Another Kind Of Hurricane Part 1

Another kind of Hurricane.

Tamara Ellis Smith.

For everyone in New Orleans and Vermont whose lives were affected by Hurricane Katrina or Tropical Storm Irene-and for everyone who came to help.

And in memory of my grandmother Eleanor Ellis, a secret writer and real adventurer. If she were alive today, I know shed take me on a garage-sale hunt for magic marbles.

From high in the sky, above the pathways of parrots, above cloud lines, above the blue-where the moon and the sun take turns s.h.i.+ning over rivers and valleys, oceans and forests, towns and cities and farmland-from here you can see things.

To the south, a thick white wind chases its tail. Rain crashes down like an endless bucket of marbles tipped on its side. Fish dive deep to escape the deafening sound, stray dogs slink to the edges of buildings and press their bodies against the walls, people fill plastic bottles with water, push furniture against doors, grab the hands of their children and pull them up flights of stairs.

It is a hurricane.

- From high in the sky, you can see the spiral of ocean water, moist air, and wind-and a boy in the middle of it all.

But thats not all you can see.

If you turn your head, if you look north, you can see another spiral. A spiral of sharp, cold air; a mountain; and another boy. Listen to the beating of his heart. Pounding, pelting, whoos.h.i.+ng like rain and wind. Inside the boy, rain falls like an endless bucket of marbles tipped on its side, and wind blows hard.

It is another kind of hurricane.

chapter 1.

ZAVION.

The wind wrapped itself around the two-by-fours that held Zavions house straight and tall. The wind pushed and moaned just beneath the drywall. Papa had said they needed to get to the attic, to the highest point in the house.

But the attic didnt seem high enough.

The wind snuck through the walls. First blowing up and then pounding. Then sideways. Pound. Then down. Pound. Then down again with a piercing squeal. Zavion didnt know where he would feel it, or where he would hear it next. His teeth chattered. He squeezed his eyes shut, but that didnt stop the wind and that didnt stop his body from shaking so hard he thought his heart might shake right out of his chest.

Zavion closed his eyes and pictured Grandmother Mountain. He imagined climbing to its top. A real mountain would rise above this wind and Zavion would be safe.

- "Zavion!" Papa called through the wind. He sounded far away, but he was only downstairs.

"Papa!"

"Im coming up!"

Zavions eyes darted around the room. Nothing was where it should be. Papas rolls of canvas caught and tore on nails protruding from the walls. They flapped in the wind like shredded flags. Zavion crawled over to the window and held on to the sill. He peeked outside. It was morning, but it seemed as if the wind had blown the hours forward into night.

The dark sky poured rain on Zavions street. Only it wasnt a street anymore. It was a river. The wind came again and Zavions hands shook as he gripped the wooden sill. He pressed his chin against his hands to still them, but then his chin shook too.

Outside lay an enormous oak tree split in half. A work boot, jammed between two dangling branches. A lamp, sucked in and out of the water. A piece of the roof had broken off his neighbors house and sped down the river. Someone clung to the roof. He strained his eyes to see who it was and- Was it? Yes. His neighbors daughter. Zavion took care of her sometimes. It was so easy to make her laugh.

The wind gusted. She slipped on the wet roof.

Zavion closed his eyes. When he opened them again, a man was pulling the little girl out of the water.

The attic was definitely not high enough. It was not the top of a mountain. A mountain would rise above this.

This was the end of the world.

Zavion had lost all control-for only the second time ever-and this was the end of the world.

Zavions fingers dug into the wood on the sill. He tried to calm himself. He remembered the bench outside his school where he sat to tie his sneakers before he ran home every afternoon after cross-country practice. His bed neatly made with his pillow squared and his book tucked into the top right corner. His peanut b.u.t.ter and honey sandwiches wrapped in wax paper and lined up in the refrigerator.

"Sweet Jesus!" Papa stood, soaking wet, at the top of the attic stairs. "The first floor. Its flooded. Sweet Jesus. I couldnt save anything."

"What about your paintings?" asked Zavion.

"All my murals. All my paintings. Theyre gone." Papa dropped an armful of cereal boxes and two cartons of juice onto the floor. "This was all I could get."

"What about the second floor?"

"I dont know. Everything is shaking-"

"What about my room? Mamas mural?"

"Oh, Zavion, I just dont know-"

"Ill get the survival kit," said Zavion. Hed made it himself, put it in the downstairs hall closet. Hed check on his mural when he went to get it.

"There are water moccasins down there, Zav. Snakes swimming in our kitchen."

"What?"

"Youre not going downstairs." Papa stood like a fence in front of the stairway, but his eyes moved frantically around the room. "We have to leave."

Zavion pulled ruined canvases over to the window, and he and Papa waved them like flags, trying to get the attention of the helicopter flying overhead. But it kept on going.

The wind gusted and flung Zavion to the attic floor.

"The walls are breaking," Papa said. "We have to get out of here."

The wind found a path that it liked. It was a violin bow then, squealing back and forth across the two-by-fours. Back and forth, back and forth. Screaming. It splintered the walls of the attic and set itself free. But the wind stayed inside Zavion. The screaming wind filled him. Stayed twisted around the bones in his body.

Zavion pulled himself up. He and Papa waved the white flags again, and this time, when a helicopter flew overhead, it shone its lights on them. But then it just kept on going.

It kept on going.

chapter 2.

HENRY.

