A Time to Speak

  “We don’t share your views, Parvin.” Mother folds her arms. “You can’t change an entire government system just because of your personal stance.”

  Has she not read my biography yet? “Maybe not, but don’t you see this opportunity? This is a moment of change. This is the time where we can step in and push that change in the right direction.”

  It’s moments like these, when I’m speaking with passion, that I imagine Reid sitting beside me, chewing on my ideas and forming his opinions.

  What I’d give to have his smiling voice share his thoughts right now.

  The door blows open and, for a wild moment, I half expect to see Reid walk in. It’s Tawny. She’s beaming, wearing a black button up coat and a red scarf. She sees us and her brightness fades a bit. Veins pulse in her neck.

  She takes a deep breath and closes the door behind her. “I got one.”

  “One what?” I rasp, but I know to what she’s referring.

  She holds out her left arm. “A new Clock.” Around her wrist is a thin fragile-looking piece of wire, identical to mine. “All I have to do is press my thumb and forefinger here and—”

  A small screen pops out of the metal ring, shining a line of numbers a few inches above her wrist. I look away so fast it pops my neck, but Tawny makes the announcement anyway. “Fifty-seven years! That’s an eternity! I have fifty-seven years to live and do whatever I want!”

  “How did you pay for this?” Father studies her.

  Tawny gasps. “The Silent Man is speaking to me? My oh my, this is a special day.”

  “Don’t be rude.” I push her glowing Numbers away from my face. Father watches her, void of external emotion. Waiting.

  She looks to Mother. “Well, I took some of it from the shop till and the rest from Reid’s and my savings.”

  How dare she? “You had no right—”

  “It’s fine, sweetheart.” Father pulls out a chair for Tawny. “We would have given her a Clock anyway.”

  Of the two we can afford, Tawny never would have let us deny her a Clock. She sits and has the grace to look ashamed.

  “So, who gets the other Clock?” I look at my parents.

  Mother kisses Father’s cheek. “You do, dear. I will go with Parvin.”

  My heart snaps like a wafer crisp. My parents can’t split. They’re meant to be together. “I don’t want to tear you two apart.”

  “You’re not.” Mother speaks with firmness. “Your Father and I talked about what we’d do if we chose not to take a new Clock. He can provide for Tawny. I can help protect you.”

  “You don’t need to protect me. I know how to handle what’s over there.”

  “I cannot say Good-bye to you again, Parvin.”

  Tawny retracts her Numbers back into her wristband. “But Mom . . . I need you!”

  “Let’s all go across.” Father’s whiskers muffle his hesitant statement.

  “No!” Tawny shrieks. “I’m not crossing that Wall! I . . . can’t!”

  Mother tilts her chin up. “Then you will stay here and Oliver will take care of you. You’ll find new dreams and follow them. We’ll all figure out how to be reunited as soon as possible.”

  Father nods. He and Mother have talked about this, but I can’t bear leaving him again.

  I must, for the sake of Radicals.

  “Now, Parvin, go with your Father to the town square. He will get his Clock and you can sit on the platform like you’d planned.”

  “This isn’t fair!” Tawny slams both her palms on the table. “They can’t just kick you across the Wall because you don’t have enough specie, Mom! We can earn more, can’t we? Enough to get you a Clock?”

  “I already had a Clock. I know my Numbers. And either way, I want to go with Parvin, even if we had enough money.”

  I almost sprint out of the house. I can’t listen any more or I’ll break. My family is being torn apart again by the Clocks. Tawny was right—it isn’t fair. But I will do everything in my power to protect Mother on the other side of the Wall.

  Father catches up to me.

  “I’ll come back for you.” I speak without looking at him. “And Tawny . . . if she wants.”

  He rests a hand on my shoulder and I stop walking, tears burning my eyes. He smiles. “I’ll be on this side until you come for us. I’ll keep an eye on things.”

  With a sniff, I nod. “My inside man.”

