A Time to Die

by Nadine Brandes

  He gives a pained smile, creasing his animal skin patch. “No, I am carrying you.”

  My heart sinks. I want the angels to take me. “But you’re a little boy.”

  He looks ahead and lengthens his strides. “I’m autumn fourteen—almost autumn fifteen—and attended dead-standing at autumn seven. My strength far surpasses the task of carrying a dying sapling like you.”

  His face stays serious, but I chuckle, which makes me want to vomit. “Dying sapling . . .” I chuckle again. Elm sets me down and I dry heave my stomach acid into a tree well.

  I close my eyes. I can’t remember where I’m going. I can’t remember why.

  Shalom.

  Why?

  Shalom.

  I open my eyes after what feels like a long, sickened slumber. Cold, damp, dirt cradles my aching body. Above me, the Wall arcs like a giant talon.

  We’re here.

  The sun holds the clouds apart to shine on my icy body. I see its warmth, but don’t feel it. In twenty-four hours, I’ll be in eternal light and warmth.

  Shalom.

  A hammer breaks my thoughts and I turn my head toward the noise. Willow holds a metal mount against the ground beside the open canyon. Elm pounds it in. Deep.

  Tears burn my eyes and throat. “The wolves will hear you . . . the wolves!” I roll on my side.

  Willow comes to me. “We’re above the wolves. Above the canyon by the ledge. See the Opening?”

  I follow her pointed finger, following the stretch of Wall over the empty air. The wolves are far below us in their own graveyard of bones. We’re safe. I don’t have to climb.

  “You’re almost home,” she says.

  I shake my head, keeping my eyes closed. “It’s not home anymore.”

  “We need to secure the mount so you can get to the door.” Against my will, she pulls me into a sitting position. I fight her, but my muscles are as useless as a stamped horsefly.

  “Parvin.” Her voice is no longer soft or musical. “Wake up.”

  I open my eyes. Blinking several times, my vision brings the Opening back into focus. The metal door is thirty yards to my right, standing guard over the wavering canyon edge. Crumbled earth lines the base of the Wall, careening into nothingness.

  “I flew off that,” I whisper, but shake my head wondering why my words don’t sound right.

  “No more flying,” Willow says firmly. “How do you open the door?”

  I cock my head to one side and try to remember. “Skelley Chase?” I look at my watch. 12:46.

  A veil lifts from my eyes and I sit up straight, defying the gnawing anguish beneath my skin. “One o’clock.” My voice is strong. Clear. I meet Willow’s eyes. “It opens in fifteen minutes, but closes after five.”

  Elm resumes his hammering. Willow rejoins him and pulls from her bag a flat sturdy strap laden with strange metal clamps. Elm examines them, glances at a small crack in the Wall, and detaches three by their metal clips. He squeezes them into the crack, clips the rope to the metal rings, and gives it a few firm tugs. The other end of the rope, he winds under Willow’s arms around her chest.

  “What are those metal things?” My voice is losing its strength.

  “Spring-loaded camming devices.” Elm tugs on the knot under Willow’s arms.

  Willow looks back at me and brushes her long pale hair from her face. “They’re anchors that fit in cracks to help you climb. We will use them as a rope station for a rope swing until we can get supplies from the train next week.”

  Elm gives her a nod and she loops the strap of camming devices over one shoulder, my two packs over the other, then places a tiny bare foot on the thin ledge.

  I gasp. “Willow.”

  “Be silent!” Elm’s bark reminds me of Black.

  My blinks grow slower, but I can’t take my eyes from Willow’s small white body splayed along the edge of the Wall, standing on tiptoes as weak canyon rock crumbles into the misty bottom, feeling for cracks with her tiny fingers. Every time she finds one, she grips tight and takes another small shuffled step toward the suspended door, leaning against the Wall as if she and it are magnets. Each step takes her farther from solid ground—farther from us.

  Elm watches with a wide eye and tight lips. He’s not breathing.

  Then she starts climbing. I don’t know how—I see no holds. Inch by inch, she scales the Wall like a lizard weaving to and fro. At a crack, she inserts one of the camming devices and loops the rope through a clip. She scales back down, safer now with the anchor in the wall. She reaches the door, panting, but it’s not open yet. My watch swims before my eyes. I hold it up until I make out the time.

