Hush
'You gonna come inside?' was the thought-spoken question. More a concern. As she padded, in her bare, pink foot-paws, through the green, uncut grass. It hadn't been cut in two weeks. Dandelions (both feline-yellow and cotton-white) bobbed in the yard, beneath the tree-swing, beside their old pickup truck, and beneath the wooden, weather-worn bird feeders nailed to the silver maple. Mourning doves were on the ground, pecking at the millet.
"It's gonna storm," Field whispered, out loud. But as 'loud' as his whisper was, it was still an effeminate, airy thing. As if built of bubbles and 'helicopter seeds' and lightning bug wings. It nearly floated away. Had he been speaking to anyone but Adelaide (who could intuit him so well), he would've been blinked at, would've been asked to repeat himself. That was something that always flustered him. He didn't like having to repeat himself. It made him feel foolish.
'I know,' was the eventual thought-response. The cotton candy, carnation-furred bat making full use of her telepathy, now. Reaching out with her powerful, practiced feelers. Eliciting a calming effect in the mouse.
Field's eyes went to a close.
"Feel better?" Adelaide verbally asked, head tilting a bit. She watched him, keenly. Knowing his physical cues. Knowing his body language.
A nod.
"Good ... " A gentle smile.
A whisker-twitch.
Her smile faded a bit. "Darling, you, uh ... we should go inside. It's not helping you to be out here," she breathed, "right now."
The horizon was like a painting gone wrong. Sickly greens and vicious greys, swirling, hell-bent on coming this way.
Field, again, said nothing. Just took a deep, shaky breath, his pink, sniffing nose ever-breathing, and his clear, long whiskers ever a-twitch, a-twitch. Feeling the distant vibrations in the atmosphere. Thunder-claps still outside the range of 'traditional hearing' were somehow intuited by the rodent. As he stood there by the mailbox. By the white-rocked, gravel road. Before the wheat and alfalfa fields, the stretching, breathing pastures and prairies of his Hoosier home.
"Field ... " Adelaide placed a paw on his bare, trim shoulder. The mouse was dressed in his normal summer attire. Which was to say: white, cotton briefs, and tattered, light-blue jean shorts. The shorts, even with a belt keeping them up, still slipping a bit, showing the white band of the briefs beneath. (A very simple, boyish look, one she rather liked; she'd take to drinking him in with her eyes. After all, he was her husband. She was allowed to ogle, wasn't she?) The mouse, ever one for scurry, ever one for the fields (his namesakes) couldn't bear to be stuck beneath a shirt when there was sun to be had. Warmth to be had. He needed the breeze on his back-fur, the light on his shoulders. He needed that physical freedom, that casual, country sensibility. "Field ... darling?" Adelaide continued, needing to. Trying not to get lost in her own thoughts.
"Mm?" A blink from him. A squeaky sound from the throat. And he swallowed, whiskers twitching. More and more. They never stopped. Honestly, they never did. She liked to think, jokingly, that he had a 'mousey motor' that made his 'mousey motions' go, go, go. And he did, she knew. He did have such a motor. It was his heart.
" ... you're worrying me. Just ... standing here. Just waiting for it to come."
A small plane buzz-motored over head, going south, toward the airport six miles that way. A small, country airport, catering to single-engine planes and private jets. It had been there for as long as Field could remember. He remembered going there once or twice, years ago. When his dad's uncle had flown in all the way from Seattle. But, mostly, it was just a little airport that you drove by. You watched from a distance, watched the planes go there, watched them leave. A sad-happy waltz of furs and machines, coming and going.
"Field? You listening?"
"We don't waltz," he whispered, turning to her. Meeting her eyes with such seriousness. "You and I, we don't waltz together ... nearly enough."
"Waltz? You mean, like ... dance?" Her short (shorter than his, anyway) pink rudder-tail (meant for steering air, not water) moved to one side. And then back to the other. Thick and stout. Her tail was about two feet long, maybe. But Field's much thinner, much ropier, had to be between five, six feet, maybe. She'd never actually measured it.
A nod from him.
"Well, if you wanna dance more, all you gotta do is ask me ... but neither of us knows how to dance."
