The Water Thief

by A M Caturello

  Rodney touched-down beside him. He panted and slapped Davy’s chest.

  “Behold, the sanctuary of evil.”

  The sheen of the watered grass blinded Davy.

  “What I tell ya? No guards.”

  Solas had made it down. He leaned his back against the wall in a huffing tantrum. Once he caught his breath and opened his eyes, he saw the saliva-inducing new world he entered. But this place was not too far off from his orchard in the desert. His place might have been better. Ever so, his mouth dropped.

  “I don’t believe my eyes.”

  Rodney rose. “Believe them.”

  Solas spotted the swimming pool. “I knew this son-of-a-bitch kept it all for himself. He is the drought!”

  “Bingo.”

  Solas tapped at Davy’s shoulder. “Ever wonder where your father’s lake went?”

  “Always.”

  “Rest assured, now that I’ve seen the truth—it exists. Somewhere.”

  “Now, let us get moving, shall we, boys?” Rodney interrupted. “The speech must be nearing its end.”

  Davy and Solas rose. Rodney led them onto a tiled path around the swimming pool and a golden bird bath, in which birds bathed, to the door.

  Rodney took out his keys and shook through them. He found the correct one and jammed it into the keyhole.

  But his hand froze, key still in the hole, for a moment.

  “Mr. Bight?” Solas said.

  Rodney turned his head to the outer grounds. He whispered, “Don’t move. Don’t be alarmed.”

  Davy and Solas gave him a puzzled look. Rodney let go of the key. He tip-toed around a tall spiral tree. The last image the other two men saw of him: he was readying his rifle.

  Davy and Solas exchanged glances. They took their rifles and held them at the ready, and slowly followed his footsteps around the tree.

  Emerging, they saw Rodney by a gazebo, sneaking up on a guard. And the guard jerked around: Rodney dropped his gun, leaped, and took a hold of the guard’s neck. He choked him from behind.

  The guard collapsed to the ground. Rodney slapped his hands together and hurried back, to meet the aimed rifles of Davy and Solas.

  “No guards, huh?” Davy said, on alert.

  Solas dripped of sweat. He huffed, about to have a stroke.

  Rodney put his hands up. “What?”

  “You said there’d be no guards, you goddamn nimrod!” Solas yelled.

  “There are no guards.” He picked up his rifle and strapped it around his chest. He clapped his hands clean and walked by Solas. “You look like a tomato, sir. Maybe drink some water.”

  Davy pointed to the dead one by the gazebo with his rifle.

  Rodney turned and saw the guard he’d choked. “Oh, him? He’s dead. See? No guards. Let’s carry on, boys, shall we?”

  Davy and Solas exchanged looks, again. In an instant, they grew even more paranoid about their surroundings.

  Looks like there’ll be more blood after all, Davy thought.

  Davy and Solas flickered their eyes around. They caught back up to Rodney, back to the red door in front of the pool; the key still jutted out from the hole, and Rodney finally turned it.

  CHAPTER 17

  Namiane had learned that Davy had locked her in the bedroom. She was slapping against the door, crying out his name.

  Brittle, her body rattled. Her bloodshot eyes were half-open. The bottle of water Davy left her still shook on the nightstand, without any trace of a sip.

  She backed up, and ran into the door, full force; she burst through it, falling over the chair Davy had placed underneath the knob in the hallway. In the bursting, she hit the wall with her head, and she cried. She clapped her hand against her head—bruised.

  She breathed hard and stood on a shaky knee, lifting the rest of her body to rise. She walked through the hallway like a drunkard, dizzy, using the wall to hold her up. Through the kitchen, she opened the sliding door. She walked onto the dead grass to a crunch.

  She walked to the edge of the crater. The sun was setting behind the mountains. The remaining light, the shape of knives from the triangle tips of the mountains, shined on her.

  At the edge, she crouched and laid on her belly. She hung her head over the crater, looking down inside it.

  The rainfall didn’t reach her before it ended, not that she knew of its occurrence. But the sound of the gunshots reached her with popping echoes. She turned her head to the direction it came from—it was the direction to the palace. In the city. It wasn't an unfamiliar sound to her; she always heard faint gunshots in the city whenever Davy left her.

