A Time to Speak

by Nadine Brandes

  “I don’t know. Maybe. I’ll ask her.”

  “Where is she?” Dusten seems so hopeless. Even when he laughed, it came out hollow.

  I gesture to the snow domes. “Sleeping in my hut with Madame and my mother.”

  Solomon walks up and tilts his head at Dusten. “Jumping jacks were a good idea. We ought to do have everyone do those to keep them warm.”

  Dusten shrugs. “Yeah.”

  “Let’s stack another armful of wood chunks in the center of that hut circle, then we’ll go.”

  I hold my arms out. “Load me up.”

  Solomon stacks icy planks on my forearms until they reach my chin. We take our wood to a giant pile in the center of the ring of completed huts. Solomon uses the matches from my pack, but the wood doesn’t catch. It’s too frozen.

  He strips away smaller pieces, using them for kindling. Still, the fire doesn’t catch. We spend the next ten minutes gathering lint from clothing and small sticks from the debris pile. Finally, after fifteen minutes and half my matches, the fire catches. We add wood to it carefully until it’s a bonfire. I expect people to argue, to blame him for using good material.

  Instead, everyone gathers around the warmth. Some people cry.

  I almost cry.

  Solomon straightens and speaks to those around the fire. “Don’t let this go out.”

  My nose thaws and my toes tingle so fiercely I’m sure they’re cracking to pieces.

  “The group is already down there.” Solomon points to the sea in the distance. “You sure you want to go? I don’t think we’ll find anything out.”

  The heat is too nice. Too soothing. Do I want to go?

  Dusten starts jogging toward the ocean. “Come on, already.”

  “I’ll catch up,” Solomon tells me, then heads toward Mother’s hut.

  I’m too cold to protest, so I jog after Dusten. Muscles in my feet pinch at the impact. I run lightly on my tiptoes until the discomfort lessens, then I increase my speed to join him.

  Solomon catches up soon, Frenchie and Madame in tow. Frenchie runs with her arms around her torso, trying to combat the wind our own movement causes.

  It doesn’t take long before we slow to a walk. I take deep breaths, but they’re so cold they hurt my lungs. I put my hand over my mouth and breathe in the warm, rebounded air. “Mother didn’t want to come?”

  “She’s staying with the wounded, specifically Caprine and Kaphtor. There is a thick blanket covering two men no one likes. She could not leave them alone.”

  The ocean looks no closer, but when I glance back, our makeshift Radical village is barely visible. It takes us ten minutes to reach the sea and my toes are completely numb by the time we approach.

  We crawl over boulders of ice, following the Wall down an incline toward the ocean. There is no shore when the Wall turns into the projection, just a drop-off of ice into ocean water. Penguins speckle the blue sheen like dropped crumbs.

  The connection of stone Wall to projected Wall is seamless. No gap. The projected Wall travels from one giant pole to another. Each pole floats on a buoy, spaced several hundred feet apart. The line of them disappears out to the horizon. I count only three or four before the ocean mist blocks them from view.

  We join the group on the edge of the ice, a few feet higher than the ocean. The projected Wall is mere yards away. The group of people who came here earlier is smaller than I thought. One man turns to us. “There’re no gaps between the projection and the stone.”

  “I knew it,” Solomon mutters.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Frenchie take Dusten’s hand. His knuckles turn red as he squeezes hers. Madame plants her hands on her hips. “Now what?”

  “Should we touch the projection?” Dusten asks.

  “It’s the one thing we haven’t tried,” someone says.

  “No!” Solomon holds his arms out as if to keep us from rushing toward it. “It’s programmed against human DNA.”

  Dusten picks up a snowball. “How do you know that?”

  “He’s a Hawke.” I recall the little bit of Hawke family history Mother told me.

  “I don’t see no wings.” Dusten laughs at his own joke.

  I sigh. “His great-grandfather invented the projected Wall. Inventions run in the Hawke family line.”

  Solomon closes his eyes for a moment, almost as if I said something I shouldn’t have. Dusten hurls his snowball at the projection. It sails through and disappears. No one moves. I don’t even blink. What did I expect? That it would smash into it like snow against real stone?

