The Restorer's Journey

by Sharon Hinck

  I kept losing count.

  All the better. Start over. One hundred strides, then you can rest.

  Laughter and voices suddenly bounced around the tunnel walls. I couldn’t be sure where they came from, but I kept moving. Nothing could make me turn back now. The voices rang in the air like those of children in our neighborhood back home. Playful shrieks, sporadic giggles. Adrenaline fed my blood and I ran faster.

  I didn’t hear their footsteps over the sound of my gasps for breath, but when I glanced back over my shoulder, I saw them: two boys and a girl. They could have been Jon and Anne with a friend. They whooped when they saw me look back, and the girl gave a little skip. My panic eased.

  Then one of them called in a sweet, high voice, “Look out for the rizzids.” The others laughed, as if she’d made the best joke in the world. I ignored them, but as my gaze swept the tunnel ahead, something moved.

  A red-furred body the shape of a gecko and the size of a large squirrel slithered down from the wall, its fangs bared.

  I pulled to a halt. Could I get around it? A rizzid’s bite could be deadly, but if I just slipped around the side . . .

  Two more rizzids squirmed down the wall across from the first. Where were they coming from?

  The children had stopped running and were gamboling toward me now.

  “Stay back,” I warned them. That triggered peals of laughter.

  One of the boys stopped a few paces from me and tilted his head, studying me. Then he nudged his friend. “How about a bear?”

  “Yes.” The other boy smirked. “Be careful. It’ll tear you to pieces.”

  I looked forward into the passage, past the growing group of rizzids, and saw a huge bear. It rose onto its hind legs, its head almost brushing the tunnel’s roof as it roared.

  My arms thrust out in the universal protective-mom gesture as I took a few steps back. This sent the children into more hysterical laughter.

  “I told you just to stop her. No games. This one is Medea’s.” Nicco strode up behind the children. His stern words were undercut by the grin he flashed toward the children. Their disappointed protests sounded exactly like my children when they were told there was no ice cream for dessert.

  Didn’t any of them care about the huge beast in our path? The bear dropped to all fours and lumbered our direction. I spared a quick glance at the tall Rhusican, but it was all he needed. Nicco’s eyes flickered with malevolence even though his smile never faded. “Come here.”

  I stumbled toward him. “But the bear . . .” I looked back over my shoulder to see a long, empty tunnel glowing with grey light. No rizzids. No bear.

  The little girl jumped up and down, clapping. Nicco put a hand on her shoulder and nudged her back up the tunnel toward the stairs. “Off with you. Thanks for helping. Next time follow directions.”

  The three young Rhusicans ran ahead, chattering like normal children. I shuddered. Nothing here was normal.

  He sent children to stop me. My escape was a sorry joke. Bitterness curled under my ribs, and I turned to run from him down the now-empty corridor.

  “Don’t move.” The words held me in a fist.

  Where Medea had twined her way into vulnerable places in my brain and gradually asserted control, Nicco’s link was as sudden and lethal as a snake’s strike.

  I stood frozen, straining against an invisible force.

  How can they have this much power? God, where are You? Stop this.

  Nicco walked to stand in front of me, studying me as if I were a statue on display in a museum. He used one finger to tilt my chin up.

  I tried to pull away but couldn’t make even that small movement.

  “You’re just like the rest.” His tone was slightly puzzled. Then he shrugged, losing interest. “I’m sure she’ll explain later. Follow me.”

  Unable to do anything else, I followed him along the passage: up the stairs, through the courtyard, under marble arches, past a garden I would have admired if I weren’t seeing it as a captive. He didn’t say a word, and I was too confused to speak. He led me to a long two-story building of smooth grey stone. Curved windows interrupted the monotony of the first level. The second floor exterior was solid stone. We entered the building through an open arch. No doors. I noticed stray details, but my normal curiosity was muted by bone-weary exhaustion. We climbed wide stairs and walked a long hall that looked like the tunnel, complete with light walls glowing a pale grey. Unlike the walls of the tunnel, thin seams indicated doorways evenly spaced along both sides of the hall. Pale crosshatched symbols marked each one.

