55
Rachel
Several of the blue-clad crowd escorted me to the wall. Some held my hair, caressing it to their cheeks as they walked. I wondered that not one of them could help me, lift me up, perhaps, so I could climb it. But as they moved about, I saw that they could not. They were weak, fragile. All who possessed any strength stayed behind to grapple with the dissenters who, even now, fought against them and sometimes broke free. Only the weakest stayed with me. With neither light nor adequate food, it was a wonder they were still alive at all. I had to help them. I had to.
The wall was made of stone, unlike my tower. At different, odd places, bits of rock stuck out. Could these be footholds? They would have to be. It was the only way. Some were very small, though, and my shoes are worn and wet. Still, I would have to try. I had lived seventeen years as a captive, a prisoner, feeling that my life had no purpose. Now, I could show that it had.
But where was Wyatt? Selfishly, I wanted to save him too. I wanted him with me. If he were here, he could help me. Yet, he had not answered. I could not find him anywhere.
There was no rope to grasp on to, to steady me. If I fell, I would be hurt, possibly killed, and all would be lost. I saw the first outcropping of rock, above my waist, nearer my shoulders. I stepped upon it, then reached up with my right arm, finding something else to hold.
I was able to pull myself up, but the next outcropping was even higher. Also, my full skirt obscured it somewhat, and my hair. Still, I stepped up on it with my other foot. A gasp went up from the crowd, then a cry.
“Can they stand below me?” I asked the woman. “In case I fall.”
She looked disappointed and I thought, perhaps, this was not the right thing to say. Still, I was not their mother. I was not here to comfort them. I needed help.
The third set of rocks was a bit less of a stretch. I was able to advance a bit, then to the fourth. But on the fifth, I felt a scrape against my hand, then saw blood. Tears sprung to my eyes, but I could not wipe them, could not heal myself, at least without risking a fall. My arms ached from holding on already. I stepped on the next stone, almost slipped. Another gasp from below. I looked down to see them all moving backward. So they would be no help if I fell! I was high, nearly a quarter of the way there, and the world swam beneath me. The smell of the flowers, the rhapsody, comforted me, but it also made me tired, so tired, like Dorothy and her friends in Oz, when they fell asleep in the poppy field. I wanted to fall, simply fall down and go to sleep, immerse myself in it, forget about them.
“Eat it!” a voice in my head said, and again, I wondered if I should. But I knew that would be wrong. I had to keep climbing. I must stop this. It was the only way to buy my freedom, my real freedom to be a normal girl, not one trapped in a tower. I had been hiding all my life. Now was the time to reveal myself, or die trying. It struck me that these workers had also been trapped, like I had, only worse. How horrible not to see the sunlight for what may have been years. No, I had to help them, even the ones who fought against me.
I resolved not to look down, except just far enough to find a foothold.
With my bleeding hand, I held on. With my right foot, I stepped up, then my left, then pulled myself higher. Below, I could hear them breathing, rhythmically, all as one, the same as when they did their jobs. This spurred me to try harder, climb higher. I found a foothold, then another and another. I was doing this. I didn’t need a rope, didn’t need anyone. I was strong, the strength from my beautiful hair. I climbed higher, higher, more than halfway up now. I did not want to think of how I would get down. There would be time for that later.
Then, suddenly, I heard a voice.
“Rachel!”
Mama’s voice.
“Rachel!” Wyatt’s.
Were they both there now, both below me? I looked down again, a mistake. I could not see them. The scent of the rhapsody seemed, if anything, even stronger up here, and my head swam with it. I could not see either Mama or Wyatt below. Yet, they cried for me.
Aloud, I said, “Wyatt, where are you?”
“Down here!” a voice said below me. Strangely, I heard it not in my head as I had in the car, or on the road, but in the room. Was I hallucinating? Was it the rhapsody? “Come down and help me! They’re going to kill me!”
“Wyatt?”
“No, Rachel.” This time, the voice was in my head like before. “Don’t come down. It’s a trick, a trick to get you . . .” Suddenly, the voice became muffled, and the other voice resumed.
“Please, Rachel, come help me!”
