by Ted Dekker
“The ground’s shaking!” Suzan said. “An earthquake?”
“Too long.”
All of their horses were now restless, unusual for beasts trained to stand still in battle.
“Dust!” Mikil cried, pointing to the desert.
They turned as one, just as the first beasts crested the long dunes in the nearby desert. Then more came, thousands, stretching far to the left and to the right.
Thomas’s first thought was that the Horde had staged a massive attack. But he immediately dismissed the notion. Johan spoke what was on his mind.
“Roshuim!” he cried.
A thousand, ten thousand—there was no way to count such a large number. The massive white lions that Thomas had last seen around the upper lake when he’d first met the boy poured over the dunes like a rolling fog.
They were split down the middle. There, slightly ahead of the lions, rode a single warrior on a white horse.
Justin.
Johan, Mikil, then Jamous and Suzan slid from their saddles and dropped to one knee. It was their first sighting of him since they’d fled the Horde after his death. The sounds from the crowd opposite them had stilled, but they rose as one and stared to the west.
Thomas had just overcome his shock and started to dismount when Chelise walked out from the boulders below them. She seemed to glide rather than walk. His bride was dressed in a long white tunic that swept the sand behind her. A ring of white tuhan flowers sat delicately on her head.
Thomas froze. Chelise surely heard the approaching thunder, but she couldn’t see what he saw from her lower vantage point. She must have assumed it was the pounding of drums or something associated with the ceremony, because her eyes were turned toward him, not the desert.
Her eyes pierced him, and she smiled. Oh, how she smiled.
She reached the circle, faced him, and lifted her chin slightly. The black, red, and white medallion hung from her neck, fastened by a leather thong.
On Thomas’s left, the Roshuim lions ran on, led by Justin. It occurred to Thomas that he was still standing in one stirrup. He lowered himself to the ground, stepped forward, and knelt on one knee. Chelise followed his gaze.
The lions split and swept in a wide circle, pouring around them as if this pocket of desert was protected by an unseen force.
Justin, on the other hand, drove his horse straight on, right over the berm that encircled the small valley, directly toward Chelise.
Now she saw.
Justin reined his horse back ten yards from Chelise, who stood in stunned silence. The stallion whinnied and reared high. Justin’s eyes flashed as only his could. He dropped the horse to all four, then slid to the sand and took three steps toward her before stopping. He was in a white tunic, with gold armbands and leather boots strapped high. A red sash lay across his chest.
The lions still poured around the valley, giving them all a wide berth, twenty yards behind Thomas.
Justin looked up at Thomas. Then back at Chelise, like a proud father. Or a proud husband?
He strode into the circle, up to Chelise, took her hand, and bent to one knee. Then he kissed her hand and stared into her eyes. Chelise lifted her free hand to her lips and stifled a cry. She might be a strong woman, but what she saw in his eyes would undo the strongest.
Justin stood, released her hand, and stepped back. He placed both hands on his hips, then immediately lifted them to the sky, and faced the stars.
“She’s perfect!”
He turned toward the gathered crowd, most of whom had fallen to their knees. “And each one of you, no less! Perfect!”
Justin bounded for his horse, leaped into his saddle, grabbed the reins, and galloped up the slope, directly toward Thomas.
The Roshuim had completed a circle and now faced the valley. The moment Justin cleared the lip, they fell to their bellies in a soft rolling thump and lowered their muzzles to the sand. The sight knotted Thomas’s throat, and he wanted to throw himself to the sand and worship as the lions did, but he couldn’t tear his eyes from Justin, racing toward him.
“Elyon . . .” Johan whispered.
Justin veered to their right. Then the sound of metal sliding against metal ripped through the still air. Justin pulled his sword free, leaned off his mount, and thrust the blade’s tip into the sand.
