The Caleb Collection

by Ted Dekker

  “I will sell them.”

  “And why would you sell them?”

  “They are a delicacy. What do you care, you thieving young scoundrel?”

  “He’s hardly a thieving scoundrel,” Jason said. They were speaking in separate languages now: the merchant and the boy in Amharic and Jason in English. “He’s an innocent boy who obviously loves birds. Not everyone is set on killing every piece of meat they can find.”

  The merchant’s face grew red. “And what do you know, you farenji? Perhaps you need to be taught a lesson.”

  “I meant no insult. Just tell me what you charge for the birds.”

  “In the cages, two pounds each. But they are not in their cages. They are on the roofs. Now you must pay five pounds each.”

  A rumble of agreement went through the crowd, as if this ploy were a particularly clever move on the merchant’s part.

  “And that’s highway robbery, my friend,” Jason said.

  A note sounded very softly, like a tuning fork, quiet but pure, echoing at the back of Jason’s mind. Someone was singing. Jason extracted some small bills from his wallet, and the crowd hushed.

  The note sounded like the perfect C, held unwavering, and it occurred to Jason that it wasn’t his wallet but this singing that had hushed the crowd. He looked down to see Caleb’s chin lifted lightly and his eyes closed. The boy’s mouth was parted in a pure, crystalline note that carried on the air, effectively silencing the crowd. Even the merchant had frozen and now stared at the boy.

  From the corner of his eye, Jason saw Leiah step from the rest room and pull up at the sight. He turned to her and their eyes met. It must be strange, he thought, to look across the street and see him and the boy surrounded by a crowd while the boy sang this odd note of perfection. The entire street seemed to have turned its attention to the boy now. A donkey drawing a cart twenty yards up the street stopped and turned its head to the scene. Even the drivers in the cars that drove by were craning their necks for a view of the commotion by the bird merchant’s cages.

  Still the note hung in the air, undisturbed and soft. The crowd now stared at the boy as if he were performing an astounding feat right before their very eyes. But it was just a note sung from the thin lips of a ten-year-old boy.

  And then it was more. Because then the two Abyssinian birds who had flown to freedom took flight again. Only this time they flew to the boy. On wings that seemed to flap too slowly for their flight, they fluttered through the air, over the street and over the crowd, which lifted its eyes as one and watched. The birds hovered just above the boy for a moment and then settled onto his shoulders.

  Caleb opened his eyes and smiled. He took the birds from his shoulders and set them back in their cages. Now the crowd found its voice: murmurs of incredulity.

  Caleb looked up at him, and Jason knew precisely what the boy was thinking. He wanted the birds. Jason pulled out four pounds and paid the reduced price to the merchant. “Your price for the birds?”

  The man nodded.

  “Jason!” The piercing scream came from the gas station, and Jason spun to see Leiah frantically pointing up the street. He followed her arm. A truck blared its horn as it picked its way through the crowded traffic.

  Jason saw the markings clearly then. It was an EPLF Land Rover identical to the one that had cornered them in the canyon!

  Panic crowded his throat and he spun back to the boy. Caleb had one bird out and he threw it in the air. He laughed and went for the second bird, oblivious to the danger behind them.

  “We have to go, Caleb! Leave it!” He grabbed the boy’s arm.

  But Caleb pulled away, snatched the second bird from its cage, and threw it into the air.

  Jason lifted the boy from his feet and spun to the street. Someone from the crowd had spotted the EPLF vehicle and was shouting frantically. The street broke into pandemonium. From the truck’s direction a machine gun began to pop, and the Land Rover broke through the traffic.

  Jason saw all of this in the time it took for three draws of breath, and by then it was too late. He’d left the Jeep across the street, and the Land Rover was closing the gap with a full-throated roar.

  “Jason!” He snapped his head back to the street before him. Leiah was shouting at him from the driver’s seat of his Jeep. She had swung the Jeep around! “Hurry!”

