A Time to Die

  A chord deep inside me, never before played, touched, or heard, trembles. We sit like this for a paused moment. Willow bobs her head from side to side, gathering cards and shuffling them while she hums. I don’t know about Jude’s tune-chip, but her humming matches my mood perfectly.

  Happy. No . . . more than that.

  Utter, complete joy.

  38

  000.079.04.11.18

  “I still can’t go with you.”

  Jude’s low words break the moment.

  I pull my hand and stump from his hold. “Why not? Is it because of your Numbers?”

  He shakes his head. “Parvin.” His voice is rough, forced from his body. “I can’t.”

  I cover my face as I’m hit by how much I hoped he’d come. He doesn’t want to be with me as much as I thought. “I can’t do it without you, Jude.” The words taste like vinegar, but I must plead, despite my desire to drown beneath a defiant mask. “How will I eat? How can I cross the Dregs? I still can’t tightrope walk.”

  Maybe it’s because death is so close for both of us, but Jude seems to fear things he won’t tell me. I believe he wants to come. Why won’t he? He didn’t want to come to Ivanhoe in the first place, yet now he doesn’t want to leave?

  I look up through my tears and try to wipe them away. He doesn’t look at me.

  “I’m doing this for your orphans, too, you know.” This statement gets his attention. His head snaps up and his eyes hold hardness—a challenge for me to finish my thought. I force my tears to abate and plunge on.

  “Where do you think they’ll go once they grow up and leave the orphanage? They’ll plummet off that cliff like everyone else.” I lean forward and force myself to place a calm hand on his shoulder. “You can still help them. By helping me.”

  He stands, jerking away from my hand. “Tally ho, Parvin. You win.” He leaves the room.

  I don’t feel like I won. I feel like I killed something inside of him, like I’ve placed shackles around his limbs from the moment I asked Hawke to send me help. But I don’t have time to regret. Instead, I move forward . . . for the sake of shalom.

  000.069.22.25.51

  I approach Wilbur Sherrod after a successful simulation testing his newest suit, Vitality, intended to keep a person awake twice as long as an average adult’s capabilities and to strengthen the immune system. I yawn while I relay my report. When he gives his nod, I speak up.

  “Wilbur, I’ll only be here another week.”

  His plastered awkward smile droops like melting wax. “Ah now! Ye don’t like the work?”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Of course I like the work, but I’m earning money for two train tickets East.”

  He pushes his hands in and out of his pockets. “My apprentice will be returnin’ in two week’s time. Ye can’t stay that long?”

  I shake my head, though his pleading makes me want to concede. “I’m sorry.”

  He waves a hand at me. “It’s fine. Ye been better than I expected.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Thanks?”

  His floppy shoes slap across the smooth floor as he walks away. I’ll miss seeing his funny giant afro every day.

  The time inches by with slow seconds ticking like death drums. I stop looking at my watch at the end of each day. I can’t control the Numbers. Willow bargains for our train tickets when we have enough trade. She returns with three tickets and extra food.

  “I’m coming, too.”

  “But . . . they’ll make you atone,” I say.

  She shrugs. “It is our way of life. I can’t leave Elm . . . or you.” We hug and she squeezes me around the middle, tight. I love this little girl. Even though she’s prepared to atone, I’ll talk to Alder first. Perhaps grace is to be found.

  The morning before the train leaves, I pack my belongings into Reid’s freshly cleaned bag. It’s more full than when I first arrived. Wilbur gifted me a new set of boots and the Vitality suit as a good-bye present. He didn’t look happy to part with it, but gave my shoulder an awkward pat. “Be sure the people on the West see my work.”

  I roll it up with plans to use it only when I need to. There’s no point having extra energy when my travel partners have regular stamina levels.

  “Train gets into the station in thirty minutes.” Willow hands us our tickets. They’re stamped with a picture of the Ivanhoe Independent.

  Jude shrugs and picks up the new pack Willow brought him yesterday. It’s not very full.

