White

by Ted Dekker

  “Surely you can’t be serious,” William scoffed.

  Mikil grinned. “More serious than you imagine. How else would I know to call him a stud? In the histories it means ‘strong,’ among other things. Kara’s never seen him in this state, and she’s surprised by just how strong our Thomas is compared to her brother, who looks the same, less about fifteen years and forty pounds of muscle.”

  Mikil nearly laughed out loud at the twists in her mind. She felt like both women at once—an exhilarating experience, to say the least.

  To Thomas: “Can I speak with you in private? Just a moment.”

  They stepped to the side and she spoke in a whisper. “You haven’t dreamed for thirteen months, you said. Do you know why?”

  By his frown, he seemed to be secondguessing his initial conclusion that Kara was dreaming through Mikil. “Where did we grow up?”

  “Manila,” she said.

  “Where does our mother live?”

  “New York. Satisfied?”

  Slowly a smile crossed his face. “So you’re alive, then. The virus didn’t kill you?”

  “Not yet. We still have ten days to go. You were killed in France by Carlos two, maybe three, days ago. And now Monique’s missing as well.”

  He stared at her, mind grappling with her information.

  “Rachelle was killed thirteen months ago by the Horde,” he said.

  “I know. I’m Mikil. And Kara’s sorry . . . terribly sorry.”

  “So you’re saying that thirteen months have passed here but only a couple of days there?” he asked.

  “Evidently. And you’re saying that you haven’t dreamed of Thomas in France in all this time?”

  “The last dream I had of Thomas was falling asleep next to Monique.”

  “Where you were shot by Carlos,” Mikil said.

  His eyes widened. “Then I was right! I fell from my horse here. I was killed, but Justin healed me through Rachelle.”

  “But you’re not alive in France?” she asked. “When you were brought back before, you came back to life in both realities.”

  “No. I never died before. I was healed instantly, before I actually died. Both times at the lake. This time I was dead for hours before Rachelle found me.”

  The exchange stalled.

  “By the Hordes who pursue us, what is all this nonsense?” Ronin demanded. They were obviously being overheard.

  William grinned. “It’s our fearless leader’s dream world. Apparently Mikil has joined the game.”

  Mikil ignored them. “Then you are dead in France, aren’t you?”

  “I must be.”

  “But you’ve only been dead for a couple days. Maybe three.”

  “So it would seem. And Monique’s missing because she died when Rachelle died. She was connected with Rachelle the way you are with Mikil. I haven’t dreamed because there’s nothing for me to dream.”

  “And I’m here to bring you back,” Mikil said.

  Thomas set his jaw. “I can’t go back. I don’t want to go back. I’m dead there! I’m better off thinking that the histories were a dream.”

  “I’m no dream. My knowledge of our childhood in the Philippines is nothing like a dream.” She shoved out her arm and showed him the cut. “Is this cut a dream? The Raison Strain is only days from showing its first real teeth, France has just fired a nuke at Israel, the world is about to die, and the best I can figure it, you’re the only man alive who can stop any of it. Don’t tell me it’s a dream.”

  He looked at her skeptically.

  “It’s been thirteen months—you’ve lost your edge,” she said. “But as you said yourself, you died here when Thomas was killed in France. So now that I’m linked with Mikil, will she also die when the virus kills me in ten days?”

  The lights were starting to fire in his mind. She pushed.

  “I—Mikil, that is—was wrong to doubt you. The world depends on—”

  “Then the world is depending on a dead man,” he said.

  “This is utter nonsense!” William said. “There are more important matters to deal with than this game. You’ve lost your mind along with him, Mikil. Now, I would like the blessing of this council to take my tribe deep into the desert to form our own faction of the Circle. That is why I’ve come, not to reminisce about your dreams.”

  Mikil and Thomas closed ranks with the group.

  “You forget so quickly, William?” Thomas said. “How do you think I made the bombs that blew the Horde back to hell? Was that my magic? No, that was information I learned from the histories.”

