We sat by the warm hearth in our sturdy stone house, safe from the evening chill. Through the thick glass window, I looked down at the gentle water of the valley river far below. “Grandfather, why don’t we ever build our houses near the riverbanks?” I asked. “Listen closely,” Grandfather answered, his voice rough. “I’ll tell you why. It happened when I was your age, and it happened fast. It was a clear morning, and your grandmother and I had taken our herd of cattle down to the valley river to drink while the water was low and lazy.”
I frowned, confused. “If the sky was clear, did it suddenly start raining?” I asked. “No, not a drop where we stood,” Grandfather answered, shaking his head as he continued the story. “But then came the roar. It wasn’t thunder, but a violent, bone-shaking rumble from the other side of the mountain. We didn’t know a freak storm had broken the old stone gorge on the far ridge. Before I could even shout to the cattle, a forty-foot wall of black water and churning mud exploded through the mountain pass, swallowing the river whole.”
“What happened to the cattle?” I asked, my eyes wide. “Gone,” Grandfather answered solemnly, continuing his tale. “I grabbed your grandmother and we sprinted up the rocky ridge, hearing the cattle bellow just once before the crushing mud took them all. The flood wiped out the banks in a single second, dragging under the women washing clothes, the fishermen, and the children playing in the shallows with absolutely no warning.” Grandfather pointed a weathered finger toward the window. “In three minutes, our valley was a violent lake of debris, which is why when the water decides to move, you don’t wait—you just run.”