The Waterfall

He came to the waterfall early on a summer’s morning. Rainclouds dulled the sky and water trickled down the rocks like spilt milk.
Somewhere, above him, a torrent was building and he could hear it roaring in his head. He looked up slowly as the cracks started to sound.
It was as if the very cliff face were being torn asunder by old gods, awaking from untimely slumber.
And then sharp sheets of lightning flickered with the booming rolling waves of the thunder, and Samuel knew the rain would come soon.
He held up his hands, rubbing them in ecstatic delight, before: one, two, seven, fifteen drops of rain dripped onto his dry hands and Samuel knew the land would know life again.
Soon the drops teemed in their thousands, teemed like so many tiny hatchlings sprawling upon the stones, the grass, the pool. Even the trees and the vertical cliffs tasted it; the rare flavour of vitality.
Samuel dropped down onto the rocks before him and began to feel the water pooling about his knees. He cried and screamed many thank-yous to the sky and the thunder answered him with a deep groan.
The water danced down and the waterfall gushed to life and the trees seemed to start to grow and turn green again.
And so Samuel took a stone to his head at the foot of the waterfall, sacrificing himself as is the want of the thunder and of the water and of the green of life.