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000.143.03.22.17

Ivanhoe.

The city glints beneath morning sun like towers of jewels, stretching tall from the flat, laurel green sagebrush plains. The puffy-cloud sprinkled sky shines blue in a way that contrasts the polished metal in perfect beauty. A brown boxcar train passes along the outside like a morning commuter.

Ivanhoe’s definition of city is far superior to my limited Low-City imagination. I doubt even a High City could compare. Futuristic factories and buildings are cut and pasted into scrapbook architecture. Some buildings are square grey boxes and others are cylindrical towers with domed tops, ringed with staircases. In the center of my limited view arcs a giant spherical building, like a marble the size of a city. From far away, the exterior appears smooth, but as we get closer I see pop-out structures, bridges, windows, ladders, balconies, and upraised tunnels. People on the train have told me it’s the heart of the city and it shimmers like a nugget of silver.

My brain doesn’t have the capacity to absorb my awe. I went from wolves and stone huts to . . . this—a new era. Modernity in the West. Does Hawke know about this? Does Skelley Chase or the Council?

I could stand before this city for a month straight and remain stupefied. How could Jude see this and not enter?

The sun bursts from between clouds and warms my face, finishing the scene by submerging me in feelings of grandeur. I unleash my sentra, determined to capture this moment and keep it all to myself, but something nags my subconscious: A desire to share this with someone. It’s too much wonder to handle alone. Three names wander unbidden across my mental path of loneliness.

Mother.

Hawke.

Jude.

I sigh. Click. Click. Click.

As I slide the sentra back into my pocket, one of the emotigraphs flies from its precarious place between my fingers. I slam my stub against the others, pinning them to my splayed hand and shove them into my other pocket. The free one swirls in the wake of the train, a lost jewel. Someone will have a surprise if they ever find it. Do Independents know about emotigraphs?

The Ivanhoe Independent curves around the city until we’re on the other side of the sphere. The tracks slope into a carved path, blocking the rest of the city from view. We enter a dark tunnel where the air slides between the rough walls and my precariously perched body. It smells like earth.

I hold tight to the railing until we slow, emerging into a station with a tall ceiling. It’s long with an ascending tunnel out the other end and multiple platforms, some occupied by small trains.

We bend to the right, passing the other trains, and glide into a mini station of our own in a separate underground chamber. By this time, we’ve slowed to jogging speed and the platform passes beside me, littered with stains, footprints, and dirt. My feet are still bare. I’ll pull out my needle and thread to patch the rabbit skins once I have a moment to process. For now, I return inside where I encounter the trade collector. He must have been watching me through the window.

“Gather your belongings,” he says with his wrinkled frown. “And follow me to the collection post.”

My belongings are already gathered so we stand until the train stops. I follow him off the back of the train. Everyone else seems to know where to go.

I’ve never seen building walls so tall—the closest comparison is the county building in Unity, but everything about it is unfriendly. This station, this city, is worn. I’m a stranger stepping into a broken-in sweatshirt. It smells different, feels different, but carries a welcoming feeling of use.

Ivanhoe and I were meant to meet today.

The pockmarked cement chills my feet despite the warm air. I follow the confident trade collector into a box building. The interior is covered with postboards lathered in bits of paper with no words, but several pictures and symbols. If paper is used so flippantly here it must be less expensive than in Unity Village. That, or everyone is rich.

A man leans against the wall beside the postboard with the most papers. He is in his early forties, with baggy eyes and a receding hairline that explodes into a tremendous russet afro. He’s dressed in faded jeans, floppy sneakers, and a suit jacket over a T-shirt. When he sees us, he steps forward and holds his hand out to the trade collector.

“Good day.” His eyes flit to me and back to the collector. “Have ye a debtor?” His voice is low, but with a clear accent I’ve never heard. What accents are in the West? Is it rude to ask? “I’m needing short-time help. My apprentice is off after injuring herself. She’s on home rest.”

“We’ll have to see what she wants.” The trade collector jerks his head toward me. “You aren’t the only option today.” He plucks a length of paper from the postboard beside the afro man. The stranger jumps at the ripping sound and looks at me again.

“Are you on here?” The trade collector puckers his lips.

The afro man shuffles over. “I am.” He points. “There, now.”

“You’re this human symbol?”

“I am.”

The trade collector looks up. “Wilbur Sherrod, the couturier?”

