A Time to Speak

  Houses are draped with drying fishing nets. Since it’s now nighttime, people light fires on their doorsteps. Some houses we pass have flat roofs and I catch sparks flying from above. Roof bonfires. That sounds fun.

  All the houses were flooded by the sea when the meteorite struck the Pacific Ocean over a hundred years ago. The earthquakes didn’t help, either. Now people spend their days fishing for food and fixing up houses. Crab and lobster shells, clams, and conches are used to decorate.

  Chark’s house is further up on the hill, where most of the inhabitants seem to live, and it’s nice. It stands on stilts with long draperies acting as walls between polished wood beams. The draperies are tied by thin cords to keep them from flapping. Candlelight and lanterns fill the house, mixed with some electric lights.

  “All the glass was busted out of this house when it flooded.” Chark leads us up some stairs to the deck overlooking the city ruins. “I found it looking pretty shabby and fixed it up a bit.”

  There’s a pool out front with sea creatures swimming around. He points into the water. “There are a couple stingrings, sea stars, and a turgle—one of the biggest I’ve found.”

  Is he calling them by the wrong name on purpose? “Do you mean sea turtle?”

  Chark looks at me with a raised eyebrow. “Haven’t ever heard of a sea turtle. I think someone’s feeding you fish eggs. I’m a sea master, I know what they’re called.”

  He leads us into the house. Mother and I exchange a look, both biting our lips to keep back the smiles. Solomon examines the drapery. We pass through the green and blue draperies into an illuminated patio covered by a coned thatch roof.

  Chairs made of conically woven basket reeds and log stools provide seating. Pillows lean against the walls and dot the ground for lounging. The windows are empty of shutters or glass, too, with transparent draperies over them. The ground is made of a giant slab of stone.

  I’m used to seeing different dwellings like this, Mrs. Newton’s house, Jude’s apartment, Ivanhoe . . . but Mother’s jaw hangs loose and she runs her hand over almost everything. I take her other hand.

  “If any of your people want to stay in Lost Angel,” Chark says, “they’re welcome to apply for an abandoned house and work off the payment. That’s how we do it here. If approved, they could refurbish it from scraps.”

  I plop my damp pack on the ground in one of the sleeping rooms. The floor is covered in pillows of all sizes. Mother places her belongings on the ground, too, then surveys the room as if lost. I want to tell her she’ll get used to it, but she’s already been used to poverty her entire life. There’s nothing I can do to stifle the awakening.

  I don’t give Chark the chance to lead us to where Solomon will sleep. We need to address things now. Together. “When can we talk about getting to Ivanhoe?”

  He looks me up and down. “Whenever you’ve cleaned yourself up. I’m around fish all day, and they’re perfume compared to your reek.”

  Hey, wait just a minute. We bathed on the ship.

  “Down the hall, to the left is a shower room. Water runs for a half hour. Then it needs to reboot.”

  Well, I won’t say no to a shower. Perfect. Ten minutes each.

  I go first and try to keep it down to five minutes so Mother will have extra time. I remember my first time in a shower aboard the Ivanhoe Independent. I couldn’t get enough of it.

  But Mother takes only five minutes, too. Always so efficient. Solomon, however, soaks up fifteen minutes of heat and water, making me wish I’d taken longer. Chark provides each of us with new clothing. It all smells like fish with a coating of salt on it, but it’s fresher than what we were wearing.

  I wear baggy pants made out of thin linen with a drawstring waist, and a white tank. Somewhere in my pile of new clothes, a bra and underwear were provided. I’m not about to ask where Chark got them.

  We congregate out on the porch around a fire pit. Chark, Solomon, and I sit in the wicker cone chairs, while a tall, plump woman with long lashes and red hair that reaches her waist fries something behind a little bar section.

  “You look nice,” Solomon whispers to me. He wears a loose, button-up shirt and shorts.

  I stretch. “I feel nice.” Clean. Fresh. Wet and soapy. Ahh.

  Mother sits on a pile of pillows on the ground, leaving the other wicker chair empty. She holds her dirty knitted shawl around her shoulders, covering the skin exposed from the tank. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her wear anything without sleeves before.

