The Rainmakers

In the village of Verna children were born into their season. This was simply how it was. How it had always been. How everyone assumed it would always be.

Sol was born in summer. Sol was: Warm. Loud. The kind of person who arrived in a room the way summer arrives — suddenly and with considerable confidence. Sol thought winter children were unnecessarily quiet. Sol thought autumn children were unnecessarily complicated. Sol thought spring children were fine but a bit much with all the flowers.

Frost was born in winter. Frost was: Quiet. Still. The kind of person who thought carefully before speaking and sometimes didn't speak at all which was perfectly fine and nobody needed to comment on it. Frost thought summer children were exhausting. Frost thought spring children were chaotic. Frost thought autumn children were interesting but would never say so.

Wren was born in spring. Wren was: Curious. Quick. The kind of person who started four things at once and finished them in a completely different order than expected. Wren thought winter children needed to come outside more. Wren thought summer children needed to come inside more. Wren thought autumn children were the most interesting but also the most confusing.

Rust was born in autumn. Rust was: Thoughtful. A little melancholy. The kind of person who noticed things other people walked past and kept them in a pocket to think about later. Rust thought summer children didn't think enough. Rust thought winter children thought too much. Rust thought spring children were wonderful in small doses.

The four of them had lived in the same village their whole lives. They had never once agreed on anything.

Then the storm came.

It arrived on a Tuesday which storms in Verna were not supposed to do. Storms came on Fridays. Everyone knew this. The storm had not been informed.

It came from the north. And the south. And both sides at once which was excessive and showed poor planning.

The wind was: Enormous. The rain was: Sideways. The sky was: The colour of something that had made a decision and was not taking questions.

The village bell rang. Everyone gathered in the square.

The elder looked at the storm. The storm looked back.

"This," said the elder, "is a four-season storm. It needs a four-season answer."

The four children looked at each other. Sol looked at Frost. Frost looked at Wren. Wren looked at Rust. Rust looked at Sol.

None of them had ever worked together. They had sat in the same classroom. Eaten in the same hall. Walked the same streets. But summer and winter don't naturally hold hands.

"What do we do?" said Sol. Loudly. Because Sol did everything loudly.

Frost said nothing. Then: "We listen to it first."

Sol started to argue. Wren said: "No — Frost is right. What does it want?"

They listened. The storm was: Cold from the north. Warm from the south. Wet from the east. Dry and crackling from the west. All four seasons at war with each other in one enormous sky.

Rust said quietly: "It's what we are. When we don't work together."

Everyone looked at Rust.

"It's all four of us," said Rust. "Fighting. That's what this looks like from the outside."

The square went quiet. The storm did not go quiet. The storm had opinions about the square.

Sol looked at the sky. Summer. Confident. Loud. What would summer do?

Sol stepped forward. Into the wind. Hands out. Calling the warmth — the deep settled warmth of long days and still evenings — into the centre of the storm.

The wind slowed. Slightly.

Frost stepped forward. Into the chaos. Quiet. Still. Calling the cold clarity of winter mornings — the kind that makes everything sharp and honest — into the edges of the storm.

The rain steadied. Slightly.

Wren stepped forward. Moving quick. Here and there. Calling the energy of spring — the beginning of things the first green push — into the dark centre.

The sky lightened. Slightly.

Rust stepped forward. Slowly. Thoughtfully. Calling the settling of autumn — the coming to rest the letting go — into the whole enormous thing.

The storm paused.

Not gone. Just — paused. Like something reconsidering.

Then it broke. Not violently. Not dramatically. Just — opened. The way things open when they've been holding too much for too long and someone finally makes enough room.

The rain came straight down. Gentle. Ordinary. The kind that gardens like. The wind settled. The sky went from the colour of decisions to the colour of after.

The four children stood in the square. Wet. Slightly stunned. Standing next to each other for the first time without the usual comfortable distance.

Sol looked at Frost. "How did you know to listen first?" Frost looked at the sky. "Winter is mostly listening," said Frost. "There's not much else to do."

Rust looked at Wren. "How did you move so fast?" Wren shrugged. "Spring doesn't wait to see if it's a good idea. It just starts."

They stood there. Four children. Four seasons. One square. One storm that was now just rain.

Sol said: "I never understood why winter was necessary." Frost said: "I never understood why summer was so loud." Wren said: "I always thought autumn was too sad." Rust said: "I always thought spring was too hopeful."

A pause.

"Maybe," said Wren, "that's exactly why we need all of them."

Nobody argued. Which was in itself a kind of miracle in Verna.

The elder watched from the doorway. Said nothing. Smiled the smile of someone who has been waiting for something for a very long time and has finally seen it arrive.

The rain kept coming. Straight down. Gentle. The kind that fills the wells and wakes the seeds and settles the dust.

The four children walked home together. Not saying much. Just — together. Under the same rain that needed all of them to make it ordinary again.