Outlaw

by Ted Dekker

  “I should have crushed your skull with my paddle in the sea where I found you,” he said. “But now I have the pleasure of crushing your child’s head as well.”

  It was to my benefit that he hadn’t yet removed my gag, for I would have lashed out at him then. Instead I took great pains to calm myself. My sole objective became to stall him as long as I could, even if that meant compromising myself.

  He leaned over, grasped the gag with strong fingers, and jerked it over my chin, freeing my mouth. “You will now wish I had left you dead.”

  “Then you were foolish for not killing what you could never have,” I said. “Now all the Tulim see that Wilam made what you could not.”

  His eyes lowered to my belly. “So they tell me.”

  “Any man can take a woman, but only the strongest can win her heart the way he wins the heart of all Tulim,” I said.

  A wicked grin twisted his mouth. “Your intelligence surprises me. It’s true, I will never be favored in a struggle for the people’s affections. But I won’t have to. Your offspring will give the people to me.”

  He was playing games, I was sure of it. I had no power over the people.

  “I am not so weak.”

  “No, I hope you aren’t. You will need to be strong to kill Wilam.”

  Again, a game. But there was something in his voice that frightened me. His composure was not that of a bluffing man.

  “I would die before I killed Wilam,” I said.

  “Yes, you would. But would you also take the life of your child?”

  “The life of my child is no longer in my hands.”

  Kirutu smiled. “No. The life of your child is now in my hands.”

  “What did the Nameless One whisper in your ear?”

  The question seemed to rob all sound from the hut. Kirutu’s jaw clenched, bunching taut muscles along his cheek.

  “You think I would bow to the whim of the one Sawim fears? Then you don’t know my heart.”

  “I know only that your heart has been turned black with hatred. This isn’t the way of the Tulim.”

  “This is my way!”

  He snapped an order and two Warik warriors stepped into the hut. Their leader nodded at me.

  “Hold her up.”

  They quickly untied my hands and feet from the pole and pulled me to my feet, one warrior on each arm. The grease from their arms turned my skin the color of soot where they rubbed me.

  Kirutu stepped forward and I knew from the look in his eyes that he was going to try to destroy my womb now, as I stood before him.

  I felt raw with panic. “The child is your blood, Kirutu,” I said. My resolve began to crumble and my body began to shake. “Wilam is your brother…I beg you—”

  His fist slammed into my belly like a battering ram. Pain bit deeply into my pelvis and spread up my spine. I instinctively gasped, but the air was already gone from my lungs. He hit me again, harder and lower this time, destroying what life might not have been broken with his first blow. My legs gave way, forcing the warriors to hold me up.

  Kirutu hit me twice more while the muscles were still limp in my abdomen. I could feel the tissue tearing deep in my womb as his fist slammed into my gut. Horror washed through me. To have a wholly innocent and dependent child’s life pounded from your belly by a man’s fists is an offense impossible to describe. I could feel something wet flowing down the inside of my thighs. Urine, I thought, but it would soon be joined by blood.

  I screamed my rage and my pain when breath finally came. With these blows Kirutu had crushed away not only my child’s life but my own. I cried for Stephen, because in losing my second child I desperately wanted my first. I cried for Wilam, because our only child was now dead, murdered while his father lay asleep in his bed. I cried for all the Tulim, because their love of life was as great as mine, and soon that very life would run down my legs.

  I cried because once again God had gone deaf.

  Kirutu lifted my skirt, stared at me, then let the fabric fall. “Put her down.”

  They set me down against the wall, where I propped myself up with both hands to keep from falling over.

  “Leave us.”

  The warriors left.

  For a long while I sat gasping, unable to speak, mind swimming in revulsion. How could I possibly tell Wilam? The death of his coveted seed would crush him, and my torn womb would render me useless. Better for me to bleed to death on Kirutu’s floor than to return home to Wilam and announce the death of his child.

