Be that as it may, Durkin was well inside the house, crossing the kitchen to the living room when light flashed all about him, and a chill wind brushed the nape of his neck. His lips tightened, but for an instant he continued on, as if refusing to believe that a mere rumbling and quaking could prevent him from climbing a narrow flight of stairs, and returning to the yard with a cruel instrument of retribution in his clasp.
Then, abruptly, panic overcame him. Shock after shock shook the house, jarring up through him, threatening to pitch him off his feet. But even as he swung about in wild terror he could not quite relinquish what he had set out to do. One part of his mind remained filled with choking rage, and his hands were busy at his waist, unbuckling his cowhide belt and ripping it free. At least he’d give his stepson a hiding—
Suddenly through the kitchen door he caught a brief glimpse of the children, standing in the yard. They were clinging to their mother, but they were as yet untouched by the violence which was raging all about them.
Durkin’s jaw fell open. The violence increased with appalling suddenness, breaking every window in the house, filling the kitchen with blowing dust.
With a deafening roar the house vanished, carrying Durkin with it. The children cried out in bewilderment and fright, and pressed closer to their mother.
In every upheaval, no matter how violent, there may well be pockets of erratically channeled calm, regions of security which remain untouched by the turbulence surrounding them. Helen Durkin clung resolutely to an assurance which nothing could shake, and with her conviction that the children would not be harmed went a warm gratefulness that they had turned to her for comfort and protection.
She stood staring straight ahead, refusing to be dismayed, hearing only a dreadful humming sound which gradually died away.
Where the house had stood there spread only a smooth expanse of yellow sand.
The whirling was like nothing Durkin had ever known before. It constricted his chest, blurred his vision, and drove the blood in torrents from his heart. There was no stopping it, and as it grew steadily more intolerable he tore at his collar, swayed, and went down on his hands and knees.
Around and around the cottage whirled, now rising and tilting, and then descending with a terrible, jerky abruptness. Twice he tried to rise, but fell back helpless, powerless to save himself from the spineless inertia that sent him spinning to and fro like some ill-made, rain-sodden scarecrow dragged in disgust from a cornfield, and tossed into a butter-churning machine.
In one respect only was Durkin fortunate. His torment, though great and almost unendurable, was not absolutely continuous. There were moments when the cottage seemed to hover motionless in midair, or to drift lazily in a single direction with a buoyancy as light as thistledown.
Gradually these moments became more frequent, calming Durkin like a soothing palm pressed with compassion to his brow. More and more frequent until the merciless buffetings and swift, sickening descents ceased completely, and a light that was bright, clear and steady streamed in through the kitchen window, and somewhere off in the distance a snowy-crested bird burst into song.
There were flowers outside the window, scarlet and aquamarine faintly flecked with gold. Tall-stemmed and wide-petalled they were, almost screening the view, and if at that moment Durkin had been on his feet staring out he might well have failed to see the huge, joyously romping lad.
But Durkin was still lying prone, and the lad’s curiosity had not as yet been acutely aroused.
The lad came swinging boisterously down a country lane, his lips puffed out in a childish pout, his chubby hands thrust deeply into the green and vermillion trousers of his play suit.
He did not love his foster father, and he had run away in a sudden burst of independence and was temporarily free to roam. Oh, it was good to be free to laugh and romp in the sunlight, and to build mud castles out of the gleaming red walls of Snerkle nests.
He came swinging around a curve in the lane and stopped abruptly, staring straight before him in utter disbelief.
For a moment he stood as if turned to stone, his eyes saucer-wide in the slanting sun glow. Then he was running forward with a cry of boyish eagerness.
The little cottage stood in a glimmer of sunlight and shadow cast by weaving boughs. All about it stretched a smooth blue lawn, starred with long-stemmed windflowers as tall as the house itself.
He clapped his hands in pure delight. True, he had a village of his own to play with, an entire toy village bright with weaving communication beams. But all the dolls were child dolls and the village no longer pleased him.
He pouted and became angry again when he thought about it. His foster father did not want him to play with grown-up dolls. His foster father was an old meanie, and he didn’t want him to have any fun.
He was hovering directly over the house now, straddling it. He reached down with a chuckle of delight, and poked at the little red chimney with a stubby forefinger, beaming in simple pleasure as four tiny bricks tumbled out on the roof.
Then he bent over and stared with a puzzled frown at the smashed windows.
A moment later he was squatting before the house peeking in. Slowly as he stared all of the good-natured anticipation went out of his face.
Exaltation of
