A Time to Die

  “Tally ho.”

  I close my eyes, forcing myself to breathe. I can’t do this. But I must. We don’t know what damage that chip is causing.

  Morning brings a chilled nose tip. No amount of snuggling beneath my shredded skirt ushers in warmth. I sit up, bleary-eyed, and that’s when I remember. My dagger. Jude. The chip.

  Light rain sprinkles like glitter, enough to look beautiful yet chill my soul at the same time. I can’t even hear it. I pray my hands don’t shiver while I use my dagger.

  Three attempts get the fire smoking despite the water already soaked through the bark. I warm my hands, allowing the growing crackle to wake Jude and Willow.

  By the time their puffy eyes blink open, my dagger is sterilized. “Are you sure you need this done?” Maybe Jude’s rested brain will speak more logic.

  To my dismay, he nods, but doesn’t take his eyes off the knife. Did Father imagine the dagger he gifted to me would be used for surgery?

  “Remove your jacket,” I say in a quavering voice. What am I doing?

  He obeys with a tense shiver. It will be hard for him to relax when it’s this cold, but maybe it will help with the pain. Goosebumps sweep down his bare skin.

  Skin. I have to pierce it.

  His tattoo weaves around his muscles, interrupted by the wound.

  Wound. I have to open it.

  Somewhere inside Jude’s upper arm is a chip . . . or maybe just a bullet. How will I find it encased in so much blood?

  Blood. I have to touch it.

  I imagine my fingers drenched in the color of the Numbers. I look back up. My heart enters a vacuum, tension and emotions suctioning together until breath is an imagined luxury. “Do you zero out today?”

  I have to know. I can’t be the one who kills him.

  “I don’t think so.” He frowns. “I mean, no. I don’t.”

  “Are you forgetting?” How can anyone forget his or her Numbers?

  “No. I remember,” he rasps, still looking at the dagger.

  “It’s warm.” I approach him. God, I can’t do this.

  I press his shoulder down until he’s flat on his back. Willow scoots next to him and brushes hair from his sweating forehead. She places a thick stick in his mouth. Always thinking.

  I poise the dagger over his closed wound. It’s still red and raw. “Are you sure—”

  “Yes.”

  In one breathless moment, I force my arm to act against every instinct and slice into the wound. Jude roars and I jerk my arm back. Blood drips from the knife.

  “I’m sorry,” I pant. “Oh, Jude, I’m sorry.”

  “Keep going!” he yells as Willow places the stick back in his mouth.

  Chip. Chip. Chip. I look at the wound. It will take more pressure. I’ve only made a minor incision. As tenderly as I can, I press the knifepoint deeper into the wound. Jude’s back arches and he grunts, clamping down on the stick. The bark cracks.

  “I’m sorry,” I repeat, pushing his skin to the side with the blade.

  I can’t see a thing. Blood is everywhere in different shades, coating my hand. I need more fingers. “Willow, pull apart the wound.”

  Obedient. Fearless. Her white skin enters the mess. Blood splatters her knuckles. Dark. Red. Stench.

  I gag. Deep breath. Vomit.

  I just manage to turn my head toward the dirt when the little bit of bark I chewed yesterday comes up, followed by repeated dry heaving. Jude wheezes. I gasp for air.

  “Come on, Parvin.”

  Willow’s sharp command straightens my back. My stomach is empty, still, the smell of blood makes it churn. I place the dagger back into the wound and move it around, hoping to feel the knock of a bullet or chip. Jude’s hand tangles in my skirt.

  “Breathe,” I say, but internally I’m screaming. What is the dagger touching? Bone? Tendon? Chip? If I’m not careful, I’m going to carve out a crucial piece of Jude’s body. “I can’t see anything.”

  “Come on, Parvin!” Willow’s voice is intense. Adult. Determined.

  “You do it!” I shout, losing my head.

  Jude writhes on the ground and screams. “Stop!”

  I lean back on my heels with a gush of breath, flinging the dagger away and cupping my hand before me, trying not to drip blood. I need to wash. Where’s the water?

  Jude sits up, trembling. “This was stupid. I don’t know how I expected you to find it.”

  Stung, I inch away from him and rub my hand in dirt. I tried.

  Willow dampens a rag and wipes his wound, then bandages it. I continue coating my hand in dirt until I no longer see or smell the blood.

  “Let’s keep going.” Jude pushes Willow’s bandaging aside. “Save the water. I’ll be fine. We’ll be with your people in a few days.”

  I follow, defeated, like a dog trying to please its master after it’s misbehaved. Jude doesn’t speak to me the rest of the day. When he sets down his belongings, I sit across from him, avoiding his gaze. A deer comes into the open, followed by a tiny spotted fawn. She sniffs the ground and lifts her head, chewing.

  “Look.” I touch Willow’s arm and trust Jude to hear.

  The doe’s ears and nose perk into the air at the crunch of our movements. She stands stock-still, then lifts a foot and stomps on the ground. After a second, she does the same with her other foot, twitching her tail at the same time. It looks like some sort of signal. After repeating this process, she walks away with stiff steps. The baby follows her, imitating the regal movement.

  “I’m sorry,” Jude whispers before a gunshot splits the air. The doe drops to the ground, dead. I gasp. “Let’s go clean it,” he says. “We need the meat.”

  Rabbits were one thing, but this . . . “She had a fawn.”

  “The fawn will live.”

  The baby steps near its mother to sniff her, but the approach of Jude and Willow startles it away. A flash of tiny hooves, an upright tail, and the fawn is gone. I sit by the fire, defiant, as they gut the deer and drag a portion of its carcass toward the fire.

  “Will you at least help us skin it?” Jude’s voice drips contempt.

  Weak from lack of food and the morning’s effort at surgery, I follow directions and pull the skin back as Willow and Jude slice the connecting tissue. Nothing on the beast looks edible to me. Which part is meat? What’s fat?

  Blood soaks into the ground. I close my eyes and turn my head away, reminded of Jude’s wound. The deer smells old, like bugs lived in her thin hair. Jude cooks the meat over the fire. My stomach compels me to fill it. I must eat. My lack of hunger is a trick. I’m empty inside.

  The deer is gamey and tough. Even as I chew, I smell the doe, I smell Jude’s blood. My appetite writhes in the back of my throat, turning up its nose to the idea of food, but I can’t function on my emptied stomach.

  I chew. I gag. I chew more, praying for tolerance.

  And that this journey will soon end.

  The next evening, we reach the Dregs with wrapped deer meat swinging from our packs. The tightrope is repaired, stretched across the boggy canyon as a bridge. I’m drawn back into our narrow escape from drowning, from starvation, from assassination.

  Jude sets his small pack down and pulls out cold cooked deer. “We’ll go tomorrow.”

  “We need to go in early morning.” Willow sits and crosses her legs. “They leave for dead-standing tomorrow, Jude-man. It is first of the month.”

  September first. Thirty-eight days. A nervous glacier begins its descent inside me, freezing my insides. There’s no time.

  “We’ll get there before they leave,” Jude says.

  I feel out of place. Part of me wishes I hadn’t begged for Jude’s help. The albinos are angry with him. What will they do when we return? When does Jude zero-out?

  Morning dawns and I’m the first awake. I nudge Jude
and Willow before the sun breaks. “We need to go.”

  The new rope across the canyon is taut and stable. I hop on Jude’s back, as we did in the Marble, only this time there’s nothing exciting about it. He grimaces, trying to hold his arms out to steady himself. I shiver with uncertainty, dreading another fall into the Dregs. What if we fall in again? I might zero-out in there. God, help!

  Jude teeters at the halfway point. I shut my eyes and let my teeth grind on my nerves. Several seconds of balance pass as he fights for stability. It takes us over three minutes to cross. When Jude’s second foot lands on firm ground, his arms flop to his side and he bows his head.

  I do the same. Thank You, Lord. We couldn’t have done that alone.

  Willow follows and we all walk, attentive to every sound, toward the forest edge. Leaves flutter in an array of gold and green. Autumn is early. We push through the bushes. Blood pounds in my ears, blackening my vision.

  Then I see the line of albinos, gathered with axes and traveling gear. Alder stands in front. We stop at the edge of the village clearing, careful to stand on the moss instead of gardens.

  Alder sees us. His mouth gapes open. “Willow!”

  The other albinos turn. What do I say? What do we do? I look to Jude for guidance. His arm is above his head, fingers resting on a thin aspen branch. He’s silent as Alder approaches. Other albinos walk toward us. I scan the faces for Ash.

  “Willow, you haven’t atoned.” Alder strides forward. Willow darts behind me. She grips the straps of my pack. I plant my feet as Alder advances.

  “Leave her alone, Alder,” Jude shouts. “Or I’ll break off this aspen branch.”

  Alder halts mere feet away from us. His gaze flits from Jude to the thin branch in Jude’s grasp. He shakes his head. “If not for the expense of the aspen, I would enjoy delivering your atonement, Jude.”

  Jude sets his jaw. “Well, I think I have a compromise for us then.”

  Alder pulls his axe from his shoulder. “And what is that?”

  “Let me take Willow’s atonement.”

  Willow and I gasp, but before we can protest, Alder nods.

  “Granted.”

  39

  000.038.06.50.09

  “Jude!” I grip his wrist. “No!”

  The albinos converge like a three-pronged pitchfork—some to the tree, some to Jude, and some to me because I’m screaming in his face.

  He allows the albinos to grab his hair, his clothing, his skin in their fists. His masked face is void of concern or care, reminding me of my new understanding of the word suicide.

  I push against the albinos dragging him from my side. “No . . . wait . . .” Sobs interrupt my mania. White hands hold me back. Fingernails bite my frigid skin. “Jude.” Why won’t he answer me? “Jude!”

  Before a single thought can convert into sane clarity, Jude is chained to the stone slab beside the broken pink dogwood trunk.

  “Don’t kill him,” I beg as two burly albinos stretch him over a sandbag. “Please!” I lurch forward, fighting with energy I’ve never known before. I’m immune to the nails tearing my flesh, the hair ripping from my head, and the screams in my ear.

  Jude yells, too, but doesn’t struggle. He shouts some sort of instruction, but to whom? Me? His face turns red from straining and even from my distance I see sweat lining his temple.

  Alder raises the axe, white muscles rippling over his back. His grip tightens on the handle.

  “Alder, stop!” I yell, just like Jude did so long ago. “Kill me instead!”

  Alder pauses and glances over his shoulder at me for a breathless moment, but like last time, he releases a mighty yell and swings the axe into the sandbag.

  A strangled scream joins the chaos. My scream. I fall to my knees, gulping for air. Hands release me. My tears wet the moss with splashes of smashed diamonds. My stump screeches like a train rail in agonizing memory.

  Jude’s body is limp. The albinos move him. A trail of blood marks their path.

  I rise and stumble to reach him. “Jude . . .” He’s groaning. His right arm is severed just above his right elbow. White bone is exposed.

  They carry him to the healing hut. I slump to the ground, shaking. Willow lies on her side a few yards from me, sobbing freely. Her mother kneels over her, brushing her hair back. Alder cleans his axe in the small pond denting the mossy ground.

  I want to kill Alder.

  I want to save Radicals.

  I can’t do both.

  God, help me choose the right one.

  Three albino healers stay in Jude’s hut around the clock. As far as I know, Jude is still alive. The albinos don’t leave to gather dead-standing. Instead, as the days pass, they leave small gifts of hot broth or cooked meat. Each time a gift is left, a healer retrieves it and brings it inside.

  I sleep out on the moss. Sometimes Willow stays with me. We watch the healing hut together, waiting for news. They burn Jude’s severed arm over the coals. The snake tattoo writhes against the flame melting the dying skin. They burned my hand like this.

  Internally, I am at war. I want to be angry with the albinos. I want to hate them, but Jude chose this. He took Willow’s atonement and I can’t fault him or them. Their ways are unusual to me, but Jude saved Willow in the only way he could.

  I must accept that. I can’t let it distract me from what I must do at the Wall.

  Two women and one man settle on the ground outside of the healing hut. “We are mourning,” Willow says. “We mourn until he returns to full consciousness.” She looks down at the ground. “No one wants Jude-man to be in pain. Many of us have atoned and understand the pain.”

  “Did you do this when I was in there?” I ask in a thick voice.

  She nods. That explains Alder’s apology. Did he truly hurt with me when he cried by my bedside? Did all the albinos mourn?

  “The branch I broke was the same size as that pine tree. Why did Alder only cut off my hand?”

  Willow pokes the damp moss. “We dispersed your atonement, remember? I offered three broken fingers, Black gave two broken fingers, and Elm gave some broken toes.”

  “Black took some of my atonement?” I don’t bother to hide my surprise.

  “He is a good man. He’s scary”—she releases a timid laugh—“but still good. My grafting mate, Elm, is Black’s brother. Many girls are jealous.” She throws me a wicked grin.

  I look at the hut. The day is cool and all windows are rolled shut with tied animal skins. Will Jude wake with the same hollow feeling of loss? Does he even know what he’s done? Everything will need to be relearned. He may not even be able to tightrope-walk anymore. People will define him by his loss.

  Maybe he doesn’t mind because he knows his Numbers are short. Or maybe he doesn’t mind because that’s who he is. My missing hand doesn’t ever seem to bother him. He doesn’t define me by this weakness.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and release a sigh. While he heals, I must make use of the time here. I must speak with Alder. After that, I will find Ash and see if they read my Bible.

  Shalom meets anti-shalom when I enter Alder’s hut, clenching my hand so tight, my fingernails bend backward. His hut is larger than others and filled with furniture made from stone or metal. He sits in a chair beside a small fireplace. Coals hold a low flicker. He watches me assess his home.

  “I’m not a hypocrite.” His voice drops like a stone into my forced calm.

  I move my gaze to the ceiling and take a long breath to avoid a defensive retort. God, I need Your patience. “Neither am I. When I first came here, I told you I believed God put people above the plants and animals. I have returned to you to ask for your help in saving lives.”

  He eyes me and crosses one leg over the other. “How?”

  I force myself not to look at the empty chair in front of him. I’m not welcomed to sit. D
oes this mean he views me as a lesser equal? Does it mean he won’t listen? “People are sent across the Wall to this side as an execution. Most of these people have done nothing wrong. They die because the Wall opens to a cliff and they have no choice but to jump off. I am returning to build a bridge or means of passage from the cliff to safety. I hoped you and your people could help me.”

  Alder looks into the coals for a moment. The warmth doesn’t reach me. I bite back a shiver. Finally, he speaks. “It is not my responsibility to fix the harm your side causes.”

  “Not even if it saves innocent lives?”

  He glances up. “Can you vow that every life taken by that Wall is innocent? You said yourself you’re a Radical. Even you had to atone. What further harm will ignorant Radicals bring to our forest?”

  “I will leave them instructions on how to reach the Ivanhoe Independent. I’ll tell them to stay away from your forest. They won’t come anywhere near you.”

  “I don’t wish to take that risk.”

  We stare at each other. “Alder.” I now know my words won’t dent his shell, but perhaps they will fester in his mind and someday blossom. “God created you and your people for relationship. You were meant to bring shalom to the world—we all are. Shalom means how things should be, the way God intended things.”

  Alder opens his mouth, but I hold up a hand. “I’ve seen your heart for the land God created. You are caring for the Earth, just like God commanded man when He created us. You have right intentions, but they’re imbalanced. People—your people—should be first priority. Be a leader of shalom.”

  His mild smile remains plastered and his eyes are thick barriers. “Thank you, Parvin.” His posture is stiff and his fingers curl around the arm of his chair. “I hope your left wrist has healed sufficiently.” A reminder and a dismissal. His heart is as cold and hard as his furniture.

  I leave the hut as my wrist tingles from my renewed focus. I broke laws in Alder’s village. My words hold no weight. But these didn’t feel like my words.

  God, I spoke Your words, I think. If Alder won’t listen to You, what am I to do now?

  I come to an abrupt halt, running into a tall woman. “Ash!” Cedar sits in her arms, resting his head against her shoulder with a yawn.