Drought (24 page)

Chapter 34

I wake with pine needles in my mouth. Mother is gone; a damp reddish patch remains where she lay. The sun is already full over the horizon, but it hasn’t burned the night chill off yet. Autumn is upon us.

She cried last night until sleep took her; then I closed my eyes. I dreamed of Ford, and kisses, and popcorn.

Tomorrow is his last day here. Today is the second to last. Will I see him? Do I want to?

I wipe the salty taste from my lips. I’ve woken into a different life now, the one I’m meant to live. I should be glad if I don’t see Ford again.

When I get close to the cabin, I hear a sound coming from it—a strange, light sound I haven’t heard in a long time, in the morning. It’s Mother, singing. I push open the cabin door and find her sweeping.

“Good morning,” I say. It’s hard to say anything to her after last night. I cringe, waiting for anger, or worse—silence.

Maybe she already has stopped loving me.

But she smiles at me with no anger, no threat. “Good morning, Ruby. I thought I’d clean before we went to the cisterns.”

She’s got her dress and boots on. Her body is straight and strong enough to sweep the floors. Even her hair looks lustrous.

My clothes are stained from embracing her bleeding body last night; my eyes feel near swollen shut from shedding so many tears. Next to her, I look like the one recovering from Darwin’s blows.

“You’re better,” I say.

She shrugs but doesn’t stop cleaning. “I feel completely healed.”

She doesn’t thank me—she never does. What I give is what’s expected of me, what I was born for. I try to push the irritation away. It never bothered me before. Why should it bother me now?

“Do you think the Visitor will come tomorrow?” I slide around her to pull the soiled sheets from her bed. I’ll put them in the Lake, weigh them down with a stone so they soak without floating away. They’ll come out muddy, at least, but most of the blood will be gone.

“We’ll be readying the cisterns today,” Mother says. “And I smell breakfast cooking.”

I hadn’t noticed the smell before, but now that I breathe in, there’s grease in the air, a promise of food.

“Then the Visitor’s coming very soon,” I say. Darwin is working to put plump on our angles, hide the evidence of his abuse on every other day of the year.

“Aye. Maybe even today.” Mother stops to inspect her work, hands on hips, but whirls into motion again.

If he comes today, Ford won’t be back tomorrow.

“Why are you tidying? The Visitor won’t be coming
here.”
It comes out as a grumble, even though I meant it as a tease.

It doesn’t seem to bother Mother; nothing could bother her today, I think. “Today is a fresh start, Ruby. I want everything as clean as I can make it.”

I notice her boots now; she’s brushed and scrubbed at every stain, I think. I don’t understand. Does she think housecleaning will make her forget—will make me forget?

When Mother sees me looking at her feet, she waves her hand at mine. “Let me clean your boots.”

But then the bell rings—the dinner bell, something we rarely hear anymore. Mother claps her hands together, boots forgotten. “Breakfast, Ruby.”

“I know.” Does she think I’m still a child?

Mother chatters about something as we walk to breakfast—stuffing the cabin’s chinks with mud, perhaps, to ready it for winter. Or maybe she’s telling me about the latest dispute with the Pellings. I don’t know. None of it matters. It’s all the same thing we’ve talked about for two hundred years.

We sit with Beaulah Pelling, her face as sour and pinched as the apples set out for breakfast. She doesn’t have a smile to spare.

Mother usually doesn’t seek her out. Once I heard her tell Hope that the woman was harder to bear than sitting on a tack. But today she smiles and gives Beaulah a squeeze around the shoulders.

“Is your arthritis better?” Mother asks.

“For now. Trust it to flare up when the snow flies.” Beulah gives a single nod, then takes a vicious bite of her apple. At least all the Congregants have kept their teeth. Our tiny bit of Water has been enough for that.

“I’ll get your food,” Mother tells me. “Sit and relax.”

