Parched

by Melanie Crowder

  As Sarel walked, her mother’s instructions came back to her, warning her away from burrows and snake holes in the dirt, nudging her toward hollows in the ground where the water might be close enough to the surface to feed the roots of a hardy desert plant.

  Without the hoofed animals carving their steps into the hard ground each day, the wind and tumbling weeds had blurred the familiar paths. Sarel and the dogs returned to the homestead that afternoon with nothing but dusty throats and blistered feet. All she wanted was to dip back belowground, to lie on the cool grotto stones and forget about the aloe. Forget about everything.

  But the dogs were thirsty. So she shook the soot out of their drinking trough and wiped it clean with her palm. She pulled a pair of tin buckets out of the charred rubble where the shed had been and banged them together until most of the ash was gone. Sarel stepped onto the well-worn track between the kennel and the grotto, skirting the rocky hummocks that marked her parents’ graves.

  Tiptoeing down the spiraling stairs, Sarel let the wire bucket handles fall into the crease of her elbow and trailed her fingers along the pebbled walls. Her head dropped belowground, her eyelids fluttering closed as cool air, thick with memory, washed over her skin.

  Breathing deep the smell of wet stones, she stepped to the edge of the shallow pool. She lifted a tin ladle off a hook in the wall and dipped it into the water, then filled her buckets slowly. Light flooding down the stairwell bounced against the water and rippled over the mosaic walls.

  Her father had made the grotto for her mother. He had dug down into the earth, carving stairs that curved around the edge of a dusty cave, and mortaring stones, bits of pottery, and mirrored shards into the walls. Sarel and her mother and father had come down often to hide from the heat of the day, the sound of their low voices and laughter bouncing against the curved walls.

  With the buckets no more than three-quarters full, Sarel scuffed back up the stairs. She glanced around as her head peeked aboveground. But no one was there, just Chakide and Bheka, panting in the heat, ears back and chests heaving.

  Sarel’s shoulders hunched forward under the weight of the water, and her brow pinched in concentration. Her feet carried her in a slow glide so she wouldn’t spill a single drop.

  Sarel emptied the buckets into the trough and stepped away through a thicket of wagging tails as the dogs rushed forward to dip their heads in for a long drink.

  They licked their wet jowls as they pulled up from the trough, coming to rub a jaw against her ribs or to duck an ear under her fingers. Sarel set down her empty buckets, and the ache under her ribs eased just a little.

  She left the dogs under the glaring sun and slipped back down the curving stairs. She lay on the cool grotto stones and pinned her arms against her ears to muffle the sound of Ubali’s licking. Sarel felt the weight of a warm body leaning into the curve of her spine and she turned into it, pressing her face into Nandi’s fur.

  11

  Musa

  Musa stayed in the baobab tree for two days, wandering in and out of memory, of nightmare, drinking until the skin no longer hung from his face like that of an old man, until the ripping pains in his belly eased.

  Slowly, the memories ordered themselves, his mind sifting through images he had shut out all those weeks in the darkness, when chains shackled him every day to the same filthy corner. Memories of his mother holding him around the waist and splashing a precious cupful of water over his face. Placing dowsing sticks in his hands and lifting his forearms to just the right height, saying, “Steady, now. Listen, my little Musa. Listen.”

  He remembered running to his brother, Dingane, with the news: “I can hear it! I can hear the water—just like Umama!” And stumbling away, nose gushing with blood, blubbering, bewildered by Dingane’s burst of anger.

  He saw his mother lying on her bed, her face gray and slick with sweat, her mouth opening and closing again, as if there were something she needed to tell him. He saw the door burst open and burly men in Tandie colors dragging Dingane by the collar into the room, shouting, pointing at Musa. He remembered Dingane’s nod, and his wide, panicked eyes. And then the rough hands, grabbing Musa and dragging him out the door, pulling him away from his mother’s outstretched arms.

  He remembered the voice, Dingane’s voice, that whispered through the rusted gap in the corner of the shack. Calling his name. Begging for forgiveness. Whispering that Umama hadn’t survived the sickness.

