RAIN VILLAGE
RAIN VILLAGE
Carolyn Turgeon
This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Unbridled Books
Denver, Colorado
Copyright © 2006 Carolyn Turgeon
All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Turgeon, Carolyn.
Rain Village / Carolyn Turgeon.
p. cm.
ISBN-13: 978-1-932961-24-9
ISBN-10: 1-932961-24-0
1. Girls—Fiction. 2. Short people—Fiction. 3. Farm life—Fiction.
4. Difference (Psychology)—Fiction. 5. Women librarians—Fiction. 6. Mentoring—Fiction.
7. Fathers and daughters—Fiction. 8. Circus performers—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3620.U75R35 2006
813’.6–dc22 2006016142
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
Book Design by CV • SH
First Printing
for my mother, father, and sister
CHAPTER ONE
That tramp! Black-haired Jezebel!” My mother’s voice screeched into the house, from the yard. Up in my room, I thought a storm had come until I saw the bare windowpane, the butter-colored sun streaming in.
I ran down the wooden steps and out the front door, peered through the railings on the front porch. My father was out by the hedges again, clipping as if some devil had possessed him, sweat streaming down his face and the shears sprouting from his giant body like antlers. For two days now all we’d heard were the sounds of metal slicing against metal, twigs being snapped through and dropping to the ground. The crops in the field were going to ruin, but my father didn’t care. Our front yard was already adorned with an elephant, a lion, and a peacock with a spray of leaves fanning behind it. The hedge he was attacking now was fourth in the line that hemmed in our yard, blocking it from the country road that stretched all the way to town.
“STOP IT!” my mother screamed, beating on his back with an umbrella. My meek, religious mother who spent her days bent over in the fields and her nights bent over a Bible. “Stop that infernal clipping!”
No one could so much as raise a voice to my father without his hand coming down on them. I winced for my mother and braced myself for the beating that would surely come, once my father went back to normal. If he ever went back to normal. I had never seen my father get himself into such a frenzy. Two days ago he’d returned from market with a basket half full of eggs, picked up the clippers, and started going at it. Now the slicing sounds had made their way into our dreams, and we didn’t know if he’d ever stop.
I heard my sister Geraldine behind me, breathing loudly, hunkering down and pressing her face to the rails. “It’s that new librarian,” she whispered. “Mary Finn. The one that’s making all the men crazy.”
“He sold eggs to her in town just before this started,” she said.
I leaned back against the steps. Mary Finn. I knew exactly who Geraldine was talking about, of course. When Mary Finn had arrived in Oakley earlier that summer, farmers had suddenly started walking miles out of their way to pick up the classics of English literature, and a constant stream of women had started coming by to visit my mother, whispering about the new librarian’s wild gypsy past and the secret lovers who visited her after the library closed. Men wouldn’t be able to sleep for days after Mary Finn walked by, the old gossips said, and if her blue cat’s eyes met theirs, they were liable to start writing feverish poetry late into the night, or painting murals filled with flowers and beautiful women, set in places they’d never seen.
“A woman like that is nothing but trouble,” my mother clucked, as if she were commenting on a bad harvest. But I saw her clutching her rosary beads, which she started carrying around everywhere even though we didn’t have an ounce of Catholic blood in us. I saw the way she began watching my father out of the corner of her eye.
My mother turned and saw us crouching on the steps. “Get off of there!” she screamed, storming toward us. “Geraldine, get in the fields and help your brothers! Tessa, get back to your stretches!”
Geraldine took off running. I turned to the house, but my mother reached me before I could get away and grabbed me by the collar. “You stay on that bar until supper, Tessa Riley,” she hissed, dragging me into the kitchen. “No wonder you’re not getting any better. You don’t even care that everyone thinks you’re a freak? You don’t want to improve yourself?”
She pushed me to the window, and I scrambled up and grabbed the curtain rod she had rigged for me, back when she still thought my body could pull and stretch out like taffy. Hanging there, I could see Geraldine and my two brothers bent over the corn outside. The sun seared into their skin. As my mother slammed out of the room, I closed my eyes and listened to the sounds of metal against metal, of twigs snapping and falling to the ground. Tears slipped down my face. I was not a normal child: I was twelve years old but just barely cleared four feet; the kids I passed on the way to market called me a munchkin or a freak; my hands were shaped like two starfish and as small as plums.
Mary Finn, I thought. I honed in on the idea of her, grabbed on to it as if she were a talisman. I just couldn’t imagine anyone—or anything—that beautiful. My mind set to wondering about it, about what she was like. If she would be as mean to me as all the rest of them, or if maybe there was something different about her, that same thing that set all the old hags on edge. The more I thought, the more I felt something crack open in me. Before then I had always kept to myself. I had gone whole days without touching another human being or making a sound.
One morning a few weeks later, long after the hedge incident we’d vowed never to speak of again, my entire family except me left to look at the pumpkins a farmer had grown two miles down the road—so big, they had heard, that two people could fit into each one. I waited half an hour before dropping down from the curtain rod and heading to the town square. With a pounding heart, I sat on the curb in front of the Oakley courthouse to watch the people pass. I sat stiffly, self-consciously, and tried to ignore the kids who walked by laughing. After an hour, my back and legs were starting to ache, and I wondered if I should go to Mercy Library itself to find her, though I had never been there before and the idea filled me with terror.
It was then that I looked up and saw her, and I knew right then and there what all the fuss was about. There was no mistaking her—nor was there any mistaking the old women who crossed themselves as she passed by, the men who stopped right in their paths and were moved to dance or song or tears. She carried a straw basket filled with red and yellow vegetables, with some papers and books poking over the side, and she walked through the square with her head up, her black hair glittering in the light, so wild it was like a field of weeds. She wore silver earrings that hung to her shoulders and a bright skirt that swished around her feet as she moved. The other townspeople scurried past or loped along, but Mary walked calmly, like a dancer, her back perfectly straight. I gazed up at her and thought she was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen, with her blue eyes and brown, freckled skin; she was the kind of woman