The Rebuilding

1

The wind pressed down hard on the roof of the old shack, making it creak and tick. It was winds like this took the shack down last time, all them years ago, before the rebuilding. Powerful wind. The kind that moans so sorrowful and loud, makes a man think of ghosts and ghouls passing by.

Sara gripped her pillow and tried ignoring the tears streaming down her cheeks, but it wasn’t going to work and she knew well. Papa snored the snoring of a bear, chest rising and falling in a manner too peaceful, empty bottle clutched like it was his last. Sara wondered if there would ever be a last.

Momma had made her promise with pinkies that she would stay in bed and not wake papa tonight. Even at eight years of age Sara knew that was ridiculous. Papa wouldn’t wake till next noon, and even an elephant stampede wouldn’t be enough.

Sara would be long gone by noon, lazing down in her secretest spot by the creek. A good spot, up to that day she had never seen another man nor lady there. That’s why she liked it so. She figured she’d probably never tell anyone about that spot. Well, maybe Cobb Wilkins, from school, but only if he married her first, and she had rules for that.

Before long, despite the cruel wind, Sara fell into sleep and dreamed of her spot by the creek, Cobb was there, The sun was hot, and then she woke. Grateful to hear papa still snoring. It meant that she could slip away probably before he had awoken. Before he came to life. The monster she called him, when she was alone. Gruff at the least. Angry usually but sometimes only gruff. Half the time when she slinked in before supper he hadn’t even noticed she was gone, and was usually drunk, so likewise didn’t notice that she had returned. It worked out well most of the time. But when it didn’t...

Sara wiped the thoughts from her mind and grabbed an apple and a pastry before she crept out the door, ran through the next door field, and down the road to her spot, looking for the blue ribbon she had tied up in the twisty tree that marked her trail, as if she didn’t know like the flip side of her hand. A bush clogged up the trailhead which she supposed was why nobody’d ever discovered it but her. She, of course, was slim enough to slip between the twisty tree and the bush, which hardly even scraped her rump as she dashed past. Then she followed the short trail along the creek side, picking her way amongst the rocks and other vegetation a small way to her beloved swimming hole. Whistling all the way. Papa always scolded her for whistling and said she was going to make him deaf, but papa was not here, and god willing would never find the faded blue ribbon or her Shangri La, and Sara smiled, knowing he wouldn’t, and whistled even louder. The warm sun felt nice after the storm of the night, and even though Sara knew Mama would have a heart attack to see her, she stopped, and bent down to roll up her pants. She also decided to carry her shoes the rest of the way and go barefoot. She rounded the final knoll, and grinned the type of grin that only people with a secret swimming hole can grin, as the sandy banks, and finally the sparkling water began to come into view, and she could hear the water dancing from rock to rock.

Sara could wait no longer, and flung her shoes to the sand, before bounding across the small beach and cannon balling directly into the deepest part, a short and sharp yip escaping her lips as she plunged into the cold, clear liquid.

She swam until she was near frozen, blue lips and all, and exhaustion overtook her, and then she drug herself up onto the beach and collapsed in the warm sand. Her spot. She had decided. Even Cobb, nice as he was, was never going to see this place, and if he did she’d make good and certain he never told a soul, that you could bet.

Right here was where she would build it. Here in her secret spot. Her very own shack, complete with cooking stove. And then she would whistle, and eat fish from the creek, and not wear shoes ever again, and by all and every means she could muster, never return to the collection of huts and shacks and tents where now slept her papa. They couldn’t drag her out.

She hoisted herself out of the sand and fetched her favorite stick from the crook of the big elm tree. The wind had erased her work from yesterday, so she would just have to draw the floor plan for her shack again. Every stick of furniture and window and door. In fact perhaps now would be a good time to see how the bed would look by the big window overlooking her creek. It was her creek more than anyone else’s the way she figured it, and even if it wasn’t, this was most definitely her spot, she assured herself as she danced along, dragging the sharp stick through the sand. She turned back, squinting one eye, tongue squeezing from her mouth in concentration, and examined her work. Straight as an arrow, like usual. And she turned and drug her stick again, making sure her corners were right.

Yes, she thought to herself. The bed would be just lovely overlooking the creek. And she started to whistle.

2

"Well tarnation Cobb!" Screamed Flynn, "if ya hold the nail like that yer gonna hit yer fingers with the hammer, ya babboon’s backside!" Cobb’s face flushing red at the unwelcome sound of his older brother scolding him in front of the guys.

