Have You Ever Seen the Rain?

Resha Caner

        

         A drop of water broke free from a crack in the ceiling. Plummeting through the air, its shifting form caught varying rays of light. The drop used the trapped luminance to sing colored notes until it crashed into the waiting bucket to be swallowed up in the faceless mass of its companions.

         "Orgon," the teacher called out.

         "Yes, Mr. LaCruz." Orgon tore himself from his dreamy observations.

         "My hope," LaCruz stated in thick murmurs from between his thin lips, "is that your extreme concentration upon the ceiling is of an engineering nature. Regardless, this time is devoted to literature."

         "Yes, Mr. LaCruz," Orgon submitted bashfully as the other students snickered.

         "We were discussing The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka. Maybe you would like to give us your opinion."

         "Boring," Orgon replied. The other students snickered again in silent agreement with something they would never dare say.

         LaCruz lost his humor. "I think you should stay after class, Orgon."

         "Yes, Mr. LaCruz."

         "Marta, would you please read for us?"

         "Yes, Mr. LaCruz," the girl's high-pitched voice came back mechanically. She began reading with the enthusiasm of someone counting out kernels of grain from a bushel basket:

 

"Did you understand a word?" the manager was asking his parents. "He isn't trying to make fools of us, is he?"

         "My God," cried his mother, already in tears, "maybe he's seriously ill, and here we are torturing him..."

 

         On Marta droned. Word followed word in an endless train of meaningless noise. She did try, but why was a mystery. People cannot be forced to learn something for which they have no inspiration. Orgon felt stifled, like a race horse forced to ride a train. What was the point? In the end, the brief dance of water droplets was ignored, forgotten. The bucket would be dumped into the sewer pipe, nurturing nothing.

         Yet Orgon would be forced to endure even more. After Marta's insipid reading of Kafka, she always found it necessary to look at him, as if hoping for approval. He wouldn't give it. Why did girls think he would help them cheat on their grades with a simple flutter of their eyelashes?

         He didn't mind waiting at his desk when the rest of the students were dismissed. What did he have to go home to? His unusual attention to books left him few friends, and he had exhausted all the books at home. His father was continually frustrated with his lack of enthusiasm for sports. LaCruz encouraged Orgon to play basketball, saying a healthy body would produce a more virile mind, but the game seemed pointless to him.

         The teacher seated himself in the desk across the aisle. His wide frame looked very out of place, and his suit coat bunched up over the edges of the seat. He stroked his thick black moustache as he pondered his opening words.

         "I am disappointed in you, Orgon. You are my best student. If you don't like the work of Kafka, then express it intelligently. I didn't teach you such triteness."

         "He makes his point too early in the story: Gregor feels isolated. Why drone on for page after page?"

         LaCruz seemed pleased. "Can isolation be expressed in so few words? Part of understanding it is experiencing the endless nature of it. The agony comes from the interminably long nights and days spent enduring separation."

         "I don't need a story to show me that," Orgon spat back sourly.

         LaCruz frowned. "What is troubling you?"

         Orgon looked away as he said:

 

If you put new ideas before the eyes

    of fools

They'll think you foolish and

    worthless in the bargain;

And if you are thought superior to

    those who have

Some reputation for learning, you

    will become hated.

 

         "Don't quote Euripides to me, young man," LaCruz scolded, struggling to lean forward in the confining desk. "I taught it to you. So you think I don't understand you? Maybe I don't, but I don't fear the unknown. I fear the known much more. Now talk to me, Orgon."

         The boy stared at the ceiling. The crack was now dry, and the bucket had been removed. He pondered, but did not answer.

         "Orgon." LaCruz seized the boy's desk and pulled it close to him. "You are the brightest student I have ever had—a savant. I have struggled hard to teach you what I can, and I feel you passing me. Wonderful! Leonardo da Vinci said a student has not learned until he surpasses his master. But I still have things I can teach you. I must teach you about arrogance, bitterness, malaise—all the things which stagnate intelligence. I can share wisdom with you; wisdom is a tool the aged will always have over the young. But you must talk to me."

