Sted reaches into his pocket and pulls out a silver key. Arkin removes the black glove from his hand and pulls his sleeve up to reveal his wristband. Sted reaches up and slides the key into a narrow hole at the bottom of the band. I then recognize the key, and my jaw drops. At the ID department, CE used the key when I needed a new wristband or a refitting. The keys are illegal in a citizen’s possession.
“How did you get one of those?” I ask.
“We have our ways,” Sted says, taking Arkin’s wristband into his hands. “Let me see yours.”
I allow Sted to remove the device. When I pull my bare wrist back up to my chest, the nimbleness of it amazes me. It’s so exposed, unlike my own arm. Was I really so used to that thing?
“You know the password,” Sted says. “Godspeed, my friends.”
“Thank you, Sted,” Arkin says, and I echo his appreciation.
We watch Sted walk back to the stable.
“So he’s a believer too?” I ask.
“Yes,” Arkin says, leading the horse into the woods at a snail’s pace. “He and his wife send horses into the outskirts all the time. He used to live in Corinth before CE took his son.”
“They took his son?”
“They caught him on a mission a long time ago. He was in college back then, like Petra.”
I dread asking the question that crouches on my tongue, but curiosity forces it out. “They executed him, didn’t they?”
He hesitates. “Yes.”
Piper’s hooves crunch the frosty leaves. Her breath fills the air like steam from a hot kettle. In the early morning sunlight, the woods twinkle around us like a chandelier in a citizenship center dining hall. The sun’s rays can’t penetrate the cold gnawing at my fingers. My teeth chatter from the combination of bitter cold, excitement, and trepidation.
He stops the horse in front of the secret gate.
“Here,” he says, tossing a strip of white cloth behind his shoulder. “Tie this over your eyes.”
I take the cloth. “What?”
“It’s nothing personal, but you can’t know the way, not yet. Please. I have to protect my people.”
My brow drops. “You don’t trus—”
“I trust you, but you’re still a Gideonite.”
I snort, snatch the cloth, and tie it over my eyes, the forest blurring under a blanket of white.
“Hold on tight,” he says. “Piper will take off once I give the word.”
I slip my arms around him with a knot the size of a grapefruit in my stomach. He leans to one side, and the gate creaks open.
“Tighter,” he says.
I follow his command, the grapefruit reaching cantaloupe size.
The horse walks through the gate, which closes with a smack behind us. Arkin then leans forward and whispers something to the horse. In the next moment, Piper shifts from walking to dashing ahead, and the peace of the woods explodes into pounding chaos. My body and the backpack jostle from side to side, begging to be tossed off. I squeeze Arkin tighter, so tight I fear I might hurt him, but he doesn’t complain.
A dim sense of the uneven terrain comes through the horse’s swift legs. With every step, the beast moves up and down, pressing forward. The freezing air cascades over my hair and face. Arkin’s body heat gives me little comfort as we change directions, and the horse speeds up. Piper now moves more evenly along the ground with more stability. I release my grip on Arkin. He doesn’t shift at all.
We ride through the outskirts now, the place the citizens tell scary stories about, the forbidden place. I wish I could see beyond the blindfold. My imagination runs wild with the details of the trees, dead leaves, and shrubs covered in frozen morning dew.
Panic clenches my throat. What if the believers are dangerous? What if the blindfold is really meant to keep me from finding an escape route? It would be so easy now for the enemies to kidnap me. I could be used for some kind of ransom or as a source of inside information. What if they intend to harm me? How would I escape?
I allow the paranoid questions to dominate my mind through the remainder of the endless, wobbling ride. Finally, Piper slows, settling into a calm trot.
“You can take off the blindfold now,” Arkin says.
I release myself from my human anchor and remove the blindfold with fumbling fingers. The white disappears, revealing the forest as I imagined it, except for a broken brick wall. It looks like the wall used to be part of a building, but the other walls are gone now. More woods fill the landscape beyond the wall. Shouldn’t Philippi be bigger?
