A Time to Speak

by Nadine Brandes

  Footsteps come back toward the house. “Who’s there?” The Wallkeeper’s voice is strong. Firm. Unafraid.

  I wish he was afraid.

  Willow holds her weapon aloft. Only now do I see it’s a dovetail chisel—the type Father uses in his wood shop. She must have stolen it from his apron before he went to work. But what chance does a chisel have against a gun? Then again, she has excellent aim.

  The footsteps come closer. Faster. Willow and I stumble backward, toward the back of the house. We turn to round the corner and a flash of light blinds us. Spots swim in front of my vision. I extend my hand to fend off whatever caused the flash. Another flash. I blink furiously, but before I regain my sight, hands clamp around my arms. Fingers turn to fists with handfuls of my clothes.

  Willow shrieks. Someone—a man’s voice—yells, “Look out, she’s got a knife!”

  I can’t see. There are too many hands.

  “Let me go!” I’m dragged out of the small alley. By now, the sky has lightened to pastel blue and a tinge of coral pink. My body generates my exhaustion and I feel abruptly weighted and tired.

  Willow and I are yanked into the guardhouse. My eyes are almost fully adjusted. People fill the guardhouse, as if they’ve been hiding out on watch. My blur of vision clears and the first face my gaze rests upon won’t meet my eyes.

  Hawke.

  He stares at his feet with a bandage around his head and a gun in his lap. How in time’s name did he get here before us?

  Willow and I are cuffed wrist-to-wrist and then shackled to the hanger bar in a small closet at the back corner. There’s no door, so we can still see inside the one-room guardhouse. It looks like my kitchen at home, but longer, with a tiny cot against one wall. Four Enforcers currently sit on the cot, looking too close and uncomfortable. A wood stove is across from them. The Wallkeeper tosses two more small logs inside. Other Enforcers lean against spare bits of wall.

  The rest of the house is fairly empty of furniture—wood floors, log walls with chipped caulk, and a steepled roof. Sachem, the Lead Enforcer from Unity Village, paces between the others with a NAB in his hands.

  “A representative from the Council should be here soon.” He looks up at me. “Then you’ll be questioned.”

  The Council—the people who sent the assassin after Jude. Why does a representative need to come? What information can I give him?

  I want to drift into ignorant optimism and hope all of this is a plan to let Elm out, but the Council murdered Jude. They’re not about saving lives. Their assassin tried to kill me, too. Maybe the representative is coming to finish the job.

  A reporter with a fancy camera sits on a stool beside the stove. He’s scanning the screen on the back of his camera. He glances at me, then returns to the screen. So that’s what the flash was. Did he take pictures of our capture?

  Everyone here seemed to know we were coming.

  Hawke meets my eyes and holds my gaze. His mouth forms a sad frown these days. I continue to stare at him, straining to interpret his emotions, but all I focus on is how his eyes are a darker teal this morning.

  Kaphtor is here, too, standing with his back to us.

  “Why do you want to kill Elm?” Willow shouts to the room.

  All eyes turn to us. She pulls against the cuff keeping her in the closet. Her narrowed gaze flicks from one person to another. Challenging. Fiery.

  “How many people did you let into the Wall?” Sachem looks back down at his NAB. “We can’t open the Wall to an albino army.”

  “It’s only Elm!” Then she gives a tilt of her head. “But he is like an army by himself. You should be afraid.”

  Hawke chuckles, but my heart sinks. Willow’s not helping. “So, what are we waiting for?” I almost don’t want to know what they plan to do—with me, with Willow, with Elm.

  “We are waiting for the representative from the Council,” Hawke says. “Then we will open the door.”

  Willow gasps.

  “Hawke . . .” Sachem sounds weary.

  “Yes sir?” Hawke’s response is almost a challenge.

  Sachem sighs and taps on his NAB. A light flashes past the window. All Enforcers stand and exit. No one bothers with me or Willow. I crane my neck to see through the window. Only lines of black Enforcer coats are visible.

  The muscles in my neck and shoulders clench. It’s just me and Willow with . . . countless Enforcers. We are the enemy. They could do anything to us and no one would know. They could kill us without a trial—shoot us and toss our bodies inside the Wall.

