What they were both thinking as they left, slinging the carrying pole between them: We have the most important thing, water.
The two stood at the door and looked into the glare and the heat and the dust. Black flecks were floating about. Red flames could be seen beyond the hills. The wind was coming this way. As they thought this, a spurt of flame appeared at the top of the nearest hill and at once ran up a dead white tree and clung there, sending up flares of sparks.
"If the wind doesn't change the fire'll be here in an hour," said Dann.
"It can't get inside the rock houses."
"The thatch will burn over Daima," said Dann.
Well, thought Mara, haven't I just decided it doesn't matter what happens to dead people? She felt sad, nevertheless, and angry with herself. She thought, If you're going to feel sad every time someone dies or goes away, then that is all you'll ever do. But she was wiping the tears away. Dann saw and said nicely, sorry for her, "We'd better go if we don't want to be roasted too." A thin line of flames, almost invisible in the sunlight, was creeping towards them in the low, dry, pale grass.
They walked, then ran, though Mara was pleased she had the stick to hold on to, through the rock houses, up the first ridge, down past the already half-empty waterholes, each one clustered with spiders and scorpions and beetles — some dead, some alive — up the next ridge and down to the stream, which was running so low that it was only a string of water-holes with wet places between each.
Dann set down his can, told Mara to do the same, and caught two frogs, killed them with his knife, which he took from under his tunic, and skinned them — all in a moment. She had never seen anything so quick and so skilful. He gave her some pink meat to eat. She had not eaten meat, or could not remember doing so. She watched him chewing up pink shreds and felt her stomach heave, and he said, "If you don't, you'll starve."
She forced the meat into her mouth and made herself chew. This hurt, because it was tough and her teeth were loose from starvation. But she did chew, and swallowed, and it stayed down. And now, for the first time in so long she could hardly remember, she needed to empty her bowels. She went off a little way into the grass, squatted, and the stuff poured out. Last time there had only been pellets, like Mishka and Mishkita's black, round pellets. She was losing water to the earth. This was how people began the drought sickness, wet shit pouring from their backsides.
"Perhaps I have the drought sickness," she shouted to Dann from her place behind tall grasses; but he shouted back, "No, you aren't used to enough water."
He made her kneel by one of the holes and drink, and drink again. Then he drank. They stayed there, side by side, feet in the water, their flesh soaking up wet. She was feeling her hair with both hands, wishing it away, knowing that if she put it into water the stiff, greasy clumps would not change. He watched. Suddenly he took his knife, said, "Bend your head." While she was thinking, Oh, he's going to kill me, she felt the knife blade sliding over the bones of her skull and saw the horrible lumps falling into the sand. She kept quite still for fear of being cut, but he was skilful and there wasn't a scratch. "Look at yourself," she heard, and bent close over the water and saw that her head was as smooth and as shiny as a bone or a nut; and she began to cry and said, "Oh thank you, thank you."
"Thank you, thank you," he mocked her gruffly, and she saw that thank-yous had not been part of his life.
She thought that her face, all bones, all hollows, made her smooth head look like a skull, and she again drank, wishing the water to fill out her face, her flesh.
"We'd better get a move on," he said.
The sky behind them, where the village was, was black with smoke, and greasy burnt bits were falling everywhere around them.
She was thinking, I can't move, I can't. Running here from the village, up and down the ridges, had worn her out. Her legs were trembling. She was thinking, Perhaps he'll just go off and leave me if I can't keep up. He had gone off with those two men, hadn't he? — without a thought for her, or for Daima?
"What happened to those two men you went away with?"
He frowned. "I don't know." Then his whole body seemed to shrink and shiver. She could see little Dann, whom she had held trembling against her. "They were... they beat me... they..." Dann could have sobbed, or cried out, she could see.
"How did you get away from them?"
"They tied me to one of them with a rope. I couldn't keep up with them. Sometimes I dragged behind them on the earth. One night I chewed through the rope. It took a long time." Then he added, "Perhaps it wasn't so long. It seemed long. I was just a child. And then I was starving. I came to a house and a woman took me in. She hid me when the men came to look for me. I stayed there — I don't know how long."
"And then?"
She could see he would not answer much more — not now, at least. "I travelled north with some people. We came to a town that was still — it had people in it, it had food and water. And then there was a war again. I would have been a soldier, so I ran away again." And he stopped. "I will tell you, Mara. I want to know about you, too. But come on, we must go, quick."
Again she was pleased that she had the stick between them, shoulder to shoulder, to steady her. They walked along the big watercourse, not close to the water, where the bones were heaped up, but halfway up the ridge. From there they could see the big flames leaping and climbing and dancing all over the hills where the big cities were. Well, those hills must have burned before, and often, and still the old walls stood.
"While you were travelling," she addressed Dann's back, "did you find out about..." But she hardly knew what she wanted to ask, since there was so much she needed to know. "Has there been this kind of drought before? Or is it only here?"
"I'll tell you," he said, "but let's keep quiet now. We don't know who might be around."
"There's no one. Everyone's left, or they're dead."
"There are people on the move everywhere, looking for water or for something better. Sometimes I think that all the people alive are on their feet walking somewhere."
It was mid-afternoon, the hottest time, the sun beating down and the earth burning their feet. Mara's naked head ached and throbbed as she walked with her free arm across it. The air was full of dust and of smoke. The sky was a yellowish swirl with dark smoke full of black bits pouring across it, and the sun was only a lighter place in the smoke. She wanted to lie down, sit down; she wanted to find a rock and creep under it.
"We must keep moving, Mara. Look back." She screwed up her eyes to look where they had come and saw that smoke was rising from where the village was, and farther on too — the flames were racing to the watercourse, and soon would cross that, in a jump, and reach the one they were walking along. Would those piles of bones burn, putting an end to memories of so many animals? Dann saw how she held her arms across her pate, and found a bit of cloth in his sack and gave it to her to drape across her head and make a bit of shade. She saw that sweat poured off him everywhere, felt it running down her too. She was afraid that the water she felt running down her legs was wet shit. She quickly looked, but no, it was sweat. She was afraid because of losing all that water, and went to a waterhole to drink, with him. They drank and drank, both thinking that they must while it was there. Then he said, "Come on: if the wind changes, the fire'll catch up with us."