The Old Gods Came Back

At the first crack of thunder, the usually busy town held its breath. The older folk, hiding in their homes with noses pressed to their windows, whispered prayers to forgotten gods for the blessing of rain. Though it had been months since the last drop fell, most people found shelter before the first of many began again.

Though I was still quite little, the sight of the dirt kicking up with each splash until the streets were muddy and full of puddles filled me with glee. My Mama always insisted that we stay inside during the rains; she feared the creatures that would find us in the foggy air. But I thought it was wonderful -- like tiny kisses grazing your face and feet as you dance, because why wouldn’t you be dancing when it’s raining?

After hauling me and my older brother inside, my Mama placed me down on a cushion by the fire that my Papa was tending. This was the first rain of the cooler months and Papa would have dozens of hunting stories from his summer to entertain us until the winter months. Then the stories would get a bit stale, and me and my brother would take turns interjecting with foolish plot twists to make my Papa improvise a whole new story for us.

Even as he settled back, rubbing his wrinkled brow with a heavy sigh that told me he would be ready to tell his first tale, the butterflies in my stomach wouldn’t settle. I could barely pay attention to anything that wasn’t the sound of the rain on the roof and road, the occasional flash of light and crack of thunder, and the key dangling from the wall by the door where my mother had placed it after she locked up.

I wanted to see the rain, to feel it on my skin. I wanted to splash in its puddles and ruin my new dress. It called to me. I could almost hear it whispering my name: “Hajyra, Hajyra.”

I knew nothing of the old gods and knew not who might be calling me, but nevertheless it willed my little feet to move toward the door. Standing tall as I could on the tips of my toes, I snatched the key from the hook and shoved it into the lock, pressing and turning until I heard the click that signaled my freedom.

Next I heard my name, I couldn’t tell if it was the rain or my Mama crying at me to stay.

My leather shoes were soaked in seconds. The cold air took my breath away. I could hardly see through the thick downpour, but the rain called me to dance and so I obeyed, because how could you not dance when it’s raining?

The rain was like heaven; it was everything I dreamed it would be, everything I dreamed it would feel like. I tipped my head back and let the water soak my face and chest, little drops trickling their way under my shirt and down my belly. I could hear nothing but thunder and water and the tug at my heart like the calling of my name.

I ran through the streets, kicking at puddles and splashing mud onto my legs, until the cobblestone became patchy with layers of dirt and the city opened up to the wide open wilds between the north and south cities. Deep grooves had been worn into the ground where carts came and went. The stonework became sturdier the closer I got to the falls. Six great towers rose up out of the fog, lining the brickwork over the edge of the bridge, fixing themselves to the cliff side. Each had four windows facing each direction, and tall pointed roofs like witch hats settled on old stone walls.

Mama and Papa had warned me to stay away from the towers -- no one liked the towers -- but I didn’t see why. I thought they looked excellent, like half a dozen unexplored play places built just for me. But Mama and Papa weren’t here today, and they couldn’t tell me no.

The gentle croak of a raven nearby lifted my gaze from the stones and I found myself looking at a seventh tower, right in the middle of the bridge, that looked nearly identical to the rest except for an odd looking man, dark robes and a grey tint in his skin, standing at the window, smiling and waving down at me.

I froze, foolishly wondering if it was really me he was waving at. When he disappeared from the window, I began to walk again, right up to the new tower and pressed my hand on the wall, half expecting it to pass right through like some kind of magic illusion, the type Papa told me about in old story books.

A door I hadn’t seen creaked open beside me, and out stepped the man in black, tossing a bright red apple up and catching it again in his hand. “Hello, there,” he said.

“Hello, there,” I replied. “Who’re you?”

“My name is Joseph,” he said, crouching down in front of me with a toothy grin. His eyes were a soft hazel, intelligent, and bright with youth. The waves of curly brown hair on his head became damp as the rain continued to pound around us. “You can call me Joe, if you like. That’s what all my friends call me. You and I could be friends, couldn’t we?”

I paused, but eventually nodded. I wondered if this strange man was lonely living in an old tower that was only sometimes there.

“Well, that is very good,” he said, standing up again and holding out the apple for me. “Go on, take a bite. It’s quite sweet. Perfectly ripened.”

I took the apple, bringing it to my lips. He was right. I had never had an apple so tasty. He ruffled my hair, which was plastered to my forehead by then, and chuckled. “Would you like to come inside and dry off, little Colt?”