Khari'na Made (Muse Book 1)

by Jean Winter

  “You do no' have to stay here today—on the property, you know,” J'Kor told her from the table where he still sat at breakfast.

  She turned to him surprised. “I didn't think I was allowed to travel alone.”

  “Well, you should be safe enough if you stayed in the vicinity, you know, where the people still know me … us. You could drive Whinnee to the market. Or to Sal's. Would you like to start on those alterations today?”

  Lyra smiled. “Thank you, but no. I would not choose to do such work on the Sabbath.”

  “Oh, well, the market, then. I could send you with some money for some better fitting shoes.”

  “I would not voluntarily cause others to work on the Sabbath, either,” she said, shaking her head, amused. His slightly disgruntled expression was adorable.

  Her private prayer later, in the privacy of the vanity closet, was an extra long one of thanksgiving. A great weight had been lifted off Lyra's shoulders in this new relationship with J'Kor and it felt like she could breathe freely for the first time in his home. She prayed earnestly for blessings upon him for his tremendous integrity. And she desperately entreated for it to last. Memories of the vivid dream of Jon began to surface as she prayed. Lyra was so grateful for that small moment of feeling like they were together again—even if it hadn't been real. She remembered that familiar gleam and how he'd kissed her—just like old times. Oh, sorry, Father. Lyra realized she had allowed herself to become distracted from her prayer. She just missed him so much.

  So what do I do now? she wondered at her Creator. Keep waiting? Jon had told her she would find a way. He had also made some other cryptic comments, too. What were they? Something about—

  Ugh. She was getting distracted again. “Father, please guide me,” she said.

  With no text or anyone of the priesthood with whom she could consult for direction, she felt like she was just floundering uselessly around there by herself.

  That is not entirely true.

  Jon's words thundered into her mind with such force and clarity that Lyra's eyes flashed open. Right up to the top shelf of the closet. Chills ran down her spine as she got the feeling that something was returning her gaze.

  Truth be told, this had been happening to a certain extent all week. Ever since she had taken the case down to examine it last Vend', every time she walked into the closet, the idea of opening it grew like a persistent vine, overtaking the entire wall upon which it grew. Lyra's forehead crinkled in worry. Was she receiving a message of the Spirit, though, or was this just her own morbid curiosity to view that which had only been seen by the precious few and worthy? It was hard to tell sometimes.

  Her heart beat faster, and she stood and bit nervously at her lip. God of the Universe, if I should not be doing what I'm thinking about doing, you'd better strike me down now.

  It felt silly, waiting for some zap from the heavens to shock her dumb, but nothing happened. In fact, the pressure Lyra felt to take down that box only mounted, filling her with such fervor and nervous energy that she wondered for a moment if she might pass out. Then with a start, Lyra realized this was the same feeling as when she had stood alone on the catwalk at the auction.

  Oh God! Something was definitely going on here, something like she had never felt before as Bearer for her sacred stewardship. Something driving her to— Okay! Okay.

  Lyra peeked out into the rest of the house. J'Kor had already gone outside. She went to the front window and saw his tiny figure in the distance, out in the field with Ahskr. Well, let's have another look at that container.

  Now that the decision had been made, Lyra almost trotted back to the vanity closet. She tingled all over with anticipation as she locked the bedroom door and cleared space on the makeup vanity. But the giddy excitement subsided once she brought down the Tohmu'vah's case and set it before her. Uh, what now?

  It was the same as before, an ornate, heavy, ancient box, about one and a half hands tall and half as wide. Something quite substantial shifted slightly within in as she turned it upside down to view the small buttons making up the code pad. Lyra became nervous. This was a contraption of a mysterious age, constructed to the specifications that God, Himself, revealed to Shenth, the first prophet that began recording the commandments once a working written language had been developed more than twenty-five hundred years ago. For all she knew, it might blow up or spew out some kind of flesh-eating poison if she punched in a wrong combination.

