Cathi's Chatter

F.A.I.R.I.E.S.: A FIRST Look at the Book

2011-12-09T11:03:00.000-05:00

It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!

You never know when I might play a wild card on you!

Today's Wild Card author & illustrator is:

M. C. Pearson

and the book:

F.A.I.R.I.E.S.: Baptism by Fire

FIRST Wild Card Press (December 5, 2011)

***Special thanks to M. C. Pearson of FIRST Wild Card Press for sending me a review copy.***

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

M. C. Pearson graduated from San Jose State University with a B. A. in art, served as a multi-media illustrator in the United States Army, earning the rank of sergeant, and spent four years as a house parent for at-risk youth. Now married over 20 years, she homeschools her two children, volunteers with her church youth group, and runs a book review blog alliance (FIRST Wild Card Tours) while writing and drawing. F.A.I.R.I.E.S.: Baptism by Fire is her first novel.

Visit the author's website.

SHORT BOOK DESCRIPTION:

Unwittingly chosen to join an army of fairies, who fight for the Light of the One, a teenaged girl learns about spiritual warfare as she attends a military academy with fantastical beings.

FROM THE BACK COVER:

Here lies a most precious treasure,

Awaiting one Chosen to deliver.

Seek out the red cousins in the East,

For on this your greed mustn't feast.

The wealth of a species now in your hands,

Do with it as the light demands.

Give them your gift to unite,

For it is the darkness we all must fight.

EDITORIAL REVIEWS:

"Imagination runs wild in F.A.I.R.I.E.S. Pearson brings young readers through a looking glass and into a world bursting with adventure, heroism, and fascinating creatures. Readers will be inspired to be true to the One and left with anticipation of more to come."
--Jill Williamson, award-winning author of
By Darkness Hid, and other books

"Sprinkled with delightful illustrations, and brimming with a full bestiary of magical creatures, F.A.I.R.I.E.S. is a fun, clever romp through the alternate landscape of the most magical world of all, our own. Read, and take up the call: 'Defend and Emancipate!'"
-- D. Barkley Briggs, author of
The Book of Names, and other books

"F.A.I.R.I.E.S. will appeal to readers who love the interplay of fantasy and reality. A rich cast of eccentric characters and exotic settings make this a fun addition to the folklore of the battle between good and evil."
--Mike Hamel, author of
YA fantasy series: MATTERHORN THE BRAVE

"F.A.I.R.I.E.S. is one of those rare gems I want to tell everyone about. It's highly imaginative, packed with adventure, and full of hope. A must read for kids and for kids at heart. Even better than Narnia! I was thinking about Pearson's wonderfully memorable characters for days."
--C.J. Darlington, author of
Thicker than Blood

"Ms. Pearson's extravagant and imaginative F.A.I.R.I.E. kingdom will surely delight the young and the young-at-heart in this tale of good and evil, light vs. darkness. The fantasy-loving reader will not be disappointed!"
--Linore Rose Burkard, award winning author of
Before the Season Ends, and other books

Product Details:

List Price: $17.99
Paperback: 482 pages
Publisher: FIRST Wild Card Press (December 5, 2011)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0615530222
ISBN-13: 978-0615530222

AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:

Four thousand seasons shall pass while our swords grow rusty.

Where once one chose to divide, another shall be chosen to unite.

One changed the past, the other shall change the future.

One must emancipate the other to allow the light its dominion.

The realm, now torn, allows the shadow to abide, as humanity lies blind to its peril.

The bond of friendship must endure, for the army of shadows awaits another tear.

Dust off your swords.

Unite the realm.

Destroy the strongholds.

Foretelling of Didasko Gnome Digdeep

†

PART ONE

t was an accident!” Mellie yelled, not caring who heard or stared. Tears streaked her face as she fled down the Santa Cruz coastline, away from her family.

You don’t need them, a voice hissed in her ear, Escape. Run away.

Scorching sand burned at her feet and bitterness ate at her heart. Mellie pumped her legs as fast as they would go. Her feet pounded with the rhythm of her emotions, beating a tempo with the crashing waves. Run-a-way. Run-a-way. Run-a-way. Adrenaline pulsed through her veins, quickening her step.

Why did I have to be the youngest? Only 12 years old. Never smart enough. Never athletic enough. I just wish they loved me.

Once, just once, she wanted to do something that would make her sisters see that she wasn’t the stupid, awkward, ugly, little baby sister.

As she ran, she wiped away some tears with the palm of her hand. Her fingers settled on her large nose, a gift from her dad’s Hungarian ancestry.

Chelsea got the ski-slope shaped nose. I had to get Half-Dome. It just isn’t fair.

Her hand dropped to her side and she pinched at her stomach. It still had some of its baby fat.

Ugh, why are my sisters so perfect? What happened to me?

