Drought

  I run my finger over the soft lumps of veins in my arm. I could find a rock and cut my arm open. I could drip my blood into his wounds.

  Would it work? I don’t know. It might. Or it could kill him. Nobody has ever drunk my blood unless it’s diluted in water. I can’t experiment, not now.

  There’s only one place left that has Water: the cisterns.

  Five full cisterns stand behind us. Surely there is enough to save anyone’s life.

  The Water belongs to Darwin West. Nobody has ever broken that rule. Perhaps that is because the Overseers stand ready to punish any theft. Or maybe it seems wrong to meddle with consecrated Water.

  I look up at the cistern looming above us like the only cloud in the sky. The large lock looped over the spigot is rusty, and old. It moves slightly in the breeze that’s sweeping over us.

  “I’m going to help you,” I tell Ford. “Just … Just keep breathing.”

  Then I push to my feet. My clothes are stuck to my body in strange places, plastered with blood and clods of dirt. When I take a step, I notice for the first time that my legs and hands are shaking.

  I find the biggest rock I can and hold it high over the lock.

  The Visitor comes tomorrow. There will be no hiding the theft—unless I use only a little.

  I smash at the lock. The rock leaves bright scratches behind on the rusty metal. But the lock does not break. Again I swing the rock. The lock swings wildly on the hasp, mocking me, still unbroken.

  The chain still lies by Ford’s feet in a bloody heap. It is the strongest thing in the clearing. I lift the chain and swing it, slowly at first, and then faster. Then I smash it against the lock.

  The lock swings, but it doesn’t break.

  It’s only one small lock. One small, rusty lock sits between Ford’s death and life. I have to find a way to break it.

  I finger the links and remember the hands that held this chain before me. Mother, Boone, Hope, Asa, Earl, Zeke … they all held this chain with hate. They all would want me to fail, tonight, if they knew what I was doing.

  I won’t fail. I can’t.

  The lock has stopped swinging. I take a deep breath and study it. There’s a big gap between the bottom of the lock and the hasp—big enough to push something through. I could use a stick as a lever, or maybe …

  Maybe I could use the chain.

  I slide the chain’s end through the lock, then grasp one end in each hand. Then I pull against the chain with all my might. For once, let these terrible chains do some good.

  But the lock stays closed.

  Please, Otto, I pray. Please break the lock.

  I wrap the chain around my arms, my wrists, and then I push my entire body against it. I heave. Nothing. Then I jump back and land against the chain. My feet slip and I tumble on the ground, but I hear the lock groan.

  It’s working. I stand. Jump. Land. Fall. Scramble up and do it again. My back screams. I feel the fabric of my dress split, more with each leap.

  “Otto!” I moan. “Help me!”

  And finally I am thrown into the grass. The lock is broken.

  The chain has landed across Ford’s body. I push it away, shuddering, then hook my hands under his arms and pull. His body reluctantly comes my way, with a sickening slide over the rocks that lie under him.

  Now I have him positioned under the spigot. I twist it open.

  At first, no Water comes out. But then there is a trickle, a beautiful terrifying trickle. For a moment, I am frozen, staring at the Water leaving the cistern. We worked all year to gather this Water. Tomorrow the Visitor will come for it.

  But then I look down and see Ford, broken, waiting to be healed. I take a deep breath and cup my hands around the spigot to make sure that every drop lands on him. The Water drips on his neck and rolls down his chest, disappearing into the holes made by his broken ribs.

  Please work, I pray. Save him, Otto.

  Ford said the Water, my blood, was blasphemy. He said it was the devil’s work. But I don’t care. I only want him to live.

  He doesn’t look any better, and the edge of the sky has a blue tinge. There’s not enough time. I give the spigot a savage twist and the Water gushes onto Ford’s body.

  But it does not land on his broken face. I rip at his soft, now shredded shirt, and hold the fabric under the running Water.

  The blood wipes off his face easily. I keep wetting the cloth, keep running it over the wrong-shaped planes of his face, hoping it will restore him to the Ford I know.

