Parched

by Melanie Crowder

  Musa ducked his head under her gaze. He knew why she was staring. He knew what she wanted to know.

  “When I was little, and the sea ate up the coasts, the city flooded with people. There wasn’t enough food or water for everyone. Anyone with money to buy a way out was gone.

  “People said the drought would end, that things would get better. But it didn’t. The gangs took over, and they hacked the city into pieces. They took the petrol, so no one could leave. They said they needed it to look for water in the desert, for all of us. But they never found any. And then they just started killing each other and anyone who kept their water to themselves, or tried to survive on their own.”

  Musa paused, looking out at the graves and the blackened foundation.

  “But you know about that.”

  Silence stretched between them like the wide-flung branches of an umbrella tree. Musa’s hands began to work again at the weave in his lap.

  “We were going to leave. We had a plan, but my mother got sick. My brother, Dingane, told one of the gangs what I could do.”

  Musa’s hands fell slack, the brittle grasses slipping out of the weave. “I don’t know why he did that.”

  “And your mother?”

  Musa swallowed. “I never saw her again.”

  Chakide laid his head on Musa’s thigh.

  “The Tandie locked me up, and only let me out to look for water. But it didn’t do any good. The groundwater up there—it’s all gone bad.”

  “But you escaped . . .”

  The words were barely out of Sarel’s mouth when she lurched to her feet, pacing the length of the kennel and back again. Her fist closed over something small and white.

  “What if this gang follows you out here?”

  Musa rubbed the new skin at his wrists. He didn’t know what to tell her.

  What he did know, what he had decided in the long days traveling across the desert to get here, was that he would rather die than be caught by the Tandie again.

  28

  Sarel

  Sarel dumped an armful of branches on the ground at Musa’s feet.

  “Show me.”

  Musa picked through the pile. He chose an evenly weighted pair, snapping them a hand’s-breadth past the forks, trimming and peeling the branches until they swung cleanly in his hands.

  “Thank you,” he said solemnly. When Musa curled his fingers around the forked ends, his eyelids fluttered closed, as if relieved to feel their weight in his hands.

  “You’d better be right about this.” Sarel tossed the rest to the dogs. They snapped and lunged at one another, growling playfully and prancing ahead, the sticks clamped between their teeth.

  They crossed the dry river and Sarel stopped, hands on her hips, waiting. Musa lifted his arms until the sticks jutted out in front of him. He shuffled forward. After a dozen paces, the sticks swung inward, crossing each other and slapping against Musa’s chest. He bent and scratched a line in the ground. Then he backed up and over a few paces, starting forward again.

  Sarel rolled the smooth white stone around in her palm as she watched Musa’s halting progress. The pups watched too, ears cocked, their eyes following the bobbing tips of the sticks, sure it was a game meant for them.

  The scratch marks curved toward the hill until Musa’s toes scrabbled against the steep rise.

  “That’s the edge of the water—those scratches?” Sarel asked.

  Musa turned, nodding, and stumbled toward her. “Water comes up to the surface at the edges,” he said. The sticks swung away until they slapped the sides of his arms, pointing back to the hill behind him as Musa stepped toward her. “So we—”

  “Wait,” Sarel interrupted, holding up a hand and pointing. “Why did they do that?”

  Musa peered over his shoulder at the sticks angled back behind him. His hands fell to his sides and he dug the tips of the dowsing sticks into the ground.

  “I don’t know.”

  This was ridiculous. All of it.

  Sarel watched frustration ripple through him. Musa wanted her to believe him. Badly. Why? Sarel ticked her head to the side, considering. What if he was telling the truth? What if she didn’t have to leave this place after all?

  “The wind will sweep away your scratches before the morning is over. If this is going to work, we have to mark your lines with rocks or something.”

  Musa’s eyes grew wide, and his lips twitched upward.

  “I’m not saying I believe you.” She toed a trench in the dirt. “It’s just . . . Is it big?—the water. Is there enough for all of us?”

  “More than enough. If we can get to it.”

  A gust of wind lifted the dust at her feet and spun it around her ankles.

  “If we’re not going too far from here, then we can come back at night. We can sleep in the kennel. It would be safer.”

