It takes a moment to find what looks like a carrying satchel leaning against the wall by the fireplace. It’s not the one that went with his Enforcer uniform, but I rummage inside.
First, I find his silver contacts case with the Testimony Log contacts inside, then his NAB, and then a thick leather strap that might be worn around one’s wrist. I’m about to toss it aside when I see the Numbers clicking away—tiny, red, and digital, but not like ours. It is a wristband—a Clock band. Different forms of Clocks exist?
I’m staring at his Numbers, watching them change. I register them before I can decide to look away.
032.072.15.01.44
“Thirty-two years and seventy-two days, Mother.”
“Gracious. He has good Numbers for a man with the type of path he’s been walking.”
I nod, though she can’t see me. I know Solomon’s Numbers. I’m not even sure how old he is—twenty?—but those Numbers take him at least into his fifties. Thirty-two years sound like forever. What would I do if I knew I still had thirty-two years left?
Still, just because today is not the day of his death doesn’t mean we can relax against his agony. “Can we get him to Nether Hospital?”
“They don’t treat stripped Enforcers.”
“How do you know?”
She pulls away the cloth, with it comes some chunks of dried blood. The wetness has dampened the crusting on his face. She wipes it gently. It smears. The backward black Enforcer E is gone, scraped off his left temple as if the person removing it was peeling a potato.
“The husband of midwife Bridget—the woman who delivered you, Reid, and William—was an Enforcer in his younger days. He was stripped of his Enforcerhood when they found out his wife was a Radical.”
“What happened to them?”
“They moved to a Dead City when Enforcers started sending more Radicals across the Wall. You were ten years old.” She hands me the bloody cloth. “Rinse this in the kitchen and bring it back to me. Then go home, put some water to boil, and prepare Tawny’s bed for him.”
“Are you sure we should move him?” He looks so fragile, but at least we are now confident that he’s alive . . . and will stay that way.
“If the other Enforcers see us going between our houses to help him, they may restrict us. Tawny and you could both end up in trouble because you’re Radicals. We need him where we are.”
I curse my missing hand the entire ten minutes it takes to prepare Tawny’s bed. But determination wins out. By the time Father and Mr. Contrast—the blacksmith—lay Solomon in my old bed, I’ve laid fresh sheets and filled two pitchers of boiling water.
By evening, Mother has cleaned and bandaged his face with strips of the extra cloth I used to use for sewing. She and Father shove me into the kitchen while they peel off the rest of his clothes and check his other wounds—not that I wanted to stay.
Tawny and I sit alone in the kitchen, hearing the muffled voices of Mother and Father on the other side of the door.
“You’re lucky, you know,” Tawny says.
I push the newly filled kettle over the fire again. “How in time’s name am I lucky?”
“He didn’t zero out.”
I close my eyes for a long breath before turning back to her, but she stares at the table, her lashes dripping tears like icicles. I reach over and take her hand. “I’m sorry, Tawny. I wanted Reid to live. That was always my prayer.”
“I guess his prayers were just stronger than yours.” She pulls her hand away.
“What do you mean?”
She spits out her next words as if she’s waited a long time to say them. “Before we married, Reid told me about your shared Clock. He told me he would be the one zeroing out. I never believed him, but he knew it as a solid, unarguable fact.”
“I know. He told me in his journal. But how did he know?”
“That’s what I asked him, too. He always said, Because I prayed for it. He was so confident in the power of prayer that he knew the answer to the Clock.” She sighs. “Yet, I still married him with only six months promised to us. It was easy to doubt when we stood outside that Wall, waiting for you to come back. Especially when you looked practically dead yourself. I’d hoped . . .”
“So did I.”
“I begged him not to go to the Wall, but I also wanted to be with him every last second I could.” She stares out the window into the dark street.
“I’m sorry.”
“So was he.”
“Did he ever tell Mother and Father?”
The kettle whistles and she jumps to retrieve it, even though I’m closer. “No. Please don’t tell them.”
I don’t respond and she doesn’t seem concerned that I agree not to. I can’t keep this from Mother. She’s still blaming herself for his death, though I don’t know why.
“Thank you . . . for his journal.” Her words disappear into the crackle of the fire, but I catch them. I can’t justify saying you’re welcome. The journal should have been hers in the first place. And I ruined it.
Mother and Father come out of the bedroom, carrying two bowls of bloody rags. “He’s cleaned up,” Mother says. “I doubt he’s woken since. His head shows signs of a few nasty blows.”
Tawny and I stare at her. I’m ready to sit by his bedside, as I did with Jude. I’ll hold a mug of hot broth to feed him whenever he wakes. This is no different than when we each atoned in the albino village. Except we have no white pills for pain. The Enforcers took those out of my bag when they searched it upon my return.
But Mother doesn’t say anything about watching him through the night. She strides over and gives me a long hug. “He’ll be okay, Parvin.”
I cling to her and my worry dissipates. All I can think in terms of thanks is God . . . The words “Thank You” can’t form past my clog of emotion, but I guess this is where the Holy Spirit intervenes and translates my one word into a paragraph of undying gratitude.
