by Ted Dekker
Thomas and his small band had found their first of twenty-seven red pools amid a small patch of trees, exactly where Justin said they would. In thirteen months, the Circle had led nearly a thousand Scabs into the red waters, where they drowned of their own will and found new life. A thousand. A minuscule number when compared to the two million Scabs who now lived in the dominant forest. Even so, the moment Qurong became aware of the growing movement, he’d organized a campaign to wipe the Circle from the Earth. They had become nomads, making camp in canvas tents near the red pools when possible, and running when not. Mostly running.
Johan had taught them the skills of desert survival: how to plant and harvest desert wheat, how to make thread from the stalks and weave tunics. Bedding, furniture, even their tents were all eerily reminiscent of the Horde way, though notably colored and spiced with Forest Dweller tastes. They ate fruit with their bread and adorned their tents with wildflowers. Thomas returned his thoughts to the body of Elijah on the wood. In the end they would all be dead—it was the one certainty for all living creatures. But after their deaths, they each would find a life just barely imagined this side of the colored forest. In many ways he envied the old man.
Thomas lifted his torch high. The others followed his lead.
“We are born of water and of spirit,” he cried out.
“Of water and spirit,” the tribe repeated. A new energy seemed to rise in the cool night air.
“We burn this body in defiance of death. It holds no power over us. The spirit lives, though the flesh dies. We are born of water and of the spirit!”
A hushed echo of his words swept through the circle.
“Whether we be taken by the sword or by age or by any cause, we are alive still, passing from this world to the next. For this reason we celebrate Elijah’s passing tonight. He is where we all long to be!”
The excitement was now palpable. They’d said their good-byes and paid their respects. Now it was time to relish their victory over death.
Thomas glanced at Samuel and Marie, who were both staring at him. Their own mother, his wife, Rachelle, had been killed thirteen months ago. They’d mourned her passing more than most, only because they’d understood less then than now.
He winked at his children, then shook the torch once overhead. “To life with Justin!”
He rushed the pyre and thrust his torch into the wood. As one, the Circle converged on the woodpile. Those close enough shoved their torches in; the rest threw them.
With a sudden swoosh, the fire engulfed Elijah’s body.
Immediately a drumbeat rolled through the night. Voices yelled in jubilation and arms were thrust skyward in victory, perhaps exaggerated in hope but true to the spirit of the Circle. Without the belief in what awaited each of them, all other hope was moot.
Elijah had been taken home to the Great Romance. Tonight he was the bride, and his bridegroom, Justin, who was also Elyon, had taken him back into the lake of infinite waters. And more.
To say there wasn’t at least some envy among the tribe at a time like this would be a lie.
They danced in a large circle around the roaring fire. Thomas laughed as the celebration took on a life of its own. He watched the Circle, his heart swelling with pride. Then he stepped back from the fire’s dancing light and crossed his arms. He faced the dark night where cliffs were silhouetted by a starry sky.
“You see, Justin? We celebrate our passing with the same fervor that you showed us after your own.”
An image filled his mind: Justin riding to them on a white horse the day after his drowning, then pulling up, eyes blazing with excitement. He’d run to each of them and grasped their hands. He’d pronounced them the Circle on that day.
The day Rachelle had been killed by the Horde.
“I hope you were right about settling here,” a voice said softly at his shoulder.
He faced Johan, who followed his gaze to the cliffs.
“If the Horde is anywhere near, they’ve seen the fire already,” Johan said.
Thomas clasped his shoulder. “You worry too much, my friend. When have we let the threat of a few Scabs distract us from celebrating our sacred love? Besides, there’s been no warning from our guard.”
“But we have heard that Woref has stepped up his search. I know that man; he’s relentless.”
“And so is our love for Justin. I’m sick of running.”
Johan did not react. “We meet at daybreak?”
“Assuming the Horde hasn’t swept us all out to the desert.” Thomas winked. “At daybreak.”
