The Presence of Water

by LENA HARI

After the brutal heat of summer baked the ancient basalt canyon walls like a kiln, a series of dust storms had blown across the scablands, leaving every square inch of her home covered in dirt, dust, and debris. She couldn’t take even a simple meal of cooked partridge and potatoes without feeling grit between her teeth, which would be washed down with cloudy water or a swig of whiskey from one of her precious mason jars found while salvaging some weeks back. Her horses, dying of thirst, wasted to almost nothing before she took her dead husband’s shotgun and sent them on to heaven. Almost every living thing lay desperate and shriveled and alone. So many of her neighbors, their farms and ranches gone belly-up and orchards lost to last year’s ice storms, had already packed up and moved away, taking what they could, some even loading their homes onto skids and pulling them with teams of horses into the town, leaving bits of their lives strewn across the landscape until she scrambled to collect them and claim each item for her own: an old frying pan, jar lids, tobacco tins, a broken barrel and more. She could use it all and since this was her homestead, and she wasn’t ready to give up or give in, even though they all said she would be the first to go, she dug in her heels, rationed what little she had, and prayed.

With winter not far off, she prayed for rain or snow, or both, some moisture from the sky that could fill her rain barrels or the many buckets she left out in the yard. The big river was more than seventy miles as the crow flies, and the creeks had all since dried up; even the hanging springs withered and dried, leaving the few cottonwoods to drop their leaves too early. Almost a feral creature herself now, she lived on rattlesnake, rabbit, and anything else she could harvest. She’d not seen another soul in weeks, and while the solitude did not scare her, she took to walking to the tops of the mesas to gauge the distance of storms and look for signs of travelers—her one companion, a lone coyote whose paths and patterns brought him close enough to the cabin so that he might decide if she was small and weak enough to kill, his own food sources dwindling.

When it was time to walk the ridgeline once again, she shouldered her bag and shotgun, only to notice her boots were nearly worn out despite mending. She paused, taking a breath, and patiently repaired them with some twine she removed from a rope, pulling every stich tight, sometimes going over her needlework twice. When she was done, she stepped out into the frigid midmorning air that made her nose burn and her eyes tear.

A crystalline blanket of cold covered the cracked ground around her cabin, revealing tiny footprints of rabbit and grouse, which she imagined rolling up like a carpet and melting down in her bucket even for a few meager sips. She licked her chapped lips and for a second wondered how she might collect the frost that stuck to the pulsing white strands of the spider’s webbing vibrating in the wind, knowing how good the droplets would feel on her tongue. She dreamt of water now most every night and day, merciless dreams that left her anxious and hopeful all at the same time.

Thirst nagged at her and tickled her throat. Often, a quick turn of the head left her dizzy to the point of collapse. Just like this place, her body was failing, but she needed to go on. So today, she took a familiar path through the sagebrush; all the others had yielded little, and she was hoping for new discoveries if she could only walk on a little farther. Her gloved hands gently brushed the tops of the sage as she walked by, releasing a fresh earthy smell that calmed her and carried her forward. Each step was deliberate, and she tried to take notice of the surrounding details, always keeping her eyes open for signs of water, food, or items she might collect. In her head beat a steady pattern, pay attention all the time, pay attention all the time, because not doing so could lead to her demise, and she wasn’t prepared to die today. She moved steadily among the basalt stones, passing several narrow canyons that contained their own mazes of draws and channels, many of which she had already explored. Rabbit tracks and coyote prints caught her eye like little puzzle pieces, everyone following the same path. She paused at the base of a steep talus slope and adjusted her pack, checking to make sure her shotgun was secure, and continued on, leaning forward and climbing, carefully placing her feet so to balance on the boulders and jagged rock, praying nothing might shake loose as she made her way to the top of the mesa. The eastern cliffs overlooked a vast expanse of land, and, as she ascended, she could see the cut rock faces and canyons laid out before her like a labyrinth. Some days she would climb to the top of the cliffs and stay for hours, watching, waiting, for nothing it often seemed, but that stillness always left her whole.

Pausing to catch her breath, she turned and looked around. She was close to the top now, but she wanted to gauge her distance from the cabin. Even though she couldn’t see it at all, she knew it was there, hidden around the narrow channels, and she was thankful that it was not summer when the rocks would be hot to the touch, and teeming with rattlers. Snakes would nest in the nooks and crannies along the rocky slopes, and she recalled one summer where the hillside looked to be moving, almost entirely covered with juveniles. Now, the going was easier, save for the biting cold air and thirst.

At the top, a hawk swooped and called overhead, so close she could almost touch it and for a moment she wanted to be that hawk, imagining what it would be like to fly away and leave this desolate place. She stepped aside several cairns, stacked stones, still covered in lichen despite the cold. She scanned the ground. Bitterroot greens holding fast in the frigid air dotted the surface. She would come back in the spring, before the flowering, and harvest some for her food stores, a staple she learned of from the nearby tribes. At the cliff’s edge, overlooking the eastern channels, she took a seat, the cold from the rock sending shivers up her spine. She peered down across the landscape in a ritual pattern, looking south to north, and then east to west, to make sure nothing went unnoticed. Her eyes had grown used to this exercise, so when she caught the glint of sunlight, she froze, curious and concerned. She stood, careful not to lean too far forward over the cliff, and moved up along the rim to get a better view.