He wheeled his horse around and rode away from Thomas, hanging low in a full sprint, long hair flowing in the wind, dragging the sword in the sand. The soft cries of joy joined the thudding of his horse’s hooves. They all knew what he was doing. They’d all heard the stories.
Justin was drawing his circle.
And he was drawing it around all of them, claiming them all as his bride. The circle was symbolic.
Justin, on the other hand, was not.
He completed the circuit behind Thomas and turned his horse back toward them. Thomas felt compelled to lower his head. Justin’s horse walked by, hooves plodding, breathing hard, snorting. Leather creaked.
It stopped at the top of the slope, not ten yards from where Thomas knelt.
For a long moment there was silence. Even those who had been crying on the opposite slope went quiet.
Then the sound of laughter. A low chuckle that grew.
Surprised, Thomas glanced up at Justin. The warrior/lover who was also Elyon had thrown back his head and had begun to laugh with long peals of infectious delight. He thrust both fists into the air and laughed, face skyward, eyes clenched.
Thomas grinned stupidly at the sight.
Then the laughing started to change. Honestly, Thomas wasn’t sure if this was laughter or sobbing any longer.
The grin faded from Justin’s face. He was weeping.
Justin suddenly lowered his arms, stood up in his stirrups, and cried out so they all could hear him. “The Great Romance!” He glanced to his left and Thomas saw the tears on his cheeks. “From the beginning it was always about the Great Romance.”
He sat and turned his stallion so that its side faced the valley.
“It was always about this moment. Even before Tanis crossed the bridge, in ways you can’t understand.”
Justin scanned the crowd.
“My beloved, you have chosen me. You have been courted by my adversary, and you have chosen me. You have answered my call to the Circle, and today I call you my bride.”
For a long time he gazed over the people who filled the valley with the sounds of sniffing and crying. Chelise was kneeling in her own tears now.
Justin turned toward Thomas. He nudged his horse forward.
“Stand up, Thomas.”
Thomas stood, legs shaking. He looked up at Justin, but he found it difficult to look into those emerald eyes for more than a few moments.
“No, look into my eyes.”
Those wells of creation. Of profound meaning and raw emotion. Thomas wanted to weep. He wanted to laugh. He was in the lake again, breathing an intoxicating power that came from those eyes.
“You have done well, Thomas. Don’t let them forget my love or the price I’ve paid for their love.”
I won’t, Thomas tried to say. But nothing came out.
Justin looked at the others and nodded at each. “Suzan, Johan. Jamous, Mikil.” He let tears run down his cheeks. “My, what a good thing we have done here.”
His jaw flexed and his nostrils flared with pride.
“What a very good thing.”
Then he pulled his stallion around. “Hiyaa!”
The horse bolted. On cue, the massive ring of Roshuim stood and roared. The ground shook.
Chelise ran from the red pool, up the slope toward Thomas. She pulled up beside him, staring at Justin. Thomas drew her close, and they watched the receding entourage in awed silence.
Justin galloped into the desert, followed by the ranks of white lions on either side. The desert settled back into silence.
For a long time no one spoke.
And then Thomas married Chelise, surrounded by an exuberant, rejoicing Circle s
till intoxicated by Justin’s love.
Epilogue
So then, were you right or were you wrong?” Gabil asked, scanning the titles of Books on the library’s top shelf. “It really is a simple question with a simple . . .” He stopped short. “Ah! I’ve found it!”
He withdrew an old leather-bound book and swooped down toward Michal, who teetered on the edge of the desk, peering at another Book of History he’d withdrawn only minutes ago. A single candle lit the old pages. The Horde library lay in shadows, deserted at this late hour.
“None of this is simple,” Michal said. “Patience.”
“I thought you said you’d found it,” Gabil said, fluttering for a landing beside Michal. He set the Book he’d retrieved on the desk.
“I said I found the section that deals with the Great Deception, not the actual sentence that states the actual date.”
“You did tell Thomas of Hunter early in the twenty-first century. I remember that much.”
