Water Rites

by Mary Rosenblum

  The kid looked at Carter, scowled, and spat. Carter’s lips tightened and he stepped on the gas as the kid bounced the barrow up onto the sidewalk. The engine stuttered again, hesitated, then roared. Carter frowned, uneasy. The car had been fine on the trip down to Bonneville and back. He drove down two more blocks, past empty storefronts and the bar that still did business. A block farther north, the street ended in warehouses and the railroad tracks. Three blocks to his right, the weekday market filled the parking lot of the boarded-up supermarket. As Carter turned the corner, the engine coughed and died. Cursing, he reached for his cell to call Security back.

  It wasn’t on the seat where he had left it. Swearing softly, Carter climbed out of the car and lifted the hood.

  “Hey, look who’s here. One of the uniforms.”

  Carter let the hood fall closed with a bang. The half dozen men in the shade beneath the star-spangled marquee of the town’s single theater hadn’t been there a moment ago. They were young, all of them, their expressions expectant, like leashed dogs. The skin tightened between Carter’s shoulder blades.

  Neat setup. This was the shortest route back to the base.

  Without a word, they started toward him, moving easily, hands loose at their sides. Carter looked up and down the block. The market was too far away. And he hadn’t come armed. They expected him to break for the market, had fanned out to cut him off.

  He ran the other way, his feet pounding on the concrete as he dodged around the corner. They followed him, silently. He didn’t dare look back to see how close, his salt-burned lungs already blazing with fire. To his left, the ruins of an ancient wooden building had sagged onto the street. Carter leaped a splintered beam, looking frantically for something he could use as a weapon. They’d be armed. He cut toward an abandoned warehouse at the end of the block.

  Oregon Cherry Growers the faded letters proclaimed. Carter raced across abandoned railroad tracks, his feet sliding in roadbed gravel. He could hear them pounding across the asphalt lot behind him. Gasping for breath, he flung himself around the corner of the warehouse, dodging between a rusting forklift and the peeling wall.

  “This way,” a voice hissed. “In here. Quick.”

  Carter caught a glimpse of denim blue and a man’s face in a crack of darkness. He slithered between two warped sheets of metal siding. A hand closed on his wrist, guiding him into darkness. Momentarily blind, Carter bumped into something that felt like a pile of stacked cardboard. He leaned against it, his knees shaky, trying to smother the labored rasp of his breathing. Footsteps thudded outside.

  “You check that side,” someone rapped out. “He probably went through that hole in the fence. We’ll take that. Check those doors.”

  Metal rattled close by and Carter tensed.

  “Chained shut,” the shadowy figure whispered. “The crack’s hard to spot.”

  He knew that voice. As the sounds of pursuit faded, he squinted at the man standing beside him, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the dim light. “Jeremy?”

  “I told you I might see you around.” Jeremy gave him a lopsided grin. “Good thing I did. You sure can’t run much.”

  “Good thing . . . yeah.” Carter sat down hard, still gasping. “I . . . can’t run . . . worked on the Michigan lakebed.” He was getting his breath back at last. “Salt dust messes . . . up your lungs. I owe you.”

  “Yeah, I think you do.” Jeremy sat down beside him. “This is kind of a bad neighborhood to wander around in. If you’re wearing a uniform.”

  “Do tell,” Carter growled. And Greely had been sitting in his car. He looked around the shadowy interior of the old warehouse, dimly lit by the afternoon sun seeping through the grimy windows. Wooden fruit crates and bales of flattened cardboard boxes towered in haphazard piles, coated with cobwebs and a thick layer of brown dust. “You’re living here?” A sleeping bag, a water jug, and a scatter of cooking utensils lay on a freshly swept spot on the concrete floor.

  “It’s free.”

  “I think I’m a fool,” Carter said bitterly.

  “I doubt it,” Jeremy said dryly. “I’m an outsider, remember? I’ve got nothing riding on this crazy horse race. From what I’ve heard and seen, you’re doing pretty well with a pretty shitty situation.”