  As she looked in the direction of the city, she saw the distant darkening of the sky—the cloud over the city, over Vendicatore.

  She took a deep breath. Her lips were drier than sandpaper. She rose and found the steps to the bottom of the crater. She tightened her body to search for strength and began to climb down.

  Out of breath, she made it onto the crater floor, and looked out. Dizzy, the horizon was a blur to her unfocused eyes. She took a few small steps forward. With her already weak and malnourished body, she fainted, collapsing onto her bony belly with a weak grunt.

  The sun had just dipped behind the mountains. It turned darker out. But triangles of space between the tips funneled rays of light onto the crater floor, as the sun continued to drop. It shined across and struck Namiane’s head.

  As she regained consciousness the sand flew at her heavy breaths. Her eyelids separated, but her eyes stayed half-open as her head lifted to see the light. She looked at it as if it were an angel before her; as if it was the lights of Heaven beaming down to welcome her.

  But she knew Heaven would never accept her. That’s why she painted Hawaii to oblivion. She knew it was the only kingdom that might accept her; the innocent people of Hawaii never knew of her sins. Only God knew, and those of South California who died in her wake, who pleaded to God to deny her entrance to Heaven.

  It was all her fault. It was her fault, the monster that was Davy Bay. His massacre and plundering of South California. The drought, which he created with his own hands. She never blamed him. It was her fault. Everything. She always said this, and nothing could convince her it wasn’t.

  She tried to shed tears, the water of repentance, but she couldn’t. She whimpered without a single tear. She dropped her face onto the hard sand of the crater floor.

  The light backed away from her, sucking toward the mountains and into the triangles of space. The shadow of the mountains took its place as the sun dropped lower.

  She lifted her head; the sand stuck to her face and her nose. She spat. She turned her head and flickered her eyes about; they found the gravestone of Wesley Bay. She stared at it, and her breathing grew in a panic.

  It haunted her more than Davy could ever know. Davy had always avoided the sand-sunk The Spirit of the Lake—until yesterday, anyway—and Namiane had always avoided the gravestone of his father. The last time she got near it was two years ago, when Davy erected it into the crater floor a week after his death. That day, they stood before it to reflect and observe, and pay respects. And she cried more than he did, which Davy didn’t understand.

  And to this day, she made sure Davy never knew she feared it.

  But today, Namiane gathered not only the physical strength as she got up from the floor, but the mental strength to look at that rock for longer than a minute.

  She walked to the grave which bore the Bay name written in the chalk of a stone, and she knelt before it. She laid the palm of her hand on the dirt in front of it.

  She tried to speak, but her voice died. Her mouth was dry. There was a knot in her throat.

  But she tried, and managed, using her belly. Her voice was soft and squeaky.

  “Please . . . please forgive me for what I did, Mr. Bay.”

  The wind brushed by, sweeping through the sand. Silence.

  “Please, Mr. Bay. Forgive me! Show me a sign that you don’t hate me for what I did. Forgive me
for making your son a monster.”

  She broke down into a whimper again. This time a couple of tears rolled from her eyes. The silence made her cry.

  “Please! Come back!”

  She watched the grave, expectant. It rattled, and her eyes widened—but it was only the wind.

  But there was a blur ahead, a figure moving in the crater; Namiane’s eyes caught it. And she jerked backward.

  The figure moved closer to her. And she grew excited for a moment and bowed down to the gravestone. She rose and waved to the figure. “Mr. Bay! Oh, thank God!”

  But as the figure got closer, she grew disappointment. It was a person. A live person.

  It was a random man—he yelled out, for he saw Namiane hiding behind the gravestone. His voice echoed:

  Please, I traveled all across to find this lake—but it is empty!

  Namiane ran to the plank steps. The man ran, too, and cried for her help.

  Please, woman, have you something to eat, and a drink . . . !

