by Ted Dekker
They headed down the hill in the afternoon’s waning light, Michal first, followed by Tom, and Gabil hopping along to bring up the rear.
The histories. He’d dreamed that Kara had insisted this colored forest was a dream and Denver was real. She’d sent him on a mission.
The winner of the Kentucky Derby.
Would the histories record something so insignificant as the winner of a horse race? If so, only someone with a perfect memory could possibly recall it. Someone like Michal.
But asking Michal to check something he’d dreamed of had a ring of insanity to it. Then again, it was no more absurd than insisting to Kara that she was a dream. So then, which was it?
Here in the colored forest, Michal had offered a perfectly reasonable explanation for his dreams of Denver: Tom had hit his head and was dreaming of ancient Earth. Logical.
There in Denver, however, he had no explanation for how he could be dreaming about the Raison Strain, especially since the related events hadn’t happened yet. He was getting the information from Michal, from the histories. But that would only prove that this world in which he’d found the histories was real. If this was real, then the other had to be a dream. Unless they were both real.
“How many people live in this village?” Tom asked.
“Here? This is the smallest village. There are three tribes on the planet, each with many villages. But this is the first. Tanis is the firstborn.”
“Over one thousand in this village,” Gabil piped up.
“Fifteen hundred and twenty-two,” Michal said. “There are seven villages in this tribe, and they all come to the same Gathering. The other two tribes, one of which is yours, are very far away and much larger. We have over a million living now.”
“Huh. How long do we live? I mean how long has—”
Michal had stopped, and Tom nearly tripped over him.
Gabil bumped into him from behind. “Sorry. Sorry.”
Michal was staring at Tom as if he’d lost his mind.
Tom stepped back. “What’s wrong?”
“There is no death here. Only in the black forest. You’re confusing reality with ancient Earth. Losing your memory I can understand, but surely you can separate what is real from your dreams.”
“Sure,” Tom said, but he wasn’t sure. Not at all. He would have to think through his questions more carefully.
Michal sighed. “In the event you’re not so sure as you say, let me give you a quick refresher on your history. Tanis, the leader of this village, whom we’ve discussed, was the firstborn. He was united with Mirium, his wife, and they had eighteen sons and twenty-three daughters over the course of the first two hundred years. His first two sons left, one to the east and one to the west, a month’s journey each, to form the three tribes. Each tribe is completely self-contained. There is no commerce or trading, but visitors are quite common and interunions aren’t unusual. Three times a year the other two tribes make a journey here for a very, very large celebration, known as the Great Gathering, not to be confused with the Gathering each tribe experiences every night.”
Michal looked longingly toward the path the villagers had taken. “You’ll find a preoccupation with the Gathering. It’s the focus of each day. By midday most of the people are preparing for it in one way or another. It’s a very simple yet very extravagant life I would gladly exchange a year of torment for. You are exceedingly fortunate, Thomas Hunter.”
The evening stood still.
“That makes me a descendant of Tanis?” Tom finally asked.
“Many generations removed, but yes.”
“And my immediate family will be coming here for a celebration. When?”
“In . . . what, Gabil? Sixty days?”
“Fifty-three!” the smaller Roush said. “Only fifty-three.”
“Gabil is the master of games at the celebrations. He knows them intimately. At any rate, there you have it.”
Michal continued his duck-walk down the hill.
“I had another dream,” Tom said.
“Yes?” Michal said. “Well, dreams are quite common, or have you forgotten that as well?”
“It picked up where the one before left off. I was wondering if you could help me with something. Did the histories record sporting events?”
“The histories recorded everything.”
“Really! Could I get, say . . . the winning horse from the Kentucky Derby for a particular year?”
“The histories are oral, as I mentioned. They were written . . . are written . . . in the Books of Histories, but these Books are” —he paused here—“no longer available. They are very powerful, these Books. At any rate, the oral traditions were given to Tanis and passed on.”
“No one would know who won the Kentucky Derby?”
“Who would care about such trivia? Do you know what kind of mind it would require to hold such an insignificant detail?”
“So then no one knows it.”
Michal hesitated. “I didn’t say that. What Tanis knows of the histories is more than any other human. It’s more than enough. Too much knowledge of some things can be worrisome. Tanis has tried many times to pry more information out of me. His thirst for knowledge is insatiable.”
“But you have a perfect memory. You don’t know who won the Kentucky Derby this year?”
“And if I do?”
“Can you tell me?”
“I could. Should I?”
“Yes! My sister wants to know.”
Again Michal stopped. “You remember your sister? You’re beginning to remember?”
“No, the sister in my dreams,” Tom said, feeling foolish.
“Now that’s something, don’t you say, Gabil?” Michal said. “His sister, in his dreams about the histories, wants to know something about the histories. Sounds quite circular.”
“Round and round and round, for sure.”
Tom diverted his eyes. “Yes, I guess you could say that.”
“I’m not sure I should tell you,” Michal said.
“Then is there anyone else who could tell me?”
“Teeleh,” Gabil hissed. “He was a wise one.”
Tom knew without having to ask who Teeleh must be.
“The leader of the Shataiki,” Tom said.
