Drought (4 page)

But her body is still striped with deep cuts, some of them down to the bone. I swallow back revulsion, watching the muddy Water seep into her body.

“We could fight,” I burst out.

Ellie sighs and lays another bit of cloth over the cuts that circle Mother’s wrist like a bracelet. “We are not fighters.”

“Not until now.” I tilt some Water over one of the deepest gashes on Mother’s torso.

“That’s enough. A grown woman has to think more wisely.” Ellie pulls my hand away, and a little of the Water splashes on Mother’s bed. It soaks into the mattress; a bit of dried blood turns vibrant red.

Then she peels away the cloth that’s layered on Mother’s skin.

“Put it back. Mother’s still bleeding,” I say.

“She’ll need to have some bumps and lumps, still. Darwin must never suspect what we do for Sula.” Ellie’s voice is hard now, and she does not put back the cloth.

He likes seeing her scars and scabs, I think. Some mornings, after he’s beaten her hard, he smiles when he sees her—smiles like a man proud of his handiwork.

“I hate him,” I say.

“All of us hate him.” Ellie presses a dry cloth against the closing cuts on Mother’s skin.

“Mother didn’t, once,” I say.

“True. Things were different, then.” Ellie straightens up now, walking away from Mother’s bed. The floor creaks beneath her dust-streaked boots, even though her step is light.

I slide another wet cloth on Mother’s skin when Ellie’s back is turned.

“Tell me,” I say, because I love any story of the days before Darwin trapped us in the woods, even though I’ve heard them all hundreds of times. Besides, when Ellie tells tales, her mind travels back. She doesn’t notice if I give Mother just a little more healing, take away just a little more pain.

“After your father …” Ellie swallows. “Disappeared from us …”

That is another one of the old stories I know by heart. Mother crept away to their secret meeting place, but Otto wasn’t there. Just a wooden box waited for her, with the four vials of his blood inside.

She went there every day for a month. But he never returned.

“Darwin hoped he might have another chance with Sula.” Ellie eases herself onto my bed, feet dangling off the edge, not quite reaching the floor. “He wooed her.”

“What did he give her?”

“Oh—anything he thought would please her. His father owned the big store at the end of Main Street.”

“That’s how she met Darwin,” I add.

“Your mother found every little excuse to visit that store and see the beautiful things there. She longed for so much.” Ellie folds her arms and gives me a small smile. “Like her daughter does today.”

I want freedom, not trinkets. But I don’t argue with her, not right now. While she talks, I’ve been sliding just a little more Water over Mother’s cuts. Her skin is knitting together, only faint lines left to remind her of Darwin’s cruelties.

“After Otto was gone, Darwin brought her the finest cloth for sewing and cunning little carvings of animals. But it didn’t change her heart.”

Mother lets out a small groan, and Ellie’s eyes swivel to her. She sits up straight to get a better look. The shadows hide how much healing I’ve done.

“Her breathing is better,” I say.

Ellie’s body relaxes and she continues.

“When he saw that Sula wouldn’t have him back, Darwin turned to the town church in Hoosick Falls. He told them that we worshipped a false idol.”

“Otto,” I say.

“Yes. The minister told Mother we had to stop meeting, that she couldn’t give us Communion anymore.”

When Mother saw those vials of blood, she knew what Otto wanted her to do. She secretly mixed a bit into a crock of water, every week, and gave sips to his followers—just as he had done for them, when they needed healing or comfort. They came to call it Communion, just like at church.

Soon she was giving Communion every week.

At first, she refused the minister’s demand that Communion stop. Soon crowds came to Ellie’s door. They shouted hate, and threats.

“Darwin struck us a bargain.” Ellie smoothes her skirts, the action firm and fast, and in the dim I can imagine she is still the youthful, confident woman who helped raise me here in the woods. “Darwin told your Mother he’d get the minister to leave her alone—that he’d make sure she was safe—so long as she’d leave Hoosick Falls before the winter.”

“He didn’t want to see her face anymore.” I run one finger over Mother’s cheek, more intimate a gesture than I’d dare if she were awake.

“Sula told Darwin she’d take his bargain, and the minister stopped calling. The crowds died away. But she didn’t have anywhere to go. And by then, anyone could see that she had another to care for,” Ellie says.

Before Otto left, he promised himself to Mother, and she to him. That was as good as married, Mother says.

