DEAD HEAT
A short story of 2300 words
© David Lowe, April 1992
Through the desert he came, heading north, towards Devil's Ridge. The road was two ruts through red dust and blue bush. The horizon was a shimmering bowl.
It was February, 1903. There had been no rain for three and a half years.
Emus ran in fright as wooden wheels creaked and four horses strained and sweated into view, towing an enormous tarpaulin-covered wagon. At the reins sat a tall man wearing top hat and tailcoat, his collar starched. With missionary zeal, the grey eyes of Dr Sean McCarthy stared unwaveringly into the heat.
That afternoon, a black lump rose out of the plain. McCarthy's horses raised their heads and sniffed at the smells of civilization.
The lump became a crescent-shaped ridge, with twin peaks like horns.
Devil's Ridge.
On the outskirts of town, near the graveyard, a funeral procession approached. McCarthy stopped his horses and removed his hat. Mourners stared suspiciously at the well-dressed outsider as they passed. A small coffin. 'Typhoid,' was the whisper among the shoeless children trailing behind.
The town's treeless and deserted main street lay at the foot of the hill which provided its life-blood. Piles of ore from the lead and silver mines loomed behind hotels and over-grand civic buildings.
There was no river.
McCarthy crossed the tram line and drove past closed shops and shuttered windows. It was between shifts, and those who were not underground were sleeping in cellars and back rooms - anywhere to escape the heat.
The showground was being overtaken by drifts of sand. Nearby, McCarthy unharnessed his team. From the back of the wagon came hay and a barrel of water for the horses. Thirsty eyes watched from a distance as the beasts drank.
That night, by a full moon, a curious character came weaving through the desert from the west; a raggedy old man on a rusty bicycle, singing arias in a rich tenor. His jacket had once been Harris Tweed, but was now tattered and flapping from his back. At his throat he wore a filthy clergyman's collar.
Through the night the old man pedalled, following a road beside the railway line. His only luggage was a bottle of gin.
Next morning, a strange selection of apparatus had sprouted around McCarthy's wagon. There were cannons, sheets of metal, and umbrellas of every size and description.
Soon, a crowd gathered. People pointed and chattered as McCarthy busied himself with his preparations. Children stayed to watch instead of going to school. Schoolteachers came to see what had happened to the children. Others stopped by to see what all the fuss was about. The police were woken up and told to investigate, and the fire brigade were sent out as well.
Four strong miners were unloading a steam-powered organ under McCarthy's direction when the mayor, Mr Chapwith, arrived. Fuming, he pushed his way to the front of the crowd.
'What is the meaning of this?' he demanded of McCarthy.
With dignity, the tall man climbed down from his precarious perch high atop the wagon and strode up to the mayor.
With a flourish of his cane, he bowed low to the crowd. 'Ladies, gentlemen, may I introduce myself. Doctor Sean McCarthy, Precipitation Expert, at your service.'
'Precipiwhat?' spluttered Chapwith.
'Precipitation, sir. Rain. Dew. Snow. Sleet.'
'Sleet?! Here?'
'Anything is possible.'
'You're one of those rainmaker charlatans aren't you?'
'I, sir, am a man of science. And you are?'
'Chapwith. Mayor Chapwith,' he said self-importantly. 'And I want you out of this town by midday.'
Just then a chorus of abuse began at the back of the crowd. People leapt out of the way as an old man on a bicycle cut his way through. With a screech of brakes, he came to a stop before McCarthy and Chapwith.
McCarthy glared at the new arrival and held his cane high above the old man, threatening him.
'Get away Witherspoon! I was here first.'
A policeman restrained McCarthy as the old man, unperturbed, addressed the mayor.
'Mayor Chapwith I presume?' he beamed.
Confused, Chapwith nodded.
'Reverend Solomon P. Witherspoon.' The old man held out his weathered hand. 'Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr Mayor. Just in time too, it would seem, to save you from the advances of my colleague Mr McCarthy.'
'Doctor McCarthy!' bellowed McCarthy.
The old man ignored him and delved into the pockets of his ancient tweed jacket. He brought out a sheaf of tightly folded papers, and handed them carefully to the mayor. 'My references, Mr Mayor. I think you will find them more than commendatory.'
Chapwith put on his glasses and scanned the yellowing pages, muttering. 'Willcannia... Kalgoorlie... Tennant Creek... Heavens man, you're a rainmaker too!'
