A Time to Speak Read online

  Willow—my little eleven-year-old albino companion—is trapped in this foreign world so different from the forest life she’s known, all because she chose to help me through the Wall. Will I ever get her back home? Will I ever get Elm—her grafting partner—out of the Wall?

  It is all my doing. I never should have returned, despite Skelley Chase’s threat of killing Reid. He killed him anyway. Or maybe it’s because I returned too late. If I could have reached this side a day earlier . . .

  I AM CALLING YOU.

  “I haven’t forgotten,” I whisper. But if God’s calling, why is He letting me sit in a cell while others are dying? Isn’t my calling to bring shalom? To save lives?

  I shouldn’t despair. I need to see this extra time as a gift—a second chance. But, in order for me to have my second chance, Reid got a bullet to the head.

  “Parvin?” A soft voice says my name from mere feet away—the sweetest word spoken to me since returning to Unity Village.

  My head snaps to the left. A man stands on the other side of my door. His tall frame matches the height of the cell bars. His dark blond hair is a little longer than when I met him a year ago. The backward black E on his left temple still surprises me, stark against his light skin. How can an Enforcer look so kind while standing so stiff and regal?

  I rise to a sitting position. “Hawke.”

  Something inside me relaxes as it did when he lifted me into his arms after Reid died. I meet his gaze, but no secret message is to be found. He’s guarded.

  “I’m here to escort you.” He is still reserved, but speaks so gently.

  “To Willow?”

  He glances down the hall and seems to grow taller and more rigid. He pulls shackles from his belt. “Please come with me.”

  I push against the emotional weights and manage to stand. He unlocks the door and claps the shackles around my wrists, not quite as pinching as Enforcer Kaphtor did. I try to smile at him, but can’t seem to raise my head. Sorrow’s heavy like that, I suppose.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  He shuts the cell door and leads me down the hall. “You’re being registered as a Radical.”

  At this, I manage to glance up. The sun flickers against the light teal color in his eyes. His posture relaxes just barely and his lips twitch in a smile meant only for me. “And then I’m taking you back to your family.”

  2

  I don’t know what frightens me more, the metal scalpel slicing into my left bicep, the idea of returning to my family, or the fact that Solomon Hawke and I are finally alone.

  Hawke has me on a stool in a room labeled Registration, but it looks more like the interior of an old cement storage shed. Warped boxes lean weakly on one wall, with a smoky covering of dust along their tops. When he turned on the lights, only three of the five electric bulbs worked.

  A long metal desk stretches along the opposite wall. Slits, holes, and glass doors filled with sky-blue fluid line the side of the desk. A large deadened screen covers the wall above it with a single spider in the center—a brown recluse acting rather unreclusive.

  It scurries away from the light. Mid-flight it drops off the screen with a small plink on the desk. I turn my focus to Hawke and his scalpel.

  I try to joke past the glue in my throat. “They call this noninvasive?” What do I say to this man who fought for my freedom so long ago? Who contacted me with comfort when I felt alone in the West. This man who shows the only kindness seen in an Enforcer and who might just have some answers I seek.

  This man whose affections I rejected.

  I can’t very well say, “Jude’s last words were, Ask Solomon.”

  Or can I?

  His hand is steady and the cut so smooth I don’t even bleed. He drops the scalpel through a slot in the metal desk. It floats down through clear blue fluid where tiny metal arachnids meet it and tinker away with cleaning.

  “Does it hurt?”

  “Not the cut.” My heart hurts, but I can’t seem to open my lips to tell him. It’s different speaking to his face instead of his electronic penmanship from my nano-book screen.

  He holds a teeny flat flexible square between his thumb and forefinger, but pauses in front of the incision.

  I lean away. “Is that going inside me?” More electronics invading my body. Next, I’ll be a robot.

  He meets my eyes. “Yes. It’s a tracker.” His gaze flickers from my arm, to my eyes, then to the door.

  “Hawke . . . we need to talk.”

  “I can’t do that, Miss Blackwater. I’m an Enforcer. You’re a Radical.”

  Miss Blackwater? Why such formality? Does he see us as so different now that we can’t communicate, even after everything we’ve been through?

