Before the deluge arrived, I sketched it. This doesn’t mean I’ve some gift of foresight—far from it. Here’s what you need to know:
Within my mind, my residence is a grand castle—only in my thoughts, of course. In the rather less exciting world of reality, my home is a plain, beige building perched atop a modest mound. I yearn for it to be a fortified stronghold, overlooking an enchanted world of woodland, bodies of water, and perhaps a couple of dragons. These said dragons are a metaphor for my imminent exams, but they can’t touch me in my imaginary fortress.
So, I render this vision onto paper. Advanced maths—a real monster in its own right—never manages to breach the walls of my imagined castle. I have carried my sketchbook to school every day for months, often at the expense of my textbooks.
Approximately a fortnight before exams commence, I turn a fresh page and start to sketch. Normally, I avoid using colour, but this time, I empty an entire blue pen, illustrating a risen sea, leaving only the hilltops showcasing my castle above the water’s surface. I have no specific story behind this scene, just kindling thoughts of irate sorceresses cursing the lands. All I am sure of is that it’s keeping the exams – my dragons – at bay.
Constructing a world isn’t my strongest skill, truth be told. Neither is achieving top scores on tests, as it seems. But the ability to predict the future is becoming more plausible with each passing day.
The rain begins at the end of June, accompanied by ferocious winds right after I have completed my final exams. Dark clouds commence their ominous dance in the sky the moment my pen ceases to move. My focus shifts to evaluate my odds of passing—an effort I never exhibited for any maths problem—and I deduce a 60 per cent probability of failing a significant number of subjects. All I aspire to do is make my way home.
As I slowly ascend the hill, the imminent storm doesn’t hasten me, nor alleviate the throbbing in my knees. The King—our imprudent and sizeable great dane—rushes to honour my arrival. Running towards me at such speed he’s eerily similar to a drooling, hulking cannonball. I abruptly stop my climb, steeling myself for the collision. As he whips up the ground, he appears to parallel the speed of sound.
A piercing screech from the rear entrance fills the air, coinciding with the onset of my life’s visual roll call. Cora, the long-absent child who’s finally returned, is coaxing the creature back to its hideaway.
“So, what’s the verdict, Kit?” she inquires, while I prop my bicycle against the wall.
“Well, it’s somewhat balanced, I suppose. Likely did well enough.”
“Your optimism is absolutely awe-inspiring. Fancy a cuppa?”
“Good Lord, no. I’m burning up. Fetch me some chilled water from the refrigerator, pronto.”
Cora, obviously baffled, questions dubiously, “Chilled water?”
“As in, H2O kept in the fridge. Couldn’t be clearer.”
“It sounds like stale water from a dirty pond or something equally disgusting.”
This is one of the reasons why Cora and I are unexpectedly suited, notwithstanding her over-achiever propensity. Unlike others, she is not overly concerned about me walking in her illustrious law career footsteps, rather she seems to be more intrigued by my peculiar lingo for cool water than my exam outcomes. However, if I had returned home teary-eyed, she would have provided a pep talk to remember. Among the array of Cora’s commendable qualities, her remarkable ability to be genuinely empathetic would certainly top the list, that or her talent to jot down essays with incredible alacrity.
I quaff a refreshing glass of the much-discussed fridge water, perched on the kitchen island. Threatening thunderclaps can be heard from afar, and as if on cue, Dad strolls in, gripping a soil-covered spade, proudly sporting his eccentric novelty sunglasses he’d purchased from Mallorca a couple of summers prior. His triumphant grin suggests he is particularly self-satisfied.
“Managed to unblock the drains?” I surmise.
“Yes, I cleared out the drains.” Great! One point chalked up for the theory of my future-seeing self. It’s no secret, the drains have been running amiss for a good while now.
“I applaud your foresight,” I compliment him, “Getting it sorted before the downpour begins.”
“It wouldn’t have mattered too much. We are fortunate to be atop a hill. Even if we had a torrential rain, it would at worst cause minor dampness to the house and turn our driveway into a river.” I struggle to suppress a cough on hearing this, my chilled waters almost causing a scene. Earlier today, I had completed colouring my masterpiece, a vivid illustration of pretty much exactly the same scenario.
My father nonchalantly strays into the lounge, and I commence a count of the time he will take to realise he’s still clutching a dirt-encrusted garden tool. Precisely nine seconds later, he spins around and I witness him disappearing back towards the garden shed.
