Tremble

by Tobsha Learner

  “There is nothing I can do to stop the rain. What is given freely is impossible to take away.” And with that he calmly left the hall.

  Four miles away, the dam, now full and brimming, absorbed its last raindrop and collapsed, sending tens of thousands of gallons of water cascading through the town. The water gushed down Main Street, swishing up against the brick wall surrounding the church. It flooded through the iron gate and found a weak spot in one of the church walls. Slowly it began to erode the stonework.

  The next morning the local telephone and Internet services crashed due to overuse. Every female resident had been issued with an ultimatum: one visit to the rainmaker would mean expulsion from the community.

  All over town wives, mistresses, and daughters, having been cut off from their girlfriends, stared glumly at silent phones, while outside their men struggled with sandbags in a desperate attempt to hold back the floodwater. Some unfortunate women sported black eyes, others lovebites; several had split lips—all injuries inflicted by their men with the same desperate intention: to wipe the mark of the rainmaker from the bodies of their women.

  That night Jacob taped a sign to his door with one word written on it: OUT. He drove to the other side of town and left his car parked outside the motel as a deliberate false lead. Carrying his rock-climbing gear in a backpack he doubled back. On the way he noted that the preacher’s Volvo was parked outside the mayor’s office. He crept up to it and jabbed the two front tires with his hunting knife. That will keep him there for at least another hour, he thought.

  The rainmaker followed the path of a creekbed now swollen with water. Moon, the coyote, ran before him, a silver shadow darting from bush to bush. Neither of them were frightened of the rushing floodwaters. Water was Jacob’s element and he was totally in command of it. But he was not in control of love, and this was what occupied him as he strode through the darkness.

  I can sense her entirely, he thought, stunned by the clarity of his perception. Encouraged, he tailed the owl, who flew in front of the coyote.

  The creek joined with the floodwater and led him to the gap in the churchyard wall where the waters had broken through. Jacob stepped into the grounds thanking the rain gods. The coyote followed; finally they were both on the other side of the forbidding wall. For a moment the rainmaker froze, suspicious that it had been too easy. Then, exhilarated by her proximity, he turned and saw a light shining in the bell tower.

  The owl flapped her damp wings and swooped up toward the belfry. A second later Miranda stepped forward into the light and Jacob could see her framed in the window. His heart jumped and his mind stretched out, up through the dripping branches to curl its way through the barred windows and across her lips.

  I’m here, my darling, it won’t be long now. His silent reassurance hung like smoke in the rain. Her answer came back, as lyrical as wind chimes, Be careful, it’s too quiet.

  Nervously Jacob glanced around; there was no light on in the house or the church.

  The owl landed on Miranda’s shoulder. She held out a key; the bird flew back through the rain, toward Jacob. Swooping low it dropped the key at his feet. The rainmaker unrolled his mountaineering equipment, took out a rope, and swung it up to hook onto a support fifteen feet up the tower. Slowly he began to make his way up, sinking each foothold into the mortar between the stones. He was halfway when a bullet whizzed past his head.

  “Keep climbing and I’ll kill you!” The preacher stood at the bottom of the tower, rifle raised. He fired another bullet that grazed Jacob’s left shoulder. The next embedded itself into a heel of his heavy climbing boots.

  Miranda gasped.

  This is it, Jacob thought, preparing to die. At least I will perish pursuing something worthy.

  Instead he found himself tumbling through the air to land heavily in the soft mud. He lay there for a moment, stunned, convinced that he had broken at least two limbs.

  The preacher strode over and rested the snout of the rifle against his forehead. “I could kill you now and the Lord would thank me for ridding the world of one more piece of vermin. Now git!” he snarled.

  Jacob lifted himself up painfully. He wasn’t scared of the preacher and he wasn’t frightened of dying. He looked up at Miranda, who shook her head, telling him to go. He touched his heart then his lips, sending the gesture her way.

  “You got one minute before I shoot!” The preacher pushed the rifle into Jacob’s ribs.

