by Caela Carter
It’s a sign.
If I can walk straight through I’ll be there by 5:27 p.m. Way before sunset.
I take a step into the road. I’m on my way.
Twenty
I had just swallowed my last gulp of tea when the screen door of the Girls’ Dorm bounced open.
“Zylynn!” The deep voice of Brother Wrinkesley boomed.
All of our heads were immediately off the pillows, startled. After bedtime, the only noises were nightmares. Or worse.
“Zylynn! Get out here,” he said.
This was the worst. Worse than a nightmare. This was a punishment. A punishment after bedtime could only mean one thing.
All of the girls looked at me. They knew where I was going.
I felt tiny. I felt dirty.
I dug my fingers into my feather mattress, trying to make it suck me in. I knew. If I left this dorm, I would be like Jaycia and the others who were yanked away. I would not see anything for a long time. Or, like her, forever.
I also snuck out and ate cheese. I also stayed up while she laughed. I let her tell me all about balloons and bicycles. I stole food and ate on a Hungry Day. I was evil and dirty and wrong. And now I was being punished. Cast out.
“Zylynn.” His voice bounced off all the beds and landed on my pillow. “Now!”
I slipped out of the bed. I skated across the sandy floor. Brother Wrinkesley was biting his lips. He didn’t look as scary as he sounded. But there was another man with him, dressed in almost all black: pants, shoes, jacket, tie. He carried a shiny black box that dangled from a silver handle.
He looked like one of the strangers who sometimes showed up in Chapel or School or the Dining Hall.
He tried to put his hand on my shoulder but I ran. Not far. Only five feet or so from where they were standing. Only so far that I knew the stranger wasn’t going to touch me.
“It’s time,” Brother Wrinkesley said. “You have to go now.”
“I don’t want to!” I said. I knew they’d hear me in the dorms. I knew they’d wonder what made me so evil and dirty. I knew they’d be sad for me but more relieved for themselves, secretly listing all of the Mistakes they’d made; secretly wondering why it was me and not them.
The stranger tried to touch me again. Brother Wrinkesley called, “Back off,” and then suddenly Brother Chansayzar and Brother Wrinkesley were holding my elbows before I even saw them. They lifted me by the armpits. They walked me straight through the first circle until we reached the hedges and the walls and the dogs and I thought no, no, no, no, no don’t go through there I can’t go through there it’s Darkness through there.
Brother Chansayzar whispered to me the whole time. “You’ll be OK, you’ll be OK.”
Brother Wrinkesley rubbed my shoulder with the hand that wasn’t holding me.
The walls got closer and closer and closer until I saw, just in front of the dogs, ten or twenty feet away. There he was. Father Prophet.
I squinted to be sure, but he was there. I felt myself relax in the men’s arms. Father would not let them take me. He knew that even when I made Mistakes, I was trying. We can’t be perfect; he said so all the time. Only Father Prophet could be perfect. He would understand. He would protect us.
He would not let the Darkness suck me up.
And then we were past him. And then we were Outside. And then they dropped me on the Darkness dirt. And then life was over.
Father Prophet didn’t even wave.
That’s how evil I am.
Twenty-One
I’VE BEEN WALKING FOR AN HOUR. I’m already on the second street. Only four streets to go, which makes it seem like it can’t take another eleven hours, but I can see from the map that the third street is a long one.
ZOOM!
I leap away from the speeding car, into the grass. A dog comes sprinting at me, barking so loudly I dive into a row of bushes at the house next door.
My heart is beating so hard against my collarbone it vibrates.
I should have thought of these things before: cars, dogs, other people. I’ll have to work to stay invisible.
I can’t be afraid of these things.
I can’t wish for Charita or Louis.
I have to keep walking.
I have to get home.
It’s 8:17.
I know now why there is so much sunshine in Darkness. Mother God is Light but Mother God is not the sun. The sun is evil.
