Not a Drop to Drink

Eight

“I can’t go right now,” Lynn argued, her arms bloody from the elbow down. A small deer carcass hung from the tree, a pile of organs and intestines underneath it. Stebbs looked critically at the jagged cut she’d made from clavicle to pubic bone. Mother’s stronger, more confident slashes had looked much neater.

Stebbs ignored her protest while he looked at the tarp she’d rigged around some green saplings, tepee style. “You going to smoke it?”

“That’s the plan. The shed’s gone, but that tarp should do the trick for now.”

“It’ll draw attention.”

“They know I’m here.”

“Don’t know you’re alone,” he countered. “If they send someone for a look and they don’t see Lau—your mother, you’ll be in a world of hurt.”

She ignored him while she skinned subcutaneous fat off the carcass. He had a good point, but she didn’t want to admit that she’d made a mistake in shooting the deer too early to freeze the meat.

“There’s another way, you know,” Stebbs said. “You can salt it, hang it in the trees to cure.”

“I don’t have enough salt.”

“I do. I’ll butcher this while you’re gone; you split with me whatever the Streamers had.”

Lynn didn’t ask how he had enough salt that he could offer to preserve a whole deer for a neighbor. The process of rotting had begun the moment the heart stopped pumping, and already the flies were gathering at the folds of the wound she’d opened.

“Go get your salt then,” she said stiffly.

Walking away from the house felt like a crime, even though she trusted Stebbs. The familiar roof looked distinctly odd from a distance, the tilted angles of the upstairs bedrooms at odds with the lightly sloping section over the kitchen where she and Mother had always camped. When it was blocked from view by trees, Lynn clamped down on the surge of betrayal that filled her gut. She pushed the ever-present worry of whether or not Mother would approve to the back of her mind, as she crossed the clover field she’d seen every day of her life but not set foot in once.

She had tucked her hair under the stocking cap, a simple gender disguise that Mother had taught her, and the cool breeze brought goose bumps to her exposed neck. They prickled down her chest and the length of her arms. Autumn was gorgeous, with the leaves changing and falling, spinning to the ground to be crushed under her boots. But their death and downfall served as warning echoes to the other living things around them: the cold is coming, be prepared.

Lynn was confident the Streamers were dead. Their meager, green fires had sputtered, then stopped entirely. Anything in a weakened state would not have survived the past two nights without a fire. She kept her rifle in the crook of her elbow as she picked her way through the long grasses toward the stream. There was no doubt that the camp of men had also noticed the passing of the Streamers. Buzzards wouldn’t be the only scavengers picking over their campsite.

In other circumstances, it would have been a pleasant walk. The countryside was resplendent with color, the sky a bright blue. The breeze shifted the grass around her, wafting the faintly spicy scent of green leaves turning brown into her face. But Lynn’s eyes saw only usefulness in these small miracles. The fading greens and yellows allowed her brown coveralls to blend nicely with the surroundings; the unclouded sky gave a little more warmth to the earth. The breeze shifting the grass covered the sounds of her movement, the slight fragrance from broken stalks masked her scent as she neared the stream.

She approached the camp from downwind, studying the area around her for other intruders. A squirrel chattered angrily and she dropped closer to the earth, aware that it was signaling distress. Lynn crept forward, ignoring the brambles that tugged at her as she moved.

The squirrel was perched warily on the opposite bank, rocked back on its haunches and regarding a straight line of acorns with suspicion. It chattered again, letting the whole woods know he was uneasy with the situation and unsure what to do about it. At the other end of the line of acorns squatted a little girl.

Her arm was outstretched, palm up, beckoning the squirrel to come closer. She was filthy, her face streaked with grime except for two clean rivulets streaking from her mouth where she’d drank from the stream. Her tattered shoes sucked at the mud as she tried to lure the squirrel closer. The sharp corner of her elbow poked through the worn crease of her sleeve.

The squirrel continued to chatter at the girl, while taking hesitant steps closer, stuffing acorns into its mouth. Lynn spotted the Streamers’ campsite thirty yards downstream. Someone had dragged a fallen tree over to a live tree with a fork growing in it, propped the dead one into the notch and stacked branches along the sides to provide some cover. It wasn’t a bad idea, but they’d neglected to put any mud or leaves over the branches. It might provide the barest shelter from the wind, but rain would drip in constantly, and it would hold no heat. A pile of half-burnt sticks lay in front of the opening.

