Dry lightning flashed again.
In front of that wall, something did move. A lone figure in a dark parka, barely visible against the black background through the churning wind and dust, was moving along the heaving backdrop, making its way to the path down to the bottom of the valley and the cottage.
The figure made its way to the bottom of the slope.
It stood motionless.
“Hey!” Adam called, but he could feel the word ripped from his mouth and snuffed out by the storm. His lips were coated with dust.
The figure turned toward him.
Carefully, Adam stepped away from the cottage—and was immediately thrown down by the wind.
He nearly panicked. It felt as if hands had taken hold of him from below and were yanking him down into the dust, trying to suffocate him. There were little bits of something in the ash that broke apart—he remembered the chicken bone he had found before.
Then, abruptly, whatever had held him let go. He was up on his knees, panting into the wind.
Behind him he heard frantic tapping on a window and looked back to see Mary’s frightened face at the picture window, gesturing wildly with her hands—
There were hands on Adam, helping him up.
“Wha—?”
He looked up into a dark, hooded face. He could make out no features.
“Thank you!” he shouted into the wind, regaining his footing.
The figure made a gesture and the two of them made their way to the front door of the cottage.
Mary pulled the door open, then slammed it closed behind them.
“Are you all right?” she said frantically to Adam, clutching his arm.
Adam nodded, spitting dust, beginning to regain his breath.
The children had stirred, and sat up, rubbing their eyes. Lucy sobbed out, “I want my Harry doll!”
The newcomer, turning away from them, shrugged out of his coat and began to shake the dust out of it.
“Some night,” he said, matter-of-factly, turning around. He was tall, strong-looking, a weather-beaten, dark, almost cordovan color. His voice was deep and his large yet delicate hands looked as if they could pull a tree out of the ground without cracking any of the roots.
“That was your van that slid over the precipice?” the man asked. He was smiling, and he hung his parka over the back of one of the chairs at the small table.
“Yes, it was,” Adam replied, realizing that even with the mud and rain and what he had been through, it was nevertheless time for social conventions, including chitchat, to be adhered to. “You’re from around here?”
“You might say that,” the man said, laughing softly. “This place belongs to me.”
He thrust out his hand, so quickly that Adam nearly jumped.
“Please forgive me!” Adam said, taking the hand and noting the soft yet firm grip. “We just didn’t know. We never would have barged in if we’d known someone was living—”
The man’s laughter cut him off. “Did you have a choice?”
“As a matter of fact, no,” Adam answered. He gave a short laugh himself, then asked, “Have you ever had a storm like this before?”
“Never anything quite like this,” the man answered. He glanced out the picture window, then back at Adam. “Shall we have some tea?”
“I grew up here, and never heard of a dust storm in North Carolina before,” Mary said suddenly, almost belligerently.
The man turned his eyes on her, and smiled.
“And for that matter,” Mary continued, “I don’t remember there ever being a cabin down here.”
There came a loud banging, which made Mary gasp: it sounded like something living was being ripped away from the roof.
“Don’t you think—?” Adam began.
The man waved a hand in dismissal. “Nothing can be done, now. Come, have some hot tea.” He was already drawing water into a pot and laying out utensils and cups on the table.
The two girls had risen; Cindy padded over to Adam and tugged at his sleeve.
Her voice was smalclass="underline" “Daddy, are we going to slide away like the car?”
Adam was about to answer when Mary spoke up. She had wandered to the picture window, and was staring out through the swirling dust to the top of the valley where the road had been.
“Why hasn’t the wall of dust come down on us?” she said, in a careful, even voice.
There was sudden silence in the room.
“Come, don’t be bothered with that,” the man said after a moment. He put his hand out to Mary, seeking to draw her away from the window. “Best not to think about it.”
“Why not?” Mary replied quickly.
“It’s just that, there’s nothing to be done about it now,” the man said, smiling.
“When we found this cabin,” Adam said, “we saw that the dust that had come down from the mountain was in some way impeded from coming into this valley. You must have noticed it, you came down that way. Is there some sort of natural wall or outcropping up there that’s holding it back?”
“No,” the man said simply. “But I really don’t think you should worry about it.”
“The dust can’t come pouring down on us?” Mary asked.
“It hasn’t yet, has it?”
Something was ripped from the roof and whipped away by the wind.
“Come,” the man continued, “have something hot to drink. It will calm you.”
Mary was staring around, over the ceiling and down the walls. Adam couldn’t help following her eyes with his own as another loud rip sounded somewhere up above.
“What were you doing outside?” Mary asked. A subtly suspicious tone had crept into her voice. Adam almost scolded her, but held his tongue.
He spread his hands wide. “This all belongs to me.” He held out his hand to Mary again, but she stared at it and he gently lowered it.
“I don’t like this,” Mary said, turning to Adam. “I grew up here, and I know this cabin was not here.”
“Mary!” Adam said, shocked. “How can you talk that way? The man lives here. This is his home.” He was suddenly aware of his social obligation again. “Please forgive—” he began, turning to the man.
“It’s nothing. Please.” He gestured toward the steaming tea, set neatly at the table.
Mary stood with her arms folded staring out the picture window as Adam sat uneasily at the table, with the two girls in dainty chairs to either side of him.
Mary said quietly, “I read a story once, by Nathaniel Hawthorne, about a visitor to an inn on a mountainside. During the night, there was an avalanche, and everyone ran out and was killed. The inn was left untouched.” She turned her head slowly from the window to face the four figures sitting at the table. Adam was staring at her as though she were mad.
“What do those signs out on the road mean—G, and 2, and 7?” she asked sharply.
“Mary—”
“Like I said,” she continued, “ there never was a cabin here. And the more I think about it, the more sure I am that there wasn’t even a valley here.” She turned back to look out the window. “I think this cabin is a trap.”
The cabin’s owner smiled evenly. “Then what about your story? If you leave, won’t the dust come down on you in an avalanche and smother you?”
“I think if we stay that’s what will happen.”
“What if I told you it made no difference?”
Now Adam looked at the man, who only shrugged, smiling enigmatically. “Hawthorne was something of a philosopher. I’ve always enjoyed philosophy. It tries to explain so many unexplainable things.”
There was a tentative rip at the roof above them, which cut off as the wind suddenly wound down a few notches. The dust storm was not beating quite as hard on the picture window, which now showed the first tints of a sallow dawn.