It beats on my head, baking my hair into the skin of my skull. Sweat stings my forehead and eyes and tickles between my shoulder blades. The sun turns the backpack into a hot stone rubbing my white shirt back and forth, back and forth until the skin beneath it is raw and sore.
I’m sort of used to the cars rushing past. I only jump when it’s a loud one. I don’t know why they have to go that fast.
I don’t know why there are so many cars or so many people who stay here in the Darkness or how these people are suffering.
But I know that they’re suffering. That’s what I learned. The Darkness means suffering.
I make my third turn onto the long road. Keep taking step after step after step.
After step.
This is all for you, Father. I’m coming home.
The sun climbs higher.
Step.
After step.
After step.
It’s 9:24. I drain the last of my first bottle of water on to my cracked tongue. My skin absorbs it before I can even swallow.
Something I never knew before: a Thirsty Day is worse than a Hungry Day.
I’m only eight hours away and I’m already on the long road. I decide I get a break. I sit on the curb and watch the cars fly by my toes. I know now that they won’t hit me.
No one looks at the girl on the road. My light is so bright they can’t even see me.
Step.
After step.
After hot step.
I’m still on the third road. It’s 10:11 and it’s still 10:11 and it’s still 10:11. Every time I check Louis’s watch it says the same thing over and over and over until it finally moves only one digit. No wonder they check their watches constantly in Darkness.
Louis and Charita were always looking at their watches as if they didn’t know where to be. But maybe it’s because they didn’t have to be only one place. In the Darkness there are choices. Even this is sort of a choice. I chose to go home.
I’m choosing my ceremony.
I’m choosing my ceremony over cake and ice cream and presents.
It makes me a little dizzy. Choices seem good but they’re scary. Because if you don’t have a choice, you can’t choose wrong.
But I’m not choosing wrong. I’m choosing the Light.
The third road coils endlessly in front of me, twisting, dipping out of sight, rising up again until it meets the hazy sun at the end of the sky.
The sun assaults my skin, my sweat, my eyes. I take another sip of water. I have only three sips left, but the third road has to end soon.
Another step.
I take my backpack off and carry it by the strap.
Another step.
My back is happy to breathe.
Another step.
But my shoulder is being yanked from its socket.
It’s exactly noon when I see him. My legs have slowed, my sneakers scraping the sidewalk to move my feet forward. My shoulders droop. My wrist comes toward my eyes over and over and over again every minute but time rarely inches forward. The backpack hangs from my right hand or my left hand or a shoulder or my neck, constantly moving but never comfortable. My T-shirt sticks to my skin, my shorts rub against the inside of my legs.
I’m out of water.
I think I’ll die. I’ll die in Darkness.
But then I see him. He’s on the long road, just in front of me, his white cape dazzling behind him, his gray eyes huge and focused on me, his arms outstretched. I only have to reach him.
He finally came to get me. I’m finally good enough.
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I pick up a foot. I really move forward. Five steps. Ten. Twenty. Fifty. Sixty-seven.
Poof! He disappears.
I freeze, confused. The cars rush past the sweaty blond girl. They don’t see me. Neither did Father.
Then I look to my left and I almost sing for joy. This is where he led me. He’s saving my life so I can get home and save my Light.
I know what it is.
Park (n.): an area of land, usually in a largely natural state, for the enjoyment of the public, having facilities for rest and recreation, often owned, set apart, and managed by a city, state, or nation
There’re picnic tables for sitting and big, leafy trees from which glorious shade spreads out onto the grass. And, most importantly, there’s a concrete structure right at the front.
Water fountain (n.): a public fountain to provide a jet of drinking water
I run at it. I step onto the concrete square at the base, lean over it, and hit the metal button with my knee. A hard stream of water slaps me in the lips and I suck it down, into my system, until it fills my stomach and my lungs and my body all the way to my fingers and toes. Then I fill up both water bottles and walk to the base of a tree.
