The Bone Wall Read Online Free

word, we accept His will for the descendants of Paradise. To act out of conscience may kill us all and doom the future of our own descendants. Only one choice absolves us of responsibility—God’s choice.”
    “There is another,” my father says. “A way that preserves Heaven, for now at least, while helping the children of Paradise.”
    “No, no,” I whisper. I know what he intends to say. “No, no, no.”
    “Go on, Julian,” Deacon Abrum says graciously, the silence absolute.
    “We change places with the children,” my father explains. “One of us departs Heaven for every child who enters.”
    A suffocating pause grips the room.
    “I see,” Abrum utters into the breathless, timeless air.
    “I don’t understand how this…how this…how this…idea…” Elder Demar stammers.
    “It’s not outside the law,” Abrum says, those words slow in coming.
    “Who would volunteer for such a thing?” Elder Demar protests.
    “I will,” my father says. “I won’t watch Biters gnaw on the bones of children.” I curl into the corner behind the bells, folding in on myself as Rimma’s eyes dart frantically toward the belfry’s door.
    “Neither will I,” Max avows. She grabs the bell frame, staggering to her feet.
    “But, but,” the elder blubbers, “but that’s certain death.”
    “Not if we’re armed,” Barth pipes up. “We have tools that will serve as weapons, knives.”
    “But, but, but those belong to Heaven.”
    No one appears to be listening to Elder Demar. I hear my father shout for all willing men to meet in two hours at the barn. Chaos swallows the rest of his words as my sister begins to wail.
     
     

     
     
     
     

 
     
    3
     
    ~Rimma~
     
    Azure light spits and branches across the night sky, a flare of brilliant blue in the west, a bat or owl blasted from existence. Insects sizzle and hiss like water on a skillet. I’m on the roof, my father offering comfort after wrenching me from the belfry. We sit side by side on the pipe, watching the shield spark and crackle. Sobs rack my body. I’m curled in a knot, arms wrapped over my stomach as I struggle to breathe. I can’t bear it.
    My father’s hand pats my back steady as a heartbeat. “Breathe, Rimma, breathe, my angel.” A sigh lifts his chest and blows into the night air. “I would have liked to tell you myself, in a different way, with different words. You are always where you shouldn’t be, listening to what you shouldn’t hear, speaking what you shouldn’t say.”
    “I’m sorry.” I weep through my words.
    “No need,” he says softly. “Only remember that your recklessness often contributes to your pain.”
    “But changes nothing,” I add bitterly. “Nothing. I have no choices, no power. God decides everything for us, for me.”
    “Not everything,” my father states firmly. “Your life brims with choices. Every minute of every hour of every day, you face choices that define you as kind or cruel, respectful or dismissive, loving or loathing, goodhearted or evil. Every smile is a choice, every helping hand, every stitch you sew, every dream you nurture or deny.”
    “I have no choice about anything that matters ,” I cry, angry at his puny list of options. What’s the point of a smile or stitch if Heaven falls, if Biters rape me and flay my flesh, if my father dies? If the broken world skewers and roasts him? The urge to rebel against his solace, to strike him, to scream my helplessness surges through me. He must spot it pumping through my veins and amassing in my fists because he clutches me in a suffocating embrace until I wilt and my sobs soften to whimpers.
    His lips speak near my ear. “I choose to protect the innocent, the hope of the world, even though my choice may now require that I sacrifice my life. That’s how I choose to define myself. This is how and who I am. If Heaven falls, I want someone to render this choice for you.”
    “Heaven is going to fall, isn’t it?” I whisper. “Don’t lie to