slowly, almost regretfully from side to side.
The house jolted and there was a bright flash of lightening. A large opossum darted across the floor. Da ran to get his machete. Pinto didn’t move. He stood shivering in the corner, his tail between his legs. By the time Da had the machete ready, the frightened marsupial had disappeared into one of the large cracks in the wall.
“Fuckin dog!” Da shouted. “Dat de wa good fo’ nuttin’ pot licka’!”
“He’s too cold.” Sarah defended the pathetic, shivering animal in the corner.
Da sucked his teeth. “Cho! Shouldda let i’ ras drown.”
“Look, there’s another!” Sarah squealed as a corpulent gray opossum scuttled disjointedly across the soaked pine floorboards. Da raised his machete this time bringing it down upon the opossum’s spine with all his might. A horrendous shriek seared through the humid air and within seconds the opossum writhed upon the floor in those final seconds preceding death as the last drops of life escaped its putrid corps, waiting for rigor mortise to set in. Its eyes remained open while the corners of its saliva and blood encrusted mouth curled upward as if grinning up condescendingly at its slayer. Da took it by its succulent pink tail, pushed open the heavy zinc window, and flung the lifeless carcass down into the profound spiral of the fluid that simultaneously creates the powerful union of life and death. The wailing water grew louder when the window opened and then a bit fainter again as it closed. Everyone was silent in the minutes that followed. Sarah’s eyes dashed tensely about the decaying tree house, tensely scanning for more opossums. There were none.