Rain

• Brendan Tucker, Grade 10
• Short Story
• 2010

Raindrops danced lightly along the roof, their soothing melody drumming into the heart of every citizen of the shabby hamlet. Then the storm came. The tranquil tune of the rain transformed into a cacophonic shriek of thunder claps. A spear of lightning clove the sky in two, spilling forth a deluge of driving rain from its shattered, roiling black depths.
A soul-splitting crack of thunder sounded, as if heralding the approach of a heavenly army. The wind howled like an incarcerated beast. Lightning flashed as if a thousand flaming arrows had been spewed forth.
Beneath the swirling supremacy of the storm perched a dilapidated old hovel. Its window shutters tore loose under the intensity of the maelstrom, and a torrent of rain charged forwards. Weapons raised, the raindrops stormed the window. They lashed at the house, some of them finding their way inside to where a threadbare boy huddled beneath the folds of a tattered blanket.
Under the siege of the storm, the light, drab tinct of the blanket gave way to a deeper, darker grey. The boy cringed as the rain seeped through the heavy material, its icy clasp numbing him to the bone. Suddenly, an ear-splitting clap of thunder sounded. The boy leapt to his feet in fright. Then, taking a timid step forwards, he searched about for the source of the fearful thunder and lightning. Rain was foreign to him; something he had never before experienced. Now, its presence overawed and frightened him.
Walking hesitantly towards the door, the boy gazed about in wonder. Lightning flashed; a phantasmagoria of electric power tearing through the sky. Thunder sounded - like the blast of the bellows, the boy decided, thinking of his father’s forge. Reminded of his father, he plunged forwards determinedly, throwing open the oak portal of his home and stepping boldly out onto the porch. Rain lashed at his face. The wind chilled him, sending him into a spasmodic fit of shivering. Yet through all this he remained standing, his head raised proudly as he descended from the porch. The boy strode forwards, the once familiar gravel path beneath his feet now alien, its once dry, dusty surface now a torrent of rushing water. Advancing gingerly past the water-clogged path, the boy moved onwards towards the main road. He passed several ramshackle houses, each of them a disorderly pile of assorted timbers nailed together in a seemingly random pattern. Small, crude slits that could hardly be classed as windows poked out form between the slats, warm, oily glows originating from beyond.
Marching past these houses, the boy resolutely continued on until he stood before an ancient, decrepit shack. Squeezing inside, the boy immediately headed towards the comforting glow of a lighted forge. Standing beside the anvil and bellows was a white-bearded smithy. The boy lurched forwards into the man’s comforting embrace. ‘Papa,’ he vociferated, his hand slipping into the man’s calloused palm, ‘I’m scared.’
The smithy smiled down at his son. ‘Sometimes it’s good to be scared.’