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000.038.06.50.09

“Jude!” I grip his wrist. “No!”

The albinos converge like a three-pronged pitchfork—some to the tree, some to Jude, and some to me because I’m screaming in his face.

He allows the albinos to grab his hair, his clothing, his skin in their fists. His masked face is void of concern or care, reminding me of my new understanding of the word suicide.

I push against the albinos dragging him from my side. “No . . . wait . . .” Sobs interrupt my mania. White hands hold me back. Fingernails bite my frigid skin. “Jude.” Why won’t he answer me? “Jude!”

Before a single thought can convert into sane clarity, Jude is chained to the stone slab beside the broken pink dogwood trunk.

“Don’t kill him,” I beg as two burly albinos stretch him over a sandbag. “Please!” I lurch forward, fighting with energy I’ve never known before. I’m immune to the nails tearing my flesh, the hair ripping from my head, and the screams in my ear.

Jude yells, too, but doesn’t struggle. He shouts some sort of instruction, but to whom? Me? His face turns red from straining and even from my distance I see sweat lining his temple.

Alder raises the axe, white muscles rippling over his back. His grip tightens on the handle.

“Alder, stop!” I yell, just like Jude did so long ago. “Kill me instead!”

Alder pauses and glances over his shoulder at me for a breathless moment, but like last time, he releases a mighty yell and swings the axe into the sandbag.

A strangled scream joins the chaos. My scream. I fall to my knees, gulping for air. Hands release me. My tears wet the moss with splashes of smashed diamonds. My stump screeches like a train rail in agonizing memory.

Jude’s body is limp. The albinos move him. A trail of blood marks their path.

I rise and stumble to reach him. “Jude . . .” He’s groaning. His right arm is severed just above his right elbow. White bone is exposed.

They carry him to the healing hut. I slump to the ground, shaking. Willow lies on her side a few yards from me, sobbing freely. Her mother kneels over her, brushing her hair back. Alder cleans his axe in the small pond denting the mossy ground.

I want to kill Alder.

I want to save Radicals.

I can’t do both.

God, help me choose the right one.

Three albino healers stay in Jude’s hut around the clock. As far as I know, Jude is still alive. The albinos don’t leave to gather dead-standing. Instead, as the days pass, they leave small gifts of hot broth or cooked meat. Each time a gift is left, a healer retrieves it and brings it inside.

I sleep out on the moss. Sometimes Willow stays with me. We watch the healing hut together, waiting for news. They burn Jude’s severed arm over the coals. The snake tattoo writhes against the flame melting the dying skin. They burned my hand like this.

Internally, I am at war. I want to be angry with the albinos. I want to hate them, but Jude chose this. He took Willow’s atonement and I can’t fault him or them. Their ways are unusual to me, but Jude saved Willow in the only way he could.

I must accept that. I can’t let it distract me from what I must do at the Wall.

Two women and one man settle on the ground outside of the healing hut. “We are mourning,” Willow says. “We mourn until he returns to full consciousness.” She looks down at the ground. “No one wants Jude-man to be in pain. Many of us have atoned and understand the pain.”

“Did you do this when I was in there?” I ask in a thick voice.

She nods. That explains Alder’s apology. Did he truly hurt with me when he cried by my bedside? Did all the albinos mourn?

“The branch I broke was the same size as that pine tree. Why did Alder only cut off my hand?”

Willow pokes the damp moss. “We dispersed your atonement, remember? I offered three broken fingers, Black gave two broken fingers, and Elm gave some broken toes.”

“Black took some of my atonement?” I don’t bother to hide my surprise.

“He is a good man. He’s scary”—she releases a timid laugh—“but still good. My grafting mate, Elm, is Black’s brother. Many girls are jealous.” She throws me a wicked grin.

I look at the hut. The day is cool and all windows are rolled shut with tied animal skins. Will Jude wake with the same hollow feeling of loss? Does he even know what he’s done? Everything will need to be relearned. He may not even be able to tightrope-walk anymore. People will define him by his loss.

