A Time to Speak

by Nadine Brandes

  Saying it to myself—or rather praying it—gives me a purpose. Direction. It feels right and freeing, like I’m passing the baton to God.

  People swarm the rope faster than ants on a carcass. My hand tingles against the frozen grains. Stings. Burns.

  The second container of people arrives with shouts and gunshots. Voices of alarm bounce among the tunnel. The Lead Enforcer’s command echoes a second time. “You have one day to build shelter! Then we put you to work!”

  As they crowd me, I’m shoved against the icy wall. My hand almost slips off the knot and I almost let it. It’s cold.

  But I can’t.

  Something in me knows that, if I remove my hand and prayers, the rope won’t hold. Isn’t there a story in the Bible about some guy holding up his arms so people would win a battle? Maybe this is my turn.

  Person after person descends the rope. After a while, I can’t watch them anymore. I feel only the burning in my hand. I squeeze my eyes tight and pray with earnest. Protect them all. Keep this rope together. Save Your people. Help Kaphtor.

  The hysteria lessens as climbers find a rhythm of survival. The Enforcers must be satisfied because no more gunshots reach my ears.

  I lose track of how many groups of people pass me. My hand is numb. I dare not look at it, for fear of blue fingers and frostbite. Don’t think about it. Think only of God. Think only of prayer.

  God . . . I don’t care if I have to lose my other hand. For the sake of these people, for the sake of shalom, I will sacrifice. Just use this to save them, to protect them, to show them You.

  He’s using me.

  It’s incredible. Powerful.

  I drop to my knees, numb and spiritually depleted. No one pays me mind. They don’t know what I am doing. It doesn’t matter.

  Sounds turn to distant humming. I’m here, but I’m not present. Voices, tromping, movement, and urgency—all a voided shadow to my mind. Deeper I crawl, closer to God. My soul heaves, overwhelmed with nearness. I’m too near to Him. I’m not near enough.

  Is this what real faith looks like?

  PARVIN.

  I am here!

  “Parvin.”

  I am here.

  “Parvin?”

  I lift my head, groaning at the pain the motion brings. A hundred blinks pass. A thousand blinks. Finally the darkness, the fuzz, the mist clears. Solomon kneels before me, Kaphtor draped over his shoulders. Solomon’s hand rests atop mine. I don’t feel it.

  “I’ll take it from here.”

  I shake my head and it seems to slosh. No. I must do this. I meant to say the words aloud. I lick my lips. My tongue barely works against the prolonged chill. “No. Help everyone until I can get there.”

  He nods, stands up, and takes the next spot in the jumbled, teeming line.

  Solomon listened. He trusted me.

  I return to my place of prayer with a mental flash. I don’t try to speak. What can I say to my Creator that He doesn’t know or hasn’t already heard? No, I just rest in his presence—frozen before Him with strange, foreign peace.

  I think hours pass. A flick to my forehead wakes me. I blink and try to swallow.

  “She’s alive!” The voice is muffled. A black coat swims before me. An Enforcer. The tunnel is empty.

  “Well, send her down, then!” Whoever shouts this is at the entrance of the tunnel. “Then we can close the door and get back to the warmth.”

  The Enforcer beside me hauls me to my feet. My hand rips from the frozen knot, leaving a thick layer of skin behind. I cry out. I’m about to turn my eyes away from the blood now washing over the rope knot, when I see my hand imprint. Not only is there an imprint deep in the ice above the knot, but there’s a burn in the knot…in the shape of my hand, as if my hand were made of fire and melted away half of the knot.

  The Enforcer sees it too. “What . . . what did you do?”

  I press my bleeding hand against my pant leg, but it meets ice. “Prayed.”

  He shoves me to the edge. Maybe the word makes him uncomfortable. “Climb down, Radical. And shut your mouth.”

  I don’t know why his command and actions don’t bother me. I find myself smiling. Does he have any idea what I just experienced?

  I slip over the edge and grab the rope with my bloody hand. It doesn’t sting right now, probably because it’s frozen. I’ll have only a few minutes before the pain and blood cause some sort of problem.