  “Let’s go,” I say.

  Jude’s been oddly silent the past week and I’ve avoided him as well. Neither of us talked about my proclamation of interest. I already question myself. Do I still want a relationship with Jude? Does he dislike me now that I’ve confessed?

  We exchange long hugs with Mrs. Newton and Laelynn.

  “Tell Solomon hello from us,” Mrs. Newton says to Jude, then turns to me. “Parvin, I know that our pursuits to save Radicals will work. The Preacher will send building supplies to the last train stop near the Wall. It should take a few weeks. I’m still trying to convince him to send some builders.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Newton.”

  She wraps her arms around my shoulders and mumbles into my hair, “You dear, dear, girl. If you live . . . come back to us.”

  I just nod. Jude tugs me out of the house. Willow hugs my left arm, trying to comfort me.

  We cross the street with the creeping motorcoaches and bicycles. I bid a silent farewell. The train station rests with an odd quiet preceding the evening rush that’ll arrive within the next hour. We enter the side station for the Ivanhoe Independent.

  “Willow, you’ll love this train.” I’m about to redeem the wrong I did when I left her alone on the tracks. “There are showers and soft beds so you can sleep while the train is still going. They serve breakfast with floppy bread cakes and syrup.”

  I close my eyes and sniff as if I can smell the food. The whistle erases my visions of breakfast as the Ivanhoe Independent comes into view. It takes a moment to slow in a rush of blurred yellow paint. The metal groans with relief when it stops. People pile onto the platform.

  Jude sucks in a sharp breath and grabs Willow and me by our shoulder packs. We knock into each other and Willow shrieks, “Ow, Jude-man!”

  “Hush!” He drags us from the platform.

  I look over my shoulder, toward the train. A tall man clad in black lifts a large travel pack from the train’s luggage compartment. He hands some form of payment to the trade collector, then looks up.

  The assassin.

  Our eyes meet in the split second before Jude drags me around the corner. I turn my back on the train and run with Jude. We take one of Willow’s hands in each of ours and half-carry her, half-drag her with us.

  “Jude, he saw me!” I tense against the expectation of flying bullets.

  “Okay.”

  We run outside as a motorcoach barrels across the road. I wave and veer down the road after it. A bicyclist yells at me and I jump back onto the sidewalk. With a grunt, Jude follows. The motorcoach stops and we topple inside.

  We drop to the floor between two bench seats as it rumbles away. Jude and I hold Willow’s head down until several minutes pass. I don’t peek out the windows, even though my nerves create the sensation of the assassin breathing down my neck.

  Jude doesn’t meet my eyes. His lips clench in a tight line and his eyes narrow. He straightens and sits on one of the cloth seats. Fumbling with my pack, I do the same.

  Willow makes herself heard. “What’s wrong?”

  “The man who shot Jude is here.” I meet his eyes over her head.

  “We have to leave the city tonight.” His voice is low and colder than iced steel. “On foot. We can’t take the train.” He meets my eyes for the first time. “If he saw you, Parvin, he knows we were intending to take a train out of her
e. And”—he rubs a hand through his hair—“he knows I’m with you.”

  “So he knows we’re returning to the East.” I fight the rising bile in my throat. “On foot it is, then.”

  The albinos are six hundred miles from here. The train would have taken us to the East Platte River in fifteen hours, then a few days of walking and we’d be there. Now my Clock is reduced by three more weeks.

  God . . . don’t You care about my Numbers?

  We ride the motorcoach until the sun’s light mourns with the twilight. We exit at the edge of the city on the opposite side from the train station. The air is silent on this side. All bikes are parked, locked, or hung from mounts.

  We creep out toward the plains, ducking out of the shine of street orbs. Buildings meet sagebrush like a stiff shadow meets light. I jump at each snap of a branch and animal sound. Jude strides with unhindered purpose like an alpha male, not jumping, not stopping, and not speaking. What’s going through his mind?

  Do I want to know?

