by Ted Dekker
“I’ve lived in the desert,” Johan said.
“The desert,” Thomas said. “All I know is that we ride into the desert.”
Johan looked at him. “You say that as if you know something more.”
“Only that we are meant to be there.”
“The sand will show our tracks,” Mikil said.
“Not in the northern canyon lands,” Johan countered. “We could lose them for good there.”
“We could lose ourselves for good there.”
The others had mounted and now sat on their horses in a long line, staring out at the desert.
“Do you think the lakes in the other forests are . . .” Jamous stopped.
“Red?” Thomas said. “I don’t know. But they won’t work the way they used to. The only way to defeat the disease now is to follow Justin in his death.”
“And the disease is gone forever,” Lucy said.
Thomas turned to the little girl with bright green eyes. “You know this?”
“That’s what I heard.”
“From whom?”
“From Justin. In the lake.”
He exchanged a knowing grin with the girl’s mother, Alisha.
“She’s right,” Marie said.
“Well. Then maybe Lucy should lead us. Where do you say we should go?” he asked.
Lucy laughed. His own daughter managed a smile, which brought him hope, considering her loss. Thomas returned her smile. Her eyes watered and she turned away.
He faced the red dunes again, resisting his own sorrow.
“Will the Horde find us here, Johan?”
“Not tonight. Tomorrow they will.”
“Is . . .” Samuel asked the question no one had asked yet. “Is Justin dead?”
“It depends on what you mean by Justin,” Thomas said.
“I mean the Justin who drowned. Not Elyon, but Justin.”
Justin. They all pondered the question.
“We saw him drown,” Johan said. “And I watched the lake for several hours. He didn’t come up. If his body is gone, Ciphus may have stolen it to cast blame on Thomas. But does it matter if Justin is dead or not? It’s just a body he was using. Right? We all know that Elyon isn’t dead.”
Johan had been the one who’d shoved his sword into that body— perhaps he was easing his guilt.
They let the matter rest.
Thomas looked down the line of horses. Five experienced warriors including William and Suzan, five children, and six civilians including Jeremiah, the converted old man who’d once been a Scab. Ronin and Arvyl, of course. And the last three were from the Southern Forest as well.
An unlikely crew, but one he suddenly felt supremely proud of. From so many, these were the few who’d responded to Justin’s cry. The fate of the world now rested on the shoulders of people like Marie and Lucy and Johan. Thomas glanced at his arm. The disease would never gray it again. They were truly new people. No longer Forest People, certainly not the Horde. They were outcasts.
They were the chosen. Those who had died. Those who lived.
I love you, Rachelle. I love you dearly. I will always love you.
He wanted to cry again.
“Then we make camp here tonight,” he said, looking out at the red hills. “No fires.”
“You’re saying we waste the rest of the day?” Mikil asked. “What if I’m wrong? What if they do come after us?”
“Then we will post guards. But we wait here.”
“What’s that?” Samuel asked.
Thomas followed his gaze. A dot on the sand. A rider.
His heart rose into his throat. The horse was riding hard, straight toward them from the desert. A scout?
“Back!” Mikil said, pulling her horse around. “Take cover. If they see us, they’ll report it.”
The horses responded to the tugs on their reins and retreated behind a row of trees.
They peered from their hiding. The rider was moving as fast as Thomas had ever seen, down the slope of the last dune, leaving a trail of disturbed sand in his wake. A black horse. The rider was dressed in white. His cloak flapped behind him and he rode on the balls of his feet, bent over.
“It’s him!” Lucy cried. She dropped off her mother’s horse and was running before Thomas could stop her.
“Lucy!”
“It’s Justin!” she said.
Thomas blinked, strained for a better view. His heart hammered. And then he knew that the man on the black horse riding pell-mell toward them was Justin.
His shoulder-length hair flew with his cape, and even at this distance, Thomas was sure he could see the brilliant green of his eyes. His passion was immediately infectious.
Thomas was frozen by the sudden realization that Justin was actually alive.
Had he come to give Rachelle back to him?
Justin’s horse stamped to a halt twenty feet from the trees. His eyes were on Lucy, who was running out to him.
This was Elyon, and Elyon leaned over the side of his horse, grabbed Lucy under her arms, swept her up into his saddle, and spurred his horse into a full sprint. Lucy squealed. He swung the horse back less than fifty paces out and rode in a wide circle, now laughing aloud with the girl.
Thomas urged his horse forward, but he wasn’t the only one; they were all rushing from the trees and dismounting.
Justin rode in, lowered Lucy to the ground, and measured them all with a bright, mischievous glint in his eyes.
“Good afternoon,” he said.
None of them replied.
“How did you like the lake?”
Thomas slid off his saddle, dropped to one knee, and lowered his head. “Forgive me.”
Justin dismounted and walked up to him. “I have. And you followed me, didn’t you?” He touched Thomas’s cheek. “Look at me.”
Thomas lifted his head. There wasn’t a blemish on Justin’s face to show for the pounding he’d taken. Except for his eyes, he looked every bit human. Yet in those deep emerald eyes Thomas could see only Elyon.
