Seventh Dimension - The King - Book 2, A Young Adult Fantasy

by Lorilyn Roberts

  Patting her on the head, I said reassuringly, “I’ll be back in a few minutes.” She whimpered and crouched on the steps.

  She was too obedient not to belong to somebody.

  When I entered the synagogue, the worship center buzzed with activity. Cots lined the walls with injured and hurting people. Cries drifted from several beds. Medics and nurses were everywhere. A quiet calm existed but the intensity of the suffering was enormous. I took off my gas mask and set it in a corner.

  A man came up to me and handed me blankets. “Give these out to those who need them.”

  “Yes, sir.” I handed out the blankets to anyone who asked. I looked into the eyes of the hurting—I wished I could offer hope. Did God even care? If he did, why did he allow this to happen?

  I felt a tug on my pants and looked down at a young boy. He held a small teddy bear in his arms. “Do you know where my mommy is?”

  I crouched down to his eye level. “No, I don’t. When did you last see her?”

  The young boy looked away. “I don’t know. It was a long time ago.”

  “What about your dad, do you know where he is?” I asked.

  “He died,” he said unemotionally.

  Did he understand what that meant? “How do you know that?”

  “The man put a sheet over him.”

  I embraced the boy in my arms. How could I find his mother?

  Then a young woman approached. “David!”

  The little boy let go of me and ran into her arms. I rejoiced over their reunion before I looked into the eyes of another victim.

  “Thank you,” his mother said. She appeared too overwhelmed to say more, covering her face with her hair. I watched as she carried the boy out of the synagogue.

  CHAPTER 5 SUFFERING

  The wounded kept arriving.

  “Help me,” a voice cried.

  I rushed over to an elderly man on a cot. His face was cut and pieces of shard glass clung to his matted hair. His bandaged hands crisscrossed his stomach, which appeared distended from internal injuries. I crouched in front of him as his arms and legs shook.

  “My wife and daughter, do you know where they are?” he rasped.

  I shook my head. I laid a blanket over his body to keep him warm. “Can I get you anything?”

  He closed his eyes. Was it from pain or did he die? If only I were a doctor.

  He reopened his eyes and said weakly. “My wallet—pocket. Picture. Please find my wife and daughter.”

  I dug into the man’s pocket but came up with nothing.

  “Other one,” the man said.

  I went around to the other side of the makeshift bed and stuck my fingers inside his front pocket. I pulled out what appeared to be a wallet. When I opened it, several credit cards fell out, along with a photograph. I stared at it. “Is this your daughter, Lilly?”

  “You know her?” He asked.

  I nodded. “Where should I look first, like—where do you live?” The man didn’t respond. I felt for a pulse. I didn’t want to leave him. I looked around for help. I didn’t see any medics except for a young woman dressed in a white coat.

  I ran to her. “Can you help? A man is severely injured.”

  I pointed to the back row where he lay.

  The nurse shook her head. “All the patients are triaged. Those at the back are not deemed salvageable.”

  My heart sank at her unsympathetic words.

  “We are concentrating on the ones we can save. We’re just trying to make those souls comfortable.”

  “No, you must come,” I pleaded. “He’s—he’s a friend of mine. This is his family.” I showed her the photograph from the man’s pocket. “They will be looking for him.”

  The nurse sighed. “I’ll be with you in a minute—after I start this IV.”

  She pointed across the room. “Someone started a wall up towards the front where people are posting photographs of the missing.”

  Then she returned to the patient in front of her, a young girl not much older than me.

  I bolted to the front. Dozens of photographs had been hastily hung—of children, mothers, fathers, grandparents, brothers, and sisters—of someone. Many had scribbled notes with names, emails, and phone numbers to contact. There were even a couple of pictures of dogs and one cat—a black and white one that reminded me of the nursing home mascot.

  I stole some scotch tape and tacked the picture of Lilly and her mother among the others. I wrote on the top—father is on a cot in the back.

