A Time to Die

by Nadine Brandes

  I roll onto my side and breathe in the softness of the pillow. It smells clean—soapy clean. I haven’t smelled something clean like this since home. I inhale again and imagine the scent of sawdust mixed in.

  Father . . .

  A fierce desire to go home flares in my soul. Simplicity was another life—one where I didn’t feel guilty or tired or hunted. A life where I could sleep in and didn’t have to wonder if I’d find water that day. A life of sewing and new clothes and fresh wool socks on a polished wood floor. No bleeding feet, no scarred legs, no rope burns, no aching muscles.

  No purpose.

  My eyes pop open. Him. God. That was Him putting a thought in my head. God? I reach out with my mental fingers. You’re here with me? Did I mess up? Are You disappointed?

  The clarity of God-infused thought doesn’t return, but I know He’s here. He reminded me He’s giving me purpose.

  “He who began a good work in you will bring it to completion . . .”

  I’m on a train headed to Ivanhoe where I’ll find answers. I’ve fought for survival and clung to faith in His promise of life. He’s promised me four and a half more months . . . and I’m spending them abandoning my two companions. What must they think of me?

  Fighting the emotional nausea, I pull the fresh blanket up to my chin and curl my head beneath it. Sooner than I expect, my body and mind relax into oblivion.

  Morning is announced by a crewmember mere hours later. “Breakfast, seven to nine!” He taps his hands on the safety rails of a few beds and continues down the car. “Breakfast seven to nine!”

  I tumble out of bed at the thought of food consisting of something other than rabbit meat. My mouth waters in wistful memory of Mother’s cinnamon oatmeal. I pull my pack after me and head through the washing car, barefoot and self-conscious.

  A line has already formed in front of the women’s showers. Misty hot water and the aroma of soap fill the air. I feel out of place, clothed and dry, but the food car must be ahead.

  Sure enough, the next car holds a long table on each side. Chairs are nailed down at one, facing the flyby scenery and the other table is laden with covered food dishes. A crewmember stands at the door, but says nothing when I cross the threshold. His eyes flick to my wrist and then he stares determinedly out the window.

  “Do I just help myself?” I ask, fighting the threat of misery. Will people see me as half human? Handless? Will anyone look at my face anymore?

  He bows. “Of course. Sit where you like.”

  I walk down the food table like a dragon surveying its treasures. The meal is not elaborate, but it’s enough to make my stomach twist in a greedy knot. Scrambled eggs covered in cheese, boiled red potatoes, sliced apples, and thick flat rounds of bread. I pick one up. It’s light and floppy. Beside it sit two lidded glass tureens of gravy. The gravy is a dark amber color and almost see-through.

  “What is that?” I ask the crewmember, pointing to the gravy.

  “Maple syrup.” His eyes pause on my left arm again. “Uh . . . for your pancakes.”

  I cover my stump with the floppy bread, fighting the warmth crawling up my face. Turning away, I return to the syrup. The pancakes must be the floppy bread. Mother makes something similar, but we call them corn patties and eat them with butter.

  I spoon a drizzle of syrup onto a plate and taste it with my finger. Sweet. Very sweet. When’s the last time I had anything sweet? A couple spoonfuls later, I sit down at the opposite table, alone in the food car with plans already to return for seconds. To my surprise, I only eat half a pancake and my eggs. I stare at the remaining sticky bread made with precious flour seldom seen in Unity Village.

  “Are you finished?” The crewmember reaches for my plate.

  “Yes, but”—I grip the plate with my hand—“I’ll—I’ll keep this for now.”

  He frowns and his lips twitch as if he’s about to say something. I look away, staring hard at the passing tombstones. Leave . . . please leave. I can’t let him throw away my pancake. It seems unjust when Jude and Willow are still eating rabbit meat.

  When he walks away, I fold the pancake in a thin cloth napkin and place it in my pack. A different crewmember approaches me as I replace the flap over my pack.

  “Ma’am?”

  “I just wanted to save—”

  “Are you last night’s pick-up?”

