The Dry Spell

The people of the village rushed to one tent, at the cry of a child. Looking at the child, they wished he had some illness, but – as they feared - he hadn’t.

It had not rained yet; and winter was over weeks ago… The water left in the reserves was not enough for them people of the tribe to survive. Not until next year’s winter, that is. Several attempts were made to find the water for them to drink, but they were all futile.

Plants shared the nightmare of the people, and had chosen to leave this world without suffering- Wheat had died in the first few weeks it was planted, while rice found nowhere to be at all. The once green village now turned into a desert; the only trees surviving being palms and cacti.

“We need to pray more to God, he will save us.” The village’s elder cut in the child’s cries.

“We’ve already tried that, it didn’t work! We need a practical solution!” The people replied.

“We shall try again and again, putting our faith in the one who can save us.” He said, contemplating their words.

The echo of the cry was – then - the only voice heard in the tent, dissatisfaction and worry visible on the people’s faces, contradicting with what the chief had in mind, when he first spoke.

Silence soon far from calmed everyone, including the elder, who, at that point, started praying for the soul of the child to find peace.

“Save your prayers!” The father cried, then went running out, tears swelling in his eyes. The mother was also crying, and everyone was trying to help her.

Moving away from the tent, the man looked at the sky and shouted: “How could you do this to me!”

“I did all I was asked, I even sacrificed my sheep to you, and this is how you reward me!” then crumbled to his knees, holding the grains of sand in his palms. Tears swelling in his eyes rolled down his cheeks, and hit the ground.

A strong echo threw him off-balance, and unto the ground. He looked back and rushed back to the tent, calling everyone to see what he just did.

Everyone rejoiced at the sound of sky’s rough, tribal drums, and its black cotton. Everyone except the elder, who seemed more frightened now than during any time of the draught. Shaking in his place, he told everyone to gather their things and run towards the mountain.

His words echoed through everyone’s minds as they ran for their lives. “This was all mentioned in the ancient prophecies. The draught, the death of a child, and the drum beat. We need to clear the village as fast as we can!”

Looking down from the mountain, everyone saw the clouds covering the village, and pouring like summer storms, for a consecutive week. The water flooded the banks and spilled onto the streets. But the people laughed and promised that they’d restore the village, piece by piece. And then the clouds gave way, as if to agree.