by Kody Boye
Ceyonne and Wu nod.
“So,” I say, and lean forward to examine the two of them. “What do we want to tell Dusty and the rest of the Saints?”
The two look at each other for several long moments. They don’t move, they don’t speak, they don’t blink. While inside a battle rages on, outside, one is longing to take place. It need not be fought with words or swords, guns or bullets or tanks or machines.
No.
In the end, all it takes is one spark to start a war.
And revolution? I then think. What does it take to start one of those?
I don’t know, and that, unfortunately, is what leaves me in this predicament.
When it finally comes time for Wu to speak, she says, “I don’t want any more blood on our hands.”
“I don’t either,” Ceyonne says.
“So… it’s decided,” I say. “We tell the Saints to let the First Lady go and then make our way into the heart of the city.”
All three of us sigh.
Soon, we will speak as only fools would.
I can only hope that we will survive this ordeal.
Fourteen
It is the day of reckoning, and we are completely and utterly terrified.
Late on the morning we are meant to change the world forever, the three of us rise and look at each other with unsure eyes. Our lips are painted with frowns, our faces caricatures of their former selves. In our eyes there is a darkness—one that I know only comes from war.
“So,” Ceyonne says, turning her eyes back to the clothing boutique. “Today’s the day.”
“Yeah,” I say, and sigh. “It is.”
Wu fidgets with her shirtsleeves and then closes her eyes. “Are we gonna wear the dresses?” she asks.
It was something we had discussed doing late in the evening, at a time during which we were likely to falter. Because of that, we’d kept our options open. Now that are actually considering it, it seems highly appropriate, considering who we once were.
“Yeah,” I finally say, after several long and hard moments of thought. “We should.”
“Do we put them on now, or…”
“Let’s put them on,” I say, “and say goodbye to who we’re afraid to be.”
We help each other as only girls can. Through words and touches, whispers and confirmations, drawstrings and lace, we dress with the knowledge that these dresses could be the very last things we will ever wear, and for that reason, take pride in how we will present ourselves to the people of the Glittering City.
Wu wears blue—for the tears that were and will continue to be shed.
Ceyonne sports red—for blood and honor, for war and peace.
And I—I come to the final dress that has remained in the boutique, and look upon its countenance as if it is something straight from another world.
My dress, pale as it happens to be, is white. What it symbolizes I cannot be for sure, but regardless, I do not care.
Now is not the time to ponder over the meanings of metaphors. Now is the time to act.
Wu leads us through a small prayer as we finish dressing.
“For Honor and Grace,
“For Beauty and Faith,
“We ask in this place:
“To keep us safe, to guide us right,
“And to always remember: that we have might.
“Amen,” Ceyonne and Wu say together.
“Amen,” I conclude.
Then we make our way out of the clothing boutique and down the wide corridor.
Our presence instantly draws stares from the masses congregating in the corridor. I know part of it is because we are Beautiful Ones—and in red, white and blue we are declaring, in purpose alone, that we are not to be trifled with—but I also understand that it is because we are in the midst of a revolution, one that could either make or break our country.
As we walk, slowly but surely making out way forward, I find myself dreading the words I am soon to speak.
Remain calm, I think. Remember what Mama said.
Chin up. Back straight. Eyes forward. Never look back.
I lift my eyes to face the crowd before me and find that Dusty has presented himself on a raised platform made out of wooden crates, and is regaling the crowd with their strengths and triumphs, their struggles and downfalls.
“We have come so very far in the past few years,” the man says, spreading his arms as if to embrace the crowd. “We have climbed from the depths of despair; toiled in the pits of sadness; learned to live and love as though we have never done so before. We have saved lives, and worked to make better the existences of those pushed to the fringes of society.
“Now, though, we face our greatest enemy: the government itself.”
The people murmur amongst themselves. But despite all his bravado, and his charismatic ways, Dusty is not the center of attention.
No.
We, the three well-dressed, are the ones who draw their eyes—and who ultimately silence Dusty as we step forward.
“Kelendra?” he asks, his eyes wide, his mouth agape. “What are you doing?”
“What we should’ve agreed to do in the first place,” I say, turning my attention first to Wu, who stands on my left, and then Ceyonne, who stands to my right. They both offer nods of approval as I gaze upon their persons, then turn their heads to look back at Dusty.
In but a moment, I am clearing my throat.
Then, in the proudest voice I can muster, I say: “We’re here to save your people.”
The chain of whispers that follows causes me to shiver. They are like drops of rain falling from the sky—because first there is one, then two, then three. When many begin to occur, I tremble; and as Ceyonne and Wu stand rigid in the face of what is undoubtedly the greatest adversity we have ever faced, I struggle to stand tall with them.
Chin up. Back straight.
Eyes forward. Never look back.
Dusty lowers his eyes back other three of us and says, “What are you talking about?”
“I’m asking you to leave us to release First Lady Rosanna,” I say, “and to let us go to the Spire on our own.”