  I hold the Enforcer’s gaze for a breath. “I’m praying for you.” Then I slide down several feet.

  I was wrong. I don’t have a few minutes before the pain gets to me. The pain is here. Now. Icy and hot all at the same time.

  My descent smears blood along the top of the rope.

  Don’t look down. Just climb. Why was it so easy to sacrifice my hand and comfort for my people, but now that my own life depends on it I’m hesitant?

  Climb down!

  The rope rotates and groans. I slide another few feet. The grains—now worn from over a thousand Radicals climbing down it—cut into my raw palm. Slide. Wince. Slide. Groan. Slide. Scream.

  I can’t do it.

  One of the cords snaps and drops down onto my head, hitting my ear. I almost let go.

  “You’re halfway, Parvin!” Solomon’s voice sounds so far away. Halfway is still a death-drop.

  “God.” I grind the plea through my teeth. The rope turns again and the thick strands loosen. It rotates. They loosen more. I try sliding, but scream through my teeth. I have to try something else.

  I wrap my left arm twice around in the rope. If only I had fingers on the end! He is strong in my weakness. No use bemoaning my missing hand right now. Or ever.

  I wrap more rope around my leg, then use the other foot as a cinch to stop me from falling. When I think there’s enough slack, I release my foot and slide again. This is too much for the rope. It groans just as the door above slides shut. In a moment of panic, I take my foot off and slide—no, fall—down the rope.

  It snaps and I plummet.

  22

  Solomon catches me.

  It’s as simple as that . . . except that I flatten him. But when you’re screaming, bleeding, and about to become bug guts on Antarctica’s flyswatter, no amount of elbows, knees, or head-knocks will bother you.

  We both lie on the ice and detritus—me on top of him, and his arms under my knees and back. My shoulder pack hangs off one of my arms. I can’t get up yet—not until I can breathe.

  His arms squeeze me. Tight. So very tight. He sits up and then kisses my forehead. “You’re okay.”

  “You’re okay, too?”

  “Yes, but I can’t say the same for everyone else here.”

  I climb off him and press my hand into the snow. It leaves a bloody print behind. Then I look up.

  Chaos is a tame word compared to what’s going on.

  The different cities have gathered in their own groups, each one trying to make their own plan. Already, a few hundred people head away from the wall, following a beefy giant who’s a foot taller than the rest. Snow mountains dot the white horizon. Is that where they’re headed?

  I stumble after them. “Wait!”

  The leader stops and I catch up to him, Solomon trailing behind.

  “You can’t leave. You’ll die!”

  The man is almost seven feet tall, with a brown beard that reaches his belly. Despite our weeks of boxcar confinement, he still has a large gut. The people stand behind him, ready to follow him into the treacherous Antarctica wasteland.

  “This place ain’t any better,” he says. “The Wall keeps us in shadow. Besides, we’re not gonna wait to see if we survive long enough to be slaves. If we leave, we can find better shelter—maybe some caves—and possibly food. There are penguins here somewhere. Come with us.”

  “What if we find some wa
y to escape? How would we notify you?” We will escape. I was in God’s presence only minutes ago—there is a fire inside me now, one of unquenchable faith in His plan for our survival.

  The hulk folds his arms, trapping his beard between his giant forearms. “Staying is madness.” He looks me over. “And no teenage girl is gonna convince me otherwise.”

  “But . . . but I’m Parvin Blackwater.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “And I’m Rufus McTavish.” He shrugs. “Now we’re leaving. You’re welcome to follow.”

  He doesn’t know me. He doesn’t trust me. I’m a nobody again.

  McTavish walks away and his people follow. They grow smaller against the white backdrop. How can they leave? How can they think being apart is better?

  “Let’s return to those who need us.” Solomon steers me back to the Wall. Desperate Radicals attempt to climb it. One man already fifty feet high loses his grip. He falls, and his scream splits the frigid air. Other people pile dead bodies up against the Wall, using them as steppingstones to get more height on the climbing attempts.