No matter how badly it was made, the person who built it would’ve been much bigger than the child kneeling in the mud. Lynn kept her eyes on the shelter as she moved closer to the bank. Left on her own, the child would die, and soon. Even if she were successful luring squirrels, she had no way to cook meat and no source of heat. Even a stocked pantry wouldn’t save her once the snow fell. She would die of exposure, leaving a small white skeleton to be carried away by the swollen spring river.

That image caused Lynn to fire her rifle before she was aware she’d made a decision. The squirrel’s chatter stopped instantly, its body blown sideways. The girl jerked to her feet, oblivious to the fine spray of blood that flecked her pale face. Lynn crossed the stream with the gun pointing downward, hoping the girl would realize she meant no harm.

But the harm had already been done. When Lynn picked up her kill by the tail and presented it to the girl, her bottom lip shook.

“Cha-Cha.” Her tiny voice barely escaped her mouth before evaporating in the cold afternoon air. “You killed Cha-Cha.” The resounding wail that followed was much stronger, and Lynn dropped to her knees beside the child as tears started to spill forth.

“Stop!” She spun left and right, nervous that they would draw attention. “Stop, please stop.” Lynn put her hands on the tiny, sharp shoulders, alarmed at how near to the surface her bones were. “I’m sor—”

The blow came from above and to the right, knocking Lynn into the stream, her rifle spinning out of reach. She flailed wildly, gasping for air before she’d cleared the surface. A rush of cold water filled her lungs and she scrambled for the bank, where she retched it back out. She’d lost her hat; cold, wet coils of hair hung in her face and she swiped them away, searching for her attacker.

“Christ,” said a male voice. “It’s a girl.”

He was standing in front of the child, his arms spread wide to shield her, a thick branch in one hand. Lynn clutched her midsection, still queasy from the feeling of water rushing into the dark internal corners of her body. Her gun was lying in between them on the bank, but she made no move for it.

“Yes,” she said, “I’m a girl.” She struggled to her feet, alarmed at the unsteadiness in her legs.

He dropped his makeshift weapon and grabbed the child, pulling her in front of him. “Take her,” he pleaded. “Take her with you.”

“What?” Lynn crossed her arms over her chest, shivering in her soaked clothing.

The little girl recoiled, clutching at the boy and wailing incoherently. He pushed her toward Lynn, leaving small muddy ditches in the wake of her feet.

“Take her,” he repeated. “I can’t . . . I don’t know how.”

Lynn backpedaled away from his reaching arms and their struggling burden. Her unsteady legs folded underneath her, and she landed in a clumsy tangle of limbs and wet clothing. The child was shoved into her lap and instantly kicked her in the jaw. Lynn went over sideways, clutching her face.

The boy lifted the girl bodily in the air, shaking her with frustration. “You’ll die,” he screamed into her face. “You stay here with us and we’ll all die!”

A slow, building groan filled the forest, a sound so odd that hackles rose on Lynn’s neck and she dove for her gun. The boy didn’t try to stop her. His arms went slack at the noise, and the little girl puddled to the ground at his feet.

“Mama,” she wailed, fresh tears cutting paths in the grime of her face. “Mama.”

“Everything’s okay,” the boy shouted toward the makeshift shelter, and Lynn’s grip on the rifle relaxed. “It’s all right,” he said again, voice quivering with the effort of yelling. “Lucy’s fine, she’s right here with me.”

The noise subsided, replaced by the small whimpering of the child kneeling in the mud. “Mama,” she said again, peering anxiously at the tent.

“Don’t,” the boy warned her. “You can’t go over there.”

Lynn glanced at the little girl. “Is your mama sick?” She nodded vigorously in reply, but didn’t speak.

“I put her in there,” the boy said. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

“Is she yours?” Lynn asked, gesturing toward Lucy.

“What? No! I’m only sixteen,” he said by way of explanation. “She’s like, seven years old.”

“I’m five,” came the disgruntled retort.

“Is she yours?” Lynn tried again. “Your responsibility?”

“Oh. Well, I guess they both are, now,” he said, fatigue filling every syllable. The little girl scuttled to his feet and perched there, eyeing Lynn distrustfully.

Lynn gingerly probed her head where the boy had hit her. A good-sized bump was forming there; it nearly filled the palm of her hand.

“Sorry,” he said. “I thought you were one of them, coming back.”

“You’ve been attacked before?”

He nodded. “Yeah, just the once though. Not an attack really, they just walked into my camp and took our food.”

Lynn’s jaded gaze swept what he referred to as his camp, and she saw him bristle even though she held her tongue.

“There wasn’t anything I could do,” he said. “They said they wouldn’t hurt Lucy or Neva if I gave them our food.”

