Jude sleeps a lot. I spend some of that time on my NAB. It’s my duty to inform Hawke that the friend he sent to me has been injured. Hawke’s responses are all business.
~How is Jude’s memory? Ask him questions from when you first met him and see how well he remembers them. It is important that you monitor his memory. I’m sorry he lost the competition. Sometimes his ambitions are beyond his skill. Your messages and journal entries about Ivanhoe are enthralling. I wish I could be with you, discovering the mysterious west and gathering trade tickets. I have a knack for bargaining. I think I’d do well in Ivanhoe.
I stare at his words. When he says, “I wish I could be with you,” does he mean me or our group? I tilt my head to the side and reread the sentence as if he’s speaking just to me. I grin. It’s hard to imagine this tall Enforcer wandering around Ivanhoe. I’d like to see him bargain with Rangell.
But as I think it, my smile fades. Jude is back and now I feel uncomfortable communicating with Hawke. Soon, I need to think through my feelings and decide what’s right.
It takes me a week and a half to return to the visitation booth to deliver my blue watch. Already, impatience has been stirring up my restless dragon. The longer it takes me to meet with the Preacher, the longer I don’t know my purpose and Radicals continue to die in an anti-shalom world on the other side.
I’m surprised to find Rangell at her booth. I assumed she’d halt work on Sunday. I’d planned to leave the watch for her to find.
“I wondered if you were skipping out on me,” she says when I approach.
“No, I’ve been caring for my friend, who your apprentice concussed.”
Rangell raises her eyebrows. “Jem didn’t concuss him. He fell. Anyway”—she waves her hand—“I’m sorry he has a concussion. That sand doesn’t cushion like we all hope it will. I keep telling Arena maintenance we ought to change it to water.”
Lacking energy to argue or small talk, I hold out my blue watch. She reaches for it, but I pull it back with an abrupt thought. “Before you accept this, may I tell you my story?”
She huffs once through her nose. “Your story?”
“Yes, I want to tell you why I need to meet with the Preacher.”
She rolls her eyes. “Thrilling.”
“It won’t take long.” And before she can protest, I jump in. It’s a condensed version. I omit almost everything about the Clocks and focus on the Radicals. I don’t know what made me speak, what gave me the boldness. But something’s changed. I’m not ashamed of my story. I’m not even ashamed of my missing hand, even though Rangell seems to be.
“Albinos did that to you?”
I wink. “You know, it’s not politically correct to call someone albino.”
Her bottom lip quivers and I reach out with my good hand. “I need to speak to the Preacher to save lives and maybe to even recreate unity between your side of the Wall and mine. Will you help me?”
With a hard sniff, she raises her eyebrows and attempts to give me a look of indifference. “So you want me to just give you a meeting with the Preacher for free?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have any idea what that costs?”
I stifle a grin. “I’d assume somewhere around fifty trade tickets and a blue watch.”
Rangell laughs, losing her façade. “Nah. You keep the watch. I don’t like blue.”
34
000.087.02.22.53
It’s time.
Questions will be answered. Guidance will be gained. I don’t expect the Preacher to have every answer I seek. After all, he’s a human. He understands the fear of wasted life. But he’s done things. People revere him. I revere him, and we haven’t even met yet.
The welcome room on the thirty-third floor is hexagonal with tall carvings on each flat wall. Sunlight streams from a domed glass ceiling onto a polished orange stone floor. Wooden benches rest against three walls, facing the tall wooden doors into the visitation hall.
Three other people sit in the room with me: a mother, her young son, and a weedy looking man with spotted bristly facial hair. The doors into the Preacher’s visitation hall are open. His voice is soft and muffled, but I can’t see him. I’m too nervous to peek. I rub my left arm, trying to disperse the tense feeling lacing my severed wrist like a bracelet of flames. Why doesn’t the tingling go away? My hand is gone—doesn’t my arm understand?
The others in the room stare at my missing hand. I’m the handless girl. It defines me. I used to think it showed me as weak, but when I think about where I’ve come—where God’s taken me and what I’ve survived—it’s a testament of His strength.
He helped me survive the albino atonement, crawl out of the Dregs, travel to Ivanhoe, and admit my fears during Wilbur’s suit testing. I’ve never been the strong one, but as I wait to meet with the Preacher I realize I never needed to be the strong one. My missing hand reminds me that God is my strength.
The tall walls around me are covered in words. I stand up and step closer. The quotes are sections of Scripture.
Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs in the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.
On it goes, each verse beginning with “blessed”. The verses are familiar. They don’t make much sense to me, but I continue to read until my eyes alight on one near the bottom.
Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called sons of God.
I stare at the word peacemakers and think of the word that’s plagued my mind since I entered the West.
Shalom.
I brush my fingers over the words. Blessed are the shalom-makers, for they shall be called sons—and daughters?—of God.
I walk to the next section of wall and realize it holds the same verses in a different translation. The peacemaker verse is much longer in this version. As I start to read, a voice interrupts my thoughts.
“What are you doing?”
