Piercing the Darkness

by Frank Peretti

  “And this is all contained in this Finding the Real Me curriculum?”

  “It’s all in there, all organized, categorized, and graded. It makes the whole task a lot simpler.”

  “But—if I might play the Devil’s advocate for a moment—what are they actually learning from this? Is there any academic achievement connected with the time you spend going through these exercises?”

  Miss Brewer paused to formulate an answer. “I think what you’re alluding to is the kind of argument we hear a lot, that we’re not really teaching the kids anything, but are programming them, or using them for guinea pigs. But really, what is education? It’s training and equipping children to live their lives, to survive in this world, to have the right attitudes and life skills to adapt to a rapidly changing social environment.”

  “And . . . I take it, of course, that reading, writing, mathematics, social studies, subjects like this have their place in this overall definition of education?”

  Miss Brewer made a strange face. “Well . . . basic academic training is one thing, but it won’t bring about the necessary change . . .”

  “Change?”

  “Well, reading, English, arithmetic, and those other subjects are in another category. They can’t be applied in an affective, clinical sense . . .”

  Kate hesitated. This young gal was enthusiastic about her job and her teaching style, but also vague with her answers.

  “Okay . . .” she said, looking over her notes. “You used the word ‘clinical.’ So you see your role as more than just a teacher? You see yourself also as a therapist of some kind?”

  Miss Brewer smiled and nodded. “That’s a fair way to put it, I think. It’s not a complete education to just fill their heads with the same old ideas that were taught to their parents. We need to equip them to rise above whatever knowledge came before, and to search out their own truth and personal values.”

  Kate was tired of generalities. “Even if it means training young children in shamanism and Eastern meditation?”

  Miss Brewer laughed as if she’d been told a joke. “You make it sound like there’s some kind of religion going on here. That’s a common objection we hear all the time. There were some parents who came to me with that conception, but we cleared it up. This isn’t religion; it’s purely scientific.”

  “I understand those same parents withdrew their children from this school because they were convinced you were teaching religion here, something contrary to their own beliefs.”

  Miss Brewer nodded. She remembered it. “I guess that’s how we cleared it up. Sounds like you’ve already talked to them.”

  Kate nodded back. “Yes.”

  Miss Brewer was still pleasant and all the more confident. “Well, I have no misgivings about what we’re doing here. I think the school board and all the teachers they hire are more than qualified to judge what is helpful and constructive for the children. And the courts have stood behind the education community in that regard. If parents don’t feel they can trust highly trained professionals to be competent in handling their children, then I guess withdrawing their children is their only real option. We aren’t here to cater to fringe elements who insist on living in the past.”

  “You referred to the school board. I take it they selected and authorized the Finding the Real Me curriculum?”

  “Yes, unanimously. You really should meet them before you draw any final conclusions. They’re a wonderful group of people. I’m proud to be working with them.”

  “Well, I’m sure they are. But tell me . . .” Kate was ready to ask the question, but didn’t know if Miss Brewer was ready to answer it. “Wasn’t Amber Brandon in your class this year?”

  Oh, Miss Brewer received that question like a revelation. She closed her eyes and smiled a long, showy smile as if to say, Aha! “So . . . is that what this visit is all about?”

  Kate decided to try some education rhetoric herself. “Well, let’s just remember that we all believe in freedom of thought, freedom of information, and above all freedom from censorship for those who have a right to know.” Then she tried a straight answer. “For your information, I’m a friend of Tom Harris’s, and I’m doing some research for him.”

  Miss Brewer was truly an admirable person. She remained strong and sat up straight. “I don’t mind. I don’t have to make apologies or hide anything I’m doing in this classroom. In answer to your question, yes, Amber Brandon was in my class, and as a matter of fact, she’s back once again to finish out the year.”

  “Was she here today? I don’t think I saw her.”

  “No, and it’s understandable. Due to the trauma she’s going through, she just isn’t willing to attend this part of the class anymore. She spends this time in the library, and then returns to class after lunch.”

