Children of the Storm

screaming in pain and terror, and she was certain that the madman had done the impossible, had gotten into their room and overpowered Saine and taken out his knife…
        Then she realized that what she heard was the wind, an incredibly powerful wind that was tearing at the windows and hammering across the roof of Seawatch more than a story overhead, a wind so relentless that the walls must be standing only by the power of a miracle. When she lay still, trying to feel how the house was taking it, she thought she sensed a distant tremor in the floors and walls.
        She looked at her bedside clock and saw that it was a quarter to five in the morning, Tuesday.
        She got out of bed, somewhat wobbly from the sleeping pill, and went to the windows, pulled open one of the shutters on a vision of Hell: rain dropping straight to the earth like a curtain of bullets, heavy and thunderous; the nearest palms bent nearly to the ground, like humbled worshipers, one or two of them already uprooted and leaning preposterously with the wind, kept from crashing over entirely by nothing more than a few random taproots; in the distance, closer than it should be, whiter than it should be, the sea danced high and threatening.
        As she watched, mesmerized by the natural fury, a palm branch struck the window, driven there by the wind, made a hairline crack in the glass and was whirled away.
        Startled, realizing how easily the window might be broken, she swung the shutter into place again, bolted it.
        At the same moment, above the maniacal cry of the storm, someone knocked at her door.
        She went to the door, leaned wearily against it, her ear pressed to the teak, and she said, “Who is it?” But her sore throat had produced only a vague sound, and she was forced to repeat herself.
        “Rudolph!” Saine shouted.
        She fumbled with the lock, slipped it out of place, and swung the door wide open.
        He was standing in the hallway with both the children, one of them clutching each of his huge hands. They were pleasantly excited by the unexpected drama Hurricane Greta had provided, still somewhat sleepy-eyed, but waking up fast, cute and achingly innocent in their animal-decorated pajamas.
        “What is it?” she asked.
        Saine said, “The storm's here, or almost here. We're retreating to the cellar.”
        “Is it that bad?”
        “You can hear it. And it'll be worse, shortly.”
        “What's the radio say?”
        “I don't think we could get anything on it,” Saine said.
        “Of course,” she said, feeling foolish.
        “I'll grab warmer clothes for the kids,” he said. “Be ready when I come back for you.”
        “What should I bring?”
        “Toothbrush and a jacket,” he said. Then, with the children still in tow, he hurried back down the hall again.
        She was ready when he came back, and he escorted her toward the main stairs. When they were halfway there, a window smashed in one of the second floor rooms behind them.
        Sonya said, “Shouldn't we see about that?”
        “We can't fix it now,” Saine said. “The shutters are tight enough to hold back most of the water. And Mr. Dougherty can afford some damage.”
        They started down the stairs, to begin a new day. Sonya knew it was going to be the worst day yet in Seawatch.

BOOK FOUR

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    TWENTY
        
        The rest of the household was already in the kitchen, drinking hot coffee and making a quick breakfast out of rolls, butter and jam. They all wore jackets or windbreakers and looked as if they expected to make a long and unpleasant journey. None of them was pleased by the prospect of one or two days in the storm cellar while Seawatch was blown into so many sticks of matchwood around them.
        “Sleep well?” Bill asked, bringing Sonya a cup of coffee with sugar and cream, as she liked it.
        “Fairly well,” she said. She knew that she had had nightmares, but at least she could not remember what they had been. Except for the bloody-mouthed banshee which had really been the wind.
        “We'll be all right,” he assured her.
        “It sounds so strong, the wind.”
        “Last weather report, before the radio became just a big static machine, said a hundred and twenty mile-an-hour winds at the roughest points of the storm, and waves already over the seawall at Guadeloupe. But Seawatch was built to endure that kind