The Rain Came

The Rain Came

The summers got hotter and hotter every year and this one had been a doozy. The hi-lifers in their mansions and castles atop the hills didn't care. They had everything they needed for a life of luxury; air conditioning, cool marble floors, swimming pools and fountains. Some of them had statues of themselves sculpted to stand at the entrance or in their lush, green gardens.

In the valley, the lo-lifers sweated and toiled on the land, growing many varieties of food to supply the hi-lifers. They lived in a ramshackle collection of shacks and tents, surviving on leftovers and hand-me-downs. They worked, then they slept, having little energy for much else. Occasionally they were visited by a travelling bard, who would tell tales of a different world, one few of them could remember. A world with choice, freedom and plenty. On those nights, their dreams were less disturbed, more colourful and they woke feeling just a tiny bit hopeful.

Usually the last month or so of summer saw cooler breezes blowing in, followed by gentle rain that blessed the land and brought forth its bounty. This meant that the workers in the valley could syphon off a portion of the harvest and store it underground, before loading everything else into the wagons controlled by the overseers. This year, however, there was no respite from the heat and humidity and the earth became scorched, the harvest all but ruined. Nobody had the energy to do anything but lie in their makeshift homes, as the bread basket they had tended so carefully turned into a dustbowl.

Many people packed up their belongings and began the slow and arduous journey east towards the coast. They had heard there were opportunities in that direction, although nobody knew exactly what that might mean. The overseers stopped coming. What was the point. Nobody missed them, their rough hands and harsh voices, treating them like beasts. Drones from who knew where dropped supplies into the big houses on the hillsides, but the hi-lifers clearly had no intention of sharing.

Eventually as summer drew to a close, only one family remained. Nonna was too old and frail to make the journey, so they all chose to stay and spend her last days together, spinning stories of the ocean they had never seen and the creatures that lived in it. On the day she passed, the rain came. It began softly, gently, just tiny drops peppering the roof of the shack. Then the rhythm increased and the rain became steadier, warm and inviting. One by one each family member emerged from their shelter and stood, mouths open, savouring the taste of rainfall. It was sweet and gentle. The shower became a downpour, the downpour turned into a deluge and they danced wildly, stretching limbs that had become stiff, splashing through puddles.

When the lightening began, they panicked, but it didn't strike the valley. Instead it bombarded the mansions and castles above them, setting fires and blasting holes in the walls. Statues tumbled, buildings collapsed and the drones fell silent, buffeted from the swelling sky. In the valley, the rain made a mud-slide and the remaining family slid, holding tightly to one another, all the way to the ocean of plenty they had never thought to see.