by Ted Dekker
“And you flew in because . . . ?” They rarely confronted the black bats anymore. There was a time, long ago, when heroic battles had been fought, but not for a millennium now.
“Because I saw the sky black with Shataiki about a mile in, that’s why. I went in high, but when I saw him, I couldn’t leave him. There were a thousand of the beasts flying mad circles around me, I’m telling you. It was nothing short of spectacular.”
“And how did you manage to escape a thousand Shataiki?”
“Michal, please! It’s I! The conqueror of Shataiki.” He raised his wing in a mock salute. “Flies or beasts, black or red, urge them on. I’ll dispatch them to darkness.” He waited for a response from Michal and continued when he received none.
“Actually, I took them by surprise. Out of the sun. And did I tell you about the flies? I blasted through a horde of flies like they were the air itself.”
“Of course you did.” And then after a moment of thought, “Well done.”
Michal tilted his head and studied the man’s rising back. Fresh blood still oozed from three gaping holes at the man’s neck, his buttocks, and his right thigh where the Shataiki had eaten him to the bone. His flesh quivered under the hot sun. There was something strange about the man. It was strange enough that someone from one of the distant villages had entered the black forest at all. It had happened only once before. But the strangeness was more than that. He could smell the stench that came from the man’s ragged breathing—like the breath of the Shataiki bats.
“Well, let’s get on with it then. You have the water?”
“Hello?”
They both turned as one. A young woman stood at the edge of the clearing, eyes wide. Rachelle.
Rachelle stared at the bloodied body, stunned by the gruesome sight. Had she ever seen anything so terrible? Never! She hurried forward, red tunic swishing below her knees.
“What . . . what is it?” A man, of course. She could see that by the muscles in his back and legs. He lay on his belly, head turned toward her, a bloody mess. “Who is he?”
The Roush, Michal and Gabil, exchanged a glance. “We don’t know,” Michal said.
“He’s no one we know,” Gabil blurted. “No sir, this one’s from one of the other villages.”
Rachelle stopped, mesmerized. One arm lay at an odd angle, cleanly broken below the elbow. Empathy swelled in her chest. “Dear. Oh dear, oh dear.” She dropped to her knees by his shoulder. “How could anything like this possibly have happened?”
“The bats. I led him from the black forest,” Gabil said.
Alarm flashed. “The bats? He’s been in the black forest?”
“Yes, but he didn’t drink the water,” Michal said.
Silence settled over them. This was the work of the Shataiki! She’d never actually seen one, much less encountered their fangs, but here on the grass was evidence enough of the terrible beasts’brutality. So much blood. Why hadn’t the Roush healed him immediately? They knew as much as she how blood defiled a man. It defiled man, woman, child, grass, water, anything that it touched. It wasn’t meant to be spilled. And on the rare occasions that it was, there were accommodations.
Rage displaced her alarm. What kind of thinking could influence any creature to do this to a man?
“This is why Tanis has talked about an expedition to destroy the bats!” she said. “It’s horrible!”
“And any expedition would put Tanis in the same condition!” Michal snapped impatiently. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
Rachelle returned her gaze to the bloodied body. He was breathing steadily, lost to this world. Such a poor, innocent soul.
Yet an air of mystery and intrigue seemed to rise from the man. He had entered the black forest without succumbing to the water. What kind of man could do such a thing? Only a very strong man.
“The water, Gabil,” Michal said.
The smaller Roush withdrew a gourd of water from under his wing.
Rachelle wanted to reach out. To touch the man’s skin. The thought surprised her.
Could he be the man? This thought surprised her even more. How could she dare think of choosing a man she didn’t know for marriage?
Michal had taken the pouch from Gabil. He pulled the cork from its neck.
How absurd that she should think of this brutalized man as anything more than someone who desperately needed the water and Elyon’s love. But the thought swelled in her mind. She felt herself irrevocably drawn to it, like blood to the heart. Since when did men and women qualify the ones they chose? All men were good, all women were good, all marriages perfect. So then why not this man if she felt so suddenly drawn by compassion for him? He was the first she’d ever seen in such desperate need of Elyon’s water.
