Drought Read Online Free PDF Page B

thought it should feel. Squirrels never stopped twitching their tails; it seemed wrong that this one was so still.
    “I’m sorry,” I whispered.
    “You’re too soft,” Mother said, patting my cheek three times with her rough palm. She didn’t understand that I was apologizing to the squirrel. I didn’t try to explain.
    Mother returned to the tree. While I stared at her first victim, two more landed by my feet.
    Then my squirrel’s tail twitched—just a bit.
    “Mother! It’s still alive!” I called.
    She turned back swiftly to look at me. “Did it bite you?”
    “No.” It was far too weak for that.
    “Break its neck,” she said.
    I shook my head.
    “It’s the kindest thing to do.” Her voice was softer.
    When I didn’t move, she started back toward me. “Must I do it?” she asked.
    “I’ll do it!” I cried. I couldn’t stand to see her kill this squirrel.
    “Best hurry. We’ve got the fox traps to check, still,” she ordered. Then she turned back.
    I put my hands around the squirrel’s tiny neck; I imagined I could feel the blood pulsing in its veins. “Could you run away?” I whispered. But I knew that the squirrel was far too weak for that.
    The rain was falling harder; I felt drops running down my face. I imagined what I could do if this was consecrated Water, with my father’s blood, coming from the sky. I could tilt the squirrel’s head back, let it fall in his mouth just like our Communion.
    I wanted to save the squirrel so badly.
    The squirrel’s paws hung limp, but its claws felt sharp. I wondered … I wondered if I carried its salvation in my veins.
    It was something I’d thought about before: if my father’s blood was holy, then could my blood be holy too? But the only time I’d asked my mother, she’d slapped me.
    “Never speak of that,” she’d ordered.
    Five more squirrels were sitting in the leaves near me. Mother would finish soon.
    I drew the claw across my wrist, but it left only a white scratch. I pressed harder, and blood welled along the line of the scratch.
    Then I turned the squirrel on its back, cradled it in my hand, and held my wrist over its mouth. Rain ran over my hand, blending with the blood. At least one, two, three drops fell, I was sure.
    “Praise Otto,” I whispered, because it seemed like something had to be said.
    The tail twitched again, and again, and then the squirrel sprang to life. It flipped in my hand and gave my finger a good, hard bite.
    I cried out and dropped the squirrel. My finger hurt, but I was exhilarated. I had saved a life.
    “Ruby?” Mother dashed back to me, her eyes searching and quickly landing on the hand I was cradling close to my chest. She grabbed my hand to inspect it.
    “It bit me and ran away,” I said.
    “You’re bleeding,” she said.
    “It bit me hard.”
    But her fingers ran over my wrist, and her eyes met mine. In the dark I couldn’t tell if she was angry, or confused. But then she let out a half groan, half sob and pressed her fingers against the cut on my wrist.
    “I didn’t want it to die,” I said.
    She tilted her head back and stared at the sky, then wiped tears—or perhaps just raindrops—away with her free hand.
    “Now we know,” she said.
    Mother never made me go out on trapping trips again. She swore me to secrecy. It was only years later that we told the Elders about my blood—only when they had to know.
    Gabe is back with the bucket. It’s barely half full, swirled with mud.
    “Thank you,” I tell him. “Now, please, go home—both of you. Rest for tomorrow’s harvest.”
    “Yes. We should.” Gabe cannot seem to stop staring at my arms. He swallows hard.
    “Good night,” Hope says.
    Boone moves for the door too, but I block his way. “Not until I’ve healed your ankle,” I say.
    He frowns, but he does not leave.
    I hold my arm over the bucket and ready the rock, hovering over my vein. Then I make a quick, hard slash.
    Boone sucks his breath in through his teeth. Some of