“That was a long trip,” I say.
“We still have a ways to go on foot,” he says. “You can drop the backpack and dismount.”
I release the burden from my back with relief and plant my feet on the ground. Backing away from the horse, my foot lands on something uneven. I bend down to inspect it, a chunk of gray rock. More of it lay all around me among the dead grass and leaves. Was there once a sidewalk here?
Something like a CE vehicle but larger and covered in rust and forest debris sits a few yards into the trees beside us.
“What’s that?” I ask.
He follows my gaze. “A car from before the war.”
“I've heard of those,” I say, walking a few steps closer, “but I've never seen one before.”
“You'll see a lot of things around here you've never seen before.”
Arkin drops down from Piper and leads the horse to a rickety, wooden shelter where he secures the reins to a post.
I stare at the wall. “What is this place?”
“It's the entrance,” he says, leading me around the wall.
Nothing appears unusual about the area behind the wall, just a lot of vines and shrubbery. He reaches into the backpack and pulls out a flashlight. Then he steps a few feet ahead, cocking his head. When his boot lands with a hollow thud, he steps back, bends down, and brushes aside the dead leaves and pine needles. A rusty, metal handle appears under the debris. He grabs the metal handle and pulls up a hidden door. The sunlight from above reveals concrete steps below.
“Follow me,” he says as he steps down into the hole.
I follow. The cold crawls up my legs as I take several steps inside. He reaches back behind me and closes the hidden door with a loud smack. The darkness engulfs us. He switches on the flashlight, lighting the bottom of the staircase four steps below.
The steps lead to a narrow, concrete tunnel with metal and plastic pipes lining a high ceiling. The freezing air smells of dust.
“Where are we?” I ask.
“This tunnel leads to a building from before the war,” he says. “No one knows what it used to be exactly, but it has a huge basement level. That's where everyone lives.”
“What about light and heat?”
“We use candles and flashlights. For heat, our grandparents built fireplaces and chimneys,” he says.
“How long is the tunnel?”
“Nearly a mile,” he says. “Our ancestors were very blessed to discover it.”
I used to run a mile in fifteen minutes before I outgrew my interest in sports. Walking would mean at least twice as much time in the tunnel.
“I can't believe you lived underground like a mole,” I say, trying to lighten the mood.
He turns to me and shines the flashlight in my face. “I don't come from a family of burrowing creatures!”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “Ow! Are you trying to blind me?”
He laughs and turns the flashlight away. “You sound like Ogden.”
“I do not! Og whines about everything.”
We continue through the tunnel a few more yards.
“Would you ever be able to tell him about this?” he asks.
“I thought I wasn't supposed to,” I say, surprised by his question.
“We want all Gideonites to know about the Bible and Jesus,” he says. “I think we can trust Ogden.”
“He's too faithful to the Code. He believes in what his father does.”
&nbs
p; “He’s your best friend. You should be able to trust him,” he says.
“I wish that were true.”
Thoughts of Og lead to thoughts of Chief Penski which lead to thoughts of Petra. What would it be like if she never comes home again? The question makes the weight on my shoulders heavier.
Every time my sister came home, the apartment warmed up and brightened. Even Holiday was better. Petra returned the last week of December for Holiday with an armful of gifts. We normally didn’t put up a Holiday tree because the trees cost many credits, but Petra spent her credits on a young pine with a string of lights and silver trim. She even bought a ham for Holiday dinner. I couldn’t understand why. We’re usually indifferent toward Holiday because we can’t afford to give extravagant gifts like other families with more credits. That day, I unwrapped a gift from Petra: a sketchbook, the best gift I’ve received in years.
Good memories of Petra push me onward through the chilly tunnel until a door appears in the distant reaches of the flashlight’s rays. Without a word, Arkin adjusts his pace from a quick walk to a jog, and I match his stride. The blue, metal door grows larger and brighter with each step until we come to a stop in front of it.