  As Namiane climbed the first few steps she knew she wasn’t strong and fast enough to escape from the man in time. So, she turned to see him. He panted. He had a beard. His skin was all red. He was beyond anorexic, in rags, with a wood staff and a pack.

  “I am sorry for trespassing,” the anorexic man said, “but I searched for even a drop of something, anything at all . . .”

  “You’ve traveled a long time,” Namiane said. “There’s nothing miles from here.”

  “I believed in God’s voice, which told me to come, despite great odds.”

  “I can help you. Come up with me.”

  “Thank you! Thank you!”

  And she climbed. The man climbed, too, to the surface.

  The man’s eyes widened to see a farm, for he knew that farms were only available to the wealthiest. And he realized he was in the presence of a god, and he bowed before the glowing Namiane.

  “Please, I will do anything, anything at all, angel. I do not go so far as worship the Vendicatore, but I will worship you, if you can be so charitable.” And he rambled on-and-on about her divine powers.

  Namiane watched with horror. She told him to wait; she proceeded to grab a shovel and dig in the woods. She dug all around, as she clearly didn’t know where Davy’s father kept all his secret water (though Davy had shown her—she just didn’t want to remember).

  She dug in a panic as the man waited, on the verge of breaking down after the tenth hole. But finally, on the eleventh, her shovel struck something hard. She flicked the shovel and dropped and stuck her hands in the dirt, wiggling the container loose. She tugged at it, but it was stuck.

  She was weak: she pulled hard, at the small container in the dirt, leveraging her feet, and it gave as she flew back and fell on her back.

  The water in the container, about a gallon, splashed inside the plastic. Namiane wiped it free of the dirt. But she saw the clear liquid, and her eyes cowered, as they likely saw blood within, instead. After all, the bottle was hot to the touch, as was the ground in which it lied for all those years.

  The anorexic man ran to her side. He knelt and helped her up. Namiane gave him the bottle of water, and the man’s eyes sparkled, and his mouth dropped.

  “All of it, my good lady?”

  Namiane nodded. The anorexic man's face glowed as bright as her.

  “I don’t deserve such a gift. How could I repay you?”

  Namiane shook her head. She managed a smile. “It’s yours.”

  “God must have brought me here! Yes, he must have, to show me you, my guiding angel!”

  “Please, I am not an angel. God wouldn’t have anything to do with me, that I’m certain.”

  The man twisted off the cap of the bottle. It was heavy for him, so he crouched and hauled it over his mouth, careful to not spill even a drop.

  Namiane went over to the chickens and took all the eggs available. She gave them to the man. He eyed them with great curiosity as if he had no idea what they were.

  He placed them in his pack while Namiane went to fetch a handful of potatoes from the patch. The man thought he’d taken enough—but then he looked at Namiane as if she had a halo over her head as she offered him the freshly picked potatoes. He took them. And, too, he marveled at these odd, dirty, oval-shaped things. He didn’t know any of these things, as his diet—like the rest of the people of South California who hadn’t yet died of dehydration—consisted of fish from the sea. And if fish wasn’t available, they resorted to eating burned grass.

  He asked her what these things she gave him were. She told him, and he repeated the words slowly for memory. She told him to crack open the eggs, and eat them raw or cooked. She didn't have to tell him how to create fire to cook them; the man knew where to find flames around the county. For the potatoes, she told him to poke holes them with sticks, and cook them until soft; but not to eat the skin. Dirt covered the potatoes. It was best to save the water on other things, not to clean potatoes of dirt.

  The anorexic man thanked her and stored the eggs and potatoes in his pack. “All this time I’d believed that the gov’nor was sent from God to save us . . . but he hadn’t offered me such generosity; only promises he gave, not even the spit from his mouth. With your charity, I have now more than I will ever own in my life, my angel from God above!”

  He dropped to his knees and prayed, thanking God for sending Namiane. And Namiane cringed and guilt plastered her dry face.

  He rose and took another gulp of water, and thanked her for that, above all things.

  Namiane watched him with pain in her eyes. “It is me who deprived you of it in the first place.”

