Drought

  Ellie puts her hand out to stop me, but she’s too late. There wasn’t much to pour. “I won’t have you beat,” she whispers.

  “There’s enough water out here for both of us,” I tell her, even though I’m not sure.

  She grips my hand, fingers quaking. Her skin feels soft. “Don’t you give your life up for anybody, girl. You’ve barely begun.”

  A soft laugh escapes me; we both look down the hill. But there’s no sign of an Overseer. “I’ve already lived enough life for four girls, every day the same,” I whisper. And there’s no change in sight.

  The Water slows our aging—or growth, for me. It’s taken this long to grow from a baby to this.

  “You’re a woman now,” Ellie says. “We all see it.”

  She sounds so proud—but of what? “And what new wonder does womanhood bring me?” I ask.

  “The Elders … we want to talk to you about just that,” she says.

  Curiosity flickers in me, like a leaf trembling in the wind. “What?” I ask. “What do the Elders want?”

  Ellie wags one finger gently. “Wait for the next council meeting.”

  Irritation washes over me—and then I feel terrible, small. What has Ellie earned from me but love, and gratitude?

  “Sit and rest a bit,” I tell her. “There’s enough water for me to find and share.”

  I help her ease against a tree trunk, but then there’s the crackle of sticks underfoot; someone is coming. Ellie grips her cup tight and I spring away from her, my heart pounding. I scramble to a patch of wildflowers and run my spoon under their petals, praying some dew still dangles there.

  A shadow hovers over me.

  “Your cup is empty,” Mother says.

  “I gave it to Ellie.”

  “As will I.” Mother takes light steps to Ellie and pours everything she’s collected into Ellie’s cup.

  She fishes a cloth from her pocket and wipes it over Ellie’s forehead. The older woman’s eyes are fluttering shut.

  “You should go,” I tell Mother. “I’ll take care of Ellie.”

  “We are all helping Ellie today,” she says, nodding her head toward the cup. It’s more than half full. There’s no way Mother could have collected so much. I am not the only Congregant who risked a gift to Ellie today.

  “Who?” I ask.

  “Hope. Asa. And others,” Mother says.

  That is when I see Darwin peering at her through the leaves. I purse my lips and make an imitation of a robin’s call. It’s our signal, one we’ve used for a very long time.

  She does not look; that is a waste of time. He has seen us do something we shouldn’t have, and it will not be ignored. The only question is what the punishment will be.

  “No matter what,” Mother whispers, so quiet I can barely hear her, “protect yourself.”

  Rebellion burns my guts. She doesn’t know I took a lashing for Ellie this morning, already. I don’t have to sit by anymore and let her take all the pain. I am strong too—stronger than her now that I’m grown, I think.

  But I nod, because we have argued about this since I was as tall as her shoulder. She says it’s her job to protect me, and my job to sustain the Congregation. But I say it’s my turn to help her.

  And then Darwin is standing by us, grinning, like he’s happy to have caught us doing something wrong. When he looks at the cup, and then Ellie, his head nods.

  “Knew you were up to no good. You helped her.” He aims a thick finger at me.

  We are never supposed to help one another. I start to nod my head yes, but Mother lays a heavy hand on the top of my head: a reminder.

  “I did it all.” Mother stands up and gives him a smile that dares him.

  He takes the bait and deals her a hard slap. Mother’s head jerks to the side, but she does not cry out.

  I bite the inside of my lip to stop from screaming.

  His hand hovers near her head, ready to strike again.

  “You Toads don’t have to suffer,” he says.

  “Then release us,” Mother snaps.

  Darwin’s hand sinks back to his side. He drops to his knees and grabs Mother’s hand.

  She tries to pull her hand back, as if his skin burns hers. But his grip is too tight.

  “I’d still have you, Sula Prosser,” Darwin says.

  A groan escapes me, but neither seems to notice. He has asked her, again and again, and I feel sickening shame for his desperation. I hate it more than his brutality.

  Once, before Otto followed my grandfather out of the woods, before we were slaves, Darwin asked my mother the same question. That time she said yes.