“It’s Sher-rod, not Sher-rod.” Wilbur gives a nervous laugh. “And I never could pronounce that last word.”

The trade collector looks up. “But it’s your title.”

Wilbur shrugs. He turns to me as if obligated to explain himself. “I’m a fashion designer for the Preacher, the military, and the Barter-Combat Arena.”

I straighten with a skipped heartbeat. “Designer? Do you mean clothing?”

“In a way.” He steps forward and takes a breath, but the trade collector cuts him off.

“Miss Blackwater, there are three other trade options: the bookbinder, the game designers, and arena servicing. Do any of those sound of interest?”

I look from Wilbur to the trade collector, already feeling more comfortable with the clothes designer who talks strange. “I-I don’t really know what they are.”

Wilbur Sherrod scrunches his nose and shakes his head as if the other traders are nasty options on a menu.

“Actually,” I say on a quick breath, cutting off the might-have-been-a-nice explanation of each trade. “I think I’ll go with Mr. Sherrod.”

Wilbur tucks his chin with a wide grin and turns to the collector. “Good! Let’s settle up, then.”

The men scratch numbers and messages on the trade collector’s endless provision of paper. I don’t bother to decipher their mutterings. What will I be doing with Wilbur? He said he’s a clothing designer of sorts, but he doesn’t look it.

My own sewing kit is in my bag. Won’t he be surprised I can already stitch neat hems and patterns? But in the moment I allow the thought to excite me, my elation plummets like a convict tied to an ocean weight.

I look down at my hands as if the sight will be less painful, but my stump is still there, tingling like a simmering kettle. There’s no way to guide the fabric with one hand. I can’t line two cloths up together. I can’t even thread a needle.

“Are ye coming?” Wilbur asks from the doorway, shattering my frozen state.

I’m lost, like I need to pick something up—my heart, maybe. I can no longer sew. I look up at Wilbur. He stares, oblivious to the internal collapse of my single life-long passion.

“Just follow me.”

I obey with a high wail in my ears. Did Wilbur see my arm? Does he know I can’t sew? He didn’t ask. Maybe he doesn’t even want me to sew. Maybe I’ll be a cleaner—the one-handed girl who disposes of scraps and snipped threads while everyone else turns patterns into masterpieces.

“Have ye ever been Ivanhoe before?” Wilbur leads me through a set of doorless arches into a train station filled with benches, clocks, and echoing voices. The ceiling stretches upward with long windows and a pointed peak. In another life—an older life—it could have been a cathedral.

I shake my head, but realize he’s not looking. “No,” I choke.

“Hmm.” He sounds disappointed.

The enormity of Ivanhoe helps displace the stiffness from my mind. The exit deposits us onto a sidewalk level with a smooth black street like the blacktop Jude showed me. Pedestrians walk along the paths, but most people are riding bikes of all sizes, colors, and styles.

Tandem bikes carry what look to be couples and friends. A woman steers a bike with a sidecar holding three children. Men with coats and ties clutch their bags while sitting on the handlebars of someone else’s cycle. A mechanical contraption rotates like a moving rubber band up and down the outer wall of the train station, moving parked bicycles into the air, out of the way.

On the road, people pedal and weave between long, snakelike cars, shouting hellos or screaming warnings. The cars look like boxcars from a train and all follow rails in the ground. Their motorized movement creates a cool static in the air like a rushing river.

With each step, my lungs fill with inhaled excitement. I’m finally . . . somewhere. People are here. Life is here. “Your cars are enormous.”

Wilbur steers me through the mayhem with surprising ease and without accident. He looks around as we reach the other side of the street. “What cars?”

I roll my eyes and gesture to the grey, green, and black boxcars zipping up and down the street like caterpillars. “Those cars. The giant metal machines right in front of us.”

“They’re motorcoaches.” His ‘r’ sound stands out in each word, distinct.

“What is your accent?” I ask on a whim as we walk across a large grassy square filled with groomed dirt paths, lampposts, and dogwood trees. Swarms of people weave through the dogwoods, leaving the paths as they please and tromping on the fallen petals. I almost miss Wilbur’s answer in my awe.

“I have Irish.”

Something out of place clicks with a red beacon of confusion. “Irish? But Ireland is on my side.” Is Wilbur another secret escapee of the East?

“Yer side? Where’re ye from?”

