“But you do understand that the Bible teaches otherwise?”
Lucy was angry and hurt. “Mr. Corrigan, she’s just a child, a child with a special gift! She doesn’t have to explain her gift to me, or defend what she’s experiencing. I’ve never singled her out or harassed her; I’ve just loved her, accepted her, and just let her have her gift for whatever good it can do for her and for the rest of us. She’s just a child, not a theologian or a scholar or a priest or a lawyer, and what power does a ten-year-old child have to stand up against—” she hesitated, but then spewed out the words “—against hard-nosed, prejudiced, religious adults in that school who abuse their power and their size, who have no tolerance and no understanding, who just . . . attack her, pounce on her, scream at her, and accuse her of being possessed . . .”
She buried her face in her hands for a moment. Corrigan was just about to call for a recess, but then she recovered and finished her statement. “They just had no right to treat my daughter that way, to single her out and persecute her just for being different.”
Corrigan figured it was time to go on to the next question. “When you came to the school, what did you find? How was Amber?”
Lucy thought for a while, recalling it. “She was . . . she was sitting in the school office, and she looked awful. She was very tired, and I remember she was wet with perspiration and her hair was all uncombed. She was upset . . . moody. When I took her home, I found that her body was bruised in several places like she’d been in a terrible wrestling match. I was just shocked.” Lucy’s emotions began to rise. “I couldn’t believe such a thing could happen to my daughter, and at a Christian school where . . . Well, I once believed that a Christian school, of all places, would be a good place for Amber, a safe place. I didn’t think that Christians would stoop to such behavior. But they did.”
Corrigan spoke gently to her. “Mrs. Brandon, was it Amber as Amber who remembered the incident? Could she tell you what happened?”
Lucy was still composing herself. “I don’t think she’s ever been able to talk to me directly about it. She has to be Amethyst to talk about it.”
“So it was Amethyst who told you what happened?”
“Amber pretending to be Amethyst, or channeling Amethyst, yes.”
Corrigan thought for a moment. “Mrs. Brandon, whenever Amber becomes Amethyst, after she stops being Amethyst, does she remember anything that Amethyst said or did?”
Lucy smiled a little sheepishly. “Well . . . she says she doesn’t.”
“All right. At any rate, that incident occurred on March 28th, but you didn’t take Amber out of the school until April 20th. Can you explain why, after such an outrageous incident, and such selective, prejudicial behavior toward Amber, you still kept your child enrolled at the school?”
“I . . .”
“Obviously you consulted a lawyer during the interim?”
“Yes.”
Corrigan produced a photocopied, handwritten record. “Part of the discovery materials included this photocopy of a journal you kept. Do you recognize it?”
“Yes.”
“So, between March 28th and April 20th, you kept detailed records on the school . . .” Corrigan leafed through the many photocopied pages. “You kept track of all the lessons, the Bible verses for each day, the discipline problems, the Bible projects . . . quite a detailed account.”
“Yes.”
“So isn’t it true that you kept this record all this time, with Amber still enrolled, because you fully intended to bring this lawsuit against the school?”
Jefferson jumped on that. “I object, counselor. That’s a matter of speculation and conjecture; there’s a total lack of foundation.”
“So let’s get some foundation. Mrs. Brandon, some time after March 28th, didn’t you consult a friend at LifeCircle for legal advice regarding these matters?”
Lucy even shrugged a little. “Yes.”
“Was it Claire Johanson, legal assistant to Mr. Ames and Mr. Jefferson?”
“Yes.”
“And what was the result of that conversation?”
“The result?”
“Didn’t you decide at that time to pursue a lawsuit against the school?”
“I think so.”
“You think so?”
“Well, yes, I did.”
“And in preparation for the lawsuit, you began keeping this detailed record of everything happening at the school, correct?”
Lucy was chagrined. “Yes.”
“All right. Now, having established that, let me ask this question: Since you kept Amber enrolled at the school despite the outrageous behavior demonstrated against her, is it possible that gaining more material for your lawsuit was more important to you than your own daughter’s well-being?”