  I look back at Ivanhoe as we crest the distant hill that will hide it from sight. Pure white shining dots line the buildings and circle the Marble like stars adhered to metal. Already, I want to turn around. Three weeks of hunger, chill, soreness, travel, and fear are my finale.

  By late morning, Ivanhoe is no longer visible on the horizon no matter the size of hills we ascend. We lie on our stomachs behind stiff desert grass until the Ivanhoe Independent passes, taking a piece of my heart with it. We should have been on that.

  I lower my face in my arms. God, why did You hinder us?

  “We can’t know if the assassin was on the train watching for us, or if he stayed in the city.” Jude rises from the ground. “Our best option is to continue traveling out of sight of the tracks.”

  The days grow identical. Scenery stays the same and chill creeps into our bones as August days bookmark each footfall. Four days crawl into nothingness before we enter the barren stretch of headstones. Already, my back aches and Jude takes my pack from me, heaving it on top of his own new one. We don’t start a fire, but eat the last servings of bread, crackers, and dried meat Mrs. Newton sent with us.

  Sometimes when we eat, Jude reaches over and holds my left arm as if he’s holding my hand. My face warms every time. I don’t want him holding my hand—or arm—out of obligation or pity. It kills the romance in his gesture . . . if it’s romance at all.

  Several nights in a row, we sleep inside the hollow stalks of fallen white windmills. They’re warmer than outside with the three of us end to end. Willow sleeps near me for warmth. Every night I curl into my own ball without making eye contact with Jude. I’m afraid of what I might see—of what he expects. He’s mentioned God, but what does that mean to his life? His actions? Living for God is radically different than our cultural norm . . . if he’s serious about it. People are rarely serious.

  “Are you two going to graft?” Willow asks several days later as Jude helps me over the thin end of another giant fallen white windmill.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Grafting means spending the rest of your life together. You be each other’s mates. Have babies. Be companions.” She squints up at me.

  Jude chuckles. “Neither of us has much life left, Willow.”

  “You told me once that you’ll graft with Elm,” I say. “How do you know? You’re so young.”

  “I’m given my grafting partner at my bloom ritual.”

  I purse my lips to one side. “Given?”

  “Elm will become my husband when we decide to graft.”

  My eyes narrow. “How old do you have to be?”

  Willow shrugs and adjusts her tumbleweed hat. “It’s whenever we want.”

  “But what if you like someone else? Someone instead of Elm?”

  She scrunches her nose. “I don’t. That’s not fair to anyone. Everyone has their own grafting partner. If I don’t want to graft, I don’t have to, but then Elm will be ungrafted, too.” She shakes her head. “That’s not fair to him.”

  None of this grafting seems fair or right. Willow’s so little. Grafting sounds a lot like marriage allowed far too early.

  “No, Willow,” Jude says ahead of us. “We’re not going to graft.”

  I sidestep a flat headstone. “Jude, when do you zero-out?”

  He responds by taking my hand. His skin feels so foreign, yet thrilling. The message sent through our touch ignites a desire for permanence. I want to zero-out with my fingers laced between someone else’s.

  Handholding grows less convenient as our energy levels decline and I start to anticipate when we can break apart. I don’t want to be the one to do it, but the longer we touch the more tension pours into my muscles. We finally separate as we round a headstone. My hand feels cold without his palm on mine, but it’s comfortable. I don’t understand the relationship hierarchy. Is Jude expecting something after holding hands? Maybe a kiss?

  Do I want to kiss Jude?

  Do I want to die unkissed? I roll my eyes. Does kissing hold any weight in my current purpose right now?

  Kissing seems to be the last thing on Jude’s mind as we travel and I find myself grateful. I don’t want to think about it. It makes me act strange around him. Uncomfortable.

  Rabbits are scarcer on our travels back. The chill in the air drives them into burrows and they aren’t breeding. I never thought I’d crave their meat again until we sit around a small fire chewing bark for dinner. My stomach aches for real food. Even Willow is hungry enough to suck on fresh leaves from the sparse bushes we pass.

