Red

by Ted Dekker

  The lake’s waters were not for drinking or washing—such water came from the springs—but only for bathing and only then without soap. The lake’s shores were reserved for the nightly celebrations, which were getting underway around a large firepit.

  Thomas and Rachelle would normally be among the first at the celebration, dancing and singing and retelling stories of Elyon’s love that would stretch into the night. It had always been the highlight of their day. But at the moment Thomas’s mind was a hundred miles away.

  “Thomas. What is it?”

  “It’s the Southern Forest,” he said. “We may lose the Southern Forest.”

  THOMAS PACED along the gazebo’s half-wall deep in thought. Torches blazed from each post. Down the shore, delighted laughter rose from the celebration. A long line of dancers, dressed in fabrics made from dark green leaves and white flowers, had linked arms and were moving in graceful circles around the bonfire. They were undoubtedly light with wine and stuffed with meat. Out on the lake, moonlight shone in a long white shaft.

  For so long Thomas’s people had waited for Elyon’s deliverance. They’d spun a thousand stories about the way he might ultimately deliver them from the Horde. Would he rise from the lake and flood the desert with water to drown them? Or would he ride in on a mighty white horse and lead them in one final battle that rid the earth of the scourge once and for all?

  Thomas turned to the gathered elders and lieutenants. “If there are two armies, there may be three. Otherwise, yes, Ciphus, I wouldn’t hesitate to lead five thousand men to Jamous’s aid tonight. But it’s a full day’s journey—nearly three days there and back. The Horde has never attacked us on two fronts until now. If our Guard vacate this forest while so many are coming for the annual Gathering—”

  “Well, we won’t change the Gathering. I promise you that.”

  “Half of our forces are out escorting the tribes. We’re already stretched way too thin. To send more men to the Southern Forest puts us at great risk.”

  Mikil stood. “Then let me go with just a few of the Forest Guard. Jamous is still fighting, Thomas. You heard the runner!”

  The runner had met them at the gates with fresh word from the south. Jamous was holding strong against the Horde. His first retreat had been a strategy to draw the Horde near the forest where his archers had the distinct advantage of cover. They had been fighting for three days now.

  “How many men?”

  “Give me five hundred,” Mikil said.

  “That would leave us weak here,” William objected. “Here where the whole world will be gathered in less than a week. What if the Horde is weakening us for an assault on the forest, here, next week, when they can take us all in one blow?”

  “He’s right, Mikil,” Thomas said. “I can’t let you take five hundred.”

  “You’re forgetting the bombs,” Mikil said.

  The news of their stunning victory was spreading like fire. He looked at Rachelle. They hadn’t been alone yet, when he knew he’d get her true reaction to the fact that he’d started dreaming again. Still, with such a victory, what could she say?

  What none of them knew was that he’d dreamed not once, but twice, the second time when they’d stopped for sleep returning from the battle. He’d dreamed that he’d gone before a special meeting called by the president of the United States and then been put to sleep by a psychologist. In his dream world, he was at this very moment lying in a chair in Dr. Bancroft’s laboratory.

  And he intended to dream again, tonight. He had to. If he could only make Rachelle understand that.

  “Using the black powder, we could destroy the Horde!” Mikil said.

  “Not on the open desert we won’t,” William said. “You’ll kill a handful with each blast; that’s it. And you’re forgetting that we don’t have any bombs at the moment.”

  “Then three hundred warriors.”

  “Three hundred,” Thomas said. “But not you. Send another division and tell them to ride along the runners’ route.” They continually sent messengers on fast horses between the forests in a kind of mail system that Thomas had developed. “If they hear that Jamous has won before they arrive, have them turn back.”

  She stared at him for a moment, then turned to leave.

  “I’m sorry, Mikil. I know what Jamous means to you, but I need you here.”

  She paused, and then left without another word.

  Thomas motioned after her with his head. “Go with her, William. Suzan, organize a sweep of the forest perimeter. Let’s be sure there isn’t another Horde army lurking.”

