Kthaahthikha

It would have been ten in the morning when the rains broke. The air was thick with electricity and the clouds had turned to purple-black. Lightning crackled through the sky and the breeze began to pick-up. The sweet, formic scent of precipitation reached the children's noses. They sat together on Mikh's veranda and played cards as the first fat drops hit.

The sky opened wide and thunder struck like a cannonade. The buildings shook with every nearby clap. The rain drummed against the roofs and exposed chinks in expertly-constructed armour. The thin film of dust that covered the concrete earth ran to mud and was churned by the feet of those few who darted across the road, coats across heads, faces lashed by the stinging fall. The drum of ten million fingers upon every sounding-board. Sheet metal, clap-board, tiles and thatching. Fibreglass crackled as though ready to break, the water pouring from it in ceaseless streams. The saloon slowly filled-up. Men and women came to celebrate with the excess skimmed from their monsoon pay. Cards and darts and pool were played. As the rain continued, the few stray animals ran to cower beneath verandas in the wide gaps below the floorboards where flood-trenches were cut running from house to house. The ditches ran like rivers and the road was mired in muck. Leaves and sticks and carrion washed out of the jungle and down the road in a bizarre parade of refuse. The children were forbidden to go about without adults. The adults had converged upon Mikh's and left the children there with Ms Gilalh inside listening to the AV deck. The power had been disconnected except for the auxiliary lines, and only the refrigerators and the little wan lights powered on as the AV deck ate its way through the battery charged normally by the rooftop solar array, yet fading slowly under the shadow of rain.

The lightning cracked in sheets across the sky, entire horizons turned to stark white amidst the midnight black. Bolts like twisted branches writhed through the air and struck the forest repeatedly, the flames smothered by the omnipresent saturation. Hail swept intermittently and ricocheted off of windows and walls. The publican had driven his tractor back into the shed the moment the first drop fell. The giant, standing alone amidst the melting ground, was non-conductive and so sat beneath a tree, slightly mournful in stance. Several times throughout the day the woman came out of the saloon bundled in a black raincoat and talked to him over the thunder of the storm. At other times the giant simply pushed its way off through the greenery, emerging some time later with its beak smeared by juice and the fragments of leaves. As night approached the giant withdrew an enormous tarpaulin from its backpack and draped it over itself, sitting hunched atop a corner and turning the edges up. He hooked several fastenings together, and sat in the makeshift tent as the lightning and the rain continued on.

One last time before night the woman went out to see him. When she returned, ten minutes later, she assured the publican that he was calm and comfortable, and made her way into the lounge to sit by the fire.

The saloon was full until eleven each evening. It was then that Kenichi called for everyone to go home, and children were liberated from the dull observation of their baby-sitters. On this first night of the monsoons, when the rain had yet to fade to a steady drizzle and the elements were still raging outside, the woman with the giant and the stranger from Tchekov first spoke.

'Hello,' said the stranger. He was seated in an armchair by the fire, reading a book.

'Hi,' said the woman. She had no book, and had been in the process of drifting into sleep.

'You are staying here, aren't you,' he said.

'Yes. Obviously. You too.'

'Yes.'

There was a considerable pause. Over the drum of the rain came the faint, muffled howl of a jungle beast. Both pricked their ears and looked to the door. When there was no reprise, the two settled down again. The woman observed the man. He was elderly, in his fifties, balding pate and mostly-grey hair still light brown in places. A well-kept moustache and a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles. He was wearing a flannel casual suit in cream and a silver-grey neck tie. His book was printed in some archaic orthography, the words on the spine vaguely familiar yet foreign.

'I know you,' she said.

'Possibly,' said the stranger. 'I know you.'

'Hard not to. Edgar is conspicuous.'

'And damp.'

She smiled and went to the bar. The publican had gone to bed. She made herself a cup of tea and inquired if he would like one also. The stranger shook his head.

'Now where do I know you from?' she said, regaining her seat. 'That's the question.'

'I imagine you meet a lot of people.'

'Indeed.'

Another pause. The stranger returned to his book. She drank her tea.

'The Spider.'

'Pardon?' said the stranger.

'That's who you remind me of. The Spider. Edvard Hoege.' The stranger smiled.

'Yes, he'd be about my age.'

Droplets crawled down the window pane and dropped to the veranda below. From somewhere indeterminate came the steady drip of water into a bucket.

'Does your farmhand lover still have the tattoo?' asked the stranger.

'Yes. He wanted to get it lasered-off but changed his mind at the last moment.'

'And he finds zis arrangement of yours entirely acceptable?'

'Entirely. I do control him, pretty-much.'

'True.'

'He'd never get by save for my good graces.'

The stranger chuckled quietly.

'Say-' The woman leant forward with a mischievous grin. Her hair - frizzed by atmosphere - framed her twinkling eyes. 'You are the Spider.'

The Spider closed his book and sighed.