She pinches off another pod, tosses it into the basket. Scoots to the side, gathers more.
“The General said he gave you a choice. But you didn’t choose this, right? There’s no way you chose this.”
“We did.” She glances up at me, a calmness about her expression. She was sad when I told her about Indie, but not about this. “It was die with Old Fang or relocate. It’s not terrible, though, Delta, truly. Look at this place.” She nods toward the waterfall, the crop fields. “If we work the land, we get a share of the resources. We have shelter, small homes not unlike Dead River, but at least the land’s not dying here. The traders have kept this place secret from us. They’ve never wanted us to know, because if we did, we’d move, and then where would their business go?”
“Maybe they didn’t know Bedrock was here. No one ventures beyond Burning Ground. And even if they did know, maybe there’s a reason they didn’t tell us. Maybe this place isn’t the haven the General pretends it is. Maybe there’s a reason traders like Flint and Clay choose the wastes over Bedrock.”
She goes on plucking pods from the bush.
“Can you at least look at me when we talk? Ma!” I shake her, forcing her to turn. Her eyes seem distant, lost. “You can’t really want to stay here, working every hour of the day.”
“I worked every hour of the day at Dead River. Only difference now is I do it for a decent payoff.”
“No. You do it because someone has forced you to, ordered you to.”
“I do it because this is the way to redemption, Delta.” Her voice is firm, almost annoyed. “This land is fertile because people here are loyal to the General. He’s gods touched. Did you see his chain? The stars that line it? He is close to them, and he believes they will return soon. If we continue to do as he says, they’ll come back. This paradise will extend beyond Bedrock. All the wastes will be reborn.”
“What the hell are you talking about? If he was gods touched, he’d be able to read. And I know he can’t, because yesterday he couldn’t read the map.”
She doesn’t even seem concerned that the map I’ve been told to protect my whole life has been exposed. She just looks bored.
“The gods’ blessing manifests in many forms. Now, where is your basket? If you don’t pull your share, you won’t get as much water.”
“Ma, we have to get out of here. You, me, the rest of the pack. You’re in danger, and I can’t protect you here. We need to leave.”
A girl a row ahead of us turns and whispers, “You’re gonna get the switch if you don’t— Oh, hi, Delta.” It’s Pewter. Her cheeks are red with sunburn, and, like Ma, her eyes seem dazed. “Where’s your basket? Why aren’t you working?”
“I don’t want a damn basket!” I practically screech. “Pewter, you trust me, right? I taught you how to dam the lake, how to mend a saddle and patch a tear. I wouldn’t lie to you.”
She considers this a moment, but turns away as the clanking toll of a wooden bell floats over the fields. Every worker jolts at the noise, heads snapping up. A mule-driven wagon is approaching. Several guards sit in the back, along with a series of barrels. “High noon water call,” one of the Loyalists shouts. “Three ladles for a met quota, one for everyone else.”
The workers grab their baskets and race for the wagon. I stand there dumbfounded, watching as they battle for positions in line, pushing and shoving. Some grab harvest from the basket of a neighbor, attempting to boost their own haul. Several fights break out, and guards patrol the line, pulling quarrelers apart.
When Ma gets to the wagon, she dumps her peas into a large barrel. From a different barrel, a guard ladles out three scoops of water. She drinks directly from the spoon, then touches her forehead in thanks and carries her empty basket back to the field. Without so much as glancing at me, she kneels and returns to harvesting.
“Ma, don’t you want to know where Bay is? Or why the General is after the brand on my back? Don’t you care that he killed Old Fang, Astra, and Cobel just to recruit you here?” She goes on picking pods. “Ma! Look at me, dammit.”
I grab her shoulder and force her to turn. Her face is slack, almost expressionless. There’s a sweet aroma about her now that drowns out the stench of sweat, and her eyes are more detached than ever. She looks toward me, but not at me. “Find your basket and tend to the land, Delta,” she says blandly. “Be loyal to the cause, or I’ll report you.”
Be loyal to the cause. The same words the General snarled while his men held me down and copied the brand on my back. I back away from Ma. She watches me indifferently for a moment, then returns her attention to the crop.
I flee down the row. I’m not even out of the pea field when Reed tackles me around the waist. I crash to the ground. The fertile land smells like wet earth—completely natural, no sweetness like the water in the barrel Ma drank from.
The truth strikes like a knife to the heart.
The General is tending to the land but drugging his workers. I will never get through to Ma. And if I don’t start pretending to be drugged also, the General is going to force the tainted water on me too.
Chapter Twelve
Back in my room, the inverted well has yielded nearly a full cup of water. I drink it slowly, savoring each drop as I watch shadows creep across the fields.
Does Ma know the water she drinks has been tampered with?
We’re used to stagnant water in the wastes. Murky, cloudy, sometimes even a touch brackish, but our purified fare was always odorless after boiling. Clean. It’s hard to imagine that she didn’t notice the sweet undertone to the General’s water. Or maybe she just didn’t care. Like every worker in those fields, it was drink the strange water or die, and she doesn’t have a warning from Asher echoing in her mind.
I’m not sure what the drug is. Moonblitz can fog a person up good, but Ma’s dazed state was different. A blitzed drinker will stagger, stutter, sometimes even pass out, but the workers today were competent, seemingly healthy in all ways except their logic. And even wasteland remedies like nightshade and humweed, which can force sleep or dull pain, don’t match Ma’s symptoms. I don’t know of anything addictive that can keep a person functional and subdued. Which means I have no idea how quickly the drug can take hold of a person, or how long it takes to get out of one’s system.
I dump out the pitcher and reset the well for tomorrow. Surviving on such a small amount of water is absurd. Even now my throat scratches, angry at the tease the cup provided.
I’ll never be able to help the pack if I give in to thirst and end up fogged like the rest of them. And even if I don’t, I can’t help Ma. I don’t know how to read the map. I sink into bed, my stomach reeling. No matter what I do, I lose.
* * *
When morning arrives, I have a plan, or at least the very crudest makings of one.
“I need to see the map,” I tell Reed as he arrives with my breakfast.
He scowls. “I’ll have a mirror brought.”
“No mirror. That’s how I’ve seen it my whole life. I need to look at it properly. Maybe I’ll be able to make sense of it if I can actually study it.”