Drought (27 page)

Chapter 40

Mother starts the singing. It’s a hymn, one we sing in the woods sometimes.

Let us die in gentle grace
Let us die in his embrace

We might have sung it for Ellie or Jonah, if we had buried them. But instead, they sing it here. He doesn’t deserve this. Not a single note.

At first some stay quiet. Boone keeps his lips sealed shut, even though he crouches next to Mother. And I catch sight of Earl, arms crossed, silent.

But then Mother gestures and the sound swells, every Congregant soon picking up the tune—except me. I stay quiet.

Mother still sits with Darwin’s head in her lap. She leans close, ear by his mouth. When she pulls her head back up, her face is streaming in tears.

Then she lifts her head and rejoins the song.

I’ve never seen a person die so fast before. It takes weeks to wither—months, sometimes, for the body to disintegrate, a little each day. That is all the dying I’ve seen.

But Darwin was alive just minutes ago, screaming at us, so sure that he controlled his future.

Now he lies in his own blood, pale, motionless.

The sun is full up now, without any clouds in the sky. A trickle of sweat runs down my back, where the most of the rays shine. My dress doesn’t feel wet anymore.

Mother lays Darwin’s head on the ground, gently. As she rises to her feet, she still sings.

But when she faces me, her song stops. Her lips quiver. “Otto save your soul, Ruby.”

She beat an innocent man. I let a devil die.

“Otto would be proud of what I did,” I tell her.

“You did nothing.” She looks down at Darwin.

I did nothing, and I did everything.

The Visitor glides up to us, close, and lays his finger on his lips. “What should I do with you now?”

“He’s dead.” Mother lifts her chin and gives the man the same defiant stare she used to save for Darwin.

“Yes. He repaid his debt.” The Visitor looks around. “But now I’m left with this mess.”

“Just take your Water and go,” I tell him.

“Ruby,” Mother says in her warning voice. “You let us talk.”

“I hate this place.” The Visitor looks around.

The song is fading, quieter, fewer people singing, and even those lowering their voices, I think.

The Overseers are picking up their guns, one by one. But instead of looking at Darwin, they are looking at the Visitor.

Soon we will have a new master, and everything will be the same.

This time I won’t let her ignore me. I grab Mother’s sleeve and lean close to whisper in her ear. “We’re free. Don’t let him have us.”

She shakes her head and turns away.

“It would be easiest to kill you all—well, most of you,” the Visitor says. He draws his words out, as if tasting them.

The Overseers look at one another. One lowers his gun. But most only shoulder them higher.

“Spare our lives and we can give you more Water,” Mother says.

“That’s an interesting proposal.” The Visitor tilts his head and looks at me. “How much Water could you give me?”

“Two cisterns,” Mother answers.

“Darwin West gave me five.” He waves his hand toward the cisterns.

“He worked us nearly to death,” she says. “This summer, especially.”

“It’s not difficult,” the Visitor says. “I never understood why I only got five. Unless … it’s just the one.”

He points at me.

Mother looks at me, then back at him, a confused look on her face. “Ruby is only one of many.”

“She’s special,” he says.

“She’s a lazy, disobedient girl. She’s near worthless.” Mother gives him a firm shake of her head. “I’ve got nearly sixty others who work harder. We’ll harvest every day.”

“Harvest? What a distasteful word for something so beautiful.” The Visitor gives me a sympathetic look that turns my skin to ice.

“We scrape the Water from the leaves,” Boone says loudly. “With pewter cups and spoons.”

The Visitor’s eyebrows jerk up. “How oddly unnecessary.”

“It’s what Otto taught us. We’re blessed,” Mother says quickly.

“Ah, Otto.” The Visitor wipes his hand over his mouth. I can’t tell for certain, but it looks like he might be hiding a smile. “This Otto. Is he coming soon?”

“You’ll get your Water,” Mother tells the Visitor in a steely tone.

“You’d still need guards.” The Visitor looks over at me. “Besides, someone has to feed you, don’t they?”

“Three meals a day,” Mother says quickly, stepping a little to the left so his line of sight to me is broken.

“Of course,” the Visitor murmurs.

This would have been a miracle to me, a few months ago. But now I’ve tasted what freedom can mean. And I made a promise on Ellie’s grave.