  The thirty-six tiny, metal knobs making up the button configuration ran four across and nine down. Frowning, Lyra gave the box a quarter turn. Or was it nine across and four down? Up, down, left, or right, the buttons were uniformly spaced and her frown turned into a puff of dismay. She had no idea which way she should even be looking at it—not that it mattered much, considering she also had no clue as to the proper combination.

  Well Father, if it is indeed with Thy approval that I open this thing, a little inspiration would be most welcome.

  Lyra racked her brain for ideas. It was hard to even know where to start. Did the buttons represent numbers or letters? Was the code simply some kind of symbol or shape outlined in the surface? A close examination revealed no particular buttons appearing more worn or different from the others. It fit, she guessed. To her knowledge, this thing hadn't been opened very often at all. The scripture stories told that it was only when the prophet, himself, received direct revelation to do so, usually in a time of the most dire circumstances to be brought out to defend the people. Or when new doctrine was revealed. The last recorded instance in history was about nine hundred years ago.

  She balked once more in her determination to crack the code. Great gutlins! Who was she that something of such import would be availed to her just because she longed for direction? That's what prayer was for. The world was not coming to an end. She was not even in danger at the moment. Lyra ran her fingers over the surface of the code area, and got the same intense feeling rushing through her that some object in there desired to meet her.

  Well okay! But how do I get to you? she asked it directly. Then she felt silly again.

  Lyra refocused. If this was right, she should be able to figure it out. Maybe clues were embedded in the ornamentation.

  A careful study of every side revealed many stylized lilicanth blossoms, sunlarks, and depictions of the Glory Star riddling the surface in alternating patterns—all symbols of peace and the Godhead—specifically the Son. The Christ. Lyra counted the number of times each symbol appeared and tried to conjure up some pattern that could relate to the grid of knobs. Three was an important number, but so was one, two, seven, and others. Eventually a few possibilities formed that had to do with viewing the buttons as four rows of nine, but her index finger hesitated upon touching the first one.

  Shaking her head, Lyra finally pushed the third knob in the first row. It sunk rather easily with a small click. Then Lyra waited … for the box to blow up? Bah! Nothing. She went to the next one in the second row. It, too, went down without much effort. Moving faster now, Lyra pushed two more buttons and waited with bated breath.

  Nothing. Again.

  The buttons popped back up easily with another push and Lyra tried another combination. And another. No results. Next Lyra tried some picture shapes. She made an arrow pointing up, then down, and then in outward diagonals. There were arrow impresa in relief in the four corners of each side of the box—symbolic of following the straight and narrow path with regard to keeping the commandments, but still nothing. More minutes were wasted playing around with other possible shapes until Lyra threw her hands into her lap in frustration.

  This was dumb. She was just fishing. If she was supposed to open it, she should just know how to do it. Lyra stared at the box for a long time. It stared right back, like it didn't know why she was taking so long. You know this, it seemed to say. The answer has been with you this whole time.

  “Therefore, the mark of the servant is glory unto me.

  For from the burdened back of
the mean and lowly will I raise up my chosen to supplant kings and powers that seek to destroy.”

  The fifth verse, tenth chapter of Shenth's writings suddenly rang very clearly in Lyra's head. It was one that was always brought up when discussing the importance of not seeking for wealth and power and how it is God's will for the meek and humble to eventually inherit the world. Lyra thought it through again and again.

  “The servant is glory unto me … from the mean and lowly will I raise up my chosen,” she whispered. “The servant is glory unto me—”

  Her head shook in confusion. These words weren't getting her anywhere. Oh Jon! Couldn't he have given her something?

  Lyra stood and paced a bit before the vanity where the box sat unpretentiously on top. The servant is glory unto me. The servant … the mark of the servant is glory—

  Something stirred in her memory, Jon's last words in her dream: Remember your mark. The mark of Believers? Lyra almost smiled. That would be coarse, homespun clothing and their ever moving gypsy culture. Other than a few religious symbols, which she had already tried, the Believers were not known by any distinguishing emblem. They had a few rituals for sacred ordinances, but again, these were gestures and covenant oaths, nothing that would translate well into a visual symbol.

