The Calm Within the Storm

By Sara Beth Parker

Eleven-year-old Isla has a problem: thunderstorms. Two years ago, one nightmare of an evening scarred her internally. She has feared for her life thenceforth, struggling against the post-traumatic stress controlling her mind. During a particularly grueling thunderstorm, Isla sought escape and found herself far away from home in the wilderness of unknown lands. Here she fell into company with a simpler people. A frantic flight from terror became instead a journey towards bravery; bravery acquired through her fearful battle against a kingdom's secret enemy. Will Isla succumb to the terrible power of her supernatural nemesis, or will she learn how to become the master of rather than servant to her vicious internal battles?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Oct 15, 2014
• ISBN: 9781312590908

Book preview

The Calm Within the Storm

The Calm Within the Storm

Sara Beth Parker

© 2014 Sara Beth Parker

ISBN 978-1-312-59090-8

Trepidation

During recess she saw them. Huge, black thunderheads lined the distant horizon, moving steadily forward towards their battlefield high in the troposphere. Lightning jumped angrily between clouds, flashing its orders at the eager militia. Isla froze in the middle of her favorite recess activity – basketball with the boys – and stared fearfully into the inevitable future. The little girl could not tear her eyes from the horror unfolding before her. She was petrified.

Isla! Jack, the tall (and, as she might say, super-duper cute) blonde boy from her class whom she liked, called her name and simultaneously her attention back to the schoolyard. We’re down a man and we need you in the game. Isla? Are you okay? His eyebrows rose with concern.

I’m fine, she grumbled as she turned around, upset that she had let him see the fear clouding her eyes. No basketball playing boy would ever want a scaredy-cat for a girlfriend. At least he already knew she was not like the other girls in their class; while they spent recess chasing the popular boys and trying to kiss them near the back fence, she spent her time perfecting her basketball game. So far she had polished a mean layup and could play defense as well as any smelly old boy. Shuddering at the breeze (was there a breeze even? perhaps it was her imagination), Isla turned back to the intense game of hoops and focused her energy on winning. After all, those big blue eyes with their softly curled lashes would be watching her, and she needed him to see her as an essential part of the team. How else could she get him to like her? They played on as Isla silently tried her hardest to ignore the darkening sky.

When the recess hour ended and her teacher, Mrs. Palliser, stood to walk with the other fifth grade teachers towards the brick schoolhouse, Isla dropped the basketball suspended between her hands and ran in their direction as fast as her legs would carry her. She sprinted all the way to the short and quite useless concrete sidewalk where her class always lined up. She had to be the first student to enter that building; no storm would ever catch her outside alone and unprotected.

Class meant little to Isla for the rest of the day. She sat at her particle board and scrap metal desk located next to the window of an Ehrhardt Elementary School classroom, her feet dangling inches above the brand-new blue carpeting. Up until that year the school had retained the same filthy, abhorrent orange carpeting which had faithfully covered the concrete floors ever since Ehrhardt’s grand opening way back in the seventies. Isla could not suppress her delight when the school made the decision to throw out that disaster of a floor covering. On this particular day, however, she cared not to dwell on what carpet looked best in the school; she instead laid her head upon the chipping veneer desktop as she strove to chase the looming storm from her mind. Dressed in her favorite red Houston Texans hoodie with the navy color in the bull logo matching her navy pleated skirt and shoes, dreading the ominous clouds bombarding the sky from the east, she stared at the little gold star indicating Houston’s location on the state map behind her teacher’s desk and twiddled with the drawstrings hanging around her neck. Normally she paid close attention in class, hence her consistent good grades and perpetual presence on Ehrhardt’s Golden Eagle Honor Roll list, but she could not concentrate during thunderstorms. Not anymore.

She could not have recalled even the subject on which her classmates worked for the remaining hour of lessons that day. When the final minutes of class drew near, Mrs. Palliser mentioned something about math homework and the Daily Oral Learning (they simply called it DOL) spelling and grammar exercise due for a homework grade the following day. Isla failed to comprehend a single word spoken. She absentmindedly shoved her books into her Tweety Bird backpack, a new treat this year resulting from those good grades, and gathered together all her papers from lessons taught earlier that day. Stuffing them in her desk carelessly and pulling out her blue jean pencil bag to throw into that bright yellow backpack, she quickly zipped up the pull tab and prepared for her great escape. That escape was soon triggered by the maddening ding of the dismissal bell, the sound of which caused her to reflexively jump even though she had expected it to ring any second.

Isla threw her backpack over her right shoulder, and despite the fact that her fellow fifth grade hall monitors in their orange sashes yelled at her a handful of times to walk, she ran all the way to the cafeteria. Just in time, too, she thought. The line for bus number 248 had not formed yet, but she saw other school children from her neighborhood filing in not far behind, each hastily entering the large tiled room and elbowing away competition to ensure prime seating. She bolted to the place where her bus line always began and promptly sat behind the thin metal strip in the epoxy flooring, slapping her backpack down on the floor beside her to save a space for her best friend Annie. Annie was a new student that year at Ehrhardt. She had moved into Isla’s neighborhood before the school year began and started attending Isla’s school instead of her old one called Roth Elementary. Isla knew Annie would be lonely in a new place with new people, so she invited the newcomer to eat with her at lunch. Their friendship blossomed quickly from that simple gesture, and they soon became inseparable. The fact that their homes were located down the street from each other may have played a role in forming their strong connection.