  Hawke wouldn’t let them do that.

  “What do we do?” Willow tugs against the cuff, trying to wiggle her hand out.

  Hawke reenters the guardhouse. I straighten. The air feels different with just us three in the room. I want to say something or ask him questions. How did he get here? Will he protect us or maintain his Enforcer façade?

  He strides forward, holding a small key. When he unlocks Willow’s wrist from the closet bar, we are close. In fact, we are touching. There’s no way to avoid it and . . . I don’t want to. Avoid it, that is. Even in the midst of this captivity and failed rescue, something about Hawke makes me breathe easier.

  The cuff clinks and detaches from the bar. He turns his head and looks down at me. I open my mouth, but he squeezes my shoulder.

  “Fear not, Miss Parvin.” To Willow he says, “You have good aim.”

  “Will you save Elm?” she asks as he leads us out of the guardhouse.

  He steers us toward the Opening. “I always strive to save lives, Miss Willow, no matter whether those lives are from the West or from the USE.”

  It’s like hearing my own calling come from his mouth.

  The morning sun illuminates the Wall like a lighthouse beacon. Around the Opening stand a line of Enforcers, all armed. Whoever arrived must have brought more. I look over my shoulder. Sure enough, four more Enforcer cars and one sleek white automobile sit in a line beside the guardhouse.

  A middle-aged man speaks with Sachem in front of the white car. His hair is cut short like toothbrush bristles. It’s pure grey—clearly dyed—matching his equally short mustache and beard. His eyes are squinted, anger wrinkles stretching back to his temple. As he talks to Sachem, his mouth moves in terse bursts, like he’s a moment away from shouting.

  This must be the Council member. What will he say to me? Ask me? Maybe he’ll want to know about Jude.

  He wears a smooth black suit with grey cuffs and a grey tie. Blinding white shoes rest stark against the sparse grass tufts and brown dirt. He’s a walking black-and-white photograph. Even his ashy skin fits the look.

  Sachem waves a hand toward me. Mr. Black-and-White meets my gaze. His eyes narrow even more, if possible. I swallow and rub my right hand over the bandage covering the cut on my left.

  They walk toward me. On impulse, I grip Hawke’s sleeve and face the Opening, not daring to breath. I can’t explain my fear, but every fiber in my quaking being wants to flee from this councilman.

  Hawke glances at me a moment before Sachem’s voice speaks close to my ear. “Miss Blackwater.”

  Mechanically, I turn, fighting to bring out my old mask of confidence. It doesn’t surface. Instead, the lift of my chin just interrupts my eye contact, which is a good thing because Mr. Black-and-White’s gaze could petrify the most jittery child if met head-on.

  “This is Elan Brickbat, from the Citizen Welfare Development Council,” Sachem says. “He’d like to speak with you privately.”

  I almost say, “No thanks,” but my vocal cords are immobilized. I nod, barely registering the clink of chain leaving my wrist. When Brickbat turns toward the guardhouse, ice melts from my joints and my body follows against my will.

  Did I think Willow and I could get away with this? Was I so fearless? Foolish? The Council is who almost killed me the first time. I’ve
given them a second chance to do the job—something I thought I wanted a few days ago. Death doesn’t sound quite as freeing anymore, not when it takes me away and leaves this icy photo of a man behind to “lead” the people I love.

  The creak of the guardhouse door as Brickbat opens it sounds like a beckoning into a hall of horrors. I don’t want to walk past him. That would mean putting my back to him. Vulnerability.

  I gesture to the door. “Please, after you.”

  He smiles as a jack-in-the-box might—frightening, not friendly. Too wide. Too white. “I insist.” His voice is hoarse and wet, like he needs to cough or clear his throat because he’s shouted too long without swallowing.

  On impulse, I clear my own throat and practically sprint through the door. The moment it closes behind me, I spin around and plop onto the cot against the wall, not waiting for an invitation to sit.

  Brickbat remains standing. He looks at me like I’m a stray dog urinating on his flowerbed.