  Ford’s breathing has changed. It is deeper, longer. Still, a wet rattle comes from his chest. And all his limbs stay bent at wrong angles. I pull on his arm, trying to straighten it into the right shape, like I do with Mother after a bad beating. It feels a little less limp.

  The Water is working, though slowly.

  I stand, stretching the kinks from my body. When I take a step, my foot slides in the mud. I didn’t realize how much Water had pooled around us. The dirt is small lakes of mud, and a steady stream is running down the road now.

  When I kneel beside Ford again and run the cloth over his face, it feels different. I lean close, my breath mixing with his. His nose looks straight now, and his lips are no longer crisscrossed with bloody splits.

  I drop a tender kiss on his lips.

  “You won’t die. Not tonight, you won’t,” I tell him.

  I check the sky. It’s dark, still, but the stars aren’t as bright. How long do I have?

  “Wake up, now,” I tell him. “We’ll go get more popcorn.”

  Ford doesn’t hear me, or if he does, he can’t reply. But I imagine his lips move in a tiny smile.

  “We’ll take a ride in your truck too,” I say. “We’ll drive fast, and far.”

  I am soaked to the waist from kneeling to mop Ford’s face. But I keep wetting my cloth and mopping—and now I move my attention to his broken hands. Even as I run the cloth over his bones, straightening them as I go, they seem to lie flatter and knit together.

  His skin has smoothed together too. There’s no more blood, save the stains in his shredded clothes.

  I shake his shoulders and dare to speak loudly. “Wake, Ford.”

  But he does not wake, and the Water seems to be coming more slowly now.

  I catch some Water in my hand and dribble it into Ford’s mouth. At first it slides out, running down his cheek. I try again. And then he swallows.

  “Good,” I tell him. “Good!”

  A gurgle comes from his throat.

  “Ford?” I ask.

  He doesn’t answer. But he moves his head from side to side, and his eyelids flutter.

  With all my might, I pull him up to a sitting position, still letting him rest against me. He coughs wildly. I whack him on the back, once, twice, thrice. Then he leans forward and vomits Water onto the grass.

  I come around to his front and put my hands on his shoulders, to keep him from tipping back. “Ford. It’s me—Ruby. You’re going to heal. You’re going to live.”

  The sky is light between the tree branches now. At any time we might hear the rumble of the truck.

  “Ruby,” he groans. Then he reaches out one hand and gives my arm a strong squeeze.

  “I’m sorry. I never knew they were coming here. I would have stopped them. Somehow. I never …” There’s so much I want to say to him. But there’s no time.

  “The Water. Gone?” Ford looks up, then moans and tips his chin back down. He holds his head in both hands.

  I realize the flow of Water has stopped. It took us months—two, maybe three—to fill it. And I have emptied it in one evening, for one person.

  “You’re alive. I don’t care.” But my voice wobbles.

  “You healed me,” he says.

  “Yes, I did. I mean—the Water did. But come.” I stand and hold out both hands. “You can’t stay here.”

  His hand gropes for his necklace, but soon falls limp to his lap. “Can’t move.” Ford falls back to the ground and rolls onto his
side, spewing more Water from his body.

  “I’ll help you to the trees,” I say. “But you have to walk, at least partly.”

  He’s heavy, but his legs are half working. We stagger to a thick stand of pines. I roll him onto the soft bed of pine needles; the low-hanging branches hide him. His eyes are fluttering shut. He’ll need sleep, lots of it.

  “Hide until sunset,” I tell him. “You’ll be strong enough to go, then.”

  Maybe, with luck, the Congregants will walk right by him.

  Ford swallows, and clutches his stomach—but nothing comes out. “Where will you go?”

  “To the cisterns, and to harvest after.” Perhaps if I pretend all is normal, others will too. I don’t know what else to do.

  “Ruby, be careful.” Ford tries to reach for me, but his arms are too heavy. He can barely lift them.

  “I love you,” I whisper.

  Ford grins, then shuts his eyes. “I knew it.”

  Then he’s asleep, that quickly. I pray he doesn’t snore.

