Dry Spell

by Matthew Betts

In autumn, the river seemed little more than a trickle. Just exaggerated drips forcing ever-widening ripples to cross the water - causing everything that floats to rise languidly and fall the same.

The village Fathers told stories when the children were restless. These were tales from many bedtimes ago about when the water flowed like a wall of anger from upstream, tearing down homes, carrying off livestock, leaving the land in turmoil.

As spring approaches, the melting snows raise the water a tiny bit each day. Long ago, the Elders cast spells to keep the river at bay, but legend says the magic will fail one day. The young ones are sure those are just words; like the warnings about dragons and trolls-things meant to keep everyone in line.

But still, every seventh day each child goes down to the riverbed carrying their father’s spell book and wearing their best robe. There, they spend long afternoons sitting on the crusting banks with the sun high in the sky above them, just so they could learn the magic needed to hold back the flood.

Each time, the beauty of the light on the water distracts them and each time the lesson is lost.