  They both left.

  “You really think the Horde would try something like that?” Rachelle asked.

  “I wouldn’t have thought so a month ago, but they’re getting smart about the way they attack. Martyn is changing them.”

  “So then, we’re agreed,” Ciphus said. The elder stroked his long gray beard. He was one of the older Council members, seventy. Bathing in Elyon’s waters didn’t stop the aging process. “The Gathering will proceed as planned in five days.”

  “Yes.”

  “Regardless of the Southern Forest’s fate.”

  “You think they may fall?” Thomas asked.

  “No. Have any of our forests fallen? But if one does, then all the more reason for the Gathering.”

  “I suppose so.”

  Thomas looked at his wife. She was only a few years younger than he was, but she looked half his battle-worn age. There was no doubt in his mind but that she would make an incredible commander. But she was also a mother. And she was his wife. The thought of exposing her to death on the battlefield made him sick.

  He walked to her and touched his hand to her cheek. “Have I told you lately how beautiful you are?” he asked. He leaned over and kissed her full on the lips while the others watched silently. Romance had become their religion, and they practiced it daily. When a person wandered into the desert and neglected swimming in Elyon’s water, their memory of the colored forest and the love that Elyon had shown them in the old lake also dimmed. But here in the forest, lingering memories had prompted Ciphus and the Council to develop rituals determined to cherish those memories. The Great Romance consisted of rules and celebrations and traditions meant to keep the people from straying. The way that a husband or wife expressed love for his or her spouse was a part of that romance.

  Rachelle winked. “Your love for me makes my face shine,” she said.

  He kissed her again.

  “Ciphus, what can you tell me of the Books of Histories?” he asked, turning from Rachelle. “They say that the Books still exist. Have you heard of them?”

  “We don’t need the Books of Histories. We have the lakes.”

  “Of course. But do you believe they exist?”

  Ciphus stared at him past bushy brows. “They aren’t books anyone wants,” he said. “They were hidden from us a long time ago for good reason.”

  “I didn’t know you were so averse to the Books,” Thomas said. “I’m simply asking if you know anything about them.”

  “This sudden interest in the histories again. You were consumed with them before,” Rachelle said. “It’s the dreams, isn’t it?”

  “It’s not like you might think, Rachelle, but yes. Nothing’s changed there. When I awoke in Bangkok, only a night had passed!” He walked to the rail and gazed at the celebration, now in full swing. “I know it sounds ludicrous, but we may have a very serious problem.” He turned to her. “They need me.”

  “What is Bangkok?” Ciphus asked.

  “The world in his dreams,” Rachelle said. “When he dreams, he believes that he goes to another place, that he’s living in the ancient histories, before the Great Deception. He thinks that he can stop the virus that led to the times of tribulation. You see why the rhambutan is so important, Thomas? Once—only once—you sleep without the fruit and your mind is whisked away. Ludicrous!”

  “This is why you’re interested in the Books of Histories?”
Ciphus asked. “To save a dream world?”

  Thomas clutched the wound on his shoulder. Suzan had bandaged it with herbs and a broad leaf. A swim in the lake would do it some good, but the deep cut would take some time to heal.

  “You see this wound? It didn’t come from the Horde. It came from the world in my dreams.”

  “But surely that world isn’t real,” the elder said. “Is it?”

  “Weren’t you listening earlier when I told you about the black powder? I don’t know how real it is, but this cut is real enough.”

  “Then Elyon is using your mind to help us,” Ciphus said. “But if you’re suggesting that the dreams he’s using are real, that’s an entirely different matter.”

  “Call it what you will, Ciphus. My shoulder hurts just the same.”

  “Please, Thomas.” Rachelle drew her hand over his hair. “For all you know the Horde cut you and you just don’t remember. Yes? Fascination with the histories pushed Tanis into the black forest to begin with.”

  “No. I won’t have that on my head. His preoccupation was there before I began to dream. Tanis made his own choice.”

