Drought (25 page)

Chapter 36

I am nearly at the cisterns when I hear the scream.

It bounces off the birches, so loud I imagine it sets their leaves rattling. Is it a bobcat? A bear? Whatever it is must be wounded, or battling … or both.

When I can nearly see the tops of the cisterns, another scream echoes around me. I duck into the bushes and peer through the branches. There, ahead, is the dark bulk of the cisterns. I creep closer, and closer, until I am at the ridge of the hill that looks down on them.

There are shadows at the cisterns, ones that don’t belong. I crouch farther into the leaves before risking another look.

People, six or seven or them, are standing in the shadows of the cisterns. They are in a wide circle. I cannot see their faces, or what they wear. But I do see the glint of something silver cascading from a hand.

I force my breath to slow. Now I hear other noises: the sickening rattle of an Overseer’s chain. And then a hard thump.

A silver line arcs high above the people’s heads and lashes in the middle of their circle. When the chain finishes its arc, there is another scream. This one sends shivers down my spine, clenching my toes in my boots.

The chain passes from one dark figure to the next. Each arcs high and strikes hard. But the person they are beating does not always cry out. Perhaps it is because their victim is brave—or perhaps it is because he, or she, is losing strength.

I know I cannot stop them; I know they would only turn their chain on me. So I will wait until they are finished. I will creep out of the woods and get help for the Congregant who lies in the grass under the cisterns.

Another scream; another lash. I sink onto the ground and push my hands tight against my ears. This beating is lasting longer than any I’ve ever seen.

Congregants are strong, I remind myself. Our bodies can endure. This pain is temporary, and this Congregant will heal. I’ll make Water to help, if I need to. I don’t care what the Elders think.

The screaming has stopped. The chain falls once, twice, three times again. Then I hear a voice—a familiar, silvery, and impossible voice—come from one of them.

“Is it finished?”

It’s Hope, I know it. A gasp escapes from me, and I shrink back into the woods.

“He’s good and beat,” another voice says. Earl?

I dare to peer out again. In a flash, I recognize other figures too: Asa’s slight list to one side, Boone’s broad shoulders, Mother’s proud straight bearing. There’s Earl, next to her, holding the chain. There’s one more figure besides them: Zeke Pelling, maybe, or perhaps it’s another Congregant. Six of them, in all.

“But is he dead?” Boone asks.

Mother kneels, looking at the person or thing in the middle of them. “He’s got to be dead. He’s not one of us.”

Hope lets out a loud moan. “What have we done?” she cries.

“The right thing,” Boone answers.

“Go get Ruby, Hope,” Mother says. “Bring her home.”

Then she steps aside, and I see into the middle of the circle. A body, crumpled. White scraps of a shirt, darkened and shredded. Dark swirls of designs on skin torn and bloodied.

“No! No!” I burst out of the bushes and race down the hill to them. As one, the group turns and stares at me. Earl drops the chain. It makes a heavy terrible thud on the forest floor.

I shove my way between Mother and Boone. There is Ford, in the middle, though I can barely recognize him. He lies in a pool of blood. His limbs are bent in wrong ways; a dark river runs from the top of his head, down his cheek, to pool at his throat.

“You killed him!” I reach for him, but Boone grabs me roughly around my elbow, stopping me.

“We had to do it,” Hope says.

“You didn’t have to do this.” I fix Hope with a fierce stare.

She looks away.

I struggle against Boone’s grip; he grimaces, trying to hold me. “Let me. Let me touch him.” I don’t beg. I snarl, wild.

“Might as well,” Mother says.

Boone lets go of me suddenly; I stumble back and land hard against Mother. But I scramble away from her, fast as I can, and kneel beside Ford.

His body is entirely, shockingly, still. I take one of his hands in mine, trace my fingers over his palm. A shudder rocks my body.

“He’s dead,” I tell them. “Dead!” I scream it, loud enough to echo off the hills.

