“The two on the platform. They are my neighbors.”
My brain struggles to make sense of her words. “I’m sorry, I’m still unsure who you’re talking about.”
“The woman and child. The Newtons. I live by them.”
32
000.140.04.24.47
“Will it be the same nightmare?”
Wilbur pulls the second silver Balance glove over my stump and considers my question.
I can barely contain my excitement. The Newtons are alive. And I get to see them in four days. They live outside of the Marble, but I’m not allowed to leave until my train debt is paid. Any irritation or dislike about working for Wilbur Sherrod is nothing now that I know Mrs. Newton and one of her daughters survived.
Somehow, it feels like I saved a life. Even though I never vouched for them and never helped them, it gives me hope that other Radicals have survived.
I have a friend on this side . . . someone who’s been where I’ve been.
Wilbur drops his hand away from the glove. “It’s a simulation, not a nightmare. Parts of it might be the same, but ye’ve already been in once. Ye know what to expect, so the simulation will change according to yer new fears and reactions.”
“Okay.” I shake my left arm and the empty fingers on the glove flop back and forth. The Balance suit fits my body tight from neck to ankles and rests light like an extra layer of skin. I ignore Wilbur’s examination as he walks around me, surveying the fit of the suit. He has eyes only for smooth seams and programmed quality. He’s not looking at anything more.
The door glows red. Willow screams in my memory and I resist taking a step back.
“Go on, then,” Wilbur says, just like yesterday.
Without allowing time to overthink, I push through the door into the blackness. My breathing rebounds off the silence when the door closes. My heart tries to pound, but something reminds it to be calm. Steady. Instead of blood, it’s pumping sweet, amber honey. Smooth.
Breathing comes easier. I anticipate Willow’s scream. I wait. Calm. The suit is working.
The floor drops out from beneath me. My stomach lurches to my throat and before I can react, I land in a bone-crunching heap inside a thick glass box. It’s small. Tight, like an upright coffin.
I manage to stand in the cramped space. The top of my head brushes the top of the box. The glass is clean and smooth, resting on the hearing platform.
Here I am again, in front of my village. Their eyes are blank, white, unfocused and uncaring. Among them stand Mother, Father, Reid, and Hawke. Instead of panicking, I take even breaths.
“Parvin Blackwater is accused of wasting her life,” a bored voice warbles from my left. My head snaps toward the sound. Skelley Chase stands beside me in an Enforcer uniform. He tips his green fedora when our gazes meet.
“Let me out!” I pound a fist against the glass. It’s thick. He turns back to the crowd.
“She’s a Radical with no purpose, no merit, and no accomplishments.”
The honey in my heart catches fire and I can’t seem to recover my senses. I’m being sentenced again, but it’s unjust. I have accomplished something. Some of my people must know this.
“Exile her!” someone from the crowd cries. It sounds like Mother.
“Send her back across the Wall.” That’s Father’s voice.
“She’s not worth saving,” Hawke says. “Bury her alive. Let her spend her Numbers in the ground!”
“No.” I moan as hope slips out of my heart. Don’t they love me? As the thought settles, a foreign wave of calm hits me. My despair is halted. Frozen. Something deep inside me says, You’re not thinking straight.
That’s right. I’m in control here. I’m strong.
Skelley Chase steps in front of my glass box and gives it a hard shove. I scream as it falls backward off the platform, into a fresh grave. Reid throws the first shovelful of dirt over me.
“Reid!” But the glass stops the sound from reaching him.
A giant clod of dirt lands on the glass above my face. My view is blocked and all I hear are the loud thuds of dirt and rocks. I take four deep breaths and exhale my nerves. I’m fine. I’ll be fine. They’ll finish burying me and then I’ll escape. I’ll explain everything to them. There’s no need to panic.
Lights explode around me—beneath, above, in the air. The glass coffin, dirt, and people disintegrate into shadows. I sit up and look around. My heart and nerves are quiet and placid, not angry or surprised like last time. I take a moment to recover reality and push myself to my feet.
