The Caleb Collection

by Ted Dekker

  “This is Peter,” the man said. “He watches you whenever he can.” The man backed up. “Please, I’m asking you to heal him.”

  The child was struggling to sit—maybe his balance was off. He suddenly rolled to his side and lay down. He coughed and the sound echoed through the arena.

  “It’s okay, Peter.” It was a woman, stepping out from the seat next to where the child’s father had come. The boy’s mother. “Peter, it’s okay, honey. Just remember, he’s going to help you.” She tried to sound reassuring, but her voice cracked.

  Caleb looked at the small boy, his hands loose by his sides. He was undecided, Banks thought. Something was definitely wrong. He glanced across the room: Junior still hadn’t left. The scene had stalled them all.

  Caleb walked to the boy. He stood over him and reached a hand out. This would be it, then. The boy would stand and the place would go nuts.

  But the boy didn’t stand. He tried to sit again, but his arms must not have been strong enough. He lay on his back, helpless on the stage.

  Caleb brought a limp hand to his forehead.

  None of this was totally out of the ordinary; the boy had done stranger things in the theatrics of the preceding weeks. It wasn’t even so strange when he began to cry.

  But the two words Caleb said next were out of the ordinary, and they cut across the auditorium like the Grim Reaper’s sickle.

  “I . . . I . . . can’t.”

  He wavered on his feet for a few endless seconds. Then he turned around, took one step away from the terrified child, and collapsed in a heap.

  For two seconds nobody seemed willing to accept what had just happened. They just left the two boys onstage as if it must surely all be part of some elaborate show. A wind would begin to blow or an earthquake would hit. But they didn’t.

  Instead the small child with leg braces began to moan, panicked. Then everyone was moving at once. The child’s mother flew to the stage, crying out frantically, “Peter? Peter?” The father crashed into the CBS camera in his rush, toppling it to the ground with a great crash.

  The wonder boy’s blond-haired protector, Jason, rushed out, scooped him into his arms, and ran from the stage.

  The lights dimmed and cries of protest filled the building.

  Banks humphed and slipped out the exit. It was over, he thought. Roberts was right; the kid was dying. Maybe he was dead.

  Both Jason and Leiah demanded they rush Caleb to the hospital, but Nikolous insisted on the visiting physician. The boy had revived backstage, but his face was covered in a cold sweat, and he only wanted to curl into a ball and hold his stomach.

  The physician, who looked as though he could easily be Nikolous’s brother, was waiting for them when they pulled up to the dorm. He inspected Caleb, decreed that it was nothing more than a stomach flu, fed him a strong sedative, and left him sleeping on the couch.

  “You’re killing him,” Leiah said, stroking Caleb’s cheek.

  “How can I kill someone who raises the dead?” Nikolous asked, standing over them.

  “I don’t know. But he’s obviously sick, isn’t he?”

  “And I wonder why he’s sick. I told you that taking him out into the world was a bad idea.”

  Jason sat in the chair opposite them. “Come on, you can’t honestly think our taking him to church had anything to do with this.”

  “No? And why can’t he heal himself? Because he’s had too much exposure to the world, that is why! Dr. Caldwell warned us about this. His mind is becoming confused with all this madness”—he flung his hand about—“and it’s messing with his power.” The Greek was red in the face.

  “If anything’s messing with his head, it’s the way you have him caged up like an animal,” Leiah snapped. “And now you’re so concerned with your big stage show that you’re denying him the medical attention he needs.”

  “The world’s hopes rest on this stage show of mine! And you heard the doctor—he has a stomach flu. If there is a problem here, it’s that he’s seen too much of the world.”

  “Wake up, Nikolous,” Jason said. “He’s a child. You can’t keep him in your cage forever. And for the record, his power doesn’t come from his mind. It comes from the Spirit of God.”