  Musa held his ribs as sobs shook through him. His eyes burned and his throat ached, but his body couldn’t spare any water for tears.

  A moth lifted away from the branch above his head, twirling upward, leaving silent trails of dust in its wake.

  Each day, the water stored inside the tree sank a little lower. Each day, Musa moved the drinking straw closer and closer to the ground. Even the baobab couldn’t hold water forever. He couldn’t stay there anyway, in the crown of a tree a half-day’s walk from the city.

  So when the sun lit the sky on his third morning without chains, Musa turned his back to the city, to the bright ball of rising heat.

  He took a long, last drink from the baobab tree and began walking.

  12

  Sarel

  For the second day in a row, Sarel woke with the first wisps of light and set out to look for the wild aloe. But hours later, her hands empty and her feet sore, she stumbled back onto the homestead. It was harder than she thought it would be, finding the trails they used to walk without her mother to lead the way.

  She was tired. And hungry. She wanted to lie down on the cool stones and never get up. But the dogs were panting in the heat of the day, without a roof on the kennel to give them any shade.

  Sarel swiped at the sweat dripping into her eyes and squinted up at the hill behind the homestead. The sweet thorn trees perched on top flashed their green leaves and yellow buds at the black earth all around. They looked healthy enough—she could take a strip of bark from each one and weave them through the kennel roof.

  At least the winds had blown the fire north and east, away from the little hill and its copse of trees. She would need that bark for medicine and the thorns for needles. And though it wouldn’t fill her belly, the sour gum that seeped through cracks in the bark would give her something to chew on.

  But she didn’t have anything to cut through the bark.

  Sarel stumbled over to the sooty remains of the garden shed. The dull edge of a shovel blade poked out of the rubble. She hefted it out of the ashes and set it aside.

  Kneeling down, Sarel rooted around in the char, the remains of her mother’s gardening tools sifting through her fingers. She brushed against something sharp. A single dot of blood beaded in her palm and she brought it up to her mouth, spitting the ashy blood into the dirt.

  Cautiously this time, Sarel reached in and clasped the inlaid-bone handle. It was her father’s knife. She wiped the grit away from the blade and cradled the thing between her hands, swallowing around a hard lump in her throat.

  Sarel spit into the hinge and worked it back and forth until the knife folded cleanly. She tucked it into her pocket, pressing her hand against its solid weight as she trudged up to the top of the little hill.

  Sarel stripped lengths of bark from the sweet thorn trees and tucked them under her arm. She slid down the graveled hillside and crossed the dry riverbed, stepping into a narrow channel that had once diverted water to the garden and kennel, and following it back to the homestead. The pups raced ahead, then dashed back to nip at the bobbing tips of the bark strips.

  She paused for a moment to lean against the kennel. She still couldn’t take a full breath, not since the fire, not after all that smoke. When her heartbeat settled back into her chest and her breathing slowed, Sarel scaled the wall of the kennel fencing and threaded the bark through the chainlink roof.

  The pack watched from below, the pups tilting their heads this way and that, their brows furrowed. When she was done, the dogs circled, pawed the ground, and lay down in t
heir new rectangle of shade.

  Sarel’s head throbbed, her mouth dry as a thistle. She climbed down, then stumbled into the grotto and knelt beside the pool of water. She drank, three sips only, holding the last in her mouth until it was as warm as the insides of her cheeks before swallowing.

  Finally, she lay down on the stones and clamped her hands against her ears to shut out the sound of Ubali’s licking.

  13

  Nandi

  Legs stretch long, pups grow into too-big feet.

  One impala comes back, leaves scent in dirt, crushes grass for sleeping. Two spring hares duck into burrows, black tails flashing.

  Yipping hyena, sharp-teeth jackal follow.

  They stay far under sun, come close under moon, sniff-sniff at pack scent. Sharp teeth flash. Yellow eyes blink-blink in dark.

  Pups learn scents. Learn to hunt. Learn to stay far from hyena, learn howl of jackal.