  He laughs and we continue. My family is on my side this time—they see my vision and are joining me in it.

  At last . . . there is a taste of unity.

  The town square is filled with market booths, but this time everyone is selling and no one is buying. Hysteria floats along the waves of bidding. “Flour! Real flour! Only three specie!”

  Three specie for flour—a precious and rare food that is never sold in Unity Village. It’s going for the price of a newspaper. Father shakes his head and turns toward the Clock-matching station.

  “Socks and scarves! One specie each!”

  “All fruit is free! Donation only!”

  My people are so desperate, they’re getting rid of everything they have if only to afford a Clock.

  Someone grabs at another person’s coin pouch. A fight breaks out. I climb up the platform. No Enforcers are in the square. From my raised position, I see them lining the border of town. None of us can flee anymore. Everyone must either pay, hide, be killed, or surrender to the Wall.

  I didn’t want the Clocks to take over, but I also wanted people to have a choice.

  I watch the chaos for a long moment. A booth gets knocked over. A woman has a young girl by the hair. Several people scream and I find myself not wanting to speak. Not wanting to bring their attention to me.

  Will they blame me for letting the Council get Jude’s information? Or for putting Unity Village in the government’s sights? If they turn against me, I’ll have no chance. They’ll kill me.

  God? Will You protect me?

  No magical calm enters me. No insight to His plan for my life. But I remember the verse Mother told me before any of the mayhem started six months ago—God will complete the good work He’s started in me.

  I shout over the commotion. “Hey! Everyone!”

  A few people stop to send glares my way.

  I try again. “I know you are panicking and trying to get your new Clocks.”

  “Shut up!” The milkman throws a jar of milk at me. I block it with my right forearm, but the impact sends a shoot of pain up to my elbow. It clatters to the platform.

  “You shut up,” someone else yells. “She’s got answers, ya know? She’s friends with the Council.”

  “I’m not a friend of the Council.” I want to rub my arm, but can’t because of my missing hand. It throbs. “They are my enemy. They stole this Clock information from me and they are trying to rid the USE of Radicals and of Low City citizens.”

  I shrug my pack off my shoulders and let it drop to the platform beside the milk bottle. “I’m going through the Wall with anyone who can’t afford a Clock. I’ve been there. I know how to survive. If you have any questions or want to know how to prepare, I’ll be here—on the hearing platform—every day until we’re sent away.”

  My words instill more panic. Those who stood close, flee from the platform. Others resume their fighting over specie. The milkman walks up, snatches his milk bottle, and stomps away.

  They’ll calm down once they’ve given up all hope. Then they’ll come to me and, if God is on my side, I will be able to give them new hope.

  I pack the next day.

  I’m not ready to be a leader. I don’t know when we’ll be sent across the Wall, but I need to be prepared—more prepared than last time.

  I coat the bottom of my pack with as many pairs of socks and underwear as possible. I wasn’t in the West during winter, but if it’s
anything like Missouri winter I’ll need warmth. I can wear layers and leave the extra room in my pack for other things.

  Matches, toothbrush, baking soda for toothpaste and cleaning, needle and thread, bandages, healing salve, Jude’s whistle, The Daily Hemisphere, a bar of soap, and one blanket.

  I’ll tie Mother’s old kettle to my pack and fill it with corn kernels and dried meat for a soup. She’ll have a better idea of what food to pack. If I can get the other Radicals to pack accordingly, we should be okay once we cross the Wall. It’s only a few days’ walk to the Ivanhoe Independent stop. We’ll take the train to Ivanhoe and I’ll work for Wilbur to pay off as many train debts as possible. The Radicals can stay with Mrs. Newton if she’s set up her new mansion by now.

  All that’s left is to say good-bye.

  Solomon has two flasks of Mother’s blueberry ink in his house. He must have purchased it from her. What did he write? Who did he write to?

  Well, now it’s my turn.

