"Jika, jika, jawa. Madman coming." Shaka turned from the cliff. "The time has come." He strode toward the tree line thirty paces distant. A tangle of vines and thick moss was draped from heavy branches that blocked the fading sun's light from reaching the muddy trail beneath.

"It's time for you to see."

See what, Stephen did not ask, nor did he care to. His trust in Shaka had been forged over many years. Whatever his teacher wanted him to see or learn, he simply would, in its right time.

Chapter Twenty-three.

IT WAS dark when they broke from the trees and approached the clearing in which they'd constructed their three huts-one for cooking, one for sleeping, one for individual reflection if the training called for it.

It was in this third hut, which was built high on stilts, that Stephen had learned to be perfectly still for hours, sometimes days, searching the deepest parts of his mind. And then going beyond his thoughts to the place where the mind had to be stilled to truly know.

He was now twenty, Shaka said. He could recall being sequestered in the tall hut through the night at age six, feeling alone until that great warmth came to his soul and a.s.sured him that he was not alone. Rather he was in a world of light and color, oddly one with it, as if he himself were made of the same fabric as the light.

It was then, only after Stephen had informed Shaka of his experience, that his teacher had begun his bodily training, because unless one was connected with his true self, all else was futile, he said.

Stephen could not remember the last time he'd truly felt alone. Even when Shaka headed into the mountains, often for days at a time, Stephen felt no loss. The darkness offered him no threat, nor did anything.

He remembered the words of his teacher when he was only seven or eight years old: "How big is G.o.d, Stephen?"

"As big as a bull," he'd cried, citing the beasts Shaka had told him about "A bull. Fine, let's make him a bull. Can this bull be threatened by any other?"

"No, he's far too powerful."

"And evil...If we say that G.o.d is a big bull, how big is evil? What animal should we make evil?"

Stephen had considered this question for a moment.

"Like a mouse."

"Can this mouse threaten the bull?"

"He could bite it on the leg."

"And make the bull snort away in pain?" Shaka asked, brow raised.

Again Stephen had gone deeply into consideration for a solution, because he knew that G.o.d could not fear any threat.

"Then we must make the bull bigger," he said.

"How big?" Shaka asked.

"As big as the jungle. Then this mouse wouldn't threaten him."

"Why don't we make the bull as big as the sea?" Shaka asked.

"Yes! The sea!" Stephen had cried, thrusting both fists into the air.

Shaka had laughed, joining his delight.

"As big as the world!" his teacher said.

"The whole world. Then the bull would not even feel the mouse if it bit him on his leg."

Shaka had nodded. "The truth, my son, is that you still make your idea of G.o.d far too small. He is as big as the sun. As a thousand suns. As the universe. And this is only his mouth, which speaks all that is into existence."

Stephen had stared up into his teacher's eyes, lost in wonder.

"And the mouse?" Shaka asked.

"Is still only a mouse," Stephen said.

"And that mouse is like a speck that cannot threaten, nor harm, nor even disturb such a bull."

Shaka had looked into the fire with gla.s.sy eyes, and Stephen thought he could see the sun in them.

"The people of this world make a G.o.d for themselves in their own image, and in doing so they make G.o.d far, far, far too small. His power is infinite. Evil is finite. Finite to infinite is like a speck of sand to a billion suns. This is your Father. You are his. In him, you cannot be threatened or harmed or disturbed. Your costume alone holds the illusion that such harm is possible and so it screams."

The truth of this had stayed with Stephen through many dark nights.

They subsisted mostly on fruits and vegetables taken from the jungle, small game, and boars. Occasionally crocodile meat and fish, but only when they headed south to the swamps, where Shaka first told Stephen about what it meant to be a Water Walker and then guided him in becoming one. By this he meant the art of forgiving. Of letting go.

Shaka dipped beneath the overhang of the cooking hut's gra.s.s roof and led Stephen into the small round room, lit by only glowing embers in the shallow pit at the center. Without a word he placed several large splinters of wood on the dying ash and gently coaxed the hot coals to life. The embers sprouted flame, fed on the fuel, and lapped hungrily for more wood, which Shaka supplied.

Stephen squatted across from him, arms on his knees.

Shaka looked up at him. "When two glowing logs are placed together?"

"They produce a greater fire than either alone."

"The nature of this fire?"

"Depending on the nature of the logs, love or hate," Stephen said.

Shaka nodded. He stood and crossed to the wall. Reaching up, he removed a small bundle wedged under the eaves. Stephen had never seen it before. This also was the common way of Shaka.

