After Christmas, time to get back to writing at last. Chopin and Mozart are entertaining me from the lounge room and I have been searching through some old stories in the hope that I might find something for my readers to enjoy. This one is based on our years on a farm that was situated in a magnificent karri forest in Western Australia.
Lightning
Grey clouds skittle up from the south, hastened by a blustery wind. From the karri forest surrounding our farm I hear branches crashing to the ground. Electricity in the air makes the hairs on my arms stand on end. A jagged slash of yellow light spears the earth, accompanied by the crack of thunder.
Cows waddle as quickly as their ungainly bodies will allow, away from the fence and tall trees. In tones that vary from soprano shrieks to the calming pitch of more experienced mums, they summon their calves. Soon I am the only lightening rod in the top end of the paddock. I sprint towards the protection of the cattle; like them I seek safety in numbers.
Splattered by large blobs of rain, the thirsty ground releases an earthy smell that sets off primitive emotions in me. I sniff the air and welcome the downpour. Steam rises from hot hides, calves nuzzle at their mothers’ teats and big brown eyes watch for the next flash that might barbecue one of us.
Our cattle are accustomed to me in the utility, delivering hay, fixing water troughs and rounding them up to change paddocks, but the sight and smell of a human amongst them in this situation seems to disturb some, especially the new mums.
The sky turns a darker grey. Standing in the rain feels like being under a waterfall. Lightning streaks away over the forest, taking the thunder with it. I try to continue the run that started my circumference of our three hundred acres, but quickly realise that anything more than a brisk walking pace is unwise. Reaching the house, I open the door to the laundry and yell.
‘Can someone please get me a towel?’
‘Where have you been?’ My mother appears from the kitchen, carrying a casserole with a pot-holder in each hand. ‘I assumed you were in the house somewhere. Is anyone else out in the storm? Don’t put those boots in here.’
‘Mum, I don’t know where the others are.’ I drop the wet, brown lumps on the veranda and pull off a soggy sock. ‘Can you please get me a towel?’
‘Sorry dear. I’m just surprised that anyone was out in that.’ She nods her head towards the window. ‘Whatever got into you? Did you tell anyone where you were going? Where did you go?’
‘Mum! Can I please have a towel or do you want me to strip here and run through the house naked?’
‘No need for that.’ Mum responds with a huffy toss of her head and walks back into the kitchen. ‘Ron, where are you?’ Her voice is loud enough to reach dad even if he’s in the shed. ‘Isn’t anyone around when they’re needed?’
My thirteen year old sister strolls into the kitchen, stares at me through the open door and runs back to the passage. ‘Gee. How did he get so wet?’
No-one answers her. After what feels like five minutes she tosses me one of the fancy towels that our mother reserves for visitors.
‘Here. Mum’ll have a fit but it’s the only one I can find.’
I dump my clothes in a puddle on the floor and rub my body with more vigour than is needed to turn the blue patches pink and ward off pneumonia, wondering if any of my family would notice if I was hit by lightning.