Drought

  There’s rustling below me now, and another stick cracks underfoot. This man, whoever he is, knows less about creeping around the woods than I do.

  “Hello?” he asks.

  He doesn’t sound cruel. He sounds a little afraid, maybe. And he sounds uncertain—nothing like an Overseer. Maybe he’s a stranger. Maybe he’s someone who could help, even. Might someone slip into our woods at night, someone who doesn’t belong?

  I could get us help. For a second, hope surges in me. My foot aches to step down the ladder, five quick steps, and beg for this man to save us, to do what Otto hasn’t.

  But Mother’s warnings stop me. Otto will save. Strangers won’t help us. They didn’t help us when Darwin turned the town against Otto, and Mother. They didn’t help when the Congregants had to flee. And they won’t help now either.

  There’s a loud squawk below, one that pushes new dread through my body. I know that sound. This is no stranger.

  “You out there, boy?” It’s Darwin’s voice, on one of the talk boxes that the Overseers wear on their belts. They can speak to each other without even being within eyesight.

  How close is he now? Dread makes my limbs feel heavy. Can I even stay standing up here? Or will I fall backward, heavier than a stone, and lie on the ground waiting for discovery?

  The man near me speaks. “I’m at the cisterns, like you told me to.”

  “Any sign of the little thieves?” Darwin asks.

  Silence, for a moment. I lean over the cistern and dare to look down. Should I run? Or pray he hasn’t seen me?

  A pair of eyes meet mine, looking up from below. It’s the new Overseer. I am frozen with fear. But a slow, wondering smile settles onto his face.

  “It’s you,” he says.

  “Don’t tell,” I whisper, both a prayer to Otto and a plea to this man who can hurt or save me.

  He lifts the talk box to his mouth. “All’s quiet,” he says. “No sign of anybody.”

  Relief rushes through me so fast, so hard, that my body trembles. I can barely keep hold of the ladder.

  Darwin answers fast on the talk box. “You keep an eye out. Find out how those Toads are stealing from me.”

  “You got it.” The man below me disappears, but I hear him coming closer, and I sense him at the bottom of the ladder. I run one finger over my arm—healed, though streaked in brown—and pull my sleeve over the place where I cut myself. My hand still shakes.

  Then I descend, slowly, my mind racing with plans for escape. Halfway down he shocks me—he puts both of his hands on my waist. They feel warm and wide, but gentle.

  I let him lift me down and turn me around to face him. When he takes his hands off my waist, it feels strangely cold.

  “There you go,” he says.

  I can’t see his eyes, but I see some of the drawings on his right arm, twisting from shoulder to wrist. There’s the glint of an animal’s eye, and flames reaching over his forearm. I imagine tracing each one with the tip of my finger, lightly, trying to feel where the colors blend.

  “I’ll never come back,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

  Then I lunge, try to get past him.

  “Wait … please,” he says.

  The word stops me. An Overseer never says please, especially to a Congregant. That is a word we use to pray to Otto, or to beg Darwin for mercy.

  He could have grabbed me, or whipped his chain at me. But he asked.

  “Don’t go yet. I just … I just want to talk for a little bit,” he says.

  “My mother …,” I start, but I can’t make any other words come out. My breath is too short.

  “Darwin hit her pretty hard today.” He folds his arms. Even though it’s dark, I can feel his look, steady.

  He wants me to say something, I know it. But there’s no use complaining to an Overseer. I only stare at the ground.

  “It makes me sick. I want to stop him but …” He trails off.

  I look back up; now he is staring at the ground too. He shakes his head, not raising his chin. “I’m sorry.”

  “Only Otto can stop him,” I whisper.

  But I don’t know if he hears me, because he turns away and walks to the grass under the cistern we’ve been standing next to. He sits in the softest, lushest grass beneath the belly of the cistern and pats the ground. “Maybe—maybe you could stay? Just for a minute.”

  “No, I can’t.” I wrap my arms around my sides.

  “I won’t touch you,” he says softly. “If that’s what you’re worried about.”