'He's a fraud!' yelled McCarthy. 'A Godless quack. A swindler!'
'Really Mr McCarthy, mind your language,' said Witherspoon, dabbing at his face with a handkerchief.
Chapwith took off his glasses and handed back the old man's references. 'I am afraid I must ask both of you gentlemen to leave. You have until sundown.'
The crowd began to grumble. 'Give 'em a go Chapwith', 'Yeah Chapwith, give 'em a go!'
Nervously, Chapwith consulted his watch. He raised one finger and pointed at each of the rainmakers in turn. 'I repeat gentlemen, sundown.' As the mayor hurried away, he was pursued by an angry, jeering crowd.
That afternoon, the paper was full of news of the showground confrontation. A special meeting of the Devil's Ridge city fathers was called, behind closed doors, to debate the matter.
For eleven expensive months, the town had been bringing in water by train. Now the coffers were almost empty, and many of the councillors were becoming desperate for a solution to the crisis.
Chapwith protested vociferously against the rainmakers. Others felt differently. For three hours the argument raged. At last a compromise was reached. The clerk, young Bert Gidleigh, was sent to the showground to report the decision.
A mob of townsfolk surrounded the young council emissary as he walked up the street towards the showground. 'What is it Gidleigh?', 'What'd they say?', 'What's it gonna be?'
Witherspoon snoozed beneath a sick-looking mulga tree. McCarthy paced up and down beside his wagon. A policeman sat on a stump between the two, in case of trouble.
Suddenly a great commotion approached the showground. Witherspoon woke up with a start as the impromptu procession came to a stop nearby.
Someone gave the clerk a box to stand on. Gidleigh cleared his throat nervously. Voice cracking slightly, he began to read.
'It has been decided by the authorities that the township of Devil's Ridge shall procure the services of the rainmakers, Messrs McCarthy and Witherspoon, on a commission payment basis. In the event of a good fall of rain occurring within three days of today, Wednesday, the 13th of February, in the year of our Lord 1903, the rainmakers shall receive a payment of fifty pounds, to be divided between them equally.'
A cheer went up from the crowd. McCarthy scowled.
Gidleigh continued, 'There shall be no payment without rain, and the rainmakers will leave the city limits within four days of their arrival, regardless of rainfall.'
A pause. 'That's the end of the message,' explained the clerk.
Again the crowd cheered. To Gidleigh's surprise, they hoisted him upon their shoulders and carried him back to the Town Hall, clapping and whistling triumphantly all the way.
The policeman looked at the rainmakers expectantly.
McCarthy spoke first. 'I shall need four volunteers, firewood, and a crate of gunpowder.' The constable jotted this down before turning to Witherspoon expectantly.
The old man thought for a moment. 'Three candles and some mice please. Lots of mice.'
That evening the sun set in a blaze of purple and orange, deep red lingering long into the night.
On a dry and stony spot to the north of the town, Solomon P. Witherspoon sat on a boulder, legs crossed and eyes closed, his thumbs and forefingers held tightly together. At his feet spluttered a candle. A cage of mice lay beside the bicycle. Suddenly Witherspoon began clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth, producing a peculiar rhythmic glottal sound. 'Glock... glock... glock...'
A small python unravelled itself from the Reverend's jacket pocket and began winding around his midriff. 'Glock... glock... glock...' went the old man.
By midnight the snake seemed to have fallen asleep. Stars wheeled. A fat moon swam across the sky. 'Glock... glock... glock..' said the Reverend.
At last dawn came. Witherspoon opened his eyes, stretched his tongue and yawned. The snake had looped itself around his neck. Witherspoon gave it a mouse for breakfast and sat up.
Down at the showground, Dr McCarthy's preparations were almost complete. Four miniature cannons aimed north, south, east and west. Four policemen with cupped matches waited expectantly as McCarthy watched the small hand on his watch count down the seconds to the new hour. Four. Three. Two. One.
'Now!' screamed McCarthy. Four fuses were set to burn. Moments later the cannons went off, sending a flurry of foul smelling, half-burnt confetti into the air. Like a dervish, McCarthy ran to his organ and began playing jarring chords, as three well-drilled constables opened and closed umbrellas and the fourth rumbled a sheet of iron.
And so it went on; McCarthy during the day, Witherspoon each night.
