Ted Dekker - Outlaw

“Might taste good,” Shaka said. “Always loved snake head in a stew.”

Stephen’s mouth watered at the thought, not of the head so much as the flesh of snake, which tasted similar to bird.

“You have the head, I’ll take the rest.”

“Leave me the tail. Need a new whip.”

“Done.”

Shaka faced him, deep-set brown eyes gentle and knowing. The round emblem tattooed on his chest marked him with an eternal commitment. Deditio . A word in a foreign tongue called Latin that meant “unconditional surrender.” They spoke in the tongue of the valley below, but Shaka had taught him a language called English as well. Why? Because it was a written language, and one day reading would be an important part of his journey. How, Stephen did not yet know.

“Tell me, where does Stephen live?” Shaka asked, serious once again.

Stephen hesitated, navigating the pathways to the true question behind his teacher’s words. By Stephen, did Shaka mean his true self, or the one made of flesh and bone? The latter, he thought.

“He lives in the mountains above the Tulim valley in a world known as New Guinea.”

“Where does he sleep?”

“He sleeps in a home next to the Wagali River.” Stephen lifted his arm and stretched a finger west. “There, a short run though the thickest jungle.” Then, in jest, “Longer for Shaka.”

His teacher’s mouth hinted at a smile and he offered a wink.

“You would like to see?” Stephen asked.

“Only five moons ago it would have taken you longer than me.”

“I have little use for the past,” Stephen said. “That past no longer exists. Nor did it ever. It was always and always will be just another now.”

Shaka nodded. “And once again my own teaching shows me up. Then tell me about the present. What does his costume look like?”

Stephen glanced down at his form. Black bands woven from cured angalo fiber hugged his wrists and his arms just above both elbows. Next to Shaka’s his skin was pale, marked with old scars on his right forearm, his knee, and one of his thighs, this last one from a boar. His hands were steady and strong, one gripping a hardwood spear slightly thicker than Shaka’s.

Dark wavy hair held in place by a strip of red-dyed canvas hung to his shoulders. Otherwise they were dressed the same: fox hides around their hips, mud from the run to the cliff dressing their feet and ankles. A single bone knife was strapped to his waist.

The muscles on his arms, chest, and legs had grown with Shaka’s never-ending physical challenges, all of which were designed more to assist him in stepping past the constraints of his body than to strengthen it. Still, there wasn’t a beast alive that could put him down. None that he’d met, at least. A large crocodile, perhaps, but only if he was caught unaware and couldn’t outmaneuver its powerful jaws.

“His costume is strong,” Stephen said.

“And his mind?”

“His mind is quiet. My true mind is at peace.”

“Why is this?” Shaka asked. The questions were a regular exercise.

“Because my true self is always at peace, dead to insanity. Only the insane mind offers any disturbance to the sound mind.”

“And who gave you this sound mind?”

“The One from whom I come.”

“What is his name?”

“He is called the One. The Way. The Truth. The One who first defeated death and is life. The One who is perfect and whole, one with God, the atonement, having made right all that was wrong. He has been called the second Adam. Jeshua.”

“And you?”

“My true self is now made whole, holy, without any further blame, condemnation, or need for correction. I am dead to the old and alive in him. I am my Father’s child.”

“And what wars against this knowledge?”

“The knowledge of good and evil. Insanity. Also the costume.”

“Which came how?”

“This is the most common knowledge, Shaka. Why do we repeat it again on this cliff?”

His teacher only cast him a sidelong look, which was enough. Trust me .

“By the eating of the fruit of the tree of this knowledge,” Stephen said. “And yet there is in this same garden a tree of life. My insane mind dies at the foot of this tree.”

“Can anything threaten you?”

“Nothing can separate me. As far as the east is from the west, so far has he removed any separation from him. I am blameless and nothing can remove me from my Master. It is impossible.”

“Still, though dead, your insane mind speaks and causes suffering.”

“Like a madman. Jabbering always, his mouth moves to a different beat. He likes to hear himself speak. Jika, jika, jawa . Madman coming.”

“And sometimes you listen,” Shaka said.

“Only when I forget he is dead.”

“And when you do listen?”

“He tempts me to feel threatened. Less than whole and therefore needing more than I already have. Love. Joy. Peace. States of being, not simple emotion.”

“And emotion is?”

“Sometimes pleasurable, sometimes not, depending on if I listen to insanity.”

“Is your insane mind speaking now?”

Stephen considered the question, searching his mind for any disturbance, knowing that only radical honesty would suffice.

“He is saying that a breeze would be nice,” he said.

“And this is insane why?” Shaka asked.

Stephen lifted his hand and slowly swept it through the hot, still air, aware of the sweat on his brow and chest. “Because the thought comes from a place of slight discontent with the heaviness of the air. My costume judges the air for not moving to cool the body, and in so doing judges me. As a result I suffer.”

“Judge not lest you be judged,” Shaka said.

Stephen lowered his arm. “And even now I release this insane judgment to what is.”

“How do you release it?”

“By accepting the comfort sent by my Father and offering the world love instead of resistance.”

“And the scars on your leg?”

“They are nothing! I forgive them as well. In fact, I love them. Are they not beautiful? Nothing poses even the slightest threat to me. I am made whole in him.”

“Nothing can threaten you,” Shaka repeated, turning to gaze down-valley. “Certainly not all of this hot air.” His eyes twinkled at his clever pun. “And yet your costume feels threatened. Far too often. It is the only reason you ever feel fear of any kind.”

“But I do not, Shaka. Only this air that—”

“He does, Stephen.”

He . Stephen’s false self. The one that died a long time ago, when the true Stephen first accepted the truth.

“He does,” Shaka said. “And he has not yet walked through the valley of the shadow of death.”

Stephen studied the valley below them, feeling no fear. Shaka had turned his attention to the Tulim valley more often of late, but the shift in his focus caused Stephen no concern. Evidently there was something down there that would test him further, and yet, knowing nothing of it, Stephen felt no disturbance. Only curiosity.

“Beneath the fog a struggle looms,” Shaka said. “A grand stage for those threatened by death’s shadow face every day. In this valley, insanity runs amok.”

“I feel no threat.”

“No. Not yet. Darkness has swallowed them, Stephen. They are blind. Captive in the night. And if you forget who you truly are, their insanity will call you into its dark pit.”

He’d never heard his teacher speak so bluntly about the valley. Still, they were only words and they held no meaning for him and so he felt nothing.

“Get your bow.”

Stephen spun, stepped to the ledge behind him, and snatched up the bow.

“One arrow,” Shaka said.

He plucked up one of the reeds they’d formed into arrows over the night fires. Then returned to the precipice.