“No, no.” Mother’s voice is airy. “I understand.”
Numb apprehension accosts my senses. “What do you mean?”
Mother doesn’t seem like herself. I can’t predict her response to something like this and that frightens me. She stirs a small spoonful of sugar into her coffee. “It wasn’t fair to Tawny. We’ll have to figure something out. Perhaps your father can bring the cot home from the shop. Then you can sleep in the kitchen.”
Tears singe my eyes, hotter than the coffee in my mug. “The . . . kitchen?”
“Oh, I can sleep in the kitchen, Mom.” Tawny’s light voice is like blades scraping my nerves. “I get up so early anyway to prepare the household . . .”
Prepare the household? Oh please.
Mother shakes her head. “No, I thought about this last night. This became your new home, Tawny, and I’m not going to ask you to upheave your life again.”
I can’t seem to swallow. To speak. To breathe. Last night I thought I wanted to understand the tension among my family. Now I wish I didn’t.
“This was my home once, too,” I croak.
“Tawny lost her husband. She needs a place to herself.”
I restrain the urge to shout. “I lost my brother.”
“And I lost a son.” Mother looks at me this time, her gaze fully connecting with mine. No looking through me. No looking past me. These words are intended for my heart and they hit like the blow of a silver axe.
“Okay.” Leaving my coffee untouched, I stand and walk to the bedroom. “I’ll get my stuff.”
The next two days pass slower than clouds on a windless day. Father leaves to the woodshop so early I hardly see him during the days. The first night, I slept on the floor in the kitchen, using the skirt Mother made me as a blanket–despite Reid’s bloodstains. I don’t dare ask where my old bed blanket is. I can’t shake the feeling that I have no right to be here, no right to ask for comfort.
At the same time, an indignant anger grows inside of me. No one sees me as a victim, but I suffered too. I pushed through the gates of death to return to my family. Don’t they realize how much I needed them? Loved them even while in the West?
The rage will escape sooner or later. Best to hold my tongue while I can.
Father brings the cot home from the shop after that first evening and sets it in the entry. This leaves no room at all for walking, but I give him a long hug and a kiss on the cheek. He’s the only one who still sees me with love. He doesn’t even look at Tawny, let alone talk to her. Ever.
She was right.
Part of me is glad.
I’m trapped in this house. I can’t leave thanks to the Enforcers and I don’t know what to do for the Radicals in Unity Village.
Progress among my family is nonexistent. I sit through awkward silences and tense conversations of nothingness. Meanwhile, the Council gains more and more time with Jude’s information.
I spend most of my time lying on my cot, trying not to miss Reid or Jude too much. Praying, since I have no Bible to read. What are You calling me to? Show me! Give me more!
SPEAK.
That’s all I ever sense from Him, but maybe I’m making it up. I’m not the speaking type. Why would He ask me to do that? In fact, why should He listen to me? The more time that passes, the more I realize that my choice to write my story caused the horrors I’m now living through.
I’m sorry. It was wrong of me. How did I not see that it was wrong? I was pursuing my own glory. At the time, I didn’t really know God. I didn’t try to. Now that I do, the clarity of my mistakes is physically painful.
All the things I used to do when I lived in Unity no longer appeal to me—making new clothes, reading newspapers, daydreaming, wasting time. This place is used to the old Parvin. The new Parvin and Unity Village don’t know how to coexist.
Hawke is not assigned to guard our house, but on Monday I clamber over my messy cot to answer a knock at the door and find him standing on our threshold.
“Good sunrise, Miss Parvin.” He wears his Enforcer uniform and holds out a sealed envelope of thin paper. The other Enforcers are not at their posts.
Finally. Some news. Someone to talk to. I take the paper. “You didn’t get fired?”
“Why would they fire me?”
I meet his eyes and he gestures to the envelope. On the back, over the seal, are scribbled words: TL — I’m staying an Enforcer to monitor Willow while I can. No visitors allowed yet. Don’t know why they didn’t dismiss me.
