by Pam Bachorz
Ford is here tonight, standing in the circle of guards around the edge of the woods. I can’t see him from where I stand. But I am so very aware of where he is, as if there’s a glowing rock just out of my sight. I feel its heat. I see the edges of its glow.
Mother slides behind me, drops a light hand on my shoulder for just a moment. “Do you have your cup?” she asks.
“Yes. Barely,” I tell her. “And you?”
She whispers her answer, glancing to the side, where the Overseers stand. “I got enough for me—and helped Asa.”
I helped only myself today. But I don’t tell her that. I just step to the side so she’ll come next to me.
My legs and arms are shuddering with exhaustion. Every Congregant has got to be as tired as I am. Just because we can live with little sleep, little food, does not mean we thrive.
“The lights aren’t on. That’s something,” Mother says.
It grows darker earlier and earlier. But the Overseers don’t switch on the lights as the sun falls into darkness. Perhaps they understand that the woods are dry—they need the night to gather water again.
Or perhaps it’s more fun for them to roust us from our beds, turn on the lights then, watch us blink against their glare like mice pulled from their cozy holes.
“They’ll switch them on later tonight,” I tell her.
Hope takes her turn going up the ladder. Gabe steadies her as she goes. When she’s done, she climbs off the ladder, letting out her breath with a whoosh. Then she stands next to the ladder, waiting for Gabe.
He climbs up; I don’t pay attention as he pours his water in, even though Mother is next. I look for Ford. I find him, finally, not so far from the cisterns. I let myself stare for too long.
Then I hear Mother gasp. “Otto save him,” she says.
Gabe is still at the top of the ladder. Water is dripping over the sides of the tank.
“He’s spilled the water,” I say. I look at Mother, wanting someone to tell me this awful thing is true. “Didn’t he?”
“He did.” She nods, then takes my hand in hers.
They will punish him badly for a spill this large.
Hope darts to the side of the tank, tries to catch the drops of water in her cup.
“Go,” Mother says, but I am already moving, then at the edge of the tank with my cup ready to catch drops too. The Congregants push behind me, beside me. We all hold our cups below the belly of the cistern, until there is a line of cups. Our elbows press against each other, but nobody pulls away. There will be no room for the water to slide to the ground.
The prayer wells up in me now too, and slips from my lips easily. Otto save him. Otto save him.
Darwin, who was watching from the edge of the crowd, pushes through us to reach the cisterns. The crowd jostles and my cup wobbles for a moment; I think I see a drop fall to the earth.
“That’s all we’ll get,” someone says—Boone maybe? And everyone straightens up.
My cup looks a little more full, I think. Maybe I saved a drop or two from Gabe’s spill. I pray I did.
Darwin is at the bottom of the ladder now. He reaches up to Gabe, still frozen at the top of the ladder, and gives Gabe’s ankle a strong tug. I remember how Ford reached up, that night when I was in the tree. He pulled at me the same way.
“Get down, Toad,” Darwin growls.
“No. Please, please don’t hurt him.” Hope reaches out for Darwin. She touches him—no, not just touches him. She grasps one of his sleeves in her hands and pulls at it, drops her full weight into the effort.
“Hope, stop,” Mother warns, but still she hangs on.
Darwin looks at her for a moment, then flings his arm. She stumbles to the side but still holds on.
“Take care of this,” Darwin yells. In an instant one of the Overseers is there. He grabs Hope around the middle, and this time she can’t hold on. He pulls her away. She screams, kicks, but there’s nothing she can do to help Gabe now.
Gabe’s legs are shaking. Now his desperate eyes follow Hope, squinting in the gloom of dusk.
“Get down,” Darwin tells him again.
This time Gabe does not resist. He scrabbles down the ladder and moves toward the stand of trees where they’re holding Hope.
But Darwin holds up an arm to block his way. How does Darwin move so slowly, so surely, and still be faster than the rest of us? It looks as if he barely flicked a muscle, and yet Gabe is forced to stay where he is.
“Give me your cup,” Darwin orders.
