I am the Storm by Stuart Hough

It started quietly, as most things do. Knowing eyes glanced expectantly to each other. It was coming closer and louder. From the sound of it, it would be here very soon. Others scurried to gather up what was around them. She was content to remain where she was. She loved the sound of thunder.

Whilst her main devotions were to the moon goddess and Cernunnos, the Lord of the wild things, she liked Taranis. He was in many ways, the opposite of the deities she worshipped within the pantheon of their Gods. She closed her eyes and imagined Taranis with a thunderbolt in one hand and the eight spoked chariot wheel in the other. Taranis was unpredictable, like the storm.

Unlike her own Goddess and God, He lost his temper quickly and often resorted to violence. She smiled at the thought of him hurling his wheel through the clouds and making a terrible din. The wheel signified the connections of the cycle of life. No beginning and no end. It characterised strength from speed and mobility, which were valued above all else by the fighting tribes. It also epitomised just how quickly a storm could catch out those that were unprepared. She smiled to herself when she realised she had left her cape behind.

Maybe Taranis was asking his eternal question ‘Do you have gratitude for calm days?’ with his thunderous voice and fire of the air. They should all, if they wanted the sun and blue sky returned.

The swirling storm-clouds brought a strange kind of inner glee. It seemed to awake another part of her. A latent, primaeval and hidden part. She remembered the feeling of when she was a small a child listening to a scary story. Whilst she had felt safe where she was, there was always the lingering doubt that one day the subject of the fear would come.

Now, the guttural noise of the thunder was as exciting as it was volatile. She stood and continued to look skyward as the inevitable rain began to fall. In moments the cold rain had drenched her dress.

If she could only reach up and bring down a handful of that from the sky above, she thought. If she could weave fabric from it, that was as ever-changing as the sky above her now. What bold strength would it infuse? She would wear it forever. She raised her hands as high above her head, stretching her body to the skies. She reached as high as she could, her eyes were tightly closed against the rain.

“Taranis!” She screamed at the sky, imploring to the God himself. The hard rain beat upon her. Thousands of painful, stinging drops reddened her skin. She felt her taut sinews and muscles burn from the effort. Despite that she held her body for as long as she could, before clenching her fists.

“Are you not afraid of the storm?” a dis-embodied voice called to her. Everyone around her had ran for shelter. The hurried footsteps that had earlier splashed on the quickly sodden grass, now a silent memory in time. She stood alone. It was just her, on the hill, in the storm. They looked at her as she stood stark and alone against the boiling sky, small and vulnerable. Finally, the figure in the open ground on the highest point of the hill lowered her head and relaxed her body. She held her still clenched fists to her chest. Her long hair clung to her face as the rain continued to lash upon her. Any fear she felt washed away with it. Within the maelstrom of light, noise and pain, she felt a strange sense of calm.

“No.” She said softly to herself. “No.” She said again as she caught her breath. “No, I’m not afraid of the storm.” She lifted her head and looked around her. “I am the storm.”