Pushing her short bangs from her forehead in disgust, she mumbled, “Maybe I’ll find treasure. I’ll be the rich one, and then they’ll have to accept me.” But she knew better. California didn’t hold any more undiscovered treasures.

The sand, hot and coarse, cut at her feet. I wish I had remembered my shoes. She wore only a black, one-piece swimsuit and a San Jose Sharks sweatshirt tied tightly around her waist.

Breathing rapidly, she began to tire. She slowed her pace to a walk and looked back across the beach. The sand was so hot that waves of heat rose from it and blurred her view. A lone seagull screeched overhead.

Her sisters were nowhere in sight.

Man, I thought for sure that Chelsea was going to chase me down and kill me.

She had to admit that it was a little gratifying to see the sand fly from her foot, covering Chelsea’s sub-sandwich and freshly oiled stomach. Grinning slightly, the tears stopped flowing. She rubbed her eyes.

Mellie looked in the direction of her sisters. “You guys can never take a joke.” Flipping her golden hair, she turned her head back toward her chosen path. She no longer smiled as she stomped her feet in the cold surf, remembering the hateful words that had been said.

“Oh, waa waa, you stupid cry baby! Go tell mommy! Maybe she’ll feel sorry for her ugly, fat baby. Why don’t you grow up? We don’t want you near us. Can’t you understand English? You are so dumb. Look at her mouth open. Oh wait, here she goes…come on, baby…cry!”

Mellie knew she couldn’t go back. They would only ridicule and torment her further. Her mom would never believe it was Chelsea’s fault. No, the evidence was on Chelsea’s side. Who was the one with the sand all over her oily, coconut-smelling body? Who was the one who had a sandwich full of sand? Mellie walked on.

After her temper finally cooled, it occurred to her that she had never walked so far alone.

How far have I gone?

A shadow passed over her, and she looked up. Nothing was there. A cool breeze from the ocean created a stark contrast to the scalding sand. She shivered but kept walking, lost in her loneliness.

Not until she stubbed her toe on a large broken clamshell did she look at the beach. A chill snaked up her back. Nothing appeared familiar. The sounds of the surf were still there, yet something was decidedly different. She felt dizzy. Looking around, she could not quite pinpoint the change. Then it struck her.

No people.

Where did everybody go?

Even though she could see no one, Mellie could swear that she felt eyes staring at her.

She looked inland across the sand, saw movement near some eucalyptus trees, but decided that the wind must have caused it.

Trees? So close to the beach?

Something shook the trees again, causing goosebumps to stand out on Mellie’s arms. Alarmed, she checked the skyline. The sun was close to setting. She hoped that the police weren’t out looking for her.

Suddenly cold, she pulled at the arms of the sweatshirt still tied around her waist. It fell to the sand. Bending to pick it up, she once again saw a blur of movement, except this time it came from a rocky outcrop by the waves. She shook the sand out of the sweatshirt and hurriedly tugged it over her head.

“Okay, I’m seeing things.” Mellie yanked at her hair, pulling it out of the sweatshirt. She stared at the sinister rocks. “Hel-lo?” Her voice cracked as she spoke louder. “Is someone the-ere? Hello?” No answer. The shadowy rocks seemed to quiver with excitement, beckoning her closer.

Hmm…probably just a seagull.

Even if it was a bird, she did not want to see it.

There’s no way I’m going over there.

The wind picked up and blew her hair into her eyes. The sand spun with the wind.

Yes, definitely time to move. I need to find a road.

She turned back toward the sweet smelling, oddly placed trees.

Mellie arrived at the base of the first, colossal eucalyptus tree. Without warning, one of the branches fell in front of her, then seemed to get up from the ground and pose its bottom stems in a military-like stance.

Mellie screamed and jumped back. “Branches don’t stand.”

“They do if they are walking sticks.” The eucalyptus branch chuckled, stretching to its full height, considerably taller than Mellie’s meager five feet.
She gasped, grabbed the branch, and threw it like a javelin, as hard as she could.

As she took off running, she heard a bark and halted. Turning, she saw a golden retriever bounding toward her with the stick in his mouth. The dog dropped it at her feet. She watched the dog run into the grove of trees and disappear before she fearfully turned back to the possessed stick.

It had already gained its footing again and stood over her. Mellie was too frightened to move this time.

A face emerged from the skinny twig and took on the characteristics of a male human, but none like Mellie had ever seen. He had hair made up in rolls as if it were a powdered, green-silver wig, the same color as the leaves that grew all around his skinny body. His face was long and his forehead high. The twiggy man smiled and said in a distinctly British, albeit breezy, accent, “Do not worry, you are safe.”

Mellie couldn’t answer.

“Ahh…I love new recruits. They are so easily addled.”

Feeling more confused than threatened, Mellie found her voice. “What? What do you mean, new recruits?” She rubbed her eyes, shaking her head. “Okay, I’m talking to a stick now. Yes, I have lost it. I have gone totally mental.”

