Drought

by Pam Bachorz

  “Now we know,” she said.

  Mother never made me go out on trapping trips again. She swore me to secrecy. It was only years later that we told the Elders about my blood—only when they had to know.

  Gabe is back with the bucket. It’s barely half full, swirled with mud.

  “Thank you,” I tell him. “Now, please, go home—both of you. Rest for tomorrow’s harvest.”

  “Yes. We should.” Gabe cannot seem to stop staring at my arms. He swallows hard.

  “Good night,” Hope says.

  Boone moves for the door too, but I block his way. “Not until I’ve healed your ankle,” I say.

  He frowns, but he does not leave.

  I hold my arm over the bucket and ready the rock, hovering over my vein. Then I make a quick, hard slash.

  Boone sucks his breath in through his teeth. Some of the Elders never have been easy with seeing me cut myself.

  “It’ll heal in minutes,” I remind him.

  He nods and stares at the wall over Mother’s head, far from the bucket.

  My blood drips into the water; I squeeze above the cut to make it flow faster. That should be more than enough, really. The muddy swirl has become Water.

  I grasp the bucket and move it in a slow circle to mix it. Then I dip a metal cup into it and pour it over the worst of Mother’s wounds. While I wait for that to sink in, I can heal Boone.

  “Drink,” I order, giving him a fresh cupful.

  Boone takes a tiny sip. I catch Ellie’s pursed lips from the corner of my eye. He must feel her disapproval too.

  “You’ll need more,” I tell him.

  “That’s more than the rest will see for Communion all month.” Boone shakes his head and turns to the door. “Give it to Sula. All I need is rest.”

  “Good night, then. And thank you,” I say.

  He raises a hand good-bye, and then it is just me, and Mother, and Ellie. She hands me a rag soaked in the Water, and I press it to one of Mother’s wounds. And then another, and another.

  “Why don’t you frown when I heal Mother?” I ask her.

  “Otto will need her here, when he returns,” she says.

  “Won’t he need all his followers?” I ask.

  She holds up her hands to ward away the full cup I am offering her. “If Otto wishes me to live, he’ll come in time. And if I’m meant to pass, then that’s what I’ll do.”

  “You take Communion,” I remind her.

  “As Otto taught us—one drop, every week. After that, it was his choice.”

  “He never denied anyone,” I say, even though I never knew my father. All I know are the stories my mother tells me.

  “You are as generous as he was.” Ellie lifts a rag off Mother’s skin to inspect it. “She is improving.”

  But her body is still striped with deep cuts, some of them down to the bone. I swallow back revulsion, watching the muddy Water seep into her body.

  “We could fight,” I burst out.

  Ellie sighs and lays another bit of cloth over the cuts that circle Mother’s wrist like a bracelet. “We are not fighters.”

  “Not until now.” I tilt some Water over one of the deepest gashes on Mother’s torso.

  “That’s enough. A grown woman has to think more wisely.” Ellie pulls my hand away, and a little of the Water splashes on Mother’s bed. It soaks into the mattress; a bit of dried blood turns vibrant red.

  Then she peels away the cloth that’s layered on Mother’s skin.

  “Put it back. Mother’s still bleeding,” I say.

  “She’ll need to have some bumps and lumps, still. Darwin must never suspect what we do for Sula.” Ellie’s voice is hard now, and she does not put back the cloth.

  He likes seeing her scars and scabs, I think. Some mornings, after he’s beaten her hard, he smiles when he sees her—smiles like a man proud of his handiwork.

  “I hate him,” I say.

  “All of us hate him.” Ellie presses a dry cloth against the closing cuts on Mother’s skin.

  “Mother didn’t, once,” I say.

  “True. Things were different, then.” Ellie straightens up now, walking away from Mother’s bed. The floor creaks beneath her dust-streaked boots, even though her step is light.

  I slide another wet cloth on Mother’s skin when Ellie’s back is turned.

  “Tell me,” I say, because I love any story of the days before Darwin trapped us in the woods, even though I’ve heard them all hundreds of times. Besides, when Ellie tells tales, her mind travels back. She doesn’t notice if I give Mother just a little more healing, take away just a little more pain.