  Only a fool wouldn’t be worried about that. Mother has warned me about what men want to do to girls. And this man belongs to Darwin West. Every part of me wants to run—except a small, dangerous part, a part that wants to know why he lied to Darwin for me. He’s more Congregant than Overseer. Or maybe he’s something I’ve never known before.

  Things have been the same here for hundreds of years. He’s something different, maybe something safe, even.

  I keep my eyes on him and edge a little closer to where he sits. But I stay standing.

  He doesn’t coax me closer, only watches. “Darwin posted me as the guard for the night. Nobody else is coming.”

  Be ready to run, I remind my legs. You can leave at any moment.

  “I’m Ford,” he says. “And you’re Ruby. I heard your mother say it, the other day.”

  He called me Ruby. He knows my name. It’s not “little Toad” or “girl.” I’m a person to him.

  Slowly, slowly, I settle into the grass. Still I’m far enough away to run, if I need to. But I’m close enough to hear his soft breathing. I brush my fingers over the tops of the soft grass, softer than the bed that I should be sleeping in right now. It’s cool, and a little damp.

  “Ford,” I repeat, liking how the short, strong word sounds. It’s not modern; it’s something that fits in my old, simple world.

  “How old are you?” he asks.

  I don’t answer him. Maybe he’s strangely kind for an Overseer; gentle, even. But I won’t give him my secrets.

  “You’re seventeen, I bet. I’ll be nineteen in September,” Ford says. “Am I right? Seventeen?”

  “Nearly.” I push down the hysterical bubble of laughter that wells inside me.

  “I’ve lived in Hoosick Falls my whole life and I’ve never seen you. You go to school near here?”

  All my schooling has been what Mother and the others have taught me in winter nights, or in stolen moments in the shade. I shake my head.

  “You’re homeschooled, then,” he says.

  Longing fills me. School is one of the hundreds of things I’ve dreamed of, but never had.

  “Tell me about school,” I say.

  “My school? It’s not too big. Maybe fifty kids in class. You get pretty sick of each other.” He lets out a short laugh. “But nobody leaves, not even after they graduate. Including me.

  “I’m just like the rest of the guys here,” Ford says, his voice heavier now.

  His troubles are nothing close to mine. But he helped Ellie at Services, and he didn’t tell Darwin I was here. I owe him something small, I think. “You’re kinder than the others,” I say.

  “I’m nothing special.” His voice is low and bitter. “All I do is watch.”

  “But tonight … you didn’t tell Darwin I was here.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I guess I did that,” he says.

  “Thank you,” I tell him, looking over. The shadows make the lines of his face even stronger, outlining the jut of his chin and nose.

  “Don’t. I don’t deserve that,” his voice cracks.

  “Maybe you’re right,” I say.

  He’ll hurt me now, I know it. I brace my legs to spring, to run, to duck. But he doesn’t move at all … and I don’t either.

  We’re quiet for a while. The backs of my legs feel wet from the damp seeping through my skirts. I swing my legs under me, even though it will make it harder to leave fast.

  “You have a hobby?” he asks me.

 
“What’s a hobby?”

  “You know. Something you do for fun,” he explains.

  “There’s not much room for fun here,” I say.

  “There must be something.” His voice is soft. Part of me knows I’m never safe with him. But part of me wants to tell him things.

  “I like to sing.” I think of our songs to Otto, drifting over the tops of trees.

  “You don’t want to hear me sing.” He laughs. “I’m more of a fix-it kind of guy.”

  “What do you fix?”

  “Anything with an engine. Cars, trucks … I’ve been giving my mom’s car oil changes since I was twelve.”

  “Do you fix things here?”

  He lets out a sound that’s more of a bark than a laugh. “I’m just a guy with the gun, around here.”

  “And the chain,” I say softly.

  “I hate it. I hate all of it.” He turns so he’s facing me, full on.

  And I turn too, so we are looking straight at each other, though still far away.

  “It used to be there was nothing I couldn’t fix,” Ford says. “But now …”

  “But now?” I prompt him.

