The Cloud That Was Afraid of Rain

High above a golden valley, where the houses were the colour of honey and the olive trees grew silver leaves, there floated a little cloud called Nim.

Nim was the smallest cloud in the whole sky. It was round and white and as fluffy as a dandelion clock, and it was so light that the smallest breeze could blow it anywhere.

And Nim loved being light.

In the morning, it floated over the sunflower fields and made little shadows for the bees to rest in. At lunchtime, it drifted over the village and watched the cats sleeping on the warm roof tiles. In the evening, when the sun went down, Nim turned pink and gold at the edges, like a peach.

"I'm small and white and light," Nim would sing to itself as it floated along. "I'm small and white and light, and I like it just right."

Nim was happy. It had everything a cloud could want.

Well. Almost everything.

Because there was one thing Nim was afraid of. One thing it thought about when it couldn't float off to sleep.

And that thing was rain.

One afternoon, the big clouds came rolling over the hills.

They were enormous, as tall as mountains and as grey as wet stones. They grumbled and rumbled. And then, all together, they began to rain.

Curtains of water poured down onto the far hills. Shhhhhhh, went the rain. The big clouds got thinner and thinner as they rained, until some of them were nothing but wisps, and then nothing at all.

Nim watched from the edge of the sky, and it shivered all over.

"Look at them," whispered Nim. "They're raining themselves away. If I rained, I'd get smaller and smaller and smaller, and then there'd be no more me."

The thought was so big and so cold that Nim scrunched itself up as tight as it could. It held on to every single drop of water inside it.

"I won't rain," it said. "Not ever. I'll hold on."

And Nim made up a new little song, to help it be brave:

"Hold on, hold tight,
I'm small and white and light.
Hold on, hold tight,
I'll keep my rain in tight."

So Nim held on.

Every day, the sun warmed the lakes and rivers and puddles, and tiny bits of water floated up into the sky, the way they always do. And every day, some of those tiny bits joined Nim. Because that is how clouds are made.

But Nim didn't let any of them go.

"Hold on, hold tight," it sang, and squeezed.

Day by day, Nim got bigger. It got heavier. It was not so white any more. Its tummy turned the colour of a pigeon's wing, and then the colour of a puddle, and then the colour of a rainy Tuesday.

It couldn't float as high as it used to. It couldn't drift wherever it liked. The little breezes that used to carry it about now huffed and puffed and could hardly move it at all.

And Nim felt grumpy. Very grumpy. The kind of grumpy you feel when you've been holding something for a long, long time and your arms are tired.

"I'm still light," Nim told itself, though it wasn't true.

"I'm fine," it said, though it wasn't that either.

One morning, a swallow came swooping up out of the valley.

She had a shiny blue back and a rusty-red throat and a tail like a pair of scissors, and she zipped around Nim in circles, loop-the-loop.

"Hello, little grey cloud!" she twittered. "You look heavy today!"

"I'm not heavy," said Nim crossly. "I'm light. I'm small and white and light."

The swallow landed on the very edge of Nim, which tickled, and peered at it with one bright black eye.

"Small? No. White? Not really. Light? Hmm, I'm sitting on you and you're barely moving." She tilted her head. "Why don't you just rain? All the other clouds do. It looks rather nice."

Nim was quiet for a long time.

Then, in a very small voice, it said, "Because I'm scared. If I let my rain go, I'll get smaller and smaller, and then there'll be nothing left of me."

The swallow stopped fidgeting. She didn't laugh. She didn't say "don't be silly". She just tucked her wings in and sat a little closer.

"Oh," she said softly. "That does sound scary."

And somehow, saying it out loud made Nim's worry feel just a tiny bit smaller.

"Come and look at something," said the swallow, and she flew down, down, down toward the valley.

Nim couldn't follow very far, because it was so heavy. But it drifted low enough to see.

And what it saw made it go very quiet.

The valley was thirsty.

The fields that had been green in spring were brown and cracked, like the top of an old loaf. The sunflowers hung their big heads down, as if they were too tired to look at the sun. The stream that used to giggle over its stones was only a dry, pale line of pebbles.

A farmer stood at the edge of his field, looking at the sky with his hand over his eyes. A dog lay panting in the shade of a wall. Even the olive trees looked dusty and dull.

