Piercing the Darkness

by Frank Peretti

He didn’t seem too happy to have to answer. “I believe so.”

  “How about the Child Protection Department?”

  Mandanhi looked at the lawyers. They didn’t seem too distressed. “The CPD received a complete copy of my report, and I have consulted with them on a regular basis.”

  To Corrigan that was not a complete surprise, but he could still feel a tinge of anger. “So . . . they must think the Academy’s quite a dangerous place for children.”

  “You would have to ask them.”

  Corrigan’s voice rose just a little. “What did you tell them?”

  Mandanhi balked at the question. “What did I tell them?”

  “You’ve regularly consulted with them. Have you led them to believe the school is a dangerous place for children?”

  “I can’t tell you what they believe.”

  Corrigan let the question go. “Then I suppose by the same token you can’t explain why there hasn’t been an all-out investigation of the school and its personnel, and of every parent who has their child enrolled there?”

  Mandanhi only shrugged. “That is not my responsibility to know. I don’t make the decisions.”

  “Would the CPD representative you’ve regularly consulted with happen to be Irene Bledsoe?”

  “Yes.”

  Corrigan said nothing in response to that; he just wrote it down. “Have you ever heard of a Miss Nancy Brewer, fourth grade teacher at the Bacon’s Corner Elementary School?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Have you ever heard of the Finding the Real Me curriculum that Miss Brewer teaches to her fourth-grade class?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then you are not aware, doctor, that Miss Brewer regularly teaches the children to relax, achieve susceptible states of consciousness, and contact inner guides?”

  The question grabbed Mandanhi’s interest, but he still had to reply, “No.”

  “Were you aware that, prior to Amber’s enrollment at the Christian school, she was a student in Miss Brewer’s class and went through that curriculum?”

  That grabbed Mandanhi’s interest even more. His expression became a little grim. “I was not aware of that.”

  “Are you familiar with a local organization called LifeCircle?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you aware that they regularly practice consciousness-altering techniques such as yoga, meditation, and . . .” Corrigan paused and then hit the term with emphasis. “. . . trance channeling?”

  “I am aware of that.”

  “Are you aware that Lucy Brandon and her daughter Amber are both closely involved with that group and its practices?”

  “Yes.”

  Corrigan wasn’t expecting all these affirmative answers; he was a little shocked. “Then can you please explain to me, doctor, just how you can be so sure that only the Good Shepherd Academy is to be blamed for Amber’s abnormal behavior?”

  He smiled. “I do not blame the Academy for Amber’s behavior; I blame it for the trauma that precipitated the behavior.”

  Corrigan had to get a grip on himself. This man was starting to bother him. “But in light of what is happening at the elementary school and at LifeCircle, can you agree that such behavior as Amber’s can be taught and conditioned in a young child without severe trauma?”

  Mandanhi laughed. “Since you are asking me, I will tell you that I do not recognize the validity of anything that may be happening at the elementary school or at LifeCircle. I look upon these things as highly subjective, even religious matters, something I prefer not to approach clinically.”

  “So Amber’s behavior, in your opinion, must indicate severe emotional trauma as its only cause?”

  “That is what I have written, and that is my opinion.”

  Corrigan stopped for a moment. He was frustrated, but tried not to show it. He went back to some other notes he’d jotted on the report. “So, doctor, between the Christians, the LifeCirclers, Miss Brewer, and even Amber, it looks like we have a lot of different opinions as to what this Amethyst really is.”

  “I am not responsible for any opinion other than my own,” the doctor interjected.

  “Would you agree that Amber is able to communicate with this . . . whatever it is?”

  “That is not untypical for a dissociative. The different personalities are often aware of each other, will often converse, and sometimes even disagree and argue.”

  “And it’s normal for Amber to blink out and not remember the passing of time when Amethyst is manifesting herself?”

  “That is quite typical.”

  “How about special knowledge? Is it possible for Amethyst to know information that Amber could not possibly know or have prior opportunity to learn?”