  I blink. “Excuse me?”

  He sits in the chair beside me. A bristle mustache lines his upper lip. Crinkles between his eyebrows hint at several years of frowning. “You were last night’s pick-up at two in the morning?”

  “I-I believe that was the time.” I tug down the flap of my pack. He pulls a pencil from his pocket and unfolds a piece of paper. Black lines create columns down the length of the sheet. Half of them are filled in with tiny pictures and writing I can’t read.

  “I’m the trade collector for the Ivanhoe Independent. You are traveling all the way to Ivanhoe, I presume?”

  “Yeah.”

  He makes a little smack sound with his tongue and scribbles on his paper.

  “Name?” He doesn’t look up.

  “Do you have an extra pencil I can borrow?” I blurt.

  He glances at me with a frown, making me feel like a purple thistle in an alfalfa field. Without a word, he hands me his own pencil and pulls a new one from his pocket. “Name?”

  “I’m sorry.” I fight a growing unease. “Why do you need my name?”

  His scowl meshes with his many wrinkles. “I set up trade-pay. The conductress informed me you have no trade.” His eyes flit to my stump and linger there. “You will have to pay for your current passage when we reach Ivanhoe.”

  “Pay with what?” I mentally search through my pack. Is there anything of worth in there?

  “With time.” The man sighs, and I wipe my hand along my skirt pocket as if I can clench my Clock. “I have a list of vendors and traders who pay the train line for workers. I will set you up with one of them until your passage debt is paid.”

  Why did I leave my sack of money at home? “How much is my debt?”

  “We run a day-per-hour charge. Since you boarded around two in the morning and we’ll arrive at Ivanhoe around ten . . .” he squints in the air. “. . . that’s eight hours, so you’ll work for eight days.”

  My muscles slacken with a stunned shiver. “E-eight days?”

  “That’s how it works, ma’am. Unless you’ve got trade.”

  My brain sinks into a sludge of injustice. “You can’t take eight days from me.”

  His wrinkles harden into a firm glare. “You boarded the train with the knowledge you’d be using Ivanhoe credit. If you don’t pay it you get yourself locked up until you have a change of mind.” He must notice some sort of horror on my face because he softens his tone until he sounds a little more like a grandfather. “It’s not so bad. They don’t make you scrub floors. You can learn a lot under a trader. It’s commitment-free apprenticeship.”

  His words don’t make much sense to me, but my heart withers at his gentler manner. “I don’t have a lot of time.”

  “How long will you be there?”

  “I-I don’t know.” I haven’t thought past getting to Ivanhoe.

  “Why are you going?”

  Sound confident. Think of a sure reason. “I need questions answered from the city leader.”

  The old man’s laugh carries a sharp bite. “You want to see the Preacher? Who are you that he’d answer your questions?”

  I gape at him with mounting exasperation. “I’ll keep my information to myself, thank you.”

  Preacher? Willow never said the leader was a preacher. Maybe, in Ivanhoe, religion is common. Maybe they don’t have laws against raising children in faith like they do in the USE.

  The trade collector rolls his eyes and returns to his paper, poising his pencil ov
er a new line. “Give me your name.”

  I pause long enough so he looks up, then lift my eyebrows and respond in as cold a voice as I can muster, “Parvin Blackwater.”

  “Age?”

  “Eighteen.”

  “City?”

  “None.”

  He writes nothing nor does he look up, but his fingers tighten on his pencil. “I’ll inform you of your assignment options when we reach Ivanhoe.” He tucks his pencil into a pocket and folds up the piece of paper. “Keep in mind you are not permitted to enter the city proper of Ivanhoe until your passage has been paid in full.” With that, he walks away, my glare ushering him out the carriage door.

  I rest my head in my hand, allowing the rhythmic clap of the tracks to jolt my body. A week of work. I boarded the Ivanhoe Independent to avoid wasting my last weeks. Now I’m paying for my rash action.

  I should have jumped off when I saw Willow.