“I can—”

“I’ll get it.” Her tone leaves no room for argument. I watch her go up to the table and pile two plates with eggs and biscuits, plus plenty of apples and leftover sausage from our celebration. As she goes, she stares at each Overseer and looks at the corners of the room.

Ford isn’t here. I knew it even as I walked in the room. When Ford’s around, everything feels calmer, steadier. But today the room felt jittery and wrong.

“Soon we’ll be harvesting snowflakes,” Beulah sighs.

“And freezing our fingers half off,” I say.

She gives me a surprised look; normally I ignore her complaints or give her a sunny reply. But I’ve no strength to fight her gloom today. Besides, my gloom is far darker than hers.

Mother sets the plate in front of me. The eggs nearly slide off the plate, leaving a wet trail behind them. The biscuit has black burned edges.

I try a bite of eggs. They’re ice cold, and somehow I know now that they shouldn’t be. I gag.

“Delicious,” Mother says.

“Best food I’ve tasted in weeks,” Beulah sighs.

All around the room, the Congregants are grinning and jamming food into their mouths. They don’t stop to look at the food or wonder whether it’s better suited to be fireplace coals.

A week ago, I would have been just like them. But now I’ve tasted better. I know just how terrible this food is. I remember spaghetti. I remember popcorn.

I push the plate away and Mother gives me a sharp look. She’s been watching me since we came into the Common House. “What’s wrong?” she asks.

“My stomach hurts,” I tell her. It’s true enough.

“There won’t be more later for you. Eat,” she orders.

“I’m not hungry,” I tell her.

She frowns, but only for a second, and then smiles wider. “Then take apples for later,” she says, rolling her eyes a little at Beulah. What a silly little girl she has.

“You gonna eat that?” Beulah asks. Her arm snakes toward my plate.

“Take it,” I tell her.

Mother’s eyes narrow.

“I’m not hungry,” I tell her again.

“You must stay strong,” she says softly.

Is she worried for me, or worried for the girl with Otto’s blood? I try to push away the thought. Why am I thinking these terrible things? I’ll be here with her for a long time, until Otto comes.

The door to the Common House opens; I twist to see who’s there, hoping for Ford. But it’s Darwin. His face is flat, lifeless, the most frightening look of all for him.

“Come on, Toads,” he says. “Time to work.”

They all stand, eager almost. But I stay seated. What we will grant for just a bit of kindness, a bit of food. What if we used our energy for something different?

I look across the room and see one other not standing: Earl Pelling. He catches my eye and then looks at Darwin, and back at me. Nods once. Then he jams an entire biscuit in his mouth.

I look away. I can’t give him what he wants.

The Congregants grasp for a last biscuit, a last apple, and the big dented metal bowls are empty before the crowd has left for outside. I don’t reach for anything extra. Already Mother has pressed two apples on me. I’ll keep them, at least for now. Eventually hunger may make them delicious.

Darwin leads us across the dirt road to the cisterns. He catches a look at Mother, standing next to me, and his eyes widen. He glances back at the closest cistern and gives it a good thump. The full sound seems to satisfy him, and he looks at a clipboard that one of the Overseers has handed him.

“I need five toads to fix the cabins up roadside. Five to cut the grass, here. And three to tidy up the outside of the Overseer cabin.” Darwin looks up, expectation on his face, and Congregants step forward quickly to volunteer. It’s better to speak up while you know what the job is.

It’s what we do every year to prepare for the Visitor. We make this look like a different kind of place—a place where people have time to do things besides harvest water, a place that’s home, not a prison.

Last year, I painted the boards on the walls of the cabins that faced the road—but only so far as the cisterns. The Visitor never goes past here. The year before, I scrubbed brown dots of dried blood off the cisterns.

Another truck with Overseers pulls up; they’ve got buckets and long brushes in the back of their truck. The passenger door opens, the same place I’d sat just last night. And out comes Ford.

Do I let out a gasp? Or does it just echo inside me? Mother grabs my elbow, looks at the truck, then looks at Darwin.