“And if I did, then you agreed,” Michal said, scanning the page.
“Did I? You’re positive?”
“Did you disagree? You’re far too interested in this minor point, Gabil. What difference does the date make in the end? This is a silly exercise.”
“I’m interested because the histories couldn’t have said early in the twenty-first century. Thomas changed history. The virus didn’t ravage the world. So the question is, when does the Great Deception take place? Or does it even?”
Gabil studied the cover of his Book, then opened it to the first page. This history was taken from the colored forest. He flipped toward the back of the Book.
“Of course the Great Deception takes place,” Michal said. “I’m reading the details now, as we speak. You see, right here . . .” The Roush stopped.
“What?” Gabil released the page in his fingers, hopped once, and leaned over to see.
“Give me some room,” Michal protested. “This . . . I don’t remember anything about . . .”
“I knew it!” Gabil chirped. “Yes, I did. I knew it. It’s changed, hasn’t it?”
“Well, it’s no longer early in the twenty-first century. But we could have been mistaken about that. But these other things . . .”
“Thomas changed history!”
Michal ran his finger down the page. “The Tribulation as recorded by John hasn’t changed, but the date . . . and the Great Deception . . .” He returned to where he’d started reading. “I do say, the events leading up to John’s prophecy have changed.”
“He did change history. He did, he did!” Gabil hopped again, twice, lost his footing, and toppled to the floor. He bounded to his feet and did a little jig of sorts. “Ha! It’s fascinating! It’s magnicalicious!”
“Please, settle down. That’s not even a word.”
“Why not?” Gabil said. “If Thomas can change history, I think I have the right to change a few words.”
He jumped back up on the desk and resumed his search in the Book that recorded the colored forest’s demise.
Michal looked at him, still gripping the page he’d been reading. “So you really think knowing how Thomas entered the black forest will shed any light on—”
“Here!”
Michal jumped. “What is it?”
“I think I’ve found it! This Book records his story.” He flipped forward to the very end, scanning anxiously. “Here, here, it has to be here in this volume.”
Michal looked over the pages with interest.
“Give me space,” Gabil said.
“Humph.” Michal took a tiny step to his right.
Gabil came to the last page and stopped cold. “What is this?”
“What?”
“It’s been . . .” He leaned forward. “It’s been changed. Erased and written over.”
Michal crowded Gabil again. “What’s it say?”
The smaller Roush ran his index finger under the words of the last paragraph, which were clearly written in handwriting different from those preceding.
He read aloud.
“Then the man named Thomas found himself in the black forest, where he fell and hit his head and lost his memory. Ha.”
Gabil looked up at Michal, taken aback.
“‘Ha’?” Michal asked, incredulous. “It says ‘ha’? That’s it?”
“That’s it. Then it’s signed.”
Gabil looked at the page. “Billy, Storyteller,” he read. “Someone named Billy who is a storyteller wrote this.”
They stared in silence for a few seconds.
Michal sighed and returned to his Book. “I have to admit, this is . . . fascinating.”
“It seems Thomas wasn’t the only one who changed history,” Gabil said. “Didn’t I tell you? Ha!”
“Ha?”
“Ha!” He closed his book and hopped on top of it. “So read. Read this new history that I told you we would find even though you doubted.” He lifted his chin and grinned.
Michal eyed his fuzzy friend. “Yes, I guess you did tell me.”
Then the Roush took a deep breath and began to read from the Book of Histories.
THE END
COMING FULL CIRCLE
It’s amazing how clear hindsight is. If only our foresight were as clear. If we only had been able to see then what we see now, we could have purchased a hundred thousand shares of Google and become gazillionaires. If only, if only, if only. But every once in a while—for reasons beyond our understanding—we make decisions that might as well have been made with clear foresight even though we had little at the time.
Such was the case with my penning of the Circle Trilogy—Black, Red, and White—in 2003. I won’t lie; much of what’s happened since was in my mind way back then. But not everything . . . not by a long shot.
