Circle Series 4-in-1

by Ted Dekker

He didn’t even know this woman.

  She suddenly took his hand in hers and pulled him toward the door. “Hurry, they are waiting.”

  “They are? Who are?”

  “It’s time to eat,” Johan cried. He threw the door open, pulled up, and then rushed down the steps toward two men on the path below. “Father! We have Thomas Hunter. He is a very interesting man!”

  Two thoughts struck Thomas at the comment. One, Rachelle was still touching his hand. Two, these people seemed to have no shame. Which meant he had no shame, because he was one of these people.

  Rachelle released his hand and ran down the steps. The man Johan had called Father embraced the boy and then turned to Thomas. He wore a tunic that hung to his thighs, tan with a wide swath of blue running across his body from right shoulder to left hip. The hem was woven in intricate crossing patterns with the same colors. A belt of gold ran around his waist and held a small water pouch.

  “So. You are the visitor from the other side.” He clasped Thomas’s arm, pulled him into an embrace, and slapped his back. “Welcome. My name is Palus. You are most welcome to stay with my family.” He drew back, frowning, eyes bright, delighted. “Welcome,” he said again.

  “Thank you. You are most kind.” Thomas dipped his head.

  Palus jumped back and swept his arm toward the other man. “This is Miknas, the keeper of the Thrall,” he said proudly. “He has overseen all the dances and celebrations on the green floor for well over a hundred years. Miknas!”

  Miknas looked about forty. Maybe thirty. Hard to tell. How old was the firstborn, Tanis? Thomas dismissed the question for the moment.

  “It’s an honor,” Thomas said.

  Miknas stepped forward and embraced Thomas in the same way Palus had. “The honor is mine. We rarely have such special visitors. You are most welcome. Most, most welcome.”

  “Come, walk to our house.” Palus led them down the path.

  They stopped at the arching sapphire entrance of a home close to the Thrall, and each took turns embracing Miknas farewell, bidding him a wonderful meal. Palus led them down several rows of homes to a cottage as brilliant green as its surrounding lawn, then up the walk and past a solid green door into his domed abode.

  Thomas entered the dwelling, hoping that here, in such intimate surroundings, the familiarity of his past would return. The wood here in the home had the appearance of being covered in a smooth, clear resin several inches thick. The furniture was carved from the same wood. Some pieces glowed a single color, and others radiated in rainbow moirés. Light emanated from all the wood. The light was not reflective as he had first guessed but came from the wood itself.

  Incredible. But not familiar.

  “This is Karyl, my wife,” Palus said. Then to his wife, “Rachelle has touched his hand.”

  Thomas smiled at Rachelle’s mother awkwardly, eager to avoid any further discussion on the matter. “You have a beautiful home, madam.”

  “Madam? How quaint. What does it mean?”

  “Hmm?”

  “I’ve never heard this expression before. What does ‘madam’ mean?”

  “I think . . . I think it’s an expression of respect. Like ‘friend.’”

  “You use this expression in your village?”

  “Maybe. I think we might.”

  They all watched him in a moment of silence, during which he felt terribly conspicuous.

  “Here,” Karyl said finally, stepping toward a bowl into which she dipped a wooden cup, “we invite with a drink of water.” She brought the cup to him, and he sipped. The water was cool at his lips but felt warm all the way to his belly, where its heat spread. He dipped his head and returned the cup.

  “Thank you.”

  “Then you must eat with us. Come, come.”

  She took his arm and led him to the table. A large bowl of fruit sat in the center, and he recognized the colors and shapes. They were the same as those Gabil had given him earlier.

  His sudden hunger for the fruit surprised him. Everyone had taken a seat at the round table now, and he was aware of their eyes on him. He forced himself to look away from the fruit, and he met Rachelle’s eyes.

  “You’re most kind to have me in your home. I must admit, I’m unsure of what I should do. Did they tell you that I’d lost my memory?”

  “Michal mentioned that, yes,” Palus said.

  “Don’t worry, I will teach you anything you need to know.” Rachelle picked up a fruit topaz in color, looked him directly in the eye, and bit into it. She chewed and lifted the fruit to his lips. “You should eat the kirim,” she said, holding his eyes with hers.

