Seventh Dimension - The King - Book 2, A Young Adult Fantasy Read online

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  Visit Lorilyn Roberts’ website at http://LorilynRoberts.com

  Copyright ©2014 Lorilyn Roberts

  Smashwords Edition

  Cover design by Lisa Hainline

  Edited by Katherine Harms and Lisa Lickel

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, or by any information storage and retrieval system—except for brief quotations for the purpose of review, without written permission from the publisher.

  Taken from the Complete Jewish Bible by David H. Stern. Copyright © 1998. All rights reserved. Used by permission of Messianic Jewish Publishers, 6120 Day Long Lane, Clarksville, MD 21029. www.messianicjewish.net.

  ISBN: 9781310701665

  For names of persons depicted in this novel, similarity to any actual persons, whether living or deceased, is purely coincidental.

  To my Jewish ancestors

  and

  Jews who are still searching for the Messiah

  Special thanks to the following beta readers for making The King better than it would have been without their insightful suggestions:

  Deborah Dunson, Sally Ann Bruce, Kendra Stamy, Gregg Edwards, Hannah Bombardier, Lilly Maytree, and Rachel Liankatawa, and Felicia Mires.

  ~~~

  After a series of devastating events, a gifted, seventeen-year-old Israeli boy, Daniel Sperling, becomes the focus of a wager between good and evil. Marked by one, he travels to first century Israel and meets a doctor who becomes his mentor. When he unwittingly makes a pact with the devil and the girl he loves becomes betrothed to another, his life takes a different course—until his eyes are opened. Trapped in the seventh dimension, how far will God go to save him?

  ~~~

  “A spiritual kingdom lies all about us, enclosing us, embracing us, altogether within reach of our inner selves, waiting for us to recognize it. God Himself is here waiting our response to His Presence. This eternal world will come alive to us the moment we begin to reckon upon its reality.” – A. W. Tozer, The Pursuit of God.

  Contents

  Chapter 1 Death

  Chapter 2 The Gift

  Chapter 3 Dinner

  Chapter 4 Conflagration

  Chapter 5 Suffering

  Chapter 6 Time Warp

  Chapter 7 Whip of Rome

  Chapter 8 The Living Dead

  Chapter 9 Unspoken Gifts

  Chapter 10 Discovery

  Chapter 11 Opportunity

  Chapter 12 The Beggar

  Chapter 13 Randomness

  Chapter 14 Secrets

  Chapter 15 Attack

  Chapter 16 Announcement

  Chapter 17 House Guest

  Chapter 18 Ventriloquist

  Chapter 19 Conversations

  Chapter 20 World of Shale Snyder

  Chapter 21 Confrontation

  Chapter 22 Missing

  Chapter 23 Compromise

  Chapter 24 Differences

  Chapter 25 Betrothal

  Chapter 26 The Healing

  Chapter 27 Night

  Chapter 28 Surprise Meeting

  Chapter 29 Wanderings

  Chapter 30 Decapolis

  Chapter 31 Complications

  Chapter 32 Caesarea

  Chapter 33 Chariot Racing

  Chapter 34 Training

  Chapter 35 The Demon

  Chapter 36 First Race

  Chapter 37 Revenge

  Chapter 38 Reckoning

  Chapter 39 The Dream

  Chapter 40 Final Race

  Chapter 41 Jerusalem

  CHAPTER 1 DEATH

  “Please, God, don’t let him die!” I cried.

  General Goren’s face turned blue as the medic and nurse rushed into the room.

  The nurse barked orders. “Start chest compressions. One, two, three, four—” seconds passed.

  “No pulse,” the medic said.

  After applying gel, the nurse placed the defibrillator pads on his bare chest.

  “All clear,” she yelled.

  We stepped back and waited.

  The heart monitor remained flat.

  “Again,” the medic said.

  On the second attempt, General Goren’s eyes fluttered open.

  A faint hope stirred in the room.

  The death cat stood in the doorway. The nursing home mascot had never been wrong—maybe just this once. I wanted to yell at the cat to go away.

  “Daniel,” a voice said faintly.

  I leaned over and squeezed the General’s hand. “Yes, I am here.”

  His eyes met mine. I drew nearer, avoiding the wires leading to the equipment. His breathing was labored. I was thankful the nurse and medic didn’t insist I leave.

  “There is something I need to tell you,” he said faintly.

  I shook my head. “No, save your energy. You don’t need to tell me now.”

  “I must,” he pleaded. “You must know.”

  I glanced at the medic and nurse. He was in no condition to talk. “Know—what?”

  He squeezed my hand reassuringly. “You saved my life at Synagogue Hall.”

  “What?” The man must be hallucinating.

  The General continued. “May, 1948—hospital in Jewish Quarter.”

  “No. It was someone else. I’m Daniel Sperling, son of Aviv, a volunteer at the Beth Hillel Nursing Home. I’m seventeen years old.”

  “Let him talk,” said the medic. He lowered his voice, “In case he dies.”

  “Don’t say that,” I whispered.

