The Rain Mistress

In the west of the city lived an old woman who sold flowers. No one knew her surname; people called her "Granny Rain."

The flowers on her carrying-pole stayed fresh and dewy even under a burning sun. When she sighed softly, a fine rain would fall from the sky, gentle and even, just enough to wet her blooms—passersby's clothes stayed dry, the ground unsoiled. Folk found it strange and asked why. She laughed: "I cannot call rain. Long ago I served among those who send it, and was cast down to live among men, keeping only this small skill."

A young man came, his fields parched. "Granny, can you spare a good rain to save my crop?" She shook her head. "I cannot. Rain has its measure; too much becomes disaster. I dare not decide alone." The youth left sullen.

That year the drought was fierce. Officials prayed in the fields, and heaven suddenly loosed a torrent, three days and nights without cease. The grain, already withered, was then swept away by the flood; nine of ten homes were ruined. The youth waded past her pole; she stood in a thin rain, her flowers brighter. Ashamed, he bowed low: "I once blamed you for stingy rain. Now I know its difficulty."

She sighed: "Men always complain heaven withholds rain; when it pours, they complain it rages. They do not see that between one rain and the next hang life and death. What I lament is not that I cannot rain, but that I dare not rain rashly."

It is said: she who sends rain lacks not the power, but bears the fear. The world's trouble lies often here—men wish it swift, while heaven wishes it slow; men ask for enough, while things dread excess. One small skill of the rain mistress mirrors all of us.