Rain: Trees Whisper

By Abigayle Ellen

Historically, the book is based on the Indigenous tribe of Colombia that lived in the Northern highlands ranges of the Andes Mountains. They were the most sophisticated after the Aztecs and the Incas until the Spanish invaded in 1537. However, the story follows a girl born in 1917 from a little village called, Simte. A d

• Language: English
• Publisher: Abigayle Ellen
• Release date: Jun 7, 2023
• ISBN: 9781960093004

Abigayle Ellen

I'm a crippled 33-year-old who's been married twice and who has a 12-year-old son. I've written since I could hold a crayon, began pros and poetry at 11, and fiction writing at 18. After my 4th brain surgery crippled me, I didn't think I was able to write anymore. I couldn't see or use my hands. I only survived myself then because my greatest reason for being (my boy, Silas) still needed me. I worked hard, and now... I'm still not allowed to work or drive, but I can type and get around the house. That's enough.

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Copyright © 2023 Abigayle Ellen.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without a prior written permission from the publisher, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages in a review, and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by the copyright law.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022923304

ISBN: 978-1-960093-01-1 (Paperback)

ISBN: 978-1-960093-00-4 (E-book)

Some characters and events in this book are fictitious and products of the author’s imagination. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Printed in the United States of America

Contents

Intro

Prologue

Chapter 1: Hide

Chapter 2: The Jungle Is My Refuge

Chapter 3: Madre* Nora

Chapter 4: Cleansing Wounds

Chapter 5: Bottled Secrets

Chapter 6: Foreshadow

Chapter 7: Driven

Chapter 8: Oasis

Chapter 9: The Birds, Bees, and the Best of Me

Chapter 10: Surpassing Mortality

Chapter 11: Genres of Learning

Chapter 12: Beasts and Vines

Chapter 13: Am I Real Yet?

Chapter 14: Tempted

Chapter 15: Facing Fears

Chapter 16: Questions

Chapter 17: How Good To Be Lost Together

Chapter 18: Seeing Time

Chapter 19: The Universe Knows What You Need

Chapter 20: A Twist

Chapter 21: The Death of a Great Evil

Epilogue

*Translation of Terms and Phrases

Dedicated to,

Patricia Ann Cartland

One inch at a time.

Intro

I am the wind that howls and the white caps on waves.

I am my mother and father,

My friend and enemy.

I am everything,

and I am nothing.

In my most vital years, I learned the jungle.

The trees whispered their secrets.

The wild ones knew me best.

I walk on glassy moss like a spirit beneath the earth.

I call the dew from the leaves and set the flowers to sleep.

I am the sinking sun and the dark clouds that thunder.

I am Rain.

Prologue

In 1927 Colombia, East of the Andes, an eleven-year-old boy crouched in a tree, arms scraped from its dry appendages. He watched gold-plated doors, the shining eye of a Spanish villa; the pupil widened from a slit and revealed impenetrable darkness, expelling the silhouettes of two neandert hals.

I will finish the Muisca* princess, the tall one snarled. —Rip her apart, then dimly asked, She is twenty-five?

"We are twenty-five, Estúpido*, said the other. Dragging his knuckles would have been the next step in his de-evolution. For all, he looked like a monkey. She is twelve. Do the math."

She’s ten, the boy said under his breath. Moron.

I thought I was twenty-seven, said the first.

No. Twenty-five like me. It’s easier to remember.

The tall one nodded, imagining this made sense.

What if the witch tries… he took a sharp rattling breath of fear, something? he asked. His spine quivered as this concern skittered across his mind.

She would not, replied the slightly more intelligent dolt. She would have Eddie to deal with.

They stopped long enough for Tall to ask, When did he start letting you call him Eddie?

Not long ago. You were not there. The boss only lets his close friends call him that. Momentarily silent, he added, Do not tell him what I said.

Their voices receded into the darkness when the boy climbed down and tore through the village. He would warn her, hide her, protect her. She alone made him forget his most primitive instinct—survival. Probably it was love, but all he understood of it was its written definition.

Along the coca* field, he ran. A right turn in gravel—too sharp—his foot slid from beneath him. Edges frayed around the new rip in his pants and around a bloody rip in his skin. Catching himself with a hand like a kickstand, he bloodied his palm, but adrenaline erased awareness of any pain. Moving fast, he passed the big utility tents—left turn up the middle road.

The house of Nora stood at the top of a colossal hill, built with cinder blocks to withstand storms like all the others. Though, a bedroom such as the one at Nora’s would be luxury to the others, let alone a loft for one little girl to secretly keep as her own. Everyone agreed Nora was too good for dirt. She was middle-aged but capable and healthy. Only thirty-two, it would have been odd not to expect hard labor of her if she was someone else.