Gabe swallows and hands it over. A little water sloshes over the top. He hadn’t even finished pouring.
“I was careful,” he says.
Darwin barely looks at the cup; instead, he holds it out and an Overseer takes it. The guard handles the cup carefully. He won’t be foolish enough to spill like Gabe did.
Then Darwin makes a fist and lifts his hand high. The Congregants suck in a breath, as one.
He knocks on the tank. It’s not a hollow sound; it’s solid, with barely an echo to it. Darwin takes off his hat and presses it to his heart. For a moment, he squeezes his eyes shut.
When he opens them, he gives Gabe a grin. “Your Otto might have saved you today,” he says.
Darwin steps around Gabe, who has opened his eyes and is watching with care. Then Darwin climbs the ladder, quickly, as agile as ever.
“Give me the measuring stick,” he orders an Overseer below.
No, not just any Overseer—Ford—comes from the edges of the Congregation. “What’s that?” he asks. His tone is dead and heavy. He sounds so old.
Darwin lets out a gusty sigh. “Long thin stick, notch at the top, painted red.”
Ford nods once and hurries off. I turn to watch, but when I see nobody else is following his path, I tear my eyes away and look back to Darwin. For everyone else is staring, barely breathing, waiting for what might be the best news we’ve had all year.
There’s only one reason to use the measuring stick—Darwin must think the cistern is full.
Full! Then Gabe’s water couldn’t have fit. Then he won’t have earned a beating.
And our work is done—at least until the Visitor comes to take our full cisterns and give us empty ones. We will have a few days.
“Let it be full,” I whisper, and perhaps Otto hears this prayer. Perhaps he’ll grant this prayer, and give us all a day of mercy.
While he waits, Darwin raps the top of the cistern with his knuckles, softly. With every knock, the smile on his face grows wider and wider.
“Hurry up!” he shouts.
Ford is back a minute later with the long measuring stick. He hands it to Darwin, then takes a few steps back—but not many. He seems as curious as any Congregant about whether the cisterns are full.
Darwin bends the stick into an arc and slides the tip into the top of the cistern. Down, down, until all that’s left is the tip between his fingers. I try to imagine the stick covered by Water.
He pauses and looks around the crowd—then down at Gabe. “You’d better hope this comes out wet,” he says. “All the way to the top.”
Gabe nods.
Please Otto, I pray. Spare Gabe. Spare all of us.
Then Darwin pulls the stick out, slow, slow. He bends close to look at the red notch—I strain too, but it’s impossible to see whether the stick gleams with wet at the top.
“It’s full!” Darwin cries. He whips the stick out of the cistern and it sprays Water on everyone standing around it, tiny droplets. Gabe wipes his finger on his cheek, catching a drop, and sticks his finger in his mouth.
Never waste Water.
At first we are all silent. It’s as if we have forgotten how to celebrate.
Then there is a shout: Hope, released from the Overseers, running toward Gabe. “It’s full!” she cries, and then again. “It’s full!”
It’s full. Tonight we won’t have to wake up and drag ourselves through the midnight woods. Tomorrow morning, even, we won’t have to wake at sunrise. But we al
l will. For Darwin always does one thing when the cisterns are full.
He feeds us.
“It’s full!” cries Gabe, just as Hope reaches him and flings herself into his arms.
“Praise Otto!” Mother cries. She is pushing her way through the crowd and coming close to me.
The entire Congregation answers her with the same cry.
“Praise Otto! Praise Otto! Praise Otto!”
I shout too, joy welling up in me until all I can feel is the shout and the hugs and the dancing feet of the Congregation around me. Someone links elbows with me and whirls me in a circle—Mother? Gabe? Hope, even? I’m not sure, for soon I am released and whirling around with someone else.
Darwin’s brown leather hat edges around the crowd, and then I spy him standing by the truck. When I turn again, I see a flash of him laughing, clapping his hand on an Overseer’s back, his face as happy as any Congregant. He sips from Gabe’s half-full cup casually, and for a moment hate fills me. But then I remember it is time to celebrate. I skip back into the dancing.