Annie arrived in the cafeteria approximately thirty seconds later, and one look at Isla’s unusually pallid complexion told her there would be little dialogue on the bus ride home. She knew all about Isla’s seemingly irrational fear of thunderstorms, and she felt only sympathy for her friend. The two marched hand-in-hand out to their bus once it finally arrived, past Mrs. Hartford (Mrs. H as she preferred to be called) who greeted them with her typical alliterative and joyful salutation of hope you had a maaaarvelous Monday!, and sat down in their assigned seat labeled with the peeling black sticker numbered 18. During the entire ride home neither child spoke a word. They hugged good-bye at the bus stop and took off for their homes in different directions. Isla sprinted down the street as fast as she could despite that cumbersome backpack, trying as hard as she could to beat both the thunderstorm and her tears home. She barely made it.

BOOM! The entire two-story house reverberated under a deafening clap of thunder. Lightning struck out with no other motive than instilling pure terror in the little heart of Isla. She never had liked these tempests of fury, not for as long as she could remember, but now they scared her to death. Even though she had turned the ripe, big-girl age of eleven all of three months before, there was no forgetting that summer two years ago. A bright blue light burned itself in her corneas that day, and before she had fully realized what had come to pass, Isla's home, the place where she had grown up, the place where she played so many games of hide-and-seek with her loving mommy and daddy, became engulfed in a fiery inferno. Most of her possessions were reduced to ash, and the very place of safety and comfort her parents had created for her burned straight to the ground. Thunder developed into her mortal enemy and lightning into the bane of her existence.

Because of her role as a latchkey child Isla now found herself home alone, stranded in the midst of a terrible symphony. She could cry out, scream, thrash around, but no one would hear. Lights all around the house flickered. Once, twice, three times they turned off before coming right back on. All of the hard work she had put into making sure every light switch rested in the on position neared failure. The storm would take her light away despite her valiant efforts. Before she had a chance to retrieve a flashlight the power failed completely, and she knew that meant no light, no phone calls, and no way to reach her parents. How she wished they had given her a cell phone! All the other kids in fifth grade had one, and she never knew why she wanted to be like them so badly until now. Oh, why did mommy have to work? Why could she not stay at home like Annie’s mom?

Another terrific explosion sounded out and her bright blue eyes grew wide with fear. Tears tumbled down her dimpled cheeks in droves and her soft, blonde hair, dampened by those saltwater trails, matted itself to her fair skin. Stumbling around in the dark, she ran her fingers along each wall and quickly found the subtle change in texture between the living room wall and the hallway leading to the bedrooms. Groping her way along this hallway, Isla searched out the first doorknob on the right, the doorknob signifying entry to her room. She felt a glimmer of hope seep into her heart. Her room was the safest place in the world, not counting her parents' arms. When her father and mother decided to build a new home rather than buy an old one, they not only installed the latest technology in fire safety but also included a special place for Isla in the blueprint: her very own secret room. Concrete walls encased it and yielded only to a 2-hour rated fire door. A couple commercial-grade sprinkler heads protruded from the ceiling thanks to the fire suppression system installed throughout the home. Only California Fire Code rated fabrics and furniture had any business covering the surfaces of that room, and no carpet or hardwood lay on the floor. Instead, a rated cushion vinyl provided both comfort and safety for their beloved only daughter. Isla could not have cared less, for she did not understand what all those unfamiliar words meant. All she wanted was a place for her most treasured belongings: those beloved stuffed animals she would never, ever, ever throw away. They had by some miracle survived that fateful fire (though a few endured slight singeing in places), and she knew they enjoyed thunderstorms little more than she.

Feeling frantically for the doorknob of her bedroom closet, Isla soon located it when a particularly bright flash burst through her window. With a might jerk she quickly pulled the hollow barrier open and closed it behind her just as fast. Her arms flung wildly about and groped around in search of the tall wardrobe inside. Upon finding it she swung the large cabinet open and felt through her dresses for the back. As she dove deeper into tulle and cotton, those dresses further disoriented her. A fallen dress grabbed hold of one foot and she stumbled around, forgetting which direction the wardrobe faced. The handle of the fire door it concealed drove straight into Isla’s hip. Crying out in pain, she hopped backwards and rubbed her surely bruised side. Briefly she considered finding some ice, but a peal of thunder vetoed that motion. First aid could wait. She regained her composure and relocated that malicious knob. While pulling down on the handle she pushed forward on the door, swung it out into the secret room, and stepped through. With tears again streaming down her face and nothing but escape from the powerful storm surge on her mind, she slammed the door shut and dove onto the immense pile of plush toys she knew would be there waiting for her. Soft cotton batting and furry animal fabrics cushioned her fall.

