The Storm

The caterpillar was climbing up the twig that protruded from the trunk of the Flamboyant tree, almost to the wall of Alexander’s hut, munching the edges of the sweet leaves as it went. It ate continuously, only stopping when it got too dark to see the leaf. Dawn saw it start eating again. It rained, the caterpillar didn’t stop eating. The wind blew, the caterpillar didn’t stop eating. The sun shone, making the middle of the day very hot until the leaves started to wilt but still the caterpillar carried on eating. 

It didn’t stop eating until,one day, it felt a different urge come upon it. It stopped eating. It extruded a thread and then dangled from the twig. It dangled, dangled and waited as its body absorbed the nutrients from all those leaves and, as it did, it slowly changed form inside its protective case. 

*

Andrew Higginson was a meteorologist at the Woods Hole Marine Oceanographic Institute on Cape Cod. Today was a big day for him. A tropical storm had been forming for several days in the Caribbean and today there was a meeting of the specialists, with Andrew in the chair, in room 115C to discuss the issue and the storm prognosis. 

Andrew had worn a suit and tie as he was the chairman but the other six men were dressed in ‘student shabby’ with overtones of ‘tropical indolence.’ This meant that they all wore sandals or flip flops, surfers shorts and Tee shirts. A couple went even further and had the 70’s haircut, which meant a pigtail. ‘A right bunch of scruffy pirates,’ thought Andrew. They certainly didn’t look like dedicated scientists at the top of their field, as they unarguably were. 

The exception was the smartly dressed woman sitting at the end of the tale. She wore a black, all-encompassing dress with vivid red geometric patterns embossed on it, all topped off by a long,  flowing golden scarf. No one knew who she was and why she was here. She was Dr Constanza Grant-Price, ‘Connie’ to her friends. She said nothing, but listened intently to what the others reported and jotted neat notes on her A4 pad with a 0.5 mm fine-point drawing pen.

It was the 15th August, right in the middle of the North Atlantic hurricane season so a rapidly forming tropical cyclone was not unexpected, but this one seemed to be getting larger than normal but still didn’t seem to be building with the usual speed.

Once they were all seated, the coffee machine severely depleted, Andrew stood up and pointed to the first Keynote slide showing on the screen, shone from the projector mounted in the ceiling.

‘This satellite picture shows tropical storm “Ira”. You can see the anticlockwise swirl and the size across the centre. It is a larger than average storm and its parameter ratio is within normal limits but there is one strange thing in its development.

As you know, these storms normally follow a similar pattern even though they vary in the quantity of entrained energy so they grow at a daily, known, rate. This one is different however. “Ira” is growing more slowly than normal and the rate of change is slowing down. If this rate continues on its present path, it will stop growing in six days time.

I’ll now go around the table asking each of you to give your view of your own specialist area as it relates to this incipient . After we have all the data from each of you, I will open and chair a free discussion to try and get to the bottom of this.

Shall we start with you Tom? ‘

‘OK. As you know, my speciality is ocean water temperature. Our measurements show that the upper 50 metres of the ocean under the developing cyclone is, at 28^oC, well above the cyclone genesis minimum of 26.5^oC. This means that, from my point of view, the cyclone should be developing, driven by the energy it is gaining from the warm ocean,’

‘Thank you, Tom. You next David.’

‘Using the Emmanuel model of Maximum Potential Intensity I have found that the limit of intensity, using the ocean temperatures that Tom has given me, is very high so we potentially have here a very intense storm - “Ira” should be a big one! If it slowing down and appears to be heading for a zero-growth stasis, then that is very strange and outside of our normal parameters.’

‘OK, thanks David, do you have any ideas James?’

‘Well, err, as you all know, I deal with the Coriolis force and its effect on the tropical cyclogenesis. In this case, the storm centre or the surface expression of the storm centre - the epi centre if you will - is about 1900 km North of the equator. This easily meets the need for the epicentre to be at least 500 km from the equator to allow tropical cyclogenesis, so there is nothing unusual there - in my field anyway.’