  The cat stood in the doorway—watching.

  General Goren pulled me closer. “No, Son. It was you. They carried me in on a stretcher. I had a collapsed lung. The Arabs had burned everything but the hospital. The flames—cries of children—horrible. Mothers and fathers—all gone. The children—” he stopped, unable to continue.

  I reassured him. “You did the best you could. Everyone did.”

  General Goren flinched. “Dr. Laufer and Dr. Riss had a flashlight. Nurse Tzviah tried—” his voiced cracked again. “I told them not to waste any more time on me, to help the others.”

  I’d never heard this story. The war hero rarely talked about those weeks in Jerusalem. Despite his successes many years later, he apparently never forgot that night.

  “The reinforcements didn’t arrive in time. We held out as long as we could.”

  “Forgive yourself.”

  Tears welled up and he coughed. His eyes stared and the medic shocked him again.

  “We have a heartbeat, a faint one,” the nurse said.

  Should I leave so he could save his strength or stay and let him finish?

  General Goren said, “I must tell you this before I’m gone.”

  “I’m listening.”

  The room became quiet. The only sound was his weak, raspy voice.

  “You had a scar on your forehead. You walked over and touched me. The pain left. I cried out to the nurse—I wanted to know who you were—but you were gone.”

  My hero had mistaken me for someone else.

  “Thank you for saving my life,” the General said. “I didn’t tell you before because I didn’t think you would believe me.”

  I squeezed his hand.

  “God has great plans for you. You’re an angel.” The old man stopped breathing.

  “He’s gone,” said the medic.

  We checked the monitor. The war hero who had survived so many battles was no longer with us.

  I ran out the door, tripping over the cat. I stopped and turned to face the poor crea
ture. “Sorry,” I muttered.

  His gray eyes stared into space, but the cat’s purrs reached my ears. I reached down and picked him up. Stroking his head gently, I leaned over and kissed him. Couldn’t the blind animal have been wrong just this once?

  CHAPTER 2 THE GIFT

  Three Weeks Later

  I trudged up Mount Zion to the Old City reciting my prepared speech. “Dear Mother, I’m not going back to the Family and Youth Treatment Center. Crazy people don’t know they are crazy. Patients who punch walls and claim to see monsters in the dark will make me crazy if I stay, if that’s what you want—” no, that sounded disrespectful.

  I approached the Prayer Plaza. An Orthodox Jew wearing a fur hat sat in front of the Western Wall. He, along with others deep in prayer, faced the most sacred wall in the world—the only remnant from the temple still standing.

  I passed a bookstore selling Jewish T shirts, jewelry, and photos of Mount Zion. The closer I came to home, the more I hurried. Familiarity put me at ease, though tensions ran high in the streets.

  The Family and Youth Treatment Center forbade TVs. Too much bad news, they said. When was there not bad news? I would not go back—my day pass would be permanent, even if I had to run away.

  The sign at the gate, Jewish Quarter Street, greeted me. I walked faster, anticipating the surprise on the faces of my mother and sister. Of course, I would have to explain. I’d worry about that later.

  I heard the approach of running feet behind me on the stone walkway. Someone called my name, “Daniel, wait.”

  I stopped and turned. A young girl about my age ran up to me. I didn’t recognize her, but she seemed to know who I was.

  “Hi,” the young girl said, catching her breath.

  I searched my memory. “Do I know you?”

  “I don’t think so. I’m Lilly Ruston, a friend of Maurice.”

  How did she know Maurice? A brilliant mathematician, he always helped me with calculus.

  She dropped her eyes, as if now embarrassed by our impromptu meeting.

  “Were you looking for me?”

  She groped for words. “Yes. Daniel, we’ve been praying for you, about the loss of your father and now General Goren.”

  “Thank you.”

  An awkward silence followed. I didn’t know what to say to the stranger.

  She edged towards me. “I have something to give you. I hope you will take it. I mean, if you don’t want to, I’ll understand, but God told me to give this to you.”

  I looked down at the book in her hand and read the title. Jewish New Testament, translation by David H. Stern. Should I refuse it? I’d never read a book like that.

  “Thank you,” I offered. “I might look at it.” I lied.

  “It’s written for Jews,” she said.

  “We aren’t practicing Jews, except for the holidays, like Hanukkah and Yom Kippur.”

  “I wanted you to know we’re praying for you. God told me to give you this book,” she said again. Her voice trailed off, as if she had lost the courage to say more.

  I checked my watch.

  “Are you returning home? I mean, have you been discharged?” she asked.

  So she knew I had been at the Treatment Center. “Yes, I’m going home.” I looked around. “Where do you live?”

  “In the Armenian Quarter. My father is a professor at the Institute of Holy Land Studies.”

  “Oh.” I remembered seeing students outside the building on several occasions, but I didn’t know much about the college.

  “He teaches Arabic.”

  “Can you speak it?” I asked.

  She laughed. “No. I speak English and a little Hebrew.”

  “You speak Hebrew well,” I corrected her.

