There’s something oddly ancient about the way a storm rolls in over Derbyshire. The sky folds in on itself, bruising purple and green around the edges, the air turns thick and restless, and everything, even the birds, holds its breath. You can almost hear the land muttering. And if you’re lucky, or unlucky, depending on your nerves, thunder follows like footsteps of something enormous, stalking the hills.

When my daughter, Tink, was small, she was terrified of thunderstorms. She’d dive under the covers as soon as the first rumble sounded, eyes wide and glassy with worry. I told her something then, something half-remembered, half-invented, about the Thunderbird. I can’t recall where I first heard it, maybe from a book, maybe one of those stories that just grows legs and follows you down the years. But she remembered.

So, here’s a version I’d like her to pass on. And maybe you can too, when the skies growl and the curtains shake.

The Thunderbird, you see, isn’t something to be scared of. She’s not here to hurt you. Quite the opposite. The Thunderbird is an ancient sky guardian – older than towns, older than the stones on Stanton Moor, older than even the bones beneath Mam Tor.

She’s shaped like a vast bird, black as midnight, with feathers tipped in starlight. Her wings span the horizon, her eyes flash like silver coins in the dark, and every beat of her wings sends a rumble through the clouds.

She lives in the storms. Not above them, not behind them, but in them. She’s made of cloud and lightning and the soft warmth of rain on your face. And when a thunderstorm comes, it’s because the Thunderbird is awake and working. She’s pushing the dark things back.

In the old stories, she was called upon when the world went quiet with fear. When shadows crept across valleys and strange shapes moved at the edge of the woods. People would send whispers into the wind, prayers to the rain, and the Thunderbird would answer. She’s not tame. She’s not cuddly. But she’s fiercely kind.

The crashing thunder? That’s not the sound of doom – it’s her wings slamming through the air as she charges in.

The lightning? Her feathers brushing the earth, lighting it up to burn away anything that means harm.

The rain? That’s the soft wash of her wake, cleaning the dust and the bad dreams from rooftops and garden fences and the backs of your eyes.

If you listen closely when the thunder rolls, you can hear her song. It doesn’t have words, not the way we know them. It’s a low hum you can feel in your chest and teeth – a lullaby for those who understand that sometimes, the loudest things are just trying to protect us.

There’s even an old belief, mostly whispered in places like Taddington or out near Abney, that if a child truly listens, unafraid, they might see the Thunderbird glide just behind the rain.

Just for a moment.

A flash of wing, a glowing eye, then gone.

But only the brave ones see her. Or the ones who believe.

She especially watches over those who are scared, the little ones gripping their blankets and the big ones pretending not to jump when the windows rattle. She doesn’t ask for anything in return. Just that you remember her, and trust that storms aren’t something to hide from, they’re the sign that something ancient and beautiful is on patrol.

And so, when the sky turns strange and wild over Derbyshire as it does today, perhaps don’t tell your children to hush or hide. Instead, tell them this:

that the storm means the Thunderbird is flying, and everything is safer because she’s awake.

Let them listen for her wings in the thunder and spot her streaks in the lightning. Let them fall asleep not in fear, but in awe.

After all, monsters don’t ride storms.

But guardians do.