“You make light now. Soon enough it will be a reality,” Johan said. He dipped his head and returned to the revelry.
They sat on flat rocks early the next morning, pondering. At least Thomas, Suzan, and Jeremiah were pondering, silent for the most part. The other members of the council—Johan, William, and Ronin— might also be pondering, but their cranial activity didn’t interfere with their mouths.
“Never!” Ronin said. “I can tell you without the slightest reservation that if Justin were standing here today, in this very canyon, he would set you straight. He always insisted that we would be hated! Now you’re suggesting that we go out of our way to appease the Horde? Why?”
“How can we influence the Horde if they hate us?” Johan demanded. “Yes, let them hate our beliefs. You have no argument from me there. But does this mean we should go out of our way to antagonize them so that they despise every albino they see?”
The Horde referred to them as albinos because their flesh wasn’t scaly and gray like a Scab’s skin. Ironic, because they were all darker than the Horde. In fact, nearly half of the Circle, including Suzan, had various shades of chocolate skin. They were the envy of most lighter-skinned albinos because the rich tones differentiated them so dramatically from the white Horde. Some members of the Circle even took to painting their skin brown for the ceremonies. All of them bore the albino name with pride. It meant they were different, and there was nothing they wanted more than to be different from the Horde.
Ronin paced on the sand, red-faced despite the cool air. “You’re putting words in my mouth. I’ve never suggested we antagonize the Horde. But Justin was never for embracing the status quo. If the Horde is the culture, then Justin was counterculture. We lose that understanding and we lose who we are.”
“You’re not listening, Ronin.” Johan sighed with frustration. “For the first six months, Qurong left us alone. He was too busy tearing down trees to make room for his new city. But now the winds have changed. This new campaign led by Woref isn’t just a temporary distraction for them. I know Qurong! Worse, I know Woref. That old python once oversaw the Horde’s intelligence under my command. At this very moment he’s undoubtedly stalking us. He won’t stop until every one of us is dead. You think Justin intended to lead us to our deaths?”
“Isn’t that why we enter the red pools?” Ronin asked. “To die?” He grabbed the pendant that hung from his neck and held it out. “Doesn’t our very history mark us as dead to this world?”
The medallion cradled in his hand had been carved from green jade found in the canyons north of the Southern Forest. Craftsmen inlaid the medallion with polished black slate to represent evil’s encroachment on the colored forest. Within the black circle were tied two crossing straps of red-dyed leather, representing Justin’s sacrifice in the red pools. Finally, they fixed a white circle hewn from marble where the red leather straps crossed.
“We find life, not death, in the pools,” Johan said. “But even there, we might consider a change in our strategies.”
Thomas looked at his late wife’s brother. This wasn’t the boy who’d once innocently bounded about the hills; this was the man who’d embraced a persona named Martyn and become a mighty Scab leader accustomed to having his way. Granted, Johan was no Martyn now, but he was still headstrong, and he was flexing his muscle.
“Think what you will about what Justin would or wouldn’t have wanted,” Johan said, “but
remember that I was with him too.”
Light flashed through Ronin’s eyes, and for a moment Thomas thought he might remind Johan that he hadn’t only been with Justin; he’d betrayed him. Oversaw his drowning. Murdered him.
But Ronin set his jaw and held his tongue.
“I did make my share of mistakes,” Johan said, noting the look. “But I think he’s forgiven me for that. And I don’t think what I’m suggesting now is a mistake. Please, at least consider what I’m saying.”
“What are you saying?” Thomas asked. “In the simplest of terms.”
Johan stared into his eyes. “I’m saying that we have to make it easier for the enemies of Elyon to find him.”
“Yes, but what does that mean?” Ronin demanded. “You’re suggesting that the drowning is too difficult? It was Justin’s way!”