Mother releases me. “Now you two get some sleep. I’ll set some extra blankets out and you can turn the table on its side for more room. I’ll check on Mr. Hawke every couple hours.”
“No, Mother, let me.”
“You may take over tomorrow, Parvin. For now, though, he needs a sharp eye.”
I won’t sleep a wink anyway, but his health is more important. I don’t know enough about healing to help him the way he might need. “Okay.”
As Tawny takes the cot, I have no problem curling on the floor by the fire beneath the kitchen table. I watch the flames flicker from yellow to orange, licking the air and logs like a famished animal.
Today was chaos and yet deep peace is all that surrounds me. Solomon will heal, Tawny opened up to me, and my family was unified with a purpose to save a life.
But the best part of all has to do with Mother. I don’t know where to pin the blame—on Solomon’s injuries, or my desperation, or maybe she was just tired of everything. All that matters is that today, on this very bloody Tuesday . . .
My mother returned.
8
“Miss Willow is gone. I’m sorry.”
A cyclone of chills brings every hair on my body on end as I stare Enforcer Kaphtor in the eye. He sits in Sachem’s usual spot in the containment center—a good thing for Sachem, because I came here to deliver a vicious tongue-lashing for Solomon’s sake. I might even have resorted to a physical lashing if my temper got the better of me.
“What do you mean Willow is gone?” He can’t mean dead. He can’t.
“She was sent to Prime early this morning.”
“Prime? The High City in New York?”
“Yes.”
I grip the edge of his desk to keep myself up and to restrain my desire to shout for her. “Why?”
Kaphtor glances around the containment center for a moment. “The Council summoned her.”
My spirit sinks lower and lower. “Why?”
He shrugs. “Questioning, I think.”
I cover my face with my hand. What now? Willow is in the custody of the very people who are currently lying about me, manipulating the people, and using Jude’s Clock-information.
What if they want to Clock-match her and then test her like the orphans, seeing if she’ll die on time? My head snaps up so hard it pops my neck. “No! We can’t let them take her.”
I turn my back on Kaphtor and stride out of the containment center. In only two days, Solomon has been beaten senseless and Willow has been carted off to the enemy. God, what in time’s name are You thinking?
I need to meet with the Council somehow. Either in person or through my NAB. I need to stand up to them and talk about Radicals, about Willow, and about Jude’s Clock-matching invention before they start using it.
Willow may be my key to meeting with them.
Is this what You meant when asking me to speak? I enter my house, hyperventilating from a brew of thin winter air and emotions.
“He’s awake.” Mother stands in front of the bedroom door and wipes her hands with a cloth, then sets aside an empty bowl of broth. “And quite alert.”
I drop my pack onto the table and enter my old room as softly as possible. Solomon sits upright in bed, wearing one of Reid’s shirts. The blanket rests at his waist and a kitchen chair is situated at an angle by his bedside.
His right eye is open, but the other is swollen shut and lined with purple. The left side of his face is bandaged at an angle. Cuts and bloodstains cover the exposed skin. What hair is not trapped beneath the cloth strips sticks up in odd angles from his long days of unconsciousness.
I intended to walk in and say something soothing, maybe even witty, but my throat constricts and I blink in quick succession against the hot burn of tears.
“Oh now . . . don’t b-b-b-at your eyes at mmme,” he croaks with a small smile. “I already think you’re p-p-p-retty.”
He winces. Saying that small bit of speech seems to take every bit of facial muscle control he has.
His statement is so . . . Reid-like. And unexpected. And sweet. Tears push past the barricades of my eyelashes. So much for being strong.
I sit in the chair beside him and clasp my stump in my lap. “Oh Solomon, was it my fault?”
His non-bandaged eyebrow angles down. He opens his mouth as if to speak, then shakes his head no. Screwing up his face, he gets another sentence out, and even I can’t mistake the pride in his beaten voice. “You sssmash muh door.”
I laugh and then sniff hard against the tears. Thank heaven I’m not sobbing. That could get ugly. “Yes, well, your latch was poorly made. Have Father make a new one, otherwise anyone could get in.”
“’Kay.”
I look down at my hand and stump. I want to tell him about Willow, ask his advice. But should I bombard him the first moment he’s awake? “Why did they do this?”
He lets out a long breath, then lifts a hand with effort and points to his eye.
“Because you took out your Testimony Logs?”
He nods, then waves his hand back and forth, indicating sort-of. This won’t work. I can’t rely on hand gestures for answers. He needs more time to heal and it’s heartless of me to pepper him with more questions. “We’ll talk again when you’re a little better.”
He gives a stiff, swollen smile.
“But you should know, they’ve sent Willow to the Council. In Prime.” The words come out fast, as if spoken against my will. Solomon should know. He reaches a bandaged hand toward me.
“I’m going to go after her.”
Solomon’s eyes widen and his hand stills. “You . . . c-can’t . . .”
I won’t let him dissuade me, but I don’t want him to think I’m impulsive. “I’ll let you know my plans.”
“Duh C-C-Council is dan’rous.”