  “Kiddos are still out fishing.” Chark leans back. “But they’ll smell dinner from four miles away. Let’s talk while the little seasnappers are gone. Why do you want to go to Ivanhoe?”

  Because it’s my key to destroying the Wall. “That’s not your business.”

  “Oh, I think it is. We’ve recently allied with The Preacher. He married my sister just a few months back. We’re not going to send some crazies into his city.”

  Mother adjusts the pillow beneath her and glances up at me. I press my thumbnail into the tips of my other fingers. What does she think of how I’m handling everything?

  “Look, I’ve met The Preacher. He gave me funds and helped a friend of mine find a home. Our intentions are for safety only, unless you want us all to join you here in Lost Angel.”

  He shrugs. “I don’t care. There’s plenty of room, but they’ll have to learn to feed from the sea. There are a lot of seasnappers looking for mates and you just brought a whole pool to choose from.”

  His wife sets a plate of shrimp skewers on the glass table between us. She smiles at me before returning to the grill. Chark waves toward the food. “Help yourself.”

  I’m not about to argue. The cargo ship food reminded us what it was like to be human instead of caged animals, but escaping a sinking ship, swimming over a city to shore, and bargaining with a ruling fisherman has given me a hefty appetite.

  “The Preacher built us a motor coach line to Ivanhoe as a trade for our alliance.” Chark snags a skewer from the plate. “You’re lucky that happened, Blackwater. The only way to Ivanhoe before that was walking.”

  “Nothing I haven’t done before.” I slide a shrimp off the skewer with my teeth and nibble the fat end. It’s tougher and more rubbery than fish. But whatever seasonings Chark’s wife put on them eradicates my hesitance. It’s delicious.

  Mother delicately removes the shell from the tail of a shrimp.

  “The motor coaches can take a couple hundred people at a time.”

  Solomon grabs two skewers, then hands one to Mother. “When can we leave?”

  “So soon?” Chark shoves four shrimp into his mouth, tails and all. I hear the crunch from my side of the table.

  “I have friends waiting for me.” I grip the skewer tight, thinking of Willow. Is she still safe in that orphanage? “We need to get to them as soon as possible.” I’ve yet to approach the topic of the Wall with Chark, but he doesn’t seem to care where we’re from.

  He leans back and tosses an emptied skewer into a lined trash basket. “I guess you could leave the day after tomorrow if you wanted. It’s about a two day ride in the motorcoaches.”

  “We’ll talk to the people.”

  •••

  It’s not easy to find everyone. Some people meld into the fishy city-life like they were born for it. Some don’t care to talk, they don’t care to think of other options. All they want to do is fish, eat, and sit by the fire.

  I can’t blame them. Most of these Radicals lived in a Low City their entire lives. Then in the course of a month or two, they were stripped of all they knew, sent to Antarctica, and then escaped on a cargo ship to the wasteland they’ve feared their whole lives.

  They deserve to relax. This is their shalom. This is how things should be . . . for some.

  Not for me.

  Rufus McTavish, Solomon, and Mother help r
ound up all of our people. Chark allows us to meet at the shore where the cargo ship sank and Solomon uses the rope to haul me to the top of the decrepit building Chark stood on.

  Not everyone is here, but the sea of faces below me waits. Watches. Gabbie stands on the edge of the crowd with a notepad and pen. She must have gotten them from her host family.

  My stomach tries to leap out of my midsection. What am I going to say?

  SPEAK.

  “We’ve survived.” Those two words suck the air from my lungs, leaving me a dry-lipped voiceless mime. But the people catch the weight of that statement just as much as it stuns me.

  We’ve survived.

  When my voice returns, it’s as if the people are now ready to listen to me—to accept my words. We are one. We are unified.

  “Chark has opened Lost Angel to us. If you wish to stay and live here, he will put you to work to earn a living space. If you wish to leave, I am traveling on the motorcoaches to Ivanhoe tomorrow. Three hundred of you can fit. The rest will have to wait until the next motorcoach trip. There’s a safe house in Ivanhoe for us, started up by Mrs. Newton after she and her daughter survived passing through Opening Three. Ivanhoe is a city. You can find work and shelter there.”

