Fever dreams

and summer storms

Hello friends!

The outdoor air still hurts my nostrils but the bird who lives in our porch light has started singing lovely little songs about spring! Spring has come every year, and yet some part of my little ancestral mammal brain fears that this year might be the year that winter stays forever. My little ancestral mammal brain finds a lot of things to worry about… Anyway. Thinking about summer and the power of imagination, for good or for ill. What a strange little animal imagination is.

Hoping you are all cozy and safe.

Summer Window - Astrid Rooke

Fever

He lay in bed, half in a hazy dream, the hot ache of fever haunting his head. A breeze drifted in through the window, chilling his damp skin. Mind caught between waking and sleep, he did not track the passage of time, but slipped in and out of the moments, low-lidded eyes vacant while the sun illuminated the trees methodically, casting shadows that glided slowly upon their day’s journey.

His toys held no interest for him; they felt too heavy in weak fingers. His books lay forgotten within arm’s reach; their words too small and scratchy for the craters of his eyes. He wanted nothing so much as a cool washcloth and a glass of juice, but his mother was elsewhere.

The household sounds had dimmed to a noonday lull, work coming to a halt out of respect for the summer heat. If only he could pull himself upright and pad down to the kitchen to ask for a drink, but his head throbbed painfully. He remained in bed, restless limbs tangled in the bird-wing creases of his sheets.

The heat of the day pressed down enormously, causing reality to bend and buckle into monstrous shapes. The sun was gone, the piercing blue sky dulled by grey clouds. He could hear the long grass snapping irritably, and smell the fragrance of jostled ferns. Their agitation was soon caught by the innocent ash saplings, then the demure birches, until the sleepy summer day was all worried and restless.

An impudent wind began nagged at the tops of the maple trees, rustling them into disarray and flipping the leaves so their pale palms were sent begging against the darkening sky. He opened his cracked lips to taste the air, noticing a new metallic dampness that promised rain. Long skeins of clouds wound themselves together in knots. Thunderheads blossomed and boiled above the trees, the air turning livid green and shadowed. The storm was here.

The first spray of rain hit his face like needles, as if the rainclouds were trying to sooth his fever. He reached a heavy hand to the window screen, tracing across the cold metal, feeling beads of rainwater pool against his fingertips. Thunder rumbled everywhere, filling his empty stomach with a delicious fear. The smell was magnificent; an orchestra of damp earth and disturbed trees.

The first crack of lightening broke yellow-green over the meadow, scattering in an instant like tree roots across the clouds. The flash of it was sharp and hot, aching in unison with his fever, until he wondered if it was his own body that had conjured the storm.

The furious clouds advanced, rolling over the mountain like an invading army. Every clash of lighting like a battle cry thick with pounding hooves and the shriek and clang of celestial armor.

Every strike inspired his mind further, his glassy gaze fixed on that point of catharsis, that cascade of electricity suspended in the air. It had come for him and him alone. If he could go out to meet it, he would be its king. If only he could walk across the grass and climb the maple, grab a thick handful of the clouds and climb, up up to the boiling center, the heart of the violence…

A crack of simultaneous light and sound hit his body, forcing the air from his lungs. The bolt had struck somewhere nearby. That bolt was meant for him: he could almost taste it. Yes, it wanted him. He reached his hand out towards the window once more, trying to reach for that divine tendril before it disappeared. No, don’t leave me.

From far away, he heard the echoing creak of his bedroom door. The sound tore through his dream like crepe paper, leaving him bleary and confused. He felt his mother’s familiar hand on his head, heard her voice soothing him, but he was no longer there. He was of the storm clouds and the fury. He was of the grand way of nature; destruction and beauty and power all at once. It was his legion rolling through the meadows, his armaments battling down the trees, battering the maples and oaks with pelting rain.

In a rattling voice he asked his mother if the storm clouds were like the bay horses in the field. If she said it was so, then he would ride them across the great expanses of the countryside wearing a crown of lightning.

He felt a cool cloth upon his forehead and tasted juice at his lips. The storm had passed, and a profound calm was left in its place. He mourned, briefly, then slipped into a deep, contented sleep.

Thank you for reading!

-Astrid