The Understanding

My father told me that I had to go instead. He said the animals would smell his illness in the air and it would scare them off. I didn’t wonder how that could be so; everyone knows the animals can smell our water, even from far away, and that is why we need to keep routine. Still, I begged to consult with Dion, needing something to bolster my sense of duty.

There are no more trees here, and there is no free-flowing water for miles. Our water comes from underground and pours out of a spigot in the fields. A small pipe sticks up like a barren sapling, no higher than my waist. We can use all the water we want during the day, but the animals can smell it, and sometimes we see them far off on the grey hills taking thirsty draughts of wet air through their nostrils.

When I was finally allowed to see Dion, who is very busy at all times, he took the question out of my mind.

“Should I run to make it back in time?” That was my first question.

“No, child,” he tutted. Dion always thought with his whole body. I could see his thin knee bouncing as he sat with a cane across his lap. I am not a child but I have made the mistake of correcting him once before. “Just come inside before full dark, like your father does.”

“Won’t some animals come to the spigot right away? While I’m still there?” More sensation than sight, my gaze took a nervous path around the room, already watching for things to crawl from the tiny gaps in the log walls.

“Only the birds, child,” he said. My pulse slowed a little; I knew birds well enough. “Doesn’t your father tell you anything?”

“How much water?” I asked, providing his answer indirectly. Whenever my brother grows old enough to dress himself, that’s when my father will finally teach us about the important things.

“Turn it down until there are only drops, and then let it come back up to a trickle.” Dion’s tone approached something paternal now, and there was softness in his expression.

“What would happen if we left the faucet alone tonight?” Now I was only curious. I had already steeled myself to do it.

“We can’t afford to miss a day.” I knew there was some understanding between ourselves and the animals, but how fragile was it?

“Would they leave forever? Go to the place the water comes from?” I asked, feeling very wise.

“That place is too far away, but there are others, closer...” Dion took hold of his wiry beard wistfully. His half-blind eyes wandered over my head and a distant expression overcame him. Then he closed his eyes, as in sleep. “I suppose we could send another fellow out instead—“

“No, I can go,” I interrupted, burning with shame. I wouldn’t just be disappointing my family if I let the task fall to anyone else. Now my pride compelled me, and I had a fancy to wait on the high tower and watch the animals that came in the night.

It was the beginning of the afternoon when Dion dismissed me. I tended to my father (whose cough was, indeed, worsening, and the sour smell about him more noticeable) and I made sure not to neglect my own job. I patched the mud mortar between the towering, vertical logs that kept our hamlet secure. I drew water from the spigot beyond the wall. I saw through new eyes how quick the birds arrived when I filled another bucket. Crows and chickadees watched me. Once, a hawk joined them. There was peace upon them like a spell whenever the water flowed. It stirred my sense of clemency, and gave me satisfaction that I could be the one to quench their thirst later.

The sun wasn’t quite to the horizon when I finished my work and stood by the woven-branch gate. I walked between the safety of home and the far-off spigot two or three times to gauge the distance. Then I ran to see how much faster that was. Some neighbors watched me from the scaffolding along the wall, but nobody spoke to me; I think they all knew I was afraid.

I waited until there was a skirt of purple on the eastern horizon, and then I marched back out to the spigot. Something felt wrong about being here at nightfall, though I’d done it many times in daylight. But the ubiquitous dust on the ground still smelled the same. It felt chalky against my skin where it coated the small faucet knob.

A torrent of water came out after I turned the spigot a little too far. The sound of it startled me. It splashed up from the ground and smacked my shins, coating me in its wet smell. A jolt of fear came over me as I wondered if the animals would smell me too. I turned it down hastily until it was only drops, as Dion had commanded, and then I lost my nerve and ran back to the gate.

There was still enough water, I reassured myself. I heard each slow drop patter against the sand. I didn’t dare turn around until I was inside again. Birds gathered in the grainy mud and dipped their heads low. Still conscious of my new water-smell, I climbed up the highest scaffold so I could peer over the wall without fear. No animal would reach me up here.

Scurrying things came over the shallow, rolling hills in droves. Their shapes were too small to distinguish. Then came larger shapes that seemed like foxes or maybe raccoons. I watched them while my wet legs grew cold, ignoring the chill as it spread across my whole body. A handful of deer came, painted grey in the waxing moonlight. The deer stamped and scratched at the ground under the dripping spigot. They snorted.