“Do you need another painter?” she calls.

Darwin shakes his head. “Dock scrubbers!” he shouts. “My house!”

Ford and the other Overseers he came with step up. They are holding buckets and long brushes. Ford’s eyes brush past me, and I lose my breath.

“Don’t even dream it,” Mother says, and her grip becomes painful. I try to shake free but she only grips harder.

Ford hands out brushes to five Congregants. Mother keeps me right next to her.

“Weeds!” Darwin calls out, and Mother gives me a shove so I stumble forward.

“We’ll weed,” Mother says loudly.

I get a big paint-stained bucket and a small shovel with a dulled nose to dig with. Mother takes one too. I walk to the edge of the clearing and kneel. At least it’s easy to find weeds, unlike drops of water.

Mother pops a weed out and tosses it in her bucket. Another, and another. Breakfast has energized her—or maybe it’s anger at me.

“The Elders will come to our cabin tonight,” she says in a low voice.

“Tonight? But it’s not our meeting night,” I say.

“You’ll tell them what you did. And they’ll decide what to do,” she answers.

I hadn’t thought about anyone else knowing. Somehow I thought only Mother would have my secrets about Ford. But of course she’s told them. She loves the Congregation over me—she said as much last night.

“He’s leaving,” I tell Mother. “For good.”

“It doesn’t change what you did.” She glances over her shoulder, and I look too.

The Congregants who volunteer to work with Ford are piled in the back of the truck. He’s inside, staring straight ahead. The truck moves forward, and that’s when he looks, for just a second, at me.

I see anguish, and love, and all the things that are in my heart too.

“Turn around,” Mother orders, and she gives my ear a hard tug.

Still I can hear the gravel popping under the wheels, and the engine rumbling as the truck moves away. Ford is driving away again.

And this time, Mother is right beside me to ensure I make the right choice.

Chapter 35

It’s not dark yet when the Elders come. Tonight we don’t have to hide. We did Darwin’s work. And then he even gave us a sort of dinner—slimy, cold, thin slices of white meat, with sticky yellow slices of cheese and crackers edged with more mold.

This time I made myself eat every bit. I’m a Congregant, nothing more. Any bit of food is a miracle.

Hope comes to the door first. When I open it, a rush of cool air comes in, laced with woodsmoke.

“Ruby,” Hope says. That is all. No hug, no more greeting, no small joke about the day’s work. Her face doesn’t hold a hint of a smile.

“Come in.” I smile wide as I step back to let her in the cabin. She looks away.

Boone and Asa come together. Boone is a step behind the older man, his hands out and up slightly, as if to catch Asa if he stumbled. But Asa is sure-footed tonight. A little food and Water has brought back his strength.

“You made a good mess, girl,” Asa snaps at me.

“I only—” I start, but Asa holds up his fist.

“Your reasons don’t matter,” he says.

Boone only shakes his head, flicking me a glance, then goes inside.

Mother and Hope have been talking in low voices, too low for me to hear much. I’ve heard bits:
love, foolish, danger
. Perhaps I don’t want to hear more.

Each Elder sets down the chair they’ve brought. There’s none for me.

“Shall we start?” Mother takes her seat and looks at the other three. They follow her lead, arranging their chairs in a rough circle.

Where do I go? Uncertain, I settle on the floor, behind Asa, and ready myself for what they have to say.

“Leave us,” Boone says. It’s the first word he’s said to me all night.

Nobody disagrees. Asa leans back in his small chair, folding his arms. The wood creaks under his weight.

I stand up and look at each of them. “Leave?” I ask.

“Yes, that’s right. You’ll have to find another place for the night.” Mother stares straight at me with a strange, too merry smile on her face. Hope won’t look at me. And Boone—Boone, who healed Mother countless times with me—gives my arm a shove. It’s none too gentle.

“I’m your Leader,” I say. “You can’t make me go.”