  After silently pledging to Miranda that he’d be back, Jacob limped through the iron gate. He’d almost reached the motel to pick up his car when he realized that her key had fallen out of his back pocket.

  As soon as Jacob was gone the preacher ran up to the belfry. Miranda was already cowering in the corner.

  “Bitch!” The preacher undid his belt. “You are nothing more than an animal in heat!” His belt whistled through the air and landed with a crack on Miranda’s flesh.

  Hit me! You can never touch me now! she screamed silently. I am loved, and I will be saved!

  He whipped her over and over until she sank into unconsciousness. Dragging her to the bed, he wrapped a heavy chain around her ankles and wrists.

  “I am saving you from the beast. He will soil you and take your soul,” he whispered, weeping as he tied her down. The owl, perched on a rafter above, gave silent witness.

  The next morning Jacob lifted the gauze bandage he’d stuck over his wound. He’d been lucky; it was a superficial graze. He leaned over the mirror lying flat on the kitchen table. If the bullet had been any lower he would have been killed.

  Outside, a starling swooped down and settled on a cherry tree whose naked branches had suddenly become studded with pink flowers. The bird cocked its head and looked through the window at the unhappy man. Then it began to sing. Soon, other starlings circled the tree.

  At the church Preacher Williams was busy mopping the floor. The water had crept in under the door and got halfway up the aisle before he’d rushed in and discovered a small plaster statue of the infant Jesus floating on its back clutching an empty packet of Marlboros. As he pushed the mop he imagined he was prodding the rainmaker’s tortured corpse.

  A rustling from the bell tower caused the preacher to look up. She must have woken, he thought, and wondered whether he should go up and unchain her. No, let her suffer a little longer, he concluded. A little pain was always educational.

  If he had bothered to walk outside and turn to the belfry, he would have seen that his attempts to confine his daughter were, at best, cosmetic. Miranda had managed to loosen the chains so that she could sit up and look out the window. She gazed over the flooded fields—a patched quilt of brilliant green and blue. But it wasn’t the revived land that caught her attention; it was a small dark cloud that appeared to be heading toward the rainmaker’s silver trailer. The intense concentration with which she stared at it gave the impression that she herself was directing the flock of starlings as it wheeled and plunged through the sky.

  The rain continued to fall. From his office Chad looked out toward the trailer park. Why was it still raining, he thought bitterly. What else could he do? No woman had been seen entering the trailer for over forty-eight hours nor had the rainmaker left. It was a mystery. There was only one option left: he would have to enlist the support of Cheri, something he’d been avoiding ever since she had tearfully confessed to him that she had been the first to visit the rainmaker. And that now, having achieved the orgasm that had been so elusive throughout their marriage, she wished to file for divorce—a move that would spell political downfall for Chad. Being an elected representative of the people is so damn difficult, he thought, and wondered whether it was too late to revive his football career.

  “I swear by my allegiance to the Wheatgrowers’ Wives Association of Oklahoma that I have not had congress with the rainmaker in the past four days, nor will I in the near future. I realize that this is for the greater good of the farming community as well as for my marriage. So help me, God.” Her vo
ice barely audible, a stout farmer’s wife on the wrong side of fifty finished the pledge. The other women crowded into the health center burst into encouraging applause. The farmer’s wife sat down, adopting a fierce scowl to disguise the fact that she was about to burst into tears.

  Cheri Winchester, holding a microphone, strode through the crowd like a TV evangelist on a mission. “Now I know this is difficult; I know many of us have tasted pleasure like never before, but our livelihoods are at stake! This is an emergency! The rain still falls. There is a Judas among us, and it is our responsibility to root her out!”

  The women erupted into another round of applause. Endorphins surged through Cheri as the possibility of a shimmering new future began to unfurl in her mind.

  “Now who will be next to open her soul?” she continued dramatically.

  Rebecca clutched the edge of her seat. Her life before her sexual encounter with the rainmaker had been like a black-and-white nightmare, arid and repetitive, devoid of joy. Could she return to that? Torn, she swayed, then sprang to her feet, sobbing uncontrollably. “Take me!” she cried. “Cleanse my soul!”