Not the type to watch those around her work while she did nothing, Nora was at her best for whoever needed her. Short, thin, and hair lightened to the color of overripe cherries, she was an elegant painting exposed to the elements. Beyond the uneven planks attached with hinges, her niece was unaware of the danger coming. An ignorant breeze almost extinguished a single glowing candle behind a billowing window cover.

Rain

Trees Whisper

Chapter 1

Hide

Centering myself on a rug in the great room, made by one of the few Muisca* weavers left in our little village of native settlers, my red skirt pooled around me, and embroidered white flowers drowned in the hem. Poking my tongue past tightened lips, I sewed tiny stitches into a rosebud on canvas, frustrated to be unable to see well under the light of a single candle. My chaotic hair floated before my face in various straight, wavy, and sometimes curly strands. I wish my locks were shining and straight like my mama’s, I thought, "rather than this wild Irish type from my father ." I glared at he aven.

A second-generation Irish-American, my papa came from New York. As a reluctant partner with Eduardo in the cocaine business, Papa sailed to Colombia with this thin man (who ate like tomorrow wouldn’t come). They traveled inland from the coast, over the mountains, and into the jungle wherein lay our little village of Simte—a valley surrounded by wildlife, a space cleared by the miracle of human ingenuity.

The valley held a small farm at one end, a meadow around a solitary white house of logs, and a marketplace—a sparse and dusty piece of land, making the top of the very large hill of houses a very bald one. Village houses dotted either side of three roads spread over its southern face. A field of coca* lay at the bottom beside tents used for turning the leaves into something unnatural.

My father provided Eduardo with buyers from America who bought in bulk. Papa believed it okay to sell to medical professionals for pain and anxiety relief. Eduardo sold to the commoner, counting on its addictive nature as a building block in his business. Papa said he arrived in Simte, hoping to turn the tide and nothing to lose. That changed, though, on meeting Mama.

She was eighteen when they met but led Simte for two years prior. She took over from her parents when they both died, one of disease and the other of heartbreak. Her older sister, mi tía* Nora was supposed to take up the responsibility, but she was made for different things—chemistry for making medicines and the wisdom to know which kinds were needed. So, Mama took care of the people civilly and economically while Tía moved from the large house in the meadow (a kilometer from Simte) to the village, where she began to heal in ways no one else could.

I came along when Mama was nineteen and Papa twenty-three, same as Nora. Like everyone else, Mama spoke Spanish, but unlike them, she also spoke the language of our ancestors, Chibcha*. For Papa, she learned English. Her Spanish accent was evident in most words—Rs rolling madly, confusing the sound of a long O with a short one, and her I’s made the E sound. Contractions were two words combined by speaking faster rather than with an apostrophe, but she tried.

Decidedly, my primary language was English since I was bound to learn Spanish anyway. I taught Cabello and Tía when I was eight. Both were apt pupils, but Tía struggled the same as Mama. On the other hand, Cabello understood everything the first time he heard it and began adding to my vocabulary.

Summoned by my thoughts, Cabello flew through the door and slammed it behind him. Tía was shucking maize* at the kitchen table.

Cabello, she said, protective of her hatchlings, what has happened? What is wrong?

He strode over the warped floorboards without answer, limping. Before registering that his target was myself, I was pulled to my feet. Nearly dragged to the wall of loosened planks, I gave Tía a startled glance. I was told I might need to hide from Eduardo someday. As long as no one knew I was alive, he would assume me dead like my parents. However, despite being warned, I was reluctant to hide. The space was small, dark, and there was only one way out. I stifled a scream when I imagined those dark spots, darker even than the small place I would be stuffed into and trying to see past them.

Prying a few boards loose, a hole was made big enough for me to fit through. Setting me inside, Cabello boarded me into my worst fear. His now bloodless expression turned from determined to remorseful before I disappeared. Rolled up to its hanger, the tapestry was thrown down, covering a few cracks of light and air keeping me sane.

A BOOM on the door made my heart plunder over some unseen step. I saw a flash through the cracks. A louder BOOM from the sky crackled at the end, and sheets of rain crashed onto the metal roof. Stepping into a sliver of light and dust to peer out, I saw Cabello’s old military jacket twirl about and heard it woosh when he spun, walking briskly into the bedroom.