I swallow hard. “Never mind.”

We leave the square and approach the base of the Marble, as I’ve christened it. It is even more magnificent up close. Parts of it consist of glass, wood, metal framing, and smooth bridges sticking out like wayward strands of hair, connected to nearby buildings.

Pillars line the base as if the entire structure rests solely upon their stalks. In the center of the Marble’s flattened base, through the pillars and covered in shadows, is an enormous glass cylinder. This cylinder appears to be every person’s destination, including Wilbur’s.

A mass of multicolored people swarm under the shadow of the Marble—black people, white people, Hispanic people, Asian people, and . . . albino people. They stand out like glowworms and I marvel at how different they look with makeup and typical clothing. They can’t all be from the forest, can they?

People approach the glass cylinder from the other side of the Marble, too. I ignore the feeling we might be squashed any moment when the pillars collapse like toothpicks.

Four lines form around the cylinder, each in front of a curved sliding door. Wilbur and I join a line and I get a closer look. The cylinder is a vast elevator chute. Every two minutes, one of the four doors opens to allow the rhythmical entrance of roughly thirty people.

A quarter of the cylinder shoots up through the cemented underside of the Marble. Thicker pillars circle the cylinder as added support to the base. Wilbur and I are the last to squish into the elevator and I’m closest to the door. I look for the buttons, but smooth glass wall stares back. The elevator moves on its own, gliding in a smooth ascent.

My heart falls through the floor. We rise through the center of the Marble and I’m hit with an overwhelming amount of brown—brown storefronts, brown signs, wooden flooring, and subtle earthy walls. The base floor of this foreign system of life is filled with so many shops and people I can’t possibly discern their contents.

All floors open to the inside of the Marble, made of encircling rings around the inner edge of the sphere. Their levels contain shops, signs, hallways out, house fronts, and stairs to the floors above and below. Various trees grow inside, showering petals onto the floors beneath.

Nauseous. The sphere is hollow and we seem to be rising to the very top of it. I’m almost flying. The elevator moves so smoothly yet the rest of the world so quickly I close my eyes and take a deep breath, feeling the heat of bodies behind me. I’ve never been this high in my life.

A strange pressure pulls me not to reveal my naivety, to blend in, to act as though I’ve been in the Marble hundreds of times and ridden this elevator every day. I close my mouth, just noticing it’s hanging open. I wiggle my toes against the glass. Will I leave sweaty footprints behind? Have other people noticed my feet? My stub? My shabby appearance?

I stand taller, as if I can mask my differences.

A woven rope net obstructs my view for a moment, spread like a giant spider’s web over the sky of the Marble. It descends beneath our feet as we climb. The Marble walls curve closer together and our elevator slows to a stop.

The doors open and I step out onto an enormous round platform only to instinctively reel back. I collide with Wilbur. He releases a nervous laugh and pushes me away.

The platform is suspended from poles connected to the Marble’s glass and metal ceiling. Though the areas of ceiling glass are tinted, the sun shines through onto a scene horribly familiar.

Tightropes.

Not just one tightrope across a single canyon, but twenty, spreading from my platform to the top floor walkway in each direction. Every rope connects to individual pole mounts from the ceiling, stretching across space. What baffles me further is how each person from the elevator takes a brief moment to transfer from the platform to a tightrope of his or her choice, then walks across at a decent balanced pace. Some carry bags or walk behind their children. A couple even shares morning gossip as they cross to the left level.

Some tightropes are thicker than others. Some curve beneath a person’s weight and others remain stiff and taut. Everyone wears thin, pliable shoes or no shoes at all. The last of my worries are my bare feet.

I scrape a teaspoon of voice from my windpipe. “I-I can’t tightrope walk.”

Wilbur gestures to a loose rope to my right. “We’ve a slackline.”

I shake my head and look at him. His baggy eyes are wide and his prominent cheekbones accentuate his thin lips. He glances around as if fearful others are watching us. “If we return to the ground, we’ll need climb the stairs to reach the t’irty-t’ird floor bridge. Ye never crossed on rope before?”

“No.” My voice sounds shrill even to me. “Does everyone here know how to do this?”

“Everyone except crawling infants and the disabled.”

I peer down, my eyes blurred against our incredible height. “How do they get to the thirty-third floor?”