         "What is its purpose?" Orgon asked, still staring at the crack. "We are taught the Colony created everything: the tunnels, the meeting rooms, the apartments. We harness everything within the firmament for our own use. But the water eludes our control. It carves its own channels through the rocks, like an entity with a purpose. Where is it going? More importantly, where did it come from?"

         "Don't you recall the stories we've read about rain?" LaCruz spoke as if the word were a simple matter, but to Orgon it was something strange—a tasteless word on his tongue.

         "We've read many myths," Orgon said.

         "It's not a myth." LaCruz slapped his hands on his knees. He leaned forward, as if he wanted to say more, then swallowed hard and rolled back in his chair.

         "Yes, maybe in other times—other places. Maybe someone thought it a pretty idea to provide water by sprinkling it from the roof, but it's so impractical. We live after the Cataclysm."

         LaCruz smiled like one in pain, hiding his torment. He closed his eyes for a moment. When he looked at Orgon again, he seemed relieved, as if he had made a decision.

         "I have something to show you."

         LaCruz hurried him into his office, closed the door, and carefully drew the shade. He put his ear to the door for several seconds, then walked to the small library of books neatly organized behind his desk. He stroked his moustache as he stared at the shelves, and Orgon watched with amusement. With sudden resolve, the teacher grasped a shelf and pressed against it.

         Orgon's eyebrows raised as the wall began to swing.

         "Come," LaCruz motioned for Orgon to follow.

         Orgon looked toward the door, considering his options before he stepped hesitantly into the dark room behind the wall. Cold dry air assaulted him, causing him to sniff uncomfortably. The smell of musty, decaying paper peppered his nose.

         "Books?" Orgon both stated and questioned the contents of the room.

         "More than books," LaCruz whispered breathlessly. "Here. Read this."

         Before Orgon read, he carefully studied the proffered book. He felt a care of handling impressed upon his spirit as the brittle pages lay in his grasp, and he turned the book carefully to gaze at its spine. The binding crackled as he moved it, and the words were in severely faded gold upon a coarse red cover. The title was a word he didn't know, but his pride would not admit ignorance to LaCruz.

         "Read," LaCruz pressed. The teacher opened the book and pointed out a specific passage.

         Orgon read aloud:

 

Shaphan the secretary informed the king, "We have found a book of law in the temple that is unknown to us." And Shaphan read the book to the king.

         When King Josiah heard the words, he tore his robe, saying, "Great is the Lord's anger that is poured out on us because our fathers have not kept the word of the Lord."

 

         "Sit down, Orgon," LaCruz commanded. "We have a lot of ground to cover."

 

 

         It was pitch black, because Orgon dared not turn on a light. He stepped in rhythm with the dripping of the rain in the buckets to cover any sounds his shoes might make upon the floor.

         Six months had passed since Mr. LaCruz began his reformation—six agonizing months. His teacher tried to explain that outside the Colony much of what Orgon considered myth was reality. Above them lay worlds without walls and ceilings. Apparently the human race had not even originated on the planet occupied by the Colony, but were sent as an experiment from the mythical place called Earth. The experiment failed, leaving them to occupy the subaltern tunnels for centuries.

         LaCruz could not explain the Cataclysm. He only knew it had passed. Still, the Colony dreaded what it could not control, and refused to go back. No one was permitted to go back, for fear of resuming the Cataclysm. For LaCruz it meant a denial of beauty, but the teacher had a plan.

         Orgon couldn't wait any longer. The Cataclysm had always blocked his mind. He had assumed everything beyond the tunnels vanished in a great apocalypse. Now it seemed only another empty word. Knowing something existed outside the Colony tortured him day after day. Each day the pain rose to a new level, like a lion roaring in his ears. He couldn't think of anything else. It possessed his whole being.

         The monsters of Bram Stoker and Mary Shelley sprinted through his mind, injecting more and more adrenalin into his body. He knew the monsters weren't real, but the past months had shattered everything he thought temporal. To believe something lay above the firmament, to believe only LaCruz's books when he could touch the rock with his own fingers, left him without any reality.