  The crowd yelled encouragement and Cheri, staring at the elated face of her friend, suddenly realized with absolute clarity what her bright new future was to be: politics. But outside the rain kept falling.

  That night Jeremiah stood beside his patrol car, clutching a silver hip flask as he prodded the sodden ground with his boot. There was more water now than mud and he was deeply worried. He looked up at the moon; it was almost full. At this time of year they should be preparing to harvest. He’d thought of arresting Jacob but he was convinced the rainmaker was connected to some newfangled criminal cartel. “Probably Islamic terrorists,” Jeremiah muttered to himself and spat on the ground.

  He flicked open his pocket watch. It was nearly midnight, and, as far as he was concerned, the rainmaker hadn’t left his trailer in two days.

  Jacob sat on the floor in the center of the trailer, meditating in the moonlight that filtered through the clouds. He focused on one elusive image: Miranda, free in his arms. His heart was hollow with longing. He hadn’t eaten in two days and he knew that if he was to save himself he should really leave town.

  The whiskey was making Jeremiah drowsy. Tired of the incessant drizzle down the back of his collar, he climbed into the car and turned on the heater. He stared out of the rain-blurred window; the silvery blob of the trailer became smaller and smaller until it disappeared completely as he fell asleep.

  A second later the flock of starlings hovered above the trailer. Their shadow fell across Jacob’s face. He didn’t have to open his eyes to know that he’d been summoned.

  Magic is something we often don’t recognize until after the event. Perhaps this inherent elusiveness adds to the mystery. The terrible truth is that magic and tragedy are sometimes interchangeable. Jacob Kidderminister was painfully aware of this as he climbed out of the skylight and onto the roof. But, as we all know, foreknowledge is defenseless in the face of love. Surrendering to the inevitable, Jacob opened his arms wide to the sky and allowed the birds to fasten themselves to his arms. A second wave of starlings lifted up his legs and then the flock took flight, carrying the prostrate lover across the fields to the preacher’s daughter.

  The starlings took him to the top of the tower. As they hovered there Jacob reached out and grabbed the huge bell. For a second he dangled precariously, his arms wrapped around the curved bronze circumference. “Please, please, don’t make a sound,” Jacob prayed, hoping that the metal tongue wouldn’t clash against the sides. Miraculously it didn’t. Carefully he rocked himself so that the bell tilted toward the floor of the belfry. When it was safe he dropped down. He crouched, waiting.

  I’m here, below you. Miranda’s voice sounded clearly in his head. Jacob ran his hands across the floor, searching. He found what he was looking for—the edge of a trapdoor. He lifted it and there she was. Her hair matted, blood still staining her shoulders and face.

  “What has he done to you?” Shocked, Jacob spoke out loud. He jumped down into the room and in an instant she was in his arms, touching his face, his hair, covering him with kisses.

  None of it matters now that you’re here, her mind sang to him, and we will be free. Her mouth drank him in, and Jacob realized that it was possible to desire with one’s heart and soul. So this is love—this blinding feeling of familiarity and, at the same time, of mystery, this sense of coming home, his mind rambled, forgetting that she could think with him.

  He pushed open her dress and kissed her scratches. Her breasts were high and round; she pushed them against his chest, longing to experience the sensations he had sent to her through the bodies of other women. He stared down at her, momentarily overwhelmed by the contrast between the delicacy of her body and the violence wrought upon it.

  Very gently, as if he were caressing the air itself, Jacob ran his fingers across her skin, reading the quivering nerves beneath. He circled the dark nipples that covered most of her small breasts; she felt like a child beneath his large hands. He cupped her hips, the fragility of her gleaming like ivory. Her pubic hair curled out; a lush thick black bush startling against the dusk of her thighs. Carefully he played her until he knew that every millimeter of her thirsted for more. It was only then that he buried his face in her breasts and collapsed for a second, overtaken by an intense sensation of fear and excitement. Projected desire became reality and with it came the crushing intuition that in all beginnings there is inevitably an end, but with her he did not want the moment to finish but, impossibly, to stretch on forever.

