Chapter 13: The Water Source

Resourceful. Cunning. In the less than half a day I had known him, that was my lasting impression of Jared. He possessed a kind of guttersnipe genius, a competence that was truly remarkable. He had planned his escape, scouted a new refuge, and even established a relationship with the local boss. He had stockpiled food for an emergency. And now, he had bartered for fire and was already working to build bridges with his new "neighbours." He possessed a capability that belied his age; compared to him, I felt as if my own twenty-first-century years had been utterly wasted, soft and useless. But this was a shrewdness born not of education, but of a harsh, unforgiving life that demanded you be clever, or be dead.

Soon, Jared had a small fire crackling in the brazier. The previous occupant had left behind a few meagre possessions, including a blackened, dented iron pot that was more of a small bucket than a cooking vessel. Jared took this pot and headed to the edge of the canal to fetch water. The water was right there, mere steps away. Convenient. And utterly, horrifyingly repulsive.

“Wait,” I called out, my voice a weak croak. “Are you… are you really going to drink that water?” He had just thrown a corpse into that very canal. And from what he’d said, it was common practice. The thought of it, of that corpse-filled water, thick with the miasma of death, made me want to retch. And that wasn't all. This was the factory’s main drainage channel. Foul, chemical-laden effluent with an oily, rainbow sheen was being pumped into the river constantly. And that was just what I could see. Given the general state of this world, a world of gaslight and grime, I highly doubted they had any concept of water treatment or pollution control. This canal was likely the dumping ground for every kind of filth the city produced.

“What’s wrong with it?” Jared asked, looking down at the murky, grey water in the pot. “It’s just river water.”

“Just river water?” I couldn’t keep the horror from my voice. “How can you drink this? There are bodies in it! And the factories are dumping their waste right there! That water is poison! You’ll get sick if you drink that!” I tried to keep my explanation simple, to appeal to his most basic sense of self-preservation. My refusal to wear the dead man’s clothes had been a matter of principle, of a deep-seated revulsion. But this… this water was a tangible, physical threat. My 21st-century brain, schooled in germ theory and industrial pollutants, was screaming. It was a cocktail of industrial waste and human remains. Drinking it was suicide.

“It’s probably fine,” he said with a shrug, though he looked a little uncertain now. “As long as you boil it. I’ve drunk from the river before and been alright.” At least he knew to boil the water. That was something, a small mercy. In my old world’s history, even in the West, people had drunk raw water for centuries, utterly ignorant of the microscopic dangers within. The fact that he possessed this basic piece of knowledge was a small miracle. But boiling would only kill germs, parasites. It wouldn't do a thing against heavy metals or the strange, corrosive chemicals I imagined spewing from those arcane-looking factories. The only way to make this water safe would be to distill it, a feat far beyond our meager means.

“You’ve drunk it before?” I seized on his words. “So, not all the time? Is there a cleaner water source in the city? A proper well?” I was learning how to talk to him, how to navigate the vast gulf between our worlds. Arguing, telling him what not to do, was pointless. He didn’t have the knowledge or the context to understand why. I had to guide him, to suggest a better course of action. He was, for all his street-smarts, surprisingly willing to listen if you framed it right.

“Aye,” he said. “Back in Cod Alley, there was a well. We usually got our water from there.” Cod Alley. The name sparked another of Parula’s memories, faint and hazy. That was the slum we’d just fled, MacDuff’s territory. I remembered the well. Or rather, Parula did. When she was still able to move, she had often gone there to drink from its cold, clear depths. And with that memory came another, less pleasant one: Parula had drunk from the river a few times. Drunk it raw. The memory of the foul, brackish taste, of grit between her teeth, was… indescribable.

“Then let’s not drink this,” I suggested, trying to keep the desperation out of my voice. “Let’s go get water from the well.” This time, even Jared looked troubled. My request, I realized, was not a simple one. “You want me to run all the way back to Cod Alley for water?” he asked, his voice laced with a weary disbelief. “And then run all the way back here to boil it before we can even have a drink? I’m hungry and thirsty now, Parula.”

“Isn’t there a well near here?” I asked, a wave of guilt washing over me. I sounded like one of those pampered, high-society ladies, utterly out of touch with the harsh realities of this world, demanding clean water in a sewer. “I don’t know,” he admitted, shaking his head. “I don’t know this part of the city that well. But… if you insist, Parula, I can go back to Cod Alley. Or I can ask around, see if there’s a pump or a well nearby.”

He was too good, too accommodating. The thought of it filled me with a fresh wave of fear. I didn't know how far it was to Cod Alley, but he had run for at least forty minutes carrying me. Even without my weight, a round trip with a heavy, sloshing bucket of water would take him at least that long, likely more. All for a single pail of clean water. It was madness. And asking around would take time too. I didn't want him to leave. I didn't want to be alone again, left to the mercy of my own fears and the unsettling sounds of the night. The night was growing deeper, and with it, a strange, prickling sense of danger that I’d never felt in my old life. The city felt… predatory. The shadows seemed to have teeth. Given what I’d already witnessed, sending a lone boy out into the dead of night was a risk I wasn't willing to take. If I lost him, if something happened to him, I would surely die. My survival was now inextricably linked to his. I relented.

“Never mind,” I said with a sigh that felt like a surrender. “Just… make sure you boil it for a long, long time. And don’t drink too much.” He’d drunk it before. One more time probably wouldn't kill him. We could find a better solution tomorrow, in the relative safety of daylight. “What about you?” he asked, placing the pot over the fire. He was learning my ways, anticipating my objections, my strange fears. “I’m not thirsty right now,” I lied. “I’ll drink tomorrow.” A thirst was already beginning to parch my throat, a dry, scratchy feeling, but it wasn't unbearable. I could last one night. As long as I could sleep, it would be fine. I curled up in the blanket, listening to the crackle and hiss of the fire.

Jared tossed a few more scraps of wood into the brazier, then dropped some of the stale bread into the pot to soften in the boiling, murky water. He skewered a sausage on a stick and held it over the flames. Even without proper utensils, he managed to create a semblance of a proper meal, a small act of domesticity in this hellish place. The aroma of the roasting sausage, even the rancid parts, wafted towards me, teasing my senses. But thankfully, the monstrous, uncontrollable hunger from before did not return. Perhaps it had been a one-time thing, triggered by extreme starvation. Or perhaps, having eaten, the beast within me was temporarily sated, sleeping. I didn’t know. All I knew was that I was exhausted, the fever and the events of the day having taken their toll. Soon, despite my fears, despite the unsettling sounds of the city's underbelly, I drifted off into a fitful sleep, my first night in this strange, new, terrifying world.