“Why, though?”
“Because this isn’t your battle to fight,” Wu says. “It’s ours.”
“People have died because of the choices we’ve made,” Ceyonne continues. “We can’t have that happen anymore.”
“If we are to be taken,” I say, “at least we will be held as hostages of war. You, though…” I pause to look at a woman who stands to my right. “I can only imagine what they’ll do.”
“How do you expect to protect yourselves out there?” Dusty asks. “Without us, you’re almost guaranteed to be captured.”
“And if you’re there, you’re almost guaranteed to be killed.” I take in a deep breath. “I don’t want any more blood on my hands, Dusty.”
“Neither do I,” Ceyonne says.
“It’s only right that we do this for you,” Wu says. “To thank you for saving our lives, and for sheltering us when you could’ve easily turned us away.”
Dusty can only stare.
Patrice and Ashton, who stand below him, turn their heads to look at each other, then look back at us.
When Dusty finally does speak, he says, “I’m… I’m speechless.”
“Take your people and make your way out of town,” I say. “We promise to do our best to make sure you aren’t followed.”
A sigh passes from the man’s lips; and though filled with unease, the underlying defiance is enough to give me pause.
Will he listen? I think.
My answer is given a short moment later, when the man turns and says, “My friends… you have heard the lady. Today is the day we leave this home for another. I know you will be scared, but we have angels watching over us. Three of them are standing before you as we speak.”
I wait for the nods and whispers of gratitude to die down before I finally say, “Will you have them out by three o’clock?”
“Yes,
” Dusty says. “We will.”
And as the people begin to disperse, I have no doubts, nor indecision, about our choice.
These people will live…
Even if we die.
The First Lady is relinquished to us forty-five minutes before we are meant to go on regional television. Her ankles unbound, her wrist restraints placed in front of her, she is passed forward into Ceyonne and Wu’s careful hands as the last of the Southern Saints make a move to advance down the tunnel.
Dusty McGee stands directly before us. His eyes are lost, but in them there is a gratitude I know only comes from being given a second chance. He simply says, “Thank you.”
“We’re doing this to ensure that no more lives are lost,” I say, looking on at the First Lady, who keeps her head bowed and her lips pursed. “Please, do your best to protect these people.”
“There are places beyond the city where we can go,” Dusty says, glancing up at the First Lady. “For the sake of security, I won’t say where, but know that you will always be in our thoughts—all of you—no matter where you go.”
“Thank you,” Wu and Ceyonne say.
Dusty leans forward to clasp his hands on my shoulders. “I know we haven’t exactly seen eye-to-eye, Mrs. Cross, but I do want you to know that I am amazed by your strength in the face of adversity. Not many could stand before a wall and wish to tear it down.”
“I understand,” I reply.
“Good.” Dusty gently claps my arms and takes a few steps back. “I guess this is goodbye then.”
“Goodbye, Mr. McGee. Thank you for everything.”
The man reaches down, slings his pack over his shoulder, then rises and offers a single salute before turning and starting down the railroad tracks.
“Are you ready?” I ask.
Wu and Ceyonne can only nod in response.
We advance through the subway system and make our way out the secret passage that we initially stumbled upon all those nights ago. Terrified out of my mind over what may occur, but comforted by the fact that no further lives will be lost, I twist free the deadbolt from its position and then pull the door open only to be buffeted by warm air.
“Well,” I say. “This is it.”
“Yeah,” Wu says, taking extra care to pull First Lady Rosanna to a stop. “I guess it is.”
“What are we gonna do with the First Lady?” Ceyonne asks.
I lift my head to regard her and say, “We’ll take her outside and leave her in the alley. She’ll be free to wander off on her own.”
“You’re going to release me?” First Lady Rosanna asks.
“That was the plan all along,” I reply. “Besides—we can’t have you speaking out against us.”
She doesn’t reply.
With that thought in mind, I step forward.
Ceyonne and Wu advance with me.
Then, slowly, we ascend the stairs to our destiny.
When we finally step up to the landing, I take a deep breath, exhale, and then say, “Here goes nothing.”
Then we step outside.
It is first disorienting, to know that we are out here of our own free will, of our own choice. It seems as if we should be led in chains rather than in dresses. But as the clarity of the matter comes to a clear and radiant focus, I realize that this was how it was going to be all along.
It had to be, I think. Otherwise… what point would there be?
That we are women weak? That we are women bound?
No.
I shake my head.
We are not women weak, nor are we bound by anything. We are enigmas in this place, in this world, in this land, and nothing—not even the government—will stop us.
As we come to stand at the edge of the alley, I turn to face First Lady Rosanna and say, “Wait until the count of one-hundred after we are gone before starting off on your own. Understand?”
“I… I understand,” the First Lady says.
“Are we ready?” I then ask, turning my attention to Ceyonne and Wu.
They relinquish their hold on the First Lady and nod before starting forward.
I am, in a word, content.
