Drought

by Pam Bachorz

“Where’s Darwin?” Mother says quietly.

  Darwin West never misses a morning in the clearing. The Congregants are still whispering, but not about Ellie anymore. They’ve noticed too.

  It seems like the same number of Overseers as ever. They’ve got their guns and the bulge of chains in their pockets. I see the man who took Ellie away with Ford. But Ford is missing.

  Disappointment slides over me.

  The sun is nearly up. A few stragglers reach the clearing, eyes big with fear, breathless from running. But the Overseers don’t lift a hand to them.

  “Otto deliver us,” Mother whispers to Asa, who is standing near us. He nods and whispers it to the next person, and the next, until the whispers change to prayerful murmurs.

  Just as the sky above the trees lightens, one of the Overseers takes the chain out of his pocket and snaps it against the group. It bites at the dirt like an angry snake.

  “That all of you?” he shouts. This man is one of the most brutal ones; last week he drove his rifle butt into Gen’s head when she stumbled in the midday heat.

  Mother steps forward and even the prayers go silent. “It is,” she answers.

  “Then get your Toad butts in the House,” he says, motioning with his arm. The chain follows it, sliding on the ground.

  It’s not Sunday. And it’s never breakfast time anymore. Why do they want us in the Common House?

  Nobody argues or asks why. It won’t change anything. Mother leads the Congregants to the entrance of the sagging building. She looks back at the Overseer for a moment, and then opens the door.

  A heavenly smell rolls out into the heavy morning air. There’s food inside.

  The crowd hurries, and soon we are all in the room. Overseers are posted in all four corners of the room—one of them Ford, standing farthest from the exit, near Mother’s altar.

  But this morning I barely notice Ford, for there’s something else in the room: breakfast.

  Breakfast, a hot one, smelling and looking like our lives before the drought came. Three big pots of steaming oatmeal sit on the long table by the kitchen, with plenty of bowls and spoons. Baskets of apples wait at either end of the table.

  My mouth waters so much, I have to swallow. I can’t take my eyes off the food. I sense the other Congregants around us looking at one another and hear their whispering, but I imagine only how the oatmeal will feel in my mouth.

  If Ellie had lasted only one more day, she could have feasted. I feel guilty for my hunger. But I can’t help it.

  “Is it for us?” Mother wonders.

  Darwin emerges from the kitchen. He is wearing a dark-smeared apron and a smile that makes me nervous. But still, all I can think about is that food.

  “Eat up,” he calls out.

  That’s all the encouragement we need. The Congregants press forward, forming a ragged line—of course the Pellings are in front. Jonah catches my eye and gestures, but I look away. Mother steps aside and motions for the others to go first. I stay beside her.

  “Jonah has his eye on you,” she says, so quietly that only I can hear.

  “He … He asked me to marry him.”

  Her eyes grow wide. “What did you say?” she asks.

  “No—of course I said no.”

  For a moment she studies my face. Then she turns her head to stare at Jonah. “You’ve become a woman without me seeing it,” she says, still watching him with narrow eyes.

  “He only wants me because I’m the Leader,” I tell her.

  “A man would have many reasons to want you.” Mother slides one arm around me and squeezes tight. “But Ruby, there’s no room for romance—”

  “I know.” I tell her quickly.

  She gives me another squeeze, and guilt floods me.

  Jonah heaps so much oatmeal in his bowl that it threatens to overflow the sides. Will there be any left for us?

  Mother is watching Darwin now. He’s left the kitchen and is moving toward the doors. Then he’s speaking to the Overseers who brought us inside the Common House.

  Boone edges to the back of the line and stands next to Mother.

  I glance over at Ford. His face lights with the briefest smile, but then it falls back into the somber watch of an Overseer.

  “It’s almost our turn,” I tell Mother, tugging her sleeve. She moves reluctantly, still watching Darwin. Boone slides behind us.

  There’s a rumble outside.

  “Do you hear that?” I ask Mother.

  “It sounds like a truck,” she answers, squinting as she peers past Darwin. “A very big truck.”

