The Springborn

SABELLA

OCTOBER 1 AND OCTOBER 2, 1886

A n hour after Robbie and Cleona leave, the rain begins. It is no gentle pattering of drops, but rather an assaulting downpour that leaves me soaked to the bone two seconds after I step outside. Water blinds me as I make my way to the shed to feed the chickens. I stumble through puddles and slide across mud. I fear I might drown standing up before I get back into the cottage.

All night, the sky pelts the roof with rain. In my bed, I lay awake and worry about the two creeks running close to the house. Surely they will overflow their banks if the storm continues. My little homestead sits atop a small hill, unlikely to be washed away—but I will become cut off from the world should the creeks rise too high.

How could the sky hold so much water? Did it somehow absorb an entire ocean, an ocean which now insists on pouring its entire contents on the patch of earth I inhabit?

And how will Calder come to me now? Even if he wants to fly, his delicate wings could not bear him through such a violent storm. If he desired to come on horseback, he would be forced to wait for the creek waters to subside. That could take days. Weeks.

It is silly, of course, for me to fret and fuss over possibilities and probabilities. Calder will come when he is ready and able—and no sooner.