"We are so close."

"Who are you?" he stammered.

"You don't recognize me? We know each other so well. You're forgetting."

She had to be a vision. She was speaking exactly as Shaka would have spoken, full of surety and confident knowledge, using his inflections. Stephen was hallucinating.

His mother, who could not be his mother, turned and stepped up to him. Took his hand and kissed his knuckles. Placed his fingers on the side of her face.

"Who do you feel?"

He could not deny touch.

"My mother," he whispered.

"And who are you?"

"Your son."

She smiled and drew her fingers through his hair.

"Mother and son. But only in the flesh, and this is a small thing. This is why our Master said that we must hate our mother, father, spouse, child if we are to follow him and find his narrow way. He meant that we must not cling to them. Most can't fathom his meaning. If you look to anyone to satisfy your longing, you will think you need something more than him and what he has made you to be complete and at peace. The expectation of fulfillment in relationships will always fail you, and you will hold grievances that darken your world. You will become blind to the light that guides to the narrow path. You were taught this on the mountain alone, and yet among others you forget."

The truth settled over him. His suffering was due to his attachment to his own mother. He had allowed himself to need her. The feeling had felt so natural, but it wasn't his Master's way.

And yet...

"She needs me," he said.

"I do?"

He was still confused by the nature of her presence here on the cliff. Was this his mother in the flesh? Shaka, showing himself as his mother in a vision? His mother showing herself in a vision?

"I...she's suffering."

His mother nodded, thoughtful, then turned back to the valley.

"Like you, I'm of two minds, one that sees clearly and is at perfect peace, the other that holds grievances against those who I think have wronged me. All human suffering comes from grievance. The inability to forgive that which offends us and turn the cheek. And yet we have the power to forgive and receive forgiveness. We are just blind to it most of the time."

"Kirutu..."

She faced Stephen, face serene. "My costume despises Kirutu most of the time, except when I sleep, as I do now. When I'm awake, I would scratch his eyes out and shove a dagger in his throat. I try to love him, but I hold terrible grievances against him."

His mother paused.

"The truth is, all costumes are incapable of true love, and most keep their grievances in hiding, under the dark clouds where they can't see the light. Only love will change the heart. Kirutu's heart. We came to the valley for this end, Stephen."

Her words rushed through him, as if they were more than mere waves of sound. The peace he'd forgotten was now thick in the air. A familiar tingle rode up his spine as he remembered. Truly remembered.

"I don't need to be rescued, my son. I'm whole already, in perfect peace with my Father. I know this when I sleep. When I dream, as I dream now. But when I awake, I forget most of what I know when my mind is silent. Then I see only my own terrible misery."

"You're dreaming? Are you here?"

She looked at him, eyes bright with a deep certainty that filled him with mystery.

"I've been with you all along."

She meant in spirit.

"Spirit is reality," she said, as if hearing his thoughts. "Flesh is only costume. Remember?"

He did. Perfectly.

"And yet we continue to listen to our costumes," he said. "They want to be G.o.d."

"I suffer when I'm awake because I've forgotten how to see when I'm awake. If Shaka hadn't come to my dreams so long ago, I might never have seen with eyes wide open. If he hadn't touched my eyes on a hill eighteen years ago and shared such truth, I might still be in blindness. What he shared with me, I forget when morning comes. Then the song fades and with it the full truth. And I feel terrible remorse and fear."

The story she'd written filled his mind. "Shaka called you to this valley."

"Shaka," she said. "But whenever I slept, I was with you."

She faced him. "So you see, Stephen, I never left you. I saw you as I dreamed. I still do, even now, this moment. This was the gift given to me so that I could find courage for so long."

"And who is Shaka?" he asked impulsively.

"I don't know. Perhaps an angel." A coy smile toyed with her lips. She glanced over his shoulder. "Ask him yourself."

He twisted around and started. Standing three feet from Stephen, staring out over the cliff, stood Shaka.

His teacher winked. "h.e.l.lo, Stephen. I hear you got lost."

Stephen spun back to his mother.

But his mother wasn't there.

Or was she? He slowly faced his teacher, filled with wonder.

"You..."

"Some things will remain a paradox, my son. He works in mysterious ways, and there is no mystery greater than the reality beyond flesh and bone."

"You're an angel?"

Shaka smiled. "Some might call me by that name. Words fail these mysteries. But know that you've never been alone or in danger. Ever. Only madness believed that you were."

With those words the last thread of doubt fell from Stephen's mind and he became fully aware that he was whole. Complete. Atoned for. Loved. He was love itself. As was his mother.