  “It is a terrible thing to lose a child,” Kirutu said. “Among the Tulim, it is even worse to be barren. You will never bear another child. For this, Wilam will throw you away. His interest is only in what power you give him through your womb.”

  He was only reinforcing what I already knew.

  I still could not comprehend how he thought the death of my child would compel me to kill Wilam. My determination to resist Kirutu was now unshakable.

  “You must understand that I do this for the sake of my people,” he said. “Our ways have been protected for generations by a perfect law. Wilam is soft. His interest in the wam will only breed more and our laws will soon be like grass in the wind. By killing this one life I will save many. Now you must do the same.”

  “I’ll never kill Wilam!” I screamed.

  “Then your child will die.”

  His words weren’t making any sense to me. He’d just killed my child! A great weariness settled over me and I thought my arms might give way. I wanted to curl up and let darkness swallow away all of the pain.

  “They tell me he was found on the banks of the sea, bound to a mat. The party that found him considered taking him to the foreigners, but an Asmat war party took him during a dispute. I paid a great price to acquire his life when I learned he was still alive. Now your son is mine. And if you do not kill Wilam, then I will return him to Wilam, who will be forced to kill your son.”

  My mind was reeling, hardly connected to his words. He was speaking as if he had Stephen, but my baby had died at sea six months earlier. Our boat had been smashed by the waves and I had survived only because I’d been trapped in…

  An image of my baby tied to the seat cushion flashed through my mind. He’d been bound to a mat. How did Kirutu know about the mat?

  “Bring him in.”

  One of the warriors entered. His fingers were wrapped around the thin arm of a small, naked child tottering on wobbly legs. A white boy with shaggy chocolate hair and blue eyes that stared up at Kirutu’s towering form.

  The child turned to look at me and I stared into the eyes of my own son.

  The confusion and terror that flooded me in the moment are difficult to describe. I was in no condition to trust my senses and my mind was telling me that Kirutu was playing a cruel game.

  My mind told me these things, but my maternal heart was crashing in my breast, telling me that Stephen, my dead son, was alive and standing before me. And I could not temper my sudden desperation for that to be true.

  Then Stephen’s face wrinkled and he cried and he reached his hand out for me.

  A groan filled the hut. My own. I lurched for him with both hands, but Kirutu had ripped the muscles in my abdomen, and they failed me. I fell to one elbow, screaming now, blurred eyes fixed upon my son. Even then it occurred to me that I might be dreaming, and if so, then in my dream I would sweep Stephen up in my arms and I would scratch out the eyes of any man or woman who came near us.

  Then Stephen was walking toward me, crying. He reached me and wrapped his small arms around my neck and I knew then, when his cheek was pressed against my own, that my son, who had been swallowed by the sea, was alive.

  Leaning on one elbow for support, I clung to Stephen with my free arm, pressed him against my breast, and wept over his shoulder.

  How he had survived I did not care. What horrors he had suffered these past months I refused to imagine. All that mattered was that he was alive. And he still knew his mother.

  I
was clinging to more than my son in that moment. I was holding life, that great mystery that binds us all. He was an extension of my own flesh—skin on skin, cheek on cheek, fingers digging into each other’s back, weeping together. Perhaps only a mother can fully understand the sentiment that swept through my body when my son, who had once been dead, returned to me alive.

  And then, as quickly as Stephen had come to me, he was dragged away by Kirutu. I screamed my horror, grabbing at thin air for his body.

  “You will have your son,” Kirutu said.

  “Don’t you dare touch him!” My voice was hysterical. “I’ll kill you!”

  “You will have him only if you kill Wilam.”

  Stephen was still crying, reaching for me.

  “It’s OK, baby!” I could hardly speak. “It’s OK, Mommy’s here now.”

  My eyes searched his body and face. He was over two years old but still such a baby! His hair was overgrown and tangled. He had a bad sore on his right shin and a dark bruise on his cheekbone. His nose was crusted with mucus. The Tulim would have washed and tended to one of their own, but Kirutu had left my child in this condition to inflict me with pain.

