Chapter 5: The Resurrection of the Wind
The discovery of the windmill manual ignited a spark of focused energy within Ethan. The aimless wandering and the gnawing unease of Royal receded, replaced by a singular, compelling objective. The towering structure in the backyard, once an enigmatic silhouette against the sky, now held the promise of understanding, perhaps even a means of escape.
For the next several days, Ethan’s world narrowed to the rusted metal frame of the windmill. Armed with the hedge cutter from the shed, he waged a relentless war against the tenacious vines and stubborn weeds that had choked the structure for years. He climbed rung by precarious rung, the wind whispering through the decaying metal, snipping and pulling at the tangled vegetation. The work was arduous, the sun beating down on his back, the sharp edges of the metal biting at his hands even through the gloves he’d found in the shed.
Ethan also put the toolbox to good use. He tightened loose bolts with the wrenches, the rusted metal protesting with a groan. He replaced crumbling nuts and bolts with the extra nuts and bolts from the peanut butter jars, each small repair a tangible victory against the relentless decay. Slowly, painstakingly, the skeletal frame began to feel more solid beneath his feet.
Finally, after days of sweat and effort, Ethan reached the pinnacle of the windmill. The view from the top was breathtaking, a panorama of the silent town and the surrounding wilderness stretching to the horizon. But his focus was not on the scenery. The blades, thick with matted vines, and the tail, equally obscured, were the last vestiges of the obstruction. With renewed vigor, he cleared them away, the hedge cutter making quick work of the remaining growth.
Ethan stood on the narrow platform, the wind whipping around him, and grabbed one of the massive metal blades. He pulled downwards, expecting the entire bonnet to pivot, to turn the blades into the wind. But nothing happened. A stubborn resistance held the mechanism fast. A wave of dejection washed over him, a familiar companion in Ethan’s often-frustrating life.
Ethan reached into his back pocket and pulled out the worn windmill manual. Its pages, brittle with age, held diagrams of intricate gearwork and chains. Ethan studied them intently, tracing the lines with a dirt-stained finger, then looked back into the shadowy head of the windmill. Something was clearly jammed within the complex machinery.
Climbing a few rungs higher, Ethan peered down into the heart of the mechanism. There, wedged between the large gears and a thick chain, was the culprit: a broken tree branch, its jagged edges firmly lodged. He would need to climb up to the very top of the frame and reach down to dislodge it.
The task was precarious. Balancing on the narrow metal rung, Ethan reached down, his fingers grasping the rough bark of the branch. It was stubbornly stuck, refusing to budge. He moved it back and forth, applying steady pressure, the rusted gears groaning in protest. Time seemed to stretch, each failed attempt fueling his frustration. But Ethan persisted, his muscles aching, his determination fueled by the days of effort already invested. Finally, with a loud crack, the branch yielded.
Suddenly, without warning, the massive blades began to turn. The wind, now unimpeded, caught their broad surfaces, and they started to rotate with surprising speed. Ethan instinctively ducked, narrowly avoiding the sweeping arc of the tail fin, which would have sent him plummeting to the ground far below.
Ethan descended a few feet, his heart pounding in his chest, and looked up. The windmill was alive. The blades spun in a steady rhythm, the gearwork and chains groaning and clicking as they translated the wind’s energy. A loud yell of pure, unadulterated happiness erupted from Ethan’s throat, echoing across the silent town.
Ethan climbed down the rest of the frame, his legs shaky with adrenaline and elation. He took a few steps back, his gaze fixed on the magnificent sight above. The windmill, in all its forgotten glory, had been resurrected, turning freely in the breeze.
Ethan pulled the manual from his back pocket once more. “Ok,” he muttered to himself, a new focus sharpening his gaze. “The windmill is working. What about the generator?”
Ethan looked at the small, dilapidated shack standing next to the base of the windmill. A shaft protruding from the base of the windmill frame entered the shack through the side wall. A thick electrical cable ran from the shack to the house. Ethan tried to open the door to the shack, but it was firmly stuck, swollen and warped with age.
Returning to the shed, Ethan located a sturdy crowbar amongst the tools. With a grunt of effort, he wedged the crowbar into the gap between the shack door and the frame and forced it open. A rush of stale, musty air billowed out, causing Ethan to step back, his nose wrinkling at the smell of decay and years of disuse.
Ethan cautiously entered the shack. Spiderwebs clung to every surface, and a thick layer of dust and grime coated the generator and the surrounding equipment. Ethan wiped away the debris, his eyes scanning the generator and then the windmill manual, but there was no information about its operation.
Ethan looked around the shack, his mind racing, searching for any clue. The windmill was turning, the gears meshing, but a copper spindle in the center of what looked like a giant horseshoe magnet remained stubbornly still. Then he saw it. A broken broom handle was wedged tightly between the copper spindle and the spinning gear chain of the windmill. The chain was a blur of motion, but the jammed broom handle prevented the spindle from turning.
Ethan walked over to the obstruction and gripped the splintered wood. It was wedged in tight. He pulled with all his strength, the muscles in his arms straining. The broom handle creaked and groaned, but refused to budge. He shifted his grip and pulled again, and with a sudden lurch, it came free.
The copper spindle instantly began to spin, a high-pitched whine filling the small shack. The force of the sudden movement threw Ethan back against the shack wall with a thud. He looked up, dazed, and saw a shower of sparks flying from the generator.
Ethan pushed himself up and cautiously approached a panel filled with dials and switches, wiping away the thick layer of dust. The needles on the dials were fluctuating wildly as the spindle spun faster. His eyes scanned the control panel, finally locating a large, clearly labeled “Power” switch. It was set to “Off.”
Could this be the main power switch for the house? The thought sent a jolt of both excitement and trepidation through him. Would the old wiring still work after all these years of abandonment? Or would there be a short circuit, a surge of uncontrolled electricity that could ignite the dry, aged wood of the house and send it up in flames?
Ethan closed his eyes, took a deep, steadying breath, and then, with a surge of nervous energy, he flipped the power switch to “On.”
More dials on the control panel jumped and steadied. Then, a small light bulb hanging from the shack ceiling flickered to life, glowing dimly at first, then growing brighter as the generator whirred with increasing power. A wide smile spread across Ethan’s face.
Later that evening, as the last rays of the setting sun painted the sky in hues of orange and purple, Ethan carefully unscrewed the light bulb from the stairway ceiling fixture in the house. He carried it into the living room and screwed it into the socket of the floor lamp. He plugged the lamp into a wall outlet, his heart pounding with anticipation, and flipped the switch.
The lamp glowed brightly, casting a warm, inviting light that illuminated the dusty living room. Ethan sat down on the couch, picking up a stack of old magazines he had found earlier, their pages filled with the ghosts of a bygone era. But his gaze kept returning to the lamp, to the steady, unwavering light. “Let there be light,” Ethan murmured, a sense of profound satisfaction washing over him. “And there was light.”
Ethan leaned back against the dusty cushions, a wave of exhaustion and a strange sense of accomplishment settling over him. Ethan thought back on the last several days – the struggle, the grime, the frustration, and finally, this small but significant victory. An accomplishment. It was a feeling so rare in his life that it felt almost foreign.
But as quickly as the warmth of accomplishment had spread through Ethan, it began to dissipate, replaced by a gnawing feeling of unease. His gaze drifted towards the empty doorway, towards the encroaching darkness outside. The light was a comfort, but it also highlighted his isolation. The reality of his situation crashed down on him, cold and stark. The windmill was working, the house had light, but a far more pressing concern now overshadowed his triumph.
Ethan was running out of food.
To be continued …