“I knew I could depend on you. Thank you,” Justin said.
Thomas wasn’t sure he’d heard just right. Thank you? He lowered his head, swamped with emotion. What about Rachelle?
“Look at me, Thomas.”
When he looked up, he saw that tears were running down Justin’s face. Thomas began to cry. He didn’t know there was anything left in him to cry, but there, kneeling, staring into Elyon’s crying eyes, he began to shake with long, desperate sobs.
“You understand what you’ve done, and it’s tearing at your mind. You want your wife back, I know. But that’s not what I have in mind.”
“I’m sorry!” He sounded foolish, but at the moment he only wished he could say whatever was needed to earn Justin’s complete forgiveness for his doubt.
“You’re a prince to me,” Justin said. “I’ve shown you my mind and my way, but soon I will show you my heart.”
“But Rachelle . . .” Thomas’s heart felt as though it might explode.
“Is in good hands,” Justin finished. “Laughing like she used to in the lake.”
His eyes made contact with the others, pausing at each face. “The Great Romance is for you. If only one of you would have followed me, the heavens would not have been able to contain my cries of joy.”
Justin’s eyes grew impassioned. He hurried over to Johan, lifted his hand, and kissed it. “Johan . . .”
Johan fell to his knees and sobbed before Justin could say more.
“I forgive you.” He kissed the man’s head. “Now you will ride with me.”
Justin stepped to the old man Jeremiah, lifted his hand, and kissed it. “You, Jeremiah, I called you out of the Horde like so many. But you came.”
The old man dropped to his knees and began to weep.
Justin ran to Lucy’s mother and kissed her hand. “And you, Alisha, I once told you that love would conquer death, but that it wouldn’t look like love; do you remember?”
She dropped to he
r knees, lowered her head, and cried.
“No, no, you followed me, Alisha! You all followed me!”
He went down the line, kissing each of their hands. Their Creator had taken the form of a man and was kissing their hands. They could hardly bear it, much less understand it.
Justin stepped back from the seventeen followers, all still on their knees. He walked to his left, then to his right, like a man overcome by his first viewing of a magnificent painting he himself had painted. “Wonderful,” he whispered to himself. “Incredible.” His face twisted with emotion. “Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful.” He paced, face stricken with emotion.
He suddenly spun from them, fell to his knees, threw his head back, and thrust both hands at the sky.
“Father!” he cried. “My father, she is beautiful!” He burst into a joyful laugh, and his brilliant eyes, full of love, traveled around the small group. “My bride is beautiful! How I have waited for this day.”
Thomas immediately understood the significance of what they were watching. He could hardly see it for his own tears, and he couldn’t hear too well over the crashing of his own heart, but he knew that this was about the Great Romance between Elyon and his creation. His people.
Elyon was restoring the Great Romance. Teeleh had stolen his first love, but now Justin had reclaimed her. The price had been his own life. He’d taken her disease on himself and he’d drowned with it, inviting them to embrace his invitation to the Romance by following him into the lake to drown with him. To live as his bride!
And Justin had called to his father. Until this moment, Thomas had never thought of such clear distinctions in Elyon’s character. But it could hardly be clearer—somehow Elyon the father had given Elyon, his son, a bride. They were the bride. Thomas couldn’t help but think that this very moment had been chosen long ago.
Justin stood, rushed to his horse, and grabbed his sword. He thrust its tip into the sand and began to run, dragging the sword. He ran around them as they watched, drawing a large circle.
This was the symbol they had once used to signify the union between a man and a woman. Half a circle on the man’s forehead for a betrothal, a full circle for their marriage. He was symbolically making them his bride.
Justin finished the circle and threw his sword on the sand. “You are mine,” he said. “Never break the circle that unites us. Do you understand what I’m asking you to do?”
They couldn’t speak.
“Your lives have always been about the Great Romance, and in the days to come you will understand that like never before. Your love will be tested. Others will join you. Some will leave the circle. Some will die. All of you will suffer. The Horde will hate you because their hearts have been stolen and their eyes have been blinded by the Shataiki. But if you keep your eyes on me until the end”—he swallowed—“the lake will seem tame compared to what awaits us.”
“None of us will ever leave you,” Lucy cried.
Justin looked at her as if he himself was going to cry again. “Then guard your heart, my princess. Remember how I love you, and love me the same. Always.”
He was looking at Lucy, but he was talking to all of them.
“You won’t see me again for some time, but you will have my water. Go to the Southern Forest, then beyond to the farthest southern edge, where you will find a small lake. Johan knows it.” He looked over their heads at the forest beyond. “I charge you to bring them to me. One by one, if you must. Show them my heart. Lead them into the red water.”
A hundred questions flooded Thomas’s mind. He found the courage to speak, though not to stand. “All the lakes are red?”
“All of my lakes are red. To whoever seeks, this water will represent life, just as you found life by following me. To the rest, the lakes will be a threat.”
“Are the wars over?” Mikil asked.
“My peace is their war. The war will come against you. For a time, you will find safety in the Southern Forest.” He ran to his horse, pulled something out of his saddlebag, and faced them.
