Dry Souls

by Denise Getson

  I can’t take my eyes off the vastness of the scene before me. I’m afraid to make my wish. I know it’s ridiculous, because I’ve done this more times than I can count. The thing is, I’ve only ever filled small ponds. I hadn’t considered the overwhelming enormity of a basin like this. I close my eyes and concentrate. I fill my mind with images of water, not the images of my own experience, of course. I draw on memories of digital images, lakes and cascades viewed through a computer screen. Matron had a hologram of a waterfall that looked as though it would dampen your skin if you stood too close. I picture it now. Time passes. Still, I wait. “I wish for water,” I whisper.

  After awhile, J.D. touches my arm. “Nothing’s happening,” he says.

  I open my eyes and stare below me. He’s right. Brown cracked earth stretches as far as the eye can see, but no water, not even the dark stain of water.

  “Maybe you’re doing something differently.”

  “I’m doing what I’ve always done,” I grumble. “I wish for the water, and then it’s just there.”

  Of course, I know it’s not his fault there’s no water. I nibble my lip, trying to determine next steps. Have I come all this way for nothing?

  I kneel on the ground and stare intently at the lakebed. “I wish for water.”

  Nothing happens. Unbidden, the image of the small pink flower back at the Garner Home pops into my mind. Making water was accidental then, and effortless. The water appeared immediately and knew where to go. I miss my flower.

  “I wish for the whole lakebed to fill up with water.” I wait. “Now.” I resist the urge to stamp, to shout, to curse the ground for not responding.

  Have I run out? What if I’m only able to produce ten thousand gallons or a hundred thousand gallons of water, and I’ve already wasted it all on an assortment of piddly little puddles?

  “It’s a big basin,” J.D. says. His voice is matter-of-fact, and I’m grateful. If he offered me pity, I couldn’t bear it. “Maybe it won’t happen right away, not like the others did. Besides, it’s almost morning. We need to find a place to sleep.”

  He’s right. And I’m eager to get away from the sight of the empty lake. Its dry darkness taunts me, ridicules my feeble efforts and my grandiose dreams. Who am I to think I could do something profound? I’m nobody. “This is going to take longer to fill.” I say, rising. “That’s all. We’ll come back this evening.”

  It takes awhile, but we finally find a place to stay for the night. What was once a lakeside condominium is now a ruin, but less so than some of the other buildings. We climb stairs to an abandoned apartment overlooking the lake. Whatever windows are still intact, we open for ventilation, relying on thick draperies to filter out the worst dust and debris in the air, as well as the harsh sun.

  There’s furniture, sagging sofas with ripped upholstery and chairs filled with dust; splintered picture frames that look blood-spattered. There’s even a bed. But we’re used to sleeping on the ground now. We stretch out on the floor, thinly cushioned by a dry, tattered rug. I’m exhausted.

  “Kira?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Earlier, by the lake, you seemed…afraid.”

  His comment catches me off guard. Hasn’t he seen me afraid? I’m afraid all the time. How can he not know that? In the last few months, I’ve been afraid of the dark, afraid of loneliness, afraid of going hungry, afraid of being found and sent back to the orphanage, even afraid of being eaten. Now, there’s a new fear.

  “I’m afraid of losing this ability, J.D. It’s all I have.” There’s more, of course, that I don’t say, because it’s too embarrassing. I don’t tell him I wanted to matter, really matter…to someone, to the world, maybe to history. It’s foolishness.

  Awkwardly, he clears his throat.

  “I don’t think it’s all you have, Kira. Whether or not you can make water, you’re still, I mean, you’re better than….” He coughs. “Well, you shouldn’t be so hard on yourself.”

  For just a moment, it doesn’t matter that I couldn’t make the lake fill. Right here, right now, I feel a little less alone.

  “What about you?” I whisper, thinking that J.D. probably isn’t afraid of anything. He responds without hesitation.

  “You scare me,” he says bluntly.

