Goddess of the Weather

It had been centuries since my story had been told. Centuries since my name had been uttered. Centuries since the true origin of storms had been shared.

It was a Thursday night when the little girl asked her mother about me. She’d dutifully finished her homework, eagerly awaiting the arrival of the weekend. Her mother pushed aside her stress about work as she tucked the young girl into bed. The storm transpiring outside the window was tame; for a storm. The thunder sounded almost gentle, the heavy rain patter rhythmic. The howling of the wind sounded more like a song than a war-cry. But then, I suppose I was biased.

“Mummy,” Daisy said, wriggling around under her covers until she settled. “Can we leave the window open tonight? I want to smell the rain.” She turned her face towards the glass and dramatically sniffed the air as if to prove her point, giving a contented sigh afterwards.

Her mother laughed, her worries about work slipping further from her mind at the sight of her daughter grinning from such a simplest thing. “No darling,” she answered, sitting on the edge of the bed, “the rain will come inside.”

“So?” Daisy pressed indignantly.

Her mother laughed again, shaking her head and double checking the window was indeed closed. “What story would you like to hear tonight, little one?”

Daisy was still facing the window, seemingly mesmerised by the raindrops streaming down the window like teardrops. Her mother was just thinking about how grateful she was that her daughter still hadn’t ‘outgrown’ the desire to hear her tell stories when the little girl said, “Tell me why storms happen, Mummy.”

A smile curled at the corner of the mother’s lips. This was one of her favourite stories to tell. Personally, I thought it should be everyone’s favourite, but then, like I said, I was biased.

The cooing of the wind drew the mother’s attention then, and she too stared out the blurry window as if it might transport her to another world if she so wished it.

“There is a goddess,” she said softly, “her name is Stomyrah.” This made the little girl perk up, turning her gaze from the window. She loved stories about gods and goddesses and magic of any kind. She gathered them in her mind the way other children collected flowers in a vase or shells in a basket.

“A goddess?” She asked, her stare now firmly fixated on her mother. She rolled the name over her tongue a few times, ensuring she had it right. Stomyrah. Stomyrah. Stomyrah. I smiled, it felt good to hear my name after so many years.

The mother smiled too, an affectionate kind of smile caused by watching her child’s eyes glaze over slightly with dreams and imaginings. “Yes, Stomyrah. Can I go on?”

Daisy nodded enthusiastically.

“Stomyrah is the Goddess of the Weather, Deliverer of Sunshine, Bringer of Rain, Maker of Storms. Everyday the weather depends on her moods and wishes, emotions and desires.”

A frown formed on Daisy’s face. “Is she angry right now?” Her gaze flickered back to the window, but only for a moment. “Why would she be angry now? It’s almost the weekend and a new episode of The Clone Wars comes out tomorrow!”

The mother smiled again, quickly continuing before Daisy got too distracted by what she’d just mentioned and lost interest in the story. “She might be angry; the weekend isn’t always enough to bring joy to everyone.”

“What about The Clone Wars?”

“But there are other kinds of emotions that can cause storms. Stomyrah’s storms are a bit like our tears. It isn’t just anger that causes those, is it?”

Concentration crinkled the skin on Daisy’s forehead. She shook her head. “Does it sometimes storm because Stomyrah is very very happy? One time I cried because I was so so happy.”

“Maybe,” the mother answered. “Maybe sometimes she makes it storm on a Sunday morning just so we can stay on the couch with a blanket and hot chocolates and enjoy being cozy.”

“Just for us?” Daisy asked excitedly.

Her mother laughed again, a sound only her daughter could coax from her so effortlessly. “No dear, I’m sure she does it for everyone.”

Daisy frowned again. That expression only seemed to cross her face when she was confused or contemplating something. I dreaded the day when life made that look appear more often, stealing the priceless smiles from her face. But for now, she was still a girl looking forward to her mother’s bedtime stories. For now, she was the girl listening to the story of me.

The downpour was beginning to quiet now, the wind silencing and the thunder departing. The mother opened the window so the little girl could smell the rain.

“Then how do we know when she’s angry?” Daisy was sitting up in bed now. The moon was just beginning to peak through the fading clouds and lighting up her hair in a striped pattern.