“Oh, I say, am I to understand that I am the first to be revealed to you?” With round, leathery leaves, the branch resembled a toddler toy with rings stacked on one another.

She dropped open her mouth and nodded.

“Well, let me do this properly, then. Ahem. Mortal, made of clay, you have been Chosen to join the Fantastical, Aerial, International, Reasonably Inconspicuous, Emancipation Squads.”

“What? What are you? You look like a stick…but you can talk.”

“Yes, child,” the stick replied with a sigh. “But, I think we are quite past that by now. Have you not heard me? You have been Chosen.”

Mellie opened her mouth wider, closed it, frowned, and opened it once more. “Chosen? For what?”

“You did wish to be different? To change who you were? ’Twas an especially strong desire, yes?” The branch crossed its arms and tapped its twiggy foot.

“Umm…”

“Dear me, this is highly unusual. You made a choice to run away from a miserable life and asked to be set free? Correct?”

“Well, I, ah…yeah. I guess so. What did you say about recruit for some squad?”

“Humph. I see that I was not understood. Yes? Let me elucidate. The Fantastical, Aerial, International, Reasonably Inconspicuous, Emancipation Squads , or shall I say F.A.I.R.I.E.S.? have accepted you into their organization. You asked. You were answered.” The branch attempted a smile, but looked impatient instead.

“Fairies? I don’t believe in fairies.” Mellie winced, half expecting him to fall down and writhe in pain until she clapped her hands.

“Quite right. You are not supposed to. If humans truly believed we existed, we would never get anything accomplished.”

Mellie laughed and looked around for a hidden camera, thinking this must be a joke. “Right. Ah…heh…okay, bud, brilliant costume,” she said, imitating the branch’s accent. “Where’s the zipper?” She reached toward him and touched a soft leaf.

The branch slapped her hand away and stamped its foot with a loud cracking noise. “I beg your pardon. I have not been a bud for over 800 springs!” He paced, his leaves crumpling, mumbling to himself about humans and why, in the One’s name, did he listen to that confounded gnome who told him that he needed to stand gate duty. With his rank!

“I’m sorry I upset you. Please, I’m very confused. I’m lost, and I just want to go home.” Mellie bit her lip.

The branch stopped mid-pace. “Home? Earlier, did you not wish for a new life? And riches? I know you wished for treasure, hmm?”

“How do you know that?” Mellie furrowed her brow. “Have you been reading my mind?”

The twig man didn’t answer her questions, asking his own instead. “Ahh, so, you admit this, yes?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Yes, but…well, this really isn’t what I had in mind.”

The branch threw up its twiggy fingers. “Oh, well, of course you did not have this in mind. After all, we are reasonably inconspicuous, especially to humans. How could you have this in mind? However, is it not superior of the One to think that this is what you would have chosen had you known about us? Anyway, ’tis irrevocable now. So, if you would just follow me, we shall get you signed in and enrolled for training.”

The branch marched off between the trunks of two large eucalyptus trees.

Mellie slid uncontrollably after the walking stick. She planted her feet firmly, refusing to budge, but she slid after him anyway. Grasping at branches of nearby trees, she panted heavily as she struggled to resist following the branch. Some kind of invisible tie connected her to him. He seemed to pull her along with his every step.

Mellie thought about her sisters and how mad they were at her. I’m dead meat if they find me. Mellie quickly gave up her battle and ran after the eucalyptus branch, barely keeping up with his stride.

†

The sand changed to coarse dirt, with pebbles and sticks. More and more trees filled Mellie’s vision. Bushes scraped against her bare legs and slapped her face as she moved deeper inside a forest of eucalyptus and redwood trees. She winced in pain as a razor-sharp rock sliced her foot. Stopping to nurse it, she wished once again for her forgotten shoes.

“Excuse me, sir?” Mellie looked around. She could not see the branch anywhere.

“Do not call me ‘sir’, I work for a living.” The branch peeked out from around one of the gigantic trees. “And please, try to keep up. We need to reach the gateway.”

Mellie limped up to him. “Sorry, sir…I mean…umm, what should I call you then?”

“Oh, well, we did skip that. Did we not? Yes, all right, an introduction then.” The branch man seemed to enjoy formal etiquette for he gave an elaborate wave and bowed. “My name is Regnans, family of Myrtaceae, born member of the F.A.I.R.I.E.S., Britannia Wing, rank of Master Nymph Dryad.”

“Nice to meet you, Reg…Reg?” Mellie chewed on the inside of her mouth. Never good at remembering names, she knew she would offend him with her lack of manners.

Sure enough, the dryad raised an eyebrow and pursed his lips. “Regnans.” He gave a hurt sniff, then drolly sneered. “If you find that a difficult name, you should meet the rest of my family, all seven-hundred thirty-four of them.”

