by Sharon Hinck
I pushed aside my salad plate and leaned forward. “I don’t think God minds our questions.”
“I know. But God may choose to not explain some things on this side of heaven.” She gave me a wry smile. “That’s a hard truth, but He’s God and we’re not.”
What else had she said? The sounds of the restaurant flooded back into my memory. The smell of cashew chicken. The texture of the paper napkin wadded in my hand.
Her eyes were brighter than I’d seen them in months. “I’m trying something new. When I’m confronted with something unfair, hurtful, unjust . . . a crime I read about in the newspaper, or someone who’s rude to me in the checkout line, or . . .” She swallowed. “Or the empty side of my bed. Instead of asking ‘why?’ I’m asking God, ‘how?’”
“Huh?”
She grinned. “No. ‘How.’ How do You want me to respond? How are You planning to work good through this tragedy? How can I be part of the grace You want to bring in this situation?”
I had soaked in every word. Ruthie had faced pain I couldn’t even comprehend.
Now, as if she were sitting in my cell with me, her words rose up to challenge me.
I groaned and hugged the blanket against my chest, curling up tighter. She hadn’t meant this circumstance. She hadn’t meant being kidnapped by mind-controlling Rhusicans. Still, the words had lodged in my memory for a reason.
“Okay, Lord. How? How do You want me to respond?” The question felt stiff, but I continued. “I really mean it. Show me what to do. I’m overwhelmed here. This is beyond anything I have the strength to fight.”
As I admitted my need, my death grip on the blanket loosened. “What are You planning? And if You can’t show me that, show me what You need from me today . . .”
My voice trailed off. I felt a little better, though I didn’t really expect an answer.
Pray for them.
“What? Sure. I’ll pray.” I began to go through my nightly prayers, asking God to protect and bless Mark and each of my children, and—
Pray for Medea. For Nicco. For the Rhusican people.
I froze. “God, I can’t be hearing You right. They’re evil. Haven’t You seen what they’ve been doing? And not just to me.”
How many times in my life had I done this dance with God? Asking Him for direction, then promptly arguing when I sensed His guidance. I sighed.
“Fine. God, destroy this evil place. Stop their plans. Crush them.”
The silence in the room stopped my words.
Then verses stirred in my memory. Unwelcome at the moment, but persistent. “Love your enemies. . . . Pray for those who mistreat you. . . . Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good. . . .”
I pulled the blanket over my head, but it didn’t shut out the call. Warm love wrapped me in tender arms and dared me to let that love work through me.
“And I thought learning to use a sword was hard work,” I muttered.
Praying for my captors didn’t come easily. Over the next several days, I fought my feelings of repulsion and niggling rebellion and began to pray. Little by little, my thoughts shifted during those times of prayer.
“God, draw close to Medea. If she is so conscienceless, she must be very empty inside. She needs You. Stir in her heart—if she has one.” My prayers were sincere, but I couldn’t resist an occasional side comment. “Make her hungry for You. Bring Your light to these people. Help me to understand them—to find ways to share truth with them. And bless Nicco.” The words almost choked me, and I stopped to cough. “He seems to have an important role here. Thank You for his curiosity about me. Turn it into a curiosity about You. Show him that there is more to life than hurting others for enjoyment.”
They hadn’t brought food in a long time. It was hard to guess how long, since the glaring light never changed. As well as I could determine, several days had come and gone. The small sink provided water but that was all.
Had they forgotten me? Or was Nicco making a point? Maybe he wanted me weaker before he talked to me again.
I pushed the questions aside and kept praying. Strangely, my mind grew clearer during this involuntary fast. I experienced brief glimpses through Other eyes, like when I was the Restorer. The One’s love for the people of Rhus began to empower my prayers.
One day I was sitting at the table playing a game of tic-tac-toe, using a grid made from threads I’d pulled out of the blanket. I was trying to remember whose turn it was when the door slid open. Nicco stood in the doorway. A frisson of fear ran through me, but it was followed by a wave of peace that came from outside myself. I swallowed hard and started praying.
He sauntered into the room and pulled up a chair. “How are you?”
I’d planned how to respond if he started this way again. Okay, Susan. Stay calm. “I’m fine.” I sat up taller. “I know I’m not alone. The One is with me.” I let the peace well in me, hoping Nicco would sense it, hoping I would shake his arrogance.
He tilted back his chair and studied me through half-closed lids.
“You really are like all the rest.” He sounded disappointed. “They all go through this phase. They thrash around for a while. Then they turn to their gods.” He sounded bored. “It doesn’t last long.”
I shifted on the chair, clenching my fists. Then something he said snagged my attention.
“What others?” I knew I wasn’t the only person imprisoned in their “conservatory,” but I understood almost nothing about this place.
He grinned and seemed to weigh my question. His chair dropped forward with a bang. “All right. We have special gifts.”
I wouldn’t call twisting and tormenting other people’s minds a gift, but I held my tongue.
“And we bring guests here to help us develop and strengthen our gifts.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s a bother, of course, and they never last as long as we would like, but”—he shrugged—“it serves our purpose.”
