But it’s not Jude, and he doesn’t do what I ask. Instead he lifts Ash off her feet and strides faster than I can walk toward the bath.
“Black.” Ash buries her face against his chest. “How did you know?”
My mouth falls open as I follow. Black is covered in sweat and dirt, with a small wound healing on his forehead from my dagger.
His chest heaves with deep exhausted breaths. “I couldn’t sleep and I couldn’t get rid of chills. I just knew, Ash. I saw the fires when I got closer and my thoughts were confirmed.” He plants a kiss on her forehead.
Everything about Ash’s demeanor seems to relax. They reach Jude’s bath as another contraction wracks her body. Jude stands beside the coracle with an empty kettle. He stares at Black for a moment, but says nothing.
Black tests the water with his hand before placing Ash in it, nightgown and all. I suddenly hope he doesn’t ask why she’s wearing a nightgown.
Even though the contraction looks just as painful, my nerves and heart are calmed. Black seems to know what to do. He cues Ash to breathe and even takes deep breaths with her to help pace her.
When her contraction ends, he grips her hand as she closes her eyes for breath. Sweat lines her forehead. Black groans. “This can’t be how it’s supposed to be.”
Ash looks up with wide eyes. “Am I doing things wrong?”
He places a trembling hand on her face. “No, I meant birth. This pain . . . it just doesn’t seem necessary.”
“It’s not how things are supposed to be,” I blurt. “Your pain hurts God’s heart like it hurts yours. His creation was broken by Adam and Eve’s disobedience.” I look at Ash. “This pain is a result of that brokenness.”
My words sound preachy to my ears, but clarification sinks into my heart. Somehow, I understand another hair’s breadth of God’s character.
Black and Ash give no response to my mini sermon. Heat fills my face. What did I expect? Black helped chop off my hand—does he think that’s how things should be?
Another contraction hits and I watch them for the next several minutes, thinking of Mother and Father. As far as I know, Father wasn’t even in the room when Mother gave birth. Ash and Black, though, form a type of team.
I meet Jude’s eyes. He looks somber, tired, but alive. We stare at each other for a long moment. He smiles. Warmth builds inside me, initiating a genuine smile back. It is strange, smiling again, like I’m not supposed to feel happy after everything I’ve gone through. It reminds me of when I laughed with Reid at our One Year Assessment.
Thinking of that life six months ago sucks away my smile and I break our stare.
“It’s time.”
“Time?” Black croaks, mirroring my own reaction to Ash’s words. “You mean the baby’s coming?”
Ash reaches for him. “Let’s get to the bed.”
Black puts one foot in the water to lift her out.
Ash’s house is at least three contractions away. Can she make it before the baby comes?
They head in the opposite direction. I stare after them. “Where are you going?”
“Our house,” Black responds, tense.
I point back toward where I’ve been sleeping. “I thought that was Ash’s house.”
“That’s the healing house—” Black is cut off by a sharp inhalation from Ash. He moves behind her and supports her exhausted frame as she puts her hands on her knees.
“It might be better for her to lie down,” Jude says.
“Get under her!” Black shouts at me.
Not having a clue what I’m going to do, I drop to my knees as the baby’s head emerges. “It’s here!” Shock—and a tinge of disgust—race through me.
Ash releases a gut-wrenching groan and I guide the rest of the baby free. I catch it in the crook of my left arm, avoiding my stitches, and stabilize it with my right hand. Everything is a mess of blood—the ground, Ash, the baby—but I can’t stop staring at the small albino form in my arms. I turn the baby over.
“It’s a boy,” I murmur, using Ash’s nightgown to wipe off the baby’s face. Ash collapses against Black and they both sit down on the ground. I hand them the baby. “Where do I cut the umbilical cord?”
“Wait,” Black says. “Wait until the baby gets all of the nutrients he needs.”
So we wait and stare. My initial disgust melts away into euphoric wonder. My anger about broken shalom sees new light, new hope. Ash’s pain didn’t last forever. It resulted in a new creation.
