The clap of thunder on the bright evening could have been likened to the shattering of a stream of glass. There had been a rainbow that morning on the mountain, she remembered. Oddly, the weathermen never predicted rain.
As the wind blew through the crack in the window frame, there came pouring in the scent of death. It was a smell of dry leaves, of musty attics, of funeral parlor synthetic roses. She covered her face with her long flowing sleeve to hide her tears, although there was no one there to see them. She coughed and shuddered with the cold draft that was filling the tiny one room cabin.
The shape of the place did lend itself to adequate circulation; the air was always fresh and changed with the season. Today that was her curse. A room with no corners could drive any fool crazy. She was anything but a fool; worse, she knew secrets of the people down below. That was the reason she was relegated to the mountain. The harsh environment should teach her a lesson, or so one would think. What they didn�t know would be their greatest downfall.
The wind wrapped itself around her, a cold blanket with the strength of a python. Her thin frame buckled under its pressure, the cold stabbing into her. She caught herself on the corner of the chair she had been sitting on; next to the rain spattered window. There would be no crying anymore.
Leokadia laid her hand on her bulging stomach. �Good Mother, let it not be cursed. May this, my child, not be as I am after I am gone. Not know who I am, just that I could not keep him to myself.�
Lightning shot across the sky and into the icy brook, and the woods trembled with static. Thunder shook the little cottage in reply; a deep and ominous rumble.
Despite its bitterness, Leokadia rather liked the cold rain. Of course she would, she called it to be. In her head, there was always the storm.
Dev (3/18/04)