  A glowing insect popped into the air in front of Carter, who flinched in spite of himself. “A dragonfly?” He’d seen a picture somewhere. Fascinated, he passed his fingers through the iridescent green wings. “That’s really incredible. Can I see that projector of yours?”

  “Sure.” Jeremy reached into his pocket, hesitated. “Or maybe no.” He cleared his throat. “Professional secret. I guess I’d better be rude.”

  The pocket was empty. Carter could see the bulge of Jeremy’s thick fingers through the worn pocket. “You don’t have one.” He stared at Jeremy. “I wondered how I could have missed something that advanced, how come I’d never seen that kind of holo projection before. My God, you’re doing it.”

  “Sooner or later I always blow it.” Jeremy shrugged. “I guess it’s some kind of . . . shared hallucination or something.”

  He was watching Carter from the corners of his eyes. “That waterfall I saw.” Carter whistled. “That was you, too? You were right there. Tell me about this stuff, will you? I’ve never run into anything like it.”

  “Yeah, it was me . . .” Jeremy dragged the words out reluctantly.

  He looked ready to run. “Hey, what’s wrong?” Carter spread his hands. “It’s not illegal to . . . do whatever you call this. What’s up?”

  “Nothing.” Jeremy managed a crooked smile, relaxing fractionally. “I’m never sure . . . how people will react. When they find out. Sometimes it’s . . . bad.”

  “Bad?”

  “Do you understand why it’s dry, Carter? Really understand?”

  “Yeah, global warming, we let too much CO2…” He let the words trail away as Jeremy shook his head.

  He knew the mechanics of water distribution better than all but a handful of people on the planet. “I think I see what you mean,” he said slowly. “I guess no . . . can any of us really understand why it’s happening? To us?”

  “I don’t understand this either.” Jeremy held out his hand and the dragonfly seemed to light on it, fanning its wings slowly. “I can make the little things like this happen when I want. The visions of the past just come on their own. I don’t know how, or why. People don’t understand this drought and it terrifies them. They don’t understand the things I do either.” He smiled thinly. “Sometimes, I guess they link the two. They can get . . . a little crazy.”

  “Like how?”

  Jeremy shrugged. “I’ve heard stories about other kids being born with . . . weird powers. Out in the Dry. People usually kill them. You run into a lot of superstition out there.” He hunched his shoulders. “It’s a god, the drought. Like it or not. And it’s an ugly one. My dad used to beat me if he caught me ‘making.’ This drifter gave me the idea of doing the magic show thing. He thought what I did was wonderful.” Jeremy gave a short laugh. “When I hit the road and tried it, I damn near got myself killed right off.”

  His tone made Carter shiver.

  Jeremy laughed softly. “Hey, it’s your fault for figuring out my scam. I’m getting careless, I guess. But I met this woman the other day. She’s kind of like me. Different. She’s an empath — she hears your emotions and your feelings. It’s been . . . a long time since I ran into someone who was . . . different. Want some water?” He went over to his campsite, fished a plastic mug from his pack.

  “Thanks. Why’d your dad beat you?” Carter asked.

  “Maybe because he was scared.” Jeremy shrugged. “Maybe because I was his son, and he didn’t understand it any more than he understood the drought. He was afraid of the drought, too. He should have been. It killed him, finally.”

  “He plowed his soul into your land?” Carter said softly. “And died with it?”

  “You were listening.” Jeremy handed him the
mug full of water. “At that party.”

  “Yeah, I was listening.” Carter drank the tepid, musty water, watching the gathering shadows turn the stacked crates into shapeless towers of darkness. “What’s it like to see the way it used to be?”

  Jeremy was silent for a long time. “Sometimes I get angry,” he said at last. “We could have stopped it, you know.”

  Carter got stiffly to his feet and went to one of the front windows. It was getting dark. He rubbed dust from a windowpane, wondering how many kids were hanging out at the truck plaza tonight.

  “I’m going to walk back to the dam with you.” Jeremy fumbled in his pack, then straightened with a small automatic in his hand. He held it comfortably and Carter noticed that the trigger guard had been partially removed to accommodate Jeremy’s thickened fingers.