I stare at the pale baby skin. This is how it’s supposed to be. God hates broken shalom. He won’t leave us in it forever. He plans something more for us.
I want it.
Everything after these silent minutes of awe and shock happens in a mindless fog. Black cuts the umbilical cord, the baby cries, Ash washes in the coracle, and they hobble into their hut. Jude puts out his fires, sets two pots of boiling water outside Black and Ash’s door, then we both wash, go our own way, and collapse.
A windstorm hits that next morning. The flapping of my animal-skin roof wakes me, but I snuggle beneath the blankets, falling back asleep with the vision of Ash’s baby in my mind. I never liked babies much, but for some reason, even though his eyelids were red and his skin an odd splotchy white, the albino baby left me stunned.
After two days of eating leftover pheasant, reading my Bible, and resting, I crawl out of bed and use my teeth to help squirm into my fresh extra shirt. Then I pick up Reid’s journal. I haven’t touched it since the cave above the wolves. Sickness and then the atonement have directed my mind elsewhere.
I sink back into bed, pulling the covers up high and crack open the book. Where should I start? I turn to the first page with writing.
09.19.2147, Time: 08:32
I’ve come to the realization that I will be the one to die on October 7, 2149. The Clock is mine.
The journal slips from my fingers and flops backward onto my lap, losing my place. I scramble to pick it back up again with my one hand. What . . . what did Reid write? How could he know the Clock is his?
I can’t open the book fast enough. My breathing accelerates.
There it is.
. . . The Clock is mine. So I’ve started a journal to record my last two years. It’s a strange feeling, knowing I’m going to die. I’ve always felt an urgency to live my life, but now it’s increased. I’ve decided to travel some more. I think I want to visit the Upper Cities in Florida.
“But how? How do you know?” I shake the journal as if it will grow a mouth and share the answers.
“Parvin?” Jude calls through the doorflap in a quiet voice. “You better come out here.”
With a harsh squeeze to the binding of the journal, I discard it for the moment and climb out of bed. I lift back the flap and meet Jude’s eyes.
He looks over his shoulder. “We need to leave.”
“Leave?” I look past him, but see nothing unusual. What about Ash and the baby? “Why?” I don’t want to leave yet, and that thought frightens me.
Jude takes my hand and pulls me out of the hut toward the edge of the village. I’m startled by his touch, but even more startled by his careful quiet manner. “There.”
I look where he’s pointing. Far in the shadow of the forest march a line of albinos with trimmed, soaked logs on their shoulders. They’re returning with the dead standing.
A vice clamps around my throat. Between them and us lies the pink dogwood, broken clean in two, blossoms scattered across the ground like tree blood.
22
000.154.04.23.11
“Did you do that?” I breathe.
He drops my hand. “Of course not. Do you think I want my head chopped off?”
I gulp. “H-Head chopped . . . off?”
“That’s what they do if you kill a tree. Then they bury you at its base in a cage m
ade from the dead tree’s branches.”
A blossom blows toward my feet, but I can’t seem to move. The albinos are closer. My heart twists like a wrung rag. “It must have happened during the windstorm.”
“Parvin, they’re going to think we did it,” Jude hisses.
“But we didn’t.” I straighten. “Black and Ash can vouch for us—there’ve been strong winds through the night.”
“Do you want to risk that? Black held you down when you were innocent last time.”
No need to remind me. Alder cut off my hand. If he thinks we killed their dogwood, he won’t hesitate to kill us. “I need to get my belongings.” My voice shakes. Maybe I can talk to Alder first and explain.
“I’ll help.”
I stumble across the mossy forest floor into the healing hut and throw my few possessions in my pack. Jude lifts it onto my shoulders. He is tying the flap shut when shouts drift from the direction of the knoll.
On a whim, I say, “Grab my Bible out of there.”
“We don’t have time.”