The source was impossible to make out at such a distance, and so she marked the land against the sky as best she could, and quickly descended the slope, determined to seek whatever was in the distance. Keeping the two narrow canyons to her right and the wide mouth canyon to her left, she headed due east. If she held that course, she was sure she would come upon it. Her pulse quickened, wondering if it might be something important, something she could use, or perhaps a hidden spring, or basins filled with precious water that she could carry home.

When she reached the third canyon she took off at a run, the pressure from the cold air filled her lungs with pain, but she ran all the same, finally pausing by a small tire, not from a piece of farm equipment or a truck, but something else. Curious now, she made a note of the location and continued on several more feet, where she found broken pieces of silver metal had fallen onto sagebrush and covered the ground in a collage of debris. There, half hidden among gnarled sage and dead cottonwood, were the remnants of a plane—the body and half a wing, partially crushed and caved in. She stopped, heart pounding, and dropped her sack and shotgun and ran to the wreckage.

It was a bi-plane, or at least that’s what she could surmise from the pieces scattered up the canyon. Carefully, she climbed the broken wreckage, knocking away shattered window glass as she went, slowly easing herself over the slick side and peering into the seat. Nothing. She collapsed, her body going limp as her anticipation quickly disappeared. Slipping off the back, she walked around to the other side, thinking maybe something might have dropped out before impact, but all she found were more broken pieces of the wing and another wheel. Frustrated, she exhaled and kicked a stone so hard that the cold reverberated through her leg.

Pieces of the wreckage were scattered up the narrow draw, farther than she had expected, and after gathering her things, she followed the trail of debris as it hugged the basalt rock face until something dark green caught her eye. She walked toward it, tripping and quickly catching herself, almost falling upon the body. He wore the helmet and flight suit of an airman, now covered in blood and dirt, his legs bent out in impossible angles—jagged bone exposed to air. She dropped to her knees and placed a hand on his chest, lowering her face to his mouth, waiting for some sign of life that she felt would never come, but then, a faint, ragged breath, so shallow and weak, escaped his lips, that she jumped back, falling onto the ground.

Can you hear me? Are you hurt? Blood stained his suit near his stomach and oozed from the tears in the fabric. She reached over and pulled away a piece of his suit, stealing herself for whatever horror was tucked away in the folds.

Once, soon after her husband passed, she had come upon a fresh cougar kill, the predator still feasting on the remains of a mule deer fawn. Her footsteps had scared off the cat, but when she got close enough, she bore witness to the harsh circle of life at work—entrails mixed with dirt and skin. The pilot looked much the same now, but with a large, flat piece of metal wedged firmly through his side. She closed the fabric and pulled his goggles back, revealing a broken nose and bruised eyes almost swollen shut.

Water. Water, please.

For a moment, she worried he was a hallucination brought on from her own lack of water, but his lips moved, and the words were unmistakable as he asked for the one thing they both needed—the one thing they both wanted above all else. She shook her head, unsure if he could see at all. She did not know how long he had been out there alone, frightened and wounded, wondering if help was coming at all, and now here she was with nothing to offer. Carefully weighing her options, she stood and wandered around his body, her eyes automatically drawn to look for anything salvageable. That’s when she noticed the green flight bag hanging from a bush.

Unbuckling the flap, she opened it and pulled free a hunting knife, canteen of water, and two packages of emergency rations. Her heart hammered. She couldn’t wait. With shaking hands, she took a swig of water from the canteen. There wasn’t much left, but she looked back at the pilot as he clawed the earth with one hand, seeking something, her presence, his bag, something, anything to hold. Pity moved her as she took his head gently and pressed the rim of the canteen to his lips. He sipped what little he could and her eyes followed a single drop of water that escaped his mouth and trickled over his cheek, picking up dirt and air until it landed on the ground, only to vanish.

She sat back on her heels and tore open a box of rations to find canned pork and beans, hardtack, and finally, a piece of chocolate, which she ripped open with her teeth and chewed, sighing at how bitter and rich it tasted. His breathing grew more ragged and after one more sip of water, she reached into his pockets, and found a leather wallet containing his pilot’s license. Ray St. James, Spokane, Washington, she said aloud. She contemplated keeping it, but worried some evil might befall her, so she put it back where she found it, committing his name to memory.

Please, please don’t leave me like this, he said, as he grabbed her hand, startling her. His grip like a vise.

Her gun stood upright against the rock face some eight yards away, the metal glinting in the sun. It was the one thing she could offer. The one thing she could give. She was there in five strides; the weight of the wood in her palms grounded her, so when she walked back to his side and placed the shells one by one into the chamber, her whole being focused to bear witness. One smooth action. An arm extended, a snap and click, and then the deafening echo beating off the channel walls until it disappeared into the wind.

She told herself he was like the horses, unable to survive at all, another victim of this place. With her face like stone and her eyes dry, she pulled his lifeless body toward a talus slope, where she positioned his arms and legs like a babe in the womb, and working as quickly as she could, she placed rock upon rock on his corpse until he was completely covered. She knelt down, gripping the stones as the ground seemed to sway beneath her, and looking over her work she whispered a prayer, unsure if God even existed anymore, and conveyed his soul to the heavens.

She sipped again from the canteen, licking her lips and letting the moisture sit there for just a moment. The journey home would be long, but she would pay attention to her surroundings, keep a watchful eye on the sky, and choose each step carefully and pray that she might continue to survive. She held onto this thought as snow began to fall, delicate flakes turning to droplets of water on her skin.