  They listen intently. I’m the only one with knowledge about this strange land. “Anyone wanting to return to the East for loved ones should come. I will continue beyond Ivanhoe and return to the Wall for the rest of my family.”

  I don’t share that I’m going to destroy the Wall. Even they can’t handle that amount of rebellion just yet. “For those who want to stay here or in Ivanhoe, feel free to write down the names of your loved ones on the East side. I’ll send the list to my father and see if he can contact them and bring them to this side.”

  My silent, peaceful father. Would he do that for me? For the people? Of course he would. And we have the Lead Enforcer’s NAB from Antarctica.

  “That’s all I have for you. Any questions?”

  The floodgates burst. I spend the next hour answering questions about Ivanhoe and about my plans for getting back to the Wall.

  Three hundred Radicals jump at the offer to take the motorcoaches to Ivanhoe the next day. More will catch the second trip a week later. Those joining me—aside from Mother and Solomon—include Kaphtor, Cap, Frenchie, Madame, Gabbie, and Dusten’s body, oddly preserved by his charred state.

  Gabbie smiles as we step onto the lead motorcoach the next day. She lowers her voice as the engines start up and I barely catch her words. “Have you made up your mind yet?”

  Now that I really am a leader, it’s my duty to commit. Gabbie’s video idea seems like the moment for which I’ve been prepared. I could publish my emotigraphs and show people what it’s like to feel like cattle being readied for slaughter. Show them the injustice.

  Show them Dusten’s overridden Clock.

  I pull the NAB that Solomon and I have been sharing from my bag. “I’m in.”

  She gasps so hard she chokes. “You have a NAB? That’s perfect!”

  “Let’s reveal the truth behind the Council and this Clock-matching.”

  “Do you think Skelley Chase will listen?” Her question is breathless.

  I wondered if this would come back up. At first I didn’t bother to argue, since her words rose from a crush on the famous biographer, but she needs to know he’s not a good guy. “No. He won’t. He’s part of the Council, Gabbie, and he helped enable the new Clock-matching.”

  Her face turns impassive. “Yeah, the Clock-matching. That Dusten boy died from the projected Wall and I . . . well, I guess I don’t know what to believe now.”

  “Believe in God.” I grasp the topic. “Maybe that sounds . . . too spiritual, but I mean it.”

  She waves a hand in front of her face. “Yeah, I know. I read your X-book. But the big man in the sky isn’t how I get my assurance. To each her own, I suppose.” She winks and plops into a bench seat. “Think about what you want to say to the USE. We’ll start filming in Ivanhoe.”

  To each her own? My belief in God isn’t just because He’s my ticket to comfort. It’s because He’s . . . God. He created us. He’s shown Himself to me. I sense His voice. Can’t she see His hand in my life? Wasn’t it clear enough in my biography?

  Maybe I didn’t make as much of a difference as I thought I did.

  “Get me off this thing!” Cap grips the motorcoach seat in front of him so hard he could probably rip the cushion right off.

  The ride isn’t as smooth as the motorcoaches in Ivanhoe city. It’s bumpy and loud and shaky. Even so, I would have thought Cap could handle it after being locked in a boxcar for a couple weeks.

  I guess not.

  Kaphtor sits beside him, rigid and immune to Cap’s fear, but I notice a small grin. Next to me, Solomon laughs. His smile fills his entire face and releases a load of anxiety that usually presses down his eyebrows. We’re heading back home.

  Passage-paid.

  I don’t think I’ll miss Lost Angel, but I will miss some of my people who are staying there. I’m glad they’ve found a home.

  As much as I want to talk to Solomon, I refuse to yell and risk the whole motorcoach hearing. It’s too loud for Gabbie and me to film anything too, not until we reach Ivanhoe, so I hunch over the NAB and send another update to Father.

  Father,

  We’re on our way to Ivanhoe. I’ve decided to destroy the Wall so that Radicals in hiding can escape to this side.

  I still haven’t shared this plan with Solomon . . . with anyone here. I need to soon.

  The Council plans to fill-in Opening Three soon. Here is a list of people left on your side. Their family members are alive here with us. Please try to contact these people and bring them with you to the Wall on that date we talked about.

