Today, the cloud cover seems different. Still fearsome, darkened by the ashes that suffocated our world. But different.

I find Cecilie on the old fort's walls, staring at the sky while a strong wind tears at her purple dress and rattles the beads in her multiple silver tresses. In the morning chill, I climb the steps fast, rubbing my bare arms to agitate my blood.
The old woman acknowledges my presence with a nod, never taking her eyes from the daunting sky.

"Listen to the wind, it brings change, Lucien."

"Good change or bad?"

My voice sounds gruff from the cold, the ashes, or losing everything I held dear.

"Some changes are bad, aye. This one—we will see. Where is the boy?"

"Still asleep. About that boy, Cecilie, he—."

She turns her head with the speed of a viper, well aware of the direction my thoughts travel. Her words cut the morning air like swords.

"He's our responsibility, Lucien, and our future."

I know better than to press my point, not able to explain why the child's presence makes me uneasy, recalls visions of the faces of my own lost daughters.
We found him in the gatehouse once the ashes stopped falling. At five or six years, he is thin and silent. He hasn't spoken a word, just curled up in a corner of the old powder magazine we made our home, barely eating the morsels Cecilie fed him.

In the old days, she would have been a witch, a wise woman, sought for counsel by leaders. Or at least by those not too proud to listen to a crone's knowledge beyond earthly matters. She is also the reason I am alive and perhaps the only living soul, except for me and the boy.

I watch her turn and descend the stairs painstakingly slow, using her cane to prevent slipping in the omnipresent ashes. Halfway down, she stops to throw me a stern glance.

"It's Christmas, today."

I hesitate, not sure how I'm meant to react to this piece of random information. I've no idea if it's true. The day the meteor on a collision course with Earth was spotted, holidays lost their importance.

~

Panic sent people into frantic activity. Clever ideas to steer the meteor away from our precious marble were voiced, discussed, and failed. Billions of tons of weaponry stored in different nations' arsenals weren't capable to destroy the deadly rock of doom hurling our way.

Politicians looked for someone to blame. Meanwhile, scientists fought endless debates about probable impact zones and the damage the hit would cause. Finally, they agreed it targeted a sparsely populated area of the Pacific Ocean, only endangering small islands between Australia and Asia.
They predicted minor damage, except for a tsunami hitting the coasts around the impact zone. People were relieved. At least those that didn't worry about flooding. The news reported major evacuation procedures in Asian and Australian costal regions. From California to Chile and Japan to South Africa, millions fled to high altitudes.

Then, humanity waited with bated breath. Well, not everyone: convinced we were not in imminent danger, our life picked up a resemblance of normality. Schools and businesses reopened, and I watched the actual hit at the workshop, on internet.

The meteor did its best to satisfy the audience, a fiery, red-hot streak colouring the sky above Timor. Then, things went to hell fast.

The scientists were right, Earth neither exploded nor split nor did we feel the impact. While billions followed the live coverage, thousands of kilometres of coastlines were flooded.
Then the data connection broke. I took a while to register the gravity of the tremors that shook the building. The volcano erupted moments later.

~

The boy sleeps where I left him, curled into a tight ball under a ratty blanket. Only a tuft of blond hair remains visible in the flickering light of Cecilie's candle. She hands me a plate of leftover sweet potato stew. There are only a few mouthfuls, I must forage again.
Mentally, I prepare to head down to the sea after the meal, looking for fish. Let's hope they weren't boiled by the lava flows. Cecilie's voice tears me out of my planning.

"We should name him, we can't keep calling him the boy. Louis sounds adequate."

I stop, spoon halfway to the mouth.

"Louis? After Louis Delgrès? No, that's a bad idea. Delgrès fought against slavery."

"Yes, and the fort that protects us is named in his honour. Thus the name fits the boy."

"Cecilie, we can't name a white boy after our freedom fighter."

"Why not? Time to care about skin colour has passed, Lucien. This is our family, you, Louis, and I."

Reluctant, I nod, aware arguing with Cecilie is fruitless. At nearly ninety, her mind is clear and works quick and faultless. She stands up, leaning on her cane for balance, and shuffles to the boy's side to wake him.

"Come, Louis, time to get up. Lucien will take you to the sea. Here, eat something."

She hands him the bowl with the last of the stew, not keeping anything for herself. Ashamed, I set down my plate, pretending I'm no longer hungry. My treacherous stomach betrays me with a rumble. But I won't touch the leftovers. If Cecilie starves herself to death, hope dies, too.

~

On the way down to the coast, the boy tries to follow my long steps. He reminds me of a stray puppy, and I slow my pace.
At the main gate, I stop. A low dark cloud to the northwest shows where Montserrat exploded. Its volcanos were the most active in the region since I remember. South, pillars of smoke locate other eruptions. They might be Mont Pelée on Martinique and Morne Watt on Dominica. But what do I know, probably other dormant giants followed the roll call of the gods.

