by Ted Dekker
Who could say that Elyon wasn’t just another force in their world, like gravity or muscle or the sword, manipulated by his users?
Who was to say that the scabbing disease was a disease at all? What if it was just another condition of man, cleansed by the medicinal red waters?
Who was to say that the fruit was a gift from Elyon? Why not just a product of the land with powerful properties?
Who was to say that Teeleh was more than another force, counterbalancing the force called Elyon? Absolute good and evil were nothing more than constructs fashioned by humans who needed to understand and order their everyday lives.
Who was to say that the force that had made his body whole after Ba’al slashed him was any different from the force that grew the fruit? He’d been aware of the power, but only as a distant abstraction, a light that had vanished into the sky as he regained consciousness. And the Shataiki, though unnerving, didn’t seem so terrifying to those who worshipped them. Loving them would be like loving the Horde, those scabbed vermin who proved far more dangerous than Shataiki on any day.
One thing was clear: the Horde had vowed to kill every living albino—man, woman, or child. That made them enemy, a force that did not agree with him or his desire to live in peace. He’d faced enough blood, but it was time to speak the only language the Horde understood with absolute clarity.
War.
It was time for the Horde to bleed, and the fact that two hundred priests in Ba’al’s service had bled and died on his account was as good a sign as any that the time had come.
I will show you, Father. You’ll see that I am right in the end.
“Take us to Eram!” Samuel shouted. His voice echoed through the canyon. “We come for the benefit of Eram!”
Nothing.
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Petrus muttered.
“We’re past the time for second-guessing.”
“I’m hoping, not second-guessing.” Petrus drew a deep breath and chased Samuel’s call with his own. “We’re unarmed, you goats! Come out and meet us. We have words for Eram!”
“That’s endearing,” Jacob said.
The first Horde warrior to rise into view stood on the cliff to their left. He was a tall Scab warrior dressed in tan battle gear, a cross between the old Horde robes and the Forest Guard armor, with leather guards strapped to thighs, arms, and chest. No helmet covered his clean, thick black hair. No dreadlocks on this one.
The others rose into view along the ridge, a hundred at least, two dozen of whom were armed with unstrung bows. They clearly didn’t see the four albinos as a credible threat. More like trapped animals for their amusement.
It occurred to Samuel that he’d never addressed a Horde warrior with anything other than his backside in flight—except more recently, with the edge of his sword.
“Greetings.”
The leader stared down at him for a long moment, then twisted in his saddle and spoke to someone behind him. The line parted and their leader slowly moved into view, mounted on a large brown stallion that wagged its head against the bit in its mouth.
No helmet. No leather guards. He wore only a calm, almost casual disposition that spoke of supreme confidence, but he was still as much a Horde as any Horde Samuel had seen.
This could be Eram himself. Samuel felt his pulse quicken. The scene could easily be taken from one of a hundred tales of the old days, when the Forest Guard was led by the great warrior, Thomas of Hunter.
Only this wasn’t Thomas. This was a half-breed who had embraced the scabbing disease and waged war on Qurong.
“Greetings,” Samuel called again.
“You’re naked,” the leader said. “I would have expected more from the son of the great warrior.”
The man knew who he was?
“My name is Samuel of Hunter,” he called. “These are my men, and we come in peace.”
“Peace? Do you have any choice?”
A light chuckle mocked them.
“Give me a sword and you’ll find me less interested in peace,” Samuel said.
“Then you would be a fool.”
“If I’m a fool, it’s because I’ve left my father to join you for war.”
“Is that right? Even a bigger fool than I thought.” Again, laughter from the cliff. “You go from being the sacrificial lamb to the traitor so quickly.”
They’d seen?
“These are my lands, boy. My men have been watching you from the moment the first black bird circled overhead.”
“Then why didn’t you kill Qurong and Ba’al while you had them?”
“Because, unlike you, I’m not a fool. Our time hasn’t come. When it does, the whole world will know.”
So the rumors that Eram was up to something were true.
“I’ve come to speak to Eram, the half-breed feared by all Horde. Tell Eram that his time has come. And the whole world knows.”
The leader watched Samuel for a few seconds, silenced by the bold insinuation. Then the warrior turned his horse around and spoke gently, like a commander accustomed to watching a thousand of his men run with the mere flip of his wrist.
“Bring them.”
19
NIGHT WAS falling. Thomas Hunter balanced near the top of a massive oak, studying the glimmering fires in Qurongi City. It had taken him most of the day to snake his way south, careful to avoid any Horde patrols, which were few thanks to the Dark Moon celebration.
How long had it been since he’d laid eyes on the forest once proudly inhabited by the Forest Dwellers? Ten years. So much had changed since he fled this city.
He pulled back the hood of the Scab robe Samuel had discarded, which he’d exchanged for his own tunic. Before the Horde’s time, the crystalline lake’s southern shore had been white sand, reserved for the nightly celebrations. His people had defended the forests against Qurong’s encroaching armies, always returning victorious to this safe haven. It was a place where flower-crowned children and youths too inexperienced for war had run through the streets, welcoming them home. The homes were simple but colorful. They often danced late into the night to the sounds of guitars and flutes and drums.