  ~Parvin

  I don’t say the date just in case the message gets stolen by the Council. After that message is sent, I send him the list of names I received from the people. Mother sits in front of us, her head lolling back on the chair. She’s asleep, even with the noise and Cap’s screaming. It will be good to see her and Father reunited.

  Gabbie sits behind Solomon and me. Her name fits her perfectly—she’s a motor-mouth. I can’t make out a word she says above the racket of the motorcoach, but that doesn’t deter her. I catch words like Daily Hemisphere, and boyfriend, and dancing. At one point I hear Skelley’s name and turn around, but by then she’s on the topic of food.

  My gaze blurs as I stare out the window at the passing scenery. The ground is brown and hot, seeming to radiate into my bones purely through its appearance. Most of the brush is spotty, like a giant scattered seeds over the desert floor. Instead of rolling hills, we pass small mountains of dark rock. Dried up water streaks run down the sides of the beasts, like mountain stretch marks.

  Day two takes us through snowy hills and into real mountains.

  Mountains. The majestic beasts are built of rock crags and white-dusted forests. I’ve never seen mountains like this. They tower above us like sentinels. Even Solomon can’t tear his eyes away.

  The motorcoach track weaves back and forth, up mountain passes and down. Gabbie Kenard doesn’t speak anymore. In fact, she’s rather green under that chocolatey skin of hers.

  The ground is covered in several inches of snow. Everything looks so clean and fresh. I want to run out and make a snow angel. I haven’t been in the West in winter. What will be different? What date is it, anyway? I know it’s mid-December, but no one’s bothered to ask, or to care—a first, coming from a population usually run by the Clocks. Are people getting used to the idea of not counting their Numbers?

  Finally . . . I see it.

  Ivanhoe.

  Home.

  The Marble—an enormous ball of bustling city in the center of Ivanhoe—glistens under the winter sun. The snow on the ground illuminates the piecem
eal anatomy of the metropolis. As we slow, the oohs and aahs of my people reach my ears. I want to throw my arms wide and yell, “Look where I’m taking you!”

  Do they find it beautiful? Magnificent?

  Does it look like a home for them? Safety? Freedom?

  God, it’s stunning. You’re stunning.

  Mrs. Newton and Laelynn wait for us there.

  “I can’t wait to see them.” Solomon stares hard into the front of the motorcoach, as if his gaze will pull us into the train tunnel faster.

  “Me too.” On impulse, I slide my fingers into his. He looks at me and squeezes my hand tight for a breath. We don’t have a label. I just want to know Solomon more—to be with him more. That’s enough.

  We arrive at a different section of the city than the Ivanhoe Independent. It takes me a few moments to get my bearings when we step outside, but my people wait patiently, albeit nervously, for me to lead them.

  It’s as though this newness petrifies them more than the wasteland of Antarctica did. They look lost and helpless. Mother’s fingers are white around her shawl. She stares straight ahead, as if resisting the urge to look up and take it all in.

  Open up. Let this world in. It’s beautiful!

  I take my gaze from her tight-lipped face and lead the procession up the sidewalk. Gabbie snatches the NAB from me and starts filming our walk. The air is crisp and icy, clawing through our beach clothing in seconds. Bicycles weave up and down the street, ringing bells and sounding tiny horns. The sidewalk is relatively clear for the busyness of the day.

  Strands of electric lights wind up the streetlamps. The sun is setting and they flicker on with the first shadow. Red, green, fairy-white. The colors send a message of welcome, celebration, and cheer.

  Garlands hang over the street, weaving back and forth in giant V shapes. More strands of light decorate those, as well as baubles of silver flowers and snowflakes.

  “Eez eet Christmas?” A puff of fog pops from Frenchie’s mouth. Her stitches are out and her scar is fading a bit.

  “Let’s find Mrs. Newton and ask.” I hurry up the street to keep our limbs warm. It’s a different type of cold than the Antarctica cold—a wetter chill. Antarctica sucked out our very breath, dried up our tongues, and left us withered and frozen. Here, the cold fills our bones with winter gel, expanding and chilling us from the inside out.