“We told her she couldn’t leave, not without us,” Ellie continues. “After all, she was carrying Otto’s child.”

That’s me. My father left me behind in Mother’s belly. I slept there while Darwin wooed her, and the minister threatened, and the Congregants tried to protect her. What would she have done without me, I wonder. Would she have tried to follow Otto? Might she be with him today?

I’ve always been too afraid to ask her.

“So you all left,” I say.

“We did. We packed what we could on wagons, and we headed up the mountain. Asa knew this place from his hunting trips.”

Asa is our oldest Elder, after Ellie. I’m glad his daughter grabbed his elbow to stop him from coming tonight. He needs rest.

“But Asa never knew who owned it,” I say.

Ellie looks down at her hands, knitted in her lap. I pour just a little more Water down Mother’s throat. Even though she sleeps, she swallows it. Then I give her a little more.

“The men put up a few cabins—this one first, so your mother would be comfortable. She was very round by then.” Ellie stands and comes behind me. She lifts my hair and starts to braid it. I close my eyes and savor the feel of her tender touch.

“How many were you?” I ask, not wanting the story to end.

“Nearly six dozen came to the woods,” Ellie says. “Plus you.”

And now ten of them withered, the rest of us still here.

“Not a single one has left. We all wait.” Ellie tugs at my hair, lightly, as she makes the braid. It feels good. I tilt my head back a bit and look up at the ceiling. I pretend Mother is only sleeping, not healing once again.

“What was it like in the woods, before Darwin found you?” I ask.

“It was busy. We knew we had to get up shelters, find food sources, before winter.” Ellie sighs. “To think winter was our biggest worry.”

“But then Darwin came.”

“He brought so many cruel men. They all had clubs and chains.”

They hadn’t escaped him after all. Darwin’s family owned the land they had fled to.

“He said we’d either give him some of Otto’s miracle Water … or he’d kill your mother. He’d kill
you.”
Ellie’s hands stop their braiding.

“Mother should have told him about the blood.”

But she didn’t. She made something up, and fast. She said the Water could only be harvested from forest leaves, by Otto’s consecrated followers. She lied to Darwin and she lied to the Congregation.

“She was protecting Otto—and you.” Ellie rests both her hands on my shoulders for a moment, and squeezes. “If Darwin knew what made the Water special, he’d have taken all the blood … and then he would have gone after Otto.”

“Now we’re all stuck with pewter cups and spoons.” Mother was scared. When Darwin asked her how we harvested the Water, it was the only thing she could think of.

“We thought it was a bargain we could live with.” Ellie starts braiding again. “We thought Otto would come, and soon.”

“This summer has been terrible,” I say.

“The worst yet. The drought … it’s made them all meaner than ever,” she says.

Not all. My mind flashes on the new Overseer, his eyes wide with horror as the chain fell. My skin flushes warm. Suddenly it feels wrong to have Ellie touching me.

I pull away, taking my hair into my hand to finish my own braid.

“What do the Elders want to ask me?” I ask.

Ellie draws in breath, but pauses.

“In the woods,” I press. “You said there was something you all wanted to ask me.”

Ellie frowns, then shrugs. “I forget so much these days.”

“Hmm,” I answer. I want that to be a lie—not the truth, not something that means she’s withering away even faster than I fear.

Ellie lets out a soft gasp. “Sula,” she says, leaning close.

When I look closer, I see why she sounds afraid. Mother is healed … not a little, but completely.

“She hasn’t got a single scar.” Ellie accuses.

“I didn’t know …”

“You knew. But you chose to heal her anyway. Don’t you see?” she says. “She’ll only be hurt worse, now.”

“We’ll hide it. We’ll … She’ll cut herself, if she has to,” I say. “She can have a fresh wound or two for him to see.”

Ellie drops her head, silent for a long time. Finally she draws in a deep breath. “It’s time I went home.”

“I’ll walk you.” I stand, but she waves me away.

“I know the road. It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?” She turns to face me. “Waiting is hard. But it’s all we can do, Ruby. It’s all we know how to do.”

“We could fight.” It comes out as a whisper.

“With what tools? And what spirit?” She shakes her head. “All we can do is pray, and wait.”

It is an old fight between us, and one I am too tired to have again tonight. So I clasp her in an embrace and offer her our lantern for the walk home.

She refuses it, of course. But she is as dear as any blood relative, so I have to try.

