Rain

A story written years ago, but one of my favorites.

Little can be said about the sensibility of the common man. Each day I sit by this window and watch the population of this town pass me by. So oblivious to the world around them. Children carry their books to and from school, laughing at each other and throwing sticks and pebbles at the strays who wander the streets. Early in the morning, just as the light creeps over the church spire, the blood of the town trickles into the streets. The Baker and his assistant make their way to relieve the night cook. The Bank Manager arrives early to set the day's stations. Merchants of various trades stagger with sleepy drunkenness to their stores. A whisper of threaded smoke sets the Blacksmith’s arrival in the still dark hours before dawn.

 

Every morning I watch them, even as I watch the distant sun rise and fall. Every morning they come, some with zeal and others driven forward by an invisible whip. None of them ever look at the sun's glorious assent. Early birdsong falls on deaf ears. As the streets fill with people, acknowledgments and greetings are exchanged with hardly a glance. I suppose each person is simply to intent upon their own thoughts. It is like this every day, though. How distressing and tasking their reflections must be to create such a state of unawareness.

 

Day passes into night. The air is dry and strong. Just barely can I see the sun sink away beyond the sawmill. The longing to fall away with it takes me, as it does every night. But I must not rest, not yet. So I sit by my window and I watch. The only building in which light still lingers is the inn. Activity there never ceases. Its bar stands open continuously. A trait shared with the women who serve both liquor and the men who steal way from their homes in the night. The pattern is one of dreadful redundancy, however I can not sleep. The others rest now, but it is not for me. Not yet.

 

Yesterday a familiar man passed through town. Familiar and yet, like everyone else, completely unknown. Young and rather tall with dark eyes and bronze skin, he rode a massive black horse. He stood out like a gem among the rough and dirty townspeople. Atop his head sat a most unusual hat. It drew my eye in a most uncanny way. Broad rimmed and straw made, it could have been any fine gentleman’s hat. There was, however, an intricate pattern woven into it. Strands of dark and light thread in and out of the straw, creating a seamless and beautiful, though incomplete, design. I looked on, watching the scene below, and yet ever did my eyes return to the remarkable hat.

 

In uncharacteristic fashion the folk took great interest in this stranger. Their reality paused for a moment. The innkeeper stopped bellowing at the maid, whom stopped beating the rugs, who in turn ceased shedding infinite quantities of sand. The shoemaker’s son dropped the stick with which he had been using to beat a mange-ridden dog and ran to see the new arrival. The dog, I did notice, had little interest in the stranger and slunk away into the shadows. The w****s at the bar greeted him, to be sure, but without their usual slanderous discourse. The entire town seemed out of sorts.

 

Everyone converged around this man with the odd hat. They welcomed him and commented on his fine horse. The animal towered over any plow or wagon beast in town, even the mayor’s hunter. People offered him bread and gifts. Some stood back, watching with reserved awe, even a hint of distrust. No one mentioned his hat, a fact I find rather sad. Such a fine piece of art and it went unnoticed. But that is the way of my fellow municipality. Oblivious to the beauties of the world. I do loathe them at times. They all knew him, of that I am sure. Even the others seem to groan with recognition. It is the first I’ve heard from them in some time. I wonder at its meaning.

 

This morning the clouds did hide the sun’s awakening. Disheartened, I watched for the reaction of my neighbors. Unsurprisingly, they met the sunless morning with glee. Perhaps it would rain and if not, it would at least be a cooler day. It is how they are, taking such a gift as the sun for granted. One day they might understand, but I do doubt it. Ah, the clouds are clearing a little. Some light might yet fall on these streets before night.

 

The townspeople took a great deal of notice in the sun today. Though for ill and nothing more. They waved paper fans through the dry air, cursing the hot and rainless day. The last rain, I recall, fell in July, some five weeks ago. Men and women walk through the streets, whispering words of drought and famine. Livestock are dying and the children and elderly fall ill with sun sickness. Both the mayor and the priest have been cornered at different occasions by people demanding to know what will be done and when. The answers are always the same, “Do not rush the inevitable.”

 

I thought I recognized the tailor today. For an instant a name fluttered to my tongue, only to choke back again. The face seemed so familiar, I was positive it would stir some recollection, but a strong wind blew her bonnet away and when she turned the face was gone. All is well though, one day I will remember, and I will again join the town below. I will leave this window to the others, though they do seem loath to approach it.

 

It has been nigh twelve long weeks without a sign of rain. The wind blows with deadly strength, when it moves at all. Talk of failed crops and stripped soil fills the town. I feel very little sympathy for them, though I could not say why. But I do harbor an uneasiness that grows with their discomfiture.

 

There was a meeting at the church today. Odd for a Wednesday, but I must imagine it concerns the drought. What is spoken there is beyond my hearing and knowledge. They emerged, all the adults of the town, just before sunset. Even in the fiery light of the sun, they seemed pale. I don’t know why the baker’s wife was crying, nor do I wish to. Only the gravest of news could reduce such a stern woman to tears. The others have become increasingly restless, but what they may know, they do not share with me. I believe their voices ceased long ago.

 

It is the day of the Sabbath, and yet no one has approached the church. To be sure I haven’t seen a soul today, and it is now three hours past high noon. Yesterday many seemed to stray below my window. None stayed long, but it drew more attention than ever before. I have little desire to deal with them now. There is much I must learn before I can join society once more. It is odd, I harbor no ill feelings toward them. Why is it I feel dread at their possible notice? Truly unusual. Many of the others have begun to mutter wordlessly. I was misled, believing in their muted state. I wish to know what is causing their strife, but I cannot leave my window yet.

