by Ted Dekker
“That’s right; they don’t like our fruit,” Johan said. “And they can’t be like us—that’s my point. If they can’t be like us, then we might consider being more like them.”
Thomas wasn’t sure he’d heard right. Johan wouldn’t suggest the Circle reverse what Justin had commanded. There had to be sensible nuances to what he was suggesting.
“I know it sounds odd,” Johan continued, “but consider the possibilities. If we were to look more like them, smell like them, dress like them, refrain from flaunting our differences, they might be more willing to tolerate us. Maybe even to live among us. We could introduce them to Justin’s teachings slowly and win them over.”
“And what about the drowning?” Ronin asked.
Johan hesitated, then answered without looking at the man. “Perhaps if they follow Justin in principle, he wouldn’t require that they actually drown.” He looked at Ronin. “After all, love is a matter of the heart, not the flesh. Why can’t someone follow Justin without changing who they are?”
Thomas felt his veins grow cold. Not because the suggestion was so preposterous, but because it made such terrible sense. It would seem that Johan, of all people, having been drawn out of deception as a member of the Horde, would stand firm on the doctrine of drowning. But Johan had made his case to Thomas once already—his suggestion was motivated by compassion for the Horde.
The survival of the thousand who followed Justin depended on being able to flee the Horde at a moment’s notice. But the small nomadic communities were growing tired of running for their lives. This teaching from Johan would be embraced by some of them, Thomas had no doubt.
Ronin spit to one side, picked up his leather satchel, and started to walk away. “I will have no part of this. The Justin I knew would never have condoned such blasphemy. He said they would hate us! Are you deaf? Hate us.”
“Then go to Justin and ask him what we should do,” Johan said. “Please, I mean no offense, Ronin. I’m just trying to make sense of things myself.”
William stepped forward and spoke for the first time. “I have another way.”
They all faced him, including Ronin, who had stopped.
“Johan is right. We do have a serious problem. But instead of embracing the Horde’s ways, it is my contention that we follow Justin by separating ourselves from the Horde as he himself instructed. I would like to take my tribe deep.”
This wasn’t the first time William had suggested fleeing into the desert, but he’d never made a formal request of it.
“And how can you follow Justin’s instruction to lead them to the drowning if you’re deep in the desert?” Ronin challenged.
“Others can lead them to the drowning. But think of the women and children. We must protect them!”
“Justin will protect them if he wishes,” Ronin said.
Thomas glanced at Johan, then back at William. The Circle’s first deep fractures were already starting to show. For more than a year they’d followed Ronin’s lead on doctrine, as instructed by Justin, but these new challenges would test his leadership.
What else had Justin told them that day after drawing a circle around them in the sand?
Never break the Circle.
Ronin glared at each of them. “What’s happening here? We’re already forgetting why we came together? Why our skin is different? We’re forgetting the Great Romance between Elyon and his people? That we are his bride?”
“His bride? That’s merely a metaphor,” William said. “And even so, we are his bride; the Horde is not. So I say we take the bride deep into the desert and hide her from the enemy.”
“We are his bride, and whoever follows us out of the Horde will be his bride as well,” Ronin said. “How will the Horde ever hear Elyon’s call to love unless it’s from our own throats?”
“Elyon doesn’t need our throats!” William countered. “You think the Creator is so dependent on you?”
“Keep it down. You’ll wake the camp,” Thomas said, standing. He glanced at Jeremiah and Suzan, who hadn’t spoken yet. “We’re on a dangerous course here.”
No one disagreed.
“Ronin, read this passage for us again. The one about them hating us.”
Ronin reached into his satchel and withdrew the Book of History that Justin had given them before his departure. They all knew it quite well, but the teachings it held were at times difficult to understand.
Ronin carefully peeled the cloth off and opened the cover. The Histories Recorded by His Beloved. He flipped through dog-eared pages and found the passage. “Here it is. Listen.” His voice lowered and he read with an accustomed somber respect. “When the world hates you, remember that it hated me first. If you belonged to the world, it would love you. But you do not belong to the world. I have brought you out of the world, and that is why it hates you.”
“Things change with time,” Johan said.
“Nothing has changed!” Ronin said, closing the Book. “Following Justin may be easy, but making the decision never is. Are you second-guessing his way?”
“Slow down,” Thomas said. “Please! This kind of division will destroy us. We must remember what we know as certain.”
He looked at Jeremiah again. “Remind us.”
“As certain?”
“Absolute certainty.”
The older man reminded Thomas of Elijah. He stroked his long white beard and cleared his throat.
“That Justin is Elyon. That according to the Book of History, Elyon is father, son, and spirit. That Justin left us with a way back to the colored forest through the red pools. That Elyon is wooing his bride. That Justin will soon come back for his bride.”
Now Suzan spoke. “And that most of what we know about who Justin really is, we know from the Book through metaphor. He’s the light, the vine, the water that gives life.” She gestured to the Book of History in Ronin’s hand. “His spirit is the wind; he is the bread of life, the shepherd who would leave all for the sake of one.”
