Drought

  When I get to the cisterns, the wind is still. It’s so quiet that I hear my every soft footstep on the road, the grit grinding and sliding under my toes.

  But even with the quiet, I don’t hear Ford, sitting under the cisterns. I wonder if he’s holding his breath.

  “You’re here,” he says, but he doesn’t stand. His voice doesn’t sound joyful either.

  “Yes. I’m here.”

  “I guess you have to … pray.”

  “Later.” I draw in a deep breath and try to steady myself for what I have to say. Even after what he did, this is hard. “I’m done with ever seeing you, Ford. I’m done. I’ll have to be done … with ever thinking of you, even.”

  “Ruby, no … please don’t.” Ford stands and comes close enough for me to smell the clean soapy scent of his skin. But he’s not close enough to touch. Even if he were, I wouldn’t want to.

  “You whipped Asa. You pulled that chain out and you laid it right across him. And you didn’t even look sorry,” I say. My voice shakes. I take another deep breath.

  “Do you really think I wanted to?” Ford’s hands are both formed into fists. “Do you think I don’t hate myself?”

  “How could you?” I ask, my voice too loud, but I can’t control it.

  Ford takes one step closer. “Quiet! You want them to find you?”

  “You whipped him.” I throw out both hands and shove him hard, on the chest. He staggers back a bit, looking surprised.

  “It was only once. And I swear, it wasn’t that hard—”

  “You raised that chain high in the air …” I shove him again. “And you whipped it across his body.”

  “I was as soft as I could be, with Darwin watching.”

  “You were different. That’s what I thought,” I tell him. “But now I see you’re like the rest of them.”

  “You said I was kinder, once.” He lifts his hands, reaching out, but I step back.

  “I was wrong,” I say.

  “Did you want Darwin to hit your friend, instead of me doing it?” he asks.

  “At least I already knew he was evil. But you …” Tears cut off what I was going to say next. I hate them. I want to stay clean and burning-fire mad.

  “I’m not evil,” Ford says softly. “I’m a guy trying to keep his job.”

  “Why? So you can become like them?” I ask.

  “So I can keep my mother alive. If I lose this job …” Ford turns away from me and paces to the next cistern.

  “Would your mother be proud of you?” I ask, loud enough to make sure he can hear me.

  I can’t tell for sure, but I think Ford shakes his head. His back is turned to me and he’s looking up at the cisterns.

  No. I won’t let him ignore me. I walk close to him. “What won’t you do?” I ask. “Is there anything you wouldn’t do to keep your mother alive?”

  His shoulders tense. “Your friend will be fine. I did what I had to do.”

  “I hate what you did. I think I might even hate you,” I say. But those words feel wrong on my tongue. I do hate what he did. But in truth, part of me still wants him.

  “You think you’re the only one who’s mad?” Ford turns to face me.

  “What do you have to be mad about?”

  “I saw what you do here.” He reaches up and knocks on the cistern. “I saw what you put in here.”

  Shock silences me. I look up at the cisterns, and back at Ford. Mother always warned the Overseers might find out, and now it has happened.

  “When?” I ask.

  “There was a night you came and I hid. I wanted to see what you were really doing.” Ford jerks his head toward a thick stand of pines; in the dark I can barely see their trunks.

  “You … You watched me?”

  For a moment he looks almost sorry. But then his face hardens. “I had to know.”

  “I pray, is all.”

  “You … You cut yourself, Ruby. And then …” He swallows. “You put your blood in there.”

  So he knows. My body feels hot with shame. But why? I wasn’t the one hiding behind trees.

  “I didn’t get it. Not until you put your blood on that plant. And even then …” He shakes his head. “I didn’t want to understand, I think.”

  “You shouldn’t have spied,” I say.

  “So it’s true. You’re not even trying to deny it. Ruby …” He shakes his head again, as if perplexed, horrified. “Why would you do that?”

  Mother has taught me to lie to Overseers, always. But no lies are coming to my lips.

  “It’s a secret,” I say. My voice sounds so small.

  “Why? Well … I see why. It’s disgusting.”

