Thunderstorm

Thunderheads roiled up from the heating ground, their edges puffed out in all directions, up over around above beyond. Other clouds stretched before them; long streaks of white pushed by the expanding thunder clouds.

Not too dark, though. The clouds could well evaporate without shouting up the canyon walls of the gorge. That sound haunted Big Goof as he gazed at the gathering storm. He thought he could hear the rumbling shout of the clouds, but the echoes bounced around his memory, not out there beyond whatever he was.

He wondered whether these clouds would darken to the depth of darkness of other storms. He worried that the thunder would roll over the gorge, dashing lightning along the ridges and upon the river, lighting fires in the dry kindling forest.

He had seen the forest explode into a firestorm not long after the fire-breathing light streaks had scattered down the flanks of his forest.

His thoughts now curdled with fear at the nightmarish image. He had seen several dozen bolts of fire strings whip all around him. The crackling things splintered grand old trees that had stood for moons with moons. Their wood flew away as fast as the lightning strikes, now smoldering kindling daggers.

Soon a circle of fire started by those shards grew around the dry forest in every direction. The trees cackled from the ground to the canopy within moments, then fire sprites skipped across the crowns like squirrels, spreading the conflagration beyond the ridge and over the creeks.

That was the worst one he’d lived through, but many others shuffled him away from favorite camps – the huckleberry fields, the chanterelle-sprouted groves, the hot springs.

That huge one nearly burned all his fur, though. He stomped toward the Great River – his fastest gate in slow motion stroll. That’s how it felt, but he actually ran. He ran so wildly that he crashed into a thin sapling that bent under him and slapped his balls and ass as his legs cleared the spindly tree.

Man, that hurt!

But he ran on as that fire of his memory sucked the air from his lungs and scorched his backside as he tried to out-lumber it.

He looked over his shoulder at the fire beast that raged now where moments before there had only been a few burning leaves and limbs. But they relit as they struck the ground, an army of destruction attacking everything around.

He turned back just in time as a huge, old tree stood silent and resolute before him. He threw his weight to that side, judging the tree limbs less abundant and stout in that direction, ducked his head and put out his shoulder just in case he misjudged the trajectory. His massive bulk lurched just far enough to clear the trunk. He couldn’t help looking back as the bark scratched his upper arm in one last gesture of danger.

He had seen other wild animals killed when they hurtled headlong into the steady heavy huge trees like the one he had just somehow cleared. But that was only one way to die from the fire. He shuddered as he recalled images of the other ways wildlife and trees and fish perished.

An echo of a thunderclap sounded from far far far, drawing Big Goof back to now from his nightmarish reverie. The thunderheads moved slowly, their edges lit by bright sun, their underbellies darkening. He glanced at them, then turned in a large wide arc as his two huge feet pirouetted on the sandy earth.

Clouds crowded now in all directions, thicker downriver toward the smoke of the cold people. If he had to flee here, he couldn’t go there, he knew.

Perhaps across the gorge to the quiet mountains or back to the foothills, perhaps as far as the angry mountain now without a crown after that harrowing event suns past suns past suns.

These clouds perplexed him. Well, he was always perplexed by the weather though he never realized that was to be. Why would he? He had survived on his wits somehow for a very long time, though he also had no recollection of how long. He had no reason to think about the past other than to re-collect information from there. That did come in handy when confronted with nature’s threats.

As he rolled his thoughts over the fields and forests of his past, trying to grab a snippet resembling this moment, something resembling those clouds and this filtered sunlight and that wind, but nothing whispered to him. Were these clouds that unusual?

The sun suddenly emblazoned a puff of cloud below the heads. The wisp of moisture diffracted the sun across its face and the stub of a rainbow briefly shone. Rainbows always pleased him though they were also so varied. His senses eased some and he drew in a long breath. The air seemed alive somehow, perhaps charged by the lightning storm that was about to attack his land – or not. Perhaps the air was just tingling from the breeze perfumed by lavender.

The rainbow disappeared and Big Goof suddenly felt the same dread descend upon him. Yes, this was like that storm or maybe that one. Yes, the air may smell sweet but that could mask death’s odor.

Thirst and thunder

Big Goof squatted on his haunches. His long hairy muscular arms reached down to the loamy ground. He grabbed at the ground, clawing a clump of it. He threw his arm back and launched the dirt and rocks before him, failing to recognize the wind was beating from that direction. Pebbles rained on his sunburned pate and he inhaled dust, coughing as if he’d just gulped the smoke of the cold people.

Blech. He spit out the moldy tasting dirt and shook his head to dislodge an insect that found itself magically and frighteningly transported to the alien realm of his fur.

He choked more violently, causing him to lurch straight up from the squat as he began beating his barrel chest to restore his breathing. Without any water nearby, he thought of pissing into his palms so he could clear his throat but the gagging and coughing soon passed.

He had learned pounding his chest worked after an incident in one of the firestorms. He had been fleeing a fire but rather than narrowly dodge a large tree, he ran smack into it. That was a painful, but good thing he had because he had been choking from the smoke and the impact puffed his lungs clear just long enough for him to gather his wits and to crawl into the deep hollow of a nearby fallen tree. That saved his life that time as the fire roared around the moist cocoon of the roots, unable to reach him. When the fire had passed, he looked all around and only saw black or charred trees, black paths of dead pine needles, scorched and wilted ferns, and wrinkled leaves.