Time. We’re always running out of time—in the West and the East. “Please, Jude.” I bounce up and down on my anxious toes as he fiddles with the flap. My hand rubs my throat.
God, oh God. You don’t want us to die like this, do you? I’m acutely aware that God can and will do whatever He wants. Please don’t kill me!
Jude thrusts my Bible into my hand. We sprint out of the hut and veer toward the edge of the village opposite the dogwood tree. I run into Black and Ash’s hut before Jude can protest. They are both still in bed, holding their baby.
I halt, staring at them, embarrassed that I interrupted. Pushed by the gnawing pressure of dread, I ask, “How’s the baby?”
“Hello, Parvin.” Ash smiles, nestling the sleeping baby in her arm between the two of them. I think back to her care for me. She will make a wonderful mother. “Cedar is perfect.” She strokes the baby’s face. His closed eyelids are red as fire and his thin shock of hair looks bleached, even against his pale skin.
“You named him Cedar?” Poor kid.
“After the Red Cedar tree,” she says. Black watches me with a stern look.
Jude steps into the hut without an invitation. “We’re leaving.”
Ash’s lips part and she looks at Jude. Something in her posture weakens and her face falls. I speak in a rush, trying to word it in a less brutal manner. “The pink dogwood tree is broken, I think it’s from the windstorm, but Alder might think we did it.”
Black sits straight up in the bed, alert, like he’s ready to spring after us.
“I want you to have my Bible.” I inch toward the doorflap. “I know it’s not what you believe, but the first part shows how God intended us to live on this earth. It shows life before brokenness. There’s so much more in there you need to know. Please read it.”
Ash’s eyes are wide. “No. We can’t—”
“You must! It’s a gift. Thank you, Ash. I really—” but my voice won’t let me finish. Tears well up. “Good-bye.” I toss the Bible onto the bed.
Jude and I run out of the village. White dogwood flowers paint the forest floor, fallen from the storm. My footsteps crush twigs and plants beneath me. I hope I don’t have to atone.
We crash through bushes covered in remnants of morning rain. Water droplets explode off the wet leaves, showering our faces. I wipe my face with my hand, opening my eyes as I run straight into an albino. He falls backward. I tumble to the side with a shriek.
Alder.
Another albino stands behind him, balancing the log Alder dropped. I scramble to my feet as a third albino parts the bushes behind me.
“The pink dogwood,” he exclaims to Alder. “It’s dead!”
I bolt.
“Parvin?” Alder shouts.
“Jude!” I push through thick branches and force my weakened legs to move. “Jude!”
He’s there, holding out a hand for me. I grasp it like a lifeline and we run. Sounds of slapping leaves and cracking underbrush follow. I imagine Alder gearing up to hurl his axe straight into my fleeing back.
A young girl’s voice yells from behind. “Jude-man! Parvin! I’m coming with!”
I slow my pace to make out the tiny form. Willow. Why is she coming? She has nothing to fear from the other albinos and we have no direction in our flight.
“Go back,” Jude shouts at her. He’s faster than me and pulls me along. I nearly trip as we break from the forest to a long stretch of plain. It’s so bright, I squint and run even more mindlessly, no longer dodging trees.
A loud snap of wood breaks the air and I look back. Willow is on the ground, a small young pine tree split in half beneath her body at the edge of the forest. She throws a wild glance over her shoulder then stumbles after us.
“Willow!” Alder shrieks from the forest, kneeling beside the pine as she flees. Now we have to take her with otherwise she’ll have to atone.
I am speed, running across this flat treeless ground. Free. Weightless. But the feeling is fleeting when the ground slants down and reveals a wide canyon cutting the ground in half, like a knife through a block of cheese.
“Where do we go?” I shout, still a hundred yards away.
“The bridge.”
My running jolts my vision too much to locate the bridge.
“Jude-man,” Willow screams.
Jude looks back and I stumble to all fours. My left arm crumples from the pressure on my wound and my face scrapes the weedy ground. The other albinos, including Alder and Black, exit the forest running. Willow has a small lead and the gap is closing fast. Jude and I approach the edge of the canyon.
