Ted Dekker - Outlaw

“If I keep the child, all of Tulim will judge me. I will not keep him.”

“He may not leave the valley alive,” Kirutu protested.

“Do I forget the law? Am I not my father’s son? The child will not live among us. Take the woman you brought among us and give me her child so that our warriors will see that jealousy and spite don’t rule your heart.”

For a moment Kirutu stared, first at Wilam and my son, then at me.

“I accept,” he said.

My pulse rose as I returned his stare. His eyes were holes into a world of rage and darkness. My life was at his mercy, though he knew none.

And then I remembered the world as it really was and I felt my fear dissolve. But there was still the matter of my only son, sleeping peacefully in Wilam’s arms.

Trust me, Julian. Breathe.

“The boy cannot live,” Sawim said. “He is yours to burn.”

“I will not subject any child to the flame. Instead I will turn him out of our law and banish him forever as is permitted.”

Trust me, Julian. Breathe.

“He is a child,” Kirutu objected.

I was watching Sawim, and the moment I saw him go still I knew.

The warriors to my rear suddenly began to move, uttering surprise under their breaths. I turned my head and saw.

I saw them parting like waters, hurrying to escape the one who’d come into their midst. Some knew him only as Kugi Meli, the evil spirit. Some as the Nameless One.

I knew him as Shaka.

He walked toward us in even strides, undaunted and sure, face void of expression. His spear was his walking stick, and in his eyes he beheld the world as it truly was.

I faced Wilam. No words were needed. He knew immediately what I intended and I saw nothing but wonder in his eyes.

Shaka strode up to Wilam, eyes on Stephen. Sawim had taken a step back; Kirutu held his ground, bound by fear of a deeper magic.

Shaka lifted his eyes and stared at Wilam, who returned his gaze as if momentarily ensnared.

“I will take the boy,” Shaka said in a gentle tone that carried. “He will not be seen among the Tulim. In your eyes he will be dead.”

“This is not permitted!” Sawim cried. “No man may care for the child.”

“The Nameless One is not a man,” I said for all to hear. “You yourself proclaimed it.”

Sawim hesitated, and in that long beat he sealed his own pronouncement. There was no way for him to backtrack. It would only compromise his own standing as one who knew the spirits.

“Yuliwam is right,” Wilam said. “Sawim has declared this to be so. He is no man.” He lifted Stephen high. “Today, for all to see, I turn this child out from among us and into the hands of he who comes. He is outlaw. To all Tulim, he is dead.”

The valley was gripped by silence. None objected.

None could.

Wilam glanced at me, then handed Stephen to Shaka, who took my son in his free arm and offered Wilam a single nod. Shaka did not speak further. He directed no harsh glance toward Kirutu. He simply did what was required of him.

What he had come to the valley to do.

He was now my son’s father.

I took Stephen from Shaka when he came to me, and I held him close to my breast. Silent tears slipped down my cheeks as emotions I did not understand washed through my heart and mind. I might not ever see my Stephen again, I knew that, but I also knew that he was safe in the care of a man who understood a mystery that few could comprehend.

I had never loved Stephen as much as I did in that moment.

“Write your story,” Shaka said. He withdrew a hide-covered sheaf of old paper, which he pressed into my hand. “Write your story for your son and those who would know. I will find a way to retrieve it. Remember the light. Find us in your dreams. We will be there always.”

He kissed my forehead.

“Surrender. And dream. You are with us always.”

And then the one named Shaka took Stephen from my arms, walked through the parted circle of warriors, up the hill’s crest, and vanished from our sight.

Eighteen Years Later

Chapter Twenty-two

THEY STOOD side by side on the sheer cliff’s edge high above the Tulim valley. Shaka and Stephen. Silent.

A thick white fog ran the length of the valley, like creamy milk that had settled in a basin, obscuring what lurked beneath. Not even a whisper of wind disturbed the placid haze. The scene stretching out before them was inordinately quiet, as if trapped in time itself.

Not knowing better, Stephen might have guessed that the whole world was in slumber.

But he knew better. The powers of insanity never slept, always vying for a voice that justified their lies.

Insanity. The insane self. The false self. The flesh self. The ego, the mistaken mind, the costume, the roommate…all names used liberally by Shaka.

And, as Shaka had so often said: The insane self always speaks first, always speaks the loudest. It is suspicious in the least, vicious at worst, and make no mistake, it wants you dead .

It wanted the real him dead. The one that wasn’t body, or thought, or emotion, but soul. Essence. Being. Truth. I.

Still, something was in the air—a sense of impending discovery that was all too familiar to him.

Stephen stared ahead.

“Why have you brought me here, Shaka?”

His teacher and father, though not by blood, remained silent until Stephen turned his head to look at him.

“The time has come,” Shaka said.

He’d spoken many times of the others who shared the world with them, but Stephen had only seen three others in his lifetime, each from a distance, each filling him with wonder. Perhaps the time had come to enter the world of others. Mystery filled his mind as he thought this.

“Time for what?”

“For what you make of it.”

This was Shaka’s way—always leading, never pressing.

“It?”

“Him.”

Him . Another of Shaka’s words for Stephen’s body, mind, costume, self. The one called Stephen who shared a life with the real him.

“The insane one?” He looked at the man. “I already know him,” Stephen said.

“Do you?”

Stephen smirked. “He’s the one who tries to make me crazy and turn my head hazy. To do what I would not, and not do what I would.” He crouched and made claws with both hands, eyes wild. “He’s the beast that stalks in the fog of night and screams like a spoiled brat when I don’t shiver with fear.” Stephen slapped at his face with both hands, like a wild man. “Berserk, that’s what he is. Plain insane.”

Shaka regarded him with a cocked eyebrow. “Is that so?”

Stephen righted himself and smiled. “That is far too so.”

Shaka nodded and returned his gaze to the valley. He was accepting, even encouraging of Stephen’s antics. The spice of life, he called such things. The costume and all of its traditions, ways, and codes of behavior are best not taken too seriously.

“You think you know him,” his teacher said. “And yet he hasn’t fully shown himself to you.”

Shaka’s fingers eased their grip on the long spear in his right hand, then curled back around the wooden shaft. Though Stephen had watched his own body grow over the many years they’d lived together, Shaka did not seem to age. They were now the same height and, although Stephen’s strength was now greater than his teacher’s, both were equally proficient in commanding paths and trees and water and beasts with ease.

“I’ve seen enough of him to last me a lifetime,” Stephen said.

“And yet so little of him for the life you’ve lived.”

“He’s dead,” Stephen objected. “As a snake on the fire.”

“And yet he writhes with fangs spread wide.”

“Then we take the head off and eat it with sago.”