"Nobody has rained here for a long time," said the swallow. "The big clouds keep raining on the hills, far away. But not here."

Nim looked down at the thirsty valley. It thought about all the water it was holding, tight, tight, tight.

Something inside it felt a little bit wobbly.

At the edge of the village, in a honey-coloured house with blue shutters, lived a little girl called Amaya.

Amaya had a long black plait, a coral dress and a mustard cardigan with one button missing. And on her windowsill she had a small terracotta pot. In the pot was some soil. And in the soil was a bean.

Amaya had planted it herself, with her finger, one week ago. Every morning she gave it a teacup of water from the kitchen tap, very carefully, so as not to spill.

But today, when she turned on the tap, only a few drops came out, plip, plip, and then nothing.

"The well is low," her grandmother said. "We must save the water for drinking, little one."

So Amaya leaned out of her window, holding her empty teacup, and looked up at the sky.

And she saw Nim.

"Please, cloud," she whispered. "Please could you rain? Just a little bit. My bean is so thirsty."

Nim heard her. Clouds can hear everything that's said to the sky.

And the wobbly feeling inside it got wobblier.

That evening, as the sun sank, an enormous cloud came drifting slowly over the mountains.

She was the biggest cloud Nim had ever seen. She towered up and up into the sky, with silver edges and soft golden folds, and she moved so slowly and so calmly that it made Nim feel calmer just to look at her.

"Grandmother Cloud," the swallow whispered. "She's been everywhere."

Grandmother Cloud settled beside Nim, as gently as a big cat settling on a cushion.

"Little one," she said, and her voice was like faraway thunder, deep and warm. "You've been holding on for a very long time."

"I'm scared to rain," said Nim. "I'm scared I'll disappear."

Grandmother Cloud smiled. When clouds smile, their edges go pink.

"I have rained a thousand times," she said. "On mountains and on oceans, on forests and on cities. And do you know what? I'm still here."

"How?" asked Nim.

"Because what goes down," said Grandmother Cloud, "always comes back up."

"When you rain," said Grandmother Cloud, "your drops fall down onto the earth. They soak into the fields. They fill the streams. They give the plants a drink and the animals a bath."

"And then they're gone," said Nim sadly.

"Not gone," said Grandmother Cloud. "Look."

She nodded toward the far side of the valley, where there was a lake. The sun was setting, and the lake was warm from the long hot day. And from the top of the water, so softly you could hardly see it, a pale mist was rising. Up, up, up into the evening air.

"Every day," said Grandmother Cloud, "the sun warms the water, and the water rises into the sky, and new clouds are made. The rain comes back. It always comes back. You won't disappear, little one. You'll just change. And then you'll grow again."

Nim looked at the mist rising from the lake. It looked like breath on a cold morning.

"Are you sure?" it asked.

"I'm sure," said Grandmother Cloud. "But you don't have to believe me. You can find out for yourself."

That night, Nim couldn't sleep.

It hung over the valley, heavy and dark, and thought and thought.

It thought about the cracked fields and the drooping sunflowers. It thought about the dry stream. It thought about Amaya and her teacup and her bean.

And it thought about what Grandmother Cloud had said. What goes down always comes back up.

"But what if it doesn't?" said a small, scared voice inside Nim. "What if I'm the one cloud who disappears?"

Nim felt so heavy now. It was so full of water that it could hardly stay in the sky. It sagged lower and lower, until it was hanging just above the rooftops of the village, so close that it could hear the people inside, breathing in their sleep.

It could hear Amaya, too. She was talking in her sleep.

"Please, cloud," she murmured. "Just a little bit."

Nim felt something tremble inside it. A drop. Just one. Right at its very edge, wobbling, like a tear that's about to fall.

"Hold on," whispered Nim. "Hold tight..."

But its voice was very, very tired.

The sun began to rise. The sky turned pale, then pink, then gold.

And at the very edge of Nim, the one wobbling drop let go.

Nim gasped. "Oh no!"

The drop fell. It fell past the chimney. It fell past the blue shutters. It fell, glinting like a tiny diamond in the dawn light, right down onto Amaya's windowsill.

Right into her little terracotta pot.

Plip.

The drop landed on the soil and sank in. And where it sank in, a small, dark, round spot appeared, the size of a button. The soil there smelled of earth and morning and something green.

Nim held very still, waiting to feel smaller. Waiting to feel less.