  She removed her hand. “And now you’ll make yours,” she said. “I will not have you dreaming again.”

  “And what if not dreaming threatens my own life? We are dying there! The virus will kill me. They depend on me, but just as much, my very existence here may depend on my ability to stop the virus there!”

  “No, I can’t listen to this. Of course they depend on you. Without you they don’t exist to begin with!”

  “You’re willing to risk my life?”

  “The last time you dreamed, we all died.”

  They faced off, romance quickly forgotten. He understood her aversion. What was it she had said? I will not have you loving another woman in your dreams while I am suckling your child. Something similar. She was still jealous of Monique.

  “These dreams sound like so much nonsense to me,” Ciphus said. “I would agree with Rachelle. There is no benefit in dreaming if you lose your mind in them. But if you want to know about the Books of Histories, then you’ll have to speak to the old man, Jeremiah of Southern. He is here, I believe.”

  Jeremiah of Southern? The old man who’d once been a Scab? He was one of very few who had come in and bathed in the lake of his own will. Much of what Thomas knew of the Desert Dwellers he’d learned from the old man. But he’d never mentioned the Books of Histories.

  “He’s here now?”

  The Elder nodded. “For the Gathering.”

  “Thomas.”

  He faced Rachelle. She was giving him one of those looks that he adored her for, a fiery glare that threatened without casting any suspicion on her love.

  “Please tell me that because you love me you will eat ten rhambutan fruits right now and forget this nonsense forever,” she said.

  “Ten?” He chuckled. “You want me sick? I would groan all night. That’s how you welcome your mighty warrior home?”

  Slowly a smile curved her lips.

  “Then one fruit. And I promise to chase it down with a kiss that will make your mind spin.”

  “Now that’s tempting,” he said. He reached for her hand. “Would you like to dance?”

  She took it and spun into him.

  “I don’t mean to interrupt lovers, but there is another matter,” Ciphus said.

  “There’s always another matter,” Thomas said. “What is it?”

  “The challenge.”

  He knew already where the elder was going. “Justin?”

  “Yes. We cannot allow his heresy to spread further. As is required, three elders have called for an inquiry before the people as is allowed by law. Do you concur?”

  “He insulted my authority once. It would seem natural that I would agree.”

  “But do you?”

  Thomas caught Rachelle’s glance. She’d once told him that Justin was harmless and that going on about him only strengthened his popularity. He’d agreed at the time. Although he might not say so in front of Mikil and the others, Thomas still carried respect for the man. He was undoubtedly the best soldier Thomas had ever commanded, which might be one reason Mikil disliked him so much.

  On the other hand, there could be no denying the man’s flagrant heresy. Peace with the Horde. What utter nonsense.

  “Is he really that dangerous?” he asked, more for Rachelle’s sake than his. “His popularity is so great. A challenge carries serious consequences.”

  “But his offense is growing. We believe the best way to deal with him is now, to make an example of any such treasonous talk.”

  “If he wins your challenge?”

  “Then he is permitted to remain, of course. If he refuses to change his doctrine and loses, he will be banished as the law requires.”

  “Fine.” Thomas turned to leave. This was hardly his concern.

  “You know that if the people can’t decide, then it comes down to a fight in the arena,” Ciphus said.

  Thomas faced the elder. “And?”

  “We would like you to defend the Council if Justin must be fought.”

  “Me?”

  “It only seems natural, as you say. Justin has turned his back on the Great Romance, and he’s turned his back on you, his commander. Anyone other than you and the people might think you have no stomach for it. Our challenge will be weak on that face alone. We would like you to agree to the fight if the people are undecided.”

  “It’s pointless, this fight business,” Rachelle said. “How can you fight Justin? He served at your side for five years. He saved your life more than once. Does he pose a danger to you?”

  “In hand-to-hand? Please, my love, he learned what he knows from me.”

  “And he learned it well, from what I’ve heard.”