  “Then can you tell me about Amethyst the pony?”

  Miss Brewer rose from her desk and pointed out a crayon picture posted high above the chalkboard. “Here she is, right here.”

  Kate walked closer for a better look.

  It was an eerie experience, like getting the first look at a night-stalking burglar, or seeing the face of a serial rapist for the first time.

  So this was Amethyst!

  She was a little purple pony with shining pink mane and tail; her eyes were large and sparkling, she had a five-pointed star on her cheek, small white wings grew from her shoulders, and she stood tall and alert under a rainbow arch. She was beautiful, a remarkable drawing for a ten-year-old. In the lower-right corner, Amber had carefully printed her name in dark pencil.

  “She drew this about a month before she transferred to the Christian school,” Miss Brewer explained. “She was having some remarkable experiences during our exercise sessions. I’ve never seen such progress in a child.”

  Kate swallowed. Her mouth was suddenly dry.

  “And you . . .” she began, but had to clear her throat. “You hold that this . . . this image . . . is a . . . uh . . .”

  “A visualization of Amber’s own inner wisdom.”

  “I see.” Kate took a moment to formulate her next question. “So . . . as you probably know, the current case against Tom Harris stemmed from a confrontation between himself and . . . and Amber as Amethyst.”

  Miss Brewer smiled. “Well . . . all I can give you is my opinion.”

  “Please do.”

  “Whenever a child is thrust into a situation that is intolerable, such as a case of abuse, it’s not unusual for the child to bury the memory of it or any thought of it to avoid the pain and trauma of the event. Many child abuse counselors have found that one way to bring things back out into the open is to allow the child to project the memory into a neutral object, such as a figure or doll or puppet.

  “In Amber’s case, you have a little pony who is bright, confident, and pristine, and who has the strength to deal with such problems where Amber doesn’t. When it comes to what really happened at the Christian school, Amber can’t talk about it, but instead lets Amethyst come forward and do the talking for her.”

  Kate digested that for a moment. “But would that explain why Amethyst appeared and caused a disruption even before Tom Harris confronted her?”

  “Well, we don’t know everything that happened, do we? There could have been some abuse before the events that Tom Harris told you about.”

  “What if Amber came to the school already manifesting herself as Amethyst? Would that suggest that there had been some kind of abuse before Amber ever met Tom Harris or ever spent one day in the Good Shepherd Academy?”

  Miss Brewer shook her head. “I doubt it. Amber comes from a very loving home.”

  Kate nodded. “All right. Say, would you have a copy of that curriculum around? I’d like to look through it.”

  “Certainly.”

  Miss Brewer went to the shelves behind her desk and scanned all the titles. “Well . . . no, umm . . .” She straightened and turned. “Well, it isn’t here . . .” Then she remembered. “Oh, that’s right, I’m
sorry. The principal, Mr. Woodard, asked to borrow it. He was supposed to bring it back, but obviously he hasn’t yet. But if you care to, you can always order a copy from the publisher.”

  That idea intrigued Kate. “And who might that be?”

  “The Omega Center for Educational Studies. I think I have the address here somewhere.”

  Miss Brewer combed through some binders on her desk.

  Kate had another question, a stab in the dark. “Isn’t there a support group of some kind in Bacon’s Corner? Some group called LifeCircle?”

  Miss Brewer looked up from her search. “Oh, yes. They’re a wonderful group of people.”

  “What is it exactly?”

  “Oh, just a loosely organized fellowship of people with like interests—the arts, religion, philosophy, ecology, peace, that sort of thing.”

  “Do you belong to that group?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Then you must know Lucy Brandon personally?”

  “Uh-huh.” She caught herself and smiled. “That’s right; you’re probably finding out all about her.”

  Kate smiled and shrugged. “Of course.”

  “Oh, here’s the address.” She scribbled it down on a scrap of paper.

  “Then that other woman, the legal assistant for Ames and Jefferson . . . ?”