“Do you recognize this, Thomas?”
An old leather-bound book. A Book of History!
Justin grinned. “A Book of History.” He tossed it to Thomas, who caught it with both hands. “There are thousands, not just the few that Qurong carries in his trunks. This is only one, but it will guide you.”
Thomas felt its worn cover and drew his thumb along the title.
The Histories Recorded by His Beloved
He cracked the book open. Cursive text ran across the page.
“Read it well,” Justin said. “Learn from it. Ronin will help you discover my teachings from the Southern Forest. He’ll show you the way.”
Thomas closed the book. “What about the blank book?” He touched the small lump at his waist where the empty book still rested. “Does it have a purpose?”
“The blank books. There are many of those as well. They are very powerful, my friend. They create history, but only in the histories. Here they are powerless. One day you may understand, but in the meantime, guard the one you have—in the wrong hands it could wreak havoc.”
Justin took a deep breath. “Now I must go.” He put his hand on his chest. “Keep your hearts strong and true. Follow the way of the book I have left with you. Never leave the circle.”
He eyed them each tenderly, and when his eyes rested on him, Thomas felt both weakened and strengthened by a stare that ran straight through him.
Justin turned toward his horse.
“Wait.” Thomas stood. “If this book works only in the histories, that means the histories are real? The virus?”
“Am I a boy, Thomas?” Justin turned back, smiling. “Am I a lamb or a lion, or am I Justin?”
“You are a father and a son?”
“I am. And the water as well.”
Thomas’s mind swam.
“Will I dream again?”
“Did you dream last night?”
“Yes. But not about the histories.”
“Did you eat the fruit?”
“No.”
“Well then.”
He swung into his saddle and winked. “Remember, never leave the circle.” With a slight nudge of his heel, his stallion walked away, and then trotted.
Then he galloped up the same dune from which he’d first come, reared the horse once at the crest, and disappeared into the horizon.
33
THIS HAD better be important,” President Blair said.
Kreet’s eyes darted around furtively. This wasn’t like the battle-hardened general.
“Don’t tell me the Israelis have launched,” Blair asked.
“They launched a missile into the Bay of Biscay. Cheyenne Mountain recorded a fifty-megaton blast fifteen minutes ago. It was a warning shot. The next one goes into the naval base at Brest. They’ve given France twenty-four hours to guarantee Israel’s survival.”
Blair didn’t know what to say. They’d discussed this possibility, but hearing that it had actually happened immobilized him. Finally he cleared his throat and turned back for the door.
“Any response from Paris?”
“Too early.”
“Okay, keep this quiet. As soon as I’m finished, I want our people out of here. The ambassador stays. Leave him uninformed.”
“Excuse me, sir.” An aide interrupted by handing Kreet a note. “A priority message.”
He took the note, glanced at it. Stared at it.
“What now?” Blair asked.
“It’s the French. They’ve answered Israel’s demands.”
“And?”
“They’ve reciprocated.”
Someone had cracked the door, preparing to open it for him. One of the European delegates in the main hall was yelling about innocent citizens, but the voice sounded distant, muted by a ring that echoed through Blair’s head.
“Cheyenne has picked up a missile headed over the Mediterranean. ETA, thirty minutes . . . that was four minutes ago.”
Bl
air couldn’t think straight. Nothing, not even a week of anticipation, could prepare anyone for a moment like this. France had just launched nuclear weapons at Israel.
“We don’t know their target. It may be a warning shot in return,” Kreet said.
President Blair stepped to the door. “Or it may not be. God help us, Ron. God help us all.”
This changed everything.
The basement room used to be a root cellar—cold enough to keep vegetables from rotting. They’d plastered the walls and sealed the ducts, but it was still cold enough to serve its purpose.
Carlos stepped in, flipped on the lights, and walked to the gurney. A white sheet covered the body. He hesitated only a moment, then lifted the corner.
Thomas Hunter’s blank eyes faced the ceiling. Dead. As dead as any man Carlos had ever killed. This time there would be no mistake; he’d gone out of his way to make sure of that. On both occasions that the man had seemingly come back to life, the circumstances were suspect. Carlos had never actually confirmed his death, for one thing. And the man’s recovery had been almost instantaneous.
This time his body had rested in this sealed room for nearly three days, and he hadn’t so much as twitched.
Dead. Very, very dead.
Satisfied, Carlos dropped the sheet over Thomas’s face, left the room, and headed down the hall. It was time to finish what they’d all started.
THE JOURNEY CONTINUES WITH WHITE . . .
WHITE
THE GREAT PURSUIT
North Dakota
FINLEY, POPULATION 543. That’s what the sign read.
Finley, population 0. That’s what the sign could very well read in two weeks, Mike Orear thought.
He stood on the edge of town, hot wind blowing through his hair, fighting a gnawing fear that the gray buildings erected along these vacated streets were tombstones waiting for the dead. The town had bustled with nearly three thousand residents before he’d gone off to school in North Forks and become a football star.
The last time he’d visited, two years earlier, the population had dwindled to under a thousand. Now, just over five hundred. One of countless dying towns scattered across America. But this one was special.