Excerpt - ZamaShort #5 'The Smell of Rain' by Libby Young
EXCERPT
THE SMELL OF RAIN
LIBBY YOUNG
The air smelt of rain. She had been fooled before and refused to get her hopes up. Still, she had to check the tanks. Just in case. If rain did fall and the tanks were blocked? That would be a tragedy, and just stupid. Besides she had nothing better to do.
Arching out of the old lazyboy chair, the brown leather worn to grey on the arms and seat, she clicked her tongue. Alfie raised his clouded eyes, before stoically heaving himself to his feet. His thick labrador coat was patchy with age, but she wouldn’t walk alone.
The wind tossed the dust and dead leaves into dancing spirals. The sky was grey. Hope filled her stomach. Anything was possible.
She started with the tank furthest from the house. It collected, or was designed to collect, rain from the roof of the old stable. Once, the stable had housed Max with his glossy bay coat and resentful eyes. Her heart still clenched when she saw the empty stall. Now the building was just used to store junk. Junk that was never used but just might be needed at some time in the future. She couldn’t let go of the concept of a future. Not yet.
Climbing the rusty stepladder required concentration these days. When had a simple task become so difficult? She pulled her thin cheeks into an angry, pointed face. Then she breathed. No point in getting mad with herself, or her body. There was no energy for that.
A small branch had been blown onto the top of the tank, not really obstructing the inflow pipe, but she removed it anyway, throwing it as far as she could, and watching as it dropped limply to the base of the tank. Alfie peered up at her, one wag of his tail, one glance at the branch that now lay next to him.
The view of the property from the top of the tanks was a bleak one. Not brown anymore, but grey. Even the soil looked grey. She tried to remember the colours it had once been. The greens and yellows. The orange of the Cape honeysuckle, the blue of the plumbago. There had been several tanks originally, to replace each downpipe from the gutters, but one had been damaged in a windstorm. It leaned haplessly, shrivelled and dented, against the north wall. Too heavy for her to move or repair. The others still stood, cylindrical polyethylene sentries, worn but hopeful.
After climbing down, slowly, she bent down to rub the top of Alfie’s head, the old dog had fallen asleep. Once, she had practised yoga, now her hands hung next to her knees. When had she given up? She had no memory of that, when or why? Had she known when she had last bent over in a downward dog that it would be the last time? That the last salutation to the sun was the last one?
The next tank salvaged rainwater from the old garage roof. The Land Rover stood ready inside, with three jerry cans of ethanol—purchased with water from some hippie farmer who had made it from sugar cane for years to run his tractors—and a spare, disconnected battery. Just in case. She exhaled air out of her nose in mirth. Where would she go? She had loved the freedom the vehicle had represented. Not having to ask anyone to take her anywhere, the possibility of leaving whenever she wanted. Now, she couldn’t even form the thought leaving. She was here. This was it. No going anywhere, ever.
Again, she climbed to the top of the tank. This time there was a blockage, an old plastic bag partially covered the hole and trapped a variety of rubbish beneath it. Pushing her hand into the dimness, she grabbed hold of anything within reach and pulled it up. Nothing recognisable. There was a measuring rod tucked into a groove on the roof, and she moved it clumsily into the tank. It clanked as it hit the bottom. She had wondered for a moment if the blockage had prevented total evaporation, but that was wishful thinking.
An eddy of wind rushed past her, pushing her hair into her eyes. It smelt wet. Looking up at the sky, she was sure the clouds looked darker than they had when she left the house. Hurrying down the ladder, she clicked to Alfie and moved towards the tank at the back of the house. This one was the largest as its contents had been used for cleaning in the kitchen, flushing, and drinking. It had been empty for over ten months. The one at the end of the verandah too was unblocked. This one had been the last to go dry, probably because it had stood in the shade of the large Acacia. The tree itself still stood a silent sentinel, its thorns angry and gnarled, its few, remaining leaves dusty and wrinkled. A kindred spirit.
The final and only metal tank, off the bedroom, was also unblocked, but it had a hole about a third of the way up. She had reversed into it, and the dent had rusted through. She had been in a rage that day. She smiled at the memory. Having the energy for that emotion seemed like a privilege now.
The clouds looked lighter now. She sighed. Probably wishful thinking. When had it last rained anyway? She held the screen door open for Alfie as he staggered to his feet. She suddenly needed to know exactly how much time had passed. In the kitchen, she had taken to scratching a line on the wall every day and a cartoon cloud when rain fell. She made a horizontal line through every ten marks, so it was easy to count. What was difficult was converting her number into months and years. She frowned as she did the mental arithmetic. Two years, three months, five days.
Slowly she climbed down into the basement. Of the five tanks, three were full of water and the fourth was nearly full. She lowered the bucket down into the well and pulled up a bucket of the brackish water, tipping it slowly, and carefully into the fourth tank. It had been a good idea to build the well under the house. If anyone knew she still had a water source she would… she shook her head, she refused to let her mind go into those dark places, afraid it would not make it out again.
Three, four, five, six buckets. That was enough. She was done pushing herself and anyway what was the point. There was water enough for herself and Alfie for some time to come. At one stage she had worried about the well drying up. That might still happen, but would days spent hauling buckets out of its holy reserve stop that?
Alfie never followed her down to the basement but lay across the top of the steep flight of stairs, waiting for her. It was awkward climbing over him—especially it he was asleep and deaf to her entreaties to move—but she appreciated his presence more than she allowed herself to acknowledge.
In the kitchen, she made a cup of tea. She had a good store of tea but still used a tea bag three times before adding it to the compost heap. This was the first cup of a new bag, and she savoured its strong flavour. No milk. No sugar. She still had a small store of honey from the days when hives surrounded the orange orchards and added only half a teaspoon.
Sitting down at the pine table, she pulled her phone out of her pocket. It was a ritual. Each morning, she charged the device using the solar power charger and then at teatime every afternoon she would look at it, checking the signal bars before playing a puzzle game or reading one of the ebooks she had stored. She preferred reading real paper books, but the pantomime that the phone still had meaning in her life was one she was not ready to abandon. Once, she had paced the house, looking for the best spot to get signal. More than once, she had walked to the road and held the phone high above her head, screwing her eyes up to see if there was any flicker of a signal. The dangers of the road were worth gambling with if there had been signal.
The game failed to keep her attention, she went to the window instead to study the clouds, and then outside to spend the allocated thirty minutes tending the vegetable patch that survived on diluted urine. It was small. She didn’t pee enough. But there were sweet potatoes, Swiss chard, and onions. She often thought they all tasted mildly of pee, but that could have been her imagination. At least there was a sufficient stockpile of dog biscuits to provide for Alfie’s needs. She had quite a large stockpile of dried foods for herself too, but sometimes she longed for something fresh, even if it did taste strange.
Looking up to check the clouds again—that looked exactly the same—was when she first saw him. It was just a movement at first. Any movement was of interest, and she was curious rather than alarmed, but then she saw his heel. He had ducked behind the water tank as she looked up and she would have missed him if he had just pulled his foot in a little more. At first, she had thought something had been blown down by the wind, but as it trembled slightly, she looked harder. It was a small brown foot. A bare foot. She stood up quickly, catching her breath, casting an eye in the direction of Alfie’s sleeping form. Did she need a guard dog? She smiled to herself. She hoped not, Alfie was unlikely to be much good.
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Born in Zambia, Libby Young lived in various parts of southern Africa before settling in Cape Town. With a background in journalism that segued into web development, she now teaches English as a second language to adults from all over the world at the University of Cape Town, where she is also working towards a doctorate that combines environmental and cultural geography with literary studies.
Released 1st September 2025.
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