Free In the Shadow of the Trees by Elenor Gill

again.’ With that out of the way we were free to be friends. ‘So who should I talk to? If I want to find out about local history I mean.’
    ‘I could always introduce you to some of the old boys round here. Not that lot,’ Maggie nodded at the lunchtime beer crew who were now re-enacting the salient moves of last Saturday’s rugby match. ‘They’re mostly hired workers, casuals. You won’t see the landowners here lunchtime. After tea’s when they drift in. Pity my mum’s not ready for visitors yet—needs to rest after her op. She’s lived here forever. Perhaps if you’re still around in a few days, depends how long you’ll be staying.’
    ‘I’m not sure. No definite plans.’
    ‘So what are you doing up there?’
    ‘Time out. Time to work. I sculpt. The cottage is an ideal retreat. Sullivan got one of the men to fix up a studio space for me.’
    ‘Ah, that would be Liam.’
    ‘Could be. He didn’t say who he was. I think Sullivan called him Connors. Big, hairy Irishman. Belligerent.’
    ‘Yes, that’s Liam Connors. There couldn’t be two of them. Though he’s not really as bad as he first seems. He’s a bit suspicious of people. One eye looking over his shoulder, if you know what I mean.’
    ‘Well, as long as he’s not looking in my direction.’ Noise rose from the men’s corner. ‘I think your fan club’s trying to catch your attention. I’d better get back or the afternoon will be gone. Thanks for the sandwich. And the company.’
    ‘Pleasure. See you again? I’m here most days.’
    ‘Sure will.’

SIX
    T HE following night it rained.
    Heat had burdened the day until the air felt as if it would curdle. The sun went down and evening draped itself around the cottage like a hot, damp towel. Vampire mosquitoes swarmed around the building, drawn by the promise of fresh blood. The deck, therefore, was out of bounds and the only option was to remain inside with the doors and windows wide and the screens firmly closed. There was nowhere to be comfortable and no amount of folded paper fans or cold, wet cloths brought relief. I took a cool shower, then, an hour later, showered again. Within minutes my skin was slicked with a salty sheen. It was pointless going to bed. I tried to read but couldn’t focus. The ceiling pressed down on my chest, making me labour for every drawn breath.
    Then came the first echoes of thunder. It began as a sequence of gentle stirrings, distant and prolonged. Turn by turn, dry flashes of electricity followed each rumble, cracking whips of white light across the skies but bringing no relief. When the first drops tapped on the iron roof, building rapidly to a drum roll, it felt like a blessing. The next thunderclap exploded directly above the lake. Lightning followed instantly and this time theflash tore the clouds apart and rain fell in torrents.
    The storm rampaged for nearly an hour.
    Forced, now, to close the doors and windows, I was held prisoner. Cataracts gushed in straight sheets from overloaded spouting, thrashing the dust below and churning it to pools of mud. One flash of lightning sounded like gunfire. It was followed by a creaking then a crash as a neighbouring tree was split by fire. The smell of burning hung on the air. I thought the cottage would be struck next, or a tree would land on it. I thought the roof wouldn’t hold up to the pounding rain, or the walls would cave in. I tried to glory in the power of unleashed primal forces charging through the forest like warring beasts. I did try. Then I thought, sod this, piled cushions over my head and prayed it would all go away.
    Eventually the electrical storm did recede, taking the deluge with it. It left a steady, healthy rainfall to feed the streams and swell the lake. When I was sure it was over I opened the doors to let in the cooling air and leaned on the deck rail, offering my face up to the night sky. There’s nothing like the touch and the smell of fresh rain to wash the spirit clean.
    The