‘Thanks for that contribution James.’ said Andrew. ‘Have you managed to identify the low level disturbance that set ‘Ira” off in the first place, Paul?’

‘There is nothing of note, Andrew, so we have to assume as usual that it was the depression last week in the ITC.’

‘In English, please Paul.

‘Oh, sorry - ITC is just a TLA ( three letter abbreviation ). It means Intertropical convergence zone.’

‘Now we come to the vertical wind shear. Anything unusual that you have seen recently? Viv?’

‘No, the vertical wind shear has been fairly weak over the last couple of weeks between the tropopause and the ocean surface so ‘Ira” should have been free to develop massively upwards.’Just the normal temperatures and pressures, I’m afraid, nothing unusual.’

‘Well Graham, we are all relying on you to come up with something surprising, you are least representative of the six parameters required for a tropical cyclone generation. What have you got for us?’

‘At first I thought it must be the upper level jet stream that was slowing down the storm’s development but that was normal for this time of year. I then checked the data for weaker wind speeds and higher minimum pressures - a baroclinic initiation, we call it. That was also normal.So I have to tell you that there is no favourable trough interaction that I could see.’ 

Andrew stood up and used his laser pointer to set a red dot on the screen. He highlighted the six parameters in turn and checked each one of as being within the normal range and so could not account for the slow and about to stop, development of the storm. The six specialist storm scientists started volubly defending their positions, each saying that one of the others must have got their data wrong, each defended their own numbers until there was quite a hubbub in the room and there was no resolution in sight.

The meeting wasn’t coming up with any solutions so he decided to close it and regroup at 1000 the following morning. ‘Have a think about it overnight and hopefully we will come to a conclusion tomorrow’ he half shouted at their departing backs. ‘Will you be here tomorrow Connie? he asked.

‘Yes, of course, I am just as puzzled as anyone but I am sure we will get it sorted out tomorrow.’

*

The dangle was coming to an end, there was movement inside the case. The case split at the bottom, the end furthest from the thread that was supporting it from the branch of the flamboyant tree. The tree had stood for many years on the headland overlooking Nelson’s Dockyard in Antigua. 

The caterpillar wasn’t interested in the history of the place. In fact the caterpillar had disappeared. It had metamorphosed into a different creature, one that was slowly easing itself moistly from the confines of its home. It managed to emerge fully and then carefully stretched out its long, weak legs. It stood there for some moments still folded up, as it had been made. Eventually the creature realised that it had wings and experienced an irresistible desire to stretch them out. It slowly and carefully did so. Its wings were revealed in all their black, gold and red glory, vivid patterns embossed on them. The creature waited, the wings drying and stiffening in the tropical sun.

After five short minutes the wings were dry and ready to use. The creature knew the time had come but was not aware of the consequences so it gave into its need. It jumped into the warm, gentle breeze. The butterfly flapped its wings and fluttered by the flamboyant tree that was its birthplace. It now had to search for a mate among the myriad others from the same tree, family tree, and lay the eggs that would be the start of the next cycle, the next generation.

*

It was five minutes past ten the next morning. All were there in the meeting room except Connie.

Andrew said,’Does anyone have any suggestions as to why ‘Ira’s” development is so slow and looks like it will not develop into a full cyclone?’

‘I do,’ said a voice from the opening door. ‘I have just come from the zoo physics department and we are fairly sure we have got the answer.’ Constanza walked to her seat at her accustomed place at the end of the table and sat down, arranging her notes neatly on the table in front of her.

Seven pairs of eyes followed her progress, all agog to see what she had found that they couldn’t unearth from all their data.

‘If I may explain Andrew?’ He just nodded, impatient to hear the denouement of the mystery.