  My NAB sends out a pop from inside my pack. With a heavy, leaden hand, I pull it out and view my message from Hawke.

  ~I’m afraid this may have been my fault. I informed Jude that your X-book journal entries mentioned him so he might need to caution you against how that information might be used. It was inevitable the assassin would find him, whether you sped that process up or not. Do not blame yourself.

  ~Your NAB should charge with the exposure to sunrays, either from the actual sun or a sun-port. It should take an hour to charge. This should last you up to a month. Stay safe. Tally ho.

  Hawke’s message leaves me feeling worse and I’m not sure why. The NAB now blinks:

  . . . 2% energy, please charge . . . .

  The sun outside shines parallel to the direction of the train. I make my way to the end car and step outside onto the same railing on which I watched Willow shrink into the distance. Now, the only things in the distance are the curve of the shrinking blacktop, giant white windmills, and the last of the dotted headstones. The ground looks so much flatter without the crosses and arced markers interrupting its pattern.

  Morning sun illuminates the locomotive’s yellow paint. I sink to the shuddering ground with my NAB on my lap, leaving it open to the rays. The scent of lemons swirls in gusts with the wind. I turn my head away, trying not to breathe it in.

  Skelley Chase caused all this. He forced me into the West. He published my biography and journal entries early. He’s making a game out of my life, and now I’m endangering Jude and Hawke.

  I lift my chin with pursed lips and scowl at the sunrise. Going to Ivanhoe was the right thing to do. I’m alone again, as it started, as it should be, as I’ve always been. These people are toying with my decisions and emotions, interrupting my focus. Who cares what Hawke thinks? Who cares what Jude thinks? Who cares what Skelley Chase does or what Willow feels?

  I never asked for any of it.

  I’ll travel to Ivanhoe, work a week, and then demand answers from the Preacher. He’ll tell me how to find out God’s plan for me. He’ll tell me what the Independents need. He’ll tell me what to do and I’ll do it with every ounce of energy for one hundred and thirty-five days, five hours, and thirteen minutes. And then . . .

  Then I’ll die.

  30

  000.143.03.22.17

  Ivanhoe.

  The city glints beneath morning sun like towers of jewels, stretching tall from the flat, laurel green sagebrush plains. The puffy-cloud sprinkled sky shines blue in a way that contrasts the polished metal in perfect beauty. A brown boxcar train passes along the outside like a morning commuter.

  Ivanhoe’s definition of city is far superior to my limited Low-City imagination. I doubt even a High City could compare. Futuristic factories and buildings are cut and pasted into scrapbook architecture. Some buildings are square grey boxes and others are cylindrical towers with domed tops, ringed with staircases. In the center of my limited view arcs a giant spherical building, like a marble the size of a city. From far away, the exterior appears smooth, but as we get closer I see pop-out structures, bridges, windows, ladders, balconies, and upraised tunnels. People on the train have told me it’s the heart of the city and it shimmers like a nugget of silver.

  My brain doesn’t have the capacity to absorb my awe. I went from wolves and stone huts to . . . this—a new era. Modernity in the West. Does Hawke know about this? Does Skelley Chase or the Council?

  I could stand before this city for a month straight and remain stupefied. How could Jude see this and not enter?

  The sun bursts from between clouds and warms my face, finishing the scene by submerging me in feelings of grandeur. I unleash my sentra, determined to capture this moment and keep it all to myself, but something nags my subconscious: A desire to share this with someone. It’s too much wonder to handle alone. Three names wander unbidden across my mental path of loneliness.

  Mother.

  Hawke.

  Jude.

  I sigh. Click. Click. Click.

  As I slide the sentra back into my pocket, one of the emotigraphs flies from its precarious place between my fingers. I slam my stub against the others, pinning them to my splayed hand and shove them into my other pocket. The free one swirls in the wake of the train, a lost jewel. Someone will have a surprise if they ever find it. Do Independents know about emotigraphs?

