The sky had been dark all day. People walked around sluggishly, sweating copiously in the oppressive heat. But in the eighth year of the Great Drought, no one dared to hope that the clouds would bring rain. This year, as each year before, the crops were poor and scanty; and the ongoing plague of locusts was likely to destroy the little food the villagers needed to survive.
There was muttering in the marketplace. "I saw clouds like this before, four years ago," said one. "Nothing came of it then; nothing will come of it now."
"But it could rain this time," others said. "We can always hope for a change."
The day went on. The air was soaked with moisture. Drops squeezed out of the atmosphere and settled on faces and clothing. But still it was almost unbelievable that there could be any real change; surely the clouds would pass over, and go on to some other, happier country.
Night fell. The heat and humidity did not let up, but if anything grew more intense. People no longer moved about, but sat under trees or leaned on walls. They fanned themselves feverishly, but the air failed to cool anyone.
The hours drew on toward midnight. Everyone was exhausted, but no one could sleep. Not a star was to be seen in the sky. Not a blade of grass moved.
And then, something happened. A change. So small, it was almost unnoticed at first. A breath, a touch of cool air on the cheek. As one, people rose and looked up. Something was there. Something was waiting for them. They turned their faces to the sky.
And the rain came down.