‘You probably don't know either me or my department. My speciality is chaos theory as it applies to the living world. I study things like shoals of fish and flocks of birds and how they manage to fly or swim as a coherent swarm or shoal with no communication between the individuals.

I had a hunch last evening so I telephoned my colleague who is doing some field research on cyclical metamorphism, especially as it applies to butterflies on Antigua. He told me that the 13 year cycle butterflies were all emerging from their cases over the last few days. Their wing flapping has resulted in the effect, predicted by chaos theory, that it would have on the weather. They only live for three days, just long enough to mate and lay their eggs so I predict that ‘Ira’ will resume its development tomorrow and turn into a large tropical cyclone.’

The windows rattled in the increasing wind as Connie gathered up her notes and fluttered out of the room, leaving behind seven incredulous - and seriously miffed - meteorologists.

Council cuts

‘Dear Mr Scott, I have some news

that will not accord with your views.

Gardening is a low priority

within this urban local authority.’

This was written in the letter

that triggered off a bitter vendetta

between the council and Gilbert S,

who spent his spare time growing filbert - s

His allotment is in the city centre,

he doesn’t own it, just a renter.

It’s full of catkins, leafs and nuts

surrounding two green water butts

Hazel bushes are all very well

but don’t give very much to sell.

‘Gilbert isn’t economic,

merely mildly gastronomic.’

Times are hard,’ the letter said.

‘All our books are in the red.

We badly need to save some money,

we have no cash for milk and honey.

Children’s services have been cut

We had to sell the scouting hut,

stop filling potholes in the road,

cannot afford the high workload.

We’ve even sold the old folk’s homes.

The library has lost many tomes,

every youth club has been closed,

we voted for it unopposed

Everyone has to do their bit,

so now’s the time to take your hit.

We’re very sorry Gilbert Scott,

to have to say you’ve lost the plot.’

*

This news hit Gilbert very badly

He looked at his hazel bushes - sadly

He thought it unlikely, with no conviction,

Surely the council would not use eviction?

Where could he go, what could he grow

Hazel grows so very slow, you know.

Could he have another plot?

He asked the council, could they allot?

‘We have no land, no plots to spare

I know it isn’t very fair

But you should see our waiting list

You should have a lobbyist.’

Gilbert had to change his plan

he had an idea, he knew a man

At the zoo, just down the hill

They were always looking for his skill

The animals were counted every night

But the birds were difficult, when in flight

So that’s why Gilbert, a polymath

is counting parrots along the flight path.

The council is in private session

Alderman Smith had a confession.

‘We have to close the zoo,’ he said.

‘There, I’ve said it, I’ve made my bed.

Why should a council own a zoo?

It always loses money too.

Those pesky parrots make a noise

Though they are pretty, all turquoise.

We will save a hefty sum.’

He thought a bit and sucked his thumb…

‘Gilbert Scott will lose his job,

That will save us quite a few bob.

Why is Gilbert counting parrots?

What brought him in, what were the carrots?

Did he only need the money,

to live his life with milk and honey?

So they sacked poor Gilbert S.,

No more dreams of growing filbert - s

They sold the zoo, elephants and rats,

Now it’s just a block of flats.

Then Gilbert had a great insight

He would plant his trees at night

He collected all his nutty stocks

Planted them out, emptied his box

Now walk and see the hazel trees

Waving gently in the breeze

and marvel at the name they’ve got:

Gilbert Scott has got his plot.

Dreams

‘The sun was hovering low above the horizon. The air was clear and still. There was no red in the evening sky. The red was concentrated in the desert sand and the rocky banks of the wadi that led to the sea, many miles away to the South East. The wadi was dry of any water. The only sign that water was involved in it’s creation was the drifts of pebbles across a point bar and the dunes that looked half finished in its bed. They had been cut by further currents at the base of the water column, imbricating the flat rocks with the speed and force of the flow, saltating the smaller ones, clouding the water with sandy drifts until it was opaque.

