White

by Ted Dekker

  “Go on. What does this have to do with Monique’s dreams?”

  “Monique fell asleep with an open wound. She was with Thomas, who also had an open wound on his wrist. I know this sounds strange, but Monique told me she thought she crossed into this other reality because her blood was in contact with his when she dreamed. Thomas’s blood is the bridge to his dream world.”

  Bancroft lifted a hand and adjusted his round glasses. “And you think that . . .” He stopped. The conclusion was obvious.

  “I want to try.”

  “But they say that Thomas is dead,” Bancroft said.

  “For all we know, so is Monique. At least in this reality. The problem is, the world might still depend on those two. We can’t afford for them to be dead. I’m not saying I understand exactly how or why this could work, I’m just saying we have to try something. This is the only thing I can think of.”

  “You want to re-create the environment that allowed Monique to cross over,” he stated flatly.

  “Under your supervision. Please . . .”

  “No need to plead.” A glimmer of anticipation lit his eyes. “Believe me, if I hadn’t seen Thomas’s monitors with my own eyes, I wouldn’t be so eager. Besides, I’ve been tested positive for the virus he predicted from these dreams of his.”

  The psychologist’s willingness didn’t really surprise her. He was wacky enough to try it on his own, without her.

  “Then we need his blood,” she said.

  Dr. Myles Bancroft headed toward the door. “We need his blood.”

  It took less than ten minutes to hook her up to the electrodes Bancroft would use to measure her brain activity. She didn’t care about the whole testing rigmarole—she only wanted to dream with Thomas’s blood. True, the notion was about as scientific as snake handling. But lying there with wires attached to her head in a dozen spots made the whole experiment feel surprisingly reasonable.

  Bancroft tore off the blood-pressure cuff. “Pretty high. You’re going to have to sleep, remember? You haven’t told this to your heart yet.”

  “Then give me a stronger sedative.”

  “I don’t want to go too strong. The pills you took should kick in any moment. Just try to relax.”

  Kara closed her eyes and tried to empty her mind. The missile that France had fired at Israel had either already landed or was about to. She couldn’t imagine how a nuclear detonation in the Middle East would affect the current scenario. Scattered riots had started just this morning, according to the news. They were mostly in Third World countries, but unless a solution surfaced quickly, the West wouldn’t be far behind.

  They had ten days until the Raison Strain reached full maturity. Symptoms could begin to show among the virus’s first contractors, which included her and Thomas, in five days. According to Monique, they had those five days to acquire an antivirus. Maybe six, seven at most. They were all guessing, of course, but Monique had seemed pretty confident that the virus could be reversed if administered within a day or two, maybe three, of first symptoms.

  Too many maybes.

  Five days. Could she feel any of the symptoms now? She focused on her skin. Nothing. Her joints, fingers, ankles. She moved them all and still felt nothing. Unless the slight tingle she felt on her right calf was a rash.

  Now she was imagining.

  Her mind suddenly swam. Symptom? No, the drug was beginning to kick in.

  “I think it’s time,” she said.

  “One second.”

  The doctor fiddled with his machine and finally came over. “You’re feeling tired. Woozy?”

  “Close enough.”

  “Do you want any local anesthetic?”

  She hadn’t considered that. “Just make the cut small.” She wanted a mark so that if she did wake up in another reality, she would have the proof on her arm.

  “Large enough to bleed,” Bancroft said.

  “Just do it.”

  Bancroft wet her right forearm with a cotton ball and then carefully pressed a scalpel against her skin. Sharp pain stabbed up her arm and she winced.

  “Easy,” he said. “Finished.”

  He picked up a syringe with some of Thomas’s blood. The sample was small—they would use nearly half with this experiment of theirs.

  “It would have been easier to inject this,” he said.

  “We don’t know if it would work that way. Just do it the way it happened with Monique. We don’t have time to mess around.”

  He lowered the syringe and pushed five or six drops of Thomas’s blood onto her arm. It merged with a tiny bubble of her own blood. The doctor smeared the two together with his gloved finger. For a long moment they both stared at the mixed red stain.

