The rain softly falls upon ancient bricks and day takes on a melody rarely seen within these Eastern Steeps.
A pattern of droplets tentatively fall to the ground and paint a portrait of spots across the small courtyard, slowly giving life to the canvas of moss and ancient brickwork that has rested untouched for time unrecorded.
An etching of blue remains as the final mural of a time spent in verdancy, a history tended by the loving hands of this court’s past, a symbol now forgotten of meaning and remaining as the single marker of a story, partially alight within the glint of living’s abandon.
A small building dwells within this etching, a line-drawn mill set amongst the rolling hills of a distant country, it, among with a dozen other tiles, will form the bed to a fledgling stream as the rain builds, a diminutive culvert wicking the water away from the courtyard and into the gardens beyond. The etching’s mill appears turn within this spitting rain; a faded symbol granted life by the water that graces its surface.
Rolling across the tiles and falling into the intangible scene below, the water’s slow drip begins to pool within winding cracks and sound returns to the courtyard one more. Over decades rain shall erode this etching, an azure inlay already stripped of its lustre. Memory does not rest with compassion, it becomes blurred by age, the resonance of a once known voice becoming distant, recollection no longer grasping at the one thing that was once so tangible, once so reachable to its tired hands.
The rain halts, A heady gust of wind disperses the gentle patter and eucalypts beyond the courtyard rustle with indignation. A pressure has fallen away from the day with the arrival of this wind and the cloud cover begins to expand in reply. With failing gasps, the wind loses its lustre and yawns in exhaustion as the falling of rain becomes steady once again.
Now as if set free from their pause, the droplets choose to paint this courtyard with abstract patterns, growing in number they soon coat the earth and drag the warmth of day from below the soil. This steady drone of rain takes over the afternoon as streams grow from their banks and the din of percussion grows louder still; An awning of rusted tin is drummed by the countless strikes of bleeding fingers and noise dispels whatever incantation that once held this court in silence.
A coil of moss begins to draw itself further along the line of bricks, parting the yielding stone as the garden begins to swell with energy, a saudade of Autumn air dulling what once shone so brightly throughout Summer. A circular well of knitted stone becomes the cradle for a sprouting tree; rain soaking deeply into the collected soil, the tree is awoken from slumber, stretching with a shiver and discarding the flecks of water that clung to its leaves.
The curious rain coats slick the fields of grassland beyond, it forms puddles upon the sun-worn bench that overlooks a valley descending, it rolls down the rocks where the stories of spirts would once play. Engrained with this new joy of discovery, the rain wishes to speak to every leaf, to know the names of each grain of dirt. It washes down to the dales and falls into ravines of wandering creek-beds, it soaks through a lonely marker left to remember a soul that shall never find home.
The ghosts of Summer begin to unfurl themselves from the earth below, they spring from the ground as if newly woken and linger within the court to faintly dream of their former selves. Their warmth begins to waver as the rain continues to fall; retreating into the protection of wood and iron they wearily await the passing of season, no tribute left able to prolong their time in halcyon, their time to return not yet graceful to this grey sky.
And within all this beauty a tension begins to build, some underlying stress increasing in its momentum and bringing a sense of urgency to the plain day.
All too soon it is rage that overtakes the day, rage that grows resplendently from the heavens and brings the growl of thunder, a herald of a burgeoning storm.
In a shout of bluster, wind follows the thunder’s call and tears through the simple courtyard, casting the weak into momentum. Above, the rain becomes panicked; steered by the cold guidance of the wind it cannot help but strike heavily into the ground in fear of the storm, uncountable drops continue to fall in unison, overwhelming the tiled culvert, flooding the courtyard, and washing away the last trace of footfall known to a forgotten kingdom of entwined heart.
No longer joyous in its fall, the rain is overcome by anguish and crash into the ground as if hurled by hands of desperation. Strength that shall erode mountains or may yet bury the ocean, imparts itself within this moment of hostility, so hurting the earth that it once explored. A wave of power cast from the sky assaults the courtyard and its stillness becomes broken.
And so soon after this anger may threaten to overflow, it passes, and the rain becomes tired. It is old, it sees the destruction that it had wrought and cannot find even the smallest of words.
It leaves.
As the rain departs, water lays still across the earth once again, the call of birds sing sweet melodies to the overture of the day beyond, a departing grey allowing streaks of sunlight to warm the earth once again. It is fullness that returns, a blanket that has been kicked away and a failing dream holding bleary eyes no longer.
No hand may ever grasp the entirety of rain nor the sightless sounds of its passing beauty. But to each soul who may watch it, the simplicity of its falling shall forever marked into memory.
The rain leaves us with melancholy as it passes, a disbandment without farewell. It is an exhale without succession, and the story of every drop shall be worth the summation of countless goodbyes.
J. McCray
2021
Sunday Short Stories 