“Sorry, I just…well, it is a lot to remember. It’s a nice name, though. My name is Maryellen Goodwin of Bret Harte Middle School, San Jose, California. But everyone calls me Mellie.” She stuck out her hand, intending to shake. Regnans stared at her.

“That is a strange curtsy. However, I guess ’twill do. We must get moving now. The shadows abound, you know.” Regnans made an about face and marched off faster than before.

Another hour passed, and still they strode along the forest floor. Mellie’s feet were now cut, blistered, and bleeding. She kept up as best she could with Regnans’s long stride. Whenever she tried to stop, he would pull her on with that invisible force of his.

Stupid, pompous, magical Star Wars freak.

She whimpered as she limped. Darkness and mist now covered the woods. As she was about to plead for a break, Regnans stopped. Except for her heavy gulps of air, all seemed quiet.

Regnans stiffened even more than usual. Nothing on him moved, apart from his eyes, which darted around quickly.

“All is safe, we may proceed.” He held up a twiggy finger to his woody mouth. “Please do not speak, and try not to breathe so abominably loud.”

Mellie nodded with a disgusted frown. Sweat dripped from her bangs. She tried to calm her breathing, even though her vision blurred, and her legs wobbled. Her blisters had popped by now and oozed wetness.

Regnans moved again, yet this time he took slow, deliberate steps, all the while scanning his surroundings. He walked up to a massive redwood tree and stroked its bark.

A breeze stirred up, rattling the leaves, sounding almost like spoken words. Mellie thought herself crazy again. However, the longer she stood there, the more she sensed that it really was the tree’s language, as if she had never listened to trees properly before. It said, “If you love, you will say the one true love that leads the way.”

Regnans whispered in a leaf rustling voice, “Ah-gaw-pay.”

A loud grumbling sound, as if someone awakened after a long sleep, shook the grove. The redwood tree opened two eyes, each the size of Mellie’s head, and blinked. A great fissure erupted below the eyes in the shape of a crescent, and redish-brown wooden teeth emerged. A long, knobby branch pushed its way out above the mouth and inhaled deeply.

The tree chuckled. Instead of the whispering leaves, a low, rumbling utterance of human speech came from the redwood tree. “Regnans? What brings you to my neck of the woods?” He blinked again. “And who is this? A new recruit? A human? A Chosen?”

Mellie knew she looked silly, standing there with her mouth in an ‘O’ shape, but she couldn’t move. This was simply impossible. There is no such thing as fairies!

“Yes, yes. Please open the gate, we must not dawdle here…they may be watching.” Regnans looked agitated.

A deep laugh resounded from the redwood. “Oh, Regnans. There are none who watch here.”

Regnans mumbled something about hamadryads and their pride, then proclaimed in a slightly louder voice to the tree, “We must be sober, be vigilant, because the shadow walks about like a roaring lion, seeking whom it may devour.”

The hamadryad looked chagrined. “You speak true, dryad. Forgive me for acting like an arrogant seedling.” He glanced at Mellie, and with a lowered voice asked, “And what is your name, little human?”

Mellie managed to squeak out, “Mellie Goodwin.”

“Ah, ’tis always nice to have a Good Wind.” The hamadryad laughed heartily.

“Sorry to interrupt this lovely tete-a-tete,” Regnans said, “but would you please open the gate? I left Westside completely unguarded.”

An annoyed creak came from the base of the redwood, followed by a sigh. “Yes, Regnans. Agape you said, and agape it is. Go with the light, my friends.” The large, joyous eyes closed, and the hamadryad whispered in his leaf rustling voice, “Until we meet again, Good Wind.” His face disappeared, and his roots lifted and pulled apart, exposing a tunnel within his trunk.

Regnans grabbed Mellie’s hand with his rough, wooden one, and pulled her inside the opening. The tree closed itself abruptly and left them in total darkness.

Regnans cleared his throat and said, “Let there be light.”

A burst of dazzling brightness sparkled from the tunnel’s wall. Mellie glanced around and noticed a long, winding stairwell leading down into the ground.

“Shall we, then?” Not waiting for a reply, Regnans started down the steps.

MANY ARE CALLED

BUT

FEW ARE CHOSEN

†

CHAPTER ONE

Off and Running

Available at Amazon.com and Barnes & Noble.com.

A FIRST Look at STARLIGHTER

2010-08-25T03:05:00.001-04:00

The bloggers at FIRST Wild Card ran this standard post about Bryan Davis and his book Starlighter on May 19th, but since I was in the hospital and unable to get on the internet at the time, I didn't join them. So, I am trying to make up for lost time now. In a day or two I will leave my review on this remarkable novel. I am reading it over again since it was such a long time ago. And I'm really glad, because I see so much more than I did when I rushed through the first time.