When I exit the room, I allow Wilbur Sherrod to take off the freckle stickers one by one.
“Please give a verbal report,” he says.
I stand straight. “I don’t know how, but . . . but I remained calm even when I was terrified.” I peel the silver glove off my right hand with my teeth. “Um . . . I still knew I wasn’t going to die, I just needed to endure the attack for a moment.”
“So how did the suit work?”
I shrug. “Great, I guess.” Even though my emotions felt stifled, the suit fascinates me. I felt . . . strong. Powerful, even. I was in control of my emotions. The suit now feels like a protective shield instead of a torture device. I almost ask Wilbur what the next one will be—when it will be.
“Ye can go to your room and change. Bring the outfit back wit’ ye to my office and I’ll ask ye more questions then.”
“Okay.” I turn to leave, taking deep breaths even though my body is telling me I don’t need them.
Wilbur reaches out as I pass by and pats my shoulder. “Well done.”
000.134.01.03.18
Mrs. Newton hugs me so tight I can’t breathe. I don’t mind.
“My dear, dear, girl.”
The only words that escape past my tears are, “I’m so sorry.”
She leans back. “Whatever for?”
I study her face, drinking in the memories of Straight Street, of Unity Village. Her hair is tied back with a light blue handkerchief. Dark blond strands stream around her pink cheeks.
“For not helping your family. I saw the Enforcers in front of your house, I should have said something.”
She shakes her head and takes my hand. “It was not your doing. Even our dear friend, Enforcer Hawke, couldn’t help us. And he tried everything.” She dabs a tear from my cheek with the sleeve of her shirt. “Come, let’s sit down and catch up.”
Catch up. It sounds so . . . normal.
The entry of Mrs. Newton’s house is made of swirled marble flooring, which melds into a dark plank wood. We enter the living room where muted brownish-pink walls meet a cloudy blue ceiling. Lines of windows stretch from floor to ceiling with long cream drapes, tied back to let the sun in. A short glass table rests in front of a framed fireplace. Around it sit two single black plush chairs and a poofy couch.
“Elaborate, isn’t it?”
I shake my head. “How did you get this house?”
She sinks to the couch and tugs me down beside her. My body relaxes into every fold.
“The Preacher—the leader of Ivanhoe—donated it.” Joy builds behind her words. “When Laelynn and I arrived in Ivanhoe via train, we begged an audience with the Preacher. He rescheduled his own wedding to meet with us the next day. In our meeting he asked what I needed. I said we wanted to start a new life. He gave us this house and a year’s worth of trade tickets.
“Wow. I haven’t used trade tickets yet. Are they like regular money?”
“Yes, but it’s all done through bargains. Bargaining is competitive, and if people don’t come to an agreement, they can challenge each other to a match in the Barter-Combat Arena.”
I lean back against a thick green pillow. “Today is my first day out of the Marble. I’m still learning the culture.”
She leans forward to brush my hair out of
my face. “Parvin, why are you here? You weren’t a Radical were you?”
So I share my story—every teensy little ounce starting with the bullies of my childhood, then vouching for Radicals, and meeting Skelley Chase. I talk about Reid’s accident, Jude, the shooter, Hawke, Willow, and the albinos. “Until I entered their village, I thought I’d killed your entire family with my silence. But the albinos gave me hope. They said you were alive. That’s why I came here.”
By the time I finish sharing my dreams, my renewed hope, and my failures the sunset is glaring through the windows. Mrs. Newton never interrupted me. Not once. She listened and held my hand, delivering small squeezes during the emotional parts.
“So what are you going to do now?”
I shrug one shoulder and let my head plop onto the back of the couch. “I want to talk to the Preacher. I want to see if he can do anything about the Radicals coming through Opening Three.”
She pauses for a moment. “Will you stay with us, Parvin?”
The question startles me and I lift my head. Mrs. Newton stares at me with a light smile, blinking hard. Her lashes are wet.
