Excerpt from The Light of Taybayel

S. L. Hill-Tanquist
copyright 1998

Here is an excerpt from my book that is written from the point of view of a Christian girl (Rachel), a Muslim teen (Ibrahim), and a teen from a fantasy world:

CHAPTER I
Rachel: Christmas Eve
Gaston, Oregon, U.S.A.

Some of the best, the worst, and the strangest things have happened to me. This story starts with the very worst thing that ever happened to me, which is a bummer—-but sometimes that’s the way stories go.

Three years ago I was twelve, Marc was three, and Momma had cancer.

It was Christmas Eve when Dad told me the doctors thought Momma was suffering unduly--trying to stay alive for my sake and Marc’s sake even though the cancer should have already killed her. Dad said Momma’s pain couldn’t be relieved without strong medication that might put Momma into a coma—or end her life.
“It’s not that she’s afraid to die,” Dad said. “She’s afraid that if she takes the pain medication and it kills her, we’ll think she abandoned us. She thinks...”
He swallowed and looked away, like he usually did when he wasn’t being truthful.
“She thinks you and Marc hate her for having cancer. She doesn’t seem to think you and Marc can survive without her. I’ve tried to tell her that’s not true.”
He looked me straight in the eyes. “I need you to help me. Tell her it’s all right for her to go.”
I swallowed an impulse to vomit. I didn’t hate Momma for having cancer, but I hated the cancer. It was evil! Dying was evil! Momma was right to fight with her last strength. It was definitely not all right for her to go.
“Rachel, do you understand?”
I understood. I understood that Dad did not know or care how I felt. He had always acted as if, in his mind, I did not exist as a separate person with my own thoughts and feelings, my own desires and pain. He treated me like I was something that existed for his use.
It was Momma who had listened to me as though what I said mattered, as though I myself mattered.
But I was going to lose Momma, no matter what I did. If I refused to tell Momma it was all right to die, Dad would blame me for Momma’s pain. He would hate me as much as, at that moment, I hated him.
I thought about running away, but where would I go? I was too young to get a job or a place to live or food to eat. Life without Dad was not a good option, especially since it would mean Marc would lose his mother and sister at the same time. He would have no one except his father—and Dad always treated Marc like he was another thing that existed for Dad’s use.
I thought about running off with Marc, but we’d probably starve. The terrible truth was: Marc and I couldn’t survive without Dad. I didn’t have a choice. I would have to tell Momma it was all right to die, even if it ripped my heart in two.
“I understand,” I said. “I’ll tell her.”
So it came to pass on Christmas Eve, at the age of twelve, that I told Momma the most terrible lie of my life: “Dad and I talked and we don’t want you to keep hurting.”
That much was true.
“I know it’s not your fault.”
I stroked Momma’s hair. “I know you aren’t, you know, doing this on purpose.” More truth--maybe it would make the lie easier. I took a deep breath.
“So it’s all right, Momma. You can stop fighting. You can just...stop. We’ll be fine.”
Momma was frowning at me. She probably sensed the lie. She was good at that kind of thing. I could not bear the thought that Momma might ask me to explain myself. “I’ll take care of Marc and Dad. I’ll make it all right, Momma!”
That was a whopper and a lot more than I had meant to say, but I found myself saying more: “It’s my Christmas present to you, Momma. I promise! I’ll make sure everything is all right!”
Dad was standing behind me, nodding--as though that would force my words to be true.
Momma sighed. “Rachel,” she said softly, sadly. “That’s a big promise.”
“I know, Momma. I know.”
I left the room as Dad gave Momma a large dose of pain medication.
Marc was in the living room clutching his Freddie-doll with one hand and sucking his thumb with the other. I gathered him into my arms and carried him, doll and all, to the old overstuffed rocker. I held him, held him, rocking furiously. I felt like I was bleeding inside.
It was still Christmas Eve when Momma died.

A year later Christmas assailed us with lights and decorations, TV specials and sale inserts, carols and an excess of Santas. I ignored it all. We had no tree, no cookies, no midnight Mass. Our only gifts came from Momma’s sister.

On my fourteenth Christmas, Dad’s sister and mother wrote to say I should stop wallowing in self-pity, people went through worse things than losing their mothers, and I should make good on my promise and actually take care of Marc and “poor Dad.” They sent a check so I could buy gifts for my father and brother. I felt angry, guilty, and incurably sad.