  Maybe he blames me for Jude.

  I jump as Hawke pushes the thin film into my cut. He pulls a small strip of cloth from an open box. “Sorry this is so primitive.” He binds my arm and ties a knot.

  Primitive? Binding a wound with cloth? Then I guess I grew up primitive.

  “Now you’re a registered Radical.”

  Yippee.

  “Probably one of the first Radicals registered in Unity Village.”

  It is rather momentous. My village has been sending Radicals through the Wall instead of registering them for as long as I can remember. Maybe I get special treatment because in town there’s a giant picture of me throwing up.

  Hawke rotates on his stool and taps on an electrosheet, probably entering my information. What is going on? He seemed kind moments ago when he took me from my cell.

  “Um . . . Hawke?”

  “Please remain silent.” His tone is all business, but he reaches his hand back without looking up at me. A folded slip of paper rests between two of his fingers, extended toward me. I stare at the back of his head. Everything but his extended arm looks as if he’s focused on recording information on the electrosheet.

  I take the paper and unfold it. Uneven handwriting weaves all over the page in blueberry ink—Mother’s homemade ink. Some words smash into each other or run off the edge, as if he wrote this without looking.

  Miss Parvin,

  I’m wearing a required Enforcer Testimony Log.

  Sachem is monitoring everything I do, hear, and see, and sending it to the Council, especially information on how I interact with you.

  I’m writing this with my eyes closed, pretending

  to be asleep.

  I must remain formal for now, but this may help you rescue the boy. Be careful.

  - Solomon

  At the bottom of the page is a string of numbers and the word car in parentheses. The only cars in Unity Village belong to the Enforcers.

  My heart cartwheels. Hawke has in a Testimony Log—contact lenses that record everything he sees and hears. So that’s why he’s been assigned to register me. Sachem, the Lead Enforcer, wants to see how we interact together.

  What do they expect to find?

  I fold the paper with slow movements and tuck it into my skirt pocket just as Hawke straightens. I want him to know it’s safe to turn around, that I got his note.

  “How long has this registration room been here?” It’s a dumb question. The inches of dust already answer it, but small talk is less suspicious than prolonged silence.

  He swivels on the stool. I avoid his gaze. “Since the containment center was built, but you’re the first one to use it since I came to Unity.”

  “Oh.”

  “Let’s go.” He stands and hoists me to my feet.

  Wait. This solitude was so . . . beautifully numbing. I want more of it, even though it’s being filmed. I want to stay in this room alone with Hawke until I think of how to apologize for his brother’s death.

  We exit the room at the same time Enforcer Kaphtor comes down the white hall with my shoulder pack slung over o
ne arm, dragging Willow behind him. She practically blends into the paint, all except her light purple eyes. They’re rimmed with red. A thin bandage pinches the skin on her right arm.

  “Willow.” I reach for her. “Are you okay?”

  “Good noon, Kaphtor,” Hawke says.

  “Good noon. This one’s going with her.” Kaphtor jerks his chin at me and shoves Willow forward before I can take her hand. “They’ll be under indefinite patrol. You and me first, Hawke.”

  “Tally ho.” Hawke leads our procession into the cold.

  Willow is going to be with me. A coil in my chest relaxes. Even if we’re in another cell, at least we’ll be together so I can . . . what? Protect her? The coil tightens again. What can I do to help her or get her home? I’m powerless.

  The October wind is not yet bitter, but I still exhale a small cloud. The light chill bites my tracker wound. I suck in a breath and try to shelter it with my hand.

  “What’s this?” Kaphtor snatches my left elbow and pulls it close to his face. I whimper and stop in my tracks. Why is everyone’s touch so harsh? “Hawke, you idiot, you did the wrong arm.”

  Hawke shrugs. “It’s more efficient, since she already has a medibot in that arm and a missing hand. All the rotten eggs in one basket, you know?” He gently tugs my arm out of Kaphtor’s grasp.

  Rotten eggs. That’s how he sees me. Is that how everyone sees me?

  “You and your obsession with efficiency. As long as she’s tracked, I guess.”