“I’ll definitely object to that!” said Jefferson.
“And I’ll drop the question,” said Corrigan, unruffled. He looked at his notes. “Does Amber still become Amethyst from time to time?”
Lucy smiled as she reluctantly admitted, “Yes, she still does.”
“Was she displaying this kind of behavior even before she enrolled at the Christian school?”
“Yes.”
“Is it true that she learned to . . . create or visualize Amethyst in her fourth-grade class at the Bacon’s Corner Elementary School, a class taught by a Miss Brewer?”
“Yes. Miss Brewer is a wonderful teacher.”
Corrigan paused. “Then why did you transfer Amber to the Christian school?”
Lucy seemed a little embarrassed. “Oh . . . I thought her time in the elementary school had served its purpose. Amber was fulfilling her potential and discovering herself, yes, but . . . she wasn’t learning much else.”
“A little weak in academics?”
“A little. I thought some balance would be good for her; a wider realm of experience.”
“I understand.” Corrigan went to another matter. “Do you recall an incident at the Post Office several weeks ago when Amber, as Amethyst, had a confrontation with a patron in the lobby?”
Lucy was visibly disturbed by that question. “How did you find out about that?”
“Do you recall it?”
“Yes.”
“Does Amber recall it?”
“No. She was . . . Well, she was Amethyst at the time, and now she doesn’t remember any of it.”
“She doesn’t remember it?”
“No.”
“Is it true that Amber, as Amethyst, became very aggressive toward the patron?”
Lucy was sickened by the memory, and perhaps by the question. “Yes.”
“She circled the patron, struck her several times?”
“I . . . I did see her hit the lady, yes.”
“Did Amber, as Amethyst, make loud, screaming accusations against the lady?”
“Yes.”
“Would you say that Amber’s behavior was violent, uncontrolled?”
She didn’t want to admit it. “Yes.”
“So violent that the lady was forced to flee from the lobby?”
Lucy was getting upset; the memory was a painful, perplexing wound. “That’s what happened. I couldn’t get Amber to stop. I was just so embarrassed.”
“Did Amber know this woman?”
“No. I just don’t know how she could have.”
“And as far as you know, the woman did nothing to provoke this attack?”
“No.”
“Do you recall what Amethyst was screaming?”
Lucy’s eyes dropped to the table; she rested her forehead on her fingers. “She was saying . . . something about the woman’s baby . . . saying, ‘You killed your baby.’”
“Do you know who the woman was?”
“I don’t know . . . I think so.”
Corrigan took out a photograph and showed it to her. “Is this the woman?”
Jefferson jumped in. “Really, I don’t see what this has to do with anything!”
Corrigan just gave him
a correcting look, and he remained quiet.
“Is this the woman?”
Lucy stared at the grainy photograph. Her face answered the question before she said it. “Yes.”
“Do you know who this woman is?”
She seemed to give in. “Her name is Sally Roe. She was a patron at the Post Office. But that’s all I know about her.”
“And she committed suicide just a few weeks ago, isn’t that true?”
Lucy lashed back, “That wasn’t Amber’s fault!”
Corrigan paused just a little at that outburst, then said, “We’re not saying it was. Now, you heard Amethyst—Amber, whatever—accuse Sally Roe of killing her baby, correct?”
“Asked and answered,” said Jefferson.
“Just trying to be sure,” said Corrigan.
“Yes, I did,” said Lucy.
“Were you aware that Sally Roe had a criminal record?”
It was obviously news to Lucy Brandon. “No.”
Corrigan produced some documents. “This is a copy of her criminal record, and here are some news clippings. You’ll notice the highlighted areas: she was convicted of first-degree murder ten years ago. As you can see here, and here, and on this news story here, she was found guilty of the drowning death of her baby daughter.”
He waited for it all to sink in, and watched the blood drain from Lucy Brandon’s face.