When the third Christmas since Momma died came along, I gave the guilt checks to Dad along with Christmas lists from me and Marc. Marc and I worked on handmade gifts and hung out stockings. I baked and decorated the house inside and out.
On Christmas Eve I convinced Dad to drive us to a farm to cut a homegrown, Oregon tree.
I invited my friend, Ibrahim Warsi, to join us. Ibrahim celebrates Christmas, but it doesn’t mean the same to him since he’s Muslim and celebrates Jesus as a great prophet rather than “God’s son.” But Ibrahim is the kindest person I know and I was hoping his good spirits would make the outing a happy one. We’re both 15 and have been best friends since we were seven. He is gorgeous with milk chocolate skin and brown eyes so warm it makes my heart turn over to look at him.
I’m medium-height and have blue eyes. My hair is brown and thick—-on rainy days it’s like a bush.
Marc is six and small for his age. I cut his thick blond hair in the shape of a bowl. People say he has the face of an angel. I think of him more as a pain.
It started to snow before we left for the tree farm. “This is going to be great!” I said. “We can have hot chocolate when we get back!”
But I was expecting too much. Marc insisted on joining Ibrahim and me in the backseat. When I objected, Marc kicked me. “I want to sit by Ibr’him,” he said.
“You sit by the window,” I said. “You can see out better.”
“You sit by the window!” Marc said.
“Ibrahim needs the window. He gets carsick.”
“I wanna sit by Ibr’him!” shouted Marc, making a wild scramble for the middle seat and getting his seat belt fastened before I could stop him.
“It’s all right, Rachel, I’m here for you,” Ibrahim said across the top of Marc’s head. We touched fingers and I fought back tears.
A minute later, Marc and I were arguing about whether the windows should be up or down (up), what music to play (Christmas), and how loudly (this argument went on for so long that Dad turned the radio off and threatened to take us home without a tree).
Marc started singing "Hark, the Herald Angels Sing!" at the top of his lungs and off-key. I told him to shut up. Marc said I should shut up.
“Did you know that ‘hark’ means ‘listen,’?” Ibrahim asked Marc. “How are you supposed to listen and sing at the same time?”
I laughed. “Maybe it should be “Hark, and save us, Herald Angels: Marc is trying to sing!”
“That isn’t funny!” Marc said.
“Let’s listen,” Ibrahim said, “and see if we can hear angels.”
What we heard was Dad cursing the Oregon drivers who, being accustomed to rain, were sliding unpredictably in the snow. He was driving so aggressively that I clamped my mouth shut to keep from crying out in fear. The tires squealed angrily as we turned onto a dirt road where a sign said U-Cut Xmas Trees.
"You have ten minutes to pick a tree," Dad growled. “If I hear an argument about it, we’ll go home without one.”
Marc crawled over my lap and dashed out of the car, his Freddie-doll flapping behind him.
Ibrahim and I were climbing out of the backseat when we heard Marc shout, “Rach’! Ibr’him! Up here! Let's get this one!"
"Oh, no," I groaned. "He's probably found a mutant telephone pole." I raced up the hill to the border of the tree Farm.
Marc was pointing to a pathetic evergreen. It was mashed against a fence, its top was broken out, its branches crisscrossed in every direction, and its trunk seemed unable to settle on a vertical orientation.
Marc's face was alive with excitement. "We made it in ten minutes, Rach’, an' it's a really special tree!"
"That tree,” I said dangerously, “is uglier than you are!"
"You have to look with nice-eyes,” Marc said. "Mrs. Martin says when somebody diff'rent comes to school, we have to look with nice-eyes 'til we see how special they are--and the more we see how special people are, the easier it is to look with nice-eyes."
"She wasn't talking about Christmas trees, wombat!"
"It's special an’ I like it!”
"It's totally ugly and we're not getting it!" By now I was shouting.
“But I’ve got nice-eyes an’ you don’t--an’ anyway Daddy said we’ve gotta agree!”
"I'm not agreeing, so pick a different one!"
"But I really like this one," Marc said, his eyes filling with tears.
"Stop it!" I yelled. I was so angry I packed a hand-full of snow into a hard ball and threw it at Marc.
Marc hugged his Freddie-doll, his eyes wide with hurt.
I started packing another snowball.
“Rachel, what’s going on?” Ibrahim asked.
“Marc wants this...this sick excuse for a Christmas tree—and it’s probably the ugliest thing in the history of earth! I’m sick of the way he ruins everything I try to do!” I aimed the snowball.
Marc turned and ran, shouting, "I'm gonna tell on you!" He was halfway down the hill, running as fast as his short legs would carry him, when two things happened: an earthquake struck with such violence that the ground ripped open beneath his feet and the snowball—having been thrown with all my strength--landed in the middle of Marc’s back, pushing him into the crack in the earth.
I screamed.
Marc flung out his arms and wailed as he disappeared into the open crack in the earth. His voice echoed faintly and faded into silence.
"We've got to get him out!" I yelled. I ran to the place where Marc had disappeared and knelt at the edge of the crack. The earthquake had left a chasm that was several yards wide, but looked bottomless. There was no sign of Marc below.
“Rachel, this ground isn’t stable!” Ibrahim shouted. “You can’t do Marc any good if…”
At that moment I realized that I was kneeling on a shelf of grass and roots only a few inches thick. As Ibrahim grabbed my arm, the ground leaned into the chasm. Ibrahim tried to jump free, but the ground broke off under our feet.
Together we plummeted into the abyss.
We fell and fell as if there really was no bottom to the chasm. It grew absolutely dark.
Suddenly, as if a corner had been turned, and we began to drift impossibly slowly. Something was bearing us up, like a balloon with a slow leak.
"No one could survive a fall like this," Ibrahim said, failing to register the fact that if we had been falling in the usual way he wouldn’t have been able to talk about it. “Poor Marc!”
"Don't say that!" I snapped.
"Grandma says we won't hurt anymore after we die," Ibrahim said philosophically.
"Of course we won’t, zebra bean!" I yelled. "There won't be any ‘us’ anymore!"
“I thought you believed in life after death.”
“Yeah, well, I can’t seem to get past the death part right this minute!”
“It’s going to be all right, Rachel,” Ibrahim said gently. I became aware of his hand holding my arm. His touch was reassuring--I felt as though he was holding me with more than his hand. Peace radiated from him. I yawned.
"Sleep," whispered a voice inside my head. "Leave your pain and sleep."
"Whoa! Look at that!"
"Hush, Ib! I'm going to sleep."
"That’s strange: I feel sleepy, too. But never mind that. Look, Rachel! There’s a light below us: I think we’re going to hit it!"
"That’s nice," I murmured, half asleep.
Angry voices floated across a vast distance.
"It's totally ugly and we're not getting it!"
“But I’ve got nice-eyes an’ you don’t--an’ anyway Daddy said we’ve gotta agree!”
"I'm not agreeing, so pick a different one!"
"But I really like this one!"
"Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!"
I was throwing something at Marc. His eyes were wide with hurt. I was being drawn into Marc's eyes, drawn into the sadness of a small boy who was rarely held, a boy who depended on an undependable sister for comfort she could not give. His grief struck me like a knife. I watched in unspeakable horror as Marc fell into a black pit. "It's my fault," I was saying. “...It’s my fault! I’m sorry, Momma!"

