Outlaw

by Ted Dekker

  She hesitated, then swallowed deeply. “Come and see what I have forgotten.”

  Lela turned back up the path and led him to a cliff that fell away into a vast valley. Stephen pulled up and studied the view before him.

  Many times he’d seen the valley from a greater distance, often enshrouded in a low-lying fog. But that fog had always been white and thick, not wispy with gray tendrils that clung to the entire lower reaches, stretching out to the swamps. In and of itself, this didn’t matter one way or the other.

  What did matter, however, was the fact that this mist seemed to be moving unnaturally. Shifting and circling over a focal point far south, as if of its own mind, alive and aware and gathering to defend.

  What mattered even more was the faint, high-pitched whine that came from the valley. A barely audible scream behind a low hum.

  Fear sliced through his mind as he stood on the cliff, spellbound, struck by the impression that the ground in the valley was groaning and the mist above shrieking its torturous pain.

  This was more than a valley blanketed in fog.

  “There,” she said, pointing to the south. “The Warik.”

  Stephen could make no sense of the dread reaching into him. There was nothing here or anywhere that could threaten him. Everything he’d learned from Shaka made this plain.

  Why did he feel this strange fear?

  “Below the mist?” he asked.

  She looked up at him. “Mist?”

  So then Lela couldn’t see what he saw.

  You will see this darkness in a way you never have, Shaka had said. It will know you have come.

  Do not forget.

  He did not.

  Immediately the mist began to fade. And with it the faint whine and the low hum. Only a thin layer of smoke rising from cooking fires remained.

  He slowly exhaled through his nostrils, breathing out the balance of his concern. What his hearing and seeing meant, he didn’t know, but the threat was gone. Defeated already.

  “The smoke,” he said, nodding at the section of jungle far south.

  “Yes, below the smoke. They’ll see us before we arrive. Kirutu’s spirits see always. His warriors roam the valley.”

  A barely discernible hum of anxiety tempted his mind again, whispering of the unknown.

  “How far?” he asked.

  “We won’t make it by dark.”

  “No.”

  The apprehension that crossed his mind wasn’t in itself a problem. That he wasn’t able to dismiss it easily, however, might be one.

  “You’re frightened?” she asked.

  He turned his head. She was with him, and he drew comfort from her presence. Perhaps it was why Shaka had brought her for this final quest.

  “I’ve never been to this valley,” he said. “It’s a strange place of men, unknown to me.”

  “Now you doubt?”

  He tried to consider his feelings, but he wasn’t quite sure what to think.

  “No.” And he didn’t. But he couldn’t dismiss his unease, however slight.

  “We can sleep here tonight,” he said, “and go together when the sun rises.” Then he added, for good measure, “Don’t worry. We are safe.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  The sense of caution that had presented itself to Stephen on the cliff vanished as darkness fell. He concerned himself then only with making Lela as comfortable as possible, because she couldn’t dismiss her fear of what the morning might bring.

  In her presence he felt no fear.

  They both needed food, preferably meat to eat with the sago Lela carried in a net bag at her waist, but she insisted they not build a fire—it might be seen. So they ate raw strips of a small snake he killed near their camp. She wasn’t accustomed to eating uncooked meat. He’d settled her fears by stuffing his mouth with far more than it could comfortably hold and showing great pleasure with every chew until the juice ran down his chin. Smiling, she first nibbled, then ate, strips of the flesh with him, although she insisted the Tulim were a more refined people.

  “You killed this snake with your spear?” she asked, staring at the severed head.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “It has a small head, and yet you struck it.”

  “I used the spear as a blade. Better to keep a spear close to be used again than throw and chase it.”

  “Shaka taught you how to fight?”

  “Shaka taught me all that I know.”

  “You may need these skills when you meet Kirutu.”

  The thought hadn’t occurred to him and he rejected it outright.

  “Hurting Kirutu would only inflame more insanity.”

  She grunted her disapproval. “Then you should kill him.”

  He would never do such a thing, but Lela wasn’t able to understand the teachings he’d learned over so many years, so he just smiled and let the statement pass.

  They rested on a bed of grass, side by side, and in that time beside her warm body, he felt a great comfort that filled him with awe as sleep coaxed him into dreams of running through fields of flowers with Lela at his side, laughing with delight. All was well.

  How could it not be?

  Stephen woke Lela before dawn to begin the journey into the Tulim valley. The insanity he’d seen the day before was long gone. Even the memory of it had faded, because he had little use for memories that might bring fear into the present.

  And in the present he was with Lela, fully grateful for her as he watched her walk down the path, amazed at her every movement and her repeated urging that he take their approach to danger more seriously.

  By the time morning dawned, Lela had led him down the mountain to a worn path, headed south.

  The jungle in the lowlands was thicker in some respects, crowded with mangroves and casuarinas and broadleaf grasses of endless varieties. Here the animal life was more abundant than in the highlands—snakes, possums, bats, lizards, marsupials, many species of which Stephen recognized by sound alone. But there were too many to be known fully. More than seven hundred kinds of birds lived in this jungle, Shaka said. And more insect species than could be counted in a full year. It was a land of abundant life.

