It began to rain

This story is about the rain.

The sun had been gone for months. It fled under a cloak of gray cloud and stayed there, leaving the land to shiver in the cold and damp, a place of dark forests and black soil. The farmers and villagers clucked and shook their heads, but did not worry, for they were well used to the sun hiding for a season. It was how things were. It was how they had always been. And so they waited for the sun, but she did not return.

It had rained every day for weeks, coming from the sky like an army of dragons, smothering the land in water. The river churned and overflowed, spewing water like a fountain, great waves crashing over the sides and washing over the bridges.

There was a boy who lived by the river. His father was a fisherman, and so he spent his days in the water. This boy was clever and brave, but his cleverness had a way of getting him into trouble, and his bravery had a habit of leading him into danger. So, on this particular day, when he was perched on the highest rock he could find, fishing with a bent pin, he was already planning his escape. If he was to catch the salmon he would need to be quick and stealthy, for there were many sharp teeth in the river, waiting to bite. But if he was to avoid the snapping jaws he would have to move quickly. And so, even though he saw the shadows at the bottom of the water, growing darker and bigger by the second, he did not panic. He planned, and waited. He watched the shadows, and they watched him.

But then he felt a sharp pain at his ankle. He looked down and saw the jaws.

He was angry with himself, for he had forgotten his plan, and now he would have to take the jaws to task. He ran toward the bank and grabbed a stick. He jabbed at the jaws with the stick and was able to push them away. He scrambled up the bank and onto dry land, and he ran. He ran with his heart pounding in his chest and his breath burning in his lungs. He ran and he ran and he ran, until his legs were heavy and his chest was hollow.

He stopped running, but he did not stop breathing. He bent over and waited for his heart to stop pounding. He blinked and took a deep breath and looked up, and realized that he had come to the edge of the woods. And there was a hut.

It was an old hut, made of crooked logs and crooked wood, with a crooked roof, the kind of hut that needs a lot of tending to keep it standing.

The door was open.

The boy stopped, and he looked at the hut, and the hut looked back. He knew that it was an old, old hut, and he wondered how it had managed to keep standing for all those years, so strong against the weather and the wind.

He walked closer, and the water dripped from his clothes and splashed on the ground. He glanced up at the hut, and thought he saw it shiver.

Then there was a sound, like the crackle of a burning branch, and a voice. It said, “I know why you are here.”

The boy jumped. He felt the cold water dripping from his clothes, his hair, his skin, and he imagined the water pooling on the floor of the hut, running down its crooked logs, and the thought made him shudder.

“What?” he said.

“You have come for shelter,” said the voice.

The boy did not know what to say. The voice came again.

“You want to come inside?” said the voice. “Then go.”

The boy’s heart was pounding in his ears, a drum beating like the rain.

“I want to come inside,” he said.

There was a pause, and the boy held his breath.

“Not now,” said the voice. “Not yet.”

“When?” said the boy.

“Wait,” said the voice. “The rain will come soon.”

The boy frowned and looked up at the sky. The clouds were low and dark, and the trees were moving like they had minds of their own.

“When will the rain come?” said the boy.

“It has already begun,” said the voice.

“How do you know?” said the boy.

“I can hear it,” said the voice. “I can hear the wind, too. Listen.”

The boy listened. And he heard it.

The wind was stirring the trees and the grass. It was a sound like the ocean, rolling and tumbling over itself, rushing toward shore, and then pulling back. The boy could see it happening in the leaves above his head, all around him. It was a beautiful sound.

“Wait here,” said the voice.

“Where are you going?” said the boy.

“I must prepare,” said the voice. “I must prepare for the rain.”

The boy listened and waited, and he watched the sky, and the wind. And he heard the hut moving, the old wood grinding and creaking. It made him nervous, and he felt a sudden need to be elsewhere. He turned and started to walk back to the bank of the river. Then he heard the wind getting louder, and he turned to see the hut moving, even faster than before. It shook and trembled, and the boy did not know what to think, and so he did not think. He walked, keeping his eye on the hut, and he did not stop until he reached the bank of the river.

The fish still swam in the water. The salmon were big, and strong, and fast, and they had been sitting on the river bed for months, waiting for the sun to return. They had grown impatient, and now that the rain was here, they were ready to feed. And so they leapt from the river bed and leaped up the rocks, and they snapped at the boy.

But the boy was not frightened. Not any longer. He held his breath and waited, and then he moved. He jumped from rock to rock, back and forth, and the fish followed him, but they could not catch him. He moved through the water and to the bank, and he climbed up the bank, faster and faster, and the fish were far behind him, snapping their jaws.

