A Time to Die

  “Who are you?” I swallow the question I want to ask, “What are you going to do to me?”

  “I’m Black. Who are you?”

  “I already knew your name. Are you Independents?”

  He shrugs. “We are albino.”

  Albino people? I saw an albino ferret once, sold for lunch at the town square market. I can’t see if Black’s eyes are red like the ferret’s were. Willow’s aren’t. Hers are a very light purple.

  “Do you originate from the people who chose to stay in the West?” Black doesn’t answer, but I can’t stop. “I didn’t injure the land. The fire I burned was safely built right beside the river.”

  He holds up a hand. We step down into a thinned wooded clearing. Moss covers every inch of ground, dotted by small stone-stacked huts with woven, animal-skin roofs. Twenty dogwood trees cover the small village like umbrellas of snow. Each one is in some stage of bloom, white flowers stretching open and painting the air. They seem dwarfed and fairy-like beside the towering evergreens and oaks.

  One wide pink dogwood sits on a raised knoll beside a clump of huts. Beneath it, a giant square slab of stone stands upright in the mossy ground, like a tombstone. Two small arches are carved from its base. I am led toward this stone.

  When we reach it, my arm is released and I groan my relief. Before I can rub my shoulder, I’m shoved to the ground. Black removes my boots and pushes my feet through the two holes at the base of the stone. The freedom feels good on my sore legs—until heavy chain shackles clamp around my ankles on the other side of the stone. My socks are crooked and bunched beneath the shackles.

  At least I’m sitting, though I’m uncomfortable and vulnerable.

  The albinos disperse into different stone houses. Black drags Willow out of sight. They’re leaving me unguarded. They’re also leaving me with my belongings. Don’t they fear I’ll escape?

  I wiggle my feet once I’m alone. The chains clank on the other side. My socks are still bunched. I can’t see through the arches over my ankles and there’s not enough room for me to squeeze a hand through to reach my feet. I push against the stone with my hands. The effort results in further pain through my already tortured muscles.

  I gasp. My NAB. Maybe Skelley Chase can use his “I can do anything” power to help me.

  I glance around. Some albino women mingle near the furthest house. Black and the other albinos who brought me here are not in view. I slide my pack off my shoulders and pull out the NAB. I go straight to Skelley Chase’s communication bubble. I press the Talk/Type button and whisper a message while monitoring the village with narrowed eyes.

  ~I need help. I don’t know what you can do, but I’ve been captured by albino Independents. They are going to make me atone for something. I don’t know what that means, but I’m a captive.

  I pull out the sentra and snap a picture of my feet shoved through the stone and then another emotigraph of the village. I send them both to him along with my message. I stare at the screen for several seconds as if that will hasten his reply.

  Something churns inside me, sickened by asking Skelley Chase for help. Will he help me? What can he do, anyway? He doesn’t know where I am. In fact, has he ever really been interested in helping me?

  Hawke has. I should have considered him first. I send the same message to him, but tweak it a little.

  ~Hawke, I need help. I’ve been captured by albino Independents. I don’t know what you can do, but they’re going to punish me for something. Can you help me?

  I reread the message. It looks dramatic and . . . desperate. “Send.”

  “Put it away.”

  I jump at the quiet voice and look up. A tall, half-naked albino man stands before me, bald, but with thick eyebrows and a smooth beard. Behind him stand Black, Willow, the handless man, and several other albinos.

  I slip the NAB back in my pocket, just as I hear a soft pop! come from it. I dare not look at the response.

  “What is your name?” The tall one asks. Inside, my heart lifts. We’re off to a good start—they’re not dragging me away to a tree cage.

  “Parvin Blackwater.”

  “I am Alder. I help lead this town and I judge misdeeds. We shall discuss yours in a moment. Where are you from?”

  “I didn’t break any laws that I know of.” Black glares from behind Alder, but I return my gaze to Alder. His face remains blank. “I’m from the East.”

  “There is no East,” Alder says.