  I think about running—or hiding somewhere too. I could go someplace and think, try to understand everything that’s happened this night.

  But then I hear the roll of truck wheels behind us—not driving past, but slowing.

  I dive under the trees, just in time.

  A white tanker truck pulls up next to the cisterns. It looks anonymous, like it could carry anything, for anyone. But I know it is special.

  It is here to collect the Water that I stole.

  Chapter 38

  The truck door opens and a knife-thin man dressed all in white gets out. His clothes fit him like they’ve known him for a very long time.

  The Visitor has come for the Water for as long as I can remember. That he’s never changed tells me he drinks the Water too.

  I’ve never been this close to him before—something about him always made me stand at the back of the crowd. Perhaps it’s the way he licks his lips, as if tasting the Water, his tongue darting out like a snake’s.

  Or maybe I’m afraid of him because he’s the only person that I’ve ever seen Darwin West show fear of.

  The Visitor lifts his head and sniffs the air, then looks around, a smile creeping on his face. He can’t possibly know we’re here—can he? He mutters something, but I can’t hear it.

  Ford lets out a small groan in his sleep. I press my hand over his mouth.

  “I smell something delicious,” the Visitor sings out.

  A new sort of fear washes over me, freezes every muscle. I watch as he stalks around the clearing, nose high in the air. I am grateful for my dark hair and browned skin, blending into the woods around me. I cast my eyes down, lest he see their bright whites.

  The Visitor can’t know my secret—can he? But if not, why is he looking for me?

  “I’d treat you better,” he calls out. “You’d have a new life.”

  I draw in breath as quietly as I can, careful not to shift a single muscle. I’m not sure what he’s talking about, but my instincts tell me that I shouldn’t answer—that this man is dangerous.

  There’s a cloud of dust on the road. People are coming. Relief warms me. Soon I won’t be alone with the Visitor.

  He walks to his truck and opens the door—not the one where he sits, but the other, just the same place where I sat when Ford took me to the movies. Then he looks all around the clearing. His eyes stop, I think, where I am.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, like a child who’s playing peekaboo.

  “Come out! I’ll take you away from here!” he calls.

  Slowly, slowly, I open my eyes to see if he’s coming closer. But still he stands by the truck. He gives a grand wave toward the open door.

  When I don’t answer, he shrugs and closes the door. He doesn’t slam it like Darwin or the Overseers. He pushes with just enough force. It shuts with barely a sound.

  Then the Visitor walks to the closest cistern—the one I emptied for Ford—and pats it with his hand. But then the look on his face sours, and he glances down at his feet. He is standing in a mud puddle.

  Does he suspect what it means? I can’t tell. He has stepped back, now, to dry grass. He pulls a white handkerchief from his pocket and wipes at his shoe.

  The first Congregants have arrived. I’ve never been happier to see Congregants, especially since none of Ford’s attackers have come yet.

  The Visitor glances up at them and gives the air a slight sniff. His face twists, just a little, as if he’s smelled something bad. Then he returns to cleaning his shoes.

  Ford would be safest if I wasn’t next to him. If I make a noise, or someone catches sight of my dress, then we’d both be found.

  I lean down to drop a last kiss on his lips.

  “Sleep well,” I whisper.

  I trace my finger down his cheek. He’s beautiful again. He’s breathing. I did that.

  More Congregants have come now. They join in small knots, chattering. Darwin might give us one more meal before the day is out. He’s always in a good mood after the Visitor leaves.

  He won’t be today.

  I study them, the people who have been my family for so long. I look at the wrinkles across their faces, the white hair that has slowly, slowly, crept over their heads. They have protected me for hundreds of years.

  Some betrayed me last night. But not all lifted that chain.

  I hurt every single one with my theft.

  If Darwin demands a price, shouldn’t it be me who pays it? I chose to use the Water; nobody else did. Why should they suffer?

  But fear stills my feet. I don’t want to feel the lash of Darwin’s chain—or worse. Perhaps he’d save some special torture, some new kind of pain, for the person who steals the Water.