  I hurried back to find the nurse leaning over Lilly’s father. She was checking his blood pressure and temperature.

  “This man needs a doctor if we are going to save him.”

  “So there is a chance?” I asked.

  “If you’re the praying type, I would pray. I’ll find a doctor.” She brushed past me.

  I knelt beside the man and spoke gently. “I posted the picture of your wife and daughter on the front wall. Hopefully they will see it and be here shortly.”

  The man nodded. “I’m an Arab,” he said.

  An Arab? Lilly had given me a Christian Bible. How could she be a Christian if he were an Arab?

  The man closed his eyes. Guilt over my sudden lack of empathy for the man convicted me. An Arab kidnapped my father. I couldn’t leave him, though—not now. I’d stay with him for Lilly’s sake.

  A few minutes later, the nurse reappeared with a doctor. I moved out of their way.

  The doctor did a quick assessment. “I examined this man when the medical team brought him in,” the doctor said. “I felt his injuries were too severe. Is he your father?”

  I shook my head. “He’s the father of a friend.”

  The doctor felt the man’s abdomen. “Keep him warm, and we’ll schedule him for surgery. We have a van with supplies on the way. If he can live a few more hours, he might make it.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  The doctor turned to the nurse and gave her some orders I didn’t understand.

  Then he spoke to me, “Through that door are some stacked cots that were brought in earlier. Set them up wherever you can find room. Another bomb exploded and more casualties are on the way.”

  “Yes, sir.” I hurried towards the back. The door opened into a dark hallway lit only by emergency lights. A few cots remained, stacked along the walls. I gripped one but something caught my attention.

  An old door appeared in the hallway. Rough-hewn wood framed it and the door seemed out of place in the recently rebuilt synagogue. The studs beside the door were loose and unattached. A cool breeze blew through the square opening at the top.

  I leaned on the cot, suddenly feeling weak. Resting to catch my breath, I peered through the window of the door. Beyond it, a bright light shone through the darkness. Could this be an illusion, the work of the enemy, attempting to break into the synagogue?

  I edged closer. I expected a barrage of bullets, but the light drew me. I pushed open the door and the harsh light temporarily blinded me. I blinked a couple of times. When my sight returned, I saw a wooden chair floating about a foot off the marble floor. I had never seen a chair quite like it—cubical and plain with severe edges, a straight back, no arms, and a solid wooden base.

  In slow motion, I edged towards it—drawn to it because it was all I could see. Where was I? I felt that I was stepping out of my familiar world and entering another. I touched the floating chair and it remained stationary, as if glued to an invisible floor. I climbed into the chair and once seated, vibrations filled the room. The green light faded into darkness.

  CHAPTER 6 TIME WARP

  The vibrations stopped almost as swiftly as they began. The thickness of nothingness wrapped invisible tentacles around me. I couldn’t see my hands and I dare not make a sound. Had I been captured? Who had this kind of technology? My eyes adjusted as the blackness lifted. I felt as if I were leaving a movie theater and walking outside—except this was an otherworldly light tinged with bluish-green effervescence, the kind of hue
seen in icy artic waters.

  A voice said, “Daniel G. Sperling.”

  I jumped at the sound of my name. Goosebumps crept up my arms. A very large man wearing a black robe appeared. He approached me carrying an open book that looked ancient. “I don’t see your name.”

  “What book is that?” I asked. “And who are you?”

  The man glared, “Prisoners are forbidden to ask questions of their captors.”

  Another very tall man appeared. His robe was a different color. The shimmering reflection varied between white and gray-blue—a strange color I had never seen.

  “The book is incomplete. Not everyone’s name has been written in it yet.”

  The first man shook his head. “He’s a Jew.”

  “Their time has not yet come. You are too soon,” the second man replied.

  The two argued back and forth. I couldn’t perceive if they were good or evil or if they were even human. I decided the men were Israel’s enemies that had just attacked us. Didn’t they have better things to do than play mind games with me?