  As we passed one of the doors, something scratched from within and then thudded against the barrier. From farther down the hall, a muffled wail rose up and then changed into maniacal laughter. Finally, Nicco stopped and touched a recessed lever. The door in front of us slid upward and disappeared into the wall above. Cold dread overcame my lethargy. There was something very final about crossing the threshold into the small ten-foot-square room. I held back with the last bit of will I had.

  Nicco grinned down at me, then closed his eyes and took a deep breath as if savoring my terror. Spinning away, I ran back down the hall. I tripped over my own feet and fell, sprawling, against the gleaming floor. Nicco grabbed my shoulders and hauled me to my feet, then let go of me abruptly, as if irritated he had been forced to touch me. His eyes flared but quickly shuttered again.

  “You’ll never leave here.” His bland words were simple, but they gripped my soul in iron manacles. “You can struggle. You can fight us.” He cocked his head and smiled in anticipation. “I hope you will.” Then the smile disappeared, and he spit out each syllable. “But you will never leave.”

  The words overpowered me like blows from a club. I barely noticed as he led me back to the room. Some part of me registered that it looked like a sterile hospital room or an empty college dorm. A low pallet stretched along one wall, and two chairs and a table filled the space along another. A sliding panel hid some plumbing fixtures. Nicco slid aside another panel to reveal a closet.

  “I’ll send someone with clothes for you.” His voice seemed far away. “Medea will feel better in a few days. She’ll see you then.” He said it as if those words would make sense to me. I sank into one of the chairs, my hand shielding my eyes from the painful white glow of the light walls. I barely noticed Nicco leave, realizing only after he was gone that I was free from his mental control. I summoned enough energy to throw myself at the door, clawing at the tight seam where it met the floor, scrabbling for any means of escape. I searched for any indent to give me a grip. When nothing budged, I flung my shoulder against the door, pounded, and yelled until exhaustion defeated me. I made my way to the pallet and curled into a tight ball, too tired to even cry. My broken mind shut down, and I slept.

  Mornings are for opening things—opening eyes, opening window shades, opening the door and stepping out into a new day of possibilities.

  Here, in this place, I opened my eyes each morning and saw the same stark light walls, the same windowless room, and the same door that would not let me out. I wasn’t only imprisoned in Rhus; the isolation held my mind captive and shriveled away my inner strength. Even without Medea’s or Nicco’s interference, my thoughts battered me, circling around and around like a carnival ride. I had even taken to talking to myself.

  The first morning, when a young Rhusican girl delivered some clean, dry clothes, I asked her questions, but she ignored me. After she left, I changed into the loose tunic and shapeless pants, both as colorless as the room. When the door slid up slightly so a tray of food could be pushed inside, I had pressed my face to the gap and called to the person that must be outside. No one responded.

  I searched every inch of my cell for anything that I could use to escape but came up empty. Each morning, I stretched and worked through the training forms I had learned from the guardians. After a few days, that resolve
faded. Apathy held me immobile with more power than chains ever could. Nothing made any difference, so why bother?

  “The funny thing is, something is familiar about this feeling.” I stood up to pace the room one day, in what I guessed was the afternoon. “What was I talking about? Oh, yes. This feels familiar. And why is that? It’s not like the prison in Hazor. It’s not like the holding cells underneath the Council offices where Cameron stashed me once.”

  My mind was diverted by the curious fact that in my short visits to this world, this was the third type of prison I’d had the chance to experience.

  “Remind me to complain to my travel agent. Not exactly the kind of tour package you want when you’re visiting a new country.”

  Now, what had I been thinking about? I almost didn’t bring my thoughts back to it. Focusing was difficult—too much effort.

  “Why does this feel familiar? When have I been here before?”