“Did I say the drowning was too difficult?” Johan glared at Ronin, then closed his eyes and held up a hand. “Forgive me.” Eyes open. “I’m saying that I know the Horde better than anyone here. I know their aversions and their passions.” He looked to Jeremiah as if for support. The old man averted his eyes. “If we want to embrace them—to love them as Justin does—we have to allow them to identify with us. We must be more tolerant of their ways. We must consider using methods that are more acceptable to them.”
“Such as?” Thomas asked.
“Such as opening the Circle to Scabs who haven’t drowned.”
“They would never be like us without drowning. They can’t even eat our fruit without spitting it out.”
Thomas spoke of the fruit that grew around the red pools. Although the red water was sweet to drink, it held no known medicinal value. The fruit that grew on the trees around the pools, on the other hand, was medicinal, and some of it was not unlike the fruit from the colored forest. Some fruits could heal; others gave nourishment far beyond a single bite. Some filled a person with an overpowering sense of love and joy— they called this kind woromo, which had quickly become the most valuable among all the fruits. To any Scab who hadn’t entered the red pools, this particular fruit tasted bitter.
“That’s right; they don’t like our fruit,” Johan said. “And they can’t be like us—that’s my point. If they can’t be like us, then we might consider being more like them.”
Thomas wasn’t sure he’d heard right. Johan wouldn’t suggest the Circle reverse what Justin had commanded. There had to be sensible nuances to what he was suggesting.
“I know it sounds odd,” Johan continued, “but consider the possibilities. If we were to look more like them, smell like them, dress like them, refrain from flaunting our differences, they might be more willing to tolerate us. Maybe even to live among us. We could introduce them to Justin’s teachings slowly and win them over.”
“And what about the drowning?” Ronin asked.
Johan hesitated, then answered without looking at the man. “Perhaps if they follow Justin in principle, he wouldn’t require that they actually drown.” He looked at Ronin. “After all, love is a matter of the heart, not the flesh. Why can’t someone follow Justin without changing who they are?”
Thomas felt his veins grow cold. Not because the suggestion was so preposterous, but because it made such terrible sense. It would seem that Johan, of all people, having been drawn out of deception as a member of the Horde, would stand firm on the doctrine of drowning. But Johan had made his case to Thomas once already—his suggestion was motivated by compassion for the Horde.
The survival of the thousand who followed Justin depended on being able to flee the Horde at a moment’s notice. But the small nomadic communities were growing tired of running for their lives. This teaching from Johan would be embraced by some of them, Thomas had no doubt.
Ronin spit to one side, picked up his leather satchel, and started to walk away. “I will have no part of this. The Justin I knew would never have condoned such blasphemy. He said they would hate us! Are you deaf? Hate us.”
“Then go to Justin and ask him what we should do,” Johan said. “Please, I mean no offense, Ronin. I’m just trying to make sense of things myself.”
William stepped forward and spoke for the first time. “I have another way.”
They all faced him, including Ronin, who had stopped.
“Johan is right. We do have a serious problem. But instead of embracing the Horde’s ways, it is my contention that we follow Justin by separating ourselves from the Horde as he himself instructed. I would like to take my tribe deep.”
This wasn’t the first time William had suggested fleeing into the desert, but he’d never made a formal request of it.
“And how can you follow Justin’s instruction to lead them to the drowning if you’re deep in the desert?” Ronin challenged.
“Others can lead them to the drowning. But think of the women and children. We must protect them!”
“Justin will protect them if he wishes,” Ronin said.
Thomas glanced at Johan, then back at William. The Circle’s first deep fractures were already starting to show. For more than a year they’d followed Ronin’s lead on doctrine, as instructed by Justin, but these new challenges would test his leadership.
What else had Justin told them that day after drawing a circle around them in the sand?
Never break the Circle.
Ronin glared at each of them. “What’s happening here? We’re already forgetting why we came together? Why our skin is different? We’re forgetting the Great Romance between Elyon and his people? That we are his bride?”
