The Bare Head, a plateau coming out from the darkness and ancient times, guarded on its west side the three cities of the dead, on its east one it was building up a city of the alive, and touched the sky with a small temple. In the night of the tempest, a thunder struck the tower of the house of worship, burned the walls, brought down the bell tower and left rain in the memories. The wells went dry. Hunger spread. Gazing into the infinite, the alive searched for clouds. Instead of them came the sellers of water, sorcerers and miracles merchants. At dusk, at the end of hope, arrived a man humbler than them all. He carried a rain stick. - Tomorrow morning, before the sunrise, beside the destroyed church, all those who believe it would rain should come - he said. - We shall all come - promised the head of the community. - Not all! Only those who believe. The morning lit the east line of the dying horizon. In front of the ruined temple, on the Bare Head, immersed into a prayer, stood the newcomer surrounded by people. All came... only one boy brought his clay dish to catch water. Skryť popis