  Pups stay close under moon.

  Scuffle sound, snarl sound. Kennel door clang-clang.

  Time for Sarel-girl to come out under moon.

  14

  Sarel

  Sarel shaded her eyes with her hand. Something blurred the steady line of the sheltered plain ahead of her. It might only be wisps of heat, or a gust of wind that stirred up the dust. She pattered closer, the earth under her feet cracked and creased as a discarded snakeskin. Brown smudges separated into clumps, individual bushes, rosettes of serrated green spears.

  She’d done it. She’d found the bitter aloe.

  Sarel dashed forward, relief pulsing through her and prickling the tips of her fingers. The pups romped beside her, heads swinging this way and that to see what had finally lifted the sadness from her slight shoulders.

  Sarel sank to the ground beside a large plant with new seedlings spreading in whorls around it. Nandi came to stand beside her, and Sarel threw her arms around the dog’s chest, pulling her tight and kissing the backs of her ears.

  “We found it!” Sarel whispered, a smile rippling across her lips.

  She moved from plant to plant, clipping a spear from each one. Sarel tucked them into her pocket, where the cut ends wept a clear gel that soaked through her thin cotton shorts.

  Three spears for Ubali, to draw out the infection. And three for the garden.

  When the sun went down, she would prop them upright in the soil. Maybe they would take root; maybe they would grow as large as her mother’s plants.

  Or maybe nothing would grow in that soil ever again.

  They followed a narrow game track homeward, the soles of Sarel’s feet lifting a swirl of dust with each step. All around her rippled a flood of tawny, black-mouthed dogs. Sarel held her arms out to her sides and a blunt head nosed under each palm. Her fingers skidded through the slicks of coarse hair running backwards on their spines as the dogs trotted forward, sliding under her hands.

  The wind kicked up the top layer of dirt as they walked on to the homestead, and the smell of smoke and char hung in the air. The dogs fanned out as they entered the yard. Bheka and Icibi flopped into side-sprawled naps while the pups wrestled and yipped in the space between them.

  Sarel went straight to the grotto. She cut the three spears into squares and pushed Ubali’s head out of the way. She pressed the gel against the bullet wound and waited while Ubali relaxed under her hand. He could have thrown her off, but instead, he tucked his head around her leg and began to wash the dirt from her ankles.

  Settling to the ground beside Ubali, Sarel looked around the small room. The very stones seemed heavy with sorrow, ringing with the echoes of her screams.

  It was time to move out of the grotto. Time to sweep the ash from the kennel floor and stretch out under the stars. She could weave a mat to sleep on and let the warm bodies of her dogs tuck in all around her. It would be safer, anyway, with a latched door between them and the animals that prowled at night. And if the men came back, there would be nothing to lead them to the water, to the arc of stones at the far end of the yard that marked the grotto entrance.

  When Sarel made her way aboveground again, the dogs were feeding on the bloody remains of a gazelle. Bheka and Icibi, the proud hunters, lay off to the side, licking their jowls and smoothing the fur on their forelegs.

  Sarel eyed the animal. When the pack had all finished, if the hide was in good shape, she would cut it away and dry it like her father had done after a hunt. She would dig out the bladder, careful not to tear the thin membrane, and hang it to dry. And then she would drag the bones away and let the vultures do their work.

  Nandi sat primly, waiting for Sarel. Her tail thumped up a cloud of dust, a meaty foreleg dangling from her jaws. Sarel’s stomach rumbled and she reached out, taking the food she was offered.

  She didn’t know how to start a fire to cook it, and the thought of a single lick of flame made her want to retch the few sips of water and grainy tubers she’d eaten that day.

  If the dogs didn’t need cooked meat, then neither did she.

  Sarel hung the meat on a wire to drain the blood and sliced away the hide with her knife.

  15

  Musa

  Musa walked that day as long as he could, walked while the sun rose over his shoulder. Walked while it set, lighting the ground in front of him like a glowing, crimson path.