“His bride? That’s merely a metaphor,” William said. “And even so, we are his bride; the Horde is not. So I say we take the bride deep into the desert and hide her from the enemy.”
“We are his bride, and whoever follows us out of the Horde will be his bride as well,” Ronin said. “How will the Horde ever hear Elyon’s call to love unless it’s from our own throats?”
“Elyon doesn’t need our throats!” William countered. “You think the Creator is so dependent on you?”
“Keep it down. You’ll wake the camp,” Thomas said, standing. He glanced at Jeremiah and Suzan, who hadn’t spoken yet. “We’re on a dangerous course here.”
No one disagreed.
“Ronin, read this passage for us again. The one about them hating us.”
Ronin reached into his satchel and withdrew the Book of History that Justin had given them before his departure. They all knew it quite well, but the teachings it held were at times difficult to understand.
Ronin carefully peeled the cloth off and opened the cover. The Histories Recorded by His Beloved. He flipped through dog-eared pages and found the passage. “Here it is. Listen.” His voice lowered and he read with an accustomed somber respect. “When the world hates you, remember that it hated me first. If you belonged to the world, it would love you. But you do not belong to the world. I have brought you out of the world, and that is why it hates you.”
“Things change with time,” Johan said.
“Nothing has changed!” Ronin said, closing the Book. “Following Justin may be easy, but making the decision never is. Are you second-guessing his way?”
“Slow down,” Thomas said. “Please! This kind of division will destroy us. We must remember what we know as certain.”
He looked at Jeremiah again. “Remind us.”
“As certain?”
“Absolute certainty.”
The older man reminded Thomas of Elijah. He stroked his long white beard and cleared his throat.
“That Justin is Elyon. That according to the Book of History, Elyon is father, son, and spirit. That Justin left us with a way back to the colored forest through the red pools. That Elyon is wooing his bride. That Justin will soon come back for his bride.”
Now Suzan spoke. “And that most of what we know about who Justin really is, we know from the Book through metaphor. He’s the light, the vine, the water that gives life.” She gestured to the Book of History in Ronin’s hand. “His spirit
is the wind; he is the bread of life, the shepherd who would leave all for the sake of one.”
“True enough,” Thomas said. “And when the Book tells us to drink his blood, it means that we should embrace his death. So how can we hide by running deep into the desert, or by putting ash and sulfur on our skin?”
“He also told us to flee to the Southern Forest,” William said. “If what you’re saying is true, then why didn’t he tell us to run back to the Horde? Perhaps because the bride has a responsibility to stay alive.”
William did have a point. The dichotomy was reminiscent of the religion Thomas vaguely remembered from his dreams.
“I intend to leave today and lead a hundred into the deep desert,” William said. “Johan’s right. It’ll only be a matter of time before Woref flushes us out. If you expect any mercy from him, you’re mistaken. He’d kill us all to save himself the trouble of dragging us back to the city. This is a matter of prudence for me.”
Thomas looked down the canyon, toward the entrance to a small enclave where the tribe was slowly waking. A small boy squatted in the sand by the entrance, drawing with his finger. Smoke drifted from a fire around the cliff wall—they were getting ready to cook the morning wheat pancakes. As the smoke rose, it was swept down-canyon by a perpetual breeze, and most of it dissipated before it rose high enough to be seen from any distance. A thin trail of smoke lingered over the funeral pyre beyond towering boulders a hundred meters from the camp.
Thomas took a deep breath, glanced at the pile of large rocks to his right, and was about to tell William to take his expedition when a man stepped around the largest boulder.
Thomas’s first thought was that he was hallucinating. Dreaming, as he used to dream before the dreams had vanished. This was no ordinary man standing before him, drilling him with green eyes.
This was . . .
Justin?
Thomas blinked to clear his vision.
What he saw made his whole body seize. Justin was still there, standing in three complete dimensions, as real as any man Thomas had ever faced.