  Instead of being intimidated, fire builds inside my chest. I welcome it and dread it at the same time. This is not the time for an outburst. He’s one of the men who had orphans tortured to test out Jude’s new Clock-matching invention—he and his Council hidden behind their High-City luxuries. Does he think I don’t know this? I imagine his cold narrowed eyes staring at a child’s pain-wracked body.

  When Jude first told me the Council did this, I could hardly believe such evil could exist in a person. As I stare at Elan Brickbat, I believe. Something is broken inside him. Broken shalom. This man is not the way things should be.

  I rise to my feet, which puts me only a few inches from his face towering above me. “You had questions?” He better get to them because I have my own questions. And I intend to ask them.

  “Sit down!”

  Startled, I plop back down, my boldness disrupted.

  “I have no problem having you killed, Miss Blackwater.”

  Why did I let him rattle me so quickly? I meet his stare unblinking. “I have no problem dying.”

  “Good.” He pulls a pistol from the inside of his coat and fires a bullet into the wood, inches from my cheek.

  I flinch so hard, my head hits the wall and I fling my arms in front of my face. My body tenses, waiting for a second explosion, and my memory throws up a vision of Reid’s bloodied features.

  My ear is deafened and slivers burn in my cheek. Brickbat laughs. It sounds like he’s drowning in his own throaty saliva. I try not to gag. A squint reveals he’s returned the gun to his coat. “Don’t lie again.”

  It wasn’t a lie. I truly thought I had no problem dying, but now, as my heart pounds so hard it makes me nauseous, I’m enlightened. Peace would not come with my death. There are too many things left unsaid and unfixed—things only I know about.

  “You’re learning how to be defiant, Miss Blackwater. I’ve read your X-book. Defiance is a trait you should try to stifle. It’s not attractive and it certainly won’t free your little albino boy.”

  That biography truly was one of my worst ideas.

  His voice grows louder as he speaks. “Now who else is in the Wall? If you lie, I will blow your head to bits, followed by that albino girl outside. Maybe even the Enforcer you seem to consider a friend—Jude’s brother.”

  I can’t swallow. I can’t breathe.

  “Yes, we know about them. The death of Solomon Hawke would affect only a handful of people whom no one even cares about.”

  Why is he threatening me? “No one else is in the Wall. Just Elm.”

  He leans inches from my face. “Part of me wants to open the door and shoot him. But to keep you obedient, I’m willing to get this over with. When the boy is free, he is under the care of the Council. So is your little Willow. We are allowing her to remain in Unity Village until other arrangements are made.”

  His hoarse wet breath hits my face. I close my eyes and attempt to calm my voice. “Can’t you just let Willow and Elm go back to their home?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  The door opens and I startle. Brickbat straightens slowly, no sign of surprise. Only annoyance.

  I dare a glance to see who ventures to enter without knocking. Hawke closes the door behind himself. He strides to stand beside my cot. His face is set with hard lines—a mixture of the cold Enforcer persona and . . . is that anger? Whatever emotion swirls behind his countenance, it’s akin to when he fought Sachem for my life only six months ago. He’d just found out about the death of the Newtons and he tried—oh, he tried—to save me from the Wall.

  In hindsight, I’m glad Hawke didn’t save me, but I am glad he fought for me.

  “Message, Enforcer?” Brickbat barks.

  Hawke gives a small bow. “No message, sir. Only on monitoring duty.” His voice is cold.

  “I prefer privacy.” Brickbat turns back to me, dismissive.

  Hawke doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even seem to breathe. “Unfortunately, sir, Miss Blackwater is still assigned to the Enforcers of Unity Village. It is my duty to both protect and monitor her—a registered Radical.”

  Brickbat gives a guttural laugh. “If you defy the Council, Enforcer, you will have no duty.”

  “It is not in defiance that I stand here, sir, only concern for Miss Blackwater’s safety.”

  Moments ago, Brickbat threatened to obliterate me, Willow, and Hawke. Doesn’t Hawke realize that, despite his claim against defiance, he is defying this leader? The leader who killed his brother?