  He reached the Jeep in three strides, hefted the boy into the back seat, and piled in beside him. The Jeep lurched forward before he had seated himself, and he nearly toppled off the back.

  Machine-gun fire ripped through the air, and Jason shoved the boy’s head down. Caleb cried out in surprise.

  “Stay down! Move it, Leiah! Floor it!”

  “It is floored.”

  They careened around a corner, beyond the sight of the EPLF truck. Jason had driven the Jeep cautiously over the last hundred miles, and it had just received a change of oil, both factors that may have contributed to its healthy pace now.

  “Same truck?” Leiah yelled back.

  “I don’t know. Keep it floored!”

  “It’s going as fast as it’ll go, believe me!”

  The EPLF truck came into view, nothing more than a small speck now, just emerging from the town. The sound of weapons fire popped adjacent to the truck: the Land Rover was taking fire. It made a sharp turn onto a side street and disappeared from their view.

  Jason released the boy’s head and climbed over the passenger seat. “Just keep her pegged.”

  “We okay?”

  “Maybe.”

  Leiah stared ahead, her knuckles white on the steering wheel. Jason glanced back at Caleb, who sat staring at a rust bucket on the side of the road that looked as if it might once have been a Model T. His hood had flown off, freeing his shoulder-length hair to fly wild in the wind. It struck Jason that had his own son lived, he would be Caleb’s age. He might not have looked so different.

  “What happened?” Leiah asked.

  Jason turned to face the road. “I’m not sure. Animals seem to like him. So does the EPLF.”

  “Or hate him. Isn’t this a bit far south for them?”

  “A bit far? Honey, we’re halfway to Addis Ababa. There’s no way they should be this far south.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  Red hues drew the first lines of a sunset in the western sky. There was more happening here than Jason could even begin to piece together. What was it about this boy? Even beyond his unique innocence, there was a sweetness that had worked its way into Jason’s heart.

  “It means that I’m taking him,” he said.

  “To Addis Ababa?”

  “To the United States. To California. It’s where the priest wanted him.”

  “You . . . how can—”

  “The papers are already drawn up. Father Matthew was no idiot.”

  Her jaw stiffened and she looked ahead. The Jeep’s tires whined incessantly, speeding them down the deserted road.

  “I thought you were going to allow me to take him.”

  “You assumed. And you assumed wrong.”

  “Then I’m going with you,” Leiah said.

  He faced her, surprised. “Don’t be ridiculous. I thought you were going to Kenya.”

  “I said I was thinking of going to Kenya. But really I have no reason to go to Kenya or to any other place. The boy needs a careful hand. No offense, but it’s not something I’m sure you have.”

  “Thanks. And you’re Canadian, not American. What do you think you can possibly do in the States that I can’t?”

  “I can be with him. The last time I checked, the Red Cross was an international organization. I’ll go with you to California and then return to Canada. I may be more help than you might think, Mr. American.” She paused and looked to the horizon. “Besides, it’s been a long time since I’ve been home; maybe it’ll be for the best.”

  She said it with a finality that silenced him for the moment. In reality, as a Red Cross evacuee she had as much right to take a fl
ight to Los Angeles as to Nairobi. She was also a nurse who had obviously taken to the boy. He had no reason to suggest she do anything against her wishes, regardless of how wacky they seemed. It was a wacky world.

  “Fine,” he said.

  She nodded. “Good.”

  4

  Minus 2 days

  CHARLES CRANDAL STOOD TALL AND COMMANDING, a confident smile curving his lips just so, basking in the winds of political favor, his arms thrust over his head in a victory sign. Four thousand of San Diego’s citizens had discarded any notion of spending a day at the beach in favor of hearing this man shake the rafters with his call to power. They stood on the park’s green grass with fists lifted to the sky, young and old, male and female, mimicking the victory sign. Paying homage to Charles Crandal, who had persuaded them that he should be the next president of the United States.

