Infidel

by Ted Dekker

  He nodded at Silvie, and they hoisted themselves up next to Jackov, who’d gone oddly silent. Quiet since they’d found the Horde city. Perhaps he was second-guessing this plan of his after all.

  Karas spoke to the driver again. “And don’t speak to them, because they’ve been set aside for punishment.” She looked up at Johnis and winked. “That’s so he’ll leave you alone,” she whispered.

  “How do you know my name?” he asked.

  “Because you told me,” she said.

  Had he? He couldn’t remember.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Maybe we can make it up to each other.”

  The cart lurched forward. They rolled deeper into the city.

  “What did she mean?” Silvie whispered. “Did you tell her your name?”

  “Of course he did,” Jackov said.

  “I guess I did. Keep it down.”

  They sat like the three peasants they were meant to be, legs dangling off the end of the cart as it wobbled forward on rough wheels.

  The houses were rectangular with abrupt corners, but not squared by any stretch of imagination. Their architects were either sloppy or terribly inventive. The canvas roofs on most were at least partly torn at the edge, but with little or no rain in the desert, it wouldn’t matter. They wanted to keep the sand and wind out, not water.

  Johnis watched in fascination as children chased each other with straw swords, builders slopped mud into woven frames to form a wall, and Horde women beat the dust from rugs. Smoke rose from half the chimneys, mixing the scent of burned wheat cakes with the offensive Horde odor, which already smelled less offensive than when they had first entered the city.

  “So, these are the infidels,” he muttered, lost in wonder.

  “Infidels?”

  “It’s what Ciphus sometimes calls the Horde: unbelievers.”

  Silvie just grunted softly.

  For the first time Johnis considered what growing up Horde might be like: earing wheat cakes instead of sago cakes, drinking strained but still muddy desert water as he saw several youngsters doing from ladles. Did the Horde kiss? Did they laugh? Did they roll on the floor with their children? Did they dance?

  The answer to this last question came a moment later as they passed a larger house with its door open. Thumping drums beat out a chaotic rhythm to which a boy was writhing awkwardly. It wasn’t any dance that Johnis would be caught dead trying, but for all he knew he’d just seen someone celebrated for his dancing.

  Johnis had been born to a mother who followed the traditions of the forests and worshipped Elyon, whom Teeleh, the god of these people, had sworn to destroy. But what if he’d been born to a Scab? Would he have raced through the huts with Karas, swinging straw swords? It was a deeply mysterious thought that left him confused as he bounced on the back of the cart.

  And then the memory of his own descent into the disease flooded his mind, and he found some clarity. Their culture might be different only because of where they lived, but their worship of Teeleh and the terrible disease that gripped mind and body was death. He should know.

  They passed a young child who wore no clothing, squatted on the side of the road, scratching his elbows where large sores bled. The boy lifted his eyes as the cart wobbled past, but then returned his attention to his cracking skin. He didn’t cry, perhaps because he was so used to the condition that crying would do nothing for him. But he surely still felt the pain. His whole body was gray and flaking.

  A strange thing happened to Johnis then. He began to feel pity for these poor souls trapped in such a pathetic state of disease. They feared water because their minds had been twisted against it. Rather than slaughtering them, the Forest Guard might be more successful if it flooded the desert with lake water, forcing them all to bathe!

  Of course, that was impossible. There were only seven lakes, and the Horde despised each one. So much so that they sacrificed thousands of warriors in their attempt to destroy the forests.

  But why? Why couldn’t these diseased people leave the forests alone? Live and let live? The Guard never attacked the desert cities, so why should the Horde attack the forests?

  “Off,” the driver ordered roughly.

  Johnis turned around and saw the towering steeple topped with a winged serpent. Beneath, a large square building made of mud. The Horde temple. The Thrall, some called it.

  Whoever designed that serpent has seen Shataiki, Johnis thought. Maybe Teeleh himself.

  He slipped off the cart with Silvie and Jackov and waited for the driver to pull away. Dusk had driven the majority of pedestrians from the hard-packed streets, but those who did remain glanced at them with questioning eyes.