  Some people argue in a huddle, others scrape together snow forts mixed with broken planks of wood and metal scraps from the piles beneath the Opening. The worst are those who have given up already, curled on the freezing ground, sobbing. The little girl from our boxcar tugs on her mom’s arm, trying to get her to sit up.

  Frenchie stands near a heap of rubble, toe-to-toe with Madame—the owner of Faveurs. “What are you doing ’ere?”

  “I came after you, Angelique—”

  Frenchie shoves Madame. “Non! I joined ze riot to escape you!”

  “I joined that riot to protect you, Angelique, and look where it’s gotten me.”

  “I am not your servant anymore. No one owns anyone in zis wasteland!” She turns on her heel and stomps away.

  I thought Madame and Frenchie were a team, like a mother and daughter. I guess I was wrong.

  “Come together!” I’m here now, we’ll work something out. I will lead, even though I don’t have a plan. “Let’s figure out a plan!” God has one. All is not lost.

  Some people from our boxcar group turn to me, but they don’t approach. I frown. “I don’t understand. Why won’t they come together?”

  Solomon’s voice is gentle. “Many of these people have their own leaders. They don’t know you yet. They’re afraid. Just lead those whom you can, Parvin.”

  So much for being the leader. Even after I prepared myself because of Mother’s advi—

  I jerk my gaze to Solomon. “Where’s Mother?”

  He turns my face toward the Wall. A mixture of snow and wood forms a snow stable of sorts. The ground is covered in rotted planks from the debris pile and clothing stripped from the dead bodies. Wounded people lay atop it all. I must have been praying for several hours for them to have time to build this. Mother kneels beside two wounded at the end—one with Enforcer boots on, and the other screaming profanities as he clutches his leg.

  “Cap broke his shin when he fell, and Kaphtor was shot in the thigh.” Solomon lifts my bloodied hand to his face. “We’ll get this wrapped up, too.”

  My injury pales against theirs, but we head toward Mother anyway.

  It’s quite different seeing our prison from the ground than from inside the Wall. The Wall is enormous—maybe even larger than the portion at Opening Three. Matted ice crystals protrude from the stone like spiky cement. I get the feeling that they don’t melt during Antarctica’s summer.

  Beyond the people, after a long stretch of Wall, rests the ocean. The change from stone wall to projected Wall is distinct. The stone projection is smooth like paint. Unnatural. No crystals stick to it. I want to get closer and see how it works with the water.

  We reach the makeshift infirmary, where Mother finishes tying a splint to Cap’s leg. She glances up at us. “I’ll need the blanket in your pack, Parvin, and your bandages.”

  No hello or you survived? That’s Mother.

  Solomon helps me get the blanket and extra bandages from my pack and hands them to her.

  I study her face. “Are you okay?”

  She throws a glance at Kaphtor, who’s pale, bloody, and not fully conscious. “He has a tough wound. It’s high on his thigh.”

  “He saved our lives.”

  Her lips tighten to a white line. “I’m doing my best.”

  “I know you are. But Mother . . . are you okay?”

  Cap’s head jerks up off Mother’s wadded shawl. “Is she okay? My leg is broken! How can I escape now? You’ll all have to carry me.”

  “One of the physicians set your leg,” Mother says with force. “You’ll be fine.”

  “Mother?”

  “I’m fine.” She doesn’t look at me. Just lays the blanket over Kaphtor.

  Cap eyes the blanket. “What about me?”

  “You can scoot closer to Kaphtor and share his,” Mother snaps.

  “He’s an Enforcer.”

  “Who became a Radical and saved your life!” I almost kick his broken leg. Almost.

  Cap uses his elbows to slide a few inches closer to Kaphtor.

  Mother moves his broken leg for him, and he howls. She looks from Cap to Kaphtor. “The body heat will be good for the both of you.”

  She tosses a rolled-up bandage at me. Solomon’s hand strikes out and catches it.

  “This blanket smells weird.” Cap turns his nose away.

  Mother turns to me again. “I love you. Be strong.”

  It’s hard to swallow. “Okay.”

