Friday, November 03, 2006

Watertown, Chapter 4, Charley

Rain clouds swept across the mountain forest like a blanket tossed upon the trees. The western sky turned black, blocking out the afternoon sun. Jack jogged along the switchback road with the dog trotting alongside him. The first drops of rain began to hit the ground, leaving pockmarks in the mud along the road. Jack ran faster.

He had no jacket in his rucksack, just an old woolen jersey, and it was too warm to put that on. The dog plunged ahead.Jack knew these mountain storms. It was the same kind he remembered from being caught in the rain while fishing or swimming in the creeks as a boy. Huge towering white clouds billowed up, and silent orange flashes came from far away, lighting up the bulges underneath. Distant rumbles followed. The rain started pouring.

Jack almost wanted to laugh, feeling sheepish to have come so far to be out in the rain. Mountain Grove was still several miles away. He needed a place to wait out the storm. There was nothing in sight. So he and the dog kept running.Twenty minutes later, soaking to the bone, Jack stopped. Panting, Charley looked up at Jack. The road was now pure mud. Rivulets rushed down from the hillside on both sides of the track. He watched the water rush past while standing beneath an overhanging limb that staved off most of the rain. Jack scanned the sky. The worst of the storm was still on its way.

The dog barked again and suddenly ran off. The sky opened up in a flash and Jack had no time to count when booming thunder echoed in his skull. He wasn’t laughing now. Crack! Again the thunder crashed right on top of the trees next to him. Clutching the tree trunk, the rain pelting his head and his shoulders hard, Jack wasn’t sure whether it was safer to stay put or keep running. The tree lit up, making Jack’s hair tingle. He ran.The bolt of lightning split the tree he had been standing under. One side crashed down instantly, avalanching upon several nearby sprawling Oak trees. They slammed down together in an explosive rushing sound. Jack kept running, clutching his rucksack. The dog was nowhere in sight. He ran for nearly a mile, running zigzag through the woods, trying to stay near the road but as much as possible from being out in the open. Soon he came upon a covered bridge. He’d made it to the Little Niangua.

The creek was now a swirling river, frothy brown and white, the water nearly reaching the bottom of the wooden planks. He ran faster, sprinting until he made it to the bridge, then he ducked in and fell into a heap in the middle of the bridge, pounding the planks with the flat of his palms and laughing out loud.Making it this far, he realized that Mountain Grove wasn’t too far away now at all. The storm kept coming. But at least he was out of the rain. Jack tore off his shirt and shook his head, running his fingers through his hair trying to dry off. He reached into the rucksack and put on the jersey. It was moth-eaten, with a big hole on the left side. Jack reached into the rucksack again and pulled out a clean pair of socks. He learned his lesson well from too many months on Pei Lei Lui. A man in the field must always take care of his feet. Many fools forgot this simple fact, he reminded himself.

“No sir, top kick, not me,” he said to himself out loud. He unlaced his boots, and grappled to wrest them off. His feet were soaked. Holding out each foot as he slipped his dry socks on, he smiled, thinking how lucky he was to have not been struck by a bolt to the head that might have passed right through him and blown his feet clean off, as he had seen on the island. He put his boots back on and wandered to the edge of the bridge, looking for the dog.The Little Niangua thundered below. Now the raindrops were again fat and far apart. Jack shouted out Charley’s name several times. A flash of green lit up the bridge. Jack instinctively ducked back from the end of the covered bridge. It was an old bridge, built for horse carriages, was wooden, narrow with room for just one car to get through. Rain splashed in from the cracks in the roof. Suddenly, over the thunder, Jack heard a bark.“Charley,” Jack yelled, “Charley, come ‘ere boy! Charley!”

He heard another bark. And then, more barking.Peering out into the rain he could just barely see a whiz of white and yellow fur in the distance, bolting towards the bridge. Within a minute Charley raced in and jumped up on Jack, knocking them both down. Charley furiously began licking Jack’s face.“Hey, hey, stop that, I’m wet enough already,” Jack laughed, gripping the dog by its neck and scratching its head. Charley squirmed out of his hold and began shaking himself to dry off his fur.Jack felt good knowing that he was almost home. As soon as the rain would stop, he would cross the last few miles and make his way at last to Mountain Home. He sat down in the middle of the covered bridge. Charley found a spot several feet away and curled up into a ball and soon fell asleep. Jack pulled out a book from his rucksack that someone had given him called “The Way of the Pilgrim.” He opened it, and pulled out a letter between the first two pages. As he read the letter again, the rain began to subside.

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