"Well ... " A whisker-twitch. That was true. "Well, we can just ... move," he offered, "then. Move ourselves to music. Or ... sway?"
"Sway. Well ... I like the sound of swaying," Adelaide said, playing along, nodding. "But why think about that? All of a sudden? Right now?"
"I just thought of ... " He turned his gaze back to the fields (the lovely, life-growing fields). " ... thought of how small planes waltz about the sky, and waltz in and out of our lives. Who's on them? Where are they going? Will they ever be back?" the mouse breathed.
Adelaide's eyes settled upon him. "Well, I, uh ... dunno," she whispered, honestly. But, oh, just hearing him say such things, hearing his impromptu, dreamy words, her heart swelled. She did love him. And this was one of the many reasons why: his thoughtfulness. His dreaminess.
" ... it's gonna be a tornado," he whispered, his voice sounding pale, now. Off the topic of small planes. And back to the weather. The air temperature was dropping. And was it starting to sprinkle? Little droplets of water glistened on Field's naked, sensitive ears. "I know it. I can ... it's gonna come," he whispered, as if not wanting the said tornado to hear this. As if, maybe, if the weather knew that the mouse knew that the weather was coming, well, then, they'd be in even more trouble. Convoluted logic (and wording), to be sure, but logic was not to be had right now. Just emotion. Fear, worry, anxiety. All were related sensations. All stemming from the same, uncertain source.
"I know," Adelaide said, nodding. "I know ... I heard it on the radio. I checked, and ... that's why I cam to get you," she whispered, softly. Patiently. Calmly. Field had gone outside to fetch the mail from the mailbox (the black, plastic box smothered in gravel dust, and the white, painted post all chipped), but he hadn't come back. Normally, he scurried out, scurried back. He liked to scurry. But it'd been ten minutes, and he still hadn't come back. And, reaching out with her mind, Adelaide had sensed his paralyzed fear.
She'd gone to fetch him immediately.
Had found him just standing here, just staring to the west.
The clouds bubbled and boiled, rolling forward like waves. The birds sounded more excited, somehow. And then, suddenly, they went quiet. Before starting up again. Flying off, settling down. The barn swallows being fearless, however, and indulging in one final meal before they were forced to go back into the barn (where they made their mud-dabbed nests in the rafters, on the ceilings).
Oh, buff-bellied, aerial acrobats, skimming the ground as you do! Adelaide watched them, turning her head, almost giving a chitter as they skirted her leg. Barn swallows flew so fast, so close to the ground (they didn't even stop to drink; they just skimmed above the creek-water and dipped their beaks down, before quickly peeling off, back into the blue), and they often came straight at you. You were certain they were going to run into you. But, at the last second, they calmly adjusted their wings and sailed on by. You could almost hear the air going over their feathers. Almost.
"They say it sounds like a freight train, but ... I never thought that." Field swallowed, still frozen in place, whiskers twitching, twitching.
Adelaide returned her attention to him, leaving the barn swallows to their quick-is-the-motion insect-catching.
"It's always ... sounded like the roaring exhale of a predator," he breathed, naked, silky mouse-tail wavering about like a fishing line. "A predator bearing down on you. Exalting in the hunt, in the ... the chance to kill." A pause. A breath. "It's like a big, furious cat, stalking, stalking, and ... it approaches from a distance, so quietly, and then it just loses all patience. Finally, the bloodlust takes over, and it becomes more like a canine. And it just ... "
" ... stop it," Adelaide finally commanded. A firmness in her voice. Not an angry one, though. But a concerned one. And she sighed. "I don't like you talking like that," was the whisper.
"I just ... I just ... "
" ... you don't have to explain it to me, okay? I've lived through bad storms before. I know what it's like. And I know what you're feeling inside. Don't think," she told him, directly, locking gazes with him, "that I don't know how you feel ... " She trailed, her paw reaching out. And she placed it on his forehead. For just a second. "I've been inside there," she said, of his mind. "I've lived your memories ... felt physical sensations as if your body was mine. I know you, darling. I know mouses." A pause. And she withdrew her paw, swallowing. "And I love," she added, "mouses. I love you."
