Black (17 page)

He turned to his left, where two men massaged a piece of red wood with their bare hands. Beside them a woman manned a fruit stand, ten or fifteen wood boxes filled with different fruits. Several others bordered the path farther down. A low note rang through Tom's ears, singing from a source he couldn't place. All of this he took in immediately, searching his memory for any recognition. His memory failed him completely.

Johan took his hand. “These are my friends,” he said, pointing to two children who stared wide-eyed at Tom from the lawn. “This is Ishmael and Latfta. They are singers like me.”

They both had blond hair and green eyes; both stood a tad taller than Johan. “Hello, Thomas.”

“Hello, Ishmael and Laffta.”

The one on the left lifted a hand to his mouth and giggled. “Latfta!” he blurted out. “My name is Latfta!”

“Oh, sorry. Latfta?”

“Yes. Latfta.”

Tom braved another look at the women. One of them, a plump woman with beautiful eyes and long lashes, began to giggle. A glance across the path betrayed her.

There, under the eaves of a house twenty feet away, leaning against the amber wall with arms crossed and head tilted, stood Rachelle. Bare feet. Simple blue dress. Tousled hair. Brilliant green eyes. Tempting smile.

She was stunning, and she was suddenly walking toward him. For an incredible moment the motion around Tom seemed to cease. Only her dress, flowing mid-thigh, and her hair swirling in her own breeze, and those emerald eyes swallowing him.

Rachelle winked.

His heart nearly ceased. Surely the whole village had seen it. Every eye was undoubtedly fixed on her seductive approach. This incredible display of . . .

Rachelle suddenly diverted her eyes, flattened her mouth, and veered to her right. She walked right past him and then past the other women without a single word. And if he wasn't mistaken, she had squared off her shoulders. A man chuckled. Tom felt his face flush.

“What did I tell you?” Johan whispered.

He and his little friend pulled Tom out onto the path. He followed, avoiding eye contact with anyone, looking instead directly ahead as if he were going somewhere important, stealing glances to take in the village. He wasn't sure what had just happened, but he wasn't about to reveal his ignorance of the matter.

There was no evil on this side of the black forest, Michal had told him. So then Rachelle couldn't dislike him, right? Wasn't dislike a form of evil? Yet a deity—such as his father's God in the histories—could dislike without being evil. So surely his creation could dislike without being evil. They would dislike evil. But would they love one person over another? Would they choose one man or woman over another? Evidently.

Johan stopped within twenty paces. “Marla! Good morning, Marla!”

A mature woman stepped into the path and ruffled Johan's hair. “Elyon is smiling, Johan. Like the sun in the sky, he's smiling over you.” Her eyes darted over Tom. “Is this the stranger?”

“Yes.”

“Then you must be Thomas Hunter. Most welcome to this side.” She touched his cheek and studied him for a moment. “I am the daughter of Tanis. I would say that your mother came from my brother Theo's line. Yes, the same cheeks, the same eyes, the same mouth.” She lowered her hand. “My brother always was a handsome one. Welcome.”

“Thank you. So you think my father's name is Theo?”

She laughed. “Not likely. But a descendant, more than likely. You don't remember?”

“I . . . no, I hit my head.”

“Did you, now? How interesting. Take care of him, Johan.”

“Tanis and Palus are waiting for him,” Johan said.

“Tanis, of course. Perhaps the four of you could mount my father's famous expedition.” She smiled and winked.

They passed by a woodworker who was shaping a piece of red wood. Tom paused to watch the man work. The wood moved under the crafter's massaging fingers. He shifted for a better perspective and watched carefully. There could be little doubt about what he saw. The wood was actually moving under the woodworker's bare hands, as if he were successfully coaxing it to reshape itself.

“What's he doing?” Tom whispered.

“He's making a ladle. Maybe a gift for someone. You don't remember?”

“That's incredible. No, I guess I don't .”

Johan talked excitedly to Ishmael and Latfta. “You see? He doesn't remember. He's going to love the storytellers!” Then to Tom. “Tanis is a storyteller.” Johan pulled a small piece of red wood formed to look like a miniature lion from his pocket and handed it to Tom. “Keep this,” he said. “Maybe it will help you remember.” Johan and Latfta grabbed his hands once again and pulled him along like a prized trophy.

They found Johan's father, Palus, talking to a man beyond the brilliant topaz arch that led into the village. The stranger's moccasins were strapped tight, and a dark brown tunic, made from something like leather that came from one of the trees, Michal had informed him yesterday, hung above his knees. His eyes were green, of course, set into a strong tanned face that looked not a day older than thirty. The man's legs were lean and well muscled. He looked born to run through the forest. A warrior by all appearances.

This must be Tanis. Firstborn. The oldest man on Earth.

“Ah, my dear young man, good morning to you,” Tanis said. “So very, very glad that You've come into our village.”

“That's very kind of you,” Tom said. He scanned the forest at the crest of the hill beyond. “Have you seen Michal?”

“Michal? No. Have you seen Michal, Palus?”

“No, I haven't . I'm sure he'll be along.”

Tanis looked at Tom, left eyebrow raised. “Well, there you have it then. Michal will be along.”

“He was going to find my village for me,” Tom said.

“Oh, yes, I'm sure he will. But I think it will take him some time. In the meantime, we have some wonderful ideas.”

“Maybe I should try to help him. Won't my family be worried?”

“No, no, certainly not. You really have lost all of your memory, haven't you? What a thing, to experience everything as if it were the first time. It must be both exhausting and quite stimulating.”

“Wouldn't my village worry about me?” Tom asked.

“Worry? Never! They will assume you are with Elyon, as you most definitely are. Do you think he hasn't allowed this?”