  But Otto changed everything. Darwin West did not win my mother, after all—but he did win the Water, and all of our lives.

  Bile rises in my throat as I imagine the life we’d have under his roof. Cruelty does not change; he would only find new ways to hurt us.

  But at least the Congregation would be free.

  “I wait for Otto,” Mother replies.

  It is what she always says.

  Darwin hitches up his pants and pulls out his chain.

  “There is still work to be done,” I murmur. “It’s not near sunset.”

  His hand falls slowly, the weight of the chain pulling it down, maybe. Darwin looks up at the sky. “That savior of yours is never coming.”

  “You’ll see,” Mother says quietly.

  I press my lips together and say a secret, silent prayer to Otto in my mind.

  Please stop him. I pray. Don’t let him hurt her.

  Otto must be listening, for Darwin slides the chain back in his pocket. “You’d better get your lazy Toads working.”

  “There’s no way they’ll fill a cup today,” Mother snarls.

  “Then maybe you’ll feel my kiss at sunset … if you’re lucky.” He pats the chain in his pocket. A shiver down my back turns the day as cold as January.

  Darwin’s eyes turn to me. “You, little Toad. Find some other place, away from Mama Toad.”

  I can’t help looking back at Ellie. He wraps a beefy hand around my arm and yanks me to my feet. “Go now, or there’s no mercy for your mother.”

  There’s no use arguing. I find a patch of woods shaded by brown-edged leaves and spend the day doing the same as always. Gathering water … and praying there will be enough for Mother to escape a sunset beating.

  Chapter 2

  When the sun slips below the trees, I creep back to Ellie. She is so still that I race the last few steps to her. A few drops splash from my cup onto my hand, but I do not slow.

  “Ellie? Ellie. Ellie!” I call. “Harvest is done for the day.”

  But she does not stir. Is her chest moving? I cannot tell.

  I set down my cup, nestling it by a branch so it doesn’t tip. Then I put both hands on her shoulders and shake, gently. Her braids swing against her thin shirtwaist. She is as limp as the doll she fashioned for me, long ago, out of scraps and scavenged buttons.

  “Wake!” I tell her, loud enough to make the birds scatter from the tree overhead.

  Ellie’s eyelids flutter. Cool relief steadies my breath.

  It’s even darker now. I’ll need to get her down the hill to the cisterns quickly. We need both our cups to be counted, if we want dinner tonight.

  The cup tucked beside her is full to the brim. How many visited her today? How many would bring half-empty cups because of what they did for her?

  “You are a good girl,” Ellie says. She struggles to her feet and reaches for the cup.

  “I’ll carry both,” I say, offering her an elbow to grasp.

  Even though the color has fled from her lips and she hunches to one side, Ellie’s grip is strong. “We’d best hurry,” she says.

  When we reach the cisterns, the clearing is crowded with exhausted Congregants and Overseers inspecting the day’s harvest. We step to the back of the line, behind the second-to-last cistern. By now we should have four cisterns full, filling the last. But the drought has made that impossi
ble.

  The cisterns sit directly across the road from the Common House, where we gather for food—when we get it—and Sunday Services. Trees edge the clearing around the cisterns, always growing a little closer, it seems, wanting the Water for themselves.

  Nothing can come out from the cisterns unless Darwin unlocks the spigots at the bottom. All that’s open are the valves on top. We can only add, never steal.

  My first memory is coming here at night, with Mother.

  “Quiet,” she warned every night. “He must never find us here.” She meant Darwin, of course.

  I pulled out handfuls of the lush grass that grows under the cisterns, even in winter, while Mother climbed to the top of a cistern and muttered a fast prayer to Otto. She counted out loud: “One, two, three drops,” then hurried down.

  She always carried that vial of Otto’s blood so carefully, even as we hurried back to our cabin. All the vials are empty now, but she saves them in a wooden box beneath her bed, still careful to keep them whole.

