But not for me. Never was there peace in the valley for me.
In truth – and ah hope by saying this ah don’t convey any mean-spirited notions – the only time ah felt the heap of mah burden diminish was in the term of the curse. It occurred to me, as ah became accustomed to its insistence and saw a divine motive in its ruthless slog, that ah, Euchrid Eucrow, liked the rain.
Often ah would fill these grim, grey days by sitting on the porch and studying the valley through the veil of rain. Casting mah eye way way out across the ravaged crops and the virtual ghost town that the bustling little community had now become, ah would scan the black horizon and the churning unnerbelly of the heavens and mull over the possible cause of mah feeling of relative melody. Not wishing to look a gift horse in the mouth, as they say, and so deciding that too much probing of the question might not be wise, ah concluded that suffering was, in general, a comparative sensation felt most keenly in the face of felicity. Given that the valley and its people were bound, at that time, in the fetters of affliction, it seemed to me little wonder that mah own sack of woe felt considerably lighter.
The rain had other advantages besides making misery and desolation the rule. It also served as an excellent day-cover, making it possible for me to venture into the town without fear of castigation, especially as after the first year few citizens left their hushed and shuttered homes. Some days ah could stride down Maine, kicking a can or whistling a tune, and simply bowl right through the centre of town and not pass anyone – and the few that ah saw would hurry by, heads inclined, eyes fixed to the ground, as if they themselves feared mah presence, in case ah was a friend or acquaintance they had known back in the brighter days, before the rain had come and soused each one in shame.
But Poe came – yes – and put an end to all that, to mah feeling of well being.
XII
A wholly joyous moment burst upon Fists Wiggam’s mean-spirited horizons.
With the intention of selling Abie Poe’s spent bullets to the Ukulites as souvenirs, the Wiggam boy had furiously searched the slate-slab wall that encircled the wishing well. He found instead a note, folded inside a plastic bag, that had been stuffed between two slabs. His eyes narrowed and he chuckled as he read.
Dear Sardus,
I am struck barren and deemed unworthy to mother your child. I will remain your wife through all eternity. We will be united in a kinder world, for we have both known another so bitter and terrible. I await your hand and in the Kingdom stand, for here in my heart be your seated place.
Your advent embrace,
Rebecca.
By mid-afternoon, Fists had pinned the suicide letter to the public notice-board outside the Courthouse. By six o’clock, there was barely a soul in the whole valley who had not visited the Courthouse to read it, except perhaps Sardus Swift himself, who had not been seen since retiring to his lonely fortress nearly a year before.
XIII
This period of perpetual rain became known amongst the Ukulites as The Three Years of the Malediction and was synonymous with death, catastrophe, divine vengeance and destruction. As the figures show, by the end of the second year, 1942., the mortality rate had risen to over double the tally of 1940. In 1943, more than three times as many deaths occurred as did in the year before the rain. Observe these figures:
1940
5 deaths
1941
9 deaths
1941
12 deaths
1943
16 deaths
But if we are attempting somehow to come to terms with the extent, or rather the depth, of the Ukulites’ tragedy, we should also note that at the end of 1943 there were four more Ukulite adherents than there had been before the rain. The reason for this is simple: the pluvial downfall was responsible for a mad escalation in the number of births over that same triennial. Here are the figures:
1940
3 births
1941
4 births
1942
18 births
1943
17 births
1944
16 births
Thus, if one considers only the statistics given above, the years of catastrophe could just as easily have been tagged ‘The Three Years of Fecundity’. The children conceived in this triennium became known as ‘Rain Babies’ or, later, ‘Rain Children’.
XIV
‘What shall we do with this day? What? Now that we have cleansed our souls in the sacred waters, what shall we do? What?!’ demanded Poe from the pulpit.
A dark murmur travelled through the congregation, each looking one to the other. But most eyes rested finally on Philo Holfe, eldest and tallest of the Holfe brothers, who had been unofficially elected spokesman for the Ukulite community. One-time curator of the small Natural History Museum located in the annex of the Courthouse – now sadly neglected and rarely opened – Philo Holfe was a simple but well-meaning man, commanding respect if not for his brains, then for his brawn.
Philo’s considerable bulk rose from his pew, afloat in a galaxy of lobbying looks. Eloquence was a word Philo did not know. After some time he reluctantly spoke. ‘If you please, Preacher Poe, perhaps that question is best left up to you? What shall we do this day, now that we have been cleaned?’
‘Perhaps we should lay right down in the same stinking cesspit that first sullied us?! Is that what you want?! Shall we sit on our goddamn laurels and bemoan our accursed misfortune?! Shall we just bide our time and wait for heaven to run dry?! Shall we wait?! Brothers and sisters! No, I say, and again I say no! Today is a day of reckoning. God watcheth this day and judgeth all. Through the sacred rite of Baptism we have tilled the soil of our souls, we have readied our spirits for the seed of The Creator – God, Maker of AH Things. Behold! The seed of the Lord shall sprout! In most the seed of the Lord will flourish, rich and green – but lo! There are yet those who grow, even now, black and twisted among us. It is they who have corrupted the valley, have infested its soul, and have brought the wrath of God down upon you!’
The rain seemed to hammer a little harder in support of the preacher. Wetly, Philo asked ‘How shall we know, Preacher Poe? How shall we spot the black ‘n’ twisty plant?’
The congregation approved the question with a low murmur.
‘I, Abie Poe, am a specialist in weeds! I am the hand that roots them out! They shall no longer say “I am the Branch of Life” – they who are the Stalk of Death!’
Encouraged by the echoes of support, Philo boomed ‘What must we do? What means you by the Stalk of Life and the Branch of Death?’
‘The Stalk of Death are those that challenge the bounds of Decency, that wallow in lust and walk in the mire of unfaith and adultery, that worship secretly strange and vile gods, that place false crowns upon their heads, that tempt and bespoil the righteous, that close their ears to the word of God, that use the name of the Almighty in vain! These things be the pith of the Stalk of Death! Our work is simple. Root it out!’
Poe raised his hands to the rafters and curled them into fists. ‘I am the sickle that hovereth poised at the foot of the Stalk of Death!’