A soft, fuzzy, warm ear poked her in the eye, and she immediately recognized the welcoming scent of her dearest teddy. This was not your average teddy bear. He stood at more than half Isla's size, and though she was the third smallest in her class, he was still an entire foot taller than her next biggest teddy bear. The great stuffed toy measured in at a full yard, or thirty-six inches according to her calculations. Fluffy McFlufferson, McFluff as she affectionately called him, had belonged to Isla ever since the day she was born. He had guarded her crib against monsters and served as her young groom multiple times when she wanted to play wedding. McFluff dried her tears when she was sad or in trouble, and he never missed an opportunity for a tea party when both of her parents had to work on fairer days than this. She had sucked on one ear so many times as a toddler that the stuffing balled up and the fur on that side lost all its softness. McFluff was her very best friend. Well, besides Annie. He and Isla went everywhere together. He even came to her first sleepover. Isla’s friends thought it was weird for her to bring him along, but she did not mind their teasing. If not for her plush friend she knew she would have hardly slept that night. As he was her biggest inanimate comfort he could not help but make her feel a little more at ease. Isla grabbed him, perhaps a bit too aggressively, and squeezed as hard as she could. Maybe then the storm would go away...but it did not.

Though the thick walls and door drowned out most of the sound, they could never destroy the nightmare consuming this frightened little girl. The best she could do was hold on tight to her friend and pray that the storm would go away soon. School escaped Isla’s mind entirely. She hardly remembered attending, let alone leaving, class that day. Warmth slowly filled her from her bare nailed violin fingers (that is what her orchestra teacher Mrs. Harper called them; to non-musical people she supposed they were simply very long) down to her lime green nail polish coated toes. Mommy would never let her wear that stuff on her fingers, not for a few more years. Isla took a deep, broken breath and exhaled into the air. Eventually her thoughts calmed and her mind quit racing. The darkness around her slowly found its way into her body, easily following behind the warmth coursing through her limbs. She could not fight the sudden surge of exhaustion. With the last of her tears drying on her cheeks Isla slowly nodded off, lowering her head onto McFluff's soft belly. Her eyelids drooped, the black room consumed her, and she heard no longer the storm still raging outside.

Forsaken

A sudden blinding light permeated Isla’s thin eyelids. Her eyes slowly fluttered open and she squinted into the consuming brightness. Then she sat up with a start. Where was her home? It could not have burned down! She would have died in the fire, right? But what if she had? What if this was heaven? The last thing she remembered was a darkness thick as smoke. What if it had been smoke? Her fingertips brushed the ground. It felt soft to the touch, but the sensation belonged neither to a pile of beloved furry friends nor to the field of clouds she just knew she would walk through, kicking up cirrus wisps with her toes, right outside the pearly gates. This could not be heaven. She should see a host of angels, right? Where was the golden street everyone described? Would she not hear trumpets echoing loud and clear throughout the firmaments? They did not exist, not in this place. But, if she was not in heaven, where was she? And how did she get there, wherever there was?

It took a minute or two for Isla's eyes to adjust completely to the outstanding sunlight. Once her vision returned she soaked in her immediate surroundings. The softness below, instead of the fluff of her plush toys, was birthed from a combination of the richest grass she had ever seen and the soft, moist dirt from which said grass had sprouted. Wildflowers liberally sprinkled the lush green blanket with more colors than Isla knew existed. Hues of blue, orange, pink, white, purple, lemon, azure, rose, crimson, cream, mauve, gold, lilac, violet, olive, ruby, peach, ochre, scarlet, green, yellow, and red swirled as if in a kaleidoscope with help from the gentle breeze blowing steadily over the land. Isla reached out and gathered a fistful of those glorious, delicate works of art. Drawing them close to her face, she inhaled the sweet perfume and sighed. Despite the overwhelming experience of finding herself teleported to a strange land, these beautiful flowers brought Isla an immediate sensation of joy. Absentmindedly she began weaving some of them into her hair. She had a lone green ponytail holder clinging loyally to her wrist like a favorite bracelet. This she tied around her hair, creating a long ponytail with which to keep the flowers from falling out of place. Flowers always reminded her of springtime in Texas. One year in April, shortly after hundreds of tiny flowers began blooming in her backyard, Isla remembered picking some of those blossoms and bringing them inside as a simple, thoughtful gift for her mother. When she climbed (with the help of a chair) cautiously up onto the kitchen counter to get a cup for them all by herself, her father passed through and immediately deduced what she was up to. She recalled him saying, Why do you want to give these to mommy, sweetie? They’re just weeds. Isla had felt sad about her inadequate gift until her mother saw the ratty bundle of flowers and stuck them in a pretty glass vase with a couple inches of water in the bottom, setting them on display in the middle of the kitchen table. Now she smiled at the memory. Flowers would never be weeds, not to her. They contained so much beauty in such a small package that every flower contained in itself a new discovery. Her father was not often wrong, but he was wrong about that.

The conclusion of her memory anchored her into the present time with its various new revelations. Everything in her immediate vicinity had been scrutinized, so she diverted her attention instead to whatever may lie farther away. Across the meadow from her resting spot, perhaps a good half mile away (though she never was any good with estimation of distances), stood a small grove of trees. At least, from her location it gave