  “We’re close to the albinos,” Jude says. “A few days away if all goes smoothly.”

  I glance at the blue watch I succumbed to attaching on my right wrist. I’m at the end of the forties. Forty-two days and somewhere around nineteen hours. The past few days have been spent deep in thought about how to present my case to the albinos. If they resist, I don’t have a back-up plan.

  God, I invite you into this. You created me to save lives. Help me. I want to follow You. “Jude, do you think the albinos will try and behead me?”

  He throws a stick into the fire. “Why would they do that?” When he looks up, his face holds genuine curiosity.

  I wait for him to remember. He continues to stare. “Because of the pink dogwood.”

  “Oh yeah.” He looks in the fire again, but his voice is tired. His eyes narrow as if trying to freeze the fire caught in his gaze. “I don’t think they’ll behead you.”

  My ears perk and I lean forward. “Why do you say that?”

  “I think Ash and Black vouched for us.” He folds his arms together and leans back against a headstone.

  My heart rests in ease. Maybe the albinos will listen to my proposition. “That would make our goal so much easier. They might be more receptive. There will be a higher chance of protecting your orphans from the Wall.”

  “I don’t have any kids.” He picks a bug off the piece of bark he then puts in his mouth.

  Taken aback, I struggle for words, “I know you don’t have kids. I meant the orphans you tried to save with your invention.”

  “My invention . . .” he repeats. His face screws up as it did when he tried to remember my name.

  God, why is his memory fading in and out like this? “The Clock-matching, Jude. You have to remember this. It’s part of your story.”

  His eyes widen and he looks up with a jerk. “I’m forgetting, Parvin.” His breath quickens. “I pulled the memory back, but it’s being sucked out of my brain.”

  “That doesn’t make sense.”

  He stands and slings his pack on. “Get up, we have to go.”

  Willow looks up from her cross-legged position on the ground and groans. “My feet hurt, Jude-man.”

  “I’ll carry you,” he says without pause. “Come on, Parvin.”

  I stand. “You’re
not making sense, Jude. What’s going on in your head?”

  “That’s the problem, I don’t know how long anything will be in my head. I’m losing my memory. It’s the chip in my arm. It’s stealing my memories. Get up, we have to go.”

  “Okay.” I rise on wobbly legs. My empty stomach cries out.

  We douse the fire and I change into my Vitality suit, away from the others. We’re all starving and he wants to march through the night.

  I couldn’t do it without the suit. With every passing hour, I thank God for Wilbur’s generous pride and creative brain. We’re also making better use of my Numbers. Jude carries Willow piggyback style, seemingly immune to fatigue.

  The next night we sleep because Jude doesn’t have a stamina suit and Willow is a walking rag doll. When I finish building the fire, Jude sits beside me. I start when he places both hands on either side of my face, but I don’t draw away.

  “Parvin,” he says in a gentle voice. “I need you to do something for me.”

  “Okay.” What could he want? Is he going to ask me to change my mind about my mission? Maybe he wants me to go to the albinos alone. Maybe a kiss . . .

  “I need you to sterilize your dagger and dig the chip out of my arm.”

  I jerk back. “Ugh, no.” Embarrassed by my reaction, I take a breath. “I can’t do that, Jude. I can barely kill animals.”

  “You have to,” he says through clenched teeth. “This is important. I need it out.”

  He needs me. “I don’t think I could even find it, Jude.”

  “I heard you stitched yourself up.” He grins.

  I look at him, eyes wide. “How did you hear about that?”

  “Solomon told me.”

  Solomon Hawke talked to Jude about me? He bragged to Jude about me? A flicker of warmth hits me, having nothing to do with the fire. If I don’t help Jude with this, I’ll let them both down.

  I brush my fingers along his upper arm where his wound is. He sucks in a breath. I think it’s from my touch, even though his coat separates the contact of our skin.

  “In the morning? When there’s light?” What am I saying?