CHAPTER TEN
Arkin knocks on the door three times and waits. I pant beside him, my legs like jelly. The door opens toward us, and I back away, expecting a filthy, toothless man with greasy hair to greet us in an unintelligible language. Childhood myths are hard to shake. Instead, a woman with long, blond hair and hazel eyes peaks out at us. She smiles at Arkin.
“Ark!” She throws her arms out, opening the door completely.
He embraces her. “Mom!”
“I didn’t even know you were coming today!” his mother says, tears filling her eyes. “What are the odds I would be the one with door duty? God knows what He’s doing.”
“I missed you,” he says.
They hold each other for a moment longer. Then she leads us inside the door and turns her full attention to me.
“Raissa Santos, I’m so pleased to meet you,” she says. “I’m Cassie. You look like your sister.”
“So I’ve been told,” I say, closing the door behind us.
We enter a closet-sized room lit with candles on shelves mounted to the cement walls. Voices echo in the distance around a dark corner of the room.
“Follow me. Your sister will be thrilled,” she says.
We turn the corner and enter a huge, open room with a high ceiling and cement columns. Fires in chimneys are scattered throughout the room, creating pockets of warmth in the cool space. The occupants have the room sectioned off into crude homes separated by five-foot walls of wood or blankets hanging on ropes. We walk down an open aisle along the cement floor. People peer up at us from each section as we pass. Their faces glow in the firelight as they wave at Arkin and grin at me. I force an awkward smile back.
“This room is home to twenty-seven families,” Cassie says. “We have newborn babies all the way up to grandparents living here.”
“Arkin!” a high-pitched voice calls ahead of us.
A red-headed girl, maybe five years old, runs down the aisle toward us, and Arkin runs to meet her. He picks her up in a bear hug, and I know this must be his little sister. She has the same dimples.
“Raissa, this is my sister, Saphie,” he says.
To my surprise, Saphie pounces at me and hugs my waist. I shift to keep my balance and pat the girl’s back.
“Hi, Saphie,” I say.
She looks up at me with wide eyes. “I’m so glad you’re here to see us. Are you going to live with us?”
“No, dear,” Cassie says. “Arkin still lives in Gideon. They’ve come for a visit.”
“Where’s Dad?” he asks.
“Gathering wood,” Saphie says with a pout. “He wouldn’t let me come.”
“He’ll be back in time for worship,” Cassie says.
“I brought some supplies,” he says, reaching for the back pack.
He slips it off and opens the pack. Saphie squeals. “Apples!”
He pulls out a bag of a dozen apples, two flashlights, candles, wrapped fresh meat, a blanket, and a metal part I don’t recognize.
“Perfect,” Cassie says, examining the metal piece. “Be sure to take this to Josiah.”
“Who’s Josiah?” I ask.
“Someone I want you to meet,” he says.
His mother carries the items into their home and sets them on the floor of blankets.
“Come, Raissa. It’s time for worship. I think you’ll enjoy it,” she says.
A set of metal doors on the other side of the neighborhood leads into the temple, a chilly room about half as large as the previous one. Candles along the walls light the room to nearly daylight status. Crude wooden benches stretch in rows from the front of the room to the back. At the front, a lectern stands. Two pieces of wood, one long hanging vertically and one shorter across the other horizontally, hang on the wall behind the lectern. This room reminds me of the citizenship center but with unpadded benches.
Before I can wrap my mind around where I stand, strangers pour into the room. They all shake my hand with smiling faces. Citizens don’t smile with such ease, especially not at a stranger. And none of Arkin’s people wear the standard gray coveralls or the wristbands. They dress in knit clothing of various bright colors, shades I wish I had in pencil for drawing. The strangers embrace Arkin with laughter, covering his cheeks with gentle kisses. He glows in the candlelight.
As Cassie guides me to a bench, a man with a flute plays at the front of the room. Another musician adds the song of a violin. I know these instruments from textbooks, but until this moment, I’ve never heard them before. I sit perplexed and seduced by the new sounds all at once. I turn to speak to Arkin, but he no longer sits beside me. Instead, he stands at the front with the musicians. My eyes follow him as he picks up a wooden guitar and strums it. Soon, a woman with a soft voice sings.
