Rain
Hard nosed and fierce, the sun beats down with all its fury, sucking the moisture from the air. The drought has made the heat dry, intense and unforgiving. Tiny tufts of kangaroo grass, brown and dead, sprout from the baked and cracked clay pans–small islands in a rising ocean of red dust. Long gone are the lush pastures, even the tough and resilient barley and rye grass have surrendered to the dry, their heads splayed and waiting for a passing animal to collect the seeds and carry them to new stomping grounds. Grasshoppers drift from tuft to tuft in search of green pick, dodging the mounds of hard baked animal faeces clattering across the open ground. The air flutters under the heat mirage–a trick of the light, it turns the air to water, an ocean, borne by the sun.
Down by the river, the colossal Red Gums hang their heads against the torturous and scalding heat, waiting for the rain. The riverbed is cracked and dry, a disjointed string of stagnant waterholes choked with algae and dying fish. The skeletal carcasses of animals and trunks of fallen trees litter the waterline. Fence lines of barbed wire caked with the decaying scum of reeds and grasses of the floods from back a couple of years straddle the gorge. Where the Red Gums cast their shade over the riverbed, the remaining fish gather to breathe, gills flexing painfully, making them easy prey for the kingfisher. But the fish have nothing to fear–as even the kingfishers aren’t hunting today–they’re joining the sheep and cattle in the shade to escape the relentless heat.
A slight breeze from the North teases the arms of a windmill, the head catches the breeze and swings to capitalise. The fan spins several times, the siphon creaking noisily as it draws the ground water, depositing it into a rustic hole infested tank of corrugated iron. Small fountain streams spurt from the belly of the tank, the water puddling and soaking at the tank base. It is the only place where the grass remains, nourished and nurtured by the steady supply of water. It is grazed heavily.
Soon relief will come from the South, the sea breeze is almost here, but not yet, not until the late afternoon when the sun has had its fill and is sinking towards the horizon. A small band of livestock have gathered around the troughs to drink, but they are denied relief–the water is warm and salty–it only increases their thirst.
The purple flowers of the field thistle have faded to brown and the heads of the flowers have broken apart for the seeds to emerge, small cotton like stars, waiting for a friendly breeze to carry them far from here to where they can grow and prosper. The stalk and leaves of the thistle are all but gone–brown, hard and brittle, the centre of the trunk having solidified and turned to styrofoam.
A flock of sulphur crested cockatoos settle in a clump of dead sugar gums, their white feathers standing out against the blue and purple haze of the horizon, their calls screeching through the air. They take flight as a wedgetail circles overhead, the calls alternating from urgent screams to playful hollocks. They can escape to where the breezes are cooler and the water plentiful, but they must fly a long way, the drought is spreading.
The forked tongue of the yellow bellied black snake trembles in the heat, flicking in and out of the goofy smile of the snake’s mouth, its beady eyes looking but not seeing. The heat has made the reptile agile, even though it appears to be dozing under the log. Earlier in the day it could be found sunning itself, but the heat has made the ground too hot, and it must hide and wait until the evening to hunt.
Drifting high on the wind is the wedgetail, casting a beady eye across the land below in search of food. A rabbit has emerged, braving the heat in search of water. It is scampering across the open ground, a cotton tail flashing through the dust like a beacon. It veers in the snakes direction. The snake prepares to strike, its fangs flexing, small droplets of venom gather in anticipation, a poisonous drool awaiting dispatch. But the snake isn’t the only one eyeing the rabbit.
A shadow flashes across the ground, the rabbit lets out a shrill cry, and then it is gone, clasped firmly in the talons of the wedgetail. Its spine snapped in two, it is unable to struggle. The snake watches the wedgetail and its meal retreat into the horizon, disappointed at having its meal snatched from within striking distance. The snake moves on.
The kangaroos are gathering at the edge of the river where the grass shoots are green and they can quench their thirst. They have travelled from inland where the food and water petered and disappeared months before.
In the soupy haze of the encroaching afternoon, sheepdogs doze lazily in whatever shade they can find, squinting against the assaulting squadrons of bush flies that bombard their eyes in search of moisture. Ears twitch, muzzles flinch, muscles ripple. Black satellites orbit and come to ground. Cicadas hiss at the heat, the scratching hark of the cockatoos carries from out of sight nearby.
Gavin is busy wrestling with an unshorn ewe, his drench gun ready, sweat trickling down the sides of his face, rivulets flowing from pits to pubis, and the bloody dust sticking to it all. He pauses from his wrestling match and looks out from beneath the brim of his hat and glances at the sky. It’s habit, the hoping. The waiting. Waiting for the rain. He can plough the paddocks; harvest the pastures; drench, shear and watch over his sheep, but in the end, he’s at the mercy of the elements just like everything else around here.
The wind’s picking up and changing direction. She’s a blower, pushing in from the West, sucking up the sea in the bight to drop it on them in bucket-fulls. The drought’s a gonner alright. He holsters the drench gun and releases the gate back into the yards. The little bitch he’s nick-named “The Piddler” stands at the fence, front paws on the railing, making her own contribution to breaking the drought in her excitement.
The six drilled holes of the rustic steel pipe fenceposts whistle like a child on a pan flute, making noise, but without technique, melody or rhythm; and although they may hum and howl in unison, each hole in every post sings its own lonely song. As the wind begins to rustle the leaves of the giant Red Gum, the fencepost section crescendos, traversing octaves with the speed of a symphony violinist.
But it’s not just the fenceposts that engage in this overture. The fence wires, spanning between the posts, are strung tight enough to be one giant guitar for the playing. They wibble and wobble in the wind, cutting the static air in half and scrambling the flute section across several octaves and pitches.
