The 49th Mystic Page 8

  My father scolded her. Considering my nightmares, she should know better than to voice the concern. She apologized.

  My grin returned when my father took a sponge, dumped some soap on it, and vigorously scrubbed the tattoo on my arm, sure that he could get it off. He couldn’t.

  The pain in my foot was gone. I pulled off my shoe and found two small red spots on my heel, right next to a small cut from running through the desert.

  Real.

  So the dream I’d had wasn’t a dream. Justin had healed my eyes, and the bite on my heel along with the tattoo on my arm proved it to me. As for Shadow Man, if he was real . . . Well, he was only a personification of my fear. Justin, on the other hand, had healed me. I refused to believe anything less. I could see.

  And what I saw blew my mind.

  I was the fascination of the town. After Miranda, RG, and my father had poked and prodded me and taken more of my blood to run even more tests, my father escorted me home. He didn’t want me mobbed. Then he returned to the clinic.

  I went out twice by myself that afternoon, in part to prove to myself that I had nothing to fear, in part just to see the town. Both times I was quickly surrounded by people I knew, though not by sight. And again that grin was stuck to my face.

  “How many fingers am I holding up?” Randy Caldwell asked when he and four other kids hunted me down.

  “That’s too easy,” his younger sister, Ashley, said. “What color is my bicycle?”

  “Purple,” I said. “With a white pinstripe.”

  “How many fingers am I holding up?” Randy asked again, holding his hands behind his back now.

  “One. Your thumb. The rest aren’t pointed up.”

  He did a double take. “You can see that?”

  “No,” I said. “It’s how everyone holds their hands behind their backs.”

  Pretty Peter, the Judge’s son, was leaning against the church, arms crossed, watching us.

  “Excuse me.” I left the group of younger kids and walked toward Peter, heart hammering in my chest.

  He straightened and lowered his arms as I approached. “Hi, Rachelle.”

  I could smell the lavender soap he used to bathe. “Hi.” He was shy too, I thought.

  “How did it happen?”

  “Like my father said—”

  “Yeah, I know. A healer. But what really happened? Because whatever it was, my father isn’t too pleased. They can’t find him.”

  “They can’t find the Judge?”

  “No, this Vlad Smith guy. He’s gone.”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. I never did see him. To be honest, I’m not sure I gained my sight here.”

  “What do you mean, not here?” His gentle blue eyes were filled with genuine curiosity.

  “Just between us? Because not even you will believe me.”

  “Just between us.”

  So I told him. Everything. Even the part about Vlad Smith saying there was something wrong with Eden. I told him because I wanted to tell someone, if only to hear myself speaking it. And I had to admit, hearing myself, I wondered once again if everything in my dreams was only the product of wild imagination, mirroring my own experience here in Eden.

  I told him that as well.

  “Then how do you explain the tattoo?” he asked.

  I lifted my shirtsleeve and stared at it. “So, it must be real, right? Plus . . . I can see.”

  “Can I touch it?”

  “Touch it?”

  “First tattoo I’ve seen in real life.”

  “Me too.” They were illegal in Eden thanks to a teaching that marking the body was ungodly. So was jewelry. And any clothing that revealed too much flesh. And unsanctioned courtship. “Go ahead.”

  He touched my skin with one finger first, drawing it over the thin circle, then with his hand, gentle and warm. I couldn’t deny the way his touch stirred up butterflies in my belly.

  Our eyes met. “Feels like normal skin,” he said. But he let his hand linger a few seconds before lowering it.

  My breathing had thickened a smidge. Could he hear it the same way I could? “Yup. Just normal skin.” If people saw us standing here like this, they might get the wrong idea. “I have to run, okay?”

  “Okay.” His voice was strained.

  “Okay.” I started to leave but turned back. “Keep what I said between us, right?”

  “I will.”

  I hurried straight home with my head down, watching the road so no one would stop me. That smile returned to my face halfway there. I did believe I’d just had my first romantic encounter.