  Blane Roberts watched him from the side of the podium, intrigued by the man’s ability to bring out their affections. Crandal’s shiny bald skull flexed with his smile. He wasn’t particularly handsome, but even there, looking at the women crying out to him, you would think him a rock legend. John Lennon resurrected. In these moments even Roberts wanted to believe the stump speech. There was a sort of redemption in unity alone, he thought, regardless of its focus. It could be Hitler up here with a flat palm saluting the fine residents of Southern California and they would hardly know the difference.

  They were chanting, “Power to the people. Power to the people,” which was a slogan Roberts had come up with (yuk, yuk), and it might just as well have been, “We’ll follow you to hell. We’ll follow you to hell,” for all they knew. Either way it didn’t matter; people like Crandal were destined to rule. This campaigning stuff was America’s road to power, but in reality, when you really got behind all the flags and the dancing girls, true leaders made their own roads. And in the case of Charles Crandal, Roberts was as much the road builder as the man San Diego was going batso over at the moment.

  Crandal turned, made one last gesture to the people—an open-armed we-are-family gesture—and walked toward Roberts, who smiled and nodded supportively.

  They walked off the platform together and headed directly for the black limousine waiting on the park’s driveway. Their bodyguards, Bone and Carson, followed at ten paces as demanded by Crandal. “You had even me going there,” Roberts said with a chuckle.

  “Keep smiling, Roberts. I know it doesn’t come natural, but humor me.”

  “I’m smiling; I’m smiling. I heard from our people in Eritrea.”

  Crandal turned to meet a reporter who had slipped past the line and ran to catch them. A security man was striding to intercept, but Crandal waved him off with a casual hand. It was Donna Blair, political correspondent for NBC, her trademark blue eyes smiling even now at twenty feet. The blond anchor-turned-correspondent did not possess the muscles required to frown, Roberts thought. The wind had disheveled her short hair, but the look only complemented her.

  “No interviews, Donna. I thought I made that clear.” Crandal said it with a grin, but his voice carried a slight bite.

  “Who said anything about an interview?” She pulled up and smiled pointedly, a gesture that made most men blink. “How does it feel to be ten points up on your opponent eight weeks before the election?”

  “Sounds like a question to me.” Crandal paused, studying her. “Ten points, huh? Which poll?”

  “Ours. And it’s a word of congratulations, not a question. How about a sit-down in Los Angeles next week?”

  “When?”

  “Monday?”

  “No, when was the poll taken?”

  “Came out this morning, taken last night. How about Monday?”

  “Come to the press conference Wednesday. I promise you I’ll give you the leadoff.” He turned and strode for the limousine and then looked back. “And if you think ten points is something, stick around, honey. We’re going to redefine blowout. You can quote me on that.”

  Roberts’s gaze lingered. Even the media in all of their supposed unbiased neutrality couldn’t resist Crandal’s charm. He stepped after the man quickly.

  “And the report on Tempest?” Crandal asked.

  They were alone now, with only the chauffeur in possible earshot. Roberts spoke quietly. “Like clockwork. The news has it as another African border skirmish, but the guerrillas penetrated all the way to Debra Damarro.”

  “They find anything?”

  “No.”

  He paused. “The monastery?”

  “Leveled.”

  “No survivors?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Tell them not to get carried away over there.”

  “There’ll be the typical posturing for another month, but they’ve already started pulling back.”

  “Good.” Crandal turned one last time and lifted his arms in his patented victory sign. “It’s amazing what you can get away with when you have the power, isn’t it?” The band was playing and the chants were still full on, but a fresh cheer rose above the din and Crandal smiled wide. He was getting to like the feel, and truth be told, Roberts wasn’t hating it either.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Crandal suddenly thundered his war cry, startling Roberts beside him. “Power to the people.”

  Yes indeed. Power to the people.

  5

  Day 0

  THEY BROUGHT THE BOY INTO THE UNITED STATES on Saturday, flying American Airlines from London. The International Office of Migration arranged the short-notice tickets through regular evacuation agreements with the Peace Corps and the INS.

  Late September in Southern California felt warm, considering the season. They rented a Yellow cab for the trip to Pasadena, where Jason would keep the boy until his processing Monday morning.