“They’re carried or they use the rounding elevator, but ye must qualify fer a pass.” He looks me up and down. “And ye won’t qualify. Ye’ll need to cross the nettin’.”

“Netting?” I spot the woven net we passed in the elevator four stories below us. The crooked squares and knots anchor around a platform around the elevator chute similar to the one on which I stand.

“I t’ink crawling will be best for ye. I ain’t going carry ye.”

Crawl across netting in the middle of a new city where everyone above and below can see me? Of course. “You said something about stairs?” My voice is a hoarse whisper now.

Wilbur shakes his head. “Ye’ll take the netting. Ye’re my debtor and we haven’t time for the stairs. Hurry up now.”

My comfort in choosing Wilbur as a trader ignites into blazing frustration. I’d rather do anything than cross that netting in front of thousands of spectators, but he’s right. I’m his debtor.

“How do I get there?” I ask in a cold sharp voice.

Wilbur looks up with a scowl. “Ye can jump or take the ladder.”

“Jump?”

He walks around the platform as another filled elevator approaches. A bolted wooden ladder with thick rings descends from the edge of this platform down to the netting platform. “Ye head that way.” Wilbur points to left. “I’ll meet ye there. Hurry now, the elevator is opening.”

I walk to the edge of the ladder, scoot onto my bottom, and swing my legs over the side. I’m tempted to take my sweet time to irritate Wilbur, but he’s already transferring his weight onto a thick tightrope, holding his floppy shoes in one hand. People pour out of the elevator. I close my eyes, hungering for invisibility.

Turning onto my stomach, I descend the ladder, using my left elbow and my right hand. It takes only a few rungs for my elbow to incur the start of a bruise. At least now I’m out of view from the crowd on the platform, but every passing elevator sends curious eyes to my missing hand and my plight.

My heart delivers painful beats as I descend into the daunting openness of space in the middle of the Marble.

“God.” I force myself down rung after rung. “I deserve this after leaving Jude and Willow. I suppose You’re just humbling me.” My anger melts into shame. “I deserve this. I’m sorry I do things wrong.”

The rope net wobbles and sags when I crawl onto it. I use my knees, elbow, and hand to work my way across, off-balanced and watched. I try not to focus on the whir sound when elevators pass. I don’t look down to see if anyone is looking up, but all my insides seem to have fallen out of my body, leaving shaking nerves behind.

Wilbur offers no hand of help when I reach the solid outer walkway. “There we go,” is all he says as I straighten. He leads me up a set of stairs and into a dark arched tunnel out of the Marble. “Ye aren’t allowed to leave the Core until ye finish with me. The trade collector said ye have eight days. I may need ye a little longer, but that’s up to ye.”

I have no interest in being in this man’s presence a second longer than I must, even if it does involve sewing. Why am I never free? The only time I had control was while fighting a pack of wolves and starving on a lakeside.

Wilbur Sherrod walks through a dark door leading to a hallway and into a large round room. One side of the room holds long tables with thin upright screens. A single person sits before each screen, not looking up when Wilbur and I enter. On the other side of the room is a black steel machine with wires connected to a giant glass box large enough to hold an elephant.

“This is my design studio. Each maker crafts and programs my patterns.”

I glance around. “Where are the sewing machines?”

“Construction takes place in that box.”

One of the makers looks up from her screen. “Sherrod, where ya been? Your fire piece is finished.”

“I’m after findin’ a debtor.” Wilbur gestures to me. “She’s of small size. I t’ink she’d make a good blueprint.” I want to ask them to please tell me what’s going on, but Wilbur pushes me with the lightest of touches toward the glass box. “Now then, step inside so we can blueprint ye.”

Numb, I walk to the glass box. At some point this will make sense. I just need to act as if I understand until I really do.

I lift a black handle on one side and pull the door open. It unseals with a loud squelch. The glass is heavy and thick. Once inside, the door closes of its own accord and latches. My breath freezes.

The makers and Wilbur stare at me like I’m a specimen in an experiment—a creature observed, like my trial in Unity Village.

Lights blare in my face. I squint and step back, but they surround me from top to bottom—red, green, and bright blue lasers poised on my body, quivering. I think of Jude’s assassin, aiming like a sniper. I’m gripped by a mad fear of being shot by a thousand bullets.

As soon as I take a breath to shout, the lights turn off without so much as a click. I don’t ask if I’m free to go, I just turn to the door and push. It doesn’t budge. I glance at Wilbur, who steps forward and opens it.

