“Never ever forget that we are all commie members,” my granny would impress upon me. “And that means we share everything.”

She would tell me that true commie members don't just share their belongings and food and tools but also their joys and sufferings. Without these special bonds, our community would quickly perish, just like so many of our ancestors perished in the days and months after the Apocalypse.

But, as a special privilege we are all allowed to keep one personal possession to cherish and revere. This keepsake becomes our precious belonging. No other commie member can touch it or lay claim to it. It is OURS and ours alone. And that's why, when I reached my fifteenth birthday, my granny formally handed over the little china dog into my safekeeping.

“This is your family heirloom, Jared,” she told me,“ and your bond-tie with your ancestors from the long ago days of plenty.”

Of course, I felt deeply honoured to receive this object but it was only gradually that I fully understood its significance. Within a few months I just needed to hold my keepsake in my hands and I could almost feel the powerlines from the bye bye days pulsing through me.

The china sheepdog is not without its blemishes. There is the hairline crack just above its left hind leg which has had to be repaired and stuck together over the ages. Numerous little scratchmarks reveal where the paint has faded or been scraped away. But it has become an integral part of me, just like Esme Cadwallader's set of wooden napkin rings or Turquoise Harlesquez's garland of Nissan hubcaps help shape and characterize them as individuals.

And now, after this long period of drought we have assembled for the rain-summoning and I fear that I could lose this precious china dog. I feel many of the elders disapprove of me and will ask me directly to make it my own personal sacrifice.

Many of us have been hearing the whispers of rain through our sleep. For me it is a rustling, papery scratching sound like the murmurings of ghosts. Recently these great swollen cloud battlements have been gathering above us and we have felt them bulging and straining for release. We more sensitive ones have tried to reach out to the Elementals as we call them – these shifting atom-spheres and water-bearing cloud entities – but they have ignored us. These last few days they have been content to let the winds push them southwards, towards the abandoned cities on the coast. These Elementals are not benign or malign – as our ancestors used to believe. They are just migrants and travellers ( as we used to be). But they are wilful and capricious and full of dark broodings. Sometimes, they allow the rain to fall with effortless ease at the first hints of our prayers. And sometimes they play with us. They need to feel the wild desperation of our pleas for rain and the recognition that we are completely at their mercy before responding. If the rains don't come soon we will have to make the dangerous migrations to the urban wastelands and return to a more nomadic- based lifestyle.

We have reached that desperate stage when our community must gather together for our collective sacrifice or Critical Mass as the elders like to call it. Old Grigor Maclean, our Savvy One, has been chiding us in his usual cheerless, grim-faced manner, He keeps reminding us that we are utterly worthless and that we all need to dream the rain and hear the distant rumble of thunder somewhere in the remote layers of our sleep. We know deep down he is right. If the rains don't come soon we will starve. But that doesn't stop us resenting him and his constant admonitions.

So we gather around our fleet of colorful dilapidated jalopies clustered together in a wide enclosed circle. A fire is prepared in the middle ; an assortment of scavenged wood and dried thorns and grasses. If we're truly desperate the elders will sanction the use of some of our precious homebrewed ethanol to get the conflagration going. But this morning the land is so dry that the bonfire catches flame instantly. As a community we start the rain summonings slowly – as we always do. We share a little of our dwindling rations of meat and chew some of our final radishes and sickly tomatoes from the polytunnels. And then we begin the lament.

The Critical Mass is always awkward to start with. The older generations start the wailing process. intoning the words that have been handed down through the generations. There is little actual genuine heartfelt grief at first and it takes time to reach the appropriate levels of intensity.

We begin by remembering the recently deceased commie members whom we sense are still watching over us, just beyond the rimmed edges of our consciousness. Then we summon the memories of those who died as babies and toddlers, calling them by their names, even though many of them passed away two or three generations ago. We see them all as kinds of sacrifices as they were taken from us so cruelly and prematurely. Just by uttering their names and the names of their ancestors is usually enough to sharpen up the levels of our collective grief and sorrow.