“I know! They’re trying to convince people I’m on their side. They said I gave them Jude’s Clock-matching information.” I glance up sharply to meet his eyes. “I didn’t, you know. They stole it. I didn’t help the Council one bit.”
“I know . . .”
“Good.” My nod is curt. “I’m really going to think this through.” I pat his shoulder. “I’m glad you’re healing.”
Back in the entry, I pull on my boots, loop my arms through my shoulder pack, and grab a scarf. “I’ll be back soon.”
Mother, who sits at the table, gives a solitary nod.
I walk outside beneath the grey clouds. We’re halfway into October and the weather is biting. I shove my hand and stump in my pockets, having forgotten my gloves.
I probably shouldn’t have run out on Solomon like that. But I couldn’t bear to hear him tell me not to go after Willow. He’ll be fine. He’s on the mend.
Right now, my focus is on Willow . . . and the Council.
My steps pound the dirt as I propel myself to the square. The closer I get, the brighter an idea grows, as if inviting me to come snatch it off the hearing platform.
Today, I claim this location as my safe space.
This platform is such a morbid place, symbolic of death and hopelessness. But, like Solomon said, it’s time to get the citizens of Unity Village used to my presence. If they’re ever going to listen to me—if I plan to figure out this SPEAK thing God keeps pushing on me—they need to be able to tolerate looking at me.
The square is empty save the occasional passerby. No market today. I climb onto the platform and sit in the light of my idea. It’s not what I thought it would be. It’s not exactly . . . legal. But it has power.
I pull out The Daily Hemisphere and my NAB. Opening to the Contact section, I click on the bubble for Gabbie Kenard, the senior editor of The Daily Hemisphere.
Because no one is around, I speak aloud to the NAB, allowing the frustration and anger to flow out.
Gabbie,
I’ve changed my mind. I will provide further journal entries. I’ve been reading your current articles about the Council and Skelley Chase. I have many things to say on these topics—things the people ought to hear and know. You’re right, my story should not go unheard, especially when it’s being skewed by the leaders of our country.
I have one condition, however. You must provide me with the contact information and physical address of the Council.
Sincerely, Parvin
Perhaps it’s impulse that pushes me to do this, but I owe it to Willow and to my village to try. I glance around the cold square. The restless dragon squirms inside me. Staying here and waiting isn’t enough, not when I know I can do something more.
Not when I can blackmail the Council.
9
Two days pass before Gabbie writes me back. And now I’m biting my tongue, re-reading my blackmail message to the Council.
To the CWDC,
I had the “pleasure” of meeting Elan Brickbat one week ago and his conduct revealed to me the quality of care the Council gives to the citizens of the USE.
I would like to meet with you—the entire Council—as soon as possible. If you do not grant me a meeting, I will go to the press about your testing procedures on orphans. Since you’ve decided to lie to the public and paint me as a supporter of the Council, I have a feeling my words will carry quite a lot of impact when I make the front page of The Daily Hemisphere, revealing you as child murderers.
I want Willow present during our meeting as well.
I will be on the train to Prime the day after tomorrow.
~Parvin
I’ve never been threatening like this to anyone. Something about it feels good, which makes me wonder if it’s bad.
I don’t show the message to Solomon. I don’t want to know if he approves or not. I’d rather just approach him and say, “I have a meeting with the Council.”
I clutch my NAB in my hand and whisper, “Send.”
The message bar fills up and disappears, sent into the void for a brief blink before entering the Council’s contact box. Which member will read it? Elan Brickbat? I don’t know any of the other members, though I think President Garraty is also on the Council. How many members are there? Three? Thirty?
I stop my train of thought before it leads me into regret.
The message is sent. Gabbie Kenard came through. Once again, I will be journaling my life. Maybe this time my family and village will read it.
Now . . . to tell Solomon my plans, as promised. I haven’t talked with him since sharing my plan, but Mother says he’s much more articulate now.
I enter the bedroom. Solomon turns his head toward me and attempts a smile. His swelling has lessened, replaced by a dark rainbow of bruises. Some of the bandages have been removed, but the one on his face is clean and white—freshly changed.
“How are you?” I ask.
“Better.” His lips make almost normal movements, smoothing out the word. “Walked around today. On’y some cracked ribs.”
I lower myself into the seat beside him and reach for his hand. “Why did they do this to you, Solomon? It can’t have just been because of the Testimony Log.”
“I’b surprised dey didn’t do it earlier.” He tilts his head to the side. “Lots o’ rrreasons, Parvin. I took out mmmy lenses several times, you and I knew each od’er, I wasn’t giving th-them . . . de feedback dey wanted about you or . . . J-Jude. And then there’s my history. They ffffound out I helped Jude.”
“What do you mean?” I straighten in my seat. “Didn’t they know you were brothers?”
“W-w-when he first crossed duh Wall, they accessed my Enforcer Testimony Log and saw that I’d assisted him.” He takes several deep breaths. “The Enforcers used my information as a t-t-tool to find Jude. Jude ’n I knew this would happen. Ssso we . . . acted out . . . false scenes. Using my Testimony Log, I convinced duh Enforcer Leaders and Council dat I’d recorded his actions to help them.”
A Time to Speak Page 10
