Drought

by Pam Bachorz

  By the time I’m back, she’ll be asleep. She’ll never know how long I was gone, really. She’ll never know that I didn’t go to the cisterns at all.

  I’m going to see Ellie.

  The path to the birch grove is long, and barely a quarter of the moon peeks from the sky. I’ll have to be careful not to trip in the darkness … or be discovered by an Overseer.

  I want to bring Ellie something, again. I could pick flowers. But then I remember how sad my little bouquet looked, lying on her grave. The flowers are starved for water like everything else here. They didn’t last long away from the soil.

  There is her watch. I could give her that. But I know Mother was right: Ellie would have wanted me to have it.

  Perhaps I should have brought one of the rocks that she kept in the bottom of her trunk. But I’ve gone too far to turn back now. I’ll need lots of time to go to the birch grove and back, before Mother wakes.

  I cannot think of another thing. So I continue my path to visit Ellie, hoping I will see something along the way.

  The wind carries dust off the ground and scatters it in my eyes. Once I have to stop and squeeze my eyes shut against a swirl of dust—too late. Tears slip from beneath my eyelids and roll down my cheeks.

  Just in time, I hear the laughter before I reach a section of sparse pinewoods. I slow my pace to an agonizing tiptoe, then peek from behind a tree.

  Overseers, two of them on the ground, and then another on a tall ladder propped against one of the new poles. One on the ground is holding a silver can to his mouth, drinking from it and shining a bright light on the ladder. The man next to him holds a large round disc with black rope coiled around it.

  They laugh again.

  “Fool …” One word drifts over to me.

  “No training …” This one sounds more serious, without laughter behind it.

  “Hazard pay!”

  Again, more laughter.

  The man on the ladder takes the end of the black rope and climbs higher, his companion unspooling the rope as he climbs. He loops the rope around the pole and pulls something from his belt. It looks like a thick, short version of the guns they point at us. I duck behind the tree, waiting for the shot.

  But there’s no shot. Only a loud buzzing sound.

  I dare another peek and see him lowering his strange gun. The rope is attached to the pole now. The man on the ladder seems to relax so much that his body threatens to sag off the ladder.

  “The juice ain’t even on, idjit!” the man with the silver can shouts.

  All three of them laugh.

  I want to know what they’re doing—terrible uses for long black rope flood my mind. Hanging, dragging, torturing … but I don’t know what Darwin’s plan is.

  And there won’t be any finding out tonight.

  I edge back into the woods.

  I hear the grove before I see it, the leaves rattling in the wind. When my eyes first fall on the tall white trunks of the birches, the hairs on my arms raise up. They stand like ghosts, the kind Asa tells me tales about when Mother isn’t listening: murderous ghosts, watching, waiting for a victim to come close. I can fairly sense their angry spirits.

  Then I see it, the perfect gift: an oak sapling, just knee high, standing in the middle of the grove. It is a wonder that the birches haven’t choked it out already. I’ll save it and bring it to Ellie’s grave.

  Having a task pushes away my fancies of angry ghosts. I find a stick, long and wide enough to dig with, and with a few heaves I free the sapling from the soil.

  “You’ll shade Ellie,” I tell it. “And keep her company.”

  Ellie would like this, I know it. I hold the sapling close to me and cross the rest of the way through the grove. The edges of the baby leaves gently tickle the inside of my arms. I try to hold all of the dirt around the roots so they aren’t left bare and exposed. I want this tree to grow tall and strong, to be with Ellie when I cannot.

  The dirt on her grave is drier now, and the flowers I left are shriveled bits of straw. It is hard to tell in the dirt, but I think I see the tiny tracks of a squirrel across Ellie’s resting place.

  This is a sacred spot; can’t they sense it? But to them, death is common. It is not like being a Congregant, being someone who pushes away death for hundreds of years.

  “I brought you something,” I say out loud.

  The wind pushes my hair harder, and I imagine that it is Ellie giving me her hellos. I push my hair behind my ears and look for a place to put her tree. Not too close to her grave, but close enough that it will give her shade.