“I only want things to be better,” I tell her before she leaves.

“Then pray,” she says. “And find a way to wait.”

When I go to sleep, Mother’s breathing is even. I do not feel guilty that I healed her. I am proud that she has healed, all thanks to my blood.

I have helped, even if nobody wanted it.

Chapter 4

We wake even earlier on Sundays. It’s our day to gather and pray to Otto.

But our Services will end before sunrise—Darwin will make sure of that. The daylight belongs to him.

We gather at the only place big enough to hold all of us: the Common House, across from the cisterns. It is where we eat all our meals too. The Common House is a low, simple building made of wood frame covered by grayed boards. The windows look too small for the wide walls. But at least some look over the Lake, bringing a little light to the gloom inside.

Mother and I walk to Services in silence. She was angry when she woke to find her scars were gone.

“You went too far,” she told me.

“As did you. Let others take their licks, for once,” I told her.

After that we had nothing to say to each other.

Darwin is waiting at the door, lips pressed tight in the shadow of his hat as he watches us approach. Nothing escapes his stare—and as his eyes flit over Mother’s body, I hear Ellie’s voice echoing in my head.

She’ll only be hurt worse, now
.

“You look well,” he says. No part of him moves except his eyes and his mouth. The rest of him stays leaning against the door of the Common House.

“As well as any day.” Mother tries to push past him, but he grabs her arm.

“Too well,” he says.

Congregants move past us, quiet, nearly creeping. They don’t want Mother hurt, I know it—but they don’t want Darwin to notice them either. Now is the time to slip past and find a seat as far from an Overseer, and Darwin’s eyes, as possible. They only want Communion and maybe some of Mother’s Word.

“I slept well,” Mother says. “That is all.”

“You slept alone. That is not
well.”
Now Darwin moves, his body pushing toward her. Mother does not back away, even when he stands just inches from her.

“The sun is nearly up,” she says. “Let me inside.”

He’s taller than her, towering, a wall of muscle against her narrow bravery. I imagine his fist circling her entire waist, crushing, stealing her breath away. He could nearly do it, if he wanted to. And who would stop him?

“Are you stealing from me?” He asks it in an even, low tone, but there’s danger in his eyes.

“Never.” Her answer is not scared, or too fast. It is a perfect mix of hesitation and assurance. She keeps her eyes on him.

“I don’t know how you would.” But he doesn’t seem satisfied. He slides his look to me, even as he grips Mother’s wrist in his iron hand. “Little Toad, does your mother lie?”

“No. No, never.” My answer is too fast, too eager, no matter how hard I try to be like Mother.

Darwin’s eyes narrow, and he turns his stare back to Mother. “Her father was a liar too.”

“Let me go,” she says.

He steps back to let her pass, but he keeps talking as we walk by. “There’s only one way those cuts went away so fast,” he says.

We’re nearly to the front when he shouts the rest. “You’re stealing!”

They all turn to look, Overseers and Congregants alike. But Mother just raises her chin and walks to the front.

I sit in the chair next to Ellie, and we listen to Services, same as any other Sunday. But today my heart pounds, and Mother’s words are a stream running over pebbles—too fast for me to catch, only sound, nothing of meaning.

Ellie squeezes my pinky finger with hers, then covers my hand with her own. Her skin feels like paper next to mine, her heart’s beat pushing too hard through it. How much longer does she have?

“I should have been more careful,” I whisper to her.

“You did it for love,” she answers. “Just like Otto.”

Services never last too long. Mother starts with a reading from the small Bible in her skirt pocket—Old Testament, always, since it’s what she read in the woods with Otto—and then we follow her in a psalm.

Mother stands in front of the windows that face the Lake. A small altar—a table, really, brought from someone’s home in Hoosick Falls when the Congregation fled—is in front of her. A single, small bottle of Water rests on it. That is what they are all waiting for—the Water made from my blood.

Even when I stare straight at Mother, the Overseers hover at the edge of my vision. Darwin stands the closest, one hand in his pocket. His eyes never leave Mother. Then there’re always three more men, all in reach, all holding guns.

My tongue stumbles over the psalm while my eyes rove. Where is the new Overseer? Is he here, or waiting in the woods for the harvest to start? Or has Darwin already dismissed him? I can’t find him.

“It is too hot for the word today,” Mother says, reaching for the bottle of Water. I know why she is really skipping her sermon: she wants no excuse for the Overseers to deny Ellie’s turn at Communion.