  “Yes, your memories of the Books of Histories, recalled in some trance or dream; I can accept that, however unlikely it sounds. But this non-sense of saving people in history . . . please! It’s laughable!”

  “You’ve always doubted me, William. Always. I can see now that you always will. Even Justin talked about the blank Book . . .”

  Thomas stopped.

  Mikil recalled Justin’s words to them in the desert thirteen months earlier. She said what Thomas was thinking. “Justin said the blank Book of History created history. But only in the histories. What could that have meant?”

  “We’ve never known,” Thomas said. “Never had a reason to care much about the histories since . . .” He looked at Mikil with wide eyes. “Only a couple of days, you say?”

  “Believe me, the histories are real. And if you don’t care about them because you’ve gone and died in France, you should care about them because Kara is still alive.”

  Thomas studied her. He turned to Ronin. “You have the Book?”

  “Which Book?”

  “The blank Book. This Book that supposedly only works in the histories.”

  Ronin hesitated, then pulled out a second Book wrapped in canvas. He extracted it from the packaging. He ran a hand over the cover. The title was embossed in a corroded gold foil. The Story of History.

  “How would a history book make history?” Mikil asked, walking up next to Thomas.

  “You’re saying that this Book has power in another dimension that is called ‘the histories’?” Jeremiah asked. “How is that possible?”

  Thomas hurried toward Ronin, suddenly eager. “May I?”

  Ronin handed him the Book.

  “Could it be?”

  “Nonsense,” Jeremiah said.

  “You said it yourself,” Thomas said. “The analogies and metaphors. The stories,” he said, his fingers tracing the title. “They’re real. Words become flesh and dwell among us. Isn’t that how the Beloved’s Book begins?”

  Thomas opened the Book. Plain parchment. No words. Thomas’s eyes met Mikil’s, wide with wonder.

  She looked at the Book again. “Do you think . . .” But she couldn’t say what she was thinking. How was it possible?

  “This is the most outlandish thing I’ve heard,” William said. “You expect us to believe that if you write in that Book, something will actually happen, based on the words alone?”

  “Why not?” Thomas said.

  “Because the whole notion of the word becoming flesh is a metaphor, as you said. Justin was not some scribbling in a book. You’re crossing a line here.”

  “You’re wrong,” Thomas told him. Then to Mikil, “Where Kara and I come from, no one is required to dive into a pool of red water and drown to follow Justin. They are simply required to die metaphorically.” He looked at Kara. “They take up their crosses, so to speak. Tell them, Kara.”

  She was making the connections as quickly as he was. Neither of them had been practicing Christians, but they’d grown up with a chaplain for a father. They knew the basics of Christianity well enough.

  “‘Take up your cross and follow me,’ Jesus said. He was executed on a cross, as were many of his followers later. But his followers aren’t required to die in that fashion.”

  “Exactly,” Thomas said. “Yet here our following isn’t metaphorical at all. The same could be said about evil. There the people don’t wear a disease on their
skin—it’s said to be in their hearts. But look at the Scabs. Their refusal to follow Justin in drowning shows up as a physical disease.”

  William seemed somewhat stunned by this revelation. He glanced at the others, then back at Thomas. “So now you think this Book, which is from here where metaphors express themselves literally, might do the same in this dream world of yours?”

  “Who has a quill?” Thomas demanded. “A marker, anything to write with. Charcoal—”

  “Here.” Ronin held out a charcoal writing stick with a black point.

  Thomas took the crude instrument and stared at it.

  “Justin was clear that we should hide this Book,” William said. “That it is dangerous. We have to come to some kind of agreement on this.”

  Thomas paced, Book in one hand, pencil in the other. “And Justin said that the Book only works in the histories—the dream world Kara and I come from. For starters, that confirms the histories are real and can be affected. It also means that the Book should be powerless here.”

  If what Thomas was saying was true, the Book’s power might be quite incredible. “What would you write?” Mikil asked. “I mean, what limits would there be? Surely we can’t just wipe out the virus with a few strokes of the pen.”