  “Three more minutes,” I announce.

  “Get ready to come, Parvin,” Willow calls back to me.

  Ready? How? “No, I will go through tomorrow. I need to help on this side.”

  Willow stares at me with fire eyes. “Parvin, you come now. Elm and I will make the station. You can’t help. You’re sick. Come save your brother.”

  I try to push myself to my feet, but my arms don’t work. My brain doesn’t seem to control my body anymore. Elm walks over and hoists me up. Once I’m standing, I realize he’s almost as tall as I. Maybe I’m short. My knees are locked. He tugs me forward and they buckle.

  “This isn’t going to work!”

  “Yes it is!” Willow’s angry. At this moment, the door slides open and she falls inside the Wall. “It’s open! I can see light far away. Hurry, Parvin!”

  Elm tugs on my arms again, but his efforts seem half-hearted, like he’s already giving up on me.

  Don’t give up! I can do this.

  I push against the ground and his hold tightens. We stumble toward the cliff edge. Hammering comes from the entrance as Willow attaches her end of the rope somewhere inside the Opening. The rope is now an upside-down V along the Wall—one side here with Elm and the other side with Willow.

  “Loop this around your hips like a swing,” Elm instructs, shoving the rope at me.

  Obey. Obey. Obey. I can’t find reasons to protest, but my hands tremble too much. My mind swims too deep. What am I doing, again?

  Elm takes the rope from me and winds it around my hips and waist three times. Its fibers cut into my spine. The pain is a welcome distraction from the ache of toxin. He ties a knot and now I’m relaxing in the rope. My legs shake. I can’t stand much longer. God?

  Elm gives me a small nudge. “Swing across.”

  As if on cue, my knees buckle and I fall into the open space above the wolves. I don’t even have the energy to scream. Having no grip on the rope, I fall back into the air—all weight entrusted to the rope. Fingers grab my boot but lose the grip as I swoop back to Elm.

  My side scrapes along the Wall, but I don’t move. The rocking is soothing.

  “Elm!” Willow calls from somewhere above me. The soft wind mutes her voice as I swing up, backward. Swing. Mother pushed me on a swing once. Only once.

  Hands snag my loose clothing from behind and jolt me to a stop. “Sit up and hold the rope,” Elm snaps.

  I’m on solid ground again. I wind my fingers around the grains, commanding them to tighten. I think they do. I’m not sure.

  My family is so close, I imagine their smells wafting through the Wall. Mother smells like oatmeal and cinnamon. Father is soap and sawdust, the perfect mixture of fresh. Reid will smell like forest and travel. Or maybe he’ll smell like Tawny. He’s married now.

  I have to do this for them. I want to see them.

  What will Hawke smell like?

  Willow screams at me. “Hurry!”

  Elm pushes me. Hard.

  I swing back across, this time gripping the rope with every last ounce of energy in my five remaining fingers. God, keep me strong!

  I can collapse inside the Wall.

  No, I must ma
ke it to the East.

  Willow’s arm stretches out to me from the door. I can’t see my watch, but I’m certain my five minutes are almost up. The rope rubs my aching skin. I want to peel it off to relieve the pain. I reach for her. Torment steals my vision.

  Warm fingers touch mine. My eyes snap open. At the height of my swing, Willow slices through the rope with a dagger—my dagger. I fly against the wall inside the Opening. I collapse on the ground, knocking my already pounding head against the inner stone.

  “Quick.” Willow urges me to my feet. The loose end of the rope flies in the sky.

  The light flickers on the other side of the tunnel. The East. It steals my breath. “Can you smell them?”

  “Who?” Willow sounds nervous.

  “My family . . . Mother . . . Father . . . Reid . . .”

  “Come on, Parvin!”

  But with her words of urgency, both doors slice shut, forcing a demon of darkness around us. The darkness quenches the noise of wind and breathing.

  Silence is welcomed. The twisted tortured animal of poison inside me rests long enough to hear Willow breathe, “Parvin?”

  “I want to sleep.”

