WELCOME TO THE HAPPY FARM SERIES
When the Rain Falls
The meeting outside John’s farm
Me and my truck got caught in a rain storm. Our weather can be strange — one minute the sun is shining brilliantly, and the next, the sky turns grey and before you know it, you are caught in a deluge. I was in my truck outside John’s gate in a deluge. I could hear the deep ghaut behind me gushing and rushing, turning into a river, taking water down to the sea.
Not bothered because I knew it would be over just as quickly as it came, I relaxed into my seat, now worn but worn to the shape of my back and spine — this seat knew the position I like.
My thoughts drifted to John. I had not seen him in a while and hoped he was okay. A still-warm banana bread rested next to me. He would enjoy it. I hope it didn’t translate into him giving three hands of bananas to take home, for it was having too many bananas that got me to baking in the first place.
The rain soon quieted to a few soft drops on the roof of my truck. Rapidly wiping the steamed up glass, I looked outside to see if was okay to leave the vehicle and make a dash for John’s farm.
The view through the glass was absolutely stunning. A layer of clouds hung low on top far hills, while the near fog was being quickly dissipated by a sun that was already peeking its head through another set of clouds dancing about the sky, threatening more rain.
The mix of sun rays and water droplets in the air created what seemed like a million prisms shimmering and glowing in the fresh air. I remained still. The feeling was that of an enchanted forest. I did not want to disturb a thing. And then there was a soft rustle.
It was very quiet as if the rustler didn’t want cause any disturbance. So in tuned was it to the magic of the moment, that breaking the spell would be the eighth deadly sin.
I turned my head towards the sound. Few things rustle in our bush. If it was not some largish bird, then it was either a monkey, a wild pig or a human. The monkey and the wild pig I can handle. Sometimes, not so much so, the human.
A tall non-bearing fruit tree was on the edge of the ghaut. The rustler was either up in that tree or hiding behind it.
I let out one of my half-arsed whistles, while telling myself, you really need to learn to whistle. John had a loud, shrill one that I envied.
The small shrubs next to the tree parted and a head topped with dreadlocks appeared. Then shoulders, arms, back and legs — a long, lean, naked, brown body — beautiful.
The person slowly straightened himself, with me looking anxiously to see if I recognized him, since the body was not providing any clues.
At the moment the face turned towards me, the sky brightened, the prisms of light seemed to have stopped shimmering for long enough to provide a steady glow, that by some geometric permutation, landed the rays right on him — the face of Mystic Man.
I. Trudie Palmer