A Time to Die

by Nadine Brandes

  ~I’m sorry about the Newtons, Mr. Hawke. I was their neighbor. I should have done something.

  My stomach grumbles, sick and hollow. I stare at the NAB for several seconds. When a full minute passes without a reply, I force myself to drink some of my water then pull out the last piece of banana bread. My water pouch is down to its last quarter. I’m still within a full day’s walk from the lake. I could return if I need to.

  I smear Mother’s caramel-apple butter on the bread and continue my walk, thoroughly chewing every bite. Still, it’s consumed sooner than I’d like. The soup medley in my cloth will last a day or two.

  God, help me figure You out. Do with me what You will, please give me food, keep me safe, and forgive me for whatever I’ve done wrong.

  I take my time walking, but continue to move forward—wherever forward may lead. The morning air feels so different than afternoon or evening. Sounds echo. A bird sends out a loud chirp. At least five varied bird whistles answer it. It chirps again. Five responses. The exchange continues for several minutes until a harsh crow’s cry interrupts.

  The day drags and I grow tired of the forest scenery, even with the spring flowers coming. I force repeated steps in hopes I’ll break from the trees to something new. The sun warms as it nears midday—or what looks like midday. I can’t tell on this side of the Wall. How far have I come?

  I almost forget about my watch. 11:04.

  Around noon, I succumb to a short nap. When I wake, a distant noise, like radio static, reaches my ears. The Independents?

  When I scramble to my feet, a small pop comes from my NAB.

  ~There are many people who should have and could have done something, Miss Blackwater, Hawke writes. ~Do not carry the full weight of blame. Unity Village’s form of enforcing is not how it should be. That’s one reason I’m here, to help make things right.

  From his message, it seems he agrees I am somewhat to blame. Not how it should be, I read again, remembering Reid’s journal. He said shalom was “the way things were intended to be.”

  A second message pops up. ~How are you faring?

  Not too well after his down-in-the-dumps response. I rein in my attitude and type, ~I am still alive, running out of food and water, and feel like I’m walking without a purpose. But God is still providing for me.

  I feel a little hypocritical with the last sentence. It makes me look so much more faithful than I am.

  Hawke responds, ~God is the ultimate Provider.

  I stare at his short answer. It’s so generic, but people don’t talk openly about God. It’s too risky with the law against teaching children younger than eighteen a religion. Is Hawke mentioning God because I did, or is it part of who he is?

  ~Miss Blackwater, if you need any further help, please continue to message. I may not be able to respond often. I’m sure you understand the limitations I face in being an Enforcer. I must remain cautious when reading and replying to your messages. Even though you are on the other side of the Wall, it is still my desire to help and protect you as true Enforcers should.

  It’s the first comment from him that encourages me. ~Thank you, Mister Hawke. Please refer to me as Parvin.

  I offer my name up as a gift—a gift for Solomon Hawke to step a little closer. It’s such a new feeling to allow the crack of openness to widen. I like it.

  ~I will. You may call me Hawke. I’m not a fan of anything “mister.” Tally ho.

  I give him Parvin and he gives me Hawke? I may call him Hawke? I already call him Hawke. This is not a fair exchange.

  Following suit from our first NAB communication, I respond as he did: ~Tally ho. I gather my belongings and walk toward the static sound. It grows louder and more distinct. It’s not a radio, it’s a river. I must not have noticed the gradual growl before my nap.

  I meet a break in the confining trees to see the first beautiful sight on the West: rushing water weaving around smooth glassy rocks, reflecting the sun and sky in flashes. Tree boughs lean over the water, dropping new flowers and old leaves onto its shining surface like miniature fairy boats. The slope of the ground makes the river look like it’s racing itself to the bottom.

  With a delighted breath, I pull my sentra from my pocket and snap a picture. Then, I scoot to the edge of a log spanning the river. My feet hang above the moving water—the swirls, the curves, and the slow ripples beg for a swimmer. The water flows over a tiny fall, churning in green and white bubbles.