  “After your father …” Ellie swallows. “Disappeared from us …”

  That is another one of the old stories I know by heart. Mother crept away to their secret meeting place, but Otto wasn’t there. Just a wooden box waited for her, with the four vials of his blood inside.

  She went there every day for a month. But he never returned.

  “Darwin hoped he might have another chance with Sula.” Ellie eases herself onto my bed, feet dangling off the edge, not quite reaching the floor. “He wooed her.”

  “What did he give her?”

  “Oh—anything he thought would please her. His father owned the big store at the end of Main Street.”

  “That’s how she met Darwin,” I add.

  “Your mother found every little excuse to visit that store and see the beautiful things there. She longed for so much.” Ellie folds her arms and gives me a small smile. “Like her daughter does today.”

  I want freedom, not trinkets. But I don’t argue with her, not right now. While she talks, I’ve been sliding just a little more Water over Mother’s cuts. Her skin is knitting together, only faint lines left to remind her of Darwin’s cruelties.

  “After Otto was gone, Darwin brought her the finest cloth for sewing and cunning little carvings of animals. But it didn’t change her heart.”

  Mother lets out a small groan, and Ellie’s eyes swivel to her. She sits up straight to get a better look. The shadows hide how much healing I’ve done.

  “Her breathing is better,” I say.

  Ellie’s body relaxes and she continues.

  “When he saw that Sula wouldn’t have him back, Darwin turned to the town church in Hoosick Falls. He told them that we worshipped a false idol.”

  “Otto,” I say.

  “Yes. The minister told Mother we had to stop meeting, that she couldn’t give us Communion anymore.”

  When Mother saw those vials of blood, she knew what Otto wanted her to do. She secretly mixed a bit into a crock of water, every week, and gave sips to his followers—just as he had done for them, when they needed healing or comfort. They came to call it Communion, just like at church.

  Soon she was giving Communion every week.

  At first, she refused the minister’s demand that Communion stop. Soon crowds came to Ellie’s door. They shouted hate, and threats.

  “Darwin struck us a bargain.” Ellie smoothes her skirts, the action firm and fast, and in the dim I can imagine she is still the youthful, confident woman who helped raise me here in the woods. “Darwin told your Mother he’d get the minister to leave her alone—that he’d make sure she was safe—so long as she’d leave Hoosick Falls before the winter.”

  “He didn’t want to see her face anymore.” I run one finger over Mother’s cheek, more intimate a gesture than I’d dare if she were awake.

  “Sula told Darwin she’d take his bargain, and the minister stopped calling. The crowds died away. But she didn’t have anywhere to go. And by then, anyone could see that she had another to care for,” Ellie says.

  Before Otto left, he promised himself to Mother, and she to him. That was as good as married, Mother says.

  “We told her she couldn’t leave, not without us,” Ellie continues. “After all, she was carrying Otto’s child.”

  That’s me. My father left me behind in Mother’s belly. I slept there while Darwi
n wooed her, and the minister threatened, and the Congregants tried to protect her. What would she have done without me, I wonder. Would she have tried to follow Otto? Might she be with him today?

  I’ve always been too afraid to ask her.

  “So you all left,” I say.

  “We did. We packed what we could on wagons, and we headed up the mountain. Asa knew this place from his hunting trips.”

  Asa is our oldest Elder, after Ellie. I’m glad his daughter grabbed his elbow to stop him from coming tonight. He needs rest.

  “But Asa never knew who owned it,” I say.

  Ellie looks down at her hands, knitted in her lap. I pour just a little more Water down Mother’s throat. Even though she sleeps, she swallows it. Then I give her a little more.

  “The men put up a few cabins—this one first, so your mother would be comfortable. She was very round by then.” Ellie stands and comes behind me. She lifts my hair and starts to braid it. I close my eyes and savor the feel of her tender touch.

  “How many were you?” I ask, not wanting the story to end.

  “Nearly six dozen came to the woods,” Ellie says. “Plus you.”

