Raincatcher (Part 1)

He could no longer remember the world before the rain.

It had begun, his mother and father told him, not long after he was born. He was only six years old as he stood at the window and pressed his nose against the cold glass, watching the first faint drops fall from the sky as thin wisps of fog formed on the window around his tiny, hot fingers.

The rain had not stopped in over twenty years.

It always rained. Sometimes it came in a torrent, a destructive flood that washed away entire cities. Sometimes it was only a soft mist, barely noticeable, a fresh and almost comforting coolness that seemed to come from the very air itself. But it was always there. The world was always wet.

His parents were gone now. Washed away by one of the later floods. He was thirteen then. He had stood at the window, watching the water carry them away. He did not cry. No one ever cried anymore. It was pointless to add more water to a world that had no need of it.

Recently, the rain had been merciful. It had been calm. He had used the precious time to work on the stilts that held up the house, high above the ground. Thirteen feet high. High enough and with thick enough beams to withstand most torrential floods that ravaged the area.

It was a pattern he had grown accustomed to, and it took up the majority of his time. Since his parents had gone, he had done nothing else. On calm days – days when the rain was only a mist – he worked on the stilts, replacing rusted screws and replacing soggy, saggy beams with newer, only slightly dryer ones. On torrential days, he took shelter in the house, listening to the rain pound on the tin roof and hoping that the stilts held out through the night.

Two days ago a violent storm had blown in and, predictably, the rain had come with it. It came this time in a torrent, washing away the foundations of the house that he had so nearly secured. He hadn’t been able to finish them in time. And now the house was gone.

He hadn’t made it out in time. The rushing water snapped the stilts like toothpicks and the house settled into the current, groaning and creaking as though relieved. The water smashed through the windows and sucked him out, deep down into dark swirls thicker than blood.

Maybe it was blood, he thought. His blood. He was bleeding.

Then darkness.

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed. It was still night, and the moon provided the only illumination. He only knew that the waters had receded enough to give the river the opportunity to deposit him on a bank of land. He had come to with his lungs filled and vomited onto the grass, coughing until he could no longer breathe.

Darkness again.

Pain.

He gasped and opened his eyes, and for a moment thought he had gone blind. Just the night. Only the darkness. And the moon. His wet clothes clung to his shivering body, prickling with goosebumps.

He could feel the shard of glass now. Six inches wide, maybe five inches long. Deep in his chest. Thank God, it had missed his heart.

God? The absurdity of his own thought struck him even though the cold and searing pain. God…

Rolling over onto his side, he grunted and took hold of the glass with the tips of his fingers. He took a deep breath, inhaling the freezing rain that splashed down from above, and pulled.

The rushing wind carried his scream downstream for two miles.

He wasn’t sure how long he had been walking on the path. Two hours? Three? Time had stopped. The moon appeared not to move, and the night would last forever.

It could hardly be called walking, either. He was limping. The leg was probably broken, he decided. His breathing was short and labored and the air wheezed through the hole in his chest.

He cursed under his breath and kept walking, dragging his right leg.

The small path had started thirty feet from the water’s edge. It was only a few feet wide, and made of dirt. What had been here before?

The rain continued to pour. It flowed down his face and dripped off the tip of his nose. It was completely silent except for the sound of the rain hitting the ground and the leaves of trees. The wind had stopped.

And then he saw it, a quarter-mile off, through the fog and the rain. A small, glowing yellow light. The stars were low tonight.

No. He stopped. That’s not a star.

His eyes narrowed and he held one hand over his brow to shield his eyes from the rain, squinting into the distance.

It was a window. The light was in a window.

It was a house.

[To be continued…]