Chapter 5 - Teach the Thunder to Kneel
At noon the wind comes up fast.
Rae meets me at the square. “Market first, then the Mill?” she says.
“Market first,” I say.
The stalls are busy. A band of clouds pulls shade over the tents. A delivery van idles too close, a volunteer in a blue vest taps the sign: **SLOW YOUR SOUND**. The driver cuts the engine. The hum drops. People breathe easier.
We buy pears. Rae pockets two and hands me one. “Sweet,” she says after a bite.
Before I answer, a speaker above the coffee cart pops with a hard **crack**. Feedback squeals. Heads turn. At the same time, a gust hits the long awning that ties three stalls together. One pole kicks out. The canvas sags. A row of jars slides. Glass breaks. Someone shouts. A child disappears under the edge of the tarp.
My hands go hot. The old power lunges up my spine like a dog that’s slipped the leash.
“Hey,” Rae says, close to my ear. “Count.”
“I can move the wind,” I say. It comes out like a warning.
“Or you can move people,” she says. “Ask the room.”
I climb onto the low bench by the crosswalk. “Eyes here,” I call, loud but clean. “If you trust me for eight seconds, we’ll get this clear. On my count, one, two, three, four - we lift the awning and pull the kid out. Blue vest, open a lane to the curb. You in the red cap, hold that post. Don’t yank. Breathe with me.”
The nearest faces tilt up. Some nod. Some just stare. It’s enough.
“One,” I say, steady. “Two. Three. Four - lift.”
Hands find canvas. The sag comes up a hand’s width. A shoe kicks out from under the edge. Rae drops to her knees and reaches in. “I’ve got you,” she says. “You’re okay.” She pulls a little girl free. Scrapes. Tears. Breathing. Alive.
“Lane!” I call. The blue vest swings the mobile sign aside. People step back without argument. Rae carries the girl to the curb and sets her on a crate. The child’s mother arrives, shaking, whispering thank-you's into Rae’s shoulder. Rae nods. “You’re here,” she says. “That’s enough.”
The wind takes another run at the awning. The metal clips scream. The old itch spikes again: I could pin the air. I could freeze the gust. I could…
“Friend,” Rae says, low. “Hands, not weather.”
I press the coin groove. One, two, three, four.
“Need a pole,” I say. “Something to take the weight.”
“Here,” a vendor says, passing me the broken broom handle.
I brace the pole under the crossbar and lean. “Red cap, push back now. Not hard. Just hold it.” He does. The bar steadies.
The coffee cart barista kills the speaker. The last shred of feedback drops away. For a heartbeat I feel the city’s pressure tilt, like the sky considering me. I let it pass. It leaves a tremor in my arms.
The Vigil Cantor steps out of the crowd with a small brass chime. “One ring only,” she says, meeting my eyes. “For quiet.”
She rings it once, clean, not loud. Heads turn toward the sound and then toward each other. You can feel the room arrive even though we’re outdoors.
“We need four people on the main pole,” I say. “We’ll reset it on four. If it fights you, let it. Don’t force. Ready?” Nods. “One… two… three… four.”
We lift together, not heavy, just true. The crossbar angles. The foot finds the hole in the pavement. The pole stands. Someone slides a crate and wedges it like a brace. The canvas shakes twice and then settles.
From the tram line, a siren chirps and cuts, four small notes by accident. I hear **sol, la, do, fa** anyway. My chest loosens a notch.
“Everyone okay?” the Cantor calls. People answer. A few hands lift, small cuts, a bumped shoulder. Volunteers move with first-aid kits. No one shouts for attention. Rae checks the girl’s knees. “Sting,” she says. “We’ll clean it.”
A man curses under his breath at the snapped clip on his stall. The word is sharp but not a weapon. He looks at me. “You know tools?” he asks.
“Enough,” I say. “May I open your kit?”
“Please.”
I use his pliers to bend the spare clip back into shape. “On four,” I say to him, because it helps both of us. “One, two, three, four.” We snap it into place. He exhales and laughs once, shaky.
“Thank you,” he says.
“Thank you for asking,” I say.
A scaffold on the far corner clatters. I look up, two planks have shifted. A painter grips the rail. “I’m coming down!” he calls.
“Wait,” I say, raising a hand. “Hold for a breath. Everyone below, clear the line.” People shuffle back. “Okay,” I tell him, “Now slow, one foot, then the other.”
He descends, shaky but safe. When he steps onto the ground, he stares at his hands. “They’re still my hands,” he says, surprised.
“Good hands,” I say.
