A Time to Die

by Nadine Brandes

  I press the emotigraph again. The several seconds of emotion pass, leaving me gasping as they did the first time. His hope and conviction had to be for me. They must be. My thumb presses the button again, welcoming the prick. I close my eyes, soaking the emotions in—welcoming them into permanence. This time, when I emerge, the conviction almost feels like mine. Maybe I am convicted. Reid thinks I can achieve greatness. I can. I must! I have the potential.

  My finger rubs back and forth over the button. I fit my thumb into the indentation. One last time.

  Parvin.

  I twitch, dropping the emotigraph. God’s voice echoed in my spirit, not my ears, almost like feeling my name come from Him.

  I stare at the emotigraph beside my feet. “Sorry . . .” Why do I feel the need to apologize?

  Like a whisper caught in the breeze, I sense a calm hush. Shhh . . .

  I breathe. Reid’s emotions fade into memory, taking the conviction with them. I guess it wasn’t my conviction after all. It all came from the emotigraph.

  For the first time since stomping away from Willow, I notice my surroundings. I stand in a graveyard, only it’s more than a yard. Thousands of headstones stick from the ground like petrified mushrooms, leaning this way and that as if bent by the wind. They stretch in every direction for miles, marking raised lumps of ground; some are tall carvings of wood, others are hewn stones, some have a pile of rocks. The most common grave markers are rough crosses.

  The sight overwhelms me. Each of these markers represents a human. My toes tingle, thinking of a lifeless body six feet below me. I’ve found the cemetery of the world.

  Who buried everyone? I allow a chill to take its course over my body. Who died? I reach out to a tall gravestone beside me for balance. It’s one of few with an engraving.

  J. F. H. IV

  2004 – 2030

  “A young man whose soul knew the years were limited

  yet pushed him to great purpose and compassion.”

  It takes several seconds for me to remember they didn’t have Clocks back then. How did his soul know? What does my soul know? Is that what spurred my restless dragon?

  I need to sit, but I don’t want to sit on the ground. Maybe it’s because of what may lie beneath me. I lower myself onto the headstone. My skirt sways and something in my pocket clatters against the rock. I pull out Reid’s sentra.

  With a trembling hand, I raise it up and take a picture. The emotigraph comes out. The sad picture of tiny stones doesn’t capture the magnitude of this burial ground. I don’t think it could, even if I took a hundred more.

  I rest my hand and stump in my lap and stare. Who are these people? I barely think the question before answers spill in from my banks of logic—the dead. The ones killed by the terrorism.

  I’ve never grasped the gravity of our world’s history. Present day in Unity Village was all I knew, but in school history I heard about the woman who studied and worked in space technology. She directed two meteors into our planet—one in an ocean called Pacific, and the other in a place called China. She left no note of explanation and died under her own act of terrorism. An earthquake joined repeating tsunamis and chains of volcanic eruptions. The bodies beneath me may have suffocated from ash, drowned in water, been crushed by rubble.

  I push a fist against my stomach, willing it to calm as a vision of flesh scorched by lava pierces my imagination.

  This isn’t how it should be, God.

  Thousands of graves marking thousands of lives—so much focus on death. Did the gravediggers spend their lives just serving the dead? How many Numbers ticked away for the sake of carving headstones no one would read?

  As I stare at this scene, I decide I don’t want a headstone when I die. I don’t even want to be buried. I want to disappear—save that chunk of earth for people to live on. This land I stand on is worthless now. No one can build a house here. No one can plant gardens or start a new village. Is that what the people buried beneath me would have wanted?

  Earth wasn’t intended to hold only dead bodies.

  I stand. God, I need to live.

  Swelling passion mixes with panic at my still dwindling Numbers. I can’t keep reacting. I need to take a step. “Use what’s left of my life for something worthwhile,” I whisper. “Guide me on Your pilgrimage. And God . . . please forgive me for wasting my life.”

  I return to the campfire where Willow sits with Reid’s journal open before the flames. She turns each page slowly, letting them dry a little.