  “Please,” I begged. “Please…”

  “Take him away.”

  Kirutu’s intentions were plain to me, and there was nothing I could do to stop him. I did not cry out for my son as they swept him from his feet and took him away. I simply lay down on my side and wept.

  When Kirutu spoke again his voice was matter-of-fact, even soft.

  “Now you know I have your son. If Wilam learns that your son is alive, he is bound by law to put him to death.”

  “You’re lying…”

  “By law, any child from your womb must come only from his seed. You are his wife, your child must be as well. By blood. For you to have a living son not of Wilam’s seed would remove him from consideration for power.”

  I had never heard of the law and the thought horrified me. I tried to dismiss it as another ploy by Kirutu, but even hearing it I knew the law made perfect sense to the Tulim way of thinking.

  “If your son dies now, you are purified, so I will not kill him yet. Your only hope is to kill Wilam. Once he learns that you have lost his son, you will be worthless. I offer you the only way for you and your son to survive.”

  “You’re lying to me!” I screamed.

  But I knew he wasn’t.

  “If Wilam isn’t dead within three days, I will return your son to Wilam to be killed. If you kill Wilam, I will take you and your child to the sea.”

  My mind was only a dim reflection of itself, unable to process my thoughts with any certainty, but one thing was perfectly clear: I could not let any harm come to my son. Never again. Nothing else mattered to me as I lay on Kirutu’s floor, weeping.

  “How?” I sobbed.

  He stepped over to me and bound a thin roll of leaves into my hair, near my scalp where it would not be seen without a search. “You will put this in his food. Half will be enough.”

  “They will find it.”

  “Then you will find another way or your son will die.”

  Kirutu turned away and left me on the floor, a shell of myself.

  I don’t remember what passed through my mind as the warriors bound me up and carried me over their shoulders to the clearing several miles up the mountain. I could only see my son crying, reaching for me.

  They left me under a tree in the middle of the same clearing where the anthropologist Michael had led me. I lay in a heap to be found by the Impirum.

  Chapter Eighteen

  MY FIRSTBORN SON was alive. And my second child was dead.

  The jungle around that clearing screamed its empathy as I huddled in anguish. I can’t say that I grieved my forced miscarriage as much as I grieved Stephen’s life. He, like me, had been saved from the sea only to meet a much crueler fate.

  In my despair I cursed God for delivering me and my son to that fate.

  I cursed the Tulim valley, not because I hated the people, rather because I hated their law. Stephen’s life depended on the death of Wilam at my hand. My pain beside that tree wasn’t caused by the cramping of my gut, nor by the vines biting into my flesh.

  It was caused by knowing that God was mocking me.

  For an hour I lay in a heap, unable to think clearly. My first instinct was to run to the Warik and rescue Stephen myself. But I knew it would be a fool’s errand that would end only in more pain, perhaps pain to Stephen. Cutting off one of my son’s fingers would mean nothing to Kirutu.

  Gradually, as my tears ran dry, the simple truth of my predicament settled into my consciousness. I slowly pushed myself to a sitting position and stared at the jungle, mind lost to any danger it might pose.

  I could not trust Wilam to find grace for Stephen. His conscience was tied to the well-being of his people, and to that end he would do whatever was necessary to take power. Every bone in his body rejected the suggestion that Kirutu would bring any good to the Tulim valley.

  I couldn’t let him know that Stephen was alive.

  Neither could I tell him of my miscarriage. If he learned that Kirutu had savaged my womb, my status among them would be compromised. The trust I had earned might be lost, and my access to Wilam along with it.

  I had to have access to Wilam. It was the only way to kill him.

  My thoughts surprised me, but in that frame of mind I saw no other alternative. The only chance my son had for survival was through Wilam’s death. Even then I would be at Kirutu’s mercy, but I didn’t have time to think about that.

  I had to get back to the Impirum village on my own, before the sun rose. For the sake of Stephen, I had to muster the strength and do what was needed.