Today's author is:

Bryan Davis

and the book:

Starlighter

Zondervan (March 19, 2010)

SUMMARY:
Dragons are enslaving humankind and a black egg signals the end of the world. Jason Masters must journey to another realm and join forces with a slave girl named Koren to rescue the captives and save two worlds from destruction. What if the Legends Are True? Jason Masters doubted the myths: people taken through a portal to another realm and enslaved by dragons. But when his brother is taken, he must uncover the truth and find the portal before it's too late. Once he's through the portal, he meets Koren, a slave in the dragons’ realm, who struggles to destroy a black egg prophesied to doom all mankind. Jason and Koren must work together to save their two worlds before the dragons learn that their secrets have been discovered. In Starlighter, bestselling author Bryan Davis masterfully weaves fantasy and inspiration into a captivating novel for young adults.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Bryan Davis is the author of the bestselling fantasy series Dragons in Our Midst, Oracles of Fire and Echoes from the Edge. He and his wife, Susie, have seven children and live in western Tennessee where he continues to cook up his imaginative blend of fantasy and inspiration.

Visit the author's website.

Product Details:

List Price: $9.99
Reading level: Young Adult
Paperback: 400 pages
Publisher: Zondervan (March 19, 2010)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0310718368
ISBN-13: 978-0310718369

TO BROWSE THE BOOK, CLICK ON THE BUTTON BELOW:

FIRST Wild Card: Solitary by Travis Thrasher

2010-08-17T08:34:00.002-04:00

Today's Wild Card author is:

Travis Thrasher

and the book:

Solitary

David C. Cook; New edition (August 1, 2010)

Note: This is the first FIRST novel that I have featured since the hospital stay. I didn't get a copy to read, but the sample chapter caught my attention. Obviously a book aimed at teens; lots of mysterious hints.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Travis Thrasher is an author of diverse talents with more than twelve published novels including romance, suspense, adventure, and supernatural horror tales. At the core of each of his stories lie flawed characters in search of redemption. Thrasher weaves hope within all of his tales, and he loves surprising his readers with amazing plot twists and unexpected variety in his writing. Travis lives with his wife and daughter in a suburb of Chicago. Solitary is his first young adult novel.

Visit the author's website.

Product Details:

List Price: $14.99
Paperback: 400 pages
Publisher: David C. Cook; New edition (August 1, 2010)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1434764214
ISBN-13: 978-1434764218

SUMMARY:
When Chris Buckley moves to Solitary, North Carolina, he faces the reality of his parents’ divorce, a school full of nameless faces—and Jocelyn Evans. Jocelyn is beautiful and mysterious enough to leave Chris speechless. But the more Jocelyn resists him, the more the two are drawn together.
Chris soon learns that Jocelyn has secrets as deep as the town itself. Secrets more terrifying than the bullies he faces in the locker room or his mother’s unexplained nightmares. He slowly begins to understand the horrific answers. The question is whether he can save Jocelyn in time.

This first book in the Solitary Tales series will take you from the cold halls of high school to the dark rooms of an abandoned cabin—and remind you what it means to believe in what you cannot see.

AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:

1 . Half a Person

She’s beautiful.

She stands behind two other girls, one a goth coated in black and the other a blonde with wild hair and an even wilder smile. She’s waiting, looking off the other way, but I’ve already memorized her face.

I’ve never seen such a gorgeous girl in my life.

“You really like them?”

The goth girl is the one talking; maybe she’s the leader of their pack. I’ve noticed them twice already today because of her, the one standing behind. The beautiful girl from my second-period English class, the one with the short skirt and long legs and endless brown hair, the one I can’t stop thinking about. She’s hard not to notice.

“Yeah, they’re one of my favorites,” I say.

We’re talking about my T-shirt. It’s my first day at this school, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think carefully about what I was going to wear. It’s about making a statement. I would have bet that 99 percent of the seven hundred kids at this high school wouldn’t know what Strangeways, Here We Come refers to.

Guess I found the other 1 percent.

I was killing time after lunch by wandering aimlessly when the threesome stopped me. Goth Girl didn’t even say hi; she just pointed at the murky photograph of a face on my shirt and asked where I got it. She made it sound like I stole it.

In a way, I did.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” Goth Girl asks. Her sparkling blue eyes are almost hidden by her dark eyeliner.

“Did the shirt give it away?”

“Nobody in this school listens to The Smiths.”

I can tell her that I stole the shirt, or in a sense borrowed it, but then she’d ask me from where.

I don’t want to tell her I found it in a drawer in the house we’re staying at. A cabin that belongs to my uncle. A cabin that used to belong to my uncle when he was around.

“I just moved here from a suburb of Chicago.”

“What suburb?” the blonde asks.

“Libertyville. Ever hear of it?”

“No.”

I see the beauty shift her gaze around to see who’s watching. Which is surprising, because most attractive girls don’t have to do that. They know that they’re being watched.