  Now it’s my blood that drips into the water inside the cisterns. But since this year’s drought—since Darwin found a new depth to his cruelty—I’ve had to come to the cisterns alone while Mother heals. She takes other people’s share of the beatings, as much as Darwin will allow.

  We are near the front of the line now. The new Overseer is standing by the cistern, his long gun set against his shoulder, only loosely holding it. His sweaty shirt clings to his body, hinting at the muscles underneath.

  He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, his eyes flitting from person to person. For only a second we stare at each other. He looks away first.

  I draw in a deep breath and crane my neck to see whether the others have filled their cups. Boone stands a few feet ahead of us, hands empty—he spent the day shoveling. He is talking to Hope, once my playmate, now a grown woman and Elder. She holds her cup carefully with both hands. I pray that means it holds enough, after giving to Ellie.

  But Jonah Pelling, directly in front of us, has a cup so empty that I see its pewter sides. He tilts it to the side a bit, careless, and looks about him with far too much energy.

  Anger flashes over me, hot and merciless. I do not care how dry the woods are. He should have found a way, somehow, like the rest of us. Those Pellings always find a way to rest their feet and make the rest of us pay for it.

  I nudge Ellie with my hip and nod my head toward Jonah. She lets out a small tsk, but then lays her hand on my arm. “It’s been a hard season,” she whispers.

  “Not so hard for some,” I answer.

  “Jonah is a smart boy,” Ellie says.

  Why does she defend him? “Smart and shiftless,” I tell her.

  Jonah looks back at me, then, and I feel a flash of guilt. Did he hear me? But then he raises his eyebrows and grins before whipping his head back round to the front.

  Once, there were four of us young enough to be considered children. Jonah was eight when he came here, and his brother Zeke was twelve. Hope was the oldest—fifteen—fleeing a forced marriage as much as she was following Otto.

  Nobody has borne a child since the Congregation came to the woods—save Mother. Some say Otto doesn’t want another child born into slavery. Others think the Water does it. Only Otto knows.

  Being the only children meant the Congregation spoiled us some. They helped us steal time to romp in the woods—I, the baby, struggled to follow the other three everywhere. But with time came more duties, and less indulgence. I haven’t chased Jonah through the woods for dozens of years.

  Now, he lounges and lets others do his work.

  One by one, the Congregants in front of us show their cups to an Overseer. They check it, and make a note on their clipboards if someone has not met the quota. Then each person goes to the ladder.

  The Overseer who checks my cup does not meet my eyes. He finds lower parts of my body to examine. They never touch us that way—but it does not stop some of them from looking. I turn away too fast, and a drop slips from the cup.

  “Do that again and you’ll feel the chain,” he warns me in a loud voice.

  Someone draws in a sharp breath. I look back and see the new Overseer staring at the man who threatened me. He is gripping the gun so hard now that his knuckles are white.

  “Go patrol the perimeter, newbie,” the man tells him. The new Overseer turns away without looking at me.

  I slow my walk on the way to the cistern, trying to hide that my legs are shaking.

  “Steady.” Mother’s voice, behind me. She presses her hand against my back as I climb the ladder.

  “Have all met their quota?” I ask her.

  “Enough, maybe,” she answers. “Now pour, and carefully.”

  I tip my cup into the open valve at the top of the cistern. Then I see the new Overseer making a slow path around the clearing. He looks up at me and stops walking.

  My hand falters and water escapes onto the side of the cistern. But I correct myself quickly and soon the pouring is done. I hope that an Overseer didn’t see my sloppiness. There would be punishment, and Mother would bear it on her shoulders.

  When I reach the bottom, Mother holds up a wet fingertip. “You are distracted,” she says.

  Shame burns in me, and I cannot meet her eyes. “It was just a slip.”

  She raises her eyebrows, then climbs the ladder with her cup.

  Nobody can leave until all the water has been poured into the cistern. Then Darwin decides if we get supper—or his fist.

  Soon as Mother has climbed off the ladder, Darwin pulls the chain from his pocket. “Five of you Toads failed today,” he shouts.

  “Five people,” Mother breathes.

  Yesterday was three. How can she possibly bear it for five?

