Dustbowl Blues

   The sun loomed high in the sky. Of course it would; it was high noon on a particularly bright, brutally hot day in the middle of July. There was no cover that provided shade for miles, save for the dilapidated and pathetic whitewashed shacks that composed the town of Watershed. The town's name was unfortunate; it was named long, long ago, when the nearby landscape was lush and green and ripe with creeks, rivers and lakes. Now, only dust, dirt and rocks remained. Watershed was the name of the area, including the town. Now, it was just a reminder of the past for the town's remaining inhabitants.
   The Watershedians are a pathetic lot, kept isolated and simple by centuries of isolation and (it is widely suspected) inbreeding. They tend to be extreme single-minded, religious, superstitious and, perhaps most of all, distrustful of outsiders. And they had very good reason to: anyone that came around their neck of the woods anymore were usually outlaws, poachers or damn dirty ne'er-do-wells.
   But Jacob Stormcrow was none of those things. Indeed, he was several things. Old was one of them. His skin, tanned by numerous decades under the sun, had the look fo worn and wrinkled leather. His hair, worn in an outlandishly long fashion, was as white as the moon. His eyes were pebbles. He didn't dress to fit the part of a local, either. While they wore simple garments, usually white or brown or both, he wore a blue robe and bandages on his arms that extended to his wrists. Rings of gold and silver were wrapped around every single on of his fingers, save for the pointer finger on his left hand. Each ring was embedded with an exotic gem of several colors.
   Now, Jacob Stromcrow was not a ne'er-do-well. Far from it. He was a man with a mission. And that mission just so happened to direct him to Watershed. He strode down the town's main - and only - street as if he owned the place, with confident and regal bearing. The Watershedians who were out that day kept to the relative safety and shade of their front porches, which protected them from the sun but not from the heat. Children played about in the dirt beside the road, filthy dirty and streaked brown-orange from the dust. They pulled out weeds long since dried and dead.
   A shot rang out from the silence. It kicked the dirt up just in front of Jacob's boot. He stopped and turned. He knew where the shot came from - it was his way of knowing all things - and he gazed at the man holding the still smoking rifle with indifference.
   "Halt, stranger," said the man, spitting into the dirt. "You jus' turn back 'round and leave. Nothin' out here for you to see."
   "Indeed? I think there is much out here for me to see."
   "I can tell you ain't from 'round here, stranger. Nothin' here except cattle, dust storms and heat."
   The man pulled the lever of his rifle, readying another shot. It didn't take him long to take it, either. Hell, it barely took him a second. Just as the bullet left the rifle's rusted chamber, one of the rings on Jacob's fingers shone and the bullet erupted, midair, into a cloud of butterflies. The man let out a yelp in surprise, took a step back and gawked at the fluttering creatures that were, just a few seconds ago, a piece of metal capable of killing an ox.
   "What sort of sorcery--- !"
   "Just that."
   "Yous a sorcerer? There ain' none of 'em left."
   "There are plenty left, friend. Just need to know where to look." Jacob smiled.
   The man narrowed his eyes but let his rifle drop to his side. He was sweating more visibly now, not just from the heat. Magicians of any kind were rare and, to the majority of normal folk, frightening. They'd much rather live their lives without ever seeing or dealing with one. It was well known that magicians were trouble - or at least brought trouble to wherever they went.
   "What's a sorcerer doin' way out here in the wastes?"
   "Tell me, friend. How long has this drought lasted?"
   The man snorted and then spat in the dirt, re-seating himself onto the chair on his porch. He laid the rifle across his lap. "How long hasn't it lasted? Been a long while now. Killed off most of the cattle and nearly all of the crops, save for what's under the ground a good few feet. Surprised that any of you outsiders can tell if the drought ain't goin' along it's course." The man paused, thoughtfully. "Then 'gain, yous one of them sorcerers."
   "And how long is a 'long while now'?"
   "Bout two months or so. Whats it to you?"
   "Just curious," Jacob said, beginning to continue back down the road. "You best take care of yourself now. There's going to be a big storm tonight."
   As he walked away, the man snorted from his porch and muttered something along the lines of "crazy old man". The wilderness around the town was just as bad: barren dunes and flats of cracked earth that crunched underfoot. There was no vegetation. There was no animal life, not even the buzzards who would circle above, waiting for some godforsaken creature to collapse of heat exhaustion or dehydration. Indeed, one could see for miles from a hill, yet, there was truly nothing to be seen. The dry landscape repeated itself for as far as the eye could see. Except to the north. The north, several miles away, sat a huge, triangular pile of stones the size of a mountain. That was where he was headed. That was why he was here. That was why it had all started.