  Sarel felt Nandi’s eyes on her. The dog sat beside Musa, watching Sarel, waiting.

  “But you’ve already decided, haven’t you?”

  Nandi stood. She crossed the space between them and placed her chin in Sarel’s outstretched hands.

  “All right, girl. We’ll do it your way.”

  29

  Sarel

  Sarel settled a water skin into her satchel beside a clump of aloe and a few wrinkled sour figs, and another into the satchel she had woven for Musa. She pocketed her knife and tucked the ladle into her waistband, hefting the shovel like an oversize walking stick.

  The homestead was quiet when they left, except for the old windmill, creaking in the early morning breeze. While Musa followed the twitching dance of the dowsing sticks, Sarel kept her eyes on the ground, looking for divots in the earth or bedrock or a cluster of stones that might hide a small spring. Every dozen paces, she scooted a rock to mark Musa’s lines in the dirt.

  They followed the edge of the water over bluffs dotted with withered scrubs and through dusty flatlands, sometimes following well-worn game tracks, other times picking their way across ground touched only by the scouring winds.

  They stopped at midday and rested in the shade of a quiver tree. Ubali rolled over Sarel’s outstretched legs, belly up, begging to be scratched. Chakide sat beside Musa’s slumped form and licked the sweat and dirt from his face.

  Sarel’s foraging trips had kept her muscles limber and strong, thin as she was. But Musa still hadn’t recovered. He was tired and jumpy, always looking over his shoulder and starting at odd sounds.

  They rested for an hour before Sarel called them back to their feet. Musa stood when she stood, and he kicked his legs and leaned side to side, stretching, mimicking her every move.

  Sarel went from dog to dog, holding the ladle under their chins for a drink. Tawny tails thumped the ground as she approached, and long pink tongues licked wet jowls as she moved on. Then she tipped the water bladder back, holding it steady as a thin stream of water trickled into Musa’s mouth. Finally, she took a few sips herself, swirling the water around in her mouth and letting it slide slowly down her throat.

  “Nandi,” she said when the empty water bladder was stowed back in her satchel, “let’s go home.”

  Nandi lifted her nose and set out across the desert. The pack followed, tails hanging a little lower than they had that morning.

  30

  Nandi

  I leave my kennel. Leave place with fire scent in air, fire dust in ground.

  Days are long. Paws crack, bleed. Dust in nose, dust in eyes, dust in air.

  Ground is thirsty, trees thirsty, pups thirsty. Make low whines, thirsty whines. Panting, panting.

  I pass bones in dirt, bones with sharp teeth marks. Not so long dead.

  Even bones are thirsty.

  Sarel-girl walks with me, hand on my neck, fingers gripping tight.

  I follow Bird-legs-boy to water.

  31

  Musa

  Two days, out and back, and they hadn’t found a single drop.

  The landscape changed as they moved across the desert. Parche
d soil gave way to cracked clay, and swaths of grassland dwindled to sparse clumps of low-lying shrubs. The wind scoured the ground as they walked, whipping grit into their eyes.

  If he hadn’t felt the water, buzzing at the base of his skull, Musa would have given up, would have lain down in the shade of the kennel while his body failed, grateful at least to die without chains.

  But he could feel it. Right underneath his feet and stretching wide, all around them. So much water, it made his throat ache with hope. It was just nowhere he could get to it.

  On the third day, in the middle of a sea of rippled sand, they drained the last of the bladders. Sarel tucked it away in the bottom of her satchel and handed Musa an aloe spear. He sucked at the gel, his throat gagging at the bitter taste.

  A rumbling in the distance made Musa stop and whip his head around. For one terrible moment, it sounded just like the dust-clogged engine of Sivo’s jeep. But it was only clouds, building in the distance. Right then, it seemed almost worth it to risk a storm, to chance the lightning, if he could feel a few drops of rain fall onto his tongue.

  They kept walking, even when the sun was at its highest, even though cramps wracked his belly. Musa walked with a hand pressed to his stomach, the other clamped around the dowsing sticks that trailed in the dirt behind him. He couldn’t eat. His body didn’t want food if it couldn’t have water.

