Second Touch (A.D. Chronicles) by Thoene Bodie & Brock Thoene

Author:Thoene, Bodie & Brock Thoene [Thoene, Bodie]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: www.FamilyAudioLibrary.com
Published: 2009-06-12T00:00:00+00:00

in pieces. Some slight recognition of what I once was, what might have been . . . but useless now. No putting me . . . us . . . back together. This baby. A reminder of wholeness. Our prayers are wind beating against your stony face. Nothing. Nothing now. You do not move or speak to me, no matter how I wail. A trio of tsara’im approached. They were those who had been in the Valley of Mak’ob the longest time, cut off from family, friends . . . virtually all contact with the Outside. They were chedel, the living dead, in the fullest horror of all that phrase implied. By common, unspoken consent, these three had first right to see the miracle of a perfectly formed baby. One was a man whose hands were stumps—his feet also. He walked on a pair of sticks tied to his forearms. His brows were swollen: hairless ridges that overhung his eyes. His misshapen head was a ponderous mass, far too great for his spindly neck to bear much longer. Beside him was a woman. She was blind, her eyes frosted over and opaque. Her face and hands were smooth and unmarred except for her ears and lips. These protruded from her head like strangely coiled hoops of copper wire. Mother of seven children, she had neither seen nor heard from any of her loved ones nor her husband in all her residence in Mak’ob. At the front of the queue was the longest living resident of the Valley. In the cruelest irony leprosy inflicted, some of the stricken lived unnaturally long lives. The Pharisees declared that sins of those who lived on and on in suffering must be especially egregious for Elohim to lay on them such a scourge. No one now living in the settlement even knew the name of the old one; no one Outside cared. He was simply called Choly—“Grief”—because he embodied ¬every sorrow, ¬every fear, ¬every sense of abandonment by man and God alike. His visage was fierce. Hell had etched its image on his features, erasing all semblance of humanity. The stench of his flesh was like an open grave. Lily covered her nose with her hand. She tried to turn her eyes away yet could not help but stare and wonder if she was looking at the future reflection of her own face after the disease took hold. Choly resembled someone who had been burned. Ears gone. Brows, nose, cheeks, and chin all melted together in a horrifying parody of a human being consumed by an inner flame. He shambled forward and bowed his head in deep reverence. From the hole where his mouth had been came this most human entreaty: “Lady . . . dear . . . lady . . . may we who are dead . . . see . . . see . . . this . . . this beautiful . . . miracle . . . this precious . .

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