When it rains

When I was a kid, I was spending every summer holiday in my grandmother’s village in Russia. The region sits on a cultural and religious border between Christian and Islam parts, with surviving traces of pre-Christian paganism. Some villages still had practicing shamans who preserved old rituals that were rarely talked about openly, but widely respected.

When I was 14 a drought had started in summer. Crops were at risk, and everyone was worried. A weather forecast finally offered some hope: light, scattered showers the following day. In response, several shamans from neighboring villages decided to “ask the gods” for rain.

I didn’t witness the ritual itself. But later that evening, I saw what they had left behind: stains of chicken blood at the base of a centuries-old oak tree, and bright cloths tied into its branches, swaying in the still, hot evening air.

The next day, it rained. Not much, maybe 20 minutes, but it was something. That’s when things got strange. I took my bicycle out and rode around the area.
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