  Nikolous looked at him with a raised brow. “You have decided this, have you? Our Dr. Thompson’s pathetic little talk has persuaded you? Fine. But I know of God as well, and I can assure you that this boy’s psychic abilities have nothing to do with a ghost floating through the earth. They have to do with the fact that he’s accessed the power of his mind, and his isolation has allowed him to sharpen those powers. He’s nothing more than a noble savage, and the minute you put him into circulation he loses that nobility!”

  “And either way that’s his choice,” Jason returned, hot now.

  “Not as long as he’s under my care it isn’t. In two days we have our first exclusive engagement. A hundred upper-class citizens will be there seeking the boy’s power. We’re asking for donations of fifty thousand dollars per party. And I’ll tell you what”—he jabbed a finger at Caleb—“he’d better perform.”

  “Or what? You’re threatening now?!”

  Nikolous ignored him. He turned his head and yelled toward the kitchen. “Martha!”

  Martha hustled over to them.

  “Put the boy in the boiler room under the church. No one will disturb him. That includes you. He must be isolated at all costs. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir. Of course. I will bring his food to him there.”

  “No. I will have the physician prepare a special diet and monitor him. Take him.”

  Martha looked at the boy uneasily. “He . . . he’s sleeping, sir.”

  “Then carry him! Take him!”

  A look of horror crossed her face. She poked him lightly and he stirred. She poked him again and Caleb pushed himself up.

  “Up, boy!” she said. “Come with me.”

  Leiah reached for him, but Nikolous put his hand out and stopped her arm. “No. You two may not see him until the meeting.”

  “What do you mean we can’t see him? We have an agreement!”

  “He’s to see no one! No one!” He said it with such force that even Jason blinked.

  The boy followed Martha through a side door, sagging on his feet.

  Nikolous snorted like a bull, turned from them, and marched toward the main entrance. He stopped at the door. “Do not try my patience on this one,” he said and shut the door firmly.

  Silence surrounded Jason and Leiah.

  “Jason . . .”

  “It’s not the end of the world, Leiah. In fact it may be the beginning. Nikolous is starting to unravel.”

  She lifted her head and her blue eyes flashed with concern. “And so is Caleb.”

  She was right. They might have argued with Nikolous, but they couldn’t dispute the fact that Caleb had been unable to heal the child on the stage. His power was slipping. Or had slipped.

  “I won’t let him hurt Caleb again, Leiah. That’s a promise. I don’t care what the Immigration Service has to say about it; I’ll take him away from this mess myself.” He had an inkling to chase Martha down right now and take the boy.

  “Whatever it takes?” Leiah said.

  He stood and reached for her hand. She gave it to him, and he rubbed the back with his thumb. The scars were faint there, but they were still visible.

  “Whatever it takes.”

  28

  THE WITCH LED CALEB THROUGH THE BACK of the church and down a dark staircase that ended in a big room full of pipes and a large metal box that sounded like a car. She opened a pale blue door and pointed in. He shuffled past her into a small room with one bare cot and a folded gray blanket. She glared at him, and he thought she was going to yell, but she slammed the door and walked off.

  The room was black. He felt for the bed and collapsed onto a thin mattress. His stomach felt like someone was in there twisting it into knots. But the pills the doctor had given him helped a l
ittle. Mostly they made his eyes heavy. Tonight had been a very bad night. The light had disappeared from his world and he felt like maybe he was dying. He curled into a ball and drifted into sleep.

  It was still dark when Caleb awoke. He lay on his back, wet with sweat, and he stared hard at the ceiling. But he saw only black. Where was he?

  Oh yes. The small room.

  The terrible meeting.

  Desperation hit him like a hammer. What was happening to him? Images of that small child with metal braces on his legs skipped through his mind. The Father had his hands out begging, and the child was crying.

  He did not heal the boy because he could not heal the boy. There was no light. Not even a small glimmer.

  “Dadda,” he whispered. “I am falling, Dadda.”

  The old familiar voice from so many years remained silent. Funny how he had come home from the church just two days ago, full of light after begging forgiveness, and yet already the light was gone.