I tumble among Congregants until I am at the edge of the crowd—right by Ford’s side. Perhaps it is an accident, or perhaps my feet know exactly where I wish I could be.
The Overseers have stepped back into the woods a bit. Their guns are still at the ready, but a few wear smiles. Ford’s face is still serious—until I stumble into him.
He grabs my elbow to steady me, and when our eyes meet, he grins, for just a moment. The giddy joy in me raises even higher, so high I feel like it will flood out of me.
“It’s full,” he says, the smile still lingering a little on his lips.
But his touch lasts only a second. Where he touched it, my elbow feels icy. My joy ebbs, a little.
“We won’t work tonight,” I tell him.
“Or tomorrow, maybe,” he says.
There will be work to do after breakfast tomorrow, and Overseers to watch us. But I let myself pretend, for a moment, that Ford is right.
“We’ll sit in the sun and stare up at the trees,” I tell him.
“I wish …,” he says, his voice trailing off as his eyes shoot from left to right, then left again.
Anyone could hear us.
“No.” I shake my head a little, then back away. “Don’t wish.”
I plunge into the crowd and find Hope.
“It’s full!” I cry.
“Praise Otto!” she answers.
We join hands in a circle—Hope, Gabe, Mother, Boone, me, and Asa. All of us are grinning so big, our cheeks are like red glowing apples. They all look so young, the way I remember them when I was a child.
Then we lift our feet and dance in a circle. Our circle tumbles into the others around us, and then away again, but nobody minds. All we are doing is celebrating.
And just for now, just for this moment, I will pretend that life will always be like this.
Tomorrow morning comes soon enough.
Chapter 29
Last night the cisterns were full.
Tonight, we celebrate.
One night a year, Darwin lets us celebrate. One night, we forget we are his prisoners—or at least we do our best to try.
It starts with gathering wood in the morning. Every Congregant combs the woods for tinder and logs; some team up to cut the big logs that will feed the fire into the dawn.
Then we pile them high.
Now we’re nearly finished. The Congregants stand in a circle around the firewood, watching me. Always I put the last branch on the fire. I’m holding a thin twig from a pine tree. Its rough bark snags against my toughened skin a little.
Then Mother tosses the match on top—always.
I take my time, breathing in the night air, and the smell of the food. Yes, food, brought here by Darwin West. First we’ll light the fire. And soon, very soon, we’ll eat.
“Hurry up!” someone shouts—Earl, I think. It’s hard to tell in the dark. But I don’t feel irritated. Nothing can upset me tonight.
“For Ellie and Jonah!” I shout, holding the branch high. I remember all those other nights, all those other years—the years I was too small to do this myself. My mother would grasp my wrist and pull my arm high, laughing as I shouted my thanks to Otto. And then, finally, came the first year when I was tall enough to do it by myself.
This year, I won’t thank Otto. I want to remember the friends who are gone.
“For Ellie and Jonah!” the Congregants reply.
I stretch to put the branch on the top of the pile, right in the middle. But before I drop it, I look into the crowd. It shouldn’t matter if Ford is here. We’re nothing to each other.
But I feel empty without him, even tonight.
“Drop it!” the same voice shouts. Yes, definitely Earl Pelling.
“Hush up, Pelling!” I shout back, and the Congregants cheer.
There—there’s Ford, laughing, part of the circle of Overseers around our ring. He shakes his head a little as he looks at me. But he doesn’t drop his eyes. In the cover of dark, he’s bolder.
My skin tingles, and without even deciding to do it, I drop the branch.
Mother pulls me back, gently, and holds out the single match that Darwin has given her. There won’t be any more. Flint and steel are all we have to light our fires.
“Tonight you’ll do it,” she says. I don’t even argue. I strike the match against a rock and drop it on the wood.
The flames start out tiny, at first. Mother hums a song, soft, one I know from nights by the fire in winter. It’s a song about spring.