  I flop down beside her. “You don’t need to do that.”

  “There’s a lot of writing that’s not blurry. You might want to keep it.”

  Several sentences are intact on the current drying page. “Are you reading it?”

  Willow shakes her head. “I don’t read.”

  I relax, watching the methodical flip of pages. The next time I have a pen, maybe I’ll write messages to Reid on the blank pages. I may have missed what he wanted to tell me, but I can use his own journal to write to him, to tell him I’ll be the one dying, and that I’m proud of him.

  For now, though, it’s time to take a step. God destined me for greatness. It’s my own conviction this time. I look into Willow’s sunburned face, hesitant to share my recent idea. Should I think on it longer?

  No. No more waiting.

  “Willow, what do you know about Ivanhoe? I want to go there. I want to find the Newtons.”

  27

  000.151.03.05.50

  “We’re not going.” Jude sits up from his spot, leaving a body imprint in the ground. His voice is hoarse and only now do I realize he’s been sleeping at the base of a headstone. His face is covered in bruises turning green and sick yellow.

  “Jude-man!” Willow exclaims. “You are awake. Want a gopher?”

  He forces a stiff grin. “I’m glad you’re safe, Willow. And yes, I’m quite hungry.”

  I bristle from his first comment. “Why can’t we go to Ivanhoe?”

  “Why do you want to go?”

  I fumble over my words, trying to reorder the clarity I felt moments ago. “Because I have five months left. I think I can find answers in Ivanhoe. And the Newtons might be there.”

  Jude’s jaw tightens and he raises his eyebrows.

  “I’ve never seen a city,” I finish, feeling stupid.

  “I think you’re being impulsive,” he says. “Ivanhoe is far away—”

  I jump to my feet. “Don’t tell me I’m impulsive. You don’t know me. I’m not asking you to come.” Why does he act as though I’m dragging him along with me? Doesn’t he know he can leave at any time?

  He looks away with a nonchalant shrug. “Tally ho.”

  I return to my spot beside Willow and say, rather forcefully, “Tell me about Ivanhoe.”

  It turns out Willow knows rumors of Ivanhoe, but has never been there. Still, her eagerness surges as she talks. “I think people there live in a castle of sorts, created from ruined cities. When they come to trade, they bring a lot of medicines and technology. No one trades for the technology items because we don’t have much use for them, but they’re very interesting.”

  She tosses another pile of dead sticks onto the fire. “They are fun to bargain with and almost always turn it into a competition. They like to compete. The man in charge of Ivanhoe is supposed to have done everything possible in life. People go there from all around the world to ask him questions. He knows everything.”

  My ears perk at this. Someone with answers. Answers can bring guidance. The more we talk about Ivanhoe, the more my assurance builds. This is where I must go.

  “What type of technology?” Jude raises his head from his brooding position by the headstone.

  Willow shrugs. “I told you, we never trade for it. You could ask the man in charge.”

  “Do you know how to get there?” Jude asks
.

  Willow and I grow silent. Her smile fades and pride sickens my insides. “I can find my way.”

  “It’s in that direction.” Willow points behind her, toward where I came from.

  No mountains line the horizon for me to mark in my mind. Even the hills strewn with headstones block the canyon and albino forest from view. I couldn’t even return to the Wall if I wanted to without help.

  Jude smirks. “What direction is that, Parvin?”

  Mockery. It breaks through my defiant pride and squeezes my emotions. Tears burn and my throat closes like a pinched straw. He’s just like the boys in Unity Village.

  “That’s West,” he says.

  I keep silent, staring hard into the flame and trying desperately to quell my hurt.

  “Do you know how far away Ivanhoe is?”

  “No!” I turn to glare at him. “Why are you trying to crush my motivation? You’ve offered me no good alternative, so stop being a jerk.”

  Great. I’ve sunk to name calling. Another reason for him to look down on me. Why do I always know how I want to act, yet let immaturity dominate?