“Neva?” Lynn asked, curiosity spiked by the unfamiliar name.

“Mama,” came the answer, from the boy’s feet. The girl, grown bored with the conversation, was drawing in the mud. “Mama’s sick,” she repeated when Lynn looked down at her. “I can’t go in there, Eli said.”

“Eli’s probably right,” Lynn answered. “Those men—when was this?”

He shrugged. “Neva wasn’t in the tent yet, so maybe three weeks?”

“What have you been eating since?”

“Not much. I caught a fish with my hands one day. We found some berries, and Lucy’s been catching grasshoppers—” His voice broke on the last word, tears that she hadn’t expected began streaming down his face, but he was past the point of embarrassment. “I told her they were to cheer up her mom, but—”

He lost control again, a sob that shook his emaciated shoulders racked his body and buckled his knees. His arms folded around the little girl protectively, but when he looked up at Lynn there was steel in his voice. “You’ve got to take her.”

Lucy trudged along by her side, tripping when the long grasses snared her knees. She refused Lynn’s offers of help, stolidly asserting that anyone who had shot Cha-Cha didn’t need to hold her hand. As the girl had gone to bid her mother good-bye, Lynn had quickly spitted the dead animal and hidden it behind a tree, explaining the process to Eli as she did so. He’d turned even paler at the sight of the sharpened stick emerging from Cha-Cha’s throat, but didn’t argue against eating him.

As they approached the house, Lynn hailed the roof with one arm. She didn’t want Stebbs to mistake her for someone else. There was an acknowledging movement from the house, then she saw his dark form clumsily descending the antennae. Lynn glanced down at the little girl plodding alongside her. Weak as she was, a grim determination made her keep pace.

Lucy had argued, fought, pleaded, and eventually thrown rocks at Eli when he insisted that she was leaving the stream. He’d taken her aside and assured her that she could return once her mom was better, although the fleeting glance he’d shot at Lynn told her how long those odds were. Eli wasn’t trained to survive and had even less experience in tending the sick.

The grasses shifted in the wind as Stebbs made his way toward them, rifle slung across his shoulder. Any surprise he felt at seeing Lucy was well masked. “Hi there, little one,” he said. He bent down on one knee to talk to her, even though the posture was difficult for him with his twisted leg. “How are we supposed to split you, I wonder?”

Whatever animal magnetism the man had used on Lynn worked on Lucy as well. She ran forward and pitched herself into his arms, nuzzling her face against his old coat as if she’d known him forever. She pulled back, pointing a stiff finger at Lynn.

“She’s a bad girl. She shot Cha-Cha.”

Stebbs brow furrowed in confusion. “She shot who now?”

“There wasn’t anything there for me to bring back,” Lynn said for the third time as the trio huddled close to the cookstove, eating their supper.

“So you’ve said,” Stebbs said, shoving a forkful of beans in his mouth.

“I just don’t want you to think, you know—”

“That you stashed stuff in the woods and will get it later, when you don’t have to split it?”

“Yeah, that exactly,” Lynn said into her plate, face blazing. “I wouldn’t do that.”

Stebbs nodded and turned his attention to Lucy, who was eating from two jars at the same time. “Cut her off. She wasn’t starving, but was close. She eats too much right away, it’ll kill her.”

“I know,” Lynn said, stabbing a green bean with undue force.

“So the others, at the stream? You said there was a boy and a woman?”

“Yeah, Eli he said his name was, and the woman . . . I forget. Something weird.”

“Neva,” the little girl piped up. “Mama’s name is Neva. It’s pretty, not weird.”

Stebbs and Lynn shared a glance. After that, they ate in silence, the sound of their forks dinging against the sides of their jars the only sound in the basement. The fire in the little cookstove was crackling pleasantly, and Lucy began to nod off. Her head tipped to one side and came to rest on Stebbs’ shoulder.

“She’s done in,” he said, gently taking her food and fork away. “Wouldn’t have lasted much longer.”

“Yeah, I know,” Lynn grunted, pretending to search for the last bits of bean stuck to the sides of her jar.

“You done the right thing, bringing her back.”

“What else was I going to do?”

Stebbs’ face became serious as he looked down at the little head nestled against him. “There’s always options.”

“The mother won’t be lasting long.”

“What is it, do you think?”

“Don’t know,” Lynn answered. “The boy wouldn’t let the little one here close to the tent. They both drank straight from the stream, so I wouldn’t be surprised if it was cholera. I never got a look at her, and I wasn’t interested.”

“Mama’s sick,” Lucy mumbled. “Baby won’t come out.”