It had been a hot day, no clouds. This was normal here, it had been normal for many days, years, millennia. It had been many thousand years since it had rained here. There was no shade, nothing to cast shadows until the planet cast its own over itself as the sun deserted this barren place at the end of each day. It felt ironic that this desert was in the rain shadow of the vast, craggy, knife edged mountains to the North West. The mountains had been thrown up into the sky by the mighty clash of the crustal plates. The movement was slow but neither plate would yield, the only way was up. These were mighty mountains, deep - rooted in the continental crust. They were tall, tall enough to spear into the circling clouds until they leaked and let water drop from their icy upper reaches. 

The water hit the mountain tops, washing down the fragments released by the expanding ice. The torrents increased in size as they merged and flowed faster down the flanks of the giants utill the gradient eased and the streams formed great outwash fans of rocks, boulders, pebbles and sand. The torrents joined as they slowed, joined with their cousins from other familial mountains. The increased volume of water was able to move huge volumes of material downstream. Some was deposited in the bed, other, smaller grained material was carried within the water column, deposited on the inside of bends then eroded away again, building and destroying dunes. 

The flood reached the wadi formed from the last flood, and the flood before that. It deepened and was channelled by the rocky banks, its speed increased, it roared and growled, fought with itself, humped up in great waves and was a reddish brown with its load of sediments. Nothing stood in its way but there were no floaters, no tree trunks, plants had not yet established, the desert was barren. The flash flood reached the end of the wadi, the flood dispersed, fed into a braided river system moving lazily across a vast plain. The larger boulders were dropped, pebbles were still carried on until they too were dropped as the flow slowed. The cloudy water sluggished and then came to a stop. This time it had not reached the sea but there would be other floods. The remaining water in the playa lakes soaked into the ground and what was left evaporated, leaving white minerals behind. 

All was now quiet, all was calm, peace spread across the plain and the sun went to her rest. No animals stirred. There were no animals, only a few dead, toothless, armoured  fish that had been marooned in the playas by the retreating water. They died, suffocated in the muddy, fine-grained sediments, ready to take their place in the fossil record, to wait for 400 million years until plucked out of the red cliffs by bright eyed students.

'I keep on having this dream, Doctor. Why is it always the same time, why always a flood and then a sunset?’

‘That is certainly a lot of whys,’ said Dr Williams. ‘We will have to check you out physically, check your medications and see if we can find a cause. In the meantime, your hour is up and we can continue next time. Please see your GP for a full physical and bring a list and samples of all your meds next time.’

‘OK Doc,’ I said as I levered myself off the couch which squeaked as my body surfed the worn leather. ‘I’ll make an appointment for a couple of week’s time. See you then. I’d better get back to work now.’ I picked up my helmet and clamped it onto my suit to form an air tight seal before reaching the door that the doctor held open for me.

The doctor let his patient out of the door, closed it firmly, set the clamps and then went over to the window. He twisted the control to allow him to see out. He looked at the red surface of the desert, the ragged mountains in the distance, the dry wadi heading down to the South East, the sun low in the sky. ‘Why had his patient dreamed of water? There had been no rivers on Mars for millions of years.’ He sighed, walked back to his desk to write up the report, before unclamping the air tight door, ready for his next patient.

Life - A Poem in Tanka form

Everest sunrise

Looking up and looking down.

Think forward, look back

In frozen eternity

All possible lives ahead.

Kala Pattar peak,

Air is cold but sun is hot.

Living not enough,

Must have mountains and music,

Must have freedom and fresh air.

Questions - A poem in Fibonacci Form

Questions

How,

what,

where, when,

who, why not?

Use all these questions.

You have all the answers; the meaning of life?

Life has no meaning, it just is. All the answers have no meaning.

The logic then is that the questions are also meaningless. Therefore you know not of what you speak. Reset to default.

After 13.8 billion years you are born, you live for 100 years, then you die. Does this twinkle of time have meaning in the universe? Does the universe notice that you have existed? No.

