Another feeling ugly kind of day. :( And I have to catch up on my NaNoWriMo word count, while successfully avoiding doing my homework!
The beginning is my favorite:
In our land of Ozul, the only thing that has a memory as far back as the beginning of all is the waters. The galloping rivers, the crashing waterfalls, the clumsy streams, the drowsy lakes: each has a melody, one given to them by the sky. The rain has filled these places, the rivers that carry our boats to the ocean on its swift currents, the waterfalls that unthinking children play in, the pots in the tall grass waiting for a thirsty field man to take a sip. The rain has a way of taking the memories and cleansing them, not erasing, but replenishing what has been lost by time and the stomping footfalls of people.
I gave the rain a voice when I was her companion. Before my enchainment to the sky I thought I would love up close, the rain was a quiet thing, a timid dancer. Her light steps would land on the roof and plink out a delicate euphonious lullaby. I loved the rain. Standing in it, twirling in it, soiling my best and worst clothes by playing in it, I loved the harmlessness of its song. There were no floods, no lightning storms, and no thunder.
Lightning storms are as new to the people of Ozul as being dry again is new to me. They do not understand the blinding light that streaks in open veins across their beloved sky and they hate the cackle of thunder that crashes in the night, waking all to see what new destruction has occurred. I pity them for it because it is not going anywhere. There is a man in that sky who has lost his wife and he spends his days in a desperate search for the bounce of raven curls, the smooth twist of mouth, the ivory complexion as sweet as any cloud’s, and the thunderous temperament that belongs to his lover.
His lightning strikes Ozul as he peers down from his black clouds, illuminating what should be dark to spy his wife among the villagers below. Her laugh at continued freedom echoes in the mind of every frightened child. The thunder is her answer to his search. She mocks him with the sound. Sometimes he is close, but she slips through his overeager fingers like a bar of dripping soap.One day he may catch her and cease the battle of the skies between husband and wife. But these new storms, woken by his mischief, will not return to sleep. They will rage on after he is dead for a thousand years, ten thousand years, a million even. For the rain has a memory, and its memory is eternal.
