by Pam Bachorz
Usually I stand near the front of the line. The strongest Congregants, the most valuable ones, are in the front. The weakest are in the back—just in case the Water runs out. Sometimes the Overseers don’t give Mother enough.
Ellie walks to the back, and I follow her, away from my place. I take hold of Ellie’s arm. She will be last, but I will be certain that she makes it there.
“Not your spot,” an Overseer growls at me. His breath smells bitter.
“Go,” Ellie whispers.
I tighten my grip on Ellie’s arm and shake my head. The Overseer lifts his gun higher in the air. Somehow I find the courage not to flinch.
“Your loss,” he mutters, then walks away.
Now I see the new Overseer. He’s in the back corner of the room, watching, his face rigid. As soon as I look at his face, he looks at mine. He lifts his other hand—the one not holding a gun—to touch the gold medal at his throat. His face softens a little.
I turn away fast, but my face burns as if he’s touched me.
Mother puts a single precious drop of Water on each Congregant’s tongue. Her shoulders, draped in white linen, glow in the predawn gloom. Darwin edges closer, until he’s nearly pressed against her. Every Congregant faces Mother and Darwin at the same time.
Her low, rich voice says the same thing with each drop.
“In the name of Otto.” Drop. Swallow. The Congregant steps away fast enough to satisfy Darwin.
Another Congregant is ready.
“In the name of Otto.”
But this one is too slow. Darwin deals him a hard slap.
“Move faster,” he barks. “You’ve got to meet quota by noon.”
Mother freezes, only her eyes turning to stare at Darwin.
“Every single Toad gets a shovel when you’re done getting your Water,” Darwin announces. “We got big plans.”
A groan creeps through the Congregation, like fog over the Lake. I wonder what plans Darwin has, other than tormenting us and stealing our Water.
“We’ll never—” Mother starts.
“You want to waste your precious Communion time arguing?” Darwin asks.
Mother shakes her head and lifts the dropper high. The line hurries now: drop, swallow, step away. But then another Congregant is too slow. He gets a poke with the barrel of Darwin’s gun.
“You keep up this pace, no dinner,” Darwin bellows. “You’ll live.”
Ellie is leaning heavy on my arm; I struggle to make it look like I’m not dragging her down the aisle.
“I should sit down,” Ellie whispers.
“Not before you get Communion.” I tighten my arm around hers.
“They won’t give me any,” Ellie says.
All the Overseers care about is having strong bodies to harvest the water. If someone is too sick to work, they don’t get Water—or food. It is, they say, a waste.
I hush her, my eyes flicking to the Overseers. They hold their guns against their shoulders like old friends, watching to make sure Mother puts only a single drop on each person’s tongue.
“Just be steady and try not to shake,” I say. “I will hold you up.”
Only three people in front of us now: Boone’s aunt, Mary, one of the oldest but without a palsy. She gets her Water. Next comes her brother John. Darwin doesn’t pay much attention to him, or to Gen Duncan, when she takes her turn. He’s looking at Ellie, sharp eyes like a crow watching from a low-hanging branch.
Then it is our turn. We take one more step forward.
“You first,” Ellie says.
I shake my head. I don’t need the Water. But she pokes me in the back, suddenly strong. I open my mouth and the Water drops on my tongue. It doesn’t taste special—it’s just like drinking from the Lake.
Next comes Ellie. Her mouth opens, trembling, and I gently tip her head back. Mother dips the dropper in the bottle.
Darwin grips Mother’s arm. “Stop.”
Her body goes stiff. She stares at the meaty hand wrapped around her arm.
Then he looks at me. “Let go of her.”
Ellie’s body is shaking under my hands. I let them slide away, slowly, imagining leaving my strength behind to help her.
“You were sleeping in the woods yesterday,” Darwin says.
“It was only for a moment.” Her voice is strong. If I close my eyes, it’s easy to imagine Ellie as I have known her for my entire life: strong-bodied, confident, never needing help from anyone.