CHAPTER II
Ibrahim: Dreaming Innocence
Garden of Eternal Sleep, Location Unknown

I tightened my grip on Rachel's arm as we fell. A rectangle of light was rushing up toward us. It grew brighter as it drew nearer. Something had been slowing our fall and it now became stronger or denser until we seemed to be falling in slow motion. We bounced through the light and found ourselves on a bed of grass.
Or, rather, I found myself on a bed of grass near Rachel, who was asleep or unconscious.
We were in a garden. I have been in abundant gardens, but the abundance of this garden was beyond earthly possibility. It felt extraordinarily alive. Energy emanated from the trees and bushes and grass. The air smelled of warm earth, of flowers, and of many kinds of fruit ripening in the sun.
The sunlight was real in the same way it is real in Oregon (when it isn’t raining). The garden was not real in the same way, though I can’t explain it better than that other than to say it was the holiest place I’ve ever been.
Marc and Rachel were snoozing near a rectangular hole in the rock cliff that had been the door we had fallen through and into the garden. It was shimmering with dim, gray light.
As I watched, the door disappeared. In its place was solid rock: part of a cliff that rose many meters in a smooth vertical wall before its upper ridge met cloudless blue sky.
I am ashamed to say that I was trembling from the aftermath of the earthquake, from the great fall to what I had thought would be our death, and from the shock of watching our route home disappear.
“Sleep,” a voice whispered--and I did not wish to resist.
As I threw myself on the ground, a brilliant-blue bird flew to a nearby branch and began singing in a voice thrilling enough to bring kings to their knees. Or, I wondered sleepily, would it bring knees to their kings? Kings to knees? Knees to kings? Why was the dratted bird singing so loudly?
"Go away and be quiet," I mumbled.
I was slipping into a beautiful dream when a loud, harsh sound brought me back to full consciousness. A golden-red creature the size of a two-story house was skidding in for a landing so close I could feel the heat rolling off its body. "Go to sleep!" it screeched.
I stood to face the massive creature, feeling tired and utterly annoyed. "I was about to sleep before you screamed at me, stupid beast!"
The creature’s breath was hot and smelled of sulfur. "Under any other circumstance, I would eat you without trial for insulting my intelligence," it said. "However, as you are in the Garden of Dreaming Innocence and under the protection of the Gardener, I must restrain myself. Perhaps you are unaware that it is never appropriate to address a dragon as a beast. Such ignorance suggests a lack of intelligence in your species equivalent—if that were possible--to your ugliness. I am generously delivering this message, in spite of your lack of redeeming qualities, because of my moral and aesthetic superiority."
“Hunh,” I yawned sleepily.
“Go to Sleep!”
“What’s your message?”
“Sleep!”
I shook my head, puzzled. “You want me to take a nap?”
"Pay attention!” said the dragon. “There are no ‘naps’ in this Garden. You simply Dream. But call it what you like: rest in peace."
My eyes flew open. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"This is precisely the danger with allowing you to remain awake," the dragon grumbled. "Unless they dream, mortals cannot be prevented from asking questions and making decisions."
"And what is undesirable about that?" I yawned.
"Everything! You make wrong decisions, evil decisions, stupid decisions! You regret your decisions and live with consequences so painful you can hardly bear them! It is better to dream in innocence than to spend your life awake and guilty."

I yawned again. "I’d rather be guilty of thinking than guilty of spending all my time sleeping.”
"You are not paying attention. Let me give you an example." With massive claws, the dragon picked a bunch of something like grapes from a nearby vine and held them under my nose. "As long as you are awake, there is danger that you will eat this food."
The fruit’s delicate aroma made my mouth water. "The food is dangerous? Is it poisonous?"
"Poisonous!” The dragon roared. “Great chaos, have you no sense? This food is forbidden! It awakens mortals and destroys the innocence of dreamers."
"So?"
"The garden is for innocents only,” said the dragon.
“That leaves me out,” I said. “I’m not innocent.”
The dragon snorted. “Obviously not. Yet even you will become a reasonable facsimile of eternal innocence when you sleep here.”
“Eternal?” I said suspiciously. “Are you saying that if I don't eat this fruit, I'll sleep forever?"
"My observations indicate that once a mortal chooses to dream in this Garden, it remains in that state. But forever? I fear I lack data about eternity as I have been unable to observe it."
"So, in plain English...” I said. “Huh! Plain English? Unless I’m already asleep, it makes no sense for you to speak English—or any other language, for that matter. Only people use language.”
“Arrogant fool!” said the dragon huffily. “Do you imagine you pathetic creatures are the only kind capable of language? You come from an ignorant world. In this place there is One language. I assure you it is not ‘English.’”
“If you say so.” I yawned again. I was so tired. I wanted to curl up next to Marc and Rachel and sleep this nightmare away. But I didn’t want to sleep forever and the fragrance of the fruit was so tantalizing I thought I might start to drool. To drool or not to drool. To dream or not to dream. I sighed. “Give it to me straight: if I eat this stuff, can I still get a nap?”
"If you wish," said the dragon.
"That's more like it."
I ate a grape-like fruit. Its awe-inspiring flavor woke my mouth. I swear it was the best food in Creation. I ate another piece. It melted into sweetness that was nourishing and satisfying like no food in Oregon ever could be. It did not make me crave more. Rather, with each bite I felt more satisfied, though, out of curiosity, I managed a bite of every kind of fruit I could find: fire-engine-red fruit something like (but beyond) apples, butter-yellow fruit something like (but better than) perfect pears, golden balls sweeter than the sweetest Earth-grown orange.
My desire for sleep had dissolved.

I was finishing off a peach-like marvel when I was nearly knocked to the ground by the loudest sound I have ever heard. The dragon was emitting a noise that could have eclipsed a Jackhammer breaking cement at full throttle.
"Stop that!" I yelled.
"Your wishes are no concern of mine, lawbreaker!" said the dragon. "You are guilty! Leave the garden or die!"
"Guilty? Die? What do you mean?”
"This food is forbidden. As I told you! The punishment for eating it is death and it will be my honor to carry out the sentence."
"You tricked me!"
“It is a talent of mine,” said the dragon with mock humility.
I grabbed a rock and held it ready to throw at the dragon if it advanced on me.
"It is not necessary to damage me," it whined. "You are in no immediate danger. I am not allowed to consume non-dreamers until sunrise following the day they arrive."
"Who made that rule?"
"It may have been the Gardener,” the dragon said archly. “Blessed be she."
"She sounds like a worse monster than you."
"The ways of the Gardener are beyond my understanding," said the dragon, fluttering its eyelashes and bowing its head in mock humility.
"That's easy to believe," I said.
"Do not insult me!"
"Do not roar at me," I said as I surveyed my surroundings. The garden extended from the mountain to the horizon in every direction. I ran my hand along the surface of the cliff, searching for an opening. The rock was impenetrable. "Where’s the exit?"
"I am not required to answer that question," said the dragon.
"You probably don't know the answer," I said.
“I do, in fact, know the answer,” said the dragon. “But I will not be goaded into telling you.”

"Good—-that means there is a way out. Let me think. If I wander around, I get nowhere and you win. If I get out of the garden, I win. The shortest distance between two points is a straight line. The only way to travel in a straight line here is to keep the cliff at my back and the sun straight ahead."
"You sound clever," said the dragon. "But when night comes and the cliff is hidden in darkness, how then will you steer?"
“Please close your jaw and keep it closed,” I said. I pulled on Rachel's arm. To my surprise and relief, she stood up. A gentle tug brought both Marc and Rachel to their feet. When I held their hands, they moved like sleepwalkers.
"Why take them?" the dragon sneered. “They will slow you.”
"Jaw closed!" I stuffed Marc's Freddie-doll in my pocket and guided the two dreamers away from the cliff.