  I remove my boots and bandages and step into the shallow. Goosebumps sweep up my legs followed by a harsh wave of muscle spasms. What is wrong with my body? Is it the wounds? With gentle movements, I rinse the injuries of blood and grime. My stitching strings are frayed. They might not last another day.

  Across the river is a clearing on the bank big enough for a fire. I look around for stepping-stones. No luck. The dead tree is the only bridge in view and it’s suspended over the steeper drop in the river. No problem. I have fair balance and the log is thick.

  I stuff my bandages in my pack and hoist it onto my shoulders. If I cross while I still have energy, then I can relax on the other side.

  At first, I try to walk across, but can’t balance on the round surface enough to raise myself from my hands and knees. The water seems further down and the log is thinner than I expected. My knees don’t fit side by side so I straddle the log and use my hands to scoot myself across, inch by inch.

  My wounds stretch as I crawl on the log, making me wince. The rough bark scratches the inside of my thighs. My heart speeds up and my stomach flutters. I shake my head. I’m being pitiful. This is nothing like walking through a pack of wolves. Still, my stomach won’t stop twisting.

  Halfway across, my arms start to shake. Tiny black ants race through the bark cracks, reaching the other side without a hitch. If only I could shrink to their size.

  Despite the padding of my leggings, my thighs grow raw with each scoot. This was a stupid idea.

  I raise myself to my knees again to relieve the growing pain on my thighs, but the movement threatens my balance. I lurch to one side and shriek, dropping to my stomach against the bark. I grip the log tight with my arms. I don’t move. I don’t fall.

  Pathetic.

  The last half is less intimidating once I get moving again. By the time I crawl off the log, my thighs itch and burn. I barely remain standing on my shaking legs. Anxious to sit and recover, I collect broken branches and build a small fire. Not much dead wood is available, unlike the other side of the river, so I search for dry trees to stock up for evening. Some of the branches are still green and take a lot of twisting to rip them off their trunks. They’ll smoke a lot so I burn them first, not wanting to smoke-poison myself when I’m sleeping.

  I rinse my bandages and then boil them in Mother’s teapot. I boil water three more times—once to clear any grime left from the bandages, again for fresh water in my water pouch, and then to make some of the noodles, corn, and beef Mother packed. By the time the third boil is ready for food, darkness has crept over the river, bringing with it a harsh chill. I pull my coat tight and whittle a piece of stick into a rough spoon. It looks more like a mini spatula, but it’ll prove more useful than trying to drink soup out of the teapot spout.

  As I slurp hot corn and noodles off my stick, I think of the verse Mother quoted before my Good-bye.

  “He who began a good work in you will bring it to completion at the day of Jesus Christ.”

  I told her God hadn’t started anything in me. Now I’m in the West and I’m alive, but so what? I’m not doing anything. I’m looking for the Independents by wandering around a forest. This isn’t purpose, it’s desperation.

  “God, what do You have me doing?” As expected, He doesn’t answer.

  I force down half the soup through a tight and quivering jaw. Something’s wrong with me, with my muscles. The fever still hasn’t left my body. I try not to
think about the pain or discomfort. I’m no healer. Even if I knew what my body is fighting, I can’t fix it.

  I can’t fix anything.

  All I can do is lie down and hope I wake up alive.

  The next morning, I wake up cold. The fire is dead and the chill wind has a bite more bitter than the grey morning clouds. A black-and-white speckled bird stands on the rock by my bandages—a chunk of pale straw in her mouth. She cocks her head from side to side as if thinking, then takes flight.

  With a groan, I toss the remaining green sticks onto the dead fire, arrange a small teepee of twigs, and sacrifice another match. It doesn’t catch. I should have known better—it’s live wood. I push myself up with a growl and pull handfuls of twigs and leaves from under a nearby tree.

  A wasted match. Twenty-seven left. I light a fresh one, shield it from the wind, and let the flame play against the kindling. A small crackle starts and I blow on the embers.

  Make that twenty-six.