  I look away. He might see me as an invader if I tell him, but my other option isn’t very appealing. “I’m from the East side of the Wall.” The atmosphere turns silent. “I was betrayed and sent across the Wall as a Radical for not having a Clock.”

  I catch the hint of a murmur from somewhere in the back of the small crowd. “. . . like the other ones. The woman . . .”

  “Has someone else come through here?” My breathing comes in short breaths. “Someone from my side?”

  Alder studies me. “How did you get here?”

  “I climbed down the cliff and was attacked by a pack of wolves, coyotes, and bears, but got past them into the forest. I’ve been traveling for days trying to locate Independents to find guidance. I had no intention to break rules—”

  “Yet you did. You need to understand our beliefs to know what you’ve done.”

  I don’t want to know what I’ve done. I want to stay ignorant, believing myself innocent, but Alder doesn’t care what I want.

  “The destruction of the West side of this country gave us the opportunity to save what people spent their lives destroying.” Alder watches me in a moment of silence.

  Am I supposed to know what he means?

  He continues. “Our lives are devoted to working and caring for this land, particularly the trees and growths of nature. They were mistreated and used at people’s whims.”

  “But aren’t they just plants?”

  He narrows his eyes. “Nature is our equal. It relies on us for care. Mistreating this forest is like mistreating a child—both make you an inadequate caregiver worthy of punishment. We cannot care for all, but we do our best with the number of people we have.”

  I realize I’m frowning and staring. I straighten my shoulders and nod in nervous understanding, but his words don’t sound right. “I thought God made this Earth for us to live in. It’s supposed to be our home, not our master.”

  Alder shakes his head, his small smile seeming to say I have a comprehension deficit. Maybe I do. Most of my knowledge comes from what I’ve been told. But I can’t help thinking this isn’t what God meant.

  “The Earth is not our master—it is our equal. It cares for us if we care for it. In attending to the trees and plants, we receive the same pain we inflict upon them. If we pick a flower, we pluck a hair. If we carve the bark, we carve our skin.” He points to the scar of a tree branch carving on his right shoulder.

  I squirm, imagining a knife scraping his white flesh.

  “If we snap a limb, we give equally.”

  At Alder’s somber words, the albino without a hand steps forward and holds up the stump. My blood runs cold and I stare, my jaw open. My weapon . . .

  The switch.

  All five Independents stared at me, wide-eyed, when I broke it from the tree.

  “P-People mean more to G-God than trees do.” My jaw grows tight. Not now, I plead against the muscle spasms. I need to be able to speak in my defense.

  Don’t they know God loves them more than He loves trees or flowers? Do I know that He loves us more? “Plants don’t even have souls, right?”

  “Our duty is to help the helpless.” Alder holds up the switch that caused the long welt on my face. “This comes with personal sacrifice. Parvin, though you’re unfamiliar with our laws, you’ve caused harm to the trees we vow to care for. You broke fresh branches by the river and burned them. You tore th
is limb from its trunk in the presence of five of our people. You’ve hurt the trees we love.”

  I look between the several unfamiliar faces and feel like I’m back in Unity square for my hearing. No one will listen. The albinos look mournful, like they need to punish me against their will. Or do they mourn for the trees?

  “But this Earth is for us. Not the other way around. God doesn’t have a personal relationship with the trees. His Son didn’t die for the trees.”

  “We acknowledge no God,” Alder says. “All are equal.”

  “But—”

  Alder holds up a hand. “Black has presented your situation to us. We are distributing some of your atonement, but the remaining punishment is for you to have a single limb severed. Do you have a preference?”

  “What?” My body recoils and I feel as though the chains tighten around my ankles. “This isn’t right! You can’t cut off one of my arms or legs. I’m not under your laws! You don’t even know me.”

  Alder speaks over me. “It is not our intent to be cruel, we seek justice.” He turns to the small crowd. “Please complete your duties.”

  Everyone turns and leaves. All except the girl from earlier—Willow. She stands several yards away. Her right hand is bandaged. Three small splints line her fingers. She stares at me with a tear-streaked face. Mini watchdog, I assume. I don’t care. My heart pounds stronger than a miner’s pick and I yank my feet against the shackles. They’re too tight. I want to tear the flesh right out of them—that’d be better than losing a limb.