I turn to face the crowd.

“Do you really want things to stay the same?” I call out.

They look at one another. They look back at me.

“I want breakfast!” someone calls from the back of the crowd—and nearly the entire Congregation nods.

“Lunch too, maybe,” someone near me says.

“We’ve been slaves for two hundred years and all you can think about is food?” I ask.

“Ruby, silence!” Mother orders.

“What about freedom?” I ask. “What about going where you please, when you please?”

“What about staying alive?” Meg Newman asks.

“We can do that without … 
him
. And them.” I motion behind me to the Visitor and the Overseers.

“Otto would come if it was time for us,” Zeke Pelling says, staring at the ground.

“Your brother believed in something better,” I tell him, my voice trembling.

He shrugs.

“We should show Otto that we can save ourselves,” I tell them all.

“No, Ruby. Otto saves. We only wait, and endure.” Mother tries to take my hand, but I pull away and face her.

“You’ve said that for two hundred years. And he’s never come. How much longer are we supposed to wait?” I ask.

Mother raises both hands in the air, palms out, as if pressing me away. “We’ll wait as long as Otto wants us to.”

“He’s not coming,” I tell her.

I never admitted it to myself. But I’ve known it for a long time now. If Otto were going to save us, it would have already happened.

“Don’t let him do this. Don’t let
her
do this,” I plead to the Congregation.

But nobody looks at me. They only glance at one another, and whisper—and then they look at Mother.

It’s no use. I am alone.

“It’s time for me to go,” the Visitor says.

The Overseers look uneasy, shifting their weight from foot to foot, looking at their guns and then back at us.

“Two cisterns, each year,” Mother says. “That’s our offer.”

“Or else?” A smile plays around the Visitor’s lips, but it fades fast.

Mother doesn’t give him an answer. She crosses her arms and raises her chin, meeting his eyes steadily. “Then Otto’s judgment is on you.”

“Otto.” The Visitor closes his eyes for a moment. He breathes in deep. Then he looks at me. “She stays?”

“We all stay,” Mother tells him. “Until Otto comes.”

The Visitor makes a face like he’s unimpressed, or maybe as if the bargain doesn’t even matter. “Two cisterns, then.”

The Congregation sets up a cheer.

But I’m different. I want to be free. I can’t live another day like this, when there’s any chance at something better.

“A deal, then?” The Visitor holds his hand out to me—an invitation, I think. I shake my head and he drops it.

“Soon enough,” he says.

I do not answer.

“Next September, then,” he tells Mother.

A smile spreads on Mother’s face. “Next September.”

The man turns to the closest Overseer. “I have ten minutes. Come discuss arrangements with me.”

They wander a bit from the crowd. All around us, cheers and prayers to Otto are erupting. If the Congregation were free, I don’t think they could be happier.

Boone picks up Mother and swings her in a circle.

“Put me down!” she cries, but she’s smiling.

“You saved us,” Boone tells Mother.

“I did, didn’t I?” she says. “Meals three times a day, Ruby! And new clothes, I’ll warrant. With blankets, pillows perhaps.”

Her cheeks are flushed red, her eyes a bright sparkle.

“What about me?” I ask.

Now she frowns, a little. “What of you?”

“You promised
my
blood to him.”

“Quiet,” Boone warns.

“I promised him Water.” Mother looks around the Congregants, checking, I think, to see if anyone heard me.

The back of my neck pricks. I turn to see the Visitor staring at me. The Overseer is talking to him, earnestly, I think, hands moving, nodding his head. But I don’t think the Visitor hears a word.

He’s paying attention only to me.

“He wants me, not Water,” I tell them.

“He won’t have you.” Mother crosses her arms. “You belong to us.”

She’s said that before, I know it. But it never quite struck me like this before. I’ve been a slave to Darwin West for hundreds of years. But I am a slave to my own Congregation too.

“I don’t belong to anyone, not anymore,” I tell Mother.

She looks at the Visitor too, then back at me. “He’s in charge now.”

“Not of me, he’s not.” I take a step back from her, bump into someone behind me who’s singing a song of praise to Otto.

I’ve got to get away from the Visitor now. He’s promised to spare our lives in exchange for Water. But he wants me, I can feel it. He might not wait another year before he comes back. He might not even leave today without trying to take me.