  “You mean because I’m a mutant.” I try to inject a note of humor, but it falls flat.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Maybe you are a mutant.”

  ”Hey…”

  “But so what? These days, isn’t everybody twisted in some way or another? This is different. It’s just….” He stumbles for words, raking a hand through his hair. “I’m just saying it’s different walking with someone. Walking alone is fine. Walking with you is, well, it changes things is all. Like when you were captured and I didn’t know if….” He stops. “Are you tired?” he asks suddenly, changing the subject. “I’m whipped. I’m going to turn in now. G’nite.”

  He rolls over onto his side and in minutes is breathing evenly. I stare into the dim room, grinning.

  We’re awake before nightfall and rise silently. I want to look out the window. I want to open the drapes and see water, miles and miles of it stretching off into the distance, shimmering in the half-light of evening.

  I don’t. I take a veggie bar out of J.D.’s pack and begin chewing silently.

  He just looks at me.

  “Are you going to do it, or am I?” he asks, finally.

  “You do it.”

  After a moment, he walks over to the large plate glass window facing the lake. He takes a deep breath then pulls aside the fabric. Without moving from where I sit, I can tell there’s nothing. The lack of expression on J.D.’s face gives it away.

  He lets the curtain fall back into place and walks over to me, dropping down onto the floor.

  “What now?” I ask.

  “You try again,” he says, reaching into the pack for something to eat.

  After we’ve eaten, we step outside. Deciding not to don our masks right away, we pause to take in our surroundings. The moon is low and bright and clearly reveals the outline of the empty lake basin.

  “Let’s walk up the lakeshore a ways,” I say.

  We turn north and begin to hike along the levee. Occasionally, a lizard or cockroach scurries away as we approach, but for the most part, we’re alone. It’s quiet here, illuminated only by the moon and stars. The buildings of the city loom darkly beside us. After a couple of miles, we arrive at a steel pier stretching out onto the lake.

  Reading my mind, J.D. takes my hand and helps me up the broken steps of the pier. Pushing through an old turnstile, we walk slowly toward the far end. Benches line the sides of the pier, and I picture the way it must have been a long time ago, when lovers strolled here or sat to enjoy the view. Maybe there were gulls to feed and old men dropping fishing lines over the side.

  The pier is long, but too soon we’re at the end. J.D. and I lean forward to look over the railing. It’s dark below us, but clearly dry, and a thin wind stirs our hair.

  “Go ahead,” he whispers. “You can do it.”

  I gaze at the lake, at the vast emptiness before me, and I whisper the words, the same words I always say. We stand together for a few minutes, but I think neither one of us is surprised this time when nothing happens.

  “Maybe we should climb down into the lakebed,” he says. “Maybe if you were standing right down in it….”

  “I don’t know, J.D. I never had to do that before. I can’t believe being able to make water was some sort of temporary thing like a cold or a rash.”

  He glances at the twilight sky. “Maybe the stars are out of alignment. The fact that you could make water might have been this giant cosmic accident,” he jokes.

  I turn, ready to argue, but the words die on my lips. We are found. Standing less than ten feet away, his arms crossed, his lips curved in a faint smile, is the man with the mustache.

  “Having trouble, kids?”

  I know it’s illogical, but my first d
esire is to bark at this person that we’re not kids. I might have been when I found my flower at the orphanage, but I’m certainly not now. That much should be obvious.

  J.D. turns, slipping cold fingers into mine.

  “It didn’t work, did it?” the man says, gesturing toward the lake. “Don’t feel bad. You’re just a little thing, and it’s a big lake. Give yourself a few years. It’ll come.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, forcing my voice to stay calm.

  “Of course, you do,” he says, softly. “But excuse my bad manners. I haven’t introduced myself. My name is Lukas Thorne.” He smiles at me. “And you would be Kira.” He turns to J.D. “And you would be J.D.”