This is different. Her glance is more suspicious. Or anxious.

“What’s your name?”

“Chris Buckley.”

“Good taste in music, Chris,” Goth Girl says. “I’m Poe. This is Rachel. And she’s Jocelyn.”

That’s right. Her name’s Jocelyn. I remember now from class.

“What else do you like?”

“I got a wide taste in music.”

“Do you like country?” Poe asks.

“No, not really.”

“Good. I can’t stand it. Nobody who wears a T-shirt like that would ever like country.”

“I like country,” Rachel says.

“Don’t admit it. So why’d you move here?”

“Parents got a divorce. My mom decided to move, and I came with her.”

“Did you have a choice?”

“Not really. But if I had I would’ve chosen to move with her.”

“Why here?”

“Some of our family lives in Solitary. Or used to. I have a couple relatives in the area.” I choose not to say anything about Uncle Robert. “My mother grew up around here.”

“That sucks,” Poe says.

“Solitary is a strange town,” Rachel says with a grin that doesn’t seem to ever go away. “Anybody tell you that?”

I shake my head.

“Joss lives here; we don’t,” Poe says. “I’m in Groveton; Rach lives on the border to South Carolina. Joss tries to hide out at our places because Solitary fits its name.”

Jocelyn looks like she’s late for something, her body language screaming that she wants to leave this conversation she’s not a part of. She still hasn’t acknowledged me.

“What year are you guys?”

“Juniors. I’m from New York—can’t you tell? Rachel is from Colorado, and Jocelyn grew up here, though she wants to get out as soon as she can. You can join our club if you like.”

Part of me wonders if I’d have to wear eyeliner and lipstick.

“Club?”

“The misfits. The outcasts. Whatever you want to call it.”

“Not sure if I want to join that.”

“You think you fit in?”

“No,” I say.

“Good. We’ll take you. You fit with us. Plus … you’re cute.”

Poe and her friends walk away.

Jocelyn finally glances at me and smiles the saddest smile I’ve ever seen.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t terrified.

I might look cool and nonchalant and act cool and nonchalant, but inside I’m quaking.

I spent the first sixteen years of my life around the same people, going to the same school, living in the same town with the same two parents.

Now everything is different.

The students who pass me are nameless, faceless, expressionless. We are part of a herd that jumps to life like Pavlov’s dog at the sound of the bell, which really is a low drone that sounds like it comes from some really bad sci-fi movie. It’s hard to keep the cool and nonchalant thing going while staring in confusion at my school map. I probably look pathetic.

I dig out the computer printout of my class list and look at it again. I swear there’s not a room called C305.

I must be looking pathetic, because she comes up to me and asks if I’m lost.

Jocelyn can actually talk.

“Yeah, kinda.”

“Where are you going?”

“Some room—C305. Does that even exist?”

“Of course it does. I’m actually heading there right now.” There’s an attitude in her voice, as if she’s ready for a fight even if one’s not coming.

“History?”

She nods.

“Second class together,” I say, which elicits a polite and slightly annoyed smile.

She explains to me how the rooms are organized, with C stuck between A and B for some crazy reason. But I don’t really hear the words she’s saying. I look at her and wonder if she can see me blushing. Other kids are staring at me now for the first time today. They look at Jocelyn and look at me—curious, critical, cutting. I wonder if I’m imagining it.

After a minute of this, I stare off a kid who looks like I threw manure in his face.

“Not the friendliest bunch of people, are they?” I ask.

“People here don’t like outsiders.”

“They didn’t even notice me until now.”

She nods and looks away, as if this is her fault. Her hair, so thick and straight, shimmers all the way past her shoulders. I could stare at her all day long.

“Glad you’re in some of my classes.”

“I’m sure you are,” she says.

We reach the room.

“Well, thanks.”

“No problem.”

She says it the way an upperclassmen might answer a freshman. Or an older sister, her bratty brother. I want to say something witty, but nothing comes to mind.

I’m sure I’m not the first guy she’s left speechless.

Every class I’m introduced to seems more and more unimpressed.

“This is Christopher Buckley from Chicago, Illinois,” the teachers say, in case anybody doesn’t know where Chicago is.

In case anybody wonders who the new breathing slab of human is, stuck in the middle of the room.

A redheaded girl with a giant nose stares at me, then glances at my shirt as if I have food smeared all over it. She rolls her eyes and then looks away.

Glancing down at my shirt makes me think of a song by The Smiths, “Half a Person.”

That’s how I feel.

I’ve never been the most popular kid in school. I’m a soccer player in a football world. My parents never had an abundance of money. I’m not overly good looking or overly smart or overly anything, to be honest. Just decent looking and decent at sports and decent at school. But decent doesn’t get you far. Most of the time you need to be the best at one thing and stick to it.

