"Follow That Same Old Road"
Title: "Follow That Same Old Road"
Author: Rissy James
Rating: 14A (possible eventual 18+)
Summary: DG is the only hope of a country laid to ruin by an evil Sorceress. An elaborate, carefully constructed trail awaits her, but will she forge her own path?
Warning: Technical AU. All series spoilers apply.
Author's Note: Written for the second annual "Big Damn Challenge"; a link to my table. Inspired by the Everworld quote: "It doesn't count if the plan works by accident!"
Follow That Same Old Road
One
Dream
It all begins much the same way. Her eyes are closed, she's warm and peaceful in sleep. Her mind is a torrent, overtaken by illusive wisps of image and voice. Worlds of beautiful blue glass, of dirt floors and far-off echoes; fruit and smoke and a ferocious bellow of anger. And the woman, with the pale lavender eyes.
The woman whispers words that leave the girl chilled as she awakens.
It haunts her all day, as those kinds of visions always do. She sees that gentle face, hears the faint voice that warns of a dark and stormy future. The girl begins to sketch whenever her fingers are idle. The counter is littered with napkins doodled on with the till pen. The owner is furious.
“Get your head outta the clouds, kid! We got the dinner rush coming in!”
She sweeps together the napkins with her hand and tosses them in the trash.
At night, the kid's dreams take her to a frightening place. She feels like a child, jumping at small noises, reaching out for a hand that isn't there. Something tells her to run, but she never does.
She tells her father of her nightmares, off-handedly one day over breakfast. Her mother is in the kitchen; she'll never say anything was wrong in front of her mother. The woman will work herself into a fret and there'll be no end to the questions and concerns. No, her pop's quiet, contemplative way of mulling things over is what she needs.
“How long's this been going on, DG?”
DG's eyes go up as she thinks back. “A week, maybe?”
Her pop pats her on the shoulder, gives her a comforting smile. “Sounds like you need to lay off the books before bed.”
She rolls her eyes a bit, and looks down at her plate as her mother comes in.
That night, he stays up later than his wife and daughter, and stands alone in the blackened front room. Unmoving, he waits and listens. It's after midnight when he hears her, tossing about in her bed. With a sigh, he shakes his head. He hadn't expected this time to come so soon. The girl is still too young.
He doesn't want to go back, if it's truly in him to want or desire anything for himself. He doesn't want to take his baby girl into the middle of all that. However, he has no say in the matter. He never has.
Secrets
When DG arrives home the next day after her shift at the diner, she's in a mood. A speeding ticket tucked into her back pocket mocks her with its inconsequential presence. She showers, changes, and pins back her hair; she takes her sketchpad in hand, a pencil safely stowed in the coils. Through the kitchen, out the door before her mother notices that she's come downstairs; she's down the steps and off the porch before her mother can come after her.
She spends a part of the afternoon with her father before finally returning to the house to face her mother. She waits for a slew of negativity about the ticket, about the trip out to the farm the deputy sheriff has surely already made, but it never comes. Her mother is silent, shifting about the porch watering the already damp flower-boxes, flipping over cushions, menial tasks that keep the hands busy.
Her father comes out of the house; the screen door slams shut behind him.
“Baby girl, we've been meaning to have a talk with you.”
DG braces herself; she's prepared herself for the nagging of her mother, she can't handle the disappointment of her father.
“What is it?”
“I don't know how easily you're gonna take any of this.”
A nervous smile ghosts over her lips. “Depends. You'd better just tell me, you're starting to freak me out a little here, Popsicle.”
He shakes his head, takes a deep breath. There's much in his head he's had programmed in there for far too long, but he can't start there, his baby girl would never believe. If he startles her too much, if he piles too much onto her young shoulders, she'll buck and cry and run.
So he begins slow. He speaks of home, places he was promised she wouldn't remember until it was time. He tells her about the woman who had turned the girl over to his care, so many annuals before. It's the first time since crossing over that he lets the distinctive word slip out. He doubts the girl catches it in the hazy mire her mind must be in.
DG stares blankly at him. There are tears brimming in her big blue eyes. To her credit, she doesn't let them spill, no she's not a crier. She inhales slowly, centering herself. She turns her head to look down the long road the leads away from the farm to the greater world beyond, as if the answers lay out there, somewhere. Her eyes dart about in a peculiar way before she anchors them on her caregivers; no longer her 'parents' in the strictest sense, no longer doers of good.
