A Time to Speak

by Nadine Brandes

  But he apologized for that.

  There’s a level of spiritual and inner strength in him. He’s always pursuing rightness—shalom. That, at least, is a core passion we share. And, because it’s one of God’s passions, that’s enough for me.

  Besides, who says I need to figure out love all at once? It’s not a sudden thing. It’s gradual, creeping in like a secret and then whispering hints over the cycle of time until you step back and see that all the hints lead to love.

  Mother once said love is a choice, not a feeling. But don’t feelings come from our choices? Or maybe our choices come from feelings. I don’t know.

  “An hour for your thoughts?”

  I hiccup and shake my head. “You go first.” Maybe after he says something I’ll come up with a good replacement answer.

  “I was thinking that I’d love to take you out for a cup of Ivanhoe coffee before we go free the world.”

  “Were you really?”

  His smile is crooked. “Yup. But then I realized you’re probably better at haggling than I am, I have no trade tickets, and I can’t imagine where I’d find a coffee shop in this place.”

  I giggle and link my arm through his, almost tripping over the lurch my stomach gives. “That’s okay. It’s the thought that counts.”

  As I hold his arm, he slides his right hand to rest it over mine. “I was also wondering if . . . when you told me you . . . loved me, well, if that’s still applicable.”

  I glance up at him. Snow coats the top of his hair, some of it melting from his body heat. He doesn’t look at me for a moment, but then seems to force himself to. Oh, those teal eyes.

  Deep breath. “Nothing’s changed . . . except maybe the level of my nervousness.”

  “Please tell me it’s increased, because mine sure has.”

  My laugh is weak. “Yeah.”

  He releases a breath and it jumps away from us in a cloud. “Phew! Well, now that we’ve cleared this chilly air, let me assure you that I’m still quite firmly growing in love for you.”

  He loves me.

  He loves me.

  A man has never told me he loves me—not even Jude, though I know he felt attracted toward me. But Solomon’s not afraid to say it. Still . . .“What does that mean to you, Solomon?”

  “To love you?”

  “Yes.”

  We reach the Marble, an enormous spherical building with over thirty floors, held off the ground by thousands of pillars. In the center of the Marble, starting from the bottom outside and rising to the very top, is the elevator chute. We’re almost there, but I don’t want to arrive without hearing his answer.

  “That’s a question with a long answer.”

  I give his arm a squeeze. “Can you try?”

  He licks his chapped lips. “Loving you means that you are becoming the most important person in my life, second only to God. It means that I want to commit my affection and my time to you. I want to know everything about you and to share life with you.”

  He stops walking and faces me. “To love you to the max is to do what God calls me to do—to help you grow closer to Him, to endure with you, to pursue shalom with you, to hope for all things, to suffer with you.” His voice is hoarse. “To . . . be an example of Christ to you.”

  I stare up into his face, watching his cheeks grow colored from the cold and from emotion. His hands grip me by the shoulders and he holds my gaze. More . . . keep going. Not because I need more information, but because my very breath is stolen by his intentionality.

  He breathes out. I breathe in. Then he whispers, “Did I answer your question?”

  It takes me two tries to get my voice working. “Yes.”

  His hand slides up to hold the side of my face, rubbing his thumb over my cheekbone and along my jaw. Nothing exists outside of this moment. The pounding of my heart is deafening.

  I lean forward and press myself into a hug, tucking my face in the crook between his jaw and shoulder. His arms tighten around me and we stand there for a long moment. Then we separate and walk toward the Marble, this time with our gloved fingers entwined.

  He might have kissed me if I hadn’t hugged him. I don’t know. But I’d be happy holding hands with him for the rest of my life. Nothing could beat the current of contentedness inside me.

  We are a team. And everything seems less daunting with this teammate by my side. Because we both have the same Leader and He won’t steer us wrong.

  We enter the shadow beneath the Marble, heading toward the elevator chute. Solomon glances up at the cement belly of the Marble. “This is . . . amazing.”

  Thousands of light strings and sparkles swoop along the underside of the Marble, lighting up the early morning shadows like fireflies. Only they’re stars and we’re walking through a celestial wonderland.

  “They sure know how to deliver Christmas here,” Solomon says.

  We reach the glass elevator and enter the one that takes us to the entrance floor. I don’t take us to the top because neither of us knows how to tightrope walk and that’s the only way to reach the other floors.

  We step out and I’m assailed by memories. Falling dogwood flowers, Jude fighting in the Barter-Combat Arena, trading furs with Willow, and working through special outfits with Wilbur Sherrod.

  The ground is made of packed dirt, and huts fill the entire floor—huts for food, trading, work placement, meetings with The Preacher, upcoming Arena battles, you name it. Only this time, instead of the feeling of spring, there’s Christmas everywhere. The scents of pine and spices fill the air. Each booth has its own amount of decorations—flowers, baubles, paintings, music.

  “Is that the combat arena you wrote about?” Solomon looks to our left, where a darkened archway provides a tunnel to the amphitheater of tightropes.