A shy nod, and a gentle, whispered, "I love you, too. I really do. I ... I don't feel that the words are enough."
"You show me," she reminded. "You constantly show me ... in more ways," she added, knowingly, giving him a private wink, "than one."
Field nodded, eyes watering. "I know, but ... I'm ... this is ... I shouldn't do this. I shouldn't be so weak. I shouldn't ask so much of you. I'm just ... "
She stopped him before he could launch on his 'I'm such a burden to you' lament. They'd been over that too many times to count. "Field ... baby," she cooed, wrapping her winged arms around him, now. Fully. Enveloping him, like in a living blanket. "Hush. Just hush."
The mouse gave a stifled, squeaky sob. Trying to cry. Wanting to. Feeling he had to. The fear was so pungent, so irrational. So fierce. And Adelaide tried so hard to keep panic from his mind. Placing her conscious self between him and all those darker, murkier thoughts. Protecting him. Holding him tightly and whispering into one of his big, dishy ears (his ears arched like pink satellite dishes, trying to decipher the sky), "You'll be okay. I won't let the storm get you. I won't ... "
A distant, forked flash. And the first, clear rumble of thunder following (about seven seconds later).
Field twitched, almost violently. A basic instinct to scurry.
"Hey ... hey," Adelaide gritted, fighting to keep him still. If he got loose, he would scurry in blind, prey-like panic, and she didn't want to have to chase him and pin him down. She may have been able to mentally manipulate him (for all the best reasons), and she may have had a bolder personality. But Field was still the male here, and he had a defined physical edge. She couldn't outrun him or out-wrestle him.
Twitch! Jerk!
"Hey!" was the plea, as she clung to him, wrapped to him. So tightly, not letting go. Not even an inch. "I'm not letting go. I'm not," she panted, promising, "letting go ... "
Field, breath ragged, long, naked, silky-pink tail snaking about like a wayward live-wire, gave a few more squeaks. Deep, sea-blue, grey-blue eyes wide, dilated, darting. Whiskers twitching, nose sniffing audibly. And his voice managing, stammering, "I'm ... s-sorry. I'm sorry ... I'm ... "
" ... it's alright. I told you," she panted, "I understand." Adelaide loosened her hold, convinced he wasn't going to scurry. And she moved a paw. Sliding it across his bare, honey-tan chest, through his fur. Placing it above his heart. "Darling ... "
Thump-a-thump-a-thump! Thump-a-thump-a-thump!
The storm came closer, closer, starting to slam itself upon the land like a too-lose roll-top drawer.
"Your heart ... it's racing," the pink-furred bat breathed, her nose prodding his neck, sniffing of his familiar, earthy scent. "Please, calm down. Please ... let me in," she breathed. "Let me calm you down. I want to help you. I love you, okay? I want," she declared, slowly, certainly, "to help you." A breath. "I'm your wife. Just ... calm down," she kept saying, knowing the repetition of the words had a somewhat-soothing affect on him. Knowing his mind and how it worked.
Field nodded, biting his lip. Whiskers twitching. And another nod. "Okay," he whispered, swallowing. Twitch-twitch.
And, again, she breathed of him. His scent, pleasant to her. Drawing forth feelings of innocence, gentility. Faith, love, and trust. Surely, there was no greater joy than the joy a happy mouse exuded. A mouse's feelings were unfiltered. Uncontaminated. What you got from them came from their very core. And Adelaide continued to hold him, hug him, breathe of him. Oh, but smell and memory, so closely tied. Oh, she breathed, yes, and thought out to him, 'Breathe of me.'
The mouse turned his head, then the rest of his body. Putting his sniff-twitching nose against her warm cheek. A soft, shaky breath, and then another and another. And it worked. It did calm him down (somewhat). The scent, the air of the one he loved. It gave him comfort.
"There," she sighed, finally. "There you go ... see? Not so hard." Her voice steady and respecting. Never patronizing. She never spoke down to him. She knew how fragile he was, emotionally, and words could, indeed, hurt. And maybe the mouse's undying innocence (he had been smashed and crushed many times in the past, but the innocence had always sprung back) was child-like.
