The Rain Hasn’t Fallen in Months

The rain hasn’t fallen in months.

The women massage the last of our butter reserves into my cracked lips to make me beautiful. They find for me their most unblemished and intact clothing, tucked away for a most special occasion. For a wedding, perhaps.

Today is sort of my wedding. A wedding between a bride and her fate.

As I walk from red tent to red tent, the women fuss over my hair and adorn me with ancient jewels. My snow-white robes drag along the dust, tinting the undersides orange. Normally this would be considered wasteful and excessive, but today, no expense is spared on my appearance.

I must be beautiful today. The rain hasn’t fallen in months.

At first the streams emptied, leaving only dry rocks and the smell of death.

Then the rivers dried and disappeared, carving the landscape with hollow caverns and canyons.

And now we must dig deeper and deeper for our well water. It seems that no depth can yield the drops that would ensure our survival.

We gather in the house of sin. The ancient windowless structure was home to sellers and buyers of an archaic age, who wandered the vast halls to trade worthless trinkets. Today it exists as a crumbling monument to the folly of humankind: the excess of extravagance.

But today, we gather here because we must.

I must be extravagant today. The rain hasn’t fallen in months.

The air inside the house of sin is stifling and muggy. Sunlight passes, unforgivingly, through the holes and cracks in the ceiling.

I walk by the silent faces huddled in every shadow, clustered under every enclave. These are the faces I have known my whole life. But today they are unrecognizable. Faces contorted with hunger, heat-brain, and misery. Only when I pass my mother and father do I hear weeping.

I don’t see tears, though. Their bodies cannot spare the moisture.

I resist every urge to thrust myself back into their arms and beg to stay with them, but I know it would be useless. They would push me back into the arms of the hierophant who waits for me at the base of the stairs. The crowd would hiss, and perhaps rip me to shreds — I would have not fulfilled the behavior that is expected to me, the only acceptable grounds for the spell.

I must be graceful today. The rain hasn’t fallen in months.

The hierophant takes my hand and leads me up the stairs that zigzag up the three floors. I am conscious of how tightly he grips my shaking hand. As we ascend, he is sure to keep my exact pace, not faster nor slower. I realize with a deep and sudden sadness that this is the most intimate experience I have ever had with a man in my adult life.

And it will be the most intimate experience I will ever have.

I look downwards as we ascend, trying desperately to control my rapid breathing and pounding heart, both betraying me. I see what used to be a fountain yawning below me, where our ancestors flung copper coins in the water for good luck.

But they used up all the good luck. They used up all the water.

And now the rain hasn’t fallen for months.

There is a myth that these stairs used to move on their own, sliding on their bellies like strange, cumbersome snakes. To move the stairs, our ancestors would burn the oils and gases they found in the ground, to heat water many miles away. It’s just a myth. But still I wonder when I feel the stairs slip under my feet — is it my shaking feet, having forgotten how to take a step? Or do I feel the stairs begin to shake and crumble underneath me?

The hierophant and I arrive at the top of the stairs. A piece of railing has been removed from our tower so that the starving faces below can have a good view of…

The hierophant gestures for me to lay down on the floor, on the edge of the three-story drop. I can almost feel the children’s necks crane up to see me as I slowly lower myself into a seat. And then I lay flat on the dust-covered floor.

Those were the last steps I’ll ever take. This is the last place I’ll ever rest.

The hierophant shouts many important words, the words that are the key to the ritual, but I hear nothing but the roar in my ears. My heart is battering against the inside of my chest like a desperate, screaming child. I can do nothing to quiet her. I can do nothing.

“The rain hasn’t fallen in months,” the hierophant says.

“The rain hasn’t fallen in months,” the crowd agrees. Now I can hear the screams, the slap of bare feet against the marble floor as the people jump up. A baby cries. A child giggles. I experience everything — the full expression of everything. I taste life in the butter spread on my lips. I can see the glint of the sun through the gaps in the ceiling. I ache with awe.

I have never felt more alive. And now more than ever — I wish I could stay that way.

The hierophant looks down at me. He is gripping something metallic in the same hand he was using to guide me up the stairs.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

Before I can respond, my chest is ripped apart. The fiery pain, like none I’ve ever felt before, tears through my whole body. I cannot scream. I must not scream.

The pain is electric. The pain ignites in all directions. This pain will end me. With my very last breaths, I force myself to stay as still as possible. I must be strong today.

I feel moisture on my face, in my hands, under my back.

Did the ritual work?

Is it rain?

***

Tippy Ki Yay loves to bake recipes found on gravestones and write stories that no one reads.