  Thomas set the Book on the rock. “You’re right. I . . . that seems too simple.” The others gathered around, silenced by impossible thoughts.

  He looked at the cover again. “The Story of History. That means it should be a story, right?”

  “As in ‘once upon a time’?” Ronin asked. “You’re saying that if you wrote, ‘Once upon a time there was a rabbit,’ then a rabbit would appear in your dreams?”

  “Too simple,” Mikil said. “And what script should we use?” There was a slight difference between the alphabet used in each reality—the one used here was simpler.

  “The script of the histories,” Thomas said.

  “What do you want to accomplish in this other reality?” Ronin asked. “Your main goal—what is it?”

  “There’s a virus that will destroy most of humanity . . . you know, the Raison Strain,” Thomas said. “The one that ushered in the Great Tribulation as recorded in the Books of Histories. Knowledge of the history has become somewhat vague in the fifteen years since Tanis’s Crossing, but we all knew it orally once.”

  “Yes, of course. The Raison Strain. These were the histories that Tanis was fascinated with.” Ronin looked at Mikil. “You’re saying that these histories are . . . now? Real now?”

  “Haven’t you been listening to me?” William said. “That’s what I’ve been saying. I’ve said that he’s only recalling memories, but he seems to think that these dreams of his are real.”

  “Actually, I’m not sure we know how it works,” Mikil said. How could she possibly explain her dual reality at this very moment? “Thomas is the expert here, but I can say whether past or present, the histories are not only real, but we must also be able to affect them.”

  “But surely you don’t think you can change what has been written about as a matter of history,” William said.

  “We don’t know that either,” Thomas said. “Without the actual Books of Histories, we don’t know what was recorded. As far as we know, the histories record our finding this Book and writing in it today.”

  That kept them all quiet for a moment.

  “Then write a story,” Ronin finally said.

  William grunted in disgust. “Why should I care about any of this? I care about what is real, here. Like the Horde that pursues us every day. I am going to gather my people and take them deep.” He stalked off.

  Thomas handed Mikil the pencil. “Your recollection of the writing is fresher than mine. You write.”

  It was an excuse, she thought, but she reached for the instrument anyway. A slight tremble shook her fingers.

  “What should I write?”

  “Something simple that we can test,” Thomas said. “What is our immediate concern?”

  “You,” Mikil said. “You’re dead in France. And Monique.”

  “You’re suggesting we write them back to life?”

  “Why not?” Mikil asked.

  “Isn’t that a bit complicated? It seems a bit much. Absurd maybe.”

  “Absurd?” Ronin said. “As opposed to the rest of this, which is supposed to make perfect sense?”

  “Write it,” Thomas said.

  Mikil’s hand hovered above the blank page. “Once upon a time, Thomas came back to life?”

  “More detail.”

  “I don’t think I can do this. What detail? I don’t even know what you were wearing.”

  “Write this,” Thomas said. He glanced at her hand, which hadn’t moved. “Ready?”

  “Okay.” She lowered her hand.

  “Thomas Hunter, the man who first learned of the Raison Strain’s threat, the same man who was shot in the head—”

  “Hold on.” Mikil touched the charcoal stick to the page. If she wasn’t mistaken, a slight heat rode up her fingers. Then again, her nerves were firing hot. She wrote his words verbatim.

  “Okay.”

  Thomas continued. “The same man who was shot in the head, was killed in France by a bullet to the head. Period. But on the third day he came back to life . . . No, forget that. This instead: But at a time when his body was unattended by any of his enemies, he came back to life. The end.”

  She lifted the stick. “The end? What about Monique?”

  “New paragraph. At about the same time that Thomas Hunter came back to life, Monique de Raison found herself in good health and fully able to continue her search for an antivirus in the United States of America. The end.”

  Johan sighed. “Honestly, these don’t sound like stories to me.” He looked in the direction William had gone. “This whole thing seems a bit ridiculous in the face of our predicament. Can I suggest we reach . . .”