Lynn and Stebbs exchanged glances. “Baby?” he asked. “Your mom is pregnant?”

Lucy nodded sleepily. “Eli wouldn’t let me see her, he said the baby might come out, and it would be yucky.”

“That’s one word for it,” Stebbs said, gently urging Lucy’s head off his shoulder. “Come on now, little one, time for bed.”

“A real bed?” Lucy asked as Stebbs cradled her tiny frame in his arms. “With a pillow and everything?”

“A pillow and everything,” he promised, and laid her down on Lynn’s cot. She burrowed under the blankets, curling her knees up to her chest. Lynn tried not to grimace at the sight of her filthy head resting on the clean pillowcase.

“Think she’s got lice?”

“Lice, and fleas too, I wouldn’t doubt,” Stebbs said, motioning to Lynn to follow him up the stairs. “You’ll want to boil those sheets in the morning. And get her a hot bath, first thing.”

They emerged into the cold night, the stark brilliance of the stars shining down on them. The air was so cold, the stars so clear, that Lynn could make out the shapes of the last leaves clinging to the maple branches. Larger shapes hung among the limbs as well.

“The venison?” she asked, jerking her chin toward them.

Stebbs nodded. “Leave it there ’bout a month or so. I’ll come help when it’s time to get it down, take my share. Nothing much should bother it up there, a squirrel or two maybe. I understand you’re not too partial to those?”

“I didn’t know it was her pet,” Lynn shot back.

Stebbs sighed and looked up at the brilliance of the night sky. “Your mom taught you a lot, but she couldn’t’ve taught you what she didn’t know, like how to take a joke.”

“I’ll laugh when something’s funny,” she retorted, sinking down to sit on the ground. “And right now, that’s not a lot. My provisions are back to feeding two.”

“I’ll help, and I owe you for my supper tonight.”

“No,” Lynn said. “Bringing her back was my decision, and our deal was to split whatever I got from the camp in return for you butchering my deer. You did your half, and all I brought back was more work.”

“Maybe,” Stebbs answered. “But the deal was to split what you found. I’ll help with the girl.”

There was silence between them for a moment while a strange feeling bloomed inside Lynn’s chest, something else Mother had never taught her. Gratitude.

“Now,” Stebbs said. “What to do about the boy and the mother?”

“I’ve got my share of work,” Lynn said. “And then some.”

Stebbs lowered himself to sit beside her, an action both clumsy and endearing. “Maybe so, but if they get back on their feet, the girl won’t be your problem anymore.”

Lynn shook her head. “They’re sunk. The boy was in worse shape than the little girl. I’m guessing he’s giving most of the food to her and the woman.”

“Who is eating for two,” Stebbs reminded her.

“Like I said—sunk.”

Another silence settled over them, this one permeated with the knowledge that an argument was about to begin.

“I won’t leave them there to die,” Stebbs said.

“You were happy enough to last week.”

“It’s different now. That little girl has a family; we’re able to stop her from being orphaned. Wouldn’t you want someone to take a chance if it meant you could have your mother back?”

A long pause followed. Lynn dug her fingers into the cold ground at her feet and watched Stebbs from the corner of her eye. He was absolutely still, but she could feel his steely blue gaze.

“Those people wandered out here unprepared, they invited their own fate. The only person to blame for what happened to Mother is me.” She stood up, wiping the cold dirt from her hands. She offered him a palm. He took it, and she jerked him to his feet roughly, forcing all of his weight onto his bad leg. Stebbs grabbed at her for support and she dug her free hand into his upper arm.

“We’ll help them,” she said. “But you don’t ever talk to me about Mother again unless I ask.”

He nodded his agreement and she released his arm. He stumbled away from her, rubbing where her iron grip had been. “It’s the right thing to do. Just like bringing Lucy back here was.”

“I’ll go with you tomorrow night, after she’s asleep,” Lynn continued as if Stebbs hadn’t spoken. “The boy knows me, at least. If you walk in there, he might hit you over the head with a rock. Wouldn’t want that.”

“Tomorrow night,” Stebbs agreed, and melted into the darkness. “I think we’re in danger of becoming friends,” his voice echoed back.

The girl was deeply asleep when Lynn returned to the basement, and she didn’t have the heart to wake her. Stebbs had unknowingly put Lucy in Lynn’s own bed, and so she laid down in Mother’s cot, surprised at the waft of scent that enveloped her as she slid under the blankets. Mother’s smell was there, the outline of her body still imprinted on the mattress. Lynn fit into it nicely, and watched over Lucy while she slept.