He headed toward the river where he could soon quench the thirst brought on by the dirt and pebbles. If he could find a bramble bush, he might find some late berries still filled with juice but the hope was as dim as the day was becoming under the storm.

This summer of sun on sun on sun had also meant an early fruiting, though, so rather than search for the unlikely berries, he trudged forward and down to the river.

The clouds followed him as he stumbled down a dry creek bed toward the great waters. The storm hung directly overhead now. A clap of thunder could yet throw the sizzling lightning to course through his body from top to toes. He had seen the electric strings cut straight down the tallest tree in a grove, gutting the fleshy wood as it ripped down its length. That tree fell over a moon later. He had seen the licking light strike and stun an elk. The huge animal had fallen down, its front legs buckling, as its world went black. The elk had laid there for a few moments before suddenly lurching back to life. He stood perfectly still for some moments, apparently trying to figure out what just happened by sniffing around for the predator that had attacked. It suddenly rose up on its hind legs like a horse (Big Foot had never seen that before or since) and ran at full gallop from the clearing as its legs struck the ground. He thought he never saw that elk again but he couldn’t be sure because once you’ve seen one elk ….

He had learned to not shape-shift into a tree during a lightning storm – that lesson remained. A bolt had nearly killed him as he stood in the company of the tallest trees, marveling at that storm, when the needles suddenly shivered and he swiftly shifted back to his familiar form just as a streak of lightning reached down to shatter several trees in the stand.

By the time he reached the river, a thousand strides on, a light rain seeped from uniformly gray clouds that now stretched over the entire sky.

If thunderheads still loomed, they’d be above that cover of clouds. He couldn’t know.

The southwesterly wind gusted, parting his eyebrows and tickling his skull. He felt the drops where he no longer had fur. The rain stung with cold at the end of the humid day.

He looked around for shelter – low, deciduous trees serve well because their foliage was thick at this time of the year while their branches were denser than the old grandfather trees. They were very significant to his well-being, far shorter than the old faints. He would be shielded from the worst of the storm.

He still couldn’t decide nor could the clouds. Perhaps they would lighten with just a few sheets of moisture and move higher and farther east.

East. He looked as far upriver as his eyes could strain. Way out there where the land was much more baked than here, the thunderheads stood proud above the horizon, throwing lightning bolts at the ground.

He thought he heard the throat-clearing rumble of thunder echo across the ridges, down the river, through the meadows, across the trees.

He sat down where he’d pushed away some of last season’s leaves. The light rain didn’t touch him under the boughs of this tree. He had his back to the tree to conserve heat. He was OK.

He had found some half-dry berries on the traipse down to the big waters. He had some bark to chew on, as well. He could shelter here for a night, maybe longer, without feeling particularly peckish. And the salmon were still nearby so he could feast well for some time should he somehow get stuck here.

He believed the lightning wouldn’t strike him. He hoped. It was too early in the cycle to have lightning. Rare at any time, lightning now almost never happened.

He could recall a dozen or two times he saw lightning and heard thunder. Nearly all of those storms occurred when the huckleberries were in bloom and the fall fish feast began. Not three or four moons early.

Except it did. At least to the east. He shuddered, thinking of the congregation of wildlife caught under that angry sky. And he thanked nothing in particular that he wasn’t experiencing the ravaging storm here and now.

Shhctactac!

The bolt crackled, hitting a dozen paces off. He fell sideways, his teeth chattering, his ears ringing deaf from the sizzling bolt and the shouting thunder. The latter echoed off up and down the gorge as he tried to regain his senses. The shock caused him to dribble pee; it was that startling.

He huddled against the tree, laying on his side, pulling his knees up to his belly and bowing his head toward them. This was the only way to respond to a wild storm. That and finding a cave but it was too late to start looking for that shelter now. No, he hunkered down for the onslaught.

The storm didn’t produce any other lightning and he eventually dozed off as the rain came down with somewhat more conviction. Sometime during that evening, he opened his eyes to peer up at gray clouds now tinged with orange and fuchsia. It reminded him of the green clouds but he dozed back off before the memory stirred his slow brain to wakefulness.

The green clouds had hovered over the mouth of the small river some dozen ridges away from the angry mountain. The sky had turned a forest green following an earth-scouring rain and windstorm. He had shivered under a stand of small pine trees that morning and gazed at the oddly colored clouds.

When did that happen? Did it happen? He no longer cared as he dozed. The rain pattered around the boughs of the tree and he slept.

“Keh, keh o ay na!” he shouted without knowing he said something close to words.

“Keh keh ay na o!” he growled.

The cool air embraced him. He felt its love for him but he worried the embrace might suffocate him. Winds had dangerously arose and sucked the air from the chasms of his lungs.

The approaching legions might sting him with hail, or throw lightning to scorch his bum or fell a tree on his noggin. He intensely listened for distant thunder yet heard only the muttering wind.

The front had slowed some, he observed, so he breathed a sigh of relief.

The wind ceased but only briefly. The sun winked behind the approaching storm and was gone.

Hunker down here? Or look for shelter below the boughs of some old friend oak tree?

He wanted to stand there and let this rain wash his weary, dusty body. He wanted to weep in the storm as the water weeps over him. He wanted to pee as the wind pushed the golden shower into a wide spray and the rain cleansed him.

He hungered for huckleberries and mushrooms and camas roots. Perhaps the purple berries of the huckleberries would ripen in the cool mist.

The mushrooms often sprouted when the weather felt this way.

His stomach gurgled and he mulled what he would next do.