Identity - A poem in Etheree form

I

am me.

You are one

of the many

others of the they.

Who are the many thems?

Looking over all the world,

where is the brotherhood of man?

Where is the sisterhood of women?

We are one family so should not fight.

Who

Am I?

My mother’s son

and my father’s son.

My grandmothers’ grandson

and my grandfathers’ grandson.

My great grandmothers’ great grandson

and my great grandfathers’ great grandson.

More generations into the past,

we are all the family of mankind.

What

colour

is your skin?

What shape are you?

Why does it matter?

Where are you coming from?

Do we not all have two legs?

Do we not all have ten fingers?

Are we not more alike than different?

Embrace your world; your brothers and sisters

Shine

Jessica is dead.

            I cannot say these words out loud, because that would make it so, engrave her death into the indelible history of our family, just as the date will be goldly engraved forever into the black shiny granite of her waiting headstone. They circle around inside my head with no escape, polishing the inside of my skull to a head-aching shine. I can change where I live, change where I work, even change from being alive, but I cannot change the truth of those words. I would do anything that would allow me to.

            ‘Bring her back, Jack,’ Diane begs.

            ‘Bring her back, Dad,’ Amanda begs.

            ‘Bring her back, God,’ I beg. ‘Take me instead’. There is no answer.

            We will bury her today but it doesn’t help; talk of closure is nonsense. It pushes Jessica further away from us. It is all too predictable. Family and friends come and talk, offer to help, ‘anything I can do, just ask’.

            ‘Bring her back,’ I reply. They look down and shuffle their newly-shined shoes in the dust like guilty children, refusing to meet my entreating eye, shiny with yet more, unshed tears.

            ‘Why didn’t you save her?’ accuses Diane. ‘You’re her father, it’s your job to protect her. You failed her.’

            I think, but dare not say, ‘you are her mother, you failed her too.’ She knows this, I know this, we will both know this for our separate, eternal, purgatories.

            We did the tumbler test. We raced her to hospital. We screamed at the doctors, ‘Help her, help her, please. Do something, anything, quickly, now.’

            The heart has gone from our family. This will surely destroy us as we try to apportion the available blame. Without Jess we don’t have a family. We are now just individuals. Diane is Jessica’s ex mother, Amanda, her ex sister, I am her ex father. We are now just extras in the short story of her life. At night, I turn over and clasp Diane’s hand but she tugs it back, turns and shrivels away from me. There is no sleep or comfort here.

            Diane blames me but blames herself more. A mother should not allow her child to die before her. We always thought that it would be Jess who would look after us in our old age, she is was – why do we have to change the words? - the caring one. Amanda is the practical one, always looking to fix things. She has now found something that she cannot fix. Her sister is dead, she cannot allow it, we cannot allow it. What can we do?

*

We drive in a shiny black convoy through the South Downs, to Pyecombe, to the Church of the Transfiguration. We slowly climb the gentle dip slope of the chalk hills. We suddenly drop down the steep scarp at Dale Hill; like the story of Jessica’s life - a long slow learning and growth to near adulthood and then a sudden crash into death. 

            We don’t talk during the drive. Diane keeps her hands clamped around mine. They slowly whiten.

            The car stops outside the church and I help Diane out. She moves slowly, like an old woman bent under an unbearable burden. We walk through the rows of ancient headstones that carry faded, forgotten names, to meet the waiting vicar. He is new, not the one who christened Jessica here nineteen years ago in August ’95.  The polished silica surfaces of the knapped flints in the ancient walls glint the sunshine back at us, guarding against any entry of cheerfulness or warmth.

            Diane refuses to enter the church. Everyone waits. I sit with her in the porch and clasp her to me.

            ‘Come on Di, we need to do this for Jess. She is waiting for us.’

            ‘I… I just can’t do it, Jack.’

