The Aching Wait by Hanne Larsson
He was tired: of holding the sky, the weight of the clouds, how the rising puddles would flood his furred boots, chilling his toes. It seemed to rain more now, but Lars had been told not to move. They would be back shortly.
He’d never been good with time. The days passed: rising into bright, into setting, into gloaming and then twinkle. Enough time to study how everything moved around him. He enjoyed the silence, eventually. But he ached from not moving.
And then they arrived. Loud, brash, banging. Not who he was waiting for.
Smaller. Pink. Mewling, quick-footed and such short little lives, milling about his feet, crawling up his legs.
Lars longed to kick them. His sacred duty was to hold the sky up even as he stifled yawns. The ants chipped away at him and still he stayed. It was like they couldn’t see how he was integral to their survival. He sighed, adjusting his grip. Rumble. They looked up in fear, but quickly forgot. Always more for them to do before long winters settled their white coats on his shoulders.
His kin would be back soon to help. Shoulder some of the load. His feet and wrists were numb.
***
It was sunny the day he heard the long crack from under his feet and above his head. The little ants toiling below paid it no mind, but he hoped for his brothers.
The water seeped, then steadied to a flow. Rose past his knees, to his hips. He thought about leaving, shifted his grip on the sky. It wobbled. He prayed for help.
Days passed; the surge continued. The ants left, and grateful, he wriggled his toes in his damp boots. His head drooped, and Lars knew, somehow, that being alone would be his life. It was ok. Trees and bushes had sprouted on him over the years, keeping him warm and playing their own sweet music. Never wholly alone.
The water came up to his belly-button; the ants returned on vessels to float past Lars-as-an-island. There was no sign of his kin. Fish tickled his submerged body, keeping him from sleep.
An owl family built a nest in one of his head-trees, amusing him with their sibling squawking. He’d never really liked his brothers, their parties, their battles. He let one arm down. The sky rumbled but held fast.
He alternated arms for a bit; the water heading toward his chest, reflecting on the true meaning of his task. About whether his brothers had pranked him. About whether they’d forgotten their youngest. His eyes started to flutter shut.
He let the other arm down. The clouds wonked a bit to his right, then carried on. He smiled.
When the water reached his nose, he took one deep long breath, held it and finally closed his eyes for sleep. He would startle awake when they clomped back over the hill. The owls sighed their goodnight.
………………..
Hanne is a permanently-abroad Swede, using her many-cultured upbringing as story/poetry fodder. Her stories have been published by Ink, Sweat and Tears, Hammond House and Green Stories, but mostly in long/shortlists.
Twitter: @hannelarsson