Shelter From The Storm

Something was coming. He could smell it. He could sense it. He felt a deeper and more desperate warning than he had ever felt before. The warning was simple. Find shelter. Find it now.

That was great advice. However, it was hard to find a good place to wait the storm out, when the only thing around him was an open field.

There was nothing around but old snow, crunching under his hooves. The sky was grey-white, and the ground around him for miles and miles was the same grey-white. He was a sheep, a grey-white puff of wool in a grey-white world.

To him, there was something aggravating about the white world. It was silent and cold, dull and still. It felt as if the entire world was waiting.

“Waiting for what?” he asked the storm, because the storm was the one who warned him.

“For what is coming,” it said back, ominously. They are both silent for a moment, considering that response. The sheep stopped, his breath fogging in the cold air as he sighed.

“And what is coming?” he finally asked as he began walking again, wondering how bad the storm would be.

“You will see,” it said, though the storm knew no better than anyone else how strong it would or would not become.

It was maddening that the storm had not come yet. However, if the howling wind brought snow now, he would not survive. He stomped through the snow, wishing for something to happen, praying that it didn’t. At least, not until he could find some shelter.

The sheep continued to walk in a straight, unchanging line. He crunched through the snow as time passed, although it felt like it didn’t. It was as if every moment was the same as the moment before, and all the moments after would be the same. He couldn’t tell if time had even passed, and that frustrated him even more. The only thing he could do was keep walking. Eventually, he began to feel the cold wind sneak past his wool, and he shivered. There was still nowhere to go where he could wait out the storm.

The wind picked up a few flakes of snow. Unable to make up its mind about what to do with those flakes, it swirled around, carrying them with it, before finally giving up and blowing itself out.

The sheep sighed, listening to the wind as it thinned out, and flicked his ears. Snow crunched under his feet. The weather had a strange mood about it. It didn’t help matters that the wind sounded very much like a wolf's howling. Nervous, he stoped and stood still, his tail flicking. He lifted his head, cautiously sniffing the air. Something wasn’t right.

And yet nothing happened.

Wary, he scaned the horizon. He didn’t see any other animals. The sheep lifted his head, listening. He couldn’t see or hear anything besides the storm. There was no immediate danger. He was alone, safe from anything that would immediately harm him.

As he walked he realized that he wouldn’t need to worry about predators. They, like his herd, were all smarter than him. As soon as the storm whispered its warning, everyone else found a shelter. Everyone else was safe. That was why he was alone.

Hard snow snapped as he walked. Soon, he was surrounded with the first flurries of snow. The longer he walked, the more snow the wind brought. The sheep knew the storm would not be a simple snow storm. A blizzard was coming. It would arrive any moment now. He was still totally exposed, at the mercy of the elements.

“Please, wait! Give me more time!” he asked the storm, because the sheep didn’t know what else to do. He knew he wouldn’t find shelter before the blizzard began.

“It is almost here. It is almost time!” The storm cried as the wind rose into a high-pitched shrill.

“Just wait!” he pleaded, gritting his teeth and ducking his head against the growing wind.

The storm ignored him, it seemed entirely focused on its own rising. It doesn’t care about the little puff of wool struggling to find shelter. The storm did its part, it sent a warning. There was nothing more for it to do except fulfill its promise.

The sheep, with no other choice, continued on, hoping he would find a place to hide. The wind seemed to be blowing in every direction at once. The snow was getting deeper, and was almost up to his knees.

He had to hurry, the storm had begun. The day, however, was ending. Although he couldn’t see the sun, the sky in the west slowly melted from white to fiery orange. Soon, it would be night. If he couldn’t find a place to hide from the storm with the cloudy-gray light, he doubted he would find one in the dark.

As the white world turned black, the sheep continued walking. He wasn’t even sure if there was a shelter close enough for him to find. He kept going only because he didn’t know what else to do.

He was exhausted, both from the walking and the frustration gripping his shoulders. His hooves had been aching earlier, but now they were growing numb from constantly being in the ice. As he walked, the snow became deeper. He had to lift his feet higher to take a step, and the annoying snow began to clump and stick to his belly as he dragged himself through the ice.

The storm roared as it tore through the sky. Maniacally it would laugh and giggle to itself, amazed by its own power. The next minute it screamed as if it had been possessed.