  On the second day, his pace slowed to a limping shuffle. His muscles knotted with cramps while the sun beat the sweat out of him, swelling the air with suffocating heat. But he placed one foot in front of the other, as he had done all day and the day before that.

  It became a game, of sorts—to see how long he could ignore the itch between his shoulder blades, how many steps he could take before he had to turn around to be sure the Tandie weren’t coming after him.

  His shoes fell apart, and he had to shred what canvas was left before wrapping it around the rubber soles and tying them onto his blistered feet. If only he had an extra pair. Or a hat to keep the sun off his head. Or even a blanket to cut the bite of the desert air after the sun set.

  They had been ready, once. Ready for the hard journey north, away from the city, away from the gangs and the dead water. Umama had insisted that they wait until they each had packs full of food, canteens, sturdy walking boots, a compass, even a tent.

  Dingane had been so proud of that tent. He had worked for weeks on a well crew, the blisters on his palms bubbling and breaking. When he came home with the tent strapped to his back, Umama had tucked it carefully into one of the packs, calling him her big strong boy and kissing him on both cheeks.

  “Soon,” she had said, her voice pitched low so no one could overhear. “We’ll leave this place soon.”

  But that was before she got sick. Before the fever sank its teeth into her flesh and shook the life from her body.

  Musa slept in the cover of whatever brush or rock pile he could find, pressing his arms over his ears to shut out the sounds of the prowling night animals.

  On the third day, Musa crossed a dry lakebed littered with stumps and the skeletons of sunken boats. The clay left behind had broken into a thousand pieces, turning up at the edges like fallen leaves.

  His mind wandered in and out of focus, in and out of memory, till it seemed that his mother walked with him.

  Listen, my little Musa. Listen.

  16

  Sarel

  Three limp spears of aloe poked out of the soil.

  The garden should have been spilling over with life—the horned cucumbers yellowing, the crossberry flowering, the sour figs stretching to fill every corner. Sarel raked her fingers through the lifeless dirt. Shot through with the memory of her mother’s hands at work, of her mother’s laughter as she plucked a horned cucumber from the vine, bit into the fruit, and wiped a dribble of green juice from her chin, Sarel lay down and pressed her cheek into the charred soil.

  She knew the horned cucumbers grew wild in a sandy hollow a half-day’s walk to the north and east. Toward the city. Her eyes flicked from the barren rows of soil to the lo
w angle of the morning sun. Slinging her newly woven satchel over her shoulder, she set off toward the hazy skyline.

  Sarel followed a dusty game track, the dogs a steady current eddying around her. They moved through the cool morning until the sun swung overhead and pulled the sweat from her pores. Long, thirsty tongues lolled out of the dogs’ mouths.

  When the day was at its hottest, the hard line of a highway wavered into view. Sarel paused and Nandi fell into step beside her, grazing against her hip and ducking her head under the girl’s hand. Sarel let out a gust of breath. No one traveled the highways anymore. She was still far from the city. Who else would come out here, into the middle of the desert, in the heat of the day?

  No one, she told herself. No one.

  Sarel crossed the hot asphalt quickly, the mottled surface scalding and foreign under her feet. But she stopped again when they reached the other side. A sheet of colored metal attached to a long pole lay half buried in a crust of grit. Its reflective edges caught the sun’s light and threw it into her eyes. Shading the glare with the palm of her hand, Sarel knelt and scraped the words clear.

  KARST FLATS

  20 KM

  Below the lettering, an arrow pointed back the way they’d come. Scrubbing her foot in the dirt, Sarel kicked a layer of dust over the sign. She didn’t want anyone going looking for anything in that direction.

  The horned cucumber grew just past the highway, in a dip in the ground where the earth had settled lower than everything around it. The woody vine sprawled across the dirt, the fruit tucked away from the harsh sun under limp green leaves. Sarel reached in and yanked out a studded yellow gourd. She opened her knife and sliced the fruit lengthwise. Glistening green seeds spilled out onto her palm and she slurped a gooey mouthful. Her lips puckered at the bitter taste.