Henrys legs ached to run, his breath and heart pounded in his ears. To run on the mountain, behind Waynes house, in their small town in northern Vermont, half a continent away from the hurricane in Louisiana. Henry wanted to run on the mountain with Brae at his heels and Wayne by his side. Like the very last time.

- "Braes the starting line," said Henry, pointing to the large black and white dog sitting at his feet. "I taught him how to lie completely straight. Watch." Henry raised his arm. Then he flattened his hand as he lowered it, and Brae followed all the way down to the ground. Henry extended his hands in opposite directions, and Brae stretched out his front and back legs until his head and tail were the only parts of him rising above the dirt.

"That was awesome," said Wayne. "Will you show me how to make him do that?"

Henrys outstretched arms shook a little, he was so proud. He tucked them back against his sides.

"Maybe later," said Henry. "Cmon, lets race before the sun comes up."

"Its too dark," said Wayne.

"No its not."

"My pack is too heavy."

"Cmon!" Henry pulled on Waynes t-s.h.i.+rt. "Braes not gonna lie there forever." Brae lifted his head at the mention of his name and looked Henry right in the eyes. "Brae wants you to do it-" Henry flicked his finger in Waynes direction, and Brae turned his gaze to Wayne.

"Okay, okay," Wayne laughed. "How can I say no to the wonder-dog?"

The boys stood side by side behind Brae, each of them with one foot extended forward, just shy of touching the dogs muddy fur. The trail was flat for a few yards on the other side of the dog. Henry could see that far. And then there was nothing. Just the dark. Probably a steep descent. But just like Henry couldnt see the sun but could feel it, he could feel the mountain too. He and Wayne and Brae belonged there.

"On your mark. Get set. Go!" yelled Henry. And they were off. The boys jumped over Brae and began to run.

- But hed never do that again. Hed never run on the mountain again. Not with Wayne.

It wasnt going to happen. Ever. Again.

Because here he was, in front of Waynes casket.

Henrys legs twitched. His breath and heart too. Henry imagined he would twitch and twitch and twitch and explode. A loud bang, and bits of his body would tear off and land all over the church. A hand in an organ pipe. A leg on a pew. His nose on the pulpit, right on the pages of the reverends open Bible.

"Henry." Moms voice came through the downpour of body parts. It sounded so far away, but she was right by his side.

Henry didnt answer.

"You can touch him if you want to," Mom whispered.

Henrys arm was outstretched. His hand hovered over the casket. He yanked it back. He didnt want to touch Wayne, he didnt want to look at Wayne, he didnt want to be in this church on this day staring at Wayne, dead. Waynes mouth was closed, but the corners of his lips were turned up and the middle parts were pushed down so he looked like a stuffed animal. He looked like a stupid stuffed dog that some girl would carry under her arm. He stared at Waynes mouth searching for thread or glue. Whoever it was that fixed Wayne up had done a real c.r.a.p job. He must have used Waynes school picture from last year, because Wayne had made that same stupid face for the photographer. Henry had called him Rover for weeks.

The bottom of Waynes t-s.h.i.+rt was wrinkled just about where the incision must have been. Henry and Wayne had looked at pictures of dead bodies being embalmed. Now Wayne was embalmed. Waynes stomach and liver and bladder and guts had all been sucked dry right through that incision. His organs had been filled with some kind of formaldehyde c.r.a.p. And then hed been sewn back up and stuffed like a dog. And now Mom wanted Henry to touch him.

Jeezum Crow.

Wayne didnt belong here. He didnt belong here with some sort of weird lipstick on his lips and his hair slicked back with gel, a whacked-out fake dog stuck in a box. Wayne belonged on the mountain.

The treasure box didnt belong here either, but there it was, tucked under Waynes stiff arm. The brown leather, rubbed through at the hinges from opening and closing the box so many times. Henry remembered talking with Waynes mother and father, Annie and Jake, about what should go into the casket with Wayne. Annie hadnt wanted to put anything in, but Jake convinced her that the treasure box, and a few treasures, should be with him. Henry just stood there, unable to speak.

Until they put the marble in the box.

Henry had found the extra-big marble on the windowsill in his room when he and Mom moved into their house six years ago. He put it in his pocket, and that was the afternoon he met Wayne. That was the beginning of the luck.

Henry and Wayne traded the marble back and forth after that. Whenever Jake went on a long truck job, Henry gave it to Wayne. Whenever Henry went to visit his own dad, Wayne gave it back to him. If Wayne had a baseball game, he got it. If Henry had a football game, he got it.

Luck for Henry.

Luck for Wayne.

Luck for Henry.

Luck for Wayne.

Now the marble was stuck in the box, stuck in the casket, about to go under the ground, about to be buried forever with Waynes dead body.

Henrys legs throbbed.

"I have to get out of here," someone said behind him.

Henry turned. It was Jake. His voice sounded too loud for his body.

Mom was now in the back of the church, hugging Annie. The door opened, clapped shut. Jake left. A group of Henrys schoolmates sat on the back of a pew. The reverend picked up hymnbooks.

No one looked at Henry. Or at Wayne. No one.

Henry put his hand in the casket. He opened the treasure box and grabbed the marble between his thumb and fingers. He closed the old leather lid. He touched Waynes arm-a cold, rubbery arm-and he exploded into a million fiery pieces as he held the marble in his hand. All over-in the organ pipes, the pews, the pages of the open Bible.

Henry clutched the marble. He pulled himself together and ran out of the church.