Here's a direct link to today's prompt, and my humble submission:
The shaman from the north was tired. He again wiped the sweaty wisp of hair from his forehead; it felt sticky and the tip had managed to find its way into his eye for the fifth time this morning. He had been mixing herbs, consoling the men and women in the village, and offering prayers in addition to his regular duties. For now, he had found respite from the burning sun beneath a withered tree on the other side of the hill about a mile from his people. He felt useless, his powers a thing of former glory. A rustle of dry earth behind him and there, gloating in silence, stood the shaman from the village to the south; for years they had maintained a strong rivalry--each bringing sustenance and healing to their respective people. The smile on the face of the shaman from the south said it all: he felt vindicated, he had won. The shaman from the north grew more weary as he looked at the face of his nemesis, so he turned away to look in the direction of his village. He knew he would have to do something, since it had been four weeks and the rains still hadn't come. He sighed, got to his feet, and bowed to the shaman from the south before slowly making his way toward home.