His eyes targeted mine. “Now”—his voice was a whiplash in the small room—“let’s talk about your fears.”
When he left much later, my clothes were soaked with cold sweat, and I was shaking and nauseated. He, however, strode out with an energetic bounce, as if refreshed by a good night’s sleep. I crept to my pallet, pulled the blanket around myself, and wept.
After I’d slept and recovered from his latest assault, I scoured every inch of the room again, looking for something to use as a weapon or a means of escape. The material that formed the light walls might be translucent enough to conduct light, but it was hard as steel. Even when I swung a chair into it, my efforts didn’t leave a dent. The seam where the door met the floor was so tight that even if I’d had a tool, I wouldn’t have been able to wedge it in as a lever. I broke my fingernails trying.
“God, get me out of here. Show me what to do.”
Pray for them.
Resentment throbbed in my head. “Were You even here? Did You see what he did?” I punched the unyielding door until my knuckles bled. Drops of red stained the white floor and my white tunic. Blood.
Holy, precious blood.
“Holy, precious blood, and innocent suffering and death.” The phrase from my childhood catechism splattered across my mind. Christ had bled for me. Now He was asking one thing of me. One simple thing. One impossible thing.
If I surrendered to hatred and terror, I’d be lost.
Instead, I knelt in the center of the small room, folded my hands, and bowed my head. When I couldn’t dredge up words of petition for my captors, I used Scripture to help me. “Lord, You are a shepherd. The Rhusicans don’t know You, but they need You. You can restore their souls. I’m not sure they even remember what it means to have a soul, but You can restore them.”
Hours passed in sleep, prayer, pacing the room, inventing games to keep my mind from chaos. They gave me food again. Apparently, Nicco
decided he’d made his point and didn’t need to starve me.
The next time the door opened, peace was harder to grab, but I shot out silent prayers like a quiver’s worth of arrows. This time, Nicco was accompanied by Medea.
In a strange way, it felt good to see a familiar face. I forgot myself and greeted her as if she were the old friend she sometimes pretended to be. She didn’t seem to mind. She made her way to a chair with her usual grace, but a heaviness weighed down her shoulders and dark shadows colored the skin beneath her eyes.
“Nicco tells me he’s enjoyed visiting with you. I’m sorry I missed it. The early days here, our guests are so . . . stimulating.”
“You shouldn’t have stayed away so long. Everyone knows how strong you are. You didn’t need to show off.” Nicco’s words were teasing, and he rested a hand on her shoulder as he took a place beside her.
She turned her head to show him a pout. “I wasn’t showing off. I didn’t know it would take Cameron so long to find everything.”
I was fascinated by their conversation. What exactly was their relationship? Medea used flirtation with everyone, so that could mean anything or nothing. I cataloged the few facts I could collect from this interchange.
“Go ahead. I’m curious to see what you’ve found so far,” she said to him.
He gave her an affectionate smile, and they both turned to me. My mouth went dry, and I tried to brace myself.
And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds . . .
I was trying to finish the thought, when Nicco reached past Medea and grabbed my chin. He turned my head to look at the scar on my cheek. “What did you feel when Cameron did this?” I didn’t remember telling him that it had been Cameron. I tried to resist the pull toward that memory, but it flared up in blinding Technicolor—the physical sting, the shock, and then the anger.
Nicco let go of me and stood behind Medea. “Yes, tell me about your anger.”
One by one, he led me through other incidents in my memory. Petty annoyances and blinding furies. He strung them out like violent red beads on a string. My body shook, and my pulse pounded behind my forehead. I closed my eyes but couldn’t shut out his gaze, his words, his power to stir all of this.
I hated what I was feeling, hated being caught in a maelstrom of rage, hated the way he twisted memories to create fury well beyond what had ever occurred. He wouldn’t stop. I tried to focus the anger on him, but he just savored it for a moment and then diverted it to the next image he triggered. My heart raced, I breathed hard, and every muscle tightened.
“Enough.” His word released me.
I slumped against the back of the chair, barely able to stay upright. My pulse slowed, and I reeled from the places he had taken me.
Medea giggled. “That was quite good.” She sprang up and gave a cat-like stretch.
He grinned. “I know you prefer guilt and despair, but I thought this might help more.”
She slid her hand along his back. “You’ve always known what I need.”
He laughed but didn’t seem to take her seriously. “I don’t mind helping anytime. Even when you’re stronger.” They left arm in arm, Medea obviously feeling much better. They never even glanced back.
The door slid down behind them, and I wished for strength to throw myself against it, but I could only brace myself against the chair and move a few wobbly yards to the pallet.
My mind was still numb from the aftermath of Nicco’s invasion, but I stubbornly folded my hands and closed my eyes.
“Dear God, help me survive this. Find an opening to let them see Your love. Help the people in the other rooms in this building. Deliver us from evil.” A shudder ran through me. How many more visits like this would I endure?
So much time had passed. There didn’t seem to be any hope that Mark would find me. Had he at least stopped Cameron from whatever he had planned for Lyric and the People of the Verses?