  When we step off the pier, we’re surrounded by armed men and directed to an armored rover. J.D. and I glance at each other, recognizing the futility of escape. We climb inside, not speaking to the man who climbs in behind us. Unable to see precisely where we’re going, it’s clearly within the city limits. We only travel a few minutes before reaching our destination.

  We’re led into an ugly, squat building, about eight stories tall. Photovoltaic panels cover the roof and I spot an algae bio-fuel pump off to the side. We follow the man named Thorne to the third floor and into a small bare room with two beds, a small table and a couple of chairs.

  “This will be your room,” he says.

  We step into the room cautiously and turn to look at him.

  “How long are you planning on keeping us here?” I ask.

  “There’ll be plenty of time for discussion later, Kira. I promise to explain everything. Right now, however, I have an important meeting to attend. Everyone’s going to be so pleased that you’re safe and sound.”

  I don’t ask the obvious question, which is Who is everyone?

  “A member of my staff will be stationed outside the door at all times. If you need anything, just let him know. Are you hungry?”

  So we’re to be guarded. I’m not surprised, although I don’t understand the point of it all … and I am hungry. I catch J.D.’s eye, and he gives a barely perceptible nod. “I suppose we could eat,” I say.

  The barest flicker of a smile crosses our captor’s face, and I want to hit him for finding amusement at our expense. Actually, I just want to hit him, period. A good solid punch to the gut.

  “I’ll have Michael send something up,” he says. He turns to leave, then pauses to give me a direct look. “You two may share this room,” he says softly. “I know you’ve been traveling together for a long time, and I can only imagine what you’ve had to endure. I want you to rest and relax and enjoy three square meals a day. However, if you abuse my hospitality, you’ll be separated. Am I clear?”

  J.D. and I glance at each other then nod our agreement.

  “Good.”

  As soon as he’s gone, we investigate the room. The bed frames are made from solid iron bars. A thin memory foam cushion serves as a mattress. The table’s made from hard plastic, same as the two chairs. We have one window, and I hurry over to get our bearings. The glass is filtered, so we’re protected from the sun’s rays, and a window shade can be pulled down to shut out the light.

  Shoulders touching, J.D. and I stare out at our surroundings. The building we’re in is located on a small rise. Below us there are warehouses, a couple of office buildings. Everything looks empty and run-down. There’s no fire escape outside our window, no visible way to exit the building except for the way we entered.

  “We’re well and truly stuck,” I say, turning to him with a frown.

  “We don’t want to get out,” he whispers into my ear.

  “We don’t?”

  He shakes his head. “We need to find out what he wants. There’s no point in trying to escape ’til we know what it is he’s after and how far he’s willing to go to get it.”

  I see his reasoning. “Okay. I’ll stay put for now. But I don’t trust that guy. Something about him gives me the creeps.”

  “If it makes you feel any better, I don’t think he wants us for dinner,” J.D. jokes.

  “I refuse to find a bright side to this situation.”

  “Patience, Kira.”

  “It’s not my best quality.”

  “I know.”

  He makes us wait two days. For two days, I fret and ponder, pacing the tiny room. After having the whole world to wander, it is torture to be inside, constantly under surveillance. Without freedom, without purpose, I sleep too much. I bicker with J.D. over trivialities, how passively he can stare into space for long stretches of time or the odd habit of lifting his shirt to rub his belly after he eats. Why is this the first time I’ve noticed this annoying habit? I discover two days is more than enough time to learn every stain and crook and cranny of our small cell.

  And yet, I’m not completely uncomfortable.

  A sophisticated filtering system has been installed in the building, so we have clean air. We’re well fed, and for an hour each day, we’re released into a small yard behind the building surrounded by a tall, chain-link fence. Beyond the yard are just more broken-down buildings, as far as the eye can see. Still, it’s an hour outside, and we use the time to walk, to do jumping jacks; anything to get our blood pumping. We don’t use our facemasks when we go outside. We’re only going to be out for a short time. Besides, the air feels, I don’t know, it feels okay to me. Or maybe I just don’t care anymore whether I’m inhaling toxic air or not.