  Their eyes met. Soft pop music played lightly over the speakers—an instrumental version of “Dancing Queen” by Abba. He’d turned the lights even lower than when she’d first entered.

  “I hope this works,” she said.

  “Go to sleep.”

  Kara closed her eyes again.

  “Should I wake you?”

  Thomas had always claimed that an hour sleeping could be a year in a dream. Her crossing to his world would be precipitated by falling asleep here. Her crossing back would be precipitated by dreaming there.

  “Wake me up in a hour,” she said.

  2

  Two ceremonies characterized the Circle more than any other: the union and the passing. The union was a wedding ceremony. The passing was a funeral. Both were celebrations.

  Tonight, a hundred yards from the camp beside the red pool that had drawn them to this site, Thomas led his tribe in the passing. The tribe consisted of sixty-seven members, including men, women, and children, and they were all here to both mourn and celebrate Elijah’s death.

  They would mourn because, although Elijah had left no blood relatives, the old man had been a delight. His stories at the night campfires had been faithfully attended by half the tribe. Elijah had a way of making the young children howl with laughter while mesmerizing his older listeners with mystery and intrigue. Only Tanis had told such brilliant tales, they all agreed, and that was before the Crossing, long ago.

  There was more about Elijah to like than his stories, of course: his love of children, his fascination with Elyon, his words of comfort in times when the Horde’s pursuit became more stressful than any of them could bear.

  But they also celebrated Elijah’s passing as they would celebrate anyone’s passing. Elijah was now in better company. He was with Justin. None of them knew precisely how nor what those such as Rachelle and Elijah were actually doing with Justin, but Thomas’s tribe had no doubts what-soever that their loved ones were with their Creator. And they had enough of a memory of swimming in the intoxicating water of the emerald lake to anticipate rejoining Elyon in such bliss.

  They stood in a circle around the woodpile, looking at Elijah’s still body in silence. Some of their cheeks were wet with tears; some smiled gently; all were lost in their own memories of the man.

  Thomas glanced at the tribe. His family now. Each man, woman, and child carried a blazing torch, ready to light the pyre at the appropriate moment. Most of the people were dressed in the same beige tunics they’d worn earlier in the day, though many had placed desert flowers in their hair and painted their faces with bright colors mixed from powdered chalk and water.

  Samuel and Marie stood to his left beside Mikil and Jamous. They’d grown quickly in this past year, practically a man and a woman now. They both wore the same coin-shaped pendants that all members of the Circle wore, usually on a thin thong of leather around their necks, but also as anklets or bracelets as Samuel and Marie did now.

  Johan and William had joined the tribe for tomorrow’s council meeting and now stood to Thomas’s right.

  Beyond the Circle, the red pool’s dark water glistened with the light of the torches. A hundred fruit trees and palms rose around the oasis. Before the night was done, they would feast on the fruit and dance under its power,
but for now they allowed themselves a moment of sorrow.

  Thomas and his small band had found their first of twenty-seven red pools amid a small patch of trees, exactly where Justin said they would. In thirteen months, the Circle had led nearly a thousand Scabs into the red waters, where they drowned of their own will and found new life. A thousand. A minuscule number when compared to the two million Scabs who now lived in the dominant forest. Even so, the moment Qurong became aware of the growing movement, he’d organized a campaign to wipe the Circle from the Earth. They had become nomads, making camp in canvas tents near the red pools when possible, and running when not. Mostly running.

  Johan had taught them the skills of desert survival: how to plant and harvest desert wheat, how to make thread from the stalks and weave tunics. Bedding, furniture, even their tents were all eerily reminiscent of the Horde way, though notably colored and spiced with Forest Dweller tastes. They ate fruit with their bread and adorned their tents with wild-flowers.

  Thomas returned his thoughts to the body of Elijah on the wood. In the end they would all be dead—it was the one certainty for all living creatures. But after their deaths, they each would find a life just barely imagined this side of the colored forest. In many ways he envied the old man.

