I killed Jude. Have I killed Solomon, too? I shouldn’t have gotten attached to him.
All I can do is sit in my deceived village and wait. Hope. Pray. I’m trapped, worrying about Willow, Solomon, and my people.
“A Clock-matching station will be set up tomorrow morning at sunrise,” Sachem announces as the Enforcers stand in straight lines behind him. There are so many. Why are there so many for a single matching station?
“All residents of Unity Village are required to report for the new Clock-matching. Any unregistered or registered Radicals are under the protection of the government until the Clock-matching is completed. You may come out of hiding for matching without fear of punishment.”
Muttering starts. I can’t make out any specific words, but I bet they’re doubting. Radicals have never been safe in this town.
Sachem holds up his hands. “Please understand that, under the new system, all residents are required to be matched with a new Clock.”
He doesn’t tell us the or else, but no one seems to mind. No one except me. I guess I’ll find out what the or else is.
What will they do to those of us who refuse to be matched?
I wake the next morning and stare at the ceiling. The ceiling of Solomon’s house is much nicer than my parents’ house. It feels safe, until I remember what’s happening today.
People are giving in to forced government control.
My people.
Picketing would be pointless. Arguing will do no good. I can’t attack the Enforcers. There’s only one thing to do: sit and wait until the government starts enacting its control, and then be here for my people when they need me.
A knock startles me out of bed. I slip on my boots and coat and walk down the hallway to the front door. When I open it, Tawny, Mother, and Father stand in a small huddle.
“Come on,” Tawny says.
“I’m not going.”
“I knew you’d say that.” She turns to Mother. “She’s already matched. Let’s just go.”
Mother grabs her arm and holds her in place. “No. We’ll do this as a family. You heard the Enforcer, everyone must come.”
“I’ll come”—I slide my pack over my shoulders—“but I’ll wait on the hearing platform while you go in.”
Tawny shrugs. “Okay, then, come on.” She takes long strides. Bouncy strides, as if she can’t get there fast enough.
I don’t want to know her Numbers. I already know that Mother will die in twenty-one years and Father in nineteen. It’s an awful feeling, knowing how long or how little time I have to prepare for the death of someone I cherish. Then again, I don’t cherish Tawny. Still, she’s family and maybe someday I will cherish her . . .
Like when a miracle happens.
We reach the town square. Mother grips Father’s hand so tightly that both their fingers are white. Tawny leads the way. The line to the registration booth winds out into the square. Dusten Grunt is first.
I settle in my usual spot on the platform.
The line moves forward slowly, like cattle stepping forward to be slaughtered. Tawny cranes her neck to peer ahead. Father glances back at me for a second.
Enforcers keep people in order. Their rifles aren’t strapped on their backs anymore. Now they hold the weapons, as if waiting for someone to step out or make a fuss.
Around midday, the line has only grown. Dusten Grunt hops up on the platform. “Well, I’m registered. Get my new Clock tomorrow.”
“Good for you.” I continue staring at the Daily Hemisphere.
“What are your new Numbers?”
I shake my head, feeling only sorrow for the bully across from me. “They’re private and they don’t matter. They’re invisible to me.”
“Gee, you’re set against this thing.”
“Yup.”
He scoots closer. “Why?” His sneering tone is still there, but beneath it is genuine curiosity.
“The Council tortured and killed orphans to test the Clock you’re going to get tomorrow. They murdered the man I might have loved to get you a Clock tomorrow. They captured a little girl who only wanted to go home, all for the sake of blackmailing me into supporting the Clock you’re going to get tomorrow.” I meet his eyes. “So, maybe you can see why I hate them. It’s another leash the Council is putting around our necks.”
“Whatever.” He slides off the platform.
“What does it matter to you anyway, Dusten?” I shout. “You already had a Clock—won’t your Numbers be the same?”
I hit a tender point. His face turns a fierce scarlet. “Shut it, Empty Numbers.”
“What did they do with your old Clock?”
He shrugs a shoulder. “Destroyed it.”
The Daily Hemisphere slips from my grasp and tumbles off the platform. “They destroyed it? And haven’t given you a new one yet?”
“So what?”
My pulse pounds a nerve in my throat so hard I can’t get a word out. Dusten rolls his eyes and leaves.
They’re destroying Clocks and saying the new ones will be assigned tomorrow. Can’t my people see? Are they so blind they’d allow a stranger to smash their Clocks with an empty promise of a new one?
A heavyset woman and a tall slim blond walk past me. Madame and Frenchie, from the coffee shop Faveurs. “I don’t understand why zey burned your Clock, Madame.” Frenchie wraps a shawl around her shoulders.
“Because they’re replacing all Clocks with a universal style.”
“But zey deedn’t give us new ones.”
“Tomorrow, Angelique.” She holds up two slips of paper. “We get our new Clocks tomorrow. See? Here’s your approval slip and here’s mine. We present these any time tomorrow and we’ll have our new Clocks.”
Frenchie squeals and grips Madame’s arm. “I will ’ardly be able to sleep!” Even though I now know her name is Angelique, I can’t break my mental habit. She’ll always be Frenchie to me.
