From Whence the Rains Came
Art and writing by Pristine
It is sometimes said that when the Samanayr world was young, and the Gods were new, it was an inhospitable place. To the north and south, the lands were sheer ice, frozen solid; a reflective wasteland permeated with the jagged teeth of angry crags, black against the dull gray skies. To the east and west – all around – were stretching swaths of sandy desert, where the only gardens to bloom were composed of rolling dunes, shimmering like mirages in the heat radiating from them, the same heat beating down from the blinding, too-white sun.
No life survived in these places. No bloom of flower or sprout of grass reached eagerly for sustenance from the sky, no insect buzzed or chirped, no bird flew, and Samanayrs who ventured there perished.
All lands were desolate save for the thinnest, fertile strip.
It was here that the Gods, just-born, just-learning, practiced their craft. It was theirs to create nothing from something; to bring life where life could not be brought. These lands had been given to them, and it was their responsibility – and burden – to mold them into something more. It was their responsibility to create life and sustain it, an arguably impossible task with the world placed before them.
The Gods were not without their flaws. Like any Samanayr, they lived, learned, heard, saw, felt… sometimes more intensely than any Samanayr roaming the earth below could comprehend. Trial and error were the young Gods’ closest friends in their early years, as they watched creation after creation fail to bloom, or bloom and die rapidly.
It was only after great time and much work together that the Gods managed to bring their powers into harmony to create the fertile crescent where the Samanayrs, crafted in the Gods’ own images, could find a foothold. Here, constantly-churning cycles overseen by the Gods caused the grass to bloom, trees to rise from sprouts, insects to find sustenance and birds to find sustenance on those insects and many more animals to come into being at the Gods’ behest and find sanctuary. Water bubbled up from the earth and the grandest feasts of fruits and nuts awaited the growing population of tiny equines as new life was created by the Samanayrs themselves, the ultimate test of the young Gods and their lands’ worth.
One of the first of these new Samanayrs to be born was Whisper of the Winds’ Cry, a pale blue filly dappled with white and with shining silver hooves. She was born beneath the swaying boughs of a willow tree, its vines of leaves twisting and shaking as a breeze brushed through them and circled the already-great trunk. Her family chose the tree and its nearby basin of water as their new home, and they found happiness there. Their Song grew and prospered and many more Samanayrs would be born to the Song of the Great Willow in the years to come.
As was the case in the earliest years of the Gods, they watched down over the first spark of the new life’s flame. They congratulated themselves on their creations’ newest successful birth, and feasted and danced together into the night. It is said that their revelry could even be heard to the Samanayrs walking the fertile lands, who – with no knowledge of the Gods, only stories passed amongst each other – were naturally frightened and spent the night cuddled close to their loved ones and praying for the morning.
The grandest dance of the Gods that evening was, arguably, the one between Spring and Umbra, the God of water and Goddess of shade. The two were rarely found apart, but on that night, they spent every second together, their gazes locked the whole evening through. It was obvious to the other young Gods that the two fancied one another, as their silent glances through all of the work they did since the world’s inception spoke more than any words they ever exchanged (in spite of the fact that the Gods’ words, sounding like clarion notes of a song, could each speak volumes on their own). Their feelings were strong and invigorating and from them they drew the strength to dance with one another until the first rays of the sun began to sparkle on the horizon.
When Spring finally let Umbra go to do her duties, the loss of her presence was neatly filled with his need to take care of his responsibilities, the same way he did each day since the beginning. All of the water in the lands was his to command, and every sip the Samanayrs took had to be replaced. The springs in the fertile strip of earth burbled happily as he reached his influence down to each and every one and let his power flow into filling them. From the smallest puddle to the largest lake and even the oceans the Samanayrs had yet to visit, the God touched down and commanded the basins to fill with the life-giving liquid, and though the Samanayrs below did not know who to thank for it, they were thankful.
Few seemed more thankful, though, than Whisper of the Winds’ Cry. As she grew, it became her duty each day to travel down to the nearest spring and gather the water for her family’s Song. Every day she would carry four buckets and four waterskins and every day the level of water in the spring would dip dangerously low, but by the next day, it would be full again, and she never had to fear that it would run dry. Still, she was a conscientious Samanayr, and always whispered words of thanks under her breath, each time she stepped over the crest rising around the watering hole and found it full. And each day Spring would hover down near and listen for these words of thanks and, like watching the new births across the land, they would give him hope and renew his faith in doing his duties.