But it didn't feel less.

It felt... lighter. A tiny bit lighter. As if it had put down something it had been carrying for a very long time.

"Huh," said Nim.

Amaya woke up and ran to the window, as she did every morning.

She looked at her pot. And she saw it: the small, dark, round spot on the soil.

She touched it with her finger. It was wet.

"Grandma!" she called. "Grandma, it rained! A little bit! On my bean!"

She leaned out of the window and looked up at Nim, hanging low and grey above the house. And she smiled. It was a smile so big and so bright that it made Nim feel warm all the way through, like sunshine on the inside.

"Thank you, cloud!" Amaya called. "Thank you for my drop!"

Nim had never been thanked before. Nobody thanks a cloud for being light and white and fluffy. But for one drop of rain, Amaya had smiled as if it were her birthday.

The swallow swooped past. "Well?" she twittered. "Did you disappear?"

"No," said Nim slowly. "I'm still here. I feel lighter. And, swallow?"

"Yes?"

"I think I feel happier, too."

Nim looked down at the valley.

It looked at the brown fields and the sleepy sunflowers and the dry stream. It looked at the farmer, and the panting dog, and Amaya's grandmother pulling up an empty bucket from the well.

One drop had made Amaya smile like that. What could two drops do? What could a hundred drops do?

Nim was still scared. The scared feeling hadn't gone away. It was still there, curled up in the middle of it like a cat.

But there was another feeling too now. It was bigger than the scared feeling, and warmer, and it was getting bigger all the time.

"Swallow," said Nim. "I want to try. But I'm still scared."

"That's all right," said the swallow. "Being brave doesn't mean not being scared. It means being scared and doing it anyway. A little bit at a time."

Nim took a deep breath, as deep as a cloud can breathe.

"A little bit at a time," it said.

And it made up a new song. A different one.

"Let go, let flow,
help the green things grow."

Nim let go of two drops.

They fell onto the sunflower field. Plip. Plop.

Then Nim let go of ten drops. Plip-plop-plip-plop-plip-plop-plip-plop-plip-plop.

They pattered onto the big, tired sunflower leaves and rolled down them like marbles. A bee came out to see what was happening. The dusty dog lifted its head.

Nim waited to feel small. It waited to feel less.

But each drop that fell made it feel a little lighter, and a little braver, and a little more like itself.

"Let go, let flow," sang Nim. "Help the green things grow."

The swallow was flying in loops all around it now, shouting "Yes! Yes! More!"

Down below, the farmer took his hand away from his eyes. He held out his palm, and a drop landed in it. He looked at it as if it were treasure.

"Rain," he said, as if he'd forgotten the word. "Rain!"

Nim felt a rumble deep inside, but it wasn't a grumpy rumble any more. It was a happy one, like a laugh that's about to come out.

And then Nim let go.

Not all at once, in a big frightening whoosh. But steadily, softly, like a long breath out.

The rain came down.

It fell on the fields, and the cracks in the earth filled up and closed. It fell on the sunflowers, and they lifted their heavy heads. It fell on the olive trees, and washed the dust off their leaves until they shone silver again.

It fell on the roofs, and the gutters sang. It fell into the dry stream, and the stream woke up and began to giggle over its stones.

And it fell on Amaya, who ran out into the lane in her bare feet with her arms stretched wide, spinning round and round, her face turned up to the sky.

The whole valley smelled of wet earth. It is one of the best smells in the world. It smells like the world saying thank you.

"Let go, let flow," sang Nim, raining and raining, "help the green things grow."

And Nim did not feel scared at all.

At last, the rain stopped.

Nim looked at itself.

It was small again. Smaller even than before. A little white wisp, as light as a feather, floating high in a sky that had been washed clean and blue.

But Nim did not feel like nothing. Not at all.

It felt light. Light as the morning. Light as a laugh. It felt like it had put down the heaviest bag in the world and could finally stretch its arms.

"I didn't disappear," Nim said in wonder. "I'm still here."

"Of course you are," said Grandmother Cloud, drifting by, high and slow and smiling pink at the edges. "You just changed. That's what clouds do. That's what everybody does."

Down below, the valley sparkled. Every leaf had a drop on it. Every puddle had a little piece of sky in it. Every rooftop was shining.

The swallow flew up and did a triple loop-the-loop, just for joy.