“And the day before?” he asks. “I saw you lying in the shade then too.”
Now Ellie is sagging to one side. I nudge her with my shoulder to set her upright. She lets out a low moan, her strong voice leached away.
Darwin turns to Mother. “Is it hard to see your mother dying?”
Of course Ellie is not her mother—her mother, my grandmother, was taken by fever before my mother could walk. But Darwin knows we love Ellie like our own, and she us.
Mother does not answer. Instead she reaches out to lay her hand on Ellie’s shoulder. Darwin slaps it away.
“The old Toad must pass a test,” Darwin says.
“A test?” Mother’s eyebrows twitch high.
“God tested man, now man tests Toad.” Darwin’s broad smile tells me he’s very pleased with himself.
He’s never done this before. Either he lets the old person have the Water, or he doesn’t. Then he makes us hurry into the woods for a harvesting.
“No tests.” Mother lets out a huff of air. “Services are sacred. Let me finish the Communion first.”
“You don’t tell me no, Sula Prosser.” Darwin takes the butt of his rifle and slams it on the floor, just an inch from Mother’s boot.
Her face tightens, but she does not flinch. She keeps her eyes steady on him.
This time his rifle lands square on her toes. Someone in the Congregation lets out a low cry. But not one of us stands or stops him. It’s better that way—but it’s not easy. I squeeze my fingers together and stare down, away, to stop myself from saying something.
We have been living this way for a very long time. I should be better at accepting this. But it gets harder every day.
“Please let her take the Communion first,” Mother mutters.
She does not usually beg. But I know why: the Water will help smooth away the shakes and help Ellie to stand tall. It might be enough to pass any test the Overseer chooses for her.
But without the Water, she doesn’t have much of a chance.
“I don’t think so.” Darwin motions to the back of the room. “Get a broom, boy.”
The new Overseer sets his gun in a corner and goes to the closet. He keeps his eyes low, staring at the tops of his boots, as he walks to the front.
Darwin points at me next. “And you’ll help.”
He arranges the new Overseer and me, one at each end of the broom. Our eyes meet for a second; a flash of heat makes me look away fast.
Darwin lifts the broom until it’s as high as my shoulder.
“Now, Toad.” Darwin lets out a bark of laughter. “Limbo.”
“What is limbo?” Ellie’s head is bobbling but she holds it high.
“You dance under it. Like this.” Darwin holds both arms out to the side, twisting, sliding under the broom without his face touching the handle.
Darwin knows modern things like limbo. He has a modern house with modern books and the glow box you can see moving pictures on. His truck takes him anywhere he wants to go.
I dare to raise my eyes to the new Overseer again. His lips move; he’s saying something to me, without any sound. But I don’t understand. He tries again, his eyes flicking to Darwin.
Then he lifts the broom, just a tiny bit higher. My hand holding the broomstick is slick and quivering. The boy grimaces, for a second—from sympathy or hatred of me, I don’t know—then puts a second hand on the stick. It steadies … and then he raises it again, a small amount. I follow his lead and edge it even higher.
Mother’s face is white. “Let me
give her the Water.”
“I feed and clothe you people. I give you firewood in the winter. You think those things are free? You greedy guts cost me!” Darwin’s last words are a guttural shout. He takes in a shallow breath. “Especially when you steal from me. Someone’s going to pay.”
“Nobody’s stealing,” Mother says. But Darwin doesn’t seem to hear her.
“She’s useless if she can’t harvest.” He gestures to Ellie. “Now go. And mind you tilt your head back. Do it just like you’re getting your precious Communion.”
I want to make this stop. Why should we be this man’s playthings? We are dozens to his one.
But Mother says the Congregation does not fight back.
So I remind myself: we endure. We endure, and we wait for our Savior. Otto will fight our battle.
I remind myself, but deep inside I don’t believe it.
Ellie takes one shaky step, then another, to the broom. I hold my breath. The room is silent, save for Darwin’s heavy breathing.
