him scan the room would be drastically intensified through a night scope. The normal instinct would have been for Drew to run from the cloister during the intervals of blackness between glaring flashes of lightning. Drew realized, however, that his only chance to get out unseen was to do the opposite - to prime himself, to alert every reflex, to race outside for cover as soon as a new fork of lightning blazed.
In darkness, he shifted from behind the door, studying the garden. With breath-held caution, he peered toward the rain-enshrouded night. He closed his eyes and glanced away as lightning struck a tree beyond the garden. A branch crashed. Night resumed abruptly. But he knew where he had to go now. Thunder. Soon the streaks of lightning came closer together. Drew imagined the agony that a spotter would be enduring.
Well, what are you waiting for? he asked himself. You want to hang around, go to mass?
The instant the next bolt flashed, Drew charged from the open doorway. At once rain lashed his face. Keeping his ax away from him, he dove to the oozing mud behind a sculpted cedar bush. The rain drenched his robe, soaking frigid through to his skin. Almost instantaneous thunder shook the sodden earth beneath him, Despite the assault on his senses, a portion of his consciousness registered the unfamiliar sweetness of the air, the forgotten sting of the wind - feelings formerly ordinary to him, now powerfully sensual after long seclusion. But he didn't have time to savor them or to realise how much he'd missed them. He pawed at his mud-splattered eyes, studying his next destination. When lightning flashed once more, he'd already braced himself, skittering through slippery puddles, thudding behind a compost heap. Its fetid odor made him gag, yet it too was unexpectedly welcome.
Though the rain was cold, he started to sweat. Where next? His ultimate destination was the brooding forest beyond the garden, but he had to approach it in a zigzag fashion - to a narrow equipment shed, then a watery furrow between rows of harvested corn, their wilted stubble helping to shield him. His heart pounded sickeningly. But he couldn't sprint more than ten feet during any blaze of lightning. He didn't dare remain in motion when the spotter was able to see through the night scope again. Another flash. He darted from the corn rows, sprawling in mud behind a straw-covered mound where potatoes had been grown. He quickly scrunched his eyes shut, protecting them against a fierce new blaze of lightning. When thunder roared, he opened them again. The interval between lightning and thunder was lessening, only two seconds apart, the center of the storm coming closer. Good. He needed all the distraction that it could possibly give to the spotter.
He studied the dark. Blinking through the cold heavy rain, he chose his next cover, a waist-high stretch of raspberry bushes. Lightning gleamed, and he lunged, but slipped on ooze and lost his balance, landing on his face, water spewing up his nostrils, cramming his mouth. He coughed, unable to breathe, rolling toward the raspberry bushes. Darkness enveloped him. He snorted, desperate to clear his nose and mouth.
Had he reached the bushes in time? Had the spotter seen him? Adrenaline spurted into his stomach; his lungs heaved. He shook, exhausted, as if he'd been sprinting for several miles. With his face to the sky, he let the rain wash his eyes, his nose, his lips. He swirled water around in his mouth, released it, then let the rain fill his mouth again and swallowed, tasting its sweetness, luxuriating in the relief to his swollen throat.
He had to keep moving! First to a row of grapevines along a wooden frame.
And after that...
At last he burst through the undergrowth, gaining the protection of the forest. Gobs of mud sagged from his scalp, his face, and his robe. Chunks slid down his arms, collecting on his fingers, plopping onto the dead leaves at his feet.
But he'd been successful. He hadn't been
In darkness, he shifted from behind the door, studying the garden. With breath-held caution, he peered toward the rain-enshrouded night. He closed his eyes and glanced away as lightning struck a tree beyond the garden. A branch crashed. Night resumed abruptly. But he knew where he had to go now. Thunder. Soon the streaks of lightning came closer together. Drew imagined the agony that a spotter would be enduring.
Well, what are you waiting for? he asked himself. You want to hang around, go to mass?
The instant the next bolt flashed, Drew charged from the open doorway. At once rain lashed his face. Keeping his ax away from him, he dove to the oozing mud behind a sculpted cedar bush. The rain drenched his robe, soaking frigid through to his skin. Almost instantaneous thunder shook the sodden earth beneath him, Despite the assault on his senses, a portion of his consciousness registered the unfamiliar sweetness of the air, the forgotten sting of the wind - feelings formerly ordinary to him, now powerfully sensual after long seclusion. But he didn't have time to savor them or to realise how much he'd missed them. He pawed at his mud-splattered eyes, studying his next destination. When lightning flashed once more, he'd already braced himself, skittering through slippery puddles, thudding behind a compost heap. Its fetid odor made him gag, yet it too was unexpectedly welcome.
Though the rain was cold, he started to sweat. Where next? His ultimate destination was the brooding forest beyond the garden, but he had to approach it in a zigzag fashion - to a narrow equipment shed, then a watery furrow between rows of harvested corn, their wilted stubble helping to shield him. His heart pounded sickeningly. But he couldn't sprint more than ten feet during any blaze of lightning. He didn't dare remain in motion when the spotter was able to see through the night scope again. Another flash. He darted from the corn rows, sprawling in mud behind a straw-covered mound where potatoes had been grown. He quickly scrunched his eyes shut, protecting them against a fierce new blaze of lightning. When thunder roared, he opened them again. The interval between lightning and thunder was lessening, only two seconds apart, the center of the storm coming closer. Good. He needed all the distraction that it could possibly give to the spotter.
He studied the dark. Blinking through the cold heavy rain, he chose his next cover, a waist-high stretch of raspberry bushes. Lightning gleamed, and he lunged, but slipped on ooze and lost his balance, landing on his face, water spewing up his nostrils, cramming his mouth. He coughed, unable to breathe, rolling toward the raspberry bushes. Darkness enveloped him. He snorted, desperate to clear his nose and mouth.
Had he reached the bushes in time? Had the spotter seen him? Adrenaline spurted into his stomach; his lungs heaved. He shook, exhausted, as if he'd been sprinting for several miles. With his face to the sky, he let the rain wash his eyes, his nose, his lips. He swirled water around in his mouth, released it, then let the rain fill his mouth again and swallowed, tasting its sweetness, luxuriating in the relief to his swollen throat.
He had to keep moving! First to a row of grapevines along a wooden frame.
And after that...
At last he burst through the undergrowth, gaining the protection of the forest. Gobs of mud sagged from his scalp, his face, and his robe. Chunks slid down his arms, collecting on his fingers, plopping onto the dead leaves at his feet.
But he'd been successful. He hadn't been
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