  “Get up here, Toads!” Darwin cries.

  The Overseer with a clipboard calls five names; five failed Congregants shuffle forward. All but one is a Pelling, including Jonah, not looking so merry now. They dart their eyes toward Mother, waiting for escape. The last one is Meg Newman. She’s a hard worker, and strong, with a body young enough to show barely any gray hair. But even hard workers don’t get lucky, sometimes. She stands tall and does not look our way.

  The Overseers form a tighter circle around us; we gather closer. The new one is standing behind Darwin. Another guard is telling him something, his voice too low to hear. When the new one nods, his lips pressed tight, the two men take a few steps from each other and turn their guns to point them at us.

  Darwin folds his arms over his chest and looks at Mother.

  “We want supper,” Mother says.

  “And I want my Water,” he growls. “The truck’s coming soon, and what’ll happen when the cisterns stand half empty?”

  Mother keeps her eyes steady on him. “We’ll work harder if we have food.”

  “You think I’m a brute?” Darwin shakes his head. “You see what happens if we don’t have that Water.”

  I don’t know much about the man who comes with the truck every year, to pick up our Water. But I know it’s the only time I see Darwin’s hands shake.

  Darwin nods to an Overseer, the one with the scar over one eye. He stands behind Meg and pushes her to her knees. Darwin lifts his chain.

  “No. Not tonight,” Mother says.

  “It’s your fault. If you loved me, none of these people would suffer,” Darwin says.

  “I’m not the one who hurts them,” she snaps back.

  Darwin’s thick arm muscles bunch, and he slides the chain over his shoulder, ready to strike.

  “Take me instead,” Mother says—like she does every night when he’s got a taste for hurting.

  “Mother, no, please.” I grab her hand and try to pull her back. It is selfish of me, I know. She has a secret way of healing from these beatings that nobody else has.

  She has my blood to rely on.

  “Trade accepted.” Darwin smiles and nods.

  The Pellings melt into the crowd without even a thank-you. I fix
a hard look on them, but if they feel my stare they don’t show any sign.

  Still Meg will not stand up.

  “Don’t take it for me,” she says behind gritted teeth. “I can bear it.”

  Most of the time, people step aside for Mother. She kneels beside Meg. “Let me carry this load for my Congregation.”

  “Why? It’s not your fault that he beats us.” Meg spits on the ground, dangerously close to Darwin’s boot.

  I want to step forward. I want to take the lickings, for once. But I’ve promised Mother, and the Elders, not to put myself in danger. I’m the only one who can heal Mother … heal our leader. I’m the only one who can make the Water what it is.

  Until Otto comes back, that is.

  “So it’ll be two of you tonight,” Darwin roars.

  Meg’s husband John—third husband, since after a while even good people tire of each other—pushes to the front.

  “Don’t do it,” he tells her. “Listen to Sula.”

  She shakes her head.

  Then there is no more arguing or waiting. Darwin smashes the chain onto Meg’s back, and she lets out a gasp. A small smile plays on Darwin’s lips. He looks at Mother again.

  “No more,” Mother says. “Let me take it.”

  But Darwin hits Meg again.

  “Meg!” John cries in a strangled voice.

  Next to me, Ellie starts the prayer. It is a chant, really, the same simple thing over and over. We say it soft and low, but together we make enough noise to reach the top of the trees.

  Otto will come.

  Otto will come.

  Nobody leaves during the beatings. We are a family. So even though we cannot stop the chain’s blows, we can bear witness—and pray.

  Meg is crying now. Mother reaches out, as if to pat her back, then stops herself. Then she slides her hand on top of Meg’s and squeezes.

  Otto will come.

  Otto will come.

  Why do we only watch? Why don’t we stop him? Am I the only one tired of waiting for Otto—and of protecting me? Hate burns in me—hate for Darwin and hate for us, standing by while he hurts another Congregant.

  I look up and see Jonah staring, fists clenched, eyes narrowed. He was too weak to offer to take the beating—but at least he wishes he could fight too. My anger fades a little.