“St- sto-ppp. P-lll-ease,” he shivered. He didn’t have the words powerful enough to convince the storm to let him live. He knew the storm would ignore him. He was utterly helpless.

Each step became a fight. Flakes of ice stung his eyes. He couldn’t remember ever being this tired before in his life. His wool was not enough to keep him warm, and he was so, so cold. He just wanted to sleep. The sheep missed his herd, the warmth and company of others. He wished that he had never gotten separated from them.

He stumbled, and fell into the snow. He buried his head into the mound, trying to shield his poor eyes from the snow that constantly scratched them. He took a deep breath. It felt wonderful, not at all like the cold sting in his nose or the ache in his lungs when he breathed in the storm.

He squirmed in the pile of snow, shuffling his legs into a more comfortable position. He was not giving up exactly, he just needed a break. His eyes closed, then fluttered back open. He felt so… calm, but still so cold. The sheep’s ears felt a little numb.

If he stayed in this pile of snow, he knew he would die. He would freeze. He had to move, he had to get up.

But he couldn’t. He was comfortable and sleepy. His eyes closed almost against his will. He had to keep going, the sheep knew that. But he was having an incredibly difficult time convincing his body of this.

Even the storm wanted him to stay. It didn’t need words to tell him this. It didn’t even bother, because it thought he was already dead. The snow began to bury him where he had fallen. The storm had done this to him. It had made him tired and scared, and so, so cold. The howling wind mocked him. He suddenly hated the storm with a fury he didn’t know he possessed. It had thrown everything at him. He would not give it the pleasure of freezing him solid.

Slowly, the sheep stood up and loose snow showered off of his back. His legs were still tired and stiff from lying down, but he made them walk. Even as he pushed himself through the deepening snow, his eyelids tried to close. He decided to let them. He would let his eyes rest, while his body continued to trudge on.

He knew he wouldn’t find shelter. He had no hope of that anymore. But he wouldn’t lay down and die either.

With each step, he dug his hooves into the snow to gain traction. With a weak shove he pushed a mountain of snow forward. He took another step, and pushed a heavier load of snow out of the way. He went on like this, every step becoming slower, the falling snow on his back growing heavier.

After more steps than he could count, he stopped. The wall of snow in front of him was solid. He couldn’t push it out of the way. He felt like he could barely stand. He desperately wanted to lay down, wanted anything but this exhaustion.

He turned to the side, and pushed against another solid wall. This time, when the sheep pushed, he heard a tiny sound other than the wind.

As old wood creaked, he opened his eyes. The sheep saw a wooden plank, and blinked disbelievingly. Had he done it? Was he finally safe? Excitedly, he stumbled, shivering violently as he wandered around the outside structure. He walked along the side of the barn, until he found the opening. The doors were large and old, full of sprinters and flaking paint. The sheep didn’t care about this, he was simply glad they were half-way open. Numb, he pushed his way between the doors.

The barn was wonderful. Other than the doors, it had no opening where the wind and snow could come inside. There was even some old hay in a corner. It wasn’t edible, but it would be very, very warm. The sheep stepped through the doorway, his hooves leaving footprints in the thin pile of snow the wind had already brought in. He took a moment to scan the old interior.

There were stalls for horses on one side of the barn. On the other side, there was an empty spot for hay to be stored. The barn was empty of anything else, but to the sheep, the barn was perfect in every way. He stopped, and sniffed deeply, relishing the smells of the barn. It smelled like hay, dust, and pine wood. He loved those smells.

The sheep walked across the wooden floor, snow clumps falling from his wool and bursting when they hit the old, wooden boards. Outside, the storm continued to howl. The barn, though empty, was so much warmer than the storm. Soon, he began to thaw out. The sheep happily flicked his ears, which were no longer numb. Feeling sleepy, he headed to the corner of the barn with the pile of old hay.

The barn’s solid walls muffled the wind’s screaming, and the sheep found the half-silence calming. The old barn was pleasant, and he was grateful to finally be safe. The storm couldn’t hurt him. The cold wouldn’t freeze him.

He settled in the corner of the old barn, and folded his legs under him. He curled up against the old wall, and soothed, the sheep fell asleep in the soft, warm hay.