Whitney Ford sat in the back of her dad's old truck, picking at the rusty paint with her fingernail. There was no moon, but the diamonds-on-velvet sky cast all the light she needed. Curled up with her grandmother's quilt and the dog she'd inherited from her older brother, Whitney felt surrounded by the family she might never see again.
She'd been up on the mountain when the skies broke open. The Maddox baby had chosen that night to come into the world right along with the gully-washer. She'd taken her dad's pickup in case the narrow mountain tracks slicked up or washed out, and though it was as old as her father, it was just as reliable. She counted backward and realized the baby had been born a full two days ago. Her father's pickup had become her temporary home.
Even now she could hear the black water rushing and scraping its way down the face of the mountain, pouring into the valley. The old-timers swore they'd never seen the like. One old mother simply rocked and mumbled about the end of days. They’d let Whitney leave only under protest. Mamie Maddox, the matriarch of the clan, had spoken plainly.
"If'n ye can stand what we got, we'd be proud to have ye stay on with us, Whit. Yer folks wouldn't want you out on the road. No tellin' what could happen, and if sumpin' got hold of ye, or the water carried ye off, we won't have it said that we turned ye out."
"No, you never would turn a body out, Mamie. But I gotta get back. If things are as bad as they look, Mama and Daddy may be stranded. I know every track and deer trail down the mountain, so don't worry about me, I'll be just fine," Whitney replied brightly.
She wished she hadn't been so sure of herself. “Always getting myself into trouble,” she thought, flicking paint chips away. She was glad Bo had come along for the ride, he wasn't much of a hunting dog, but he'd scared off a mountain lion the night before with his impressive bark. Even with Bo’s protection and warmth, she fought sleep.
She wrestled with different ideas: abandon the truck and find a place to cross the angry water by foot, or circle around the mountain in hopes of finding an undamaged house. She could do nothing in the dangerous dark but wait. Driving uphill was not an option. The narrow track she'd been travelling on had given way, carrying the old Chevy down fifteen feet onto a bank just yards from the swollen Little Sugar Creek where she'd been stuck ever since.
A tear found an easy path and slipped down her face. She'd never felt so helpless, hungry, or tired. Only fear kept her awake. She looked up at the stars and couldn't look away. They were so beautiful, so unbelievably lovely, but so very far away. "Kind of like You, God," she thought, even though the thought scared her. She knew better, but yet, there it was.
Whitney watched the stars until it felt as if she were falling upward into the heavens, swept away not by the churning black water but by an invisible current carrying her somewhere far from the mountain. She closed her eyes but still fought to stay awake. It was then that she heard the voice. Try as she might, she couldn't open her eyes. It was a woman's voice, strong and rich and full of living, with a distinctive mountain lilt. She was singing familiar words, set to the tune of an old mountain ballad, mournful, and yet, hopeful.
"Though weepin' may spend th' night, Tis' Joy comes in th' mornin' light... hold on to hope with all your might, Tis' Joy comes in the mornin' light...." And hearing those words, she gave up the struggle.
A soft wind stirred as she slept, clutching hope, and in those night hours the rushing torrent ran its course. Much of the water was siphoned off into limestone caves and underground rivers. A rich deposit of topsoil was left in the valley, and a large white stone was scrubbed clear in the bed of Little Sugar Creek. It was just wide enough for one old Chevy truck to cross on solid ground, carving a way out of the wilderness where there was none before.
"Just like You, God," she said, smiling.
