Circle Series 4-in-1

by Ted Dekker

  Streams of women and children ran the paths that led toward the gate where the high-pitched cries continued with growing intensity. They were definitely home. The only question was how many.

  On every side grew winding puroon vines with lavender flowers similar to what Thomas described as bougainvillea and large tawii bushes with white silken petals, each spreading their sweet scent through the air. Like gardenia, Thomas said. Every home was draped in similar flowering vines according to a grand master plan that rendered the entire village a garden of beauty. It was the Forest People’s best imitation of the colored forest.

  Rachelle ran with a knot in her throat. Thomas may be the best fighter among them, but he was also their leader and the first to rush into the worst battles. Too many times he’d returned carrying the body of the soldier who’d fallen beside him. His good fortune couldn’t last forever.

  And William’s order to prepare for evacuation had set the entire village on edge.

  They converged on a seventy-foot-wide stone road that cut a straight line from the main gate to the lake. Night was falling, and the people were ready for celebration in anticipation of the Forest Guard’s return. They mobbed the front gate, bouncing and dancing. Torches and branches were raised up high. The army was mounted, but with children on their mother’s shoulders, the view was blocked.

  A loud voice screamed above the din. This was the assistant to Ciphus—Rachelle could pick out his voice from a hundred yards. He was trying to move the people to the side as was customary.

  The crowd suddenly settled and parted like a sea. Rachelle pulled up with Marie on one side and Samuel on the other. Then she saw Thomas where she always saw him, seated on his black stallion, leading his men, who stretched behind him into the forest. A bucket of relief washed over her.

  “Father!”

  “Wait, Samuel! First we honor the fallen.”

  The people parted farther, leaving a wide path for the warriors. The clip-clop of the horses’ hoofs was now clearly audible.

  Ciphus approached the front line and Thomas stopped his horse. They talked quietly for a moment. To Rachelle’s right, thousands continued to line the road that led to the distant lake, now shimmering in rising moonlight. About thirty thousand lived here, and in the days to follow, their number would swell to a hundred thousand as the rest arrived for the annual Gathering.

  Ciphus seemed to be taking longer than usual. Something was wrong. William had been emphatic about the seriousness of the situation when he’d ridden in yesterday to demand they prepare to evacuate, but they had won, hadn’t they? Surely they hadn’t come to announce that the Horde was only a day’s march behind.

  Ciphus turned slowly to face the throng. He waited a long time, and for every second he stood, the silence deepened until Rachelle thought that she could hear his breathing. He lifted both hands, tilted his face to the sky, and began to moan. This was the traditional mourning.

  Yes, yes, Ciphus, but how many? Tell us how many!

  Soft wails joined him. Then in a loud voice he cried, “They have taken three thousand of our sons and daughters!”

  Three thousand! So many! They had never even lost a thousand.

  The wails rose to fever-pitch cries of agony that reached out to the surrounding desert. First Thomas and then the rest of his men dismounted and sank to their knees, lowered their heads to the ground, and wept. Rachelle fell to her knees with the rest, until the whole village knelt on the side of the road, weeping for the wives and mothers and fathers and daughters and sons who’d suffered such a terrible loss to the Horde. Only Ciphus stood, and he stood with arms raised in a cry to Elyon.

  “Comfort your children, Maker of men! Take your daughters into your bosom and wipe away their tears. Deliver your sons from the evil that ravages what is sacred. Come and save us, O Elyon. Come and save us, lover of our souls!”

  The custom of immediately marrying the widows to eligible men would be stretched very thin. There weren’t enough men to go around. They were all dying. Rachelle’s heart ached for those who would soon learn that their husbands were among the three thousand.

  The mourning continued for about fifteen minutes, until Ciphus finished his long prayer. Then he lowered his arms and a hush fell over the crowd now standing.

  “Our loss is great. But their loss is greater. Fifty thousand of the Horde have been sent to an appropriate fate on this day!”