   Jacob lifted his right hand. The ring about his right thumb flashed. A shimmering orb of a dull purple enveloped him. He would need the shield. He descended the hill and made his way towards the mountainous pile of rock. As he drew near, a harsh and brutal wind gushed from the expansive opening cleaved into the mountain's face. It battered the shield Jacob had erected - more powerful than he had anticipated. The violet bubble would have shattered had he not used the ring on his right pinky finger to refresh and reinforce it. Cloak and dirt and sand whipping about him, he pressed on, the lopsided pyramid looming ever closer.
   He was at the base of the pile within an hour, the wind increasing in strength and ferocity all the while. Now, so close to it, the opening in the mountain's face had grown quiet, the raging gale that gushed forth was now little more than a ragged, whistling whisper. He raised his right hand again and the shield contracted, growing tighter and smaller until it outlined his form perfectly. More protected, he stepped inside.
   The interior of the pile of rocks was nothing like the outside world. It's walls were blue and a soft glow illuminated the cavern. Water dripped from unseen places, creating a maddening chorus of drip-drip-drip sounds. And, in the center of the cavern, lay a small pool of crystal clear water. A ring was floating in the exact center of the pool. The stone embedded into the metal shifted colors with each passing second; it was fierce orange one second, cool aquamarine another and then a drab grey the next. Jacob stepped to the pool.
   "My, my. Look who it is. If it isn't father," hissed a voice, dripping with acidic contempt as he did so. "After all this time, now you show up?"
   "I am here for the ring," Jacob called out into the dim light of the cavern, voice echoing off the walls. "You are no longer fit to care for it."
   "HAH! Always the ring, isn't it?" a hollow laugh erupted. "You don't understand, father. All these years and you don't get it; the ring is MINE!"
   A blast of hot air threw Jacob several feet away from the pool. A swirling maelstrom of steam and dust descended onto the pool, evaporating the water and sucking up the vapors. And the ring! The ring, too, was sucked up into the swirling mass. The hollow laugh echoed again and the swirling thing of air and dust shifted shape into a vaguely humanoid form, with teeth of sand and eyes of fury. A hand of dust slammed down on top of Jacob, forcing him into the stone. His shield shattered like purple glass. His robe was scorched and burned off his back. He raised a hand and fired a bolt of white energy from the ring on his left ring finger. The bolt blew through the dust creature but did no lasting damage. It laughed again and swept him away like a rag-doll.
   "The ring is not yours!" Jacob roared over the whipping wind. "And it never will be! Surrender it peacefully and you will not be harmed, Xander."
   "Hah! You are not strong enough to make me fork it over. You are weak, old man."
   Jacob leaped out of the way of another arm-hammering by Xander. The ring on his right pointer loosed a spiraling vacuum of clear air that blasted apart Xander's dust body. The creature reformed slowly, face full of scorn and fear and hate.
   "If I cannot kill you by turning you into a prune, then I will freeze your very blood!"
   At that instant, the cavern flash-froze over and the air began frigid instead of scorching hot. The chill mercilessly battered Jacob's body and he slumped to the ground, breathing hazing in clouds. His strength was leaving him quickly. He needed to act. Gritting his teeth, he got to his feet. His skin was turning red and blistering due to the cold. Xander laughed at Jacob's futile attempt at standing. And then his laughing stopped as Jacob leaped towards him and stabbed his right arm into Xander's incorporeal body. The extreme cold instantly caused Jacob's flesh to turn black from frostbite but the rings blazed fiercely and he inched slowly for the ring that was embedded into the center. The deathly cold claws of dust wrapped around Jacob's body and desperately tried to pry him free, but to no avail. Xander's scream reverberated violently throughout the cavern.
   And just before Jacob couldn't handle it anymore, just when his body was about to fail from the cold and the pain, his fingers wrapped around that little ring. He yanked it free, dust trailing from the trajectory of his arm. He collapsed to his back on the cavern's floor. Xander screamed again and again, thrashing violently. He rose towards the gap in the ceiling and then exploded outwards in a puff of dust and air. Jacob, below, watched as his own son died and tears leaked from his eyes. It was never easy. He had thought his years of safeguarding the rings were over. He had thought he could trust them to his children, all ten of them, each one a ring for themselves.
   He was wrong. 
   Now, ten children dead and gone and all ten rings recovered, it was finally done. He could now rest.
   Jacob lifted himself off the floor and fitted the ring around his left pointer finger. The last one was now his again. And with this, he could erase the damage that Xander caused, that he, by extension of trusting his son, caused. He left the cavern and raised his left hand towards the simmering sky. A bolt from the left pointer finger struck the sky and leaden clouds formed. Thunder rolled in and then a flash of lightning here and there. Hell, it was a cacophony of light and sound.
   And then came the rain.
   It came down hard. In harsh, rolling sheets, but it felt good. The thirsty ground sucked it right up and, he imagined, back down in the town of Watershed, the people were out and about dancing in the rain that they had waited so long for. The ground would once again be green and rivers and creeks and lakes would once again damped the land. Jacob smiled to himself. One hell of a storm was coming and it will change the land for the better.