  “Claire Johanson.”

  “Yes.”

  “She must be involved in that as well.”

  “Oh yes. She’s one of the leaders. But a lot of people belong to it.”

  “Like who?”

  Miss Brewer stopped, tapped her chin as she thought a moment, and then answered, “Maybe you should ask them.”

  CHAPTER 20

  BARQUIT STOOD HIS ground, his nostrils chugging sulfur straight down over his burly chest and his yellow eyes steadfast, unflinching. He was the mighty Prince of Omega, and had done more mischief and won more victories for his master than this pompous, swelled-headed upstart that now stood before him, spewing threats and abuse.

  Destroyer was not about to be ignored. He drew his sword and flashed it about, ready for a test between the two of them. “You blind, bumbling sloth! Revere me now, or challenge! I will abide either course!”

  They hovered high above the Administration Building on the Omega Center campus, surrounded by their respective guards, escorts, and aides.

  The escorts on either side of Barquit began to beseech him, “No, do not assail him, Ba-al! He is sent by the Strongman!”

  “He calls me a sloth!” Barquit hissed through clenched teeth.

  “And a bumbler!” said Destroyer. “You were away from your post, and allowed that woman to roam and learn freely!”

  Barquit drew his sword so fast it whistled. He held it forth to strengthen his reply. “And where was the word I never received, that this wretch would be entering my domain? If you are so intent on capturing her, why was I never told?” He continued with an added edge, “And how is it that she is still alive at all, and free to harass us? Wasn’t she supposed to be destroyed in Bacon’s Corner?”

  The two swords almost touched.

  Just then a human voice broke in. “Gentlemen, if you’ll just have a seat . . .”

  The spirits in the air froze. Business was calling. The humans below were starting their meeting.

  Barquit sheathed his sword. “The heavenly ranks were routed, and we still hold our territory. I’ll put this behind us.”

  Destroyer put his sword away as well. “I’ll put aside past blunders . . . for now.”

  They dropped through the roof of the building to join the meeting, taking place in a small conference room. Mr. Steele sat at the head of the table; at his right sat the dark man dressed all in black; at his left sat two other men. At the other end of the table, looking nervous, sat Mrs. Denning.

  Mr. Steele led the proceedings. “Sybil, we’d like to thank you for coming. Let me introduce everybody. Obviously, Mr. Tisen you know. Gentlemen, this is Gary Tisen, the faculty head here at Omega.” Tisen was a bearded man in his thirties, a likable sort of guy. “This gentleman here on my right is Mr. Khull, a free-lance journalist and photographer. On my immediate left is Mr. Goring, from the Summit Institute.” Goring was an older man with probing eyes, meticulously combed white hair, and a neatly sculpted beard. He wore several strings of beads around his neck. “Gentlemen, this is, of course, Sybil Denning, a member of our faculty for several years now.”

  Everyone nodded at everyone else. Mrs. Denning smiled a little, feeling like this meeting might not be as serious as she once thought.

  Mr. Steele maintained a smile, but there was something cutting in his eyes. “Now, Sybil, we had some questions about this woman who came to the Center last Friday. What did she say her name was?”

  Sybil was a little taken aback by that question. “Well, Mr. Steele, that was Bethany Farrell, from the Los Angeles area, remember? You said you knew her.”

  Mr. Steele chuckled sheepishly, and then he lied. “I thought she was someone else. What we’re trying to find out now is who she really was. Did she give you any other identification, any other proof of who she might be?”

  “Well . . . no.”

  Mr. Steele paused at that answer. “So . . . Sybil, you see what happened? A total stranger walked onto our campus, gave you nothing more than her name and the claim that she was from Los Angeles, and that was all she had to do to get a carte blanche tour of the Center.” Mrs. Denning didn’t know what to say. Mr. Steele just smiled. “Well, Sybil, that’s what I’ve always liked about you: you love people, you trust them, you reach out to them, and that’s what Omega is all about, isn’t it?”