  Mandanhi hesitated. “I’m not sure I can answer that. The disorder does present a lot of questions at times . . .”

  “Such as?”

  “Oh . . . My colleagues and I have always been mystified by that one trait you mentioned, special knowledge—some would call it clairvoyance or ESP. But another phenomenon we often find in this disorder is an actual physiological change in the person affected. The normal personality may not need eyeglasses at all, while the alternate personality does; or both may wear glasses, but the prescription will be quite different. The blood pressures can be different, or the reaction to certain medications; the bleeding and clotting rates can be different, and we’ve even noted a clear and measurable change in the blood composition.”

  Corrigan wrote it all down. “Any explanations, doctor?”

  Mandanhi shook his head and smiled. “There is still much we do not know about ourselves, Mr. Corrigan.”

  Corrigan had heard enough. He was ready for the next witness. “How would you feel if I talked to Amber about all this? Would she be willing to talk about it?”

  Mandanhi considered that. “I don’t see that it would do any harm, provided you limit yourself to reasonable questions and behavior toward the child.”

  “Well, I was thinking I’d like to have our own psychologist examine Amber as well.”

  Suddenly Jefferson jumped on that. “No, Corrigan. Forget it. That isn’t going to happen.”

  Corrigan knew he’d hit a nerve somewhere. “Hey, come on. Dr. Mandanhi doesn’t seem to think it’ll hurt.”

  Ames was really hot about it. “You’re not going anywhere near that child! She’s suffered enough!”

  Corrigan turned to Dr. Mandanhi. “How about it, doctor? Think it’d be okay?”

  Mandanhi looked at the attorneys and caught the meaning in their eyes. “Well . . . I suppose not, Mr. Corrigan. I suppose it would be harmful.”

  “You suppose?”

  “It would be harmful.”

  “Forget it!” said Jefferson.

  Fat chance, thought Corrigan.

  CHAPTER 26

  BEFORE SALLY NOTICED, she was writing by the light of the overhead lamp above her seat, and not by the daylight coming in through the window. It was getting late. The hazy red twilight was giving way to the deepening gray of night, and now the farms and fields rushing by outside were beginning to hide behind the reflection of her own face. The rhythmic rocking of the railcar and click-click-clacking of the tracks had a lulling effect, a dulling effect, and she was feeling sleepy.

  It would be another day or so before she would reach her destination and revisit old Bentmore University. Her stomach turned with fear at every thought of it. These would be the powerful people, the influential ones, the molders of education and educators. If the people at Omega remembered her, undoubtedly she would be remembered at Bentmore. But still she had to go. She had to see that place again.

  So, my stay in Room 302 in Fairwood was suddenly ended, and I am on the road—riding the rails, actually—once again, with only my duffel bag and my life as possessions. I don’t mean to sound flippant, but running for my life is a whole new experience for me. First of all, I’ve never done it, and secondly, I never thought I would be running from the people I once trust
ed and admired so deeply. One of the hardest lessons I have had to learn is that the utopian dream of a new world order is not without its dark side, its powermongers, schemers, manipulators, and killers. Behind all the Mrs. Dennings and Miss Brewers who dream of refining and guiding mankind, there are the Mr. Steeles who dream of subjugating and controlling mankind. The Dennings and Brewers work hard to prepare all mankind for a global community; the Steeles look forward to running it.

  And then there are the Sally Roes who get caught in the middle, disillusioned by the idyllic dreams of the Dennings and Brewers and trying to stay out from under the crushing boot of the Steeles. Perhaps they are the ones the Steeles fear the most: they know all the tenets, but no longer believe in the faith. They can get in the way more effectively than anyone.

  She paused, and looked at her reflection in the window, a tired face with the blackness of night behind it, and it occurred to her what sorts of allegories she would have drawn from such a picture only a few days ago, or even yesterday. She could have written about the blackness of her soul, or the great void that lay beyond the visible Sally Roe, or the transience of her life, nothing more than a fleeting reflection on a thin pane of glass—here during the night, but gone by morning.