We walked many kilometers and the dreamers never seemed tired, but I was stumbling with exhaustion. Hours had passed. The sun was dropping toward the horizon and I could see no end to the garden. I was thirsty and terribly worried.
The garden had become a gray tangle of unidentifiable shapes when we came to a noisy stream. I lowered Rachel and Marc onto the grass. When I put fruit in their mouths, they chewed and swallowed without waking.
I climbed down the stream’s bank and drank. There was a small wooden bridge no more than half a kilometer away, black against the darkening sky. With a burst of hope and urgency, I pulled Rachel and Marc to their feet. At the bridge I found a path that led straight to what I prayed was the perimeter of the garden.
Night deepened and a couple of stars began shining brighter than any stars I had seen before. There were no moons and the dark was so deep that I had to feel the way with my feet. Once I lost the path and, in crawling away to look for it, lost track of Marc and Rachel. Slowly, fighting panic, I crawled in careful, ever-widening circles until I bumped into Rachel. Then I searched--pulling Rachel and Marc forward--feeling the ground with my hands between each step--but I could not find the path. Rather than lose my way completely, I sat and watched for dawn.
The night sky was like nothing I had seen before. There were three very-bright stars in the west. The rest of the sky was completely empty, completely black. It gave me a sick feeling in my stomach to see so strange a sky.
As the predawn light began to grow, I was able to see the path glimmering faintly in the distance. I hurried forward, pulling frantically on Marc and Rachel's hands. The sun was beginning to peek over the horizon when we arrived at a massive gate in a huge wall. It was locked. Looking back toward the cliff, I could see the dragon wheeling upward in a slow flight toward us.
When I turned back, a bald, round little man was standing beside the gate. He was wearing a brown robe tied with a white cord.
"How in the Name of Heaven did you get into the Garden?" the little man asked.
"It was an accident," I said, feeling somewhat apologetic. "There was an earthquake and we fell through a crack…and…I don’t know how we ended up in this place."
"Accident!" snorted the man. "Consider yourself Blessed that it was no accident or there would be no door for returning."
"There’s a door that’ll take us home?” I cried hopefully. “Where is it?"
"Where? It has no ‘where,’ child—-it is a matter of ‘when.’ But, tell me: why do you not dream? Do you wish to suffer?"
"No," I said. “I’d just rather not spend my life dreaming.”
The little man’s words became hyphenated with meaning. “I cannot imagine why the Gardener let-you-in or why She sends-you into a world-that-is-strange. Ah, but these are minor mysteries. No doubt you will discover-the-answers, for you must leave-the-Garden and enter-Taybayel, where (I-am-sorry-to-say), you will meet-Death."
I found myself hyphenating in alarm. "You mean, if-I-stay, I get fed-to-the-dragon…and if-I-leave, I-die?"
"You-are-mortal, child."
"I know that! It doesn’t mean I want to die now!"
"Ah, well, I do not know ‘when’ or ‘where’ death-awaits-you. There is Death-in-Taybayel! You must face it if you will not-dream. These two may remain. The Gardener will care for them. Danger lies outside this-Place, but You-Shall-Be-Blessed. The Gardener will give you Understanding of the Languages-of-Taybayel.” The little man reached into an opening in the wall and brought out a water bag and a well-filled pack. "With these the Gardner Provides-For-You."
I put on the heavy pack and shook Rachel's shoulders gently. "Rachel! Rachel, wake up!"
Rachel’s eyes drifted open. They closed again.
“You must go," the little man said, pulling a large key out of his pocket. "Have no-fear for your friends." He unlocked the gate and swung it open.
"Rachel!" I shouted frantically. "Wake up! Come on! Wake up before it's too late!"

CHAPTER III
Rachel: Escape from Paradise
Desert location, south of ThroughWay, west of NewHome, world of Taybayel

"Rachel! Rachel, wake up!" A tall boy floated into my dream, his mouth moving and a worried expression on his face. I watched with detached amusement. Then I forgot him.
"Rachel! Wake up! Come on! Wake up before it's too late!" his voice was frantic.
There seemed to be a river of warm, golden light between us. The worried face shimmered and blurred, but the concern in his dark eyes held me. A thought rippled across the smooth surface of my sleeping mind: what was troubling this person who gazed at me with such intensity?
"No!" cried the little man. "Enjoy-your-dream, child! Do not awake!"
Awake? I thought, suddenly curious. Am I asleep? The question filled me with anxiety bordering on terror.