  She brightened just a little. “Well, of course.”

  “Did she say anything else about herself?” Mrs. Denning tried to remember. “Is she married, for instance?”

  “No, she’s divorced. She said she was just hitchhiking around the country, trying to find herself. She was looking for a place to stay, as I recall.”

  “And so you gave her a tour of the campus.”

  “Yes. I took her for a walk and talked about the Center and what we do here, and what our goals are.”

  Mr. Steele and Mr. Goring each drew a breath and held it a moment. Then Mr. Steele spoke. “Uh . . . Sybil, that’s the sort of thing I was alluding to. To put it simply, you shouldn’t have done that. We don’t know who this woman was, or what her intentions were, and I’m sure you realize that there are many interests out there that are hostile to us. Our goals could be severely jeopardized if we aren’t careful choosing whom we give information to. What goals did you discuss with her?”

  She probed her memory, and it was painful to admit anything she found. “Uh . . . our goals for change through education . . .”

  That brought an audible sigh, and Mr. Tisen even tapped the table.

  “What else, Sybil?”

  “Our programs, our curricula, our working into the public education system . . .” Her emotions started to show. “I’m sorry. I just didn’t know . . .”

  “What else?”

  “Umm . . . I know we talked about the Young Potentials program . . . and our quest for global community . . . and our clinical approach to education . . .”

  Mr. Goring asked a brief question. “Did you discuss the Finding the Real Me curriculum?”

  Mrs. Denning was a little surprised that Goring knew about that. “Why . . . yes, we did. But I think it was because we were already talking about getting our curricula placed in the public schools, and apparently she’d seen it somewhere, and wondered if we were really the ones who had published it.”

  “Mm. Now, I understand she showed you a ring?”

  “Yes. She had it on a chain around her neck. She wondered if I’d ever seen a ring like it before.”

  “Had you?”

  “No.”

  “What did the ring look like?”

  “Oh . . .” She tried to draw little images with her hands as she described it. “It was kind of large, like a c
lass ring . . . It was gold . . . There was a strange, mythical-looking face on it, like a gargoyle, but triangular.”

  The men were keeping a poker face, with obvious effort.

  Mr. Steele asked, “And you’re sure you’ve never seen her before?”

  That question suggested the possibility. “Um, well, I don’t know. Should I have known her?”

  Goring butted in. “No, of course not.”

  But Mrs. Denning thought about the face again, and that first meeting, and that woman spelling her name, “F-a-r-r- . . .”

  Goring decided they’d asked enough questions. “Don’t worry about this, Mrs. Denning. Obviously there was no harm done. We know you’ll be cautious in the future.”

  A memory was emerging. Spelling a name. Who was that girl who did that? She was really sassy when she did.

  Mr. Steele also tried to close out the conversation. “You’ve done a wonderful job here, Sybil, and we’re glad to have you on board. Thanks for your time.”

  But Mrs. Denning kept remembering. She saw the face; freckled, stone-hard, long red hair. “R-o-e . . .” said the girl.

  Mrs. Denning’s eyes popped open wide, as did her mouth. “Roe! It was Sally Roe!”

  Mr. Goring didn’t seem to hear her. “Thank you very much, Mrs. Denning. Gentlemen, I’m ready for some coffee.”

  Mrs. Denning was awestruck, her mind awash with the memory. “She was a student of mine years ago! She was here at the Center in the Young Potentials program! Now I remember her!”

  Mr. Steele cut in. “Sybil . . .”

  “Whatever was she doing here? Why didn’t she tell me who she was?”

  “Sybil!”

  She gave him her quiet attention.

  Mr. Steele looked grim. “Save your excitement. I can assure you, it wasn’t Sally Roe.”

  Now that was hard for her to swallow. “It wasn’t?”

  “Sally Roe is dead. She committed suicide a few weeks ago.”

  That silenced her. She was shocked, confused, speechless.

  Mr. Steele dismissed her. “Thank you. I think if you hurry, you can get to your first class right on time.”