"Storms Forming" by Amanda Rosberg Olsson

Storms are forming

It was raining, and heavily so. In a spear shaped minaret in the Central Fortification an old man was bent over a large barrel of water, scrubbing worn out towels against a washing board. Foam appeared to be everywhere. The sound of the raindrops splattering against the metal of the tower walls was inescapable and seemed to fill the whole room. The only thing disturbing the clatter was the old man’s voice, grumbling what sounded like mindless gibbering unless you listened very carefully.

“Rain, rain, rain. Always rain, never thunder, just the blasted rain. Always me having to do the laundry in this bloody rain, God forbid there would be any thunder.” The muttering was bordering on that of a mad man and constantly changed in intensity and tone. It was interrupted only shortly when he turned to the laundry shoot that was then filled with dirty towels once again. “Always washing, washing, washing in the rain. No thunder at all, just this infernal rain…” and so it went on.

Suddenly, the old man thought to hear a strange noise, which wasn’t that strange as he thought to hear things all the time. He did not look around as he always felt so silly when he did that and found nothing. And some time it was that weatherman that only came to tell him that the rain would go on, and that the probability of thunder was very low. And that only made him angry. Of course, there was times when there would be thunderstorms, or even a little bit of sun, but that happened so rarely that it almost felt like a blissful dream when it did.

The second time the old man heard the noise, he just had to look around, try yourself to ignore a strange sound when you hear one, especially when you’re in a lone tower during a rainstorm.

There was nothing by the pile of clean towels, or by the water faucet, where new warm water came every other hour, or by the soap rack. There was no window, so the chamber was always lit by the strong light of a naked light bulb. The old man considered how warm the water he had was, well it was a shame to call it warm, but it wasn’t freezing, yet. ‘Not the time for new water then’ was his conclusion.

“The cheap bastards.” Having the sound momentarily being replaced by his contempt for his employers, he was scared when he heard it again, but then he had heard it like a clear and distinct ‘meow’.

The old man turned around, and there, by the laundry shoot was an average grey cat. It let out another meow when he looked at it. Where had the stupid animal come from, through the laundry shoot? The old man opened his eyes wide when he thought about the possibility- The laundry that was sent to him was compressed and sent through vacuum. Was the cat some kind of ghost? The old man was so engrossed by the cat that he had completely missed the cloaked figure by the door of his little tower and was so terrified when the figure spoke with a man’s voice:

“Veric, I hope you are well.” The little old one, once named Veric, seemed to jump three feet into the air as he let out a load oath. He then moved to stare at the hooded one with malicious eyes for several seconds.

“Who are you?” He then let out suspiciously.

“Oh, forgive me,” said the cloaked one and pulled down his hood, “it’s me, Garren.”

“Oh,” said the old man and his stern face seemed to light up a bit, though hardly much.

“Welcome then, have a seat.” The one called Garren looked a bit confused as there was no chairs to sit on. “I pray that you have news.”

“Aye, I do” said Garren and stepped in. After looking about for a bit, and ignoring his meowing cat, he grabbed a bucket that was laying around, turned it upside down and sat. The little grey one sat down on the floor with a squishy sound, foam circled him as if he was sitting in a flowerbed.

“So what news do you have? Will there be thunder?” Veric’s voice got eager and his eyes got a stroke of hope through them.

“No, I’m afraid not, I’m sorry Veric.”

The old one spat on the floor and caste a glance at the powerless washing machines. They were big enough for him to fit all the day’s laundry, but alas, they just stood there, gaping, just waiting for some thunder to strike. It was Veric’s firm belief that washing machines were meant to wash and grieved when they could not. Sometimes, he lay awake at night, fearing that they might come for him for stealing their laundry. ‘It’s not my fault!” he would shout when they towered over him ‘I’d give you all the energy you wanted. You wouldn’t even have to ask for it! Please don’t wash me!’ Maybe it was a blessing that he slept all on his own, so that no one would hear his screams of fear.

“Veric?” Garren waved his hand in front of the old one’s face.

“Huh? Weren’t you going to tell me the news boy?” Veric’s voice was as sour as always, and Garren didn’t bother to tell him that he had already said everything. It was quite tiresome, to get all exited over the same thing twice the same evening.

“Many lowlanders have joined the cause since the last conserving bill was passed. Even those in the sunny parts now have to do constant manual labor. They, as the rest of us, will no longer put up with this fatigue and scraped and dried-out hands. Especially not since the latest research on these ancient ‘alternative sources of energy’: gas, nuclear and the latest ones that you just have to burn to get electricity from: oil and coal. Strange words in the mouth I would say.” Garren’s speech became more and more passionate. The grey cat jumped down from the dirty towels and into its master’s knee. Garren began to stroke it vividly. “Never will we have to demean ourselves to do cleaning, dishes or laundry ever again! These hands will stay dry and clean!” When Veric heard the words he felt his eyes water and he stood up and cheered.

“Aye!” Garren followed suit, tipping the insulted cat on to the floor. “We have to drink to that! Will you join me in the cantina?”

“Of course, my friend!” said Garren, still in his passionate daze. “Follow me!”

The two of them marched out the metal door, slamming it shut behind them, not giving the cat, named Aramis, any time to get through. It meowed meekly but the loud voices of Garren and Veric was moving away, neither having a though about the laundry that had to be done.

And then the lightning struck and Aramis sat and watched as the machines started to hum.