The Martyr's Song Read online

  PRAISE FOR TED DEKKER’S NOVELS

  “What an emotional and thrilling story within a story! Ted’s approach allows you to see faith in a whole new light.”

  —MAC POWELL, Third Day

  “Ted Dekker paints a picture that will create a longing in each of us to be with our heavenly father.”

  —DEBBIE DIEDERICH, National Director, 30 Hour Famine,World Vision

  “The Martyr’s Song drives home the realities of standing for your faith in a world where it isn’t always the easy decision. It is a unique story that will keep you reading from start to finish.”

  —MIKE YODER, Director of Church Programs, World Vision

  “[In Obsessed] an inventive plot and fast-paced action put Dekker at the top of his game.”

  —Library Journal

  “[In Obsessed] author Ted Dekker brilliantly weaves two years—1944 and 1973—and two locations—the United States and Germany—into an exhilarating thriller of passion and hope.”

  —Christian Retailing

  “With the release of White, and the culmination of the Circle Trilogy, Dekker has placed himself at the fore of Christian fiction. His tale is absolutely riveting, and the redemptive value at the heart of the series only makes it all the more remarkable.”

  —MICHAEL JANKE, CM Central

  “One of the highlights of the year in religious fiction has been Ted Dekker’s striking color-coded spiritual trilogy. Exciting, well written, and resonant with meaning, Black, Red, and now White have won over both critics and genre readers . . . An epic journey completed with grace.”

  —Editors, Barnes and Noble

  “Dekker is a master of suspense and even makes room for romance.”

  —Library Journal

  “Full of heroic action, deep meaning, and suspense so palpable your fingers will dig grooves into the book’s outer cover, Red magnifies the story of Black times ten, raising the stakes to epic proportions. But Ted Dekker’s biggest ace in the hole is that he understands what so many others never realize: substance and meaning can go hand-in-hand with exciting, cinematic storytelling. Red is a thrilling, daring work of fiction that not only entertains—it inspires. Why aren’t there more stories like this?”

  —ROBIN PARRISH, editor,

  Fuse Magazine, www.FuseMagazine.net

  “Black has to be the read of the year! A powerful, thought-provoking, edge-of-your-seat thriller of epic proportions that offers great depth and insight into the forces around us.”

  —JOE GOODMAN, film producer, Namesake Entertainment

  “Ted Dekker’s novels deliver big with mind-blowing, plot-twisting page turners. Fair warning—this trilogy will draw you in at a breakneck pace and never let up. Cancel all plans before you start because you won’t be able to stop once you enter Black.”

  —RALPH WINTER,

  Producer—X-Men, X2: X-Men United, Planet of the Apes,

  Executive Producer—StarTrek V: Final Frontier

  “Put simply: it’s a brilliant, dangerous idea. And we need more dangerous ideas . . . Dekker’s trilogy is a mythical epic, with a vast, predetermined plot and a scope of staggering proportions . . . Black is one of those books that will make you thankful that you know how to read. If you love a good story, and don’t mind suspending a little healthy disbelief, Black will keep you utterly enthralled from beginning to . . . well, cliffhanger. Red can’t get here fast enough.”

  —FuseMagazine.net

  “Just when I think I have Ted Dekker figured out, he hits me with the unexpected. With teasing wit, ever-lurking surprises, and adventurous new concepts, this guy could become a real vanguard in fiction.”

  —FRANK PERETTI

  “[With THR3E] Dekker delivers another page-turner . . . masterfully takes readers on a ride full of plot twists and turns . . . a compelling tale of cat and mouse . . . an almost perfect blend of suspense, mystery, and horror.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Ted Dekker is clearly one of the most gripping storytellers alive today. He creates plots that keep your heart pounding and palms sweating even after you’ve finished his books.”

  —JEREMY REYNALDS, Syndicated Columnist

  THE MARTYR’S SONG

  OTHER BOOKS BY TED DEKKER

  Obsessed

  Black

  Red

  White

  Three

  Blink

  Thunder of Heaven

  Heaven’s Wager

  When Heaven Weeps

  with Bill Bright:

  Blessed Child

  A Man Called Blessed

  Nonfiction:

  The Slumber of Christianity

  THE

  MARTYR’S

  SONG

  TED DEKKER

  Copyright © 2005 Ted Dekker

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by WestBow Press, a division of Thomas Nelson, Inc.

  WestBow Press books may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fundraising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail [email protected].

  Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

  All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Dekker, Ted, 1962–

  The martyr’s song / Ted Dekker.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 0-8499-4499-6 (hard cover)

  I. Title.

  PS3554.E43M37 2005 813’.6—dc22

  2005001470

  Printed in the United States of America

  05 06 07 08 09 QW 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Dear Reader,

  The novel you're about to read is an adaptation and expansion of the story Ted first touched upon in the initial pages of the novel When Heaven Weeps. If you’ve read When Heaven Weeps, you’ll discover a familiar yet brand new story within these pages. You’ll hear for the first time the actual Martyr’s Song—a new song recorded by Todd Agnew just for this novel. I suspect you'll be overwhelmed at the power of that song and the far reaching impact this song of heaven has in Marci’s life.