         He guessed sixty more meters separated him from the rising tunnels. He had never come so far before, always terrified by the stories the adults told him. His inexperience posed his most difficult problem. He had no idea how he would get past the guards.

         "Orgon," a high, soft voice whispered.

         He almost screamed. He would have, except that fear drove the breath from his lungs.

         "Orgon, where are you going?" the voice spoke again.

         When he recovered control a few seconds later, he finally spoke, "Who is it?"

         "Marta."

         "What are you doing here?"

         "Following you."

         "Go back."

         "Where are you going?" Marta stubbornly refused to retreat.

         Although Orgon couldn't see her, he felt her approaching presence. The faint smell of perfume, nearly washed away by a bedtime shower, briefly led her form.

         "I want to see the rain," Orgon replied, knowing it would confuse her, and hoping it would make her go away.

         "Oh, really!" she exclaimed, almost breaking a whisper.

         "Shh. You don't even know what rain is," Orgon huffed.

         "It's the water resulting from the natural replenishing mechanisms of an environment."

         Orgon stood in open-mouthed shock.

         The vague outlines of her body puffed up proudly, "I'm not stupid."

         "How did you know?"

         "I've been spying on you," she confessed.

         "Does anyone else know?" Orgon was suddenly horrified.

         "No," Marta said sharply. "I can keep a secret."

         "Good. Then go back to bed and forget you saw me."

         "But the monsters are up there," Marta reminded.

         "I don't care," Orgon gave her arm a brief shove, then turned to continue up the tunnel. His determination to be brave in front of Marta added new enthusiasm to his steps.

         "We're only a month from graduating, Orgon," Marta resorted to more practical terrors. "If anyone finds out you did this, you're finished."

         "I'm finished anyway," Orgon replied. "Bound for the coal mines."

         "No," Marta objected. "You're the smartest boy in the class. You'll definitely be picked for college."

         "Mr. LaCruz told me," Orgon informed her. "I won't be picked."

         "But why?" Marta was very distressed.

         "They don't want someone who would do this." Orgon pointed into the black soup spreading before him, indicating his rebellious intentions.

         "You'll never get past the guards."

         "Maybe," Orgon's fervor was squelched by reality.

         "I can get you through," Marta said sheepishly.

         "How?" Orgon couldn't admit a dumb girl knew something he didn't.

         "You never join us after the basketball games," Marta explained. "But lots of us sneak off to a little place beyond the tunnels that the guards don't know about. It's where..." Her voice trailed off.

         "Where what?" Orgon asked before her inferred meaning struck home. He felt suddenly awkward, and added a weak, "Oh."

         "But I don't do that," Marta added hastily. "I was always hoping you would come along."

         Orgon blushed. He didn't like the uncomfortable feelings, and turned his head up the tunnel.

         "Well?" Marta asked impatiently.

         "All right," he conceded.

         "Good," she seized his hand, and led him back in the direction from which he had so painstakingly come. She moved without caution, ignoring the noise they made. Orgon cringed with every bump and "Oops" she uttered, and cowered as they turned every corner. He began to wonder if she was leading him into some stupid prank. Yet, he couldn't object. He didn't know where they were, and needed her to lead him. The tunnels grew heavy with coal dust; the smell of fuel oil reached out and clung to his clothing.

         It must be a joke, he thought. They intend to mock my future as a coal miner.

         "We have to use a flashlight here," Marta explained. "The rocks are jagged."

         She flipped on a light and the rays melted away the darkness covering Orgon's innocence. For the first time he saw a passageway which was not smooth and straight. It was a natural cave, something not made by the Colony. A large tumble of black, shiny rock ascended steeply upward into a tenebrous void that swallowed the beam of Marta's flashlight. He reached out to touch the ragged edges of the nearby wall as if he were reaching for the hand of God. Only one word could possibly describe what he saw: beauty.