  On Sunday he’d decided with simple clarity that watching the television was doing bad things to his spirit. Maybe he should have smashed the glass box then. There was no other way to shut it off since the witch had stolen the knob.

  But he hadn’t. Then later at night he’d grown bored with the silence and taken the pillow off his ears, just to hear. An hour later he was sitting in bed laughing at the behavior of a crazy fox chasing a chicken. And an hour after that he was turning the dial to find other pictures. Not only the drawn kind either. For the first time in his life he watched in stunned disbelief as a young woman kissed a young man on his mouth. They were not united in marriage. He thought of Adam and Eve walking naked through the garden, but it felt different. It felt dark. And it also felt exciting.

  Caleb lay still on the cot and blinked in the darkness. “Dadda, please what’s happening to me?”

  But he knew what was happening to him. At least he knew a little bit. He closed his eyes and cried himself back to sleep.

  “Wake up, son.”

  Caleb heard the distant voice twice before opening his eyes.

  The light was on and a man sat on the edge of his bed. It was the doctor.

  He smiled. “You were tired, I see.”

  Caleb blinked the sleep from his eyes and pushed himself to his elbows.

  “Don’t get up.”

  Caleb lay back. The doctor was tall and had a mustache like the Greek Father. He had bags under his eyes too. He put his palm on Caleb’s cheek, then pulled an instrument from his pocket and touched the shiny cold end to his chest and stomach.

  “Stomach’s still going to war. How are you feeling?”

  “My whole body hurts.” It was the truth: a dull pain ran through his whole body, and he thought it was worse than yesterday.

  The doctor smiled. “Well, the flu will do that.” He reached for the floor and put a tray of food on the bed. “I brought you some chicken soup and crackers. When you’re done, take both tablets with the water,” he said, pointing to two white pills.

  Then he stood and walked to the door. “I’ll leave the light on. See you tonight.” He left.

  The soup tasted very good, and it seemed to soothe the pain in his stomach. He drank the last drop, finished the last of the crackers, and took the pills with the water. But a half-hour later the pain in his stomach began to flare up so badly that he couldn’t straighten his legs. He used the toilet in the corner, hoping that would help, but it didn’t.

  He broke out in a cold sweat. What if there was something very wrong with his body? What if he was dying? Oh, dear God, don’t let me die!

  If God was talking, Caleb couldn’t hear him.

  He thought about going out and finding the doctor, but the thought of the witch catching him out of the room effectively pushed the idea from his mind. Instead he curled up very tight and began to rock. He sang an old Ge’ez song about the goodness of God.

  When Caleb woke again the room was dark. Someone had turned off the light. So it was the next night?

  He tried to sit up. Pain shot through his head and he dropped back, moaning. His gut throbbed and his bones felt on fire.

  You’re dying, Caleb.

  The truth of the statement struck him as odd. It was true, though. Somehow he was dying, and he was dying all alone. Dr. Thompson was dying over by the ocean, but not alone.

  Caleb began to cry. This was all happening because he had let the black brine into his cup of olive oil. He’d let some of the pure oil spill out and had poured in some black brine. Or maybe a whole bunch of black brine.

  I beg you for your mercy, Father. I have sinned and fallen away and I beg you to forgive me.

  He sobbed and prayed it again, and then again. Not because he doubted that God had heard him, but because he wanted to. It was becoming his mantra, this prayer. He’d prayed it at the church and several times before that.

  He had to urinate, but his stomach hurt so bad that he could not climb from bed. He was dying.

  Step into the kingdom, Caleb. Dadda’s old voice ran through his memory.

  How?

  Do you desire to?

  Yes.

  Have you confessed?

  Yes. I confess. I do confess!

  Then surrender. You will give yourself back to your Father?

  Yes. Yes, I do. I will do anything, Father.

  Then believe.

  Believe?

  Of course he knew what belief was. It was the faith that had lived in his mind every hour of his life. The simple knowledge that the kingdom of God was here for the discovering, just behind the skin of this world. That in the kingdom the rules were different. He had known so without doubt. Until just these last couple days, of course. Now the truth of it felt distant.