TL must mean Testimony Log. I’m glad he told me no visitors are allowed yet because seeing Willow is the first thing I want to do with my freedom. I have to trust him. I have to trust that he’s watching over her while I can’t.
I open the envelope carefully. I can use this paper for something later. Before I get a chance to read the typed note inside, Hawke summarizes it. “You’re no longer under house lock.”
I stare at the letter then look up at him. “I’m not?”
He grins. “No. You are an official registered Radical under the protection of the laws of the USE.”
I plunk onto my cot. “Did you do this, Hawke?”
He points to himself. “It’s Solomon, remember?”
“Oh yes, um, Solomon.” I might as well start making the name adjustment if I want to keep my only friend.
“And no, I didn’t do it.” His smile wilts. “It was by order of the Council.”
Early winter snow drifts into my veins. The Council. We both ponder in silence, me on my cot and Hawke—ahem, Solomon—in the doorway, allowing chilly October air to drift into the house.
I can’t say anything—not if his Testimony Log is in. I scan the release paper. It’s filled with boring jargon and official stamps.
He holds his hand out toward me. “Since you are free, care to take a walk?”
I eat up the word free as if it’s a dessert. “Yes.”
A walk. With Solomon Hawke. My stomach jump ropes with my nerves. Why does he want to go on a walk? Doesn’t he have to work? Won’t he get in trouble? And . . .
why did my stomach flip?
The last time it flipped, I was with Jude. My body’s betraying me . . . Solomon needs to be a friend. Attraction just wouldn’t be right. Jude died only a couple weeks ago. Has it been that long already?
I take his hand, trying to keep my fingers from trembling. He pulls me to a standing position. “I’m on duty in the square today.”
Snatching my coat and pack from the loose peg, I step outside and close the door behind me. He helps me into my coat, not flinching when his hand brushes the stump of my left arm.
I’ve never been helped into my coat before, not even by Father.
How pleasant.
I swing my pack over my shoulder and we head toward the square. The air is like fresh soap on my stained memories. Every breeze of cold and burst of autumn sun brings me back to the West. I lived outside for practically five months. Now, once again under the sky, I am free of the oppression that came from being cooped up in my house.
We reach Unity Village Square. It’s market day. I try not to recoil from the throng of people. A few deep breaths allow me to survey the scene. For the first time in my life, it looks . . . alive.
The weathered wooden platform in the center of the square—mostly used for the Radical hearings—is empty and lit by the sun. Dogwood trees surround the border of the square, their leaves colored in gentle pastels and bright reds by autumn’s paintbrush. Market booths fill every muddy square foot with small aisles between each one. Vendors shout to one another, someone tosses a peach to a little boy. Shoppers stroll in and out with woven bags over their shoulders.
I’ve never before seen this joy in Unity Village and I can attribute it to only one thing: the giant electronic post board hanging on the side of the county building, glowing over the few
rows of houses between it and the square. Bold italic words line the top:
All hearings and Clock-checking currently postponed due to Wall closure.
My people are still safe. The beast of tension inside my chest releases me. No one’s been sentenced to the Wall during my time at home. I can still protect them.
I’d forgotten about Hawke beside me until he whispers, “You did this, Parvin.”
I stare at the lively people. A few fearful glances come our way, many of which rest on me. Some of the fear melts away into frowns and narrowed eyes. My throat tightens, trapping my breath.
How much do they know about my survival and Reid’s death? Judging by the glares, they know enough to condemn my character.
I don’t fear them. I fear for them. The Clock-matching will hit the Low Cities first—Unity Village. Then the Council will be able to control everyone according to their Numbers.
Despite the waves of dislike and anger lapping at my ankles, I allow Hawke’s words to sink in. Yes, in a way, I did this. In a strange way, I protected my people by causing the Wall closure. They don’t know it—they may never know it—but I care not for their recognition. My attempts to save lives have finally been successful, even if that success is temporary.
