Ted Dekker - Outlaw

Kirutu stepped forward, brazen before a people who could not see the fear in his heart. Blinded to it himself.

He stopped two paces from Stephen and ran his gaze down to his feet, then back up to his eyes.

“You wish to die,” he said in a low, graveled voice.

“You can kill my body, but not the love inside it.”

“And this childish love for a mother will end only in the burning of your flesh with hers.”

“I did not come to save my mother,” Stephen said.

Kirutu watched him, unblinking.

“I came for you.”

“For me. You would cut off the head of the snake, but this snake does not die so easily.”

“I didn’t come to kill you. I came to set you free.”

The man’s jaw tightened. “And yet you kill with ease.”

Yes, he had killed, and the memory of that now filled him with a deep sorrow.

“Forgive me. I had gone insane.”

“This madness has not left you. You see as an infant. This woman you call your mother is a slave who cannot be saved. So you come to die with her. You are mad.”

It was a natural conclusion, but wrong.

“You are the slave,” Stephen said quietly, riding the waves of compassion that rolled through his mind. “Hatred rules your heart and puts you in a deep pit of suffering where you live alone.”

The man wasn’t able to quickly respond, so Stephen told him more.

“Your power in this valley is unquestioned—no man can live without your approval. Even the trees bow to your will. There’s no more to be gained and yet you suffer, secretly hating all that you are and all that you’ve done. That is your pit. But you can be free.”

For a moment Stephen thought Kirutu was listening on the deeper level of his soul, no longer deaf to this hidden knowledge. And maybe, for a moment, he was, because his face seemed to soften and a hint of wonder relaxed his eyes.

But as he watched, Kirutu’s face began to change. His jaw tightened and his lips twisted into a snarl. His people couldn’t see the shift, because Kirutu had his back to them, but they’d surely seen rage consume their leader a thousand times.

Stephen looked at the warriors’ faces, all of them full of desperation. They too were enslaved by Kirutu’s hatred. But he also saw wonder in their stares. The powerful man from Shaka’s mountain could stand before their tormentor and his full army without fear.

There was surely a place in the heart of all Tulim that desired liberation from Kirutu’s tyranny. Kirutu couldn’t allow his people to see Stephen stand before him without fear.

A quiver had taken to the man’s hands. Stephen was about to speak, thinking he should tell Kirutu that he didn’t need to fear the loss of his power—instead he would gain a greater power—when the man turned, walked up to his mother on the post, and ripped the bag off her head.

Stephen now saw his mother’s face, filthy, stained by the tears that had raked her cheeks, still matted with blood from the cut above her jaw. Her eyes were bright with fear as she jerked her head to take in the scene. They fixed on Stephen and her face twisted into an unspoken plea for help.

Kirutu grabbed her hair and spun back to Stephen.

“This is the pig who bore you! She is the one I have crushed.” His voice cut like a spear, and, seeing his mother’s anguish, Stephen felt the dark sky above him reach for his soul.

“You come to my house to save her?”

Kirutu jerked his mother’s head to one side by her hair. She screamed: the sound of it sank into Stephen’s mind like a talon.

“Save her,” Kirutu mocked. “Show me the love of a son and save this wretched woman!”

His mother was beyond herself now, lost to terror, weeping loudly. He felt her anguish as if it were taking up residence in his own flesh. He was slipping.

“Save her!”

Kirutu glared, muscles drawn taut, made of rage and undone by it at once. His mother was shaking on the post, neck twisted to the breaking point, wailing—the terrifying keen of a dying animal.

Darkness pressed in and Stephen felt the first tendril of rage slip into his gut.

Kirutu lifted his right arm and brought his fist down on his mother’s face as he held her hair. The impact of bone on flesh produced a sickly thunk .

His mother’s body went limp, but that didn’t stop Kirutu from striking her again, as hard, pummeling the helpless to show his strength.

He released her hair and she slumped forward in her ropes, head hung low, unconscious.

The tendril of rage coiled into a ball and rose through Stephen’s chest. He couldn’t stand in the face of such brutality without resisting. Without extracting revenge. Without crushing the oppressor.

Without engaging Kirutu, even knowing that this was Kirutu’s ploy. The ruler could not abide an enemy that did not fear him in front of his people.

Which was why Stephen could not attach himself to the anger rushing through him. He could neither react to nor resist it without also fueling it.

His breathing thickened and he felt as though he might break. And if he did, both he and his mother would die.

They would die anyway. It was already over. There was no way out.

No, Stephen. There is the Way.

A narrow way, already misted over with forgetfulness. A realm seen only dimly through the fog.

A chill washed over Stephen’s crown as his mind flopped between assurance and the desperation that tempted him. He was going to fail. He’d come in trust, leaning only on the understanding that came from beyond his mind, and yet there was his mother, bleeding on the post, and he, powerless before the people.

Kirutu closed the distance between them in three long strides, face dark like a storm.

He could save his mother now. He could kill Kirutu with the man’s own dagger. In the space of one breath he could twist out of Kirutu’s way, slip the bone knife strapped to his thigh from its sheath, and bury the blade deep into the back of his skull, forcing upon him the full meaning of surrender as used in conquest.

Deditio.

Stephen caught himself.

Deditio. This was his way.

He stood still, allowing the fear to wash through him. The terror was only his costume in full protest. He had to stay surrendered to the Way in which—

Kirutu swung his hand and slapped him, a slicing swipe that crashed into Stephen’s jaw and jerked his head to one side. For a brief instant the world became perfectly dark and silent, a void with no valley, no Warik, no body. Only stillness.

But only for a split second and then he was back, in the flesh. Pain ballooned in his skull, and with it the terrible fear that his body and his breath weren’t only his costume. His very life was being threatened. He had to save himself!

But he couldn’t. Not now.

“You have no will to stand like a man?” the ruler bit off. He slammed his fist into Stephen’s gut. And as Stephen folded forward, Kirutu brought his knee up into Stephen’s face—a glancing blow that struck his cheekbone and sent him staggering back.

Once again the world sputtered to darkness and silence. A void. The end of existence.

Once again that void vanished and he returned to the place where he was being beaten while his mother hung limp on a post. Panic welled up and screamed his name. Live, Stephen! You can’t die…not now .

“Fight!” Kirutu stepped to him and swung again. When his fist connected with Stephen’s head, Stephen dropped to a sitting position. Blackness swirled through his mind and he felt the world slipping. On the edges of his consciousness the loud demand that he protect himself persisted. He must kill this man and save his mother.

But he could not. Would not. His whole life was staked on this truth that his Master had taught: When the evil man comes against you, do not resist. You are not your body. Walk on water, Stephen .