Michal waddled forward. He tilted the flask.
Rachelle lifted her hand. “Wait.”
“Wait?”
She wasn’t sure what had come over her, but emotion tugged at her heart in a way she’d never quite felt before. She looked at Michal. “Is . . . do you think he’s marked?”
The two Roush exchanged another glance.
“What do you mean?” Michal asked.
The man’s forehead, which would bear the mark of union, was covered in blood. She was suddenly desperate to wipe the blood and see if he bore the telltale one-inch circle that signified his union to another woman. Or the half circle that meant he was promised. But she hesitated; spilled blood was the undoing of Elyon’s creation and should be avoided or immediately restored.
Michal lowered the water pouch. “Please, you can’t seriously be thinking—”
“It’s a wonderful idea!” Gabil said, hopping up and down. “How wonderfully romantic.”
“Why not?” Rachelle asked Michal.
“You don’t even know him!”
“Since when has that made any difference to any woman? Does Elyon exercise such discrimination? And I did find him.”
“What you’re feeling is empathy, certainly not—”
“Don’t be so quick to decide what I’m feeling,” Rachelle said. “I’m telling you I have a very strong feeling for this man. The poor soul has been through the most awful ordeal imaginable.”
“No, it’s not the worst imaginable,” Michal said. “Trust me.”
“But that’s not the point. The point is, I feel very strongly for this man, and I think I may be meant to choose him. Is that so unreasonable?”
“No, I don’t think it’s unreasonable at all,” the smaller Roush said. “It’s very, very, very romantic! Don’t be so cautious, Michal; it’s a delicious thought!”
“I have no idea if he’s marked,” Michal said, but he seemed to have softened.
Rachelle was twenty-one, and she’d never once felt such a strong desire to choose a man. Most women her age had already chosen and been chosen. She certainly was eligible. And it really didn’t matter whom she chose, more that she did choose. That was the custom.
She snatched up a handful of grass and brought it to the man’s forehead. Careful not to let it make any contact with her skin, she wiped the blood away.
No mark!
Her heart pounded. The custom was rare but clear. Any eligible woman who brought wholeness to an eligible man showed her invitation. She was choosing him. The man would then accept her invitation and choose her by pursuing her.
Rachelle stood slowly. “There’s no mark.”
Gabil hopped. “It’s perfect, perfect!”
Michal looked at her, then at the man. “It seems highly unusual, not even knowing which village he comes from. But I suppose you’re right. It’s your choice. Would you like to bring him wholeness?”
Her bones trembled. It seemed so daring. So audacious. But she knew, staring down at the man, that the reason she hadn’t made her choice until this day was because she was more adventurous than most. Was he a good man? Of course. All men were good. Would he pursue her? What man would not romance a woman who had invited him? And what woman would not romance a ma
n who had chosen her? It was the nature of the Great Romance. They all knew it. Thrived on it.
In this most unusual and daring situation, she was ready to choose this man. She was suddenly more ready to choose and be chosen by this man than she could express to any Roush, even the wisest, like Michal. How could they understand? They weren’t human.
“I would,” Rachelle said. “Yes, I would.” She reached a trembling hand for the pouch. “Give me the water.”
A smile tugged at Michal’s mouth. His left brow arched. “You are sure?”
“Give me the pouch. I am very sure!”
“So you are.” He handed her the water.
Rachelle took the gourd. She impulsively brought the pouch to her lips and sipped the sweet green water. A surge of power washed through her belly and she shuddered.
“Well, come on, Gabil,” Michal said. “Roll him over.”
Gabil stopped his pacing, clasped the man’s arm, and hauled him over onto his back. “Oh dear,” he said. “Yes sir. He is bad off, isn’t he? Yes sir. Oh, may Elyon have mercy on this poor being.” His broken arm now lay doubled over on itself.