  “My mom’s sick, real sick. The kind of sick you can’t fix.”

  I think of the buckets I poured over Mother tonight. What would I do to help her, if I didn’t have that? “That … That must be hard.”

  “And this place …” Ford makes a loud sniff. Then he swipes his arm over his face, fast.

  “Are you crying?” I ask.

  “These days I do that a lot.” He clears his throat and looks up at the sky.

  His entire life is so easy compared to mine. And he is here to keep my world terrible. But I still feel tears welling in my eyes, a response to his pain, even though I should hate him. I reach a hand out. I imagine laying it on top of his hand, cool skin on warm. I drop it fast.

  “What happens here …” He trails off. “I can’t—I can’t stop thinking about it.”

  “It doesn’t help to think about it,” I say.

  “That doesn’t make it right. Darwin West makes me sick.” His voice is low, rough, like it hurts for the words to come out.

  “Why are you here, then? If he makes you ill, why don’t you leave?”

  “My mom needs medicine, and hospice, and … I can’t let her suffer,” he says.

  “Seems like there’s better work than this,” I mutter.

  “Round here, there’s not many choices. But you know that—you’re working here too,” he says.

  Should I tell him the truth? Would it change anything?

  No. Ford is not Otto. It is not his job to save us. It is his job to imprison us.

  “I haven’t any choice,” I say. But I do not tell him more.

  “Is it because you’re a cult?” he asks.

  “A cult.” I taste the word—strange, brand-new. “What’s that?”

  “No offense. That’s what the other guards told me—that’s why you wear those old-fashioned clothes and have all the Otto stuff on your church days …”

  “Is a cult a Congregation?” I ask.

  “Sort of.” He draws out the words. “But you can’t leave them, really. You’re stuck.”

  “Then maybe that’s what we are,” I say.

  “Maybe someday we’ll both find something better,” Ford says.

  “Someday,” I say, sending Otto a silent prayer.

  “How’s that lady doing—the one who’s so sick?” Ford asks. “I didn’t see her in the woods today, or the day before.”

  It’s been six days since Ellie was denied Communion. For the last two, she’s been too weak to be out of bed. I brought her the last of our squirrel jerky this morning.

  But she made me eat it while she watched.

  “She was in the woods,” I lie, trying to keep my voice steady. “She’s much better.”

  “I see. That’s … good. I thought maybe it was something serious.”

  “Ellie’s real strong. You don’t have to worry about her,” I say. But I like that he asked. He cares, at least a part of him does.

  “You’re strong too,” he says.

  His voice is too familiar, too warm. I push to my feet. “I have to go.”

  “Wait,” Ford says. There’s enough command in his voice to make me brace my body. “Why’d you come here tonight?”

  “I only … I …” I will myself not to touch my arm. “I come to pray. And I bless the Water. My mother taught me how.”

  He shifts in the grass and I feel his eyes on me. “Maybe you’ll come to bless the Water tomorrow.”

  “My mother—” I shake my head and back away, slow at first and then faster, faster.

  “I’ll be here,” he says.

  I might stutter a few more words—I’m not sure. My heart is beating too fast to hear. I turn, run, so panicked that my feet find every rut and hole in the road. But it doesn’t slow me down.

  Chapter 6

  The Elders are meeting tonight, and they want to talk to me—just as Ellie said they would.

  Hope found us in the clearing, after we emptied our cups. “We’re meeting at Ellie’s tonight,” she whispered. Her eyes darted about, hunting for guards, I think. Only the Congregants even know the Elders exist.

  “I’ll come if I can,” Mother told her.

  “We need Ruby too.” Hope gave Mother a strong look, then me. “You’ll come?”

  I remembered that Ellie said this would happen. Now I’d finally find out what they wanted.

  “Of course I will,” I told Hope.

  She pulled me into a tight hug and whispered something. Just say yes, I think it was. But before I could ask, Gabe was there, and then Hope was gone.