  The Ivanhoe Independent curves around the city until we’re on the other side of the sphere. The tracks slope into a carved path, blocking the rest of the city from view. We enter a dark tunnel where the air slides between the rough walls and my precariously perched body. It smells like earth.

  I hold tight to the railing until we slow, emerging into a station with a tall ceiling. It’s long with an ascending tunnel out the other end and multiple platforms, some occupied by small trains.

  We bend to the right, passing the other trains, and glide into a mini station of our own in a separate underground chamber. By this time, we’ve slowed to jogging speed and the platform passes beside me, littered with stains, footprints, and dirt. My feet are still bare. I’ll pull out my needle and thread to patch the rabbit skins once I have a moment to process. For now, I return inside where I encounter the trade collector. He must have been watching me through the window.

  “Gather your belongings,” he says with his wrinkled frown. “And follow me to the collection post.”

  My belongings are already gathered so we stand until the train stops. I follow him off the back of the train. Everyone else seems to know where to go.

  I’ve never seen building walls so tall—the closest comparison is the county building in Unity, but everything about it is unfriendly. This station, this city, is worn. I’m a stranger stepping into a broken-in sweatshirt. It smells different, feels different, but carries a welcoming feeling of use.

  Ivanhoe and I were meant to meet today.

  The pockmarked cement chills my feet despite the warm air. I follow the confident trade collector into a box building. The interior is covered with postboards lathered in bits of paper with no words, but several pictures and symbols. If paper is used so flippantly here it must be less expensive than in Unity Village. That, or everyone is rich.

  A man leans against the wall beside the postboard with the most papers. He is in his early forties, with baggy eyes and a receding hairline that explodes into a tremendous russet afro. He’s dressed in faded jeans, floppy sneakers, and a suit jacket over a T-shirt. When he sees us, he steps forward and holds his hand out to the trade collector.

  “Good day.” His eyes flit to me and back to the collector. “Have ye a debtor?” His voice is low, but with a clear accent I’ve never heard. What accents are in the West? Is it rude to ask? “I’m needing short-time help. My apprentice is off after injuring herself. She’s on home rest.”

  “We’ll have to see what she wants.” The trade collector jerks his head toward me. “You aren’t the only option today.” He plu
cks a length of paper from the postboard beside the afro man. The stranger jumps at the ripping sound and looks at me again.

  “Are you on here?” The trade collector puckers his lips.

  The afro man shuffles over. “I am.” He points. “There, now.”

  “You’re this human symbol?”

  “I am.”

  The trade collector looks up. “Wilbur Sherrod, the couturier?”

  “It’s Sher-rod, not Sher-rod.” Wilbur gives a nervous laugh. “And I never could pronounce that last word.”

  The trade collector looks up. “But it’s your title.”

  Wilbur shrugs. He turns to me as if obligated to explain himself. “I’m a fashion designer for the Preacher, the military, and the Barter-Combat Arena.”

  I straighten with a skipped heartbeat. “Designer? Do you mean clothing?”

  “In a way.” He steps forward and takes a breath, but the trade collector cuts him off.

  “Miss Blackwater, there are three other trade options: the bookbinder, the game designers, and arena servicing. Do any of those sound of interest?”

  I look from Wilbur to the trade collector, already feeling more comfortable with the clothes designer who talks strange. “I-I don’t really know what they are.”

  Wilbur Sherrod scrunches his nose and shakes his head as if the other traders are nasty options on a menu.

  “Actually,” I say on a quick breath, cutting off the might-have-been-a-nice explanation of each trade. “I think I’ll go with Mr. Sherrod.”

  Wilbur tucks his chin with a wide grin and turns to the collector. “Good! Let’s settle up, then.”

  The men scratch numbers and messages on the trade collector’s endless provision of paper. I don’t bother to decipher their mutterings. What will I be doing with Wilbur? He said he’s a clothing designer of sorts, but he doesn’t look it.

  My own sewing kit is in my bag. Won’t he be surprised I can already stitch neat hems and patterns? But in the moment I allow the thought to excite me, my elation plummets like a convict tied to an ocean weight.