A TERRIBLE THUNDER STORM
Reader, have you ever taken note of the signs of a heavy African
thunder storm coming on? Have you felt the awful depressing heat, which
seems to make the heart feel too faint and languid to beat? Have you
noted the awesome, mysterious twilight that seems to settle over the
earth? A moment everything appears to be alive and joyous; birds are
singing, cattle bellowing, all nature murmurs a pæan of gladness for
_life_. In another moment everything seems to hide itself and hush its
breath. Not a murmur is heard, not a leaf rustles, not a breath of
wind is felt. It is the calm before the storm. Now the suspense seems
to be agonising; it gets darker and darker. Suddenly the leaves seem
to rustle out of very fear, as if they longed to break the silence,
for they rustle, and yet not a breath of wind is felt. Then gradually
you hear an ever-increasing roar at a distance. My God! what a crash
is that! It is the first clap of thunder that breaks over your head,
seeming to strike near you, all around you; you feel that you are not
safe, you long for shelter, for company, for somebody to share your
terror. Such a thunder storm seems to make cowards of the bravest. It
is an invisible enemy; an irresistible danger seems to threaten you,
to surround you, to search you out, hide where you will. If you never
prayed before, you feel as if you would like to pray now. Deny it if
you will, hide it if you might, look as brave as you can, yet I tell
you you _do_ feel awed when the thunder of heaven seems to speak to you
with the voice of an angry God.
After that first clap, the silence is broken, the storm is on you. Clap
after clap of thunder strikes around you. The lightning seems to blind
you. The trees bend to the ground before the great force of rushing
air, and those that will not bend must break, and come crashing down,
crushing everything underneath them, and obstructing the paths and
roads.
The rain seems to come down, not in drops, nor in sheets either, but
in one continuous mass. You can hardly draw your breath because of the
wind and rain; and in a moment you find yourself wading in six inches,
ten inches, twelve inches of water on the level plain. Woe to the flock
of sheep that finds itself in the least hollow or depression between
two butts or rises of the rolling plain. They are drowned where a few
moments before they stood on dry veld, seemingly safe against any
flood. Such was the storm our friends found themselves in now. They
could do nothing but pull their hats over their eyes and plod and wade
wearily along. Wet to the skin in a moment, their clothes clinging most
uncomfortably to them, the house seeming to recede farther and farther
away as they struggled on; even the much-prized buck which Theron had
shot was dropped and left lying in the veld. Their only desire was to
get home; to get at least a roof between themselves and this terrible
thunder.
Thank God, it is passing over at last. It did not last long, but while
it did last it was terrible!
Now it gets lighter and lighter. The blue sky peeps out gradually
larger and larger on the western horizon--the direction from which the
storm had come--at last, even the sun comes out again. And everything
peeps forth again. The lambs begin to play, the calves gallop and
frolic about, the birds sing merrier than ever; and the trees--they can
only weep tears of joy that the cruel wind does not bend them down so
cruelly any more. Now the storm is raging towards the east, its distant
rumbling is heard, and the clouds look piled up in black and blue
masses in that direction.
Now our party is able to walk again; the water has gathered in the
hollows and rivulets. By choosing high ground, progress can be made.
They were nearing the house when they saw a man approaching towards
them in a slanting direction. What can be the matter with him? Surely
such a storm was sufficient to sober the most intoxicated man on earth?
And yet this fellow must be drunk. See how he staggers; sometimes he
drops on to his knees, and clasps his head between his hands, and even
at this distance they can hear him sob as if his heart was breaking. He
rises once more, sees them approaching now near by, he cries out aloud,
stretches his arms towards them in a supplicating manner. They hear
the agonising words escape from him. Oh, my brother? The old man turns
as pale as death. He recognises his eldest son, as did the rest. Oom
Ignatious rushes forward; he reaches his son just as he drops down in a
dead faint. His father lifts him, holds him in his lap, and cries,--
‘Oh, my son, my son, what has happened? Oh, my God, see how he is
scorched! Oh, horrible, his clothes are crumbling as if burnt; his skin
comes off. Oh, my God, have pity upon a poor father, and spare my son.’
The young man opens his eyes once more and murmurs, ‘My brother, my
brother,’
‘Where is your brother, Ignatious?’
‘Over there,’ he replied, pointing to a round hill commanding the rest
of the valley.
‘I’ll go to him,’ said the old man. ‘Is he hurt, too?’
‘No, father, you must not go. Steve will go with his friends. You must
go with me to mother to prepare her for the terrible tidings.’
‘What terrible tidings? Ignatious, that you are wounded?’ queried the
old man.
‘No, father. I am terribly scorched, but I may yet recover; but poor
Daniel--oh, my father, that I should live and he die when we were side
by side.’
‘What--dead!--dead!--my Daniel dead? You cannot know what you are
saying; you are delirious from your wounds.’
‘No, my dear father, I fear me he is dead. Take courage; you must be
strong and help us to comfort mother; come.’
The old man seemed to make a strong effort, rose and helped to raise
Ignatious.
‘You are right, my son. Your mother must be our first care; come.’
He begged Steve, with tears in his eyes, to go and find Daniel while he
went home with Ignatious, who could scarcely stand.
‘I will send a cart or waggon at once to bring him home, if you will
only wait there and do unto him as if he was your own dead brother.’
Steve and his four companions went, and what a sight met their eyes!