A Time to Speak

  I can’t explain it. “No.”

  He turns his head away, watching bundled bicyclists make their way down the icy roads. “I am.”

  I place my hand on his arm. “Maybe instead of practicing on the slackline we should just . . . pray.” I can’t infuse him with God-confidence. That can come only from the true Source of peace.

  I’ve never been in this position before—feeling stronger in faith than Solomon. Usually I’m turning to him for encouragement. Does that mean I’ve grown? Or does it mean Solomon’s faltering?

  He sighs, and we walk back toward the mansion. “We’ve done as much as we can today. You’re probably right.”

  We enter the mansion to the aroma of meat and onions. In the kitchen, Mrs. Newton and at least ten other women—including Frenchie and Madame—stand over giant pots.

  “Are you sure zis eez food?” Frenchie stirs the contents of her pot.

  I glance in as we pass. Rice—that funny maggoty food I ate the last time I was in Ivanhoe. I was just as skeptical.

  Mrs. Newton laughs. “Yes, Angelique.”

  Some other pots hold beef in a brown sauce with vegetables, thicker than stew. Beef—a rarity in the USE—is as common as chicken on this side. My people will be eating High-City food tonight.

  I sneak a piece of meat out of the pot and pop it into my mouth before it burns my fingers.

  “I saw that,” Solomon says in an attempt to be more lighthearted. I appreciate the effort.

  We retreat upstairs. When we come to my room, he leans a hand on the doorframe. “I’ll be praying, Parvin.”

  “Me too.”

  And that’s our good night.

  It’s not easy for me to talk to God. I much prefer listening, but then that’s not a relationship. I lie on my bed in the empty room as everyone else eats dinner. I’ll catch leftovers tomorrow—either as comfort food or a celebration meal.

  Back on the cargo ship, I asked You to grow my love for You. And it’s grown. Just a little, but it’s grown. I want to do what pleases You, what will bring You glory, and what will bring the people shalom.

  I pour out every concern and desire to Him. I share how Ivanhoe is home more than anywhere else in the world. I share how Mother’s nitpicking and the slacklining opened the door for doubt. I share how I wish Solomon could have the same assurance I have.

  God is a great listener.

  Why can’t I be like the people in the Bible—the ones who get passionate about putting God on the spot? The ones who speak a word and no rain falls for years. The ones who just know what God will do.

  I’m so far behind.

  I fall asleep praying. I wish I hadn’t. It seems like an insult to God—like we were having a conversation and I got so bored I drifted off. But morning dawns cold and icy with blue skies and I’m still set.

  A group is in the first living room, warming by the fire. Solomon and Mother are among them. I join them and sip a cup of Mother’s coffee.

  “I’m not afraid of the outcome.” She and Solomon need to know this.

  “We’ll be there,” Mother says. “You and Solomon go on ahead. Mrs. Newton will show us the way.”

  It takes Solomon and me five minutes to reach the Marble. There’s a long line at the floor-level elevator. Call it intuition, but I know they’re all here to watch me battle the Preacher.

  The only thing is, they don’t know it’s me. They pay no attention to me, they just know someone—some average Joe—challenged the Preacher to a battle.

  We get inside and enter a different tunnel to the Arena—the tunnel for the contestants. I can’t get enough air. I’m lightheaded. We stop halfway in the tunnel and Solomon steadies me. “You okay?”

  “Why am I nervous, Solomon? If I really trusted God, wouldn’t I feel braver?”

  “Your feelings are human, but your actions are what show His strength.” He’s back—the faithful doubtless believer I’ve come to know.

  I still feel like a spiritual wimp. Nowhere in the Bible did I see King David feeling queasy prior to a battle, or the apostle Paul dizzy before speaking to the grouchy leaders.

  We continue down the tunnel. It curves upward, a mixture of ramps and stairs, to the sixth-story platform. I’m about to continue on, but I stop at the first story. “I’m not starting at the top.”

  “You’re allowed to do that?”