“True enough,” Thomas said. “And when the Book tells us to drink his blood, it means that we should embrace his death. So how can we hide by running deep into the desert, or by putting ash and sulfur on our skin?”
“He also told us to flee to the Southern Forest,” William said. “If what you’re saying is true, then why didn’t he tell us to run back to the Horde? Perhaps because the bride has a responsibility to stay alive.”
William did have a point. The dichotomy was reminiscent of the religion Thomas vaguely remembered from his dreams.
“I intend to leave today and lead a hundred into the deep desert,” William said. “Johan’s right. It’ll only be a matter of time before Woref flushes us out. If you expect any mercy from him, you’re mistaken. He’d kill us all to save himself the trouble of dragging us back to the city. This is a matter of prudence for me.”
Thomas looked down the canyon, toward the entrance to a small enclave where the tribe was slowly waking. A small boy squatted in the sand by the entrance, drawing with his finger. Smoke drifted from a fire around the cliff wall—they were getting ready to cook the morning wheat pancakes. As the smoke rose, it was swept down-canyon by a perpetual breeze, and most of it dissipated before it rose high enough to be seen from any distance. A thin trail of smoke lingered over the funeral pyre beyond towering boulders a hundred meters from the camp.
Thomas took a deep breath, glanced at the pile of large rocks to his right, and was about to tell William to take his expedition when a man stepped around the largest boulder.
Thomas’s first thought was that he was hallucinating. Dreaming, as he used to dream before the dreams had vanished. This was no ordinary man standing before him, drilling him with green eyes.
This was . . .
Justin?
Thomas blinked to clear his vision.
What he saw made his whole body seize. Justin was still there, standing in three complete dimensions, as real as any man Thomas had ever faced.
“Hello, Thomas.�
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Justin’s kind eyes flashed, not with reflected light, but with their own brilliance. Thomas thought he should fall to his knees. He was surprised the others hadn’t dropped already. They, like him, had been immobilized by Justin’s sudden appearance.
“I’ve been watching you, my friend. What I see makes me proud.”
Thomas opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
“I’ve shared my mind with you,” Justin said. “I’ve given my body for you.” His mouth twisted into a grin and he spoke each word clearly. “Now I will show you my heart,” he said. “I will show you my love.”
Thomas felt each word hit his chest, as if they were soft objects flung through the air, impacting one at a time. Now I will show you my heart. My love.
Thomas turned his head toward the others. They stared at him, not comprehending. Surely they saw! Surely they heard.
“This is for you, Thomas,” Justin said. “Only you.”
Thomas looked back at—
Justin was gone!
The morning air felt heavy.
“Thomas!”
Thomas turned back toward the camp in time to see Mikil rushing around the cliff. She pulled up and stared at him, face white.
“What is it?” he asked absently, mind still split.
“I’m . . . I think I know something about Kara,” she said.
“Kara? Who’s Kara?”
But as soon as he asked, he remembered. His sister. From the histories.
3
Woref swung his leg over the stallion and dropped to the sand. Behind him, a hundred of his best soldiers waited on horses that stamped and occasionally snorted in the cool morning air. They’d approached the firelit sky last night, camped at the edge of the Southern Forest, and risen while it was still dark. This could be the day that marked the beginning of the end for the albinos.
The lieutenant who’d first located this camp had never been wrong—once again he hadn’t disappointed. Still, they’d been in similar situations a dozen times, the albinos within reach, only to return home empty-handed. The Circle didn’t fight, but they had perfected the art of evasion.
Woref stared at the canyons ahead. The blue smoke of burning horse manure was unmistakable. Soren had reported a small oasis south of the camp—roughly a hundred trees around one of the poisonous red pools—but the albinos were too smart to use any wood unless it was already fallen. Instead they used recycled fuel, as a Scab would. They’d adapted to the desert well with Martyn’s help. Johan’s help.
Woref ’s dreadlocks hung heavy on his head, and he rolled his neck to clear one from his face. Truth be told, he’d never liked Martyn. His defection was appropriate. Better, it had opened the way for Woref ’s own promotion. Now he was the hunter and Martyn the prey, along with Thomas. The reward for their heads was a heady prospect.
“Show me their retreat paths,” he said.
Soren dropped to one knee and drew in the sand. “The canyon looks like a box, but there are two exits, here and here. One leads to the pool, here; the other to the open desert.”
“How many women and children?”
“Twenty or thirty. Roughly half.”
“And you’re sure that Thomas is among the men?”
“Yes sir. I will stake my life on it.”
Woref grunted. “You may regret it. Qurong’s losing his patience.”
A thousand or so dissidents sworn to nonviolence didn’t present a threat to the Horde, but the number of defections from the Horde to the Circle was water on Qurong’s flaky skin. He was adamant about preempting any deterioration in his power base. Thomas of Hunter had defeated him one too many times in battle to take any chances.
“As are we.” Soren dipped his head then added, “Sir.”
Woref spit to one side. The whole army knew that Thomas of Hunter’s head wasn’t the only head at stake here. What they didn’t know was that Qurong’s own daughter, Chelise, was also at stake.
