Weathering the Family Vacation

By Delene Oosthuizen

I stared out at the cold gray afternoon. Some summer holiday this was turning out to be. Spending the whole of June on a road trip through the French countryside had sounded idyllic when my parents suggested it. I’d expected to be frolicking in Alpine meadows with wildflowers in my hair like Heidi and swimming in gorgeous blue mountain lakes. Instead, I was stuck in the living area of a dingy, badly lit bed and breakfast in some tiny French town with an unpronounceable name, and it was snowing. Snowing! In June! To crown it all, we’d gotten lost—twice—and our car had broken down.

I sighed.

“Oh, don’t be so gloomy.” My mother handed out hot chocolate and rusks. “I’m sure it will clear up in a day or two!”

My darling mother firmly believed that snacks would fix everything and everyone. I dipped my rusk into the hot chocolate. There’s something about a good crunchy rusk that always makes me feel better.

The door slammed open, and my father and sister stormed in, glowering like identical storm clouds. They’d gone looking for someone who could fix our rental car. Unsuccessfully, it seemed. I exchanged a glance with my brother.

“This place!” My father’s voice echoed through the room. “A little bit of snow, and now nothing is open. Not a single shop!”

My mother handed him a cup of hot chocolate.

“You can’t even buy a croissant!” He fell silent, and everyone stared miserably at each other. It started snowing again.

Bad weather shouldn’t have bothered us this much anymore. I couldn’t remember a single family vacation without rainstorms, floods, or blizzards, no matter which time of year it was or where in the world we went.

I stood. “I’m going for a walk; I need some fresh air. Anyone else?”

My brother jumped up and grabbed his coat. Petrus never could sit still for long.

As we stepped outside, a gust snatched my hat and sent it flying down the street. We raced after it, trying not to slip on the icy cobbles. Breathless and laughing, we finally caught it in a side street, and the air suddenly seemed a little less cold. Pulling the hat back on, I looked around, wondering which way to go next. Petrus pointed out an old fashioned sweet shop and we headed that way. It was closed. As a matter of fact the whole town was unusually quiet. No people on the sidewalks, no cars driving past, nothing. The unexpected bad weather in the middle of summer must have forced everyone into hiding.

A small white van with a bakery’s logo puttered around a corner, making us jump.

“Maybe Dad will have some croissants for breakfast after all.” Petrus grinned.

I smiled back and was about to reply when the van pulled up next to us. Curious, we stopped. That was our first mistake.

An old man with a stiff white mustache leaned out and beckoned us closer. We walked over—our second mistake. He spoke in rapid French, gesturing wildly.

I put out my hands. “Slower, please. My French… is not very good. Can we help you?” At least I hoped that’s what I’d said.

The old man glared at us and started talking rapidly again. Petrus snorted out a laugh. We were so intent on the old man that neither of us noticed the back door of the van opening. Our third and final mistake.

Strong hands grabbed us from behind. I kicked and screamed. Petrus managed a punch or two. The wind picked up, whipping scarves, hair, and hats everywhere. Ultimately,we were unceremoniously knocked over the head and dumped into the back of the van.

When I opened my eyes again, the van was moving and both of us had been tied up.

“It has to be a mistake,” Petrus whispered insistently. “We’ll be released once they realize we’re innocent.”

I reached over and squeezed his shoulder, hoping he wouldn’t notice that I was terrified too.

“Of course!”

When the van finally stopped and we were pulled out, we found ourselves in a large, mostly empty, warehouse. What on earth was this? It felt like a scene from Mission Impossible.

“Good evening, my dear guests.” The old man with the mustache stepped forward and inspected us carefully. “Not quite how I expected two powerful Weather Makers to look, but then, nothing is ever quite as you expect, hmm?” He smiled.

I stared back in confusion. Weather what?

“I did expect you to be a little older, not mere children.” He trailed off, frowning suddenly. “Children… but that must mean… The parents! Alphonse, Jean!” He started screaming instructions to his henchmen—too late.

A violent crack of lightning hit the building, and the doors of the warehouse swung open. Outside, the wind howled, and rain swept in. Through the open doorway, a hulking figure, crackling with lighting, appeared. With a crash of thunder, he blasted the men into a far corner. The figure roared in a very familiar voice. Dad? A smaller, rounder figure emerged from behind him, mist billowing from its hands and filling the room.

“Let’s go, my darlings,” my mother’s soft voice whispered as she untied  us. Dazed, we stumbled after her and into a waiting car. My sister waved wildly at us from behind the wheel and took off through the rain, my father yelling directions from the passenger seat.

“Now don’t glare at me like that.” Mother calmly opened a packet of sandwiches and passed around a steaming flask of rooibos. “This is the first year that all three of you are old enough to learn about your powers. We were going to start your training in our little mountain cabin.”

My sister whooped. “We can control the weather!”

“I wouldn’t exactly call it control,” my father chuckled. “You three have been ruining our vacations for years!”

Petrus elbowed me, and I grinned. This was going to be the best summer ever.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Delene Oosthuizen has always loved reading and telling stories, both other people’s and her own. Her love of writing started with a story about a pink fairy living in a rose that became a series of bedtime stories for her little sister. Delene lives near the majestic Drakensberg mountains in South Africa with her husband and son. Her stories are often inspired by real people, places and events.

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