  Dear Solomon,

  I did not leave you in Prime by choice. The Council took my NAB, Clock-matched me, and forced me onto a train with two Enforcers.

  But now I must leave you by choice. The Council is sending most of my people across the Wall. I am going to help them. They are so afraid and I’m the only one who can do anything. Otherwise they will die in the West.

  The Council still has Willow somewhere—Brickbat mentioned an orphanage. If you’re alive, if you return, if you read this . . . you must save her and send her back to the West. I can’t.

  I will try to take my people to Mrs. Newton’s safe house in Ivanhoe. After you save Willow, if you want to, come find me.

  -Parvin

  I fold the note and seal it with a smear of the candle wax. The scent of the blueberry ink hovers in the air. It brings back memories of writing my biography.

  I lay the note in the center of the kitchen table. Two fingers of flame squeeze my throat shut. Tears burst forth before I can halt them.

  Solomon’s house is spotless. I’ve been releasing my frustration in the only way I know how—by acting like Mother and cleaning. It took a long time with one hand, but he’s not here to see it. With every day that passes, I’m convinced the Council killed him.

  Yet . . . he had thirty-two years left according to his Clock. Could they have killed him?

  I don’t know. I don’t know how to think anymore. I step outside. “Good-bye, Solomon.”

  The air is made of ice today, as if to match my soul’s sorrow. I stop by the house to grab a scarf and thicker mittens, then make my way to the hearing platform. This time, no one is there. No booths, no mayhem, no people. I climb onto the weathered wood. Its chill creeps through my trousers within seconds.

  Everyone’s given up on earning—or stealing—money for a new Clock. Maybe they’ve realized that, even if Unity Village pooled everyone’s resources together, it still wouldn’t get everyone a Clock.

  Enforcers surround the village. Is this happening at other Low Cities or just to us? An hour passes and no one comes. How are my people handling the idea of crossing the Wall—the terror that’s hovered over their village all their lives?

  When I first found out I’d have to cross, I thought for sure I would die. I gave up all hope. All I could think about was saying good-bye to life.

  But I lived. I became someone new—someone weak, but wrapped in God’s strength. Now I want to go back. Will my people change, too? For the better? Or will I be alone in my change?

  My ears perk to a new sound, shutting off my waves of thought. Mutters. Footsteps. No, not mutters . . . growling. And the footsteps are more like stomps. A lot of stomping. I stand up on the platform.

  A blanket of heads bobs and marches, pouring out of the side streets. Toward me. An organized mob, carrying clubs and knives, glass bottles filled with rocks and nail-ridden boards.

  The milkman and Frenchie are at the front. Jaws set, hands clamped around weapons, and tendrils of hatred preceding their marching.

  Dear God . . .

  They’re coming for me.

  16

  They reach the platform and I stumble back, but the mob parts around it as if I’m a boulder interrupting the river flow. No one acknowledges me. The low hum of anger thrumming from their countenances implants deeper fear in my heart.

  If they’re not here to kill me, then they must be planning to attack—I turn on my heel—the Enforcers.

  The Enforcers stand guard at the train station and along the border of the village. Some tighten their hands around their rifles. Others withdraw long, black clubs. All of them press something on the chest of their suits and screen shields pop up.

  “No.” I stumble off the platform into the midst of the mob. I land on a few people. They fall to their knees, but shove me off them. Marching. Marching. Humming rage.

  I scramble to my feet and shove forward. They don’t move for me. “Stop!” I try to scream it, but it comes out as a breathless whisper. I grab at someone’s arm.

  They’re going to get killed.

  If they attack the Enforcers, who knows how many people will be beaten beyond sense? This is playing right into the Council’s plan—Brickbat wants the Low Cities to fight so he can obliterate us.

  “Stop! Stop!” I squeeze between weapons and shoulders. Something scrapes my arm, but I keep going. I must get to the front. “You can’t fight them!”

