Free Lamp Black, Wolf Grey by Paula Brackston Page A

back of her calves and made her knees ache. She forced herself to march on, breathing deeply, enjoying the physical effort. She followed the sheep track for a mile or so, then turned up across the whinberries and heather. She loved the vastness of the space, the distant mountains, the openness. It made her feel free and unburdened by life’s petty problems. She walked for another half hour before sitting on the wiry grass for a short rest. The skylarks whirred and bobbed about her. High up a buzzard wheeled and soared. Nearby some sheep paused in their grazing to look at her, decided she was no threat, and put their heads down again. The view had a strangely muted quality because of the damp air. The sky was almost opaque, pregnant with rain that was still too high to descend. Laura thought how difficult it would be to paint the mountains when they were like this. How could she transfer all those nuances to canvas without rendering them dull and flat? Cobalt blue and Indian red for the clouds? French ultramarine and rose madder for the distant hills? She remembered Rhys had said the mountains had a hundred moods. She had thought it an exaggeration at the time, but perhaps he was right.
    She pulled out her block and began to loosely sketch the view before her. She had not half covered the page when there was a sudden rumble almost directly overhead. The sky darkened as the thunderclouds lowered with tremendous speed. She barely had time to register what was happening when there was a sound like a hundred cracking whips and a fork of lightning struck the ground on the ridge below the highest point of the hill.
    Her pulse raced at the unexpectedness of the storm. She had waited for it for days, and now it had caught her here, exposed on the open mountain, and she was truly frightened. She had never seen lightning strike the ground like that before. She looked around for somewhere to take shelter, but there was nothing. There were a few leaning rowan trees farther down the slope, but they were barely tall enough to sit under. And anyway, Laura remembered you were not supposed to get under a tree in a thunderstorm. But what was she supposed to do? If she stayed where she was she would be completely unprotected. She was at the tallest point for a mile around, and what little understanding she had of lightning was not reassuring. Logic told her that it would seek out the highest point of something.
    That’s why it strikes trees and chimneys, she thought, and if I stay here, it will strike me. There was nothing else to do but get off the mountain as fast as possible. Another clap of thunder galvanized her into action. She started to run. The springy grass of the path was dry and the earth beneath it firm, so she covered the ground quickly. Another flash of lightning, this time illuminating the whole sky, drove her on. By the third roar of thunder the storm was directly above her, and it was accompanied by simultaneous lightning, both sheet and forked. Laura had never been so terrified. She couldn’t outrun the storm, and she felt only luck was keeping her alive. Luck that could run out at any moment. And then came the rain. Rain that had been pent up and longing for its release for days now hurled itself downward. Within seconds the path became impossibly slippery. She fell heavily, bruising her knee on a waiting rock. She picked herself up and ran on, limping, her injured leg slowing her down. She had reached the bracken now, but the path veered off around the side of the hill, not downward. She realized with mounting panic that she had missed the original track. This was not the way home. What was worse, this was not the way off the hill at all. In that moment, finding the house was not the most important thing anymore. Getting off the mountain and out of the storm was. The next crash of thunder was so loud it made Laura shriek and clutch at her ears. It was as if the storm had swallowed her up, and she might drown or be deafened