Back and forth, back and forth, he transfers the bodies. I lie on the deck. The shivering has stopped. In fact, I’m sleepy. How long has it been since I really rested?
I close my eyes, melding into the chill of the deck. It’s not as cold anymore. I think I’ll sleep here . . .
Two hundred seventy eight people died from bullet wounds and drowning. Two hundred seventy eight Radicals who never had Clocks. No one knew if this was their time or not.
Twelve people died from hypothermia. I guess I was almost one of them. I woke in some berth underneath the deck with a pile of blankets over me and Mother hugging my body tight. Two thoughts echoed in my head:
She’s asleep.
She’s alive.
I learned she was most responsible for saving several lives after we got everyone on board. That’s my mother.
Now I’m in the stairwell on my way up to the bridge, wearing dry clothes that must have belonged to someone on the crew. A man walks past me with a bucket of tracking chips that he’s extricated from people’s bodies and is about to toss into the ocean.
It’s dark outside. Night time.
How long have I been asleep? There was no darkness when we were in Antarctica. Where are we heading? Are we truly safe and on our way out?
I reach the bridge and walk in. Frenchie stands behind the control wheel, stitches lining her puffy upper lip, with at least four Radical men—probably the closest thing we could find to sailors. All of them are stiff and focused. My plans to talk disintegrate. A radar screen claims their attention. Its arm sweeps in a circle, revealing an assortment of glowing blobs. Mist drapes upon the sea like a shroud, as though to disguise danger.
Eerie.
“There’s one.” A man gasps and thrusts his pointer finger onto the radar.
“I see eet.” Where is the navigation officer? Why isn’t she steering?
His eyes dart from the screen, to the sea, to Frenchie. “If we hit an ice—”
“Shh!” Frenchie tightens her knuckles against the wheel.
I don’t want to be here. I liked the secure feeling I had upon waking. I leave and run into Solomon at the base of the stairs.
“I was just looking for you.” He smiles.
“Well, here I am.” I wrap my arms around my middle. It’s strange, wearing clean, dry clothes when I haven’t washed in several weeks. Is the smell of vomit still on me? And what in the world does my hair look like? At least the deathly dip in the ocean helped rid me of some filth.
“I wanted to talk to your mother and you. Can we go to your room?”
“I . . . have a room?”
He grins. “Where you’re sleeping. I think you share it with a few people, but follow me.” It takes us only a moment. Whoever shares our room isn’t in here right now, but the other bunks are messy. Mother sits on the edge of her bunk, rubbing her cuticles with a towel. They’re red from the blood of patients.
She nods to Solomon, then turns to me. “How are you?”
“As good as can be.” Honestly, I haven’t assessed that yet. I’m trying to seal away the scenes of dead Radicals, many of whom were from Unity Village, but no one I knew personally.
Still, they were my people.
“I thought I’d update you on our course.” As Solomon sits on the messed lower bunk across from Mother, I sit beside her. “We’re heading north toward Argentina. The projected Wall went back up only an hour after we shut it down, so we’re stuck on this side. Looks like you’ll still get to show everyone the West.”
West. We’re going home—to my home.
Good. It’s time the Council realizes it will lose. My God has always survived.
He takes my hand. “So, Parvin, where is the best place for us to go?”
“Ivanhoe.” The name pops out with firm certainty. “Mrs. Newton was preparing a safe house for Radicals—the Preacher gave it to her. She and I worked out how it will fit a few hundred people. Those who want to stay in Ivanhoe will be able to start a new life.” And it would be on my way back to the Wall . . . to let Father through on New Year’s Eve.
“Where exactly is that located?”
I scan the room as if I’ll find an old map. “Somewhere inland. There will be a lot of traveling, but I was told there are cities on the coast. Maybe it’s the West coast? I don’t really know what the West looks like on a map.”
“Angelique’s been studying the electronic charts. Once we pass through this section of sea ice, we’ll be traveling by map only so the USE can’t track and destroy us.”