  Oh, it was great stuff, but for some reason she just didn’t feel that way. Something deep inside her was still changing, like a gradual and steady clearing of the weather.

  Tom, remember my last letter, when I talked about guilt? I haven’t forgotten any of those thoughts; as a matter of fact, they are still churning in my head, and I don’t know where they will eventually carry me.

  Since I last wrote, I did come up with one challenging proposition about guilt: that it could be a fact, and not just a feeling.

  I’m sure you know how much the rest of us despise that one aspect of Christianity: the classic “guilt trip.” If I recall the jargon correctly, we are all “sinners,” we are all guilty. Religion has always been, in my perception, one big guilt trip, and no one wants to feel guilty. That is why my friends and I spent so much time and energy concocting a universe in which right and wrong did not exist—if there is no right or wrong, there is no need to feel guilty about anything.

  Now for the wrench in the works, first thrown in this morning: the possibility of guilt as a fact and not just a feeling. If—and I emphasize the word if—there is a fixed standard of right and wrong—a fence, as I’ve said—then it is possible to be guilty of an offense, all feelings of guilt aside. I can be on the wrong side of the fence and be in the wrong regardless of how I feel about it.

  Please bear with me if I state the obvious; I have the distinct fear that you got all this clear in your own mind when you were a child and are getting bored, but please bear with me. I have to think it through, and it helps to do it on paper.

  Let’s say I rob a bank. That makes me guilty of robbery. Let’s say I don’t feel guilty about it. If robbery can be established as wrong, then I’m still guilty of robbery, regardless of how I feel.

  The feeling—or lack of feeling—does not change the fact.

  So, reflecting on what I’ve learned through the years in the humanist and mystic camps, I see that much of it was an attempt to escape from guilt through philosophy, meditation, drugs, etc., etc. But now I have to ask, what exactly have I been trying to escape: the feelings or the fact? I have been able to escape the feelings—for a season. The feelings you can bury, suppress, deny, or talk yourself out of.

  But what can change or erase the fact? So far I haven’t thought of a thing.

  WAYNE CORRIGAN HAD mixed feelings about Thursday’s deposition; he felt prepared in some ways, and in other ways he was sure he and his volunteer crew of investigators had not yet scratched the surface of what Lucy Brandon and her lawsuit were really all about. But here she sat, the plaintiff herself, dressed up in a gray pantsuit, flanked by Ames and Jefferson, ready to hold forth and looking nervous.

  Mark and Tom were present again, and Corrigan had plenty of notes for reference.

  They went over old ground first, rehashing the offenses against Amber at the Christian school. Lucy seemed to have a much better grasp of the details than Irene Bledsoe displayed.

  “He would often grab Amber by her shoulders and shake her until she produced the answer he wanted,” she said.

  “Can you give us an example?” Corrigan asked.

  “Well . . . she told me once about Mr. Harris trying to get Amber ‘saved,’ and he was quite forceful about it, shaking her, insisting that she say that Jesus was her Savior. She just wanted to say that He was her example, or her friend, or her guide, but that wasn’t good enough for him. He shook her, yelled at her, and really upset her. Then he made her stay in during recess until she changed her attitude. It was horrible; she cried about it all that evening. It was all I could do to get her to go back to the school the next day.”

  Tom jotted a note to himself. This testimony was a blatant lie, but it was not surprising. He’d heard Amber use the same truth-stretching whenever she tattled.

  “This is, of course, Amber’s account?” asked Corrigan.

  “Yes, it’s what she told me.”

  “And you were not a witness to this?”

  “No, but I believe my daughter.”

  “Did you ever discuss this with Mr. Harris?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  She had to search for an answer. “Oh, I guess my mind was on other matters, and it didn’t seem important at the time.”

  “But it seems important now?”

  “Why, yes.”