“Good,” Mother says.

Boone looks at me, his face blank. “Now you’ll stay,” he says.

“And he won’t tell anyone about you.” Mother’s eyes flick to Earl and Zeke. I wager they’re good enough for helping dole out a beating, but not good enough to hold all my secrets.

“He wanted to steal you,” Hope says. “He wanted to take you from us.”

“He only wanted to love me,” I whisper.

“You were both very selfish,” Mother says. “You left us no choice.”

“When did Otto ever say that killing was a choice?” I ask her. “You always said violence wasn’t our way.”

“Otto needs you here. We all agreed.” Mother looks at the others, one by one. Slowly, each nods.

“I told him good-bye. I
told
you it was over.” I look up at Mother.

“And what if you changed your mind, Ruby?” she asks.

“Love makes you do dangerous things.” Hope steps through the circle to come close to me; at first she moves to kneel next to Ford, I think, but then she takes a step back and looks up, quickly.

“Look at him, Hope,” I urge. “Look at what
you
did.”

She claps a hand over her mouth and dashes into the woods.

I try to smooth the scraps of fabric back over Ford’s broken chest; it seems even more indecent, his blood and guts exposed. A sob escapes from me; my tears drip over him, in him, but I only cry harder.

Asa speaks, finally. “Wasn’t us who made this happen.”

“It was you,” Earl adds. “Could’ve had my boy. None of this had to happen.”

“Instead you ran round with trash.” Zeke spits a wad on Ford’s battered cheek. I wipe it away, tenderly.

“They’re wrong,” I whisper to Ford. “It wasn’t me who did this.”

I lay on the ground next to him, body in blood, hair nested in the leaves. But I don’t care. I only want to be close to him.

“We’re leaving, Ruby,” Mother says. Then she holds out her hand.

“Good,” I tell her. “Go.”

She pulls back as if she’s touched something hot. “You’ll thank me one day, Ruby. You’ll see.”

“Never,” I say.

Mother whirls on her heel and starts to the road. The others follow—all but Boone, who lingers for a moment.

“Visitor’s coming in the morning,” he says. “I’d clear out by then.”

“I’ll never forgive you,” I tell Boone. “Not any of you.”

“Maybe not.” He draws in a deep breath and looks up at the sky. “But you’ll stay.”

Boone walks away, feet crunching over leaves as dry as bones.

I pick up Ford’s hand—every finger at wrong angles—and trace my finger over his skin, the way he touched me once.

“Wake up,” I tell him.

And then I say it again, louder.

“Wake up.”

Then I feel it. There is the faintest of pulses, in the web of skin between his thumb and his pointer finger.

He is alive, but barely.

Chapter 37

He’s alive.

I sit up and look over Ford’s body again, this time to see what I need to fix first. There are wounds everywhere, his body sunken in the wrong places. Bones pierce the skin over his ribs and his thighs.

But there’s hope. And if anyone can save him, it’s me.

“You’re alive.” I chant it softly, over and over, as I gently press and examine. The words run together faster and faster until they’re one word. Alive. Alive. Alive.

He needs Water—but from where?

There’s no way to get water all the way up here from the Lake. I haven’t any buckets.

The leaves. I can get it from the leaves. I scramble to my feet and grab at the nearest bush. Dry. Ferns—they’ll be wet. A single tiny drop of water slides over my finger for a tantalizing moment … and then it drops onto the ground.

I run my finger over the soft lumps of veins in my arm. I could find a rock and cut my arm open. I could drip my blood into his wounds.

Would it work? I don’t know. It might. Or it could kill him. Nobody has ever drunk my blood unless it’s diluted in water. I can’t experiment, not now.

There’s only one place left that has Water: the cisterns.

Five full cisterns stand behind us. Surely there is enough to save anyone’s life.

