The Man Who Rained by Ali Shaw

wistfully at his useless radio.
    ‘Come on, Kenneth. You were going to say something more than that.’
    He cleared his throat. ‘I don’t expect you to understand. Part of them is weather.’
    ‘Part of them is weather ?’
    For the first time since she had met him she saw a flash of irritation in his expression, although he quickly buried it. ‘Well, of course you should believe in whatever you want. Perhaps
this is just another superstition from a superstitious town.’
    ‘Sorry, it’s just ... you can’t be serious?’
    ‘Look, Elsa, I am just trying to make things clear to you. For my part I have found the world a far more bearable place to live in ever since I stopped trying to assemble a list of things
I believe in and a list of things I don’t. Instead I have resolved to believe in just a single thing: my own ignorance. The world is bigger than the confines of Kenneth Olivier’s
head.’
    ‘I’m sorry. I bugged you about it and then I overstepped the mark.’
    He chuckled. ‘Don’t worry. Because if you stay here worrying, you are going to be late for work ...’
    They smiled at each other, then she set off for the office and her thoughts went back to her cloud man from the mountain. At work she became quickly reacquainted with the photocopier, but on her
lunch break she found a bench in the church square and pulled from her bag the map she had used to find Old Colp’s ruined windmill. Tonight she would be better prepared to find the bothy.
    No sooner was her afternoon shift over than she had changed into her sneakers and was hurrying up the mountain. Uphill, the world became hushed. The brown mountain grass and the mounds of
heather stood as motionless as the ranks of boulders that crested each ridge. The sky was a tinny blue, and barred in the north with diagonal clouds. When a bird of prey whistled overhead it
sounded loud as a siren. She looked up in time to see it become a plunging black chevron landing death on some unfortunate mammal.
    When she reached the wreckage of the windmill she stopped to catch her breath. She found the spot where she had watched the man turn to cloud and rain on the meadow, and she fancied that the
grass was greener there. After her hurried climb it was pleasant to imagine the cool touch of water, but she was too close now to stop and daydream. She set off along the gully she had followed the
man down, the slates grinding beneath her footsteps, and before she knew it she was at the bothy.
    She approached the front door and rested her fingertips for a moment on its white-painted wood. She had to calm herself before she could knock, for now that she was here she was nervous at the
thought of seeing him, and perhaps seeing cloud seep out of him again. It took her a moment to take control of her feelings, for her instinct was to either race away downhill or charge on into the
bothy, demanding answer after answer. A measured approach was required, and that had never been her strong point.
    She tapped her knuckles lightly off the wood. Her feet were shuffling nervously on the step when the door opened.
    His eyes widened when he saw her. A weird pallor of shadow and light rippled across his hairless face, like the shadow of a cloud dappling across a field. She was again struck by his size and
peculiar lack of pigmentation, as if he had no blood to show through his skin.
    He looked like he wanted to run and hide, but to her delight she had him cornered. ‘Hey,’ she said.
    ‘It’s you.’
    ‘Yes. Me.’
    He tried to shut the door, but she stepped quickly forwards to block it. ‘Wait! Please. I’m sorry to ambush you like this.’
    ‘Then why are you here?’
    She liked his voice. Each word was like the dry push of breath that blows out a candle. ‘I suppose ... I just want to know what I saw.’
    ‘It’s better for you if you don’t.’
    She swallowed. ‘Then you’re going to be seeing a lot more of me.’
    He sighed and looked past her at the slopes. He