I didn’t know what to do. I decided to say it, very softly, to him alone. Meanwhile, my arms were tired, so tired. “Wyatt,” I whispered, “What should I do?”
I heard his voice, something like his voice, but I couldn’t understand what he said.
Then, the other voice, the Wyatt voice from the ground. “Aren’t you going to help me, Rachel?”
“No,” the voice in my ear said. “Keep going!”
I looked down, though I should not have. I should not have looked, not only because it made the world swim below me, my head spin, but also because I saw a man. He was one of the strong ones, one who had stood behind his master. Now he had broken free of the others and was coming toward me. He was climbing the wall to get me. He had a knife.
“Rachel, help me!” Wyatt’s voice said.
But I knew it was not Wyatt. I knew it was not Wyatt because, at that moment, I finally saw him. The workers had let him in, let him through. He seemed injured, one of his arms hanging strangely at his side. He started toward the man who was after me. He was going to climb the wall too. But how, with his arm so damaged?
“Keep going!” his voice said in my ear. “Keep going, and don’t look back.”
I obeyed. I knew I had to. The man was gaining on me. He was within inches of my long hair. He was slower than me. The drugs, perhaps, made him weak, but I was cornered, and he would eventually catch me. I saw Wyatt start to climb up behind him. Below, I heard a commotion as several others broke from the pack. They, too, started after Wyatt, but the others tried to fight them.
I could look no more. I also could not hold on to the rocks anymore. I needed to move, to shift. My arms and shoulders ached. Still, I found another foothold and lifted myself up.
“Where are you going, Rachel?” Wyatt’s voice said. “I need you to help me.”
“No,” I yelled to whoever it was. “You are not Wyatt. Wyatt does not want my help.” My arms ached, but I took another step up.
“That may be true,” the man said, “but if you don’t come down, we will kill him.”
My heart was racing so fast it hurt. My hands ached, my head spun, and I wanted nothing more than to go down, But would they let us go, even if I came down? Impossible.
As if hearing my thoughts, the man said, “If you come down, we will let you go. All of you. You only need to cut your hair.”
In my head, I heard Wyatt’s voice. “No, Rachel, don’t do it! It’s a trick!”
Then, a groan as he tried to climb higher.
I did not look down to see if he had his knife poised at Wyatt’s neck. I did not know what he would do if I kept climbing, my aching hands being ripped by the rocks. But even as I did, I whispered, “Should I come down?”
Wyatt’s real voice, the one in my head, said, “Rachel, don’t. Don’t you understand? We have to do this. I have to help you. If it is a choice between being a dead coward or a live hero . . .” His voice was stopped.
I remembered the story he had told me, about his friend Tyler. It was true. He regretted doing nothing there. He would not wish to do nothing again.
I looked down to see what had stopped him speaking.
Despite his broken arm, he had nearly caught up with the man. Now, they struggled below me. But not far enough below me. The man had been, it seemed, about to overtake me. He was only inches away, struggling with Wyatt. If they fell, Wyatt would surely die.
As would I, if I fell.
The rhapsody smell was so sweet, so strong in my nose, my lungs. I wanted to go back, to help Wyatt. Yet, I knew this would be the wrong thing to do.
I made my decision. I climbed higher.
And suddenly, with this resolve, my strength was greater. I could keep going, I could climb forever. From below, I heard struggling, a scream, a crash as first one, then the other, fell to the ground.
I could not look down. I felt the world go black.
I wanted nothing more than to let go, to tumble to the ground. I knew I couldn’t. I found a foothold and climbed higher, even as I said, “Wyatt? I love you, Wyatt.”
But he did not answer. For all I knew, he might never answer again. Was he was dead? Finally, I found a last foothold. I reached up and pulled myself up onto the balcony.
My arms and hands were throbbing now, but I looked around.
I heard Wyatt’s voice, small and weak, say, “I love you too.”
There was, as they had said, a keyhole. It was old and rusted. I reached into my pocket and took out the key, the key that Wyatt had found for me.
I chanced a look down at him, at my beloved.
Both had fallen. My beloved was crumpled on the ground below. He was bleeding. He did not move. The workers surged around him, and their opponents, the ones who had fought against me, surged toward the wall.
I plunged the key into the rock.