  Darwin slips outside and the Overseers slam the doors shut. After a moment, one tugs on the doors, as if to test them.

  The doors don’t open.

  “They’ve locked us in here,” Boone says.

  Mother frowns. “The cisterns are nowhere near full …” Mother’s voice trails off. But then, finally, it is our turn. Even Mother can’t ignore food. She picks up a bowl and heaps oatmeal into it. Up close it smells even better.

  The apples look worse up close, though. They are shriveled, with black pockmarks on many of them. Still, I take two—and for a moment, I think I’ll give one to Ellie. Then I remember.

  I put the extra one in my pocket. I can imagine Ellie telling me to be sure to eat every last bit of it. It’s almost as if she’s living in my mind now.

  “Take another.” Boone sets an apple on top of my oatmeal. “Before the Pellings eat a whole orchard’s worth.”

  Jonah and his family are sitting next to the food, nearly done with their breakfast already. They’re eyeing the table and I know the moment we’re gone, they’ll lead the charge for second helpings.

  We follow Mother to empty seats and fall on our breakfast in silence. Nobody is talking: only staring at their food, spooning it into their mouths as fast as they can.

  The oatmeal scorches my tongue, and it’s so gummy that it threatens to stay on the roof of my mouth instead of disappearing down my throat. But I don’t wait for it to cool. I eat more, and more, until my stomach feels ready to pop.

  I can see the locked door from my seat. Both Overseers stand with their backs to it, arms crossed, as if a lock isn’t enough to keep us inside.

  All they had to do was give us the oatmeal, to keep us in here.

  Nobody else seems to notice—or perhaps care—that we are trapped. But my skin crawls with the knowledge of it. The air feels thicker, pressing on me, when I know I can’t run out the door. Is this how one of Mother’s quarries feel when locked into one of her traps?

  Mother takes a savage bite of her apple. Brown spots dot the yellow flesh, but she eats those, eats all of it except the stem.

  I should eat one of my apples too—maybe all of them. But the oatmeal has stretched my stomach to near bursting. I close my eyes for a moment and pray to Otto for strength.

  There’s a steady loud beeping sound outside, and the grind of something that I think is a big truck. It’s the same noise that the Visitor’s truck makes when he starts the drive back down the hill.

  “What are they doing out there?” Boone wonders.

  Mother takes another bite of her apple. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, and then licks the juice off her skin.

  Boone taps the side of my bowl with his spoon. “Go get more, Ruby, before it’s gone.”

  Then comes a loud crash, so loud that our seats shake from the sound of it. That makes some of the other Congregants, finally, look up and stare at the door.

  “That can’t be the cisterns,” I say. They never make a noise like that, not even when the full cistern lands on the truck.

  “You got your fair share already!” someone shouts from the food table. It’s Asa, and he’s standing all too close to Jonah Pelling, chest to chest nearly.

  Mother and Boone both scramble to their feet. I follow them to the table, but I don’t hurry. Most of the other Congregants stay in their seats.

  “I’ll take as much as my family needs, old man!” Jon
ah shouts back.

  A few of the Overseers are rushing to the table too. One of them is Ford. I get a little closer.

  “Break it up.” An Overseer pokes Asa in the back with the long part of his gun. He doesn’t even seem to feel it.

  “Take a seat, Pelling,” Asa growls. His face is mottled red and his chest heaves with breathing.

  “Step aside,” Jonah answers. The other Pellings are standing now too, seven against Asa’s bear bulk—and the Overseers.

  It’s grown silent; all I hear is Asa’s breathing.

  The same Overseer talks, this time his voice even louder. “I said, break it up.”

  Jonah shakes his head, a small movement, but enough for the Overseer to kick him in the back of the knees. He stumbles forward, but I reach out to steady him.

  He stands but doesn’t let go of my hand. I flick a fast look at Ford. He stares, lips pressed together.

  Hastily, I take Asa’s hand too. “We can’t fight. We’re all Congregants,” I say. “Otto doesn’t want this. Do you?”