  It wasn’t Rhusican poison that I was recognizing. Since Nicco left me here, I’d barely seen any of them, and no one had further tampered with my thoughts, as far as I could tell. Medea still hadn’t put in an appearance. I’d lost track of exactly how many days had passed.

  “Come on, Susan. Think. You can still do that.” I paced the two steps across to the other wall and slid the panel back. The slide of a lever released water into a basin, and I splashed some on my face. The cut on my cheek was healing, but my fingers traced the scar that was forming. Not hairline thin like the Restorer wounds that had healed instantly; this scar itched and felt rough and uneven.

  I moved to the small table, lowered myself onto a chair, and rested my head in my arms. Alone, abandoned, day following day with no useful purpose.

  That’s it! Those were the same words I had used when I talked to our pastor.

  The month before Mark built the attic pull-down, I had been slipping into a smothering cloud of depression. The simplest tasks took tremendous effort and brought no sense of pleasure—even things I used to love. The feeling became so frightening that I went to talk with my pastor. I never told Mark about that visit. He’d always been frustrated by anything he couldn’t fix with a new set of drill bits or his table saw. Besides, he wouldn’t believe that it wasn’t his fault. He would think he should make me happy somehow. He didn’t need to take on that burden.

  Pastor Nathan had been both compassionate and practical. He talked about the complex web of depression and helped me assemble a collection of tools—physical, spiritual, relational—to help me battle it.

  I hadn’t made much progress before the portal wrenched me away and into Shamgar.

  “Okay, that’s important,” I said loudly. “Being here is a lot like the depression last spring. And you know ways to fight it. What do you remember?”

  I tried to picture the perky brochure Pastor Nathan had given me. It had a silly title like “You and Your Depression,” as if I were training an unruly pet. But there had been that list of tips.

  Social contact.

  Hmmm. That would be a bit difficult. I was already talking to myself. Unless I began developing other personalities, I was short on a social circle right now.

  Talk with a trusted counselor.

  Ditto on that one.

  Exercise, sunlight, regular sleep schedule. I started laughing, then scared myself with the sound of my laughter in the empty room.

  I took a steadying breath.

  “This is the human mind left to itself.” Fragile, confused, dark. Then like a blaze of the sun I hadn’t seen in days, a new thought gleamed.

  “I’m not left to myself.” I jumped up and paced. “Not then, not now.” I settled back into the chair and rested my forehead against folded hands. “God, I don’t know how to fight these people. I can’t even think clearly. I don’t know how to find my way back.” My voice choked. That last sentence was exactly what I had prayed while deep in depression. “I’m lost here, but I know You’re with me. You know the way out. Thank You for holding my hand.” Tears poured down my face unrestrained as I continued to pray. For the first time in days, I could grab hold of passages of Scripture that had been lost in my memory. “‘The Lord is my light and my salvation—whom shall I fear? The Lord is the stronghold of my life—of whom shall I be afraid?’” Old verses took on new meanings. Words that had once been pretty poetry became my lifeline.

  Hope thrummed deep within me for the first time since stepping into the tunnel with Medea. Maybe her dark thoughts had lingered more than I’d realized. Wiping my eyes, I began to recite another psalm.

  A whisper sounded from the door as it lifted.

  I watched it rise. It wasn’t time for supper yet, was it? My only sense of time came from the meals that arrived at what I assumed were morning and evening.

  The door continued slipping upward. Nicco stepped into the room. I looked past him to the hallway. There was nothing to see, but my eyes longed to focus on something beyond the four walls of my room, if only for a few seconds.

  “Medea is still recovering. She was away far too long.” He stepped forward, and the door slid closed behind him. “She said I could come and talk to you.” He crossed his arms and watched me.

  “Why?” I still had no clue what Medea wanted from me.

  “Why?” He still looked exactly like an angel in a Renaissance painting, and his voice was warm. He pulled up the other chair and sat down. “So you won’t go to waste.” A smile grew across his flawless face, and a new wave of fear crashed against my fragile courage.