  Corrigan showed her a document. “This is your signature on this Parental Agreement Form, correct?”

  She looked at it. “Yes.”

  “And if you’ll notice paragraph nine on this form, it states that you have read the Student/Parent Handbook and agree to all it contains. Did you read the handbook, and did you agree to all it contained?”

  Lucy was quite reluctant to answer. “Yes.”

  Corrigan checked some records. “Is it true that Amber was paddled on . . . March 25th, and that Mr. Harris informed you about it that evening by telephone?”

  “Yes.”

  “And is it true that at that time you approved of the spanking?”

  “Yes.”

  “To the best of your knowledge, has Amber ever been spanked since then?”

  “No.”

  “So, just to make sure I have this straight, you are suing the school for physical abuse by spanking, but as far as you know there was only one incident of spanking, and you approved of it beforehand when you signed the Parental Agreement, and also at the time the spanking was administered? Do I have that right?”

  She was unhappy, but answered truthfully, “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Were you aware of the infraction for which Amber was spanked?”

  Lucy thought for a moment. “I think she was being disruptive in class.”

  Corrigan didn’t want to go into the next subject, but he had to. “Do you recall the nature of the disruption? Do you remember Mr. Harris describing it to you?”

  Lucy stumbled with an answer. “She was . . . being noisy, um, playing at her desk . . .”

  Corrigan dove in. “Well, let’s just go ahead and talk about Amethyst.”

  Lucy brightened with recollection. “Oh . . .”

  “Do you recall now that Amber was spanked because she was portraying Amethyst in the classroom and disturbing the class, and not heeding Mr. Harris’s orders to stop that behavior?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mrs. Brandon, we’ve heard a lot of opinions about who or what Amethyst really is. Who or what is Amethyst in your opinion?”

  Lucy looked down at the table, thought about the question, even laughed just a little, and then shook her head. “I’m not sure. I guess she’s just a character that Amber made up, but . . . Well, Dr. Mandanhi said it’s possibly an alternate personality, but I don’t know . . .”

  “Are y
ou affiliated in any way with a fellowship group in the Bacon’s Corner area called LifeCircle?”

  “Uh . . . yes.”

  “Isn’t it true that that group holds to a belief in channeling and spirit-guides?”

  She laughed, but it was a nervous laugh. “Well, we embrace a lot of different beliefs; we all have our opinions about channeling. I guess ultimately we don’t question it, we just experience it.”

  “Would you say that Amber was channeling Amethyst?”

  “Oh, she could be channeling, or she could be pretending she’s channeling, or . . . I don’t know. There are many different views. It’s really something to be experienced for what good can be derived from it; it’s not to be questioned.”

  “Have you ever considered that Amethyst could be a spirit?”

  The term seemed to shock her. “A spirit?”

  “Yes, a spirit-guide, or an ascended master, or a disembodied entity from the astral plane. Those are familiar terms to you, aren’t they?”

  She smiled, impressed. “You know a lot about this sort of thing, don’t you?”

  Corrigan smiled back pleasantly. “Well, I try to do my homework. But do you think Amethyst could be a spirit-guide? Is that possible?”

  She furrowed her brow and looked down at the table, struggling with such a thought. “Some believe that. I still don’t know what to think.”

  Corrigan scribbled in his notepad. “At any rate, on March 28th, Mr. Harris and Amethyst had a confrontation. Do you recall hearing about that?”

  “Yes. Mr. Harris called me at the Post Office. It sounded serious, so I came over.”

  “Did he tell you what happened?”

  “Yes. He said that Amber had been . . . Oh, I can’t remember how he put it, but he basically told me that they thought she had a demon and tried to cast it out of her. I was outraged. I’d never heard of such a thing.”

  “You’ve never heard of casting out demons?”

  She answered bitterly, “That’s strictly a Christian idea, an invention of organized religion, and I resent that it was imposed upon my daughter! Channeling is a gift, a special ability; it has nothing to do with religion!”