MAN-MADE

by Errol Collen

In the glare of the shimmering haze, there is only heat. Wave upon wave of heat rising from the earth. White heat beating down from the silver hot sky. Lateral assaults of almost visible heat rolling over the land. The dry, hard heat penetrating the heart of the man.

Hot. The sun. Burning down. The man. Clinging heat covering the parched earth like a bedspread. No breath of air to stir the red dust on the hard, cracked ground. The man bends his brow over the unrelenting earth. Trying to coax some life from the sterile soil.

With a hard heart he looks up. Looks out from the deep shade under the brim of his thick hat. Up at the white-hot sky glaring down on the arid earth. Looking for any sign of moisture to slake the thirst of the dry land. In the distance is only the slightest fleece of cloud in the hard, harsh sky. As hard as the earth, and the man’s heart.

He looks up again. At the house. Under the searing sun.

In the house the woman moves heavily through the stifling heat. She hardly cares if there is a breath of air to ease the oppressive atmosphere. The numbness of her heart is even harder to bear than the suffocating heat. In the darkened rooms of the house she performs only the bare essentials for his basic needs. She has no thought for her own. There is no spark of hope on the dull horizon of her life.

The man looks down, away from the scene acting itself out in the house. His mind is robbed of all passion. He sees only the barren land. The dead earth. The torpid air enveloping the house. And the woman. Dead of soul in the stillness of this oppressive oven.

When the sun reaches its fiercest noontime focus on the earth, the woman emerges from the house. She carries a rough tray with his plate of food and pot of tea. The sound of the tray as she puts it down on the flat rock where he has his simple meal makes him look up. The moment to make a response passes. He sees her turning away, the swirl of her skirt for an instant capturing the outline of her strong thighs.

His mind slips back to the distant colonial town by the side of the lake. The large smiling house with its happy bustle of people coming and going all the day long. Of gaiety and lively dinner parties in the green town and the lush, moist vegetation. And above all, the woman, laughing and gay in the frivolous youth. The fresh limbs, the sparkling eyes, the overflowing heart. He remembers how he was carried along in the revelry, the carefree youthfulness, where each new day was its own pleasure.

He sees again the delightful meeting of young limbs and young hearts, and how he brought her from that green land to this dry, arid country.

The first few years together were an adventure of joyful exploration. But gradually the invasive mood of the heat triumphed. The drought, the heat and the dust, the dust, the dust infesting itself everywhere. Even into their bones and their very souls. The loneliness and isolation hardened their hearts, dessicated their emotions and left them living like strangers in the same house. Together but apart. Ambulating shells in the dust bowl of the land.

The man stares at the dry, cracked earth, but sees again the green land by the lake, the fresh bubbling maiden he conquered. His feelings stir for the youthful gaiety that first enraptured him. So tender, so delicious, so soft.

Finally, the burning globe of the sun drops away to bring some relief from the searing heat, and the man returns to the house. In the tense silence, their faces are averted. Then the man looks at her, pauses for a few moments and stretches out a hand to touch her arm. She starts in surprise. She sees his eyes. There is a new intensity in them. Softer. She senses a change. She looks into his eyes once more. There is, yes, there is a something of the barely remembered softness from their earlier days.

He reaches out to her again. More tenderly, with more feeling. This time in the touch there is a plea. She feels a responding warmth rising in her heart.

He makes the barest guiding movement with his hand toward the darker inner sanctuary of the house. She looks deeply into his eyes, then turns and walks in with him.

Their union is harsh and hungry at first, exploring feelings that have long been unfamiliar. But the tenderness returns, limbs entwine and penetrate as slowly the heat of passion builds up – hot exertion, sticky skin, a turmoil of tears – the blood rises in their bodies and finally bursts forth in a cry of intensity … which is echoed in plopping drops flattening themselves into the dust of the earth and silently disappearing into the scorched land. Gradually the force increases until the drops fall too fast for the dry earth to drink.

As the thunder recedes in their ears, it is replaced by the distant thunder of the clouds.

The woman is the first to sense she hears a sound. She half turns to listen more closely. She draws in her breath quickly. The man is alerted by her movement. A sound. A sound of thunderous rolling. A whishing sound of nature’s plenty bursting from the clouds and filling the cracks and crevices – drowning the parched earth.

He sits up, pulls her by the wrist, and they run out naked under the starless sky. Mud squelches between their toes. Rain pours down from the heavens in torrents. Icy raindrops pinprick their skin. She raises her arms to the massy skies. The man falls to his knees before her. Throws his arms around her legs, buries his face in her body. Her hair is plastered to her face, rain rivulets course down her body. They embrace under the lowering sky. Mud plashes halfway up their legs, drops sting their flesh to shivers, and the water sates the hungry land.

END

Errol Collen lives in Johannesburg in South Africa and has been working as a translator for a long time. A few years ago, he finally gave in to the urge to start putting his own ideas down on paper too, not only those of others, and hasn't stopped enjoying himself since. He won a finish-the-story competition in the South African magazine Citylife, did an online course in creative writing through Glenrothes College in Scotland and has had a short story published in The Short Story Review of Southern Africa.