“DG-”
But it's too late, the kid's feet are carrying her away. Wordlessly, she runs. Always running.
He looks at his wife; she sighs and shakes her head. “You always go,” she says, gesturing him away with her hands.
Up in the tiny attic loft, the girl is curled up on her bed. There's an open suitcase beside her, but nothing in it.
With a frown, he regards her seriously. “Can't pack a bag for where we're going, baby girl. Can't take your bike, either.”
She wrinkles her nose at him disbelievingly. Eventually, she'll forgive him, he has no worry about it and doesn't spare a second to think further on it. Gods-willing, there will be plenty of time in the future to mend.
“What if I don't want to go?” she asks; its an attempt at a bluff and a poor one at that. He sees the resolution in her face, plain as day. She's going; she's always been too curious for her own good.
Paint
The time to doubt comes, and then passes. DG watches from door-frames as her parents close up the house.
Her pop is outside, moving the wicker furniture under the porch. The flower boxes will come inside when he's finished, she's seen him go through this routine before. He's preparing for a storm. Images from her dreams taunt her, the voice of the woman they say is her real mother.
DG approaches the only woman she remembers taking care of her. “What is her name?”
“I don't know,” her mother says shortly.
“Was she from Milltown, too?” DG asks.
Her mother sighs. “No, DG, of course not!” She laughs as if it's an absurd thought. “She came to us there; I don't know what became of her after we left.”
“Well, why did we leave? It's our home.”
“Our home, yes. Not yours. Now, would you be a dear and lock up the attic windows?” her mother evades, giving her a nudge on the shoulder. Her lips are set into a firm line; it's unlikely any more words will pass through them, so DG does as she's bid. She locks up her windows and closes the curtains to the failing light of afternoon.
In the dusty orange glow of the attic, she looks up at the paintings and sketches that paper the ceiling. Towering cityscapes, silhouettes of great mountains, and hot-air balloons. She's drawn these same pictures over and over again for as long as she can remember. Her dream life.
Her pop mounts the stairs. “You about ready to hit the bricks, baby girl?”
“That's a strange expression,” she says with a tiny quirk to her mouth. She reaches up to run a finger over the watercolour hanging next to her bed. The lakeside city in clear morning light.
“You'll be hearing more of them in the next few days, you can count on it,” he replies with an easy smile. “Now let's get downstairs, Em's about to wear a track in the floor waiting on us.”
DG stays planted, her finger tracing the hills that shelter the lake. The lake has a name, she's sure of it; she can almost grasp it sometimes, as she stares at the still waters and imagines them lapping gently.
“You ready, Deeg?”
She turns away from the painting. “No,” she admits, but follows after her pop anyway.
Time
At the center of a barren wasteland is a tower; it is a contradiction of architectural grandeur and industrial design. Chimneys belch black smoke while windowpanes of pale green glass glint in the bright light of twin suns.
Inside the tower is a complex maze of machinery; levels of prison cells sit above, half-full of starved prisoners who have forgotten the taste of fresh-air, their lungs filled with fine dust. At the top of this empire, coldly elaborate rooms of marble serve she who rules all.
On her intimidating throne, she taps her black-painted fingernails on the copper armrest. She is frowning, and it makes her beautiful, stately face frightening.
“Seven days, General. Only seven.”
“More time is needed, Sorceress. The Resistance -”
She stands, effectively cutting off the general's excuses. “The Resistance,” she says with a derisive laugh. “Farmers and peasants are no match for my army, no matter the number of these resistant vermin.”
“Their leader has led two successful ambushes against our supply trains in the past week alone.”
She raises a perfectly-sculpted eyebrow. “And yet you tell me the arrogant bastard who leads these peasants cannot be found? Are you telling me that my enemies are now supplied with my weapons and armour?”
The general says nothing.
The Sorceress puts a hand to her forehead in a delicate gesture. “The Emerald, General. It must be found. There is no power greater than that of the Emerald.”
“Yes, Sorceress. All our efforts are concentrated on finding the stone,” he assures her.
“It's not enough,” she snaps. She steps down off the dais, walking closer to her general. The man forces himself not to cringe back away from her. It's a noticeable movement, and she smirks. “Conscript young men from Central City. Fourteen annuals and older. I want as many available as possible searching for my Emerald.”