  Sarel’s steps grew listless, her eyes glazed. Her chin dropped to her chest. The dogs padded limply beside her, panting. Their tongues lolled to the side, heads hung low. Bheka whined with each step. And Icibi limped, struggling to keep up with the rest of the pack.

  High above, a vulture glided, his shrieks jangling on the hot winds.

  Chakide’s ears pricked and he sniffed the air. He let out an excited bark and ran ahead, his ears flopping up and down with each long stride.

  Sarel shouted after him, her voice climbing higher and higher the farther away he ran. Musa’s hand flew up to cover his head.

  Did she have to scream like that?

  Straight ahead, he could just make out the shape of a small puddle. The sun glinted off its slick surface. Chakide stood by the edge, his tail swiping proudly side to side, water dripping off his jowls.

  Nandi trotted up to the edge and sniffed, the rest of the pack close behind her. Her tail went stiff and her hackles shot up. She sank her teeth into Chakide’s ruff and dragged him away.

  Musa squinted. He didn’t understand. Why was Nandi being so rough with her pup? And then he saw it. On the far side of the puddle, the body of a bloated hyena lay half in, half out of the water. Flies swarmed all over the rotting carcass.

  Nandi whipped around, her tail to the bad water, her teeth bared in a snarl. Slowly the pack backed away, whining, their eyes glassy, tongues licking their dusty snouts.

  Running up beside Nandi, her arms flapping to shoo the dogs away, Sarel screamed, “Get back! Get back!”

  She fell to her knees beside Chakide, hooking one arm around his neck and stuffing her other hand into his mouth.

  “We’ve got to make him throw it up. Musa, help me!”

  Chakide squirmed out of her grasp and ran a few steps away, tail between his legs.

  “Help me!” Sarel yelled.

  Musa shuffled over and grabbed Chakide by the hips while Sarel shoved her hand down the dog’s throat, her face slick with sweat and her lips drawn in a tight white line.

  After the third try, Sarel let Chakide go and slumped to the ground.

  “It’s not working—it’s not working!”

  Sarel wiped off her hands, took a quavering breath, and called Nandi to her side. “We’ve got to get him home.”

  They hadn’t gone half a mile when Chakide began to whine. He retched, his spine curving at a painful angle as his stomach seized. But nothing came up, and his pace slowed, each step stiff.

  The pack stopped. Sarel and Musa stood on either side of the dog, hands cradling his head and shoulders. Finally, Chakide’s hind legs gave out and he yipped in pain and confusion.

  The pack circled around where he sat, panting. They paced, back and forth, in and out. Nandi stood over her pup, licking his ears, sniffing his nose, whining deep in her throat. And then Chakide rolled onto his side, tongue lolling in the dust, his ribs fluttering like a stunned bird.

  Musa hefted the shovel and walked a few yards away. He began to dig, thrusting the shovel into the brittle soil, lifting and scattering the dirt. There wasn’t any reason why he should find groundwater there, in the spot where Chakide had fallen. But he couldn’t sit and watch the dog suffer. His head pounded. His muscles felt like they were ripping apart. He dug a hole in the dirt, the dull shovel barely biting into the sandy soil.

  A choked, inhuman sound brought him back, sent him stumbling over the mounds of dirt that surrounded his meager hole. Chakide’s body had gone still. His eyes were empty, his jowls slick with foam.

  Nandi lay beside her pup, licking his ears and nudging his limp body with her nose. Beside Nandi, Sarel doubled over, pressing her forehead to the ground as silent sobs shuddered through her.

  The dogs looked from Musa to Sarel, from Chakide to Nandi. Whipping desert winds snatched thin whines from their throats and tossed them up to the indifferent sun.

  While Sarel lay in the dust, clinging to Nandi, Musa finished his digging. He chipped away at the edges, widening the hole until it was big enough to fit Chakide’s body, curled into a ball, as if he were only sleeping.

  Sarel didn’t watch while Musa dragged the dog’s limp form across the dirt and lowered him into the ground. But Nandi stood and came to peer down at the unmoving body of her pup. The sun began to tilt westward as Musa filled in the hole.