  Thomas lifted his torch high. The others followed his lead.

  “We are born of water and of spirit,” he cried out.

  “Of water and spirit,” the tribe repeated. A new energy seemed to rise in the cool night air.

  “We burn this body in defiance of death. It holds no power over us. The spirit lives, though the flesh dies. We are born of water and of the spirit!”

  A hushed echo of his words swept through the circle.

  “Whether we be taken by the sword or by age or by any cause, we are alive still, passing from this world to the next. For this reason we celebrate Elijah’s passing tonight. He is where we all long to be!”

  The excitement was now palpable. They’d said their good-byes and paid their respects. Now it was time to relish their victory over death.

  Thomas glanced at Samuel and Marie, who were both staring at him. Their own mother, his wife, Rachelle, had been killed thirteen months ago. They’d mourned her passing more than most, only because they’d understood less then than now.

  He winked at his children, then shook the torch once overhead. “To life with Justin!”

  He rushed the pyre and thrust his torch into the wood. As one, the Circle converged on the woodpile. Those close enough shoved their torches in; the rest threw them.

  With a sudden swoosh, the fire engulfed Elijah’s body.

  Immediately a drumbeat rolled through the night. Voices yelled in jubilation and arms were thrust skyward in victory, perhaps exaggerated in hope but true to the spirit of the Circle. Without the belief in what awaited each of them, all other hope was moot.

  Elijah had been taken home to the Great Romance. Tonight he was the bride, and his bridegroom, Justin, who was also Elyon, had taken him back into the lake of infinite waters. And more.

  To say there wasn’t at least some envy among the tribe at a time like this would be a lie.

  They danced in a large circle around the roaring fire. Thomas laughed as the celebration took on a life of its own. He watched the Circle, his heart swelling with pride. Then he stepped back from the fire’s dancing light and crossed his arms. He faced the dark night where cliffs were silhouetted by a starry sky.

  “You see, Justin? We celebrate our passing with the same fervor that you showed us after your own.”

  An image filled his mind: Justin riding to them on a white horse the day after his drowning, then pulling up, eyes blazing with excitement. He’d run to each of them and grasped their hands. He’d pronounced them the Circle on that day.

  The day Rachelle had been killed by the Horde.

  “I hope you were right about settling here,” a voice said softly at his shoulder.

  He faced Johan, who followed his gaze to the cliffs.

  “If the Horde is anywhere near, they’ve seen the fire already,” Johan said.

  Thomas clasped his shoulder. “You worry too much, my friend. When have we let the threat of a few Scabs distract us from celebrating our sacred love? Besides, there’s been no warning from our guard.”

  “But we have heard that Woref has stepped up his search. I know that man; he’s relentless.”

  “And so is our love for Justin. I’m sick of running.”

  Johan did not react. “We meet at daybreak?”

  “Assuming the Horde hasn’t swept us all out to the desert.” Thomas winked. “At daybreak.”

  “You make light now. Soon enough it will be a reality,” Johan said. He dipped his head and returned to the revelry.

  They sat on flat rocks early the next morning, pondering. At least Thomas, Suzan, and Jeremiah were pondering, silent for the most part. The other members of the council—Johan, William, and Ronin—might also be pondering, but their cranial activity didn’t interfere with their mouths.

  “Never!” Ronin said. “I can tell you without the slightest reservation that if Justin were standing here today, in this very canyon, he would set you straight. He always insisted that we would be hated! Now you’re suggesting that we go out of our way to appease the Horde? Why?”

  “How can we influence the Horde if they hate us?” Johan demanded. “Yes, let them hate our beliefs. You have no argument from me there. But does this mean we should go out of our way to antagonize them so that they despise every albino they see?”