The general nods. His nephew is fifteen, will be dragged out, it will kill his sister, but still he agrees. He has no choice. “Your will be done, Sorceress.”
She is placated for the moment. She steps back up on the dais, assisted by her advisor who stands quietly by as she screams and whines and cajoles with her general to complete her objectives. Seven days, its not enough time, she knows this as she sits back in her throne and tries to ignore the tiny, scared voice that rings constantly in the back of her mind.
After the general leaves, taking his men with him with a snap of his fingers, the advisor approaches the right side of the Sorceress, placing a careful hand on the back of the throne.
“Sorceress, your spies in the city have brought no word yet of the old man.”
Her lips thin into an angry line. A visible twitch in her cheek begins, and the advisor recoils ever so slightly. “Until the stone is in my possession, he is of no concern.”
“There are rumours that the Resistance seek to rally him against you.”
She waves a hand, and chuckles lightly; its a chilling, cruel sound. “Please, do not mock me with that old man's broken power. Even without the stone, he is of no threat.”
“The Viewers are still certain you will find the stone before the double eclipse,” the advisor offers hopefully.
“The word of those beasts is not enough.”
Nothing ever is.
“I want Lylo to read again,” she says and casts her eyes downward. “It will be found, just be patient,” she whispers to herself. “It's been too long to fail again.”
Weather (link: inspiration)
The sun is low in the sky when DG hops the fence into the abandoned pasture attached to the Kelley land, closely sandwiched between her pop and her mother. The sun sinks ever closer to the horizon as her pop leads them far into the meadow. The lights of the Kelley farm are but pinpricks in the distance.
“You told me never to trespass,” DG mutters in a sing-song voice, trying to lighten the mood. Her pop is somber, and that's just not like him; her mother hasn't said a word since locking up the back door.
“By the time Wayne Kelley calls Gulch out from the station, we'll be long gone,” her pop says grimly. There's no smile to his words, and it makes her steps heavier.
“I don't see why we have to be out in the middle of nowhere.”
He chuckles low. “Don't want to stir up any trouble,” he tells her. “And we definitely don't want to be picking up any hitchers.”
She doesn't understand what he means, so she doesn't reply. The sky was clear when they'd left the house; now, clouds are rolling across the heavens, filtering the dying rays of the sun. The warm summer breeze has all but stopped, and the air has become still. It tastes of parched grass, making her mouth sticky and dry.
“Sky's just about perfect,” her mother says quietly, “like she's been expecting it.”
“Sky on this side ain't bright enough to expect anything,” her pop replies. He's digging into the pocket of his overalls now, coming up with small bottle made of clear glass; its got a rectangular cut and a cork shoved in its short neck. There is nothing remarkable about the bottle, but the contents... it gives a flash as if a lightning bug is caught inside. DG steps closer, leaning her nose into the glass as her pop holds it up for her to see; inside, it's constantly moving, shifts of gray and black. Another flash from inside the bottle comes, and DG lurches back as her eyes catch the minute streak of forked lightning.
“What is it?” she asks, still mesmerized by the swirls of cloud, the sky above forgotten by the perfect replica caught in the bottle. She wonders how the tiny chunk of cork is enough to contain the power.
“Its a travel storm,” her pop tells her. He regards her blank stare with an easy smile for a moment before adding, “Think of it as meteorological alc- chemistry.”
The words fall out of her mouth before she can think to stop them. “A storm is coming.”
Her mother frets silently, but her pop looks her straight in the eye. “I've got a feeling this is just the beginning, baby girl.”
The clouds almost completely cover the sky now as she looks up; darkness is behind her as she faces the sun, and when she turns away from the setting of it, she imagines the light simply going away.
“You might wanna hold onto your mom,” her pop says by way of a warning as he grips the glass bottle firmly in his fist. He raises his hand, and she can tell that he's hesitant to do what he's about to. When she looks down at the bed of yellow grass, she doesn't know what he's planning; the brittle grasses will cushion the bottle's drop.
She's wrong.
With one strong swing of his arm, her pop throws the bottle down. She hears the shatter of the glass, but walls of black shoot up around her as a roar sounds in her ears so deafening she's certain she'll never be rid of the rush of wind. She reaches out, calling out for her pop as she's torn off her feet and tossed to the mercy of the gale.