The Water belongs to Darwin West. Nobody has ever broken that rule. Perhaps that is because the Overseers stand ready to punish any theft. Or maybe it seems wrong to meddle with consecrated Water.

I look up at the cistern looming above us like the only cloud in the sky. The large lock looped over the spigot is rusty, and old. It moves slightly in the breeze that’s sweeping over us.

“I’m going to help you,” I tell Ford. “Just … Just keep breathing.”

Then I push to my feet. My clothes are stuck to my body in strange places, plastered with blood and clods of dirt. When I take a step, I notice for the first time that my legs and hands are shaking.

I find the biggest rock I can and hold it high over the lock.

The Visitor comes tomorrow. There will be no hiding the theft—unless I use only a little.

I smash at the lock. The rock leaves bright scratches behind on the rusty metal. But the lock does not break. Again I swing the rock. The lock swings wildly on the hasp, mocking me, still unbroken.

The chain still lies by Ford’s feet in a bloody heap. It is the strongest thing in the clearing. I lift the chain and swing it, slowly at first, and then faster. Then I smash it against the lock.

The lock swings, but it doesn’t break.

It’s only one small lock. One small, rusty lock sits between Ford’s death and life. I have to find a way to break it.

I finger the links and remember the hands that held this chain before me. Mother, Boone, Hope, Asa, Earl, Zeke … they all held this chain with hate. They all would want me to fail, tonight, if they knew what I was doing.

I won’t fail. I can’t.

The lock has stopped swinging. I take a deep breath and study it. There’s a big gap between the bottom of the lock and the hasp—big enough to push something through. I could use a stick as a lever, or maybe …

Maybe I could use the chain.

I slide the chain’s end through the lock, then grasp one end in each hand. Then I pull against the chain with all my might. For once, let these terrible chains do some good.

But the lock stays closed.

Please, Otto
, I pray.
Please break the lock
.

I wrap the chain around my arms, my wrists, and then I push my entire body against it. I heave. Nothing. Then I jump back and land against the chain. My feet slip and I tumble on the ground, but I hear the lock groan.

It’s working. I stand. Jump. Land. Fall. Scramble up and do it again. My back screams. I feel the fabric of my dress split, more with each leap.

“Otto!” I moan. “Help me!”

And finally I am thrown into the grass. The lock is broken.

The chain has landed across Ford’s body. I push it away, shuddering, then hook my hands under his arms and pull. His body reluctantly comes my way, with a sickening slide over the rocks that lie under him.

Now I have him positioned under the spigot. I twist it open.

At first, no Water comes out. But then there is a trickle, a beautiful terrifying trickle. For a moment, I am frozen, staring at the Water leaving the cistern. We worked all year to gather this Water. Tomorrow the Visitor will come for it.

But then I look down and see Ford, broken, waiting to be healed. I take a deep breath and cup my hands around the spigot to make sure that every drop lands on him. The Water drips on his neck and rolls down his chest, disappearing into the holes made by his broken ribs.

Please work
, I pray.
Save him, Otto
.

Ford said the Water, my blood, was blasphemy. He said it was the devil’s work. But I don’t care. I only want him to live.

He doesn’t look any better, and the edge of the sky has a blue tinge. There’s not enough time. I give the spigot a savage twist and the Water gushes onto Ford’s body.

But it does not land on his broken face. I rip at his soft, now shredded shirt, and hold the fabric under the running Water.

The blood wipes off his face easily. I keep wetting the cloth, keep running it over the wrong-shaped planes of his face, hoping it will restore him to the Ford I know.

Ford’s breathing has changed. It is deeper, longer. Still, a wet rattle comes from his chest. And all his limbs stay bent at wrong angles. I pull on his arm, trying to straighten it into the right shape, like I do with Mother after a bad beating. It feels a little less limp.

The Water is working, though slowly.

I stand, stretching the kinks from my body. When I take a step, my foot slides in the mud. I didn’t realize how much Water had pooled around us. The dirt is small lakes of mud, and a steady stream is running down the road now.

