Rainsquall

1. 1.

1.

W ind hissed through long blades of grass, dragging with it the scent of a downpour that had yet to reach the cottage. Folke stood at its door, tracing the frame’s worn wood. Each nick and divot snagging his fingertips told of its age, of the years it had withstood storms much like the one headed for him.

Paint chipped away under his grazing touch. Green, like the grass stretching before him on days the sun shone brightest. To his left, the tinkling of wind chimes turned ever more inharmonic. Above it, the scrape of yew branches across limestone. Midwinter had come and gone, the berries would have since decayed, but Folke remembered their bright red.

“Still wondering about the sky?”

Folke jerked his head to the right. “Eleanor.”

“Morning, Folke.” Eleanor’s raspy voice drifted upward to vanish along the foot of the tall hill just beyond the cottage.

“You should mind how much you smoke.”

“And you should get a working telephone.” Eleanor had reached the steps, grains scraping under the soles of her shoes as she came to a stop.

Folke grunted. “I prefer my peace and quiet.”

An obnoxious bleat warbled from the corner of the cottage, loud and drawn out. Deliberately, Folke was sure. The sheep’s lofty pitch told him it was Socks.

“Right,” Eleanor trailed off. “I just wanted to check on you before the big storm hits. You’re all set?”

He bit down a burr of irritation, only now realising he’d neglected to shop for supplies to tide him over. “Yes. I’ll be fine.”

The faint creak of a leather belt being adjusted, the jingle of keys. “Are you sure? I can drive you to the village now. We’ll make it.”

“I’m sure others need your help more, Sergeant Teague.”

“Don’t be stubborn.”

Irritation drew his shoulders tight. Knit his brows together. He reached for the crook where he’d left it leaning against the wall to his side. Curled his fingers around it. Drew comfort from its familiarity, the coolness of polished wood. Hazel, as smooth as the day he’d purchased it so many years ago.

“Folke.” Uttered warily.

“I need to tend to my Garments.”

The front door shut with a snap. Folke listened for the retreating crunch of pebbles underfoot before easing through the short hallway into the kitchen, where wood flooring changed to tiles. With his free hand he traced wallpaper Eleanor had put up several months back.

White with brown dandelion puffs on ’em, she’d told him. The row they had before Folke finally caved and let her do as she pleased with his kitchen had permanently engraved itself into its walls. On days like this, he still heard their shouted exchange, now ghostly echoes.

And she had the gall to call him stubborn.

His fingers slid past the pantry door, wrapped around the door frame of the tiny entryway, before he found the way back outside. Bells knelled idly, the sheep only a short distance away. A melodious bleat, belonging to Jumper and another, more dispirited, was Shawl’s.

“Beanie, Mittens?”

Ruminant feet padded toward him, the whispers of grass and buttercups yielding under sheep a comfort. Woolly bodies in desperate need of a shear bumped into his legs when he reached the last step, his rubber boots connecting with gravel. From there, it was a straight shot to the barn, one built for a flock much larger.

Cresting the slope, Folke swept his crook across the ground at the barn’s entrance. The scent of hay curled into his nose as his Garments made their way in on their own, their cloven hooves treading packed dirt. They were old enough not to need much urging.

Their barn was clean, at least. A day’s long task Folke had completed yesterday in preparation for the storm. He set the crook to lean against the barn wall, felt around to hessian bags filled with silage. Dragged it to their trough and filled it. He ran his hands over the timber, catching splinters. It was due for repair. Moved over to their water and dipped a finger in. Plenty left, sparing him the need to fetch more from the well.

Folke eased upright, waited until he was certain all five bells rang within the barn, then walked outside, fumbling for the crook on his way. Although his sheep knew to stay inside during a storm, the mere thought of losing yet another was one he couldn’t bear. So he slid the doors shut and bolted them.

The wind gained momentum, first hints of rain pelting across his cheeks, into his hair. Tapping against wood walls, flicking vegetation. Folke leant low to brush his fingers over Needle’s tombstone in passing, situated off the pebbled path between barn and home.