  “Yes. Do you want to glance inside real quick?” We walk past the Arena sign of two stick figures standing on a long white line. When we exit the tunnel, we stand at the top of amphitheater seating. Down at the bottom is a large pit of sand, but in the air are at least a hundred different types of tightropes, slacklines, highwires, and ziplines.

  “Looks like an intimidating place for a battle,” he says.

  “It is. I don’t know how anyone keeps their balance when walking across a rope, let alone battling to knock someone else off.”

  I try not to picture Jude, unconscious on the sand.

  We head to the stairs.

  “The Preacher is near the top.”

  Solomon doesn’t complain. We climb and climb and climb. Five stories. Ten stories. Twenty stories. By the time we reach the thirty-third floor, vendors have opened shop below us and Christmas music sweeps out the silence.

  I take a deep breath before walking into the Preacher’s round waiting room. Five people sit on the benches. I don’t apologize or explain, I just walk straight past the woman who’s supposed to take my visitation ticket, through the tall entrance doors, and into the Preacher’s visitation room.

  There are no guards present. Come to think of it, there weren’t any the last time I visited, either.

  The Preacher’s on the opposite side of the long room, sitting cross-legged on a couch of many pillows. This time, instead of a woman massaging his head while he meets with people, there’s a small crowd of people on either side of the room observing the requests and meetings.

  Hurray. An audience.

  A man with slanted eyes and dark hair speaks to the Preacher in a different language. Solomon and I stand in the center of the room, waiting for the other man to finish.

  The Preacher sees us, but makes no acknowledgement. He looks the same—middle-aged, dark Mediterranean skin, and a triangle goatee. He wears a silk red button-up making him look vampirish.

  The man holding the Preacher’s attention finishes up with a bow and leaves. We step forward.

  “Vis
iting without an appointment,” the Preacher says. “Foolish or proactive?”

  I offer a small bow. “You may not remember me—”

  “Parvin Blackwater, handless girl, Clock-dependent citizen of the USE. Seeing as how you’re here, you must have been wrong about your Clock.”

  Now’s not the time to explain what happened. Last time we met, he liked getting straight to the point, so I’ll do just that. “I want your permission to destroy the Wall.”

  The other people in the room suck in a communal gasp.

  The Preacher lifts an eyebrow. “First you want materials to build a safe passage over the cliff for the Radicals, and now you want to destroy it?”

  “Well, I don’t want to destroy the bridge, just the Wall.”

  “Why?”

  Solomon takes a step forward so that he’s within my peripheral vision. The gesture gives me confidence. “To bring shalom.”

  “What makes you think God wants the Wall destroyed?”

  “First, because it’s causing rifts between His people. Second, because the Council is planning to close Opening Three, making it impossible for people to escape. Our side is growing perpetually dependent on Clocks, something you claim to dislike. Third, there are people there who want to study the Bible and be faithful to God, but are persecuted for not sticking to the law’s chosen list of sermons. They need a place to come and worship freely. This side has freedom, and I think that ought to be shared with the entire world.”

  He glances at his fingers, as if inspecting a manicure. “You do, do you?”

  “Yes.” I’m struck with unearthly confidence. The Preacher doesn’t know it yet, but he’ll give me what I want. He doesn’t have a choice, because God sent me on this mission.

  “And how do you propose to destroy the Wall?”

  The question hangs in the air, daring a satisfying answer. “Wilbur Sherrod has a suit called Brawn. If he’ll let me, I will use that for physical strength.”

  “Ah, the Samson method.”

  If he means Samson from the Bible, then . . . yeah, I guess so.

  “Those suits are not Wilbur’s to give away. He is just the designer. I sell or disperse them among Ivanhoe fighters.”

  Details. Details. “May I use the suit? And possibly others that might help?” I can tell before I finish asking that he won’t let me.

  He grins, but it carries little mirth. “That’s a broad request.” The hush in the room conveys the tension behind this question of mine. “If you destroy the Wall, we have to be prepared for war.”

  He gestures to the people around me. “These are my Ivanhoe fighters. And the people in the Core. And civilians. It doesn’t sound like a very nice Christmas gift for them, does it?”

  I shake my head.

  “Yet you still want to ask that of them?”

  I look around and meet only glares, no smiles. “I don’t want any of you to have to fight. But my people in the USE don’t even have a chance to fight for their own freedom. They’re already captives to the Clocks, to the Council, to the Wall. Many of them don’t even know it. Would you ask them to stay that way so you can keep your own Eden intact?”

  Their glares don’t budge.

  “You have spirit, Parvin. But to allow you to do this means declaring war on the USE and forfeiting my voice on the United Assembly.”

  “Then I’ll do it without your permission.”

  He claps his hands, and his smile widens. The sound echoes through the chamber and a few observers startle. “There we go. Now you’re a true Independent.”

  I scowl. “I . . . am?”

  “You see? I help the people, I am their voice, but I am not their king or their ruler.”

  That explains the lack of guards.

  “I am one of them. They are still free to act on their own. We have a working system in place, and I help guide that. You still saw me as a ruler—as the man who needed to give his permission. If you were on the other side, would you ask the USE for permission?”

  “No.”

  “Then why come to me?”

  I shrug. “So you wouldn’t stop me. And I need supplies.”