Maybe he doesn’t mind because he knows his Numbers are short. Or maybe he doesn’t mind because that’s who he is. My missing hand doesn’t ever seem to bother him. He doesn’t define me by this weakness.

I squeeze my eyes shut and release a sigh. While he heals, I must make use of the time here. I must speak with Alder. After that, I will find Ash and see if they read my Bible.

Shalom meets anti-shalom when I enter Alder’s hut, clenching my hand so tight, my fingernails bend backward. His hut is larger than others and filled with furniture made from stone or metal. He sits in a chair beside a small fireplace. Coals hold a low flicker. He watches me assess his home.

“I’m not a hypocrite.” His voice drops like a stone into my forced calm.

I move my gaze to the ceiling and take a long breath to avoid a defensive retort. God, I need Your patience. “Neither am I. When I first came here, I told you I believed God put people above the plants and animals. I have returned to you to ask for your help in saving lives.”

He eyes me and crosses one leg over the other. “How?”

I force myself not to look at the empty chair in front of him. I’m not welcomed to sit. Does this mean he views me as a lesser equal? Does it mean he won’t listen? “People are sent across the Wall to this side as an execution. Most of these people have done nothing wrong. They die because the Wall opens to a cliff and they have no choice but to jump off. I am returning to build a bridge or means of passage from the cliff to safety. I hoped you and your people could help me.”

Alder looks into the coals for a moment. The warmth doesn’t reach me. I bite back a shiver. Finally, he speaks. “It is not my responsibility to fix the harm your side causes.”

“Not even if it saves innocent lives?”

He glances up. “Can you vow that every life taken by that Wall is innocent? You said yourself you’re a Radical. Even you had to atone. What further harm will ignorant Radicals bring to our forest?”

“I will leave them instructions on how to reach the Ivanhoe Independent. I’ll tell them to stay away from your forest. They won’t come anywhere near you.”

“I don’t wish to take that risk.”

We stare at each other. “Alder.” I now know my words won’t dent his shell, but perhaps they will fester in his mind and someday blossom. “God created you and your people for relationship. You were meant to bring shalom to the world—we all are. Shalom means how things should be, the way God intended things.”

Alder opens his mouth, but I hold up a hand. “I’ve seen your heart for the land God created. You are caring for the Earth, just like God commanded man when He created us. You have right intentions, but they’re imbalanced. People—your people—should be first priority. Be a leader of shalom.”

His mild smile remains plastered and his eyes are thick barriers. “Thank you, Parvin.” His posture is stiff and his fingers curl around the arm of his chair. “I hope your left wrist has healed sufficiently.” A reminder and a dismissal. His heart is as cold and hard as his furniture.

I leave the hut as my wrist tingles from my renewed focus. I broke laws in Alder’s village. My words hold no weight. But these didn’t feel like my words.

God, I spoke Your words, I think. If Alder won’t listen to You, what am I to do now?

I come to an abrupt halt, running into a tall woman. “Ash!” Cedar sits in her arms, resting his head against her shoulder with a yawn.

“Hello, Parvin,” she says in her soft calm voice. Her white hair curves elegantly over a red and blue plaid scarf wrapped around her neck. “I am returning this.”

She holds up my Bible. With a gasp, I snatch it and hold it to my chest. “I’ve missed it.”

She looks at me with a faint smile. I step back to return appropriate distance between us. My heart pounds. Is this my answer to prayer?

“Did you read it?” Ash’s facial expression doesn’t change, but she shakes her head. My throat tightens. “But . . . you had it for months.”

My voice alerts Cedar. He looks around until his eyes alight on my face. Ash rests her free hand on my arm. “We can’t read, Parvin. None of us can. We have no use for it.”

I look at the Bible. God, why didn’t You let me know? All these months I could have been reading, learning, and growing. Instead, my precious Bible sat untouched among illiterate people.

“The Jude-man talked of God when he first came,” Ash says. “And you must think He is very important if you left us your precious book. We are still interested. We have heard of God before. Sometimes, when I am with the trees, I feel a power larger than myself. The Earth is so intricate, we’ve often wondered how it came to be.”

“We?” I’m unable to keep the disheartened note from my voice.

