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The 49th Mystic (Beyond the Circle Series #1)

The 49th Mystic (Beyond the Circle Series #1)

by Ted Dekker
The 49th Mystic (Beyond the Circle Series #1)

The 49th Mystic (Beyond the Circle Series #1)

by Ted Dekker

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Overview

Some say the great mystery of how one can live in two worlds at once died with Thomas Hunter many years ago. Still others that the gateway to that greater reality was and is only the stuff of dreams.

They are wrong. In the small town of Eden, Utah, a blind girl named Rachelle Matthews is about to find out just how wrong.

When a procedure meant to restore Rachelle's sight goes awry, she begins to dream of another world so real that she wonders if Earth might only be a dream experienced when she falls asleep in that reality. Who is a simple blind girl to have such strange and fantastic dreams?

She's the prophesied one who must find and recover five ancient seals--in both worlds--before powerful enemies destroy her. If Rachelle succeeds in her quest, peace will reign. If she fails, both worlds will forever be locked in darkness.

So begins a two-volume saga of high stakes and a mind-bending quest to find an ancient path that will save humanity. The clock is ticking; the end rushes forward.

Ready? Set?

Dream.


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Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781493414017
Publisher: Baker Publishing Group
Publication date: 05/15/2018
Series: Beyond the Circle Series , #1
Sold by: Barnes & Noble
Format: eBook
Pages: 432
Sales rank: 265,019
File size: 7 MB

About the Author

Ted Dekker is the award-winning and New York Times bestselling author of more than forty novels, with over 10 million copies sold worldwide. He was born in the jungles of Indonesia to missionary parents, and his upbringing as a stranger in a fascinating and sometimes frightening culture fueled his imagination. Dekker's passion is simple--to explore truth through mind-bending stories that invite readers to see the world through a different lens. His fiction has been honored with numerous awards, including two Christy Awards, two Inspy Awards, an RT Reviewers' Choice Award, and an ECPA Gold Medallion. In 2013, NPR readers nationwide put him in the Top 50 Thriller Authors of All Time. Dekker lives in Nashville, Tennessee, with his wife, Lee Ann.

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

IT WAS the same nightmare I'd had every night for the past ten years, beginning at age six. The dream betrayed my deepest fears that nothing would ever change, but still, it was just a dream. I reminded myself every morning.

I couldn't have been more wrong.

My name is Rachelle Matthews, and I was born in a small mountain community well off the grid. The town was roughly ninety miles southeast of Salt Lake City, Utah — close enough to find help if the need arose, and far enough to be a world unto itself. When I say off the grid I mean completely self-sustaining in every way imaginable.

Eden, population 153 at last counting, sourced its own utilities and food, all generated and grown within the valley. We had our own law enforcement, our own hospital, our own government, and everything else required to sustain and protect life on an island.

Only we weren't on an island. We were in a deep mountain valley shaped like a bowl roughly two miles in diameter. Actually, most geologists would call the huge depression in the Rocky Mountains a sinkhole rather than a valley, but who wants to call their home a sinkhole? Certainly not Simon Moses, founder and incorporator of Eden, Utah. He envisioned a heaven on earth, a safe and peaceful environment, the polar opposite of the conflicted world we lived in.

But Eden was a sinkhole. My father, David, said the tall red cliffs that surrounded the valley made that much clear. And the only way in or out of the sinkhole was through a three-hundred-foot-long tunnel near the top of the western face.

My father once told me Eden looked like God had taken his walking stick and slammed it down into the middle of the mountains.

I was only seven at the time, and it was easy for me to picture a huge God standing over me with a stick, ready to hit me if I wandered off the proper path. That's what Simon Moses, whom we also called the Judge, preached. The last thing I wanted was to be squashed by that stick when God slammed it down.

"I don't like that image," I said. "And you don't really believe in God."

"Sure I do. Just not the way everyone else here does." My father believed God was more in our minds than he was a person in the sky with a big stick. "Either way, one day you'll be able to see the cliffs for yourself and you'll see just how beautiful they are," he said.

I couldn't see the cliffs the way my father did, because I'd been blind since I was a baby. Miranda said I probably had seen for the first five or six months, until the irregular formation of my red blood cells, a result of sickle cell anemia, caused all kinds of complications. Among them, very fair skin and damaged retinas.

My father was a psychotherapist, not a physician, but he'd made the healing of my blindness his life's sole ambition, and he knew more about how the brain and body work than most doctors. According to him, there was something more than sickle cell going on with me. Sickle cell was an inherited disease passed on by one or both parents who have the same trait. Neither my mother nor my father had this trait.

He sometimes wondered if my sickle cell anemia was linked to the complications and stress of my birth, which nearly killed me and did kill my mother, also named Rachelle. She'd given her life for mine, he once said. He'd never quite recovered from her death. Neither had I.

Still, I had learned to be practical about my situation in life, despite all the fears that haunted me. I had no mother, but I had a father who was sure I would see again if I followed his way. And I believed in a God who would ultimately save me if I was very careful and followed his way. I thought of my dad and God as two halves of a whole, both offering me hope.

