It was 11 o'clock when the thunder came again, sharp and alive this time, not the low rumble that rolls in from the hills; disquieting yet somehow comforting in its distance. That kind we listen to, uncowed by its might, as we may casually discuss the majesty of a great bear while watching it pace behind bars and moats at the zoo. Staccato and menacing, this thunder spoke syllables directly to the brainstem, demanding to be faced, like the bear suddenly confronted in the wilderness flashing recognition, perhaps for the first time, that you may not be at the top of the food chain after all.
The rational mind says thunder is no more than an after-effect, an announcement the danger is over, but my soul knows full well that this, as much of human explanation, is not the fullness of truth. Thunder is the voice of the storm, however much the lightning may be its teeth, and it is this voice speaking to my core that always draws me. It seems nature is pronouncing the terms of my mortality and, as a man, I can do else but go look it in the eye.
Even the ancient hound, nearly blind and deaf, was able to perceive this storm when its call shook the windows and, as I rose, he brushed against my naked legs, seeking sanctuary, however meager, under the bed. I also longed for sanctuary but moved inexorably away from it taking no trapping of civilization with me.
Outside, unshielded from the wind, I faced the storm. It was coming from the east, my own place of darkness, proving the thunder was no mere boast but a pronouncement of true menace. As the lightning marched toward me, I was reminded of the old dog's stiletto canines, flashing in a snarl, and remembered the thunder rumbling deep in his chest as we faced the real bears of the world, when he was not old and neither of us were capable of understanding our mortality. Together we felt the need to confront anything which was stronger and offered to consume us. And all this was for a reason no greater, yet fully as great as, showing we were more than a collection of someone's thoughts and sensibilities, perhaps even our own. Domesticated people, plastic as their pink flamingos and polyester clothes, are somehow, incredibly, dulled to the sermons preached by menace and mortality. They seem not to understand the most significant celebration of life is sometimes the way one dies.
The storm was now an object lesson as it charged, daring me to flee to the unnatural shelters of clothes, houses, and lightning rods. Continual shafts of blue-white light left after images, vivid orange slashes reflected within my eyes, as the thunder convulsed the very ground where I stood, still facing the darkness of the east. Unseen objects cast sharp, horrific shadow shapes that immediately slunk into the dark's shroud; images that might have caused alarm under plastic circumstance but now themselves quaked insignificant before the storm.
The sharp smell of ozone, like the fetid breath of the bear, said the moment was now and the teeth of the storm clashed so close their sound was a sharp pain. A yard tree burst into shards, yet not even the wind driven debris seemed able to penetrate the thrall of the thunder. And then incredibly, at some level even regrettably, the storm swept past and was gone.
A moment to appreciate the act of breathing, feel the shock of survival, and then nothing remains but the pedestrian task of tending wounds, these to the very landscape. Like the old dog's scars - and my own - the storm-blasted willow would serve to remind that memories can never be as vivid as the moment and tales never truly capture experience.
Inside again, lamentably, neither the pelt of the storm nor that of my own humility can yet hang beside the bear's in testament to the fact the prey is always ennobled by the predator; the only genuine touch of the hand of the universe. The old dog comes out from under the bed and lies in front of the bear, but it is not the same. The scars always give us away.
writers@mcint.com
Last Updated: July 13, 1996