I turn around. The young boy stares at me. His mother watches as if waiting for an answer.
“Reading.” I glance around the room. Then I remember how rare it is to see actual writing in Ivanhoe. Usually there are just pictures.
“No you’re not.”
I frown. “Yes, I am.” I gesture to the verses. What does he see on these walls? Is he illiterate?
“I don’t hear you.”
“I was reading in my head.”
The bristle-faced man speaks up in a creaky voice. “How do you expect others to hear it when you do that?”
“I-I’m sorry. I didn’t know I was supposed to read out loud.”
“I’ve never seen anyone read without speaking,” the mother says in a polite tone.
I tighten my hand around my pulsing wrist and turn back to the verse. Why do I do everything wrong? And always in public? My desire to read is nonexistent, but I push myself anyway. This must be normal in Ivanhoe.
I start in a soft voice and grow louder as I go. “You’re blessed wh-when you can show people how to cooperate instead of compete or fight. Th-That’s when you discover who you really are and your place in God’s family.”
I scan the verse again and whisper it this time. “You’re blessed when you can show people how to cooperate instead of compete or fight . . .” Jude and I fought, but then he came after me, seeking reconciliation. Does this mean he’s blessed? “That’s when you discover who you really are and your place in God’s family.”
By the time I finish, I no longer care what my three listeners are thinking. I sit down and ponder the verse, repeating it to myself until it’s in my memory. Is this what it means to be a shalom-maker? Could I show the East how to cooperate with Radicals?
The talking from the hall of the Preacher stops. A squat young man walks out. I scan his face for signs of emotion. He looks passive. His eyes flicker to mine, then to my mis
sing hand. Once he’s gone, I wait. No one comes to get me. I look around at the others. The mother and man watch me. The little boy squints at the verses on the wall.
Do I just go in? I was here first, so I rise to my feet. I don’t expect the Preacher to come for me. Deep breath. Chin high. My soft boots whisper against the reflective floor as I stride toward the hall. I cross the threshold.
The visitation room is an enormous rectangle. Piles of pillows surround a large black leather sofa straight ahead of me, but no one sits there. Small fires of different colors lick the air from random squares in the floor. Purple, green, blue, orange, and red.
“Good afternoon.” The low voice catches me off guard to my right. I turn.
The Preacher lounges in another pile of pillows, propped on one elbow. He’s middle-aged with short black hair and a triangle goatee. His skin is a dark Mediterranean brown veiled by a sheer black button-up shirt.
Even lying down I can tell he’s tall. A dwarfed brown table stretches in front of him, holding several bottles of wine and three glasses. One glass is full.
Behind him sits a woman with long dark hair, a blue dress as flowy as loose flower petals, and heavy bracelets on her thin wrists. She massages the Preacher’s shoulders with brittle fingers and spiked red nails.
One of his wives?
“Hello.” Should I bow? My questions roll in my mind. Which do I ask first?
The Preacher stares at me, looking amused and bored at the same time. He runs his hand through a small green flame flickering between two pillows. It doesn’t burn him.
His eyes are as stark green as the fire, catching the light from the windows behind me, shimmering like lake moss. He’s waiting. Again I feel like I’m expected to know what to do. Does he know what I’ve sacrificed to stand before him?
I have no time or patience to be intimidated. Jude and Willow are waiting. My soul is waiting. “What is the United Assembly?”
He takes a sip of wine, not breaking my gaze. Once he swallows, he rests his free arm on the table. “An assembly of world leaders who gather yearly.”
“Why?”
“To discuss the directions our nations are taking.”
His answers come smooth as silk, as if nothing surprises him. The woman behind him weaves her painted claws through his short hair. He doesn’t react. I rock back on my heels. “What countries do you meet with?”
“All of them.”
“The USE?”
“The United States of the East is under the leadership of President Ethan L. Garraty.” He says this as if to prove he knows exactly who I am, where I come from, and all the workings of the East.
How much does he know about the USE? How much does the USE know about the West? Is my venture on this side for nothing? “Do you know about Clocks?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Yes.”
“Do you know that people without them are thrown across the Wall to this side? They’re called Radicals.”
“Yes.”
I gape at him. “Do you know the Radicals die?”
The Preacher raises himself up to a sitting position. The woman behind him, no longer able to reach his head, slouches with a pout and whines, “Oh, Lemuel . . .”
So, the Preacher has a name. Lemuel.
The Preacher levels his gaze. “I do not believe your purpose in seeing me was to test my knowledge.”
I hold eye contact with determination. “No, but . . . the USE leaders use their Wall as unjust punishment.”
“Their Wall?” he asks with a tilt to his lips. “You think your side controls the Wall? Think about which side built it.” As if doubtful I’ll reach the conclusion myself, he points at his black-silk-covered chest. “We let the East use their labeled openings at their will. Meanwhile, we use it for many other things.
“I don’t care if your ancestors started the Wall. I don’t care whose Wall it is. My point is, people are dying. Does that matter to you?”