They’d bathed in the lake together, washing away all traces of the dreaded scabbing disease.
To think that he’d once brought his people bits and pieces of advanced technology from his dreams of another world—it was hardly conceivable now. He’d lived in two worlds at once, awake here while dreaming in the other, and awake there when dreaming here. There he’d loved a sister named Kara and a woman named Monique.
If the lost books, as Ba’al had called them, did indeed exist . . .
He brought his mind back to the city. Except for the palace on the far side, and the Thrall, which stood alone on the near side, Qurongi City was practically colorless. Gray blocks of mud and stone topped by straw roofs leaked smoke from the dinner fires inside. The Horde still subsisted on wheat cakes, but instead of harvesting desert wheat as they once had, they grew green wheat in the large cleared fields of the forests to the south. Meat was a delicacy, reserved primarily for the upper class, the priests, and royalty.
The Thrall stood tall by the muddy lake’s shore, lit by orange flames that illuminated a spire rising to the height of three buildings. They said that Ba’al had erected this new addition, topped by a brass image of the winged serpent. The new wing that looked large enough to house hundreds of priests stretched out from the western wall.
The lost books would be either in this temple, under Ba’al’s watchful eye, or in Qurong’s care. If the dark priest had access to them, he would surely have used them.
The thought had clawed at Thomas’s mind for the last eight hours as he pushed his horse south. If a man like Ba’al were to find his way into the other world . . . The thought made him shiver.
But Ba’al apparently hadn’t used the books. His lament to Teeleh made it clear that he hadn’t been sent like the others. This could only mean that Ba’al didn’t have the books.<
br />
Qurong must have them. Assuming they existed, of course, which was anything but certain.
Either way, Thomas’s need to know had grown like a monster inside him. He felt sure that his fate was somehow dependent on what happened in the other world, which also meant that the Circle’s fate was tied to the other world. To the books. It had always been about the Books of History, he could see that now.
“Hello, old friend.”
Thomas twisted to his right, lost his grip on the tree trunk for a moment, and grabbed a handful of branches to steady himself. He looked into the large, green eyes of a Roush perhaps two feet in height.
The fuzzy white creature’s huge eyes stared unblinking. “Sorry.”
Thomas couldn’t find his voice. This . . . a Roush!
It had been so long since he’d seen one, even he was beginning to wonder whether he’d only dreamed of the legendary creatures that did Elyon’s bidding. Yet here one was, perched not five feet away, looking at Thomas as if he might be an idiot.
“You’re real,” Thomas finally managed.
“And so are you. Unless it’s now my turn to dream.”
Then he recognized the Roush. Could it be?
“Michal?”
“Thomas?”
“So . . . so it’s you?”
“In the flesh.”
“Seriously?”
“Now you’re beginning to worry me. We have considerable history together, and yet you sound as if you doubt my existence.”
“No. Just . . . we haven’t seen one of you for an eternity.”
“Actually, that’s a long time and yet to come. It’s been ten years, I believe.” He clucked with his tongue. “You humans do have such a short memory.”
“Dear Elyon, if the others could only see.”
“Your eyes were opened to the Shataiki?” Michal asked. “Yes?”
“Yes. Yes.”
“Well, then. Now you see me. But it doesn’t mean I haven’t been around.”
“No, of course not.” Thomas wanted to hug the creature. Wrap him up in his arms and bury his face in that fuzzy neck. But then he wasn’t a boy any longer. Or was he? What was it Elyon used to say?
Am I a lion, a lamb, or a boy?
He swung to a lower branch and dropped twenty feet to the soft forest floor. The Roush stared down at him, unmoving, then made a soft humphing sound and hopped into the air. He floated to the ground, spreading wide his wings of thin white skin.
“You’ve developed a fear of heights?” Michal asked. “I would . . .”
It was as far as the Roush got. Driven by a desperate need to know, to touch, to feel, Thomas fell to his knees, threw his arms around the creature’s neck, which was hardly a neck at all, and pulled the soft torso tight against his chest.
The feeling of this warm body, so real in his arms, flooded him with a brew of emotion that pushed tears into his eyes. Joy. Love. Relief. Vindication and power.
Samuel was wrong, so very wrong.
“Easy, easy. Phew, the stench of that robe . . . please, you’re going to suffocate me!”
“Sorry.” Thomas pushed himself back and stared at the round face. “Sorry.”
“Understood. Apology unnecessary but accepted. They told me you’d disguised yourself in this dreadful garb, but I didn’t expect to have to wear it myself.” Michal hopped to his right and glanced back. “Good thinking, by the way. It should get you into the city easily enough. It’s getting out that I worry about.”
“Then you approve of what I’m doing.”
“Not mine to approve or disapprove. I’m simply here with a message. But while I’m here, I could be talked into parting with some advice. That is, if you still value the advice of Elyon’s Roush.”
“I would be a fool not to. Has your opinion of humans fallen so low?”
The Roush lifted one eyebrow.