Some twenty minutes later Grigor raises his hand for silence. He glowers at us with a deep scowl of disapproval and berates us for not trying hard enough and for not reaching out to the Elementals with sufficient respect and sense of atonement. The words are part of the fabric of the ritual. At every rain lament he repeats them. And yet, for our sacrifice to work, he has to be sincere in his rage and in his deep frustrations with the community.

“The rains will pass us by,” Grigor rebukes us. “We have become lazy, arrogant, disconnected from the rest of creation. Just like our ancestors before us.”

He and his wife Desimona and other elders start scrutinizing individual faces, largely concentrating their energies on the teenagers and young adults or In-Betweeners as we are known. I think they sense our dislike and fear of them. They feel there is something unstable, resentful, even defiant about us and believe that we need to be shaped and moulded more forcibly. Grigor, in particular, picks out individual In-Betweeners and fixes them with these smouldering looks of suppressed rage and contempt. But for some reason he avoids making sustained eye-contact with me. I know it is only a matter of time before he turns on me. I feel his rage with our community and especially with me, radiating out of him like dark heat waves. He is uncomfortable in my presence and regards me with thinly-disguised distrust and suspicion.

All the commie members – even us In-Betweeners – sense his real alarm and growing fears that our supplications will not be sufficient. More is expected of us. As a community we have not demonstrated enough grief, enough humility, enough desperation to survive. In times like these, it is not enough just to intone the ritual words of the lament. The Elementals will just pass us by, swept by the winds, pulled by the great air currents and faraway ocean tides. We are small, insignificant, worthless in their eyes…a tiny bleep on their consciousness. We can not always expect the rains to fall simply by beating out a few rhythms and chanting a few ancient prayers in unison. We are not going to be lucky or blessed as we have been in previous years. We need to give more ; we need to make real heartcore sacrifices.

In the evening after a little time for food, forage and rest we reconvene. There is a palpable tingle of urgency and the panic flutters start jittering in tangled knots in the pits of our stomachs. Old Grigor, hunched in the folds of his greatcoat, stares moodily in the leaping flames. He seems more withdrawn and less angry and this only increases our anxieties. If our Savvy One has given way to despair, then our whole community is in great peril. There are still clouds scudding overhead, threaded by pale silvery underlays. But now they seem less swollen and substantial, drifting too quickly to release the rain on our crops and pasture lands.

Nevertheless the rest has done us some good. The pitch to our wailing becomes more intense and pronounced. Within a few minutes the younger children start joining in and that always both unnerves and uplifts me. The adults and even the In-Betweeners can fake their way through the lament, intoning the sacred words and even squeezing a few teardrops from their eyes. But when the smaller kids start crying, you know immediately they are frightened and that their grief is real. Their fears and their agitation are heartcore genuine and this ripples like a hardwired current through the rest of us. This collective surge of emotion becomes increasingly more trauma-charged and inter-connected. We find ourselves merging into that mystical state of union that our ancestors described all those years ago.We become one conscious identity, not just amongst ourselves, but also with the land around us, the dried up crops and raised beds and polytunnels and grasslands and scattered ruins of old buildings.

Everything around us is now pulsing, store-housed and fused with Old World power. We can feel the atom spheres tingling and pressing upon us ; our bodies circuit-boarded to the skies humming above us and the layers of soil and rocks vibrating below our feet.

Anticipation starts to build as twilight falls. This is the 'in-between' time when the past and present begin to converge. The grasslands and the scattered trails sometimes echo to the sounds of the old ghost traffic. I can almost hear the muffled roar and swish of the old M-Lanes and High Ways and the sweet corrupt whiffs of the long ago petrol fumes. Sometimes our collective yearnings for those bye bye days are so potent that we can visualize the outlines of cars flowing past us in endless trafficking waves.

That's why old Grigor fears me. He knows my ability to Trance- Fer is stronger than his, especially when the other commie members can see my whole body start quivering with Old World vibrations.