  There—perhaps five steps away, near where I imagine her head to be. I tear away the long dry grasses by the root and use the stick again to dig a hole.

  “I’ve been planning,” I tell Ellie. “I haven’t forgotten my promise to you.”

  It doesn’t take long to make a hole big enough for a small sapling. I nestle the tree into the earth, making sure all the roots are pointing down.

  Lately we’ve dug and filled so many holes with dead trees. It’s nice to put a live tree in this one. I form my hands into a scoop and push the soil back in around the roots.

  “I’m going to find him, Ellie,” I say. I look back at her resting place, somehow feeling like I ought to wait for her to respond. “I’m going to bring our prayers to Otto.”

  The tree looks limp in its new home. I push more soil against its tiny trunk, but it only tilts more. It needs water, I think. But I haven’t any of that.

  I can feed it, though. Do trees flourish from my blood like people, and animals?

  It will only hurt a little bit to try.

  My usual stone is not in my pocket. I had left it at home, under my bed, so I wouldn’t be tempted to stop at the cisterns—to make the same dangerous mistakes with Ford.

  I sweep my fingers along the dirt, through the grasses, but I only find more dirt and grasses. There aren’t many stones in this field. Perhaps once it belonged to a farmer trying to convince the mountain to give his family enough food to survive. He picked away all the stones—perhaps his children and his wife helped, bent over the field, like Mother told me she used to see the farmers do in Hoosick Falls.

  I’m not surprised he’s long gone—he and all his family. This is a hard place to live. Besides, it all belongs to Darwin now.

  The stick is sharp enough, I think. I make a hard, fast swipe across my arm, and it makes a deep scratch. It’s not deep enough to bleed, though. I make another swipe and a low bleat, like an animal caught in a trap, escapes my mouth. It hurts more than a stone.

  But now there is just enough blood welling from my arm to give to this tree. I hold my arm close to the dirt and wipe the blood off it with my other hand, careful to drop it on the dirt I’ve put over the roots.

  Perhaps the tree will spring from the earth faster than all its cousins. Perhaps there will be shade for Ellie in the summer’s end, instead of years from now.

  “I can change things,” I tell Ellie. “Even if Mother thinks I am only supposed to sustain.”

  What would Ellie say if she were still alive and I told her my plan? She’d ask me to stay, like she had all those other times. She’d make me swear it, even, thinking of the Congregation.

  “The best thing I can do is leave,” I tell her. “But I’ll come back. Soon.”

  A long shadow crosses over the tree; I glance up. I didn’t hear anything. Surely it’s only a cloud over the moon.

  But there is a man standing there.

  I was a fool not to turn back when I saw those three Overseers. I scramble back, and then I am on my feet, pulling both arms behind me. I push my sleeves down frantically, feel the fabric get stuck on the wet part of my arm.

  He takes a step forward and a chain jingles. An Overseer, of course.

  “I was only … I’m going back now.” I step back once, twice. Still, I keep my arms behind me.

  “Wait. It’s me.” Ford’s voice, low, not wanting to be heard by anyone except me.


  Relief floods me—followed fast by shame at how happy I am to see it’s him. This is more than relief. It’s feelings that I can’t afford.

  “I was visiting Ellie,” I say. “But I’m finished.”

  “Please. Wait. I’ve been hoping you’d come to the cisterns after … but … you haven’t.” He takes another step forward and turns a bit; now I can see his face. He is staring at his hands, which are squeezing the brimmed cap that often shades his eyes.

  “I have to go back there soon. But only to pray … nothing more.”

  “Why haven’t you come?”

  “We can’t be anything to each other, Ford.”

  “No. That sucks.” He slaps his hat on his thigh, and his other hand forms a fist.

  “I’m a Congregant. A prisoner. And you …”

  “I keep you that way. Yeah.” He lets out a long sigh, then looks back at Ellie’s grave. “I couldn’t even help her.”

  “Me either,” I say softly.

  “What were you doing with that tree?” he asks.