The emotion that had compelled Rachelle swallowed her. She could hardly wait another second to bring wholeness to this man. She sank to her knees, tilted the pouch over his face, and let the clear green water trickle onto his lips.
The water seemed to glow a little and then spread over the man’s face, as though searching for the right kind of healing for this pulp. Immediately red lumps of flesh began to recede and blend in with pink skin. The skin rippled. Shapes of a nose and lips and eyelids rose from the face.
She poured the water over the rest of the man’s body now, and as quickly as the liquid spread over his skin, the blood dissipated, the redness faded, the cuts filled in with new flesh. The bruises beneath his skin lost their purple color. The man’s broken forearm suddenly jerked from where it lay and began straightening. Gabil yelped and stepped back from the flailing appendage. With a loud pop the arm snapped true.
Rachelle gazed at the transformed man before her, amazed at his beauty. Golden skin, strong face, muscles that rippled, veins running up his arms. Elyon’s water had healed him completely.
She’d just chosen this man as her mate, hadn’t she? The thought was almost more than she could comprehend. She had actually just chosen a man! There was still his choosing of her, naturally, but—
The man heaved a tremendous breath. Gabil uttered a small cry, which alarmed Rachelle even more than the man’s sudden movement. She scrambled back and jumped to her feet.
The man’s eyes flickered open.
Bright light filtered into Tom’s eyes and slowly brought him to his senses. His mind scrambled for orientation. A blue sky above. Brilliant green canopy shimmering in the breeze.
This wasn’t Denver.
He wasn’t lying on the couch after consuming Demerol after all. Denver had all been a dream. Thank heavens. Which meant . . .
The black bats.
Tom jerked himself to a sitting position and faced a forest of trees that shone with amber- and topaz- and ruby-colored trunks. He twisted to his left. Two white creatures gazed at him with curious emerald eyes. Like white cousins to the black bats, with rounded features.
The smaller of the two looked behind him. Tom followed his stare. A woman with long brown hair, wearing a red satin dress, stood ten feet from him, eyes wide with wonder.
He rose to his feet, immediately aware that his body wasn’t brutalized. It wasn’t even bloody.
The woman watched him without moving. The small furry creatures looked up quizzically. He heard rushing water nearby. Where was he? Did he know this woman? These creatures?
“Is there a problem?” the larger of the two white furries asked.
Tom stared. He had just heard speech come from the lips of an animal. But that was nothing unusual, was it? Not at all. He shook his head to clear his thoughts, but they remained muddled.
“You came from the black forest,” the creature said. “Don’t worry, you didn’t drink the water. I am Michal, this is Gabil, and that” —he pointed his wing at the woman—“is Rachelle.” He said her name as if it should mean something to him. “How do you feel?”
“Yes, how do you feel?” the other one, Gabil, repeated.
Details of his sprint through the black forest strung through his mind. Everything felt vaguely familiar, but his memory didn’t extend beyond last night, when he’d awakened after knocking his head on the rock. He felt for the wound on his skull. Gone.
He looked down at his body and slowly ran a hand over his bare chest. No cuts, no bruises, not even a hint of the carnage he remembered from the chase.
Tom looked at the woman. “I feel fine.”
She arched a brow and smiled. “Fine?” She stepped forward on bare feet and stopped at arm’s length. “What is your name?”
He hesitated. “Thomas Hunter?”
“So nice to make your acquaintance, Thomas Hunter.”
She reached out her hand and he tried to take it, but instead she slid her fingers over his palm. That was the greeting. He’d forgotten even that much.
“You are a beautiful man, Thomas Hunter,” she said. “I have chosen you.” She said it softly, her eyes bright as stars. Clearly this information implied something significant, but Tom didn’t have the foggiest notion what it could be. He said nothing.
She dipped her head, stepped back, and drilled him with a positively infectious stare, as if she’d just shared a deep, delightful secret.