  Other kinds of marks?

  Lyra thought of her signature. Well, if she viewed the grid lengthwise she could get in some letter shapes, perhaps three. Lyra sat again. G-O-D. It seemed the obvious choice. Drat. Nothing. She tried other letter combinations—anything she could think of: important prophets' initials, angels, other small, but meaningful words, acronyms for phrases …

  Nothing.

  Nothing!

  Frustrated, Lyra sat up, feeling the need to stretch her back. She hadn't realized how long she had been crouching over the vanity. Marks … mark of the servant. Her brain filtered through other possible meanings.

  Lyra suddenly sucked in a breath. She reached over her shoulder and felt the raised skin covering her implant. That was definitely a mark. Was Jon's remark more literal than she thought? How would that even translate to a grid of buttons? Lyra stood the box on its side to make the grid nine columns of four across—reminiscent of someone's long neck. What a sick theory! That couldn't be right. It wouldn't work anyway. The exact middle of four knobs was the space in between. No one knob could be the 'token implant.' Her teeth gritted in agitation.

  Your theories are getting dumber and dumber, girl. There was no way God would make the key to their most sacred artifact be a symbol of khari'na, anyway. She had better just give up now while she still had some dignity left. With a sigh, Lyra pushed the box away.

  Her dream about Jon was just that, anyway, a dream—what she wanted to see, what she wanted to feel. Remember your mark. If anything, it was meant to be very figurative. He was reminding her of her mission here—her tiny mark in God's grand scheme that she still needed to fulfill as a mother and as Bearer. Lyra gave the box another quarter turn, resting it on it's back end so the front of the lid looked skyward. The button pattern was horizontal again: four rows of nine.

  You know what my real “mark” is? And she snorted peevishly. Four numbers seared into my flesh. She pushed the fourth button in the first row, the seventh in the next two rows, and the third—

  Whirrrr-click. Shhh.

  Lyra's heart stopped. She leaned forward. The lid was cracked open a centimeter.

  GOD OF THE HEAVENS AND ALL THAT IS HOLY!

  “Oh, Father … that is sooo not funny.”

  Swallowing hard, Lyra gently rocked the box right side up again to another slight shift of contents.

  “You cannot be serious!” she breathed. “My stupid tattoo?” The significance of what she just did—and what this might mean—was mind numbing. The room started to churn and her head grew light and tingly like it wanted to detach from her neck and float away. She might be hyperventilating.

  Lyra carefully lowered herself to the floor, all the while knowing this could not be a coincidence. But oh, God, why? WHY?

  She suddenly felt extremely small and very vulnerable, like all the hosts of heaven were staring down at her, full of expectation. Dizzy, she crawled into the corner and huddled there with shaking knees drawn up to her chest. I am a nobody, Father! Surely you don't want me for any greater purpose than to get the Tohmu'vah back home. I am not spiritual enough. I am not worthy!

  As if to prove her point, Lyra began listing all the men and women she knew who were spiritual giants compared to her—people who were so much wiser, and who knew the doctrine better. D'nae, her older sister, was one of them. Lyra couldn't count the number of times she had gone to her for advice or a loving shoulder upon which to lean. D'nae had also become the backbone of the family after Dad died several years ago and Mom began to grow old and lose touch with reality.

  And yet, here she was. The box had opened for her. Lyra. An enslaved widow, constantly tempted by her owner, and dabbling in magic! It took several minutes to compose herself once again.

  All right.

  All right.

  Baby steps.

  She had gotten this far without cracking. Surely she could keep moving along, one foot in front of the other, as needed. The Creator loves you. You know this. Whatever He may ask of you, you can at least try your best.

  Gathering her nerve, Lyra arose. It was time to see what will happen next.

