Water Rites by Mary Rosenblum

everybody between The Dalles and the Deschutes bed.”
    “You sound like you think there’s something we can do about it.” Jesse put her cup down.
    “We can stick together and stand up to the Association!” Montoya stared into his cup. “If we don’t, if we don’t hang on, we’ll dry up and blow away like the dirt, blow right on out into the Drylands. Or into the camps.” He stood up. “I got to get going. Think about it, Jesse.”
    “You can’t fight them,” Jesse yelled after him. “Why don’t you listen to Maria and take care of your own family for a change?” She whipped around to glare down at Dan. “Why didn’t you tell him that it’s no use?” she snapped.
    Dan shrugged. The milk was warm as blood, rich and goaty. How long since he’d tasted milk? Out in the Dry, people didn’t have too many milking animals. What you coaxed out of the ground, you mostly ate yourself. When they had it, they didn’t trade it for card tricks. He shifted his weight, stretched his leg tentatively. He could walk, even if it hurt. If he took it slow, he could get around. Another day, he thought. And he’d move on.
    Through the window, you could see clear down into the old riverbed and the falls. He hadn’t noticed it yesterday, but it had been getting dusk. Dan sucked in a breath as he spied a tiny figure standing on the worn lip of the cliff, just like yesterday. A kid, he told himself. Playing. He jumped as Jesse leaned over his shoulder.
    “That’s old Celilo Falls,” she said. “My grandmother grew up on the Warm Springs Reservation. She used to tell me stories about the falls. All the tribes used to fish here.” She stared down at the dry ledges. “She talked like she’d been there herself, watching the men spear salmon from the platforms. She couldn’t have been that old.” She laughed shortly. “Hell, maybe she was. I don’t know.”
    Jesse turned away. “They drowned it all, you know. Way back in the old days. When they built The Dalles dam. She said the Salmon People kept it safe. When I was little, she told me that one day, the water would go down and it would all be there, just like in the old days.” Jesse laughed.
    “When the reservoir started going down and they finished the Trench Reservoir and started the Pipeline, I used to sit here and watch the rocks show a little more every week. That was when I was pregnant and not sure just how I ended up that way. Sometimes I thought I could almost see them — up there on the platforms, stabbing the fish with their long spears. I was just hungry, I guess, and a little crazy. Hadn’t been any salmon in that river for years.” Jesse plunked a heavy pot down on the table. “There’s nothing out there but dust. Here’s the rest of last night’s beans, if you’re hungry.”
    She sounded angry, like she was sorry she’d said so much. Dan looked out the window again, but the figure had vanished from the ledge. Jesse was old enough to remember water in the riverbed. Dan couldn’t do it, couldn’t imagine that enormous ditch all full of clear water, millions of gallons of it.
    Amy had been able to see it. This place remembers , she had said, the first time she’d gone out on a patch crew. The super had let her bring him along, little though he was. You can see how the river used to be when you stand up here , she had said. Amy would have recognized Jesse’s watercolors.
    “I know what the Association is up to,” he said.
    Jesse turned and looked back at him, the empty milk jug in her hand.
    “They want your land,” Dan said harshly. “They’re in bed with the Corps. They can bring in crew labor from the Portland camps, make more money farming beans and wheat than they can get from selling you water.”
    “That seems like a lot of trouble for the Corps, when all they have to do is send out bills right now.” She frowned.
    “It’s getting more expensive to mine water. And protect it.” Dan shrugged. “I bet the Association gives the