She tips her head back. Her white-yellow braids slide down her back. I long to reach out and steady her.
Then Darwin starts singing. “La la la …”
Ellie startles at the song. But she closes her eyes and straightens her shoulders. And then a miracle happens. She walks under that broom, head tilted back, chin tucked, without brushing it. She has inches to spare.
She doesn’t even falter.
An excited murmur travels across the Congregation. I can’t help grinning. When I look at the new Overseer, I see he is smiling too, his lips lifted just enough for me to be sure he’s happy. None of the other guards are smiling.
“She has passed,” Mother says. She lifts the eyedropper.
I set the broom on the floor, slow, not wanting any clatter to attract Darwin’s attention. His face is flushed red—the man is angry, I imagine, at losing his cruel game.
“Fine. She passed.” Darwin steps so close to Mother, her skirt touches his boots. I step forward to help Ellie, but she motions me away.
The drop of Water dangles over Ellie’s open mouth.
But Darwin’s arm snakes out. He knock’s Mother hand and the drop of Water goes flying.
“No!” someone shouts from the Congregation.
Never waste the Water. Every single drop is meant to be drunk—or delivered. Darwin is breaking his own rule.
I look for the mark: where did the Water land? Everyone is craning their necks to see. Someone points at a dot on the floor. Darwin treated the Water like it was garbage—something only fit for washing the floor. I suppose he doesn’t mind wasting Water, not if he can spend it with cruelty—he has plenty more in the cisterns.
“Psych,” Darwin says.
I don’t know what psych means. But I think it’s certain that Ellie will not get Communion today. She will probably never get it again. I slide an arm around her shoulders. She does not refuse me this time.
“Another drop for her?” Mother asks through tight lips, though we all know the answer.
“I think not. This one is done for good.” Darwin folds his arms and shakes his head, the smile stretching his lips wide as he fixes his eyes on Ellie.
Ellie lets out a shuddering breath. Her time is nearly gone, then. We will have only days to say good-bye.
“But she passed,” I burst out.
“Ruby.” Mother’s single word is an order I know well: Silence, Ruby. Let well enough alone.
A small smile flickers on Darwin’s lips, and he stares at me. “You think I’m unfair, don’t you, little Toad?”
“I … No.” I shake my head and stare at his feet. My mouth is dry with fear now, too dry to form any more foolish words.
“It’s sunrise,” the new Overseer says.
Darwin is squinting at the new Overseer as if he’s never seen him before. Then he gestures to Mother without taking his eyes off the new Overseer. “Wrap it up, High Priestess Toad,” he barks.
Mother sets the dropper on the altar, careful to make sure it doesn’t roll off, and recaps the bottle. Then she gestures with both hands, palms toward the ceiling. “Please rise for our final prayer.”
The old oak benches creak as the Congregation pushes to their feet. I speak our special prayer with everyone else, even though I feel doubt. If Otto loved us so much, if he were truly divine, wouldn’t he have come back to save us a long time ago?
Otto, our savior
We seek thy deliverance
Take us from our pain
And show us to heaven
Where Water flows freely
And we live in thy presence
Amen.
Darwin stares straight ahead as we recite the prayer. He does not join us, nor do any of the Overseers. I wonder if they pray to anybody, and if they think their god loves what they do to us.
Chapter 5
The days get hotter and the woods yield less and less water. Darwin’s hand grows heavier. There are more days when he beats us than not.
I’m more careful healing Mother, now. But even so, it took two buckets of murky lake water to ease her wounds tonight. Now she breathes easier, and everyone has left us. It is time for my nightly trip to the cisterns.
It is a hot, still night—barely better than the day. The air is cooler than the cabin, at least. There could be an Overseer waiting, even though we’ve never seen one in the woods at night. I walk toe to heel, toe to heel, like Mother taught me. I keep my feet on the dusty road, away from branches, barely making a scuff or crackle on the road to the clearing.
Mother’s warnings of Overseers terrified me when I was smaller.