"Don’t call me a…a…a backside! I’m just fine! Ain’t you got other things yer supposed to be doing!? Leave me be!"

Cobb turned back to his nail and gritted his teeth. Darn Flynn! Why did he always have to do that? Now Cobb felt unsure. Unsteady. If he hit his fingers now the guys would never let him forget about it. He’d have to either fight about it at school, or leave town for good. He tapped the head of the nail to set it and took a shaky breath. Flynn should mind his own business. He always made things worse. And it didn’t help that Flynn could drive a nail near complete with one swing. Like rubbing salt in Cobb’s wound.

It was then that the sky split. A flash so bright you’d have thought that your skull split right along with it. Cobb stopped mid swing, eyes searching for balance, searching to see again. And, just as sight began to return an ear splitting explosion of sound. A boom so loud it rattled the windows on the shack. Hands to ears, Cobb looked for Flynn. He was next to the lumber, also covering his ears, gaze fixed on the sky. A sky now suddenly gray as if a light watercolor haze had crept into an otherwise sunny day.

People were moving again. Chatting about it in small hushed groups. Even an excited adrenaline fueled yelp or two could be heard.

But still there, like a rock, was Flynn. Eyes locked on the horizon. A horizon that was imperceptibly, but most assuredly, becoming darker.

3

"Dangit!’ A rush of air as Sara cursed her existence. She felt so stupid, and began trying to wriggle her ankle out from between the rock above her heel and the root over the top. But it hurt, and she was forced to think of something else. Her ears still rang from that concussive boom. The one that had sent her running off like a stupid eight year old girl, and running into the brush, where she stepped, literally, into her current situation. Suddenly Sara wondered if something had finally been enough to wake father before noon. Sara secretly grinned, because she knew it had. Father was normally a good dad she guessed, when he was sober. But lately they had all been seeing less and less of that father, and more of…

Sara suddenly shivered. It was starting to get cold. At noon? In summer? In any case she needed to find a way out. If she had to call for help then the secret location of her perfect spot would be revealed. Sara shivered again, this time in rage. She knew it would hurt like the dickens, but she had to pull her foot out. She scooted her butt up a little on the rocks and planted her free foot. She started to cry, tears of anger. Gritted her teeth, and pulled, fast and hard. The creek echoed with her pain for a moment, then quiet. And the tears came again. But she was free. And then there was Cobb. From nowhere, chewing a piece of honeysuckle and staring down at her in dismay.

"Oh my god, um shoot, um… you okay?"

I was. Before you found my spot, thought Sara. Now I have to kill you.

That thought for some reason made Sara giggle and feel a little better, and she reached up to signal for Cobb to help her up. "Are you gonna help me or do I have to get more help?" That sounded like her mother, which made Sara feel even better. Sara did not mind having bits of mother in her at all. Mother was everything, could handle anything, including father. Strength oozed from her. Having a mother like that, it gave a girl like Sara all she needed to survive.

"Oh, of course! Sorry Sara.” And Cobb helped her from the sandy pit and back on to the beach, holding her as she wobbled on an obviously damaged right ankle.

Luckily Cobb had brought peach cobbler, they snickered at that, and soon Sara was feeling much better and explaining in great detail, to Cobb, about her secret spot, and all the best features, as well as where her shack was going to be built, by her own two hands. And Cobb believed every word.

And the clouds thickened. Sara and Cobb both noticed it at the same time. Like a mist in the trees. And something flickering in the woods a long way off. And then suddenly a smell, drifting on the edge of perception, pungent.

Then closer. A sound. At the edge of the clearing, something was moving in the trees.

4

And then he came crashing from the brush like a bull. Father. Blood on his forehead and arm. And then Sara saw his eyes. These were not the eyes of a stumbling drunkard. Not the eyes, even, of a hungover grouch. These eyes were clear as a bell. And gripped in fear.

"Sara! You and Cobb get on the other side of the creek! NOW!" Voice shaking. Strained. "They’re coming!"

And then Sara was eight again, gripped by fear and unable to move. That didn’t bother Cobb none. He grabbed Sara about the waist to get her to move. She did. And as they scrabbled up the opposite bank Sara cast a glance to see father. He was halfway across the creek.

Then they were on him.

And as they came for her Sara thought of her mother. And did not cry. Not even when they snatched the golden heart shaped locket with her mother’s picture from her neck. Not when they tore into her. Cobb was gone. Not a tear.

And the woods burned. There would be survivors. There always were. To rebuild. Mother would be there.

And then, Just before the end, Sara cried…