I pull my knees to my chest, making sure there’s no part of the sun hitting any of my skin.
Lunchtime.
No, not lunchtime. Lunch is for the Outside. Just eating time.
I pull out the tomato and the cheese. I take a huge bite of the red fruit and a stream of juice and seeds runs down my water-fountain-wet chin. I use my fingers to push as much of the tomato guts back into my mouth as possible. I suck on my fingers until they are more spit-y than tomatoey. I don’t want to waste a single bit. I take a sip of my water. Then I squeeze my thumb and forefinger into the cheese, pull out a few strips, and chew.
I breathe, I suck in the shade.
More water. More tomato. More cheese. More shade.
I sit like that—eating, drinking, breathing—until I feel that pinch in my cheek. I’m smiling.
I cannot be smiling. I cannot be happy.
I’m still in Darkness.
I shove the rest of the tomato in my mouth, chew, swallow.
Even though it feels like the cars can’t see me, I sneak behind the tree to pull my shorts down, squat, and pee. I go back to the water fountain to fill up my bottles.
When I look back at the long road, I realize that if I walk across the people’s grass, I’ll get more time to walk under their trees and in the shade.
It should be easier now with a full stomach and two fresh bottles of water. I shouldn’t need another break.
Twenty-Two
STEP.
Step.
Step.
Step.
The sun beats, pounds, squishes my head.
Step.
As the shadows of houses and trees spread farther and farther into the street, my feet get heavier and heavier until it feels like my sneakers are made of the same stone as the Chapel benches. My calves and knees and thighs shake. I move forward, my sneakers scraping the road, Elsie’s backpack trailing behind me, dragged by only my index finger.
The bag gets lighter and my head gets heavier as my water supply dwindles.
Please save me. Please don’t let me die this close to home, this close to turning on the lights in the Chapel.
And then I see the next step. Still yards and miles away, but clearly there. The end of the third road: the shrugging cactus. I’m more than halfway through my journey.
I think I’m about a half hour behind, but that’s OK. Even if I get there two hours late, I’ll still beat the sunset.
And rising up on the corner, like a thirteen-year-old girl with her arms over her head at the front of the Chapel, is a water fountain. I pick up my feet. I ignore the pain and the sun and the sweat and the cars silver and tan and green, big and small and boxy. Everything around my laser vision turns flimsy and fake. I see only the water fountain. By the time I reach it, the world is swinging dangerously beneath my eyes and I’m almost running. I get there just as I think I might fall, reaching out both arms and hugging the concrete mini-tower like I am Charita and it is Jakey. I take a long sip, then dunk my entire head under the stream, then sip again.
I fill up my bottles and sneak to the shade behind the concrete structure to sip on the water and eat some cheese. Slowly, my heart lowers itself to the proper spot behind my chest bone, my sweat stops flowing and sticks to my skin, my vision slows back to normal.
I notice that I’m sitting on a patch of muddy red clay. Red clay. Like home.
I’m almost there, Father. Almost. I remember you.
I lean my head back against the concrete to shut my eyes and let his face form on my eyelids.
Twenty-Three
BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
My eyes spring open.
Beep! Beep! Beep!
Louis’s watch is making the worst sound over and over and over.
Beep! Beep! Beep!
I don’t know how to stop it. It keeps going and going and I cower behind the water fountain cradling my wrist.
Beep! Beep! Beep!
Finally, I pound it against the concrete behind me and it stops the noises. I check it to be sure the seconds are still ticking.
5:22:37
5:22:38
5:22:39
Wait . . . 5:22. No. That can’t be. I’ve only been sitting here a minute.
I jump to my feet and they scream back at me. I look up and the bones in my neck go crack-crack-crack-crack. Yes, the sun has started its slow sinking toward the earth. The shadows are stretching to meet the other side of the road. It’s late afternoon somehow: I have to be there by evening or I’ll be banished from the light forever.
For the first time it occurs to me that I might not make it. I might be alive at the end of this, but I might be late.
