DRY PLANET

DRY PLANET by Manilyn Nalaunan The line for the well snaked down the broken street like a serpent of ragged bodies, twisting through the ruins of what had once been the heart of Solara. The air shimmered with heat so heavy it seemed to warp the very stones, the sun beating mercilessly overhead with no cloud to soften its blaze. The buildings around them—skeletal remnants of towers, their windows hollow and lifeless—offered no shade. Dust, fine and bitter as ash, coated every surface and clung to the tongues of those waiting, so dry that swallowing felt like swallowing sand. Elsie stood among them, clutching her clay flask to her chest. Its surface was cracked from years of use, patched with resin that flaked beneath her fingers. The flask was empty now, lighter than air, and yet it felt like the heaviest burden she had ever carried. She pressed it against her ribs as though by holding it closer, she could will it full. The line shifted. Someone coughed—a raw, scraping sound that rattled through the silence like a stone kicked down a canyon. No one spoke much in the lines anymore. Words wasted breath, and breath wasted what little moisture clung to their throats. Elsie’s lips were split, tiny rivers of blood dried dark against her skin. She licked them once, instinctively, only to taste dust. She closed her eyes against the sting of it. This isn’t life, she thought. This is waiting to die slowly. A child ahead of her whimpered, tugging at his mother’s skirt. The mother didn’t look down, didn’t move, her eyes locked on the well as though it were an altar. In some ways, it was. The Council guarded it with spears and rifles, standing like statues around the circle of stone at the center of the square. The water that came from it was not shared freely—it was measured, rationed, doled out by the cup. Each family was given just enough to keep their lips wet, their hearts beating, but never enough to thrive. “Move forward,” barked one of the guards. His voice cracked the stillness, harsh and impatient. The line shuffled. Elsie clutched her flask tighter and stepped with the others. From somewhere behind her came a mutter: “Another well ran dry this morning. East quarter.” The words carried like a contagion, picked up in whispers along the line. People stiffened, their eyes narrowing with fear. Already the wells were failing one after another, and when one dried, it never filled again. Elsie bit her lip, hard enough to taste the metallic tang of blood. She forced herself not to look at the guard, not to let her thoughts spill into her face. Her grandmother’s voice came to her then, faint and cracked like old paper: There is still a spring, child. A hidden one. Where water runs free, untouched by greed. The memory flickered in her mind like a candle in a draft. The spring. The secret her grandmother had whispered about when Elsie was just a girl. Most people scoffed at such tales now, calling them stories for children, nothing but ghosts of a wetter world. But Elsie… Elsie believed. She had to. The line edged closer. She could hear the scrape of the bucket being lowered into the depths, the groan of the old rope, the hollow echo of stone. Then—silence. Her stomach twisted. Silence meant the bucket had struck bottom without water. The guard leaned over, peered down into the dark shaft. His jaw tightened. He spat into the dust. “Dry.” A ripple of despair broke across the line like a wave. Some cursed under their breath. Others stared, hollow-eyed, as if the word itself had drained the last strength from their bones. A woman at the far end of the queue collapsed, her flask clattering against the stones. No one moved to help. There was nothing to give her. Elsie’s chest heaved. She forced herself to breathe slowly, though each breath felt like pulling fire into her lungs. She wanted to scream. To rage. To demand why they waited, day after day, for drops that no longer came. But her throat was too dry for anger. A hand touched her arm lightly. She turned to see Maru, his shadowed face grim. Dust streaked his dark hair, sweat etched lines along his brow. His flask, like hers, was empty. “Elsie,” he murmured, keeping his voice low enough so the guards wouldn’t hear. “Don’t start talking about the spring again. Not here. Not now.” Her eyes burned—not with tears, for she had none left, but with a restless defiance. “And if I don’t speak of it, Maru? If I let it vanish from even my own mouth, then what is left? Just this?” She gestured to the line, to the silent, broken people clutching their flasks like talismans. “Waiting for nothing?” Maru’s jaw tightened. He glanced toward the guards, then back at her. His voice was urgent, almost pleading. “Hope can kill faster than thirst, Elsie. Don’t make them desperate. Desperate people tear each other apart.” She said nothing, but turned her gaze back toward the well. Dust swirled in the air, thin spirals dancing like ghosts above the stone rim. She thought she could almost hear something beneath it—not silence, not emptiness, but a sigh. The earth breathing, weary and hidden. The Council guard stepped forward, his voice booming. “Disperse! The well is empty.” He struck the butt of his spear against the ground, sending up a puff of dust. People shuffled back, muttering curses, dragging their feet. A few dropped to their knees, clawing at the earth with broken fingernails, but they were kicked away by the guards. Elsie didn’t move at first. Her fingers tightened around her flask until her knuckles ached. There has to be more. There must. Maru tugged her arm. “Come on. Before they notice us.” She let him pull her away, but her mind was far from the square. The whisper of her grandmother’s voice lingered, mingling with the phantom sigh she thought she had heard beneath the stone. That night, when the heat bled from the air and the stars burned cold and bright above the ruined city, Elsie lay awake. Her flask rested by her side, empty and cracked, as useless as the wells. She turned it over and over in her hands, listening to the silence pressing in on every side. But beneath that silence—faint, fragile as breath—she thought she could hear it again. A sigh. A call. The earth itself, whispering. And Elsie, her lips cracked, her throat scorched, closed her eyes and made a vow in the darkness. I will find it. Whatever it takes.