Wait! I struggled--trying to break through the golden light. I opened my eyes and watched in increasing fear as a young man walked out the gate. Someone was leaving me. No! Wait! I broke through and memory flooded back. Ibrahim!” I cried. “Don't leave me!"
"I am here!" Ibrahim hurried to my side.
“I bid-you-farewell!" the little man said to me. "Those who choose to not-dream must leave-the-Garden."
"Leave?" I frowned at Ibrahim in confusion. "But I don’t want to leave. Why did you wake me, Ibrahim--I was having a wonderful dream!"
“There is no time to explain,” said Ibrahim, taking my hand and trying to lead me through the gate. “Hurry!”
I pulled my hand away. "Marc's asleep!"
"Yes, he may Stay," the little man said, but Ibrahim grabbed Marc’s arm and pulled him past the gate. Marc stumbled, but Ibrahim caught him, lifted the little boy in his arms, and ran.
"Rachel!" he shouted. "Hurry! There’s a dragon coming! It said it would eat me!"
Before I could follow, the monk-like man caught me in a powerful grip. "Hey!" I yelled.
Ibrahim looked back. The dragon was nearly upon me.
"The child is dreaming," the little man said.
“What about the dragon?”
“It lied to your friend. It cannot-harm anyone in-the-Garden.” The little man chuckled. “It does so enjoy playing with people. It will not harm your brother.”
"I can't leave Marc behind: he's my responsibility!"
"Is he?” said the man. “I hope you are prepared for such-a-burden. You must care-for-him until he wakes."
"I will," I said.
The man gave me two crescent-shaped bags. "You will need these in the thirsty-places-of-Taybayel. There is water-for-a-few-days. Then you must find your-Way."
"Find my way where?"
"Ends are prepared-for-you, Little-Treasure. Your choices are interwoven with your chances: a bit-of-Freedom, a bit-of-Destiny--you are aware of these-things, are you not?"
The man handed me a pack of provisions and led me out the gate. "Receive these as Blessings-from-the Gardener." The dragon, screaming something about the infernal interference of angels, wheeled away. The little man turned to leave.
"Wait!" I said. "Are you really an angel?”
“Mmm,” said the man noncommittally. He began to shimmer. The entire garden became as translucent as a rainbow. Then man and garden vanished, leaving the three of us in a desolate wilderness.
"He's gone!” I said, irrationally grieved. “The garden is gone! Do something, Ib!"
"Like what? Put out a missing garden alert?"
"It's not funny," I said.
"Better to be alive in the wilderness than a zombie in paradise," said Ibrahim.
"Zombies are dead things," I said.
"Precisely!" said Ibrahim.
"It wasn't like that," said Rachel. "It was wonderful!"
"The whole thing gives me the creeps,” said Ibrahim..
"Why did you wake me up? My dream was beautiful! Look at this miserable place!"
In the light of the rising sun, the bleak hills of Taybayel were visible. Patches of scrub grass clung to rock-hard hills on which no trees had ever grown. Where the garden had been, our path could be seen running in a nearly straight line toward a distant cliff.
“I thought you would want to wake up,” said Ibrahim.
"I was having the most wonderful dream and Momma was well. You’re such a zebra bean sometimes. I want to go home,"
"We'll get home," Ibrahim said in a knowing tone.
I glared at him. "How do you know?"
Ibrahim shrugged. "I don't know. I just think we will."
"You're unreal," I sighed.
“Fine, Rachel, I’m unreal. I’m a zebra bean. I should have left you to sleep forever. I’m also exhausted. Let’s get some sleep."
"Okay," I said. "Yeah. Maybe I'll get my dream back."
We wrapped ourselves in blankets from our packs, tucking Marc and his Freddie-doll between us. "Are there any more blankets?" I groaned. “These rocks are killing me.”
Ibrahim sighed. “I'm so tired I could sleep on nails."
“I’m sorry, Ibrahim, what have you been doing while I was sleeping?”
“Turning us into aliens, I guess.”
“Yeah? What was with that garden?”
“Well,” Ibrahim said slowly. “It reminded me of a time when my mother dropped me off early at the mosque and I was the only person there. It felt like the silence just before you pray—extra holy. The thing is: I don’t think we’re on Earth anymore, Rachel.”
“Hmm?”
“The stars: we have to be way out at the edge of the universe somewhere—somewhere where there are hardly any stars. There’s this sun and a few other stars—we could be billions of light-years from the farthest galaxy, though I don’t see how that’s possible, do you?”
“I don’t know. You’re the physics buff.”
Ibrahim was quiet for a minute. “If I had to guess, I would say that this sun is on the edge of a galaxy. I don’t know how long it takes for the planet to go around the sun—that would be this planet’s year. But I’m guessing that half the year--on the other side of the sun--the sky is full of stars: the rest of its galaxy. We could find out if we stayed for a year: not my idea of a good time.”
“Mine either.”
“It was so lonely looking up and wondering if there was anyone else out there. I’m glad you woke up.”
I lay still, considering this. Ibrahim has been my best friend since I was a little girl and we lived next door to each other. He used to find me sitting on the fire escape, crying, and tell me stories to cheer me up. His parents didn’t mind our friendship when we were little, but when we became teenagers, they didn’t want Ibrahim to see me anymore. Ibrahim discussed it with them and they finally agreed we could be together if an adult was present.
This had made me so angry that I snuck into his room while he was praying, jumped on his back to try to make him stop, and tried to pull the prayer rug out from under him. Ibrahim had opened his door, told his mother I was there, and sat with me while I cried.
I had been so frightened that I was going to lose him as a friend. Somehow, I didn’t even have to tell him. “I’m here for you,” he had said. “I will always be here for you.”
“Sure. I'm one of your Muslim service projects,” I said. Ibrahim and his family always do service projects—-every week they spend an evening or a Saturday doing some kind of service for the poor or the community. Sometimes he comes to my church and helps out with the soup kitchen.
“You’re my friend,” Ibrahim had said.
“Even when I mess with your prayer time?”
“Next time you’re mad at me, just tell me, k?”
“Okay,” I’d said.
Ibrahim had sat with me at Momma’s funeral Mass, too. But our friendship was still a mystery to me. I’m introverted and moody. Ibrahim is confident and popular. And since Momma died, I’ve been, well, even more filled with faults.
“Ibrahim?”
“Hmm?”
“Do you like me all the time or just when we’re stranded on a planet really far away from everything else?”
“Pretty much all the time,” Ibrahim said, half-asleep.
“But... why?”
“Why wouldn’t I like you?”
“I don’t deserve it.”
Ibrahim sat up and glared me. “I am bone-tired from spending day and night dragging you out of that dream place. I don’t care if you deserve it or not! Let me sleep!”
That shut me up. I rolled over, closed my eyes and tried to re-capture my dream.

* * *
I was standing on the edge of a chasm in which a golden light glowed. My heart filled with longing, but I stood helplessly rooted to the ground as the light moved farther and farther away. Grief overwhelmed me and I tried to cry, but the tears caught in my throat, choking me.
* * *