  “Um . . .” Dusten licks his lips. “You sure a human can’t go through?”

  “Give it a try,” Madame says. “It’s the word of an Enforcer against us. He might still be on their side. After all, he wasn’t captured with us. He volunteered.”

  That’s not fair. Solomon wants to save everyone as much as I do. “Solomon Hawke is a respectable man. He was stripped of his Enforcerhood trying to help us.”

  “Yeah, but”–Dusten waves to me—“you’re his girlfriend. That’s the whole reason he came. It doesn’t mean he’s on our side.”

  My jaw drops. “No, I’m—”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Solomon opens his eyes. “Unless you’re willing to die, no one should touch the projection.”

  “So . . . what’s under the projection?” Dusten pulls Frenchie’s hand to his chest. “How far down does it go?”

  I take a careful step to the edge and peer into the water. Solomon’s hand wraps around my arm, firm and safe. The icy water is at rest, but no Wall or projection is visible. “I don’t see anything.”

  “Me either,” Dusten says. “Wait, look! That fish just swam away through the Wall!”

  Fish? “Can fish live in this water? Isn’t it too cold?”

  “I know I saw it.”

  Solomon pulls me back. “It doesn’t matter. Let’s stop talking about crossing the projection and instead look for kinks between it and the stone Wall.”

  “We already looked,” a group member says.

  “Can we break down the projection somehow?” I stare at the wall. “I did see it flicker.” But the flicker was like lightning—too fast for anyone to take advantage of.

  Madame raises an eyebrow and appraises Solomon. “I think he’s keeping something from us. Why don’t you want us to test it, Mr. Hawke?”

  His hand squeezes my arm. “Because I don’t want anyone to die.”

  “You’re an Enforcer. Death’s never bothered you before.”

  Solomon’s face grows red.

  I step toward Madame and he releases me. “You don’t know anything about Solomon. He came to Unity Village to try and fix the unjust Enforcer problem.”

  Dusten sniggers. “Told you she was his girlfriend.” To my horror, he throws his coat on the ground, then kneels down to unlace his boots.

  “Dusten”–I swallow hard—“what are you doing?”

  “What do you think, Empty Numbers? I’m gonna swim under that projection. I’m gonna be the first one to escape.” Frenchie stands next to him, twisting her fingers together. Her lips are tight.

  I kneel next to Dusten and press my bandaged hand to stop his trembling fingers from messing with his bootlaces. “Dusten.” My voice is quiet. I hope only he hears me. “I know you pride yourself in being the first. You were the first to register for a new Clock, the first to join all the school sports, and the first to come talk to me when I returned. But . . . do you really want to be the first of our group to die?”

  He stares at me, colorless and shivering. His wide gaze darts back and forth, searching my eyes. Can he see my concern for him? Will he let pride lead him to his death? Please, God, let him trust Solomon’s judgment.

  “I wish I could die, but I’m trapped here until this thing runs out.” He presses his thumb
and forefinger to his Clock band until the Numbers glow in the air above his name. “I’m tired . . . tired of waiting for my zeroes.” He pushes my hand away and the thin metal Clock band—thinner than even a spider’s strand—catches a glint of the sun.

  Fire claws the back of my throat and I don’t try to stop the pressure of tears. In fact, I urge them to drop, to show Dusten I mean what I’m saying. “Jude changed something about these Clocks—I don’t know what it is but . . . what if you die?”

  His voice comes out hoarse and broken. “I can’t zero out over here, Parvin. I can’t. Not on this side. Not without trying to escape.”

  Now my tears fall, but it’s too late. I’m the only one stopping him. Everyone else’s curiosity is too strong—they’re willing to let him die.

  Dusten slips off his boots.

  “No, wait.” My bandaged fingers fumble for his. “Do you . . . do you know what will happen to you, if you die? Do you . . .” For time’s sake, why is this so hard? “Do you have any faith in . . . God?”

