The Raindrops' Lull
The mouse was scared of storms. Instinctually terrified.
The bat knew this. And, at 11:37 ... on this Saturday night, she was doing everything in her power to keep him from the storm outside. From the brewing pre-string rumbler that was rolling over the quiet, nighttime countryside. And straight for them. Rumble ... crackle-crack. The rolling peals of thunder.
Field tensed. His bare body tensed against hers. Whiskers twitching. Tail snaking. Tail, thin and ropy, trailing over the side of the bed (like a worm brought out by the rain).
She put her paws on his sides. Held to him. Squeezed. Her claws raked his fur.
He tensed, tensed ...
She whispered. Blunt muzzle near his ears. Whispering. Giving a playful little nip to his ears ... with his sharp teeth.
And he relaxed. Even as the lightning flashed (from miles away, though still lighting up the room) ... he relaxed.
"Close your eyes," she whispered.
He did so. Closing his eyes. Her paws on his side. And his paws on hers ...
Spring was only, what, a week away. Two. But the rains had already started. It rained a lot in spring, didn't it? It wasn't even spring, and it had rained all week. But, then, Indiana weather wasn't to be predicted. Wasn't to be understood. It was to be withstood. With a grin-and-bear-it mentality. With a certain patience born of those who lived in temperate places ... places that had all four seasons. Distinctly. Places that had every kind of weather. And, because of it, could invoke any kind of emotion.
Quiet. For a moment.
There was no wind. There had been no warning box on the television (when they'd turned it on to check). No, this was just a storm. Just a storm.
No cyclone.
No hail.
Just a storm.
But, still, Field was scared ... still, he tensed. Still, his muscles bunched. Still, she had to caress him. Had to soothe him (verbally, physically).
Adelaide whispered, "Just keep your eyes closed. Just keep them closed ... I'll be here. I'm not going anywhere."
Field nodded quietly. He felt so silly. Feeling so foolish. A grown mouse, twenty-one and a half ... and scared of storms. Like a baby fur.
"It's not silly," she said, sensing his thoughts. Her telepathic abilities. She could sense feelings. Thoughts. Shapes of them. The perimeters of them. She couldn't read his EXACT thoughts ... unless they were linked (through her bite, through her fangs ... which happened only during intercourse).
Rumble-rumble ...
They were both tired. But they couldn't sleep. Their thoughts would not let them. Their desire would not let them. Not yet.
And the storm. The storm would not let them, either. Where was it? Was it coming? They always came from the west. Always. Always swept in from the west. Was that how it worked everywhere? Or just here? In other places, did storms come from the east? The north? The south? Were storms multi-directional?
Rumble. Thud-thud ... boom.
"Makes you feel small, doesn't it," Adelaide whispered. The pink-furred bat ... now with her wings wrapped round Field's back. Paws embedded in his honey-tan fur (lighter on the belly). "The sound of thunder. It's humbling. It's ... larger than life."
The mouse, eyes still closed, paws clutching at her sides ... he whispered, "When I was little ... when I was a little mouse, they told me ... " An airy giggle. "They told me that the sound of thunder, it was made by angels bowling."
A giggle. "Yeah?"
"Mm-hmm," was the soft sound. "You never heard that one before?"
"No ... "
"Mm ... "
Ba-boom!
Twitch ...
"Shh ... it's okay," she whispered.
"You must think I'm silly," he said again.
"Nothing silly about fear. We all ... have our fears. Why would I belittle yours? You don't belittle mine ... " Pause. "Besides, we've been mates for seven months ... I know your fears by now. They don't surprise me. So, why should they embarrass you ... "
"I don't know." Pause. "You're not scared of storms. You know, I mean ... that's a lame fear. I mean, the weather? I'm scared of the weather."
"Field, just ... hush, okay?"
He nodded weakly. The storm was getting closer. The thunder was louder, and the lightning flashes ... closer. Everything closer. Louder. Everything more. The rain ... it was starting to fall again (after a brief time-out). And was making a patter-pat-pat on the tiles of the roof. Of this old farmhouse.
She shifted positions with him ... ruffling the navy-blue sheets. Their furry forms moving slightly in the dark, in the dim. The bat positioning herself above him. Straddling his waist. Her paws on his chest. Rubbing, rubbing ... and she arched and raised her muzzle to the ceiling, breathing deep. Before relaxing and running her thumbs over his nipples. Making them hard.
He let out a breath. Squeaked a tiny bit ...
"Just relax. Don't think about ... lightning. Thunder. Rain." She allowed a paw to brush his mouse-hood.
"I've been six feet away," he told her, "from being hit by lightning ... twice. Two near misses in my lifetime. Third time ... " He held a dull fear in his tone.
"Stop it ... " She gripped his mouse-hood now.
"Tornadoes ... " The word was barely whispered. "The weather's been so mild ... "
"Field ... stop it," she whispered. "We checked the weather. This is just a storm. It's not a bad one. It's just a simple storm. Okay?"
He breathed in ... out. In. Out. "Yeah ... "
"Close your eyes." She began to stroke him ...