I woke gasping for air. The sun was almost directly overhead, baking the wasteland where the garden had been. In the opposite direction the path wandered west until, about a kilometer away, it joined a large road known in Taybayel as the ThroughWay.
"Are you going to sleep all day?" I gently kicked Ibrahim's feet.
"Did you have other plans?" he yawned.
"No," I grumbled. "There's no place worth going and we're nowhere worth staying."
"You woke me up to complain about having nowhere to go?"
"I'm tired of sleeping," I nudged Marc. "Wake up!"
Marc sighed and smiled, but showed no sign of waking.
"You probably shouldn't bother him until he’s ready to wake," said Ibrahim.
"What do you know about it?" I snapped. "If it wasn't for you, we'd still be in the garden and I'd be as happy as he is!"
"If I had stayed in the garden, we’d all be sleeping for the rest of our lives,” said Ibrahim. “And who are you to talk? If it wasn't for you, we'd be home!"
“Like this is my fault!"
"It could have something to do with those snowballs you threw at someone half your size."
"That wasn't exactly my fault!"
"What do you mean it wasn't exactly your fault, Rachel?"
"You know my temper, Ib: it's bad and I can't help it."
"What kind of excuse is that?"
"I’m a bad person."
"That's not true! You’re not a bad person."
“You’d say that to anybody, Ib--especially if you were marooned with them. Naw, you’d probably say it because you’re such a good person—and the more you sit there being good, the more obvious it is that I’m not good.” I was starting to get one of my rages going. “So how do you think that makes me feel—especially when it’s my fault we’re here and I promised Momma…”
I was having trouble breathing. I thought I might throw up. First Momma had died because of me. Then we fell into some stupid world, Marc was unconscious, and Ibrahim had been chased by a dragon--all because of me. This kind of thing never happened to Ibrahim. I was the one who always seemed to do the wrong thing. “What do you know?” I gasped around the pain in my stomach. “Just...leave me alone. I'm going home!" I stuffed my blankets in my pack, put it on, and stomped up the path toward the cliff.
"You’re not going to get home that way," Ibrahim said quietly.
"Who died and made you God?" I snarled over my shoulder.
“The door closed!” Ibrahim called after me. “I saw it. It’s gone!”
I began running down the path—trying to get as far away from Ibrahim and my shame as I could. Of course Ibrahim didn’t understand. He was ten times better than I was—or a hundred times. He would be better off without me!
Without me? With a sudden stab of fear, I remembered the dragon. Ibrahim wouldn't let me walk into a dragon's lair, would he? I looked back, hoping to see Ibrahim coming after me. He was patiently feeding Marc.
There it was: proof that Ibrahim didn’t care about me. I was so bad that it didn’t even matter if a dragon got me. But why rush into danger? I was hungry. I sat down and looked in my pack, finding a good supply of fresh and dried fruit.
I took a bite of a red apple-like fruit and stopped in mid-chew.
A huge blond man wearing a white laboratory coat had left the main road and was walking up the path. As he drew near Ibrahim and Marc, I could see that he was extraordinarily tall—twice as tall as Ibrahim.
It was not a man at all: it was a giant!
The giant’s shadow fell across Ibrahim, who jumped to his feet, grabbed Marc's hand, and dragged the little boy up a hill. Marc stumbled. Ibrahim picked him up and ran. The giant followed, his great stride quickly closing the distance between them.
Ibrahim set Marc down and ran toward the giant, who hesitated in confusion. At the last moment Ibrahim darted out of his way, keeping just out of the giant’s long reach. After several unsuccessful efforts to catch the older boy, the giant turned back to Marc, threw the child across his massive shoulder, and turned back toward the main road.
Ibrahim raced after him, shouting something I couldn’t hear.
The giant seized Ibrahim, threw him over his other shoulder, and turned onto the road.
I stared in disbelief. Everything had been crazy from the moment I threw the snowball at Marc. Maybe none of this was real. Maybe I was dreaming or having a psychotic episode. I took a bite of fruit, noticed how real its impossibly-delicious flavor was, and began to tremble.
Without allowing myself to think, I put on my pack and ran to the main road. The giant was already out of sight. I turned right and followed him.

CHAPTER IV
Rachel: Lonely Hunting
Wilderness, World of Taybayel

It is a hopeless thing to pursue a giant when you are walking (and jogging and walking again) with human-sized legs. It went on for hours. Fear settled like fire in my stomach. I tried not to imagine what the giant would do to Ibrahim and Marc. I tried not to worry about what I would do if I caught up with him. I kept my mind numb and my legs moving.
Slowly the dry wilderness gave way to lush grasslands where scattered boulders huddled in clusters like children telling secrets. My muscles ached and my feet felt heavy. I took a drink from my water bag; it was nearly empty. I had been taught never to drink water in the wild: streams in the Oregon wilderness may be polluted. It looked like I would have to drink the water here, if I had a chance. I had crossed a noisy stream several hours ago, but it had wound its way into hills far from the road.
The day was wearing away when I stopped to rest. I ate quickly and began walking again. My feet burned. The road was climbing slowly and I was beyond tired.
The setting sun made deep shadows in the hills ahead. The land looked as lonely as I felt. Three stars came out. Their strangeness made me ache. I longed for a place where the stars were familiar and the night was safe.
Suddenly I thought of my father. He would have searched for us after the earthquake and--if he had discovered our foot¬prints in the snow--realized we had fallen into the chasm. I imagined his anguish when he realized he had lost us. I wondered if he would send rescue workers into the chasm and whether they would find themselves falling into Taybayel. But no: Ibrahim said the door was gone. There would be no trail for rescue workers to follow. Father would spend Christmas alone--maybe every Christmas, from now on.
I sank to my knees and sobbed. Finally, shivering with exhaustion and cold, I wrapped myself in my blanket and slept.

* * *
There was a roar followed by deep silence. Someone was talking but I couldn't make out the words.
I was at the gate of the garden.
"I can't leave Marc behind: he's my responsibility!"
"Is he?” said the little man. “I hope you are prepared for such-a-burden. You must care-for-him until he wakes."
"I will," I said. "I will... I will...”

