The Pale Man Rises

CHAPTER FIVE

23

He rose up bracing his hands on the wet grass of the bank. He poked his neck higher then like a curious duck as the tornado fled the scene heading further east with a constant prowess.

As the peril passed he rose to his full height in the ditch and almost slipped back down into the water as he did so. The wind had now seemingly eased to a whisper. He looked to the farmhouse and it seemed to have suffered little damage if any at all. He did not see either of his parents, but considering the condition of the house he could only assume that they were safe.

He then looked to the pasture where he could see the downed giant oak tree. It lay like a defeated monster. Its branches, those not torn from its trunk, were stripped of their leaves. Its bulk evidently was even too much for the tyrannical funnel cloud to carry away. The tornado had simply ripped it from the soil and then left it as a disgruntled gardener might do a reluctant weed. Many of its roots twisted out and fingered about like the hairs of a callous witch in repose.

And now in the cool silence he thought he heard the sound of someone weeping, soft subtle weeping. It sounded like the tears of a child, a lost and troubled child. The sound, though one of despair and grief, drew him like a beacon in the night.

"Good God!"  he thought. "Good God is there a kid out there? Could that storm have plucked some child from somewhere and dropped her here in the pasture? Could a child survive such a thing?"

He remembered the tale of Pecos Bill and the Cyclone, but that was only a tall tale, surely no one could withstand such a terrible experience.

Then suddenly he heard his father calling to him. "CLAY–CLAY ARE YOU ALRIGHT?" Vernon shouted to him. Clay turned and waved to his father.

24

"I'M OKAY!" he called out. He then pointed to the downed oak. "I'M GOING TO CHECK OUT THE TREE!" he then yelled.

Without waiting for a response he turned from the view of his father and made his way to the pasture fence, pushed down the bottom strand of wire with his left foot and then, ducking his head started into the pasture.

The hood of his coat caught on one of the barbs and it tore off a piece of the rubber leaving it there on the wire like a patch of flesh. He then began to march toward the tree as if he was a man possessed by a siren's song.

Then all of a sudden the crying ceased and was replaced by a soft sweet call for help. Dark clouds still flocked in the sky like mobs of loathsome characters. And again they began to spill their cargo. Drops of rain came down intermittently and then it began to steadily drizzle. He pulled his hood back over his head. The large drops of rain plopped on the rubber beating out an uncertain homily.

The child called. "Help–help–help?" Over and over it went. But it did not seem as urgent as it was insistent. The voice seemed calm and relaxed. If it was a child why were there no more tears, why not the confused and often exaggerated distress, which children sometimes display when they believe they are in harm's way? The voice was more like a serenade without a melody. "Help–help–help?" it repeated itself, more like the ticking of a clock or a metronome, a word repeated over and over again by a hypnotist leading a subject into a zone of enchantment.

Drawing closer to the downed tree he slowed his pace tentative as to the origin of the soft sweet voice. "Help–help–help?" it continued.

He looked up at the misshapen twisted roots, which appeared as if the tentacles of some mysterious sea creature. They loomed over him and seemed to come to life whenever a breeze would push one about as though this odd beast was close to death and struggling for its last breath.