  Thinking of that, Stephen thought the jungle seemed oddly quiet. The birds’ calls seemed to lack their full delight. Rodents took to hiding long before Stephen and Lela came close. Only the insects seemed unperturbed by the humans’ arrival, singing without reprieve as they always did.

  Stephen was at peace and fully aware that only his costume passed here, delighted to be in the company of another.

  They walked for a long while, ever closer to the area where he’d seen smoke. All was well. Today he might bring his peace to his mother.

  All was well, but then suddenly it wasn’t.

  They had just stepped from the trees onto a grassy knoll that gave them full view of the jungle when the high-pitched whine Stephen had heard on the cliff returned.

  He pulled up, intrigued by the sound. Above, a gray sky. Ahead, the knoll, which fell into dense forest. At the bottom of the valley, smoke from morning fires, drifting up through a heavy canopy.

  The whine was slightly louder, like a chorus of insects unknown to him—a vast army spread across the jungle, too small to be seen but making its presence known in this unending scream.

  “What is it?” Lela asked, on edge, looking back at him. She followed his eyes, scanning the jungle ahead. “What do you see?”

  “I hear.”

  “Hear what?”

  “The sound of insects, high and low at once. A kind I haven’t heard.”

  She listened for a moment. “I hear nothing new.”

  “Then you shouldn’t worry.”

  But it was too late, Lela’s fingers were trembling already.

  “These are the evil spirits!” she said. “You hear death with the ears of the shaman!”

  Stephen thought she might be right, but he could find no words to express what he did not know. He could only assure her that
all would be well.

  “How far to the Warik?”

  “I told you, the whole valley is Warik,” she said. “The main village is just beyond this draw where the land has been cleared to the swamps. Down this path.” She motioned to a narrow trail fifty paces ahead.

  “Then follow me.”

  He passed her and headed down the path, unable to dislodge the whine from his hearing, eager to discover its source. Even more willing to root the sound out of his mind.

  Do not forget who you are.

  He did not.

  “Stephen…”

  He turned back and saw that Lela was staring at him, still rooted to the ground.

  “There’s nothing to fear,” he said, stepping back to her. “Trust me. Stay close to me.”

  She glanced at the jungle beyond him, then walked forward.

  He smiled and continued down the trail, spreading his arms. “You see? Nothing to fear.”

  Behind him Lela said nothing.

  They made their way back into the trees and down the mountain along a switchback that led them into another clearing.

  “You see?” he asked, stepping out. He scanned the trees that surrounded the clearing. “There’s nothing to fear here. Nothing but trees.”

  “Kirutu sees everything,” she whispered.

  “Then he sees only what cannot hurt us,” Stephen said. “I will keep you safe.”

  The high-pitched whine did not abate. Instead it grew, and this caused him some concern, but not enough for him to redirect his course. If he was meant to do anything other than face the fear that presented itself, Shaka would have told him so.

  The only way to overcome fear is to walk through it and learn that it is but a shadow of death.

  So he walked on, one foot in front of the other, straight toward the trees on the far side of the clearing. Spreading his arms once again to reassure her.

  “You see? There is nothing to…”

  But then there was something. The distinct sound of a long shaft hurtling through the air. An airborne spear to his right.

  He instinctively dropped to a crouch.

  Heard the unmistakable whump of wood connecting with bone just behind him. And with the whump, the sudden termination of the whining in his head.

  Stephen spun back as Lela’s body fell heavily to the ground, bounced once, and then lay still, head bloodied by a blunt spear, which rolled into the grass three paces from her.

  Silence settled over the clearing. She’d been struck by the spear. Her chest still rose and fell with breath.

  For a long moment Stephen didn’t seem capable of processing any thought. Shaka had talked about war and he’d read his mother’s account, so he knew of the violence that humans took upon themselves, but seeing it now he wasn’t sure how to process what he was seeing. What to think about the blood seeping from the wound on her head.

  He turned his head to the right and blinked. There, between two towering trees, stood a man wearing only black and red markings on his face, and yellow bands on his arms and legs. Staring at Stephen nonchalantly, without threat in his eyes.

  A dozen warriors silently emerged from the trees and stood in a line, watching with only casual interest.

  He looked back at Lela’s unconscious body. Her jaw was broken. Blood seeped from her mouth. What manner of insanity could possibly lead to such a brutal attack? He couldn’t bring himself to understand.

  And then he did understand something. Or rather feel it. A terrible sorrow that reached up through his chest and threatened to swallow him whole.

  Here lay Lela, collapsed as though dead with one blow. Lela, who had done nothing except trust him.

  In a flurry of thoughts, memories of their journey swept through his mind. Of laughing and touching and sleeping side by side with such contentment.

  Trust me, Lela. I will keep you safe.

  And yet there she lay, bleeding on the ground.

  Stephen slowly straightened, suddenly ill. He felt his spear slip from his fingers and fall to the ground.

  Do not forget.

  He lifted his head, breathing deep, aware of the scent of blood in the air. Even more aware that forgetting now could throw him into a pit of fear.