Then something new happened. The smallest animals left the spigot in ripples, like a flood spreading across the plains. The deer scattered and the foxes melted into the moon-pale ground. Something large and as pale as dry grass came. Its form was like a gigantic fox, but the body was bulkier and the snout longer. Though it moved on four legs like any other animal, I worried that this new creature could reach over the palisade spikes if it stood straight up. I lowered myself to watch it through a crack in the mortar.

It snuffled at the dirt. There was a wide ring of dark, damp ground around the spigot, and it paced the whole circle with its nose down. Then I remembered a word from my brother’s dingy picture book: “dog.”

The dog raised its head until it was looking straight at the sky, and it smelled again. I remembered that my legs and shoes were still a little wet, and I shrunk back even more against the wall, turning my back and pressing myself against it. I heard the dog's great, padded feet come closer. Its breath huffed just beyond the wall, below the thin platform I cowered on.

A low rumble came from beyond the wall and then something pressed against it. I heard the old, dry logs creak. A shadow appeared and slid across my body. I screwed my eyes shut and tried to hold my breath.

“Girl,” it breathed. “Stand.” It wasn’t really speaking, not to my ears, but I knew what it said. I cowered further into myself.

Then it vocalized: a sharp, short, and loud sound. My ears rang and my body jolted to its feet. I turned slowly, its breath wafting over my hair and shoulders. The outer walls creaked again under its weight. It had brought both front legs to rest against the logs, and it stood, peering over the top, just as I had imagined. Now it searched me with its black eyes. Its head was as large as the big millstone.

“Why do you deprive my people of water?” It challenged me. Again, no word was spoken, but I understood its meaning. Its words came clearer when I looked it in the eye. A noise like a man's voice mixed with thunder emanated from deep in its chest, rippling out of its throat. I realized it was growling; I had never heard a fox, or any other animal, growl so deeply. Its black, crusty lips parted to bear teeth as long as my forearm, blunted at the tips, cracked, and yellowing.

“I gave you water,” I spoke into the dead air. My voice was stronger than I could’ve imagined it would be. “It’s there,” I pointed weakly to the space beyond the dog. Its lips wrinkled further, revealing dry, black upper gums.

“You gave us nothing,” it snarled in my head. “Do you know why this is done?”

Why what was done? The water offering?

“Your people give my people water. Why?” It stressed the question again.

“…so that we might live in peace,” my voice cracked and I averted my gaze from the pale dog. I looked at my feet instead and repeated the old phrase, burned into my memory. “And when the animals—your people—fall, we claim the substance back from their bodies.”

A wordless affirmation came from the dog, followed by a challenge I was not equipped to meet. “What do you propose is a fair exchange?”

I was afraid to speak, so I thought. It didn’t seem to begrudge me my thinking, but I could feel it probing at the edges of my reasoning, investigating.

“I could turn on the faucet…to let more water out,” I suggested, though it didn’t feel like the right answer. The dog’s eyes were cold. I noticed cracks running across the flesh of its nose, a maze of pink-tinged canyons. I could feel a fraction of its thirst overtaking the back of my own throat, threatening to choke me, and I wondered if the dog was doing this to me, or only my own guilt.

“Do you have any children?” The dog asked.

“No,” I told it the truth. Its eyes wavered, searching me.

“Mother? Father?”

“My father is sick.” The dog drew new air through its nostrils, smelling me again. A pit had formed in my stomach.

“I smell his illness on you. He will not do.” Its lips twitched and I could see the tips of its fangs again, if only for a moment. “Sister?” It searched me. “Brother?”

“No,” I lied, because it was the only acceptable answer. “I am alone.”

"Then give us yourself.” The dog opened its mouth, putting my heart into a state of frenzy. As its mouth came closer, my arms were frozen in place, and my feet fixed to the flimsy scaffolding. I thought of my fruitless half-obedience, my father who still needed a caretaker. I thought of my brother, still sleeping peacefully. I tried to fix him in my mind. I had saved him. The dog’s teeth opened wider and it tilted its head to fit its mouth around me. Its hot breath reeked of carrion. I screwed my eyes shut. I pictured my brother at peace. At least I had saved him, and it would be over soon.

“Wait,” the dog said in my mind, its maw still hovering close around me.

“Get it over with,” I shouted.

“I will not take a liar,” a wave of hot air huffed over me and it withdrew, closing its jaws. “Bring me the child.”

“No,” I whimpered. It was unthinkable, though relief was already coursing through my blood, as sweet as cold water. It was unthinkable; I couldn't give him someone else, let alone my own blood. It had been my own mistake.