Rest easy, girl. This storm too will pass.

Back into the kitchen, he left the crook near the pantry entrance and rummaged through the shelves. Some canned soups, a bag of oats, sugar, and enough tea to anger a great many people were he to dump it all .

He’d be fine. This storm would only last a few days.

Loud banging had him jerking his head. Folke muttered a swear. Eleanor must have opened the shutters the last time she had intruded. He would have to stop letting her in.

By the time he’d gone through the cottage and closed all seventeen shutters, the storm had reared into full blast, pummelling the side of his home with startling fervour.

Folke shook water from his hair and grabbed a towel hanging from the side of the tub to pat his face and neck dry. Ordinarily, he would have gone down to kindle a fire in the hearth, but his tired legs drew him to the bedroom instead. Peeled wallpaper caught on his wandering fingertips and he paused, overcome with a sudden urge to tug until it tore away.

He didn’t.

This bedroom once belonged to his parents. That wallpaper had been put up by his mother. Busy and bright with swirling stems. Yellow, red, and blue flowers. Hints of purple, too. Folke remembered tracing the green stalks with his fingers as a child, knowing where the pattern repeated yet always trying to discover it again. Then, he’d distract himself with the floor mirror, tilting it just so, until it looked like he walked the ceiling.

That remained, too. Near the window.

The bed did not creak as he sat on its edge. Of wood far too solid to permit age to wear it down. It was the mattress that gave him trouble, the pocket springs thrumming as he laid down, poking Folke in the back.

He hated it.

Another thing Eleanor had convinced him to change, when the one lined with cotton belonging to his parents had been perfectly fine. A few tears hadn’t bothered him.

Shutters continued to rattle as gales fought against them. So fiercely, Folke had to wonder if they would last. They were old—this entire cottage was, having stood silently against the hill for years long before the Eberhardt’s moved in and made it their own. Painted the doors and shutters green, wallpapered everything with vibrant patterns. Gathered a flock of sheep that soon turned into a herd.

Now dwindled to the last five.

Sleep claimed Folke eventually, his restless hands stilling where he’d been toying with the buttons of his shirt. The bangs and lashings of rain dragged into his dreams, filled with sounds and images remembered. Bleats carried with faint blurs of dirty white. They sounded panicked, scared.

Folke bolted upright, out the bedroom before his head could catch up. He staggered down the stairs, fingers fretful in seeking the back door. His breath caught in his chest at the sound of a crash. Wood breaking, his sheep bleating in distress.

The gale tore the door out of his grip. Folke’s left ankle met the edge of a stone step, his knees the gravel. Panicked grunts jerked free as he stumbled up against wet winds, fighting to the barn.

A woolly body collided with his legs. He crashed back to the ground, palms catching on stones and splintered planks. Mittens’ bleats vanished into the distance as Folke gathered himself back up.

Barn doors banged on the hinges, loose, knocking into his front, then again his back when he wedged between them, catching his fingers in them once. Bells and more bleats and far more wind tearing through the barn than was right. He shuffled forward, arms extended, searching. His feet caught on something else, soft and fluffy. Folke gasped and bent low, thin legs knocking his forearms before his hands closed around them and he rolled the ewe over. He heard her stagger upright, then dart away to the banging doors.

The further into the barn he got, the more wreckage blocked his path, the harsher the wind and rush of rain became. He stumbled over planks, a feed bag—until his throbbing fingers connected with what was left of the back wall. Splinters caught his skin as he felt around, grimacing against the icy droplets flogging his face. Something had crashed through, leaving a sizeable hole.

His fingers grazed something other than wood and he jerked with a startled gasp.

Yielding, like skin.

Folke reached out again with trembling hands, terrified it might be one of his Garments. His touch moved up what he would have sworn was an arm, were it not for the protrusions. Several inches long. Sharp . He hissed, pulling back his nicked middle finger and pressing it against the pad of his thumb. It came away sticky.