  The man in the lighter-colored cloak said, “Each man is entitled to a fair trial, and he hasn’t had his yet.”

  Those were the last words I heard before something happened that I could not explain.

  ~~~

  The outline of familiar objects—like trees and bushes panned into view. Further away people that looked like trees were walking on a dusty road. Then my eyes adjusted. A crow perched on one of the stone columns of the overhanging portico screeched loudly.

  Had I been exposed to a hallucinogen? I couldn’t remember what had happened, nor did I recognize my surroundings.

  I saw no synagogue or anything resembling the Old City. Instead, I appeared to be sitting in a small portico on a stone walkway that led to a stone building. The Hebrew sign at the front entrance said “Jacob’s Inn.”

  Sitting beside me were two men. One man appeared to be slightly older. Their clothing was similar to what the Bedouin wore—a tunic with an outer cloak. They were speaking in Aramaic.

  I glanced at my clothes. I was wearing a tunic and cloak like theirs—of earthen colors. My sandals were also strange.

  One of the two men sitting near me said, “You don’t look so well, fellow. Are you all right?”

  I blinked. “I don’t know. Where am I?”

  The two exchanged glances. The older man knelt in front of me, examining my face. “I think you need a doctor,” he said. “You have a cut on your forehead.”

  “I do?” I put up my hand and felt blood. “I don’t remember cutting myself.”

  “Let me get the doctor.” The man grabbed his walking stick and hobbled inside Jacob’s Inn.

  The younger man who had been sitting with him made idle conversation. “My name is Ami.” He reached out his hand.

  “I’m Daniel.” I shook his hand back.

  “The doctor will be here in a minute,” Ami said.

  “Thank you.”

  “So who do you think the man is?”

  “What man?”

  “You didn’t hear our conversation?”

  I shook my head.

  “Oh, I thought you were listening.” He calls himself Yochanan the Immerser. He is down by the Jordan River telling the people the kingdom of God is near. Ami waved his hand. “‘Repent, repent,’ he says. He immerses followers in the Jordan River.”

  Where had I heard something similar? I shook my head. “Sorry,” I said, “I don’t know him.”

  Ami squinted. “How could you not have heard of him? Everyone has been talking about the strange prophet who lives in the wilderness and eats locusts and wild honey.”

  I heard footsteps and turned to see a middle-aged man approaching. His white outer cloak and intelligent eyes reminded me of a twenty-first century doctor. He clutched a small leather bag in his hand. When he placed it on the bench, I noticed the instruments looked like antiques. I winced at the thought they might possibly be used on me.

  The man smiled warmly and reached out to shake my hand. “Hello, I’m Doctor Luke.”

  “Hi,” I said. With those garden tools, what kind of doctor was he?

  “Looks like you cut yourself on your forehead. Can I take a look?”

  I nodded.

  Dr. Luke leaned over and wiped the blood away. He then examined the wound. “Does it hurt?”

  “Just stings a little.”

  “It’s not bad. I will clean it and put a bandage on it. You’ll be as good as new.”

  “Thank you.”

  “What’s’ your name?”

  “Daniel, son of Aviv.”

  “How old are you, Daniel?”

  “Seventeen.”

  “Have any family around here?”

  “No. They all live in Jerusalem.”

  “Oh. So you’re visiting?”

  I nodded.

  “Jacob, son of Aviv, owns the inn. Not related to him?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think so.”

  He applied a salve. “All done. Let me know if you need anything else.”

  “Do I owe you anything?”

  Dr. Luke shook his head. “I help those I can. If people want to do Tzedakah, I appreciate the almsgiving.”

  “That’s kind of you,” I said. I was still trying to remember what I did to cause the cut.

  He put his instruments back in his bag. “You should probably change the bandage tonight to keep it clean.”

  I nodded. “Thanks again.”

  He walked back inside Jacob’s Inn. The others gave a respectful wave as the doctor passed. He exuded the air of a physician. His garb was far from anything kosher for an Israeli hospital in 2015, but his demeanor was a cross between a scientist and a priest.

