Ester's Storm

Ester Bennet held a cloth to her nose and mouth as she ran. Wind tore at dead grass, stinging her bare arms. Several stunted trees that had stood for a thousand storms were reduced to splintered stumps. Yet his wasn’t just any storm, it was the Western Cyclone, a huge storm-front that had been slowly swallowing the Westfield for the past two years.

The rhythmic thrum of a military helicopter only added to the din as it fought the cross-wind. In itself, it wasn’t an unusual sight, though it would normally land close just outside the farmyard, the pilots enjoying tea and cakes. Mostly, she liked the way it put the stuffy scientists off guard.

Now those very same scientists ran alongside her as they covered the short distance between the creaking farmhouse and safety. She was leaving. Five years later, she was leaving again. It should feel good; her ancestors would be proud. She’d stayed for as long as she could. Yet she couldn’t rid the feeling that she was running from something.

“I know what you’re thinking.”

She glanced at her mother whose knuckles were white as they held up her skirts to run, weathered face set firm in its constant frown.

Ester matched it with practised ease. She wasn’t thinking about it. She was… I’m leaving. Leaving forever. She could have left much earlier, months ago along with everyone else, finally fleeing the plain for the east.

For two years they’d held out as the encroaching storm-front scorched more and more of the Westfield. The only reason they were still here was because of the scientists. The meteorologists as they called themselves. She’d given no complaints, mostly because she’d asked them in the first place. Now that they weren’t keeping her there, she didn’t have to put up with their high noses. Farmers were the backbone, not the dirt of the world.

Hovering just twenty paces above the parched soil, the helicopter’s downdraft whipped up enough dust to partly conceal the ladder dangling below. The bottom of it jerked a meter from the ground, as men and women in camouflaged uniforms moved above trying to keep the craft stable.

It was everything she’d ever dreamed of as a teenager—a dramatic escape from the farm with no need to ever return.

When she’d left, it hadn’t been like this. Her father had not even said goodbye, and her mother had begrudgingly seen her off at the airport with a handful of cash to get her to Eastfield.

And yet…

Ester stumbled to a halt below the helicopter, hands clasped firmly over her ears. She was half afraid that it would tip sideways, the large rotors cutting them to pieces. The scientists climbed up first, only the last standing back for Ester’s mother. He glanced at her, but when she shook her head, he shrugged, leaving her alone in the vortex of dust and grass. Well, maybe they aren’t all lacking manners.

The others peered down at her, but she glanced back to the approaching storm, a purplish mass of high winds and lightning sweeping across the plain towards them. Occasionally plumes of smoke stained the clouds preceding a bright orange flare. No rain in two months, it’s going to kill everything.

At first, the storm had left chaos in its wake. Now it left ashes.

She looked up and met her mother’s gaze.

“Hurry!” She called, “They have to leave now!”

Ester just stared up at them. This is my escape. What she’d always wanted. The old farmhouse, its slatted walls already bowing in the wind wouldn’t survive. And yet, she couldn’t imagine the frame built by her ancestors breaking before a storm.

“Don’t be like him!” Her mother’s voice cut over the helicopter sound, “He was a fool. Don’t you…” Her voice was cut off as thunder rumbled in the distance.

Ester took a step back. And then another. Then she was running, sprinting back towards the farmhouse, shielding her eyes from the dust. Her mother’s scream was muffled as the helicopter rose off the ground.  The great flying beast passed overhead and tilted forward, blasting her once more with a thunderous cloud before growing smaller and smaller as it headed east and towards the spine.

Ester slowed to a walk as she reached the entrance to the yard. She turned looking out to the vast emptiness. This time it really was empty, save for her. This was where she’d last seen him, her father, his hazel crook tucked under his arm. The coat she now wore was filled with odd tools and trinkets passed down through the generations.

She’d come home, cutting her studies short to search for him. Since then she hadn’t left, first for fear that her mother would take it hard and then because what else was she supposed to do? Her once dreams seemed insignificant against her duties as a Bennet.

She swallowed hard, refocusing on the storm. Something of his can be saved.She couldn’t leave it to be burned to ash in the firestorm. And yet, already she was pushing her luck, if she wasn’t fast, she would be swallowed too.

She pushed past the gate and through her mother’s dead flower garden to reach the front door. At first, they’d fed the scientists their remaining produce; then the helicopters came, bringing supplies and water every week.

She pushed on the door, and it swung open easily. She’d never known there to be a key or a need for one. Even before the storm front descended on the Westfield, there hadn’t been many people in the area. Recently there had been just her, her mother and a collection of odd scientists who thought they could predict the storm-front’s unusual weather patterns. It was telling that they were being evacuated at the last minute.