  Thomas hesitated. Was this like the touching of hands?

  “Go ahead.” Now Karyl urged him on.

  They all waited, staring at him as though insistent on his tasting the fruit. Even Johan waited, anticipation painted in his bright, smiling eyes.

  Thomas leaned forward and bit into the fruit. Juice ran down his chin as his teeth broke the skin and exposed the flesh. The moment the nectar hit his tongue he felt its power ripple down his body like a narcotic, stronger than the fruit Gabil had given him earlier.

  “Take it,” Rachelle said.

  He took the fruit, brushing her fingers as he did. She let her hand linger, then reached for another fruit. The others had reached into the bowl and eagerly ate the fruit. It wasn’t a narcotic, of course, but a gift from Elyon, as Michal had explained. Something that brought pleasure, like all of Elyon’s gifts. Food, water, love. Flying and diving.

  Flying and diving? There was something about flying and diving that struck a chord. What, he didn’t know. Not yet.

  Thomas took another bite and beamed at his hosts. Johan was the first to begin laughing, a bite of yellow flesh still lodged in his mouth. Then Palus joined in the laughter, and within seconds they were joined by Rachelle and Karyl. Still chewing slowly, Thomas shifted his gaze around the table, surprised at their odd behavior. His mouth formed a dumb grin, and he rested his eyes on Johan. He was one of them; he should be laughing as well. And now that he thought about it, he wanted to laugh.

  Johan’s shoulders shook uncontrollably. He had thrown his head back so his chin jutted out, his laughing mouth facing the ceiling. A nervous chuckle erupted from Thomas’s throat and quickly grew to laughter. And then Thomas began to laugh uncontrollably, as though he had never laughed before, as though a hundred years of pent-up laughter had broken free.

  Johan slipped out of his seat and rolled onto the floor, laughing hysterically. The laughter was so great that none of them could finish the fruit, and it was a good ten minutes before they gathered themselves enough to eat again.

  Thomas rubbed the tears from his eyes and took another bite of the fruit. He was struck by the obscure idea that he must be floating through a dream. That he was in Denver having an incredible dream. But the hard surface of the table told him this was no dream.

  The scene was surreal to be sure: sitting in a room lit by drifting colors that emanated from resined wood, seeing the hues of turquoise and lavender and gold hang softly in the air, eating strange and delicious fruit that made him delirious, and laughing with his new friends for no apparent reason other than his simple delight at the moment.

  And now, sitting in silence, except for the sound of slurping fruit, feeling totally content without uttering a word.

  Surreal.

  But very real. This was supper. This was the common eating of food.

  Johan suddenly sprang up from his chair. “Father, may we start the song now?”

  “The song. The dance.” A grin formed on Palus’s face.

  Without clearing the table, Karyl rose and glided to the center of the room, where she was quickly joined by Johan, Rachelle, and Palus. Thomas watched, feeling suddenly awkward, unsure whether he was expected to rise or stay seated. The family didn’t seem concerned, so he remained seated.

  He noticed the small pedestal in the center of the room for the first time. The four joined hands a
round a bowl perched on the pedestal. They raised their heads, began singing softly, stepped gingerly around the pedestal in a simple dance.

  The moment the notes fell on his ears, Thomas knew that he was hearing much more than just a tune. The plaintive melody, sung in low tones, spoke beyond its notes.

  It quickened and broke out in long, flowing notes containing a kind of harmony Thomas could not remember. Their dance picked up intensity— they seemed to have forgotten him completely. Thomas sat, captivated by the great emotion of the moment, stunned by the sudden loss of understanding, surprised by the feeling of love and kindness that numbed his chest. Johan beamed at the ceiling, exhibiting sincerity that seemed to transport him well beyond his age. And yet Palus looked like a child.

  Rachelle stepped with distinguished grace. Not a movement of her body was out of place. She danced as though she had choreographed the dance. As though it flowed from her first and then to the others. She was lost in innocent abandon to the song.

  He wanted to rush out and join them, but he could hardly move, much less twirl.

  Then they each sang, but when young Johan finally lifted his head, smiled at the ceiling, and opened his mouth in a solo, Thomas knew immediately that he was the true singer here.