  Chapter

  9

  Susan

  “Will you explain what she wants from me? Please.” After my many days in isolation, words tumbled from my lips as if Nicco were a caring person who would converse with me. “Why did she bring me here? Why were your people in Lyric and Braide Wood? What do you want from the clans? If they can help you, there must a way to do that without tampering with people’s minds. Do you even understand what you were doing there? How many people you hurt?”

  He yawned and settled more comfortably into his chair. “How have you been feeling?”

  “Fine.” If he ignored my questions, I didn’t plan to bare my soul to him.

  His face darkened, and he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. I was careful not to meet his eyes.

  “No,” he said in a voice as rich and smooth as cream. “Tell me what it is like to be trapped . . . alone . . . hopeless.”

  Each of his words conjured my feelings to the surface. Refusing him the voyeuristic satisfaction of seeing my struggle, I sprang out of my chair and paced the few steps toward the door, letting anger well up inside me.

  “Just how do you think it feels?” I forced the words through clenched teeth. “I don’t belong here. I’m worried about—”

  Don’t talk about Mark and the children. He didn’t need ammunition. I was vulnerable enough already.

  “I’m furious.” My skin heated with the first real energy I had felt in days. “Cameron hurt my husband, and your friend Medea is helping him. You’re holding me here, and you have no right. I was dragged on some death march and then locked up with no explanation. I don’t know what you want.” I spun and glared at him. “You won’t get away with this.”

  Nicco watched me with a satisfied smile. “I’m beginning to understand.”

  My voice grew in volume. “What? That you can’t just kidnap people and lock them away?”

  He laughed. “No. Why Medea bothered to bring you all this way.”

  “So explain it to me!”

  He shook his head. “You don’t need to know. Just do what you’re told and stay alive for a while. She went to a lot of trouble for you.”

  The instincts I’d developed riding with an army and crossing swords in battle flared to life. In one smooth motion, I advanced on Nicco, grabbed my chair, and lifted it to swing it at his head
. I was much more of a middle-American homemaker than a mythic Restorer, but I wouldn’t give up without a fight.

  Crushing pain burst through my chest, and the chair fell from my hands. My vision sparkled; I couldn’t breathe. I felt myself collapsing and knew I was headed for the floor. Mercifully, I blacked out before I hit.

  When I came to, Nicco crouched near me, watching. As soon as he saw my eyes open, he leaned closer.

  He didn’t touch me. He didn’t have to. His eyes grabbed me.

  “Ground rules.” His voice rumbled with menace. “I can make you feel anything . . . anything you’ve ever felt. Any pain in your memory. Don’t ever”—another stab of pain made me gasp—“attack me again.”

  He thumbed a remote on his belt to open the door, stepped out, and chatted with someone in the hall, the words inaudible through the moans coming from my own throat. The door slid back down, and I crawled toward the pallet. It had taken a long time to get over the pain triggered by Cameron’s drugs. Or the searing ache of the knife that Medea had plunged into me in the Council session. I had just relived that torment in full—every nuance, every screaming nerve ending. I curled into a ball and whimpered.

  I slowly realized the pain had been a Rhusican illusion. Nicco hadn’t done any real physical damage. The agony faded rapidly, but my helpless dread didn’t.

  Why did You let him hurt me?

  All I could do was cry out to God and beg Him to make this all go away.

  Then a quiet memory nudged its way forward: my friend Ruthie sitting across from me at our favorite restaurant. Months earlier, her husband had been killed in a car accident. Loaves of banana bread and flowers proved inadequate support, so after the funeral, I took her out for lunch each Wednesday. We talked a lot about evil—senseless evil that raised questions and rattled faith. Each week I listened to her pain expressed in soul-wrenching honesty. I reassured Ruthie it was normal to ask “why?”

  But one day she faced me with a firm chin. It was hot that day, and she fanned herself with the menu and pressed her iced tea glass against her forehead. “I know it’s okay for me to vent. And thanks for letting me sort it out. But if I get stuck forever shouting all my ‘why’ questions, my own frustration will trap me.”