Summary: By Gwendolyn Clare Read by Mur Lafferty Discuss on our forums. Originally appeared in Asimov’s, 2011 All stories by Gwendolyn Clare All stories read by Mur Lafferty Rated 13 and up Ashes on the Water by Gwendolyn Clare I hoped that Ranjeet’s friends were as disreputable as promised. Ranjeet himself was late, of course. I’d asked him to park his car out on the road and meet me behind the house–my cousin is, shall we say, out of favor, and I couldn’t afford to get caught with him. So I sat on the dry, cracked ground in the shadow of the house, waiting where Father wouldn’t think to look for me. A meter away, heat rose off the sun-baked earth, wavering like water, as if the dormant land dreamed of monsoon season. I shut my eyes against the image. For years now, each summer has come harsher than the last. Soft footsteps in the dirt, and Ranjeet strolled around the corner of the house, calling, “You’ll never make it across the border, kid.” I stood up and brushed the dust off my jeans, annoyed. Seventeen and he still calls me a kid. “Why don’t you say that a little louder? I don’t think the neighbors could hear you clearly.” The closest neighbors live on the other side of a one-hectare vacant field that used to be the mango grove, before the mango trees withered. I used to sit on Father’s shoulders to help with the harvest when I was small. He keeps saying we’re going to replant the grove, but nobody’s all that eager to dig up the dead roots. Ranjeet folded his arms and leaned back against the side of the house. “You know it’s true.” “Did you get the papers for me, or not?” He pulled a thick envelope out of the inner pocket of his cream-colored sportcoat, but he held on to it, turning it over in his hands. “What are you planning to do, smuggle it in your shoes? You’re going to get caught.” I held out my empty palm impatiently. “What do I owe you?” “Nothing. This is a family matter, Riti.” He passed the envelope reluctantly. “Just don’t tell anyone where you got this.” My fingers itched to open the envelope, but it would be rude to check the quality of the forgery with Ranjeet watching. “You know I have to go. I owe her that much.” “She wouldn’t have asked you for this.” “She didn’t need to.” I would have given her much more without her asking. I wished I could trade places and let her be the one to live, but I couldn’t. All I had was this one thing left to do. # The day Priya died, I saved my water ration for washing the body. Father did not approve. He said we didn’t have the luxury of adhering to the old customs anymore. He said I was being foolish, hurting myself for the sake of my dead sister. Her soul had moved on, after all. The body was just an empty shell. He said that God had taken her. Mother didn’t say anything at all. She went out to sit on the balcony overlooking the almond grove. Hands folded in her lap, she stared into the distance with dry, tired eyes. The youngest of the almond trees were planted when I was seven, and Mother used to sit up there to watch Priya and me watering the saplings through their first difficult summer. I wondered if she thought about that, now. She refused to eat or drink, or even sleep. I think she scared Father. That left Grandmother and me to wash Priya and change her clothes. Grandmother’s fingers look as brittle as old sticks, but she held the sponge steadily, patting it against Priya’s cold skin with a serene gentleness. Mine were the hands that shook while I brushed out my sister’s lustrous dark hair. At least her eyes were closed. There had always been something in her eyes–a deep compassion, as if she really saw not just me, but everyone–and I didn’t want to k[...]
