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.
56
Rachel
At first, nothing happened. Then, I jiggled the key in the lock. The door opened to reveal . . .
A length of pipe?
Pipe? I did not understand. It was old, rusted. I released the key with my throbbing hands. At first, it stuck in the door. Then, it fell, down, down so far. It landed on the floor without a sound, right next to Wyatt.
Below, the water kept rushing, just as it had before. The rhapsody still bloomed. The dissenters came closer. Nothing had changed, nothing. Nothing except that my beloved was dead, and it was all for naught. I had done nothing. I knew that, soon, the men would have their hands upon me, and I didn’t care. I didn’t care.
I looked at the old, rusted pipe below me, and I began to weep, weep for my lost love, my lost life, my lost everything.
And with that weeping, I remembered the blonde woman’s words. There is something else, something only you can do.
And, with that, I began to weep harder. But now, I fixed my weeping eyes right over that old, rusted pipe so that the tears fell directly inside.
And then, I was crying harder, so much harder, like my tears had become a sudden rain shower, and they fell inside that pipe.
A cry went up from the mob.
I looked down below me. The men who had been climbing toward me stopped their pursuit. Indeed, everyone below me seemed silent, frozen, all staring at