I rise to my feet with the rest of the crowded room as the sweet music flows over me, a beautiful combination of sounds unknown to my ears. No citizenship song can match it, not “Pride in Gideon” or “Gideon, Great City.”
The woman sings words I don’t recognize like atonement and sanctify. The rest of the people join in the singing and clap to the rhythm. Some people jump up and down. Others lift their hands into the air and close their eyes while they sing. Citizens never react this way to music.
Arkin looks at me as he holds the next note. A strange surge shoots through me as my eyes burn like fiery coals. I blink hard and stare at my feet. What do I feel? I can’t pin-point it. I want to run away to familiar Gideon, to be free of these enemies and their passionate songs. Passion? Is that the word for what I feel?
The song ends with a roar of applause and shouts of “Hallelujah.” I drop down as a tall, red-headed man steps before the crowd to speak.
Cassie leans near my ear. “That’s Arkin’s father, Elder Mark.”
“Welcome, friends. What a blessing to hear my son on the guitar again,” Elder Mark says. “We’ve all missed Arkin, haven’t we?”
The crowd cheers and whistles. I then recognize Arkin’s dimpled smile on the man’s face. He’s his father’s son, no doubt.
“He brought a friend here to visit, Raissa Santos,” he says. “Please give her a warm welcome.”
The crowd applauds and hands fall on my shoulders for a moment.
“It is because the Lord calls us to reach out to Gideon,” he says, “that we are able to have our new friend with us today. Jesus told us to go out and make disciples of the nations. We are limited in our ability to travel far, but we are able to reach into Gideon to share the Gospel. We will continue to lift Arkin and our other missionaries up in prayer. Please bow your heads and take your neighbors’ hands.”
I do as he instructs, closing my eyes. Elder Mark speaks to God, thanking Him and complimenting Him on His qualities. The man speaks as if to a close friend. He thanks God with a shaky voice. I
s he is crying? I’ve never seen a man cry or even heard one come close to tears before. Men of Gideon keep their emotions under lock and key. Citizens consider crying a sign of weakness.
When the prayer ends, Elder Mark launches into a long speech, like a lecture at a citizenship center but somehow simultaneously unlike it. The message he shares possesses a quality I can’t decipher. I lean forward in my seat, hanging on every word. The stranger shares the story of a man named Jairus who had a dying daughter. As Jesus went to heal her, people announced her death, but Jesus pressed on and brought her back to life. I thought of Petra. If this Jesus can rise from the dead Himself and raise others, surely He can rescue Petra.
The service ends with another prayer and a song everyone in the room knows except me. I exchange glances with Arkin who sings as he plays the guitar again. His soft strumming and the many voices complement each other in perfect harmony. I’ll never forget such a matchless sound.
►▼◄
We enter Josiah’s cluttered workroom down another flight of stairs in the compound. The stuffy room’s cement walls hide behind metal racks containing odd parts to various mechanical and computer devices. Some of the parts appear rusted beyond salvaging. I recognize a few old model desk touch-screens and even a barring for a police vehicle. Much to my surprise, a working touch-screen and a glowing desk lamp sit in the corner of the room on an old, wooden desk. A portable generator moans on the floor nearby.
Josiah, a man small in stature and slender with long dirty fingers, hides his tired eyes behind thin-rimmed glasses. I can tell he has endured great hardship in a life not much longer than Petra’s.
He examines the metallic part from Arkin’s backpack with a satisfied smirk and nods. “We can work with this.”
“Josiah is our technical genius in residence,” Arkin says, turning to me. “He rebuilt nearly every generator we use, every computer. We can freely enter Gideon’s system with rebuilt wristbands, thanks to him. He’s rebuilt a couple of vehicles above ground too. Josiah, this is Raissa from Gideon.”
Enemy of Gideon Page 9
