Storm of Courage

The watery evening sun filtered through the wooden shutters, casting a zigzag glow over the rustic slats lining the walls of the chalet. Clara wrapped the thick woollen scarf tightly around her shoulders and ventured out onto the wooden porch. Tilting the metal watering can, she showered droplets onto the potted edelweiss, their grey-white petals outstretched like starfish rays. The honeyed scent of the spring white snowdrops hung in the crisp mountain air.

Clara leaned onto the wooden veranda, absorbing the stunning vista, the snow-capped peaks majestically domineering the landscape. Her heart was full of peace and joy, her thoughts reflective but at last free from past tensions of her old life. She stooped to pat Bruce, his loyal amber eyes meeting hers, tail thumping against the wooden decking.

The German Shepherd had obediently followed her through life, into a stormy marriage and through a bitter divorce. She flinched now at the memory of the pain and devastation of a violent relationship, the terror of the perpetual fist permanently etched into her soul like indelible ink. To escape the chaos, Clara had carved a new existence for them, amongst the mountains, imposing fir trees, blankets of snow and solitude in the isolated village near the town of Chamonix.

Clara and Bruce had acquired another companion, a raven with inky eyes who arrived one day, perched on her veranda, and refused to leave. Clara laughed as the bird with glossy violet feathers peered at her inquisitively. Bruce was not impressed with this croaking visitor and he growled in protest. The raven defiantly landed on the dog’s back. Bruce leapt to his feet shaking his sable coat until the intruder flew back to the veranda, eyeing them with a cunning stare. Clara rubbed Bruce’s soft ears.

“Oh, Bruce, this fellow is a harmless birdie. He won’t hurt you!” she soothed.

A flicker of trust settled in Bruce’s eyes and eventually the two animals became firm friends, shadowing each other like keen sportsmen with Bruce often carrying the raven on his back. Clara named the bird Bran, and he would come and go as he pleased like an unruly teenager, often pecking on the windows in the middle of the night until Clara allowed him to come in and settle on the bed next to Bruce.

Clara had finished watering her pots when an unexpected blast of icy wind knocked her sideways and heavy snow began to fall. The silver fir trees swayed vigorously, and the mountain range suddenly darkened, casting an ominous shadow across the landscape, as if conveying a warning of the storm about to break the calm. Frowning and clicking her tongue at Bruce, Clara hurried inside, clacking the wooden shutters tightly. She welcomed the warmth and safety of the wooden chalet.

The aroma of the soup simmering on the stove mingled with the smoke from the fire filled the air. Clara ladled the broth into a mug as she heard a pecking on the glass. She opened the shutter and was relieved to see Bran perched on the window box amongst the scarlet pansies, now buried beneath a veil of fresh snow. Clara opened the door and in he flew with a loud croak, along with an eerie whistling wind which echoed through the chalet. A flurry of thick snow made its entrance like an unwanted houseguest and Clara quickly closed the door against the elements. Bran snuggled next to Bruce who was sprawled on the rug in front of the fire. Bran’s feathers were shimmering with snowflakes, the contrast stark between the white purity and the oily blackness of his plumage.

The outdoor snowstorm intruding so wildly upon the indoor sanctuary created an unexpected crescendo of foreboding, which washed over Clara like an icy shower. She chastised herself. It’ll be fine, I’ve experienced many storms before. Still, the anxiety sat in her stomach like an intrusive sickness.

Clara lit a lantern and cradling the hot mug, she sipped the warm soup but quickly discarded the unfinished meal as her stomach lurched in response to the wind now whipping and thrashing vehemently. An intense wave of anxiety rose in her chest like the Loch Ness Monster raising its head from murky waters. The chalet shook and wavered like a paper doll’s house. Clara steadied herself against the table. Shutters rattled, gusts hammered the windows, smashing the glass, shards flying in all directions. There was a heavy crash as the pansies in the window box outside met their fate. Bran flew around the chalet, wings flapping loudly. His screeching, like an alarm bell, woke Bruce who sprang from slumber, barking. Clara lifted one of the shutters. Panic rose in her throat as a deluge of snow erupted high into the air like a volcano just outside the wooden porch. With a loud thud, the door flew open again, bringing in an avalanche of debris. The ferocious blasts lifted the terracotta flowerpots from the ground, before they came crashing down, fingers of edelweiss scattered across the porch. Clara screamed as a fir tree hit the roof and landed, shattering the floorboards, inches away. A wooden beam above creaked and groaned before hurtling towards her, the snap of bone in her arm and ribs sickening as the freezing snow lashed through a gaping hole in the roof. The small cosy chalet was catapulted into blackness, as the electricity failed, severing any communication with the outside world.

Clara, cloaked in rubble, pallor resembling the features of a marble statue, beads of sweat glistening on her brow, lay beaten and bloodied on the ground. Both animals were unharmed and Bruce sprang to her side and licked her forehead roughly. Bran squawked noisily and landed on her chest, his head cocked to one side. Heart pounding, hands shaking, fear enveloping her like a black cloak, Clara’s thoughts somehow grasped onto reality and clicked in her brain like a lightbulb moment, a realisation that she never thought she would have to face. I know I’m going to die but the animals might have some chance. They have to leave now before the chalet collapses around us.

“Bruce, go out now, go!” she managed, her voice thick with dust and fear, tears streaming and mingling with the rivulets of blood trickling, her blonde hair matted. Two pairs of eyes flickered as if in acceptance. Lying amongst the debris, she watched as Bruce trudged out of the door, hanging now on its hinges, into the severity of the storm. His feathered friend flew high into the thick night skies, squawking loudly as if on a mission.

Breath catching in her throat and pain slicing through every muscle, Clara dragged herself up and towards the door, a torrent of adrenaline enabling her to slam it behind them. She shuffled to the other side of the chalet, knees buckling, her right arm crooked, a slither of ivory peeking through the broken skin.

Blackness descended, with only the solitary lantern still flickering with life. Clara cowered in the corner like a tormented animal, everything around her destroyed. Agony rained down like a shower of molten rock as welcome oblivion triumphed as she lay stranded like a beached whale, alone and left to die.

Time moved on without her, but still she clung on, fading in and out of consciousness, defying death, until through the silence, the vibration of booted feet storming what was left of the porch, shocked her senses. Clara prised her eyes open. She squinted at the blurred faces, momentarily awakened by voices, muffled but palpable.

The metal stretcher scraped along battered floorboards as the rescuers navigated mounds of rubble and sludge, slowly advancing towards Clara’s crumpled body. Agony sliced through her as they lifted her, supporting the useless arm, its flesh hanging by a redundant thread. The needle, like a shard of ice, pierced her skin as the warm liquid coursed through her veins. The pain crescendoed from darkness into light and through the narrow tunnel of vision, as consciousness crept in, she glimpsed a black feathered bird perched on a furry sable coat covered in snow.