Author: Rissy James
Rating: 14A (possible eventual 18+)
Summary: DG is the only hope of a country laid to ruin by an evil Sorceress. An elaborate, carefully constructed trail awaits her, but will she forge her own path?
Warning: Technical AU. All series spoilers apply.
Author's Note: Written for the second annual "Big Damn Challenge"; a link to my table. Inspired by the Everworld quote: "It doesn't count if the plan works by accident!"
Follow That Same Old Road
One
Dream
It all begins much the same way. Her eyes are closed, she's warm and peaceful in sleep. Her mind is a torrent, overtaken by illusive wisps of image and voice. Worlds of beautiful blue glass, of dirt floors and far-off echoes; fruit and smoke and a ferocious bellow of anger. And the woman, with the pale lavender eyes.
The woman whispers words that leave the girl chilled as she awakens.
It haunts her all day, as those kinds of visions always do. She sees that gentle face, hears the faint voice that warns of a dark and stormy future. The girl begins to sketch whenever her fingers are idle. The counter is littered with napkins doodled on with the till pen. The owner is furious.
“Get your head outta the clouds, kid! We got the dinner rush coming in!”
She sweeps together the napkins with her hand and tosses them in the trash.
At night, the kid's dreams take her to a frightening place. She feels like a child, jumping at small noises, reaching out for a hand that isn't there. Something tells her to run, but she never does.
She tells her father of her nightmares, off-handedly one day over breakfast. Her mother is in the kitchen; she'll never say anything was wrong in front of her mother. The woman will work herself into a fret and there'll be no end to the questions and concerns. No, her pop's quiet, contemplative way of mulling things over is what she needs.
“How long's this been going on, DG?”
DG's eyes go up as she thinks back. “A week, maybe?”
Her pop pats her on the shoulder, gives her a comforting smile. “Sounds like you need to lay off the books before bed.”
She rolls her eyes a bit, and looks down at her plate as her mother comes in.
That night, he stays up later than his wife and daughter, and stands alone in the blackened front room. Unmoving, he waits and listens. It's after midnight when he hears her, tossing about in her bed. With a sigh, he shakes his head. He hadn't expected this time to come so soon. The girl is still too young.
He doesn't want to go back, if it's truly in him to want or desire anything for himself. He doesn't want to take his baby girl into the middle of all that. However, he has no say in the matter. He never has.
Secrets
When DG arrives home the next day after her shift at the diner, she's in a mood. A speeding ticket tucked into her back pocket mocks her with its inconsequential presence. She showers, changes, and pins back her hair; she takes her sketchpad in hand, a pencil safely stowed in the coils. Through the kitchen, out the door before her mother notices that she's come downstairs; she's down the steps and off the porch before her mother can come after her.
She spends a part of the afternoon with her father before finally returning to the house to face her mother. She waits for a slew of negativity about the ticket, about the trip out to the farm the deputy sheriff has surely already made, but it never comes. Her mother is silent, shifting about the porch watering the already damp flower-boxes, flipping over cushions, menial tasks that keep the hands busy.
Her father comes out of the house; the screen door slams shut behind him.
“Baby girl, we've been meaning to have a talk with you.”
DG braces herself; she's prepared herself for the nagging of her mother, she can't handle the disappointment of her father.
“What is it?”
“I don't know how easily you're gonna take any of this.”
A nervous smile ghosts over her lips. “Depends. You'd better just tell me, you're starting to freak me out a little here, Popsicle.”
He shakes his head, takes a deep breath. There's much in his head he's had programmed in there for far too long, but he can't start there, his baby girl would never believe. If he startles her too much, if he piles too much onto her young shoulders, she'll buck and cry and run.
So he begins slow. He speaks of home, places he was promised she wouldn't remember until it was time. He tells her about the woman who had turned the girl over to his care, so many annuals before. It's the first time since crossing over that he lets the distinctive word slip out. He doubts the girl catches it in the hazy mire her mind must be in.
DG stares blankly at him. There are tears brimming in her big blue eyes. To her credit, she doesn't let them spill, no she's not a crier. She inhales slowly, centering herself. She turns her head to look down the long road the leads away from the farm to the greater world beyond, as if the answers lay out there, somewhere. Her eyes dart about in a peculiar way before she anchors them on her caregivers; no longer her 'parents' in the strictest sense, no longer doers of good.