  His lower lip trembles. “I’ll be fine. I . . . I read your biography and . . . I saw you pray over that rope.” Then, as if realizing he’s being transparent and vulnerable, he shoots to his feet. “All righty, step aside, boys.”

  Solomon blocks his way. “Don’t do this.”

  “Move, Enforcer.”

  “No.”

  “I’ll take you into the water with me, if you want.”

  What should I do? Why is no one else doing anything? “Dusten could die.” I hold Frenchie’s gaze. “Don’t you care?”

  “Move, Enforcer!”

  Maybe if Solomon and I tackle him at the same time . . .

  “Fine.” Solomon brushes past Dusten, hands in tight fists, and strides away . . . from all of us.

  No, he can’t go. He’s the only sense left. “Solomon.” I hiss his name in a reprimand, as if no one else will hear me.

  He keeps walking. This departure is so unlike what I’ve come to know about him that I just stand and watch him leave. Chills zoom up and down my skin, skidding to a halt when a giant splash breaks the tension.

  I spin around. All that’s left of Dusten is a pile of clothes on the snow. “Solomon, come back!” I scream over my shoulder and run to the edge of the ice with Frenchie, Madame, and the others.

  Dusten heads straight down, his feet kicking madly. He must be freezing. Even if he resurfaces, how will we get him warm again before he dies? Can we get him back to the fire in time?

  I squint against the ripples. He stops kicking and releases a gale of bubbles. I can’t see him clearly, it’s deep and dark blue down there. Just a ripple of skin here and there.

  He’s moving. Swimming toward the Wall?

  The projection flickers with a loud buzz and a shock runs through me. Every hair stands on end. I look up and see through to the other side for a moment—the cargo ship still floats with its motorboats on the shore. Then the Wall projection returns. Solid.

  The water is smooth like glass, all except a small wavelet close to the Wall. A dark form moves beneath the blue glass. Closer. Clearer. Floating up to us.

  Dusten’s body breaks the surface . . .

  … charred and black like coal.

  24

  He’s dead.

  He’s dead and it’s my fault. Our fault. Solomon’s fault.

  I don’t collapse—not like when Jude or Reid died. I’m in a strange zone of disconnection. We fish Dusten from the water, two men doing most of the pulling. I don’t bother to see if Solomon’s returned.

  He left us.

  Frenchie doesn’t watch, doesn’t help, and doesn’t seem to care.

  We lay Dusten on his coat. It feels cruel to let his skin—blackened as it is—rest against something so harsh as the ice. I try to resuscitate him. My mouth against his. Breathe out, pump his chest, breathe out, pump his chest. Why won’t my muscles work like they should? Too cold.

  I did this to Jude once and he vomited on me.

  What I would give to have Dusten react the same way. Come back. He didn’t want to die here. “It’s not fair!”

  I don’t understand, God. Why would You let him die like this?

  I breathe again into his lungs and my disconnection evaporates. Maybe it’s impossible to stay disconnected when skin touches skin. I cry and pump his chest with my stump and bandaged hand. I loathe those watching me. Why don’t they try?

  Ten minutes pass and I’m soaking wet and shivering by the end of it—both from tears and the salt water clinging to his thin layer of clothing. He doesn’t even look like Dusten when I sit back on my heels and stare at his face. Black veins crawl all over his crinkled, charred skin. It’s not black like the dark, creamy black of Kaphtor’s complexion. It’s like nighttime, death—harsh and unforgiving. Out of place.

  “We have to take him back,” I say.

  “Absurd,” Madame says.

  “You urged him to do this, Madame! We will take him back. When we escape, we will take him with us and bury him in freedom on the other side.”

  Frenchie’s eyes don’t leave Dusten’s face as she speaks. “What does zis mean?” She crouches by Dusten and lifts his Clock hand.

  The blue projected Clock illuminates the air, his Numbers red and counting with his name beneath them.

  Counting.

  000.256.02.10.09

  000.256.02.10.08

  000.256.02.10.07

  But beneath them is a new word in all capitals: OVERRIDDEN.

