By Keith Foster

Dad was reputed to be the best water-witcher in the entire RM. He had a knack for finding water where no one else could.

When Dad died, neighbours expected me to carry on, as if I’d inherited his skill.

So when cousin Bob’s well ran dry, he offered me $500 to find a new source. I thought, why not? It’s easy money.

Dad’s heaviest divining rod had a power all its own. It guided me across the field, then took a sudden dip and quivered above one spot.

Bob was ecstatic. “We’ve hit paydirt!” he yelled, throwing his hat in the air.

I tried to explain that the rod had bent down because my arms were tired.

Bob wouldn’t listen. He hired a company to drill, and drill, and drill, but found not a drop of water.

The only thing that squirted out was a stream of greasy black slime that squished under our boots.

Bob said I must have used the wrong divining rod. He’s demanding his money back.