In a Handful of Dust

by McGinnis,Mindy

  “If someone kept their herds here, there must be a creek nearby,” Lucy offered, hoping perhaps the horses had sped up for more reason than one.

  “Makes sense,” Lynn said, her lips pursed so tightly the words came out in a growl.

  The road met up with the creek shortly, and the horses stumbled wearily into the cool water, Spatter wading in up to his knees. Lynn and Lucy slipped off their saddles as well, filling their near-empty bottles and thirsty mouths. Coaxing the horses out of the stream was tricky, and Lynn caved in to their mournful eyes.

  “Our friend behind us won’t be able to track us in the stream, and it’ll lead us down into the canyon besides,” she said.

  The shadows of the towering steeples of rock striped their path as they moved silently southward. Then the stripes disappeared as the rocks reached for one another, forming a sheer wall on either side.

  “Just breathe easy,” Lynn said softly, though Lucy noticed she also looked to the bright-blue strip of sky above them as she said it. “This is mostly a straight shot. When the canyon dumps us out, we’ll be able to backtrack to the highway.”

  Lucy nodded her assent, too spooked by the sound of Lynn’s voice bouncing off the nearby walls to answer. The innocent splashing of the creek rebounded as well, echoed and magnified. Spatter’s ears flicked backward, then forward in an effort to make sense of this new phenomenon. She scratched his neck, and he made a deep mutter she could only too well agree with.

  “I don’t like it either, boy,” she leaned forward to whisper.

  At first she thought the goose bumps were caused by fear. She’d become all too familiar with the rushing prickle of them in the long, lonely nights. But a cool breeze was playing with her hair as well, and the first cold drop that splattered on her skin was as big as a shotgun shell. Ahead, Mister startled to the right when another drop struck him, and he brushed against the close canyon walls that made it impossible for the horses to ride abreast any longer.

  “Guess the rain is coming,” Lynn said, the calm that carried back in her voice soothing Lucy, though she suspected it was on purpose, as she saw Lynn dig her heels into Mister a little deeper, urging him forward.

  The thin strip of sky above them was no longer blue, and the swirling clouds moving past weren’t the comfortable shade of gray they’d been when Lucy first saw them, but a menacing black that contrasted with the red rock so sharply that her heart skipped a beat.

  Another drop fell directly on her face, as if scolding her for looking so closely. She wiped it away, trying to ignore the increased pattering of the rain falling into the creek and seeping through her clothes. A streak of lightning shot through the sky, and the answering thunder was so loud that shards of rock were knocked loose from the walls. They rolled down to the path, spooking the horses.

  Lynn had pulled Mister into a trot, her gaze sweeping the rock on either side and the widening water rivulets that were pouring into their hiding place. “Lynn?” Lucy called out, alarmed that she had to raise her voice to be heard over the rain.

  Lynn looked back and said only one word. “Faster.”

  She kicked the already skittish Mister and he took off, hooves splashing in the water that was now creeping up his legs. Spatter needed no coaxing; he leapt to follow. Lucy wondered if he could sense the danger of the rising water as it touched the tips of her boots.

  They cleared a turn to see Lynn and Mister only paces ahead of them, and no end to the canyon walls in sight. A slight whimper escaped Lucy, but she could see only grim determination in Lynn’s face when she glanced back to check on her. Lucy waved that she was all right and urged Spatter to go faster, although he was beginning to lose his footing. A near panic had settled into Mister, and Lucy watched as he slipped, nearly unseating Lynn. She jerked back on his reins and brought his head around, but the horse was wild, and the splashing his struggles brought around them didn’t help. He took off at his own frenetic pace, anxious to find a way out.

  Spatter answered in speed. Seconds later Lucy felt him lose contact with the ground as the rushing water buoyed him above it. He neighed in fear and she wrapped her arms around his neck, unable to control him with the reins any longer. She called out for Lynn, but Mister had the upper hand on his rider as well, and the two of them were out of sight.

