Why The Rain Doesn't Come to the Desert
A Folktale as recounted by one Duma Hasbari, a goodwife of the River Valley
A long, long time, ago, when the sun was so young you could see the stars at mid-day, when the moon was slender as a reed, her belly still unfilled with child, so long ago that men still woke each day in wonder at their own two hands, in those days, my habibi, there was no desert at all, do you know this? Oh yes, call it nonsense if you will. Nonsense is where the Lord hides wisdom, my habibi.
So you, doubting child, will have to take my word for it.
In those days, the river was broad ran every which way, and there were trees across the sands, and all manners of ridiculousness. Some folk, I venture, even sometimes wore a coat! It was different indeed. And the most different of all was that each day, like clockwork, in the mid afternoon, the hot winds that blow from the Sea-that-is-far-away came tumbling across the land, and the damp earth of the river bunk sighed happily and stretched upper neck, and kissed the wind itself, and when they kissed, the water would draw up into the sky, and fall, like rain, not like these strange dirty showers that come to us as occasional freaks. But the gentle rain that is a giver of life.
OF course that is blasphemy, I know that, my habibi. Did you buy me as your priestess or your concubine? I only tell you the story how it was told to me.
In those days, then, the wind and sodden riverbanks made eyes at each other each afternoon, the wind rushing in with hair akimbo and eyes like hungry wolves, just like you, habibi, and the riverbank plump and rich full of the softness of warm thigh, soft lip, and tender hand, yes?
Hush now, you will wait. You see? I can play master, then. Mother maybe. My little boy must wait for desert until I've finished telling him his supper. And I shall keep desert warm in the meanwhile. I like this story, and I will not have you ruining it. Do not call me saucy! If you wished to make love to someone dull-witted, you should have hired a cow, they are much cheaper. Yes, that's right, my little boy, sit just there at mother's knee. Aich! Your hands, to your own lap, child, not mine!
So. One day. Yes, I will tell the story right. One day, there came a sorceress, a young and sorry thing she was too. Your sorceresses in stories, they are always great and powerful creatures, yes? Turning men to beasts - as if they needed the help! - or building castles out of date palm leaves and kangaroo mice, or what-not. Don't laugh, theses stories get muddled in my head! But this sorceress, Amira Morai, she was at the beginning of the world, you recall. So she had not had time to be terribly competent. But she tried. And she was better than powerful. She was clever.
And one afternoon, she walked, hungry for none has money to pay a poor sorceress, along the bank of the river, and the bank rose up its spirit to walk beside her.
"Hello. You seem distraught."
"I am despondent."
"That is hard, child. What has you so sorry?"
"I am thirsty."
"Thirsty? Oh but that is easily fixed."
And the river dew her tiny feet from the water, and pulled the long train of her mud-brown dress, and brought it up to squeeze into the sorceress's lips. And the sorceress drank it and it was rich and wet and with the sweetness of bare and fertile earth to it.
"And now are you happy?"
"No. I am hungry."
"Ah, it is a hard thing to be hungry. But it too can be solved."
And the bank-spirit bent over to the river and whispered soft and low, and from river leapt a silver fish, and the fish had on its back a great rich cake studded with dates and pistachios. And the sorceress's eyes lit up, and she gobbled it up.
"And now are you happy?" says the bank-spirit.
"No. For I am lonely."
And at this the bank spirit sighed and nodded, "That is the hardest ailment of all, for hunger, that the spirits of the date tree never feel. And the thirst, Old Mother of the River never feels. But loneliness the date tree spirit feels if the is left alone without a grove of his fellows. Loneliness the Old Mother of the River feels if my half sister River-bed is not there to wrap her arms round her. I think perhaps a far away, that God himself is lonely, for what lonelier thing than to be a god? Loneliness I can give you no cure for but to give you my name and my company. I am Pindira, the spirit of the river bank.
What, my habibi? You have not heard of Pindira? But of course you have not! You must hear the rest of the story!
And at this the sorceress nodded, "I am Amira Morai, a poor sorceress."
"But you are still lonely?"
The woman sighed, "I think I am lonely for hands and lips, and not for words and smiles. And that, Pindira, you cannot give me, and I cannot take, for we do not feel that love for each other."
"I can feed you and give you drink, I can clothe you like a babe, I can give shelter to you and comfort in your fear. But you are right. I cannot choose to love you, nor you me."