“Ten minutes,” Darwin growls from the corner.

“Come forward,” Mother tells the Congregation. The Overseers come close now, making sure that we’re lining up in the same order as every week. Once in a while they make small adjustments, pushing one person ahead of another.

Usually I stand near the front of the line. The strongest Congregants, the most valuable ones, are in the front. The weakest are in the back—just in case the Water runs out. Sometimes the Overseers don’t give Mother enough.

Ellie walks to the back, and I follow her, away from my place. I take hold of Ellie’s arm. She will be last, but I will be certain that she makes it there.

“Not your spot,” an Overseer growls at me. His breath smells bitter.

“Go,” Ellie whispers.

I tighten my grip on Ellie’s arm and shake my head. The Overseer lifts his gun higher in the air. Somehow I find the courage not to flinch.

“Your loss,” he mutters, then walks away.

Now I see the new Overseer. He’s in the back corner of the room, watching, his face rigid. As soon as I look at his face, he looks at mine. He lifts his other hand—the one not holding a gun—to touch the gold medal at his throat. His face softens a little.

I turn away fast, but my face burns as if he’s touched me.

Mother puts a single precious drop of Water on each Congregant’s tongue. Her shoulders, draped in white linen, glow in the predawn gloom. Darwin edges closer, until he’s nearly pressed against her. Every Congregant faces Mother and Darwin at the same time.

Her low, rich voice says the same thing with each drop.

“In the name of Otto.” Drop. Swallow. The Congregant steps away fast enough to satisfy Darwin.

Another Congregant is ready.

“In the name of Otto.”

But this one is too slow. Darwin deals him a hard slap.

“Move faster,” he barks. “You’ve got to meet quota by noon.”

Mother freezes, only her eyes turning to stare at Darwin.

“Every single Toad gets a shovel when you’re done getting your Water,” Darwin announces. “We got big plans.”

A groan creeps through the Congregation, like fog over the Lake. I wonder what plans Darwin has, other than tormenting us and stealing our Water.

“We’ll never—” Mother starts.

“You want to waste your precious Communion time arguing?” Darwin asks.

Mother shakes her head and lifts the dropper high. The line hurries now: drop, swallow, step away. But then another Congregant is too slow. He gets a poke with the barrel of Darwin’s gun.

“You keep up this pace, no dinner,” Darwin bellows. “You’ll live.”

Ellie is leaning heavy on my arm; I struggle to make it look like I’m not dragging her down the aisle.

“I should sit down,” Ellie whispers.

“Not before you get Communion.” I tighten my arm around hers.

“They won’t give me any,” Ellie says.

All the Overseers care about is having strong bodies to harvest the water. If someone is too sick to work, they don’t get Water—or food. It is, they say, a waste.

I hush her, my eyes flicking to the Overseers. They hold their guns against their shoulders like old friends, watching to make sure Mother puts only a single drop on each person’s tongue.

“Just be steady and try not to shake,” I say. “I will hold you up.”

Only three people in front of us now: Boone’s aunt, Mary, one of the oldest but without a palsy. She gets her Water. Next comes her brother John. Darwin doesn’t pay much attention to him, or to Gen Duncan, when she takes her turn. He’s looking at Ellie, sharp eyes like a crow watching from a low-hanging branch.

Then it is our turn. We take one more step forward.

“You first,” Ellie says.

I shake my head. I don’t need the Water. But she pokes me in the back, suddenly strong. I open my mouth and the Water drops on my tongue. It doesn’t taste special—it’s just like drinking from the Lake.

Next comes Ellie. Her mouth opens, trembling, and I gently tip her head back. Mother dips the dropper in the bottle.

Darwin grips Mother’s arm. “Stop.”

Her body goes stiff. She stares at the meaty hand wrapped around her arm.

Then he looks at me. “Let go of her.”

Ellie’s body is shaking under my hands. I let them slide away, slowly, imagining leaving my strength behind to help her.

“You were sleeping in the woods yesterday,” Darwin says.

“It was only for a moment.” Her voice is strong. If I close my eyes, it’s easy to imagine Ellie as I have known her for my entire life: strong-bodied, confident, never needing help from anyone.

“And the day before?” he asks. “I saw you lying in the shade then too.”