  Yes, I knew from my father that such feelings were caused by a cocktail of hormones called limerence secreted by the pituitary gland to ensure the bonding and mating of the species. The “love” feelings associated with limerence lasted from six to twenty-four months before fading—just long enough for humans to relax their judgment of each other, couple, and bear children to keep the race alive. Beyond that, limerence had to be cultivated in the brain through intention. It was all hormones, you see?

  Sure . . . So was the taste of a sweet peach. And I loved it.

  By the time I kissed my father good night, I was thoroughly exhausted. I breathed a prayer of gratefulness to God. I was obviously doing something right, because I could see.

  And when you see, I’m going to blind you. I’m going to blind you again and again . . .

  Shadow Man’s voice fell into my mind as I fell into bed, and with those words, fear darkened my world, as if the plug on my light had been pulled. I sat up in the darkness and turned on the nightlight. What if the nightmare returned? What if Shadow Man really would come and blind me again? Now that I was able to see, the thought of losing my sight filled me with a new kind of terror.

  I had to suppress the impulse to throw off the covers and rush to my father. But we both knew my fear was only in my head anyway. I’d faced fear my whole life. I could do it one more night.

  I lay back down, intent on letting go of my fear. My experience in the desert, seeing the light being pushed from my veins until I was once more blind, gave me some comfort because it reminded me I was only blind to who I really was.

  Was being blind to who you are better or worse than physical blindness?

  One of my favorite stories of Jesus popped into my mind. It was about a young man born blind, kind of like me. Jesus healed him. When asked whether the boy’s blindness was judgment for his father’s sin or his own sin, Jesus said neither. The boy was born blind so that the work of God would be seen in him.

  When I first heard the story in Sunday school many years ago, I could feel the rest of the class looking at me. What a cruel God, I had thought. What kind of father would subject his child to so much suffering just so the world could see God’s light?

  I’d rushed home and read the story over and over in Braille, feeling like a victim of some cruel joke, a pawn in a war for power. But then a new thought dropped into my mind and I gasped aloud, right there on my bed.

  The boy hadn’t been born blind so that the world would see the work of God. He’d been born blind so that he himself would one day see God’s work in him! Which meant that even though I had been blind since I was a baby, maybe my blindness would one day allow me to see God’s work in me. Blindness wasn’t punishment, it was a gateway. An invitation.

  Right then, the story became a favorite. I set it right next to my fear that I was being punished by God, unable to reconcile the two thoughts but finding hope anyway.

  I clung to the story now as I lay in bed. More than two hours after climbing under the covers, I finally drifted to sleep. And when I fell asleep, I dreamed.

  And when I dreamed, the whole world changed.

  7

  I KNEW I’d fallen asleep in my bed with a nightlight on, but when I awoke a moment later it was pitch-dark and my first thought was, Oh no, Shadow Man was right! My blindness is back! I can’t see!

  I jerked up in my bed and hit my forehead on something ha
rd only inches above me. The blow knocked me back down, and my head landed on what I thought was my mattress.

  I quickly glanced around, clicking to see. But I didn’t need the clicks to see the dim outline of the gap twenty feet to my right. I was in the desert again!

  Yes. I was in the desert at night, under the huge rock where I’d been bitten by a snake. I’d been dreaming of Eden.

  This world was my true reality. It must be. The Horde had poisoned me and stolen my memory, so I dreamed I was blind in a place called Eden. Justin had healed that blindness, so when I dreamed of Eden again, I could see.

  Here, in reality, I was trapped under a rock with my captors guarding against any escape. The only advantage I had was my echolocation.

  And where did you learn to echolocate, Rachelle?

  Then both worlds were real. And here, I was in terrible trouble.

  Justin’s words whispered through my mind once again. If I was to believe him, I would bring crises to both worlds and then show them the way to freedom. But I couldn’t do that unless I resolved my own fear by finding the Five Seals of Truth. Discovering those seals was my personal journey, so I could help others find their way out of darkness.