  Maybe that’s why Hawke is standing up to him. He’s staring into the eyes of his brother’s murderer.

  The door opens again. It’s Lead Enforcer Sachem. His face is pale and his eyes dart to each of us, resting on Hawke. “Enforcer Hawke, please resume your position by Miss Willow.” His voice is low, cautious, and uncertain.

  Hawke doesn’t even turn his head. “I believe Council member Brickbat and Miss Blackwater are almost finished.” He nods his head toward Brickbat. “Please continue, sir.”

  Brickbat waves his hand at Sachem and finally, finally, clears his throat. “This Enforcer is out of your hands, Sachem. For now, you may leave him here. He was right—I am finished.”

  Sachem leaves. Brickbat turns, but I risk another question. Just one more. I must. “The Council is for the citizen’s welfare. Why do you allow men like the biographer Skelley Chase to kill innocent people like my brother? Why do you send assassins after brilliant inventors? Why aren’t you protecting the citizens?”

  His eyes narrow with a tiny flinch and he holds the glare. “You don’t understand yet, Miss Blackwater, do you? We are protecting the citizens.”

  I frown.

  “We are protecting them from Radicals.” He heads toward the door and opens it. “Radicals—registered or unregistered—are not citizens. We are protecting the people from you.”

  He leaves the guardhouse, closing the door behind him. I shut my mouth, only just realizing it hung open. Protecting the citizens from me? From Radicals?

  Now I see the plan.

  The Council never cared about saving Radicals—that much I already knew. But that’s why they’ll use Jude’s Clock-matching invention. They’ll Clock-match Radicals, even against our will.

  I can’t let that happen. It’s exactly what Jude feared. And once we’re all Clock-matched, the government will have complete control over us.

  In theory, giving Radicals their own Clocks sounds good. Valiant, even—despite the fact that the Council will rob all of us of free choice. But I can’t erase the knowledge of what the Council did to gain the ability to do what they want. They ruined the lives of innocent orphans. More than that . . . they tortured them.

  Murdered them.

  It can’t be worth that. I can’t support that, or the death of every Radical I’ve attempted to save in my short lifetime.

  Brickbat’s intenti
ons are clear. If I resist the Council in any way he—they—will come after my Radicals. Me. Tawny. Willow. Jude’s orphans.

  He might do it anyway. The fate of every Radical in Unity Village may very well rest in my hands. I look down. My stump twitches. Even in metaphor, my hands are weak, maimed, and unable to carry the strength I need.

  My list of people to protect just skyrocketed in number. It’s not Willow and Elm anymore, now it includes Hawke, my family, and the Radicals in Unity Village.

  Hawke touches my elbow. “You are safe.”

  I sigh and an unwelcome tear trails down my cheek. God, I need Your help. We need to save lives. Work through my weakness.

  I stand. “Thank you, Hawke.”

  He releases my arm. “Please, if you can, call me Solomon.”

  I brush away the tear, and wipe my palm on my pants. “All right, Solomon. Let’s go save Elm.”

  We walk outside and I take my place beside Willow. She grabs my hands. Her fingernails bite into my skin as we struggle to breathe against the silence. She strains against me, undoubtedly fighting the urge to run to the Opening. Enforcers surround us, but we have a clear view of the door.

  The Wallkeeper tosses away the metal bars recently wrenched from the stone, so he can insert Reid’s blank Clock into the square hole.

  The Enforcers, including Hawke—I mean, Solomon—train their guns on the Opening. I hear the suction of the Clock entering the Wall, activating whatever mechanisms control the East and West doors.

  The East door—our door—slides open with a hiss. Thirty Enforcer guns cock, but nothing comes out. No pale boy. No Elm.

  Almost as one, we all step forward, peering into the black tunnel. That’s when I see it. Judging by Willow’s high scream, she sees it too.

  A skeleton.

  5

  The skeleton is small, curled on the ground right by the door with a torn, scratched pack clutched in its arms. The eye patch is crooked with animal teeth marks in the leather. No one can mistake the cut slicing down the skull’s face—his eye wound must have been deep to leave a mark on the bone.