And they walked in silence for an hour, until a whisper came, ad from the whisper a soft cry, and Pindira cried out and her breath came quick, "You must... wait for me, friend Amira Morai. For my sister of the Sea-wind cometh."
And Pindira sank back into the earth, and was the earth, and the earth rose up to meet the wind and the wind came, and the sweet earth in Amira's belly, and the sweet dates stuck in her teeth opened her eyes, and she saw the spirit of the wind, Layla, who came and slid across the earth, seeking out Pindira's hands and lips. And Laila smelled of the wildness of the scene and the fire of the sun, and the thirsty desire of the one who must always run, and she heard the song, the long, slow knell of the sea-wind's voice. And in that voice, that scent, Amira Morai fell madly and irrevocably in love.
But the sweetness had opened her eyes, and the bitterness of love made them desperate, for she saw what she most feared - she saw the the Wind Laila and the Silt-Bank Pindira were to each other pledged. And Amira moaned in a great sorrow. And she threw up her hands and from them tried to make a web, woven of the beams of the sun, to entangle the limbs of the Wind Laila. But the wind flew through the web, and laughed, "What is this mortal? Sunshine? The light and I do not know each other."
And Amira rose her hands again, and grew into a great and terrible being, as tall as the mountains herself, and with her fingers clutched at the Wind Laila. And the wind laughed and yielded beneath her fingers, slipping in between to rush through her hair and on toward the Siltbank Pindira.
"Mortal, you are insistent. Do you think that strength and might and heft can hold the wind herself? You may grow into a very mountain, I will find the chinks in you. For I am rushing to my beloved."
And with this, the enchantress grew desperate, for never had she loved so deeply as she loved the Wind Laila, and so she bent and grasped the shuddering form of the Siltbank Pindira, and wrapped her in cords of sunlight, held her in hands of steel. And the wind Laila grew into a salt-sick rage, and flew to grab and tear at the cords. But the sun knew her not, and held fast. And the wind Laila raised so high that her blowing would tear flesh from a mortal's face, and fell to tear at the steel hands. But thought she rushed and rushed, she found only the chinks and holes and flew straight through. And then, the enchantress drew a magic lantern up, and looked with wild eyes at the Wind Laila.
"You do not understand, spirit of the Sea-Wind! I am filled with a madness for you. You must come and serve me and be mine, and I will be ever kind, and you will learn to love me."
"I will not serve you, witch! I am not a familiar spirit, I am the very wind of the sea! I fly across the earth each day, and bring rain that makes the richness of my lover-earth come out into the world. I am the taker of death, itself, that she might be the giver of life."
"And yet if you will it, you can step inside this magic lantern, and take on the veil of slavery to me, I know this to be true."
"But I do not wish it!"
"Then I will put the veil on this your lover, and one who goes into the veil against their will shall surely die."
And the Wind Laila, for the first time, stopped, and stood still, though it burnt and raged and tortured her. And she said nothing, though the silence tore at her heart. And with no further word she turned and stepped inside the magic lantern, and she pulled the veil of slavery across her face.
And the sorceress wept, and in her weeping was joy and shame mixed together into that which can never bring real happiness. And it made her shudder, and in the shuddering, her hands became but flesh, and in the shuddering, the sunlight dissipated into the sky, and Siltbank Pindira found that she was free.
Btu she saw too, the hand of the sorceress, going to shut up the door of the magic lantern.
You are silent now, and rapt my child? Yes, you want to know? I shall tell you the end, then.
Siltbank Pindira looked into Wind Laila's eyes, through the heavy veil, and the eyes ached to weep, but could no longer draw the damp from out the river soft earth to pour into tears. And in that instant, Siltbank Pindira closed her eyes, and crept into the lantern, crept into her lover's veil, into her dress, into her very skin, until there was no line any longer, until they were the one and same, and the lantern shut.
Still in the desert, the sirocco winds blow up from the sea. Still in the desert the earth of the riverbank is damp and pregnant with life. But, no longer does the earth rise up, and no longer does the wind have arms to wrap around her, and no longer do they pour themselves into the tears of the rain. For the spirit of these things lives now, forever, inside a magic lantern, somewhere, wandering the earth, and waiting to be freed.
And that, my impatient habibi, is why it does not rain in the desert.