  I glanced around the rundown building. He must not have cared for worldly pursuits to hang up a shingle in this two-star inn—a place apparently frequented by the lowly and the poor. The other men near me were either infirm or old.

  Farther away, a cripple sat alone, save for a cat draped over his clubbed feet. What a remarkable resemblance to the cat at the nursing home, all black except for white paws and a black circle on his front shoulder. Briefly, my heart ached as I remembered General Goren, my mentor and hero.

  My eyes returned to the man who originally spoke to me. He and his younger friend, Ami, had rough beards, long scruffy hair, and smelled. I suppose I’d start smelling too when my deodorant wore off.

  “What’s your name?” I asked the older man.

  “Levi. From the tribe of Levi.”

  “That makes sense,” I replied.

  The old man laughed and tugged on his beard. “Not used to seeing such clean-shaven young men around here.”

  I wasn’t sure I could grow a beard.

  “So where are you staying?” Levi asked.

  “I don’t know. I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

  Ami nodded. “It’s a long trip from Jerusalem. You should check the inn and see if they have any openings.”

  I stood and stretched, realizing I hadn’t eaten much since the night before. Hunger pangs made me feel weak. I walked across the portico and entered the front door.

  Inside Jacob’s Inn, I found a large lobby with an adjoining room with wooden tables and chairs. Apparently, it also served as a dining hall. Men and women were eating from old ceramic plates with their hands. Why weren’t they using utensils—ugh, so unsanitary to eat with one’s hands.

  An attendant at the long counter greeted me. “Can I help you?”

  I started to dig into my pocket for my wallet and then realized I wasn’t wearing my jeans. I hated to appear stupid. “I need a room tonight, but I seem to have lost my money.” I pretended to check my cloak.

  “I’m sorry,” the man said with genuine concern. “Where did you last have it?”

  I shook my head.

  The man took pity on me. “What’s your name?”

  “Daniel, son of Aviv.”

  The clerk retrieved a document f
rom the shelf and glanced through it. He raised his eyebrow. “We have you booked for tonight, Daniel, son of Aviv. Your room has been prepaid.”

  “Prepaid? By who?”

  “It says benefactor.”

  I stared at the clerk. Maybe he was making up a story so as not to embarrass me.

  “Here,” the clerk said. “Can you sign in and I will give you your key.”

  I examined the writing. The document showed what the clerk said, “Paid in full by benefactor.” Why did the paper feel like parchment made from animal skins? I signed the paper mystified.

  The clerk handed me a large wooden key—another antique.

  “Your room is through the door, the third on the right.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “And this is just for tonight?”

  “Yes, sir. One night.”

  I’d worry about tomorrow night later.

  I searched for my room. Maybe I’d even lie down.

  I rattled the key in the door and found the room to be clean but earthen, containing just the bare necessities. A bed was in one corner layered with heavy coarse blankets. A small wooden table with an oil lamp and chair occupied the other corner. The lamp reminded me of those I’d seen in museums or shops where tourists frequented.

  I glanced around. Where was the bathroom? Did I have to share one with other people? Well, it was free, so I couldn’t complain.

  I sat on the bed, questioning my sanity. Had I become like the patients in the treatment center? They lived in their own worlds of reality. I shook my head. No. I wasn’t dreaming—somebody brought me here. If this were my creation from insanity, I wouldn’t have invented this kind of world. I’d have gone to Nepal and hiked the Himalayan Mountains.

  Maybe I was a prisoner and my captors wanted information from me. The Aramaic was a different dialect, at least not anything I’d heard spoken in Syria.

  I tried to remember what happened before I arrived. I remembered going into the hallway to retrieve the cots and seeing a strange light.

  A weird thought hit me. I stood and checked the door to make sure no one had locked me in from the outside. Then I got down on my hands and knees and examined the floor—even underneath my bed, looking for a camera or eavesdropping equipment. I studied the walls—nothing but illegible graffiti.