  As Alder leaves, my NAB makes another sound from my pocket and I fumble for it. Please, God, please. Help me!

  Willow hasn’t moved. I have a note from both Skelley Chase and Hawke.

  ~I can’t help you, Parvin. Escape if you can. -SC

  Duh. Thanks, Skelley. Tears spring behind my eyes.

  I click on Hawke’s bubble and sniff hard. My hands shake. “Oh God, oh God, please, please, please.”

  ~Parvin, I know where you are. Someone is on his way. – Hawke.

  I cover my mouth with a trembling hand and look around. Who? When? Is he here yet? How did Hawke do it?

  The albinos have been gone for five solid minutes—all except Willow. I still pull against the chains and push against the stone with my hands, but to no avail. I just need to wait for Hawke’s man. Maybe it’s Hawke himself.

  I look around, anxiety building. Movement comes from among the stone houses. Four albinos walk my way, carrying different items.

  “Help me,” I hiss to Willow. Her eyes widen and she takes a step back. “I helped you. That’s why I’m here.”

  She holds her splinted hand close to her chest and takes another silent step backward, as the other four albinos reach the base of the knoll.

  “Leave me alone! I have more to explain.” The movement of speaking sends my jaw muscles into a spasm frenzy and I can’t speak for a moment. My NAB still lies on the forest floor beside me. Hawke hasn’t sent anything more.

  The albinos climb up the knoll, passing Willow.

  “Leave me alone.” My throat closes.

  Alder holds a long silver axe. Black carries a giant bag over his shoulder, filled to bursting with something. A woman carries a bundle of cloth. She reaches me first and I scramble away as far as my shackled legs allow. The other albino with them—a hefty muscled man—pins my shoulders to the ground.

  “No!” I struggle against his grip.

  The woman removes the bandage from my left arm and ties a stretchy piece of cloth below my elbow. Seconds pass before my pulse races. The tips of my fingers go numb. Then my palm.

  A tourniquet.

  “Hawke, help!” I scream to the NAB, though I don’t think it’s on verbatim mode. My arm burns from the tourniquet. Black places the bag beneath my left forearm. It’s full of something grainy—maybe sand or dirt. Someone removes the blue watch from my wrist.

  They wait. I look at Alder. He holds my gaze.

  “Please, Mister Alder! I’m not from here. God sent me here to find the Independents. To find you. Are you going to reward my journey with pain?”

  I haven’t yet viewed my journey as a calling from God, but maybe I will someday. For now, Alder might as well believe I have as much conviction for my adventure as he does for his trees.

  My arm tingles. The woman says, “Look at her wound. Infection has set.”

  I can’t see my arm, but I know from the last time I peeked that the stitches need to come out. Maybe they’ve already frayed and sunk into my skin. I use this to my advantage.

  “I have many wounds from fighting the wolves,” I gasp in a strangled voice. “I’m sick and had to stitch my own skin on my arm and my leg. I have burns and cuts. Isn’t that enough to atone?”

  Alder closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “We are already showing you grace.”

  The man holding me down straddles me, using his weight to keep me pinned.

  “Get off!” I arch my body.

  Black wraps both hands around my left wrist and stretches my arm across the sandbag. I pull against him, but a muscle in my shoulder pops. Desperation builds like a shriek inside me. Every fiber flashes in frenzy.

  “Alder,” the tourniquet lady whispers. “Maybe we should wait.”

  “I am sorry,” Alder murmurs. “I am so sorry for your pain.” He steadies the axe in his hands.

  I writhe against Black and the others. “Mercy! I’ll do whatever else you want!” My tiny body causes no change in their iron holds. Every muscle strains in agony. I can’t get free. “No! No! No!” Where is Hawke?

  Alder lifts the axe. I’ve chopped enough wood in my lifetime to know what comes next.

  “HAWKE!” I scream long and loud.

