On the banks of a river, a shack could be seen from afar standing out conspicuously against the barren, damp land that surrounded it. To a passerby, it would look incongruous as there seemed to be no other indication of life around it apart from the creek that ran swiftly to its destination. But upon a closer inspection, one could discern signs of human existence. A wheelbarrow lay askew still holding some rainwater from the previous night’s downpour and some buckets were scattered under the eaves from which drops of rain fell in monotonous rhythm. That shack is my home.

It was nearly dusk when the door opened and my mother, a middle-aged woman, peered from behind. She was wearing loose woolen, frayed garments and a scarf covering her hair and part of her face. She cast a pensive glance at the cloudy sky and with a heavy sigh picked up the buckets, emptied them into a barrel, and put them back where they were. Upon her entrance, her eyes met the inquisitive eyes of my sister and me. “Mama, when will winter be over?” asked my sister; an emaciated young girl with a deadly-pale complexion and light brown hair. My mother looked despondently at us, her children, wrapped tightly in many heavy blankets so that only our heads could be seen.

The shack is a one-room abode divided into two; one part is used as a kitchen and the other as a bedroom for the three of us. My mother stood in the center surrounded by buckets that were used to contain the water leaking from the roof. No other furniture could be seen in the shack other than an old rag on which we sat and slept, a few pillows, and the heavy blankets. “It will be over soon…until then, we will manage as we’ve always done, won’t we?” said my mother turning her back as if not expecting an answer and going to the kitchen to prepare something for dinner. In the meanwhile, my sister and I, in the absence of any means of entertainment, busied ourselves with the only thing we could do in such circumstances, conversation.

“I wish I could know where all this rain comes from so I can stop it,” said my sister leaning on my shoulder.

“The rain comes from the clouds… my mother said that they too weep as we often do”

“But our tears don’t cause the river to overflow or the roof to leak,” replied my sister complainingly.

It was pitch dark now and I could sense a storm brewing outside as the harsh wind turned into a strong gale. When one lives so long in the wilderness surrounded only by the elements, one becomes one with nature and senses her fluctuations. My mother lit a lantern and handed us bowls of soup. Our gigantic shadows danced as the lantern’s light swayed to and fro with the wind. In the recesses of my mind I searched for an indication of time; some events from which I can tell what day or month it is, but to no avail. Our time here is based on the weather and alternation of seasons and not names of days and months.

Once we finished our dinner, my mother switched off the lantern and we went to sleep but slumber seemed an unattainable dream. We lay like corpses listening to the raging sounds outside. It was raining furiously, the river was fast-flowing and the roof began to leak. My sister’s voice came shivering from underneath her blanket “Mama, tell us a story about the river behind our home”. My mother, who always seemed to have a story explaining the genesis of things, cleared her throat and began her story right away “once upon a time, there lived a rich king with his family and people in a small town close to a river. Their land was fertile and prosperous and they were happy. But one year, it didn’t rain. The land went dry, the people didn’t find enough food, and the river became small and shallow. They turned to the king for help. The king was touched by his people’s misfortunes and wanted to help them. But his evil and scheming wife advised him against it entreating him to think of his children first. So, the king closed his doors to his people and guarded the river so no one would use its water. The people prayed and prayed that it would rain and the king be punished. Their prayers were answered. The king and queen were doomed to cry all their lives beside the river into which their tears flowed causing it to flood during winter. And the river became known as the weeping river.”

By the end of the story, the children were fast asleep. Only their mother’s eyes remained wide open drinking in the darkness pervading the shack. The sounds of the raging river, rain, gale, and thunder intruded into the deep recesses of her mind forming a symphony of horror and igniting her buried fear of the unknown. But as the storm raged outside, the mother brought her children closer to her bosom and soon succumbed to sleep.

On the following morning, the clouds dissipated but for some scattered ones here and there. There remained no vestige of the shack except the lantern that now lay half-buried in the mud. Meanwhile, the river continued to flow swiftly to its destination.

– By Imane Lechheb.