  There is no order to the Martyr’s Song novels—you may read the four novels (Heaven's Wager, When Heaven Weeps, Thunder of Heaven, and The Martyr's Song) in any sequence. Each story stands alone and in no way depends on your knowledge of the others.

  Nevertheless, if there is one book to start with, it is The Martyr’s Song . . . the story that came out last but that started it all.

  Publisher

  Westbow Press

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  EPILOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  ATLANTA, GEORGIA, 1964

  EVE ANGLED the old VW toward the curb alongside the high-school yard and slipped the shift stick into park. She stared directly ahead, lost in another world, nearly oblivious to the hundred or so students on the lawn to her right.

  She recited the words so firmly etched in her mind as if she had written them herself.

  “The soldiers stood unmoving on the hi
ll’s crest, leaning on battered rifles, five dark silhouettes against a white Bosnian sky, like a row of trees razed by the war. They stared down at the small village, oblivious to the sweat caked beneath their tattered army fatigues, unaware of the dirt streaking down their faces like long black claws.”

  Eve stopped. To think that it had all started so innocently. Just five tired soldiers staring at a peaceful village . . .

  Someone yelled, and she turned her head to look at the students through the passenger window.

  Wake up, old woman. You’re here now, not there.

  She was here to deliver a dozen of her rarest roses—crossbred Russian reds—but she couldn’t focus on the task. Her mind was lost in this other world, where things like roses and cars and students meant something very different than they did here.

  She was once as young as these students, fifty or sixty years ago.

  She’d fumbled through adolescence and come out reasonably sane, though that was before she learned the true meaning of life in that surreal moment when her world stopped for an hour or so. She found her sanity then, all of it, in a time of horror and beauty.

  “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”

  She pushed open her door and stepped out.

  “Forgive them, for they simply do not, cannot, will not know—”

  Eve’s vision froze.

  Her left foot was planted on the street, her right on the Volkswagen’s floorboard. Her heart was halfway through a beat; her lungs were half-full of air. For a long moment, they stayed that way.

  A girl stood alone on the lawn, staring at the other students as if unsure what to do with herself. The school, with all of its activity, faded from Eve’s view.

  The girl was all she could see. A girl she knew.

  But it wasn’t possible! Not here!

  Eve’s heart crashed, and the familiar rhythm of life resumed. She was mistaken. No matter how the girl resembled . . .

  The girl still stood on the grass, unmoving. The other students swarmed by, but this one lost child, an outcast, shut off from the busy world around her, was immobilized by her own insignificance.

  A knot of empathy rose in Eve’s throat.

  She’d come to deliver flowers, but she decided then that she would deliver something more.

  So very, very much more.

  MARCI STOOD on numb legs, unable to move. It wasn’t that she didn’t have the strength to walk across the schoolyard and up those wide, sweeping steps that led into the gaping double doors. It was that she didn’t want to walk past the other students.

  But school was out, and she had to get to her locker, simple as that. Which meant she had to pass by them.

  She’d long ago stopped thinking of them by name. It wasn’t Kevin, the quarterback who led his fans around campus, or Cheryl, his girlfriend, who had an annoying habit of popping her gum, or Tom, who had that loud motorcycle they called an Indian. It was just them.

  There were twenty-nine kids in the eleventh grade. Twenty-eight of them were going to Kevin’s fall party tonight. One was not. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to know which one.

  The one with the long, stringy brown hair. The one who had fat fingers and stubby nails. The one who tried to cover her zits with makeup but failed miserably. The one who wore Salvation Army rejects because she couldn’t afford real clothes from Rich’s department stores.

  Marci stood still, knowing that even now, standing alone on the front lawn, she stuck out like a wart. It was Friday. School was out. She couldn’t just stand here forever.

  Marci lowered her eyes to the grass and forced herself forward.

  Her red plaid kick-pleat skirt hung around her knees. She’d saved up for three months and bought it a week ago, but she hadn’t worked up the courage to wear it until today. A stupid, stupid, stupid thing to do. What was she thinking? She hated herself for feeling like she had to wear it to fit in.

  Three girls were walking by, looking at her.

  “Nice skirt,” one of them said.

  Marci’s face flushed. She should have gone home.

  “Stunning,” the second said.

  “You wearing that dress tonight?”

  Marci’s vision clouded with embarrassment. All of them knew she hadn’t been invited.

  “Never too late to impress the boys,” the third said, winking.

  “Please, she isn’t even going. And if she showed up in that, we’d have to lock her in the bathroom to keep the boys from throwing up.” The girl skipped ahead. “Come on! Bobby’s waiting.”