  My mind spun. One thing was clear: I hadn’t resolved my fear.

  I could hear soft snoring from the clearing outside. As promised, Jacob and his Horde warriors had camped for the night. My leg was stiff, but the snake’s poison was wearing off. A good thing.

  My situation was anything but good. The sun would eventually rise, and I would have no choice but to starve or surrender myself.

  I clicked to my left and saw into the deeper reaches of the crevasse. The gap narrowed in another twenty feet, too narrow to squeeze through. What about the other way, past my feet? But no, that was where the snakes lived. I turned my head back toward the Horde encampment. No glow from a fire. I’d rather take my chances with the warriors—at least I knew they were sleeping. Most of them anyway.

  Taking a deep breath, I scooted right up to the gap itself. Two hulks slept on their sides ten feet from the opening, but I couldn’t see beyond them.

  Slowly, barely breathing, I stuck my head out and clicked. The rest of the camp came into dim view. At least thirty warriors slept in rings around a fire that had long burned out.

  There had to be a wakeful guard stationed, but where? Maybe in the narrow passage that led from the bowl. It was too far off for me to make out that passage. I only knew that it was to the right, fifteen paces or so.

  The sound of my pounding heart was far too loud, but it was unlikely their auditory senses were as developed as mine.

  Using my hands as claws, I pulled myself into the open. None of them stirred, so I rose to a crouch. Still no movement. If I could get into the narrow passage, I would be able to see what they could not. At least that was the thought.

  Stepping ever so gingerly, I eased along the wall. I dared not click here for fear of being heard. But when the wall began to fall away behind me, indicating I was at the passage, I had to click, just to see if there was a guard stationed inside.

  Click, click.

  The view from my clicking showed the guard who stood ten paces in, leaning against the wall. I heard the whinny of a horse.

  For a long, terrible moment, I stood frozen as at least a dozen men bolted up from a dead sleep. I had to go now! I had to go now and I had to go clicking so that I could see.

  Bent over in half, I bolted into the narrow passage, clicking wildly. The guard pushed off the wall, legs spread, ready to face the disturbance.

  He might have seen me, I don’t know, but he was pulling his sword when I dived to the sand at his feet and rolled between his legs. Then I was past and on my feet and lunging headlong down that dark passage, clicking to see the walls.

  “Fire!” the guard roared. “Bring fire! She runs!”

  I ran as fast as I could, knowing my head start would give me no more than half a minute as they quickly mounted and gave pursuit, using torches to guide them.

  My challenge now was getting out of the labyrinth of towering rock the same way I had gotten in. Finding another hiding place would be pointless. Once the sun rose, I would have no advantage.

  So I ran—down the first passage, then a second, hoping that my memory was serving me correctly.

  The first guard was on foot, following the sounds of my scrambling feet, panting. I could hear his breathing bearing down from behind and ran faster.

  So did he, surprising me with his quickness.

  I had just burst from the canyon into the open desert when he reached me from behind. Something hit me at the back of the skull, like a mule’s kick, and sent me sprawling facedown in the sand. Darkness crowded my mind as I fought to retain consciousness.

  A grunt cut the night, and I thought he was going to impale me. A hand grabbed the back of my tunic, plucking me from the ground. I stumbled forward a few steps before the warrior hauled me onto the back of his mount.

  Now at a full gallop, I twisted and tried to free myself, but his grip was like iron.

  “Do you always try to escape those who free you?” the rider growled under his breath. “Stay!”

  Only then did I consider the possibility that the warrior wasn’t Horde. He certainly didn’t smell like them.

  “Who are you?”

  “Not now.”

  The rider veered into a shallow draw and up a slope that led to the top of the canyon cliffs. He pulled up.

  “Off! Quickly.”