“DG-”
But it's too late, the kid's feet are carrying her away. Wordlessly, she runs. Always running.
He looks at his wife; she sighs and shakes her head. “You always go,” she says, gesturing him away with her hands.
Up in the tiny attic loft, the girl is curled up on her bed. There's an open suitcase beside her, but nothing in it.
With a frown, he regards her seriously. “Can't pack a bag for where we're going, baby girl. Can't take your bike, either.”
She wrinkles her nose at him disbelievingly. Eventually, she'll forgive him, he has no worry about it and doesn't spare a second to think further on it. Gods-willing, there will be plenty of time in the future to mend.
“What if I don't want to go?” she asks; its an attempt at a bluff and a poor one at that. He sees the resolution in her face, plain as day. She's going; she's always been too curious for her own good.
Paint
The time to doubt comes, and then passes. DG watches from door-frames as her parents close up the house.
Her pop is outside, moving the wicker furniture under the porch. The flower boxes will come inside when he's finished, she's seen him go through this routine before. He's preparing for a storm. Images from her dreams taunt her, the voice of the woman they say is her real mother.
DG approaches the only woman she remembers taking care of her. “What is her name?”
“I don't know,” her mother says shortly.
“Was she from Milltown, too?” DG asks.
Her mother sighs. “No, DG, of course not!” She laughs as if it's an absurd thought. “She came to us there; I don't know what became of her after we left.”
“Well, why did we leave? It's our home.”
“Our home, yes. Not yours. Now, would you be a dear and lock up the attic windows?” her mother evades, giving her a nudge on the shoulder. Her lips are set into a firm line; it's unlikely any more words will pass through them, so DG does as she's bid. She locks up her windows and closes the curtains to the failing light of afternoon.
In the dusty orange glow of the attic, she looks up at the paintings and sketches that paper the ceiling. Towering cityscapes, silhouettes of great mountains, and hot-air balloons. She's drawn these same pictures over and over again for as long as she can remember. Her dream life.
Her pop mounts the stairs. “You about ready to hit the bricks, baby girl?”
“That's a strange expression,” she says with a tiny quirk to her mouth. She reaches up to run a finger over the watercolour hanging next to her bed. The lakeside city in clear morning light.
“You'll be hearing more of them in the next few days, you can count on it,” he replies with an easy smile. “Now let's get downstairs, Em's about to wear a track in the floor waiting on us.”
DG stays planted, her finger tracing the hills that shelter the lake. The lake has a name, she's sure of it; she can almost grasp it sometimes, as she stares at the still waters and imagines them lapping gently.
“You ready, Deeg?”
She turns away from the painting. “No,” she admits, but follows after her pop anyway.
Time
At the center of a barren wasteland is a tower; it is a contradiction of architectural grandeur and industrial design. Chimneys belch black smoke while windowpanes of pale green glass glint in the bright light of twin suns.
Inside the tower is a complex maze of machinery; levels of prison cells sit above, half-full of starved prisoners who have forgotten the taste of fresh-air, their lungs filled with fine dust. At the top of this empire, coldly elaborate rooms of marble serve she who rules all.
On her intimidating throne, she taps her black-painted fingernails on the copper armrest. She is frowning, and it makes her beautiful, stately face frightening.
“Seven days, General. Only seven.”
“More time is needed, Sorceress. The Resistance -”
She stands, effectively cutting off the general's excuses. “The Resistance,” she says with a derisive laugh. “Farmers and peasants are no match for my army, no matter the number of these resistant vermin.”
“Their leader has led two successful ambushes against our supply trains in the past week alone.”
She raises a perfectly-sculpted eyebrow. “And yet you tell me the arrogant bastard who leads these peasants cannot be found? Are you telling me that my enemies are now supplied with my weapons and armour?”
The general says nothing.
The Sorceress puts a hand to her forehead in a delicate gesture. “The Emerald, General. It must be found. There is no power greater than that of the Emerald.”
“Yes, Sorceress. All our efforts are concentrated on finding the stone,” he assures her.
“It's not enough,” she snaps. She steps down off the dais, walking closer to her general. The man forces himself not to cringe back away from her. It's a noticeable movement, and she smirks. “Conscript young men from Central City. Fourteen annuals and older. I want as many available as possible searching for my Emerald.”
