The wind gushed up the valley, roaring through the trees. It sounded from inside The Cabin like a stampede, and Adam half expected a thousand buffalo to come charging through the walls in a charnel frenzy. He pictured the missile-laden air, glass shards and splintered timbers impaling flesh, beasts crushing and trampling, all that was left of those gathered there a mess of bone and blood. The air thick with its metallic odour. He shuddered. The image became vivid as the wind charged on, and he wanted to shrink and disappear beneath the floorboards. Then he recalled seeing a painting in a gallery in the city that had depicted something similar and he felt instantly relieved. Horror, he decided as the stampede abated, had its source in the imagination and in the capacity to dread. In the rea