         When his bright, awe-stricken eyes turned on Marta, she smiled, and he realized the rock was not the only exquisite, sacred work of holy hands. The pale, simple light played with raven black waves surrounding olive skin. Orgon licked his lips nervously, and found the unknown jagged rocks a welcome escape from her glowing smile.

         "Follow me." She began to climb.

         A few moments spent clambering over the rugged, upwardly pitched surface brought Orgon the realization that Mr. LaCruz had been right about athletics. What good was his knowledge if he couldn't put it into action? With increased fervor, he grunted and strained to pass Marta, pulling himself up the pile of boulders until he came to a small ledge. Looking back, he saw her struggling to climb while carrying the flashlight.

         "Let me help," Orgon said as he held out a hand to take the light.

         "Thanks." She extended her free hand, and clasped his.

         The action astonished Orgon, and he looked dumbly at their clasped hands. Her skin was warm, and the heat climbed up his arm. His wide eyes turned to meet her smile. She appeared aware of his uneasiness, and pleased she caused it.

         "Should I just hang here?" she asked.

         "No," he said with a deep, gravelly voice. Gritting his teeth, he pulled her up the remainder of the slope and onto the ledge.

         She made a small hop as she topped the crest, and landed with her shoulder brushing his. As if unaware of their close proximity, she stared upward from the ledge into the cave. "We've never gone farther than this. No one's been brave enough to do it."

         Orgon found he liked her close, and decided not to step away. He wanted to preserve the moment.

         "Then that's where we're going," he said.

 

        

         "Let's go back," Marta spoke from the mouth of the cave. The fear on her face had replaced the earlier playfulness. As each step lifted them farther above what she knew, Marta grew more timid. Orgon never felt more alive. Standing in the mouth of the cave, with no more rock to climb and a vast plain spreading before them, he felt a sense of the divine. Marta shivered, wrapped her arms about her herself, and turned her back, observing the familiar cave longingly.

         "No," Orgon replied absently.

         He was captivated by the open space stretching before him. A large powder-blue ceiling was pockmarked with swirls of white marching across it. It was so distant that Orgon could not imagine a ladder built by people would ever be able to reach it. Creatures sailing through the upper reaches of the vault seemed to have found the answer.

         Orgon stepped from the protective cover of the cave onto the ground, which descended away from them. A rocky slope pitched and rolled into a deep valley, slowly losing its ruggedness until it crashed upon the shores of a sea of grass. The immensity of it was breathtaking—infinity itself.

         "Orgon!" Marta's call was frantic.

         "You didn't really believe it, did you?" Orgon finally acknowledged her. He turned and stepped back toward her, extending his hand. She refused, clutching the sides of the cave as if she feared she would fall off the earth.

         He stepped closer and seized her arm. "You thought the cave would just end in a wall somewhere, and we would have to turn back. But look, Marta! It never ends. It goes on forever. It's not even a cave! It's...open!"

         "I must be mad." She dug her face into the crook of her arm, leaning into the cave to resist his pull.

         "Marta," he said. It was all he needed to say. It was not the words, but his voice.

         "Orgon," she answered in a silky voice. She finally let him pull her from the mouth of the cave.

         With a sudden impulse, he pulled her close to him as they took several steps down the slope. He could feel her young, taut body through his shirt, and his breath was suddenly short. He no longer thought, but acted. She sighed as he kissed her.

         He laughed and spun her around. She broke free, and dashed playfully away from him. Then, turning back, she tossed her hair and beckoned him with a flirtatious smile.

         Moments later the smile disappeared into shock, and her gaze lifted above his head to look in horror at something behind him.

         He turned slowly, not wanting to know what was there; not wanting the moment to end. Had the guards found them? Still, he could not resist, and his gaze wandered to the mouth of the cave. Nothing stood on the threshold, so his eyes rose to the rocks above. A dog-like beast was crouched there. It growled, and in response dark swirling forms emerged from behind the crest, sliding across the vaulted dome like a shade shutting out the light of a window. What beast could command such power? Was it one of the demon enemies of God that LaCruz spoke of?