"I am ... " An exhale.
"Well, keep them closed." Soft, slow stroking ... of the smooth, stiff organ.
The mouse nodded, head-fur making a rustling sound on the pillow-sheet. The pillow below his head. "Mm ... " He sank into the sheets.
Rumble-rumble ... bumble. Bumble!
She put her other paw over his heart. Her pink paw-pad, she put over his heart. Felt it beating. Beat-beat ... thump-thump ... thump-thump ... " ... your heart," she whispered. Just wanting to whisper that. She stopped stroking him for a moment.
He reached a paw up to her. To her breast. To her fur. And inhaled deeply (of the scent of her, the sheets, everything). "I found yours, too."
Quiet. Just feeling each other's heart.
How spiritual was the act ... of keeping your paw above the heart of your mate? FEELING their heart?
"Things that go thump in the night." A bright smile. "Hearts, I mean."
"What about bump?"
"What about it?"
"Things that go bump in the night ... "
"Yeah?"
"What things are those? Hearts go thump ... "
" ... and bodies go bump." A pause. A sly giggle. "Or hump. Depending."
A little giggle. "Adelaide ... "
"Hey, it's true," was her gentle voice. Grinning.
He couldn't deny that.
"Your eyes are open," she noticed.
"I wanna look at you."
"Don't want you to see the lightning flashes."
"I wanna look at you," he said. Innocent. Wistful.
The rain suddenly (very suddenly) picked up. Began pouring harder. Began hitting the roof with a greater intensity. More drops. Millions of them.
And a great crack of thunder.
A squeak on Field's part, and he closed his eyes ... and reached for the covers. "Get under ... "
"Field, covers aren't gonna ... "
"Please," he begged. Whimpering. The rain! Oh, how hard it careened into the window, and the wind ... starting to make sounds through the old foundation of this house. This prairie house. And the raindrops hit the metal of the air conditioner, making a din-din-din ... din! "Darling ... " His breath was coming faster, more ragged.
BOOM!
"Squeak!" Mousey sounds.
"Okay, okay ... it's okay ... calm down," she said, sliding to a horizontal position, joining him at a lie-down. And wriggling under the covers with him. The sheets drawn up around them. And the knitted, woolen blanket (of whites and blues).
Field breathed ... breathed ... warm body nestled to hers. Beneath the sheets, beneath the blanket.
"I can hear your breathing. I can hear your heart," she told him.
"Why am I scared of this? I can't control it. I can't do anything to stop the weather ... why am I scared?"
"I think you just answered your own question."
Field didn't understand.
"You can't control it. Storms ... they make you feel totally helpless. And, for most of your life, every time it's stormed, you've been by yourself. You haven't had anyone there to love you, to protect you. So, you've ... felt helpless ... ALONE. Helpless and alone. You associate storms with loneliness. And with frailty. When that thunder sounds, your body reacts like ... like the storm is a predator. To you, storms are predators. Hunters."
"Why?" was his whisper.
"You're a mouse." She caressed his soft fur. "You're a mouse," she repeated. Oh, she loved that he was a mouse. She loved saying the word 'mouse.'
"You're not scared of storms," he realized, sniffling. Whiskers twitching. A paw of his ... slid past her belly, to between her legs. Fingers feeling around.
"I'm a bat," she whispered gently, stroking his arms. "My species originated in the clouds. Storms don't scare me ... they remind me of ... distant memories. Instinctual things. They're to be awed. They're humbling."
Pause.
"Mice are scared of everything, I guess," Field lamented.
"No, they're not."
"We're not?" Two of his fingers, after gently tracing the line of her furry folds ... slipped through. To her opening. Poised there.
"You're not scared of opening up to me. You're not scared of emotions. You're not scared of dealing with ... things ... and you're not scared of love. Of commitment. Field," she said, trying to end the conversation. "Field, you're scared of storms. Big deal. End of story. Alright? I'm here. You don't need to be afraid. Just pray about it ... "
"I do ... "
BOOM!
Field gasped. Twitched.
Her paws clung to his chest.
A heavy pant. A sniffle.
"Don't cry," she cooed. "Don't cry, darling ... "
"I'm weak."
"No ... "
A sniffle. "My eyes hurt."
"Then close them."
"I still wanna look at you. You're beautiful," he whispered. His two fingers slid an inch into her. Into her wet, warm passage.
"Close those eyes, Field," she urged, arching a bit at his action. "Let the storm pass. Let our love shield us from it."
"No storms come?" he whispered weakly.
"No storms come," she assured.
"But I can hear it," he said, his swivel ears going ... swivel-swivel. "I can smell it, even," he said, of the scent of the rain on the other side of the window.
"Then hear this," she whispered, "instead." Blowing a jet of warm breath ... into his ear canal. "And smell this," she said, turning her head, running her cheek across his nose. Her cheek-fur. "Instead."
He shivered at the blown breath. And relaxed at the scent of her. A storm was a sensory monster. It hit every sense. Sight, sound, touch (the vibrations of the rumbling), taste (the moistness in the air), and smell (again, the moistness ... the wet) ... every sense.