“Yes,” Michal said. Nothing more.
Tom directed the discussion back to the horse race. “Please, I just need to know if what you’re saying ties directly into what I’m dreaming. It might help me put the dreams aside.”
“Perhaps. I’m not in the business of digging up the histories. We are making our own here, and it’s enough. You already have enough of the histories running through your mind to distract you and confuse even me. I will tell you on one condition.”
“I won’t ask again. Agreed.”
Michal frowned. “Exactly. You will not ask about the histories again.”
“And as I said, I agree. Which horse?”
“The winner of the Kentucky Derby was Joy Flyer.”
“Joy Flyer!” Gabil cried. “A perfect name!” He ran ahead and took flight. He gained altitude quickly, executed one loop, and winged in the direction of the Gathering.
Joy Flyer.
The village looked familiar to Tom, but not so much that his heart didn’t begin to increase its pace as they approached.
They walked under a great blue-and-gold arch at the entrance and then down a wide brown path between rows of colored huts. Tom stopped at the first house, taken by the ruby glow of the wood. A lawn wrapped around the dwelling in a thick, uniform carpet of green, highlighted by flowers growing in symmetrical clusters. What appeared to be carvings of brightly colored sapphire and golden wood accented the lawn, giving it a surreal beauty.
“Do you remember?” Michal asked.
“Sort of. But not really.”
“It could take a while, I understand. You will stay with Rachelle’s family.”
“Rachelle! The woman who chose me?”
“Yes.”
“Follow your instincts, Thomas. And if your instincts don’t offer enough guidance, then pretend. Surely you can pretend to be in love.”
“What if I don’t want to be in love?”
“Stop that nonsense!” Michal ordered. “Of course you want to be in love. You’re human.” He turned up the path. “You’re frightening me, young man.”
Tom walked down the path, lost in thought at first, but then quickly distracted by the beauty around him. Both sides of the road were lined with beautifully landscaped lawns that bordered each colored cottage. The homes shone more like pearl than wood. Flowers like the daisies on the valley floor grew in wide swaths across the bright green lawns. Large cats and parrots meandered and fluttered about the village in harmony as though they, too, owned a part of this marvelous work of art.
The refined nature of the village kept Tom in awe as they made their way toward the large central structure. Although not necessarily symmetrical, every object, every carving, every flower, and every path was in exactly the right location, like a perfectly executed symphony. Move one path and the vision would crumble. Move one flower and chaos would ensue.
The Thrall, as Michal had called it, was huge compared to the other structures, and if the village was a work of refined art, then this was its crowning glory. Tom paused at the bottom of wide steps that ascended to the circular building. The jade-colored dome looked as though it had been made out of some flawless crystalline material that allowed light to pass through it.
He gingerly placed his foot on the first step and began the ascent. Ahead, Michal struggled up the steps one by one, ignoring him for the moment. Tom followed him and then turned at the top to view the village from this elevated vantage.
The village looked as if massive jewels—ruby and topaz and emeralds and opals and mother-of-pearl—had been transported here and then carved into solid structures over hundreds of years. What kind of technology could have possibly created this? So simple and elegant, yet so advanced.
“Who did this?”
Michal looked up at him. “You did this. Come.”
Tom followed him into the Thrall.
The scope of the large auditorium was at once intimidating and spectacular. Four glowing pillars—ruby, emerald, jasper, and a golden yellow—rose from the floor to the iridescent domed ceiling. There was no furniture in the room. All of this Tom saw at the first glance.
But it was on the great circular floor, centered under the dome, that he rested his gaze.
He stepped past Michal and walked lightly to the floor’s edge. The floor seemed to draw him into itself. He slowly knelt and reached out his hand. He couldn’t see a single blemish on its hard, clear surface, like a pool of resin poured over a massive unflawed emerald. He stroked the floor, breathing steadily. A sudden, slight vibration shot up his arm and he quickly withdrew his hand.
“It’s quite all right, my friend,” Michal said behind him. “It’s a sight that I never get used to myself. It was made from a thousand green trees. Not a blemish to be found. The creativity you humans display never ceases to amaze me.”
Tom stood. “This is like the water?”
“No. The water is special. But Elyon is the Maker of both. I will leave you here,” he said, turning for the door. “Duty calls. Johan and Rachelle will come and collect you here as soon as they return from the Gathering. And remember, if in doubt, please play along.” He waddled out of the building, and Tom thought he heard the Roush say, “Dear, dear. I hope Rachelle hasn’t bitten off more than she can chew.”
Tom started to protest. Waiting alone in this magnificent room struck him as a little terrifying. But he couldn’t think of a reason why he should be terrified—beyond his memory loss, this was all very familiar to him. As Michal said, he had to play along.
10
Tom didn’t have to wait long. A boy, maybe twelve, with light blond hair and dressed in a blue tunic, burst into the Thrall. A yellow bandanna wound about his head. He spun on his heel for a quick look around and then turned and ran backward, urging someone else to follow.
“Come on!”
He was followed by the woman Tom recognized as Rachelle. She wore the same red satin dress but now with a bright yellow sash draped over one shoulder.
