Dark Water Rising: Chapters 8–17

Their daddy’s ragged hearse bumped along behind old gray Whiskers, and a solemn procession of mourners followed, heads bent, hands full of jasmine and oleander blossoms.

The north wind remained brisk, and the dawn sky took on a mother-of-pearl iridescence unlike anything I’d ever seen before.

Streetcars stopped three blocks short of the beach, no longer venturing out over the wild surf, and still people braved the rising water to see the show.

Farther down, swells rolled in, one upon the other, exploding against creosoted pilings under the Pagoda and slamming against floor joists with such force, I could feel the gallery railing shudder beneath my hands.

We turned in time to see the Midway buildings lift on the waves and crash to the ground like kindling.

Everywhere I looked I saw tiny green frogs, thousands of them, covering floating debris, sitting on fence posts and porches, and even riding astride a horse’s back.

Horses, belly-deep in the rushing brown water, skittered around snakes and snapping wires, dodging broken telephone poles, porches, and cisterns being swept down the streets.

I wrenched the dead man from Josiah’s arms, and the brown water snatched him up, swirled him into an eddy, then swept him away.

Others drowned, knocked off their feet and carried under by the broken roofs, galleries, or privies that swept down the street faster than a man could run.

During a short lull, I stopped to get my bearings, squinting through the rain, and at last, hope pounded in my chest.

I pulled the three-inch sliver from his skin, ripped a kitchen towel lengthwise, and tied it around his head.

It was a staggering sight—home after home looking like tiny islands surrounded by angry sea, like they’d been built in the middle of an ocean.

The storm roared and buffeted the house.

Josiah and I hurried after him into the windy west bedroom, crawling through water and across an overturned bureau and spilled drawers.

A light shone through a broken window, and I stared at the pale glow, unable to fathom its meaning at first.

I’d never seen such desolation in a man’s face, and a wave of fear for what I might find at Uncle Nate’s rose inside me.

It was then that I saw his bleak situation fully. That stack of clothing was all he had in this world.

I turned slowly, trying to take in the dismal landscape, already yearning for something green, but not a leaf or a blade of grass could be seen anywhere.

Flies buzzed around his eyes and gaping mouth, but it appeared to be the piece of blue gingham floating next to the dog that had carved the painful look on Josiah’s face.

What once must’ve been sunshine hair now lay matted and strewn across a porcelain face, partially concealing glassy blue eyes and pale lips.

When we passed what was left of Fort Crockett, we found several dead soldiers from Battery O who must’ve been caught in the barracks when they fell.

“If not for some all-wise providence that directed me to your house last night,” he told Mr. Vedder, “this would’ve been me.”

She sank up to her chin, floundered, and grasped at something floating nearby.

...the steadfast strength she’d shown throughout the storm gave way.

We thanked the Vedders, but I couldn’t muster enough words to express my true feelings.

I found a corrugated washboard to place over her face and refilled the grave.

Mama asked a hundred questions while she cleaned our wounds and smeared salve over our cuts.

He’d set her broken leg, and she lay secure in his lap, splint and all, till Mama fussed and made him put her down.

Papa, haggard and dirty, stepped into the doorway and blinked in the candlelight.

I blew out the putrid stench that pervaded every breath, cupped the shriveled brown petals in my hands, and brought them to my nose.