[at-l] The answer....

[AThiker at smithville.net (Felix)]

Sometime back in the late 1700's, early in the month of July, in a small 
clearing in what is now southeastern Tennessee, what was possibly the 
most violent storm to ever occur occured. 

A small creek flowed from a woods on the north side of a meadow slightly 
smaller than 4 acres.  The creek crossed the meadow just to the east of 
its middle, heading almost directly south. The creek was so unassuming 
that from certain vantage points, it couldn't even be seen.

As it neared the woods bordering the southern edge of the field, the 
creek made a sharp turn to the east. Forty feet or so past the curve, 
the creek merged with another, larger creek. The two formed a stream 
that seperated the meadow from the forest for a few hundred yards before 
making it's way directly into the woods at the meadow's southeast corner.

A man, Jacob Samuelson, stood on the slope that made the northwest 
corner of the meadow the highest point. From there, he could see all of 
the meadow excepting a small section hidden by a pine grove that jutted 
into the opening near the southwestern corner.

Jacob stood and watch a small group of deer drinking water from the 
stream at the point that it entered the woods. A breeze had turned into 
a wind as he stood there. The sky was turning from overcast grays to 
tumultuous blacks and purple, a streak of electricity cracking through 
on occasion. He secured his hat and stepped back into the woods behind 
him, keeping his eyes on the sky as it churned and became more angry.

Thunderous roars became louder and more frequent and the wind steady 
from the west. Loose leaves blew from trees and brown leaves from the 
previous year danced in the woods. Drops of rain began to fall, 
eventually making their way to the ground as the wind tried to blow them 
from their course. 

Just as quickly as the storm had brewed overhead, it all seemed to drop 
to calm. The sky was still angry. But, the wind had stopped and the 
rumble of the thunder was gone. The air was eerie and tense. Nothing 
seemed to be moving anywhere except the clouds growing in magnificents 
overhead.

To the northeast Jacob noticed another storm heading toward the meadow. 
It was crawling just as the first storm had, with rumbles and promises 
of violence. This storm didn't stop when it reached the meadow, however. 
It continued on toward the southwest corner and the pine grove. It 
dropped lightening bolts with a ferocious frequency. It was so strong 
that it didn't waist energy dropping rain. It was more intent on blowing 
and shocking everything in its path.

Before it reached the pines, which were struggling to lean as far away 
from the storm as they could, the storm began to turn, to spin, to chase 
itself. The meadow was a perfect playground for this bully. Jacob 
watched as it became angrier and angrier, its spinning getting tighter 
by the second.  When it achieved its perfection, a beautiful column of 
destruction sucking and blowing the air at the same time,  the roar was 
so loud that Jacob failed to notice that the storm to his right had 
began to dance with itself as well. When it entered the clearing it was 
so close to Jacob that it sucked the air from his lungs and dropped him 
to the ground.

There were two tornadoes stirring up anything and everything in the 
meadow. Grasses and wildflowers laid as flat as they could. The wind 
didn't know which way to blow, and sometimes didn't. The cylinders 
twisting around the field acted as though they were sizing the other for 
a battle to the death. One picked the bough from a pine tree and left it 
suspended in dead air for far longer than it should have been able to. 
The other seemed to be more interested in knocking things down. Breaking 
things. Destroying things.

Rain fell in short bursts. The winds were too strong to allow water to 
fall. The noise was too loud to allow thought. Jacob held a tree and 
watched the tragedy play out.

After an eternity of just over one minute, the tornadoes captured one 
another. They became one angry mass that was going to do as much damage 
as it could possibly do in an existence it knew was going to be short. 
It bounced around the field one last time before it left and headed 
through the woods to the south.

The swath in its wake was a hundred yards wide and smelled of sap and 
soil. No tree was left standing. The field was littered with limbs and 
tops from trees that stood majestically only moments before. The pine 
grove was no more. Only after the beast had taken its torment a half  
mile away did the rains start again. Soothing the wounds? Spitting in 
the face of the defeated?

It rained for four days straight.

Jacob Samuelson was never seen again. And, at no point in history from 
that afternoon in early July in the late 1700's until this very minute 
has a person thought of the storms that hit that meadow that day.


-- 
Felix J. McGillicuddy
ME-->GA '98
"Your Move"
ALT '03 KT '03
http://Felixhikes.tripod.com/