  The Horde referred to them as albinos because their flesh wasn’t scaly and gray like a Scab’s skin. Ironic, because they were all darker than the Horde. In fact, nearly half of the Circle, including Suzan, had various shades of chocolate skin. They were the envy of most lighter-skinned albinos because the rich tones differentiated them so dramatically from the white Horde. Some members of the Circle even took to painting their skin brown for the ceremonies. All of them bore the albino name with pride. It meant they were different, and there was nothing they wanted more than to be different from the Horde.

  Ronin paced on the sand, red-faced despite the cool air. “You’re putting words in my mouth. I’ve never suggested we antagonize the Horde. But Justin was never for embracing the status quo. If the Horde is the culture, then Justin was counterculture. We lose that understanding and we lose who we are.”

  “You’re not listening, Ronin.” Johan sighed with frustration. “For the first six months, Qurong left us alone. He was too busy tearing down trees to make room for his new city. But now the winds have changed. This new campaign led by Woref isn’t just a temporary distraction for them. I know Qurong! Worse, I know Woref. That old python once oversaw the Horde’s intelligence under my command. At this very moment he’s undoubtedly stalking us. He won’t stop until every one of us is dead. You think Justin intended to lead us to our deaths?”

  “Isn’t that why we enter the red pools?” Ronin asked. “To die?” He grabbed the pendant that hung from his neck and held it out. “Doesn’t our very history mark us as dead to this world?”

  The medallion cradled in his hand had been carved from green jade found in the canyons north of the Southern Forest. Craftsmen inlaid the medallion with polished black slate to represent evil’s encroachment on the colored forest. Within the black circle were tied two crossing straps of red-dyed leather, representing Justin’s sacrifice in the red pools. Finally, they fixed a white circle hewn from marble where the red leather straps crossed.

  “We find life, not death, in the pools,” Johan said. “But even there, we might consider a change in our strategies.”

  Thomas looked at his late wife’s brother. This wasn’t the boy who’d once innocently bounded about the hills; this was the man who’d embraced a persona named Martyn and become a mighty Scab leader accustomed to having his way. Granted, Johan was no Martyn now, but he was still headstrong, and he was flexing his muscle.

  “Think what you will
about what Justin would or wouldn’t have wanted,” Johan said, “but remember that I was with him too.”

  Light flashed through Ronin’s eyes, and for a moment Thomas thought he might remind Johan that he hadn’t only been with Justin; he’d betrayed him. Oversaw his drowning. Murdered him.

  But Ronin set his jaw and held his tongue.

  “I did make my share of mistakes,” Johan said, noting the look. “But I think he’s forgiven me for that. And I don’t think what I’m suggesting now is a mistake. Please, at least consider what I’m saying.”

  “What are you saying?” Thomas asked. “In the simplest of terms.”

  Johan stared into his eyes. “I’m saying that we have to make it easier for the enemies of Elyon to find him.”

  “Yes, but what does that mean?” Ronin demanded. “You’re suggesting that the drowning is too difficult? It was Justin’s way!”

  “Did I say the drowning was too difficult?” Johan glared at Ronin, then closed his eyes and held up a hand. “Forgive me.” Eyes open. “I’m saying that I know the Horde better than anyone here. I know their aversions and their passions.” He looked to Jeremiah as if for support. The old man averted his eyes. “If we want to embrace them—to love them as Justin does—we have to allow them to identify with us. We must be more tolerant of their ways. We must consider using methods that are more accept-able to them.”

  “Such as?” Thomas asked.

  “Such as opening the Circle to Scabs who haven’t drowned.”

  “They would never be like us without drowning. They can’t even eat our fruit without spitting it out.”

  Thomas spoke of the fruit that grew around the red pools. Although the red water was sweet to drink, it held no known medicinal value. The fruit that grew on the trees around the pools, on the other hand, was medicinal, and some of it was not unlike the fruit from the colored forest. Some fruits could heal; others gave nourishment far beyond a single bite. Some filled a person with an overpowering sense of love and joy—they called this kind woromo, which had quickly become the most valuable among all the fruits. To any Scab who hadn’t entered the red pools, this particular fruit tasted bitter.