Destroy? I didn’t even think of them trying to blast us out of the water. Am I leading everyone to death? “What if we run out of fuel?”
He shakes his head. “This ship is mostly solar- and wind-powered. It uses very little fuel.”
Thank you, Lord.
We sit silent then, staring at our hands or the floor. I told Solomon I loved him the last time we were together, but so much has happened since then. It’s almost inconsequential now. Did I mean it when I said it? Did he?
“Am I doing the right thing?”
Neither of them says anything to my blurted question.
Their silence spurs me to defend it. “I mean, I still don’t think I know God’s plan or will for my life. He clearly wants me alive—He let Jude and Reid die so I’d live. So what am I supposed to be doing? Is it this . . . to help the Radicals escape from Antarctica? Or is it about the Clocks? About destroying the Wall? About Willow or Skelley Chase? Am I missing what God wants of me?” I look at Mother.
She shrugs and avoids my eyes. “You overthink this, Parvin. Just live.”
It’s that “just live” mindset that left me feeling empty in the first place. That can’t be right. I have to have more purpose and vision, otherwise how can I pursue life?
“I disagree,” Solomon says. “No disrespect meant, Mrs. Blackwater, but Parvin . . . you’re on the right track. I don’t know that it comes down to one specific act or purpose. I think it comes down to the greatest commandment.”
My brain short-circuits. “Uh, love your neighbor?”
“Close.” Solomon grins. “Love God with all your heart, soul, mind, and strength. I don’t think He wants us to keep asking and dwelling on His specific plan or will. He wants us to dwell on and seek Him. Then our decisions will be made from our love for and relationship with Him. We are free to take action in whatever means we want as long as we seek Him and allow Him to guide us.”
Mother adjusts the blanket and smooths the wrinkles on my pillow. Does this topic make her uncomfortable?
I roll Solomon’s words over in my mind. “How do I get to know Him better? I’ve been praying . . .”
“His character is everywhere in the Bible. Even when it seems boring, keep reading it.”
My pack rests by my bed. The contents are still dry. Mother must have brought it for me. My Bible is in there. “Wish we could read the verse of the week. You know, from the church gathering you took me to.”
Solomon pulls a small NAB from his pocket. “Ah, but we can.”
He is amazing! “Where did you get that?”
He grins. “Chaos opens the doors of opportunity. The Lead Enforcer is going to find it difficult to contact his superiors . . . at least until he finds another NAB.”
Mother’s lips are a firm line. “You stole it?”
Solomon nods. “And we’ll be able to contact Oliver.” He turns it on, and reads, “‘Because the poor are plundered, because the needy groan, I will now arise,’ says the Lord; ‘I will place him in the safety for which he longs.”’ Psalm twelve, verse five.”
We are poor. We are plundered. We are needy and groaning.
The Lord is arising. For us. Like a general for battle, and I want to fight as His soldier. “I don’t remember Psalms being one of the days of the week. Which one does it stand for
?”
“It’s not one. Sometimes we just need a good reminder.”
Giddiness rampages in my chest. We’re free. God has arisen. He let me survive again. We saved lives. He hears. “The Council lost.” I look up. “The people have seen that we can win—we can survive.”
“Then it sounds like we’re right on track.” Solomon stands.
“Tally ho.” I grin at my own usage of the phrase. I’m finally understanding it. And I like it.
NAB in hand, Solomon sends messages for the next hour–to his dad, to Father, to Fight and Idris . . .
“Everyone’s okay,” he finally says, peering down at the screen. “Your father and Tawny are safe. Dad says that Enforcers have come and gone from the orphanage, but Willow’s still there.”
They’re okay. Everyone’s okay for now. I can almost hear God’s, “I told you so.”
The trip away from Antarctica is the opposite of when we traveled to it. The air grows warmer and we mill around on the solar-panel deck. The little girl from Unity Village—I still don’t know her name—spots dolphins one day, leaping alongside the ship.