Behind me, Gen Baker starts singing with her. Mother looks back with a grin and raises her voice. When she takes my hand, I join their song.
The flames grow higher, higher, and then it is hotter than the brightest noon we faced this summer. The heat pushes our circle back, but the singing doesn’t stop. It grows louder, and the songs melt one into the other.
“Eat!” Darwin’s voice roars over the crowd, speaking through one of the talk boxes on top of the Overseers’ trucks. Everyone rushes into a boisterous line, loose, friends shifting from one part to the other as they talk.
Mother steps aside to let the line pass before we join it at the end, as always. As the Congregants pass, they greet both of us. I’m not invisible to them anymore. They’re not angry.
It feels good to be accepted again.
I remember the time Darwin gave us those steaming vats of oatmeal, then locked us inside the Common House. There was no talking, no smiling, then. Nobody trusted there would be enough.
But this is the one night he gives us enough.
Long ago, I asked Mother why.
“Darwin never gives us enough food,” I told her. “Why is there so much tonight?”
She looked so beautiful in the firelight, I remember—the shadows of the flames hid her scars and the circles under her eyes. She almost seemed to glow.
Mother bent low to give me her answer. “We mustn’t look starved when he comes,” she whispered. “Or at least we mustn’t look hungry.”
“Who?” I asked.
“The Visitor, of course,” she answered. “Who else ever comes here?”
It took me years longer to understand why it mattered what the Visitor thought—that he never lifted a finger to rescue us, and it probably was because we didn’t seem to suffer. The sparkle of the evening’s party also carried in our eyes, when he was there, and the extra food plumped out the worst of our sharp edges.
Could he truly be fooled? I think I hate the Visitor more than I hate Darwin.
The food smells so good. “I wonder what it will be tonight,” I say to Mother.
She shrugs. “Any food is delicious when your stomach is empty.”
I’ve never had anything but an empty stomach, except for the days Mother brought in a big kill from her traps. Even then, the eating left me sick, like my body wasn’t sure what to do with the food.
“I remember when I wouldn’t eat cornbread, or green apples.” Mother laughs, a st
range free laugh that I’d nearly forgotten. “I’d eat twenty green apples today if I could.”
Finally the end of the line reaches us, and we step in. Mother makes sure I stand in front of her.
The table is loaded with food: long sausages and soft white buns, and vats of small red beans that swim in fragrant sauce. There’s a tray full of sweet yellow corncobs too, and at the end there’s a pile of round white cookies studded with chocolate. Even after all the other Congregants have gone, there’s so much food.
Of course we’ll all be back for seconds, and thirds. We’ll get leftovers for breakfast, and they’ll taste just as good—even if half of us will be sick from all that food.
Mother gives me a nudge; I grab one of the thin paper plates and load it with food. Boone waves us over to a group sitting near the fire.
Nobody is eating yet—not one single Congregant. They are watching Mother and me instead, eyes wide, begging. Hurry, please.
“Do you want to do the prayer?” she asks me.
“No,” I tell her. “You’re our Reverend.”
She sets her plate on the ground and raises her hands in the air.
“Praise Otto in thanks for tonight,” she shouts.
“Praise Otto!” they reply, even louder than when I put the stick on the fire.
Then she says the thing that makes me afraid every year—the thing that will make tomorrow night, or maybe the one after that, the worst of the year. For it will make Darwin come to our cabin.
And that never ends well.
“Next year we will be free!” she cries.
“Free!” we all shout.
And then we eat, with no signal from Mother, only years of doing the same thing behind us. I start with the soft white bun, knowing to take small bites, no matter how much my body tells me to gobble the food.
Mother is eating slowly too, but not everyone shows such restraint. Boone has nearly finished one of the ears of corn.
“You’ll be sick,” Mother warns him.
He nods, wipes his hand across the back of his mouth. “And then I’ll eat more.”
I empty my plate and lob the chewed corncobs into the fire. Then I go back for seconds.
Earl is standing at the table too. I feel him staring until I return his look. Then he steps closer, so close that I can smell the chocolate on his breath.