  The first tone flowed from his throat clear and pure and sharp and so very, very young. The tones rose through the octave, higher and higher until Thomas thought the room might melt at his song.

  But the boy sang higher, and still higher, bringing a chill to Thomas’s spine. No wasted breath escaped Johan’s lips, no fluctuation in tone, no strain of muscles in his neck. Only effortless song spun at the boy’s whim.

  A moment’s pause, and the tone began again, this time in a rich, low bass deserving of the best virtuoso. And yet sung by this boy! The tones filled the room, shaking the table to which Thomas clung. He caught his breath and felt his jaw part. The entrancing melody swept through his body. Thomas swallowed hard, trying to hold back the sentiment rising through his chest. Instead he felt his shoulders shake, and he began to weep.

  Johan continued to smile and sing. His tune reached into each chamber of Thomas’s heart and reverberated with truth.

  The song and dance must have gone on late into the night, but Thomas never knew, because he slipped into an exhausted sleep while they still sang.

  11

  THAT’S IT, come on. Wake up.”

  Someone was squeezing his cheeks together and shaking his head. Thomas forced lead-laden eyes open, surprised at how difficult the task was. He squinted in the light. His sister sat beside him, long blonde hair backlit by a halo of light.

  He struggled to sit up and finally managed with a pull from Kara. He felt like he was moving in molasses, but that was to be expected— dreams often felt that way. Slogging instead of sprinting, floating instead of falling.

  “You should wake up pretty quick,” Kara said. “You feel okay?”

  She was talking about the drugs. Sedatives followed by enough caffeine to wake a horse, if he remembered right.

  “I gethh,” he slurred. He swallowed a pool of saliva and said it again, concentrating on his pronunciation. “I guess.” His head felt as though a rhino had stomped on it.

  “Here, drink this.” Kara handed him a glass of water. He took a long slug and cleared his throat. The fog started to clear from his mind. This could be a dream, or that could be a dream, but at the moment he didn’t want to think about it.

  “So?” Kara asked, setting the glass aside.

  “So what?”

  “So, did you dream?”

  “I don’t know.” He looked around the room, disoriented. “Am I dreaming now?” He reached out and bumped her forehead with his palm.

  “What are you doing?” she demanded.

  “Just checking. To see if my hand went through your head, like in a dream. Guess not.”

  “Please, indulge me. For all I’ve done for you over the years, do me this one favor: Pretend this isn’t a dream. And that whatever went through your noodle while you were sleeping was a dream.”

  “I’m sleeping now.”

  “Thomas, stop it!”

  “Okay!” He tried to stand, got halfway up, and settled back down. “But it’s not easy, you know.”

  “I’m sure it’s not.” She stood, picked up the glass, and headed for the kitchen. “The fact is, you didn’t learn anything from the white fuzzy creatures in the colored forest, right? I suggest we start giving some serious thought to getting out of this mess you got us into.”

  “The winner was Joy Flyer. Is. Will be . . . whatever.”

  Kara blinked once. Twice. Thomas knew he’d hit a home run.

  “You see?” he said. “I didn’t have a clue who Joy Flyer was because you wouldn’t even show me which horses were in the race. I’d never heard of the name before today. There’s no way I could have guessed that. But the histories have recorded that a horse named Joy Flyer will win today’s Kentucky Derby.”

  She snatched the newspaper off the counter and stared at the sports page. “How do you spell it?”

  “How should I know? I didn’t read it; Michal told me. Don’t be—”

  “Joy Flyer’s a long shot.” She stared at the paper. “How did you even know that name?”

  “I told you, I didn’t.”

  This time Kara didn’t argue. “The race isn’t for another five hours. We don’t know that he will win.”

  “The race was run a long time ago, on ancient Earth, but I can understand your unease with that kind of thinking.” Truth be told, even he felt plenty of unease with that kind of thinking.

  “This is absolutely incredible! You’re actually getting facts about the future in your dreams as if they’re history?”

  “Didn’t I tell you that an hour ago?”

  “How long were you there? What else can you tell me?”

  “How long? Maybe, what? Four, five hours?”