  And now ten of them withered, the rest of us still here.

  “Not a single one has left. We all wait.” Ellie tugs at my hair, lightly, as she makes the braid. It feels good. I tilt my head back a bit and look up at the ceiling. I pretend Mother is only sleeping, not healing once again.

  “What was it like in the woods, before Darwin found you?” I ask.

  “It was busy. We knew we had to get up shelters, find food sources, before winter.” Ellie sighs. “To think winter was our biggest worry.”

  “But then Darwin came.”

  “He brought so many cruel men. They all had clubs and chains.”

  They hadn’t escaped him after all. Darwin’s family owned the land they had fled to.

  “He said we’d either give him some of Otto’s miracle Water … or he’d kill your mother. He’d kill you.” Ellie’s hands stop their braiding.

  “Mother should have told him about the blood.”

  But she didn’t. She made something up, and fast. She said the Water could only be harvested from forest leaves, by Otto’s consecrated followers. She lied to Darwin and she lied to the Congregation.

  “She was protecting Otto—and you.” Ellie rests both her hands on my shoulders for a moment, and squeezes. “If Darwin knew what made the Water special, he’d have taken all the blood … and then he would have gone after Otto.”

  “Now we’re all stuck with pewter cups and spoons.” Mother was scared. When Darwin asked her how we harvested the Water, it was the only thing she could think of.

  “We thought it was a bargain we could live with.” Ellie starts braiding again. “We thought Otto would come, and soon.”

  “This summer has been terrible,” I say.

  “The worst yet. The drought … it’s made them all meaner than ever,” she says.

  Not all. My mind flashes on the new Overseer, his eyes wide with horror as the chain fell. My skin flushes warm. Suddenly it feels wrong to have Ellie touching me.

  I pull away, taking my hair into my hand to finish my own braid.

  “What do the Elders want to ask me?” I ask.

  Ellie draws in breath, but pauses.

  “In the woods,” I press. “You said there was something you all wanted to ask me.”

  Ellie frowns, then shrugs. “I forget so much these days.”

  “Hmm,” I answer. I want that to be a lie—not the truth, not something that means she’s withering away even faster than I fear.

  Ellie lets out a soft gasp. “Sula,” she says, leaning close.

  When I look closer, I see why she sounds afraid. Mother is healed … not a little, but completely.

  “She hasn’t got a single scar.” Ellie accuses.

  “I didn’t know …”

  “You knew. But you chose to heal her anyway. Don’t you see?” she says. “She’ll only be hurt worse, now.”

  “We’ll hide it. We’ll … She’ll cut herself, if she has to,” I say. “She can have a fresh wound or two for him to see.”

  Ellie drops her head, silent for a long time. Finally she draws in a deep breath. “It’s time I went home.”

  “I’ll walk you.” I stand, but she waves me away.

  “I know the road. It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?” She turns to face me. “Waiting is hard. But it’s all we can do, Ruby. It’s all we know how to do.”

  “We could fight.” It comes out as a whisper.

  “With what tools? And what spirit?” She shakes her head. “All we can do is pray, and wait.”

  It is an old fight between us, and one I am too tired to have again tonight. So I clasp her in an embrace and offer her our lantern for the walk home.

  She refuses it, of course. But she is as dear as any blood relative, so I have to try.

  “I only want things to be better,” I tell her before she leaves.

  “Then pray,” she says. “And find a way to wait.”

  When I go to sleep, Mother’s breathing is even. I do not feel guilty that I healed her. I am proud that she has healed, all thanks to my blood.

  I have helped, even if nobody wanted it.

  Chapter 4

  We wake even earlier on Sundays. It’s our day to gather and pray to Otto.

  But our Services will end before sunrise—Darwin will make sure of that. The daylight belongs to him.

  We gather at the only place big enough to hold all of us: the Common House, across from the cisterns. It is where we eat all our meals too. The Common House is a low, simple building made of wood frame covered by grayed boards. The windows look too small for the wide walls. But at least some look over the Lake, bringing a little light to the gloom inside.

