Flash fiction - The torch is passed, and a new generation steps up.
A fresh gust of wind slammed into the side of the old house, which twisted and released a groan that sounded like some great breast with a broken back.
"The storm is getting worse", the old man observed nervously. He ran his leathery hand through his thin white hair and looked furtively at the heavy door rattling in the wind.
"Quiet, old man!" replied the girl. She sat on the room's only chair, staring into the flame of a black candle. When Mother Emma had felt the end drawing near, she had told Laurel that it was now her duty to be The Healer, and to protect the village.
"Magic", Mother Emma had explained to her, "is the name we use for a force deep in our soul, and our spells and rituals are nothing more than tools which we use to focus that force."
Now the drought was killing the village. The crops were withered, and the livestock had begun to die. Laurel had performed the spell for rain, but the storm had risen and was still growing stronger. She stared into the flame just as she had been taught, and focused her thoughts on rain forming in the clouds. She sent her mind high above the clouds, and concentrated on pushing the winds in tighter, using them to squeeze the water from the clouds.
The old man heard the wind change pitch. As he listened, he heard a faint ticking sound which steadily grew louder, and finally became the splattering of heavy, fat raindrops. As the noise of the rain swelled into a beautiful roar, he looked at the girl again, and smiled. Mother Emma had chosen well. This new Healer would protect the village for many years to come.