Sacrificial

The farmer cast a weary glance at the sky. It was bright, blue, and not a cloud in sight. Some days, he would tip his head back and scream. Sometimes the sky would rumble back, but not today. He couldn’t remember the last time it rumbled.

There hadn’t been a drop of rain in months. His crops were dying, and so was he.

With a disgruntled sigh, he started toward the barn but stopped when he remembered Betty Sue wasn’t there anymore. A month ago, he’d taken the old cow to the middle of his field and slit her throat, blood soaking the dry dirt. It tore at his heart, listening to her harrowing last moos. He tipped his head back, eyes rimmed with tears, voice cracking, and yelled at the sky, “Is this what you want? Does this make you happy?”

That night, for the first time in months, he fried a steak over the fire. He stared at his plate for hours, unable to justify eating his best friend. When the thought disgusted him too much, he sold what was left of Betty Sue to Miss Nesbitt down the road. Then he bought a cow from the butcher.

His sacrifice of Betty Sue went unnoticed. There was still no rain.

…

The day she came, he was rummaging through the barn, sorting the junk that might be sellable. She was beautiful, as goddesses always were. His eyes blurred when he looked right at her, as if he were staring cross-eyed. He blinked, focusing on the wall behind her and watched from the corner of his eye. She had bright red lips and long, dark hair hung in loose curls. She reminded him of his wife when she was young.

“You are frustrated. You ask for rain, but none comes,” she said. Her voice was sweet and melodious, and he leaned closer, wanting every word.

“Yes, I offered you a sacrifice. Is that not enough?”

“No,” she said. His heart sank – he had nothing left to give. His wife had died years ago, and he’d sacrificed his only cow. “You love this land, yes? Give something of true value, and your land will flourish.”

He stepped back, hand over his heart. “Betty Sue was all I had left! She was valuable.”

Her image flickered, fading away. “Try again,” she whispered and was gone.

….

Weeks passed with no sight of rain. There was nothing more he could possibly offer, except for the few chickens that wandered around, but they were skinny and useless. Every plant in his field was dead, shriveled under the suns dry heat. His heart was heavy with the loss of Betty Sue, and he often spent the evenings in the barn, staring vacantly. He would snap out of his daze when the sky had grown dark and the crickets and frogs sang. Eventually, he would force himself to to bed, but sleep never seemed to come, tossing and turning.

Miss Nesbitt visited once in attempt to lift his spirits. She told him about the TV she’d just bought and all the different programs she could watch and how interesting they were. He grunted in response, and eventually she left, leaving both of them hopeless. The farmer didn’t trust that technology, and he never needed it before. Plus, most of the buttons and screens were confusing and he would easily become frustrated. He knew because Miss Nesbitt’s grandchild showed him once. He preferred things the old fashioned way, and he much preferred being left alone.

Finally, the cold unrelenting clamp on his heart snapped and the first tear fell. And then the next. Until he was sobbing. He curled in bed, letting the sobs rack his body.

When his eyes ran out of tears, he quietly picked himself up, retrieved the shovel from the barn and began digging. He enjoyed the stretch of his muscles, the way they tensed and sored. It meant he felt something.

He dug for hours – until the hole was wide enough and long enough. He climbed in hole, laid down, and began piling dirt on his torso. Once his legs and stomach were covered, he let the dirt fall over his face. It was damp and cool and every crevice of his body filled with it. Eyes. Ears. Mouth. Suffocating.

He let the dirt squeeze the air from him, until there was nothing but comforting darkness left.

….

“He buried himself,” Miss Nesbitt said. “Don’t know how he did it.” She shook her head in disbelief and watched as they dug up his body.

They placed a white sheet over his body and loaded him in the back of a car - to be properly buried. The farmer had no children or family, so it was only Miss Nesbitt and a few others who gathered around his grave. As they were saying their last prayers and goodbyes, it began to rain. Slowly, at first, and then harder until it was down pouring. They huddled under the tent placed over the grave, listening to the rain bounce off the plastic.

“Always rains at funerals,” the gravedigger muttered as they lowered the casket.

…

The news anchor anxiously wiped her brow, waiting to go on air for the first time.

“On air in three, two one…”

She sat straighter, focusing on the teleprompter, and began, “ It’s been a very dry summer so far, with a record low amount of rain. It looks like last week's prediction of rain is coming true thankfully. We'll see rain every day, however there will be the possibility of flash flooding…”

....

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

[b]A few questions: What did you think of think of the ending? Did you see it coming? There was supposed to be a "twist" but I'm not sure if really conveyed it right or if it was confusing. Thanks![/b]