  Then I see Mother coming down the road. She walks with Asa, her head bent, nodding, agreeing with something he is saying. Anger surges in me. How can she act as if this is any other day? How does her body not show remorse for what she’s done?

  She doesn’t even seem to miss me. Not once does she glance up, or look about, as if she wonders where I am. Is she so secure in thinking that I won’t run away now?

  I won’t lurk in the woods. I won’t hide away. I want her to know that she didn’t just kill Ford—nearly.

  She killed things between us too.

  I step away from the tree, staying close to the tall bushes at the side of the road until I edge into the middle of the Congregants. The crowd is massing around the truck.

  I don’t come close to Mother. Not yet.

  The truck is long, with a bright red cab up front. The back is flat and open, and it holds five empty cisterns. They are to be swapped for the full ones.

  “Good morning, Ruby.” Mother stands beside me, Asa not far behind. A slight smile hovers on her face. It reminds me of the same look that Darwin gives her, in the mornings, when she walks with a limp from one of his beatings.

  Asa doesn’t look ashamed either. He’s got the same stolid, watchful face. And right now, he is watching me.

  “It’s the worst morning I’ve ever lived,” I tell them.

  Mother moves to stand next to me, so our shoulders are pressed against each other. Our eyes do not meet, and our voices stay low.

  “I will never forgive you,” I say. “And neither will Otto.”

  “We did what we had to.” She wraps one arm around my shoulder and squeezes.

  “You’re soaking wet,” Mother says. “Why are you wet?”

  “I held him,” I tell her. “It’s his blood you feel.”

  Her arm drops away.

  By the cisterns, Darwin West is greeting the Visitor, shaking his hand and smiling broadly—but there’s a tremble on his lips. The Visitor’s smile gets bigger and bigger until it’s broader than Darwin’s. He is relishing Darwin’s discomfort, I can tell. Perhaps this should make me like the strange man. But it makes the dread in me grow.

  Darwin issues orders to his Overseers. “Lee. Mathis. Schuyler,” he barks. “Let’s get to work. The rest of
you keep an eye on the Toads.”

  Schuyler. That’s Ford. So Darwin doesn’t know he’s missing, not yet. He will in a moment.

  The Visitor steps back from Darwin, and the truck—and toward the Congregants. His eyes rove over us. I shrink farther behind Asa.

  Darwin folds his arms and watches as the other two Overseers amble to the truck.

  “Where’s Schuyler?” he asks.

  “Schuyler’s not here,” shouts an Overseer holding a clipboard.

  “Useless townie!” Darwin roars, and the other Overseers laugh.

  Darwin orders someone to take Ford’s place, and the work begins. They move the empty cisterns off the truck bed and then hook a chain up to the cistern farthest from us—one that I did not touch last night.

  “Where is he?” Mother asks, her whisper low and harsh.

  “I … I buried him,” I tell her. I gesture down at my dress, dark-stained from blood and mud. “It took hours.”

  “That was … wise …,” she says warily.

  Asa clears his throat and glances over his shoulder before he speaks in a low tone. “He was awful big. How’d you move him yourself?”

  “It wasn’t easy,” I tell him.

  “With what shovel?” Asa asks.

  “I used a stick. And my hands.” I hold up my hands, equally stained from fighting the locks on the cisterns. There are still scars from the cuts the chain gave me too.

  “You protected us. Good.” Mother moves as if to pat me on the back, but my stare must make her think twice. Her hand flutters back down to her side.

  Asa shoots me a squint-eyed look. Then he takes a step in front of Mother and me, shielding us.

  Darwin is watching his men work, his arms crossed and legs wide. A pleased smile plays on his lips, though he flicks occasional nervous looks at the Visitor.

  The Visitor is not paying attention to the transfer of Water. Instead, he edges into the crowd of Congregants. I take another small step, deeper into the shelter of Asa’s shadow.

  They’ve moved two of the cisterns onto the truck now, cranking the chain so it drags them across the grass and then up the ramp of the truck. They leave long lines of flattened grass behind them.

  Mother lets out a gasp. “Mud. Mud, up there, by the cisterns. There’s been no rain.”