I think about this as I notice more unfamiliar faces. A kid who looks like he hasn’t bathed for a week. An oily-faced girl who looks miserable. A guy with tattoos who isn’t even pretending to listen.

I never really fit in back in Libertyville, so how in the world am I going to fit in here?

Two more years of high school.

I don’t want to think about it.

As the teacher drones on about American history and I reflect on my own history, my eyes find her.

I see her glancing my way.

For a long moment, neither of us look away.

For that long moment, it’s just the two of us in the room.

Her glance is strong and tough. It’s almost as if she’s telling me to remain the same, as if she’s saying, Don’t let them get you down.

Suddenly, I have this amazingly crazy thought: I’m glad I’m here.

I have to fight to get out of the room to catch up to Jocelyn.

I’ve had forty minutes to think of exactly what I want to say, but by the time I catch up to her, all that comes out is “hey.”

She nods.

Those eyes cripple me. I’m not trying to sound cheesy—they do. They bind my tongue.

For an awkward sixty seconds, the longest minute of my sixteen years, I walk the hallway beside her. We reach the girls’ room, and she opens the door and goes inside. I stand there for a second, wondering

if I should wait for her, then feeling stupid and ridiculous, wondering why I’m turning into a head of lettuce around a stranger I just met.

But I know exactly why.

As I head down the hallway, toward some other room with some other teacher unveiling some other plan to educate us, I feel someone grab my arm.

“You don’t want to mess with that.”

I wonder if I heard him right. Did he say that or her?

I turn and see a short kid with messy brown hair and a pimply face. I gotta be honest—it’s been a while since I’d seen a kid with this many pimples. Doctors have things you can do for that. The word pus comes to mind.

“Mess with what?”

“Jocelyn. If I were you, I wouldn’t entertain such thoughts.”

Who is this kid, and what’s he talking about?

And what teenager says, “I wouldn’t entertain such thoughts”?

“What thoughts would those be?”

“Don’t be a wise guy.”

Pimple Boy sounds like the wise guy, with a weaselly voice that seems like it’s going to deliver a punch line any second.

“What are you talking about?”

“Look, I’m just warning you. I’ve seen it happen before. I’m nobody, okay, and nobodies can get away with some things. And you look like a decent guy, so I’m just telling you.”

“Telling me what?”

“Not to take a fancy with the lady.”

Did he just say that in an accent that sounded British, or is it my imagination?

“I was just walking with her down the hallway.”

“Yeah. Okay. Then I’ll see you later.”

“Wait. Hold on,” I say. “Is she taken or something?”

“Yeah. She’s spoken for. And has been for sometime.”

Pimple Boy says this the way he might tell me that my mother is dying.

It’s bizarre.

And a bit spooky.

I realize that Harrington County High in Solitary, North Carolina, is a long way away from Libertyville.

I think about what the odd kid just told me.

This is probably bad.

Because one thing in my life has been a constant. You can ask my mother or father, and they’d agree.

I don’t like being told what to do.

Best of CFRB, Day 6: Gentle Journey

2010-08-14T10:13:00.001-04:00

Last day; no time left for wavering and indecision. It's been a pleasant trip for me as I revisited books and authors that the Christian Fiction Review Blog has featured over the years. There are many other books that were well-written and good examples of their various genres, but one that kept returning to my mind was a rather unassuming little Regency historical by Elaine Lyons Bach--Gentle Journey.

When I first saw the title of this novel by Elaine Lyons Bach, I was expecting something kind of dull. I was wrong. Very wrong.

Gentle Journey is set in England during the time of the Napoleonic Wars. It is filled with details to fit that time period and the culture of the day. This third-person narrative follows a young daughter of a vicar, Eden Barret, who is seeking employment that can help her large family (her father has died), give her fulfillment, and lead her to a place where she can help the unfortunate on a large scale. And England at the time is full of unfortunates. Orphans, widows and the poor weren’t taken care of very well as a whole, and tender-hearted Eden had seen a lot of misery as she assisted her father with the sick, the dying, and the poverty-stricken in his parish. Eden herself has a strong faith in God and high moral values.

When she applies for a job as a governess/tutor for 12-year-old Diana, only daughter of the Earl of Edmund, Eden doesn’t really know what she’s getting herself into. She finds an estate much greater than she ever imagined with comforts extended even to herself that make it a very cozy position. She enjoys teaching the bright young lady, but is constantly on the edge of trouble with the current Lord Edmund, Diana’s brother Colin. Colin has a great deal of resentment built up against God and forbids Eden from ‘preaching’ to Diana. Eden has a difficult time with her temper and her tongue, so the two of them end up in sparring matches quite often. They drive each other crazy, yet are strangely attracted to each other at the same time.