“You’ll do as we say,” Asa growls. “We made you Leader, and we can take it away too.”

I feel like a small girl again.

“Go, Ruby,” Boone says. “You can return at sunrise.”

“It might not take that long—” Hope starts, looking up at Boone.

“It’s best that way,” Boone says.

Hope draws in a deep breath, then nods, dropping her eyes to the ground.

“I wanted to explain,” I say. I’d been ready to answer their questions, had been thinking about it all day as I worked. I was going to tell them about Ford’s kindness, his horror at how we lived, how we were treated. I wasn’t ready for this.

“There’s nothing you need to tell us,” Mother says. “I’ve told them everything.”

She’s told them everything
she
wants them to know. But what of my side? Words tumble over my lips. I sound frantic, but I don’t care. They have to listen. “I want to explain. I want to tell you why I didn’t leave. I want to tell you about Ford—”

“Don’t say his name,” Hope says, her voice gravelly. Still she doesn’t look at me.

“Doesn’t matter, does it?” Asa says to her. Then he turns in his chair. “Get out, kid. Don’t come back until the morning.”

They are pushing me from my own cabin. They don’t care what I have to say. They hate me, it’s clear. It’s not just Mother who can stop loving me. It’s all of them.

I chose them, and they don’t even love me.

“Take some jerky,” Mother says, pointing at the chest.

That tiny bit of kindness stings more, somehow, than the rest of this.

“I’m not hungry,” I choke out, and then I turn and hurry out before they can see any more tears on my face.

Softly, I settle on the ground beside the door, my back to the cabin. I turn my head and press my ear to the wall.

Never have I had to eavesdrop on the Elders before. Always they let me stay in the room. I heard them talk about all manner of things.

It’s not easy to hear them. We’ve mudded the walls well, and the logs are thick. I hear the rumble of Asa’s voice, and Mother’s laugh—strange, high-pitched. But mostly it’s quiet.

The fall chill settles over the bare parts of my skin like a wet spiderweb. I shiver, rubbing my arms for warmth. It will be a long night without fire. I wonder if I could follow the smell of the woodsmoke to find shelter, maybe even some friendship.

But I stay where I am. I might catch a little of what they’re saying. And the cabin—and the people inside it—are my home. They are the people I’m meant to be with. I’ll stay out here, if I must.

But then the door opens. Hope peers out, catches sight of me almost right away. Her eyes widen and she puts her finger to her mouth. A signal: be quiet.

“I’ll be but a minute,” Hope calls inside. Then she shuts the door.

“What are they saying?” I scramble to my feet and take an eager step toward Hope.

She holds up both hands, warding me off. “Why do you ask when you were listening?”

Finally our eyes meet. But her look does not hold any warmth. What happened to the girl-woman I played with in the woods? What happened to the person I whispered my secrets to?

“No … I …” I look down at my feet. There’s no use in lying. I was lurking only a few footfalls from the door. “Yes. I was listening. I’ve never been sent away from an Elders meeting before.”

“You never did … 
this
before either.” Hope looks over her shoulder. “I’ll have to tell the others I found you.”

“No. Wait. I’ll go.” Things won’t go any better for me if all of them know I was here.

“Go to Ellie’s cabin. I’ll get you there when it’s done.” Hope jerks her head in the direction of the road, her mouth a grim thin line.

“At sunrise?” I ask her.

“Sooner, I hope. But … I don’t know.” Hope draws in a deep, shuddering breath, and for a moment I think she’s going to cry.

“I’ll go. I’m sorry, Hope.” I want to touch her, hug her, but I can tell I shouldn’t, not right now.

“Promise me you’ll wait there,” she says. Now a tear slips down her cheek.

If she’s upset, it’s because of me. “I’m terribly sorry,” I say again.

“Just go,” Hope says.

So I do. I hurry up the road; when I look back, she’s still watching me. Then she looks back into the cabin, as if someone has called her. I don’t wait longer to see what she’ll do, or if Boone chases me even farther away.

