offered him. It was only later, when Jacob wasolder and inflicted with the same gift, that he realized his father had been unable to dwell in one place. For as soon as the diviner found water, the restlessness would be upon him again and he was immediately summoned by another drought. It was a slavery that had held Jacob’s family in bondage for generations.
Moon, the silver-gray coyote sitting beside him, whimpered. They’d been driving for ten hours straight and she was desperate for some exercise.
“Okay, girl, I hear you. Let’s say welcome to what is gonna be home for a few weeks.” And with world-weariness evident in every aching muscle, Jacob pushed open the door and climbed out.
He stood staring at the cloudless sky for a moment then wiped the sweat from his hands on his creased leather pants and sauntered up to the door of the town hall. It was locked. He turned to look down the street. Although there was no one visible, he could feel hidden eyes burning holes through his shirt.
“Go on, stare as much as you like, for I am the alchemist and your world will never be the same again,” he muttered defiantly, then realized that he was completely devoid of inspiration. Sighing deeply he tucked a business card under the door’s brass handle and whistled for the coyote.
The Ford Bronco headed over to the empty trailer park at the edge of town. Preacher Williams watched it go, staring after it from his office alongside the church. A thin-lipped man, who wore his misery in the stoop of his shoulders and hollowed cheeks, the preacher had a particular hatred of anything that smacked of handcrafted faith, cults, or sects. He had convinced himself that devilry, a corruption of the human soul, had seeped slowly but undeniably into the last half of the twentieth century and now into the twenty-first. It was a global corruption from which he was determined to save his corner of the world.
“Rainmaker indeed,” the preacher muttered and reached for the phone, the wine-colored star-shaped birthmark on the top of his hand becoming visible for a second.
Chad Winchester, sitting high up in a tractor in the middle of a ruined dry field, heard his cell phone ringing but couldn’t remember where he’d placed it. Understandably the florid mayor was distracted—Abigail Etterton, wheat farmer and the most glamorous widow in thestate, had his erect penis in her mouth. Chad glanced tenderly at Abigail’s beautiful mouth sliding up and down his glistening organ. They’d been lovers for over two years and there had been many occasions when he’d considered divorcing his wife. Political astuteness, however, always overrode the exigencies of love. He moaned quietly, deeply regretting his ambition in that instant. Sandridge was a fiercely religious town and his wife, Cheri, cheerleader of Sandridge High 1976 and head of the Wheatgrowers’ Wives Association of Oklahoma, was a popular woman. But a woman who had never achieved orgasm, and not for want of trying on Chad’s part.
His own climax was proving uncharacteristically elusive, not helped by the ringing cell phone. The thought that it might be some disaster he should deal with gnawed at the edge of his mind.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, you might as well answer it,” Abigail remarked from between his legs. Embarrassed, Chad tucked away his rapidly diminishing penis and reached for his cell phone.
The rainmaker looked out of the window of his trailer. When he’d parked it in the dusty trailer park the place had been empty. Now, the locals had started to gather in bunches. There were two sprawling Mexican families, their children chasing each other with handfuls of black dust. There was the gas-station owner, holding a pitchfork in one hand, glaring at the trailer as if he were expecting battle. Next to him, six young farmers, obviously brothers, lounged over a brand new tractor. From their high cheekbones and strong features Jacob guessed they were of Germanic descent.
Moon, the silver-gray coyote sitting beside him, whimpered. They’d been driving for ten hours straight and she was desperate for some exercise.
“Okay, girl, I hear you. Let’s say welcome to what is gonna be home for a few weeks.” And with world-weariness evident in every aching muscle, Jacob pushed open the door and climbed out.
He stood staring at the cloudless sky for a moment then wiped the sweat from his hands on his creased leather pants and sauntered up to the door of the town hall. It was locked. He turned to look down the street. Although there was no one visible, he could feel hidden eyes burning holes through his shirt.
“Go on, stare as much as you like, for I am the alchemist and your world will never be the same again,” he muttered defiantly, then realized that he was completely devoid of inspiration. Sighing deeply he tucked a business card under the door’s brass handle and whistled for the coyote.
The Ford Bronco headed over to the empty trailer park at the edge of town. Preacher Williams watched it go, staring after it from his office alongside the church. A thin-lipped man, who wore his misery in the stoop of his shoulders and hollowed cheeks, the preacher had a particular hatred of anything that smacked of handcrafted faith, cults, or sects. He had convinced himself that devilry, a corruption of the human soul, had seeped slowly but undeniably into the last half of the twentieth century and now into the twenty-first. It was a global corruption from which he was determined to save his corner of the world.
“Rainmaker indeed,” the preacher muttered and reached for the phone, the wine-colored star-shaped birthmark on the top of his hand becoming visible for a second.
Chad Winchester, sitting high up in a tractor in the middle of a ruined dry field, heard his cell phone ringing but couldn’t remember where he’d placed it. Understandably the florid mayor was distracted—Abigail Etterton, wheat farmer and the most glamorous widow in thestate, had his erect penis in her mouth. Chad glanced tenderly at Abigail’s beautiful mouth sliding up and down his glistening organ. They’d been lovers for over two years and there had been many occasions when he’d considered divorcing his wife. Political astuteness, however, always overrode the exigencies of love. He moaned quietly, deeply regretting his ambition in that instant. Sandridge was a fiercely religious town and his wife, Cheri, cheerleader of Sandridge High 1976 and head of the Wheatgrowers’ Wives Association of Oklahoma, was a popular woman. But a woman who had never achieved orgasm, and not for want of trying on Chad’s part.
His own climax was proving uncharacteristically elusive, not helped by the ringing cell phone. The thought that it might be some disaster he should deal with gnawed at the edge of his mind.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, you might as well answer it,” Abigail remarked from between his legs. Embarrassed, Chad tucked away his rapidly diminishing penis and reached for his cell phone.
The rainmaker looked out of the window of his trailer. When he’d parked it in the dusty trailer park the place had been empty. Now, the locals had started to gather in bunches. There were two sprawling Mexican families, their children chasing each other with handfuls of black dust. There was the gas-station owner, holding a pitchfork in one hand, glaring at the trailer as if he were expecting battle. Next to him, six young farmers, obviously brothers, lounged over a brand new tractor. From their high cheekbones and strong features Jacob guessed they were of Germanic descent.
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