She closed the door and dropped the cloth from her face. Only the distant thunder and the creaking walls signed the coming storm. For a moment she could almost hope it wasn’t coming at all.

She was brought back to the present by a distinct snuffling coming from the kitchen, through the door to her right. She stepped through and there were her two pigs, heads in the overturned bins.

“Bella. Carly. What’s come over you?”

They raised their snouts from the scrap bin and nuzzled wet noses against her as if to say, where did you go? They were the only remaining animals on the farm and had been for some time. The rest had long since run, to what end she didn’t know.

Stupid things belong in a sty, not the house! She could almost hear her father utter those words every time she looked at them. She’d taken pride in raising them despite his complaints—or, maybe, because of them. A wave of sadness washed over her as she thought of the two girls being left for the storm to ravage.

She straightened, reminding herself of her haste and swept her gaze around the kitchen. She grabbed the truck keys from the mantlepiece. If she was going to survive she would need to drive as fast and as far east as she could. The storm moved in waves, every day reaching slightly further, a kilometre, or a few meters. The scorched soil from the previous day was visible only a minute’s walk from the farmhouse. If she could just find an outpost somewhere along there. Weather, military, something!

Above the large kitchen table, among photographs of her and her immediate family, hung a faded charcoal drawing. Two dozen men and women stood in front of a wooden frame that would one day become the farmhouse. She grabbed it, frame and all, and set it on the kitchen table.

The living room, now a mess of wires and equipment, was next. A dozen laptops perched on fold-up tables, lying open where their occupants had sat only minutes before. She wondered if the farmhouse was the only building in the country without electricity, not that anywhere in the West had it now. The power came from large batteries, two of which were stuffed under her father’s desk. The storm-front was almost impossible to predict more than a day ahead but about an hour before, it became clear that it would reach them on its journey eastwards.

She glanced at the graphs and coloured maps on the screens but they were just that. Perhaps if she’d deigned to learn, there might be something of value here. She stepped over the wires to reach the bookshelf at the back, filled with heavy leather-bound tomes along with adventure novels and machine manuals. Pushing empty mugs to the side, she selected by far the oldest, the spine creased from heavy use.

‘The Holy Bible,’ was inscribed in gold foil across the front. Whatever else had been there had long since worn off. She flicked it open, scanning through the first few pages. Scrawled in countless prints were the names, births, and deaths of her entire family. In recent years her father had kept up the tradition and she’d even written his death in afterwards. That was the last time it had been opened and the tear-smudged ink still looked fresh. She snapped it shut and tucked it under her arm.

Next, she took the stairs, two at a time, two flights up until she entered her room, ducking to avoid bumping her head.

She pulled open her wardrobe, flinging clothes out behind her, shirts, heavy trousers, skirts like her mother wore… she paused as something sparkled up at her.

In her hands was a sequenced shirt that was barely more than a stretchy tube of fabric. A feeling, long quashed moved deep within her.   Underneath was a pair of leather trousers, a short skirt, and long leather boots. They wouldn’t fit now but somehow she’d never managed to rid herself of them. The idea that they held. The one she’d lost.

Well, she wasn’t here for reminders of her teenage dreams. She shoved them out of the way, uncovering a small wooden chest. Inside was a collection of old coins, jewellery, and a pile of yellowed paper—the family journal. She knew it was stupid, but she lifted the whole thing onto her hip.

At that moment the house shuddered and she almost lost grip of it. Steadying herself, she retracted her earlier judgement about the stability of the house. Taking a last look at her room of twenty-two years, she pushed out of the door and hurried down the steps two at a time.

Even as she entered the kitchen, the house shuddered again followed by a collective crash as shards of glass skittered across the floor and bits of paper fluttered across the table. “Come on you two,” she said to the girls, placing the framed drawing on top of her growing pile. Catching sight of the family recipe book, she stuffed that on top too.

She hurried out of the room and, balancing everything on one arm, pulled open the front door.

Immediately a gust of wind almost ripped the box from under her arm. She clung to it as she crossed the yard to the cow shed. Missing half of its tin roof, it held only the battered truck. Now it was in the path of the storm and little if anything survived that.

Wincing at the screech of metal as another roof sheet flicked away, Ester opened the passenger door and dropped everything onto the cracked leather. She then turned back to the pigs which now watched her, seemingly unbothered by the wind.

“Come on,” She said, grabbing Bella’s pink collar. She didn’t move.

Ester tried to push her and then drag her but she was far too heavy. Carly, upon seeing her sister’s refusal, set her feet in the dirt.

Ester looked up and was shocked to see the storm front consuming half of the sky, a great wall of swirling clouds. Flashes of lightning illuminated the plain in the distance before it was swallowed. The air felt heavy despite the lack of rain. She turned back to the girls. “Fine, but don’t haunt me for leaving you behind.”