  Marci’s world spun. Funny how it never got easier. She walked forward. The steps had emptied. She climbed them a step at a time, hating every swish of her skirt.

  The building had emptied too. She turned down the long hall and walked quickly, scuffed shoes clicking on the concrete floor. She reached her locker. Pulled it open and stared in.

  Her diary sat on her upper shelf. She stared at it dumbly. The words she’d written just a week ago ran through her mind. I’m pretty sure I have enough money for at least a new skirt, the one in the window at Lerners. Maybe a new blouse too! I’m going to do it! I’m going down to pick out a skirt that all the others would wish they had bought. Then I’m going to wear it to school.

  Marci reached for the diary, pulled it out. Maybe she should take the book home and burn it.

  Someone was in the hall to her left. A shadow in the corner of Marci’s eye. She turned her head.

  A woman with gray hair, wearing a yellow-flowered dress, stood alone in the hall twenty yards away, looking directly at her. A vase of roses sat on a cabinet next to the woman.

  Normally Marci would have looked away, but for some reason she couldn’t. She just looked back into the woman’s long, haunting stare.

  They seemed to be trapped in each other’s eyes. The air suddenly felt too thick to breathe. Still the woman wouldn’t break off the stare. Marci didn’t know what to do.

  The woman was suddenly walking down the hall. Straight for her. Eyes locked.

  A small wave of dread swept through Marci’s chest. The woman stopped five feet away. There was something about the woman’s eyes. Pity. Maybe horror. But that wasn’t it. There was more.

  Something surreal. Something impossible.

  “What’s your name, child?”

  The woman’s voice was soft and low with a foreign accent.

  “I’m not here to hurt you,” the woman said. “You may call me Eve. What is your name?”

  “Marci.”

  “Hello, Marci.” The woman blinked. “You hate yourself because you don’t think you’re beautiful, is that it?”

  At first the question sounded distant. How did the old woman know that? Was it so obvious? Then again, people always assumed that ugly people hated themselves. Though for Marci, it was true.

  “Do you believe everything can change in the space of one breath, Marci?” the woman asked.

  Marci stood frozen.

  The woman slipped a card from her purse. “You think physical beauty is important? Fine. I’ll work in your world, for your sake. Come to my flower shop tomorrow, and I will make you beautiful.”

  Marci’s thoughts collided. Now that she thought about it, the woman was saying that she really was ugly. Of course she was ugly; everyone knew that, but not so ugly a stranger would walk up to her and make a point of it.

  The woman stepped forward and slid the card under the diary’s cover with a touch as soft as her voice.“More beautiful than you can possibly imagine,” she said. Eve lifted her hand, touched Marci’s chin. “And I’m not speaking of inner beauty, child. I can change the way you look with a power beyond your comprehension.”

  Then the woman turned and walked down the hall. She stepped through the doors to the street and was gone.

  Marci stood by her open locker, diary in arm, staring after the woman. The first hints of real anger prompted a faint tremor in her fingers. The anger swelled to rage. How could a total stranger dare
make such a cruel insult?

  How could anyone walk up to her and tell her that she really was ugly and needed to be changed? And how could the witch taunt her with such an absurd promise? Let’s dress you up and pretend you’re beautiful and parade you around the block for all the boys to laugh at.

  The tremble ran to Marci’s heels. She clenched her hand, and for the first time that day, a tear slipped from her eye.

  I hate you. I hate you, I hate you, I hate you! I will cut my wrists before I come to your pathetic little flower shop!

  CHAPTER TWO

  EVE STOOD in the small greenhouse attached to her home and hummed as she pruned the roses. To her left, a bed of Darwin hybrid tulips blossomed bright red and yellow along the glass shell. Behind her, against the wall, a flat of purple orchids filled the air with their sweet aroma. A dozen other species of roses grew in neat boxes.

  But none was so special as this one rosebush at her fingertips. This one spoke of true beauty. Magical beauty.

  This was Nadia’s rose, and if the unsuspecting residents of Atlanta knew the power Nadia wielded, they would . . .

  The doorbell chimed.

  Eve set her scissors on a table next to the book. She paused, staring at the red cover, which depicted a man’s face stretched open in a throaty laugh. Dance of the Dead. Bittersweet. Through the right lenses, just sweet. Magic. She reached out and touched the cover. Power. So much power.

  The bell rang again.

  Eve let her fingers linger one second longer, then headed toward the front. She pulled the door open.

  The girl stood there—Marci—dressed in the same pleated skirt and gray blouse she wore yesterday.

  “How dare you!” Marci spat. The girl glared for a full ten seconds, started to say something, then clamped her mouth shut. Evidently her planned speech wasn’t rolling off her tongue as intended. She turned on her heels and headed down the driveway.

  “It’s your decision, Marci,” Eve said.“But if you enter my house, I’m quite certain you’ll leave a different woman.”