The days went slowly by, quietly and most importantly, without any rain. There had been no rain in the valley for as long as the children could remember. The wells were starting to bring up muddy brown water and clothes had to be washed in yesterday's dishwater. The lawns had faded to a crisp biscuit colour and the flowers drooped their beautiful heads. Even the trees seemed to hang their branches like weary arms. The valley turned browner and drier and thirstier on every hot, baking day.
The townsfolk grew worried and would murmur to each other when passing with much shaking of heads and tut tuts. They would look upwards searching for rain clouds in the blue, clear sky, but none ever came.
"The tale of the Dragon cannot be true," said old Mrs Greywhistle, the shopkeeper.
"It hasn't moved an inch, I swear," replied her customer, staring at a huge pot roast with eager eyes.
It was now too hot for the children to play out in the direct sun and they would gather under the trees in the forest (which was their favorite place anyway) digging holes in the dust and snapping brittle twigs.
"The Dragon will help us soon," said one child.
"He must do something," agreed another.
"I'm sure he will," said a third.
They all nodded in agreement.
