Sentinels of the Storm

Thursday, 12 August 1847

I awoke in the dead of night. The window curtains, sensing the approach of a storm, sought to meet their rescuer halfway, by twisting and flapping and straining for release. I went to shut the window, tho my task was orphaned by a most unearthly sight: Two black-clad sentinels standing on the eastern-most cliff, looking out to sea, their hair and skirts flapping earnestly in the wind. I called to them, but they could not hear me over the wind.

I rushed outside, in my nightgown, bare-footed, and slowed my steps as I approached them. Their bodies were like pillars. Only hair and skirts had life, and these, despite their efforts, could not escape their dread mistresses. The howl of wind was such that I should have had to shout, but I had not to; Mama turned slowly to face me. Her face was worn away by anguish. She pointed seaward to the approaching storm.

“I don’t know what I’m becoming!” she cried.

I awoke in my bed. It had been a false awakening. All was calm.