  Carter looked at it. “I shot a kid once,” he said slowly. “During a riot. I pulled the trigger because I was scared and mad. I thought I’d never do anything like that again.” He shook his head. “Maybe there’s no way to keep this mess from turning into a war.”

  Jeremy looked down at the gun in his hand. “When people want something from you and you can’t give it to them . . . sometimes they hate you. Let’s go.” He slipped the gun into the waistband of his jeans. “I know a route that should be safe.”

  Carter slipped out the crack after Jeremy, shadows crowding his heels. The scabby towers of the old grain elevators filled the alleys between the warehouses with darkness. Carter and Jeremy followed the rusted railway tracks along the bank of the riverbed. Semi rigs slept in the truck plaza lot. Lights gleamed behind barred windows in the old motel, but Carter didn’t see any kids.

  They went slowly, at Jeremy’s limping pace. “Your knees hurt you, don’t they?” Carter asked. “I could get you some painkillers from the pharmacy at the base.”

  “No thanks.” The smile was back in Jeremy’s voice. “I tried booze and drugs once or twice when I was a kid. Things . . . get out of hand. Visually, I mean. You wouldn’t want to be anywhere near me.”

  The wind whispered dryly and Carter welcomed the yellow wash of light from the big halides above the lower gate. He returned the guard’s surprised salute briskly. “Thanks for the convoy.” He turned to Jeremy. “You want a ride back?”

  “No thanks. It’s a nice night for a walk.” Jeremy’s faded shirt hung open, unbuttoned.

  The light gleamed on irregular patches of shiny white scar tissue. They blotched his chest and flat stomach, ugly and visible against his tawny skin. Burn scars.

  Jeremy noticed Carter’s glance. “This old guy was pretty good at picking up my visions.” He touched one of the scars. “He thought that if I could see water, I could find it for him. Make him rich. He . . . didn’t believe me when I said I couldn’t. After that, I made up the projector,” Jeremy said softly.

  “If you need to get onto the base, come to either gate,” Carter said. “I’ll leave orders to let me know. Any time.”

  “Thanks.” Jeremy gave him a short, sharp nod. “Don’t forget,” he said. “People around here want something from you and you can’t give it to them, either.” He turned abruptly and vanished into the darkness without a backward glance.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The beans at the west end of the field were ripening too early. Nita’s feet stirred up the brown dust of the path as she carried the yoked pails of freshly picked soybean pods back to the house. Dan thought it was because they weren’t getting enough water, that a feeder line must be plugged. The beans were too immature to dry, Dan had said, so they’d have to go fresh to the local market.

  “So we pick beans, love,” Nita murmured to her daughter. “It beats chopping bushes.”

  Rachel grinned and gurgled, waving her fists.

  “Glad you agree.” Nita smiled, but it turned into a sigh.

  Carter wouldn’t talk to Dan. The town was so full of anger that it made her sick to her stomach when she went in to the market. The smart thing to do was leave before things got worse. She shifted the pole across her shoulders, wishing suddenly and intensely that she could step back across time to the hills and David and the bees. She had been safe there. Nita reached the edge of the field and walked on out to the rim of the Gorge. Far below, she could see the rocky ledges that had once been Celilo Falls.

  The picture was there, on Dan’s bedroom wall. Nita could believe in the river, looking at Jesse’s painting of the cascading water. Jesse had been remembering; it came through in the soft colors like a whisper of the past. The paintings reminded Nita of the man she had met by the cultert — Jeremy — and her vision of the river. She had had that same sense of past.

  Thinking of river water, Nita rounded the corner of the house and stopped in surprise. A battered car stood in front of the porch. She hadn’t heard it come down the road, and didn’t recognize it. One of the Coalition people, probably. They came and went all the time. Nita thumped the bean pails down on the proch, lifted Rachel out of her sling, and opened the door.

  “I wondered who the hell was sleeping in my bedroom.” A small, wiry woman looked up from the table. She had short-cropped, graying hair and the tattooed left forearm of a convoy trucker. Gold chains glinted at her throat and a half a dozen gemstones winked from the rim of her right ear. “So Danny’s finally gotten tired of sleeping alone, huh? He went for a young one, this time.” She looked Nita up and down as if she were a goat for sale in the market. “That his kid?”