  The anorexic man did not understand what she meant. But he took her hand and kissed the face of it, bowed and prayed to her, and went on his way to stumble upon the ocean to fish.

  Namiane watched him walk away. She smiled. She loved helping visitors whenever Davy was gone, when they came. It was her plea for God to forgive her, helping them.

  All that water and food she gave away? She’d tell Davy she had consumed them, as she always told him when she helped a visitor. If he ever found out of her helpings of “savages,” as he called them, he would turn very angry.

  CHAPTER 18

  The door slammed shut behind the three men. They were now in a dark corridor of the palace. A small ray of light flashed through the door window.

  Rodney took the lead. Davy and Solas trailed, on alert, with their rifles aimed; Rodney, though, was calm as he had his gun strapped around his back.

  It was quiet. The main noise was that of the cascading fountain from the foyer ahead. Others were from the brushing of the three men's feet against the thick carpet, and the short breaths of a panicking, sweat-dripping Solas. The white shirt underneath the old man's blazer soaked of sweat, making his nipples protrude.

  In the silence Rodney became so bold: he put his hands around his mouth, and yelled, “Hello!” The voice bounced off the walls of the hallway and echoed through the foyer.

  “Are you absolutely mad!” Solas whispered. He aimed his gun at Rodney.

  “Relax, old man. There’s no one here. Come on.”

  Davy pulled out his walkie-talkie. He pushed a button and spoke. “Penelope?”

  I’m here, David.

  “Update?”

  I don’t see anyone at all. Vendicatore is still speaking. Over.

  Solas snagged the walkie-talkie and pressed it to his mouth. “There was a bloody guard on the premises! Why didn’t you tell us? Are you blind, woman?”

  “He’s dead, remember?” Rodney said. “Or is your memory fried from cocaine, Mr. Solas?”

  Davy took back the walkie-talkie. He pushed the button and spoke: “Penelope?”

  David.

  “Tell me when Vendicatore is nearing the end of his speech.”

  Copy that. Over.

  Davy slipped the device back into his pocket.

  “Let’s go,” Rodney said. “We haven’t much time. There’ll be guards if he com
es back before we’re finished, that’s for sure.”

  Rodney let them into the grand foyer, the one which Davy visited earlier that day. Davy didn't react much to it, for he already saw it once. Solas calmed himself, in a strange change of character, and took a moment to marvel at the great fountain in the center. He approached it, swiping the water to taste; he made a cup with his hands, filled it with water, and splashed it on his face. He lathered it all over and took a deep breath.

  “Courtesy of Governor Vendicatore,” Rodney said. “It’s no Fountain of Youth, but it’s a fortune nonetheless—and you just wasted it on your wrinkly face.”

  “Better that than to allow it to splash here for no damn reason, other than to show.”

  Davy paused. He heard something. “Do you hear that?”

  Solas jerked his head, water running off his face. “What?”

  Davy put a finger to his lips. They stood in silence, to hear.

  There were faint clacking noises. Footsteps on a hardwood floor.

  Rodney heard the footsteps. His eyes widened. He gulped.

  Davy couldn’t believe it. His nostrils billowed as his face tensed.

  Guards.

  And a man yelled from above, faintly. The three men turned their heads to the encircling balcony, but no one was there.

  They backed away and readied their rifles.

  “Traitor!”

  A bullet missed Rodney. It struck Davy’s forearm, and he screamed as blood splattered into the fountain.

  Solas screamed. He jerked and fired at the source—a guard on the balcony behind them. The guard fell over the balcony to a loud thump against the carpet of the foyer.

  Rodney bolted out of the foyer.

  Davy mustered the strength and ran to hide behind a great white pillar. He collapsed to the ground, leaning against it. Solas ran to his own nearby.

  “The bloody fucking liar!” Solas yelled.

  Davy breathed hard. He bit his lip. He examined the wound to see a torn small chunk of flesh. He gasped upon seeing it; he felt a shock, and his blood pressure dropping. He took his sweat rag and wrapped it around the wound. But he had no time to knot it. More bullets sounded, striking the pillar on which he leaned. The stone of the struck pillar spat chalk all about.