Without another word, she turned and ran into the forest.
7
Kara awoke at three o’clockin the morning with a splitting headache. She tried to ignore the pain and slip back into sleep before waking completely, but the moment she remembered the predicament Tom had brought home, her mind resisted.
She finally climbed from the covers, entered her bathroom, and washed down two Advil with a long drink of cool water. If the apartment had any shortcoming, it was the absence of air conditioning.
She headed out to the living room and stopped by the chaise. Tom lay under the batik quilt she’d thrown over him, his position virtually unchanged from when she’d left him a couple of hours ago. Dead to the world.
Tangled brown hair curled over his eyebrows. Mouth shut, breathing steadily and deeply. A square, clean-shaven jaw. Lean, strong body. Mind as wide as the oceans.
She’d been unfair to question his decision to bring his troubles to Denver. He’d come for her sake; they both knew that. He was the baby of the family, but he’d always been the one to take care of them all. The only reason he hadn’t responded to Harvard’s acceptance as initially planned was because Mother needed him after the divorce. And the only reason he hadn’t resumed his education after he’d settled Mother in was because his older sister needed him. He’d put his own life on hold for them. She might play tough with him, but she could hardly blame him for his alternative exploits. He’d never been one to sit back and let the world pass him by. If it wasn’t going to be Harvard, it would be something else as extravagant.
Something like borrowing $100,000 from a loan shark to pay off Mother’s debt and start a new business. Given enough time, he would pay it back, but time wasn’t on their side.
Yes, the problem belonged to both of them now, didn’t it? What on earth would they do?
She considered waking him to make sure he was sound. Despite her dismissal earlier, this business of his vivid dream was unlike him. Tom never did anything without careful consideration. He wasn’t given to fancy. His consideration might be quick and creative—even spontaneous—but he didn’t walk around speaking of hallucinations. The blow to his head had clearly affected his thinking.
What was he dreaming now?
She recalled their short transfer stateside when she was in tenth grade and he in eighth. He’d wandered around school like a lost puppy for the first two weeks, trying to fit in and failing. He was different and they all knew
it. One of the football players—a junior linebacker with biceps larger than Tom’s thighs—had called him a spineless-gook-Chinese-lover one afternoon, and Tom had finally lost his cool. He’d put the boy in the hospital with a single kick. They left him alone after that, but he never made many friends.
He was so very strong during the days, but she could hear his soft cries late at night in the room next to hers. She’d come to his rescue then. In the years since, she’d thought maybe her dissociation with the all-American male had started then. She’d take her brother over a steroid-stuffed football player any day of the week.
Kara stepped forward, leaned over, and kissed his forehead. “Don’t worry, Thomas,” she whispered. “We’ll get out of this. We always have.”
Tom stood in the clearing and looked at the two white creatures. They were odd to be sure, with their furry white bodies and thin legs. The wings weren’t made of feathers, but of skin, like a bat’s wings, white like the rest of their bodies.
All familiar, but only oddly so.
“The black bats,” he said. “I dreamed black bats chased me from the forest.”
“That was no dream,” Gabil replied in an excited tone. “No sir! You were lucky I came along when I did.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t . . . I can’t quite remember what’s going on.”
The two creatures studied him with blank stares. “You don’t remember anything?” Michal asked.
“No. I mean, yes, I remember being chased. But I hit my head on a rock last night and I was knocked out.” He paused and tried to think of the best way to explain his disorientation. “I can’t remember anything before I hit my head.”
“Then You’ve lost your memory,” Michal said. He waddled forward. “You do realize where you are?”
Tom stepped back instinctively and the creature stopped. “Well . . . actually not entirely. Sort of, but not really.” He rubbed his head. “I must have really bumped my head.”
“Well then. What do you know?” Michal asked.
“I know that my name is Tom Hunter. I somehow got into the black forest with someone named Bill, but I fell and smashed my head on a rock. Bill drank the water and just wandered—”