“His punishment will not be as harsh as yours,” the dog said, and the corners of its mouth drew upwards in a way that mimicked a smile. My heart sank, but my mind raced, lighting up with new possibilities. Could he live? Could we both live? Where was the trap? I knew there must be one. Is there a deal I could make? Could I be clever and wise?

“I would not trick you,” the dog lowered itself to the ground and I could feel my limbs again, could breathe a little deeper now that it had withdrawn. “Bring him to the gate.”

What if I could trick the dog?

“You will not,” its voice loomed in my mind.

I stole down the scaffolding, all my limbs trembling. I thought a fall might kill me and so I made no effort to check my frail body, just in case I might have that mercy, to escape both the dog and the betrayal. But something outside of me made my grip sure on every rung of the ladder. Then I was on the dry ground again.

I opened the door of my father’s house and it was completely silent, even though it always ordinarily creaked. I opened the door of my brother’s room, where he was fast asleep in a pile of linens, and he never woke, even when I lifted him in my arms. He was just too big for me to comfortably carry him, but I had no trouble leaving the house again in silence and bearing him to the gate. The dog sat outside, so tall that the bottom of its chin wasn’t even visible from here. My brother stirred.

The gate opened for me and I stepped across, barely in control of myself anymore. I lowered the child to the ground, where he awoke and sat up. He looked at me first, still bleary-eyed. A glimmer of warmth and recognition, passed across his dark eyes before the presence of the other being registered. Then he turned and gazed upon the dog, and began to tremble.

It lowered its face to us and I recoiled at the nearness. My brother reached his arms up high and grazed the leathery nose. Investigative, even though he was afraid.

“Dog!” He chirped. It was one of his few words.

“I am something much older than that.” I knew the animal included me in its psychic response only as a correction, and perhaps a courtesy. My brother looked back to me with wide eyes again, a dawning sense of wonder filling him up. He was thanking me in the way of toddlers for bringing him such a wonderful surprise, such a wonderful dream to wake from in the morning. I felt my eyes sting and well over with precious tears, spilling a few drops on the ground.

My brother wasn’t really old enough for me to know him yet, but I realized I loved him anyway.

The animal, not dog but something else, sat back and regarded us quietly in an agonizing silence. I embraced my brother, trying not to weep any longer so he wouldn't be afraid. After I set him back in the dust, the animal hunched over him and rumbled at me again in that frightening way. I stepped back out of instinct and fear. Then the gate shut between us.

“He is small,” it remarked, its voice winsome. For a moment I wasn't afraid anymore, but that moment passed quickly.

Before I could cry out, the animal closed its mouth around my brother—gentle, gentle, but also final—and then it opened its wicked teeth again. There was no blood.

Something tiny sat in my brothers place. Long-eared, round and fragile, he turned to face me and his tiny nose twitched. His dark eyes still recognized me.

“A jackrabbit?” I cried. “We eat those! We hunt them and we—”

“It is the only kind I could make him,” the ancient one snapped. I felt its chastening close around me like a vise. “I gave him the best I could offer, which is more than I can say for you.”

My brother the rabbit fidgeted, twitching his tail and ears, looking back and forth between us. I sank to my knees and reached out to pet his soft head, but he hopped away from me.

“Will you protect him?” I let the tears flow freely now, resting my fists on the dry earth.

“I protect all my people. It is why I had to punish you,” it replied. “Make the water flow again.”

Mechanically, I stood, finding myself at the spigot before I understood that I’d been moving. I twisted the valve just a fraction more, until the water streamed out in a trickle. That was all it would have taken before. I stood and cried openly into the wet earth. My brother came and lapped up the new pool as it widened, fresh water mingled with bitter.

I looked around, and the pale ancient was gone. I realized that many other animals would smell the new water and return, so I crouched in a final attempt to pat my brother's head. He hopped away from me a second time, stubbornly. Without looking back, I ran to the safety of the gate. I shut myself into my room and cried until the sun was in the sky again. Then it was time to turn off the faucet. There were no animals around anymore.

My father didn’t ask where my brother was, because he was too sick to speak to that morning. Instead, I sat with him and made up stories. He wanted a wet rag for his burning forehead, so I shared my sorry excuses and sent someone else to fetch it instead. I sang songs to him. I tried to pretend that I didn’t know what I had done.

That night I went to turn on the water again. The first animal to greet me was a small rabbit, who watched with gentle, knowing eyes.