I jump up on the platform and face the line. “Stop! Don’t let them destroy your Clocks!” A few faces turn back to look at me. “There’s no guarantee they’ll give you a new one tomorrow. Don’t give in!”
Enforcers step out of line, but I said what I wanted to say. I hop off the platform, pick up my electrosheet, and trudge back to Solomon’s house. My feet smash clods of dried mud, leaving my footprint behind. It’s nice to know I can cause change, even if it’s the minimal adjustment of a dirt lump. No one else can step on it and leave the exact print I can.
If only I could channel that change into my people. I don’t want my life to be marked simply by footprints. If they don’t lead anywhere, it means nothing.
I eat a short and lonely lunch of corn crackers and goat cheese. Mother, Father, and Tawny must be back by now. I walk past the few doors up Straight Street and enter my old home without knocking . Tawny is at the sink and Father sits at the table with a little dish of ashes and a few gears in front of him. He stares at the fire.
“Father?”
“They burned it.” His fingers scoot under the ash of his Clock and lift a tiny handful. They flutter back into the dish. “They demanded my Clock and then burned it.”
I rest my hand on his.
“You will get a new one tomorrow.” Tawny fiddles with her paper voucher.
I swallow hard. Will he? Or will the Enforcers leave on the train, making everyone a Radical? What would the Council do to us? “Maybe Tawny’s right, Father.”
“But . . . I’ve had this one my whole life. I don’t understand the need to destroy it, at least not until after I get the new one.”
“I don’t understand either.”
He looks up then, and I see something new in his eyes. What is it . . .?
“You may be right, Parvin. This may not be the good move it seems to be.”
And then I know what is in my father’s
eyes.
Fear.
The square is in complete chaos.
It’s day two of the Clock-matching and masses of people push into each other, smashing groups into walls as they surge toward the county building. I elbow through, trying to find the source. Someone knocks me over. I fall into the cold mud and a boot heel smashes my hand. I yelp and scramble back to my feet.
“What’s going on?” I call to no one in particular, but everyone is too busy yelling and pushing.
A gun goes off, and the screaming stops. I get to the front and meet a line of Enforcers, three men deep, all with guns pointed at us.
“Everyone will remain calm!” Sachem steps in front of the line. “You have two days to meet the required terms. That should be plenty of time for everyone.”
“We can’t!” a man screams. “You know that. These terms should have been clear before you destroyed our Clocks!”
Fists punch the air. A clod of mud hits Sachem in the face. People roar and I can’t make a single clear sentence. But listening becomes a lesser concern when I spot a form on the ground, curled up against the wall of a house. His arms cover most of his dusty blond hair and, by the harsh lurches of his shoulders I can tell he’s crying. Sobbing, more like it.
I kneel beside him and lean close enough so he’ll hear my voice in his ear. “Dusten?”
He looks up. His entire face is wet, his nose is running, and his eyes are so scrunched I’m not sure he’s even looking at me. His sobs come out heavy, from deep in his chest.
Someone runs past and sprays mud up in our faces. I lean forward and wrap my arms around Dusten’s shoulders. It’s instinct and, before I can withdraw my awkward show of compassion, he buries his face in the crook of my neck and his tears smear against my skin.
I don’t understand the details of what’s wrong, but it’s exactly what I expected. Betrayal from the government.
Dusten clings to my coat, a little boy in my eyes . . . or a broken man. The madness doesn’t cool. It increases. Feet pound by us. I’m knocked against Dusten. Our position is dangerous. We need to move or we’ll get trampled. I pull him to his feet and half drag him away from the mob. We go to the hearing platform. He climbs up and collapses on his side, covering his face with his hands.
I don’t know what to do. “Dusten, it’s okay. It’s going to be okay.” Why do empty words come out when I need meaningful ones?
He shakes his head against the wood flooring of the platform. With a shuddering breath, he stops the sobs and flops on his back. “I’m a Radical.”
“Why can’t you get your new Clock?”
He points up to the county building post board. “They cost one hundred specie.”
“One hundred?”
“Per person.”
I fall back against the restraining post. No one here has that amount saved up! In smaller writing on the post board is a warning: Those who do not conform to the new Clock-matching policies will be considered illegal, unregistered Radicals and will be sent across the Wall.
“See what they did?” Thick saliva gathers in his mouth. “They turned us all into Radicals and now they’re giving Clocks only to the rich.”
“There are no rich in Unity.”
“We’re all going to die, Parvin.”
It’s the first time he hasn’t called me Empty Numbers. He’s desperate. I take his hand. It’s calloused and rough, but I squeeze it anyway.
“No, we’re not.” I raise my eyes to see the crowd in the roads leading to the county building. Some people still yell, but others have sunk to the ground like Dusten. Only a handful are in line to get a Clock. Other people throw mud at them.
“But I’ll be sent across the Wall!”
“I know.” My grip on his hand is so tight I’m sure it’s cutting off his circulation. He doesn’t complain. “But you won’t go alone. I’ve been there. I will go with you.”
I’m finally starting to understand. “And I will help you survive.”
15
By nightfall, the people of Unity Village turn into monsters.