  Only now am I struck with the thought. It’s not mine, but it’s nice to feel an urging on what to do. “In the Arena, I’m allowed to do anything except touch the ground.” As the words come out of my mouth, my nerves lessen. I can do anything. I don’t have to look professional. I’ve got one good hand and that’s enough to hold on to a rope.

  That’s all I need.

  He is strong in my weakness.

  Solomon stays in the tunnel as I walk out to the wooden platform attached to a slackline stretching across the entire Arena. There are another few ropes below me, crisscrossing.

  The seats are packed. The buzz of voices is so loud it presses against my lungs. In one wave, the noise heightens to a scream. I look up. The Preacher is on the highest platform, his arms raised as if allowing the cheers to nourish his pride. We are both barefoot, but he’s in tight gymnast pants without a shirt and I’m in the clothes I got from Lost Angel.

  He levels his gaze at me. I hold it. He smiles like I imagine the devil would before dragging someone to hell.

  Charming.

  “Begin!” he hollers.

  Solomon slides to the floor in the shadowed tunnel, his head bowed. It’s now or never.

  Above the slackline to my right, at shoulder-height, is a tightwire. I hold it to keep my balance on the slackline. My hand grows sweaty in a matter of seconds. When I’m about ten steps out, I stop.

  And wait.

  My legs tremble and I try to still them before the slackline starts vibrating. The Preacher dives—head first!—off his platform, catches a tightrope, and swings himself in a new direction. Toward me.

  But I’m not afraid.

  The crowd turns feral from his display of prowess.

  But I’m not afraid.

  He lands on a slackline a few yards above my head, halfway across the Arena from where I stand.

  But I’m not afraid.

  He uses the slackline to launch himself into the air spread-eagle, toward me. He performs a front-flip, positioning his feet one in front of the other to land on my slackline.

  That’s when I let myself fall.

  34

  I thrust my feet to the side, throwing my body perpendicular to the slackline. It clips one of the Preacher’s ankles and throws him into a downward spin. One of his arms gropes for a tightrope, but it’s ripped from his hand by his momentum.

  I cling to the tightwire with my sweaty right hand, swinging back and forth with only seconds before I’ll fall.

  Thud.

  The Preacher hits the sandy ground.

  I scrabble for my slackline with my feet, finally getting it clenched between two toes. It takes a tremendous amount of abdominal strength to lurch back up to a standing position and I almost fall again. Once balanced, I inch backward, toward my little platform, sliding my slick hand along the tightwire. A rope hangs from my platform down to the sand.

  I wrap my right hand in the loose folds of my white tank, grab the rope, and slide down with my legs twined around it.

  The Preacher lies on his side with his face in the sand. Not a soul breathes. The wild spectators gape with slacked jaws at their leader—their hero—on the ground. Defeated.

  A sound fractures the silence.

  Laughter.

  The Preacher’s laughter reverberates in the Arena. Long. Loud. Nonstop echoes. No one joins him. Not a single observer laughs or even smiles.

  He rolls onto his back in the sand, clutching his stomach
. Still laughing. Alone. He pushes himself to a sitting position and slaps his knee. I think he even snorts at some point.

  He goes on like this until it grows awkward. I take a single step toward him. He laughs. Everyone else is frozen. Then he pushes himself to his feet, thumps me on the back, and strides out of the Arena.

  I think that man is slightly insane.

  Maybe even more than slightly.

  As if realizing that they missed their opportunity for autographs, the onlookers flock after him, regaining their voices. I’m left in the center of the Arena with seven people still in the stands. Mother, Mrs. Newton, Frenchie, Madame, Cap, Kaphtor, and Gabbie.

  I salute them and they start slow, tentative applause. Thank you, God.

  Solomon slides down the same rope I did and joins me on the sand. “Look at you. So confident in faith.” His smile is perfect.

  Hand in hand, we walk up the stairs to our small group of supporters. Mother hugs me. “I’m proud of you.”

  Cap sits with his arms folded and his nose in the air. “What a weird place, this Ivanhoe.”

  I address Solomon. “I’m going to go talk to Wilbur Sherrod and get some suits before the Preacher changes his mind.”