He squeezes my shoulder. “Care to browse? I want to buy a peach during my rounds.”
No thanks. I don’t really want to browse among the piranhas. But Hawke doesn’t wait for an answer. We enter the bustle. The entire time I squeeze between booths and people, oxygen doesn’t exist. I force short stilted breaths and try to look as if I’m shopping.
Harman, the master gardener, haggles with a customer over his vegetables. Another booth has racks and racks of leather shoulder packs—none as sturdy as the one Reid made, but still good quality. Some even have metal clasps instead of ties. I pass a pottery table of teapots and mugs and nearly run into a woman spinning wool on a wheel beside baskets of yarn and thread.
The food booths make my mouth water—wooden pallets of berries, pots of hot lamb stew, and baskets of cheese bread, apple muffins, and potato biscuits. Even the milkman has his slatted pushcart in the shade with precious glass bottles filled to the brim with goat milk. Two little nanny goats nibble the sparse grass nearby.
Why isn’t Father here? He would sell so many goods. I notice again a few stares from vendors and shoppers. Their gazes rest mainly on my left arm. Maybe Father’s embarrassed because of me and doesn’t want the questions. Or maybe he doesn’t want to be in public directly after the death of his son. He’s a quiet man, after all.
“Found some peaches.” Hawke returns to my side with a small hemp bag. “Had to pay for the bag, too.”
The stares turn even bolder. What are they thinking? Look, there’s Parvin Blackwater, the one-handed girl who let her brother die and is now hanging around with an Enforcer. The last thing they saw of me was the post board picture of me throwing up on the ground by the Wall.
I focus on what Hawke just said. “Don’t you know to bring your own bag?”
“I do now.” We amble to the hearing platform and Hawke pulls himself up, sitting on the edge. I hesitate. He pats the platform, then reaches down to hoist me up. “The people need to see you.”
“Trust me . . . they see me.”
SPEAK.
Now? No way!
“They’re afraid. You’ve done something . . . and that’s foreign to them. Your presence can change their fear.”
I settle beside him and knock my boots together to dislodge the clinging mud. The last time I stood on this platform, my people encouraged the Enforcers to send me through the Wall.
I guess I’d rather sit in the rays of their anger than in the shadows of my family’s despair.
“Peach?”
“No thanks.”
He must hear the tension in my voice, but all he does is plop a peach in my lap.
We sit on the platform until the sun reaches the height of afternoon. Its rays combat the cold with the perfect intensity to keep us comfortable. After eating Hawke’s peach—which tastes like heaven—I lean back on my elbows and fully breathe for the first time. The vendors and shoppers seem to have gotten used to my presence. They still glance at me, but I’m no longer suffocating.
When was the last time I sat somewhere and let calm flow in? It’s different doing it with someone. Jude and I never did this. We didn’t have much opportunity with all our traveling, fleeing, arguing, and injuries.
Hawke is quiet, like he’s enjoying the calm, too. I sit upright with a sharp breath. “Hawke, you don’t have a tune chip, do you?” I don’t know why my heart suddenly pounds double speed. What if he’s been in his own world of implanted music and I’ve really been alone this entire afternoon?
“No, Solomon does not have a tune chip.”
“Oh.” I exhale out embarrassment. Why can’t I remember to call him Solomon? “Well, Jude had one.”
“Tune chips are ingenious and music is wonderful, but Jude gravitated toward those sorts of inventions. I don’t. The less metal in my head, the better it works. Besides,”—he scratches a spot on his knee through his black Enforcer pants—“it may sound sentimental, but I really love the sounds of, well, life.”
“Me too.”
He smiles. I smile. I think we’re having a moment. One where we’re not thinking about our dead brothers. But then, I guess now I am thinking about our dead brothers. Drat.
Should I tell Hawke—er, Solomon—that I dreamed about Jude? Or would that be too dangerous on the Testimony Log?
