The Ranger and the Rain

Jun 14, 01:30 AM John McKay

The ranger woke to the sound of thunder and knew that events unnatural were shaking him awake. His trail had led him well inland, over rivers and through swamps and past forest and around mountains and over the hills. But he knew he was closing on his prey. He knew where he must go, and he knew, too, the wizard was bringing his will against him. He knew of the unnatural ways of the wizard and the sway he would hold over elements. He knew this time of year, so calm especially in the twilight hours, would not turn so suddenly to such chaos. He knew it was the work of he who he sought.

In an instant he was alert, his mind focused on the events around him. There a streak of lightening, and a moment later the crescendo of thunder. In the darkness that followed, he judged the constellations and saw the moon low in the sky and waning. Midnight, he knew. The time of foreboding. The right time for his quarry to strike. He hadn’t been a fool to sleep. All creatures need sleep and he had succumbed as he knew he must. It was only fate that these foul deeds struck during his slumber. The water fell straight down as if they were stones, each drop as weighted as a boulder and crashed upon the dirt and upon the ranger equally. The ranger was on his feet. He was fully awake and the moment of the first lightening flash to the moment of his alertness was barely a second. Not even.

The air was warm, his fire gone, and his hat swept from his head. He had made a crude leanto, quick and hasty in the evening before, sufficient for the season and natural weather he had predicted, but frail and fragile before the storm he felt brewing. He leapt the length of his stormlit shadow and grabbed his hat before it was fully sweapt from his sight. He only had stormlight now to see, his fire gone, the moon unreliable in this storm. It was only the strobe flash of the lightening that served his eyes now and he knew he must act. He had choices to make and only an instant to recognize them all. He could scramble to higher ground, but the land was rough here. For days he had scrambled over only rocks and crags and not much else. His own leanto was built against the scraggliest of shrubs, barely suited to be called tree and the layers of leaves were from other, less prosperous shrubs. He had no shelter. He had no protection, he had only what he carried in this small camp.

Again he saw lightening flash and in the moment of illumination he saw the water pour into the stone circle he had created for his fire pit. What was once a source of light and warmth was now a pool. No better than any other piece of worthless ground he was camped upon. His decision, then, was made. He swooped his tin cup, now empty of tea, into his pack and quickly slung it around his shoulder. He drew his sword, for no reason other than he had nothing else to slush below the water and feel for solid ground. His footing was critical. Water was ankle deep and rising. He cast a glance at the sky and saw nothing but water, fist sized drops falling and slamming into his face and he quickly angled his head down so his wide brimmed hat would catch the worst of it. He had barely started moving, but already he was soaked. His leather jerkin weighing heavily upon his shoulders, clinging to his sides as he moved and he tried to shrug it off, to bring his arms through the sleeves with his large bag still slung around his torso. It was difficult and his joints ached. He had traveled far the day before and he hadn’t yet rested from his travails. His muscles were weary and he was taxed by this storm, so unnatural and unwelcome. He slung his jerkin over his bag, and let it lie there soaking in the pouring water and weighted ever heavier as he trudged on. His boots, though stout and sturdy, were not made for wading and were soon overflowing with floodwater. The boots sloshed against the rocks and his feet sloshed inside his boots. It was a double effort merely to walk, but on he went. His sword feeling the path before his feet and his energy spent on trying one foot in front of the other.

The ranger knew at this rate that he only had to outlast the stamina of his quarry. A wizard could only keep a storm like this for so long, and if a ranger could keep his feet under him for longer, he could prevail. The wind blew and screams of the storm deafened him. But on he marched. One foot at a time. He swept his longsword in front of him, paddling aside debris from bark and leaves and fallen flora. He thrust the sword and found rock beneath and slid his foot where his sword found purchase and moved on. It was a battle of wills, a step at time: the ranger against the rain. But the ranger was strong and determined and with each step, with each pounding moment of the rain, he gained ground. Each time he pressed one foot in front of the other, each time he was battered by rain, each drop the force of a punch, he won a little victory. It wasn’t a race of distance for the ranger, but a race of time. All he had to do was hold out just one second longer than the storm. He knew he could do it, and each slosh of his foot inside his boot told him he would.

Almost as quickly as it had begun it was over. The thunder and the fury died down long before the rain, of course, as it always would. But as the fierceness died and it was only natural rain the ranger saw, he breathed his relief. The wind was no longer a threat and he looked back and no longer saw his nighttime camp, but did see a river, a rolling stream of water that followed his trail and he knew his footing would be uncertain for a time longer. He clambered to the side and saw the edge of the water move, serpent-like, as if it were attracted to his very presence. The wizard was done with the storm, his energy spent, but he was not done with the ranger. If he could, the ranger knew, he would surely destroy him, and this night if possible. The ranger sat on a rocky promontory and frowned at the water as it rushed past, unnaturally lapping at the ranger’s high ground. The ranger crossed his legs and took off one boot and poured the water out, it was rough and brown and the ranger sniffed disdainfully, as if in that water was all the foulness and evil of his prey.

The ranger looked around again, and noted the constellations and the waning moon. He judged the hour and knew he must rest. It wouldn’t be long now. But before any battle, the flesh must be rested, the muscle prepared, else the fight would be lost before it began. Soon, the ranger knew, the fight must begin in earnest.

Yank Our Chains

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