  Anger is flooding over my shame. Why should I feel as if what I’m doing is wrong?

  I clear my throat and try again, but still my words come out quiet. “It’s sacred.”

  “Sacred?” Ford’s voice raises, loud and high, and his eyes go wide.

  “Yes.” I take a step forward, but he steps back. For once I am the pursuer and he is the quarry.

  “Do you hate me?” I ask.

  “No. I just …” Ford puts both hands up in the air, a clear signal: stop. Don’t get near me.

  “I can’t explain more. I’ve promised my mother, and the Elders,” I say. “But it’s not … a bad thing. I promise.”

  “Sacred blood. Yeah, that doesn’t sound like a bad thing.” His voice is heavy with sarcasm.

  “It’s not bad,” I say. It sounds weak, I know.

  “You’re mixed up in something evil, Ruby. Something really evil.” He drops his head and stares at the ground. “I’m sorry for you.”

  “I’m not evil,” I say. “Darwin is evil. Darwin West and the people who work for him.”

  “I told you. I had to do something or he’d have fired me.” He sounds so tired.

  “Well … I have to do this … this thing at the cisterns. Or people would die.” I’ve said too much, I know it.

  “There’s only one person with sacred blood,” he says.

  There are two, at least. Otto, and me. Maybe more, even. “You’re wrong,” I tell him.

  “I’m right. I was raised to know this.”

  “Who, then?” I ask.

  “Come on, Ruby, you’ve got to know that.” He speaks with such contempt.

  “Otto, then,” I tell him.

  “The guy you pray to every week? No.”

  Ford suddenly bridges the space between us and takes both of my hands. “Only Jesus has sacred blood, Ruby. Because he’s God. Don’t you get it?”

  “Otto too,” I say. And me.

  “What you’re doing, Ruby? It’s a sin,” he says.

  “Hitting people is a sin. Standing by and letting someone get hurt has to be a sin,” I say.

  Ford drops my hands. “Don’t.”

  He’s backing away again, like I’m something dangerous.

  “It’s a mortal sin, Ruby. I know it, right here.” He forms a fist and thumps his heart.

  “You’re wrong,” I tell him.

  “I shouldn’t—I can’t be with you. Not so long as you’re doing … that.” He looks up at the cisterns again and shakes his head.

  “Then … good-bye.” Saying it hurts, hurts as bad as if he’d whipped the chain across my chest today.

  “Good-bye.” He comes closer, closer.

  I mean to fight him. But my body does the opposite, curving near him. Then he is even closer to me, and I to him, and our bodies press together until there isn’t space for even a breath of breeze between us.

  When he kisses me, I kiss him harder. I slide my hands up, and around his neck, and then down his back, as if I know exactly how to do this. He lets out a low moan, nearly a growl, and his hands slide low, lower until he is pressing the most burning part of me against the hardest part of him and I press even more into him.

  This time, it’s Ford who pulls away. “No more.”

  He turns and walks down the road—fast. So fast that it’s nearly a trot. I w
onder if he’ll run as soon as he’s out of sight.

  He’s not asking me to run away with him anymore.

  Now he’s running away from me.

  Chapter 21

  It is time to go, nearly.

  Mother sleeps in her bed, pain from the day eased with Water.

  Boone and the others have all gone home. There is only one last thing to do before I go.

  It will be a little while longer before Jonah comes—a little longer before I leave the only home I’ve ever known. It feels like the wait will be forever, and yet everything is happening too fast. Maybe I was wrong to make this choice, and to pull Jonah into it. Maybe I should keep waiting for Otto, as Mother and the Elders counsel me to.

  But then I pull Ellie’s pocket watch from under my pillow. I remember the promise I made her.

  “Nobody else will die a slave,” I say softly, and I slide the watch into my skirt pocket.

  The only way I can keep that promise is to go find Otto. We have waited too long already.

  There is that one last thing—but I cannot bring myself to do it, not yet.

  So I take our makeshift broom—one long tree branch with thin twigs tied to one end—and sweep out the cabin. The dust disappears in a puff when I push it outside the door, lighting the dark for just a second with its whiteness.