“I need to go report to Sachem. Sorry our stroll was short-lived.”
If there was ever a way to ruin a calm moment, that was it. “All right.” It comes out with a croak. I want him to walk me home, but I need to be strong. I need to be here with my people and show them I’m on their side.
“You should speak to them.” He slides off the platform.
Okay, mind-reader. God’s talking through people now? But . . . what would I say?
“Think about it.”
“I will.” Though the idea of standing up on this platform and yelling something down to my angry people doesn’t seem like a great idea.
He walks away. I don’t allow myself to watch him leave my sight. It feels . . . shallow. Like I’ve already forgotten Jude. Instead, I people watch.
Most shoppers and vendors have Clock-shaped bulges in their pockets. They all know how long they have. What will happen when the Council comes in to give them new Clocks? Will it really cause as much harm as Jude predicted?
I pull out my NAB. I’m not sure what I’m looking for. I wish I had my Bible—a Bible. No one sells them in Unity Village and they’re not in the library. I’m sure there’s a way to get it onto my NAB but I’m not tech-savvy enough. Maybe when Solomon’s not bound by his Testimony Log, I can ask for his help.
I don’t regret leaving my Bible with Ash and Black—my allies in the albino village—but, now that it’s gone, I crave God’s words more and more. He knows I need a new one. He’ll find one for me. Why didn’t I appreciate it while I had it?
What am I not appreciating right now that I might lose soon?
My finger slides into the grooved start button along the top of my NAB. The screen lightens to a familiar aqua blue with a tiny chime sound, but where there used to be only two communication bubbles in the center there are now three.
Skelley Chase
Unknown
The Daily Hemisphere Correspondent
Unknown belongs to Solomon. Only the last bubble blinks with a waiting message. I stare at it. A new correspondent? How did they contact me? The bubble pulses, enticing me. I tap it and a message unfolds in typewriter script.
Dear Miss Blackwater,
My name is Gabbie Kenard and I am the senior editor of The Daily Hemisphere. We want to express our sorrow at the unexpect
ed tragedies you faced upon your return. We understand you may be disinclined to continue your correspondence with Mr. Chase. However, you have many people in the world desiring to know updates on your life now that you are back.
Would you consider continuing your journal entries through us? The Daily Hemisphere would print them and you would receive a small payment per entry, which, as I’m sure you know, is unusual for Radicals. Your story should not go unheard. I look forward to your response.
~Sincerely, Gabbie Kenard
The words blur together as I read them again and I’m reminded of who Parvin Brielle Blackwater is outside of Unity Village. Here, my people know only a part of my story and I’m still invisible, shunned because of my survival. I’m no one. But somewhere in the unknown—those places in the United States of the East to which I always hoped to travel—people know my name. They know my story.
But they’ve seen only what Skelley Chase let them see. They’ve watched, but what have they done? They allowed Willow to be captured. They allowed Elm to be locked inside the Wall to die. They allowed Skelley Chase to shoot Reid in the head and walk away.
No. Why should I empower them with my story? I’m not just an adventure book. I’m not just entertainment.
Dear Gabbie,
Your offer is kind, but I’m not interested in being a zoo animal anymore.
After I send it, I pull out The Daily Hemisphere. It’s curled in a stiff roll and it takes two tries to slide my hand down the electrosheet correctly. It unfurls like a waking caterpillar. In the center of the screen, in full color, is Skelley Chase’s face—bored smirk and all. Above his asparagus-green fedora runs a bold headline, but before I can read it, a shadow crosses over the screen.
Dusten Grunt, in all his hairy-knuckled glory, stands beside me. His dirty blond hair is swept to the side and even his breathing sounds nasal. His small mouth is pursed in a very female-ish way.
I frown. “Hi, Dusten.” Hi childhood bully.
“Hey there Empty Numbers. Since you don’t have any Numbers anymore, I guess that nickname’s pretty accurate, eh?”
I inhale deep through my nose.
A Time to Speak Page 8