  “We have to get off the streets,” Johnis said, eyeing the large temple doors. He’d been so distracted by the strange sights that he hadn’t noticed how deep into the city they’d come. Besides the temple marked by the serpent, one other structure spread out, three times the size of any other.

  This had to be the palace. Unlike the temple, its roof didn’t rise in one large steeple but in a dozen smaller ones, like a tent on many poles. Large triangles that resembled spearheads had been dyed red and purple on the palace canvas.

  The red mortar house that Karas claimed was hers sat to the right, next to a stable that presumably held the palace horses. The Dark Priest lives in that house, Johnis thought.

  “This way,” Jackov said, hurrying toward the temple doors.

  “Hold up!” Silvie whispered harshly.

  “Follow me.” Jackov rushed down a broad path that led directly up wide steps and into the temples wide brass doors.

  “Jackov! Jackov, stop!” Silvie started after him, but stopped and spun to Johnis. “Whats he thinking? We can’t just walk inside!”

  “No? Then what? It might be better to slip inside, see what we find, and then slip out before anyone but Karas even knows we’re here.”

  “Sly like a snake,” she reminded him yet again. “Not like a bulldog.”

  “And snakes are quick.”

  “Yes, well, so is that one.” Silvie eyed the winged serpent with ruby eyes, drilling them with its red stare.

  “Then let’s get in and out before they lock the doors.” Johnis hurried after Jackov, who was now motioning them from the door. “Think about having to find a way past the locks at night. We’d be noticed for sure.”

  “Not if it’s done right.” Silvie matched his stride, and together they rushed up the steps and past the door through which Jackov disappeared.

  THE TEMPLE WAS DIMLY LIT BY A SKYLIGHT AND TWO LARGE flaming torches. The torches sat on either side of a huge, brass, winged serpent on one end of the room, identical to the one on the roof but larger. Smaller versions were mounted on the walls every ten feet. The serpents’ ruby eyes glowed red in the wavering flames. Cooler here. Smelled of the morst paste Scabs used to cover their cracking skin, a musky floral scent.

  Jackov stood in the middle of a large circular rug dyed purple, fixated on the large serpent. No one else was in the room. This has to be the main worship hall, Johnis thought, barely daring to breathe.

  Two large columns rose on their left, and between them red curtains swept from ceiling to floor. He could just see the light between them. Another room.

  “This way.”

  “Careful,” Silvie whispered.

  Johnis cautiously drew the drapes aside and looked into the second room. Tall bookcases lined the walls, filled with leather-bound books. It was a library. As far as he could see, vacant.

  Johnis stepped in and stared at the spines. The Stories of History. These were similar to those he’d seen in the Black Forest! A staircase descended at the far end. His mother was at the bottom of those stairs. She had to be. He could nearly smell the gardenia perfume that usually wafted behind her as she busied herself around the house.

  “I thought the Horde couldn’t read,” Silvie whispered. “Are these the missing books?”

  “No, but they’re Books of History. The Horde
has them.”

  An obvious observation, but one that would interest Thomas and the Council. They were prohibited from telling the Council, because they’d sworn to tell no one anything they learned on their quest for the missing books. But Jackov could.

  “Take one of them, Jackov,” Johnis said, spinning back. He had to find out if his mother was here. “Just one so they …”

  Jackov wasn’t there.

  “Where is he?”

  Siivie ducked her head past the drapes and came back immediately. “Not there.”

  “You can read the books?” a woman’s soft voice asked. Johnis jumped and jerked to his right. “Is that what you’re saying?”

  A woman stood from a chair hidden by the shadows in the corner and stepped toward them. Her long, flowing gown swept the floor as she walked. It was made of a silky white material, not the crude gunnysacks that passed for robes on most Horde. Her face was white with the morst paste.

  “Answer me, albino,” the woman said.

