Rain Beast

by Rene Seldotis

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It was an early, foggy morning when I first saw the Rain Beast on the ground. Usually, when and if I saw her, she would be soaring through the sky, the shape of a cumulus cloud, puffy and towering and flat on the bottom save for her wispy claws. Or she would be a quiet swirl, peacefully drifting through the sky on the way to her next errand. Most of the time, though, I saw her in the form that everyone knew her as, a gray blanket coating the sky, lightning coursing through her body like veins.

Now, though, I was walking on asphalt when she loomed ahead, a shadow in the fog. She was river-shaped—long and winding, shallow near the edges, deep and bulky in the middle, flat on top. Water dripped from her snout, which she held high above the tallest houses on the street. Her claws, each bigger than I was, created ripples in the slick ground beneath her, so I hugged the edge of the street as I tried to pass by.

As I passed, throat heavy with humid fog, she stopped and seemed to notice me. Her long head bent down, down, swiveled around until I could see my reflection in the glassy eye on the side of her head. Mist rolled off her great body and pooled around my legs.

“Human,” she addressed in a voice less regal than I expected, quieter than her size would imply. As she spoke, a few gallons of rainwater slipped from her maw and splashed onto the street. “Where are you going in such uncertainty?”

Though she spoke vaguely, I could tell from the way she cocked her head and pointed her snout that she was talking about the low visibility in the fog.

“I know this street,” I said with a shrug. “I’m going to the grocery store. It’s, like, a ten-minute walk from here.”

“What draws you there?” she asked, and the water splashed at my legs. I startled back.

“They have a program where they mark down food that’s about to go bad,” I explained. “I like to get up and get there early before all the good stuff’s taken.”

“I see.”

The Rain Beast turned her head and gazed down the street.

“This is a one-way street,” I said. “There’s a forest up ahead. I don’t know where you’re going, or if you can read the sign at the end of the street, but I thought I’d let you know...”

It occurred to me then that perhaps I shouldn’t have said something that could be taken as patronizing to the Beast that brings the Rain. But she eyed me with a glint of appreciation.

“Thank you, human. I am now trying to stay amongst your kind.”

“Why?” I asked. “I’d say the forests need you just as much as we do.”

“I am between errands,” the Beast explained. “I have a question whose answer eludes me.”

“What is it?” I asked.

“I do not want to keep you.”

“It’s not a big deal.” I shrugged. “I can go to the store anytime. I can’t have a conversation with the Rain Beast anytime.”

Laughter bubbled in her, the same sound as the burble of a coursing stream.

“Then perhaps you can bring me to answers. Not ten years ago many human children played in my rain. Many more people gathered my water to drink. Now, I am seeing much less of those activities, especially here.”

She leaned her head close, and somewhere, dozens of meters away, I heard her tail flick and send globs of rain splashing away.

“I believe you were one of those children who played in the rain. I always delighted seeing them; where did they go?”

The water splashed up to my chest and I found myself soaked. Shivers wracked their way up my body as the water seeped in below my skin. And as I felt my skin start to sear with disgust, I remembered why I started staying in from the rain.

“Well, a few years ago, they announced that the level of forever chemicals in rainwater was too high to drink anymore,” I said, flicking my arms to knock some of the droplets off. “I’ve read about what long-term exposure to those things can do. It’s not personal, but sometimes I just can’t bring myself...”

“Though you went out in my fog.”

“Yeah. Like I said, cheap food.”

“Forever chemicals.” Her voice mimicked mine, identical save for her watery gargle. “Another human craft?”

“I guess you could say that.” I shifted my weight. “I don’t really know a lot about them. You’d be better off asking somebody else.”

“But they are harmful?”

I only nodded.

“Have they harmed you?”

“No,” I said. “Not that I know of. The water I use gets cleaned. It’s a complex process, takes a lot of specialized gear...”

“And what of those who now go without your water-cleaning techniques?” she asked. “The animals? The forest? Other people?”

“I don’t know,” I said, trying to swallow the lump forming in my throat.

“You must fix it.”

“Me?” I asked. “I’m heading to the store to get a bag of half-rotted fruit for five bucks. I can’t do anything.”

“Then tell those who can.”

“I don’t know anyone like that. Do you? You’re the one that gets to travel everywhere and meet people and stuff. I’m stuck here.”

The Beast shuddered, and rolls of rainwater careened out from her body, and if there was a square inch of me that wasn’t already wet, it was then. I wiped the water from my eyes and looked up at the Rain Beast.

“This isn’t my fault,” she said.

“I know.”

The Beast held my gaze for a moment longer. Then, she lifted her head and turned around, each thunderous step sloshing the water around her. She stepped back into the fog, and I stood there, soaked, until her silhouette vanished into the skyline.

Rene Seledotis (he/him) is a fiction and poetry writer from the Metro-Detroit area. He earned his BA in creative writing at Oakland University and served as a poetry editor on the Oakland Arts Review, which he enjoyed so much that he started his own literary journal, 25:05 Magazine. His work has seen publication in Turtle Way Journal, Variety Pack, and the Wayne Literary Review. 

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