There’s still a streak of sun on the Lake when I reach Ellie’s cabin, but already gloom has settled over it for the night. It never seemed so dreary when Ellie was alive, not even when she was sick.

When I push open the door, the hinges creak. A damp smell rolls out. I open the door wider, and fan at the air with my hands. It’s wrong for Ellie’s cabin to smell like this.

All her dried flowers are growing mold, and her mattress is streaked with it too. It’s as if the walls have been weeping since she died.

Nothing is left of Ellie here. We took her things, yes. But now I can’t even close my eyes and breathe in. The woods and the mold have already started to reclaim the cabin.

The cabin lets out a creak; the sound sends chills down my arms. I feel like I’ve invaded a place where I’m not wanted—worse, a place where I don’t belong. I can’t stay another moment.

Ellie. I’ll go to her, just for a little. I’ll be back before Hope comes to find me.

And if she finds me missing? Well, maybe they deserve it, a little, for the things they said. Let them worry they’ve lost me.

Even though the sky is blue with sunset, the woods are nearly as dark as the middle of the night. The lights aren’t on tonight, of course. We’re not harvesting. I wonder if Darwin will push us to work day and night after the Visitor brings fresh, empty cisterns. Or will he wait until the heat of next summer to do that?

Tomorrow the Visitor will come. He’ll have the Overseers put the full cisterns on his long truck, after taking the empty ones off. Everything will start over again.

But tonight they’re full.

Would Darwin let them sit unguarded? He hasn’t trusted us all summer. Why now?

And would he still send Ford to do it?

I feel the tug of Ford’s presence. He might be in the woods now. If I turn left instead of right—if I swing around that tree instead of ducking through those bushes—I could be with him.

But no. I made my choice. I have to live with it.

As I walk to Ellie’s grave, nothing feels right in the woods. I hear noises that push my feet forward, send my heart racing—noises that any other night I might have not even noticed. Skittering. Crunching leaves. Scrambling. It’s only animals, and small ones, I know. But none of it feels friendly.

The Elders are against me, Mother is against me, and that makes it feel as if all the world has decided I deserve to be punished.

But not Ellie. Ellie would never do that. I ignore the noises and press forward, even when a sapling branch whips me straight across the face. I know every tree in the forest, but this one seems to have picked up its roots and set itself in my path. After one branch surprises me, they all feel out of place. Three more lash me before I finally slow my pace.

What are they talking about, back in the cabin? Are they thinking of a punishment for me? Or maybe even deciding I’m not a worthy Leader, like Asa said they could?

A root plucks at my toe; I stumble, my ankle twisting, and barely manage to stop from falling. But then another step, another root, and I go sprawling across the forest floor.

My chest lands on the hard knob of the root. It pushes all the air from me in a
whoosh
. I gasp, desperate for air, and at first nothing comes.

The air seems to shimmer around me. I imagine I see someone standing ahead—Ellie.

Finally I can breathe. I suck air into my lungs, lying on the dirt, and the figure I imagined is gone as suddenly as I first saw it.

Every part of the forest has fought me tonight. Why do I keep fighting back? Ellie is gone. I know I can’t really talk to her there—if she is listening, she’d be listening everywhere, not just by the patch of dirt where they discarded her.

I should go back to her cabin. I should wait. If Hope goes there before I do, she’ll think I ran, maybe. Or at least she’ll know I didn’t obey her.

But that’s not the way my feet turn. And now the forest is familiar again—the branches are where they are supposed to be, easy to push away or to duck. Stones and roots are vaults for my toes instead of blocks.

I’ll be at the cisterns in moments.

Maybe Ford will be there. Maybe he won’t. I’m not sure what I’ll do if I see him.

But I do know there’s nowhere else I want to be right now. And before I go back to living the same dreary Congregant life, I want one last chance for something more, just for one more night.