  Hawke laughs. A distant, emotionless sound. “Tally ho.”

  “Jude-man said that,” Willow chirps from beside Kaphtor.

  I grimace. I haven’t been able to warn her that Hawke is Jude’s brother, that he still doesn’t know how—or why—Jude died.

  Hawke gives no response and I close my eyes for a long second, forcing my feet to keep moving. I think of Jude. I ache for Jude.

  Walking through Unity Village again is like a slow trek across hot coals. With every step, I’m overcome with a base urge to flee. I’m alone. I don’t belong.

  The narrow glares of some villagers run over my body, like red laser beams. I don’t make eye contact. They’re glaring . . . as if they hate me. Why shouldn’t they hate me? I carry the guilt of two men’s deaths.

  We turn the corner to Straight Street—my old home. The wood-and-thatch houses are unchanged against the warped brick sidewalk and mud road. New shutters block the windows of the Newton house on the corner. Who lives there now? Do the new inhabitants know the Enforcers attempted to murder the Newtons?

  Mrs. Newton and her surviving daughter are all alone in Ivanhoe. Will I ever see them again? Does she think I’m dead? Has she been able to follow through on buying the safehouse mansion for the Radicals sent through the Wall?

  A few doors down, my small thatch hut is as dead as Reid’s body. My breath fogs in front of me. This place doesn’t feel like home. It’s a cold trap soon to house the living sister of two dead brothers.

  Hawke raises his arm to knock and I clamp my lips against the impulse to scream, “No!”

  Rap. Rap. Rap.

  We stand on the doorstep of my so-called home, waiting to be let in. Does that make me a stranger?

  The door opens and the real stranger stares at me: Tawny. The ten minutes we’ve had together were spent wailing over Reid’s body. Not the best memory.

  She holds my gaze with storm grey eyes outlined in black to cover the red sorrow. With a sharp tilt of her head, she transfers her gaze to Hawke. “Yes?”

  It’s this small movement—this terse response—that snaps me out of my timidity. I step from Hawke’s grasp. “I’m back.”

  Before Tawny can say a word, I take Willow’s shackled hand and we push past her into the three-room house. I’m slammed with the scent of woodstove and fresh coffee. It brings a wave of abrupt memories—early mornings preparing to vouch at a hearing, writing my autobiography, exchanging Good-byes with Mother, Father, Reid . . .

  I stand in the squished entry beside the mirror and basket of scarves, facing the kitchen. Father sits at the table, staring at his hands. Mother stands to my left, having just exited her bedroom.

  “Mother.” I stumble forward and raise my arms, but the shackles prevent our hug. I turn back toward the entry—toward Hawke. Lifting my hand and stump, I say a quiet, “Please?”

  Everyone is inside now and the door is closed. Hawke enters a code and unlocks the shackles. I fall into Mother’s arms. One of us trembles. I can’t tell which—maybe it’s both of us.

  “These girls are under indefinite patrol.” Kaphtor drops my pack on the ground and removes Willow’s bindings. “Enforcer Hawke and I will be on day watch. Neither of you are allowed to exit the house without permission and supervision. Any attempt to do so will be met with punishment and imprisonment in the containment center.”

  “Indefinite patrol?” Father rises from the table. How I’ve missed his deep, smooth voice.

  Kaphtor nods. “Until we determine the route of action to take regarding Parvin Blackwater’s illegal actions and Willow’s invasion of the USE, they are under house arrest and are not allowed to contact anyone outside of those living in this . . . home.” He looks around the room. “Is this understood?”

  I nod, numb.

  He maintains eye contact. “Do you agree to comply?”

  Was my nod not enough? “You’ve made yourself clear, sir.” It’s the best answer I can think of without flat-out lying. I can’t stay here while Elm is starving inside the Wall.

  “Good.” He turns on his heel, opens the door, and leaves.

  “Tally ho.” Hawke’s gaze flicks to me and he pulls the door closed behind them.

  Willow hugs herself with her thin pale arms and looks around the room. She squeezes her eyes closed. I kneel by her and take her hand. “Willow, I’m . . . I’m so sorry you are here.”