Tía threw back the latch, thrown down by Cabello after his arrival, and jumped away as the door slammed into the adjoining wall of cold cement and rebounded into a thug. He wasn’t bothered. She rushed back to her rickety stool at the table as they advanced into the room, flexing their biceps to intimidate. Blackened by the sun, both were burnt to the color of charcoal and tanned leather. The forehead of one was high, topping a box-shaped face. One furry brow above both eyes rose and fell with his few expressions. He squinted into the room, trying to see through walls. The other’s dual brows looked no better as they were thick tufts above the inner corner of his eyes and sloped over a round face. His beard was like little islands of hair marring his complexion. He looked around with bloodshot eyes like a highly offended marsupial scanning the room.

Where is she? he barked, his preposterous eyes drilling into mi pobre tía*.

His glance at the little cubed bottles lining a section of a wall in the great room was nearly imperceptible. They knew the witch kept potions on hand or thought they knew. Their fear of her magic would get her killed or keep her safe. Likely, she would be fine. She emitted a glow of gentle understanding and kindness the thugs believed was weakness, but love is what makes people strong. She moved back on her seat, away from the rabid dog the monkey-man became. He loomed over her, eyes darting around the room, searching for something to inspire a lie. Dishonesty wasn’t her strong suit.

She is gone, Tía chattered through clenched teeth, in—into the jungle. This statement was open to uncertainty as to whether I, in fact, had gone into the jungle.

You let her go into the jungle? he asked skeptically. "In the middle of the night, alone?" A person need not be competent to know that wasn’t a good idea.

She is not alone, Tía argued. She is… she is with a friend. Deciding this was safe enough to say, she repeated it more confidently. Yes. She is with a friend.

I slapped my forehead, and sympathetic embarrassment rose in my cheeks.

"Who is this ‘friend’? Sarcasm seeped from his lips and onto the table. Matἱas! he called out before she could reply. Check the house."

The first thug passed in front of my hiding place. I flattened my face to the boards, smelling rotten wood and trying not to think of what caused the must I inhaled—mold? Termites? I tried to see if Cabello escaped but couldn’t see from my angle. I could only listen as Matἱas smashed pottery and tore the sheets, no doubt suspecting I’d be in the pillowcase. He stomped from the room and climbed the ladder leading to my loft, directly ahead of where I stood. The rungs, made of small logs, bowed under his feet. The head of my Andean teddy bear flew over the railing and rolled to the baseboard at my feet. Eyes the color of dead leaves stared at me, saying, how could you let this happen? I would have spat my anger if there was sufficient space to spit somewhere other than on my shoe. Thunder shook the house.

There is no one here, Nikelas, gargled a frog drowning in phlegm deep in Matἱas’ throat.

I relaxed and saw Tía’s shoulders do the same, though she and Nikelas continued to stare eye to bulging eye. Cabello wasn’t anywhere in the house. Gracias a la madre*.

Fine. Nikelas gave the house one last look. Count on seeing us in the future.

Staying until I returned would have been more prudent, but I remembered they were stupid and turned my attention to my top priority—freedom. I didn’t call to Tía. I wanted to say, Hurry! or Get me out! but either exclamation would be redundant since she was hurrying to get me out. I worried, too, my desperate voice would invoke panic beyond what I could bear. I closed my eyes and counted my breaths. She rolled up the tapestry before Cabello came in from the bedroom. Soaked, he squished to my rescue, crowbar in hand. He hooked a board and pried it off.

Tía took a moment to tell him she was impressed by how nimble he was, … climbing out the weendow as you deed without using a stepeen stool. She attempted to lighten the intensity filling the moment by focusing on her English to keep herself distracted and to replace a little of my fear with humor. Complimenting Cabello made him feel a little more prideful rather than guilty for trapping me. After removing the first two planks, I saw the crooked grin flicker across his face.

Relief welled up from my toes and came out as tears. My friend lifted me from the wall, and crying into his shirt, I mixed a pinch of salt into a glob of snot and mashed them into the freshwater there. When I got a hold of myself, I rested my chin on his shoulder and sniffled. Staring at the black nose of my decapitated bear, I recognized the necessity for a drastic life change… again.

Chapter 2

The Jungle Is My Refuge

Minutes later, Cabello was given the pre-packed suitcase from under my cot. I tried to listen to Tía’s instructions, but time was languid. Actually, it sped by in excited dread. I focused on the suitcase as if its details spoke instead. The outer upholstery was worn, and stitches along the seams were loose or broken. After three generations of harsh travel, it was washed out and gray. Passport stamps from Ireland, Norteamérica*, and Sudamérica* once colored it. The only thing coloring it now were the gold initials scrawled in the corner—AR for Aodhan O’Raghailly. I did wonder what AR would have thought when he bought this case and if the foreknowledge of its travels to three continents, where it would wind up in the hands of his Colombian granddaughter, would have swayed his decision to purchase it. If he