At the southern most tip of Morelos, Mexico lies a tiny, almost forgotten, village known only to itself as Cadalluvia. Walking the narrow dust trails in the village during early morning it was only natural to fear the village’s utter silence. The town slept peacefully every day, until mid afternoon when the small population was awoken by a lightning bolt. The lightning, the thunder and then the rain were daily alarm clocks for the villagers of Cadalluvia, who had lived under the clouds all their lives.
The villagers did not stay sleeping on the days the lightning did not crack because those days did not exist – at least not in Cadalluvia. Even the oldest and said wisest of men had grown up with the rain. It nurtured them from their youth. There was not a single dry soul in Cadalluvia.
In tale, the older generations would pass down the story to the children, knowing that when the children grew up, they too would pass the story on to their children. The pattern repeated like this for countless years, no one doubting the story because there was no reason to. No one had ever known anything else.
The start of the day in Cadalluvia consisted of a large bolt of lightning that usually hit somewhere on the barren outskirts of the village. The lightning acted as a knife, every day cutting the sky into pieces, everyday allowing rain to gradually trickle over Cadalluvia. The bright lightning was then followed by the loud bellow of the clouds known as thunder, and finally then, to Cadalluvia the day had begun. Mothers awoke to the cries of frightened children, and those who had grown immune to the cacophonous harmony of the sky were also shortly woken by the babies’ cringing cries.
Cadalluvia was a small village, surrounded by surprisingly lush fields, therefore allowing harvest big enough to support the villages needs. With a population no bigger than two hundred fifty, everyone knew everybody. The familiarity was quaint, yet eerie. The village center look as if he it had been painted a bleached skin color and was hardly perfect in it’s wearing construction. The single story buildings were crumbling with time, as were the walls of the large man made fountain in the center of town.
The bottom of the fountain was lined with the same material used to make the houses, slowing the process of the water seeping into the ground. The mud brick walls surrounding the circular water fortress were about three feet high, and the water that flooded over the walls was not a problem because it would always be gone by the next morning. Not once did Cadalluvia have to worry about refilling the fountain. It’s infinite supply of water was a blessing.
Life in Cadalluvia was easy. The majority of the population farmed, providing the village with its diet of maize, beans, peanuts, sunflower seeds and green chili peppers. The diet was not strictly vegetarian though, as the village would indulge often in the meat of a rabbit, or if it was lucky, a coyote.
Catching rabbits had become a highly honorable profession in Cadalluvia. Each day during the first few hours of the rainfall the men and their eldest sons would leave the village by a radius of about half a mile and search for rabbits that had taken cover from the rain underneath small shrubs. The men, on a good day, would return to the village with about one dozen freshly captured rabbits.
Coyotes, on the other hand, were almost a delicacy. Every so often, perhaps six or seven times a year, a sick and rain drenched coyote would wander into the village in the midst of night, only to have it’s already doomed lifespan made even shorter by the villagers. The coyote meat would last about a week and it had to be eaten quickly or else the smell of the rotting carcass would fill the town so strongly that it would take the rain days to wash it away.
Most of the women of Cadalluvia stayed in the adobe mud brick houses during the day, preparing meals for their family and making clothes out of rabbit furs. Once or twice a day the women would place a large kilned mud bowl outside their homes and watch carefully as it ritually filled with rain. The rain caught in the bowls was the only beverage that ever grazed the healthy lips of the villagers. The knew only it’s plain taste as their sweetness.
The rain cycle in Cadalluvia remained the same year round. It was as if there were no seasons and Cadalluvia was caught in a perpetual time trap. Each day was a mirror image of the one before it and the one that would come after it. The mid afternoon rain was the heaviest, the late afternoon the rain slowed it’s descend while witnessing the departure of the lightning and thunder, and by nightfall the rain was a mere drizzle that vanished calmly into the night signifying the end of the day.
Life in Cadalluvia was easy – at least until the day the lightning didn’t come.
