The Price of the Rain

Nobody believed in me. That was their first mistake.

I tried to warn them, sent messenger after messenger, but they continued to waver in their faith, the doubt remaining in their hearts. This small sliver of the universe that was awarded to me could only go so far on its own. It was almost laughable to watch as the people attempted to govern themselves, to grow crops or raise livestock or train armies, all with the burn of my stare branded in their skin, hot enough to mistake for the sun.

I don’t know if it would’ve been crueler to just continue watching them or to do what I did, but the only way to rebuild is to tear the whole damn place down. It’s not called a clean slate for nothing.

It began rather slowly. A tornado here, a mudslide there. I wanted to give them the chance to see the error in their ways, to wake up, open their eyes. When that failed, I tried something bigger.

The drought had been in effect for five years before anyone made any effort to counter it. Not that the people have much control over those sorts of things anyway -- that is what I was trying to show them, after all. It was a little boy who started to understand, all of seven years old, living on his family’s farm and naively hopeful as most children his age tend to be. Though I could see everything at once, I paid particular attention to this boy on several occasions, for though he was young, and his knowledge limited, he tended to get closer to the truth than the rest of my ward.

The boy knew nothing of a life before the hardship, the majority of his formative years having been spent in the midst of the famine, drought, and death I had brought forth to the people. When darkness is the norm, it is quite difficult to harbor even a sliver of hope for light. It was not hope for his own salvation the boy held, but an innate sense of compassion for the living things on his family’s farm. They grew nothing special, only enough to keep themselves clothed and fed, and they owned a few sheep, a barn cat, an old, greyed cow for milk, and a smattering of chickens for eggs. For a family, the animals meant food and salvation. For a boy, they meant companionship, and to see them wither away was all the motivation he needed to take matters into his own hands.

They all get it wrong in the beginning. The boy called to the universe, as if such a grand power would ever have time to heed such an inconsequential prayer. I was listening, though. I was always listening.

⛆

“What happened to Nana?” the boy asked.

His father tilted his head as he looked down at his son, as if wondering whether to answer him with the truth or something softer.

“She’s just gone away for a while.”

The boy squirmed in the arms of his father, tilting his own head upwards to gaze at the sky. Such a glorious corner of this world they had carved for themselves here, so that the stars were visible and the night cool. I allowed these moments to exist, even as they failed to acknowledge me, if only for my own benefit. What is an artist without their art?

“There! There! The big dipper,” the boy said, pointing and smiling. His father followed his gaze to the portion of sky, indistinguishable to him from the rest of it. He placed heavy hands on his son’s shoulders and sighed -- while age gave some wisdom, it seemed to have brought only misfortune his way.

“That’s right, buddy. You remembered. Nice one.”

The boy puffed with pride, aware of the sadness in his father’s voice but unsure how to fix it. It seemed the whole farm had been sagging under the weight of despair lately, and even in his youth he noticed the light fading away from the usually happy eyes of his mother and the life leaving the activity of the livestock.

“When will the universe stop punishing us, Papa?” For the first time, I felt a twinge of guilt. Yes, the people had wronged me time and time again with their lack of belief and the careless way in which they handled the blessings I’d granted them, but what had this boy done in particular to deserve my wrath? I did not know.

The boy’s father squeezed his son’s shoulders. “It will pass. It has to.”

That night, the boy lay awake in bed, staring up at his ceiling instead of sleeping. He called to me, internally, and asked for relief. Perhaps there is something about childhood that leaves room for faith, and perhaps the mistakes of humanity were not his cross to bear.

I lulled the boy softly to sleep, and sent him happy dreams. If I had to make his waking world a struggle, I could offer him this bit of kindness in return.

⛆

The problem with punishing your own people was that you also felt their pain. I especially felt the thirst of the land as it begged me for water. Even when the people forgot about me, the natural world sent its fair share of requests my way. The soil, the air, the trees, all begging with everything in them: Water, water, water.

It was my selfish desire to ease my own pain, pushed over the edge by the boy’s soft cries, that moved me to act. They begged for water, so I sent them rain.

To whom does a people lacking both faith and foresight offer gratitude when their needs are met? To which god does the one who fancies himself alone pray?

When the skies opened, finally, letting loose all the water they’d held within them at my command, I took pleasure in the joy of the people. Despite the years that had hardened me, there was, at my core, a preserved softness. I could not help but rejoice with the people as the rain poured down, dizzy with the power of being both the one who could give and take as they willed.

It could’ve been enough for me. Maybe it would’ve been, too, if I was human. If empathy could overtake the necessity of justice in my world. The gift of my mercy could only be free for so long -- someone had to pay the price.

⛆

When it started to rain, the boy was still asleep, roaming the dream I’d graciously granted him. But the walls of the small farmhouse were thin, and the sound quickly woke him up. He didn’t understand, fully, the weight of such rain in the midst of a drought, but he knew the plants were dying. He had tried to milk the cow for three straight days without any luck, and he figured if he couldn’t remember the last time it had rained, it must have been long ago.

The boy pulled his blanket up to his chin, listening closely to the pitter patter of the rain on his window, equal parts enamored by and afraid of the sound. As his parents lay fast asleep in their own beds, the boy sent a silent thanks to the universe he so cherished. He felt the desire to run out into the rain and let it douse his skin, but sleep won him over once more.

My patience had worn thin. I had given everything. I had raised a people from nothing, taking only what had to be taken for the world to remain in balance. Their sorrow was not enough to push them to action, and even in their joy they failed to recognize me. I had created, yes, but I was invisible to the people, a mere prop in their lives. Whose fault was that but their own? I could only hope that upon starting fresh, the same mistakes would not be made.

This time, the boy slept a dreamless sleep.