His body began to tremble as waves of infinite awareness and power rolled through him.

"Now you know more than you once did," Shaka said. "The crucible of all transformation is renewing your mind as it relates to others. Love surrenders all expectations, all grievances. Forgiveness is the path. Acceptance the gateway. Even as you have been forgiven, go now and release all your expectations and grievances."

Stephen thought to speak, to say that he understood. To make Shaka aware that he was seeing it all now. This was why he and his mother had been drawn to the Tulim valley-for this day. To be called beyond the laws of this world and to live as Outlaw. To find true love through forgiveness and to spread it throughout a hidden valley lost in darkness.

This was the darkness he'd seen over the village. The same madness that he'd embraced. Shaka had called both his mother and him to bring the light into this valley.

He thought to say as much, but his throat was stuffed with emotion and his chest was bursting with grat.i.tude. He could hardly breathe, much less speak.

"Deditio," Shaka said. Surrender in Latin, one of his favorite expressions. "Trust only in his Way, his Truth, his Life."

"I will," Stephen managed.

"Yes. You will. It's the only way."

Shaka stepped up to him, stared into his eyes, and offered him a consoling smile. He lifted his hand and clasped Stephen's neck, then pulled him forward and gently kissed his forehead.

"I treasure you, my son. When the way seems dark, only remember to surrender to the Truth beyond the law of this world. You are Outlaw. You and all those who follow that narrow way."

"I will," Stephen said. His voice came out weak, strained by the power sweeping though him.

Shaka took Stephen's hand and placed a medallion in his palm. It was a tribal stone with a large O carved on the surface and the word DEDITIO engraved within the circle.

"Keep this with you always as a reminder."

Stephen swallowed deeply. "Thank you."

"Close your eyes."

He did. Felt the pressure of his teacher's thumbs on his eyelids for a moment before Shaka swiped them away.

"Open them."

He opened his eyes.

"What do you see?"

Nothing had changed.

"I see you."

"Yes. You see me. But you will see more when the time comes. You will see the narrow path inside of you that very few find and even fewer follow. Very few. It is your destiny to take this path. Follow where it leads you."

Yes. Yes of course, he should. Already he knew where it would lead him.

"What if they kill us?"

Shaka smiled. Winked.

"We don't really need these costumes, now do we?"

"No."

"No. And you will not see this one again. Come to me. Your fate awaits."

And then Shaka walked away and vanished into the darkness. There was nothing more to say. Nor to see, as it pertained to Shaka.

Stephen turned. There was no sign of his mother either.

The wind whispered softly. The night was dark. He was by himself.

But he was not alone.

His mother was dreaming in peace. He too would sleep.

And then he would follow the narrow way into the Tulim valley.

Chapter Thirty.

THE SUN SHONE bright and hot over Stephen's head as he ran in a steady cadence, planting one foot before the other without breaking stride, gracefully avoiding obstacles. The drumming of each footfall on the earth provided a simple guide-three for each pull of breath-which kept his mind fixed and his resolve sound.

It was true, as Shaka had taught him, that in life there was nowhere to go, only a place to be. But in the world of flesh and bone, he ran for the Tulim valley, his mind disregarding any trouble it might bring.

Because now he remembered, without doubt, that there were problems only in the world of madness, from which he'd been rescued long ago.

He was the child of his Father. Nothing could possibly threaten his Father. Therefore, abiding in his Father, he could know no threat, much less any real problem. Wasn't this the lesson he'd learned in Shaka's ill.u.s.tration, in which G.o.d was as big as a million suns and could not be threatened by a mere mouse?

Only yesterday he'd forgotten and feared that mouse. Thinking now, he couldn't help but chuckle.

And so he ran, one stride followed by another in perfect rhythm, three footfalls for every breath; two heartbeats for every footfall.

The sun was already low in the western sky when he reached the cliff from which he and Lela had gazed into the Tulim valley. He pulled up on the rock ledge, chest heaving like a ma.s.sive bellows.

He'd half expected to see the black fog, the madness that had imprisoned the Tulim. But the valley was perfectly clear, without a hint of low cloud or mist. He thought it was because he wasn't bothered by the valley's threat.

But the moment he thought this, a black mist began to materialize, first above the distant swamps, encroaching up-valley.

He watched in fascination as the low-hanging fog formed out of thin air on all sides, flowing like long reaching fingers that coiled and flowed of their own accord, as though alive.

They joined to form a seamless river of darkness that blanketed the lower Tulim valley, where the Warik gathered for their feast at Kirutu's feet.

A feast?