“When the thunder vibrates through you, shaking your bones like an apocalypse. When the lightning is forked like a trident cutting through the sky. When the wind sounds like a wolf, more animal than nature. When the rain turns to hail. That’s when you know Stomyrah is angry,” the mother answered.

The telltale frown appeared on Daisy’s face again. She didn’t bother asking what ‘apocalypse’ meant. Instead, she said, “When that girl at school punched me, the loudest, angriest storm I ever saw batted at my window that whole afternoon and all through the night.”

The mother remained silent, only nodding and waiting for the little girl to go on.

“Do you think I have the powers of Stomyrah?”

Her face was earnest, sincere, which was probably why the mother kept her voice soft and gentle as she said, “No, darling, but maybe the Goddess of the Weather knew.”

“But how would she…” Daisy’s eyes widened, “she watches what happens? She can see me living my life?”

“I don’t know, little one,” the mother responded. “But I’m sure if she was going to watch out for anyone, it would be you.”

Daisy smiled a contented smile at that, face glowing with moonlight and pride. The moisture in the air was beginning to make her hair frizzy and as untamed as the wind, but like all little girls, she cared more about the next story than the state of her hair.

She leaned closer. “So when daddy fought with you, and went away for a whole week, she was watching? She was sad too?”

“Why do you say that Daisy?” her mother asked, already knowing the answer.

“It rained the whole time until he was back. Not stormed though. I don’t think Stomyrah was angry, I think she was just crying.”

A soothing smile spread across the mother’s lips again, knowing this was one of Daisy’s favourite stories yet, and she’d ask to hear it endless times after.

“Mummy, when our dog died, the sky didn’t stop crying until I did.”

“Didn’t it?”

Daisy shook her head emphatically, now on a roll. “When dad told us he was gonna sell the house I was so so mad, and it stormed so loud that day.”

The mother smiled knowingly.

“The thunder and lightning and wind didn’t go away until he changed his mind and told us we could stay after all.”

The mother glanced at the clock before slowly rising from the bed. “Maybe Stomyrah is looking over you Daisy.”

Daisy lay back down, letting her mother tug the covers up over her shoulders again, breathing in the lingering scent of rain as she did. “What happened to Stomyrah mummy?”

“She settled down amongst the humans and started living as one of them.”

“What does she look like?”

“Just like any human darling.”

“What colour hair?” Daisy was still wide-eyed with questions and wonderings.

“I don’t know.”

“What about her eye colour?”

“I’m not sure.” Her mother answered with a smile.

“Do you know anything about how she looks?”

Stopping on the way to the doorway and the waiting light switch, the mother turned back to the little girl, a thoughtful look on her face. “Her back is covered in black streaks of lightning, grey clouds and blue raindrops.”

The daughter’s eyes lit up with excitement. “Tattoos?”

The mother nodded, turning out the light and letting their eyes adjust to the starlight pouring in the window, not a cloud visible now. “That’s what we call them, yes.”

“Awesome,” Daisy murmured. Her mother had said goodnight and left the room when the little girl murmured, “I’ll look for Stomyrah. I need to thank her for watching over me. I need to thank her for bringing me the smell of rain.” She breathed it in as closed her eyes, letting sleep seep over her like the gentle tide on a beach.

When she dreamed, she saw lightning and dark clouds and raindrops, and the back of a woman tattooed with them all.

I smiled, knowing this girl would continue telling my story.

⛈️⛈️⛈️

For two whole years, Daisy searched for Stomyrah, every tattoo catching her eye like gold to the miner. For two whole years she found nothing, certainly not me.

But one day, finally, Daisy noticed something she’d never seen before. She was at the beach with her parents, lying on a towel moulded into the sand, when her mother decided to go swimming.

The bikini she wore revealed something on her back that made Daisy’s breath catch in her throat. Tattoos. Her back was covered in black streaks of lightning, grey clouds and blue raindrops. Daisy stared.

I turned back and smiled at her.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

THE END

*****

Note: This story was written for the Mythmaker Challenge.

Prompt: Write a myth to explain the fabled origin story of why something exists.

*****

If you enjoyed this story please check out my poetry book 'Wasted Love' on Amazon. You can find it here.

*****

Here are some more of my stories: