A Time to Speak

  The wind batters the closed shutters and Solomon pulls the blanket tighter with his two bandaged hands. “When I transferred here to help the Newtons, I thought I’d be under less supervision. I started t-t-taking out my contacts to ssssend Jude messages of what I overheard—that an assassin was sent after him, that they were sssearching my Testimony Log, etcetera.” He breathes deep. “That’s all known now.”

  I stare at his bruises. There were so many more intricacies to Jude’s quest and invention than I ever imagined. “What does it matter to them now, though? Jude is . . . gone.”

  “According to Enforcer standards, I was disloyal. And duh Council wanted to show y-y-you . . . their power.”

  “So they just beat you up and carved your face?” I’m cutting off the blood supply to my left wrist. It tingles and sharp phantom pain pulses in my nonexistent fingers.

  Solomon leans back against the propped pillow. “Council’s orders.” His eyes droop. “So . . . have any plans yet?”

  Ah yes . . . my blackmailing. “I’m waiting to hear back. I’ve requested a meeting with the Council.” Requested is a bland way of putting it.

  “I admire and . . . and envy your impulse.” He wraps his fingers around mine. “Your call to action is an ir-ir-irreplaceable character trait, but b-be careful. We need to think it through.”

  This is the nicest way anyone’s said, You’re being impulsive. Coming from Solomon, it’s probably a compliment. “So what do we do?”

  He answers in a low voice. “I’ve learned the hard way that wwwe cannot fight the Council through force. Jude . . . learned this, too. Even if we sssave Willow, she has her tracker chip.”

  “We could take the tracker out of her, right? You know how to do that.”

  “Yes, but h-how far will an albino, a Radical, and an ex-Enforcer get undetected?”

  He’s right and I hate that. My hand strays to the cut in my left arm where my own tracker chip rests.

  “It’s shallow enough dat you c’n take it out.” He gestures to where my fingers toy with the bandage. “When you need to.”

  Good to know. “So what else do we do?”

  “Think. And . . . pray.”

  “I never know what to pray.”

  “It’s a g-good thing there’s not a right or wrong then.”

  I lean back, allowing deep breaths to punctuate the silence.

  His pillow slips and I help him readjust it. “It’s not dat easy to meet with the Council, Parvin. You need a really good reason—a reason for them to accept and schedule a meeting.”

  How about blackmail? “I’ll think of something, Solomon.”

  He squeezes my hand. “When you do, I-I’ll come with you.”

  I look him over and lift my eyebrows. “You will?”

  The corner of his mouth turns up, squeezing his puffy eye closed even tighter. “I’m bruised and scarred, not b-broken. I need to return to Prime anyway. As a stripped Enforcer . . . I lose my High-City status. Still need to tie-up some things in Prime before settling here.”

  Settling here. He’s going to stay.

  I look out the window, allowing my mind to drift to another day—a future day of rescue and freedom. “Okay. We’ll go together.” I look back at Solomon, but his eyes are closed and his head rests heavy against the pillow.

  •••

  I hand one of my two train tickets to Solomon the next day. Today he’s in his own house, sitting in a chair by the window. The place doesn’t smell anymore. Mother took care of the blood and I threw out the old food while he healed.

  “Can you come?”

  Solomon stares at the small slip of paper. The swelling beneath most of his bruises has disappeared, leaving behind giant stains of purple, yellow, and green on his skin. “You work fast.”

  A gush of air escapes me. Was I that nervous about his response? “Yeah, well, it’s where I’m supposed to go.”

  “Of course I’ll come. Have you told your family yet?”

  I drop into the other chair by the table and it wobbles beneath me. He really needs to invest in Father’s carpentry. “I’ll tell them tonight.”

  “I’ll get packing, then.” He lifts the ticket. “Thanks for this. I’ll pay you back.”

  “No need.”

  My feet are blocks of cement, taking me back to my house. What will everyone say? Are my reasons solid? Mother won’t like that I blackmailed the Council. Or maybe she will . . .

  Why am I nervous? Reid left home all the time. He got married without telling any of us. It shouldn’t be a problem for me to go. Besides, I will not abandon Willow.

  This is for shalom. The Council has stepped too far, and I get the sense this is only beginning.

  “Hello Parvin.” Mother sits at the kitchen table with a thin book resting beneath her hands. The cover is black with fluttering red dogwood petals.

  “You’re reading my biography?”

  She reaches a hand toward me. “Come sit down.”

  I do, breathing past the suffocating thumps in my chest.

  “I haven’t started it yet, but I thought I should. I was wrong to ignore your story.” Her shoulders rise and fall. “It is . . . painful for me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I know you’ve been hurt.” She brushes her fingers over my stump.

  If I had a hand, I’d clench it against her touch. “I’ve also been healed, Mother.”

  “Healed from what?”

  How can I summarize everything I’ve learned? “Healed from myself—from my own stagnancy. From selfish desires. From misplaced faith. I’m finally following God instead of my own desires. In doing so, I’ve noticed how broken the world is—how broken I made it with my selfish sin. Not just that, but I can fix parts of it.”

  Occasionally I get a wellspring of vision—I imagine stopping the Council from condemning hundreds of Radicals. It halts my breath every time. So lofty . . . but could it be possible through me? “In fact, I have some news. I wanted to tell everyone at once, but maybe it’s better to tell you now.”

  She slides my biography aside. “Yes?”

  I pull my train ticket from my pocket and place it on the table. “I’m going to Prime, the High City. Tomorrow.”

  She stares at the ticket, not speaking. Maybe not even breathing. A good ten seconds pass and I wonder if I’ve crossed some sort of terrible line between keeping Mother normal and returning her to her cocoon of depression.

  “Mother?” She looks up and I launch into more detail before she can zone out again. “When you read my biography, you’ll see some small entries about a man named Jude. He’s Solomon Hawke’s brother and he saved my life multiple times when I was in the West. He invented something very important.” I can’t bear to tell her I might have loved him.

  “Yes, the Hawke family line has always been filled with inventors.”

  My jaw drops open like a broken nutcracker’s. “W-what?”

  She straightens in her chair and speaks with poised strength. That’s my mother. “Erfinder Hawke invented the projected Wall sixty years ago, didn’t you know that?”

  “I don’t even know what a projected Wall is. I thought the whole thing was made of stone.”

  Mother laughs. “Not across the oceans. Stone doesn’t float, Parvin.” Her response sounds like something Tawny would say. Belittling.

  “I know,” I mumble. “I just thought the Wall went around the entire world.”

  “It does, in different formats. The projected Wall is just as impassable as the stone one. Wall building came to a standstill when they reached large bodies of water. Erfinder Hawke solved that problem only eleven years later with his invention of the projected Wall.”

  How did my attempt to share my story with Mother turn into a history lesson? Not my idea of success, although Jude and Solomon’s family line does intr
igue me. Does Solomon have inventor qualities in him?

  “So, you’re leaving. I didn’t catch why.”

  Can’t imagine how that happened. “To get Willow back and to challenge the Council about Jude’s invention.”

  “Will you come back?”

  If you want me to. There’s no telling what the Council might do to me. I scoot to the edge of my chair. “I’ll try.” For the sake of all people who shouldn’t have to be Clock-matched. For my village.

  And for Jude.

  •••

  Tawny rolls her eyes and shrugs when I tell her I’m leaving. Father gives a slow nod and a tight hug. “Be safe.”

  I pack my things and make sure to bring a toothbrush this time. Six months in the West without one left too great an impact for me to forget it now. For nostalgia’s sake, I slip Jude’s whistle into my pocket. I wear thick winter leggings, boots, and an old vest I haven’t touched since before crossing the Wall.

  I take the bandage that covers my tracking chip incision off my arm. The cut is now a pink line on my skin, like a faded scratch.

  That healed fast. Maybe the chip was coated in some sort of healing fluid.

  I lie on my back in front of the fire, thinking through every possible scenario of meeting with the Council. What if they don’t receive my blackmail or refuse to meet? Well, then I’ll stay in Prime until they agree.

  What if they test the Clock invention on Willow? Then I’ll announce it to the newspaper and try to rescue her.

  What if they try to kill me? Maybe I ought to bring Solomon to the meeting with me.

  What if they try to kill Solomon? Hmm . . .

  I brainstorm and worry until the moon starts its descent. So much for getting rest. At last, I resort to the one conclusion I should have reached from the start: Do not worry about tomorrow.

  Because You are beyond time. Not to mention You’re all-powerful and can take down the Council with a flick of Your pinky.

  The peace I wish would envelop me doesn’t hit my heart, but my mind settles a little. Enough to let me sleep.

  The first thing I check upon waking is my NAB. A new bubble, labeled CWDC, rests with the other three.

  God, what have I done? All I can picture is Elan Brickbat’s face after he almost shot me. I’ve put another target on my body for the Council—one to join the other hundred.

  I tap the bubble.

  ~Thursday. 9:00am.

  That’s the whole message. No signature. It could have been from the president of the USE or a secretary.

  But who cares? They didn’t threaten me and I have a meeting.

  I have a meeting!

  I burst out of my house, pack in hand, and run smack into Solomon. I hear his grunt before seeing the grimace on his bruised face. “Oh, sorry. I was coming over to . . . well . . . hi.”

  “Good sunrise.”

  I am immersed in his scent of blueberries and thatch. “We have an official meeting with the Council! Thursday at nine.”

  “Wow, they fit you in soon.”

  “I can be quite convincing.”

  He takes my pack and swings it over his shoulder. “Do you have your train ticket?”

  “It’s in my pocket.” I reach for my pack. “You’re injured. Give it back.”

  He grins. “Not doing. So you’re ready to go?”

  I glance back at my house. I bid good-bye to everyone last night and I can’t bear the idea of doing it again. I slipped Mother a note in the cover of my biography. It says, I love you.

  Will she believe me?

  “I’m ready.” It feels abrupt, but if I draw a good-bye out too long then it will feel too permanent. I don’t want permanent. I want to come back to my village and my family—to protect them.

  We walk to the train station, my heart pounding double to my footsteps. The carbon-fiber train arrives five minutes early, as if anxious to take me away from what I know.

  “You a Radical?” the ticket man asks as I board.

  Out of habit, I glance around for Enforcers who might capture me, but Solomon rests his hand on my shoulder. “She is a registered Radical with a purchased ticket.”

  The man looks Solomon up and down, maybe assessing whether his injuries are intimidating or incriminating. “All right, no harm meant. It’s my job, you know.”

  We settle into our seats. Solomon lets me have the window and I stare over the thatched houses of Unity Village. I returned two weeks ago expecting to die in my brother’s arms. Now I’m leaving to fight for my people’s freedom.

  Has it really only been two weeks? Everything is a blur.

  The train moves forward, soundlessly. As it gains speed, my thoughts shift forward. Instead of dwelling on leaving, I lean back and contemplate my destination.

  Prime. A High City—the highest class city in our country. Will it be anything like Ivanhoe? Drenched in technology and scrapbook architecture that captivates one’s imagination?

  I have no way of knowing. I’ve never seen a picture of Prime, but I’ll be there in eight hours.

  Eight hours.

  Eight hours sitting next to Solomon.

  I crane my neck. Our car is empty. It may not be for long, depending on what stops are ahead, but this is my opportunity to finally get some answers. I let a full five minutes pass before I dive in. “Solomon?”

  He looks at me with his light teal eyes and I adopt a new favorite color. “Yes?”

  I gulp. “You said that Jude shared most of his inventions with your father. Does your father live near Prime?”

  Seconds tick by. “You want to visit him.”

  “Don’t you?”

  He scratches the back of his neck, then winces and taps his bandaged face. “I want answers just as much as you, but sometimes it’s safer to wait.”

  Wait? This is perfect timing—we’re going up to Prime, the Council hasn’t released the new Clock-matching information yet, and I’m ready to do some digging. I refuse to waste more of my time by waiting. “Wait for what?”

  Already, the train slows for its first stop. “Until we’re no longer tracked, and until after you meet with the Council.”

  The way he says this raises my hackles. I straighten in my chair. “Why? Do you think I would tell them Jude’s secrets? You think I would give anything up to them?”

  He meets my eyes. It’s strange looking directly into a man’s eyes, especially when he doesn’t break the gaze. “I know you would never give information to them, Parvin . . . not of your free will.”

  “They couldn’t force anything out of me.” My voice is fractured.

  The train comes to a full stop. People climb into our car and Solomon lowers his voice. “Don’t forget, they have Willow.”

  He lets that soak in. Then . . .

  “And they will use her any way they want.”

  10

  The beauty of a city built on the cornerstones of technology is eclipsed by my fear for Willow. The rest of the train ride passed in near silence since too many people surrounded us. I did manage to share my blackmail message with Solomon, but it only served to remind me . . .

  This meeting is dangerous.

  Solomon and I stand in the train station now, working the cement out of our joints. The station has a high ceiling with grey stone arches forming a square in the center. A fan of glass spreads on the opposite wall around a gold-embossed clock. Long regal steps lead up to shining doors beneath the glass.

  The station alone would be enough to steal my breath, but in the center of the entry, projected up from one of the marble squares of flooring, is a glowing blue orb of our half of the earth. Lines circle it and cross, mixing vectors and routes. Words scroll around it with circles popping up and red pulsing dots.

  “Route schedule,” Solomon says as we pass it.

  Other people wal
k through it. The projection doesn’t waver. Above us, rectangle screens—are they screens or painted air?—advertise so many items and products I can’t digest a single one.

  No one is looking up.

  Aren’t they interested in what these screens show? I study their focused faces and the human beings around me bring new intrigue. They have screens on their bodies, like Jude’s snake tattoo.

  One woman, dressed in a blue pencil skirt and a white short-sleeved blouse, has a tattooed armband around her bicep. It’s light green with colorful flashing pictures. A gentleman with a buzzed head and dark clothing connected by small chains has a tattoo over his entire scalp.

  My face flashes across it. Download your copy of A Time to Die today! In the picture I’m pale, unsmiling, and looking up. When was that taken? By whom? “My face is on that man’s head.”

  “What?” Solomon steers me around a crowd, but I twist my neck to watch the bald man.

  “My face . . . it’s on that guy’s head.”

  When Solomon looks, the tattoo changes to an ad for hair products. “It’s an ad. No one notices. He just has it to earn a little money.”

  “But . . . my face.” Prickles skim my spine. “Do people here . . . know me that well?”

  “You are famous, Parvin.”

  That doesn’t help. “So anyone could recognize me? Come after me?” Going from a life of invisibility to being an advertisement on a bald man’s scalp is too much. “Let’s go. Let’s get out of here. There are too many people.”

  What am I afraid of? That they’ll mob me? Ask me questions? Blame me for Reid’s death like the people in Unity Village? Solomon’s pace doesn’t change.

  “Come on, Hawke.” I try to pull him forward, but he grips my arm.

  “Parvin, wait.”

  Don’t panic. Don’t panic. Why in the world do I want to panic?

  “It’s going to be worse outside.”

  I stop and face him. “What?”

  “This is a High City. There are people and advertisements everywhere. I think . . . you might get overwhelmed.” He slides his hand halfway into mine, then he must think better of it because he returns his hand to my elbow.