“Black and me.”

“Oh.” I glance back at Alder’s hut. Could I ask Ash for help instead? Maybe she and Black will understand more than Alder.

She steps forward. “Will you read it to us?”

“The Bible?”

She holds my gaze. Hers is neither eager nor expectant. I look at the leatherbound book. It’s not very worn. I’ve never even read through the entire thing.

“You don’t have to read it all, just read what you deem important. At least until the Jude-man is well.”

What I deem important. Who am I to pick and choose? God, I don’t know enough about Your Word to do this. Yet, as I think this, I know I must read. My time is short. Before me stands an opportunity to be a shalom-maker.

“I’ll read to you.” I have nothing to fear. The words are written for me, I don’t need to know answers. I just need to read out loud. Like in Ivanhoe. “And I’ll teach you how to read, so you can keep going where I leave off.”

Over the next two weeks, I meet in Black and Ash’s hut. There’s something different about reading the Bible aloud. It tastes like a new flavor on my tongue. Something comes alive. I can’t stop myself from doing voices for certain Bible figures or adopting a dramatic tone at intense moments. Some stories are known to my listeners. Others are new.

At the end of each reading, I teach Black and Ash a few letters from the alphabet. If they seem willing when I need to leave, I hope to leave my Bible with them again. Maybe they’ll learn enough to read it on their own.

Black stares into the coals almost the entire time I read. He never asks questions, never stops me, and never looks at me, though when I finished reading the creation story, he nodded as if internal questions just met answers.

Ash’s questions come in soft inquiries, like, “Why did God create an evil tree?”

My answers draw from my logic, but emerge with God’s blessings. I’ve never been asked questions about the Bible before, but somehow my thoughts enter fresh clarity. “The tree itself wasn’t bad, it served a purpose. The tree was a symbol of obedience and free choice God gave to Adam and Eve.”

We read through Exodus before I skip to the New Testament. Ash and Black listen to the story of Jesus and don’t stop me. I grow tense. Does any of this make sense?

“Jesus spent his life showing people shalom.” I lower the Bible because the light has grown too dim to read any further. “He lived to show us the way things should be and He died to empower us to do the same. He atoned for all of us.”

“Like what Jude did for Willow,” Ash says.

I take a deep breath. “Yes.” I avoid Black’s emotionless gaze. “I, too, am trying to bring shalom to the world. I die in three weeks.” I force my voice to remain strong. “I can’t allow people to continue dying when they are sent to this side of the Wall. Will you help me save lives?”

Ash nods, but stops when she sees Black shaking his head.

“What can we do?” He looks at me. “Alder said he won’t help. Will we go against our village leader?”

“I don’t ask you to welcome others into your village. I ask your help to keep people from dying. Building materials are arriving from Ivanhoe at the nearest train stop in three weeks. By that point, I will already be on the other side of the Wall.” I don’t want to say I’ll already be dead. “Help me build a bridge, a rope ladder, something. Jude and I aren’t here long enough to do it ourselves.”

I bow my head and let my forehead fall into my palm. I still have hope, but I feel like a clogged sink. I can’t seem to say what boils inside me. This is my purpose, but I can’t do it alone.

God, I need help!

A hand tips my chin up. I lift my eyes and meet Black’s gaze. Instinctively, I jerk back. His hand lowers to hold mine. “We will do what we can. It will not be much.”

Cedar cries and our evening reading is broken as Ash moves to feed him. I stand. How much do they risk by helping me?

When I exit the hut, I see Willow and Elm skipping into the darkness. It’s not the first time I’ve suspected them of sitting outside while I read. Did they hear my plea for help?

I return to my patch of moss. The weather has grown colder and a sack of coal rests on my small lump. I grin and look around. Willow peeks from behind a hut. When our eyes meet, she ducks back into the shadows with a giggle.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

Several minutes later, I curl beside my small fire, dwelling on the past two weeks. My time continues to tick, but death no longer frightens me. I’m leaving something behind—something God inspired. Tomorrow I will visit Jude to see if he’s well enough to continue.

If I must, I will leave without him.