The general nods. His nephew is fifteen, will be dragged out, it will kill his sister, but still he agrees. He has no choice. “Your will be done, Sorceress.”
She is placated for the moment. She steps back up on the dais, assisted by her advisor who stands quietly by as she screams and whines and cajoles with her general to complete her objectives. Seven days, its not enough time, she knows this as she sits back in her throne and tries to ignore the tiny, scared voice that rings constantly in the back of her mind.
After the general leaves, taking his men with him with a snap of his fingers, the advisor approaches the right side of the Sorceress, placing a careful hand on the back of the throne.
“Sorceress, your spies in the city have brought no word yet of the old man.”
Her lips thin into an angry line. A visible twitch in her cheek begins, and the advisor recoils ever so slightly. “Until the stone is in my possession, he is of no concern.”
“There are rumours that the Resistance seek to rally him against you.”
She waves a hand, and chuckles lightly; its a chilling, cruel sound. “Please, do not mock me with that old man's broken power. Even without the stone, he is of no threat.”
“The Viewers are still certain you will find the stone before the double eclipse,” the advisor offers hopefully.
“The word of those beasts is not enough.”
Nothing ever is.
“I want Lylo to read again,” she says and casts her eyes downward. “It will be found, just be patient,” she whispers to herself. “It's been too long to fail again.”
Weather (link: inspiration)
The sun is low in the sky when DG hops the fence into the abandoned pasture attached to the Kelley land, closely sandwiched between her pop and her mother. The sun sinks ever closer to the horizon as her pop leads them far into the meadow. The lights of the Kelley farm are but pinpricks in the distance.
“You told me never to trespass,” DG mutters in a sing-song voice, trying to lighten the mood. Her pop is somber, and that's just not like him; her mother hasn't said a word since locking up the back door.
“By the time Wayne Kelley calls Gulch out from the station, we'll be long gone,” her pop says grimly. There's no smile to his words, and it makes her steps heavier.
“I don't see why we have to be out in the middle of nowhere.”
He chuckles low. “Don't want to stir up any trouble,” he tells her. “And we definitely don't want to be picking up any hitchers.”
She doesn't understand what he means, so she doesn't reply. The sky was clear when they'd left the house; now, clouds are rolling across the heavens, filtering the dying rays of the sun. The warm summer breeze has all but stopped, and the air has become still. It tastes of parched grass, making her mouth sticky and dry.
“Sky's just about perfect,” her mother says quietly, “like she's been expecting it.”
“Sky on this side ain't bright enough to expect anything,” her pop replies. He's digging into the pocket of his overalls now, coming up with small bottle made of clear glass; its got a rectangular cut and a cork shoved in its short neck. There is nothing remarkable about the bottle, but the contents... it gives a flash as if a lightning bug is caught inside. DG steps closer, leaning her nose into the glass as her pop holds it up for her to see; inside, it's constantly moving, shifts of gray and black. Another flash from inside the bottle comes, and DG lurches back as her eyes catch the minute streak of forked lightning.
“What is it?” she asks, still mesmerized by the swirls of cloud, the sky above forgotten by the perfect replica caught in the bottle. She wonders how the tiny chunk of cork is enough to contain the power.
“Its a travel storm,” her pop tells her. He regards her blank stare with an easy smile for a moment before adding, “Think of it as meteorological alc- chemistry.”
The words fall out of her mouth before she can think to stop them. “A storm is coming.”
Her mother frets silently, but her pop looks her straight in the eye. “I've got a feeling this is just the beginning, baby girl.”
The clouds almost completely cover the sky now as she looks up; darkness is behind her as she faces the sun, and when she turns away from the setting of it, she imagines the light simply going away.
“You might wanna hold onto your mom,” her pop says by way of a warning as he grips the glass bottle firmly in his fist. He raises his hand, and she can tell that he's hesitant to do what he's about to. When she looks down at the bed of yellow grass, she doesn't know what he's planning; the brittle grasses will cushion the bottle's drop.
She's wrong.
With one strong swing of his arm, her pop throws the bottle down. She hears the shatter of the glass, but walls of black shoot up around her as a roar sounds in her ears so deafening she's certain she'll never be rid of the rush of wind. She reaches out, calling out for her pop as she's torn off her feet and tossed to the mercy of the gale.