  Her face tilts to the ground and a tear drops on the floor. “I don’t like this house. So many trees died.”

  Despite her encounters with other cultures, it must still be hard for her to stand in a wooden house after being a protector of nature. I stroke a single finger down her face. “I know. I’m sorry.”

  Mother interrupts our soft conversation with a bark. “Hungry?”

  Food. How can anyone think to eat on the day we buried my brother? Mother, of all people? I shake my head. “No thanks.”

  “What have you eaten since your return?”

  I sigh. “I don’t know, Mother.” And I truly don’t. Only the day before yesterday I stood on the first stair step of death. Sustenance didn’t even enter my mind as a concern. “Food from the containment center, I guess.”

  Did they feed me? I suppose I’d be dead if they hadn’t, but maybe the medibot altered my level of starvation. Can it do that? Enforcers took away my Vitality suit almost immediately, so that doesn’t factor in to my hunger.

  Mother stokes the wood stove anyway. Father rounds the table and kisses my forehead. “Welcome home, sweetheart.”

  My chin quivers and I clamp my jaw, breathing in his scent of soap and sawdust. “Thank you, Father.”

  Home. The word doesn’t connect with this place anymore. It was a home six months ago, but no longer. It’s weird and I don’t like feeling like a stranger. But . . . I am new. This place is old. We don’t belong together.

  “I’m going to the shop.” Father walks past me to the line of coat pegs.

  Wait . . . what? “You’re leaving?”

  He shrugs on his overcoat. “Still got Reid’s tombplate to finish. You get some rest and we’ll . . . catch up over supper.”

  I suppose everyone has his or her own way of mourning. Maybe Father needs space. Or maybe he’s just afraid to be with me.

  He walks out the door. In the brief moment before the door closes, I see Solomon Hawke standing rigid against
the doorpost. He’s doing his job well—so well, I almost don’t believe it’s him.

  Willow cowers in the middle of the room, still staring at the floor. I can’t bring myself to invite her to sit in one of our wooden chairs. I won’t play ignorant, but I don’t know what to do.

  I can’t tell her about Hawke’s help until I have a plan to get to Elm.

  Mother is silent. Tawny sits at the table as if Willow and I don’t exist. The force of awkward avoidance inflates a balloon of tension in my chest. I can’t stand here. I can’t be here. None of this is how it should be.

  I push through the fog of problems I can’t solve, pick up my shoulder pack, and slam through my bedroom door. It shuts, encompassing me in a new type of silence, and I fight a blur of confusion.

  My bed is against the opposite wall than it used to be—to my right, with a light summery bedspread I’ve never seen before. My antique sewing machine sits on the floor in the corner to my left beside a pile of material scraps. The desk it used to sit on now supports piles of photographs and wooden frames.

  A trunk with the name Tawny Blackwater carved on its surface sits beneath the window across from me, open. Even from this distance I recognize Father’s handiwork. Bright clothing spills from the trunk onto the floor—skirts, blouses, high heels, scarves, hats, leggings. Beside the trunk is a folded stack of men’s clothes. Reid’s clothes.

  My knees shake and I place my right hand against the closet door for support. This is my room. I came here for reprieve and all I find is . . . Tawny. Fellow Radical, but stranger. Foreigner.

  The conflicted emotions laugh at me. I won’t call this place home anymore, yet I’m offended that it’s changed? Such irony.

  I straighten with a deep breath and sit on the bed, clutching the pack Reid gave me to my chest. It smells like dirt and pine. I sniff again. Ah, the West—the closest thing to home I have.

  The Enforcers took Jude’s pack from me. I’ll probably never see it again, but he didn’t carry much anyway.

  Unsure of what might douse Tawny’s nice bedspread if I dump the contents, I resort to rifling with my one hand. First out is Reid’s journal—his last gift to me, which I ruined when I fell into the Dregs. Water stains still distort the soft cover. Why didn’t I throw the whole thing into his grave and rid myself of guilt? But guilt isn’t the only thing that hits me as I clutch the swollen book. Tears burn my eyes and my nose grows stuffy. I sniff and shake my head.