  Mother and I walk to Services in silence. She was angry when she woke to find her scars were gone.

  “You went too far,” she told me.

  “As did you. Let others take their licks, for once,” I told her.

  After that we had nothing to say to each other.

  Darwin is waiting at the door, lips pressed tight in the shadow of his hat as he watches us approach. Nothing escapes his stare—and as his eyes flit over Mother’s body, I hear Ellie’s voice echoing in my head.

  She’ll only be hurt worse, now.

  “You look well,” he says. No part of him moves except his eyes and his mouth. The rest of him stays leaning against the door of the Common House.

  “As well as any day.” Mother tries to push past him, but he grabs her arm.

  “Too well,” he says.

  Congregants move past us, quiet, nearly creeping. They don’t want Mother hurt, I know it—but they don’t want Darwin to notice them either. Now is the time to slip past and find a seat as far from an Overseer, and Darwin’s eyes, as possible. They only want Communion and maybe some of Mother’s Word.

  “I slept well,” Mother says. “That is all.”

  “You slept alone. That is not well.” Now Darwin moves, his body pushing toward her. Mother does not back away, even when he stands just inches from her.

  “The sun is nearly up,” she says. “Let me inside.”

  He’s taller than her, towering, a wall of muscle against her narrow bravery. I imagine his fist circling her entire waist, crushing, stealing her breath away. He could nearly do it, if he wanted to. And who would stop him?

  “Are you stealing from me?” He asks it in an even, low tone, but there’s danger in his eyes.

  “Never.” Her answer is not scared, or too fast. It is a perfect mix of hesitation and assurance. She keeps her eyes on him.

  “I don’t know how you would.” But he doesn’t seem satisfied. He slides his look to me, even as he grips Mother’s wrist in his iron hand. “Little Toad, does your mother lie?”

  “No. No, never.” My answer is too fast, too eager, no matter how hard I try to be like Mother.

  Darwin’s eyes na
rrow, and he turns his stare back to Mother. “Her father was a liar too.”

  “Let me go,” she says.

  He steps back to let her pass, but he keeps talking as we walk by. “There’s only one way those cuts went away so fast,” he says.

  We’re nearly to the front when he shouts the rest. “You’re stealing!”

  They all turn to look, Overseers and Congregants alike. But Mother just raises her chin and walks to the front.

  I sit in the chair next to Ellie, and we listen to Services, same as any other Sunday. But today my heart pounds, and Mother’s words are a stream running over pebbles—too fast for me to catch, only sound, nothing of meaning.

  Ellie squeezes my pinky finger with hers, then covers my hand with her own. Her skin feels like paper next to mine, her heart’s beat pushing too hard through it. How much longer does she have?

  “I should have been more careful,” I whisper to her.

  “You did it for love,” she answers. “Just like Otto.”

  Services never last too long. Mother starts with a reading from the small Bible in her skirt pocket—Old Testament, always, since it’s what she read in the woods with Otto—and then we follow her in a psalm.

  Mother stands in front of the windows that face the Lake. A small altar—a table, really, brought from someone’s home in Hoosick Falls when the Congregation fled—is in front of her. A single, small bottle of Water rests on it. That is what they are all waiting for—the Water made from my blood.

  Even when I stare straight at Mother, the Overseers hover at the edge of my vision. Darwin stands the closest, one hand in his pocket. His eyes never leave Mother. Then there’re always three more men, all in reach, all holding guns.

  My tongue stumbles over the psalm while my eyes rove. Where is the new Overseer? Is he here, or waiting in the woods for the harvest to start? Or has Darwin already dismissed him? I can’t find him.

  “It is too hot for the word today,” Mother says, reaching for the bottle of Water. I know why she is really skipping her sermon: she wants no excuse for the Overseers to deny Ellie’s turn at Communion.

  “Ten minutes,” Darwin growls from the corner.

  “Come forward,” Mother tells the Congregation. The Overseers come close now, making sure that we’re lining up in the same order as every week. Once in a while they make small adjustments, pushing one person ahead of another.