Brr brr Patapim

**The Rainkeeper**

Brr Bbr Patapim was born from mist and thunder, a spirit forged in the heart of the Rainforest of Elestra. He had no parents, no village, no name until the wind itself whispered one into the downpour—Brr Bbr Patapim. The sound of rain hitting leaves, of droplets racing down bark, of the eternal rhythm of sky and earth—he *was* that sound.

For centuries, he roamed the canopy, gliding with the rainclouds, whispering to the roots, dancing with the wind. Wherever he passed, rain followed. Life bloomed in his wake: frogs croaked, rivers swelled, and orchids unfurled in wet joy. He wasn’t a god. Not quite. But he was a keeper—*The Rainkeeper*.

One day, the forest went silent.

The silence wasn't peace. It was pain. It screamed in quiet ways—in birds that didn’t sing, in soil that cracked, in saplings that died in their sleep. Brr Bbr Patapim descended from the clouds, barefoot on damp leaves, his hair made of mist, eyes reflecting storm. He followed the silence.

Then he saw it.

An open wound in the earth.

The trees had been felled—massive elders, some older than his first thunder. They lay sprawled like fallen titans, their roots exposed and weeping. Men in orange vests moved among them, machines coughing black smoke into the air. Chainsaws sang a shrill, hungry song. Rain tried to fall here, but it evaporated before it kissed the ground. The forest recoiled. The sky grieved.

“No,” Brr Bbr Patapim whispered, and the wind stilled to listen. “*My rain… my rain is not for this.*”

He raised his arms. Clouds churned above, grey and furious. A storm rolled in. Lightning cracked. The workers looked up, shielding their eyes. Rain pelted the machines, flooded the paths, soaked through boots. The chainsaws died in a whimper.

But the men returned. And the next. And the next.

Brr Bbr Patapim raged.

He summoned monsoons. He split rivers to wash away their camps. He wrapped vines around their trucks and whispered floods into the soil.

Yet still, they came.

So he did what he had never done—he left the forest.

He followed the trail of metal and smoke, crossing hills now stripped bare, rivers turned to mud. He came to a city—concrete veins and glass bones. Here, the air held no memory of rain. Skyscrapers loomed like dead trees, reaching for clouds they would never touch.

He walked invisible among them, a ghost of mist and sorrow. He saw screens—glowing boxes that showed forests falling, but no one wept. He entered buildings—cold, humming places where people wore suits and talked numbers, not trees. He listened. He learned.

The men were not evil. Not all. Some wanted to help. Some didn’t know. But many had forgotten.

He returned to Elestra, quieter now, older.

The forest welcomed him like a wounded friend—still beautiful, still breathing, but less. Much less.

So he changed.

He became rain again.

Not just a spirit, but *the rain* itself. He soaked into the roots, hid in seeds, clung to clouds. He whispered to the young—children who still danced in puddles, who listened to the stories of frogs and winds. He entered their dreams.

And he waited.

One night, a girl named Miri, eight years old and wild as vines, dreamed of a man made of rain. He showed her trees with voices, rivers that remembered, and a chainsaw that cried.

When she woke, she drew it.

Her parents laughed gently, but posted the drawing online.

It went viral.

Others saw. Others remembered. The Rainkeeper’s voice, quiet but patient, traveled through the world in digital rain—videos, paintings, poems, games. Some mocked. Some clicked away.

But some listened.

Children began to name the rain again. They played as Brr Bbr Patapim. They refused to let their parents cut trees in the yard. They asked why the sky was grey but not crying.

And so the rain slowly returned.

Years passed.

In Elestra, the machines retreated. New trees were planted by hands that once held chainsaws. Miri, now grown, became a protector of the forest. She said she had met the rain once, and no one laughed.

Brr Bbr Patapim watched from the clouds, his form more thunder now than man, his voice in every drizzle.

The war wasn't over. But the forest breathed again.

And the Rainkeeper smiled.