  A brisk wind blew her long brown hair over her shoulders.

  Under different circumstances, I’d have been interested in her, but I wanted to get home. “Well, thanks for the…” I searched for the correct name of the book.

  “New Testament.”

  I held it awkwardly. “What was your name again?”

  “Lilly Ruston. Don’t tell anyone I gave it to you.”

  “I won’t. Thanks for your prayers.”

  “Maurice said you were a good friend.”

  I nodded and started towards the Jewish Quarter.

  “Stay safe,” she hollered as I walked away.

  CHAPTER 3 DINNER

  As I approached our apartment, I remembered my father. If only things had been different. He was a passionate businessman and treated the Arabs with respect. In fact, they were his best customers. His family had done business with them in Syria for years.

  He knew the risks. He trusted them too much, we used to tell him, especially when Syria disintegrated into splinter factions.

  Why would someone want to kidnap him—the conclusion the authorities came to when all the leads came up empty. Even though the police never found his body, we assumed he was dead. Two years later, the wound festered, unable to heal.

  Our history was full of such sad stories—everyone had their own version. Jews had more versions than everyone else—the historians were right. We were different.

  I opened the gate to the side alley.

  I had never known a time when war was not a possibility. Soldiers carrying guns on the streets were commonplace. Even women had to serve—our survival as a nation depended on everyone being a Zionist. Despite the past, though, I didn’t want to live anywhere else.

  Recently military planes had increased practice runs in the wilderness of Judea. There they could perform military maneuvers without disturbing the civilian population.

  When I was younger and camped with friends in the remote area, I would look up and see the birds fly over and wait for the sonic boom. That’s how I learned sound traveled more slowly than light.

  As I climbed the stone steps to our apartment, lingering doubts returned. Perhaps I should have stayed at the halfway house. I’d brought some sanity to the poor souls, if not even a little humor. Just as birds perceive the arrival of winter before the first frost, the collapse of peace talks and military maneuvers pointed to war.

  I glanced at the Jewish New Testament. Too bad a dumpster wasn’t nearby so I could throw it away. I set the book by the front door.

  When I poked my head inside, my mother was cooking over the stove. I slipped by her to say “hi” to Martha. My sister was reading a book curled up on the sofa. When she saw me, she jumped to her feet. “Daniel!”

  I wrapped my arms around her. “So, Mother’s turn to cook, huh?”

  Martha laughed. “I get to do the dishes.”

  Mother ran into the living room. “Daniel, when did you get here?”

  “Just now.”

  A confused look spread across her face. “Did they discharge you?”

  “Sort of.”

  Tears weld up in her eyes. “Oh, Daniel, I missed you.” She rushed over and hugged me.

  I forced myself not to get emotional. We often didn’t see things the same way, but I loved her as any good Jewish son would.

  The aroma from the kitchen awakened my hearty appetite. “Am I in time for supper?”

  Mother smiled. She had pulled up her hair in a bun and wore a long, cotton, flared skirt and modest green blouse. “Sit and chat with your sister. Only a few more minutes.”

  Martha motioned for me to join her on the sofa, but I chose the chair instead. I sat and leaned back, rubbing my hands along the leather arms. I closed my eyes briefly, thankful to be home. When I opened them, Martha was smiling.

  My sister wore tight blue jeans and a white cotton blouse—no doubt an expensive name brand, though I wouldn’t know the difference if it were a cheap counterfeit. I tried to see what she was reading, but couldn’t—probably a hot romantic book by an American author.

  The view of Mount Zion through our dining room glass doors looked the same as always. Everything was as I’d left it a few weeks earlier. The old photograph still hung on the wall behind t
he leather sofa, taken at Yad Vashem when Martha and I were young. Mother’s grandparents had been victims of the Holocaust and she had insisted we visit the museum.

  My guitar sat in the corner. I was the only one who was musical in the family.

  We chatted about school and business, avoiding the political situation. Martha whispered, “I bet you left on your own, didn’t you?”

  I put my finger to my lips. I couldn’t fool her, but I’d rather not confess to my mother until I had to.

  “How is the business?” I hoped to change the subject to something less edgy.

  Martha caught on. “It’s okay. Well—sort of, except for Moshe doesn’t—”

  “What’s the problem?”

  Martha shook her head.

  Ever since our father’s disappearance, we had depended on Moshe to restock our fabrics and textiles from Syria. Few were willing to make the perilous journey, but we paid him well.

  “Food is ready,” Mother said. “Let’s eat.”

  The dining room table brimmed with hot food—my favorites, turkey and gravy, steamed white rice, avocado salad, and my favorite pastry, Boureka. Martha said the blessing, one of the few religious traditions we kept.

  Mother watched me intently. “I’m glad you’re back, though no one told me you were being discharged.”

  I knew the topic would come up. I was still a minor.

  I set down my fork and wiped my mouth with a napkin. “I need to tell you,” I began.

  Mother’s eyes got wide. “What’s the matter?”

  “I got a day pass, but I’m not going back.”

  “How did you get a day pass without a chaperon?”