  I pushed myself to my feet and staggered up the path leading to the north, no longer caring what kind of dangers lay along the way. All I needed was to put one foot in front of the other.

  For Stephen’s sake.

  It was painful, but most of the aching was in my abdomen. I gathered moss to hide the bleeding. My legs were still strong, and months of walking on bare feet had toughened my soles.

  The path led over low hills into steep crevasses before climbing again on switchbacks tangled with thick roots and mud, and I slipped often. But I knew the way.

  My memories of Stephen’s cry pushed me forward. The image of his sweet face, dirty and hurt, dragged me forward. I was going away from him, but it was the only way to him.

  The journey was long, but my sense of time was off and I found myself at the creek just west of the main village as the horizon began to gray.

  I had to wash away the blood. I had to cover my abdomen in pigment to hide any bruising that would show. I needed more moss—they’d never leave me unsupervised again. I had to appear normal, even refreshed, not puffy-eyed and destitute, and as to this I felt hopeless. So I madly searched for an explanation that would allow me to avoid questioning.

  The washing came easily. The pigment almost as easily, because I had applied red mud from that very creek to my face and belly on more than one occasion with the children.

  The mud was on my belly when it occurred to me that there would be no way to hide my abduction. They would find the guards who had been posted outside my hut dead, unless they hadn’t been killed. It was unlikely but not out of the question that they had been a part of the plot.

  My mind spun. I had to tell Wilam about the abduction. But I couldn’t tell him about my miscarriage. How I could avoid the subject, how I could succeed in hiding it, I didn’t know, but I would try.

  I set out from the creek, intent on maintaining my poise.

  I only made it halfway, to the edge of the large clearing just outside the village, before he came.

  Wilam came.

  I heard the sound of the warriors’ thundering feet before they emerged from the jungle. They came down the slope like a rushing wind in the dim morning light, five hundred of the Impirum’s most skilled warriors led by Wilam, whose blurred figure look
ed like a ghost to me. At first I thought they were Warik and that the warrior speeding toward me was Kirutu. But then I heard Wilam’s thundering cry.

  Here was my savior, whom I must kill.

  Wilam sprinted toward me, spear in hand, like a god bent upon rescue. His muscles were strung tightly, his jaw was taut, his eyes blazed. They’d found the guards dead and my hut empty, and in a fury Wilam had gathered his warriors and struck out to save me.

  My memory of that morning is still thin. I remember Wilam’s hot, heavy breath as he pulled me close. I remember his arms, already wet with sweat, holding me. I remember a sea of bodies swarming around us. I remember Wilam’s voice demanding to know if I was safe.

  I’d had no idea how I would react when I saw him, but I only nodded and clung to his neck and wept.

  They had already come to a conclusion.

  “He’s taken the son!” a warrior cried. “Kirutu has taken Wilam’s son!”

  Wilam stood and silenced the outcry with a raised hand. I had never seen a look of such rage as the one that settled in his eyes as they swept down my body. His chest rose and fell like a bellows fueling a hot fire.

  “Tell me he did not succeed.”

  Every fiber in my body screamed for me to tell him why Kirutu had taken me, knowing the knowledge would send him and his warriors into the Warik village to raze it to the ground. He would be too filled with rage to consider sparing the innocent, much less Kirutu.

  Or he would follow the law and do as Kirutu had said he would do. I could not sentence my son to death.

  Tears flooded my eyes. “Please, Wilam, please take me home. I’m safe, just take me home.”

  I saw the darkness in his eyes and I wondered what power lay behind them.

  “Tell me!” he said.

  “He did not,” I said. “I still bear your child.”

  “He tried.”

  “Yes. But my muscles are strong.”

  “You bled?”

  “No. Only a little.”

  Telling him any less would make him wonder why Kirutu had let me go before seeing blood.

  “How can you be sure?”

  “I did not lose our son!” I cried, filled with a deep denial that shook me. “I know!”