  “Sarel,” he said as he tamped the earth over Chakide’s grave, “let’s go home.”

  Wiping her bloodshot eyes with the backs of her hands, Sarel stood. She swayed, and a pair of dogs sidled up next to her. She rested her hands on their shoulders, steadying herself. Sarel looked at Musa then, and at the small mound of freshly turned dirt.

  “Thank you,” she mumbled. She knelt and laid her hand on the grave, closing her eyes while she sucked in a ragged breath. She drew a stone out of her pocket, smooth and white with a black vein through its center, and pressed it into the sandy earth.

  Musa held out his hand and Sarel grabbed hold, dragging herself up. She didn’t let go all the way home.

  32

  Sarel

  Sarel woke, shivering. The warm body that usually slept in the curve of her ribs was missing. She sat up, blinking the sleep from her eyes.

  Nandi stood at the edge of the kennel, staring into the distance, her ears pricked forward.

  Sarel pulled herself to her feet. She didn’t want to walk anymore. Not without Chakide. Not without even a single drop of water to drink.

  She squatted down beside Nandi and wrapped her arms around the dog’s barrel chest.

  Behind her, Musa struggled to sit up. Deep circles bruised the skin under his eyes.

  “Come on,” he said. “We have to try.”

  Musa wavered to his feet, tucked his hands under Sarel’s arms and tugged upward. A moan slipped past her lips, but Sarel stood while Musa settled her satchel across her shoulder.

  Sarel locked Bheka and Icibi in the kennel for the day. They were so weak, and she couldn’t bear the idea of losing another dog to the desert. They scratched at the kennel door and pawed at the dirt when the pack left without them, their howls boring into Sarel as she walked away.

  Musa trudged beside Sarel, his skin sallow and limp. He looked almost as bad as the first day she’d seen him, parched and bruised and skittish as a cornered animal.

  After only an hour of walking, the dowsing sticks fell from Musa’s hands. When neither of them stooped to pick them up again, they turned toward home. The day was blistering hot, and the dogs whined through every breath.

  Sarel’s body felt like it had been stuck with a dozen thorns. She told herself, if this was the end, at lea
st she would get her dogs home. They could rest in the shade; she could kneel between her parents’ graves, and lie one last time on the cool grotto stones.

  When they came to the riverbed, the pack turned west, following the dust-clogged bedrock homeward. They walked in the belly of the dry river, its trough wide enough for the pack to go side by side. The cut bank rose as high as Sarel’s shoulder, the roots of shriveled shrubs dangling over the edges. The watermarks that lined the bank were tinged a greenish white, just like the steep sides of the little hill behind the homestead.

  A layer of thin, flat clouds muted the sun for a moment. Sarel felt Nandi stiffen under her hand. The dog turned to look back the way they had come, ears pricked and muscles taut. And then the stones lining the riverbed beneath them began to rattle.

  A growl rose deep in Nandi’s throat.

  Sarel scanned the bank above, her eyes fixing on a sickle bush, whose branches bent low, reaching for the long-gone current.

  “Go!” she shouted, slapping the rumps of the dogs within her reach. She grabbed Musa’s hand and yanked him over to the cut bank. “Up! Up! Nandi, Thando, Ubali—up!”

  They scrambled up, raining pebbles and chunks of clay onto the bedrock. Nandi was the last to go, and she cleared the cut bank in a single leap, burrowing under the branches and crawling, her belly low to the ground.

  They were barely settled behind a loose screen of leaves, ten dogs and two thin, dirt-smothered children, when a burst of pebbles spat from around the bend in the dry riverbed and a jeep rattled toward them.

  Four men rode in the open air, their skin dark as silted mud, each with a red cloth knotted at the throat or wrist or temple.

  “Sivo,” Musa whispered.

  Nandi’s lips curled up in a warning snarl and Sarel clapped a hand over the boy’s mouth.

  Thorns pressed into skin and pierced the tender pads of paws already worn raw; dots of blood welled up to the surface. The pack lay silent and still until the dust settled to the riverbed again. Sarel lifted her hand away and Musa squirmed out from under the thorny branches.