  A sour taste fills my mouth. What did he see? “Planting it for Ellie,” I say.

  “No—after. You cut yourself.” He reaches for my arm.

  Everything slows, and the world goes silent. Run, I tell myself. Run, before he learns your secret. Or at least one of them.

  But I stand there, frozen—or perhaps just unwilling to go—and I let him take my hand. He lifts it carefully, turning my arm and gently sliding up the sleeve so he can see where I cut myself. He runs one finger softly above the cut, not touching it. The path of his skin against mine feels warm.

  “I guess it’s like fertilizer, adding blood to new plantings,” he says, running his finger over my skin again.

  I can only nod.

  “Does it work?” he asks, glancing at the tree.

  Relief, sweet and cold, unties my mouth. He’s not discovered my blood’s secret, not really.

  “It works,” I answer.

  “I hate seeing you hurt.” He bends, slightly, and drops the faintest kiss on the scratch.

  “I’ll heal,” I tell him. Gently, I slide my arm away. I rub the spot where he kissed it—it’s still tingling.

  “Look. I have an idea,” Ford says. I can smell him: the metallic tang of sweat, but that clean smell too, the one that makes me want to bury my face in his shirt.

  “This can’t happen,” I tell him.

  “Just give me five minutes. Two minutes, even,” he begs.

  “Just … Just one,” I say. He’s so hard for me to resist.

  “Run away with me. Please. I can get you far away from here,” Ford says.

  He slides his hand down my arm, gentle, and then laces his fingers in mine.

  As if it belonged to someone else, my free hand reaches up and lands on his chest, on that soft clean-smelling shirt. I spread my fingers wide. It feels as if warm rock lies beneath the fabric.

  “I’d keep you safe,” he whispers.

  Maybe he would. But questions race through me. Who would I become, if a man took me from here? Would he own me, only in another way?

  Like the other night, our faces draw closer together. But this time I don’t pull back, even though I know I should. A bigger part of me wants this.

  “Are you sure?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I say.

  Then he closes the last tiny space and touches his lips to mine. His lips feel dry, and plump. A thousand tiny thrills run down my body and leave behind prickling points of sensation. My body feels like an entire starry sky.

  I edge a little closer. He slides his hand behind my head. We kiss again, and this time there is no hesitation or space between our lips. Finally I have to pull back to draw in a breath.

  Maybe I don’t need answers. Maybe I should run first, and find them later.

  But Ford has his own questions. “That Jonah kid …,” he says.

  “Why do we have to talk about him?” I sigh.

  “You with me for me … or because I’m not him?” he asks.

  How do I answer him? I know I don’t want Jonah. But do I want Ford because he’s other? Or because he’s Ford? I’m not sure.

  For an answer, I put both my hands on his face, and give him the tenderest of kisses. But then he shifts, and I hear the jingle of the chain in his pocket.

  It is a faint sound, one that maybe a normal person wouldn’t even hear. But a Congregant must jump for the chain, away from the chain. My lips freeze against Ford’s.

  He pulls away and looks around. “What is it?”

  I can’t. I can’t be with him as long as he’s an Overseer and I’m a Congregant. I can’t trust an Overseer to help me.

  “I thought I heard something,” I lie. “It was probably only a fox.”

  I have to remember: I am the Leader now. I’ve sworn to free us. That’s what I have to do right now. There’s no room for romance, like Mother says.

  I have to trick him.

  I look up at him and smile, willing my lips not to tremble. “How would we leave?”

  “At first, I thought my truck.” Ford pulls back a bit but keeps his eyes on me. “But then I remembered … Overseers have to search each other’s trucks, when we leave.”

  “For Congregants?”

  “For Water, I think. You can’t take any liquid away from here.” He looks away, as if embarrassed. “But we could still take my truck. I’ll just park it off the property and we can walk to it.”

  “The woods are guarded at the edge,” I say. “And there’re fences.”

  “True. But …” Ford looks around and lowers his voice, so soft I can barely hear him. “I know a place where we could slip through.”

