The Flood

We had been at the cottage for barely an hour when the sky turned the colour of wet slate. The forecast promised a deluge that would hold until morning. I hauled in the last of the suitcases, groceries, and beer. 

“Afternoon!” a voice boomed through the steady hum of the rain. I turned to see the farmer. 

“Hi!” I shouted, waving back. 

“Sorry about the weather,” he said, offering a tight, uneasy smile. 

“It was glorious sunshine when we left Manchester three hours ago.” 

“Rain doesn’t stop the clock out here,” he replied, waving a calloused hand. He whistled for his collie and disappeared into the gloom of the barn, his heavy boots carving a wake through the deepening puddles. 

I looked through the barn door. Inside, the cows stood in the milking shed. I could hear the hypnotic, rhythmic hum of the machines drawing out the milk for tomorrow’s breakfast. 

Three hours later. We had unpacked, lit a fire, and I had just cracked open a beer when a knock thundered at the door. I rushed over and threw it open. 

“The riverbanks have broken!” The farmer yelled; his voice nearly drowned out by the roar of rushing water. 

I didn't think. I grabbed my coat and hat and then ran outside, struggling through the thick sludge. The smell hit me instantly, the sharp, suffocating tang of disturbed silt and manure. The wind fought to topple me as the rain lashed from every direction. 

A man appeared from the cottage next door; his checked overshirt plastered to his skin. Despite the chaos, he looked calm. “You, okay?” He asked; his voice had authority. 

“Yes!” I shouted back. 

“Where’s Dave?” A girl screamed. I didn't know Dave, so I could only shrug. 

“He was standing right there!” The farmer pointed toward the gatepost; his face etched with panic. “God, I wish this rain would ease up... we’re gonna lose the sheep.” 

The river had swallowed the fence. The girl, a teenager, was balanced precariously on the top rail. “There! I see him! He’s in the water!” 

The man in the checked shirt followed her gaze into the torrent. “Do you have a rope?” He asked, still calm. Now sprinting along the muddy ridge, slipping and sliding toward the river. 

“On the tractor!” The girl shouted back. 

He grabbed the coil, looped one end around the tractor’s hitch, and threw the rest to the girl. “Can you get it to him?” 

With a desperate heave, she launched the line. It whipped through the freezing rain and landed squarely across a man’s chest. Dave grabbed at it just as the current slammed his leg into a submerged gatepost. He cried out in pain. “Got it!” 

Boots skidding in the muck, the man in the checkered shirt threw his weight onto the line. One massive pull sent Dave sprawling onto the bank. He spat out water and grit, lying motionless in the sludge and gripping the ground to make sure he was safe.