* * *

I woke stiff and thirsty. My face was bruised from lying on a cup in my pack. I groaned and sat up.
The sun was rising above the hills. Marc and Ibrahim were probably dead. I was defeated. But to stay where I was would be unbearable. Better to go on, even if there was no returning.
I walked through the quiet morning without seeing or hearing anything of giants or other creatures. The road was climbing toward a distant range of mountains, their foothills dark with dense forest. The sun was hot and I was horribly thirsty. After a dry lunch, I left my pack by the road and climbed down a grassy bank. I lay in the shade of a pile of rocks and was sung to sleep by bees droning among the flowers.
In the late afternoon I awakened suddenly. My blanket, which I had left in my pack by the road, was tumbling down the grassy slope. It landed in a heap. Several little creatures emerged, giggling. They were not much taller than my knees. Their skin was brown, their ears were pointed, and they wore hats of various kinds and colors on their curly brown hair.
They were imps and full of the mischief of their kind.
The imps climbed up the bank to continue their investigation of my pack. I watched, half-amused, as one put a foot in my cup and tried to hop around in it while balancing my empty water bag on his head. Some began jumping on my pack and scattering my food on the ground. My amusement evaporated.
"Hey!" I yelled. "Stop that! Hey!"
Instantly they were gone, leaving my things scattered on the grass. "Pests," I grumbled as I salvaged my damaged food. "Stupid little trouble-makers!"
"Ooh! A name-caller!" growled a little voice. "Lookee that, will ya? A pig-face's callin' us names!"
"A gi-ent piggy!" growled another voice. "A’ ugly gi-ent piggy!"
"Shut up!" I snapped. The creatures gave no response and I sighed with relief as I recovered the rest of my things.
I had walked some distance when I heard a tiny voice growl, "pig-face!"
Much later, after I had covered several more kilometers, a chorus of growly voices broke into song:
Gi-ent piggy--big, fat biggy;
Ya're a' ugly gi-ent piggy!
I lowered my head and anxiously hurried away. The imps chortled and were gone.
The road began to climb more steeply. The hours dragged and my feet dragged. The trees grew thicker until I was immersed in the cool shade of a dense forest. I ate my last piece of fresh fruit, my mouth so parched I could hardly swallow.
Thirst drove me on. The sun was setting when I came to a bridge over a stream running between steep banks so overgrown by dense, thorny brambles I could see no way to get to the water. It rushed below, mocking my thirst.
A short distance beyond the bridge, a narrow path ran into the forest to the left. I pushed my tired, stubborn way through the underbrush, ignoring thorns that scratched my face and arms.
It was dark and cold. The forest was silent except for the faint, distant sound of running water. The path widened until it became a well-tended trail under massive mossy trees that grew so high they made me dizzy. The sound of water was so close I could nearly taste it.
I turned a corner and found the path blocked by a fallen tree twice as wide as I was tall. I could not climb over it and there was no way through the thorn-infested undergrowth on either side.
Defeated, I pulled my blanket close and slumped onto the trail, my back to the massive tree. Night deepened and seeped through my clothes until I was trembling with cold. "This is stupid!" I told the forest. When that failed to improve my mood, I addressed that force in the universe that seemed so oblivious to my misery: "This is STUPID!"
The temperature dropped as night came to the high-altitude forest. My hands and feet ached with cold. Searching my pack for something to keep me warm, I found a waxy cylinder, which broke as I pulled it out. It began to glow with a bright green light that produced no warmth. "As if I need to see myself freeze to death," I muttered.
I wondered if I was going to freeze to death. I understood hypothermia: my body-temperature would drop until I slipped into a coma. Untreated, it would lead to a quiet death. I would never know what happened to Marc and Ibrahim; never know whether I could have saved them. I was helpless and I hated being helpless. I began to cry loudly and desperately.
I was startled by a snorting sound, which seemed to emerge from a point very close to my face. I had been making plenty of noise, but I was sure I hadn't snorted.
Near my hand, a clump of grass ripped itself in half. It disappeared with a chomp.
Something heavy--but invisible--landed in my lap. I screamed in surprised fear and slapped it. My hand hit something solid. It gave a surprised-kind of snort. Curious, I carefully touched the thing. It was warm and hairy. Its breath had a pleasant smell. It lay lightly in my lap, though it seemed to be very large: its body extending farther than I could reach.
Warmth was seeping from the invisible body. I began to feel safe and even a little happy. "What are you?" I whispered.
It became visible: a huge white unicorn-type creature with great folded wings. It was lying next to me, its head in my lap, its golden horn pointed carefully away.
There was a whistle from the forest. The winged unicorn lifted its head and snorted. Another whistle followed, loud and urgent. The unicorn snorted again and became invisible.
A person leaped lightly off the fallen tree and landed at my side. It had the pointed ears and wide brown eyes of the imps, but she was a beautiful elderly woman as tall as I am. Her gray hair was straight; her wrinkled skin deeply tanned. She was so slender she seemed bird-like under her green cape and clothes.
An empty sheath hung from the woman's belt. She had a long hunting knife in her hand, which she was pointing at my throat.

[Chapter V introduces more characters from Taybayel.]

CHAPTER VI
Ibrahim: Giant Shenanigans
NorkNeork Valley, NewHome Colony

As I dangled over the giant man's shoulder, I struggled to remember everything I knew about giants. I recalled their tendency to consider humans an essential part of their diet. Storybook heroes often got the best of giant captors, but, as I recalled, they were always very clever and the giants very stupid.
I wondered if the giant who was carrying me and Marc was stupid and why he was wearing a laboratory coat and when he meant to eat us. I hoped something clever would occur to him soon.
Around dusk the man left the main road and turned into what I later learned was the NorkNeork Valley where the giant Gantuans of NewHome colony lived. He hurried to his home on the northern slopes, carried us into his kitchen, and locked us in small cages.
"I got some new critters for ya, Perfesser," he said to his wife. She was, for a giantess, surprisingly thin and nervous-looking. Like her husband, she wore a white laboratory coat. Her pockets were stuffed with pencils, notebooks, scissors, rulers, and a magnifying glass. She wore black horn-rimmed reading glasses and her graying hair was pulled into a knot at the back of her head. I realized that she did not appear the least bit stupid.
"What a wonder ya are, Mr. OldNork!" she cried. "I haven't seen anythin' like these critters a'fore! What d'ya s'ppose they are, Jack--some kind of overgrown imp? An' each a diff'rent color! They’ll be beaut'ful stuffed."
"I thought ya'd like 'em," OldNork said as he gave us bowls of water and a ground-up meat mixture that smelled like cat-food. "If ya don’t mind, love, let's hold off on stuffin' ‘em 'til we learn somethin' more 'bout 'em. They make me curi'us. The big one’s Alvarian-sized and it’s got a dark sorta Alvarian-colorin’, but the little imp-sized one’s colored like us Gantuans. An’ their ears aren’t pointed any more’n ours are. It don’t make sense."
"Excuse me," I said. "The little boy can't feed himself. He's dreaming and has to be cared for."
"Just listen to the little critter yammerin'," said the Professor. "It reminds me of that imp we had: noisy little critter. We'll haveta get rid of it, if it's goin’ to d‘sturb my thinkin'! Where's your huntin' knife, Mr. OldNork?"
"Well, now, Perfesser, the critter's only just yammered this one time an' it might’ve had good reason. The little one hasn't touched a drop of food or water. I betcha that other one's worried 'bout it. What if I put 'em t'gether in that ol' bear cage an' see if that don’t quiet it."
The larger cage gave me room to stand and to care for Marc, though it was hardly comfortable.
Every morning Mr. OldNork put fresh straw in the bottom of the cage and left a fresh bowl of his disgusting cat-food-like concoction before he made breakfast for the Professor and himself. He was a gourmet cook and I had to endure the fragrance of delicious food while trying to choke down the slimy stuff the giant gave me. The worst part was the way the man stared at Marc and me, nodding and grunting to himself as if he were planning a menu featuring cooked boy.
To my relief, the giantess ignored us.
One morning Mr. OldNork made a particularly large breakfast and stared especially hard and long at us while he and the Professor ate. After the Professor had gone out, he terrified me by opening the door of the cage and lifting me out.
"Would ya care for a bit of good cookin' for a change?" he asked, setting a huge omelet in front of me.
"I know what you're trying to do," I said. "And I won't go along with it."
"Ya know, do ya? Well, maybe ya'd fill me in on it, 'cause I haven't figured ya critters out at all. What d'ya s'ppose ya're good for?"
I flushed. "We aren't good for anything. We're thin and stringy and we taste terrible. I'm not going to let you fatten me up, so you can just take this food away."
Mr. OldNork stared at me with such a look of disgust that I was sure I was about to be killed. The giant let out a huge, terrifying roar that went on and on until he was red in the face and out of breath. Tears began to pour down his cheeks. Suddenly I realized the man was laughing.
"Ho, ha, ha!" he gasped, trying to catch his breath. " Ya thought I’s gonna... hoo!... I’s gonna eat ya? Where'd ya get a' idea like that, critter? I tell ya, I haven't had such a laugh since--well, I don't know when!"
Mr. OldNork wiped his eyes. "I’ve got to tell ya! Hoo! Hoo! Talkin'-critters're too darn 'xpensive for eatin'--even if we did have a taste for 'em, which we don't." He frowned. "So where'd ya come up with the idea, critter? Nobody 'round here woulda thought somethin' like that."
"I'm not from around here," I said.
"I figured's much. So where'd ya come from? Ya come over the mount'ins? They eatin' critters out there, are they?"
I was silent. Mr. OldNork watched me awhile and shrugged. "It's no consid’rable consid’ration to me, critter. I’s just wonderin'. Eat up that om'let there an' I'll make up some fresh for yar little friend. I don't figure ya care much for critter-food, do ya?"
From then on, each morning after the Professor left, Mr. OldNork turned his attention to me. "How's the critters this mornin'?” he’d say. “Straw clean 'nough? Yar little friend doin' all right?" If I thanked him adequately, I would be let out for another home-cooked meal. If I failed to sound sufficiently grateful, I was politely served disgusting cat-food-stuff in the cage.
As time went on, my feelings began to change. I became strangely attached to Mr. OldNork and grateful for the least attention. I knew that people in captivity can become attached to their captors if shown kindness, but knowing didn’t help. I found myself telling the giant more and more about myself and my world.
"Are there lots of critters like the two of ya?" Mr. OldNork asked one morning.
"Billions," I said.
"How many's that?"
"More than you can count."
This puzzled Mr. OldNork. "Ya must take up lots of room someplace. Did ya come far to get here?"
"I don't know. We came by accident."
"What kind of acc’dent?"
"I don't know exactly," I said. "There was a kind of door we came through...or fell through, I should say."
"A door? Where's this door?"
"It disappeared. I don't know where it is anymore."
"Sounds like some kind of magic," OldNork grumbled. "That is, if ya’re tellin’ the truth. So how many of ya came through the door a'fore it dis'ppeared?"
"Just three of us," I said.
"Three of ya! Where's the other one?"
"I don't know," My stomach tightened with alarm as I realized I had betrayed Rachel’s presence in Taybayel. “There might have been more--or maybe just the two of us,” I said, hoping to cover my mistake. “I couldn’t see very well.”
"Ya playin' games with me, critter?" OldNork growled, his voice ugly with malice.
"No."
"Ya little critters can't hardly be much use to anybody if there's only a few of ya," he muttered. "I've been wastin' my time." He looked hard at me. "I'd better not find out ya've been foolin' with me," he snarled.