  Ten minutes allows the fire to gather real heat. Black smoke billows into the air. I step away and search for more dead sticks further upstream. No luck. When I return to the fire, the smoke has lessened. I place my pot of cold soup over it to warm, but when I try to eat I can barely open my jaw against the muscle spasms. I manage a few spoonfuls and then give up.

  The grey clouds disperse. God, help me figure You out. Do with me what You will, please give me food, keep me safe, and forgive me for whatever I’ve done wrong.

  Once my bandages are tied around freshly salved wounds and I’ve stuffed a roll of wool in the spout of my kettle to keep the soup in, I place my pack on my shoulders and walk into the forest. The kettle bounces from the strap of my pack, but nothing spills. For the first time since Skelley Chase betrayed me, my heart feels lighter.

  Trees seem to have flowered overnight. Cream and purple blossoms dot the limbs and tiny yellow flowers cover the forest floor. Downy serviceberry trees spread their branches, dropping miniature white petals into my hair. I don’t even mind their strange scent.

  Walking is almost pleasant despite my sickness. The ground is more level, there’s little underbrush, and the air is wet and crisp. Dew coats the patches of green growth and clovers around me. Moss grows thicker as I go deeper into the forest. The light hits it, turning the forest into glowing logs and carpet. The moss looks soft and spongy, but it’s dry to the touch, bedecked with tiny ferns and shrunken green blankets.

  I raise the sentra and snap an emotigraph, hoping the future readers will feel my calm and delight in the scenery. I move to a more sunlit area and lift the sentra once more. Such a glowing landscape can never be bottled, but I still try. I slide my finger across the button.

  The air is split by a child’s scream.

  I jolt, snapping an emotigraph. My muscles shake and my mind panics. I shove the sentra into my pocket.

  Who screamed? Why? Wolves?

  I look around. The child screams again, closer. I cover my own mouth and stumble back. Movement from ahead startles me into a defensive stance. I fumble for my dagger. Bushes crash apart, and thirty yards ahead of me—

  I see my first Independent.

  18

  000.167.02.55.40

  She’s paler than snow. Not just her face, but her tangled short hair, her thin bare arms poking from the sleeveless white shirt, the flash of her calves and tiny feet propelling her forward. Her small mouth is open in a gasp, her brows together. She can’t be older than eleven.

  The ivory girl runs in jerky motions, scanning her surroundings and the ground for footing. A layered pale pink skirt flaps around her knees. She hops to her left, still trying to run, but skipping and veering right.

  I tense as she nears me. She looks up and does a double take, skidding to a halt. Her lip quivers. A moment passes before she releases an agonized yell and stumbles to her right.

  Whatever she’s running from makes me want to run, too. I inch behind a tree, but before I can turn away, the bushes part again and four grown men emerge. They run in a similar stilted manner, but their hops and dashes are more fluid. They all wear brown or black pants made from what looks like animal skin. Boots reach up past their calves. Two wear tied cloth vests and the other two wear no upper clothing at all.

  They, too, are pale and white, like their blood has been drained from their bodies. One has chopped yellowish hair and a young face. The other three have long hair reaching past their sunburned shoulders. One is missing a hand. They carry no weapons, but the moment they spot the child they shout and hurry after her.

  My fingers tear into the bark of the tree behind which I hide. God, help her!

  She swerves toward me, her face scrunched. I hear a sob. Her skirt tangles around her knees. She staggers mere yards away from my tree as the man with short hair grabs her arm. Her shriek is cut short when he yanks her toward him. She tries to twist from his grasp, but he lifts a hand high and slaps her. Twice. Her head snaps to the side from the impact and her small form collapses on the ground. The other three men approach.

  She sobs into the moss and I hear her muffled, “Please.”

  The other three men close in. With seconds to decide, I reach up and, with a harsh jerk, snap a small branch from my tree. It’s thin and supple, like a switch. Mother and Father punished Reid and me with switches in our younger years. Though they only ever marked my backside, I have no doubt a swift swipe across the face will keep a grown man at bay.