“Obviously your daughter, as Amethyst, was correct in her accusations against Sally Roe in the lobby of the Post Office. To the best of your knowledge, was there any way that Amber could have known about Sally Roe’s past?”
Lucy could hardly speak. “No. I didn’t even know about it.”
“Can you explain, then, how Amethyst knew about it?”
Lucy took time to answer only because it was difficult. “No.” She tried to do better. “Psychic ability, maybe.”
“On whose part, Amber’s or Amethyst’s?”
Lucy shook her head, quite flustered. “I don’t know. I don’t understand these things. But it can happen in channeling.”
“So Amber was channeling?”
“Yes, I guess she was.”
“And apparently this special gift of hers has a rather violent side to it?”
“I don’t know . . .”
“You did have quite a wrestling match with Amethyst, didn’t you? It was several minutes before you could get your daughter under control?”
“Yes.”
“And when the incident was finally over, would you say your daughter was wet with perspiration, probably disheveled, tired, moody, maybe even bruised a little?”
Lucy was reluctant to answer that.
Corrigan pressed it. “Wasn’t that her general condition?”
“I suppose so.”
“And during the scuffle, didn’t you refer to your daughter as Amethyst?”
She looked puzzled.
Corrigan asked it another way. “Didn’t you wrestle with your daughter, and say words to the effect, ‘Amethyst, you stop this . . . Amethyst, calm down’?”
Lucy’s voice was barely audible. “I suppose I did.”
“Just who were you talking to?”
Lucy didn’t appreciate that question. “My daughter!”
“Which one?” Lucy hesitated, so Corrigan built on the question. “You’ve already stated that Amber has no recollection of the incident, and normally does not remember anything that Amethyst says or does. You have admitted that Amber was channeling. Would it be correct to say that it was Amethyst, and not Amber, who was displaying all this aggressive behavior?”
“But it was my daughter . . .”
“But a different and separate personality, correct?”
Lucy stared at him. She was thinking about it. Corrigan could sense Ames and Jefferson getting more and more tense.
“Correct?” Corrigan asked again.
“Yes,” she said finally. “I think that’s correct.”
“So . . . if someone—even yourself—should ever confront Amethyst, they would actually be confronting a personality other than your daughter?”
“I guess so. Maybe.”
Ames and Jefferson did not like that answer. No doubt they would have quite a conference with Lucy Brandon when this was over.
Corrigan decided it was time for a provocative benediction. “So, does it seem so strange to you now that Mr. Harris might also have had a similar encounter, not with your daughter Amber, but with Amethyst, a separate personality: a violent struggle, a wrestling match, a demonstrative confrontation? Can you imagine what it must have been like for him to have Amethyst behave in the classroom as she behaved in the Post Office lobby, screaming, hitting, and producing information that Amber—as Amber—could not possibly know? Can you understand now what conclusion a Biblical Christian would come to when confronted with a violent, uncontrollable, alternate personality in a young, innocent child?” He didn’t need an answer, and he didn’t wait for one. “Thank you, Mrs. Brandon. I know this has been difficult for you. That’s all for now.”
CHAPTER 27
BENTMORE UNIVERSITY WAS nestled—almost hidden—within the tight, red-brick grid of a major metropolis. In every direction, it was just across the street from the noise, litter, traffic, and growing pains of the city. It had outlived the rise and fall of a low-income housing project on its north flank; on the west side, the delicatessens, tailors, and cleaners were now owned by third generations; on the east, the tugs still pulled their barges up and down the murky river, the rumble of their engines audible across the campus when the wind was right; on the south, several new apartments had become the only view in that direction, and now the streets down there were filled with big old cars driven by retired folks who drove slowly.
In the center of it all, Bentmore lived on, standing firm and steadfast in red brick and white stone, its halls, dormitories, libraries, and labs evenly dispersed on the lawned terrain, its patterned brick sidewalks radiating like spokes from every entryway, crisscrossing and networking like trade routes to every point on the campus.