I won’t let him have me.

“I’m leaving,” I tell Mother.

She nods. “Lunch should be in only a few hours. We’ll see you then.”

For a moment, I want to tell her that’s not what I meant. But she doesn’t deserve a good-bye, and I don’t want one.

So I raise my hand, briefly, and push my way through the crowd, away from the Visitor. Once I get past them, I’ll slip into the woods.

“You’re running away, aren’t you?” It’s Hope, whispering. She walks at my side, so close our shoulders touch.

“I won’t be a slave anymore,” I tell her.

“But how will you live? You’ll be all alone.”

“Otto will guide me—and if he doesn’t, I’ll find a way.” I tell her. “Are you going to try and stop me?”

“No. Maybe—maybe I’d leave too.”

We’re at the edge of the crowd now. The Visitor is barely visible on the other side of it. But he could reach me in a heartbeat.

“I’ve got to go,” I tell Hope. “That man keeps looking for me.”

“I know. He wants you—for what, I’m not sure. Nothing holy,” Hope says.

Then she grabs both my hands in hers. I look down. Her hands are scrubbed clean, mine still filthy with Ford’s caked blood. Clean killing hands laced with dirty healing hands.

“You tried to kill him,” I say.

“Tried. Tried! Ruby … is he alive?” Her voice sounds hopeful.

“Do you want him to be?” I ask.

“Yes,” she says in a low voice. “I only wanted you to stay. I hit him but once. And then—then I nearly fainted.”

My heart cracks open, a little. I wonder what sort of fear made her lift the chain.

“There’s blood,” I tell her. “I filled the four vials. They’re under my bed.”

“Thank you,” she breathes.

“It’s more than any of you deserve,” I say.

“I’ll pray every day for your forgiveness,” she says. “And your safety.”

“Pray for me to find Otto,” I say.

“Otto will find us here,” she says. “Not out there.”

“Or maybe I’ll find him,” I tell her. “Good-bye.”

Hope releases my hands and takes a step back. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t notice you’re gone—for as long as I can, at least.”

She smiles, and I remember mornings spent playing chase in the woods, nights painting rocks with crushed berries, secrets whispered while we harvested.

“Thank you,” I tell her.

Then I slide into the woods that have held me all my life. I pray they shelter me one last time—long enough for Ford to heal. I’ll go back to him, as soon as the crowd is gone.

Then we will start the long walk down the mountain. And by nightfall, I will be free.

Chapter 41

As soon as Hope turns from me, I slide into the place in the woods where Ford lies.

He’s still sleeping, but his breathing seems deeper, more even. I drop a kiss on his cheek; it’s soft, softer than I’ve ever felt it.

“I’ll wait for you,” I tell him.

The Congregation is barely visible through the thick screen of leaves around him; I hid him well.

But I can hear them.

“Praise Otto,” they sing. They are laughing too, and some are dancing.

It is a very strange funeral for Darwin. I can’t see his body, from where I crouch. I imagine him lying in the pool of blood, a silent, motionless witness to the joy of a Congregation without him. Do they celebrate because he is gone? Or do they celebrate because they’ll only have to fill two cisterns this year?

“I’ll never forgive them,” I whisper.

I run my hands down his limbs; they feel straight and true.

His skin is clammy, perhaps from lying on the forest floor. But he lives.

Then I notice the swirling designs on his skin. They are faded, some gone almost completely. It’s as if the Water erased them.

He’s swallowed a lifetime’s worth of Communion in one night. How else did it change him? What’s he become?

Do we have far longer than just his lifetime together, now?

The gold medal still sits on his neck. I lift it gently with my fingertip and study the small man engraved on the disc.

“I had no choice,” I tell him.

The noise is quieting, through the leaves. I peek out. The Visitor is talking to Mother, but his eyes are casting about, seeking. And he is sniffing the air yet again.

My skin prickles; I am being hunted, I know. What will he do if he finds me?

The man points at three of the Overseers and says something. They nod and shoulder their guns. For a moment I think he’s sending them after me. But instead, they move to the place where Darwin’s body still lies. They stand in a group. One looks down, then back up quickly. It’s too far for me to make out his face. But I think I see him move as if to be sick.