Fort Delgrès lies on a rocky outcrop and was miraculously spared by the lava streams of la Soufrière. A fickle lady in the past, she justified the uneasiness I always sensed in her vicinity.
However, the volcanologists of the nineteen-seventies were proven right. They chose fort Delgrès' solid powder magazine as their safe spot to observe the Soufrière's antics. Now, the ancient house turned volcano museum became our haven in a world destroyed by primordial powers.

I wonder if we are the sole survivors. It's been days, weeks even, and still no one found our hideout. I tried the old emergency radio equipment stored in the museum. Nobody answered my desperate calls until we ran out of diesel for the generator.

~

The ashes turn the way into a treacherous slide, but a steep path leads us to the former evacuation road. It was built in the eighties after the difficult and pointless eviction of Basse Terre. La Soufrière ceased her activity in time, back then.
Recently, the broad street didn't serve its main purpose: The catastrophe hit without forewarning.

Standing on the remnants of the breakwater, overlooking the endless blue sea to the west, the world seems almost normal. Two frigate birds hunt over gentle waves. The boy's eyes light up as he spots a shoal of black-and-yellow striped fish darting through crystal-clear water.
An unexpected smile pulls the corners of my mouth. Looks like the ocean is ready to deliver ample food. I'll need fishing gear, though, a net and a boat.
Tomorrow, I'll search the remnants of houses and the flotsam along the shore. I hope I remember enough of my granddad's fishing lore. My expertise as a mechanic isn't worth much, in this changed world. Today, I'll settle for enough food to fill our stomachs.

Black crabs scuttle over dark rocks. As children, we used to catch them for fun. I excelled in the game, and I know it's easier on the beach where they have fewer opportunities to hide.
On the way back to the road, the boy stumbles and hurts his knee on a basalt rock. He winces, but doesn't cry. I pick him up and set him on my shoulders.
His weight recalls the day last summer I carried my younger daughter this way. She pulled my ears, laughing, calling me her horse. Sudden tears blur my sight.
The kids were at school when the volcano erupted. In the futile believe our lives weren't at stake, we missed the possibility to spend our last minutes as a family. How I regret not staying home, this fateful day, to die with my wife and the girls.

I hardly remember how I got into the old fort and the first few desperate hours and days.

Cecilie was there, pushing us to carry on. Seven people made it behind the thick walls of the powder magazine. Most carried burns, and we coughed from the sulphur and ashes.
Two didn't survive the first hours, another young woman's cries stopped later, in the dark.

I don't know how long we bunkered without light, food and water. When the tremors subsided, and the air became easier to breathe, four remained. Joelle, the coworker who originally suggested to try the fort, left in search of her family. She never returned from the town's ruins.
Sometimes I wish I'd had the courage to do the same, embracing the lava to claim my life.

Pierre and I hunted for drinking water, instead, and found it in the ravine running alongside the fort. We also dug for edible roots.
Pierre's lungs collapsed one night in a coughing fit. That left Cecilie, the boy, and me. I hold onto the child's skinny legs tighter. But whom am I fooling? We can't survive alone, an ancient woman, a small boy and me, an emotional wreck.

~

The narrow beach is littered with driftwood and debris. Two coconuts rolling in the surf seem like a precious treasure, and the crabs are abundant. I set my human burden down and teach him how to chase the swift animals. His face lights up when I catch one. Good, he's got the right spirit for the hunting game.
I collect the captured crabs in a strong plastic bag I pulled out of the surf. A bucket would serve better, another item to add to my wanted list.
As soon as it holds enough of the crawly animals for a decent crab-and-coco meal, I knot the bag.

"Come on, let's head home. Cecilie will get nervous if we return late."

Reluctant, the boy turns from another crab hole and takes my hand. His is chilly, small and wet. But the gesture conveys growing trust.

On the steep path to the fort, I carry him. It's difficult to keep my balance, with the additional weight of my forage bag. So it's the boy who spots it first. His young, clear voice takes me by surprise.

"Lucien, look!"

A grubby finger points northwest, far beyond the faintly glowing magma field that covers the capital. The dark, overcast sky is torn and a rare shard of sunlight illuminates the overgrown slopes of the former national park. They are covered in grey ashes. But from a valley in the new-formed landscape rises a thin thread of wispy, blueish smoke. My voice nearly breaks.

"That's a wood fire, Louis. Someone is alive, over there."

We're not the only survivors! We can't reach them yet, not across still hot lava. But like the sun breaking through gloomy clouds, sudden hope floods my heart. Louis feels it too, to judge from his soft giggles.

Perhaps it's Christmas after all.