His family had tried raising fish in the irrigation canals, but kept losing their stock to the speckled herons that speared the fingerlings with their blade-like beaks. Komet’s mother would have willingly trapped the herons to eat or sell, but his father refused to allow it. He’d seen villages overrun with flies and other pests once the birds were gone. So Komet’s mother raised a few chickens and, when there was rain in the air, the children would hunt for frogs, armed with special baskets that prevented their catch from jumping away. The promise of rain made the frogs sing, and the children would follow the sound, mud oozing between their toes as they waded through the paddy fields. If the frogs stopped singing, the children knew the rain would pass them by. They also knew there was no point in continuing the hunt; when the frogs went silent, it was as if they became invisible. The frogs in the garden of the foreigner’s house were still counting on a downpour and their chorus grew louder with each passing moment.