  The Elders have met with Mother at our cabin every Tuesday night for as long as I can remember. Some of the faces have changed: Asa’s wife Mabel and Christian Banks are both withered and gone, with Hope and Asa taking their places. But the meetings are mostly the same. They sort out arguments between families, give our meager extras to those who need them the most, and they always pray to Otto.

  Sometimes other Congregants come too, pleading their case or complaining about a neighbor. They all trust the Elders, and Mother, to smooth things over, to protect us, as much as anyone can.

  When Hope asked us to come, I wondered whether Mother would be too hurt, too beaten. And when we didn’t meet our quota today, I was so afraid for her.

  But Darwin only lifted a hand to Mother’s cheek and smiled.

  “Remember I love you,” he said.

  Then they gave us hard biscuits and chopped fish that tasted mostly like the metal cans it came in. The Congregants were jolly, as if it were a holiday. I suppose it was. And all of us know it could be very different tomorrow.

  The walk to Ellie’s is short; her cabin is the closet one to ours. I remember all the times I ran there, my heart burning from Mother’s careless or hard words. Ellie knows all my secrets … except for this new one about the Overseer, flourishing like a summer weed while she slips away.

  We have arrived at Ellie’s door. Someone pushed fresh flowers in the knothole near eye level; they are limp, but the tiny yellow petals are pretty.

  There’s a burst of laughter from inside the cabin, the same kind of joy we all felt at dinner. But Mother lets out an irritated sigh and pushes inside.

  “Have a care,” she warns as we enter the cabin. “Do you want the Overseers finding us?”

  Hope is sitting on Ellie’s bed, holding one of her hands. A smile slides off her face, and she looks away from us. Her thick black hair swings to cover her face like a curtain.

  “I’m sorry I was loud,” she says.

  “We’re telling stories about the old days.” Boone is tending a small fire in Ellie’s stove, poking twigs into the fledgling flame. He pauses to offer us one of his rare smiles, and I see Mother’s shoulders relax.

  It’s hotter than noontime, but Ellie has drawn the blankets tight up to her chin. The evening’s slight chill must be soaking i
nto her bones. I pull at my bodice to free it from my sticky skin.

  Her bed is plumped with pillows I’ve never seen in the cabin before. They’re made from faded fabric, lumpy with pine needles or dried grasses. It’s a luxury for any Congregant to have more than one pillow—or even that.

  “Who brought these?” I ask. One has faint yellow stripes on it; another shows brighter spots of blue where buttons used to be.

  “Joan made them, but Mary gave her the fabric. She’ll wish she had those shirts come wintertime.” Ellie frowns and reaches back to touch the pillows.

  Come winter, will Ellie even need the pillows? I swallow hard and twist away, pretending to study the careful dried daubs of mud that seal the logs of her cabin.

  I helped Ellie add more mud, every fall, keeping the wind away from her. She followed behind and smoothed each bit until it was perfect. Our walls never looked so nice. Mother didn’t have the patience for making them perfect, and I didn’t have the steady hand.

  Mother sets her stool next to Ellie’s pillow and takes a seat. She brushes a light hand over Ellie’s forehead. “And how are you tonight?” she asks.

  “Better now that I see all of you,” Ellie answers in her worn-down voice. “Give me a hug, Ruby.”

  I draw Ellie’s shoulders up for a hug. “Let me give you Water,” I whisper.

  “Don’t you start that,” Ellie warns.

  I ease back and retreat to the corner farthest from the fire.

  “Remember how you used to mix beans in the leftover mashed potatoes, Sula? And feed them to the cat?” Ellie asks Mother.

  The corners of her mouth twitch as she stares into the air, as if she sees something the rest of us cannot. “Snowball spit out every single bean, no matter how much I hid them.”

  I know that story—I know every single one they tell—but I still love to hear them. What was it like, living in a time when you had more food than you could eat? When you could spare food to feed a picky animal?

  “That durn cat wasn’t fussy about eating Mabel’s flowers.” The last Elder, Asa, is leaning against the wall, farthest from the group. His face is in shadows, but I can imagine the sour look on his face—it so rarely goes away since Mabel withered a few years back. That was when Hope took her place as an Elder.