They never showed such remorse when one of us bled on the grass.

Disgust washes over me. How could Mother not want to fight these men? How could she take a new yoke from a new master?

Now the Visitor is moving back toward the truck. Even when he is nearly obscured by the Congregants, pushing through them, I can spot the white blaze of his suit. It moves farther and farther from me. Every step away eases the band of fear around my chest.

But the new fear floods in: once he’s left, they’ll be crawling through the woods.

I can’t let them find either of us. I know the Elders will kill Ford if they discover him—and as for me, I don’t want to fight them anymore, or say good-bye, or even look at them. I only want to be gone.

Ford can’t go anywhere until he’s awake. I glance at the crowd, just in time to see the truck door slam shut. I’ve got to hurry.

I grab sticks, leaves, anything light I can find from around me. Then I pile them on his feet, then his legs, then his chest. The sticks slip from my hands; fear has made my fingers slick with sweat. But I keep working until only Ford’s face shows. I even put leaves on his hair.

“Be safe,” I whisper to him.

The safest place for me will be far in the woods; I can come back for Ford later.

But I can’t make my feet go. I can’t leave him here, not knowing if he’s found, or if he wakes from his sleep. And what if he does? What if he leaves, not knowing I’ve decided to follow him to his world?

A tall, firm tree spreads its arms above us. With a last glance at the crowd—merrily waving good-bye to the truck as if their own family waved back from it—I step around to the side they can’t see and shimmy up. Then I curl into a croft that’s shaded with plenty of leaves.

As long as nobody looks up, they won’t see me.

From here, I can see the top of the truck as it slowly rolls away. The sun glints off the dirtless shine; I squeeze my eyes shut, for a moment. When I open them, all I can see is the corner of the truck. Then it’s gone.

I think of another tree, of Jonah edging his way across it. “I’m going to be free,” I whisper—hoping that, somehow, he’ll hear me.

I pray that he’s free too, wherever his soul has gone.

The Congregants stay in loose groups, for a bit; the Overseers don’t order them about or wave their guns. One does go to his truck and pull out the crate that holds the pewter cups. So it will be a workday, like any other day.

Slowly, each Congregant moseys to the Overseer. They accept their cup and spoon. There’s no sign of struggle or argument. They move into the woods as if it’s any other morning.

I watch for Mother; she is hanging back, talking to all, before going to get her cup. But I see Asa take his cup—standing tall, almost as if he’s proud, and then he moves straight toward me.

Please Otto, shelter me
, I pray. I duck deeper into the cover of the leaves.

Asa kneels only a few feet from the tree and scrapes his spoon over the leaves. There’s no water, though. He lets out a familiar curse and pushes past us.

He doesn’t discover Ford. He doesn’t even come close.

I let out the breath I’ve been holding. We’ll be safe. We need only wait. I have to believe it.

Three more Congregants pass by us. And then they all have their cups, all fanned out, all away from us.

All except Mother. She has her cup, now, and she’s following the same path that Asa did. She moves more slowly, though. Her eyes seem to catch and sort every branch. Mother knows where all the water hides.

She didn’t go to get me at the cabin, to help harvest. This is her way of saying she’s sorry, I think. It’s the most she would do or say to show it.

Her hair is still so brown and glossy, with none of the gray that’s appeared on other Congregants’ heads. I hang over her, watching, keeping my breath as quiet as I can. I can hear her breath—slow, even, as she takes her time across the roots and rocks. Her feet slide easily over each obstacle.

I won’t see my mother again. I won’t see the woman who carried me, birthed me, protected me from Darwin West for two hundred years. She knows me better than any, I think—though now I see just how much distance there is between us too.

I pray she uses the blood I’ve left to sustain the Congregation until Otto comes … if he comes.

A tear slides down my nose and drops on the leaves below. Mother’s eyes fall on it.

She doesn’t look above to see why there’s water. She simply lifts her spoon and carefully, carefully, scrapes my tear into her cup.

Her back is to Ford. When she stands, she walks away from him, and my tree. I turn my head to watch her path until she is gone.

Then it is just Ford and me in this part of the woods—the same woods where we started. But we will not end here.

