Oasis

[the_wolfs_howl]

Author's Note: This story was inspired by my own experiences of water shortage, though I severely melodramaticized them for this story. I was also inspired by Sting's song Desert Rose, namely the lines, "I dream of rain ... I wake in vain." This is a story that happens in an unspecified place, at an unspecified time, to an unspecified person. I don't think a setting can get much vaguer than that.

Drought.

Such a simple word, only one syllable long, spoken in an instant. But the reality it describes drags on and on, seemingly never-ending, like the sand in the desert that makes no change except for the shifting of the shapes the wind makes in the dunes. There are seven letters in the word 'drought.' Seven letters to signify desperation in its completest form.

She had never experienced drought before. She had only moved there two years ago, and those years had been wetter than usual. This year, however, as the not-so-rainy rainy season shifted into the dry season, she experienced drought in all its intensity. Her neighbors were somewhat used to this, so they took pity on her and told her how to prepare for the drought they said was imminent. She wasn't sure whether to believe it was as harsh as they said, but followed their advice just in case.

So buckets and barrels filled up with water while it lasted, and she made plans for how to conserve as much water as possible when necessary. Had it not been for the ominous hundred-liter jugs filled to the brim, she might have forgotten about the oncoming drought. Yet when the gentle sun reared its golden head one morning and shook out its mane of rays, she was cruelly reminded. The sun was a gentle kitten no longer; now it roared and snarled like a grumpy lion roused from a winter-long slumber. Greenery shrivelled and dried up, the stones baked, and any water that had not been collected evaporated almost instantly.

And so she was faced with all the realities of drought. Months ago, she had calculated her daily rations of water for the predicted six months of drought. Happy she had done this already, she measured out the proper amount for that first day. Never before had she realized how much water she used in a day. She washed her body, washed her dishes, washed her hands.... And as the days passed by, she saw how little water each day's ration actually was. The amount seemed to shrink from a bucketful to a cupful, to just a small puddle cupped in her hands, and still the black line at the water level in her basin read the same number.

She cut back on her usage of water whenever possible, recycling the water until it was a sickly greyish-brown color and stank like a swamp. When she poured water over her head to wash her sweaty body, she caught it in a large basin that she later used to wash her dishes in.

As time dragged on, she steadily became more and more obsessed with the conservation of water. A great feeling of pride welled up in her chest when she looked at the giant jugs of water and saw how full they still were. And as she smiled grimly, she held her breath so as not to smell the fumes from the dirty water she had just used to wash her hands with.

And slowly, she realized that she was cutting back on everything else in her life as well. In order to use less water, she wore the same clothes for days on end, and used the same dishes as many times as possible. She cut her hair to eliminate the need to wash it. She cut back on what she ate and forewent the little luxuries she usually allowed herself. She even refrained from seeing people more often than was absolutely necessary. As the days dragged into weeks and the weeks into months, she gradually drew in on herself and on her life until she spent most of the day lying perfectly still, sleeping when possible, so as not to exert herself and break into a sweat. If she did, she would have to clean herself more often. She ate little, drank less, and confined herself to just one room of her house. She lay on the hot, dusty floor and obsessively watched the black line that marked her current water level.

When she slept, she dreamed of rain and rushing rivers. She dreamed of the leaden skies opening up and pouring blessed water down to the earth. She dreamed constantly of water – in the night, and sometimes as she lay in a half-conscious stupor during the day as well – but when she woke she was always confronted with the reality of drought.

One day, when the drought had been going on for a little over four months, she stood in her basin, prepared to pour water already thrice-used over herself. Everything seemed hazy and unreal, and she watched a single drop of water roll down her arm to the tip of her finger, where it dropped onto the floor outside of the basin, wasted. She stood staring at it for a long time, unable to move.

She was like that drop, she realized. Wasted on the dirty ground, simply waiting to be evaporated. Useless, pointless, purposeless. She was merely continuing to exist, little more keeping her alive than the innate desire to survive. And if she continued in this vein, she would surely turn to vapor as that drop of water would. No one would remember, no one would regret except in a distantly abstract pity.

She sat, hunched and curled up, in her basin for hours, still staring at where the little round wet spot had been. She wondered who that drop of water had been, what its story was, if anyone missed it. And a question chased around the rest of her thoughts like a dog snapping at her heels: Why am I feeling sorry for a drop of water?

When she finally roused herself enough to return to the bed she had made for herself on the floor of her room, she quietly acknowledged it to herself: I am going to die.

----------

At first she thought it was in her dream. It would not be the first time she had woken with a start, expecting to find rain falling outside, only to have her hopes dashed to pieces. But when she lay quiet and still for several minutes and the pitter-pattering did not stop, she began to wonder....

A flash of white lit up the room, followed a moment later by a loud thunderclap. She sat bolt upright, more awake than she had been in months. Her hands and feet began to move before her mind had caught up, and she found herself lugging the empty jugs, bottles, buckets, barrels, and any empty container she could find, outside to catch the rain. She saw her neighbors doing the same, and for about an hour her mind was filled with rushing back and forth, replacing filled vessels with empty ones, heaving at the larger ones. A few men helped her with the hundred-liter jugs, and she hustled and bustled about with every cup, bowl, and dish she could lay her hands on.

The amazing part of the storm was that, even after an hour, it did not stop. Finally even she had to stop fussing about and admit that her house contained every drop of water possible. And then.... She stood outside in the pouring rain with her neighbors, with the people she had shunned for the past several months, and let the blessed rain wash over her. At one point she found herself laughing, dancing, and chattering with the women she hardly even knew, and towards the end of the night she simply sat by herself, on her front steps, drinking in the water through every pore. It was such a relief to be soaked to the skin, to feel the dirt washed out of her clothes and the sweat swept off her arms.

The storm died away towards morning, and the sun rose behind rainclouds. The entire sky was painted with swathes of glowing gold, burning bronze, and rampant red. She went inside before the cool of the storm could be burned away by the sun, and when she had closed the door behind herself, she smiled for the first time in months.

In the midst of the desert of drought, she had found her oasis.

[aalenfae]

Incredible! I love the whole thing. Especially the first paragraph. It's very cleverly written.

Though I'm not sure if I can decipher the meaning very well. I've never been good at such things.

[the_wolfs_howl]

Great! I'm glad you like it! As for the first paragraph, I'm basically just saying drought seems to drag on interminably. The stuff about it being seven letters is referring to the number seven in the Bible, which usually signifies that something is holy or complete. Thus, "desperation in its completest form."
Thanks for reading!

[Esoteric]

An interesting little experiment. You're right...it is very time-period vague. Setting one might help define some of her actions, but generally I liked it. A creative comparison between water and life drying up.

[~darkelfgirl~]

I don't know if this story was meant to be humorous, but I honestly found the part about her religiously conserving water funny.

She cut back on her usage of water whenever possible, recycling the water until it was a sickly greyish-brown color and stank like a swamp. When she poured water over her head to wash her sweaty body, she caught it in a large basin that she later used to wash her dishes in.

Ack. The "stank like a swamp" part is the part I found humorous.

Very creative. It's true--you don't know how important water is until it is scarce. I like the philosophical beginning. Nice descriptions, too.

Good job again ^^

[the_wolfs_howl]

Thanks for reading this, you guys! *psst* I wrote more Black Dragon, you know....

This wasn't meant to be necessarily humorous. Or at least, it would be sort of rueful humor, if you know what I mean. When we had water shortage, we'd reuse the water too, though not to this extent, and I found a twisted sort of humor in it.