  A roar erupted down the line. The ground trembled with their throaty yells, motivated as much by the fresh horror of their own loss and their hatred of the Horde as by their thirst for victory.

  Thomas swung back into his saddle and walked his horse up the road. At times like this he would sometimes acknowledge the crowd with nods and an uplifted hand, but tonight he rode with sobriety.

  His eyes found Rachelle. She ran to him with Samuel and Marie. He leaned over and kissed her on the lips.

  “You are my sunshine,” he said.

  “And you are my rainbow,” she replied, tempted to haul him off the horse right now. He felt her teasing tug and grinned. Their sappy exchange was refreshing because it was so genuine. She loved him for it.

  “Walk with me.”

  He kissed Marie and smiled. “As beautiful as your mother.” He ruffled Samuel’s hair.

  They walked down the cheering line like that, Thomas in the saddle, Rachelle, Samuel, and Marie walking proudly on his right side. But there was a tension in Thomas’s face. It wasn’t only the price they had paid in battle that occupied his mind.

  The moment they reached the wide sandy shores to the lake, Thomas dismounted, handed the horse off to his stable boy, and turned to his lieutenants.

  “Mikil, William, we meet as soon as we’ve bathed. Suzan, bring Ciphus and whatever members of the Council you can find. Quickly.” He kissed Rachelle on her forehead. “We need your wisdom, my love. Join us.”

  He hugged Samuel and Marie, whispered something in their ears. They ran off, undoubtedly up to some mischief.

  Thomas took Rachelle’s hand and led her to one of the twenty gazebos that overlooked a large amphitheater cut from the forest floor. The lake lay two hundred yards distant, just past a swath of clean white sand. They’d cleared the forest over the years, and as the village grew, they expanded the beach by relocating houses that had once been near the lake, such as their own. In their place they planted thick, rich grass and more than two thousand flowering trees, carefully positioned in concentric arcs leading to the sand. Hundreds of rosebushes and honeysuckles spotted the grass in tidy enclaves with benches for sitting. This end of the lake had been landscaped as a garden park fit for a king.

  The lake’s waters were not for drinking or washing—such water came from the springs—but only for bathing and only then without soap. The lake’s shores were reserved for the nightly celebrations, which were getting underway around a large firepit.

  Thomas and Rachelle would normally be among the first at the celebration, dancing and singing and retelling stories of Elyon’s love that would stretch into the night. It had always been the highlight of their day. But at the moment Thomas’s mind was a hundred miles away.

  “Thomas. What is it?”

  “It’s the Southern Forest,” he said. “We may lose the Southern Forest.”

  Thomas paced along the gazebo’s half wall deep in thought. Torches blazed from each post. Down the shore, delighted laughter rose from the celebration. A long line of dancers, dressed in fabrics made from dark green leaves and white flowers, had linked arms and were moving in graceful circles around the bonfire. They were undoubtedly light with wine and stuffed with meat. Out on the lake, moonlight shone in a long white shaft.

  For so long Thomas’s people had waited for Elyon’s deliverance. They’d spun a thousand stories about the way he might ultimately deliver them from the Horde. Would he rise from the lake and flood the desert with water to drown them? Or would he ride in on a mighty white horse and lead them in one final battle that rid the earth of the
scourge once and for all?

  Thomas turned to the gathered elders and lieutenants. “If there are two armies, there may be three. Otherwise, yes, Ciphus, I wouldn’t hesitate to lead five thousand men to Jamous’s aid tonight. But it’s a full day’s journey—nearly three days there and back. The Horde has never attacked us on two fronts until now. If our Guard vacate this forest while so many are coming for the annual Gathering—”

  “Well, we won’t change the Gathering. I promise you that.”

  “Half of our forces are out escorting the tribes. We’re already stretched way too thin. To send more men to the Southern Forest puts us at great risk.”

  Mikil stood. “Then let me go with just a few of the Forest Guard. Jamous is still fighting, Thomas. You heard the runner!”