  “He hasn’t fought in a battle for several years. And he may have saved my life, but he also turned his back on me, not to mention, as Ciphus so rightly says, the Great Romance. Elyon himself. What will the people think if I abandoned even one of our pillars of faith? Besides, there will be no fight.”

  He faced Ciphus. “I accept.”

  10

  THE HORDE set fire to the Southern Forest at night, after three days of pitched battle. Never before had they done this, partially because the Forest Guard rarely let them close enough to have such an opportunity. But that was before Martyn. They’d ignited the trees with flaming arrows from the desert two hundred yards away from the perimeter. Not only were they using fire, they had made bows.

  It had taken Jamous and his remaining men four hours to subdue the flames. By Elyon’s grace the Horde hadn’t started another fire, and the Forest Guard had managed an hour of sleep.

  Jamous stood on a hill overlooking the charred forest. Beyond lay a flat white desert, and just now in the growing light he could see the gathered Horde army. Ten thousand, far fewer than what they’d started with. But he’d lost six hundred men, four hundred in a major offensive just before dusk last evening. Another two hundred were wounded. That left him only two hundred able-bodied warriors.

  He’d never seen the Desert Dwellers engage in battle so effectively. They seemed to swing their swords more skillfully and their march seemed more purposeful. They used flanking maneuvers and they withdrew when overpowered. He hadn’t actually seen the general they called Martyn, but he could only assume that was who led this army.

  Word had come of the great victory at the Natalga Gap, and his men had cheered. But the reality of the situation here was working on Jamous’s mind like a burrowing tick. One more major push from the Horde and his men would be overrun.

  Behind them not three miles lay a village. It was the second largest village of the seven, twenty thousand souls in all. Jamous had been sent to escort these devout followers of Elyon to the annual Gathering when a patrol had run into the Horde army.

  The villagers had voted to stay and wait for the Desert Dwellers’ sound defeat, which they were sure would be imminent, rather than cross
the desert without protection.

  Until yesterday it had seemed like a good plan. Now they were in a terrible situation. If they fled now, the Horde would likely burn the entire forest or, worse, catch them from behind and destroy them. If they stayed and fought, they might be able to hold the army off until the three hundred warriors whom Thomas had sent arrived, but his men were tired and worn.

  He crouched on a stump and mulled his options. A thin fog coiled through the trees. Behind him, seven of his personal guard talked quietly around a smoldering fire, heating water for an herbal tea. Two of them were wounded, one where the fire had burned the skin from his calf, and another whose left hand had been crushed by the blunt end of a sickle. They would ignore their pain, because they knew that Thomas of Hunter would do the same.

  He looked down at the red feather tied to his elbow and thought of Mikil. He’d plucked two feathers from a macaw and given her one to wear. When he returned home this time, he would ask for her hand. There was no one he loved or respected more than Mikil. And what would she do?

  Jamous frowned. They would fight, he decided. They would fight because they were the Forest Guard.

  The men had grown silent behind him. He spoke without turning, indicating the desert as he did so.

  “Markus, we will hit them on their northern flank with twenty archers. The rest will follow me from the meadow on the south, where they least expect it.”

  Markus didn’t respond.

  “Markus.” He turned.

  His men were staring at three men who’d ridden into camp. The one who led them rode a white horse that snorted and pawed at the soft earth. He wore a beige tunic with a studded brass belt and a hood that covered his head in a manner not unlike the Scabs. Not true battle dress. A scabbard hung on his saddle.

  Jamous stood and faced the camp. His men seemed oddly captivated by the sight. Why? All three looked like lost woodsmen, strong, healthy, the kind who might make good warriors with enough training, but they certainly had nothing that would set them apart.

  And then the leader lifted his emerald eyes to Jamous.

  Justin of Southern.

  The mighty warrior who’d defied Thomas by turning down the general’s greatest honor now spent his days wandering the forests with his apprentices, a self-appointed prophet spreading illogical ideas that turned the Great Romance on its head. He’d once been very popular, but his demanding ways were proving too much for many, even for some of the pliable fools who followed him diligently.