The whole idea for the Circle Trilogy began during a time of meditation when I saw a crystal clear image of a man diving into a lake and breathing the water: not ordinary water, but the essence of God Himself. The man trembled in the folds of intense pleasure.
That was it.
I threw myself into expanding this image into a tale that I called The Song of Eden and submitted it to a reputable agency. The story was summarily rejected.
So I retooled and rewrote and resubmitted, this time with an agent who believed in what I was doing. He submitted the new and improved story to a dozen publishers, and they all passed, saying it was too edgy for the intended market.
Over the next few years I went on to publish a handful of novels with Thomas Nelson that quickly gained acclaim. Armed with renewed confidence and Thomas Nelson’s full support to write whatever I desired, I returned to The Song of Eden, completely overhauled the story, renamed it Black, and resubmitted the fresh manuscript as Part One of a trilogy.
I still remember waiting for that Come to Jesus phone call all writers either dread or beg for after turning in a manuscript. What is it: thumbs up or thumbs down? If it’s thumbs up tell me, tell me more, and don’t stop telling me.
If it’s a thumbs down there has to be a mistake. Reconsider, repent, return, and restate.
In the case of Black the call was from then VP of Marketing and now Publisher of Fiction at Thomas Nelson, Allen Arnold. And it was the former kind of call, the kind you live for. But this time Allen took it a step further. “Ted, what do you think about publishing the entire trilogy, all three books, in the space of one calendar year? We’ll call it The Year of the Trilogy. Can you do it?”
Intoxicated by the flattery, I made a show of bemoaning the effort he was asking of me, but then gave up the charade and cried out my response. Yes! Of course!
Six months later I was still slaving over Red, swearing that if I ever made it through the next few months I would never agree to such an absurd notion again.
Little did I know.
My objective in writing Black, Red, and White was to retell redemptive history by mirroring it in another reality while keeping the reader firmly rooted in our own world. I didn’t want to wri
te pure fantasy: rather an amalgamation of thriller and fantasy that incorporated intense pacing with weighty exploration of truth.
But not everyone at Thomas Nelson was as enthusiastic as Allen Arnold. I remember being told by one member of the team that publishing this series could very well sink my career. Why? Because nobody read this kind of story.
The prediction crushed me. But I was growing used to rejection by this point, and rather than folding up my books and going home a defeated storyteller, I went where my heart led me. I began to work on an expansion of the story by plotting out what would eventually become Project Showdown: Showdown, Saint, and Sinner.
By the time the trilogy was released, we all began to realize that instead of not being read as some had predicted, the Circle Trilogy was striking a chord with a whole new group of readers. A large group at that.
The ideas were larger than me. Thousands wanted to chime in. So we launched The Circle, a virtual gathering place at teddekker.com to discuss the stories. Fifty thousand joined over time, and their thoughts led me to consider an even further expansion of the story. After all, plumbing the depths of our own redemptive history isn’t a task easily handled by three measly books. Nor six.
And so was born the idea of not three books, not six books, but ten books to flesh out the full story. It would be called The Books of History Chronicles. Three series, each dependent upon the others, yet each completely independent. Stories that twist in and out of each other like grapevines before the harvest. You can read any of the three following series first or last, but it is best to read the books within each series in order.
The Circle Trilogy – Black, Red, White
The Lost Books – Chosen, Infidel, Renegade (May 2008), Chaos
(May 2008)
Project Showdown – Showdown, Saint, Sinner (October 2008)
In addition graphic novels are now available for the Circle Trilogy, with plans for the rest to come out in graphic format in short order.
As I write this short history on The Books of History Chronicles, I have just begun writing the final book of ten, Sinner, and the interconnection woven throughout all ten books is amazing to me. I had my plans at the outset; sure I did. But this is no simple linear story your grandmother cuddled up next to the fire to read.