  Caleb had hardly spoken since their departure from Ethiopia, and when he did, it was usually in Ge’ez, in an off-the-cuff reaction. He spoke a few times in Amharic in response to questions put to him in Jason’s or Leiah’s broken Amharic.

  Approaching Addis Ababa near midnight Thursday, he had awoken from a long sleep and entered his first modern city. He had shaken his head repeatedly as if doing so would wake him from a dream. They had driven directly to Bole International Airport and caught a flight to London on Ethiopian Airlines at six Friday morning, but the few short hours in the large city, albeit Third World, were enough to send Caleb into a tailspin.

  Watching the boy’s unblinking stare as they wound their way through cluttered highways, Jason found it hard to imagine what it must be like, seeing for the first time such strange wonders. It gave the term culture shock new meaning. Leiah and he had agreed to let the boy discover the new world on his own, offering explanation only when he asked.

  By the time they boarded the DC-9 that would take them to London, Caleb’s stare had become glazed. His mind had retreated into some familiar place where things made sense. He slept most of the first leg. The London airport was his first exposure to mass modernization, and he took it in with a dumb stare. Even when Jason asked him what he thought of this new world, he said only, “Dehan,” nice, in a small, meek voice and looked around as if bored by it all.

  The flight over the Atlantic and the United States on the Airbus was surprisingly quiet, and Caleb had slept through most of it. They exited the 210 freeway at 10:00 P.M. and pulled into Jason’s driveway on Hollister ten minutes later. Fifty-four hours had expired since Father Matthew had rushed them out of his monastery.

  Caleb was asleep and Jason carried him in without waking him. The house had sat empty for four years now, except for several short visits, and it smelled musty. But the linens were clean—he always left with freshly made beds in the event of his return. He walked down the hall and tucked the boy into the same bed his son had occupied seven years earlier.

  When he returned to the living room, he found Leiah waiting by their duffle bags. During their layover in London she’d used most of her money to purchase Western clothes for her and the boy. W
hen she’d approached Jason after changing in the airport, he’d hardly recognized her out of the tunic. The blue jeans she wore now fit her thin frame well. The turtleneck was maybe a bit warm for Los Angeles, but he understood why she would choose it. Either way she looked quite striking.

  “Want a drink? I’ve got warm soda pop in the kitchen.”

  Leiah smiled thinly. “I’ll pass.” She opened the top of her duffle, pulled out Caleb’s dirty tunic, and zipped the bag back up. She held up the tunic. “His possessions.” She tossed it to him. “That’s all he has. You might want to give it a good wash. We should get him some more clothes as soon as possible.”

  “Maybe I should burn it. Either way, it’s a bit late for laundry, don’t you think?”

  “No, don’t burn it. It’s all he has from Ethiopia now. Wash it.”

  Jason stepped down the hall, tossed the tunic into the laundry room, and walked to the kitchen. He flipped the refrigerator on and dug out a lukewarm Coke.

  “You can sleep in the guesthouse out back until you leave Tuesday. It’s not much, but it’ll beat an Ethiopian shanty any day.”

  “I still think he should go with me,” Leiah said. “The poor child’s in shock. An orphanage will have no clue how to deal with someone in his shoes.”

  Jason straddled a dining chair. “Like I said, his case has already been assured by World Relief ’s Garden Grove office. We’re restricted by the immigration laws, and in this case they’ve allowed him into the country with the understanding that he’ll be in the custody of World Relief ’s assignment. Don’t worry; they’re good people. We’re not talking Oliver Twist here.”

  “He’s no ordinary refugee, and you know that. For starters, he’s an orphan—”

  “Which is why he’s been assigned to an orphanage. One run by an Orthodox church, for that matter. John Gardner, the director of the World Relief office, assured me that he couldn’t think of a better place for an orphan from an Ethiopian Orthodox monastery than in an orphanage run by a Greek Orthodox church. Orthodoxy has its similarities. It’ll be good for the boy.”