  “Are we trapped?” Her tiny voice quivers and her hand grips mine. She’s childlike again, no longer a leader.

  My ring bites into my pinky. “Only until tomorrow.”

  Tomorrow. Another twenty-four hours of wretchedness. God, I think I’m ready to die. My body pleads for it. My mind pounds the “shut-down” button. My Vitality suit only prolonged my suffering. It stretched two days of death into nine. I don’t want to survive until tomorrow afternoon. I want to die. I want to rest.

  “Willow, you and Elm have to save the Radicals.”

  Her fingers twitch. “We will, just like Jude-man saved me. We will do it. More Jude-mans will come through and we’ll help them.”

  I can’t breathe enough to say thank you, but shalom curls into my soul, bringing peace. Is it true, Lord? Can I say Good-bye with peace?

  I pull out the tied wads of maps, trade tickets, and instructions I wrote up for the Radicals and place them in her lap. “Make sure they get these, too.”

  “I will.”

  I squeeze Willow’s fingers until my muscles fade enough to match the darkness of the tunnel. I wake to an annoying pop from my NAB. Willow still holds my hand and Mother’s skirt covers me. The rope is no longer bound around my torso.

  Snug, I relish the warmth. “I need to wear this for Mother.”

  “I’ll tie it around your waist,” Willow whispers, pressing my NAB into my lap.

  I release her hand to read the glowing messages while her tiny fingers fiddle in the dark with my skirt ties. The letters swim before my eyes, but I see two name bubbles. Unknown is back. Hawke. He’s recontacted me on my NAB.

  I don’t know whose name bubble I press first, but messages unfurl.

  ~Parvin, what type of poison? Tell me details. I’ll try to find an antidote. –SC

  ~Are you alive? –SC

  ~Parvin, you didn’t come through the Wall today. Tomorrow you zero-out and we’ll have twenty-five minutes after you get through. You’re dooming Reid if you don’t come. –SC

  “I’m in the Wall,” I reply. “Send.”

  Hawke’s message is long and I wish Willow could read it to me. The light hurts my eyes and my concentration stabs my body like a dagger when I try focusing.

  ~Dear Parvin,

  ~Are you sure Jude’s dead? Yes, Jude and I are brothers, but . . . he can’t be dead. It doesn’t make sense. He would never give away his information. How did he die?

  I blink and refocus. I’ve dropped the NAB onto my lap and the glow reveals Willow’s face, scrunched in fearful sleep. Did I fall asleep? I pick up the NAB and continue.

  ~I’m worried for you. I don’t know how to combat toxins. I’ve tried contacting the Nether Town physicians, but they deny knowing any cure or medicine that will help you. They won’t come to the Wall for your reentrance because you may be a Radical. I feel so helpless. If you return, I will take you to the nearest hospital myself.

  “I am in the Wall,” I reply, as I did to Skelley Chase, but I take an emotigraph to send to Hawke. Maybe he will feel my desire to rest and won’t try to save me. Who can fight the Clocks, anyway?

  Willow wakes up. “We should go to the other door.”

  I shake my head, which makes it drum like an execution march. “I’m too tired.”

  “You’ve slept for hours,” she whines, pulling against me. “Please. There are dead people in here. Bones.” Her voice grows higher and frantic. “Let’s go to the other side so when the door opens you can just go through.”

  I sigh. “Okay.”

  Willow leaves her pack and the pile of resources I gave her against the wall. I manage to crawl and close my mind to the mental image of bones rolling toward me. My movements are stiff and I put my weight on my elbows, sparing my throbbing stump.

  Almost there. Almost tomorrow. Almost Good-bye.

  When we reach the opposite door, I lie flat on my stomach, half my face pressed into the cold dirt. Shivers stampede my form, crushing my will to fight like wine-stompers. What is sleep and what is darkness? What is time when it’s invisible?

  My hand rests by my face.

  Click. Click. Click. The tick of a blue watch lowers the drawbridge for Death.

  Voices. Muffled. My whispered name. Silence.

  Click. Click. Click. Where’s my Clock? Where are my Numbers? How many zeroes do I have now?

  “Parvin!” Willow shakes me.