  Frenchie drops his hands and looks up at me. “What does zis mean?”

  I check his pulse one last time. Overridden. I try to swallow and my throat makes a funny pop sound. “It . . . it means he’s dead . . . and the new Clocks can be . . . overridden.” Jude’s invention worked. The Clocks aren’t foolproof anymore.

  “Zat can’t be right. Ze Clocks are never wrong.”

  “His is wrong.”

  Madame shouts. “It can’t be wrong! Don’t you understand? The Wall projection did something to him. It confused his Clock or . . . something.”

  So it begins. “He’s dead. Trust me. I’ve seen dead. Let’s carry him back.”

  “You’re wrong.” Two men kneel beside Dusten, neither of whom are from Unity Village. They hoist Dusten up between them. His limp body folds and contorts as they figure out a less-awkward way to carry him. I look away.

  Dusten is dead before the end of his Clock. What does this mean for the rest of the world? Solomon was right. Jude tricked the Council.

  Is the Council refitting everyone with faulty Clocks?

  We trudge back. Solomon’s nowhere in sight. A few others travel up the shore with some of my chisels and come back with dead penguins tied together at the feet. Their blood leaves a trail in the snow.

  I hate death. Not the aftermath—the hope of heaven or the peaceful departure from the world—I simply hate the fact that death happens in harsh ways. Bloody ways. Suffocating ways.

  The snow-hut village comes into view, with lines of people doing jumping jacks, facing the fire. It blazes even hotter. People seem cheered.

  I don’t see Solomon. A surge of anger drowns me. How could he leave? How could he move aside and allow Dusten to kill himself? Did his . . . pride get in the way?

  He didn’t come back when I called to him.

  This is his fault more than anyone’s.

  We arrive back at the clump of snow huts, sweating. I’m sweating, yet I’m still freezing. Trembling. Hardly able to catch a breath against the cold. Strands of my hair are frozen from the salt water it gathered when trying to resuscitate Dusten.

  The two men carrying Dusten drop to their knees. Dusten flops off their shoulders into the snow. The clump of penguins is tossed into the center of the ring of huts. One by one, people emerge and I want to be anywhere but here.
<
br />   Frenchie strides to the center of the growing circle of people, standing between the fire and Dusten’s body. She activates Dusten’s Clock. “Look! He still ’as time left, but he eez dead!”

  So much for breaking the news gently and avoiding panic. Where is Mother? Where is Solomon? I need their help to combat what is about to happen.

  “What does this mean?” someone asks.

  The circle of confusion grows. I force myself to meet people’s eyes, but they’re not looking at me yet. They stare at Dusten’s Numbers, projected into the air—red Numbers against a blue transparent backdrop.

  OVERRIDDEN.

  “Are you sure he’s dead?” Mother stands across from me, holding her shawl tight around her shoulders. I breathe easier with her presence and give a curt nod.

  “That must not be his Clock,” a man from the crowd mumbles.

  “But eet has ’is name on eet!”

  The murmuring grows. With the escalating sound, gazes rise—leaving Dusten’s black corpse and fixing on . . . me.

  “What does this mean?” asks the mother of the little girl in our container. “You brought the new Clocks to the Council. How can Dusten be dead?”

  Um, God? Aren’t you going to infuse me with inspired words? There is no inspiration. There is no Solomon to speak for me. Where is he? There is no sound except my heartbeat slamming in my ears so hard I get a headache.

  I must speak.

  Again.

  “I didn’t give the Council the new Clock information. They stole it from a man I met in the West. His name was Jude.” I choke on his name. “He invented the new Clocks and, when the Council tested them by torturing orphans, Jude took his invention and fled across the Wall.”

  I take a deep breath and shudder more from emotion than from cold. “That’s when I met him. He told me that our faith shouldn’t be in the Clocks, that we should trust God with our lives. He is greater than the Clocks.”

  “Get to the point.” Cap, his leg splinted, joins the group, supported by Harman. “How did Dusten die?”

  “Should we believe any of this?” Madame whispers to him. “Remember, she worked with the Council.”