They all stared at Tom, waiting for an answer.
Silence lingered.

“Of course he has,” Tom said.

“There you go, then! Come, let us talk.” Tanis led him up the hill. Palus walked abreast, followed by the three children. Overhead, several Roush winged through the air.

“Now, I would like to know a few things before we begin,” Tanis said. “I would like to know if You've forgotten the Great Romance.”

“Before we begin what?”

“Before we begin to help you.”

“With what?”

“With the Great Romance, of course.”

There it was. He couldn't escape this romance of theirs.

Tanis exchanged glances first with Palus, and then with the children. “So then you do forget. Wonderful!” He walked in a tight circle, thinking. Raised a hand. “Not wonderful that You've forgotten, mind you. Wonderful that you have so much to discover. As a storyteller, I must say the prospects we have here are incredible! Like an unmarked wood. Like a pond without a single ripple. Like a—”

“Well then, get on with it. Tell him!” Palus said.

Tanis stopped, hand raised. He dipped his head.

“Yes, of course. The Great Romance. Sit, sit, all of you.”

The others quickly sat on the sloping grass, and Tom eased down beside them. Tanis walked back and forth, tan tunic flowing.

“The Great Romance,” Tanis announced, one digit in the air. He spun to the children. “Tell him what the Great Romance is, Johan.”

Johan leaped to his feet. “It is the game of Elyon!” He dropped to his seat.

“A game. Yes, it is a game, I suppose. As much as any story is a story. Exactly. Well, there you have it then. The
game
of Elyon. I'm going to assume, perhaps correctly, that you know nothing, Thomas. In either case, I want to tell you anyway. The Great Romance is the basis for all of the stories.”

“You mean the histories?” Tom asked.

“Histories? No, I mean stories. The histories are fascinating, and I would love to talk to you about them. But the Great Romance is the root of our stories, stories that confront us with the eternal ideals. Love. Beauty. Hope. The greatest gifts. The very heart of Elyon. Do you understand?”

“Um . . . actually it sounds a bit abstract.”

“Ha! The opposite, Thomas! Do you know why we love beautiful flowers? Because we love
beauty!”

They all nodded. Tom looked at them blankly.

“The point is, we were created to love beauty.
We
love beauty because
Elyon
loves beauty. We love song because Elyon loves song. We love
love
because Elyon loves love. And we love to be loved because Elyon loves to be loved. In all these ways we are like Elyon. In one way or another, everything we do is tied to this unfolding story of love between us and Elyon.”

Tom nodded, more because the response seemed appropriate than because he understood.

Tanis nodded with him. “Elyon's love for us and ours for him, the Great Romance, you see, is first.” One index finger in the air. “And second” —his other index finger in the air—“that same love expressed between us.” He paused, raised both fingers above his head like goalposts, and announced emphatically, “Between man and woman!”

Palus searched Tom's face expectantly. “Do you remember? Surely you remember.”

“Love. Yes, of course I remember love.”

“Between a man and a woman,” Palus pressed.

“Sure. Yes, between a man and a woman. Romance.”

Tanis clapped once, loudly enough to pass for a thunderclap. “Exactly! Romance!”

“Romance!” a voice cried behind them. Three Roush led by none other than Gabil drifted in for a landing. The other two quickly introduced themselves as Nublim and Serentus. When Tom asked if the names were male or female, Gabil laughed. “No, Roush are not like that. No romance, not like that at all.”

“Unfortunately, not like that at all,” Nublim said.

“Do you want to play?” Johan asked Gabil, jumping to his feet.

“Of course!”

As if on cue, all three children ran after the Roush, sending them hooting in flight down the hill.

The two village elders immediately put their arms around Tom's shoulders and turned him uphill.

“Now the question, my dear friend, is, of course” —Tanis looked across at Palus—“Rachelle.”

It was all starting to make sense to Tom, but the implications were surprising. So bold. So unabashed. The village leader, this firstborn, and Palus were actually trying to set him up with Rachelle!

All he could manage was, “Rachelle.”

Palus clapped again. “Exactly! You have it! My daughter, Rachelle! She's chosen you!”

“And that's why we are here to help you,” Tanis said. “You've lost your memory, and we're going to help you remember. Or at least learn again. We think—”

“Perhaps I should say . . . ,” Palus began, hand uplifted.

“Yes, of course, you should say it.”

“We know there will be a wonderful romance between you and my daughter, Rachelle, but we realize you may not know how to proceed.”

“Well . . .”

“It's perfect! I saw it in your eyes the moment we met yesterday.”

“You saw what?”

Tanis led him farther up the hill. “You find her beautiful, yes?”

“Yes.”

“She must know this if you are to win her.”

Tom wanted to ask the one question begging a voice here. Namely, what if he didn't want to win her? But he couldn't bring himself to betray his promise to Michal to play along or dampen the enthusiasm of Rachelle's father.

“I could write your story,” Tanis continued. “A wonderful play of love and beauty, but then it would be mine, not yours. You must tell your own story. Or, in this case, live it. And to understand how love unfolds, you must understand how Elyon loves.”

The sheer momentum of their zeal carried Tom. He asked the question he knew Tanis was demanding he ask. “And how does Elyon love?”

“Excellent question! He chooses.”

“He chooses,” Palus repeated.

“He pursues.”

“He pursues,” said Rachelle's father, fist clenched.

“He rescues.”

“He rescues.”

“He woos.”

“He woos.”

“He protects.”

It was like a Ping-Pong match.

“He protects. Ha!”

“He lavishes,” Tanis shouted.

Palus stopped. “Is that one of them?”

“Why not?”

“I mean, is that normally placed with the others?”