I watch the sun climb high in the sky, from my perch, and then sink with agonizing slowness. So many times I nearly leave my shelter, to check on Ford—and just to be close to him. But I know I must be careful. So I try to be satisfied by watching him. His chest rises, and falls, and now his eyelids are fluttering, as if he’s dreaming.

Soon he’ll wake.

The sun is sinking over the trees; soon the Congregants will be back with their water. But still Ford doesn’t wake.

I hear singing behind me, not so far away; someone has finished harvesting, and they’re coming back. I grip the tree trunk harder and watch the file of Congregants return to the clearing.

Never before have they taken so long to deposit their water.

But nobody beats Mother.

Nobody even says something about a quota.

Then they begin to file home. I watch Mother, alone, walking away from the cisterns. It’s too dark to see her face. But I can tell that she is not hurrying.

Does she know I am already gone? Or does she not want to see me any more than I want to see her?

Then, darkness. A cool breeze wraps around the tree, rattling its leaves and raising goose bumps on my skin. In a few more weeks, that breeze will whip browned leaves from the tree. We were lucky, so lucky, this happened now.

Or perhaps we were even blessed.

“Thank you,” I murmur—whether to Otto or to Ford’s God, it doesn’t matter. It seems like something that must be said.

It’s safe, or as safe as it will be. Now is the time to go.

When I start to climb out of the tree, I nearly fall; my legs and arms have knots from sitting for so long. I didn’t even feel them until now.

Ford’s eyelids are not fluttering anymore. His skin is rosy, and softer still. I run the edge of my thumb down one cheek.

His eyes open.

“You wake!” I exclaim, but softly.

He does not answer, only blinks fast, three times, then stares at me. Then his eyes move from side to side, slowly. “Where? How?”

“You were hurt. I helped you … You’ve been resting for a while,” I whisper.

He struggles to sit up. I want to stop him—I want to tell him to rest. But I know we’ve got to move on soon. Mother will find the empty cabin soon. She might come back. She might send fifty Congregants to search the woods.

“Your … mother …,” he says. “She came to the cisterns. She said you were hurt—that you were asking for me.”

The news of her lie stuns me as much as seeing her hold the chain above Ford’s body. “I wasn’t hurt. I didn’t … I didn’t ask for you.”

“Then they all came out.” Ford looks around wildly now, then at me. “Where are they?”

“At dinner, if there is any,” I tell him.

He puts his hand behind my head and presses me close to him. Our lips touch, softly at first, then hard. I want to taste him, believe that he’s alive.

But now isn’t the time. I pull away. “We’ve got to go. Can you stand?”

Ford pushes to his feet; he wobbles, but stays up. “I’m fine,” he answers. “We’ll take the truck.”

“Yes—” I start, but then I realize that’s not what I need. I’ve ridden down the mountain in that truck. The world goes by too fast. Houses, trees, other trucks flashing by, no time to understand or truly see any of it.

I hold out my hand. “If you’re able, let’s walk,” I say. “I have to take this slow.”

I’ll take every bit of it slow. But for now, all we have to do is leave. After that I’ll decide what comes next for me.

“It’s miles down the mountain,” Ford says. “Can you make it that far?”

He’s the one who will weaken first, I think. But I only smile. “I’ve harvested water day in and day out in these woods. I’ve spent most of my days walking and stooping.”

“You’re strong,” Ford says.

“Yes.” I tug at his hand. “This part will be easy.”

We walk down the dirt road, keeping to the shadows, and in my mind I tell every tree and branch and bush good-bye.

I won’t see you again, I tell them. You’ll have to get by without me.

They’re strong too, they answer. I needn’t worry about them.

There are no guards tonight. The whole Congregation could slip away. But it will only be me, and Ford.

When we reach the end of the dirt road—the start of the hard black road with a yellow line and cars zooming past—I pause. I hold one foot over the road.

“Are you ready?” Ford asks. He gives my hand a squeeze.

There’s so much for me to learn—and so much for me to tell him, still.

I close my eyes.

Otto, give me strength
.

I’m done waiting for someone, even my father, to save me. Today I’ll be the one doing the saving. I already saved Ford.

Now I save myself.

I open my eyes. “I’m not ready,” I tell Ford. “But I’ll learn to be.”

Then I set my boot on that beautiful terrifying hard black road.