In fact, I did have sight, just not the typical kind. Actually, I saw two different ways.

The first way was in my dreams. Not only did I dream in color, my dreams felt, smelled, and looked more real than anything in my waking blind life. Everything was still a little fuzzy and muted, but clear enough for me to experience it visually. For me, it was vivid seeing, because I had nothing else to compare it to.

Why I could see in color while dreaming was the subject of wild speculation. Maybe because I hadn't been blind for the first few months of my life, I knew what color looked like. But infants don't really see color well at that stage. And in my dreams I did.

The problem was, most of my dreams were nightmares of Shadow Man always saying the same thing, always blinding me, mocking me, condemning me. Those nightmares weren't just kinda real, but so real that I dreaded falling asleep. I called it my nightmare sight.

From a psychological perspective, nightmares don't create new fears as much as they reflect deep hidden fears. The mind has to process these in some abstract way so it won't melt down.

What kinds of fears? For starters, the fear that I would always be blind, always suffer the same nightmares that had haunted me for the past ten years. Every time I closed my eyes to sleep I begged God to take away my nightmare sight.

But I had other more common fears as well. In fact, all negative emotions are rooted in fear, most commonly fear of loss, my father said. The fear of losing worthiness created jealousy, fear of losing honor created anger, fear of losing security created anxiety, and so it went. In the end, fear was the only challenge facing all humans, he believed.

The second kind of sight I experienced had nothing to do with sleep. While awake, I saw through echolocation, the same kind of "sight" that bats and dolphins use. I wasn't the first human to "see" in this way, but my father said I was probably among the best. Daniel Kish, perhaps the best-known blind man in the world and a hero to me, had his eyes removed in 1967 at thirteen months old due to retinal cancer. He mastered echolocation well enough to ride his bicycle through any park.

A specialist had come to the valley to examine me on two different occasions, and he'd been so impressed with my ability that he begged my father to allow further testing. So many blind people could benefit if we allowed him to study my brain, he insisted. The thought terrified me. My father refused.

While awake and using echolocation, I didn't see color. Or any definition, like features on a face. I only saw shapes. I saw them by clicking my tongue and almost immediately hearing the sound waves that returned to me after reflecting off objects. My brain took those very faint echoes and measured the distance, size, and shape of those objects around me, then sent the information to my visual cortex, where an image was created.

How can the brain learn to see shapes based on sound waves? One word: neuroplasticity. Not so long ago, science commonly held that the brain's neurons were essentially fixed at birth through genetic imprinting, but evidence to the contrary showed how the mind can create any number of new neurons and rewire old ones based on environmental input.

The first study to examine a human utilizing echolocation was in 2014, when researchers used fMRI to take high-resolution images of the brain while subjects who'd learned to echolocate clicked and "saw." Surprisingly, the visual cortex at the back of the brain, not the auditory centers of the brain, lit up, showing pronounced neural activity. The subjects really were "seeing" with the visual cortex. Their brains had rewired themselves to use sound and ears rather than light and eyes to perceive shapes, dimensions, and distances.

Echolocation didn't make me so special. I was only being human. We've known for some time the human brain can be rewired and reprogrammed. This is what my mind had done, but only because I, encouraged by my father, had developed the intention to rewire it.

I was much happier seeing through my clicks while awake than seeing in nightmares while asleep. I comforted myself with the thought that at least those nightmares never crossed over into my waking life in Eden.

And then one day they did and changed my life forever.

The date was Friday, June 8, 2018. The time was just after ten in the morning — I knew that because I had the news on, as undoubtedly most Americans did. Terrorists had executed a second wave of targeted cyber attacks against the power grid and thrown much of the East Coast into darkness.

My father was at the hospital that morning. I was standing over the stove, cooking eggs, my favorite food bar none. Eggs and ketchup.

I had one ear on the sizzle of the frying eggs and one on the voices coming over the television in the living room. Subtle shifts in the sound of the frying told me how well cooked the eggs were.

Most of my brain's processing power was occupied with the television. How a person said something spoke as loudly as their words, and in the absence of visual cues, I had learned to read inflections better than most.

The first cyber attack had hit the Northeast on Wednesday, two days earlier. It cut off power to over twenty million homes and businesses, including all of Manhattan, proving that the vulnerability of the power grid was one of America's greatest weaknesses. Not only because power plants and substations all ran on code that could be hacked, but because without electricity, everything stops.

And I mean everything.

At the moment, the voice on the NBC broadcast belonged to Cynthia Bellmont, a young woman in her thirties. Blonde hair and too much makeup, my father had said.

Makeup — something I didn't bother with, thanks to my limitations. My skin was pale and made my face look like a "ghost in a hood" because of my dark hair, if you listened to Sally, who was also sixteen. Today that ghost was dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt. I knew black made my skin look paler, but I wore only black so I could grab any shirt and know what I was wearing. Besides, although makeup would give my face color, any attempt to apply it myself would surely turn me into a clown.

"Someone has to be held accountable," Cynthia was saying. "The Wall Street Journal, among dozens of other respected publications, warned of precisely this vulnerability numerous times over the past five years and no one listened."

