Here, you are the animal. " He hauled the water until his shoulders were raw, the wood of the yoke rubbing the skin away. He hauled until his boots began to crack and his hands were a landscape of blisters. After the water came the wood. The women needed fuel for the fires, but the canyon floor had been picked clean long ago. Luke had to climb the high ridges to find dead ironwood and mesquite.
The wood was hard as stone. He had only a dull hatchet and he chopped until the vibrations rattled his teeth. One afternoon, in the blistering heat of midday, Luke was digging a new latrine pit at the far edge of the camp. The ground was like concrete, a mix of clay and rock. The pickaxe struck sparks with every swing.
He paused to wipe the sweat from his eyes, leaning on the handle, his chest heaving. "Is the white man tired? " Luke turned. Ayanna was standing there, holding a waterskin. She took a long, slow drink, letting a few drops run down her chin, knowing he was watching. "I am not tired," Luke rasped, his voice a dry croak.
"I am thirsty. " "Thirst is a good teacher," Ayanna said. She corked the skin. "It teaches you to be grateful for what you have. " Luke swung the pickaxe again, driving it into the earth with a grunt of rage. "I am grateful I am not you," he muttered. Ayanna stepped closer.
"What did you say? " "I said I am grateful I do not have a stone where my heart should be," Luke snapped. He dropped the pickaxe and turned to face her, his patience snapping. "I am working, Ayanna. I am doing what you asked. Why do you hate me so much?
Is it just the color of my skin? Or is it because I am a man? " Ayanna's face darkened. She stepped into his space, fearless. "You think this is about skin? You think this is about you being a man? " She gestured to the camp behind them.
"Look at them. Carver, look at Sani. Her husband was shot in the back while he was planting corn. Look at Nalin. She walks with a stick because a soldier broke her leg for sport.
You think I hate you because you are white? I hate you because you represent the end of my world. " She poked a finger into his chest, hard. "You represent the disease. You represent the whiskey. You represent the lies written on paper.
You stand there and ask me about my heart? You, who helped the soldiers find us? " Luke froze. The accusation hit the mark. How did she know? "I was a scout," Luke said quietly.
"I did a job. " "You hunted people," Ayanna said, "and now you dig holes in the dirt. It fits you better. " She turned and walked away, leaving him standing in the sun, the shame burning hotter than the heat on his neck. Yet, as he watched her walk, he felt a strange, reluctant pull. She was cruel, yes, but she was burning with a fire that he had not seen in anyone, white or Apache, in a long time. She was alive in a way he had forgotten how to be.
In the second week, Nalin began to rotate his tasks. He was no longer just a brute force laborer. He was lent out to the different women of the camp like a tool from a communal shed. "Today, you help Sani," Nalin ordered one morning. Sani was the young mother with a sick boy.