DOG DAYS

There had been no rain for fifty-seven days, not the longest drought in memory but one of the harshest with temperatures raging at thirty-eight or forty. There was no grass, for garden or beast, and feed was being trucked in from Wee Waa.

Everyday the meteorology office predicted rain in the next week, storms the next day, every day the predictions were wrong. Every night the family sat on the verandah after the sun had sunk under the horizon, hoping for a cool breeze at least, some respite. But no breeze came and even the mosquitoes had departed, or died from lack of moisture.

They drank beer, because water was more valuable.

The kids were itchy from the bore water, and even that had slowed to a trickle with no wind to turn the blades of the windmill. Conversations, serious conversations were had about leaving, walking off, going somewhere. But where, and with what funds?

Where was the thunderstorm predicted for tonight, the sky was as clear as it ever was, blue all day, black at night with a billion bright stars.

Bed time, and as they started to rise and stretch, the sound of thunder. The dog hid its head between Gavin’s knees, Gavin stroked its ears. There boy, there there.

Where was the lightning? It must be behind them, but as the thought appeared, so did the strikes, in the far distance, followed by a low rumble. They increased in number until the whole horizon was decorated with them, and seemed to be getting closer. They stood, waiting, holding their breath.

Suddenly the old river gum, two hundred metres from the house, split down the middle and burst into flames. Immediately rain began to fall, in straight heavy sheets, immediately it stopped and all was still again.