Jumping into the driver’s seat, she tried to imagine the pigs finding somewhere to hide. Due to some miracle, the truck started. Heart pounding, she pushed the stick into first, careful to avoid the pigs. She passed the old windmill, now decked out with wind speed monitors and solar panels, and finally onto the dirt road.

As she picked up speed, glancing over her shoulder all the time she felt a sense of approval. As if her father were sitting beside her urging her on.

Her grin faded as a peal of thunder seemed to shake the truck. In the rear-view mirror, the storm was closing in fast. She wasn’t going to make it. The front would be moving faster than the truck could on the tarmac, even as large a one as they had in the Eastfield.

She glanced at the passenger seat and felt a sudden twang of sadness. A pile of useless junk, not her father. A tear slid down her cheek. What was she doing?

Though her mind screamed at her to continue, she slowed to a stop and yanked the parking break up.

“You don’t care what I do,” she said, “You never did. You only cared about the past. Mother is right, I’m just like you.” Even as the words left her mouth she knew they were true. She was just like him. But she didn’t have to be.

The storm was now all she could see in the mirrors but she couldn’t bring herself to press the gas pedal. Instead, she peered out of the window towards the farmhouse. She swore she could see two pink blotches standing in the yard.

What am I doing? With a deep breath, she shoved the stick into reverse. Careful not to land in the ditch, she turned the truck back to face the storm.

“I’m not like him,” she said. “I won’t die holding onto things that mean nothing to me.”

She slammed her foot to the floor and the truck lurched forward, back towards the farmhouse. Idiot. Her mind shouted at her, but she wasn’t listening. If she was going to die, she would die with Bella and Carly. Not alone in a truck with useless clutter.

When she pulled into the yard, the storm-front was so close that its shadow cast the yard into twilight. She climbed out the passenger door after struggling to lever her own against the wind. “Carly! Bella!”

Bent into the thundering wind, she left the truck, engine still running, as she crossed to the shed which was now roofless. There they were, steady as boulders where she’d left them. She fell to her knees as she reached them, putting one hand on each of their collars.

“Silly girls,” she shouted into the wind, “Did I not teach you any survival skills?”

They just looked at her as if to say, who are you talking about survival?

Ester looked back to the truck but there was no way she would escape the storm now. Her eyes fell on a pile of rubble—materials her father had intended to use to fix up the mill. It seemed almost fitting as she dragged her two girls behind it.

The storm hit, harder than she ever imagined. There was no rain, no torrential downpour. Darkness descended around them so that she could barely see. Her only glimpses came when the lightning struck every few seconds.

One second the shed was there and then it was a tangle of bent metalwork. The wind blew harder and, though, from the almighty crash, she knew the house was gone. Bits of wood flashed past her as she huddled tighter with the two pigs.

They didn’t so much as whimper, but instead watched with steady eyes. She could learn a thing or two from them. At some point, at least twenty minutes in, she saw the truck roll past, smashing into a large pile of rubble and timber that had not been there before. The Mill. She felt no sadness for it and the things inside the truck.

For a moment, she thought she was safe from most of the damage, and then the firestorm hit. Heat like she’d never felt before engulfed them as horizontal flames flickered around the rocks. She pulled her coat up around her mouth as her eyes began to sting.

A red glow grew and grew around her and the sound of roaring flames rose and rose… Sweat dried on her skin and the awful smell of smouldering hair prompted her to pull the jacket up over her head. Huddled between the pigs, she whimpered as heat seared the soles of her feet. Until it didn’t. The heat dissipated slightly and, when she looked up, the glow was further on. A fiery burst marked the end of the truck. The remains of the mill burned longer. Slowly, bit by bit, the firestorm faded. In comparison, the winds before seemed light as they whipped ash and dust past her.

Almost an hour later, the winds had lessened enough that she could stand easily. She was alive! She glanced down at Bella and Carly and while their short hair was a little singed, skin a little red, they were still watching her. She shook her head. Steady as boulders.

Leaning slightly into the wind, Ester surveyed what remained of her ancestral home. The farmhouse over a hundred years old was reduced to its stone foundations with little sign there had been anything else. The shed still held onto its frame, blackened and scorched as it was though the sheeting was mostly gone. Everything else was charred and as the dust and ash cleared there was blackened ground as far as she could see.

Yet as she wandered around, picking through the rubble of the mill and the half-melted remains of the truck, she felt more at peace than ever. She laughed into the steady breeze. There was nothing left for her here. She could move on freely.

Something nuzzled at her trouser leg. Bella and Carly looked up at her with expectant eyes. Smiling, she nodded, “You’re right, there’s still you two.”