  Jonah turns so our faces are just inches apart. “I provide for my family. Always, Ruby. You can trust that.” His voice is husky.

  I look away, embarrassed, knowing he’s asking me again.

  “We’re all hungry,” Asa says. “Nothing special about your folk.”

  “Others haven’t eaten as much,” I tell Jonah.

  He frowns, looks back at his family. But then he shrugs. His hand slides away from mine.

  I let go of Asa. “Go get your food,” I tell him.

  Then I raise my voice. “If anyone wants more, take it now!”

  Nearly half the people stand. I turn to Jonah. “Take your family to the back of the line. If there’s any left, they can have it.”

  Jonah nods and motions to the other Pellings. “You’re a pretty good Leader, Ruby,” he says.

  For the first time, I feel that way too.

  But then Jonah has to go and spoil things, like he always does. “You’d be a pretty good wife too,” he says.

  I look up and meet Ford’s eyes while I give Jonah my answer. “I’m not marrying you,” I say.

  “Not yet,” Jonah answers.

  Asa takes my arm and guides me in front of him. “She goes first. She needs it the most.”

  “I left my bowl—” I start.

  “Take another.” Ford stands behind the table, scooping oatmeal into the bowls. The other Overseers don’t help. They take a step back and level their guns at us, as if we’re liable to transform our breakfast into weapons at any second.

  Ford holds out a heaping bowl; bodies press behind me, wanting more, more, and so I take it quickly.

  A piece of paper crinkles beneath the bowl. Then I see another flash of a smile from him before he turns back to filling the bowls.

  I start from the surprise, but I think I hide it well. While I walk away from the line, I press the paper into a tiny ball beneath the bowl, keeping it sheltered from any glance. Then I slip it into my pocket just before I sit down.

  A smart girl would throw away the paper, whatever it is. Overseers shouldn’t give secret notes to Congregants. Nothing good will come of it.

  But this is a better treasure than oatmeal, in truth. I gulp down my food and pray for the doors to open.

  Chapter 13

  Only half the Congregants are back in their seats with more food when the doors creak, and then sunshine is spilling into the room. We’re freed.

  Nobody stands to go to the front—all bolt more food into their mouths, but their eyes are on the door.

  Darwin West steps through, the sun so bright behind him I can’t see his face. But I know the silhouette of his leather hat and the swirl of his long coat.

  “I’ll need all the men,” he announces. “And the rest of you get out to the woods.”

  This strange respite is over. Our normal lives begin again—except for the tiny lump of paper in my pocket.

  The room is filled with the sound of spoons clattering into bowls, onto tables, onto the floor. The men rush outside and the rest of us form a line to get our cups and spoons.

  I am so aware of Ford’s note that it burns like a tiny hot stone in my pocket. I make sure to keep my eyes far away from him, only staring straight ahead. I take my cup and my spoon and move for the woods.

  Then I see what the trucks were doing, though I don’t understand it. There are piles of long, long logs sitting on the side of the road. Already the men are working on stacking them in pyramids. Are they firewood? Why, in the middle of summer? But if not that—what?

  One of the men staggers away from the logs, gripping his stomach. Zeke Pelling, Jonah’s older brother. He falls on his knees, and then he empties his stomach onto the dirt.

  My own clenches, and I look away fast.

  “Move slowly at first.” Mother is next to me, her spoon clattering loosely inside the cup. “Our bodies aren’t used to so much food.”

  An Overseer yanks Zeke to his feet and motions for him to return to the logs.

  “What a waste,” Mother mutters.

  She stalks off into the woods and I hurry too, but not in her direction. I will find a quiet, shady spot to read my note—far from anyone’s eyes.

  I slip through the woods faster than a fox hunting in moonlight, barely brushing the bushes or branches as I seek a hiding place.

  But Hope finds me first.

  “Ruby!” She waves from a clump of goldenrod.

  I sit beside her. The paper makes a small crinkling noise, but I keep my head down and try to act as if nothing is different.

  “My buttons are about to burst!” Hope pats her stomach.

  “Breakfast was fine.” All I want to do is race away and read Ford’s note.