  All five Independents start from the sound. I step forward, ripping the leaves off the end of the branch. They stare at it. God, help me! I hold up my tiny dagger in my other hand. “Go away.” I say this through clenched teeth, as if shooing a cat. My voice is shaky—anything but threatening.

  The men straighten and the girl lies panting on the ground. A harsh handprint glows on her cheek. Her left eye is puffy.

  The man with short hair takes a step toward me.

  “Stop!” I raise my weapons and hop back.

  His gaze rests on my switch and his eyes narrow. “You are the one,” he says with a frayed voice. “You burned the fire by the river.” He looks me up and down and his next words are hard. “You haven’t atoned.”

  All four of the pale men move forward. I stumble away and my muscle cramps relax my jaw enough to let me shout, “I don’t know you. Leave me alone!”

  He doesn’t stop his approach. I throw the dagger, and then curse my idiocy in relinquishing my good weapon. It tumbles through the air and the handle knocks him in the forehead. He stops with a jerk, eyes widening. A tiny cut lines his brow and a trickle of blood creeps down his temple. The color is stark against his white skin.

  He growls and lunges. I manage one swipe with the switch before he grabs my wrist with one hand and my hair with the other. He yanks my head back so far, I’m sure my neck will snap. I whimper.

  Multiple hands grab me, keeping a tight grip on my hair and pulling me forward. I trip to my knees and choke. “Let me go.”

  My hair is released. All my limbs are shaking when the man without a hand hoists me back to my feet. He loops a small cord around my right wrist and pulls it up behind my back like the bullies used to do. My shoulder is about to tear from its socket. The sores on my skin grate against my pack.

  One of the other men rips the switch from my left hand and whips me across the face with it. I gasp at the stunning pain.

  Oh yes, it hurts far more than on my backside.

  He tucks the switch in his belt and grips my free wrist, digging his thumb between the two bones. Nausea hits my stomach. The man with short hair pulls the young girl behind him by the hair. She doesn’t resist, but continues to cry.

  “Please,” she sobs. “Please, Black, don’t punish me. I didn’t mean to.”

  “You were warned.” The man named Black—who is anything but black—gives her another hard yank.

  We walk in the di
rection from which they came, weaving around bushes and careful to duck under branches. There is no path, but the men choose a winding route, walking on patches of moss.

  “I don’t know who you are,” I repeat through the pain. “Let me go.”

  “You are a stranger who injured the land. Either you are dull-minded or your people did not educate you. Still, atonement is always made—even by the ignorant.”

  Atonement makes me think of Jesus, which makes me think of nails, blood, and drawn-out suffering. So that’s my future?

  I want to pray, but grind my teeth against the temptation. I asked for Your help! You call this help?

  I think back to my prayer this morning—the rehearsed adapted poem. Part of that prayer was, Do with me what You will, but the other part was, Keep me safe. God seems to have forgotten that part. Why did I ever pray?

  I absorb the forest scenery, trying to memorize our path. The moss is thicker and the trees thinner. We pass a tall tree stump with a round cage around its base. The cage is made of woven branches curving from the ground to the bark of the stump. A wispy baby tree grows new from the side of the stump. Moss and undergrowth crowd the spaces of the cage, but between the thin boughs, shadowed inside the cage, is a lump—a pale lump.

  My breath catches. God, what is this? I look away, queasy. “My arm hurts,” I choke, pulling against the rope and trying to distract my thoughts. Are those dead prisoners?

  “It won’t for long,” Black says stiffly. “We are almost there.”

  The girl resumes her pleading. “Black, please take me to Father first. It was an accident. You know I care for—”

  “Be silent, Willow,” Black interrupts. “You hit bloom two weeks ago. We’ve had children atone a mere day after bloom. Remember Elm?”

  Willow hangs her head. “Please.”

  I close my eyes at the sound of her high child’s voice. She’s pleading for grace. Will they listen if I plead for grace? I can’t get those cages out of my mind. Desperation pounds the walls of my heart.