I’d never seen a dolphin before. It’s sleek, smooth, and seems blissful. I wouldn’t mind being a dolphin.
Solomon, Mother, and I told Father of our escape and our current status. We left out specific details, of course, in case it was stolen or read by an enemy. I don’t bother counting the days as we travel. For once, people aren’t asking me questions about survival. They only ask, “When will we get there?” and I send them to Frenchie. Or “What’s the West like?” and I spend an hour talking about Ivanhoe.
On a bright day, when the air is warming and I’m out on deck, the black woman who tackled an Enforcer during the battle on Antarctica approaches me. She smiles and shakes my hand. “In all the craziness, I haven’t been able to officially introduce myself. I’m Gabbie Kenard, the editor-in-chief—well, the former editor-in-chief–of The Daily Hemisphere.”
My jaw drops. “You’re alive? I thought the Council might have killed you!”
Her smile turns sour. “I trusted the Council my whole life, but they treated me like a . . . well, like a Radical! What about freedom of speech?” She glances around as if the Council might be listening over her shoulder. “Actually . . . I wanted to talk to you . . . about one last hurrah.”
My heart stutters. “What do you mean?”
She lowers her voice and I barely catch her words. “Do they have NABs in this Ivanhoe of yours?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Mrs. Newton might.” I don’t tell her about the NAB Solomon and I have been sharing. Not until I understand her motives. “What do you mean by one last hurrah?”
She clasps her hands in front of her. “A video of you talking—sharing the truth about what the Council is doing to us—with emotigraphs and photos from our . . . survival. We can release it to the public. Maybe we could film you speaking about that Dusten boy. Show his overridden Clock.”
Speaking. That word won’t leave me alone. “I don’t know. We’re trying to flee the Council right now. Do you think it’s wise to do something like that so soon?”
“Well, not now obviously. Not until we have a NAB. But until then, start thinking about what you want to say.”
I haven’t exactly said yes yet, crazy lady. I sigh. “I’ll think about it.”
She grins, and her teeth glow against the dark backdrop of her skin. “Great. When I was denied a Clock and stuck in a boxcar, I finally saw what you saw in the Clocks—control. Too much control for the Council. I want to help show the world the truth and show Skelley Chase the danger.”
I step back. “Danger?”
She leans toward me. “I think the Council is forcing him to work for them.” Her eyes reflect the same infatuation that Rat Nose, the receptionist from the county building, had whenever she talked about Skelley. “If he sees the truth of what they’re doing, maybe he can escape, too.”
Before I can tell her Skelley is a back-stabbing monster, she fluffs her poufy hair and crosses the deck toward another group.
•••
We eat three meals a day, living mainly off cooked potatoes and chicken. Mother and Madame plant their flag of ownership in the kitchen or, as Frenchie corrects me, the galley.
The captive Enforcers and Monster-Voice remain crammed in a shipping container. That’s where the peaceful feeling stops. I can’t walk past them without hearing banging, moans, or pleas for freedom. I finally go to Mother about it.
“They will survive.” She cuts up potatoes and carrots for a stew.
“But . . . it’s not right.”
She chops through a potato and the knife edge smacks against the cutting board with an echo. “It’s just.”
“Why is it just? Because we had to live through it and some of us died? It’s inhumane. It’s already been a week.”
She blows a stray hair from her face and sets the knife down. An odd calm settles her shoulders, and she meets my gaze, composed and patient. “Parvin, you have a special place in your heart for the enemy.”
“What?”
She lays a hand on my arm. “You befriended Skelley Chase without knowing who he was. You have feelings for Mr. Hawke. You care about Kaphtor now because he helped save us. You’re worried about the Enforcers. You see? You cannot see the situation without bias.”
I push her hand off my arm. “Of course I’m biased. I see everyone as a human. My entire purpose is bringing shalom back to this world—making it the way God intended it to be. Do you think He wants us to treat them like this?”