  He slides his hand up and down my back, the barest of touches leaving behind a burning trail. My heart is pounding, but I know I have to do right by the Congregation.

  I have to find this place.

  “Where is it?” I breathe.

  “It’s not far from here. If you go about a mile that way—” he jerks his chin. “There’s a tree right by the fence.”

  I haven’t climbed trees since I was tiny—since the Overseers thought I was risk enough to watch closely. But I was good at that, I remember.

  “Can you climb?” he asks. “In your skirts and all. I mean … not that I’m asking you to …”

  “I can do it,” I say.

  “Then … you’ll …” His face is alive with hope.

  “I don’t know if I can leave,” I say quickly.

  “Just think about it. Promise?” He dips his lips close to mine, and I crave him in that second more than food, more than soft pillows, more than a morning spent resting instead of crawling over leaves.

  I crave him more than keeping my promises, even.

  “I’ll think about it,” I say.

  “I’d treat you right,” Ford says. “You’d never be sorry.”

  “I know you mean what you say,” I tell him.

  He lets out a frustrated sigh. “Whenever you’re ready, I’ll go. But … I don’t know how long I can stand it here.”

  “What about your mother?” I ask. “Don’t you have to be here for her?”

  “And one day—probably soon—she won’t be …” His voice trails off, and he shoves both hands in his pockets.

  “I’m sorry.” I look at Ellie’s grave. Soon he’ll feel a loss just as great. Even greater.

  “You could meet her, if we leave soon,” he says.

  “I’ll think about,” I tell him.

  And just like that, I can’t bear to be near him for another second. I can’t bear lying to him, and I can’t bear being the kind of girl who shares kisses with any sort of boy, let alone an Overseer, in the woods.

  “I have to go,” I tell him.

  “You always say that,” he answers.

  He pulls me in for another kiss. I don’t stop him. It is my good-bye kiss. The last one ever, if I’m brave.

  I pull away before he does, and when he lets out a small sigh, I turn away fast.
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br />   “Be careful,” he says. “There’re Overseers in the woods tonight.”

  And look at what happens when you find one.

  Chapter 18

  Darwin has declared we must all give him a full cup today.

  It is the hottest day of the summer yet, and the gathering work in the woods is brutal. I’m working near the cisterns, at the base of a hill.

  It’s impossible to keep my attention on the task—the heat alone is enough to make my mind wander, but it’s something more today. Ford is near, standing in a pool of shade only five or six steps away.

  We are alone.

  Even as I bend and scrape nothing, nothing from the leaf, I feel him watching me. “You’re staring,” I say.

  “You’re the prettiest thing in the woods,” he whispers.

  His slow, sweet smile makes me blush. I look back at my cup, nearly empty. There’s no time to talk. I’ve got to find water.

  “Do you have a lot?” he asks in a low voice.

  “No. Not hardly any.”

  “Damn, Ruby.”

  “I can’t help it.” Now I stop working and turn to stare at him. How can he curse me for not finding water? He’s no better than Darwin.

  He takes a few steps closer, eyes getting wider. “I’m not saying it’s your fault.”

  “Careful,” I warn him, looking around. Another Overseer—or a Congregant—could come at any second.

  “I just can’t stand to see you get hurt.”

  “Then … I’d best work.” I turn back to the task.

  But as I work, I feel the memory of his lips on mine. I sneak a glance—or two—and see the muscles that I ran my fingers along. They glisten with sweat, and his thin shirt clings to the ridges of his stomach.

  He looks at me too, when my eyes are away from him. I know it.

  Even though I told myself I’d go to that tree with Jonah, I’m not sure. I could still tell Ford yes. I could still be his, and he mine, away from here.

  “Darwin’s coming,” he whispers.

  I nearly look up at him, but stop at the last second. Instead I bend more into the plant, keep my eyes far from him like I would from any other Overseer.

  Should I hurry away? Attention from Darwin is never good. But maybe he’ll leave. Maybe I’ll have another few minutes to be tortured by Ford’s closeness.