But his mental capacity was no less her own. Despite her being telepathic and him not (though, because they were so intimate, he had residual 'abilities,' things from her body and mind that transferred to and lingered in his own), the mouse's mind was artistically, aesthetically, spiritually-tuned. While her mind, having those things (in varying degrees; and having Christian faith, especially) was more practical, more socially-capable, more independent.
"Adelaide," was the mouse's eventual whisper, as they stood there, in each other's arms. On the cusp of the coming maelstrom.
A distant lightning-flash made the sky glow an eerie-green. An electric yellow.
"Yes?"
"I can see it. See? The storm front."
The bat looked intently to the western horizon, through the muddying air of this mid-afternoon.
And she saw, clearly, the squall line. That large, curved, puffy cloud-layer, melting, blowing to the east, south-east. A mesocyclone certainly behind it. Certainly somewhere. A mammoth thunder-head. The fierce, swirling gray, a sharp, severe divide between what had been a bright, blue day. And what was fast becoming a dark, dark dream. Oh, this storm was definitely coming. Maybe ten minutes away.
And it was strangely beautiful. That power. The power in those clouds, in the atmosphere. How charged it all was. Such energy, such things to be harnessed. Completely out of reach, with the fields (like beautiful seas) cast in sudden shadows, caught in sudden downpours. As if the sky was trying to wash everything away. Trying to purge the world of contamination. Oh, it was as if humility were in those clouds. Oh, ego, yes. The ego was at the forefront. Storms ran on ego. But humility was their exhaust.
"It's ... look at it, Field. Can you imagine? I just ... we're so small," she whispered, catching her breath. "We're so small ... "
"The air ... it's colder," Field said, nodding.
"I feel it, too." The bat craned her neck, squinting, peering all about. "It's dropped about ... what, ten degrees? Feels chilly." A pause. "We better go." She looked back to him, meeting his eyes. And she gave him a reassuring smile. "Come on ... " Eventually pulling him away from the mailbox and the road, away from the fields (with the empty, falling-apart wooden wagons resting in them, with the crops all growing toward something grand, something of some kind of sustenance), through their yard full of maples, oaks, and sycamores, and past the black dinner bell nailed above the hummingbird feeder on a wooden a post by concrete steps of the front porch. And in through the screen door, and ...
" ... wait ... wait, the mail," Field realized, blinking. "I never opened the mailbox. I never got the mail." His obsessive-compulsive tendencies (not as bad, now, as they had been in the past) bubbling. As they often did during stress. But, even so, the mouse was much more confident today, much more stable today. Much more mature. More so than he'd been at any other time of his life.
"We'll get it later."
"What if the mailbox blows away?" was the innocent, wide-eyed worry.
Adelaide had to smile. It couldn't be helped. "We'll deal with that," she decided, "when and if it happens." The bat wasn't bothered or burdened by the mouse's neediness, no. She was, after all, a flighty, winged creature, with a tendency for stubbornness, and a decidedly dominant disposition. Bats were always looking to take others 'under their wings,' as it were. And she hadn't chosen a male bat (though she'd had her opportunities). She'd chosen Field, a battered, hurting mouse, shy, in a shell, desperately craving to give love (as much as to receive it).
He'd needed her.
And still did.
No one, prior, had ever needed her like that. Craved her like that. With such feverish purity. And the way he expressed himself. When they were intimate, in bed, his whispered, poetic words. They floored her. Every time. Such spiritual, romantic depth.
She gave him a lot, true.
But he gave her just as much in return.
Not the least of which, certainly, was Akira. He'd given her Akira. With God's blessing, with His allowance, Field had gotten her pregnant. And their baby, their year and a half old, walking and semi-talking daughter, she meant the world to them. And she was in the house, now, in her room, sleeping.
They would have to wake her up in order to bring her down to the basement. For that was where they needed to go. The basement.
And, as they entered the house, and as the wind picked up (and up and up), Field's mind was on the morning, several hours ago, when he'd dressed Akira, readying her for the day ...
"Don't you look pretty ... don't you? Like a flower," he cooed. "Like a pretty flower."
"Fler ... fler ..."
