The Lost Apostles by Brian Herbert Page A

children, but did not seem particularly upset by their presence. If she had been, Lori would have taken steps to remove them, since it was so important to get the helicopter running.
    All the while the children watched intently, as if they wanted to understand what was going on mechanically, or as if they already knew, which seemed unlikely. They even examined tools and parts that were laid out on a tarpaulin, but didn’t touch them or say much of anything, just occasional words and what seemed to be sentence fragments, in their private language.
    Iviapa . . . tiofi . . . obruku . . . aphem . . .
    Curiously, Lori understood what she heard, but could not form her own thoughts or words in that language. It was as if she could only listen to them, and that she was mute, without a tongue of her own to speak.
    Just as peculiar, the utterances didn’t seem to connect with the surroundings. The children were talking excitedly about flowers and trees and birds and animals, but in this desert there was little of that. Lori had seen a few withered flower petals, borne to their campsite by the winds, and flocks of birds heading south. It seemed peculiar to see them flying over the desert in their migration, but they undoubtedly knew where the oases were along the way, like rest stops for travelers.
    Those words. So familiar and yet so elusive .
    Kneeling by Abigail, one of the babies, Lori held her hands, and looking into her cerulean blue eyes, said softly in English, “I want to speak with you in the secret tongue, but the words will not come to me. Why is it that I understand what you are saying, but I cannot form the words myself in that language?”
    “Language is but an imperfect incarnation of thought,” the child said, in the ancient parlance. “You think you understand my words, but you are only picking up semblances of meaning. It is this way with all languages, and especially with ours. We she-apostles have an exclusive verbal lexicon, but to fully communicate with us you must learn to think without words, keeping in mind this important caveat: the very act of speaking the thoughts diminishes them, alters their original, pure meaning. Any vocabulary is inherently limited.”
    “But iktol —the word means ‘murder’ in English. I understood it when Veronica mouthed it to me. It means an unwarranted killing. What subtleties are there to understand about such a word?”
    “The very question reflects a lack of understanding.”
    “But when will I understand?”
    “When you are ready. This is how it has always been, and always will be. Compare this phenomenon of language with the questions you asked of the three prisoners, how you determined that they were lying.”
    “How do you know about that?”
    With her tiny hands, Abigail squeezed Lori’s fingers. “Maybe it’s because we are small and move quietly,” Abigail said. “We are able to eavesdrop much more easily than large people.” The child smiled, and her face showed an infinite intelligence, far beyond her years.
    “You’re reading my mind, aren’t you?” Lori said, looking down at their linked hands. “When we touch, you can see into my thoughts!”
    “Yes, I am peering into your mind now, but my ability is not perfect. I still face large gaps, blocked pathways and regions, although I am improving, growing stronger. When you questioned the prisoners, you considered using familiar lie detection techniques, but discarded them in favor of your gut feelings. That was an excellent decision on your part. You also want to know more about the She-Judas, but we must wait for the testimony of the real Martha of Galilee, not the fake one Dixie Lou brought in. As she-apostles we know some of the details, but it is Martha’s story to tell, her holy gospel.”
    Lori didn’t know whether to pull away or continue holding the child’s hands. She felt herself shaking with fear. In large part, she realized, it was a fear of the unknown. With a jerk of realization,