         The beast bared its teeth, and the swirling mass behind it rumbled, shaking the ground. The temperature dropped rapidly, and Orgon shivered. He took a fearful step toward the cave, but the creature bounded from his perch to block Orgon's retreat.

         "Orgon," he heard Marta's breathless voice behind him.

         Slowly he backed up until he brushed her arm, then he felt for her hand.

         "What do we do?" she asked.

         The beast snarled.

         "Run," Orgon cried.

         Marta screamed as he wrenched her arm. She did not have the speed he did, and he momentarily thought of abandoning her. But as he glanced over his shoulder at the beast, he caught sight of her terrified face. He wouldn't leave her. He would die for her.

         The beast gained on them. He searched the ground, peppered with stones of all sizes. Guessing at the weight of the rocks, he spotted the right sized missile and stopped. Marta was not prepared, and slid, falling flat on her back with a scream. Orgon still held her arm, and wrenched her back onto her feet.

         "Run!" he bellowed, and gave her a shove.

         He was still in a crouch, seizing a stone, when the beast made its leap.

         Orgon could see the wild eyes and sharp fangs in the open mouth. He rolled to his right, but the beast hit him in the left shoulder. The claws dug in, and carried him onto his back. In a panic, he swung wildly with his right arm. He heard a shriek of pain, and he began to beat at the creature with a primal frenzy.

         The beast decided its prey was not worth fighting for. It broke its hold on Orgon and limped away, scrambling up the rocks above the cave and out of sight behind the rise.

         As the pulsating blood in his ears began to abate, he discerned the screams of Marta, one shriek after another. He looked down the slope, but didn't see her. A new fear entered him; a fear worse than losing his own life. Marta was in danger. He struggled to his feet, grimacing against the pain of his wounded shoulder. Snatching his stone, he raced toward her screams, looking wildly from side to side. He rounded a small outcropping of rock, and saw her small figure hunched up beneath the ceiling of stone. She rocked back and forth, hugging her knees and crying uncontrollably.

         Relief flooded his heart, and he dropped to the ground next to her, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. Marta exploded towards him, flinging her arms about his neck, and sobbing into his chest. He hushed her, and stroked her flowing black hair.

         She broke the grasp, brushed away her tears, and suddenly struck his chest as she set her jaw. "How dare you!"

         "What?" Orgon asked in surprise.

         "I've never been like the other girls—all giddy and emotional," Marta protested, giving a mock display of pubescent abandon. Her mouth dropped into a pout. "Look what you've done to me. I hate this place. I want to go back."

         Orgon could see the blacks and purples of the upper areas rolling across the sea of grass below them. He had settled enough to realize the animal did not bring the storm. It was a simple brute resident of this place, subject to the same God as he. Orgon could subdue this world. He wanted to convince Marta he could do it, and pulled what he could from memory, saying:

 

If man can find rich consolation,

    remembering his good deeds and all he has done,

If he remembers his loyalty to others,

    nor abuses his religion by heartless betrayal

    of friends to the anger of powerful gods,

Then, my Catullus, the long years before you

    shall not sink in darkness with all hope gone,

Wandering, dismayed, through the ruins of love.

 

         "Stop quoting dead poets," Marta snapped. "Put your feet on the ground."

         "No, Marta," Orgon shook his head. "I can't go back. I can't be a coal miner—not after seeing what's out here."

         "You can't stay!" Marta leaned away to view him with skepticism and horror.

         Orgon looked up at the darkness above them. He studied it with critical eyes as drops of water began to fall from the darkness to pelt the stones.

         Orgon's firm jaw brightened to a smile, and he said, "Look, Marta, it's raining."

 

Copyright 2007, Resha Caner

Cover: "Sentinel"

Copyright 2007, Karl Eschenbach

Karl Eschenbach was born in 1950, right in the middle of the last century. He was raised in a military family and traveled throughout the United States. He survived college in the 60's and 70's, and is now a grandfather in Albquerque, NM.

He has had 22 illustrations (which includes two for The Sword Review), 15 short stories, two essays and one poem published.