The Storm — Short Story. Wind rushed across the cliffs as a dark…
By: Drunk Plato
Tags: Ireland, Fatherhood, Fiction, Family, Short Story

Photo by Dallas Reedy on Unsplash

Wind rushed across the cliffs as a dark wall of clouds moved from the sea to the land. There was a coolness to the air that made the birds take off in swarms. It was as if they could sense that whatever was on the horizon would be dire. The cawing echoed across the grassy plains atop the cliffs as they flew away from the storm.

Georgie and his father, Peter, sat on the porch as they did on many Sunday afternoons. It was a small shack but looked sturdy enough. It’s worn wooden facade had taken the brunt of many storms in the past and still stood. But as Peter rocked back and forth in his chair, he grimaced toward the incoming clouds.

“Ye feel that, Georgie?”

“What papa?”

“There be an ache to the wind and moistness in the air,” declared Peter.

Georgie stood up and lifted his hand in the air. The wind carried a fine mist that covered his fingers in small droplets of water. A mighty gust shoved him back as the clouds raced toward the shore. Peter stood and put his arm around his son as the window’s storm guards smashed against the shack. He turned and closed the guards over the glass and latched it.

“I feel it now papa, the ache,” stated Georgie.

“Aye, that’s the sign of a wicked storm. Hurry inside, I must prepare the house.”

“Yes, papa.”

Georgie turned and rushed in the door, closing it behind him. Peter stared forward into the darkness with a fearless gaze.

“Bring what ye may, vile wench. We’ll not be taken by ye this day.”

Peter rushed forward to the edge of the cliff as his cloak whipped violently behind him. Below, he could see the waves crashing fiercely on the rocks of the cove. Ahead, the darkness grew to the entire span of the horizon. It was coming. This was the big one. Turning to his right, he approached a small stone circle surrounding a wooden hatch. He opened it and climbed down.

Inside was a storeroom of glass lanterns and torches, with buckets of oil for lighting. He grabbed four of the lanterns and slung them over the shoulder as he climbed back up. He rushed to the front of the shack and placed two lanterns twenty feet from home. He went to the left side and did the same. After one more trip to the storeroom, he had eight lanterns surrounding his home. Two on each side.

Georgie was watching from an uncovered window. Peter noticed he had forgotten to close one and shut the storm guard, keeping Georgie from peering outside. He was not to see what was to come.

Peter rushed to the storeroom one last time, he unsheathed a silver sword that was leaned against the wall and check it for sharpness. Sheathing the sword, he tied it around his waist as he grabbed a bundle of torches and the bucket of oil. As he climbed out of the storeroom, the storm was crashing against the cliffs before him.

Black apparitions were flowing through the incoming rain and clouds. The storm wraiths would crash upon the home like a horde of bees on the poor soul who touched their hive. Peter provoked the hive, or rather tried to destroy it entirely, when he was younger. The wraiths were not a fan of him and definitely were not a fan that he had a son to follow in his footsteps.

Peter sprinted back to the shack and pushed through the door, closing it behind him and lighting the torches in oil. He handed one to his son and grabbed another in his hand as he pulled out the sword and stood watch at the door. Outside, the high pitched screams of passing wraiths caused Georgie to tremble in place.

“Ye must be strong, boy. Do not fear them, and they will not approach you. Fear brings them upon you. You must trust in the flame. It will hold them at bay.”

The door rattled, and Georgie gasped in fright. Peter readied for attack as the door swing open. A horde of darkness flowed in, but avoided the fire, not getting too close. Peter looked at Georgie, “Don’t let go of the flame.”

The darkness amassed into a larger entity and formed a skeletal face in the corner of the home. Firelight from the torches revealed its shape.

“We have come for you, at last, the great Peter of Moher. What is your last wish?”

“I am not afraid of ye, vile spirits. Ye cannot approach. We have the fire on our side, and ye have but a waning evil wishing to defeat the light. Ye cannot! Begone!”

The windows broke as more dark apparitions flooded the house. There was such a mass that the walls and ceiling were thrust forth, carried away by the wind. Only the floor remained. Georgie fell in terror as the rain began to wet the torches. Peter looked in dread as he realized that his perimeter of light did not hold back the greater tide of darkness. Now, the black rain of the storm would put out the fire in his hand. He glanced down the way and noticed the perimeter lanterns were still lit.

“Georgie! Come hither! We must fly!”

Laughter erupted from the dark mass that continued the grow. “You think you can escape what is to come? You think your meagre fire can withstand the darkness?”

Peter and Georgie rushed forth as the last of their torches were extinguished by water. Just as the last of the light faded, Peter grasped the lantern in his hand. Rushing to the next lantern, he handed it to Georgie and continued around the perimeter to grab the rest. The black mass watched from a distance as the rain continued to pour, and wind tore at the grass.

Peter had grabbed the remaining lanterns and placed them around himself and Georgie. “Ye think that darkness can defeat the light? It never can nor will. The bearers of light may be few in this day, but our light shines forth even in the storm.”

Georgie took a step forward, holding the lantern before him, and rushed toward the mass of wraiths. “We are the light in the darkness like papa says! Leave us be!”

Peter watched his son fight the wraiths, and a tear shed forth from his eye. The tear was followed with a deluge of love that caused a break in the clouds. A shaft of light shone down upon the wraiths evaporating them in their place. The storm faded with the destruction of the wraiths, and the lands were lit with the light once again.

Peter fell to his knees as Georgie turned back, “Ye see son, the mightiest of all come from the young within us all.”

Georgie rushed back to his father and embraced him, pushing him back into the mud. His father laughed joyously as they had defeated the storm yet again. Before, it was only Peter who faced the darkness, but together with father and son, they were able to defeat them, unlike anytime before.