Mallacht na Talamh Tirim

MALLACHT NA TALAMH TIRIM - SCÉAL UAFÁIS AS GAEILGE AGUS BÉARLA - HORROR STORY IN IRISH AND ENGLISH - BREDEVOORT VAN DEN BERGI lár an tostáin uaigní i gCara, tá teaghlach atá ar tí dúiseacht le tart fíochmhar ón seansaol, tart nach féidir le huisce ar bith a mhúchadh. Tá saol Johan agus Lena ar a bhfeirm, a bhí fadó thorthúil, tar éis dul chun donais de bharr an triomaigh, go dtí gur thit braon amháin báistí dearga ar an talamh seargtha.
Ón nóiméad sin amach, scriosann fórsaí dofheicthe agus síoraína an domhan atá timpeall orthu. In the heart of the desolate silence of the Karoo, a family is on the verge of awakening a primordial, savage thirst that no water can quench. The life of Johan and Lena on their once-fertile farm has turned into a torment of drought, until a single drop of red rain strikes the parched land. From that moment on, their world is shattered by invisible and eternal forces.  "Glúineann Johan Steenkamp sa deannach, a mhéara faoi ghreim ar chloch amhail is gur úrnáith a bhí ann.
Johan Steenkamp knelt in the dust, his fingers clenched around a stone as if it were a prayer. Bhí an talamh faoi cosúil le liopaí scáinte nach bhféadfadh focal a rá a thuilleadh. The ground beneath him was cracked lips that could no longer utter a single word. Seacht mbliana. Seacht mbliana faoi mhallacht gan braon báistí. Seven years. Seven damned years without a drop of rain. Bhí a lámha ag crith agus é ag cuimilt na hithreach tirime, amhail is go mbraithfeadh sé go fóill an maís a baineadh anseo uair amháin.
His hands trembled as he rubbed the barren earth, as if he could still feel the ghost of maize stalks that had once been harvested here. Anois níl ann ach deannach agus dóchas, á scaipeadh le gach séideán gaoithe. Now, only dust and hope, scattered with every gust of wind. Sheas Lena ar a chúl, a scáth ag titim thar na scáineáin sa talamh. Lena stood behind him, her shadow falling across the fissures in the soil.
A lámha crosaithe os cionn a boilg, a liopaí féin tirime agus scáinte. Her arms were crossed over her stomach, her own lips dry and split."Níl sé seo ceart, " a dúirt sí."This isn't right, " she said. Bhí a glór ag briseadh cosúil le craobhacha an chrann dealgach a dhiúltaigh bás a fháil. Her voice cracked like the branches of the thorn tree that refused to die. D'fhéach Johan in airde. Johan looked up.
Bhí an spéir bán leis an teas, ach ansin, os cionn na fána, bhí scamaill dhubh amháin ag crochadh. The sky was white with heat, but there, above the horizon, hung a single black cloud. Beag. Dorcha. Cosúil le cuileog ag timpeallú bó. Small. Dark. Like a fly circling a cow."Lena, " a mhomlaigh sé, a ghlor garbh."Lena, " he mumbled, his voice rough."Féach.""Look."Lean sí a shúile, a súile ag cúngú. She followed his gaze, her eyes narrowing."Níl aon bhrí leis.""It means nothing.""Chonnaiceamar roimhe seo é.""We've looked before."Ach níor bhog an scamaill.
But the cloud didn't move. D'fhan sí ansin, trom le rud éigin eile seachas báisteach. It hung there, heavy with something other than rain. Ansin bhris sí amach. Then it broke open. Bhuail an chéad braon Johan ar an mbathais. The first drop hit Johan on the forehead. Te. Aisteach. Warm. Strange. Shéid sé uaidh é, agus d'fhéach ar a mhéara. He wiped it away, looked at his fingers. Dearg. Red."