But love packed the same punch. Love, too, was sensory overload. Love hit taste, touch, sight, sound, smell ... every sense.
And while the storm vied for their attentions. While it lurked outside, hovering over, over them ... coming closer, closer to them ... while the storm brewed ...
... their love, it did stew. It boiled over. Washed over onto them, spilling through their limbs. From their ear-tips to tail-tips. Through their paws ... and her claws, which dug into the sheets. Digging as she pressed to him in a kiss. A wet, weary kiss. It was nearing midnight. Was it midnight yet? Was it after midnight? Did they care?
The kiss went on. Oh, so long ... oh, so breathless. Breathless, they were, when it was broken. Left panting (a token of their touch).
"You're like," the mouse breathed, "an angel. Like ... your wings, and your delicate ... touch, and ... and ... pink fur," he stammered, breathing, eyes weary. They went to a close. As he laid on his back and breathed, breathed. As she laid, half-sprawled, atop of him. As his two fingers made little thrusting motions in and out of her.
"Mm ... " The bat drew a breath. Released it. Reaching a winged arm down, a paw down ... to stroke him again. Both of them pawing each other. Gently, gently ... so gently.
Boom ... echo-echo ... cracker-crack!
Patter-pat-pat ...
Thunder. Lightning. Rain. Echoing, ringing across the countryside ... the rain slowing again (to another stop). The rain intermittent, but that thunder ... every twenty seconds, it would sound.
"There's a lightning rod," Field whispered, "on top of our bedroom." His words were so soft. He huffed little mouse huffs ... as her thumb went over the tip of his mouse-hood. Over his most sensitive spots ...
"I know."
"What if ... "
"It's not gonna hit us."
"What if it does?" he asked, having to ask it.
"The rod will ground it. It won't hurt us."
His paw was caressing, cupping ... one of her breasts ... and he hugged her against him. Putting a leg over hers. And she put one of her legs in-between his. Their limbs tangling. They were wrapped around each other ... like living, breathing blankets. Keeping each other warm. Beneath the cool sheets. Beneath the veil of this stormy night.
They were breathing onto each other's necks.
"There's no better place to be," she told him, "in a storm ... than in bed. Listening to it. Just listening."
"It's the listening that scares me, though." He pulled his fingers out of her ...
"Maybe you're listening for the wrong things." She stopped her stroking.
Their paws and arms ... clung to fur, instead.
"Like what ... " His eyes opened for a moment ... closed. Opened. Closed.
"You're listening to that shrieking, freight train of a wind ... that tornado. That funnel. That tearing and cracking of tree limbs. But put that out of your mind. Put the sizzle of lightning out of your mind, and listen to the emptiness ... and how the thunder, how it echoes over and over. How the very sound of it ... is magnified by the country-side. How the rain, how it bursts. Each drop ... falls from, what, a mile up? How high up? The drop falls, falls, and then ... splatter-splats on whatever it hits, and the water goes to the ground. Eventually, it evaporates ... and rains down again. It lives a hundred lives. Think of the raindrops. Think of their journey. Think of how the thunder is like nature uncorking itself ... nature having its say. Going on a stomping spree, telling of it ambition. Telling of its grand plan for the world ... and no one can understand what it's saying. No one can speak the language of thunder. Think of the thunder," she told him. "Think of what it's telling you."
The rain, again, again ... started up. Hitting the roof in little patter-pats. Little smatter-smacks.
The raindrops hitting the shingles of the roof and sloping, dripping off. Wetting everything. The house. The grass. The barn. And swelling the creek. If the rain kept up at this rate, the creek would be flooded. Would be swollen.
Everything was plagued with damp.
When would the spring finally come? When would it finally get here? The warmth, and the sun, and ... the breeze? And the daffodils?
Wasn't that around the corner?
When would the earth turn that corner? And shake this constant downpour?
Neither knew ...
Neither needed to ... not now ... too enamored in each other.
Too lost in each sudden kiss. In each wraparound hug. In each limb-tangled breath.
"I'm sleepy," Field finally managed. "I wanna," he said, of what they'd been doing ... pawing each other (a prelude to love-making, perhaps), "but ... I'm so tired." He had work in the morning. On Sunday. Wished he didn't ...
"It's okay ... we'll do it tomorrow," she assured, whispering it into his ear. Clutching, hugging protectively. "Tomorrow."
A swallow. A sniffle.
"Let us rest ... let us burrow into our dreams. Where no storm could ever find us."
His nose on her neck, he nodded slightly. Saying, in his airy, wispy way, with such genuine innocence ... saying, "Darling ... "
"Mm?" Nuzzle-nuzzle.
"I love you."
She let those words soak into her. And breathed. And replied, voice humbled, "I love you, too." And she clutched at his fur. And kissed his neck.
And he ran his paws up and down her back.
And they lay together, warm, safe ... snuggled.
And by the time the storm was atop of them ... by the time the brunt of it had arrived, the two furs were curled into each other. Asleep. Safe.
The two furs having succumbed to the raindrops' lull.