  A small sputter of light lit his mind and then faded.

  He blinked. Distant but not gone. He smiled and his heart surged with comfort.

  “I believe,” he said aloud. “Of course I believe. I have always believed.”

  The light in his mind’s eye stuttered again. And then again.

  He rolled to his back, wide-eyed. “Yes! I do believe! I really do believe!”

  Suddenly the world turned white and his heart began to float. It felt like that anyway, like he was suddenly floating off the bed, when he knew very well that he was lying on the mattress.

  He rolled onto his stomach and began to sob, but this time with joy. My Father, forgive me. You are so tender and kind; I don’t deserve your love.

  The light lapped at his mind and spread warmth through his bones. He lay for a long time just resting in the light. He was home again, and now that he thought about it, he no longer really cared if he died. In fact, it would be lovely to see Dadda again.

  It wasn’t until a couple of hours later that he decided dying might not be the best thing right now. His stomach still hurt very badly. But that wasn’t a problem now, was it?

  No, it wasn’t.

  He touched his belly and asked God to take away the pain. Like a vapor rising into the air, the pain vanished.

  Caleb smiled. Yes, that was really no problem at all.

  Thank you, Father. Thank you.

  A light ignited in Caleb’s mind and he gasped.

  He was seeing the woman again. The one who looked so familiar from his vision. The woman was looking at him with wide eyes. Caleb watched in horror as again a very large bird swooped from the sky toward the woman. Fire blasted from its beak and its mouth gaped wide. It was going to eat the woman! It was, it was!

  But then the vision vanished.

  29

  Day 34

  THEY WERE TWO WEEKS AWAY FROM THE ELECTION and all of the national polls had them twenty points up in the race. It was an unstoppable tide, and Crandal was swimming in it.

  The modified DC-9 was over St. Louis on its way to Washington when Roberts answered the phone call that changed the mood of the morning.

  It was Banks. Did they know that the kid had another meeting last night? Roberts jerked in his seat and
politely excused himself from the entourage who were chatting amiably with Crandal. He slid into the last row.

  “What do you mean? What meeting? He was practically dead!”

  “Not unless you call practically dead attending a private party with a bunch of rich snots and dazzling them with healing tricks,” Banks said. “From what I hear he made a bundle too.”

  “Caleb did this? Last night? She said he was practically dead. Why didn’t she call?”

  “Because she’s an amateur, Roberts. For an extra fifty I’ll do her too.” Banks chuckled. “Actually she said that a doctor took the kid off her hands. She said she thinks the kid healed himself. Can you get a load of that?”

  This was impossible! Roberts glanced up the aisle where Crandal’s booming voice laughed loudly.

  “He said some things,” Banks said.

  Roberts spun to the window. “What?!”

  “Don’t worry. It was only a handful of people without media. But she said that he talked about a bird eating a woman, and he thought it might have something to do with Crandal. The people there weren’t laughing.”

  “Okay, listen, I want you to go to the orphanage and end him. This is crazy. Just go in there and kill him!”

  “No,” Banks shot back. “It’s too risky. I’ve got my cover set at the Old Theater. It’s big, it’s public, and I’ve got the bases covered. Don’t overreact here.”

  “Overreact? You’ve been telling me you’ve got things covered for two weeks now! Now he’s talking and you’re telling me not to overreact? My head’s on the line here.”

  “And mine’s not? I told you, there were no cameras.”

  “Where’s the kid now?”

  “He’s back in her care.”

  “And she’s back on the poison.”

  “I told her to double it again. He’s getting enough to turn him purple by tomorrow night.”

  “The next meeting?”

  “Yup. And his last. No calls this time, Roberts. I’m not going through this again. If he walks onstage, I take him.”

  “And there’s no way to take him before?”

  “There’s reasons why I’ve made it this far, and I’m not messing with those reasons. The Old Theater’s all set.”