The supreme leader had long ago promised to allow his daughter to marry once the Horde captured the forests, but he had changed his mind when Thomas escaped. As long as Thomas of Hunter was free to lead a rebellion, Chelise would remain single. At the outset of this campaign, he’d secretly sworn his daughter’s hand to Woref, pending the capture of Thomas.
At times Woref wondered if Qurong was only protecting his daughter, who’d made it clear that she wasn’t interested in marrying any general, including Woref. Her dismissal only fueled Woref ’s desire. If Qurong refused him this time, he would kill the leader and take Chelise by force.
“They have no intelligence of our approach?” he asked.
“No sign of it. I can’t recall an opportunity as promising as this.”
“Send twenty to cover each escape route. Death to the man who alerts them before we are ready. We attack in twenty minutes. Go.”
Soren ran back and quietly leveled his orders.
Woref squeezed his fingers into fists and relaxed them. He missed the days when the Forest Guard fought like men. Their fearless leader had turned into a mouse. One loud word and he would scamper for the rocks, where the Horde had little chance of ferreting him out. The albinos were still much quicker than Scabs.
Woref had watched the battle at the Natalga Gap, when Thomas had rained fire down on them with the thunder he called bombs. None had been used since, but that would change once they had Thomas in chains. The battle leading up to that crushing defeat had been the best kind. Thousands had died on both sides. Granted, many more thousands of the Horde than the Forest Guard, but they had Thomas on his heels before the cliffs had crushed the Horde.
Woref had killed eight of the Guard that day. He could still remember each blow, severing flesh and bone. The smell of blood. The cries of pain. The white eyes of terror. Killing. There was no experience that even closely compared.
His orders were to bring Thomas in alive, in part because of information the rogue leader could offer, in part because Qurong meant to make an example of him. But if given the excuse, Woref would kill the man. Thomas was responsible for his loneliness these last thirteen months—these past three years, in fact, ever since Chelise had grown into the woman she was, tempting any whole-blooded man with her leveled chin and long flowing hair and flashing gray eyes. He’d known that she would be his. But he hadn’t expected such a delay.
He’d objected bitterly to Qurong’s decision to delay her marriage after the drowning of Justin. If Martyn had still been with them, Woref ’s indis-cretion that night might have cost him his life. But in the confusion of such wholesale change, Qurong needed a strong hand to keep the peace. Woref had assumed Martyn’s place and performed without fault. There wasn’t a Scab alive who didn’t fear his name.
“Sir?”
Soren stepped up to him, but Woref didn’t acknowledge him. He suppressed a flash of anger. Did I say come? No, but you came anyway. One day no one will dare approach me without permission.
“They’ve gone, as you ordered.”
Woref walked back to his horse, lifted his boot into the stirrup, paused to let the pain in his joints pass, then mounted. The albinos claimed not to have any pain. It was a lie.
“Tell the men that we will execute one of them for every albino who escapes,” he said.
“And how many of the albinos do we kill?”
“Only as many as it takes to capture Thomas. They’re more useful alive.”
4
Your sister,” Mikil said. “Kara.”
Mikil felt her knees weaken. They stood deadlocked, stares unbroken. The others were looking at both of them as if they’d gone crazy.
“I . . .” Thomas finally stammered. “Is that possible? I . . . I haven’t dreamed for thirteen months.”
She’d awakened in her tent with the certain knowledge that she wasn’t entirely herself. Her mind was full of thoughts beyond those she would ordinarily entertain. In fact, she was considering the strange possibility that she was Thomas of Hunter’s sister. Kara.
The moment she considered the possibility, her mind seemed to embrace it. The more she embraced it, the more she remembered Thomas’s dreams, and more, Rachelle’s dreams. As a woman named Monique.
Then she knew the truth. Kara of Hunter had made a connection with her. Details seeped into her mind. Thomas’s sister, who’d just fallen asleep in Dr. Bancroft’s laboratory, was dreaming as if she were Mikil at this very moment. Mikil’s own husband, Jamous, lay asleep beside her. She had no children. She was well liked if a bit stiff-necked on occasion. She was Thomas’s “right-hand man.”
But she was also privy to Kara’s situation in the histories. She had Mikil’s memories and Kara’s memories at once. She was technically Mikil—that much was obvious—but she was suddenly feeling nearly as much like Kara.
So Kara had joined her brother in his dreams—at least that was how she thought of it. Now Kara stood gaping at a spitting image of her own brother plus about fifteen years. He wore a sleeveless tunic that accentuated bulging biceps. Below, a short leather skirt that hung midthigh over a well-worn beige tunic. His boots were strapped up high over well-defined calves. The man before her had to be twice as strong as her brother.
“Wow,” she said. “You’re quite the stud.”
Stud? Where had that word come from? Kara.
“A horse?” William said. “You insult him?”
“No, she means something else,” Thomas said. “My friends, I would like to introduce you to my sister from my dream world. There, her name is Kara.”
William’s left eyebrow arched high. “She looks like Mikil to me.”
“Yes, but evidently Mikil’s brought Kara for a visit.”