  She felt Spatter’s legs pumping beneath her, working with the current to move them forward. His courage gained them precious minutes until the first swell came, rushing over his back and plucking Lucy from the saddle as easily as she pulled overripe pears from the trees at home.

  The water enveloped her, shocking in its coldness. She kicked upward to break the surface, managing a single gulp of air before the strong current took her in its own direction and slammed her against an outcrop. Her head struck rock, and she felt the thin skin of her temple parting easily, the hot blood releasing from her head to mix with the cold flow of rainwater.

  Lucy clutched the outcrop and managed to drag herself on top of it. She swiped at her eyes only to realize a darkness was seeping into her vision that wasn’t blood, the ringing in her ears overwhelming even the rushing of the river sweeping by only inches from her face.

  “This isn’t fair,” she managed to say weakly as she slipped into unconsciousness, knowing she was about to drown in a place where little water could be found.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  Twenty-Four

  She was out long enough that her clothes were dry when she woke, as was her mouth. Lucy tried to sit up, but a wave of vertigo forced her back down, the lump on her head pulsing in time with the nausea. She vomited over the edge of the outcrop, into the serene water below. The angry rolling white froth was gone, but Lucy knew enough about moving water to know that didn’t mean the current wasn’t strong. She rolled onto her back to glare at the mockingly blue sky above, clear of any trace of the storm. She had no way to judge how long she had been out. It could be the same afternoon, or two days later. The only gauge she had was the scratch of dehydration in her throat and the gnawing hunger in her belly.

  She sat up by inches the second time, letting her pounding head adjust to the change. Once upright, she leaned back against the canyon wall, which soared at least a hundred feet above her head. Climbing out was not an option. Neither was staying and waiting for the river to recede more. If she waited too long she could die of thirst, hunger, or even the drop down to the shallow water. Jumping now meant a drink, and the very real possibility of drowning. In the best of health she would’ve jumped without question, trusting to the strength of her body. As it was she couldn’t move more than a foot at time without feeling dizzy.

  She swallowed once, ignoring the thickness of her own saliva, before calling out. “Lynn?” The single syllable echoed off the walls, bouncing back and forth as it traveled upwards toward nothing, to the endless expanse of desert. There was no answer.

  It was what she had always feared.

  She was alone.

  An hour later the water had receded another five feet, and there was still no answer to her increasingly panicked calls. Her heart beat so quickly, she could feel the answering pulse under the thin scab that had formed on her temple. The sun had dried her lips, and as she thought, she chewed on the thin strips of skin that flaked off.

  Delay would only increase the drop as the river fell, and Lucy knew it was time. Her legs were still shaky, but her weakness would grow along with hunger pains. She shimmied to the edge and swung her legs over, meaning to dangle and drop after taking a deep breath. But she’d misjudged the strength left in her arms, and the sudden weight was too much for them. Her hands scrambled for purchase as gravity yanked her over the edge. She had a pristine moment of clarity as one fingernail was ripped off, the pain standing out like a sharp moment in time.

  And then she was falling. She gasped deeply and closed her eyes. The water was so co
ld it felt like hitting rock as she sliced through it, her heart stilling for one second at the shock. Her feet struck bottom for one moment and she pushed upward with the strength she had left, scissor-kicking to propel herself to the surface. She gulped the air, which tasted sweet and made it seem like her lungs were the only warm part of her body.

  The current had her, but its fingers lacked the cruel grip that had ripped her from Spatter’s saddle, and she allowed herself to relax until her foot was caught up by something beneath the surface and she was pulled under. The water closed over her head, before she was able to take a lifesaving breath.

  Darkness came again, calling with a comforting numbness she knew had little to do with the cold water. It was the same futility she’d seen in her mother’s eyes, in the few memories Lucy still had of her life in the city. Dark days with curtains drawn and Neva lying in her bed though the sun was high in the sky outside. Even as the current forced her lips open and the cold water slid into the crevices of her lungs Lucy thought of Neva, and the living death that had been in her eyes years before she put a pistol to her head.