And so the story went for many years, as Whisper grew and grew, though the days and weeks and months and years seemed to pass for Spring in only a few blinks of his eyes. Whisper’s whole life could have easily passed by without consequence in that fashion, had it not been for the fallibility of the young Gods.
Time passed so easily for them that they had to pay strict attention to their duties; there were dire consequences when they did not.
And, of course, as time passed and the bond between Spring and Umbra grew, they found it difficult not to become resentful of the responsibility placed on them. They could not be in each others’ company forever. Umbra found it even more difficult to let Spring go than he seemed to; Spring seemed to receive more praise for his work than she did, and he had many prayerful voices to attend to. His duty was a much more difficult one than hers – for her shadows remained with little help from her, unlike the lands’ waters – and she had never envied it, even despite the extra praise he received… but she had become more and more upset with the ever-present rift of duty between them.
One evening, she begged him to stay with her. Her begging was incessant, and as he had never shirked his duties, he had no idea the consequences. Even forethought about the beings depending on him was simple speculation compared to the very real Umbra before him, begging for his companionship. His heart called for him to be with her and eventually it won out; they spent the evening together, lost in one another’s eyes, whispering of each others’ dreams, and then sleeping soundly into and through the morning. So soundly did they sleep, they slept through the next day and the next.
On the first day of Spring’s sleep that Whisper visited the nearby watering hole, she found only a few inches of water, barely enough to fill two waterskins. The water would be enough to sustain her family, though they would not take baths; that was not her worry. It was the first time in which she felt fear and uncertainty for the future. If the water was suddenly not there, what else could suddenly disappear? The birds and insects, the beautiful grasses and tall trees, the shining sun, even the great expanse of soil beneath her hooves..? Her heart raced as she thought through the possibilities, and she prayed desperately that the next visit would bring a full watering hole, as if this day had all been a dream.
But, of course, the next day was no better; the watering hole was completely dry, a muddy hole in the ground and nothing more. She tried desperately to squeeze some water out of the packed mud, or to dig further down to more, but nothing came. She went back to her family with nothing, and the Song began to worry.
The third day was, again, without water’s blessing. As Spring slept beside Umbra, the ponds and lakes all across the fertile land dried up. Grass began to wilt and trees began to shed leaves to maintain moisture. Though the Samanayrs would not know it, even the oceans dipped, crowding the fish and letting corals and seaweed, exposed to the sun and sky, dry and wither.
Sprout, the God of the plantlife, noticed his creations’ dwindling lives. and immediately struck out to find where Spring and Umbra had hidden themselves for a rest.
Meanwhile, Whisper returned to her Song empty-hooved, but as a fully-grown adult responsible for gathering the water, she knew it was her responsibility to take care of the issue. There were rumors of vast expanses of water – the oceans – far to the east, and so she kissed her mother and father goodbye and set out in search of them, though the same rumors that spread about the oceans warned that travel to them was impossible. She could not heed the warnings; her need to find water for her family was too great.
Eventually Whisper found herself traveling across the deserts. As the rumors had said, they were harsh and unforgiving. No water had touched the parched earth since the beginning of time, so no plants grew there. No animals chirped or buzzed or helped her on her way. The sun beat down on her from the blinding sky, and there was no shade to protect her. She traveled deep into the night, when the same burning lands became frigid. Still, she would not cease walking, for she knew her duty and would do anything to uphold it. Ice crystals gathered on her short fur and her legs ached for rest. She stumbled but kept moving, even as her eyesight grew bleary. The sun’s waking rays were warmth for a scant hour or two before they became the same tormenting heat of the day before, but still she walked on.
Meanwhile, Sprout had successfully roused Spring and Umbra. As well-rested as they were, they were out-of-sorts at being awakened. Sprout pointed them to the havoc wrought by their sleep. Umbra’s magic was beginning to wane, and the creatures and flowers, trees and caves were losing their shade. Every new blade of grass and plant that had grown, had grown without casting shadows, and all around the various wildlife including the Samanayrs were confused, dazed, and unprotected from the sun, which had begun to take its toll on some of the more fragile, shade-preferring plants.
Spring saw that the majority of watering holes, ponds, lakes, and even the oceans had lost water. All around, the creatures and plants that depended on his magic were suffering; somehow he had slept through their plaintive cries for help. He and Umbra exchanged glances and then immediately went to work.