“Okay, so we’ve made a few mistakes along the way.”
“Will,” Michal said. “We will make some mistakes along the way.”
“Okay, will. But surely this will all come to an end before we all drop dead of old age.”
The Roush gazed off into the forest. “Is that what you think? That there’s an end? That when you die it all ends?”
“No, but not everything is forever.” That seemed to satisfy the Roush. “You have a message?”
Michal stared at Thomas, nodded once, and spoke as if he was reciting poetry. “The colored forests, like Elyon, Maker of all that is good, will come again. This is the beginning and it is the end, and yet still the beginning. The first will be last and the last will be first. What was once black will be green. And what was once green will be consumed by darkness. Follow your heart, Thomas, because the time has come. Weep with the mourners; beg with beggars; knock and knock again, because he will give you what you ask in that hour when all is lost.”
The Roush took a deep breath and looked off again. “Go to the place you came from. Make a way for the Circle to fulfill its hope.”
The night grew still. A night bird cawed far off, and the breeze rustled leaves overhead.
“That’s it?”
“It’s not enough?”
“No. Well, yes, it is, but it’s not exactly clear.”
“For him who has ears to hear, it’s perfectly clear.”
“Then explain it to me.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“It’ll become clear in time.”
“You don’t understand it?”
The Roush threw him a side glance. “I understand what I’m meant to understand.”
Thomas scratched his skull and paced. “Then at least tell me what you understand. I’m out on a limb here. I’ve just lost a son to the half-breeds, the Circle is fractured, the Shataiki have gathered at Ba’al’s call . . . my world is falling apart! At least tell me how to save my son.”
The Roush sighed and waddled a few steps, steadying himself with a flutter of wings.
“You’ve heard of the lost books?”
So he was right. “I’ve heard rumors . . .”
“They are true. The seven original Books of History went missing, three of them into history.”
Into history? He was about to demand the furry creature continue when Michal spoke.
“It’s a long story, more than you need to know. But what might be useful is the knowledge that these seven books aren’t like the other Books of History. With all seven, one could rewrite the rules that control the blank books.”
“Like a key.”
“If you like. The Books of History reflect the truth of all that has occurred in history. Write in one of the numerous blank books with the faith of a child, and create history. But with all seven of the original books, one can actually change the rules that govern the rest of the books.”
“And these seven original books are no longer lost, I take it.”
“They were found by four warriors—”
“Johnis and—”
“Another story altogether. But they ended up here, hidden in Qurong’s private library. Fortunately Ba’al”—Michal paused as if considering what to say, then continued—“doesn’t know that Qurong has them, or he would have used them a long time ago.”
“Used them? To rewrite the rules of the books?”
“No, you need all seven to do that. Qurong has six. But with only four of them, a person can unlock time that binds history and travel into it.”
Thomas’s heart pounded. The suggestion was immediately clear. “So . . . I can use the four books to return to ancient Earth?”
Michal raised an eyebrow and offered a coy smile. His words whispered through Thomas’s mind. Go to the place you came from. Make a way for the Circle to fulfill its hope.
“How? How do you use these four books?”
“As I was saying . . .” Michal cleared his throat. “A person can travel into history if he touches four books together with his blood.”
“Four books,” Tho
mas said, holding up four fingers.
“Yes, four books.”
“Which Qurong has.”
“Yes, which Qurong has.”
“Qurong has them, but only Ba’al knows of their power.”
“Correct, Qurong has them, but Ba’al wouldn’t dream of telling what he knows about the Books of History.”
“And if I cut myself and touch four of these books, I will enter history, so to speak. Like I could once do in my dreams.”
“Not quite the same. You would go physically, along with anything in your possession.”
“Physically? You mean actually, poof, go?”
“Yes. Poof.”
Thomas blinked. “And return the same way? Poof ?” He snapped his fingers.
“Yes. Poof.” Michal made an inaudible snapping motion with his small fingers.
“And this is what I’m meant to do?” Thomas asked.
“That is up to you. I’m only a messenger, and I can’t say that the message was so clear.”
“And how is this supposed to get me my son back? Without Samuel, I have no hope.”
“Did I say the books would help you find your son?”
Thomas’s reasoning stalled. “You’re saying he’s lost?” He paced, frantic. “I won’t have it! There has to be a way to save Samuel.”
“And I didn’t say there wasn’t. Go. And return quickly before it’s too late. Do that and you might save your son.”
Thomas ran his hands through his hair and tried to think clearly. The prospect of returning to history pulled at his mind like a powerful magnet tugging at a steel ball. They were inexplicably linked, he and the histories. Perhaps because he really had come from Denver, Colorado. From Bangkok. The histories where his sister, Kara, waited.
“Be careful, Thomas,” Michal was saying behind him. “Where there is great hope, there is also great evil. Teeleh’s time has also come. The blood will flow like a river.”
“Yes,” he said absently. “Of course.” Was Kara still alive? Monique? The books were in Qurong’s possession. He’d been right in coming for them, regardless of the risk to himself. If he could get his blood on the four books and return to history, a new hope would present itself.