  “But you only slept for half an hour. What else did you learn?”

  “Nothing. Except for what I said about the Raison Strain.”

  For a moment they faced each other in perfect stillness. Kara grabbed the rest of the paper and noisily crashed through it.

  “What else did you find out about the Raison Strain?” she demanded, scanning the story on the French pharmaceutical company.

  “Nothing. I didn’t ask anything about—”

  “Well, maybe you should have. You had the presence of mind to ask about a horse race. If this virus is about to wipe out a few billion people, you’d think you would have the presence of mind to ask about it.”

  “So now you’re starting to listen,” Thomas said, standing successfully this time. He looked around and reached for the bandage above his right ear. He pulled it off and felt for the wound. Odd.

  “Kara?”

  “It says here that Raison Pharmaceutical operates almost exclusively just outside Bangkok where its founder, Jacques de Raison, runs the company’s new plant. His daughter, Monique de Raison, who is also in charge of new drug development, is expected to make the announcement in Bangkok on Wednesday.”

  “Kara!”

  She looked up. “What?”

  “Can you . . .” He walked toward her, still feeling the scar on his skull. “Is this normal?”

  “Is what normal?”

  “It feels . . . I don’t know. I can’t feel it.”

  Kara pushed his hand aside, spread his hair with her fingers, and stepped back, face white.

  Thomas faced her. “What is it?”

  She stared, too stunned to answer.

  “It’s gone,” Thomas said. “I was right. This was an open wound eight hours ago, and now it’s gone, isn’t it?”

  “This is impossible,” Kara said.

  Actually, it did sound a bit crazy.

  “I’m telling you, Kara. This thing’s real. I mean, real-real.”

  A tremble had come to Kara’s fingers.

  “Okay.” He ran his fingers through his
hair. The mob from New York City was still gunning for him, but the Raison Strain was the real threat here, wasn’t it? For whatever reason, and through whatever device, he now possessed knowledge of the most damning proportions. Why him—third-culture vagabond from the Philippines, Java Hut extraordinaire, aspiring Magic Circle actor, unpublished novelist—he had no idea. But the significance of what he knew began to swell in his mind.

  “Okay,” he said, lowering his arm. “Maybe we can stop it.”

  “Stop it? I’m having trouble believing it, much less stopping it.”

  “Bangkok,” Thomas said.

  “What, pray tell, are we going to do in Bangkok? Storm the Raison facilities?”

  “No, but we can’t just stay here.”

  She broke off and walked for the kitchen desk. “We have to tell someone about this.”

  “Who?”

  “CDC. Centers for Disease Control. The headquarters are in Atlanta.”

  “Tell them what?” Thomas asked. “That a fuzzy creature told me the Raison Strain was going to wipe out half the world?”

  “That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it? This Raison Vaccine is going to mutate and kill us all like a bunch of rats? The whole thing’s crazy!”

  He rubbed the scar on his head. “So is this.”

  Her eyes lifted to where the bullet had grazed his head not ten hours ago. She stared at his temple for a long moment and then turned for the phone. “We have to tell someone.”

  He assured himself that her frustration wasn’t directed so much at him as at the situation. “Okay, but you can’t tell some pencil pusher at the CDC,” Thomas said. “You’ll come off sounding like a kook.”

  “Then who? The local sheriff?” She scanned a list she’d placed in the front of the phone book, found the number, and dialed.

  Thomas brushed past her and began flipping through the phone book. The Roush had said that the Raison Strain led to the “Great Deception.” His mind fully engaged the problem now.

  “What if I know this because I’m supposed to stop it?” Thomas asked. “But who really would have the power to stop it? The CDC? More like the FBI or the CIA or the State Department.”

  “Believe me, it’ll sound just as crazy to the State Depar—” Kara turned, phone still plastered to her ear. “Yes, good morning, Melissa. This is Kara Hunter calling from Denver, Colorado. I’m a nurse. Who would I speak to about a . . . um, potential outbreak?” She paused. “No, actually I’m not calling on behalf of the hospital. I just need to report something I find suspicious.” Another pause. “Infectious disease. Who would that be? Thanks, I’ll hold.”