A city caretaker appears with a ring of keys. He scans the mess, then my face. “Was there a ring?”
“One chime,” the Cantor says.
He nods. “Fair.” He points to a locked cabinet bolted to the square’s wall: **TOOLS**. He looks at me. “You again?”
“I have a key that might fit,” I say. “May I?”
“May,” he says.
I slide the bronze bell-key into the cabinet lock. It’s not perfect, but it turns. Inside: a mallet, spare stakes, nylon rope, a small tin of oil. The caretaker takes what he needs and starts resetting the tent footings. I pass stakes when he asks. Rae ties square knots like she’s done it all her life.
The child sits on her mother’s lap now, eating a pear slice. “What’s your name?” Rae asks her.
“Lina,” the girl says through juice.
“Lina,” Rae repeats. “You were brave. You counted even if you didn’t know you were counting.”
Lina nods seriously. “I heard four.” She bounces the slice on her knees - **tap, tap, tap, tap** - then giggles and hides her face.
We clean up glass. People sweep slow. The square moves from crisis back to afternoon.
My hands still tremble. I tuck them under my arms. Rae notices. “Shake it out,” she says.
“I almost took the wind,” I say. “It would have felt good for a second.”
“And then?” she asks.
“I’d owe the room a repair I can’t pay,” I say. “I know that now.”
She squeezes my wrist. “Say it again.”
“I’d owe the room,” I say, steadier. “I won’t do that anymore.”
The Cantor walks over. “You ran the count clean,” she says. “Thank you for asking before you took space.”
“Thank you for the chime,” I say.
She glances at the sky. “Looks like the weather wants to show off.”
“It always does,” I say. “I’m learning not to help.”
She smiles. “Come by the tower later. We’re logging hours for bell-keeper training. I saw your tab on the board.”
“I’ll be there.”
When the last stake is set, the caretaker taps the cabinet, asking with his eyes. I lock it and hand him the key. He nods at the bronze, then at me. “Old cut,” he says. “Keep it with you.”
“I do,” I say.
We walk toward the edge of the market to get out of the way. My legs feel too light and too heavy at once. Rae leans against the wall and looks at me.
“Tell me the truth plain,” she says. “Did you use any of it?”
“Only my voice,” I say. “Only my hands.”
“Good,” she says. “That’s the muscle we want.”
“I wanted thunder,” I say. “It’s in me like a habit.”
“Then we teach it new manners,” she says. “That’s all practice is.”
We sit on the curb and split the last pear. Kids crowd the crown booth down the lane, choosing colors. The volunteer lifts a yellow circle and adjusts it to a small head. The kid beams. No music plays. The applause is a few soft laughs and a hug.
“Listen,” Rae says.
Air again. Wheels on stone. Quiet talk. A dog shaking itself and the collar giving a soft ring. In all of it, the four-note shape shows up, late and small - **sol, la, do, fa** - as a passing tram chime and then the ding from the pedestrian sign.
I breathe with it. One, two, three, four.
We stand. I turn to the crowd that helped with the awning. “Thank you,” I say. “You did that. You kept each other safe.”
The blue vest salutes with his clipboard. The coffee cart barista raises a cup. The man with the stall clip gives me a thumbs-up. No one tries to make me a story. Good.
As we leave the square, the wind takes one more swipe at the awnings. They hold. The market moves on.
“Bell-keeper?” Rae says, nudging me.
“Yes,” I say.
“Tonight?”
“After the Mill,” I say. “If there’s room.”
“There’s room,” she says.
We walk back to my building. At the door, I stop and face her.
“I was close,” I say. “Closer than I like.”
“I saw,” she says. “You didn’t step over.”
“I almost did,” I say.
“Almost isn’t did,” she says. “Count that as a rep.”
“I will.”
Rae touches the coin in my palm. “Carry this always,” she says. “Until the habit is stronger than the want.”
“Yes,” I say.
She kisses my cheek. It is quick, warm, and not a performance. “See you at seven,” she says.
“Seven,” I say.
In my room, I leave the door a finger-width open. I wash the grit off my hands. The tremor eases. I sit at the table and write on my card:
**Teach the thunder to kneel.**
Under it I add:
**Use your voice first. Ask the room. Eight seconds can change a scene.**
I set the card by the key and the coin. The kettle sings. I don’t hurry it. I pour, sit, and breathe. The storm inside me still wants the old job. I keep it at the door, on its knees, until it learns mine.
Outside, the market settles to a low, human volume. From somewhere high, metal finds a true place in its cradle. A clean overtone arrives late.
It’s small. It’s enough.