A low rumbling, barely audible over the storm. Like a growl, becoming ever more guttural until it was a wet, open-mouthed snarl. Folke startled away with a yelp and made for the nearest tinkling bell.

He shoved at the ewe, trying to push her out of the barn, his panting turning into panicked gasps when he heard planks clonking to packed dirt. Whatever had bashed into the barn was on the move, heavy, padded feet crunching through dampened hay.

Folke shouted something, unintelligible to his own ears, wrapped his arms around the sheep’s flocculent body and hoisted her up off the ground. Shawl wriggled in his hold, quickly becoming unwieldy, bellowing indignantly into his ear. His legs were unsteady as he took a step forward and a knifelike pain shot through his foot.

He cried out and dropped Shawl. She scampered away from Folke as he collapsed to the ground and clasped his left foot, knuckles colliding with the plank now attached to his boot’s sole.

The snarling drew nearer. Hay caught wet drips. Folke’s shaking hands closed around the plank. He grit his teeth, then yanked it out. Swung the plank in a wide arc in front of him. It connected with a thunk, wrenched out of his grasp, and was followed by something heavy collapsing.

Folke sat there wheezing, soaking wet, and foot throbbing. Listening for any signs the wolf might rise again. Only when certain the remaining sounds came from the storm did he stagger upright and limp out of the barn. His heart clenched tightly when he couldn’t hear any bells, terrified of what it meant when no bleats answered his calls.

He climbed inside the cottage, the back door remaining open after he lost a fight against the wind, and snatched up his crook. Blood ran hot into Folke’s sock, squelching with every step. His fingers wrapped around the rope tied to a post at the bottom of the front steps outside, and he stumbled along the uneven path.

The rope led him across the hills. With every hastened sweep, his crook clacked into stone, caught on brush. The cannonade of rain and gusts bodily pulled and yanked at him. Sweeping him one way, pushing him the other, but not once did Folke hear the faintest bell or a bleat to tell him his sheep were nearby.

“Garments!” he shouted at the very top of his lungs, and they were powerful lungs, but the winds were stronger, howling over the hills and drowning out his voice.

Wet rope grated his fingers—until it didn’t. Folke flailed forward, hoping to catch the rope where it might have escaped to, but found nothing. He hesitated, took a step back. Reached around.

Nothing.

Swept the crook across the ground for a post.

Still nothing.

A thick lump formed inside his throat, he couldn’t swallow against it. Neither could he ease the thrashing of his heart. Folke’s grip on the crook tightened. There was little chance he would find the way back. He should have never gone out in the first place. Eleanor was right to always fret about him. A sack of fodder had more brains than he did.

“What in the Hell. . .”

Folke had hardly heard it over the chatter of his teeth, the terror pounding in his ears. He tilted his head, grimacing against the lashings of rain, hoping to catch more of the voice that had whipped past him on the wind. The moments blustered by, convincing him he had hallucinated it.

“I’ll ask again!” Commanding and deep, unmistakable. Folke jerked his head to the left. “What are ye doing here?”

“Get rid of him!” This voice was different. Fierce and rough.

Feet scuffed sodden earth a short distance from him.

“I—” Folke’s trembling threatened to overpower him. His grip on the crook turned painful. “I’m lost.”

“Speak up!”

“I’m lost!”

“Alright, na need to shout. I’m right here.” Amusement laced the stranger’s deep voice.

“Whyte!” The other, fiercer voice again. Followed by a clack of metal. “Get rid of him!”

“This weather’s going to be the death of me,” whinged yet another. “I’m soaked through to my drawers!”

“A shepherd ought to ken his way around these hills well enough no’ to get lost.” That same resonant rumble, Scots heavily interwoven with his English, and so much closer now.

Folke hunched his shoulders against a particularly feral gust, sending debris across his face. He squirmed away when a sudden calescence told him whoever this man was had drawn much too close.

Shakily, Folke managed, “I’m blind.”