" ... flower. Flower," Field said, slowly, patiently. His big, dishy ears gently swiveling this way. That way. Arched atop his head, all vulnerable and cute. "Can you say 'flower'?"
"Fler," Akira went, her mauve-colored eyes all wide and darting, settling on daddy. "Fler!" she squeaked, giggle-chittering. Waving her little winged arms. Wave-wave! And smiling so brightly.
Field shook with mirth. His thin, silky-pink tail side-winding on the floor, snaking to his daughter's tail, which wasn't as thin, long, or naked as his own, but not quite as short or rudder-like as Adelaide's, either. A mixture, rather. So much of their child was a mixture. She'd inherited so much of each of them. And not just physically. But so much love, as well. And Field's tail stopped, coiling around hers.
A gurgle sound. "Da-da ... " She reached with her little paws, trying to uncoil Field's tail from her own. "Tal ... "
"That's right. Daddy's tail. That's a tail. Mine. It's mine. I got your tail ... what ya gonna do, mm?"
Little paws tugging, grabbing. Before the child burst into laughter. She looked to Field. And then looked at how his tail had coiled around hers. And then looked back to him.
"What'd I go an' do, huh?" A smile from him.
She looked back to their tails. And then (again) to him.
Field just watched her.
And, finally, Akira gave up, and gave a great big 'chittery!'
Field giggle-squeaked, leaning down and placing a sweet kiss to his daughter's head. "I love you, baby. Don't you forget that."
"Is she dressed?" Adelaide suddenly poked her head into the room. "All I hear is you two goofin' around ... "
"We're not goofin'. Have I ever been one to goof?" Field asked, innocently, turning to look at his wife.
"When the Spirit moves you," was the gentle, ribbing response.
Field, on his knees on the carpeted floor, nodded and smiled. Finally answering, "She's dressed. As you can see." And, after a pause, he added, "She's dressed ... her very, very best."
"But you are a poet, darling ... "
"Aren't I?" was the grin. Whiskers going twitch, twitch. All a-twitch.
"Well, I'm still working on the lemon bars ... " Adelaide had been in the kitchen, making, yes, lemon bars. Not from scratch, though. Lemon bars from a boxed mix, one they'd gotten at the dollar store in Lebanon. It was a bright, summer day, and she'd felt they'd all needed a sweet, sugary treat for later (for after lunch).
" ... don't worry. I know how to handle mouse-bats," the honey-tan mouse said, eyes going back to his daughter.
"I'm sure you do. But we don't got no mouse-bats. We got a bat-mouse, and you an' her are both too innocent for your own good, sometimes ... "
"I'm not sure I know what you mean by that," was the quiet response. "But she's not a bat-mouse, and that's for sure. Her birth certificate lists her species as 'mouse-bat' ... lineage passes through the male, and I'm the male." Field puffed his chest out, playfully, for show. "She's Akira A. Mouse, an' she's a mouse-bat," was the smiling declaration. He smiled, looking to his wife, waiting for her retort.
"Official documentation aside, she's clearly more bat than mouse, darling. Wings, teeth, telepathy ... more bat than mouse, is all I'm sayin'," she ribbed. "Maybe our next baby will be more mouse than bat, but Akira?" A shake of the head. "No, she's a bat-mouse. You'll come to accept it ... in time. In time."
A giggle-squeak. "Uh-huh ... "
"Won't he, Akira?" A playful chitter.
"Don't listen to silly mommy," Field said, scooping Akira into his arms now. "You're more scurry than flight, aren't you?"
Adelaide, taking a slow, dreamy breath, whispered, "She does look beautiful ... I'll have to thank mother for sewing that dress. Looks like the ones I used to wear ... "
"I used to wear coveralls ... toddling around, just coveralls on. Beaming at everything."
"I've seen the pictures," Adelaide whispered, knowingly. "Daddy's not gonna dress you in coveralls, Akira. Don't worry ... you look good in a dress."
"She squirmed when I put it on her. I don't know how much she likes it."
"Well, she still looks good in it ... "
Field, bobbing their daughter a bit, raising his nose to the air. "Lemon bars, huh ... you're watching them, right? I can smell them."
"They got a few more minutes. They're baking."
