Dalhurst

He stood there, umbrella above his head, oblivious to the danger around him. Ignoring the harsh winds circling him, tugging at his umbrella blowing it inside out. The water poured all over him. He was shivering from the cold wind and rain, but he remained. Rooted to the spot. Staring at the sky covered in dark grey clouds. The sky flashed bright with white forks of lightning. The house nearby shook from the rumbling thunder. Still he remained there staring, scanning, searching. For what? No one really knew. Men drove past. Some fast, and ignorant of the boy standing in the rain. Others came over and begged him to come with them away from the weather. Folks dismissed him as crazy, suicidal. No one could understand why a young boy no older than eight would stand in a field in the middle of the fiercest storm all summer.
A woman from the nearby house ventured out to ask the boy in. He refused politely with a little shake of the head and remained silent staring at the road ahead of him, searching with tired, desperate eyes. No one knew the boy, his name, his home, his family. No one had ever seen him in those parts.
Word came through on the radio hours later that a man had been killed in the wild storm. Rumour was he asked for his eight year old son constantly as he lay in pain. Only silenced from his murmuring when he passed. When asked where his son was he whispered ‘Dalhurst, waiting for me in a field by a country road.’ The woman rushed out to see if this little boy was the little Tim the man had spoken of. When she came to him, now huddled on the ground she shook him to wake him. He didn’t stir. She felt his hands and found them icy cold.

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