“St-stay?”
She gives a sharp nod. “Live here, with me and Laelynn.”
My eyes burn and my thinking falters, interrupted by emotion. Live with Mrs. Newton and Laelynn? Like a family?
I lurch forward into her arms, crying.
000.133.04.43.31
~Dear Hawke,
~I found the Newtons. Mrs. Newton and her adopted daughter, Laelynn, are both alive. The Preacher gave them money and a beautiful home. I’m staying with them.
~You didn’t fail. Mrs. Newton expressed that she knows you tried your hardest to save them. She called you a dear friend. She is happy, even though her family has been broken. She’s happy, Hawke.
~So am I.
000.120.05.25.02
My NAB rests on my bed by the window to catch the sunrays. My most recent journal update blinks, unsent. I turn away from it and dress in a flowy pullover black dress with concealed pockets—a gift from Wilbur because he hated my clothes, even once they were clean.
The front of the dress reaches just above my knees, but the back brushes against the top of my calves. Light beading covers the bodice, but the sleeveless shoulder straps are simple sheen fabric. I told Wilbur it looked like a maternity frock.
“Stop giving out that ye don’t like the dress, Parvin. If ye hate it, find a belt or wear yer smoke-clothes.”
A wide belt made a world of difference, and Wilbur even provided matching calf-high boots with soft soles for tightrope walking. I still won’t try.
After latching the belt, I return to the NAB. It’s the most thorough update I’ve penned, but something in me doesn’t want to send it. That last sentence . . . should I erase it? I read over the entry for the hundredth time.
06.09.2149 – 08:00
My three weeks in Ivanhoe have continued similarly to the first one. I’ve accepted Wilbur Sherrod’s invitation to continue evaluating the effectiveness of his designed outfits. I’ve gone through Balance, Blizzard, Fire, Intellect, Brawn, and Noir.
The simulations aren’t as terrifying anymore, although being immersed in a sea of fire felt very real. I choose to test the suits that affect my physical state more often than those testing my emotional state.
Mr. Sherrod pays me daily with trade tickets for my extended work since his apprentice is still out of commission (he won’t tell me why.) His social capabilities are limited, and I’ve come to accept and understand this about him. Somewhere inside, there’s a caring and human side of him. I know it.
He’s still intrigued at the idea of not fearing death. He says things like, “We never know when the time will come.”
No one here has Clocks. It’s strange, but they all seem so free. They’re not focused on time. I wish the East could function this way. Wilbur explained that the word suicide means people end their own lives. I’m glad we don’t have suicide in the USE. It sounds like it carries a lot of sadness.
I’ll have to bargain for a visitation with the Preacher. I’m curious about the United Assembly. It sounds like the Preacher meets with leaders from the East (and maybe the rest of the world?) He may even know President Garraty. What hasn’t our government told us about the West?
Ivanhoe feels more and more like a new home even though there’s so much to explore. I almost don’t want to return.
“Send,” I say with a stiff voice. No more thinking. The entry is honest. Real. That’s what everyone wants, right? But what if Mother and Father feel betrayed by my attachment to Ivanhoe? Will they be hurt if I don’t return? After all, we already went through the difficult Good-byes.
My room in Mrs. Newton’s house is small and quaint. I have my own bathroom and my bed is big enough for at least two people. The carpet is thick and massages my feet every time I take off my shoes.
I leave my room with a pocket full of trade tickets. They’re made of sturdy green paper that can’t rip and each has a tally mark on it. Some people bargain by the number and others bargain in fractions, the risk being guessing how many tickets a person is carrying. I tried to carry only one ticket with me one day, but somehow people just knew and no one would trade.
Today I carry all my tickets—a round fifty. I’m bargaining for a meeting with the Preacher.
“’Bye, neighbor!” Laelynn calls from behind her closed bedroom door.
I giggle. “By Laelynn!” She always knows when I’m leaving and never lets me go without a farewell. She’s also decided that neighbor is my official name.