Silent but shaken, I exit the box. Shrill whining comes from the giant metal machine behind it. Something forms at the base of the glass cube, like sand particles building on top of each other, melding into a solid shape.

The figure builds from the ground: Scraped feet, shins marred by nasty scars—one swollen with a plum bruise ringed with muted chartreuse—scuffed knees, thighs, fingertips on only the right side.

As the human body forms from miniscule granules, iciness trickles from the top of my head straight to my stomach. A stump appears with old stitching scars.

Mutters from the makers join the soft whirring.

My body. My body is forming inside this glass box. The copy of me is covered by a thin, skintight black leotard from hips to shoulders. I’ve never worn something so form-fitting in my life.

I grow hot, seeing my body displayed before these people. The tip of my head finishes, leaving a wide-eyed tight-lipped expression on my copy’s face. The machine even includes the bruise on my cheekbone. The created Parvin doesn’t move, breathe, or blink. It’s a lifelike mannequin.

“Blueprint complete.” The female maker taps spots on her screen and rotates my exposed body. The whirring stops. She smiles at me. “Strange to see yourself, isn’t it?”

I don’t respond. Strangers are eyeing my body like it’s a piece of fabric waiting to be cut. All my flaws are exposed. My stump. My bruises. My thin stick form. My ribs poke through the fabric, giving me a ghostly appearance.

Wilbur’s eyes are on me. His eyebrows form a frown and his face twitches as if he’s on the edge of speaking. He clamps his lips shut, then opens them again. “Perhaps I should’ve asked ye first.”

“Perhaps you should have.” My voice comes out so deathly harsh I surprise even myself. I’ve never spoken that way to anyone—not even Mother, but I’m glad my body can produce a tone strong enough to convey my internal horror. “But why should you?” I continue, silent as a striking snake. “I’m your debtor. You can do with me as you wish, right?”

I back away from the box. Away from Wilbur. Away from my exposed mannequin. I feel dirty. Used somehow. Weak. Ignorant. Tears burn my eyes.

Wilbur seems paralyzed. His hands splay as if he’s wondering whether or not to reach out to me. I turn on my heel, my chin held high, and stride from the circular room.

Once in the hallway outside the entrance door, I lean against the wall, gripping my stump to stop it from shaking. My entire body quivers. I’m overreacting, but this knowledge doesn’t stop me from sinking to the floor, tucking my head into my knees, and covering my head with my arms.

Who do I turn to?

No one. I can’t contact Reid. Jude is gone. Mother would demand strength. No one.

Me.

I take a deep breath and let it out through my nose. Where are You? But again, He goes silent. For the first time, I regret giving my Bible to Ash. I want more of God’s words, but a handful of verses cling to my memory bank. I should have read more.

I draw from the one verse that always seems to enter my mind when I doubt: God is completing what He started in me.

A deep, shuddering breath fills my body with renewed confidence. I’m dying in four and a half months. What’s a little embarrassment? I chose to come to Ivanhoe. I stayed on the train even when I found out I had to pay with my time.

I slide back up the wall.

I can do this. I’ll make my own decisions, be in charge of my reactions. It doesn’t matter how others see me. In writing my biography and continuing the journaling, I’ve chosen to be watched by strangers. No more fighting it. It’s time to own it.

I’m not weak.

Wilbur Sherrod enters my hallway. We stand in silence, looking at each other for a moment.

“Ye’re my debtor.” He picks at the dead skin surrounding his fingers. “Don’t leave again wit’out my permission. Otherwise, I’ll need return ye to the trainline.”

“Listen.” I force my voice to lose some of its hardness. “I’m not from Ivanhoe. I’m not even from the West. I’m from the United States of the East—the other side of the Wall. I’m going to be dead in four and a half months. If I’m going to be your debtor then you’ve got to teach me, not use me.”

He nods, maybe hoping I won’t cry, leave, or freak out.

But I count it as an agreement. “So what’s my job?”

He breathes an obvious sigh of relief. “Test the outfits.”

“How do I test them? Just wear them for a day and see if they’re comfortable?”

“Depends which one ye’re wearin’. We’ve four untested ones—Fire, Balance, Nuclear, and Blizzard.”

I shift my weight and glance back toward the dark room. “These are outfits?”

“They are. Which one do ye want first?”