“Yes.”
“Why don’t you stop it?”
He sets his wine aside and tilts his head. “I cannot stop death.”
“Opening Three is atop a cliff.” My voice nears shouting. I take a calming breath. “You can build a net or something. A ladder.”
“Why me?”
“Because you’re a leader. You hold people’s respect. You can do what you want.”
He lets my response rest in the silence for a moment. “I hear you are staying with Mrs. Newton.”
“Yes.” Is he trying to change the subject?
“She is from your side as well, correct?”
“Yes.”
He takes a long calm breath. “They are your people. Can you not help them?”
I grip my left arm with my right, then clasp them both behind my back. “What do you expect me to do? I have no money. No resources.”
“What if you did have the money and resources?”
“Well, I . . .” What would I do?
“Miss Blackwater, I offer to you and your delightful hostess my resources.” He spreads his hands out in front of him, as if tossing invisible gifts at my feet. His wine sloshes. “I run Ivanhoe.” He chuckles a little. “Actually, I run a lot more than that, though many would not admit it. I do not have the time to take a camping trip to the Wall. You, however, do.”
“No, I don’t! I only have a few months left.”
“Ah.” He lifts a finger. “There it is.”
I eye him with a scowl. “What?”
“Time.”
I step back, cringing. “What about it?”
The Preacher—or Lemuel, as the whining woman called him—leans back. The woman wraps her arms around his chest and toys with the buttons running down his silk shirt. “It’s laid claim to your faith. It’s restricting your actions.”
I hold his gaze with a determined stare. “My faith isn’t in time, it’s in God.”
“Then why are you hesitant to help your people? Why do you insist on pawning off the hard jobs to others? Tell me”—he leans forward again—“what is your purpose here?”
I fumble for an answer. “To ask you questions. And to help Wilbur Sherrod with his work.”
He shakes his head with a patient blink. “As much as I relish discussing Wilbur Sherrod’s skill with design, I must redirect you. Why are you here? In the world. The big picture.”
I stare at him. He stares back, waiting, calm. I’m ruffled. “A-Actually, that’s one of my questions for you. How do I find out God’s plan for my life?”
“He doesn’t have one.”
My head jerks. “What do you mean? He’s God. Doesn’t He have a specific purpose for everything? Everyone? For me?”
At this, the Preacher laughs. “Purpose?” he asks when he takes a breath. “Life is meaningless.”
Anger just short of panic threatens to block my throat. “No, it’s not. He has a plan, I know it.”
“What is it?”
I throw my arms up. “I was hoping you’d help me find out. Is it to save Radicals? Write my biography? Start life over in Ivanhoe? Keep Mrs. Newton company? What is it?”
“Tell me, are you a pregnant virgin?”
My breath seizes and I’m in front of Trevor Rain again, answering whether or not I’ve been kissed. It’s so embarrassing I struggle against the urge to laugh. “No.” I shake my head. “I mean, no, I’m not pregnant, but yes . . .” I swallow. “I’m a . . .”
He spares me. “Have you spoken to a burning bush?”
My eyes narrow. “Are you mocking me?”
“I’m just pointing out that if God has a specific plan for your life, He’ll tell you like he told Mary and Moses. But the disturbing truth is, you have to decide what you want, just decide it with prayer.”
I stand limp. Defeated. “I don’t know what I want.”
“If you were in a ditch with your life seeping out of you, what’s the one thing you’d want? What do you want today?”
I stare at him, but my imagination lowers me into a ditch surrounded by Reid, Mother, and Father. What would I want?
I’d want to save Radicals.
“In the end, life is meaningless,” Lemuel continues. “Go eat what you want, indulge in drink, don’t worry about deaths, and reward yourself for your work. None of it matters in the end.”
“How can you say that? Everything matters. People in Ivanhoe look up to you. They admire you for all you’ve done.”
He shrugs and takes a long sip of wine. “What does it matter, leading a self-sufficient city, donating my own riches, peacemaking between forgotten countries, or designing a culture to keep people healthy? I’ve gained nothing. When I die, this will all be left to a stranger. He could be a wise man or a fool, yet he—”
The Preacher throws his glass so it shatters against the wall to my right. Both the red-nailed woman and I jump.
“—will be master of all I worked for, all I created with my wisdom. He, who will have toiled over none of it!” He pours another glass of wine and toasts me.
Wine spatters the ground, but the Preacher doesn’t seem angry anymore. He’s calm, surveying me and offering a gentle, but distant smile to his woman.
“What about shalom? Being peacemakers, shalom-makers. It’s on the wall outside of this room. Aren’t we supposed to help bring shalom to the world? Make things how they were intended to be?”
“What’s the point of bringing shalom to the world when the world is going to end?”
“So I should do nothing?”
He waves a hand to the door. “Go enjoy your labor. Eat your fill, drink to your desire, and remember God while you’re young before you age and hate your life.”
He dismisses me with a cut in attention, turning to the woman and acknowledging her with a small kiss.
A Time to Die Page 34