  “Hmm?”

  Light illuminates my wrist. My watch. I squint. Willow holds the NAB above me like a candle. “What does the watch say?”

  I’ve forgotten how to read. I’ve forgotten what these numbers and moving lines mean. Why does it matter? “Let me sleep.”

  “What does it say? What time is it?”

  Time. The numbers and lines fall into place like a long forgotten memory. “Twelve fifty-eight.”

  Twelve fifty-eight. 12:58. One-two-five-eight. Fifty-eight minutes past noon. October seventh. Eight zeroes. My Clock is branded on my mind.

  000.000.00.27.12

  An awakening lightens my body. I claw the inner wall with my fingertips, fighting the flood of life memories as I pull myself to my feet. My toes scuffle against the loose rocks. My spine straightens like a soldier’s and I lift my chin, not in defiance, but in determination.

  I will welcome these last zeroes standing. I will allow my quickened heartbeat to count the seconds. I will remember what God has done.

  I press my splayed hand against the cool door as if feeling for its heartbeat. Neither side is my home. My new home is above, waiting.

  I’m ready to discover it.

  43

  000.000.00.25.59

  The door slides open with the hiss of a snake. I squint against the sunlight of a thousand proclaiming angels. The space between my fingers closes and I raise my palm to shadow my eyes. With a single blink, my breath of imagined Heaven transforms into an earthly scene.

  There they are: Mother, Father, Reid, and a pale twig of a girl wearing my old handmade clothes. They’re paper cutouts of a forgotten life.

  A line of regal Enforcers curves beside them, leaving an oval of space between me and a crowd of frozen cardboard strangers. The mystery faces are more numerous than the inhabitants of Unity Village and Nether Town put together. No one’s breathing. No one looks real.

  One Enforcer holds a softer posture, leaning forward on the balls of his feet as if ready to run toward me.

  Solomon Hawke.

  To my left, Skelley Chase leans against the Wall, one hand in his pocket and the other resting on a gun at his side. Imagined or real, I smell lemons. It’s not the scent I crave.

  I take a single st
ep forward, toward my family, and crumble. My head hits grassy dirt like a mallet on a drum.

  Get up, I grind at myself, but before I can make an attempt, I’m dry heaving so close to the dead grass my every gasp sucks in clouds of dust. The only sound reaching my ears through the deathly silence is my retching.

  You can take me now, I think to God, wishing my audience consisted only of Mother. Instead, I’m showcased as the dying Radical. I don’t need to be in a glass box clothed in spandex this time. It’s real life. Everyone is watching. No one is moving. How long will I lie here, exhausted? How many people are disgusted?

  Cameras and sentras click around me.

  Three pairs of hands close on me, one lifting me, one smoothing hair from my face, and one poking something cold and tight into my left shoulder.

  “Parvin.” The second set of hands pulls me tight against a chest smelling of travel and something artificially masculine—cologne. It’s familiar, yet strange.

  The other two pairs of hands release me, the last of which removes the tight prick from my shoulder, leaving behind a foreign squirm in my skin. To my left, through the swirling black sickness, Skelley Chase holds out a sentra.

  “Go away,” I rasp, but I squeeze the button anyway and bury my face in Reid’s coat. I sense someone standing near us—the first pair of hands, the strong ones.

  Hawke?

  I don’t know how long Reid holds me. I can’t comprehend what he’s saying. I compute increased mutterings from the crowd and wonder if they came only to watch my Good-bye.

  Parvin.

  Who’s calling?

  Parvin.

  I take a deep breath, submitting to the weariness pulling me toward the earth, but Reid holds me up, an arm’s length away, with his firm working hands. He looks hard into my unfocused eyes.

  “Parvin, you’re home.”

  I glance up at the sky and shake my head, allowing the sun to draw out burning tears. Not yet.

  “You need to leave. You’re not safe. Skelley Chase . . .” Surely Reid knows all this. “I’m back, now go.”

  He shakes his head. “Didn’t you read my journal?”

  How can he still believe it’s his Clock, when it’s clear I have minutes of breath left? “Please. Let me go. Let me die. I’m okay with it.”