I grew up very involved in my Christian faith and wanted to be a pastor "in-the-world," so I became a manager. My plan was to show people what it was like to be Christian by involving the people who "do the work" in making management decisions. Our group also refused to take things too seriously and had a lot of fun. Whatever job we were given to do, we did sooner and better than anyone expected--and with more laughter.

There were other managers who had a lot of power and kept it by ganging up on anyone they didn't like. Once my group started being successful, they ganged up on us and destroyed our group. The fun was gone and I decided I needed to change careers.

It was like going on a quest because there were so many obstacles in the way. But then my husband met someone who taught him how to pray with faith and the obstacles melted away.

We spent four years at seminary, I was ordained a pastor, and I wrote fantasy novels because I needed a way to explore a new way of thinking about the world.

That was making a long story short! Whew!

I had been a pastor for almost two years when I sensed God telling me something. I had to sit in prayer for four hours before I understood what God was saying: "I am preparing a place for you at the Catholic church." Now, why would he do that? The Catholics don't let women be priests, so my education wouldn't be any use!

A few months later I became disabled and couldn't be a pastor anymore. I needed a new place to worship and, in all obedience, went to the Catholic church! It's not a place I would have chosen for myself, but once I got there, I was home.

In his book, Acts of Faith, Eboo Patel tells about visiting the Dalai Lama. Eboo's parents were Muslims who immigrated to the U.S. from India, but Eboo (and his friend Kevin) were exploring Buddhism and taking lessons in Buddhist meditation from a Christian monk, who sent them to meet the Dalai Lama. Eboo listened to Kevin describe how Buddhist meditation was leading him to explore his Jewish roots. In fact, when the Dalia Lama asked, Kevin said (for the first time) that he was a Jew.

Eboo writes, "Then he turned to me. I started getting a little nervous... The Dalai Lama was about to ask me about my religion... I was a total failure at Buddhist meditation."

Zen Buddhist meditation focuses on emptying the mind, but Eboo found that he spent all his time "shoving thoughts out" and "being mad at myself for being a bad Buddhist."

As he continued to wait for the Dalai Lama to turn his attention to him, Eboo considered the fact that he had recently been allowing one of those thoughts into his mind and "had allowed it to linger long enough to get a sense of what it was. I could not have been more shocked at the discovery: "Ya Ali, Ya Muhammed"--the prayer that my mother had taught me when I was a child."

Eboo had not said that prayer for many years, but "here it was floating in my head, still woven into my being. I decided to let it stay."

After listening to the Dalai Lama and Kevin talk about Buddhist meditation and Judaism, it occurred to Eboo that maybe he had been inadvertently practicing a Muslim form of prayer which focuses the mind on a particular Muslim prayer word or phrase. "Perhaps Buddhist meditation had brought the Muslim spirituality from deep within me to the surface. Perhaps this was God's gentle way of telling me something."

The Dalai Lama turned to Eboo, not to ask a question, but to make a statement: "You are a Muslim," he said.

"Yes," Eboo answered.

The Dalai Lama giggled. "Islam is a very good religion."

Eboo and Kevin told the Dalai Lama about their interest in starting a youth interfaith movement.

"This is very important," the Dalai Lama said. Then he made several points about the interfaith movement that Eboo and Kevin later called the Interfaith Youth Core:
1. it is important for religions to dialogue
2. it is most important for religions to come together to serve others.
3. Finding common values between different religions is important.
4. As you study other religions, it is important to study your own religion and believe more in your own.