“Always be careful,” she reminded me every night. “Always expect them to be there.”
To still the fear, back then, I pretended I was nothing more than a mouse rustling through the weeds. If an Overseer happened to be out at night, all he would see is a little brown mouse creeping to its nest. I wasn’t a girl. I wasn’t even big enough to trap and eat.
Now I pray silently to Otto—and listen like a deer tiptoeing past a wolf.
It’s dark out tonight, barely any moon to see by. But my feet know the path well, and I do not stumble once. When I reach the cisterns, I pat my skirt to make sure the sharp stone is still tucked there—yes, an edge threatening to poke through the threadbare fabric. Then I climb the ladder to the top of the cistern we’ve been filling these last weeks.
A breeze comes from somewhere—sent by Otto, maybe. It catches at my hair and swirls the curls around my face. I pause to push it behind my ears. Why didn’t I think to bring a piece of twine or some hairpins with me? Mother would say I’m still a child who needs minding.
I screw open the valve and peer inside, even though I know I won’t see anything in the dark—unless it’s nearly full to the brim. There’s only darkness. I roll back my left sleeve—the arm I haven’t already cut for Mother tonight—and hold my arm over the opening. My skin is smooth, even though I’ve cut it in this place hundreds, maybe thousands of time. My body heals just as fast as the Water heals everyone else.
Mother cried the night when the last drop of my father’s blood fell from the last glass vial. She collapsed onto the cistern in a kind of desperate embrace, not worrying for once about how loud she was or who might hear us. The empty vial slipped from her fingers and fell onto the grass without a sound. I picked it up and tucked it into my skirts.
Now the vial sits with the other three, four nestled in the little box beneath Mother’s bed. Empty all, Otto’s promises used up.
I held my arm up high when she descended the ladder that night. “Let me do it,” I said.
We’d never talked about what would happen when his blood was gone. But she didn’t argue. Instead, she took my hand in hers, turning it so she could see the tender underside of my arm, my veins a faint blue trace in the moonlight. “There’s no other way for us to live,” she said. “And live we must, if we wait for Otto.”
I have visited the cisterns every night since.
&nbs
p; One quick slash of the stone and my blood is flowing free. I let it drip into the cistern—one, two, three … ten drops altogether.
Back when Mother added Otto’s blood, she counted to three and stopped. But mine’s likely not as strong as his since I am half from Mother. Besides, I’ve got lots more to give.
Mother always whispered a prayer, so I do too. “Deliver us, Otto.”
Does he hear me? Does he see me, pouring the blood he gave me into our captor’s cisterns?
“Why don’t you come?” I say, too loud, and warning fear makes my skin tingle.
Of course there is no answer—he never answers me, not in my mind, not in the wind or the birds singing in the trees. When I talk to Otto, I feel like I am throwing a pebble off a vast mountain. I have thrown enough of those pebbles to have made my own mountain.
I’ve added enough blood to the cistern now. I press my hand to the cut.
It barely stings tonight, probably because I’m more tired than usual. I peel away my hand to peek at it; it still looks wet, so I press my hand back on the wound. The wind pulls at my hair again, and this time I toss my head to push it away. The movement makes me tip to the side, and I make a quick grab at the cisterns.
My hands echo on the near-empty cistern, like a clap of thunder.
Then an even louder sound—a crack of sticks, only a few feet away, perhaps by the next cistern. This is a sound I’ve never heard here before.
I freeze, waiting for another sound, any sound, to tell me what’s waiting at the bottom of the ladder. Let it be a fox, or a bear. Yes, it’s probably an animal, driven by the drought to find water farther from home, closer to people.
Any animal will be kinder to me than an Overseer.
“Who’s there?” a man’s voice says in the darkness.
Cold fear sweeps over me. I squeeze my eyes shut, like a child, praying he won’t see me if I can’t see him. If I stay still enough, maybe he won’t even think to look above his head. Maybe he’ll go away, and I’ll be able to slip back to our cabin.