When I kneel beside Ford again and run the cloth over his face, it feels different. I lean close, my breath mixing with his. His nose looks straight now, and his lips are no longer crisscrossed with bloody splits.

I drop a tender kiss on his lips.

“You won’t die. Not tonight, you won’t,” I tell him.

I check the sky. It’s dark, still, but the stars aren’t as bright. How long do I have?

“Wake up, now,” I tell him. “We’ll go get more popcorn.”

Ford doesn’t hear me, or if he does, he can’t reply. But I imagine his lips move in a tiny smile.

“We’ll take a ride in your truck too,” I say. “We’ll drive fast, and far.”

I am soaked to the waist from kneeling to mop Ford’s face. But I keep wetting my cloth and mopping—and now I move my attention to his broken hands. Even as I run the cloth over his bones, straightening them as I go, they seem to lie flatter and knit together.

His skin has smoothed together too. There’s no more blood, save the stains in his shredded clothes.

I shake his shoulders and dare to speak loudly. “Wake, Ford.”

But he does not wake, and the Water seems to be coming more slowly now.

I catch some Water in my hand and dribble it into Ford’s mouth. At first it slides out, running down his cheek. I try again. And then he swallows.

“Good,” I tell him. “Good!”

A gurgle comes from his throat.

“Ford?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer. But he moves his head from side to side, and his eyelids flutter.

With all my might, I pull him up to a sitting position, still letting him rest against me. He coughs wildly. I whack him on the back, once, twice, thrice. Then he leans forward and vomits Water onto the grass.

I come around to his front and put my hands on his shoulders, to keep him from tipping back. “Ford. It’s me—Ruby. You’re going to heal. You’re going to live.”

The sky is light between the tree branches now. At any time we might hear the rumble of the truck.

“Ruby,” he groans. Then he reaches out one hand and gives my arm a strong squeeze.

“I’m sorry. I never knew they were coming here. I would have stopped them. Somehow. I never …” There’s so much I want to say to him. But there’s no time.

“The Water. Gone?” Ford looks up, then moans and tips his chin back down. He holds his head in both hands.

I realize the flow of Water has stopped. It took us months—two, maybe three—to fill it. And I have emptied it in one evening, for one person.

“You’re alive. I don’t care.” But my voice wobbles.

“You healed me,” he says.

“Yes, I did. I mean—the Water did. But come.” I stand and hold out both hands. “You can’t stay here.”

His hand gropes for his necklace, but soon falls limp to his lap. “Can’t move.” Ford falls back to the ground and rolls onto his side, spewing more Water from his body.

“I’ll help you to the trees,” I say. “But you have to walk, at least partly.”

He’s heavy, but his legs are half working. We stagger to a thick stand of pines. I roll him onto the soft bed of pine needles; the low-hanging branches hide him. His eyes are fluttering shut. He’ll need sleep, lots of it.

“Hide until sunset,” I tell him. “You’ll be strong enough to go, then.”

Maybe, with luck, the Congregants will walk right by him.

Ford swallows, and clutches his stomach—but nothing comes out. “Where will you go?”

“To the cisterns, and to harvest after.” Perhaps if I pretend all is normal, others will too. I don’t know what else to do.

“Ruby, be careful.” Ford tries to reach for me, but his arms are too heavy. He can barely lift them.

“I love you,” I whisper.

Ford grins, then shuts his eyes. “I knew it.”

Then he’s asleep, that quickly. I pray he doesn’t snore.

I think about running—or hiding somewhere too. I could go someplace and think, try to understand everything that’s happened this night.

But then I hear the roll of truck wheels behind us—not driving past, but slowing.

I dive under the trees, just in time.

A white tanker truck pulls up next to the cisterns. It looks anonymous, like it could carry anything, for anyone. But I know it is special.

It is here to collect the Water that I stole.