"Look at what you did!" she sang.

Nim looked. And it felt something it had never felt before. Something warm and glowing.

It felt proud.

Then the sun came out from behind the hills.

It shone through the last few drops of rain still floating in the air, and all at once, there was a rainbow.

It was the most beautiful rainbow the valley had ever seen. It arched over the village from one hill to the other, red and orange and yellow and green and blue and indigo and violet, so bright it looked like you could climb it.

Everybody came out to look.

The farmer stood in his field with his hat in his hands. The dog barked at the rainbow, just in case. Amaya's grandmother stood in the doorway with her hand on her heart.

And Amaya put on her yellow rain boots and jumped into the biggest puddle in the lane. SPLASH!

"Look!" she shouted, pointing up. "The little cloud made a rainbow!"

Nim hadn't known it could make a rainbow. It hadn't known it could make anybody that happy.

"I think," Nim said quietly to the swallow, "that I was worried about the wrong thing."

Days went by.

And down in the valley, things began to grow.

The brown fields turned green again, first a faint green fuzz, then a bright green carpet. The sunflowers stood up tall and turned their faces to the sun. The stream ran, chattering, all day and all night, and the frogs came back to sing in it.

And one morning, Amaya ran to the window and gasped.

Out of the soil in her little terracotta pot, a small green shoot had pushed its way up. It was curled over at the top like a question mark. And as she watched, slowly, slowly, it uncurled, and opened two tiny leaves, like two hands opening to say hello.

"My bean!" whispered Amaya. "It's growing!"

She looked up at the sky. And there was Nim, small and white and light, floating right above her house, as if it had been waiting.

Amaya waved. Nim couldn't wave back, because clouds don't have hands. But it turned a little bit pink at the edges.

Which, in cloud, means the same thing.

In the warm afternoon, something wonderful happened.

The sun shone down on the wet fields and the full stream and the shining puddles. And slowly, softly, a pale mist began to rise from them. Up from the grass. Up from the stream. Up from the puddle where Amaya had jumped.

Up, up, up it floated, into the blue sky.

And it floated right to Nim.

Nim felt the tiny bits of water joining it, one by one, cool and soft. Some of them, it was sure, were the very same drops it had rained on the valley. They had given the fields a drink and the sunflowers a wash and the bean a start in life. And now they were coming home.

"What goes down," Nim whispered, "always comes back up."

Grandmother Cloud, far away over the mountains, turned pink.

Nim grew. Not heavy and grey and grumpy. Just a little bit bigger. Soft and white and full of the valley's breath.

It wasn't scared any more. Well, maybe just a little. But it knew now that it could let go, and that letting go was not the same as disappearing.

The evening came.

The sun went down behind the hills, and the whole sky turned the colour of apricots and roses. And Nim, floating over the valley, turned pink and gold at the edges, like a peach.

Down below, the valley was green and quiet. The sunflowers had closed for the night. The stream was murmuring a sleepy song. The dog was asleep on the doorstep, and the farmer was asleep in his chair.

One by one, the lights in the village windows came on, warm and yellow.

In the honey-coloured house with the blue shutters, Amaya's window glowed. And on the windowsill, Nim could just see the little terracotta pot, and in it, the bean plant, with four leaves now, reaching up toward the sky.

The swallow came swooping by one last time, on her way to her nest under the eaves.

"Goodnight, little cloud," she twittered.

"Goodnight, swallow," said Nim. "Thank you for listening."

"Any time," said the swallow, and she was gone.

Night came, soft and blue.

The stars came out, one by one, until the sky was full of them.

And Nim floated down, gently, gently, until it rested low over the valley like a soft white blanket, tucked around the hills.

It was not afraid. It was not grumpy. It was not holding on.

It was just there, light and soft and quiet, keeping the valley company in the dark.

Inside the honey-coloured house, Amaya was asleep, one arm flung out across her pillow. Her grandmother was asleep. The bean plant on the windowsill was asleep, its leaves folded up like hands in a prayer.

And far away, over the mountains, Grandmother Cloud was resting too, silver in the starlight.

"Let go," Nim whispered to the sleeping valley. "Let flow."

The stream answered with a soft, slow gurgle.

Let go, let flow,
the soft clouds know.
Sleep, little valley,
and grow, grow, grow.

Goodnight, Nim.