There has been a subtle shifting of the atom spheres and air particles. We feel somehow closer to these Elementals, these entities of cloud and wind current. The older women and female trainee hunter scavengers begin cutting themselves, giving little yelps as they take out their blades and make their first incisions, blood-donoring to to the earth beneath and the shifting migrations of cloud masses above. The skies have turned this darkening apocalyptic yellow and Grigor is suddenly more animated, crying out in Old Lingo about our need to sacrifice to the Elementals. We sense that now the brooding cloud- entities are starting to bleep our faraway presences and tune in to our fears and terrified pleas. There is the faintest rumbling of thunder on the faraway eastern horizon, accompanied by a brief flicker of lightning.

We all shiver in a collective ripple and quiver of hopeful expectancy. I feel a sudden lightening of the cloud-masses pressing down upon us and it seems as if the atom spheres are ready to burst and release the first water droplets to the earth. We hold our breath in anticipation. An owl ghosts among the spear- shaped silhouettes of the reeds by the dried marshbed, drifting like a stained rag before disappearing.

Then, to our acute disappointment, we realize the moment has passed and that nothing has happened.

Grigor and Desimona subject us In-Betweeners to another long, accusatory stare and this time they make a point of staring directly at me as if singling me out. They do not articulate their thoughts into words but their message to me is clear. I am not doing enough for the community and it is time to make my own personal sacrifices. I begin to tremble, filled with this horrible presentiment of what they will expect from me.

They all despise me for being so fearful of pain and so squeamish about cutting and scarring myself – even if the survival of our community depends on enduring such ordeals. I make the first timid slash on my forearm, opening up the scars of an old cut and carefully avoiding slashing a vein. A trickle of blood froths into a bubble before dropping to the ground. It is enough to appease the elders momentarily. But I have seen the look in Desimona's eyes that says : “You're not a true man. You're too private, too detached, too self-absorbed to be a true member of this community.”

I hang my head in shame, my defiance of the elders crumbling into dust. I am aware that the entire circle of commie members is looking at me. A few of them are scanning me with disapproval ; the majority of them are just relieved that the attention is focused on me rather than on them. I know that if the rains don't come soon, the pain-dues will become increasingly harsher. I know that in the past, once the ritual laments and blood-letting have failed, offerings have become more severe and more personal. Individual commie members have been expected to sacrifice a prized personal possession such as a valuable piece of livestock or an old jalopy or a sunnie screen or an old family heirloom. In extreme situations, commie members have offered up an organ or a body part; a finger, an ear or even an eye.

Grigor and Desimona, sensing my weakness and vulnerability, turn to face me. Even before they speak, I know that they have singled me out to make the first offering. Then Grigor , sitting opposite me across the fire-circle, shifts slightly in his ancient fold-up chair and speaks to me in his deep, ponderous voice: “So, Jared Private Eye, have you thought what you can offer to the Elementals to preserve our community and bring the rain?”

At first I don't make any response. Everyone in the fire-circle, clustered in front of their jalopies, knows the answer. They know my china dog is the most precious thing in my life. They know this is the keepsake that empowers and defines me. In these terrible moments, I can feel my heartbeats hammering against my chest and this chill bead of fear hackling and prickling down my spine.

Surprisingly, Grigor's tone softens a little and there is even a suggestion of sympathy. “Jared,' he calls out to me from across the fire-circle, “ we know how precious the dog is to you. But these are grim times and we must raise our levels of sacrifice so that we can reach out to these Elementals flowing above us. We have prayed, we have cried out them, we have donored our blood and still they have not stirred to help us.”

The fact that he is calling me by my personal family name and not by my full community 'descriptor' name shows a hint of tenderness and even regret on his part.. I sense he is reaching out to me, almost pleading with me. I acknowledge his words with the faintest of nods, knowing he is right and yet still hating him for selecting me to bear the pain dues for the community. I know deep down that I haven't been doing enough for the community and that my descriptor name of Private Eye is not an entirely positive epithet. It implies that I am too egoistic and self-absorbed and inner-looking. And yet I also have this power, this long-sight television that helps me reach out to the ghosts of the past and to the Elementals and other entities of the natural world around us.