  We walk out and Solomon scoops up snow. I hold my palm out, dreading the chill that will touch my skin. Now that my adrenaline rush is gone, the cold washes back in. Solomon presses the snow together in his bare hands. Some of it melts from his body heat—how does he have body heat right now?—and drips onto my torn skin.

  “It’s warmer here than I expected it to be.” Still frigid, but not instant death.

  Solomon cleans the wounds as best he can. “It’s Antarctica’s summer. I’d say we’ll experience low thirties temperature-wise for a while. And since it probably won’t get dark…it’s the best we could have asked for.”

  I glance around. “Do you think…we’ll freeze?”

  He unrolls the bandages. His movements are kind and careful. I hope he takes his time. “I think if the people calm down and get to work, keeping their body heat up, we have a decent chance to keep warm long enough to escape.”

  Before he gets the bandage on, people from Unity besiege us.

  Dusten gets to me first. “What do we do?” He shakes me by the shoulders. “How do we survive?”

  “Hey!” Solomon knocks Dusten’s hands away. “Stop that.”

  People surround me—Madame, Dusten, Frenchie. Looking at me. Glaring. Waiting. What in the world do I tell them? Why do they think I have any idea on how to survive?

  “I think it’s time you told us why you keep getting special treatment.” Madame folds her arms tight around her body. “Who were you talking to with the Lead Enforcer before we all came in?”

  I close my eyes and suck in a breath through my nose. It sticks to my nose hairs. “The Council has been trying to get me to return to the USE.” There. Now they know.

  “So you are on the Council’s side!”

  I start. “No! I didn’t ask for any of this.”

  Madame takes a step closer, but Solomon holds a hand out—my personal bodyguard. It doesn’t faze her. “They want you to survive. You’re their pet, which makes you our enemy.”

  “I’m not their pet!” How can they understand that the Council has used me falsely to represent them? Curse Skelley Chase. Curse Brickbat.

  “We’re watching you, Parvin Blackwater.”

  “Watch away, Madame,” I snap. “Maybe my actions will finally show you I am on your side.”

&
nbsp; She rolls her eyes. I shouldn’t have lost my temper. Mother said I’d need to be patient as a leader, but don’t leaders have to be firm, too?

  The rest of the crowd hangs around, maybe waiting for some amount of direction “Look,” I say. “I’ve never been to Antarctica either, but we can’t just mope around. We’ll all freeze—”

  “No we won’t.” Madame gives a disdainful sniff. “I had a Clock before the government smashed it. It had thirty-one more years on it. I’m not gonna freeze.”

  “Neither am I,” someone pipes up.

  “Or me! I have thirteen years.”

  “Sixty-two!”

  “Nine.”

  I don’t want to talk about their Clocks and whether or not they should trust them.

  “Are you really willing to bet your survival on your old Clocks?”

  The little girl inches toward the front of the crowd with her mother behind her. Their lips are blue and the girl is trembling. I remove my bleeding hand from Solomon’s grip, take off my scarf using two fingers, and hand it to her.

  “I’m not willing to bet your survival on your Clocks. I want us to live, so we need to think of how we’ll escape.”

  The little girl wraps the scarf twice around her face. Her mother seems more attentive to my words.

  “We need to build shelters, like the Enforcer guy said.” Dusten glances at my hand. Blood drips off my white, frostbitten fingers to the ground. He gags.

  We don’t have time for shelters. I’m about to say so, but Solomon chimes in. “I agree. The movement will keep you warm while we brainstorm.”

  “But other people are leaving!” Frenchie says. “Shouldn’t we go with zem?”

  “We should stay together.” This is the only thing I’m certain about.

  “For now, focus on the shelters.” Solomon’s voice is commanding, like a Lead Enforcer’s. It doesn’t frighten me. It calms. Tangible guidance and plans are what we need. “Cram as many people into a shelter as possible. Body heat is your main source of warmth. The Enforcers are probably monitoring us and if it looks like we’re cooperating, they won’t make things harder. Think of how to escape while you work.”