  Mrs. Newton’s a little pale. “He won’t change his mind.”

  “I am coming wiz you to ze Wall. Don’t forget.” Frenchie pinches her cheeks to turn them rosy.

  “Me too,” Mother says.

  Kaphtor looks at Frenchie out of the corner of his eye. “I’ll come along.”

  Cap nudges him. “You want to go back? After all the stuff they made you do as an Enforcer? They’ll carve your face up!”

  Kapthor allows a half a grin. “Yes, I want to go back. Don’t you, goat-man?”

  I squeeze Kaphtor’s shoulder as Solomon and I continue up the stairs. “Thank you.”

  I didn’t expect anyone to come with me to the Wall. Now I have Solomon, Mother, Frenchie, Elm, and Kaphtor. They’re not following out of obligation, are they? Then again, who would, when they know that destroying the Wall is full-on rebellion against the Council?

  Wilbur Sherrod spits a spoonful of chestnut soup onto his sketchpad when he sees me. “Ah now, look what ye did.”

  “Hey, Wilbur.”

  His russet afro is as large as ever, still receding, leaving him with a very exposed forehead. His floppy sneakers slap against the tile as he walks over to shake my hand. No hugs for us. We’re not that friendly. Actually, a handshake is pushing it.

  “The Preacher gave me permission to take some of your suits. I’ll need at least six.”

  His already pale skin turns pasty. “S-six outfits?”

  “Yes, I beat him in the Arena and that was our agreement.” The Preacher better stick to it.

  “Ah yes. I heard de Preacher was competin’ today. Ye were after fightin’ him? And ye won?”

  “God wanted me to win, so I won.”

  He looks me up and down, cocking an eyebrow as he takes in my outfit. “Hold on now, I t’ought ye were dyin’ or somet’in’.”

  I slide my hand into Solomon’s. “That’s a long story. For now, what outfits do you have? I’m destroying the Wall and need something that will allow me to do that.”

  “And me,” Solomon chimes in.

  “De Wall? Destroy it?” Wilbur’s bug-eyed surprise transforms into thought, and he seems unfazed by my statement. All I have to do is challenge his skill or get his thoughts onto his suits and he’s clay in my hands. “Well, I’ve de Brawn outfit which ye tested. It gives ye strengt’, but ye need protection, too, from de falling rock.” He reveals his crooked teeth in a smile. “I’ve somet’in new to show ye, Parvin.”

  We follow him deeper into his studio.

  “Where are you from?” Solomon asks. “Your accent . . .”

  “I have Irish.”

  We enter what Wilbur calls “De Closet,” but it’s more like a round warehouse of outfits displayed on mannequins. The floor and walls are black, the only illumination coming from the mannequin cases. Not creepy at all . . .

  Across the room is the mannequin he made of me when I first worked for him, complete with stump and bruises.

  It’s to that one we walk.

  “Isn’t Ireland on the other side of the Wall?” Solomon’s sifting through the same questions I once asked.

  “It is.”

  “So how’d you get here?”

  Wilbur stops in front of my mannequin and unlocks the glass door protecting it, with a few taps on a screen. “My mam and da crossed in Russia when I was a babe.” He places a hand on the mannequin’s shoulder. “Here we go. A new piece called Armor.”

  The form-fitted outfit has a metal sheen like medieval armor, but on top of the mannequin’s head is what looks like a ski mask without eye, nose, or mouth holes.

  “How does it work?” I run my fingers over it.

  Wilbur lifts the sleeve hanging off the stump portion of the mannequin. “Squeeze de mannequin’s shoulder.”

  It’s soft like normal silky material and under my pressure sinks into the plush, creepily humanlike body of the mannequin. He presses a button on the inside of the sleeve and a red light blinks once on the wrist, then disappears. “Now again.”

  I try to squeeze the mannequin’s shoulder, but the material might as well be carbon fiber. It has no give at all.

  “It activates automatically at de sign of impact or danger. Ye can also turn it on manually. De suit withstands t’ree hundred t’ousand pounds per square inch.”