The rain was falling, the wind was howling, and the hut was trembling. The boy looked back at the hut, and saw that the wind was blowing the roof off, and the rain was splashing against the crooked walls, and the hut was falling into the water. The boy blinked, but it was still there, crashing into the river, drowning the fish that swam by. He shook his head, and thought that he must have imagined it, for that is what happens in dreams. The fish leapt, and the hut was gone.

It was morning. The boy had slept on the river bank, and it was cool beneath the trees. The sun was rising and the water sparkled in the light.

The boy stood and brushed the leaves from his clothes. He glanced at the water and was about to jump in when he saw something floating on the surface.

It was the hut.

It had drifted in the river overnight, and had come to a stop on a large rock in the middle of the river. The boy watched as the wind shifted and the roof rolled off. The rain had soaked it through and the river water had pushed it onto the rock. And now, when the sun rose, the hut was dry.

“Hello?” said the boy.

He waited.

“Hello?” he said again.

He waited.

“I know why you have come,” said the voice.

“Hello?” said the boy.

“You have come to stay,” said the voice. “Do you want to come inside?”

“Yes,” said the boy.

“Then go,” said the voice.

The boy looked at the roofless hut, the walls that no longer stood, the floor that floated free in the water, and he looked at the empty river. He looked at the bank, and the trees, and he thought that it was a foolish thing, to make a home out of sticks and water.

“But this is not a home,” said the voice.

The boy looked at the water and saw it churning.

“Yes, it is,” said the voice.

The boy thought about what he would say, and what he would do. He took a deep breath and looked back at the hut.

“Then I am ready,” he said.

And he jumped in.

The hut held him, and he sank to the bottom. The hut protected him from the water, and the boy was surprised to find that he could breathe beneath the water.

He saw the fish below him, and he moved away from them, farther down into the water. He looked up, and saw the sun shining through the water, like a great round window. He saw the fish above him, and he ducked under the surface, and waited.

He could see the fish moving toward him, dark shadows beneath the water, and he wondered why they did not see him. But they did not, and as they passed him, he swam upward, toward the surface.

The fish were confused. They darted around, looking for the fish they had seen before, but he was gone. And when they looked around, they saw him again, and they thought that they had dreamed him.

They came at him, and the boy was frightened, but he did not run. He waited until the fish were close, and then he struck, using the knives on his wrists.

There was blood in the water.

The fish tried to flee, but they could not. The knives were too quick. They called out for help, but their friends would not come.

The boy chased them into the water, and the fish circled the hut. The boy saw the fish coming, and he swam up and out of the water, through the ceiling, and into the hut. He thought about the men in the water, and how they did not have a home.

The fish saw that he was not alone, and they began to dart around the hut. The boy sank down to the bottom, and he stared at the fish as they circled him.

The boy did not know if the fish were staying, or if they were leaving. He wondered what would happen next.

“They are staying,” said the voice.

“But how do you know?” asked the boy.

“Because they have been waiting for you,” said the voice.

“But why?”

“To kill you,” said the voice.

The fish swam to the hut, and they tried to force their way in. The boy was waiting for them, and as they attacked, he struck, using his hands and the knives on his wrists.

There was blood in the water.

The boy thought about what he would do, and what he would say. He took a deep breath and looked back at the men.

Then he dived back into the water. He swam down, hoping that the nets would hold for just a little longer. He found the narrow space between the walls of the net and the sea bed. He dived.

“What have I done?” he said. “What have I done?”

He found the clearest patch of water he could, and looked around him, looking at the creatures that had once been men and women, now reduced to tangled, broken bodies, crushed together. He tried to touch them, and they tried to bite him.

He wanted to cry, but the salt water would not let him.

He touched the bloated, twisted faces, and his tears were finally allowed to flow, and he had to turn away.

He found her, in the end, and took hold of her hand. She looked at him, and tried to speak.

“The water,” she said. “The water…”

“I’m sorry,” he said, “but I couldn’t help it. I’m so sorry. I had to.”

Her eyes went white.

Then he saw that she was already dead.

“I love you,” he said. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

He released her and swam back up. He struggled and tore at the nets, and got them free. Then he burst to the surface.

He tried to say something. He tried to tell them what had happened. He tried to apologize, or explain. He wanted to cry, but there was nothing left in him. The sadness was too great. He was dry inside.

He knew that they would come for him, once they realized what had happened. But he didn’t want to leave. Not yet. He swam and walked along the shore. He passed the fish, which had gone. He knelt and picked up the knives.

It began to rain.

He wept, but that was all.

He knew that they would come.

He waited for them.

“Tell me,” said the young man. “Tell me again. Tell me the story.”

“I will,” said his mother. “But not today.”

“Why?” he asked. “It was just yesterday.”

“Yes,” she said. “But it was a long day.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“It’s fine,” she said, wrapping him in her arms, as he cried, and she rocked him. “It’s fine. I want to hear it. But not now. Perhaps tomorrow.”