  Johan stopped. His face lightened a shade. Mikil looked at the others who had honed in on Johan’s reaction. He was listening.

  Then she heard it. The faint thunder of hooves. On the cliffs.

  The Horde!

  “Move!” Thomas snapped. “Into the tunnel!”

  5

  Thomas snatched up the Book and shoved it into his belt as he ran for the tents. Justin had shown his face to him. Then Kara through Mikil. And now the Horde was attacking.

  Now I will show you my heart.

  In moments they had caught up to William. “Mikil, Johan, get Samuel and Marie into the tunnel with the others! William, the east canyon with me. Five men.”

  They’d selected this particular wash five days earlier not only for its proximity to the red pool, but because of a hidden passage under two huge boulders in the eastern canyon. The route was almost impossible to see without standing directly in front of it. With any luck the Horde would expect them to take one of the two more obvious escape routes.

  How had the Scabs managed to pass their sentries on the cliffs undetected?

  The first arrow clipped the rock face on Thomas’s left before he reached the tents. He glanced over his shoulder. Mounted archers. Fifty at least.

  “Ahead,” Mikil shouted. “They’ve cut off the eastern canyon!”

  Cries of alarm sounded throughout the camp. Women ran for their children. The men were already running toward the corral. There was no time to collect dishes or food or clothing. They would do well enough to escape with their lives.

  “William?”

  “You want only five?” his lieutenant demanded. “The Scabs might not follow us.”

  They would be the diversion. Under other circumstances he would take at least ten, enough to raise enough dust to draw a pursuit while the others slipped away through the hidden escape route. But Thomas knew that, today, whoever was part of the diversion might not escape.

  “Only five,” he said. “I have the fire.”

  He ran to the center of the camp where he was certain to be seen clearly. With any luck they would key i
n on him. The price on his head was a hundred times that on anyone else’s. And Thomas had heard the rumor that Qurong’s own daughter, Chelise, whom he had once met deep in the desert, was promised to Woref upon his capture.

  The cries quieted quickly. The Circle had been through its share of escapes before. They all knew that screaming was no way to avoid attention. There were enough horses to carry the entire tribe, one adult and one child per horse, with a dozen left over to carry their supplies.

  Thomas grabbed the smoldering torch next to the main campfire. Gruff shouting directed the attack overhead. An arrow sliced through the air and thudded into flesh on Thomas’s right. He spun.

  Alisha, Lucy’s mother, was grabbing at a shaft that protruded from her side. Thomas started toward her but pulled up when he saw that Lucy was already running for her mother, gripping one of the fleshy, orange fruits that healed. She reached her mother, dropped the fruit, gripped the shaft with both hands, and pulled hard. Alisha groaned. The arrow slid free.

  Then Lucy was squeezing the fruit over the open wound.

  Thomas ran to intercept William, who led Suzan and two mounted tribe members. He leaped into the saddle on the run and kicked the horse into a full gallop, leading the others now.

  A throaty grunt behind him made him turn his head. It was the old man, Jeremiah. Most of the tribe had already taken their positions under a protective ledge by the stables, but the council had been farthest from the horses when the attack had started. The old man had lagged. A Scab spear had found his back.

  In the confusion, no one was running to his aid. If he died, the fruit wouldn’t bring him back.

  “William, torch!”

  He tossed the smoking fire to William, who caught it with one hand and looked back to see the problem.

  “Hurry, Thomas. We’re cutting this close.”

  “Light the fires. Go!”

  Thomas spun his horse and sprinted for the old man, who lay face-down now. He dropped by Jeremiah, fruit in hand. But he knew before his knee hit the sand that he was too late.

  “Jeremiah!” He grabbed the spear, put one foot on the man’s back, and yanked it out. The spinal column had been severed in two.

  Thomas crushed the fruit in both hands, grunting with anger. Juice poured into the gaping hole.