  “What can I expect from you, Jude?” Despair overtakes all other emotion. “I thought we were going to stick together, but you seem to have your own plans. I need to know if we’re a team or if we’re going to split ways.”

  The late morning air is silent except for the windy licks from the fire. Willow hunches over Reid’s journal, avoiding looking in our direction.

  “I’ll go to Ivanhoe with you.” Jude’s voice is low and tense. He stands and walks away with hunched shoulders. He runs a hand through his hair then lets it slide down to his side.

  I lean backward until I’m lying down and cover my face. “God . . . I thought this was what You were telling me to do. Why do I feel like I blundered it all?”

  We remain among our small section of gravestone hills for three more nights. My urgency to travel builds inside my chest, but I don’t argue. Willow tends to Jude’s wounds, and I allow the built-up soreness to seep out of my body. The gashes from cattail stalks turn stiff now that they’re out of the marshy water. My legs itch from the growing hair and healing wounds. I wish I had a razor.

  Ticks and mosquitoes seem to like my dirty smell because I’m constantly plucking them off me. I indulge in fond thoughts of smooth, clean clothes hanging in my closet in Unity Village. They don’t smell of sweat or fish. They have no holes. Blood stains haven’t marred their colors. I used to think them crude creations from my inexpert hands. Now, they seem like masterpieces.

  Willow scoots around the gravestones over the course of the days to keep in the shadows. Her sunburned face peels and she picks at the dry skin with her small fingers. I catch up on the news. Another article in The Daily Hemisphere announces Skelley Chase’s newest release of a journal entry continuing my biography X-book. It doesn’t say which journal entry it is.

  ~Send me my biography X-book, I write him through the NAB. ~And send my profits to my family. This last request is an afterthought. It’s only fair I receive some of the profits since this is my story.

  I stare at Hawke’s name bubble several times over the course of the three days. He hasn’t sent any more messages, but I want to send him one. Maybe asking him a question will ensure a response.

  The message page is as blank as my thoughts. As Willow talks to Jude, I whisper to the NAB. ~Did you read my biography? It’s the best I can think of and connects with his last message to me.

  Willow tosses me my water pouch and I surprise myself by catching it with my good hand.

  “Who are you writing?” Jude crouches by the fire.

  I don’t want to admit I’m writing Hawke, but why not? Why should it matter if Jude knows or not? “Hawke,” I finally say.

  He looks into the flames. “What were you saying?” His voice is terse.

  Now that’s not his business. “Asking a question.”

  “I can answer your questions. You don’t have to bother him with them.”

  My throat grows tight. I never thought I might be bothering Hawke. He never seems annoyed. I add, ~Do my messages bother you? to the message. “Send.”

  In an effort to show I do care about Jude, I make a sling out of one of my bandages and help him fit his arm in it. I resist the temptation to run my fingers over the path of his snake tattoo. I’ve never looked at a man’s muscles before. Does my fascination with his make me shallow?

  Don’t be silly. God made muscles. I’m admiring His creation. Still, it is strange to think about muscles right after I sent Hawke a message. An odd section in my stomach feels sick, deceitful, as if I’m somehow being disloyal to one of the two men helping me.

  I slip my NAB back into my bag. “Jude, are you ready to leave?”

  It’s ironic that now I’ve entered my last few months of life, I have the opportunity to start a new—albeit short—life with all the things I wanted: travel, remembrance . . . and maybe even love.

  We spread dirt on the fire and trudge deeper into the graveyard. Willow helped me stuff my socks with balls of my rinsed underwear for makeshift shoes since my boots are still at the bottom of the Dregs somewhere. The prickles of sagebrush and stiff grass still pierce the soft fabric, but they’re better than barefoot.

  She cups her hands over her forehead like a hat brim as we travel.

  “Here.” I hand her The Daily Hemisphere, unrolled.

  She shields her face. “Thanks.”

  “Sure.” The sun seems harsher on her skin than mine, even though we’re both burned. I think of Hawke’s light skin. I bet his pale olive color would tan nicely under this sun.