Now Ellie is sagging to one side. I nudge her with my shoulder to set her upright. She lets out a low moan, her strong voice leached away.

Darwin turns to Mother. “Is it hard to see your mother dying?”

Of course Ellie is not her mother—her mother, my grandmother, was taken by fever before my mother could walk. But Darwin knows we love Ellie like our own, and she us.

Mother does not answer. Instead she reaches out to lay her hand on Ellie’s shoulder. Darwin slaps it away.

“The old Toad must pass a test,” Darwin says.

“A test?” Mother’s eyebrows twitch high.

“God tested man, now man tests Toad.” Darwin’s broad smile tells me he’s very pleased with himself.

He’s never done this before. Either he lets the old person have the Water, or he doesn’t. Then he makes us hurry into the woods for a harvesting.

“No tests.” Mother lets out a huff of air. “Services are sacred. Let me finish the Communion first.”

“You don’t tell me no, Sula Prosser.” Darwin takes the butt of his rifle and slams it on the floor, just an inch from Mother’s boot.

Her face tightens, but she does not flinch. She keeps her eyes steady on him.

This time his rifle lands square on her toes. Someone in the Congregation lets out a low cry. But not one of us stands or stops him. It’s better that way—but it’s not easy. I squeeze my fingers together and stare down, away, to stop myself from saying something.

We have been living this way for a very long time. I should be better at accepting this. But it gets harder every day.

“Please let her take the Communion first,” Mother mutters.

She does not usually beg. But I know why: the Water will help smooth away the shakes and help Ellie to stand tall. It might be enough to pass any test the Overseer chooses for her.

But without the Water, she doesn’t have much of a chance.

“I don’t think so.” Darwin motions to the back of the room. “Get a broom, boy.”

The new Overseer sets his gun in a corner and goes to the closet. He keeps his eyes low, staring at the tops of his boots, as he walks to the front.

Darwin points at me next. “And you’ll help.”

He arranges the new Overseer and me, one at each end of the broom. Our eyes meet for a second; a flash of heat makes me look away fast.

Darwin lifts the broom until it’s as high as my shoulder.

“Now, Toad.” Darwin lets out a bark of laughter. “Limbo.”

“What is limbo?” Ellie’s head is bobbling but she holds it high.

“You dance under it. Like this.” Darwin holds both arms out to the side, twisting, sliding under the broom without his face touching the handle.

Darwin knows modern things like limbo. He has a modern house with modern books and the glow box you can see moving pictures on. His truck takes him anywhere he wants to go.

I dare to raise my eyes to the new Overseer again. His lips move; he’s saying something to me, without any sound. But I don’t understand. He tries again, his eyes flicking to Darwin.

Then he lifts the broom, just a tiny bit higher. My hand holding the broomstick is slick and quivering. The boy grimaces, for a second—from sympathy or hatred of me, I don’t know—then puts a second hand on the stick. It steadies … and then he raises it again, a small amount. I follow his lead and edge it even higher.

Mother’s face is white. “Let me give her the Water.”

“I feed and clothe you people. I give you firewood in the winter. You think those things are free? You greedy guts cost me!” Darwin’s last words are a guttural shout. He takes in a shallow breath. “Especially when you steal from me. Someone’s going to pay.”

“Nobody’s stealing,” Mother says. But Darwin doesn’t seem to hear her.

“She’s useless if she can’t harvest.” He gestures to Ellie. “Now go. And mind you tilt your head back. Do it just like you’re getting your precious Communion.”

I want to make this stop. Why should we be this man’s playthings? We are dozens to his one.

But Mother says the Congregation does not fight back.

So I remind myself: we endure. We endure, and we wait for our Savior. Otto will fight our battle.

I remind myself, but deep inside I don’t believe it.

Ellie takes one shaky step, then another, to the broom. I hold my breath. The room is silent, save for Darwin’s heavy breathing.

She tips her head back. Her white-yellow braids slide down her back. I long to reach out and steady her.

Then Darwin starts singing. “La la la …”

Ellie startles at the song. But she closes her eyes and straightens her shoulders. And then a miracle happens. She walks under that broom, head tilted back, chin tucked, without brushing it. She has inches to spare.

She doesn’t even falter.

An excited murmur travels across the Congregation. I can’t help grinning. When I look at the new Overseer, I see he is smiling too, his lips lifted just enough for me to be sure he’s happy. None of the other guards are smiling.