(100-word flash fiction)
“No rain for four years.” The shaman, grim-faced, is bending over a plant.
“It was hard when we had no rain for two summers. We barely survived.” The tribesman standing behind him sounds worried.
The shaman turns away from the clump of thorny brush to gaze at the bleached, shimmering sky. Already, in his bones he can feel the moisture ebbing from the land like a mother feels the milk drying up inside her.
“But good will come.” His face softens. “We will survive. But the white man, he won’t. He will flee. The land will be ours once again.”
Story submission for the Friday Fictioneers photo prompt below –