Flakes of sun-dried sheep shit clatter across the open dust bowl of the holding yards, losing themselves in the cracked earth and tufts of dead grass. Cattle grunt noisily as they rub their necks against the wire, the metal strings twanging in a high pitched rattle. Sheep cough dryly in the dusty air, their bodies convulsing involuntarily, the only benefit being the shaking of the blow flies from their woolly backs. The little black monsters buzz relentlessly. If not settling in the thick wool and loose skin of the sheep’s back and rump, they hunt for eye sockets to lay their maggots.
As the wind gathers strength, the clatter of a timber door against the corrugated iron walls of the shearing shed sounds out the beat. The dead grass in the paddock scatters, the thistle seeds take to the air, wandering through the countryside, lost travellers searching for a place to rest and re-generate.
Ants march relentlessly across the dusty ground, carrying their larvae above their heads. They are angry today, the food is running out. But there is hope; the ants, of all the creatures, are the first to know when the rain is coming, and because they have begun to march, the rain is coming.
The thunderheads materialise from nothing, rising and spreading as they chew on the air and grow fat and bloated with fluid. They bubble and boil in the sky overhead, climbing thousands of feet into the stratosphere. They don’t need a storm front to push them through the air, they ARE the storm front. They make their own time, they obey no rules, they are the creators, the destroyers; they make the rain fall, the lightning strike, and the wind blow.
The wind. It rolls in across the hills, making every blade of grass ristle–sounding out the approach of the storm. The crops of Lucerne, Wheat and Triticali lie down in the path of the oncoming giant. The birds fall silent, the warbling of the magpies, the urgent squawk of starlings, the twittering of the sparrows, even the hark of the crows fade away, drowned out by the silent howl approaching from the West.
The cooing of the steel fenceposts increases in fervour, as does the clattering of the sheep shit, the banging of the timber door. The thistle seeds seize the opportunity and take to the air by the dozens. All that stands before the front are the trees. Massive cypress pines, defiant against the incoming tyrant stand tall and firm, they know how to defeat it. The wind swoops down on them, gathering speed as it races across the open ground.
A halted breath in anticipation of the magnificent explosion of sound that must come..........nothing.
Timber arms bend with the wind, holding the tyrant at bay. Every finger grapples at the enemy: leaves, branches, trunk. The two foes wrestle, the wind gets the upper hand, snapping arms from the trees with a sickening crack, but the trees are victorious, they shatter the wind, and all that remains is a lonely sigh as it crumbles and breaks. Its strength gone, it limps from the plantation, defeated, but for only a moment. The storm front reaches it and breathes new life into its companion, and the wind is away once more.
The ants have all but gone now. The sheep and cattle huddle together in frightened clumps, preparing to weather the storm. The cockatoos are unable to stay aloft and swoop down to the safety of their roosts as the wedgetail grips the side of her nest, spreading her wings into a humpy for her eaglets. The kangaroos are off and away, bounding through gullies and vaulting fences. Farmer and sheepdog alike find shelter in the workshop of the old shearing shed as the clouds swallow the sun. The dogs slink away to the furthest corner, peering out anxiously at their master as he stands with his hat tilted, watching the sky.
The temperature drops, the wind falls away.
A flash of light, a crackle, and the shattering BOOM of the thunder clap magnetises the air, the shock wave rippling through the humid atmosphere. Small needles of water materialise, wet bombs plummet to Earth. The frenzied pounding of the timber door is drowned out by the timpani of rain drops colliding with the iron roof.
Another flash of bright, white light. A searing crackle, and the thunder clap rolls its tongue over the countryside once more. The chaotic clapping of rain on the roof intensifies, and in the background, the gurgle of water running into gutters and down drainpipes crescendos to the chorus. Out in the open, small, almost indecipherable thuds are the bass, the sound of rain landing in the dirt, the impact raising small clouds of dust into the air, the Earth is so dry.
Relentless, the rain lasts for hours. The wind howls, the thunder claps, and the rain pounds. Down in the paddocks the sheep hang their heads miserably close to the ground. As the rain drops break the canopy of the tree they turn the dust to mud that clings to everything and supports nothing. The sheep stomp and stamp and shift about uncomfortably, mud to their knees or higher, weighing down the wool on their bellies and soaking them through.
The dogs shift about through the scattering of vehicles and shelters as each thunder clap sounds, tail between legs, eyes wide, ears back with fear. Try to touch one of them now and they’ll take your hand off. The Piddler’s left another puddle as she scurries about like a half crazed rat, muzzle twitching towards the sky.
The rain slackens in the tail of the symphony, and the thunder sounds the finale with a rousing drum roll. In an instant there’s nothing but white and they all hear the air crackle and pop as the lightning touches down right outside. The dogs yelp with surprise and Gavin backs away to join them. Down by the river the cattle and sheep are off and running across the paddock, the cattle bucking and kicking and all of them leaving a river of shit as they bolt from the trees.
As the clouds move on, they leave behind the bubbling of streams running down hillsides, swollen beyond their means as they move towards the river. The steel water tanks reverberate with the plopping of water flowing from drainpipes into empty metal chasms and the dusty overflows. The river begins to move again, the water level rising as it swells and reclaims territory taken by the sun, gouging out new hollows and sweeping away the carcasses and debris.
The wedgetail takes to the air again, circling above the cockatoos as they gouge the softened ground for grubs. The yellow bellied black snake slides effortlessly from the hollowed out log and writhes across the ground in search of tasty morsels flushed out by the rain. With the sun gone there is no shadow from the wedgetail as she dives to Earth.
Water drops hang from the tree branches and leaves, gathering volume as the remnants of the storm trickle along the limbs to their end. They hover for a moment, before being wrenched free by the whispering breeze.