  Alder lets out a loud grunt of effort at the same time a distant voice roars over the chaos. “Alder, stop!”

  But no one stops.

  19

  000.166.22.27.37

  The axe thuds into the sandbag.

  A flash of shock sears my brain. Screaming drowns out all other senses—my screaming. The pressure on my body releases, but I don’t move. My voice dies like a drowned kitten.

  Confused shouting fills the cracks in the horrified air. My vision turns black. Someone brushes my hair from my face.

  “Oh God . . .” Pain seeps like a stain into my body.

  The shouts grow louder in my ears. Chilled words.

  “. . . tourniquet . . . too much blood . . .”

  “. . . shouldn’t have . . . so soon . . . waited.”

  Black’s enraged voice stands out from the others. “That was too close, Alder.”

  “Oh, no.” The newest voice—a gentle male voice—comes closer. “Oh, no . . . no. Didn’t you hear me say stop?”

  My eyes close. With each agonizing thud from my heart, I sink further into the tar of shock. Hopelessness. Finally, I let myself drown.

  000.166.08.01.22

  I wake with a fever, long enough to retch onto my naked body. Voices. Flickering lights. Pain. My muscles shake like an earthquake. I need water. Water.

  000.165.18.19.00

  Confused. Choking. Someone hushes me. I mentally flail my arms at the spoon against my lips, but my body doesn’t move.

  Stop. I can’t breathe.

  Something small and solid rolls across my tongue. The spoon pours hot salty liquid into my mouth. Suffocating. I swallow.

  A black abyss consumes my mind and sight. I scream. “Mother!”

  000.162.23.06.44

  The draped ceiling above is not my home, yet home is the first thought in my mind. My door should be to my right, my window to my left. I’m warm. What season is it?

  I look around. Two windows let in light on each side of me, set into stacked stone walls. Rolls of cloth rest in leather ties above each one. A dark marble dresser rest
s against the right wall beneath the window. Not home.

  What is this place?

  Nothing comes rushing back. Nothing matches. I don’t have a memory with this room. No one is here.

  “Reid?” I say to the space. My throat burns. Water.

  My eyes hurt with every blink. They’re dry and grainy, like I’ve been crying. Even though I feel rested, I ache—an ache deeper than I ever thought could dig through my heart. I didn’t know my heart had such a bottomless place to hold pain. The pain festers, writhing in agony, causing more and more ache with each movement. I try to place a name to the pain. Sorrow? Not fully.

  Loss. Injustice.

  My arm.

  I raise both limbs in front of my face. On the right, my fingers spread apart, curling and uncurling. On the left is my bony elbow, connected to my thin forearm, connected to . . . nothing. My arm ends in a swollen lump of skin, held together with disjointed stitches. I gape at the two mismatched arms. I open and close my right hand. My left arm yearns to do the same.

  I’m shaking.

  Someone enters this strange hut and I lower my arms to my side. The woman is very pregnant and pale white. I don’t recognize her face, but with her skin color come memories of Black slapping Willow, of the dogwood trees, of Alder saying he’s sorry. A silver axe.

  “My hand . . .”

  The albino woman doesn’t look up from the pile of furs she is sorting. “Be calm.”

  I turn my face away, placing the cover over my left arm. I can’t look at it. I’m supposed to have two hands.

  The cover slides off my limb. I glance up, angry.

  “Your wound must breathe.” The woman folds down the corner of the blanket. Her face is soft. Young with light pink lips and white eyelashes like snow.

  “Where is my hand?” I resist the temptation to shout. I want it reattached, stitched back on. They stole it.

  She turns away. “It is buried in the sky. Burned to ashes.”

  “B-Burned?” So many injustices run through my head, I can’t decide which to proclaim. “It was mine.” Fire scorches my throat. My energy shrivels and I fight back tears.

  I lie still, craving water. As if hearing my silent plea, the woman appears with a small stone cup. I drink without question; she refills without comment. The pattern continues until my throat feels restored. Then, as if my body can’t handle the hydration, I cry.