The sky is darkening, which is rather unusual for half past four in the afternoon during June. Furthermore, the colour is reminiscent of a matured contusion. As another peal of thunder resounds, Dad reappears, no longer armed with the trowel, shadowed by Cora and the King. “Disconnect all appliances! Find the flashlights!” he commands loudly.
“A bit over the top, don’t you think?” I mutter quietly. Cora stares at me disdainfully. “Do you never pay attention to current events? This is a…” she vaguely gestures, seeking the correct term. “A chance occurrence of a thousand years. I reckon. That’s what the meteorologist claimed.”
I shut the door behind them just as a downpour begins. It’s relentless; the wind howls and the raindrops assault the exterior of the home’s extension. The electricity goes off with an air of inevitability, just as Cora lets out a curse, stumbling over my bag carelessly left by the entrance. “Kit, honestly…”
Despite Cora’s outburst, the initial night of the tempest is relatively serene. We engage in a game of chess – my losses are predictable – and feel grateful for our traditional gas stove. It makes quite a difference, being able to savour warm tomato soup. I resort to my old Nintendo 3DS, and immerse myself in Animal Crossing until the battery inevitably runs out. Crucially, I make the choice to disregard the tempest raging outdoors. I even manage to retreat to bed earlier than 11 pm for the first time in perhaps…years. After all, won’t the weather have improved by the time I awaken?
Upon awakening, I find the weather still in turmoil. It has escalated from a typical thunderstorm to something resembling a mythical beast’s fury unleashed on our poor, unprepared land. It’s roughly 10 o’clock in the morning and the ruckus outside my window could easily be mistaken for a horde of hairdryers, a persistent sound that shows no sign of ebbing. I attempt to peer through the window, straining to see beyond 12 feet from the house with no success. People often describe rain as ‘virtually horizontal’, but this is an understatement. The rain is essentially flat, like a tabletop, a sight truly unlike any other. It feels as if I might need to make a plea to a Greek god – Poseidon, perhaps, because if the rain intensifies, the air could become entirely liquid.
In the midst of my drowsy ruminations on Greek deities, a loud knock disrupts my thoughts. It’s Cora, summoning me for breakfast as though she intends to detain me. She announces, “Toast and jam – whether you approve or not!”
“Sounds like a threat,” I mutter.
Her response is unabashed, “Indeed, it is. The bread is somewhat… charred, on account of the power outage, I had to toast it in a pan.”
I mull over her offer. “What flavor is the jam?”
“Raspberry,” Cora informs me. I slip on my robe and open the door. “I’m game.”
The rain persists unrelentingly, the sky morphing into a solid shade of slate grey. Dad’s mumbled worries about how we’ll cope if this continues much longer hang heavy in the air.
“It’s only been a day,” I remind him in-between mouthfuls of uninspiring pasta. “It’s not the apocalypse.”
Cora chimes in with, “Arguable.”
I’m quick to retort, “Now, now. Don’t catastrophize things,” waving my fork in a admonishing manner.
Her pessimism doesn’t wane, “We’re well and truly doomed.”
Her jibe irks me, “You’re trying to exasperate me now, aren’t you.”
The sun gradually peeks out over three days. Its tender radiance, reminiscent of my weakened state when I suffer from influenza, wakes me up in the mornings, streaming through the gaps in my window shades. Somewhere in the distance, birds are singing, a scene that seems to leap out from a poem. That is until I strain my eyes and look out, my visage puzzled and squinting. The rainfall has ceased, but the scene before my eyes mirrors my sketch closely. Despite clearing the drain, there’s essentially a body of water at the base of the hill where some of the low-lying fields have been flooded. With the atmosphere now clear, I can observe that it’s not just in my locality. According to the news, we should consider ourselves fortunate that electricity was eventually restored, though the water level remains high. The storm, at least, provided an unexpected respite that allowed me to temporarily put aside thoughts of my upcoming examinations. It was a welcome break that lasted until the day our internet connection was reinstated.
Among the spam and reminders from Duolingo in my rarely checked school email inbox, there lay one intriguing message.
Addressed to all sixth years, it reads,
Regrettably, the recent severe flooding has resulted in an unfortunate incident involving your exam papers. We suspect they may have been unintentionally destroyed. Re-examinations will be scheduled in the near future. We extend our deepest apologies.
I let out a loud, piercing scream.