"Well ... "
"Well, what ... I can read your mind, you know. I know what you're thinking."
"What am I ... "
" ... that you're better in the kitchen."
"Well, you said it," was the smiling response.
"So, you think that's truth, do you?" was the toothy grin. As she stepped into Akira's bedroom. "Better at ... what," was the sultry whisper, "in the kitchen, though? Specifically?"
"Cooking."
"Cooking ... what?"
An airy giggle-squeak. "Will you stop?"
"I'm plenty good in the kitchen, Field. If you want me to prove it ... "
" ... is that a request?" was the smiling reply, looking up to her. The pink-furred bat standing.
"It's a promise," was the whisper.
A giggle-squeak from him. "Mm ... " The honey-tan mouse still on his knees. "I meant 'better at cooking food' ... food in the kitchen. You know that."
"Well, who says mouses aren't food for hungry bats?"
"You're incorrigible."
"I know." A wink. And a deep breath. "She say any new words today?"
"Not any new ones. Just ... ones she already knew. She likes to say 'flower.'"
On cue, their mauve-furred daughter waved her little winged arms again. "Fler!"
Adelaide grinned. A fang-showing grin. "Fler, huh? Close enough," she said, approvingly. "That's my baby, hmm? Already learnin' her words. We just gotta work on your telepathy, don't we? But ... "
" ... don't worry. Don't worry," Adelaide assured, holding her daughter tightly. Making hush-hush sounds. Wrapping her mental, emotional feelers around Akira's, trying to teach her how to properly use the abilities. Trying to calm her down.
Roaring, rushing wind. Carrying away all other sounds. They were too far out, way too far out (seven miles from Sheridan, the nearest town) for tornado sirens to be heard. But the mind had a tendency to imagine such sounds mixed in with the current chaos. In the midst of trauma, in the midst of nature's fury, the mind was capable of all kinds of delusions.
The house creaked and groaned above them, as if in pain. As if straining. Their white-painted, black-shingled farm-house was at least a hundred years old. The wood was older than most of the trees in this rural county, surely. And had withstood many fly-by tornadoes. So, why worry about this one?
"Unconfirmed reports ... tornado touchdown ... sirens going off in Boone County ... sighted on State Road 47, near County Line Road ... "
Akira cried, not liking such noises. Such sights and sounds. Or such scary thoughts. She didn't entirely understand what was going on, no, but her mind was linked to her parents' minds. She knew they were concerned. And daddy's adrenaline was dangerously past any normal 'fight or flight' response.
" ... for north-east Hendricks, south-west Boone, the town of Lebanon ... "
Field's heart hammered. He looked to Adelaide, swallowing
She looked back, trembling.
Their love communicated without words. As if to say 'if we do not make it through this day, know that I have loved you more than I've loved life itself.'
Lightning, outside, forked, flared, furiously flicked itself through the air at speeds both beautiful and gross (it was not for the timid), creating sonic, shattering sounds. The rain pelting, pelting the house in wet, slapping sheets, like pin-pricks, pitter-pitter-pat-pat.
Pitter-pitter-pat-pat.
Ker-FLASH!
BAM!
The sound of tree limb snapping, flying, smacking into the back of the house.
Field squeaked, jerking in surprise, mind overwhelmed with stimuli.
Adelaide chittered, heart speeding. Akira squirmed, crying. And Adelaide whispered to her, "Hush ... hush, Akira. Come on." A shaky breath. "Field, sit down. Come on ... " The bat wrapped, rocked Akira in her pink, winged arms. Using her telepathy (as always; she'd been using it so often today, seemingly, that her mental energy was beginning to wane; it took all her power to keep Field and Akira from sheer panic).
"Boone County ... five miles east of ... "
The battery-powered radio was working. The words coming out. The warnings. The Domesday declarations. But all of it filtered in through so much static. Those choice, hammer-heavy words breaking through the flotsam. 'Boone County under the gun. Funnel cloud reported on the ground five miles north-east of Whitestown ... hail-core north-east of Sheridan, forward flank downdraft ... large hail ... twisting, cyclonic winds ... '
Field, wide-eyed in the dim, muddy dark of the basement (which was full of pipes and containers and empty rock-salt bags; the well-water had to be treated with rock salt every three weeks, and Field never liked lugging those yellow, fifty-pound bags down here; they were lighter than hay bales, so it wasn't a matter of them being too heavy; it was simply a matter of the salt powder giving him sneezing fits), he scurried to one wall, then to another. The walls concrete, damp, and laced with cobwebs. His bare foot-paws squished in the chilly mud as he moved.