  “Your choice to destroy the Wall is your own personal passion. I think you’ll need to find a way to pay for the suits.”

  My posture goes slack. “Pay? With what?”

  He leans back on his kingly sofa and surveys me. The movement of his eyes brings heat to my cheeks. “How about a marriage alliance?”

  I swallow the ball of dread in my throat and suddenly wish Solomon wasn’t with me. “Marriage?”

  “An alliance between the East and West. You and me.”

  No. No, no, no! Solomon is a statue beside me. “I’m nobody!” I squeak. “What benefits would I bring?”

  “You mean quite a lot to the Council and to the people in the USE. If you do destroy the Wall, people will be looking to you. You have value, Parvin Blackwater. When Radicals come to Ivanhoe, you will guide them.”

  “Can’t I do that anyway?”

  “Marry me. Bring unity between both sides of the Wall. Those are my terms.”

  The hush in the room is so heavy that I almost drop to my knees. “I can’t.”

  “Then you’re on your own.” He looks past me and shouts, “Next!”

  I take two steps forward. “Wait!”

  God, if You really want to use me to bring shalom by destroying the Opening . . . then I’m putting this next step into Your hands. I trust you.

  “Lemuel.”

  The Preacher startles at my use of his real name.

  I square my shoulders and lift my chin. “I challenge you to a fight in the Arena.”

  33

  “You are a fool, Parvin Blackwater.” The Preacher’s voice echoes, gong-like, through the chamber.

  A FOOL FOR MY SAKE.

  There He is, popping into my head. The assurance is palpable. That’s what I needed. “If you win, I’ll marry you and do as you wish”—Solomon grips my forearm so hard, I almost lose my momentum—“but if I win, then you will provide the supplies I need for the Wall. Explosives, some of Wilbur’s suits, and transportation to the Wall. Oh, and I don’t have to marry you.”

  He rolls his eyes. “This is child’s play.”

  You’re the one wanting to marry a child. Ew, how old is this geezer anyway? Forty? Fifty? “How long has it been since you competed?” I goad. “I think I’d stand a good chance against you.”

  He sits straight and his mirth is gone. “I designed the Arena. I am the master tightrope walker of Ivanhoe.”

  “Really?” I laugh. Pouring every bit of mockery into my tone. “Really?”

  He turns to the people, as if waiting for them to attest to his greatness. But they don’t. Their heads swivel between the two of us. Solomon shifts his weight but says nothing. Does he think me a fool, too, or does he trust me? I don’t trust me, but I trust God. And He will allow this test to unfold in a way that brings shalom.

  My heart is right in this. He will honor that.

  I lift my chin. “Do you accept?”

  The Preacher opens his arms wide, as if inviting me into a hug. “With pleasure.”

  Everyone cheers. Not for me, of course . . .

  But on combat day, we’ll see who’s cheering.

  “What have you done?” Mother throws her damp towel on her bed.

  I shouldn’t have told her. I just got through a long walk of Solomon-silence. It almost killed me. No matter what I said, he gave no response. I don’t know what to think.

  Does he hate me?

  “I’ve given you a chance to have faith, Mother.”

  “There’s a difference between faith and foolishness.”

  “I don’t expect you to understand what’s going on in my heart right now, but I have to do this. This is the way to
get the Wall destroyed. I’m being like . . . that one Bible guy—Gideon, I think—when he put out some sort of sheepskin for God. If I win this challenge, it’s proof God’s behind this pursuit.”

  She shakes her head. “You’re not Gideon.”

  “Actually, I’ve been reading my waterlogged Bible and I’m quite a bit like Gideon.” The fragile looking Bible survived our plunge at Lost Angel. Not a single word is smeared. “I’m a coward, I’m a nobody, and God’s asking me to be a leader. God wants me to speak out, so I’ve been obedient.”

  Her voice rises and she paces the room. “You can’t speak for God! You act as though you know everything about His will, like He’s telling it to you. He doesn’t work like that.”

  I step in front of her. “Mother.” She looks up. “There’s no system to God. He might interact with you different than He interacts with me. All I can know is how He communicates with me. I promise this isn’t impulse.”

  She plops onto her bed. “So when do you fight this man?”

  “Tomorrow morning. Will you come?”

  “What choice do I have?”

  “Whichever choice you want to make.”

  Solomon knocks on my door two hours later. “I’ve set up a slackline, for you to practice.”

  I try to catch his eye as we walk outside, but his gaze is set forward. I don’t ask where he got the slackline. It’s only four feet off the snowy ground, but I can barely stand on the thing. Solomon holds my hand until I get steady.

  After three hours of trying to balance, the most I get is seven steps forward before I fall off. There’s no way I can pull this off six stories above the ground. I don’t like practicing. It shakes my faith even more than it shakes my muscles.

  “Why did you do this?” Solomon helps me off the slackline.

  I look into his eyes, which seem a clearer teal when set against the winter backdrop. “Because I had to. I’m not afraid, Solomon.”

  He gestures to the slackline. “Even after this . . . practice? You’re not afraid that he’ll beat you and you’ll have to marry him?”