  And so, with all the courage of a man who finds himself suddenly free-falling against all the knowledge he has armed himself with, Jacob took her flesh into his mouth. He drank a path down her body in hungry kisses—until he was buried in the very core of her. She tasted like honey; she tasted like the sea he knew as a boy. And the beauty of her would have shamed the most exquisite orchid.

  He made love to her with his mouth until she was writhing, and then, very gently, he placed himself between her legs and eased himself into her. All the while he held the gaze of those mauve-black eyes, losing himself deep in the color until he forgot who he was and who she was, and, wrapped in an intimacy he had never experienced before, a profound burden lifted from the top of his head, a writhing knot of fear that unraveled and evaporated above him with each delicious thrust.

  Squalls of rain lashed the steeple and the flock of starlings sheltered beneath the bell, silently ruffling their feathers. Outside, under the gray sky, the owl swooped and circled in a wild frenzy of joy.

  Jacob’s lovemaking grew faster and faster as Miranda gasped in pleasure, until finally, reaching that moment when all perception melts, both were caught in shuddering ecstasy together.

  Afterward she lay in his arms, tracing the tear that ran down one of his cheeks. Is this what the island will be like? she asked silently.

  Jacob kissed her bruised wrist. “It will be like this every day and every night. We will spend our days on a small boat winding our way through the Delta, fishing for catfish and crab, and then at night, after we’ve eaten, we’ll lie in front of a fire and I’ll hold you in my arms and you’ll know that nothing terrible will happen to you ever again.”

  Miranda shut her eyes and saw them standing together in front of a wooden house on stilts. Jacob is kissing the side of her face as she squints up at the sun. In her arms is a baby, a light-brown laughing infant.

  Two hours later the sheriff was woken by an ear-splitting peal of thunder. The sky lit up with a display of lightning that made him wonder whether the military base a hundred miles away had exploded. The rain grew heavier. Yet at dawn, everyone in Sandridge was jolted out of their sleep by a sound they hadn’t heard in weeks—silence. The rains had stopped. A second later the sun broke through the clouds and the ground began to steam.

  People ran out of their houses screaming with joy. Delirious farmers danced in the fields, wildly shooting
guns into the sky. Men kissed their wives and forgave everything. Only one man stayed in the shadows of his house: the preacher.

  Now that the rains had stopped no one took much notice of the silver trailer that stayed parked at the edge of town. Everyone was too busy fixing fences, reviving their crops, and fattening their livestock. Everyone except Rebecca.

  Following her pledge, she locked herself in her bedroom and cried straight through three boxes of tissues and three showings of Sleepless in Seattle. Afterward, after drinking another miniature bottle of vodka, she went down to the cultural center, logged on to the Internet, and entered a chat room entitled “Hot spinsters over forty.”

  Walking home, heartened by a very lively conversation with Mr. Big of Massachusetts, she noticed Moon the coyote waiting patiently on the doorstep of the trailer, looking starved and bedraggled. Rebecca suddenly realized that the rainmaker hadn’t been seen for over a week. She approached the canine, murmuring tender words of encouragement. The bitch lifted her head and looked at her with liquid eyes that spoke of terrible loss.

  Rebecca surprised herself by picking up the starving creature. With the beast cradled firmly in her arms, she headed toward the sheriff’s office.

  At the same time Abigail Etterton was watching a small flock of starlings hovering over an indiscriminate patch of flooded ground. It wasn’t the birds themselves that disturbed her so much—after all, the rain had brought up thousands of worms—it was the fact that the night before she had seen a gathering of nightingales suspended over that same patch of ground. And nightingales, as all good countrywomen know, are solitary birds. What was it about that particular part of the field, she wondered.

  Just then she noticed a figure dressed in a long black robe picking its way across the pasture. As it drew closer she realized it was the preacher. Not seeing her, he stopped just short of the birds and, with a shocking guttural cry, began to fling stones at them. Very unChristian behavior, Abigail thought, wondering about the sanity of the minister.