Not everything was sunshine and rainbows in Nick Hollow. It was a rural area and most were poverty-stricken. Droughts were major issues. In other words, Heather has a terrible birthday.
Heather turned eleven in the deadest, hottest part of summer. The peak of the dry season. Nick Hollow was in the throes of a drought; and many of the crops had died and the grass was withered and brittle. There wasn't much food to go around, and water was scarce.
"Go to the well, dear." Her mother said after a meager breakfast of a handful of cooked grain. "Take your brother. I need water." Heather nodded. She climbed the stairs, still rubbing at her face and yawning from sleep.
"Picket, we've got to go to the well." Picket rolled over in bed.
"It's too hot. There won't be any water there."
"We've got to go anyways. Mother says."
"I'm hungry."
"There's food downstairs."
"Not enough." He mumbled.
.
.
.
Heather returned to the kitchen, pacing back and forth while she waited for her brother and periodically peering out the window. It was so hot. She was already sweating. Picket came downstairs, yawning, and ate his food quickly.
"Is there anymore?" He asked hopefully. Sween shook her head.
"No dear, I'm afraid there isn't. Go to the well." Heather thought she looked exhausted. Well, being pregnant wasn't helping that much, she supposed. But the last few weeks had weighed heavily on everyone. Most of the children in the surrounding homes were too tired to play and too tired to do much of anything. Heather herself felt slow and sluggish most days, and the food she did get never seemed to be enough.
"C'mon Picket." She said, grabbing her brother's hand and pulling him towards the door. "let's go." Picket reluctantly followed her, picking up a large bucket and handing it to Heather, and grabbing one himself.
"Don't stay out in the sun for too long," Sween warned, "You'll get sick."
"We won't." They chorused.
.
.
.
It was a long, dusty, hot walk to the well. Heather's fur looked more brown than white just twenty minutes in. Other children were carrying buckets to fill, and they met up with a few that they knew along the way.
"Blasted miserable weather, huh?" Bray, a boy who lived about six miles west of them, commented. "My ma had me up before the sun had risen to get water. There's none in the creek near us."
"Ours is all dried up too." Picket said. "And mother's due to have the baby any day."
"There aren't any midwifes near you, are there?" Corliss, Bray's twin, said, brow furrowed. "When my ma had her last baby, it died cause' the midwife didn't get there soon enough."
"I bet that won't happen." Picket scoffed. "Heather and I didn't die."
"Well, you weren't born here." Bray said.
"Huh?" Picket looked confused. Heather kept her gaze trained on the ground.
"Well, I overheard my pa talkin' to Leemond, the doctor, and he says he didn't deliver either of you. He says that you came here after and Heather was only a toddler and you was only a babe." Corliss said. Picket shrugged.
"What's that matter? We were raised here, weren't we? So was my mother."
"There, you say mother instead of 'ma'. That's how they say it down south." Bray's tone was accusatory. "And your pa isn't from around these parts. We all know that. He talks funny."
"Don't you talk that way about my father!" Heather snapped suddenly, eyes flashing. Bray stuck his tongue out at her.
"Why? What's a little doe like you going to do about it?" He mocked. "You're just a worthless little half-breed with an' invader pa and a hollower ma." Heather's throat seized up, fury and shame stirring in her stomach. "See? You can't even talk. You're afraid of me and of everything this whole world has to offer." He laughed. Corliss cast Heather a look of sympathy, but didn't say anything. Picket looked just about ready to tackle Bray.
"I'm not the one who's afraid." Heather said, voice very low and quiet. Bray stopped laughing.
"What'd you mean by that?" He snapped, stalking forward. He was a whole two years older than her-and a good deal bigger. Heather didn't move.
"Cowards mock those whom they fear." She said quietly. "I feel sorry for you." And she stomped off down the road.
At least the well wasn't empty.
What a terrible birthday.