A moment for the old fishermen to nod their heads, their eyes gleaming as they mutter and mumble: “Yes, yes. It’s going to thunder for sure. Like it did that one time, you know, and that other time when…When there was the Easter Storm, and the North Cape Storm in February, when the sheep went flying through the air and the ships crashed onto the beach.” It surely won’t be as bad as that? Or will it? They slowly sip their milk. Everything was worse in the old days, they know, but maybe it could be even worse. Who knows; maybe they still haven’t seen the very worst.
The wind begins to blow.
“Lampie? Lampiewhereareyou?” Her father’s voice runs all the words together. “Lampieisthelamplit?”
“Yes, yes,” mutters Lampie. “I’ll just go and get some matches.”
She puts her scarf on, grabs her basket, and runs out of the house. The wind tugs the door from her hands, slamming it behind her.
“Thank you, wind,” says Lampie. It’s always best to be polite to the wind. Then she dashes, slipping and sliding, through the garden, along the path, to the town.
The sea washes over the rocks as the waves get higher and higher.
A narrow path of stones, as uneven as a set of bad teeth, runs from the peninsula to the mainland. Even at high tide, they stick up above the water. Lampie jumps from stone to stone. The wind blows into her face and pulls at the basket with the chamois cloth inside. The cloth is for wrapping up the matches to keep them dry, later, on the way back. Yes, she will have to come all the way back too. She tries not to think about that yet. That is not too hard, as the wind blows all the thoughts out of her head.
“Thank you, wind. Thanks again.” She hopes that the wind is maybe a bit like a friend.
But then Lampie’s friend tries to push her off the rocks and into the sea. Her shoes are already soaked through and are slipping on the stones. But there are wooden posts here and there that she can hold on to for a moment to catch her breath.
Not that far to go now, she thinks, but she can’t see all that well. Sand is blowing into her face, along with other bits and pieces that the wind has picked up from the beach. Clumps of seaweed, branches, pieces of rope.
Presents, Lampie. Look!
She brushes them out of her hair. Dear wind, angry wind. I don’t need them, thank you. I don’t need anything. All I need is matches.
That makes the wind really mad, and it starts pelting her with rain. Within a few seconds, she is drenched, and the wind blasts at her, making her even colder. She fights back.
“Stop it. Now!” she pants. “Get off, wind! Down!”
The wind is not a dog. It does not listen to her. It runs and jumps up at her again and again!
But there are the steps. Lampie slips and slides her way over to them, falling and bumping her knee, but then she grabs the handrail and pulls herself up. And there, finally, is the quay.
In the harbor, the ropes are all slapping against the masts. An orchestra: drumbeats, shrieking, and the first crashes of thunder. Lampie cannot hear her own footsteps as she runs along the quay. The storm tries to blow her down the wrong street, but she knows the way, even in the dark.
No one is out on the streets. The houses stand calmly, braving the storm. They are not afraid of being blown away. The trees brace themselves, losing leaves and branches. A metal bucket rolls by, rattling. All the shutters are closed, and all the shops are shut.
Down alleyways, down streets. When she is almost there, the rain turns into hail, and the wind throws handfuls of it into her face. Ouch, ouch! She shields herself with her arms and runs on. There is the street with Mr. Rosewood’s shop. The wind tugs at her basket one last time.
Go on, give it to me. Such a lovely basket to throw around, to blow so far, all the way to another country, or…
“Get off!” Lampie screams, holding on tightly to the basket. So the wind throws more hail instead.
But then she is there. There is the shop. The vegetable crates have been taken inside, the shutters are closed, the light is off. The door is locked. Of course it is. Who would want to go shopping now?
“Me!” cries Lampie. “It’s me! Mr. Rosewood! Open the door!”
The wind even blows her voice away. She can barely hear herself. She pounds on the door with her fists. “Mr. Rosewood!”
Fool, pipsqueak. Don’t think anyone will hear you. I’ll blow your voice away. I’ll blow you away. I’ll blow you in two. And I’ll blow out all the matches you light. It’ll be a breeze! Ha ha!
Her friend who is not a real friend rolls about, howling with laughter.
The wind’s right, thinks Lampie. What am I doing? She’s cold, and her legs are trembling. Will she have to go all the way back now? Without any matches?
She screams one more time, at the top of her voice. “Mr. Rosewooood!!!”
A small light appears, at the back of the shop. Someone walks to the door, carrying a candle. It is the grocer, Mr. Rosewood, in a dressing gown and a scarf. When he sees Lampie, he hurries to the door, slides the bolt, and opens up. An enormous gust of wind blows Lampie through the doorway. The shop bell rings away like crazy.
“Um, hello,” says Lampie, shivering. “Do you have any matches?”
“Close the door, close the door!” shouts Mr. Rosewood, and together they push the door against the storm until it clicks shut. Instantly, there is quiet. The hail clatters against the windowpanes, but that is outside. Lampie stands there, panting and dripping.
“What did you say, child? Have you come all the way from the lighthouse, through that storm?”
“We’ve run out of matches. And the lamp needs to be lit.”
Mr. Rosewood gasps. “It’s not lit? Yes, of course it needs to be lit! Tonight of all nights! But you’re not going back out into that storm.”
“Yes, I am,” says Lampie. “I have to.” She tries to sound firm, but her voice comes out as a strange squeak. She wrings her scarf out a little and notices that her feet are standing in a big puddle.
“Come upstairs with me for a moment.” The grocer lays one hand on her wet shoulder. “Dry clothes, warm milk. Child, you’re freezing. You can’t…”
She shakes off his hand. “I have to get back! Two boxes, please. Will you put it on our account?”
“That’s insane!” Mr. Rosewood shakes his head. “This storm will be the death of you!” But he is, above all, a grocer, a salesman, and his hands are already searching through the store cupboard. “Swallow Brand, right? Top Quality? But first you need to warm up. I mean it. Whoever would send a child out in this—”
“Frederick? Who’s there?” Mrs. Rosewood’s voice, calling down the stairs.