  Someone slams a rock against my head. I crumple to the ground.

  They march.

  Heels and feet crush my hand, my arm, my feet, my legs. Someone kicks me in the face. Everything’s blurry. I taste blood.

  I’m going to be trampled.

  A hard boot crushes my arm stump. If I don’t move, I’ll die. No one is here to save me. I am the only one who can save anyone right now.

  I push myself to my knees, straining against the moving bodies. I grab someone’s wrist with my bleeding hand and pull with all my might. It is beyond me. I can’t. I’m weak, but I must pull or I’ll die.

  The man yanks his arm away and the momentum pulls me up, just enough to get my knees locked. A gun goes off. It is the gong that breaks the monotonous marching.

  People freeze physically, but still shout. This is my chance. While they’re stopped, I push forward. No one seems to notice. I shove through bodies, sliding past weapons, until I’m on the front line. A forty-foot gap lies between us and the line of Enforcers. Everyone on my side raises a weapon and screams what I can only label as a war cry.

  I bolt forward shoving through the last line of people until I fall free and slam into the mud between the Enforcers and my people. I don’t know what I’ll do. They never listened to me before, why should they now?

  I launch to my feet and hold my arms out—the stump toward the Enforcers and the hand toward my people. “Stop!” My chest heaves. I can’t breathe.

  It starts to rain.

  The war cries continue. The Enforcers step forward as one. The gap between the Enforcers and my people shrinks.

  “Don’t do this!” Who am I addressing, the Enforcers or my villagers?

  Someone needs to stop.

  My voice is weak. The gap gets smaller as the Enforcers press forward again. More Enforcers from different sectors of the city join them, cocking their guns. Some of my people flee toward the gaps the Enforcers have left in the town perimeter.

  I can’t move. I won’t move.

  I drop to my knees and press my hand into the icy mud. “God! God, don’t let them die. Do something. Do something. Do something . . .” I lean forward until my head hits the dirt. My pleas turn into a whisper. “Do something. Do something. Do something.”

  I stay between the two hordes and pray, tense and waiting for the bullet that will find me. Screaming increases around me and I know . . . this is the moment I will die.

  “Get t
hem onto the train!” an Enforcer commands. “Clock or no Clock, rioters will be sent to the Wall.”

  The hordes swarm together, around me, clubs on flesh, zaps of electric shields. Screams. Blood. Agony.

  They’re going to put my people on the boxcar train—send them to the Wall. I haven’t fully packed. I need food and rope.

  And Mother.

  We must go together. I can’t protect her if we’re separated.

  A body falls beside me. It’s a woman with a gash in her head. Two Enforcers grab her body, and drag her toward the train platform. I manage to crawl my way back to the surface of the churning sea of madness, ducking a club swung at my head.

  The Enforcers throw the bleeding lady into a boxcar. They club someone else and toss him in after her.

  I dash out of the square, ignoring the splashes of blood that sprinkle my face and the weapons that bruise my body in their frantic swinging. I break free, past the platform, until I careen onto Straight Street. I enter the house with an explosive, “Mother! We have to go!”

  She’s in her room, digging through the safe in her closet. She looks up and then jumps to her feet. “Parvin? What’s going on? There’s blood on your—”

  “We have to go! Get your pack.” I ransack the kitchen, grabbing bits of food from the cupboards. “Do we have rope?”

  “It’s at the shop.” She throws on her coat and shawl. “What’s happening?”

  “People started to mob the Enforcers. They’re putting everyone on the train now to send them to the Wall.” I remove anything that’s not absolutely necessary—the bar of soap, an extra pair of socks—and replace the space with more bandages.

  “No one’s supposed to be sent until tomorrow.”

  I stuff more gloves into my coat pocket, pull on the blood-stained skirt Mother made me, throw Father’s coat on over my own, and tie one of Tawny’s thicker sweaters around my waist. “I know! I know! No one’s prepared. And some of them are wounded.”