  Bah! First Jude’s muscles and now Hawke’s skin. What’s the matter with me? I’ll be dead before I see Hawke again. I’m thinking like this because they’re the first two men who haven’t bullied me.

  So then, why not allow my heart to dwell? Since I zero-out soon, the risk is brief. If my emotions are crushed the disappointment will only last a few more months.

  This idea sticks in my mind. Hawke doesn’t mock my short Numbers; instead, he strives to help me through them. My ticking Clock didn’t defer him from showing me kindness. He’s even sharing information with my family.

  But where does Jude fall in all this? God placed me with a man my age with whom to travel. He’s from the East. He’s mildly attractive. Is this God’s way of presenting me with a man of interest?

  My heart doesn’t seem ready to welcome in Jude yet, though I’m open to his attempts if he wants to try. He did save me from the flash flood. I’m still in awe over the strength he showed to pull us out.

  That evening we settle among gravestones and sagebrush. My legs ache and I imagine a long foot massage from Mother. I gently rub the tight area of skin around my stump. My hand was cut off two and a half weeks ago, but my discomfort grows. Waves of sharp pain course down my left arm, all the way to my nonexistent fingers.

  Willow presses the outside of her water pouch against her burned face. She scrunches her nose with a wince and moves the pouch. Jude settles down cross-legged, pulls out his unfinished whistle, but returns it to his pocket, rubbing his wounded arm.

  We don’t build a fire. We don’t eat. Again, my stomach grumbles. I’m so useless. Tomorrow Jude or Willow will catch an animal. Maybe I will kill something and prove myself capable of surviving.

  The next morning, Jude presents Willow with a wide-brimmed hat made from woven tumbleweed. He wrapped portions of it with his own shirt to cushion her head. She stares at it with a frown.

  “It’s a tumbleweed. It was already dead, blown by the wind, and with no roots or green.”

  With hesitant movements, she takes the hat. “Thanks.”

  Jude laughs. “Welks.”

  He looks different when he laughs. Little creases curve inside his cheeks, shaping his sun-beaten skin into a sign of joy. I�
��m transfixed until he turns away. Now, instead of his face, I stare at the bare torso hidden only by his vest.

  I squeeze my eyes shut. God, You know this is unusual for me. What’s right? What’s wrong? I’ve never had thoughts like these before. Am I sinning?

  No one taught me how God looks at attraction. All Reid ever said when he gave me my ring was, “Don’t you let a man touch you until you’re married.”

  I’d blushed and muttered, “Of course not.”

  Did Reid mean intimacy, or did he mean holding hands? Touching tattoos? Brushing cheeks with fingers?

  I sigh. He’s not here to judge me, so what do I think? What do You think, God?

  The day grows so warm I shed my skirt and stuff it in my pack. Jude flops his coat around his neck. Willow seems content in her full clothing, which keeps her skin covered. She often reaches up and touches her hat with a smile.

  “You know”—I catch up with Jude—“maybe Ivanhoe is part of my pilgrimage.”

  He glances over at me without moving his head and looks annoyed. “Let the pilgrimage change you. Don’t try and change it.”

  I frown. “What do you mean?”

  “If you’re not letting yourself be changed, can you even call this a pilgrimage?”

  “You called it a pilgrimage.”

  Jude lets out a long breath. “I mean you’re trying to lead instead of follow.”

  Disapproval. I should have known. My intent in bringing up Ivanhoe again was to try and convince him it’s a good vision, but he’s telling me to follow.

  “I am following. I think God wants me to go there.” I force my voice to remain strong as I talk about God. It’s time I master my weak faith. “Besides, God doesn’t want me to be stagnant. Aren’t I supposed to make decisions, too? I want to find the Newtons.”

  “How do you know they’re in trouble?”

  “I don’t. I hope they’re not. I just want to find them, to see them and make sure they’re okay. Their story can inspire every other Radical facing death.”

  “Tally ho.”

  Silence returns to our marching band. I don’t break it, but a small loathing grows toward the phrase tally ho. It shuts down conversation.