"Field, please ... "
The wind raced, whistling, working its way to higher speeds. The basement door, horizontal with the ground, let what light was outside into the stairway, where the second (vertical) door rattled on its latch. Oh, if that door flew open ...
"Field!" was Adelaide's frightened yell.
The mouse stopped, looking to her.
"Come 'ere. Take my paw ... come on." Her paw shook as she extended it. "I'm not gonna ask again," Adelaide chittered dominantly. She was not immune to fear. Not at all. She was terrified, by now. Just like he was. And just like Akira was. "Come 'ere ... please, darling."
"Th-there are ... daddy long legs," Field whispered, sniffling, "in the corners." He went to her, swallowing, twitching, ultimately sinking to his knees, sitting with her, pressing against her. Paws clutching. Lips and muzzle on her neck. He squeezed his eyes shut. "There are spiders," he went.
"I know ... "
BAM!
Squeak!
Chitter-cry! Akira bawling, now, as loudly as she could, features scrunched up, arching her back. Forcing Adelaide to adjust her winged arms, trying to get a better hold of her.
Whoosh! Went the wind. Howling.
" ... between Kempton and Tipton, over on 31 ... reports of a tornado in Lizton ... knocked down a barn ... there's absolutely no reason to be on I-65 at this moment ... volatile situation from Indianapolis all the way up to Lafayette ... "
Ka-BAM!
"Pray," Adelaide said, in the midst of it all. A simple, shaking suggestion. "Pray ... "
Dear God, please protect us.
"Adelaide, I love you," Field blurted out, voice shaking. He had to say that. Before anything, he had to say that.
"I love you, too," was the whispered, swallowing response. "Now, pray," she went.
Everything shook with a dripping, spinning fury. It didn't matter that no actual funnel cloud had smashed into the house (yet). The storm was ferocious enough. And was capable of anything. And was showing that. Was forcing them, pummeling them into submission. Knowing that it had these sentient creatures cowering in a basement like such helpless things. Oh, the storm was pleased with itself. Oh, it was fed, fed by this, fed by the energy in the atmosphere, and it went, went, spinning, throwing out rain, a whirling dervish of natural pain.
Dear Lord, keep us safe. Oh, please, Lord, we're scared. We're so scared.
The basement doors rattled, rattled. Lightning flashes, so bright, so close, could be seen through the cracks. And the thunder going off like a chain reaction of ascending bombs. And it became so dark down here, in this basement, that you could barely see. You could not see in front of you. How dark it had gotten. Both inside and outside. They dared not peek out there, for fear. For not wanting to be turned into salt.
They could not look.
" ... need to get underground ... under the gun, southern Boone County, you are ... "
They could only cower.
And pray.
Dear Lord, oh, Lord. Our Rock and our Strength. Take us into Your arms, please. Please, we are so afraid! We are so afraid ... You, who walks on water in the midst of the gale, calm the storm. Please. We are small. We are weak.
The wind continued to wail. Not letting up. How many minutes had it been going on like this? Was it ever going to stop?
" ... flying metal debris ... from slow-moving cell ..."
"Turn it off ... turn the damn radio off!" was the overwhelmed chitter from Adelaide. The static-laden warnings weren't helpful. "There's nothing we can do ... turn it off. Turn it off." It was only adding to the onslaught of sound, vibration, and emotion. It was only heightening the confusion.
Field fumbled with the radio. Switching it off.
Leaving only the sounds of the storms.
And their own breathing. Their own fear-sounds. Muffled, sobbing squeaks and chitters. The mouse, bat, and mouse-bat were all huddled, warm, rain-wet, slightly-muddy, shivering against the basement wall. Praying, pleading, and waiting. That was all they could do. Was wait.
Dear God, please.
Save us.
