Read Online Exile (The Oneness Cycle) by Rachel Starr Thomson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Rachel Starr Thomson
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not interrupt, but when she finished, he said, “Is it possible? An exile? It can’t be!”
“Even if it could,” Mary said, “she doesn’t act like an exile. The boys say she’s torn apart with grief—dying of it. And yet the sword comes to hand when she’s attacked, and she found the courage to go off alone tonight. They don’t understand why, but I think she may be doing it for them. To draw the demons off. That’s love, Richard. Whatever’s happening to this girl, it isn’t what it seems. I think if we find her, we might find the key to what’s happened to April.”
“One thing,” Richard said. “About April. I spent time—a lot of time—in prayer today. If I wasn’t knocking on doors, I was on my knees. And I think I saw some things in the spirit I haven’t seen before. April’s a lot …” he paused, trying to form the right words. “She’s more than we thought. We thought the Spirit sent her here because she needed to heal and live at peace after that hell of a childhood. She thought she was assigned here just to help some lonely folks out.”
“She’s good at it.”
“No doubt. But she’s more than that. Her paintings, for one thing. I kept seeing them in the Spirit. They were opening windows and building bridges, and really changing things. She’s been doing more, here, than we ever thought.”
Mary spent a moment thinking about this. “Is that why …” she stopped. “It doesn’t make sense for us to be targets. We aren’t important enough. I assumed that whatever the Oneness has been feeling coming on, we were at the fringes of it. But you’re saying April has been doing things, without anyone recognizing them, that make us important enough to draw fire. Serious fire.”
“Exactly,” Richard told her.
A pause. “Is that why she isn’t dead?” Mary finally asked. “Because she’s one of the great saints?”
“It’s possible.”
“Then she might be somewhere waiting to die.”
The enemy did try to escape the justice of God that way, yes. Sometimes. Some individual part of the Oneness would become so powerful, so effective, that the enemy would come screeching out of the shadows to destroy that individual any way possible. Sometimes the results were bloody and quick. But the enemy had learned, over the years, that in the laws of the universe, of righteousness that was the character of God holding all things together, that such attacks would backfire. So in their ignorance and cruelty, they had long ago enacted a tradition of separating the great saint from the others and starving him, or her, or causing a death by the elements. Something that didn’t actually leave blood on their hands.
But … April?
“We need to find her,” Mary said.
* * *
When April woke again to see the woman sitting beside her, glowing with warm light as before, she concentrated not on the mural—which had grown and spread, all of the space on the left side of the vine filled with scenes and faces—but on the woman herself. She was not young but not old; perhaps in her late thirties or early forties. Her hair was dark and long, not styled like a modern woman’s hair, and she wore a dress the colour of cream that was likewise simple and nondescript. Her skin had an olive glow, though perhaps that was just the effect of the light, and her eyes were dark. She smiled at April’s examination.
“Who are you?” April asked.
“My name is Teresa,” she said. April heard the faint trace of an accent in her voice, but she wasn’t sure how to place it.
“You are Oneness,” April said.
“Of course.”
“From the cloud.”
Teresa smiled again. “I am.”
She stood and took a few steps closer to the mural, pouring her light over it. The light seemed to bring life to the painting, bringing out colours and textures April had not seen in the darkness. She marvelled at how her fingers had led her even in the murk of the day in the cave, using the contours and colours of the
“Even if it could,” Mary said, “she doesn’t act like an exile. The boys say she’s torn apart with grief—dying of it. And yet the sword comes to hand when she’s attacked, and she found the courage to go off alone tonight. They don’t understand why, but I think she may be doing it for them. To draw the demons off. That’s love, Richard. Whatever’s happening to this girl, it isn’t what it seems. I think if we find her, we might find the key to what’s happened to April.”
“One thing,” Richard said. “About April. I spent time—a lot of time—in prayer today. If I wasn’t knocking on doors, I was on my knees. And I think I saw some things in the spirit I haven’t seen before. April’s a lot …” he paused, trying to form the right words. “She’s more than we thought. We thought the Spirit sent her here because she needed to heal and live at peace after that hell of a childhood. She thought she was assigned here just to help some lonely folks out.”
“She’s good at it.”
“No doubt. But she’s more than that. Her paintings, for one thing. I kept seeing them in the Spirit. They were opening windows and building bridges, and really changing things. She’s been doing more, here, than we ever thought.”
Mary spent a moment thinking about this. “Is that why …” she stopped. “It doesn’t make sense for us to be targets. We aren’t important enough. I assumed that whatever the Oneness has been feeling coming on, we were at the fringes of it. But you’re saying April has been doing things, without anyone recognizing them, that make us important enough to draw fire. Serious fire.”
“Exactly,” Richard told her.
A pause. “Is that why she isn’t dead?” Mary finally asked. “Because she’s one of the great saints?”
“It’s possible.”
“Then she might be somewhere waiting to die.”
The enemy did try to escape the justice of God that way, yes. Sometimes. Some individual part of the Oneness would become so powerful, so effective, that the enemy would come screeching out of the shadows to destroy that individual any way possible. Sometimes the results were bloody and quick. But the enemy had learned, over the years, that in the laws of the universe, of righteousness that was the character of God holding all things together, that such attacks would backfire. So in their ignorance and cruelty, they had long ago enacted a tradition of separating the great saint from the others and starving him, or her, or causing a death by the elements. Something that didn’t actually leave blood on their hands.
But … April?
“We need to find her,” Mary said.
* * *
When April woke again to see the woman sitting beside her, glowing with warm light as before, she concentrated not on the mural—which had grown and spread, all of the space on the left side of the vine filled with scenes and faces—but on the woman herself. She was not young but not old; perhaps in her late thirties or early forties. Her hair was dark and long, not styled like a modern woman’s hair, and she wore a dress the colour of cream that was likewise simple and nondescript. Her skin had an olive glow, though perhaps that was just the effect of the light, and her eyes were dark. She smiled at April’s examination.
“Who are you?” April asked.
“My name is Teresa,” she said. April heard the faint trace of an accent in her voice, but she wasn’t sure how to place it.
“You are Oneness,” April said.
“Of course.”
“From the cloud.”
Teresa smiled again. “I am.”
She stood and took a few steps closer to the mural, pouring her light over it. The light seemed to bring life to the painting, bringing out colours and textures April had not seen in the darkness. She marvelled at how her fingers had led her even in the murk of the day in the cave, using the contours and colours of the
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