Happy Halloween, let’s celebrate with an uprising. But there’s nothing happy about it. On a normal Halloween, children in grotesque costumes made of cheap material and faces painted with dyed cornstarch and honey stroll around the market booths for treats.
This year the holiday is marked not by fun . . . but by desperation.
All night, screams wake me and sounds of breaking glass come nearer and nearer. I blow out all the candles and sit at Solomon’s dining room table, waiting for the chaos to hit Straight Street.
Are people attacking the Enforcers or each other?
Around midnight, something slams against the door. I bolt upright, a string of drool stretching from the corner of my mouth to the kitchen table. When did I drift off?
I wipe away the drool and stand.
Slam!
Someone kicks the door. Father’s latch will hold . . . won’t it? Is it Solomon?
The person does it again and smashes into the room. I scream and grab a candlestick, the closest thing to my hand. A tall figure walks in, wearing an awful grim reaper costume with a painted face and a scythe in hand.
I’m going to be sliced to ribbons.
“Stop! Get out! What do you want?” I brandish the candlestick, but it’s too lightweight. It will do nothing.
“Parvin?” The voice is stuffed up and nasal.
I lower the candlestick. “Dusten?”
He picks up a match from the windowsill, strikes it, and lights the candle in my fist. Then he stares at the ground and I stare at his face. Beneath the gaudy paint is the receding chin that quivered with sorrow this past sunrise.
He falls into one of the chairs at the table and covers his face with his hands.
My breathing slows. “What are you doing? I . . . I . . . you scared hours out of me!”
“I didn’t know you were staying here,” he mumbles through his fingers. “I thought it was abandoned while your favorite Enforcer was gone.”
The fear that blossomed only moments ago shrivels into a lump of burning coal. I’m shaking. “So that’s reason to break into someone’s house?”
He shrugs.
“No. It’s not. I didn’t think you’d be part of the Halloween traps and tricks. At least not this year, with everything that’s happening.”
“Shut up, Empty Numbers.”
The old Dusten is back. What did I expect? That crying into my arms during a mob and the collapse of his lifestyle might change him? Silly me.
I sit across from him and tame my tone. “So, what were you doing?”
“I figured an Enforcer would have lots of specie.”
“Still trying to get a Clock?”
“Either that, or hide from the Enforcers.” He leans his scythe against the wall. It’s a strange feeling, being a counselor to the grim reaper. “Well, what do you think I should do?”
“Just because the government is taking away your Clock doesn’t mean your life span is any different.”
He smashes his knuckles on the table. “Don’t you get it? I want it to be different! I thought maybe these new Clocks . . . maybe they’d . . .”
“… give you longer?” I supply.
He rolls his eyes and looks out the window into the blackness.
“I told you I’d go with you across the Wall.”
He stands and grabs the scythe. “Yeah, well I don’t want to cross the Wall. People are fighting . . . I might as well join. See ya.”
My voice is a hollow whisper as he steps through the broken door. “Bye.”
Halloween passes and twenty-three people were killed, four of whom were Enforcers. I can’t help wondering if their Clocks—now smashed—would have revealed that. Maybe they were Radicals and never knew their Numbers. No matter. The new
day is gloomy. Dark. Tainted with blood and greed.
Father’s store was broken into, but he’d had the sense to gather the till and bring it home. He, Mother, and I sit at the kitchen table. Tawny isn’t here. I don’t ask where she’s gone. This is another blow to her smashed dreams.
“I’m going into the square today.” I hold my hand and stump toward the cooking fire. “When it’s time, I’m going across the Wall with the other Radicals. I want people to know that I’ll help them survive.”
“No.” Father runs his fingers along a rough patch in the table. “We are leaving as a family.”
Mother shakes her head. “The Enforcers caught others fleeing last night and killed most of them. The perimeter is now watched. We can’t leave.”
I can’t desert the people, anyway. My own safety is no longer my priority.
“We will hide in Unity until the Enforcers leave.” Father’s firm. I’ve never seen him so determined.
“No—” Mother protests again.
“Others are doing this. We’ll go down in the cellar of the shop—”
“—They’ll know—”
“—No they won’t.”
Mother grips his hand. “They’ll find us!”
I turn my back on them and speak low. “I can’t hide. I’m going with the people across the Wall.”
“Sweetheart . . .” Father’s chair scrapes the floor and soon he’s behind me, turning me to look at him. “You already have a Clock and we have enough specie for two more. You don’t have to go back there.”
That still leaves one of us four without a Clock. “I want to go.”
My chest suddenly swells. I get to go back! I get to save people, show them how to survive over there! It’s all my prayers answered. I asked to save Radicals. This is the clearest calling and answer I’ve ever received from God.
Saving them was never in my power—only in God’s. And to save these people, I have to lead them through the fire.
“We’ll wait until Tawny returns to decide who gets the Clocks.” Mother stands and peers out the window.
I reach across my body and grab Father’s coat as he moves to sit back down. “I don’t think any of us should get a Clock.” Even now, it’s hard to say something of which I know they’ll disapprove. The words taste like sand coming out and my parents react to them as I’d expect they’d react to a sandstorm.
A Time to Speak Page 17
