Before it rained.

BEFORE IT RAINED.

(The story of a chance encounter.)







He waded through a sea of legs, like an explorer braving a cramped unmapped forest. The cheers were muffled down here, a drone of distant wind.

         He looked up at fervent faces and saw the sky between hat brims. Blue, shot through with goat's hair clouds, filled. Down here, among the thicket of limbs, gloom reigned. A grey haze where no light shone.

         Old sweat, mingled with watered perfume and both fought with the  acrid smell of urine. His nose wrinkled at the assault, it reminded him of adults.

         As he neared the front, the waving mass huddled. The forest became a barrier, a cloth and nylon snare. Startled shouts as he squeezed through, sometimes nipping till they parted.

         A callused hand swiped down narrowly missing his ear, the air of its wake whispering veiled threats. Determination creased his brow, nothing could stop this explorer. This was his world alone to explore.

         His dream burst at the excited cries of a child from the canopy of humanity. His bright eyes searched, who was this foreigner in his forest? And found the intruder perched on the tree that was his father.

         A flag waved vigorously in the usurper's pudgy fingers. Feverish, blue eyes fixed on territories to the south. His rival wanted to the land for himself, to steal his glory.

         Rage boiled in his veins. This is my Garden of Eden. My wilderness to plant a flag upon. “It's mine,” he roared, at his new-found enemy.

         Harsh eyes, glanced down, a world weary version of his rival, shards of blue ice, that narrowed upon seeing him. The slap took him off-guard.

         He reeled through the last of the fleshy tree line, to fall upon a river of tar and gravel. Pain coursed through the palm of his hands and bit deep on his bare knees. Stifling a cry, he faced the raging torrent.

         They marched, an infernal machine of uniforms and guns. Dour faces pointing ahead, eyes unblinking they washed down the street. A terrible flood of grey.

         He stood at the side of their flow, the forest of legs, unyielding.  He didn't feel like the brave explorer, just a small, frightened boy.

         The dread tide of shiny, black boots passed, replaced by the snarling grill of a car. A shark in the waters, hurrying the fish downstream.

         Eyes lowered. He heard the tires pop and growl as the shark stopped hunting the depths and swam to the surface. Hands entwined, to stop his shaking fingers, he slowly rose his gaze to look upon the predator.

         A face made from putty with soulless eyes of jet, regarded him. “ Boy, are you all right?” The fine mustache shook as he spoke. “What is your name?”

         “Yes Sir,” he stuttered, “My name is Jacob Zebrak.”

         Dark clouds gathered on the shark's face. “Go home, the rain is coming.”

         Jacob looked to the sky, it was cloudless.