“Where’s the bridge?” Hysteria slithers under every inch of my skin. The albinos still have their axes.
Jude points. “There.”
Twenty yards to our right, a thick rope is mounted to the ground with metal prongs hammered into the dirt. The rope is strung taut across the hundred-foot gap.
“That’s not a bridge! That’s a rope!”
Jude skids to a halt, mere feet from the rope. He stares at me with what looks like anger and panic. “You can’t . . . ?” He gestures to the rope. “You’ve never—”
I look at the rope and back to him, gasping for air. “Never what? Walked a tightrope?” I hold my fist over my eyes. “This—is—not—a—bridge.”
I face the albinos, helplessness building like a volcano. I’m now willing to beg in any manner, but Alder’s history shows he doesn’t heed begging. Maybe he’ll swipe my head off before the first word comes out.
Willow reaches us and heads straight for the rope without a word. Already barefoot, she spends a careful five seconds transferring her balance from the ground to the rope. Once both feet are on, she takes long steps across, holding her tiny arms out as wide as they’ll go.
I stare with my mouth open. She holds her chin high, staring at the other side of the canyon. The rope sags a little from her weight and her tiny toes grip the grains.
“Go, Parvin.” Jude faces the oncoming albinos. “Crawl across the rope if you have to. Hand over hand.”
It’s too late. “I have one hand.” I can’t let Jude die for me. He’s only here because he tried to save me.
Willow is already on solid ground across the canyon, inching away from the edge with her eyes set on the group of albinos.
I stand between the rope and Jude like a deathly game of monkey in the middle. I’m the monkey. Neither of my prospects looks promising, but if I stay in the middle I’ll lose.
The albinos will reach us in a matter of seconds.
Jude pulls something from the inside of his black coat. “Stop!”
Everyone freezes, including me.
“This is a gun.” He aims a grey metal barrel at Alder’s chest. His hands are steady, his jaw clenched, and his face set in firm resolve.
No trace of his nonchalant character remains. The edges of his lips turn up in a grim smile. “It can propel a bullet into your body fifty times faster than you can hurl your axe.”
My breathing slows, hitched to stunned trepidation. The air is frozen. The albinos are stock-still. Jude stares them down like a matador.
In this moment, I realize I don’t know Jude. What little trust I had in him was because Hawke sent him, but even Hawke is a mystery. Trusting Jude was foolish. Rash.
Characteristic.
“Parvin, give me your knife and go.” His voice is chilled.
My hand covers the sheath on my belt. “Why do you need my knife?”
“Give it to me!” He thrusts his hand back.
“Okay!” I’m so afraid he’ll shoot someone that I hand him the weapon.
“Now go!”
Do I escape with the man with the gun? Each passing second screams no. I look across the canyon. Willow turns and runs away from us.
“Willow!” Black calls after her tiny retreating form. She keeps running. I would, too, if I had the opportunity.
“Be quiet,” Jude barks. “She has a right to leave you if she wants. You said so yourself—she hit her bloom.”
“She needs to atone,” Alder growls.
I glance at the rope. It’s this or a beheading. After Jude’s threatening, the albinos are bound to behead me if I go to them now.
Alder opens his mouth again, but Jude cuts him off. “Say nothing.”
Again, the silence hangs. Jude waits for me. I drop to the ground and inch my body onto the rope, upside down, clinging with my right hand. God, protect me from these maniacs!
Crisscrossing my legs over the rope, I scoot in increments. Every muscle quivers. My strength won’t last long. I pray my pack is secured enough that nothing falls out.
I must keep moving. I can make it across. The bottom seems ages away, flooded with a murky cattail marsh. If cattails are growing from the bottom, the stagnant water is shallow—too shallow to break a fall.
Scoot. Scoot. The fibers of the rope dig into my skin.
A Time to Die Page 21
