The Rain Lady

Qingxi Town was built leaning into the hills; the whole place held no more than a hundred-odd households, the houses climbing the slope in tiers until they met a ridge of grey-blue rock. At the town’s end stood an old well, its rim cut from blue stone and always damp with a thin layer of moss; its water was warm in winter and cool in summer, and the townsfolk relied on it for tea and cooking alike. Beside the well lived a lame old woman whom they called “Crippled Granny,” though none knew her surname or name, nor when she had come. They only remembered that in a year of heavy snow, when the snow stopped, she was simply there standing by the well with her bamboo staff, as if she had always been, and never left.

She dwelt in a half-collapsed earth house, its walls rammed yellow mud, its roof laid with a few tattered reed mats that leaked when it rained; she set a wooden basin beneath to catch the drips, which went tok-tok the whole night. She seldom went far, only washing clothes and drying vegetable strips by the well, leaning on a bamboo staff, step by step, the staff tapping stone—tok, tok, tok—a sound the townsfolk knew as well as the night-drum’s beat. Now and then they saw her crouch by the well-rim, scooping water spoon by spoon into the chipped earthen basin where she kept a few small crucian carp—fish she had put there long ago, no one knew from where.

The old woman was odd to look at: a blue cloth gown washed white, patched at the cuffs, her hair pinned with a bamboo hairpin, her face carved with wrinkles deep as a knife’s cut—yet her eyes were clear and bright, unlike one of such years. She spoke little; when given food she took it and nodded, never thanking, never refusing. The children feared her too-bright eyes and gave her a wide berth; the grown folk took her for a lone old woman, and pitied her with a mouthful if they would.

That summer Qingxi Town met with drought. First the stream ran shallow, baring great stretches of pebbles; then the well showed bottom, and the moss on its rim dried and curled. The rice in the fields curled its leaves; the old locust at the village head drooped too, shedding its leaves to the ground as if autumn had come early. The village head led men to the Dragon-King’s temple to pray for rain, bearing pig and sheep, knocking heads, chanting scripture, burning three censers of incense—yet the sky stayed glaringly clear, not a wisp of cloud to be seen. The townsfolk were so anxious they could not sleep at night; in the wind they heard only the fine crackle of rice stalks drying and splitting, like someone snapping dry kindling in the dark.

Crippled Granny, though, went to the well three times a day as ever. But the well was dry, so she took up a gourd and went to the foot of the hills to gather seepage, scoop by scoop, maddeningly slow. Someone jeered: “The well’s dry—that trickle you gather, enough to wash your face?” She answered nothing, only poured the water into the chipped earthen basin where her few crucian carp still lived, swaying in the shallow water. Those who watched shook their heads and drifted off.

On the night of the half-month festival the moon was bleak white. Young A-Mu’s family ox had fallen sick; unable to sleep, he rose to feed it medicine, and heard a noise by the well. He crept over and crouched by the wall-root to look—the old woman was not in her house but on the well-rim. She tossed aside her bamboo staff and stood straight up, the lame bearing wholly gone, her figure a good deal taller than by day. She loosed the gourd at her waist, pulled the stopper, raised it toward the sky, and murmured something; a wisp of damp mist rose and thickened from thin to dense, spreading down along the hillside, carrying the raw smell of earth and green grass. In less than a meal’s time the clouds lowered and the wind turned cool, rattling the reed mats. She waved a hand, and the rain fell—first sparse drops that kicked up fine smoke off the dry soil, then denser and denser, beating like silkworms chewing leaves, soaking the whole town through.

A-Mu stared, dumbfounded; a stone slipped under his foot and startled her. The old woman turned, her eyes as clear as before, and only waved him to silence, then pointed at the sky, as if to say “enough.” When the rain ceased she took up her staff again and hobbled back, step by step, as if nothing had happened, not even the hem of her gown wet.

The next day the whole town opened its doors to find eaves dripping in strings, the rice leaves unfolded, the old locust straightened, and the well, strangely, seeping up half full of clear water again. The village head went again to the Dragon-King’s temple to knock his head, burned a pig’s head, and thanked the Dragon-King for his manifest spirit, even promising a great opera. Only A-Mu knew that the rain had been quietly made, in a single night, by the lame old woman by the well. He had meant to tell, but remembering how she had waved him silent, he swallowed the words.

When the drought lifted, Crippled Granny went back to washing clothes and drying vegetable strips, the staff tapping stone—tok, tok, tok. The townsfolk still called her Crippled Granny and thought no more of it; even A-Mu, grown older, kept the matter hidden in his heart. Only he, passing the well-rim, always softened his step, lest he startle that rain-intent known to no one else; and now and then he would add a spoon of water to the basin, keeping watch over those crucian carp on the old woman’s behalf.

The Chronicler remarks

He who governs the rain need not dwell in lofty temples. A lesser god tends the rain of a single place—takes no credit, raises no stele, walks with a lame foot, tips a gourd, and saves a whole town’s withering sprouts. Those who hold office nowadays, at the slightest deed, post notices and fire cannons, begging to be known; beside Crippled Granny, are they not ashamed? What makes a god is the deed of sending rain, not the name of receiving sacrifice.