It is a strange day for the inhabitants of one dusty house. Usual to them is an unceasing dryness; for miles around them is dead land and drought. Wind and volatile earth has beaten their home time and time again, while they stayed inside, eyes and ears and lungs caked with fine powder. Visitors are an unknown pleasure and supplies are gathered in bi-monthly trips by the patriarch.
He’s a distant man, lost in his books and his whimsy of the former years. Three children sit in the darkened living room as he sleeps. He had known their ancestors intimately and took their welfare to heart.
They do not remember the time before his custody and cannot recall those who gave them life. Time and memory and affection are all lost within the dust.
Usually they would be playing with their rugged wooden toys, but an occurrence of immense gravity has dawned. Today they are in the wake of a rainstorm. It was a heavy rain and the only one to occur for the longest while.
Conspiracy bubbles from the group. The youngest speaks up, “Shall we go outside?”
The singular girl, and a timid character for that reason, is not so eager, “We need to wait for him.”
The eldest, as he is always the subversive one, does not see the need, “We have seen him do it before. We know enough to do it alone. Let’s go.” With this he takes the unsure first step out the door, and continues on.
The others trail out to the porch slowly and are taken aback. Dew fills their nostrils and they see the most overwhelming sight. For miles and miles and even a little further there is mud. The eldest dives into it with all of the ferocity he can. The younger ones follow suit.
It covers them in the most wonderful bath and sinks into their pores. With such abandon it causes it to fly everywhere, including the mouths of the children. It tastes sweet.
“Look at what I can do,” the eldest one grabs a handful of mud and sculpts a bird. It leaps from the boy’s hands and glides gracefully. It flies towards the sun and starts to exude a brilliant blue streak in majestic strokes of its wings. At the climax of its crescendo it crumbles.
“Mine will stand stronger,” the girl says and starts to mold. A nimble cat perches up; fur of luscious black starts sprouting over its body. It lurks about its master’s hand before it bolts towards the east. It fades out of sight.
The elder children frolic freely; games of unspoken rules are shared. The dryness is gone from them, their lifeblood rejuvenated.
They come to the opposite side of the house in their play and notice the youngest deep in work. From his feeble hands spring a child of the mud.
“What are you doing! You have broken the one rule. He said you cannot make another person.” The older children are wrought with fear. The naivety of their sibling has overcome them. They rush to hide the infraction.
“No need children.” The man steps slowly out the back door towards them. He takes gradual movements to the creation.
“With this power, you need to understand that when we try to hold life in our fumbly palms, all it can do is fall apart or slip away.” At this he places his hand on the creation’s shoulder. It breaks and melds back into the mud.
“We are so sorry sir. We meant not to break the rule.” The children trembled at his impending anger.
This anger did not come.
“It is all right my children; it is not your fault. It is mine.” He touches the tops of their heads with gentle caring ease, as they fall apart, back into the mud.