  The runner had met them at the gates with fresh word from the south. Jamous was holding strong against the Horde. His first retreat had been a strategy to draw the Horde near the forest where his archers had the distinct advantage of cover. They had been fighting for three days now.

  “How many men?”

  “Give me five hundred,” Mikil said.

  “That would leave us weak here,” William objected. “Here where the whole world will be gathered in less than a week. What if the Horde is weakening us for an assault on the forest, here, next week, when they can take us all in one blow?”

  “He’s right, Mikil,” Thomas said. “I can’t let you take five hundred.”

  “You’re forgetting the bombs,” Mikil said.

  The news of their stunning victory was spreading like fire. He looked at Rachelle. They hadn’t been alone yet, when he knew he’d get her true reaction to the fact that he’d started dreaming again. Still, with such a victory, what could she say?

  What none of them knew was that he’d dreamed not once, but twice, the second time when they’d stopped for sleep returning from the battle. He’d dreamed that he’d gone before a special meeting called by the president of the United States and then been put to sleep by a psychologist. In his dream world, he was at this very moment lying in a chair in Dr. Bancroft’s laboratory.

  And he intended to dream again, tonight. He had to. If he could only make Rachelle understand that.

  “Using the black powder, we could destroy the Horde!” Mikil said.

  “Not on the open desert we won’t,” William said. “You’ll kill a handful with each blast; that’s it. And you’re forgetting that we don’t have any bombs at the moment.”

  “Then three hundred warriors.”

  “Three hundred,” Thomas said. “But not you. Send another division and tell them to ride along the runners’ route.” They continually sent messengers on fast horses between the forests in a kind of mail system that Thomas had developed. “If they hear that Jamous has won before they arrive, have them turn back.”

  She stared at him for a moment, then turned to leave.

  “I’m sorry, Mikil. I know what Jamous means to you, but I need you here.”

  She paused, and then left without another word.

  Thomas motioned after her with his head. “Go with her, William. Suzan, organize a sweep of the forest perimeter. Let’s be sure there isn’t another Horde army lurking.”

  They both left.

  “You really think the Horde would try something like that?” Rachelle asked.

  “I wouldn’t have thought so a month ago, but they’re getting smart about the way they attack. Martyn is changing them.”

  “So then, we’re agreed,” Ciphus said. The elder stroked his long gray beard. He was one of the older Council members, seventy. Bathing in Elyon’s waters didn’t stop the aging process. “The Gathering will proceed as planned in five days.”

  “Yes.”

  “Regardless of the Southern Forest’s fate.”

  “You think they may fall?” Thomas asked.

  “No. Have any of our forests fallen? But if one does, then all the more reason for the Gathering.”

  “I suppose so.”

  Thomas looked at his wife. She was only a few years younger than he was, but she looked half his battle-worn age. There was no doubt in his mind but that she would make an incredible commander. But she was also a mother. And she was his wife. The thought of exposing her to death on the battlefield made him sick.

  He walked to her and touched his hand to her cheek. “Have I told you lately how beautiful you are?” he asked. He leaned over and kissed her full on the lips while the others watched silently. Romance had become their religion, and they practiced it daily. When a person wandered into the desert and neglected swimming in Elyon’s water, their memory of the colored forest and the love that Elyon had shown them in the old lake also dimmed. But here in the forest, lingering memories had prompted Ciphus and the Council to develop rituals determined to cherish those memories. The Great Romance consisted of rules and celebrations and traditions meant to keep the people from straying. The way that a husband or wife expressed love for his or her spouse was a part of that romance.

  Rachelle winked. “Your love for me makes my face shine,” she said.

  He kissed her again.

  “Ciphus, what can you tell me of the Books of Histories?” he asked, turning from Rachelle. “They say that the Books still exist. Have you heard of them?”

  “We don’t need the Books of Histories. We have the lakes.”

  “Of course. But do you believe they exist?”

  Ciphus stared at him past bushy brows. “They aren’t books anyone wants,” he said. “They were hidden from us a long time ago for good reason.”