To the human eye, Bentmore seemed an oasis of peace, reflection, and learning amid the hubbub of its surroundings; in the spiritual realm, the real trouble was within its borders, not outside them.
Guilo met with Tal and his top warriors on the roof of the old North American Can Company, located just across the river from the campus. Beneath their feet, soup cans, juice cans, fruit cans, and sardine cans took shape and clattered by the windows in an endless, rolling parade; across the river, still veiled by the morning mist, old Bentmore was ominously quiet.
Guilo stood beside Tal to give his report. He was nervous, agitated, ready for a fight, his hand resting on the handle of his sword. “Some of their best are there. The great deceivers, the great builders of the Enemy’s coming kingdom, all supervised by a behemoth who calls himself Corrupter.”
“I’ve heard of him,” said Tal. “He has power and great deceptive ability, but not much speed or wit in battle.”
“An advantage, to be sure. If we remain stealthy, there is a lot we could do before he becomes aware of it.”
Nathan peered through the mist and thought he saw some hulking spirits gliding occasionally between the structures, but most of them were unseen. “They remain hidden, tucked away inside the buildings.”
“Very occupied,” said Armoth. “Classes are in session.”
“Corrupter is a bit comfortable at the moment, and off-guard,” said Guilo, “but Destroyer is going to be another problem. He is on his way now, with all his forces. Then old Bentmore will be like a hive of hornets at rest. Merely shake the tree, and . . .”
“They will overrun us,” said Tal. “Destroyer’s troublemakers in Bacon’s Corner are doing well at this point; our prayer cover is as weak as it’s ever been, and we’re left with seriously depleted numbers. Direct confrontations are going to be risky. We’ll have to lean heavily on stealth and strategy . . .”
Guilo allowed himself a quick, stifle
d chuckle as he eyed the campus. “I remind you all: they could eat us alive.”
THE BENCHES HERE and there on the campus were still wet with dew and mist, but Sally found a comfortable desk hidden away in the stacks of the Research Library. So far she hadn’t seen library staff that she recognized, and that set her a little more at ease. Thanks to a small cleaning shop on the west side of the campus, her better clothes—slacks, blouse, dress jacket—were cleaned and pressed; she’d replaced her wayfaring-stranger ensemble with a more presentable outfit, and stashed her duffel bag, replacing it with a less obtrusive carry bag. She could recall looking sharp and professional twelve years ago, with carefully coordinated outfits and her hair tightly pinned. Today the best she could look was casual and twelve years older, with tinted glasses and dye-blackened hair pinned up as best as she could arrange it. She just had to hope she looked different enough from the Sally Roe people would remember.
Oh, I must have been so proud of my calling as an educator! As I sit here and observe the graduate students around this place, working toward their Master’s degrees just like I did, I can see the same pride in their faces, I can sense the same highbrow demeanor. To be honest, I see myself as I was back then. The old Bentmore mold has not broken. I can guess what they’re thinking: they are world conquerors, missionaries for a bold message of global change.
And I would say they are correct. Bentmore is still turning out great educators, great agents of change. They will be the teachers, the administrators, the principals, the authors, the lobbyists. A nation will follow them; they will restructure an entire culture.
Sally checked her watch. It was after 9 in the morning; someone should be in Professor Lynch’s office by now, either his secretary or Lynch himself. This would be the greatest risk of all, but she must contact him. Of all people, he should have some of the answers she needed.
She’d checked for his name and number in the campus directory, and surprising as it was, after twelve years Samuel W. Lynch was still head of the School of Education. As she remembered him, he was definitely fit for the position, always an imposing man of great knowledge, stature, and strength.
A tall, athletic undergrad had just finished using the pay phone on the wall behind her. She grabbed the opportunity. She would try to get an appointment with Lynch, perhaps during his office hours. All she could hope was that the man was not as brilliant as she remembered him to be; perhaps he wouldn’t recall who she was.
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