  Then I straighten our few special things: the picture of Otto, hanging just so, and the soft red shawl that Mother wore the first time she met Otto. I brush away any dust that might have gathered on it.

  “Do what you must do,” I whisper to myself. But it still feels too soon, too final. So next I take my boots and Mother’s boots outside. I clap the soles together and clods of dried dirt fall out. I brush off the toes, the sides, the tops where dirt works its way into our skin.

  What new places will my boots find tonight?

  Then I return to Mother’s side. Her breathing is deeper already, and her cheeks have a little color in them. Darwin was brutal today, but I believe her body is getting better at healing every night.

  Still, she will need me—or my blood—while I’m gone. The Congregants will need me too. Without my blood, there will be no Water. There will be nothing to heal Mother, to sustain the rest, until I return with Otto.

  It’s time to do the last thing, the thing I must do.

  Mother keeps a small box beside her bed, filled mostly with nothings: a leaf I gave her on a particularly beautiful fall day, or a twig she found growing over a hidden spring. But there are four important things in that box too.

  I sit on the floor, cross-legged, and set the box softly on my skirts. Then I open the box, slowly, quietly. But the hinges squeak.

  There, nested inside a soft clean rag, are the four vials. They are empty now, and cleaned of every bit of blood.

  When Otto left the vials, there wasn’t a note, or any explanation. But Mother knew what it meant: he was gone, but he wanted her to continue his work. Why else would he leave his blood? And he’d be back too—long before the vials ran out, she prayed.

  Now the vials will be filled again. She can make them last for more than a hundred years, if she must.

  But that won’t be necessary. We’ll find Otto soon, I know it. I look over at Mother; she is asleep, her chest barely rising and falling. Then I spread the shawl on the floor, ready to once again hold the vials. Beside it I set two rags, ones I normally would tuck in my pocket in preparation for the cisterns.

  Next I tuck the first vial between my two bare feet, pressing my heels together to keep it steady and upright. The glass feels so slight against my skin. I must be careful not to break it.

  One long slash lengthwise on my arm; it hurts, but I keep the stone steady and press down firm. The pain will last for a few minutes, but this blood will sustain the Congregation for as long as I need to find Otto.

  I hold my arm at a slant, fingers pointing toward the floor. The blood runs into the vial, drip drip drip. I press at the top of the cut to make it go faster.

  How did Otto fill the vials? Did he have a knife that cut just where it needed to, one slim easy cut without jagged edges? How did he steady the vial—for certainly he was alone, filling the vials while Mother slept and then slipping away.

  “I’m coming,” I whisper to him.

  One vial is full. I wedge the old cork into the bottle, my blood still running down my arm. It falls on the floor now, dark drops, and I wipe frantically at it. The vial tips and some blood slides around the edge of the cork.

  I steady the vial and press the rag against my arm. How did the blood escape the vial? The old cork must have shrunk. I wait for my arm to stop bleeding. I sneak a look at Mother to make sure she’s not seeing any of this. But she sleeps steady, and my heart slowly, slowly returns to normal.

  When the blood stops, I rip a bit of rag off the edge and wrap it around the cork, then stuff it in the vial. It will have to do.

  I fill a second vial, and then make a fresh cut on the other arm for the third. This time, while I watch the blood, thoughts of Ford crowd my mind.

  What you’re doing is a sin, he said.

  How does he know? Mother is our Reverend, not him. She knows Otto. She knows his holiness. How can Ford judge?

  But what if he’s right? What if we were never meant to live this long? I don’t know what I was meant to do, or even whether I am the same kind of human that my mother is.

  All I know is that Otto has the answers … and salvation for the Congregation.

  Another vial full. I set it next to the first and make a third cut on my other arm. My head buzzes a little as I watch the blood roll down the side of the glass. I’ve bled more to heal Mother, I’m sure of it. But somehow this makes me feel weaker.

  I wish I’d asked Ford more questions about the modern world; I wish he’d somehow taught me everything I need to know to survive it, to thrive in it.

