Midnight Musings: A short story collection.

Rainmaker

When the wells run dry, we know the worth of water.

B. Franklin

1

I stand at the edge of the village, gazing out over the cracked earth, the scars of drought etched deep into the land. The once-fertile soil is brittle beneath my feet, crumbling to dust in the wind. Crops that used to stretch tall and green now lie shriveled, nothing more than withered stalks. The air feels like sandpaper in my throat, thick with the people's unspoken fears. We're all desperate, though no one says it aloud.

The bell tolls from the center of the village, its sound cutting through the dry silence like a warning. A signal that the meeting is about to begin: I pull my shawl tighter against the dust and join the others as they shuffle toward the town hall. Their faces are haggard, their eyes dull and hollow, and it is as if the drought has drained the land and their lives. I see the same hopelessness reflected in their expressions that I feel in my bones. There's little left to hope for.

The last Rainmaker disappeared a year ago, and with him, the rains. We've lived through droughts before, but nothing like this—twelve months without a drop of rain. The wells have long since run dry, the rivers reduced to trickles of mud. What little water remains is hoarded or fought over. Neighbors have turned on neighbors, brothers on brothers. The once-thriving village is now on the brink of collapse like a parched leaf waiting to crumble beneath the weight of a breath.

Inside the town hall, it's stifling—the heat clings to the walls, and the low murmurs of conversation buzz like trapped insects. The elders sit at the front of the room, their faces lined with age and uncertainty. They've called this meeting to discuss a solution, but everyone knows what that really means: they're out of ideas. There is no solution. We're running out of time; if nothing changes, we'll all die from thirst or each other.

As I always do, I sit near the back, trying to disappear into the shadows. But I can't ignore the low thrum in the air, that strange pull I've felt all my life. It's stronger today. Like the storm clouds gathering in my dreams, whispering of something I can't quite name. The villagers argue in low, tense voices, but I hear only the beat of my heart and the faint stir of wind against the walls. Something is coming. I can feel it.

The elders sit at a long wooden table at the front of the room, their backs straight but their faces worn and weary. The room falls into a tense silence as one of the elders, a tall, sharp-eyed man named Elder Thorne, rises to speak. His voice cracks slightly from the dry air as he begins.

"We are running out of time," he says, his words punctuated by the weight of truth. "The wells are dry. The crops are dead. And what little water remains is no longer enough to sustain us."

A murmur runs through the crowd. Some of the villagers bow their heads, and others look around, hoping someone else will offer an answer. But there is no answer, and they know it.

"Without the Rainmaker, we are helpless," an older woman near the front says, her voice trembling with anger. You said the gods would protect us, that the Rainmaker would return. Where are your promises now?"

"The gods have abandoned us," someone else mutters.

"They haven't abandoned us," Elder Thorne replies, his jaw tightening. "The drought is a test. We must prove our strength and our worth. The Rainmaker will come again when—"

"When we're all dead?" a young man snaps. "When there's nothing left to save?"

Shouts erupt from the crowd, frustration and fear spilling over. The tension in the room grows heavy, like the suffocating heat outside. I can feel it pressing in on me, and the pull inside me tightens, winding like a coiled spring.