            Amanda kneels on the worn flags and strokes her mother’s hands. ‘We can do it Mum, just like we always do, the four of us, together.’ She wipes away her mother’s tears with her thumbs and helps her to her feet.

            ‘You’ve torn your tights Mandy.’

            ‘Doesn’t matter Mum, come on, hold on tight.’

            We inch into the church, Amanda on her left, me to her right and take our places in the front pews where the sidesman silently indicates. We are helping Diane but who is going to help me? Why do men always have to pretend to be strong? ‘If you prick us, do we not bleed?’

            We sit in the cold, shiny wooden pew in this old, cold church. We listen to cold comfort from the vicar. I try to pray, but God coldly turns his face from me. Is it guilt or is he just laughing at us all, with our tiny, pathetic, human emotions? If anyone knows how we feel, it should be him, so why does he turn away from us when we are in most need of his comfort? Does he care? Does he exist?

            I gaze at the oaken coffin, polished to a shine that reflects the slow burning candles, on its oh-so-practical stands in the aisle. I insisted that it should have rounded ends so that there would be no corners; I know that evil lurks in corners. I had to do something for her. How can it be Jess in there? Will she suddenly pop the lid, jump out, skip over and tell us it was just one of her silly jokes and laugh with us?

            I don’t think I will ever laugh again.

            I swivel round on the oak bench, polished to a dull, smooth shine by a thousand backsides, to look at my lifelong friend, Bill. He returns my look, expressionless. He knows what I am thinking, just as I know what he is thinking. ‘Is it because of all the things we have done and left undone over the years of Jessica’s life?’ He slowly shakes his head at me, ‘No,’ he is saying, ‘it is nothing to do with that, there is no cause and effect.’ How does he know?  He doesn’t even believe in God.

            It has always been this way, we used to say that we were telepathetic. When we met a few minutes ago, he said nothing, just clasped me in an unmanly hug and looked me directly in the eye, which I know is difficult for him, he says that he cannot collimate. He is a typical architect, mildly autistic. No one else did that. Everyone else looked sheepish, didn’t know what to say, except to murmur, ‘I’m so sorry,’ and then quickly flock to the back of the church, just in case death is contagious and takes a shine to anyone who lingers.

            The organ has been playing, but I only notice it when it stops. The vicar rises from his  oaken chair, using the shiny armrests to lever himself upright, prepares to start the final rituals. I want to stand up and tell him to wait, perhaps Jessica isn’t dead after all; how foolish would he feel if he started too early and Jessica was to live for another seventy years? It’s too final. Please wait. Perhaps she is outside, she never liked being inside churches.

            ‘Why would God want to come in here, when all His creation, birds and flowers, are outside in the sunshine?’ she used to say to me.

            I don’t stand of course, so the vicar starts. I don’t listen. Why would I want to hear any of this? There are meaningless phrases and platitudes that God must hear a thousand times each day, in different languages, with ethnic variations, and some that pass him by because they are addressed to one of the myriad other gods. The vicar winds down.

            The undertaker’s men slowly file in to take up their places and lift the coffin onto their shoulders with a practised heft. One even remembers to fold away the oh-so-practical stands, so that no one trips over them. Heaven forfend that anyone should get hurt and die at a funeral; too convenient.

            We file out and approach the waiting hole in the ground. Diane wanted cremation, but obviously I couldn’t even consider that, it would be too final and my thoughts would visualise too clearly what was happening in the hidden furnace. The grave is deep, deeper than I imagined, a black hole in the white chalk of the Sussex downland. I am having second thoughts about cremation, too late, my thoughts race around seeking scenes I refuse to visualise. How long will it take for the damp earth to remove the shine from the coffin, how long will it take the coffin to rot away, how long before…?

            I realise that the shine has been taken from our life forever, no amount of regretful polishing will ever bring it back.

Why are the birds singing? Has no one told them that Jessica is dead?

            There; I almost said the unsayable words.

1500 words