Free Gardens of Water by Alan Drew

and down the hill into the destroyed flatlands of town. He kept the blade of the knife cupped in his palm. He didn’t join the man—there was a solitary nature about the shepherd that was important not to disturb—but rather Sinan followed close behind and a little to his left so that he could see the man’s face. The shepherd didn’t acknowledge him or seem disturbed by the sight of collapsed buildings, and he whistled as he walked—an old song, a
türkü
about the love for a village girl. The sheep clambered over broken bricks and debris as if climbing the rocky slopes of mountaintops, oblivious to the consequences of the world. Women washing clothes in a bucket turned to watch the flock pass. A few men smoking cigarettes at a card table snuffed out their butts, got up, and followed.
    The shepherd reached a field just off Atatürk Street that was surrounded by hothouses for tomatoes, and here he stopped to let the animals graze in the dry grass. What tomatoes were left beneath the plastic domes were rotten and smelled of organic decay, yet there was enough of a hint to the fresh fruit, ripe and full of juice and seed, that it touched the hunger in Sinan. He and the other men stopped in the middle of the field, surrounded by the soft mastications of grazing sheep.
    “They’re not fattened,” the shepherd said to the men. “But they’re yours to take.”
    “Thank you, brother,” Sinan said.
    He was embarrassed to take advantage of the man’s offer, but he had little other choice. He tried to find the weakest animal—a generous offer requires generosity in the taking. Near the edge of a hothouse where the weeds were high, he discovered an old ewe, her movements slow and weak as though her joints were stiffened with arthritis.
    He pulled out his knife and took her by the chin. She raised her head as though expecting to be petted. He straddled the ewe’s haunches, turned her body toward Mecca, lifted her throat, and made a quick incision that severed the ligaments and windpipe. She kicked her rear hooves, stepping on his toes and cutting his shins through his pants. He held her head to his chest to keep her still and watched her black eye, bulged and blaming, grow soft and flat until it was nothing but a stone.
    “God is great,” he whispered.
    That’s when he heard the trucks, their heavy gears downshifting, the engines revving and winding down to a crawl. With the dead sheep’s head in his lap, he paused to watch the line of produce trucks bounce violently over potholes and pavement cracks. They were painted red with hand-stenciled flowers and gaudy calligraphy, and their brightness was shocking against the cement gray and burned-out yellow summer landscape.
    Every Tuesday in the center of town, an open market was held. At five A.M ., men wedged metal poles into the pavement, fastened canvas sheets atop the poles, and hung the fabric across the street to shade rows of wooden tables. For ten whole blocks, fruits and vegetables, fresh spices, nuts, even cheeses and olives overflowed the tables. Sinan’s stomach constricted with the memory, and he was filled with a momentary hope that produce was the cargo of this caravan.
    But as the trucks approached, he saw that the truck beds were not filled with fresh produce but instead with stacked canvas bags. The first truck passed, blowing an exhaust-filled wind into his face. Imprinted on the canvas bags were American flags and next to that in black spray paint were little crosses and a name in English that he could not read. Three more trucks passed, all of them loaded with food and other supplies. The last vehicle wasn’t a produce truck, but a water truck, the valve in the rear leaking a trail of wet on the cement.
    Following the trucks was a line of white minibuses filled with Europeans or Americans—he couldn’t tell which. Elbows out the windows, their T-shirt sleeves blowing in the wind. Fancy black sunglasses, the bill of a sports cap. A few of the people