Since they burned the scripture, it became impossible to know whether the prophecy was true, or just a rumour. The priest, who taught me English, told me that even if the scriptures existed, I wouldn’t be able to read them, because lay people were not taught to read the language of the divine. This was unlike the Bible, he told me, which anyone can—and should—read.
But the prophecy was a lot more appealing than any story about a pillar of salt or a massacre by jawbone. The prophecy instead, spoke of ten savage rains, one for each finger on our two hands. We would know when the rains come.
How? I asked myself, through the priest’s voice.
You will, I told myself, through my mother’s voice.
There were so many versions of what the rains would have, that I began to think it’s a game you’re supposed to play. Would you prefer fire or cleavers? Sharp rocks or stilettos?
The kids were the most imaginative. They imagined guns discharging in the air, splitting skulls into shredded red cheese. There was more, but I didn’t stay to listen, if only because it made me a little sick.
When I told my sister this, she scoffed.
“They deserve all that and more,” she said. “That’s just what they’re worth, your teacher priest included.”
“That doesn’t sound right,” I said. “It doesn’t sound fair.”
“What they did wasn’t fair. No reason we should be fair in return. There’s no fairness.”
That night, a commotion in the streets kept us from sleeping. I watched my parents’ empty mattresses. No one slept there, but we prepared them all the same. It felt comforting to do that.
We were certain the door would be knocked down, but it stayed on its hinges.
The next day, I found pamphlets scattered across the street and square. The police warned people not to pick them up or even read them, or they would be detained. Off the square, near the street named after an invader, they scuffled with some a young woman. Just as they drew out their batons, I snatched a couple of pamphlets and stuffed them in my pocket.
It said that the rains will start this weekend.
“Good,” my sister said, and she put down the wrinkled paper with great care. I don’t think she’d ever treated the scriptures with that much respect.
“Is something going to happen?” I asked.
“They’ll get what’s coming to them,” my sister said, but she wouldn’t smile, not even in vengeance. Instead, she went to the kitchen and told me—firmly—that we were out of eggs.
That weekend, I stayed home, and so did my sister. She was restless, and she kept clasping her feet and rocking back and forth.
“Are you anxious about the rains?” I asked.
“They’re the ones who should be anxious,” she said. “I’m just excited.”
I don’t remember when I fell asleep, but I do remember waking up with a throbbing headache. My sister was sleeping on my father’s mattress.
I slid the bolt off of the door and pulled on the handle, and I waited. I took a deep breath and I stepped out, into a day just like yesterday.