I never thought I would be, considering that I have always lived a fragile life, wherein anything—a mole, a mark, a word—could harm me. But in contemplating everything I’ve been through, and everything I likely will go through, I realize that this was the way it is meant to be.
If I am to die today, at least it will be of my own choosing.
And if they take me, well… I can deal with that later.
All I know, now, is that I am here of my own volition.
And that is what makes me content.
We step out of the alleyway, then begin to cross streets, stopping accordingly for crosswalks and pausing to give others right of way. There are eyes on us the entire way—from people in cars, to people in stores, to people walking alongside us.
“Is that—” I hear one person start to say.
“No,” another adds. “It couldn’t be. She’s… dead.”
I ignore these voices, these thoughts, these troublesome beliefs, and continue forward.
I realize only when I hear the sound of somber music playing that the memorial has begun.
“We have to hurry,” I say, picking up my pace. “We don’t want her to start without us.”
“She’s not going to,” Ceyonne says. “She promised she wouldn’t. Right?”
“I… I don’t—”
But it is at this moment that I comprehend just how close we are.
In moments, we are passing through an alley—
And stepping right to the edge of what was once the Spire’s outer grounds.
Fifteen
Though cordoned off from the public by thick yellow rope, and surrounded by people of all shapes and sizes, it is easy to see the destruction that has been wrought. Steel beams lay exposed. Black granite lies all around. Rainbow fixtures glitter in pieces everywhere.
The Spire is, in a word: a ruin.
But it is not the physical destruction that affects me so. It is the sadness, the emptiness, that permeates this place, that echoes from a fixture that was once here, but no longer is. Even the wind seems to have forgotten that it is no longer in place, for though around us it blows, it does not from the place where the grand building once stood.
Somber music plays in the distance.
Upon a single wooden platform stands a woman—who, with her head bowed and lips pursed, leads a new type of procession: one of mourning and hardship.
Some people cry. Others sob. But most are silent, for in this moment, it is meant to be so.
“Well,” I whisper. “This is it.”
“Should we wait?” Wu asks.
Ceyonne shakes her head. “No. We shouldn’t.”
She takes my hand; and I, a moment after, take Wu’s.
Then we start forward.
At first, no one notices our presence. So entrenched in prayer for the fallen are they that they cannot even lift their heads. So when I clear my throat and the first woman lifts her head to look at us, it is like she has looked upon the faces of angels—awed and bewildered and unlike anything she has ever seen. She stumbles for a moment, obviously trying to piece together what it is to say, then simply moves aside as Ceyonne presses a hand to her shoulder and gently presses upon it.
At my side, Wu does the same.
Soon, our presences draw the eyes of people around us.
Someone says, “Is that—”
Then another person replies, “It can’t be. They… they died.”
But we didn’t, I know; and it is this that captures their eyes, captivates their minds, and seizes their emotions.
As the music comes to a slow end, Cynthia Demiro of Capitol City News simply says, “Ladies and gentlemen—I present to you: The Beautiful Ones.”
There are no cries. No cheers. No gasps or concerns. There is simply silence.
And that is all I can expect as we come to stand bef
ore the stage.
On a massive screen projected behind the woman there begins to play an image—a lowly image, of suffering incarnate.
The woman known only as the Countess screams.
And its shockwaves reverberate throughout the courtyard.
Everyone looks up. Everyone stares.
“We need to remain calm,” the Commandant Logan Dane says as the image of the Countess turning to face her husband comes into view.
“CALM?” she asks. “You want me to remain CALM?”
“We cannot allow our emotions to get the best of us.”
“My girls are dead! Our future is altered! My Spire is IN RUINS!” she shrieks, spinning to knock a series of wine glasses off the table before her, each shatter a teardrop of suffering in a world where war reigns supreme. “It’s time for us to act!”
“What’re you—” the Commandant starts.
But he cannot finish, for the Countess soon turns to face someone off-camera. She then says: “Being preparations to launch the Serenity Configuration. NOW.”
The image shifts, then, to reveal a blank blue sky, then a series of massive computer-generated missiles streaming through hit. “The Serenity Configuration,” an unknown female narrator begins, “is a world-killer. A country-destroyer. A life-decimator. It is the Countess Aa’eesha Dane’s ultimate weapon against the North. But there are limits to what great power can do.”
The image shifts to show a diorama of a map, which soon is revealed to be a randomized projection of where each of the Serenity Configuration’s bombs could fall. The impacts upon its two-dimension surface create three-dimensional shockwaves across it—and though fire reigns across the map, seemingly showing the North’s destruction, it is the counter-fire that is shown to be launched from the North that leaves everyone in stunned silence.
“The launching of the Serenity Configuration,” the female narrator continues, as around us people begin to lift their hands to their mouths, “would result in complete nuclear war—and, potentially, the annihilation of life as we know it.”
The image shifts once more to reveal dust flying into the air, thickening in intensity until the sun itself is blocked out. Then we see stock footage of plants withering, of animals keeling over from exhaustion and starvation.