Rain
Vance Fazzino The rain came crashing down on the little village nestled in the hills of northwestern Connecticut. The world seemed to come to a standstill except for the incessant pounding of the rain. There were sheets of piercing spikes of water. Everyone had scattered to places which were safe and away from the pinging and pelting wetness. The roads of muddy earth were glazed with reflections as bright as those on chargers of polished pewter. The sun had settled behind clouds, grey and heavy, filled with more liquid to drench the land.
It had been weeks of the same conditions. The summer had been clear and sweet, filled with air that had been fresh and bright. The last days of harvest had been just right for the heavy work to be done in the fields. All of the grain, hay and foodstuff had been placed in their vaults for safe winter keeping. The hay was secure in the loft of the big barns, whose shake shingle roofs had expanded to keep out the water. Pumpkins, squashes, cabbages, carrots, onions, other vegetables and all varieties of fruit found refuge in the root cellars.
People could only stay indoors, the women of the village cooked and cleaned, the children helped, then played. The men braved the rain to feed the livestock and muck the barns. Most of the time they sat by the fire, and made or repaired shoes, utensils for the kitchen, or tools and harnesses. Church bells tolled for Sunday services but only a handful of folk attended. The rain kept falling on roads turned into muddy rivers.
September arrived and on the first day the rain had suddenly stopped. The day was clear, warm and bright. Children ran through the soggy, soaked fields, it was as if the
world had been reborn. Women quickly began to wash clothing in the large cauldrons suspended over outdoor fires. There was a sense of joy and optimism. The barn doors were flung open wide to let the dry air fill the moisture laden interior, but the animals were reluctant to leave. Beyond the open doors awaited lush, green fresh grass, yet they held back, almost fearful of venturing out. Once prodded to leave the barn, they huddled close together moving as one mass, horses, cows, goats and sheep. They stood like statues not moving toward the fresh food.
When the sun was directly overhead, a chill wind blew down from the hills. With it a dust as fine as any known powder descended on the entire village. It was there, but had no color. It could be felt, but could not be touched. The women said it was the color of afterbirth. The men saw the color of tilled and turned earth, the children saw rainbows, but there was no color. But it was there!
No one was troubled by the fine particles; they landed everywhere but seemed to be absorbed by whatever they touched. After an hour the wind had ceased and the dust had stopped flowing. The rest of the afternoon was bright and beautiful. The clothes dried, the animals moved slowly in a lazy way and the children, tired by their day in the sun came home to rest. The evening sunset was like no other that could be remembered. The rays of the setting sun were wide vertical bands of color – strange color – acid green, orange, mauve and saffron filling the sky beyond the hills.
As night descended on the village, every person, animal, home, field, tree and rock had a faint phosphorescent and eerie glow. With one mind, almost every person headed for the church. Neighbor greeted neighbor by name, as they walked, able to see each other in the blackness of night and everyone was filled with a frightened giddiness. The stark church, cold, grey white and glowing like all else, gave no warmth or solace to those who arrived. There were no answers from the pulpit to the many questions about what was happening; the only direction put forth was prayer.
A bright flash of lightning illuminated the church's interior, followed by a tremendous clap of thunder that shook the entire building. The people, now tense and nervous about the approaching storm, headed for the door. The thoughts of being soaked after such a wonderful day had everyone out and moving toward their homes. All the townspeople were spared being in caught in the rain, for it came at midnight.
The rain came as it had never before, howling, driving, swirling – moving with a speed and force that soaked everything on, over and under every surface. Houses leaked from the roofs, windows and near the chimneys, dark stains appeared on the plaster walls and the thresholds could not hold back the rising water. Three days of maddening pounding water, then as quickly as it had started, it stopped.
The quiet of the valley was eerie after the onslaught of the rain. It was time to be normal again after such a storm. The cold damp rain gave way to a beautiful clear Indian summer.
Sunday after the rain had ceased it was time to give thanks. Nearly the entire village met to worship; the church was full. People looked ahead at their neighbors in disbelief at the changes which were taking place, but could only stare, for a force had riveted everyone to their seats. They could not cry out for threads had sealed their mouths. Their skin began to show vein like filaments – only the veins were not under the surface – but on it. Thousands of this string like organism twirled and twisted from every human pore and every organic substance tying and binding the people to their seats. Only soft moans and muffled cries could be heard within God's structure.
The people, now captive without eyes, ears or mouths were rooted in place. The filaments began to pulse sending into them, haustoria, small and probing points, root like, which penetrated the places it touched. Through eyelids forced closed, in the blackness came a flash which colored the insides of their world red/orange. And now the fleshy things began to siphon from the incarcerated assembly all the necessary nutrients for a total metamorphosis.
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