Inspirational|Fiction|Short Story
The Coming of the Storm
Joe McPherson had lived beneath Mount Sneffels for more than sixty-two years, but this was by far his strangest storm
The Coming of the Storm
The cottage nestled into a wilderness area below Mount Sneffels, amid the mountains of Colorado, where the wind blows, the rain smells, and the snow falls deep. It is the home of Joe and Jessie McPherson.
Joe and Jessie lived all their married life, sixty-two years, in this very cottage. Joe was a writer but stopped writing when Jessie died a year back. The man had written every day of his life before she succumbed to a short illness.
The valley had been their way of life, living in fresh, clean air, with the rain in their nostrils an hour before it crossed Blue Lake. Most breezes drifted in from the San Juan Mountains, moving delicate curtains in open windows.
The Aspens on the valley slopes looked like an artist had painted the colors to appreciate while sitting on the veranda, where one of the rocking chairs no longer rocked.
Joe left the cottage yesterday. Not under duress or the persuasion of their children, who for a month had pleaded with their father to move down the valley into the town of Telluride, where they could care for him.
But Joe didn’t need much. Twice a week, the kids would bring groceries once in winter, and there was always a larder full of tinned foods should the trek become impassable, as sometimes happened.
Time was, he’d sit with Jessie and watch the clouds roll in from afar, coming in as they do to caress or strike at the mountain, and on occasions look as if they would try to force the mountains aside in some way, but those clouds never moved the mountain and Joe had become a part of the mountain.
Yesterday was such a day, clouds brewing trouble, distant lightning, a rumble, and a slap at the mountain. Joe figured another hour, long enough for a cup of tea, before the far mischief grew into near trouble.
Strangers seldom came by, lost folk now and then, so when he saw a figure approaching, Joe sat calmly rocking, waiting for the company to arrive. A thread of lightning lit up the mountainside, but thunder, slow to follow, told Joe trouble was near ten miles away.
The figure came close, wearing a leather hunting coat, stitched seams, and skirt, and had enough pockets for a compass, matches, and cigars. He wore a dark cowboy hat with a leather band and immense brim. Near as Joe could tell, the stranger was thirty-something.
“What can I do for you, son?” Joe asked.
The man looked up, smiled, stopped walking, and rested both hands on his hiking staff.
“Likely so,” said the stranger, pointing toward the mountain as a light rain began to fall, “it will be a good show, from where you’re sitting, sir.”
“You’re quite a ways off from shelter, this far up the valley,” Joe questioned.
The young man smiled. “I have my reasons,” he replied. “Could I by chance sit with you awhile, I’ll be gone when the storm passes by?” He asked.
Joe had long forgotten fearing strangers, nodded, holding his hand to the stranger, indicating he was welcome to sit awhile.
The stranger removed his hat, showing off shoulder-length black hair, lent the staff against the veranda rail, and went to sit down.
“Mind if I ask you to pull up a different rocker, my wife, she likes that one,” Joe said, pointing to another by the door.
“Of course,” the stranger said, bringing the rocker from the cottage wall. “It’s mighty beautiful here; the kind of place one could stay forever,” and he paused. “How long have you lived here?”
“Going on sixty-three years, lad. Never wanted to live anywhere else,” Joe answered.
The stranger nodded his head. “There’s no need wondering why that is.”
“You live around these parts?” Joe asked.
“Here, there, everywhere,” the stranger told him.
In Joe’s mind, he shrugged his shoulders when the young man didn’t elaborate. He didn’t care; it was nice to have company. If the man didn’t want to talk, that was fine. Sometimes he and Jessie sat a long while and never said anything. Never much need to. She died right there on the porch.
The storm broke with a fury Joe had seldom seen. The sky ripped open as lightning tried to sew it together, and thunder, on wheels, rattled across the heavens while the rain fell like iron rods. The September humidity soared. The two sat silently watching the skies, an iron foundry, burning and scalding, an inferno of fury.
Joe had never felt a storm as violent in all his years, but he sat in his rocker, loving every moment, knowing he’d never see the like again. They sat watching the sky, not saying a thing.
As the stitching of the skies became less, and the trundle of wheels across the mountains rumbled fainter, Joe stood and leaned against the veranda fence.
“Well, I think that’s it now, son. Time to be moving on.”
The stranger looked at Joe and felt a weight upon his spirit. He smiled.
“You are right, Joe, time to be moving on,” he said.
Joe looked at the young man quizzically. Joe had not told the stranger his name. How did he know? The stranger stood up, putting his cowboy hat back on.
“Do you really not know me, Joe?”
Joe stared into the man’s face trying to see someone he would recognize. Something deep in the stranger’s eyes told Joe all he needed to know. The stranger was right. It was time to go, and, in his heart, Joe knew he was ready.
“We going to follow that storm?” asked Joe.
“For a while, Joe. For a while.”
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