The thrill of the sight was so unexpected, so sudden, that Tom found himself frozen in the corner shadows.
“Do you see him, Johan?” Rachelle asked, glancing around.
“No. But Michal said he would be here. Maybe . . .” Johan saw Tom and stopped.
Rachelle stood in the middle of the floor, staring into the corner where Tom stood watching.
Tom cleared his throat and stepped into the light. “Hi.”
She looked at him, unabashed. For a few long seconds, all motion seemed to cease. Her eyes shone a rich jade, like a pool of water. She was fully grown and yet slender. Early twenties. Her skin was bronzed and milky smooth.
A soft, shy smile slowly replaced her thoughtful gaze.
“You are very pleasing to look at, Thomas,” she said.
Tom swallowed. This sort of statement must be completely normal, but because of his amnesia, it felt . . . ambitious. Daring. Wonderful. He had to play along as Michal had demanded.
“Thank you. And so are you. You are very” —he had to stop for a breath—“pleasing to look at. Daring.”
“Daring?” she asked.
“Yes, you look daringly beautiful.” Tom felt his face blush.
“Daring!” Rachelle looked over at Johan. “Did you hear that, Johan? Thomas thinks I’m daring.”
Johan glanced from one to the other and laughed. “I like you, Thomas.”
Rachelle looked at him, amused, like a young, shy girl, but she wasn’t bashful, not in the least. Was he supposed to do something here?
She offered him her hand. He reached for it, but, like before, she didn’t shake it. Without removing her eyes from his, she gently touched his fingers with hers.
He was so shocked by the touch that he didn’t dare speak. If he did, surely idiotic mumbling rather than words would come from his mouth. Her caress lingered on his skin, sensuous yet completely innocent at once.
Tom’s heart was pounding now, and for a brief moment he panicked. She was touching his hand, and he was frozen to the floor. This was the Great Romance?
He didn’t even know this woman.
She suddenly took his hand in hers and pulled him toward the door. “Hurry, they are waiting.”
“They are? Who are?”
“It’s time to eat,” Johan cried. He threw the door open, pulled up, and then rushed down the steps toward two men on the path below. “Father! We have Thomas Hunter. He is a very interesting man!”
Two thoughts struck Tom at the comment. One, Rachelle was still touching his hand. Two, these people seemed to have no shame. Which meant he had no shame, because he was one of these people.
Rachelle released his hand and ran down the steps. The man Johan had called Father embraced the boy and then turned to Tom. He wore a tunic that hung to his thighs, tan with a wide swath of blue running across his body from right shoulder to left hip. The hem was woven in intricate crossing patterns with the same colors. A belt of gold ran around his waist and held a small water pouch.
“So. You are the visitor from the other side.” He clasped Tom’s arm, pulled him into an embrace, and slapped his back. “Welcome. My name is Palus. You are most welcome to stay with my family.” He drew back, frowning, eyes bright, delighted. “Welcome,” he said again.
“Thank you. You are most kind.” Tom dipped his head.
Palus jumped back and swept his arm toward the other man. “This is Miknas, the keeper of the Thrall,” he said proudly. “He has overseen all the dances and celebrations on the green floor for well over a hundred years. Miknas!”
Miknas looked about forty. Maybe thirty. Hard to tell. How old was the firstborn
, Tanis? Tom dismissed the question for the moment.
“It’s an honor,” Tom said.
Miknas stepped forward and embraced Tom in the same way Palus had. “The honor is mine. We rarely have such special visitors. You are most welcome. Most, most welcome.”
“Come, walk to our house.” Palus led them down the path.
They stopped at the arching sapphire entrance of a home close to the Thrall, and each took turns embracing Miknas farewell, bidding him a wonderful meal. Palus led them down several rows of homes to a cottage as brilliant green as its surrounding lawn, then up the walk and past a solid green door into his domed abode.
Tom entered the dwelling, hoping that here, in such intimate surroundings, the familiarity of his past would return. The wood here in the home had the appearance of being covered in a smooth, clear resin several inches thick. The furniture was carved from the same wood. Some pieces glowed a single color, and others radiated in rainbow moirés. Light emanated from all the wood. The light was not reflective as he had first guessed but came from the wood itself.
Incredible. But not familiar.
“This is Karyl, my wife,” Palus said. Then to his wife, “Rachelle has touched his hand.”
Tom smiled at Rachelle’s mother awkwardly, eager to avoid any further discussion on the matter. “You have a beautiful home, madam.”
“Madam? How quaint. What does it mean?”
“Hmm?”
“I’ve never heard this expression before. What does ‘madam’ mean?”
“I think . . . I think it’s an expression of respect. Like ‘friend.’”
“You use this expression in your village?”
“Maybe. I think we might.”
They all watched him in a moment of silence, during which he felt terribly conspicuous.
“Here,” Karyl said finally, stepping toward a bowl into which she dipped a wooden cup, “we invite with a drink of water.” She brought the cup to him, and he sipped. The water was cool at his lips but felt warm all the way to his belly, where its heat spread. He dipped his head and returned the cup.
“Thank you.”