 

The entire town is out today. After yesterday’s seclusion, there seems to be a festival atmosphere in the streets. Everyone is dressed in their finest clothes. There are carts and tables loaded with sticky buns, fruit and candies for all to feast upon. There is talk of the end of the dry spell, but I see not a cloud in the sky. There are smiles and words of jubilation abounds. I cannot help but feel some joy at their change. The others do not share in my enthusiasm, they moan with deep resentment.

 

It is four o’clock and the people have gathered on either side of the main street, watching expectantly down the road. I just make out an old wagon working its way toward the celebration. With its approach two figures come into focus. The driver, smiling proudly, drives the old stock horse on. Sitting in a high-backed chair in the bed of the wagon is a young lady, perhaps sixteen. She is dressed in city fashion, with a spectacular gold comb holding her hair in a sophisticated bun. She is the baker’s daughter, back from college only last week. The hazel eyes, looking out under the chestnut hair, are puffy and tear stained. I must say she is the only sad person I’ve seen this day. She doesn’t look at the people, but stares into my window, a look of trepidation on her face.

 

Four men step out as the wagon stops under my window. Each grab a corner of the chair and carry the girl forward onto a platform. A construct I had not noticed before; odd for me to overlook such a thing. The baker’s daughter is no longer looking this way. She stares now, over the heads of the townspeople, watching the road. Following her gaze, I see riding this way, a man on a massive black horse. Though I cannot see it closely yet, I know he wears a straw hat embroidered with threads of dark and light. I cringe from him, but I cannot look away. There is something in his eyes that both terrifies and intrigues me.

 

The crowd cannot sense it. They cheer him loudly, applauding with unmatched exuberance. Their gaze is awed and worshipful, as if they look upon a savior. He waves to them, laughing loudly. Riding up next to the stage he leaps from his horse, lands lightly, turns and bows. If it is possible, the people cry out even louder. With a single sweeping gesture he silences them. His smile fades away and with a look of resolve he turns to the young lady sitting behind him. She shrinks back as the Stranger approaches her.

 

He is talking to her quietly, soothingly, but nothing can quell the terror in her eyes. With an almost tender motion her pulls the golden comb from her hair, allowing the mane of brown to fall loosely on her shoulders. The comb that was given to her by the town before they sent her to school; the same comb they gave to me long ago. He gives it to an old woman at the edge of the stage. The stranger then removes his unique hat, handing it away as well.

 

He moves to the girl’s side. Pulling two thick leather thongs from his shirt, he binds her arms to the chair. A knife follows. Gently separating a thick strand of hair from the rest, the fellow cuts it off in one twist of the blade. The old woman takes it from him. She removes a long bone needle from her bag and begins to weave the hair into his straw hat. The others are getting louder, they know something.

 

Calling out to the crowd to ready themselves, the Stranger then bends forward and kisses the top of the girl's head. She has begun to struggle against the ties which hold her to the chair, but it is useless. The women and children begin to move back, as the men push forward. With his mouth next to her ear, the Stranger whispers, “And through you, shall we live another day.” With two steady motions, he slices the girl’s wrists. I can almost feel the blade as it cut across her flesh. The others let out a piercing scream, and I join my voice to theirs. No one notices our cries; their eyes are bound to the now dying girl.

 

Men begin to pore onto the platform. Each holding a cup, they wait impatiently to collect some of the freely flowing blood. Each cup receives only a small amount, but the people are overjoyed. Husbands collect their families and leave to sprinkle the precious liquid on their doorsteps and in their fields. Moments crawl by and the young lady grows still. She is looking at them all, but sees nothing any longer. Too much life as been drained.

 

The line of men has dwindled to a handful, each waiting franticly for their turn. They are nervous and pray that good fortune may shine on them, but for some their sun has set. As the fifth to last townsman approaches the dead girl, the last drop of her blood falls to the ground. He cries out, looking into his empty cup. Without warning the man flees the platform, running with great speed. He does not get far, falling dead with a knife buried in the base of his skull. Turning back to the four remaining men, the Stranger motions for them to remove the body. They solemnly gather her and make their way to my tower, disappearing beneath the window.

 

I hear their footsteps, growing closer, higher. The Stranger retrieves his hat, mounts his horse and rides away at great speed. There is something he does not wish to witness. I hear the creak of the door and for the first time in my long residence here I turn away from the window.

 

Near two dozen women lay on the floor, their pale flesh cold with death. As the men enter, carrying our newest occupant, I truly recognize someone. The man at the girls left arm was my father. He drove me to town three years past. I sat in our best kitchen chair while he smiled and jested with the townspeople. There is no smile on his face now; he looks at me standing before the window with utter terror. He stares unbelievingly until the door slams shut behind him. The other three men drop the body and run to it, pounding futilely. But not the man who was once my father, he looks stonily at the hand of the dead girl which he holds. It turns slowly in his grasp and digs its nails into his skin. The others, too, are stirring. They feel as I do: a gnawing need to fill the great emptiness. Finally taking action, the father casts the dead girl's hand away and joins the others at the door. It is sealed from without. It is too late. The others are upon them, and I with them.

 

***

 

The newest sits by the window watching a sun whose light can never touch this room. She is confused, wondering. She has not turned away, even for a moment, in the year she has been with us. I believe she fears us still. She is not one of us yet. To her we are the others and she still yearns to be one of them. There has been little rain this year. Perhaps, she will understand soon. She will remember, just as each of us remembered in our own time. Until that day I will rest. The day the strange man weaves another lock of hair with our own. The day the blood flows once more.

 

Reviews

[kbob]

Kind of a gruesome story, but interesting still. I feel bad for the girl, but at the same time, feel bad for the people. To have such a deranged boon to their (religious?) beliefs can't have a great aftertaste.

Good job

PS: never going to that town