Calm the storm. As You did. As You have done. As You will do again.
Ka-BOOM! Crackle-crackle.
Flash!
Rattle-rattle, went the foundation of the house.
Pat-a-pat-a ...
" ... hail," Adelaide whispered, with wide-eyed realization. Her swept-back, angular ears, furled and listening. Hail slamming into the house, chip-chip-chipping. Must've been about the size of golf balls, maybe. It was hard to tell, going on just the sound.
Squeak!
Huddle-hugs. Field holding to Adelaide as if his life depended on it. And Adelaide, in turn, holding to Akira.
Ker-ba-BOOM!
Minutes.
And minutes.
The din of the hail steady, at first, and then quickening. An onslaught, and then, slowly, waning. Slowly disappearing. Replaced by the pitter-patter of the rain. Less deadly. But the drops more numerous than the hailstones had been.
Minutes.
And minutes more.
Until the storm, finally, began to abate, the oily clouds moving on, moving away. Going east.
Leaving them breathless, battered, but still intact.
Nightfall.
Hours later.
Adelaide walked into the bedroom, wrapped in a towel. Her pink fur matted, smelling of moisturizing soap. And strawberry-scented shampoo. Field had showered about twenty minutes ago. Rarely did they shower apart (they loathed to take singular showers). But Akira was being very fussy (still upset over all that had happened), so they'd each taken a turn watching over her while the other went and showered.
The mouse, on his knees beside the bed, paws pressed together, took a deep breath. Opened his eyes. And allowed his paws to relax.
"Hey," Adelaide finally whispered.
"Hey, yourself," was the equally-soft response. "I was, uh ... talking to ... I was thanking Him again. I was just telling Him some things."
"It's alright. You can't overdose on prayer, darling." A reassuring smile. "You actually got Akira to bed?"
A nod, and he got up. "Yeah, uh ... I think she tuckered herself out, finally. She got all droopy-eyed. So, I sang her a lullaby, and stroked her fur a bit, and ... she fell asleep." A sigh, and he rubbed his eyes with his paws, giving a bit of a squeaky groan. And he sat on the bed, now, and patted his paw on the navy-blue sheets. "And I got the mail. Uh ... went out and got it."
"Yeah?"
A nod. "I put it on the Hoosier cabinet. A few bills, and ... stuff. I guess we can pour over that in the morning, though."
"Mm-hmm." Adelaide smiled, padding over to him.
Field, paws going to the bed-sheets, looked up.
And, after a moment, she let her towel drop. Into a crumpled pile on the carpet. And she gingerly sat beside him, her head leaning on his shoulder. "That was a close call ... wasn't it?"
Field nodded.
"You okay? You're very quiet ... all evening," she noted, "very quiet."
"I'm still a little shaken, is all," was his honest reply. "I'll be fine."
"I hope so," she whispered, meeting his eyes. From so close. Such an intimate eye-locking. "I think I can help ... you know, to, uh ... put the squeak back in your scurry."
A shy, knowing smile. Flushing beneath his cheek fur. His whiskers twitched.
"Take off those shorts, Field," was the silent suggestion. "And those, uh ... briefs, and ... I'm in the fur," she said. "Why aren't you?"
A shy, tender giggle-squeak. "That's a ... " A swallow. "That's a good question."
"And what's the answer?" She raised her brow.
He opened his muzzle to say something.
But she put a paw to his lips. "Hush," was her eye-sparkling whisper. And she slowly pulled her paw back, adding, "As much as you can, anyway." A chitter, tilting her head, eyes darting over his body. "You're such a 'squeaker' during sex ... such a wriggler, too." A toothy, fang-showing grin.
"Adelaide ... " His ears turned rosy-pink, gorging with blood.
"Well, you are ... but I don't mind, darling. So, uh ... " Unbuttoning, unzipping his jean shorts, tugging at them, leaning forward, lips to lips, her bare, supple breasts hanging loosely. A flicker of her tongue, and a sweet bit of saliva-swapping. And, eventually, a playful, flighty grin. "Let us be joyful ... "
Oh, the war of the storm had faded!
And the peace of love now reigned!
Thank you, Lord.
Thank you.