“We are nearly there, Jared,” he whispers. “I can feel the heaviness and expectancy of the atom-spheres pressing down on us, the electric tingle of the storm-particles. But we have to give more, Jared, both you and the community.”

I take out the china dog from the folds of my greatcoat for everyone to see. I start cradling it in my hands and stroking it on the top of its head, as if it is a living entity. For a moment, the fur seems warm to my touch and I can feel the compassion of my ancestors murmuring in comfort-tones somewhere inside my head.. More acutely than ever, I sense they are watching over me from the abandoned satellite stations and trying to bring me solace in my grief.

And seeing there is no alternative, I intone the ritual words :“ I will make the sacrifice…to make atonement for the Bye Bye days and the loss of the Eden Project and for the survival of our community.”

Then, with no further hesitation, I hold the china dog high in the air and hurl it into the flames.

There is a pause and a hushed intake of breath around the fire-circle. A faint breeze sifts among the huddle of vehicles, rustling the canvas canopies. Grigor Maclean gives a barely discernible nod of gratitude and Desimona thanks me personally.

“Thank you, Jared, for the sacrifice you've offered.” She shifts her attention to all the commie members gathered around in the fire-circle. “Let us all try one more time, all thinking the same thoughts and sharing Jared's pain and shedding the blood of our commie membership.” I feel a combustion of self-pity and also rage against the elders. Why should we always be having to pay our shares of atonement and pain for the sins of our ancestors? Then I rise to my feet, not really knowing what I am doing but charged with these high levels of fury and wild energy. I raise my knife and score a deep gash that runs from my left shoulder to the tip of my elbow. The blood pours from out of this incision, warmer and darker-crimson than I'd ever imagined. For a heartbeat I feel no immediate pain, only an exultation of defiance and anger. Then the pain rips like a bolt of lightning, stinging and searing down my arm and across my whole body.

In my anguish and torment I start to cry.

For the first time in my life, the explosion of pain and the desolation of my loss leads me into true Trance-Fer mode. It is strange. A part of me, my inner private eye, feels detached from the rest of my body as if I'm looking down on myself from a great height, howling and sobbing like some tormented beast in the wilderness.And yet I am also acutely conscious of my agony swarming across my layers of flesh and bones. I feel this connection with everyone else in the fire-circle, even the elders. Everyone else is standing beside me and around me, all crying and shrieking and bonding. Even the little ones are trying to slash themselves with bundles of thorns and carve themselves tiny scars on their forearms and cheeks. The skies above are echoing and resounding like a hollow cauldron to our cries. My whole body is throbbing with pain and yet, coiled and immersed within these spirals of torment and loss, I feel the surge and coalescence and collective power of our community, this powerful confluence of our energies and our desperation to survive. We are sorry, truly sorry, for what we and those generations before us have done.

Then – like a touch of breath on my cheek – there is this sudden lessening and release of tension in the atom spheres around us. I know in that instant that Grigor and Desimona are pleased with me and that we have connected with the Elementals flowing above us and around us and have moved them with our pleas. I know that it is soon before the first light drops of rain will start to splatter on the parched earth beneath. During the night the cloudbursts will intensify and the droplets will cascade upon us in heavy, soaking downpours. The muddy trickles of the stream beds will be transformed into swollen slate-grey and orange-brown torrents. The guttering and pipes will be gurgling with the throaty gush of rainwater as they fill our water cisterns and rusted storage tanks. Desimona initiates the celebration dances and we start shuffling and dancing in clumsy, weaving circles. Our cries to the Elementals, to the atom spheres and the cloud entities have been successful and our community will be sustained - for another season at least. The sound of flowing water will revitalize all of our dreams later this evening.

Our prayers and tears and sacrifice have not been in vain.

Cosmo Goldsmith is a 'semi-retired' English and Drama teacher with a passion for all forms of creative writing. He has had poems and a short story published in British and American magazines over the last three years.