  “No, she is not.” Nita flushed. “And I work for Dan. He told me I could use your room.”

  “Relax, honey. I don’t need it.” The woman stood, stretched like a cat and gave Nita a thin smile. “I’m Renny Warren,” she said. “I own this farm, in case Danny forgot to mention it.”

  “Oh.” Nita blinked. “You’re Jesse’s daughter.”

  “Yes.” Renny said the word casually, but the whip-flick of her resentment made Nita wince. Closed subject.

  “Where is Danny, anyway?” Off meddling as usual?”

  “He’s out picking beans.” Nita heard the stiffness in her voice and tried to hide it by settling Rachel on her quilt.

  “The kid doesn’t look like him.”

  “Because she’s not. Like I said.” Nita straightened, staring the small woman in the eye. “I’m not sleeping with him.”

  “A wee bit defensive aren’t you?” Renny patted Nita’s cheek lightly.

  She was enjoying this, Nita realized suddenly. She was trying hard to make Nita lose her temper. “Of course I’m defensive.” Nita let go of her anger and laughed. “Everybody in town thinks I’m in bed with Dan.” She smiled at the older woman. “I should wear a sign: ‘I am not Dan Greely’s lover.’”

  “They wouldn’t believe you.”

  “That’s why I don’t bother.” Nita smiled and a bit to her surprise the trucker returned it. “Can I get you water? We’ve got beans left from last night, if you’re hungry. And fresh tomatoes.”

  “I’ll take the water. I eat a lot better than beans.” Renny leaned against the table, her eyes on Nita. “I hear The Dalles is taking on the Army.”

  “I guess so.” Nita frowned as she filled a mug. “I’m staying out of it, thank you.”

  “You think so? Living here with Danny?” She snorted. “I guess I’ll sell this place, buy some land in the Willamette Valley.” Renny sipped at her water, her expression casual. “They’re irrigating a lot of new acreage down there. Bushes are a hot crop and they don’t take as much labor as beans. I wouldn’t need anyone year round. I could contract for seasonal crews.”

  Nita kept the smile on her face as she knelt to dangle the wooden beads for her daughter. She felt the needling edge beneath Renny’s words. She hid a smile at Renny’s exasperation. Renny was not getting what she wanted here. “Do you want me to go tell Dan you’re here?” she asked sweetly.

  “No.” Renny laughed suddenly and set down the empty mug. “Tell him I’m in town, staying down at the truck plaza. I’ll be around.” Sh
e reached out to cup Nita’s chin in her hand. “You’re too good for either Danny or this dead town. If you get tired of digging dirt, let me know. You might make a good trucker. We could find out.”

  Absently tickling her daughter, Nita watched Renny stride across the yard and climb into the car. She wasn’t quite sure what Renny had just offered.

  *

  She told Dan about Renny’s visit as they drove down to the market.

  “You never know when Renny’s going to drop by.” Dan’s voice was neutral. “How did you get along?”

  “All right, I think.” Nita shrugged. “I’m not sure why.”

  Dan gave her a thoughtful, sideways look. “Renny’s touchy,” he said slowly. “We’ve never liked each other much. Sometimes I think the only reason she keeps the farm is that she owns it and I work for her and she likes that. I don’t see much of her.” He shook his head. “Have you seen my tool folder? The one that I keep in the glove box? It’s missing. I might have put it down when I was working on the pump.”

  “I haven’t seen it,” Nita said absently. Dan felt sad and a little angry. About Renny? I am tired of knowing, she thought sullenly. She stared out the window at the concrete wall of the dam stretching across the riverbed. She could feel the town even before they reached the main street; tension hummed in the air like the buzz of a kicked beehive. Nita shivered and held Rachel tighter as her daughter began to squirm.

  “It’s early for fresh beans.” Dan parked at the edge of the market lot. “We should do pretty well.”

  Nita settled Rachel in her sling and lifted two pails of the green bean pods from the back of the truck. Dan picked up the other two pails and they walked down the block to the market. The noise made her fingers twitch.