After all this time, what was happening in my own world? Was Karen still on her band tour? Were Jon and Anne wondering why they weren’t getting postcards from me at camp? Was Jake holding down the fort at home? Or did Mark let Jake come with him through the portal? He wouldn’t have, would he? We hadn’t talked much about Jake’s Restorer signs, but Mark would know that it was too dangerous for Jake to come through, especially with Cameron running the show. I tried to guess what they were all doing, but then my mind went as flaccid as my body. Sleep rolled over me, and the pain retreated.
Chapter
10
Jake
I stared at the Council guards, my mouth hanging open. Why would they lie like that? Of course there was a Council. For Pete’s sake, these were Council guards.
They tired of me gaping at them. “Head back to the transport.” One of the muscle-bound soldiers waved me toward the road. Arguments wouldn’t get me anywhere. And I didn’t bother explaining I hadn’t arrived on a transport. No need to raise suspicions.
Technically, these were the good guys, although I was a little fuzzy on that issue. Kieran had despised the Council and didn’t trust any of their guards, but Dad had been a councilmember.
I followed the road they had indicated. Last time I was here, some Council guards had escorted me from Braide Wood to Lyric. Maybe I could retrace the route to Braide Wood and find Tristan. He would know what to do. Both Mom and Dad trusted him, and even though he was a little grim sometimes, I liked him. I used to read lots of books about Arthur and Camelot when I was a kid. Tristan could have been any knight off those pages.
Yep. Good plan. I jogged along the road to the transport station but slowed when it came into view.
Before, there had been people everywhere. Today it was deserted. The silence gave me the creeps.
I once showed up for college entrance exams on the wrong day. I ran through a classroom building, afraid I was late. Every room was dark and empty. My footsteps echoed in the halls and panic tore around in my head as I wondered where everyone was. I felt the same way now.
I slumped on a bench. I had planned to ask someone for directions. It wasn’t like I could study a map or read a list of hubs like at a bus stop back home. The people here didn’t use a written language. They just knew stuff—which was fine if you lived here all the time, but not so great when you were a stranger.
I remembered the direction I’d come from when we arrived at the Lyric station, so I waited until an automated transport pulled up heading that direction. When the sleek metal door slid up, I stepped aboard and sat on one of the molded plastic benches that ran along the sides of the compartment. The transport moved out with me as the only passenger. It was a lonely feeling.
After a while, the transport stopped at another deserted station that I knew wasn’t Braide Wood. But I remembered going near another town, so maybe I was heading in the right direction.
The terrain began to change. The bare rolling hills gave way to trees with smooth twisting branches and then steeper cliffs with tall pine trees. This felt familiar, and when the transport stopped again, I jumped out. As I remembered it, the trail to Braide Wood took a few hours of aggressive hiking. I muttered about the transportation system in this world. Tara had once explained that each clan kept the transport stations some distance from their villages as a barrier of time and space. Convenience and speed weren’t a high priority among most of the People of the Verses.
I rummaged in my pack and was relieved to find my water bottle. As I straightened, a plop of water hit my head. Must be early afternoon already. I groaned and pulled out a rain poncho from my hiking supplies, settling it over me and my pack before starting up the trail. I heard rustling sounds deep in the woods and made sure the poncho didn’t get in the way of my sword hilt.
It would have been a nice walk if I hadn’t been wondering where Mom was, what was wrong with Lyric, and whether so
mething dangerous would jump out at me around the next bend. I jogged some of the way, slowing when the path angled upward. I wasn’t 100 percent positive this was the right trail, but I was committed now. If I didn’t find Braide Wood within a few hours, I would hike back to the transport.
I had brought some food along and could have stopped for lunch along the trail, but urgency drove me onward. Tristan had pledged friendship to our family. He would help me rescue Mom.
The rocks grew slippery, and as I reached a high ridgeline, nothing looked particularly familiar. Trees were trees. The rain felt cold as a few drops hit my nose, and I shivered. I might be completely lost. As I rounded a curve, the roofs of Braide Wood spread out below me.
Kieran and I had approached from a different direction the first time I had come here. I hadn’t appreciated how big the village was. It took me a moment to get my bearings, but I figured out which house was Tristan’s and worked my way down the path toward it.
The first thing I noticed was the silence. The afternoon rain was letting up, so I expected to see children running between the log homes, laughing and distracting themselves from chores. The last time I was here, several people left their doors open or called to each other from their porches. Lots of the men and women were probably working down at Morsal Plains, planting or harvesting, or trying to restore the poisoned land. Yet there should have been some activity.
Every door was closed. Cold bumps rose on my arms.
Our city zoo had a prairie dog exhibit that boasted a whole town full of hills and tunnels. On one of my visits, the zoo volunteer demonstrated how some of the prairie dogs stayed on guard and when they sensed danger, warned the others. She pulled a fake hawk across the ceiling of the exhibit. As the shadow fell, a whistle went up and all the prairie dogs disappeared into their burrows with a flash of brown fur. The resulting emptiness was exactly how Braide Wood felt to me.