  On the third day, the door opens and the man with the mustache grins at us with casual good humor.

  “I hope you two have been comfortable.”

  I stare at him with cautious disbelief. J.D. and I are prisoners, and he’s treating us like we’re guests from out-of-town who’ve spent the last few days taking in the sights.

  He shuts the door, pulling over a chair to sit down. He motions for us to do likewise and J.D., and I sit across from him on the bed.

  “I apologize for not speaking with you sooner. There’s been a lot going on and, naturally, everyone’s very excited that you’re here.”

  He might as well be speaking an alien language. Nothing he says makes sense. He looks at me expectantly.

  “I don’t understand,” I say, finally.

  “Then I’ll explain.” He leans forward, placing his elbows on his knees. “We’ve got machines that can do everything, Kira. We can calculate the most complex equations. We can see and break apart the tiniest atomic particles. We can lift and move anything. Shoot, we can even turn lead into gold. But we’ve never figured out how to regenerate the natural resources that we’ve lost.”

  He sounds earnest and the expression on his face disarms me for a minute, makes me want to trust him. Of course, I know our natural resources weren’t lost, they were squandered, spoiled, ruined beyond recognition.

  “You have a talent, Kira. You tap into something, some universal energy, and you bring forth water. We need that talent.”

  “Who’s ‘we?’”

  “‘We’ is the Unified Territories Council, the people who make the hard decisions. We decide who gets water, and who doesn’t.” Lowering his voice, he holds my gaze meaningfully. “We decide who gets to grow a flower, and who doesn’t.”

  “I didn’t grow a flower. It grew by itself.”

  “But, it couldn’t have survived by itself, Kira. It needed you. It needed the water only you can provide.”

  My head’s spinning. I don’t want to hear that this man and others like him can cut off people’s water supply. Oh, I know that they could, but that they would consider it, that it would even be a topic of discussion in a boardroom somewhere. It’s wrong.

  “Where do you think the territory gets its water?” he asks, suddenly.

  In the past, people had gotten fresh water from glacier mining. But that was before the polar ice melted. “Desalination of the oceans,” I tell him.

  “That’s one way. Of course, the process is not perfect. Transporting fresh water for interior populations creates all
kinds of logistical problems. And we’re running into issues with the brine residue. No matter how deeply we deposit it back into the oceans, it impacts underwater ecosystems. For the most part, we provide water for the area population to drink—or for agricultural purposes—out of underground reservoirs. But this source is limited, so we have to administer it, with great care and consideration, for the well-being of the entire Territory.

  “Because we use hidden sources, we’re able to keep a lid on social unrest. People can’t get at the water. No one gets more than their fair share. No one knows when our supplies are low or when we’re having trouble with toxicity. That’s where you come in.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I need you to fill the Opawinge aquifer.”

  “The Opawinge!”

  I try to remember what I learned in school about this underground source. It doesn’t exist anymore, but once it had been enormous, stretching beneath three territories. As far as I knew, it had drained out years ago. Now, I wondered. Had that simply been a myth the government wanted us to believe?

  “You’re delusional,” I say shortly, falling back on the one sure reason why it won’t work. “I couldn’t even fill the lake, which is an open water source, and you’re asking me to fill the Opawinge, which covers ten times more area and is underground. It’s impossible.”

  “It’s not impossible, Kira. I know how to help you. I can help you channel your ability. You can do it,” he pauses, “with my help.”

  “I don’t want your help.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.

  He arches one brow but allows my rudeness to pass. “Think for a moment, Kira. Don’t let your emotions get the better of you. I’m offering you the chance to save lives. The Council supplies the population with water. Our best and most reliable source is the Opawinge. Currently, we draw out more than 400 million gallons a day to provide water for people’s rations, to provide water to area Biospheres. But it’s a non-renewable resource. At current draw-down rates, the aquifer will be depleted soon, and more people will die.”