  Shaka had known?

  The warriors were approaching, twelve abreast, cautious now, each holding a spear or a long blade made of steel. Machetes, Shaka had called these. Two carried long bows.

  They thought to hurt him? But they couldn’t reach him easily. The jungle was open behind him and on either side. If he wanted to, he could easily slip away.

  Only then did he see the others, emerging from the trees on all sides, no fewer than fifty warriors approaching their single prey.

  Do not forget. But in that moment Stephen forgot what he shouldn’t forget. Because the warriors were suddenly jogging forward, closing in on him like a noose. His mind had gone blank and all he could think to do was what he’d come to do.

  Find his mother.

  If these men took his life now, he wouldn’t be able to do that.

  He turned toward the only gap in the closing circle and he ran, moving with the same instincts that had often kept him safe.

  His mind calculated distances and speeds on the fly: thirty-five long paces to the trees; fifty paces for the closest warriors.

  You’re leaving her, Stephen. You’re running from Lela, whom you love.

  Yes, but he knew nothing else to do. The warriors wouldn’t leave Lela to die—they would want to find out what she knew. He couldn’t protect her by staying at her side. Not now.

  Now he had to find his mother.

  He heard the sounds of flying projectiles behind; saw their trajectories with a slight twist of his head; made a small adjustment to his course to avoid three spears that sped harmlessly by and clattered into the branches ahead.

  He was already halfway to the trees, and although many of the warriors were now sprinting, they wouldn’t reach him in time. Once in the dense vegetation he would be as difficult to track as a boar on the run. The leader always had the advantage once aware. It was why stealth was so critical in hunting.

  The wind was at his back. They wouldn’t be able to track him by scent. Could Tulim warriors even track by scent? It had taken him many years to refine his senses to Shaka’s satisfaction.

  All of these thoughts whispered around the edges of his mind. At its core only one thought spoke clearly.

  Run! Find your mother. She will know.

  Two hastily slung arrows slapped through the brush to his right as he planted his right palm on a massive fallen tree and catapulted his body up and over the timber. A third arrow angled toward his body before he landed beyond the log.

  This one he swatted away like a fly with his left hand.

  He landed on his right foot and threw his weight forward, then to his left, around the trunk of a tall sago palm. Within five strides he was beyond their line of sight.

  Stealth, not speed or strength, was now his greatest ally. They would stop to listen and follow any sound he made, but he would offer them none.

  It occurred to him only then that he could just as easily turn and attempt to deal with them head on.

  He’d no sooner allowed the thought passage through his mind than Shaka’s teaching came to him.

  When the evil man comes against you, do not resist him. Doing so will only strengthen his power. Among men, resistance always draws equal and opposite resistance.

  You’re forgetting, Stephen. Already.

  He shoved the thought from his mind and stumbled forward, aware that he was making far too much noise. He took a deep breath, calmed his nerves, and continued on lighter feet, using fallen logs and stones as his path through the understory.

  Down into a narrow creek bed. Across to the slope beyond.

  The telltale sound of crashing in the brush behind and to his right pushed him up the slope to his left.

  South, he thought. My mother is there, south. So he angled farther to his lef
t as the crashing behind faded.

  The distant whispers in his mind were still there, laced once again with a thin, high-pitched whine. He felt no need to pay the sound any mind.

  He was distracted, instead, by a new concern: the continued presence of those other small voices—the ones that said he’d abandoned Lela after promising to protect her. The thoughts that entertained, if only for a moment, the impulse to resist the warriors directly.

  The thought that he was running toward, not away from, danger.

  But he knew nothing else to do. This was the valley Shaka had sent him to. Death was only a shadow here. He could learn this only by walking through it now, undeterred by the insane mind, which had forgotten that it could not be threatened except by its own insanity.

  Truly, the Tulim valley was his own mind.

  Stephen was so distracted by the reflections warring in his mind that the sudden appearance of a well-worn path took him off guard. He pulled up hard in the middle of a wide trail pounded barren by constant foot traffic.

  With a single glance he knew where the trail led. And without allowing himself further contemplation he followed the voice that assured him he’d find his mother at the end of the path.

  He would go of his own accord, not herded or bound by the Warik.

  Stephen turned up the path and jogged forward, eyes fixed on the corner ahead.

  The whining in his head rose to a bone-clawing screech, but he still paid it no mind.

  Move forward, Stephen. Run.

  He ran. One step in front of the other, pounding the soft earth underfoot.

  Find your mother, Stephen. Bring her peace.

  He rounded the corner, took three long strides, then pulled up sharply. The path opened up to a huge, grassy field that sloped down to a ten-foot-high fence made of erect, sharpened timbers bound together with vines, extending far in either direction. A massive gate made of two swinging sections beneath a round beam waited at the end of the path.

  Beyond the gate a sea of brown grass-roofed huts stretched into the jungle, some within his view, most undoubtedly not. Hundreds—perhaps thousands—of dwellings made up the Warik stronghold, split down the center by a wide swath of earth that ran up to a large complex near the center of the village.