Skeletons in the Cupboard

And the Sky is Pouring

November 2018

It rains again the next day, a blizzard of water crashing irregularly on our rooftops. I know it's your doing today, too. Outside, the flags that aren't blown away are torn apart by the squall, the festivities cancelled. There's nothing left but the sound of rain and thunder. There might not be anything else for who knows how long.

I'm standing in the doorway, my raincoat draped around me. One step outside and I will be drenched; my coat won't save me at all. The others told me to give it up and stay, the witch doesn't have the power against a force of nature as strong as this, but I know better. It's your doing today, yesterday, and the day before too. Do you know some of the village elders are blaming themselves? Said it's because of their past mistakes that nature has punished us with interminable storm, right during the festival of harvest. But I'm a geomancer, I know nature better than that. And I know this isn't what nature intended either. It's all you.

The spell I cast on my coat and clothing are nothing against the one you're wailing from the sky. I'm wet and drenched, but I can still find my way in the storm, and I'm making my way to you. Your tower looms in the distance, up the hill from the village, a sight to behold. I know you don't think much of them, but the villagers do adore it. The Lighthouse of the Forest. They might avoid you at all cost, the weather-witch, but they know they'll be nowhere without your guiding light. There won't be a village here if it's not for you.

The rain is falling and falling and still falling. I slip and fall during the climb, once, twice. My coat is soaked in both dirt and water, but I don't mind, of course. Dirt and water are part of nature once they hit the ground; I can spell them away once I'm out of the rain. But how can I ever get out of this rain if you don't stop it? The way to your tower is steep and far.

But soon I manage. Your light still glows up above, but it's hard to see with the wind buffeting my eyes, the water at my face. The rain has a voice, and it is a voice made by the hundreds, thousands of materials that it meets on the ground. The stone walls of your tower, the fabric of my coat, the dirt below, the dead, dying, undead flowers littering your yard, the trees of the forest, the rooftops of the villagers. Far too much voice to hear at once and yet I do anyway, and it's hard to hear anything else, not even the slow, comforting hum of your light.

I open the door, and the rain rushes in. A new cacophony of voices, rain within enclosed walls, echoing through the walls. I close it, and still I can hear it echoing around me. When a rain enters, it never really leave.

I call your name, and you won't answer, but still I can hear your wails in the air. It's what fed the storm, don't you know? This rain is yours.

I climb the stairs, I walk the corridors. I've forgotten what your home is like, it's been so long since you last invited me here. I cast a spell for light, but still it is nothing against the constant noise of your storm outside. The voices seep into the wall and gather around me, compressing my mind. Nevermind, then. I will find you by force of will alone if I have to.

A thunder crackles in a distance, and I can hear you crying. The sixth floor, door number seventeen. You've never liked how I keep your home organised in my mind, but I can never help it. Your tower won't speak to me, and so I must make a map of it myself. I open the door, and the walls roar at me.

You have mentioned before how you wanted to not be alone. I answered that you never are. The towers speak to you. The sky speaks to you. Even the sun will speak to you, if you call. The forest, the wind, the birds, they all speak to you. You shook your head, as if I was a child who you didn't expect could understand. I can't pretend I understand it now. Look outside your window, I say now, holding your hand. The sky is listening to you.

And you won't answer. Only the sky does, and it is pouring.