  Finally I can start the fourth vial, and a final cut. Both arms sting from the necessary slashes. But already the wounds are knitting together; by the time I leave, my arms will be smooth.

  Then, a tap on the wall behind me.

  Jonah is here.

  He can’t come inside—he knows nothing of my blood, and he can’t ever know. I cork the half-full vial, set it down, and hurry outside.

  Jonah stands in the shadows of the cabin, staring at what’s left of the Lake. “You ready?” he asks, without looking at me.

  “Wait a few minutes more,” I tell him.

  “Not backing out, are you?” Now he looks at me, and I see his eyes are puffy.

  “I’ll be here in a moment. I promise,” I tell him.

  “Hurry,” is his answer.

  When I’m back inside, I have to cut my arm again. Then the final vial is full.

  All four finished vials sit on the shawl, nestled against one another, waiting. I wrap them up and set them on my pillow. The red fabric is like a pool of blood.

  I can leave now; everything I must do here is done.

  But first, I kneel beside Mother’s bed and clasp my hands together, fingers knitted through each other, and look up to heaven.

  “Otto,” I whisper, “let this be the right decision … and watch over her while I’m gone.” Then I stand up and drop a last kiss on Mother’s head.

  When I step outside, my way to Jonah is blurred with tears. But he meets me before I reach the back of the cabin. He offers me one of the tall pointed sticks.

  “This place don’t deserve tears.”

  “But the people do,” I say.

  Jonah reaches back and touches the wood wall of the cabin. He shakes his head, lowers it for a second. “Some of them.”

  I struggle to swallow the tears that want to swamp me. Feeling Jonah’s stare, I duck my head, let the tears drip onto the leaves by my feet.

  “You ready?” he asks.

  I nod and lead the way into the woods.

  As I slide my feet over the leaves and roots, I barely hear Jonah’s passage. When I reach a stand of trees, I stop fo
r a moment and look back to make sure he still follows.

  Jonah is directly behind me. He gives me a grin.

  “Pretty scenery,” he whispers.

  I turn away before he can see my face, or the blush that crawls over it. I couldn’t have chosen a worse ally—except for his strength and his willingness to do this.

  “No sign or sound of the Overseers,” I whisper. “But keep quiet anyway.”

  Jonah gives a tense nod.

  I lead him deeper into the woods; as we go, our path crosses the line of poles sometimes, the black rope arching over our heads. Still, I wonder what these are for.

  When we’re nearly halfway to where I think the tree is, I motion for us to stop. There are blurred edges around everything I look at, and the air seems to waver. Perhaps I took too much blood for the vials.

  “We’ll rest here for five minutes,” I tell Jonah, sitting on a stump. It’s old, soft, and it sinks a little into the earth from my weight.

  But Jonah stays standing. “Let’s get out while we can.”

  “We’ve got all night. If we’re tired, we’ll be noisy,” I tell him.

  “You think you’re the boss, don’t you? A little Darwin West?” Jonah asks.

  “It was my idea, wasn’t it?” I ask.

  “I could’ve run anytime I wanted, except for you.” Jonah gives me a glare, then looks up the hill again.

  “I owe the Congregation, I know it,” I say.

  “You hear that?” Jonah asks, his voice a little unsteady.

  I hear leaves rustling against one another in the wind. I hear the cry of a night bird, far off. Jonah’s breathing is growing shorter, more frightened.

  “I don’t hear anything,” I say.

  Jonah makes an impatient motion with his hand—wait.

  I close my eyes so there’s nothing to distract my mind. I try to push away the sound and sense of Jonah, listen to the thing that’s made his eyes go wide.

  And then I hear something. A faint rumbling sound, coming from below, where we started from.

  “A truck?” I guess.

  “Overseers are out tonight,” Jonah says grimly.

  “We’d best hurry.” I stand up.

  “Like I was saying.” Jonah motions up the hill and gives me a smile to curdle milk. Now my feet seem to find every stick, every stone to send tumbling down the hill. Jonah is noisier too. But we’re moving faster—and in the end, as long as we escape, does it matter if they hear us first?