She returns to the potatoes. But, of course, I mentioned God. Even though she’s given me spiritual words of wisdom and verses in the past, her faith is not like what Reid and I believe. It’s a . . . nervous faith. Something about it isn’t right. Why isn’t it changing her? Why can’t she see?
“Parvin, you have a wild faith. Someday it will settle in with your logic and you will understand.”
Wild faith. I like the sound of that. “I’m going to ask Solomon.”
I find him on the starboard side of the deck. He rests against the rail and stares out at the projected Wall.
We keep it on the starboard side of the ship to make sure we’re heading in the correct direction . . . and to see if the Wall comes down again. As long it’s in view, we’re heading toward land.
“Solomon?”
He looks up, and the whisper of a frown leaves his face when he sees me. “Good twilight.”
I like High-City language when Solomon uses it. “Good twilight. May I speak with you about something?” My question sounds formal, even to my ears. Is it because I’m nervous?
“Of course.” He turns and rests his elbows behind him on the top rail.
I scan the solar-powered deck for anyone nearby. Everyone else seems occupied or distant. “Well, it’s about the Enforcers in the boxcar.”
He watches me, waiting for me to continue. Why did I expect that he’d know what was bothering me? Am I the only one bothered?
“Well, they’re being treated like we were. Raw potatoes and everything. Do you think that’s . . . wrong?”
“Yes.”
My eyebrows spring up. “You do?”
“Don’t you?”
I laugh. “Well, yeah. But no one else seems to. I think it needs to change.”
He straightens. “That’s where I get stuck. They are still a danger to us. Even trying to move them somewhere else could result in an attack that sends us back to Antarctica. I talked to Harman, Cap, and Kaphtor, but they’d have none of it. Kaphtor is bitter, Harman wants nothing to do with them, and Cap . . . well, you know Cap.”
“So what should we do? Talk to everyone? Take a vote?”
He shakes his head. “That would be just as dangerous. The people are in a very precarious place right now. They don’t know w
hat they think about you, and they’re all secretly terrified of arriving in the West. You need to be very careful in your actions for now.”
“If they’re watching me, shouldn’t I be an example of how I want them to be? Shouldn’t I be the one to instigate kindness to those Enforcers?”
“Not yet.”
I don’t like his answers–they don’t fit with what I feel is right—but not wanting to argue or make a case for my feelings, I return to the galley. The smell of stew fills the small space. “Tonight, cook the potatoes for the prisoners.”
Mother and Madame glance up from the stew. “Why?”
“Because it’s right.” I turn to leave, but stop a moment. “And I will deliver them. I’ll get them before dinner.”
I toss the potatoes, a few at a time, through the barred window of the shipping container. No one says thank you. No one says anything.
“Is anyone dead in there?” I’m met by silence and my heart thuds. What if they died already? I pound the side. “Hey, you guys okay?”
I press my ear against the cold metal. I think there’s movement, then there’s a voice.
“Shh!”
It’s hushed, but it gave him away.
They’re trying to play dead, maybe to manipulate me into opening the door. “It’s not going to work.”
Someone laughs. I think it’s Monster-Voice.
I leave.
The next night, I make sure Mother cooks the potatoes again. When I deliver them, I include a few folded blankets. Even though the air is getting warmer, it’s still cool at night. That was the hardest part for me in the container—trying to keep warm.
A few more nights pass, and Mother gets into the habit of cooking their food. I’ve shoved enough blankets through to carpet the floor and walls of the container. They never say anything, but I feel better. I always let the men deliver the water since I’d be too weak to fight off an attack.
The day comes when we reach the part in our course where we need to head away from the Wall. Frenchie and the blonde navigation officer—who was apparently recovering from a head wound during the fights on the ship—found a map of North America. It doesn’t show much of the West side, and who knows how accurate it is? But the navigator wants to survive as much as we do, so she’s been calculating distances and looking at charts like her life depends in it. Which it does.
A Time to Speak Page 31