* * * * *
In Cadalluvia no man or woman walks the village without the traditional Cadalluvian hat, known as the sobrero. It’s name is descended from the Mexican sombrero, as are it’s physical features in the fact that they are both round, and have rims that spread out equidistant from the center of the hat. The difference between a sombrero and a sobrero though, are that one, the sombrero, is used to shade people, and the other, the sobrero, is used to protect people from the rain. The sobrero features a brim facing the ground, while a sombrero has a rim facing upward. The reason behind this is because the downward brim allows for rainfall to slide gracefully off the top of the hat, providing it’s wearer with protection from the rain.
Everyone in the village wore a sobrero. They were for people of ages and sizes. Children wore small ones with rounded tops, while adults typically wore large ones with oval tops. The average brim stretched as far as eight inches for a male and six inches for a female.
The Hat Maker stood at a measly five foot four and his scrawny, bony body paled in comparison to the other men at the hastily assembled village meeting. The meeting had been called late into the afternoon, after the village had gradually awoken from it’s elongated slumber. The meting had been called forth by the village elder, who insisted all men report to the fountain in the center of the town to discuss the rain, or lack there of.
At the meeting, the Hat Maker stood on a large rock in the back of the encasing of the seventy of so men that had come to the meeting. From his position perched upon the stone his diminutive height was not as factor and he was able to hear the beginning of the assembly over the mumbling of the men.
“Quiet down!” shouted a brute young man who stood aside the elder in the center of the men. He was the elder’s Grandson, perhaps in his mid twenties. His harsh voice resonated above the crowd until the calamity subsided.
“My Grandfather has called you all here to discuss our… problem.” The words drifted out of his mouth slowly and carefully, his Grandfather has clearly told him what to say, knowing the slightest mistake of speech could upset the already angry crowd.
The Grandson continued, “For all of our lives, Cadalluvia has provided us with everything we’ve ever needed,” the crowd began to become more attentive. “Why would it stop now?” Eyes widened, the Grandson now had everyone’s complete attention, everyone’s except the Hat Maker’s. Weary of what was going on, the hat maker stepped off his rock and walked to the back of the crowd. He didn’t want to draw any attention to himself, higher than everyone else.
“Cadalluvians, we are strong.” The crow unanimously cheered. “Cadalluvians, we will stay strong!” The crowd echoed it’s previous cheer. The Grandson smiled, his teeth rotted yellow like the sun. He turned towards his Grandfather and knelt down so that the old man could whisper something into his ear. The crowed hushed, waiting to hear what the elder had to say.
The Grandson stood up, his brow now furled. “My Grandfather thinks that the sky has forgotten to rain today.” The crowd began to murmur, people questioning what had just been said to those around them.
“Quiet!” yelled the Grandson, who had not finished delivering his message. “My Grandfather says we will wait and the sky will remember to rain on us tomorrow.”
This time the crowd stayed quiet. The men analyzed what they had just been told to them in their uneducated heads. After a few moments, the Grandson continued.
“The rain will fall tomorrow. Never has my Grandfather steered us wrong.”
“Tomorrow!” bellowed the crowd. They had all put their faith in tomorrow, all but the Hat Maker, who still stood weary eyed in the back of the assembly.
After the celebrating of the men in the center of the town ended, the Grandson walked through the crowd, clearing a path for his Grandfather. The men backed away from the Grandson quickly and efficiently. His muscular physique intimidated them all. He was clearly one of the strongest men there. As he walked through them he felt powerful, his Grandfather behind him smiling.
Towards the end of the ring of men the Grandson stopped in his tracks.
“Hat Maker, you look foolish wearing that sobrero. Have you not heard the news? There is no rain in Cadalluvia today.” The Grandson laughed, the rest of the men mimicked. Knocking the sobrero off of the Hat Maker’s head, the Grandson felt powerful. The Hat Maker cowered backwards, not verbally responding to the Grandson’s actions. He was afraid of him. He knew his voice was not enough to respond back to the predator. He left his sobrero on the ground as the Grandson and his Grandfather walked slowly into the distance.