  Albino? She knew they were Forest Dwellers! Johnis stood rooted to the floor. He thought about running before it was too late, but he knew that would only confirm guilt. He had to play along, to think with his heart, something he’d failed miserably at lately.

  “Yes, I can read them,” he said. “Why do you ask?”

  Silvie stepped up next to him. “We’re here to confess,” she said.

  “Confess what, that you’re diseased?”

  Silvie’s response was rushed. “Confess our sins and offer our allegiance to Qurong, the supreme commander of the Horde.”

  “Of course you are,” the young woman said. “But can you teach me to read these books?”

  A scream cut through the Thrall. Johnis jerked his head around, then started for the stairs. They had to get below. No matter what else happened, he had to know if his mother was where Karas had claimed.

  “Running will get you nowhere,” the woman said.

  The drapes flew back, and Jackov stumbled in before sprawling to the ground, bleeding from a gash in his ear.

  A tall man dressed in a black robe with a pointed hood strode into the room. Several brass chains around his neck held a large serpent pendant. The Scab turned his hooded head and stared into Johnis with piercing gray eyes that stripped him of all hope.

  This was the Dark Priest; there could be no doubt.

  Jackov twisted back, face contorted with rage. “You promised me—”

  “Silence!” the priest screamed. “We promised nothing yet!”

  The room rang with these words of betrayal. From the beginning Jackov had been working with the Horde! Johnis was frozen, but his mind spun through desperate measures.

  “Easy,” Silvie whispered softly.

  No one moved. There was no point.

  A new voice, low and smooth, spoke from the opposite side of the room. “Please leave us, Chelise.”

  Johnis faced the newcomer who stood at the entrance to the staircase. An officer with the air of supremacy.

  The woman in white, named Chelise, dipped her head. “Is there no sacred place any longer, General Martyn?” she asked with a biting note that highlighted his rank. “I’ll speak to my father about this.”

  The priest answered for the officer. “Qurong is part of this. Leave us!”

  Chelise, Qurong’s daughter, glared at the priest, eyed Johnis with parting interest, and left the room.

  “Welcome, Johnis,” General Martyn said.

  A trap had been set, and they’d walked directly into it.

  “I believe you’ve come for love,” the general said.

  Johnis couldn’t speak. The full breadth of this betrayal made him feel smaller than he could remember feeling.

  Martyn, general to the Horde, stepped to one side and swept his hand toward the staircase. “Your mother is waiting.”

  he circumstances they found themselves in didn’t resemble those Johnis had wished for, except in this one significant detail: Mother was alive. If for nothing else, he would be grateful for her, assuming the general wasn’t goading him on with false hopes.

  Johnis strode forward, then rushed past Martyn and descended the stairs, two at a time. The dungeon he entered was lit by torches, taking his mind back to the Black Forest. But there were no tunnels down here, only a square cavern the size of his house, carved from the earth and reinforced by rock on all four sides.

  In the middle of the cavern sat a cage roughly ten paces across, and in this cage a woman stood innocently in a simple dirty tunic. No hood.

  Her hair was tangled and matted, her face and arms were scabbed with the graying disease, her eyes were white, her lips cracked, but even so Johnis saw with his first glance that this was Rosa.

  “Mother?”

  She didn’t show any reaction.

  He ran up to the iron bars, grabbed two, and tugged with all of his might. But the bars didn’t budge.

  “Mother? It’s me, Mother. It’s Johnis!”

  But Rosa didn’t seem to recognize him. Her eyes watched, unblinking.

  The priest shoved Silvie up next to him, opened the cage gate with a large key, pushed them both inside, and slammed the gate shut. He turned on his heel and strode for the door. “Enjoy a few precious moments together,” he said and shut the door leading to the stairs.

  Rosa stood unmoving, though she’d turned to face them. Johnis felt Silvie’s hand on his elbow in support. “Johnis?”

  He rushed up to his mother. “What did they do to you?”

  Rosa backed up, eyes fired with fear. But her grayed retinas flittered back and forth over his face, digging for something that sparked recognition in her.