  And she thought of Lynn, who had forced herself to survive even with Mother’s blood on her hands and no meat stored for the winter. Lynn, whose faith in her own strength kept her going beyond all limits of endurance in order to provide for herself, and later for Lucy. Giving up now meant betraying Lynn’s effort, the years of her life she’d given over to raise a child not her own. Lynn, who might be looking for her at that very moment.

  Lucy screamed underwater, bringing more water into her body as if challenging it to drown her. She broke the laces of her boot with willpower rather than strength and, kicked for the surface, buoyed by thoughts of how disappointed Lynn would be with her for losing a boot. She broke through to warmth and a dark shadow riding the current alongside her, a scruffy tree that had been torn out by its roots, still clinging to the dirt it had depended on.

  She made a lunge for it, twining herself around the pale, waterlogged roots. They encircled her like a thousand arms, grasping her waist and tangling in her legs. Water warmed by her own body gurgled from her lips, and the next breath of air felt like daggers pulling her apart from inside. She gasped and choked, sending more water through her nose and bringing on a coughing fit that crushed her chest and stole the last ounce of energy she had. Lucy fell forward against the tree trunk, her bare foot trailing her body in the dark current like a tiny ghost.

  A day later the river water was a pleasant memory, longed after like the wet days of spring in the middle of summer’s drought. The sun was merciless as Lucy dragged herself across the desert, the toes of her bootless foot curled under to keep the burning dust from her sensitive sole. She’d tried switching her remaining boot from foot to foot, but a blister had formed and burst only minutes after she’d forced the left boot onto her right foot.

  The raw spot on her toe had quickly filled with dirt, and it throbbed as she forced herself ever onward, eyes scouring the vast nothing for any sign of Lynn or Mister. Spatter she’d found the day before, caught up in a bend in the river where debris had piled. Even though the current had carried her past him mercifully quick, the bulging of his blank eyes and the image of his long, lifeless tongue dangling in the water for a perpetual drink had brought a fresh grief that spilled new tears from her swollen eyes even as she was pulled away from him.

  Weariness had taken hold again, not relenting until the canyon fell away and the log she’d lashed herself to with its roots came to rest on a sandbar. The peacefulness of the undulations tugging at her feet had urged her to free herself and continue on with the river, to a place where pain and grief would bother her no more. She’d pulled her legs up onto the tree and slept through the cool night, taking what rest she could before facing the desert.

  Leaving the river went against all her instincts, but if Lynn were alive, she would head north to return to the highway, and expect Lucy to do the same. The rising sun had felt good as it baked the chill from her bones, and Lucy had a flicker of hope as she rested on the sandbar before leaving. The idea of Lynn dying at all was so foreign to Lucy she rejected it wholly. Lynn would live if the canyon itself were to collapse on her, the tenacity of the life inside of her finding a way to survive against all odds.

  But the odds felt longer as the day wore on and the last few mouthfuls of water she’d taken from the river had long since been spent by her body. The heat shimmer began to play games with her head, showing shadows in the form of horses and people that urged her to stray from her northward path with promises beyond her reach. Lucy pushed on in as straight a path as she could, though she feared the dragging pain from her injured foot was pulling her to the left.

  She sat down at midday, unable to ignore the pounding in her head any longer. The wound on her temple reopened, and she licked at her own blood as it streamed into the corner of her lips, but her tongue came back coppery and salt covered. Lucy touched the wound and studied the blood on her fingers, reveling in the beauty of the red rivulets against the underside of her hand.

  “Lynn,” she said weakly, though she knew there was no one to hear. “I understand that poem now. It’s what I’ve been saying all along about being scared of the bigness, and me being so small. Only it says it better. All I’m going to be here soon, after the sun and the animals have their way, is just a handful of dust. I’ll be even smaller than I am now. I’ll be nothing, and no one will ever know what became of me. Lynn, I think . . . I think I’m dying.”