"Look, you're a news agency. Did NBC listen?" That was Martin Seymore, grid expert. "Pointing fingers will come later. Restoring power should be our only focus, and that's looking more difficult by the hour."

Cynthia hesitated. "So how do we minimize the damage? Wall Street has been locked down for two days. There's a run on grocery stores and looting in some areas, based on reports we're receiving. Are there plans to send in the National Guard to restore order?"

"Send them from where? Governmental agencies like the National Guard are as dependent on power as Wall Street."

"Surely —"

"This morning's attack affected another forty-five power stations and nearly five thousand of the fifty-five-thousand substations on the East Coast. They've struck twice in three days, which means they could do more. Power stations farther west are reluctant to reroute energy to the east, concerned they might be next. If the president were to send assets like the National Guard to the east, it would leave the west vulnerable."

A pause.

"Things will get worse before they get better."

There was an edge to Seymore's voice that drew my stare. By stare, I mean turning my head so that both ears are equidistant from an object, thus allowing me to detect shapes and judge distances.

I clicked several times by habit, and the shapes of the room came into view. It was like turning on a small light for me. I could make out the objects in our small kitchen and living room, as familiar to me as the rest of the house, down to each edge and corner.

To my right: the electric stove with a range hood two feet over the burners. To the right of that: the refrigerator. Ahead of me a breakfast bar separated the tiny kitchen from the living room. There, two stuffed chairs and a couch were grouped around the television and a fireplace.

To my left, a hall led back to three bedrooms — one mine, another my father's, and the third a study that we shared.

My face was turned to the four-foot, flat-panel television as I imagined the looks on the faces of the worried talking heads. By the sound of Seymore's voice, the situation was worse than anyone was saying.

I forgot about my eggs as they continued to talk, now urging calm and suggesting steps that anyone in the west might take to prepare for the "unlikely" event the attacks cascaded to the Pacific coast.

How much worse could it get? The government always figured out a way to dig the country out of holes, right? Americans were inventive and resilient.

But I already knew how much worse it could get. Every person in Eden knew. "One day," Simon Moses often insisted, "the whole world will face catastrophic collapse. But we in Eden will prevail. We are and will always be a totally self-sufficient community protected by the walls God has given us for our safety."

I had always been more concerned about my personal fears than Eden's ability to survive nationwide catastrophes. My world of virtual darkness and nightmares kept me somewhat insulated from all the survival talk.

But what if it was actually happening?

Without electricity, cell phones and their networks go completely silent. Computers become hunks of plastic and metal. Commerce comes to a sudden stop. The first attack on Wednesday had already cost over a trillion dollars due to loss of trade, Cynthia Bellmont said.

But that was the least of it. Refrigeration ceases and food spoils in a matter of days. Gas stations shut down. All flights are grounded. Sewage pumps fail and wastewater backs up. Water is cut off. Big cities become death traps with no way in or out except by foot. Survival instincts kick in and humans begin to do whatever is necessary to protect their own lives.

Chaos breaks out.

Maybe Simon Moses was as right about the world ending as he was about following God's law. Honestly, the thought of a nationwide collapse had a calming effect on me. It would prove Shadow Man wrong, right? He said I would bring blindness to the world, but here the failure of the grid was doing it without my help. Not that I believed my nightmares. They were only symbolic, like the numbers, seven times seven. Fullness. Of course I didn't really believe my nightmares.

But a tiny part of me did, and that part gnawed at me whenever they crossed my mind, which was far too often.

I turned my attention back to the eggs, heard that I'd let them go a little too long, and quickly scooped them onto the plate I'd placed on the counter, right next to the stove.

Now the ketchup. I stepped to the fridge, pulled the door open, and scanned the contents with a few quick clicks. Sonic waves reflected back to my ears and traveled to my visual cortex, where they were converted to shapes and sizes that showed me what was there. I knew them well. For my sake my father always bought the exact same items.

Mayonnaise, mustard, pickles, leftovers in a large Tupperware — that would be the sauerkraut and sausages from last night — milk jug. No ketchup? We always had ...

Then I remembered. I'd taken the ketchup with some fries to my room last night. Must have left it on my desk. I closed the fridge and headed down the hall. Could have clicked, but I was so well spatially oriented in the house that I didn't need to. If I didn't feel like clicking, distances, angles, and slight variations in temperatures guided me in this familiar place.

I did click at the door, just to see that it was closed, before turning the knob and pushing it open. Three clicks and I saw the bottle of ketchup on my desk, right next to my computer.

The keys on my keyboard were raised with Braille, but I almost always used voice-recognition software that rendered the Braille mostly unnecessary.

I was reaching for the ketchup bottle when the talking heads on the living room television went silent midsentence. But it was more than the silence that stopped me. It was the tiny popping sound that a television makes when it's turned off.

We'd lost power? But no ... I could hear the hum of the refrigerator.

I turned toward the door. "Dad?"

(Continues…)



Excerpted from "The 49th Mystic"
by .
Copyright © 2018 Kiwone, Inc. f/s/o Ted Dekker.
Excerpted by permission of Baker Publishing Group.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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