  “Mother, please …” He reached out for her, and she took another step back.

  The pain of her rejection was almost more than he could bear. He had to get her to see the truth about him! “It’s me—your son, Johnis!” he cried. “You were taken by the Horde and forced to serve them. I don’t know what they’ve convinced you of, but you’re my mother. Please …”

  She began to tremble, and he knew that his words were breaking through. He stepped up to her, slowly this time.

  “It’s me: Johnis.” Tears flooded his eyes, and he let them leak down his cheeks unabashedly. “I’m your son. Kiella is your daughter, Ramos is your husband. We miss you terribly and want you to come home as soon as possible.”

  Her eyes welled with tears, and her lips quivered as she seemed to be trying to grasp his words.

  Johnis reached for her, touched her sleeve. The smell of her rotting flesh filled his nostrils, but he paid it no mind. “I love you, Mother. I miss you so much.”

  Slowly, like a creeping tide, her right hand rose and moved closer to him. Her fingers were white with disease, cracked and bleeding from work. Johnis tried not to think of what kind of abuse had turned her—a woman who had marched around the house lovingly bossing them—into this shell of a human. But he failed and let his imagination run wild.

  They’d tortured her! Beaten her! Forced her to work with bleeding fingers! The priest had done this; his own daughter had confirmed it. Punishment, Karas had said. A wicked man. Now Johnis saw just how wicked the man was.

  “Johnis?” She spoke her first word, and it was his name.

  He began to sob silently. His tears distorted her image, but he blinked them away and reached for her hand.

  “Mother.”

  Then his hands touched rough Scab flesh.

  “Mother, what did they do to you?” No, he didn’t want her to think about her suffering. He spoke before she could answer. “Do you want to go home?”

  “Kiella?”

  “Yes, to Kiella. To the forest.” He could hardly stand the pain in his chest.

  “My … my husband. Is he still alive?” She was still whispering. The disease didn t do this to a Forest Dweller; he knew because he’d been there. The fact that his mother was in this state on his account tightened the noose cinched around his throat. He wasn’t sure he could speak p
ast the pain.

  “Yes. And I’m going to take you home to him, Mother. I promise. I swear …”

  The door flew open, and the priest strode in. Flung the gate wide. “Leave her if you want to see her alive tomorrow.”

  “I will not leave her!” Johnis cried. “What have you done, you monster?”

  “She stays too,” he said, pointing at Silvie.

  “She will not! This isn’t right or humane!” He was screaming incoherently, but his desperation didn’t allow for anything else.

  “Your mother has been preserved for this day. If you think she’s in bad shape now, just refuse me, and you’ll see what shape she’ll be in tomorrow.”

  Silvie rushed to his side, eyes frantic. “Johnis , . .”

  “Don’t worry, Silvie; I won’t let this happen!” But he knew they were just words. He was powerless.

  She took his lace in both hands and searched his eyes. “I love you, Johnis. Don’t let me die here. Save your mother and me. Swear it.”

  “I swear it! I won’t let them hurt you.”

  She kissed him on the lips and pulled back, teary eyed. “Don’t forget me.”

  Johnis’s mother approached them. “Who’s this, Johnis? You have a woman?”

  She was too far gone to feel the danger of the moment, being instead his mother for a moment again.

  “Mother …” But Johnis couldn’t finish any reasonable thought.

  “Keep her safe, Silvie. Keep my mother safe.”

  “Enough, please,” the priest said. “We all know there’s no way anyone but me can keep anyone safe, so let’s get on with this.”

  Johnis stopped at the door and stared back at the two women he’d put in this cage. He owed his life to both. “I swear it.”

  The priest locked the gate and the door into the stairwell behind. Then they were in the library again, facing Jackov, the traitor, and General Martyn.

  THE FURY THAT RAGED THROUGH JOHNIS FOGGED HIS MIND.

  “If it’s any consolation,” Martyn said, “I didn’t approve of the way your mothers been treated. But sometimes the greater mission must be served.”