Desperate Times

With no rain on the horizon, farmer Amos decides to throw caution to the wind while he awaits a miracle

- RACHEL NEL

IN WHAT has become a morning ritual, Amos slings the gun over his shoulder, opens the front door and peers upon the dawn sky. Unsurprisingly, there isn’t even a wisp of a cloud anywhere on the horizon. The night is rapidly fading against the rising sun in a defeated, bruised purple. Despite the hour, it’s unseasonably warm.

Amos surveys the barren landscape of cracked brown earth which used to be carpeted by lush, verdant pasture. He sighs, berating himself for daring to hope that today would be any different. He should have learnt by now that hope is the worst kind of torture – especially when repeatedly going unfulfilled.

His despair still hasn’t abated by the time he steps into the barn. Usually, the gentle lowing of the cattle soothes him, but this time, it angers him as he looks at their diminishing frames, their protruding ribs etched against their hides.

He has already lost some of the herd to this drought; their starved, sickly carcasses picked bare by vultures and other predators feasting on the famished.

Piles of bones are scattered across the desiccated land, the only memorials to the fact their owners had existed at all.

Perhaps Amos is projecting his own guilt, but the herd’s normally trusting gazes seem to be filled with reproach, as if they are blaming him for their prolonged suffering.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, patting the brown coat of the Jersey closest to him.

He looks at the dwindling hay supply in the corner and scoops the daily ration into the troughs. It barely fills half in each.