I ride the motorcoach to the Marble. Motorcoaches are free for the people of Ivanhoe, compliments of the Preacher. “Lovely dress, Miss Blackwater,” the motorcoach driver says as I step off. “Have a good day.”
“Thank you, Peter.”
As I take the elevator to the first floor of the Marble, I feel . . . pretty. Maybe I’ll impress the Preacher. My belt is a notch loose to try and make me look like less of a waif, but after three weeks of solid meals, I’m pleased to see my form filling out more than ever. My legs aren’t so twiggy, my scars are fading, and when I flex, my arms reveal puny but noticeable muscles.
Reid would be proud.
The elevator doors open and I step out. The ground floor is covered in vendor booths set on clay flooring. People mill about and bargaining shouts fill the air. Signs and pictures hang from each booth or wall mounts. A wooden sign with a carving of an oval colosseum hangs over a stone-arched hallway out of the main floor. The Combat Arena. I still haven’t seen a competition—too busy working.
No one walks in or out, which indicates no matches are taking place. Part of me sinks.
The Visitation booth sits on the opposite side of the market, marked by a wooden sign of two stick people with a dual arrow between them. Every sign is in pictures with no writing.
The trader woman is a short albino with straight dyed silver hair and a flat nose. She wears thin yellow disc earrings and snowy blue mascara. I gape at her and she lifts an eyebrow.
“Hello.” I give a meek smile. “Sorry I stared. I’ve only met albinos from the village in the forest.”
“Albino isn’t considered politically correct anymore, you know.”
I look around. “I-It’s not?”
The trader woman shrugs. “I don’t care, but it comes off as a little rude. Some people don’t like it. I could call you whitey and we’d be square.”
I scrunch my nose. “Whitey?”
“You’re white aren’t you? Not as white as me of course, but I don’t pick the labels.”
“Sorry.” I look down. “There aren’t any albino people where I come from.”
“Where ya from, little one?”
“East.” I bite my lip and hurry on. “How do I meet with the Preacher?”
“We can trade
for a visitation.” There is unmasked eagerness in her voice. “But he’s not accepting questions until July fifth.”
“That’s four weeks away!” My excitement fizzles to a pathetic ember.
She shuffles through some papers. “He’s done it again, you know.”
I shake my head. “Done what?”
She leans forward with a look of distaste. “Gotten married. This is his sixteenth wife, and she’s young.”
My jaw turns slack. “What happened to the other fifteen?”
“Oh, he’s still got them.”
I make a face. “Isn’t that illegal?”
She waves a hand. “We let the Preacher do what he wants after all he’s done for us. Besides, he did it to form an alliance with a coastal city. That’s why I expect he wants another bride. Everyone knows Kamea is his wife of love. All the rest are alliance wives.”
My mental image of the Preacher dips into poisonous black sludge. Sixteen wives? He can’t possibly care about them all. Do any of them feel loved? Does he feel loved? It sounds like brokenness to me—broken life, broken marriage, broken relationship.
Broken shalom. It’s my thought this time, instead of God’s, and it feels right. My mind approaches conclusions that resonate with what He’s been teaching me the past few months. I’m proud I recognize the broken shalom, though my heart sinks when I think what the Preacher is missing out on.
“I can give you a visitation on that first day.” The vendor sits back, returning to bargain mode. “You won’t be the first in, but a nice afternoon visit should suit you, yes?”
I perk up. “Sure.” Four weeks aren’t bad as long as I have a scheduled visit. I can explore Ivanhoe and spend time with Mrs. Newton and Laelynn. I can work with Wilbur and earn more trading tickets. I’ve come to enjoy testing out the suits. Pushing through those simulations is empowering. I feel strong, despite my missing hand.
“Well?” the trader pressures. “What are you wanting? A plea for change? Proposition? Does your visitation deal with Ivanhoe’s well-being or is it personal inquiry?”
A Time to Die Page 32
