When the clouds turn purple, the village goes very loud—-a stampede of feet, windows shuttered, doors clicking shut in symphony—-and then suddenly very quiet, eating dinner in hushed voices as they glance outside, waiting for it to start, waiting for it to end. In the midst of it, they do not notice the little boy make his way outside to stare at the darkening violet sky.

The rain scorches the ground and poisons their crops, but he watches it with calm blue eyes, and it does not burn him.