  I slid off the horse, and he pulled his mount down until it rested on the ground. The stars shone brighter up here than in the canyon, and I could see that his skin was like my own.

  Albino?

  “Shh, Razor,” he whispered in his horse’s ear, smoothing its neck. Then he scrambled to the edge and peered at the desert floor below.

  I crawled up next to him on my hands and knees. Far to our left, the Horde had spilled from the canyons on horseback, circling with lit torches, searching for sign of me. At their feet, one fallen warrior.

  “You killed him?” I whispered.

  “This way!” one of them roared. They had found our tracks.

  My rescuer drew me back from the ledge. “They’ll follow our tracks here but will lose them in the rocks.” He stuck out his hand. “Samuel,” he said. “Samuel of Hunter. You can thank me later.”

  I took his hand, looking at a strong, youthful face in the dim light. No more than twenty, I thought. By the sound of his voice I guessed that his gall knew no bounds. And I wondered if I’d been pulled out of the frying pan and into the fire.

  “Hurry!”

  8

  SAMUEL OF HUNTER took the horse across the top of the canyon lands, sticking to the flat stone so as not to leave clear tracks. I sat behind him, one arm around his belly, the other gripping his leather chest plate.

  I was riding behind a powerful warrior with long, dark wavy hair that whipped around my face unless I leaned in close. The scent of his skin was sweet and musky, like sweat-soaked lilacs. He rode the horse as if it were a part of his own body.

  The Roush had mentioned Thomas of Hunter in the highest regard. Was Samuel related? Or maybe Hunter was a place.

  When I tried to ask him, he hushed me. For twenty minutes we crossed the rocky plateau above the canyons before he pulled the horse into a pass that descended to the sand. He took the mount to a full run and headed into the open desert.

  A gnawing wariness overrode my gratitude. Did he know who I was? Why had he saved me? Where was he taking me? Did I have anything to fear from him?

  I tried to ask him again, after we’d long left behind the canyons and the rising dunes that surrounded them, but again he shut me down, urging his horse on. The night was dark, and I felt lost in the strange and desolate landscape.

  “Excuse me, but—”

  “No talking.”

  My frustration broke through. “Why no talking when we’re so far out of earshot now?”

  “Be
cause it’s my horse and I’m the one who rescued you. Or would you prefer to run back into their arms?”

  “At least they told me who they are. You say nothing.”

  “And who are they?”

  “Horde, riding with Jacob, son of Qurong.”

  He jerked his reins back and brought the mount to a stamping halt. “Son of Qurong, you say. You’re sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure. Why?”

  Samuel stared into the night, face set. Then at me, as if considering his options.

  “You’re a fool if you think you can kill them on your own,” I said, surprised by my nerve. “They’re over fifty, some of them twice your size.”

  “They would all be dead by now if not for you!” A deep bitterness laced his voice—the kind of hatred that is blind to all but darkness. “I’ve been tracking the Throaters for two days and could have blocked their way out of the canyon to pick them off one by one. I had them!” He spat to one side.

  “Then you shouldn’t have bothered with me,” I bit off.

  He took a deep breath and settled his temper. “No Horde is worth the life of another Albino. But why didn’t you tell me the son of Qurong was their leader?”

  “Because you refused to let me talk.”

  “And now he’s slipped my grasp.”

  “I doubt he’s going anywhere.”

  Samuel eyed me doubtfully. “You’re only an Albino to them. Or have you forgotten that as well?”

  “I’m not just a thing you call Albino. I actually have a name. It’s Rachelle, and I’m an Elyonite from beyond the Great Divide, thank you for asking. Ba’al, the Horde’s high priest, gave me a poison that took my memories. Jacob was sent to bring me back, and I doubt he’s willing to accept failure. Please treat me with some respect.”

  He eyed me with fresh interest.

  “Do you know who Thomas of Hunter is?” I asked.

  “My father. You’re saying that the Elyonites actually exist? How can you be sure, if the Horde poisoned your memory?”