  But there was no one to tell her this was not the case, no strong hands to pull her to her feet and force her to go on, no gentle touch to bring a cool cup to her lips and bring her back from the brink. There was nothing, and there was no one.

  Stebbs was not there to tell her any water she witched would be too deep to reach. She’d seen him witch without a stick before, and she called to mind his steady pace and calm demeanor as he would walk with his arms outstretched. She reached out for water with her entire being, eyes closed tightly against the baking sun. Her heart leapt along with her pulse a few paces later, and she fell to her knees.

  She dug with her hands, the hot sand packing the tiny cracks in her knuckles, first only irritating the skin but finally breaking through and dotting the ground with black drops of her own blood. She kept on, digging through the pain. Her fingernails peeled back from her dry nail beds and still no water bubbled up, no earthy smell of water filled her nose. There was only the dull, endless wafting of arid air.

  Soon she collapsed beside a hole barely two feet deep, her body so dry she could hardly blink her eyes.

  And still, she smelled no water.

  She had lived rough her whole life, but hunger had never been a true enemy. Lynn’s gun and Vera’s garden had kept food on the table, and the slight gnaw on her stomach she’d always called “hunger” seemed almost pleasant compared to what she was suffering from now. In the overwhelming burn of a desert day, she understood the difference between hunger and starvation. It felt as if the rough rock under her back had bitten through her spine and was making a meal of her stomach lining. The pain curled her body into the fetal position, and Lucy cried tears that never gained the weight to fall.

  Night brought a wicked chill, the desert playing its cruel trick of burning her to death during the day and leaving her to freeze at night, along with a moon so bright it made the hills of sand seem like snowdrifts. Images of her long-lost uncle Eli floated by, teasing her with snowballs and a smile so bright it made the moon seem insignificant. The sharp pain of a grief remembered brought her back to full consciousness, and in the white light of the cool desert she could see what the mirages of the baking day had hidden from her. The road. The dark spine of the desert stretched before her east to west, and what had once held nothing but fear for her was now welcome.

  She crawled the last few feet to the pavement, her cracked and dry skin absorbing the heat of the road the desert night had stolen from her body while she slept. The warmth invigorat
ed Lucy, bringing her to her feet and reminding her there were worse things than pain. If there was a trail of red blood behind her on the road from her dragging foot, it meant she still had blood to shed, and her veins weren’t rotting under the sun, noticed by no one. If she was going to die, she would do it where someone would see, and the trail of blood behind her would show how damn hard she’d tried to make it.

  “Like Lynn would,” she said to herself through shredded lips as the road pulled the blisters on her naked foot open. “Like Lynn.”

  She’d anchored her mind so deeply onto the idea of Lynn that when she came upon the actual woman, she thought she was a mirage and nearly walked past her. Lynn sat sprawled in the barest shade offered by an electric tower, the black lines of its shadow zigzagging across her legs, her pack and half-full bottles scattered at her feet. Her eyes flickered when Lucy shuffled past, but there was no disbelief in them once she’d focused.

  “Hey there, little one,” she said, her voice dry and shaky.

  Lucy fell to her knees in the dust. “I didn’t think you were real,” she said, touching Lynn’s face.

  “I’m real enough,” Lynn said, breath hitching in her chest as she pulled herself to her feet.

  “Drink,” Lucy said quickly, twisting a cap off one bottle and offering it to Lynn before gulping it herself.

  “You drink.”

  Water spilled down Lucy’s neck and chest as she gulped, sweeping through the dirt that covered her like a shroud.

  Lynn gently pulled the bottle away from her, finally taking a drink herself. “You’ll make yourself sick,” she warned.

  The water pooled into her tightly clenched stomach, forcing it open and bringing on a gag reflex that Lucy struggled against futilely. The water came back up, as warm coming out as it had been going in.