  “I didn’t know you were so averse to the Books,” Thomas said. “I’m simply asking if you know anything about them.”

  “This sudden interest in the histories again. You were consumed with them before,” Rachelle said. “It’s the dreams, isn’t it?”

  “It’s not like you might think, Rachelle, but yes. Nothing’s changed there. When I awoke in Bangkok, only a night had passed!” He walked to the rail and gazed at the celebration, now in full swing. “I know it sounds ludicrous, but we may have a very serious problem.” He turned to her. “They need me.”

  “What is Bangkok?” Ciphus asked.

  “The world in his dreams,” Rachelle said. “When he dreams, he believes that he goes to another place, that he’s living in the ancient histories, before the Great Deception. He thinks that he can stop the virus that led to the times of tribulation. You see why the rhambutan is so important, Thomas? Once—only once—you sleep without the fruit and your mind is whisked away. Ludicrous!”

  “This is why you’re interested in the Books of Histories?” Ciphus asked. “To save a dream world?”

  Thomas clutched the wound on his shoulder. Suzan had bandaged it with herbs and a broad leaf. A swim in the lake would do it some good, but the deep cut would take some time to heal.

  “You see this wound? It didn’t come from the Horde. It came from the world in my dreams.”

  “But surely that world isn’t real,” the elder said. “Is it?”

  “Weren’t you listening earlier when I told you about the black powder? I don’t know how real it is, but this cut is real enough.”

  “Then Elyon is using your mind to help us,” Ciphus said. “But if you’re suggesting that the dreams he’s using are real, that’s an entirely different matter.”

  “Call it what you will, Ciphus. My shoulder hurts just the same.”

  “Please, Thomas.” Rachelle drew her hand over his hair. “For all you know the Horde cut you and you just don’t remember. Yes? Fascination with the histories pushed Tanis into the black forest to begin with.”

  “No. I won’t have that on my head. His preoccupation was there before I began to dream. Tanis made his own choice.”

  She removed her hand. “And now you’ll make yours,” she said. “I will not have you dreaming again.”

  “And what if not dreaming threatens my own life? We are dying there! The virus will kill me. They depend on me, but
just as much, my very existence here may depend on my ability to stop the virus there!”

  “No, I can’t listen to this. Of course they depend on you. Without you they don’t exist to begin with!”

  “You’re willing to risk my life?”

  “The last time you dreamed, we all died.”

  They faced off, romance quickly forgotten. He understood her aversion. What was it she had said? I will not have you loving another woman in your dreams while I am suckling your child. Something similar. She was still jealous of Monique.

  “These dreams sound like so much nonsense to me,” Ciphus said. “I would agree with Rachelle. There is no benefit in dreaming if you lose your mind in them. But if you want to know about the Books of Histories, then you’ll have to speak to the old man, Jeremiah of Southern. He is here, I believe.”

  Jeremiah of Southern? The old man who’d once been a Scab? He was one of very few who had come in and bathed in the lake of his own will. Much of what Thomas knew of the Desert Dwellers he’d learned from the old man. But he’d never mentioned the Books of Histories.

  “He’s here now?”

  The Elder nodded. “For the Gathering.”

  “Thomas.”

  He faced Rachelle. She was giving him one of those looks that he adored her for, a fiery glare that threatened without casting any suspicion on her love.

  “Please tell me that because you love me you will eat ten rhambutan fruits right now and forget this nonsense forever,” she said.

  “Ten?” He chuckled. “You want me sick? I would groan all night. That’s how you welcome your mighty warrior home?”

  Slowly a smile curved her lips.

  “Then one fruit. And I promise to chase it down with a kiss that will make your mind spin.”

  “Now that’s tempting,” he said. He reached for her hand. “Would you like to dance?”

  She took it and spun into him.

  “I don’t mean to interrupt lovers, but there is another matter,” Ciphus said.

  “There’s always another matter,” Thomas said. “What is it?”