Despite the rainmakers efforts, or perhaps because of them, the skies over Devil's Ridge remained obstinately cloudless.
Sunday, the day of reckoning, grew closer. Still there was no rain.
After a while McCarthy's constables became bored with the lack of results. When they stopped showing up for their hourly assignments, McCarthy had to do everything himself. The tall man became drawn and haggard-looking. Children heckled him as he ran desperately from cannon to cannon, from umbrella to organ.
Witherspoon was also having his share of problems.
While in trance, the old man was easy prey, and on the first night someone punctured the tyres of his bicycle. A little later Witherspoon's snake got into the cage and ate all the mice, promptly falling asleep in his pocket and refusing to come out at all.
Sunday arrived.
There was no sign of rain, only an annoying hot wind.
In defeat, McCarthy began packing up his equipment. The wind grew in intensity. Fearing an impending sandstorm, someone suggested the rainmakers might be allowed to wait for better weather. Mayor Chapwith insisted the ultimatum should stand. Apologetically, Gidleigh went down to the showground to deliver the news.
'It's that lunatic Witherspoon has been the cause of this,' shouted McCarthy over the wind. Sand stung his eyes as he harnessed up his horses and began heading out of town.
When Gidleigh reached the place where Witherspoon had been, the Reverend was already gone, his tires stuffed full of weeds, pedalling west.
Out on the plains, the wind became a gale. Muttering darkly through his handkerchief, McCarthy pushed on, his wagon buffeted from every side by sudden gusts.
After half an hour the yellow morning sun was red.
Ten minutes later it had disappeared completely, swallowed by tons of swirling dust. Visibility was six feet at best, and McCarthy decided to turn back. Moments later he lost the track. In fright, the horses bolted blindly though the darkness, across bumpy rock and spinifex.
The sound of the snapping axle was drowned by the wailing, hissing storm. Moments later one horse fell, dragging the others down in a tangle of legs.
McCarthy found himself lying on the ground, his lower body trapped beneath the weight of the wagon.
Painfully, using his cane, he worked his way free, nose and mouth choked with dust.
McCarthy tried to stand. Suddenly he felt wiry arms helping him up, a gin-soaked handkerchief across his face.
Above the noise of the dust storm, a familiar shouting voice. 'McCarthy! I see you have lost your way again!'
Witherspoon.
McCarthy turned and fell on his saviour with a shriek. The old man wriggled away with ease as McCarthy's leg failed again and he fell to the ground.
'Now, now McCarthy, don't overdo it,' said the Reverend.
'It was all your fault, you crackpot meddler!' howled McCarthy. 'You've destroyed my reputation! You and your accursed mumbo jumbo-'
'Oh come now McCarthy,' the old man chuckled. 'You couldn't make it rain in a thunderstorm.'
In helpless fury, McCarthy scrabbled in the dust for his cane. His fingers found it, brought it crashing against the old man's knees.
In shock, Witherspoon fell. McCarthy brought the cane crashing down upon his back, his face, his head.
Blood splattered in the dust.
Red mud spread as McCarthy beat the old man, not stopping until his cane broke in two.
The dust storm was a dark, prickling blanket. McCarthy half-walked, half-crawled, to his horses. With the last of his strength, he untangled the harness from the leading mare and climbed on to her back, bashing at her flank with the remnants of his cane.
After a few minutes the storm abated, and grew quiet. The deathly dark lifted slightly. A new sensation. Moisture on the skin. Wet drops.
It was raining mud.
McCarthy smiled, before falling off his horse, unconscious.
Soon the mud turned to cool, clear rain.
The mines were closed as the people of Devil's Ridge danced for joy in the sparkling liquid. Gutters, tanks, bathtubs, pots and pans were filled, and still it rained.
The drought became a flood.
Huddled inside, bailing out their dwellings, miners and their families wondered how they could ever have prayed for rain.
On the seventh day of the flood, Mayor Chapwith stood at the second floor window of his office in the town hall, and stared gloomily out over the lake which had once been a plain. Suddenly his attention was caught by something odd floating down the main street.
It was a top hat, bobbing gaily in the ripples. But there was something else, something inside the hat. Chapwith stared. What could it be?
Warm and dry inside its raft of millinery, Witherspoon's snake curled up and went back to sleep.© David Lowe, April 1992