  She left the closet to check the time and make sure J'Kor was still quite involved with work elsewhere. Done. She could easily hear the thwack of the ax as it split another log outside. From the porch, Lyra peeked around the corner for a second.

  Boy, he sure likes to chop wood. He had created a mountain of freshly split lumber against the house just in the last week.

  Tearing her eyes away, she hurried back to the room and made fast the bedroom door. Then she pulled shut the shade of the closet's small window and sat again on the little stool before the box.

  Okay. Here goes nothing.

  Gingerly working two fingers under the lip, Lyra lifted the lid. She had a fleeting, terrifying thought that perhaps this had all been a hoax and what was supposed to be in there wasn't, but she needn't have worried. Inside, nestled within a silky, vermillion, padded lining, was an object wrapped in a fine, white cloth. It's dimensions filled the entire inner space.

  Slowly, and with tremendous reverence, Lyra reached in and pulled out the Tohmu'vah—God's original law and doctrine for His children on this world, etched in the old language on thin plates of a precious metal alloy known only as meld.

  Her fingers were shaking as she set it on her lap and pulled lightly at a fold that fell away to reveal the perfectly polished, amber-toned book of plates that almost glowed in the soft light from the ceiling's small bulb. Lyra gasped in wonder. It was beautiful, just like she had always been told.

  Three rod loops that passed through holes drilled along one side of the plate stack made up the binding, and Lyra admired the fineness of the plates cut to precision and uniformity. Across the cover in intricately carved lettering was written Tohmu'vah, literally translated: God's Book. The smaller words under this, Lyra translated in a whisper.

  “The Testament, Law, and Will of God, The Great I Am, to His children.”

  It was just like her copy of the scriptures, only hers was on yellowed, plain paper in simple print. Hers also had some additional scripture and revelations, given by Heavenly Father through the prophets in the centuries after His mandate that the Tohmu'vah be finished and sealed up for protection.

  Lyra dared not touch the metal. When endowed by the powers of Heaven, this object was somehow supposed to be able to emit colossal amounts of destructive energy, though no one knew exactly how that worked. It was one of those things that had not been fully revealed and they were directed to rely on faith. Lyra wasn't about to test her faith now.

  Nervously licking her lips, and using a corner of the soft, white covering as a barrier, she turned over the cover plate to the first pag
e. Warmth from the Holy Spirit swelled in her, filling her entire being as she began to read.

  “The First Chronicle of Myk'l:

  Before the world was, God was, and the Word was with Him also.

  And God looked upon the space, void of form, to organize the matter therein into a new world …”

  In awe, Lyra read through the entire description of the creation of Geniven. It was the exact same wording as what she had always read, but somehow, reading it directly from the sacred text, it all felt so much more real. She could no longer describe her belief in God and the scriptures as that of faith—she knew. If God and the Christ, themselves, appeared before her now, it would not have strengthened her knowledge any further. The words inscribed before her were the truth. It was all true. The Spirit bore ardent witness to her of that fact and Lyra felt a gratitude beyond conceivability pierce her soul. Simultaneously, she comprehended the depths of her weakness, and knew that it should not have taken such an experience for her to reach this perfect understanding.

  “Blessed are they who believe because of these evidences, but more blessed are they who have not seen and yet still believe, for their faith is sufficient in me to be made whole and perfect before the bar of God.”

  The familiar scripture verse took on new meaning for her now, and with great humility she turned the next page.

  Making soft scraping and clinking sounds, the plate sheets sounded like they were talking to her, encouraging her to dive deeper, as Lyra lifted them up and over. She could tell a difference in character form between the chronicles as the task of recording the history and God's revelations got passed from one hand to another through the generations. Some prophets etched wider, some in tiny print, some had their own take on forming certain letters, especially as the centuries wore on. She also made note of occasional places where word mistakes were made and etched out. It was fascinating. With a perfect clarity, Lyra could visualize these men of God sitting down with their writing tools to perform their sacred task, perhaps in the moment that the Creator was communicating with them!