  Her smile falls away. “Are you all right? Is it Ellie?”

  “I … Yes.” I keep my eyes away from hers.

  “I could just imagine her telling us to eat as much as a Pelling breakfast. Couldn’t you?”

  I grin. “There’s no keeping up with the Pellings.”

  “No fooling.” Hope lifts her spoon to start working, but her dreamy smile is back. “Remember how we’d tell those boys we were having a race—then we’d sneak away and play pretend without them?”

  “You made us crowns from ferns,” I say. I kept mine for weeks, in the cabin, until they crumbled.

  “And magic wands too.” Hope holds her spoon up with a rueful look. “Think we could do something with these?”

  “Get water, is all.”

  She sighs and nods.

  “I … I probably shouldn’t harvest so close to you,” I tell her. “The Overseers might not like it.”

  “Oh. I suppose.” She looks hurt.

  After Hope took up with Gabe, I could never find time alone with her. Now I’m lying, just to get away.

  “I’ll look for you later today. Farther away from the Overseers,” I promise.

  “Find lots of water, Ruby.” She lifts her cup, briefly.

  I tap my cup against hers. “And you.”

  As soon as I’m out of sight, I start to hurry again, trying to find a place to read Ford’s note.

  Finally I find a fallen tree, surrounded by half-browned clumps of greenery: a hiding place. I slide between them and pray nobody can see the colored bits of my dress through the screen of the tree. I’ll have to be fast.

  I smooth the note over the curve of my bended knee. The writing is blue, and thick, the edges blurred as if the note was written on damp paper. There are only a few lines—small, sloped handwriting that seems almost feminine.

  She’s in the field near the birch grove. Look for the tallest clump of grasses.

  At first I don’t understand. Who’s there? But then I remember: Ellie is dead. And only Ford, and that other Overseer, might know where she is now.

  The birch grove is far away from us. We don’t usually harvest there; it’s a long walk, and not nearly worth the energy. The birches have pushed away all undergrowth and don’t offer dro
ps of water from their leaves. Most places in the woods are better than the grove for meeting our quotas.

  I want to go to her. I want to see her grave for myself, say good-bye at her final resting place.

  But this isn’t the time to visit Ellie. One cup, full, by sunset. It’s nearly impossible. Mother might suffer tonight if I fail, and I can’t add any more lashes to her shoulders. And yet, and yet, I can’t stand to think of Ellie there alone, no prayers said over her.

  I crawl out and stretch to standing. Nobody seems to be near. I start toward Ellie’s grave in a trot, the fastest I dare go with water in my cup and roots reaching out to hobble me at every step.

  I pass through thick underbrush and tall oaks, and then a shorter group of pine and blueberry bushes. The birds have picked the berries clean, mostly—all that’s left are the green berries and a few shriveled ones. On any other day I would stop to eat them, as Mother taught me. But Ellie’s grave is more important, and I press on.

  When I see a plant or tree that looks very wet, I stop to gather water. I scrape a little off a cypress tree’s ragged bark, and coax more moisture from the underside of a half-dead toadstool. But more than anything, I hurry toward Ellie.

  Before I reach the birch grove, I hear the wind rattling the leaves, a dry sound that feels like a rebuke. My cup is not even a quarter full, at midday, and here I am anyway.

  “I should go back,” I tell myself. But instead I step into the grove, looking at the field beyond it. The birch roots are thick and knobby, poking up through the ground and reaching for my toes. I have to look down and work carefully not to trip, always keeping my cup steady.

  And then my toes land on the yellowed, pointy grass of the field. It’s not grown very tall this year. But still, bright flowers poke above, with pink- and purple-fringed edges. They are surviving the drought, growing the same as if it rained every day.

  I stop walking. I look over the field and its determined flowers, wondering where they put Ellie. And then I see it, perhaps fifteen paces away: a long fresh-turned line of dirt. Something glints from it, for a second, but then the breeze rattles the birch leaves again and it’s only dirt, no shine.

  Now that she is so close, I can’t make my feet hurry. I take a deep breath and take one forced step, then another.