The Rain In Espana 1 -

“You are not Spanish,” she said. It was not a question.

“You have come for the lluvia ,” said Manolo, the barman, who had the face of a benevolent hawk. He did not ask it as a question.

“Remembers what?” I asked.

“The rain remembers the Romans,” she said, beginning to spin again. “It fell on their legions as they marched north from Mérida. It rusted their helmets and turned their sandals to pulp. They cursed it in Latin, and the rain drank their curses and grew fat.”

It was not there before. I am certain of it. But suddenly, to my left, set into a slope of earth and brambles, was a low wooden door. It was arched, black with age, and studded with iron nails that had rusted to the color of dried blood. A small carving above the lintel showed a shape I could not immediately identify: a woman, perhaps, or a tree, or both. The rain poured over it, but the door remained dry, as if protected by an invisible awning. The Rain in Espana 1

I wanted to ask her who she was. I wanted to ask her why she lived in a door that appeared out of nowhere. But the words froze in my throat, because the oil lamp flickered, and for just a moment, I saw that her spinning wheel had no thread leading to any spindle. The wool she pulled came from nowhere. And the thread she created vanished into the air as soon as it left her fingers.

“No,” I said. “I’m a writer. From the north. Ireland.” “You are not Spanish,” she said

Outside, the sky was empty. But in the distance, just over the hills toward Segovia, I saw a single cloud the size of a hand. And I swear—I still swear this—it was spinning.