  Solomon pushes against it. “So it’s virtually indestructible.”

  “That it is. Only problem is de timing limitations.”

  My hand drops from the suit. “Like the Epiphany suit.” That suit stimulated extra brain cells in the user, but it worked for about five minutes before the red light blinked a recharge alert.

  “Exactly. Dis suit will protect for ten minutes from de moment ye press de button. Then de red button will blink a one minute alert. I’m workin’ on a longer one.”

  “How does it recharge?” Solomon looks like he’d eat the suit if he could. Inventions may not run in his blood, but they run in his thinking.

  “Dat’s de beauty of it. It recharges from de user’s body energy. Takes an hour, but ye never have take it off.”

  It’s perfect. “Okay, we’ll take this one.”

  Wilbur’s face falls. “It’s my only one.”

  I wink at him. “Print a new one, genius. You’re brilliant.”

  The flattery works, but not without a little complaint. “It takes me two months to print out dis one.” He removes Armor from the mannequin.

  “So, how about a Brawn suit? I need to tear down stones.”

  “Ah, now we have a problem. If ye wear de Brawn suit for destroyin’, ye won’ have enough time to change into de Armor suit for protection.” Wilbur hands the folded Armor suit to Solomon and then leads us across the room.

  Solomon fingers the material. “Can’t you just layer the suits?”

  Wilbur stops in his tracks, his sneakers squeaking a protest. He doesn’t turn. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t say anything.

  “Wilbur?” I take a tentative step toward him.

  “I . . . I . . .” He turns on a heel and stares at Solomon. “I . . . never t’ought of tryin’ layers.” His eyes lose focus and his mouth moves in mutters. He taps the tips of his fingers like he’s counting.

  “Wilbur?”

  He jerks out of his trance. “I . . . never t’ought of tryin’ dat before.”

  “Do you think it will work?”

  He nods four times before speaking. “I do. It should work best wit’ de Armor.” He rips Brawn off the mannequin and thrusts it at me. “Try it on.”

  “We don’t have time for a simulation.”

  “No, try it here.”

/>   I hold the outfit to my chest. “Well, I’m not going to change in front of you two.”

  “Oh, I forgot. Give it here.” Wilbur grabs both the Brawn and Armor suits from us and presses a spot on the collar. They fold into themselves, tightening, shrinking, until they’re each a small square, no larger than a matchbox.

  “That’s new,” I breathe.

  “Aye. Portable an’ easy fer dressin’. Look here.” He holds the Brawn matchbox right up against my sternum and presses it hard. The material slithers out, growing and stretching, melding to my body over the clothing I already wear.

  Then it stops and I’m completely dressed. Now that’s what a one-handed girl needs.

  I put the Armor outfit on over Brawn. It slithers out just as smoothly as the other. The ski mask is so thin I barely feel it against my skin. My vision is perfect and breathing is normal, even as the suit covers my face. It’s as if I’m not wearing the mask at all.

  Wilbur drags a heavy metal crate by one of its handles from one side of the room. It takes all his effort and he gets halfway to me before slumping to the ground. He wipes sweat from the bald portion of his head. “There now, pick it up.”

  I feel no different in the suit, but I’ve been through this drill. I walk to the crate, loop one gloved finger under a handle, and lift. Piece of cake. The weight is barely noticeable, like picking up a shoestring.

  “Now lay down and turn on de Armor suit.”

  I obey. “You put the activation button on the left wrist.”

  “I was t’inkin’ of ye.” Wilbur directs Solomon to the other side of the crate. “It activates automatically, remember. De button is a last resort.”

  He and Solomon pick up the crate and hold it over me. Wilbur lowers his side, but Solomon doesn’t budge. “This isn’t going to crush her, is it?”

  Wilbur straightens and scowls. “I’ve tested de suit over t’irty different times. I am a master. Now put it down before it be breakin’ my back.”

  Meanwhile, I lie inches beneath a bone-crushing crate, waiting for the boys to stop arguing. They lower the crate, but I feel nothing. And I mean nothing.