Shelter from the storm
A cabin of spruce was perched within a constant cloud, steaming across the moors of Bodmin. The haven of Kerenza Argall. It swayed forbiddingly yet never toppled. Kerenza’s knees buckled as her teeth rattled; all the while, she kept her crumbling home in order. Every year, throughout the warm months, Old Kerenza would prepare her cabin for the harsh temperament of winter. Perpetually boiling a stew, a warm bubble protecting her refuge – an aromatic thaw for the brutal bite of outdoors. Meanwhile she’d be patching up leaks and cracks, where the little rodents came to nest.
Based on the swing of the winds, Old Kerenza could always tell when a storm was rolling in. Her aquiline nose would gently twist towards its eye, and she would organise herself accordingly. Clearing the gutter of moss - a task the seagulls relished in helping with, scooping and hurling busily with their beaks. Then securing her home’s structure with extra support from some bungee rope she’d found tangled in the gorse, littered by scampering campers, in over their Gore-Tex hooded heads. Finally, by making sure to collect enough firewood to see her through.
On one such evening, having accomplished her gearing up,she dozed dreamlessly by the crackles and pops. A thunderous knock came at her door, so defiant it bellowed way above the whining winds and relentless rain. Kerenza started. She never had visitors, especially not on a night like this. Apprehensively, she rose from her chair. Perhaps, she mused, someone had been lost on the moor and hers was the first sign of life they’d found. Still, she couldn’t be too careful and gently settled her axe by the door. Upon opening it, the force of the gales and torrent of rain extinguished her candles, so that, besides the soft glow of the fire, Kerenza found herself in darkness. In front of her stood a slight figure, the unmistakeable frame of a child.
Instinctively, she rushed them inside and slammed the door closed. For a moment, the two inspected each other in silence. Old Kerenza was curious to note, the child was completely dry, despite the conditions from which they’d emerged. Draped in beige clothes, the youth appeared sexless. Perhaps a trick of the dim light, yet their eyes seemed to flash through different bleached colours. A constant zoetrope rotation through seafoam, alabaster and celadon.
Breaking into a wry smile, the child explained, “Skerry Werry needs a mummy.”