Water 水

by  Ross Santee

     The sun was hot! Smith looked at the water hole. There was no water in it.

     "Well," he said, "No water, no farm!"

     "Perhaps there is water deeper down, under the mud," I said.

       Smith did not look at me. He started to dig in the hole. I did not help him. I was pushing the cattle away from us. They crowed around in the hole looking for water. They sank to their knees in the mud crying for water. They were dying of thirst.

     Smith got out of the hole. He stood again just looking down. There was no water. Then he grew angry. He said he hoped it would never rain again. He shook his hands at the sky and shouted against God and nature. Then he went to his horse. He did not speak on the way back to the farmhouse. I did not say anything either. There was nothing to say. The water hole was dry.

     It was the end for Smith, the farmer, for the cattle and for the farm.

It was difficult for Smith to understand, or believe; for his wife too. I thought about her as we rode over the dry earth to the farmhouse. Yesterday I had seen her on her knees in front of the house.

"God, give us rain," she was saying in a low voice. Over and over again she prayed for rain.

I do not understand how she could listen to the cattle crying for water and not lose control of herself. They cried all day and all night. Their terrible cries never stopped. I wanted to put something in my ears so that I would not hear them any more. We could still hear them when we went inside the house. None of us could escape from their cries. The food was ready

when Smith and I rode up to the farm. His wife with smiling as usual while her hands were shaking, Smith was quiet now. And there had not that wild look in his eyes any more.

When she turned on the light. I could see deep lines of worry on her face. Then I looked closely at Smith. He had grown ten years older in that one day. We all sat down around at the table in the warm kitchen. She did not touch the food or drink the coffee.

Once--many weeks ago when the sun first grew hot--she gold me she could not drink water when we knew the cattle were dying of thirst.

Nobody spoke. She looked at Smith. He was not eating, either. Finally he pushed his food away.

I knew he was deeply troubled, but all he said to her was,"You know about it?"

She nodded and pushed some gray hair away from her face. When she spoke, her voice was firm.

"I know," she said. "The water hole went dry today."

Something began to tighten inside me when I saw her try to smile. I walked outside. It was better to leave them alone.

I looked up at the dark sky. Black clouds were floating low over the hills. A long time ago clouds like that meant rain. But not any more. Tomorrow's sun would burn them away. A full moon was rising over the mountains. I had watched it rise two years ago from this same place.

It was the night I came to work for Smith.

In those days it was a good farm with healthy horses to ride and fat cattle. There had been many rains then and the water holes were full. The farm fields were covered with grass. Every hill was green and the calle had food. Smith had more water than any other farmer in Arizona.

They made many plans to make the farm bigger and better. They were very happy. The woman had often talked about their first years together--twenty years ago. She was a school teacher when she first met Smith. He was a young cowboy training horses at a nearby farm. When they decided to marry, Smith started to save money. He stayed away from town where he knew he could spend it all quickly. Four years later she put here money with his and they

bought a farm and a few cows. They thought they had the best land in the world. Smith built the little house with his own hands. He added wooden fences to keep the cattle inside. Often she held a light for him when he worked at night. In the soft darkness they talked about their dreams and hopes for the future.

There was also a vegetable garden and fruit trees. She liked to look out the kitchen window at her trees. "That fruit tree is beautiful, isn't it?" she would say. "I wish I could paint a picture of it."

Like all farmers in Arizona they had good times and bad. There had been wet years and dry years. Sometimes the bank lent them money. They always paid it back. The Smiths watched their cattle grow until they had more than 5,000 cows and steers.

Then the dry weather came. Farmers said it was the longest dry season in the history of hte state. More than half of Smith's cattle had died.

Memories croweded my mind. I remembered when Smith and I had done a day's work. We would ride out to the hills and look for the cattle. My job was to hold the animals while Smith burned his name on them. Ohter days we rode for many kilometers to fix the farm fences.

But all that changed when the rains stopped. One by one the water holes went dry. Every day we rode to different parts of the farm and dug holes-always looking for water and never finding it. For weeks and months the clouds blew across the sky but dropped their rain far away from us. Then when our last water hole went dry, there was no more hope.

If it would rain, they could still save the farm. Cattle could always eat dry grass if they had water. Even now there was enough food back in the hills-if only it would rain.

When I went to bed, outside on the front porch, there was still a light on in the house.

Through the window I could see the Smiths sitting at the table. They were praying.

I lay down, thinking I could never sleep with the cattle crying in my ears. But I did sleep, because the next thing I knew it was morning and there was another sound-something dropping on the roof. A warm feeling went through my body. No, I thought it could not be rain. I must be dreaming. The dropping stopped. I closed my eyes again, trying to forget the cries of the

cattle.

Then it came. The clouds opened up and rain came down with a sudden roar. It sounded like a solid wall of water strong enough to break through the roof.

I could hear the Smiths moving around inside the house as I pulled on my shoes. I do not remember exactly what I did for the next few minutes. They told me I was yelling and dancing around like a wild man. Later, Smith said it was the first time he had ever seen a cowboy go wild from drinking pure water.

But I remember what they did. I remember the woman on her knees in the rain, praying. Smith was standing out in the yard, reaching both hands towards the sky. His head was thrown back and water streamed down his face.

And still it came. It was the middle of the day before we thought about food. We laughed and talked while eating. We ate with the rain still pounding hard on the roof.

The three of us sat, listening to the music of the rain. It sounded pleasant on the house.

There was a cool wind blowing and the air felt wet and fresh. We saw the dry earth swallow the rain. For the first time in many cruel months the cattle were quiet.

Smith turned a peaceful face to me. "To think," he said, "that yesterday at the water hole I said I hoped it would never rain again. What a fool I was!"

We both smiled. Then I went to bed. I knew that on this night no crying cattle would break my sleep.