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THE DIVINERS They need water, so they tell the simple girl to snap a forked branch from the apple tree, hold it gently in her dirty, upturned palm so that the Y of the shape stretches out before her, parallel to the horizon. Walk slowly, they say, Close your eyes. But an apple is a pome, a false fruit. The branches fork only to confuse, like the apples themselves, each seed refusing the likeness of its parent— an act of survival. There is no pattern to show her the way. When she arrives, if water is below, the rod will turn in her hand, bend toward the earth like a magnetized needle. All day, this doesn’t happen. Salt gathers at the corners of their mouths—crops fading, fated for drought. And now the light is hungry, wild for darkness. They want to divine a way to the water, but the branch is weary. The girl is sullen. She drops the Y to hold her face in her hands. Everyone rushes to dig.  ...

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