I put one foot in front of me. My legs feel even more stiff after that rest, like I’m made of fabric that’s stitched too tight. But I force my knees to bend, my feet to move, my body to turn down the fourth road.
I have to keep moving. I have to be there by evening.
5:33
5:57
6:09
6:18
I’m not used to time. We don’t pay much attention to it Inside. But I thought every minute was the same. I’m not sure if I was taught that, or if I assumed it. But, I think, Inside every minute is the same.
Out here, time crawls when I want it to move and rushes when I need it to stop.
Father, please give me enough time to see you. I know it’s my fault. I should’ve run away as soon as I got there. I know I’m guilty and I’m dirty and evil now, but please. I want to be in the Light. Give me enough time to get back.
But Father Prophet doesn’t answer. He still doesn’t answer. He’s disappeared from me as surely as I’ve disappeared from the compound. He said we’d only have to want to come back. He said we’d only have to remember. After days and days of trying and trying to remember he’s still gone. He . . .
I can’t stop my prayer from tumbling forward, tossing itself into places it’s not supposed to go.
Mother God, you are the master of everything and time is a part of everything. Please slow it down because I need to get to your Light. I need to be a part of it forever. I can’t rot in Darkness. I need to stand in your Chapel and turn on your lights before the sun sets today. It’s my birthday. Thirteen, Mother. I have to.
I shouldn’t be praying to her. Father wouldn’t want me to. But I think this is an emergency.
If I don’t make it by sunset . . . Louis and Charita won’t want me back. They’ll be mad I ran away and tricked them. They won’t give me clothes and food and a bed anymore.
If I don’t make it by sunset . . . I will have nowhere left to go.
6:34
I turn onto the final road. It’s a long one that twists and turns right into the huge ball of a sun. The sun won’t listen to me. It keeps sliding down the sky no matter how
much I beg it not to.
I make my legs keep moving. I’ve only seen Inside from the Outside once before, but I remember so my eyes keep squinting for the whitewashed walls of my compound, my safe place, my home.
Step.
Step.
Step.
6:48
I take the orange out of my bag. I still see nothing.
Peel. Step.
Peel. Step.
Bite. Step.
7:02
This road has no end. The sunbeams slice the earth. The skin on my face is so hot it’s trying to slip off my bones.
The map might be a lie. I can’t believe I didn’t think of that before. The map came from Darkness. It might be a lie.
It’s time. I give up.
I’ll drop into the middle of the road and let the green boxy car that’s approaching decide what to do with me: a sweaty, hungry, tired, broken girl lost in Darkness. It can run me over. It can torture me. There’s nothing left for me to decide.
If the map was a lie, my Light is out. Forever.
All I’ve wanted was Father. All I’ve asked for is to go home.
What I’ve gotten is Louis and Charita. And Junior and Elsie and Jakey. I know that they’re Outsiders and Liars. I’m not supposed to trust anything they say. I’m not supposed to give them any of my words. But the past ten days have been the hardest of my life. I’ve begged and begged and begged Father Prophet for help, but it almost feels like the Liars care about me more than he does.
Why haven’t you helped me, Father? Where are you?
But then—and it’s only a speck in my vision—there’s a square of white on the horizon. In front of it, a see-through version of the young Father Prophet waves his hand and urges me along. So I stay on the side of the road. I take another shaky step. Then another, then another, until that green car is in front of me, showing me that I’m still invisible and this isn’t over yet. Young Father poofs back into invisibility too.
I can see it. The whitewashed walls announcing the front of the compound. The path leading in is the same red mud that I usually have between my toes. The roofs peeking over the walls are silver and glint-y and exactly what I should be seeing every time I look up to the sky. The Chapel tower stands tall and proud and stone in the middle. The light from the sun’s lowest beam rests just on top of it, like Mother God is balancing on the tower on her tippy-toes, looking for me, waiting for me.