"You are that log, Stephen. I have been the second log. With me you have learned to burn bright. Now the time comes for you to join others whose fire is burned out or covered up."

So then he was going to the valley. His pulse quickened with curiosity.

"I will meet a woman?"

Shaka's eyebrow arched. "You will. Two. One to lead you in, one to lead you out. I trust both will be your salvation."

"What need is there for salvation when I am saved already?"

"You are saved tonight. When the winds blow strong, you may find yourself in need."

Shaka settled to the ground and began to unwrap the bundle.

"What did I tell you of your birth?"

"That I was born in a place where many have the color of my skin. I was taken from the sea and traded. You have raised me as your own son."

Shaka withdrew a black, hide-covered book like others he'd used to teach Stephen the art of reading.

"And your mother?"

"My mother? Her fate is unknown."

"Unknown, yes. But I have reason to believe that she's still alive."

The revelation was interesting. His mother, alive. But it sparked no great concern on his part.

"What does he think about this?" Shaka asked, eyeing him.

"He thinks that if she's alive, he could meet her one day. He is her son. But my true self knows that this is only a costume I put on. All are my mother, all are my brother. I am the son only of the One inside of me."

"True. I have decided that you are ready to face the crucible of the insanity in the valley where I last saw your mother. In which I believe she may still live."

"Which valley?"

"The Tulim valley."

So close? He'd never set foot in the valley nor seen the Tulim up close, and the thought of doing so once again quickened his pulse. Perhaps he would meet a woman. Such a curiosity. It would be a delight, he was sure of it.

"Your mother wrote in this book for you, so that you might know." He laid an open palm on the cover. "The time has come for you to see into her heart and know how you came into my hands through her doing."

Stephen stared at the book, unsure what to think.

"It is a thick book."

"I want you to read it."

"Then I will. When?"

"Tonight."

Stephen blinked. "The whole book?"

Shaka handed the book over and Stephen took it with both hands.

"All of it. Tonight. Read by the fire until you have read the last page."

Shaka stood and walked to the door. "There's plenty of wood to last the night. I will return in the morning."

"Yes, Shaka."

He turned at the door. "Every word, Stephen."

"Every word."

Then his teacher left the hut, leaving Stephen with the fire and his mother's book.

He peeled back the cover, tilted the first page so that he could clearly see the words by the flame light, and began to read.

THE CRICKET song had long fallen away; the fire had consumed most of the wood through the night; sleep had not called to him as Stephen read the handwritten account marked by his mother on the pages Shaka had given him. His fascination grew with each page. He was reading about a world as unfamiliar to him as sight to the blind.

Not because the writings of the jungle and its ways were new to him. He knew them as well as he knew his own breathing. New to him, however, was a world in which great importance was given to the roles of mother and son and lover and ruler and servant. All costumes. The wearing of flesh which, when mistaken for the real self, became a person's ident.i.ty and inflamed insanity.

And yet he himself had been born into such a world, far from the jungle in a land called Atlanta. Born to a woman whose ident.i.ty as his mother had consumed her to the exclusion of her true self and driven her insane. In these last pages she was seeing the light, and for that he was glad.

The others-this Kirutu and this Wilam and all those who fought to protect their own costumes-were not seeing so clearly. They continued to live in suffering, captive in the h.e.l.l of their own insanity.

Why had no one told them the truth? Why had Shaka not simply stood on that hill and told them that they could be free by turning on the lamps of their inner being and looking to the Master, who had come to open the eyes of the blind and set the captives free?

But he knew already-only those with ears to hear and eyes to see would hear and see.

Stephen had been taken by Shaka for this? To open their eyes?

Julian, the one who'd given him birth, had joined with Wilam to produce another son. The vague notion of such a joining pulled at him in a way that he could not explain. What would it be like to be a father? To be with a woman?

And yet these too were only born of flesh and costume-roles that were mistaken for true self. Shaka had taught him as much a thousand times.

Still he read. Still the story unfolded, like a dance with words sung around the fire, a play dressed up in flesh, each page so fascinating that at times Stephen found his mind being pulled into it, as if it were real.

And it was, at least from her perspective.

Shaka's voice whispered through his head. What does he think of the story, Stephen?

He is full of fascination.

Does he like it?

He is very pleased with it. They gather in great numbers and dance around the fires in celebration.

Does it frighten him?

Stephen hesitated. He is only saddened that she was blind for so long. But I think it will end well for Julian. She is finding the truth of her freedom.

He lowered his eyes and continued to read.