The first place he visited was the watering hole by the great willow tree. He found it bare of water, parched and cracked in the basin. Quickly he filled the pool with crystal-clear liquid and then raced to fulfill his other duties. It was only when he’d finished filling each dry ditch and lakebed that he returned to the great willow tree to check in on Whisper. He waited to see the filly travel to the basin, waited to see her delight-filled face at the sight of the water he knew she needed, waited for her words of thanks for his job-well-done, but she did not come.
His gaze turned to the Song of the Great Willow, and he looked through the family amassed there, trying to get a glimpse of the grown filly’s pale blue hide. She was not there, but her family looked worried. As a God he had no way to speak with them, but as he sat by them and watched and listened to their conversation, he eventually gleaned that she had traveled off into the desert to find the water they needed.
Spring knew the limitations of the young Gods, knew they had not yet figured out a way to bring the life-sustaining water to the glaring sands of the desert. The trip was suicide, by all accounts, and with his heart racing, he shot through the skies to reach her.
He found her at the farthest edge of the desert, lying still in the sand. Her silver hooves had carried her long and far and were tarnished and chipped from the journey. Her eyes had glazed over and her breathing was labored, slowing. Spring was desperate to do something. He touched his magic down on the sands but they burned him. No water rose from underground to greet Whisper; the God’s magic would not bring it. He tried, again and again, each time with more force, his heart aching for his power to work even as his head told him it wouldn’t.
Suddenly Umbra was at his side. He barely noticed her, but she pressed against his shoulder. Even the strength she lent him by her presence was not enough. He tried and tried, but no water would come to Whisper’s rescue.
Umbra trilled sadly. She could see the care Spring had for the young Samanayr filly, the one they had danced together over the birth of. Her heart reached out; she wished to help him just as desperately as he wished to help the dying filly… though, as a Goddess, she could tell – as easily as he could – that the life was waning from Whisper, and she was beyond help.
The scorching sun still beat down on the filly as she struggled for breath. As Spring continued to try to call for the water to come up from the ground, Umbra began to try to use her magic to create some shade for the filly. They stood by one another, both calling on their magics, both hoping with all of their might.
Over the filly’s head, something strange began to happen. Something grew from nothing in the sky; where once was a blank canvas for the sun to stretch across, suddenly a small dot appeared, and it grew larger. Tendrils of white mist snaked into being, forming together in the sky over Whisper, suddenly casting a long shadow over her. What came together of the pairing of Spring and Umbra, after much work, hovered over the filly of the Song of the Great Willow: the land’s first cloud.
The fluffy white puffs of water vapor began to shift in color, turning slowly gray, then near-black. The cloud roiled, its heaps of gray rolling over one another as it seemed to move as though imbued with life, though the young Gods’ magic forced it to stay in place over the filly’s head.
Concentrating, but without knowing what they were doing, Spring and Umbra continued. The cloud grew in size, splitting into two clouds, then three. Soon a large blanket of the stinging desert sands was blotted with shadow from an army of clouds. And then the real miracle happened.
The soft ‘plip’ of a raindrop fell to the ground.
Another followed it, and another, and as the two Gods continued to weave their magic together, the rainclouds began to sprinkle the life-giving water down to the ground as rain.
In her final moments, Whisper felt the cool wash of water wet her hide. Her eyes closed and a soft smile crossed her lips at the wonderful sensation. Though she had not found the water her family needed and brought it back, a peacefulness washed over her as the raindrops did. It felt as though the Gods had given her a sign that all was well. Somehow, inside, she knew her family was taken care of, that the live-giving water hadn’t disappeared forever. With the same smile lighting her face, she loosed her last breath and fell still.
The rain and clouds travel the lands constantly, now. The young Gods grew and their magic grew with them, and it is said that Spring found himself able to fill the ponds and lakes and oceans at the same time he and Umbra weave their cloud-magic. As the clouds travel, now, they gather rain, and they bring it to the furthest corners of the lands. They bring it to the deserts, if rarely, and life has begun to thrive there. The clouds even travel to the north and south, dropping frozen rain in the form of snow that piles high on the peaks and melts in the warm months. Now the lands have streams and rivers, water traveling to the thirstiest of beings so that none need go without Spring’s influence.
Supposedly he still checks in on us once in a while… us, the Samanayrs of the Song of the Great Willow, here at the edge of the watering hole that never goes dry, even when the lands around us are parched and thirsty. It may have taken the greatest sacrifice of a simple filly, but you can be sure he and Umbra will never forget or forego their duties again.