So far it doesn’t sound very exciting, but the turmoil is brewing in several quarters. From the beginning of her employment, Eden makes a bitter enemy with a chimney sweep when she insists that he stop abusing the two small children that he has bought to work for him. He festers over the loss of his crew and plans revenge that takes some very dark turns. She also needs to contend with the cavalier dandy who is an old acquaintance of Colin’s, brother to a lady that everyone expects Colin to marry. And then there’s Diana, who adores Eden but fears that she and Colin will become too interested in each other, leaving her out of the picture. Her scheming doesn’t involve the danger that some of the others did, but indirectly it causes a great deal of trouble.

Integral to the story is the whole situation of orphans and the poor at this time. Eden has plenty of opportunities to share her kindness and comfort others in ways she would have never imagined, but to say more gives away a good deal of the later events in the story. Some very real situations are dealt with, such as rape, murder, infidelity, death, poor medical conditions, sufferings of war, and abuse; these situations are presented honestly, but without gratuitous violence or grit.

I really loved the style of Gentle Journey, so reminiscent of Jane Austen, and intentionally so. A couple of Miss Austen’s books are even mentioned as being popular at the time. For anyone else who is a fan of Jane Austen, I can readily recommend Gentle Journey for you reading pleasure. I think it would be an excellent choice for summer reading .

Elaine Lyons Bach has a page at http://shoutlife.com/gentlejourney.

Information for Gentle Journey, including an audio excerpt, a written sample, and links for buying the book (including email download copy) are here.

Book Details:

Gentle Journey
Elaine Lyons Bach
Fiction, Romance
Outskirts Press (February 9, 2007) 248 pgs
ISBN: 978-1598009040

Best of CFRB Day 5: Canadian Authors

2010-08-13T09:41:00.002-04:00

With only two days left for the "Best of CFRB" Tour, I am having difficulty choosing the books that I consider the elite. Sorry folks, but I know I'm going to miss some gems. Today is Canadian day. Thanks to Laura Davis, I was introduced to some great authors from up north. There were four in particular: Marcia Laycock, Laura Davis, Mags Storey, and Keith Clemons.

One Smooth Stone by Marcia Lee Laycock
Two men are running from the law, from their pasts, from society, from themselves, and from God. The thing is, no one can hide from God. As is written in Psalm 130 (NKJV):

7 Where can I go from Your Spirit?

Or where can I flee from Your presence?

8 If I ascend into heaven, You are there;

If I make my bed in hell, behold, You are there.

Even in the wild and danger-laden northern frontiers of the Yukon, Alex and Gil must face themselves and the pursuing God who will not let them go. Their paths cross unexpectedly as "coincidences" lead them in ways they never wanted.

The story shifts back and forth from Alex Donnelly to Gil, focusing mostly on Alex's story. Just a few weeks after Alex's twenty-first birthday, a lawyer from Seattle found him living the hermit's life in the Canadian wilderness. It seems that the orphaned man had a million dollar inheritance just waiting for him to pick it up. Alex is suspicious, certain there's been a mistake, but he warily agrees to go back to civilization with the lawyer. In Seattle, he meets the sweet young researcher who had worked for so long searching for him, and they form an odd connection. He spends the weekend with her and her parents (her father is a senior partner in the law firm), and comes face-to-face with a family model unknown to him. The close relationships they have with each other and with God beckon to an empty place within him, but in the same time they intensify his dark memories of his own past, a past full of dark secrets and abuse. In agony and fearful of the police, he leaves without getting his money. Back in the Yukon, with winter coming on, he takes a caretaker job in an empty mining camp for the season. n the isolated camp, his only companion is a husky. Oh, and the grizzly. Oh, and a mysterious "ghost" who barely leaves a trace of his existence.

Meanwhile, Kenni, the young researcher, is compelled by God to persevere in pursuit of the troubled Alex. And remember the grizzly and the winter coming on? And that other guy, Gil? Everything comes together in tense adventurous ways.

The dark truths are eventually revealed as Mrs. Laycock skillfully laid them out piecemeal, drawing us in and making us care about a rough character like Alex Donnelly. When we see through the eyes of Kenni and her parents, we see how God loves even the most wretched and how His forgiveness, love and grace can work all things together.

This suspense and action-packed novel really held my attention from the very beginning.Marcia Laycock doles out little parcels of information (some of which I've spoiled) so dexterously, kind of like the carrot-on-the-string ploy. It kept me guessing about all sorts of details, some extremely important, right up to the end. It was a very satisfying story, but not all pie-in-the-sky. One Smooth Stone is definitely an adult suspense, although I am sure many teens would enjoy it as well. Once again, the timing for this tour was interesting to me, coming between the Olympics in Canada and the Iditarod (started March 7). Those who enjoy adventure, suspense and mystery should be captivated by One Smooth Stone.

Marcia Lee Laycock is an award-winning Canadian author known for her devotional writings. She received the Best New Canadian Christian Author Award for One Smooth Stone, her debut in fiction.

For more information, you can visit the author's website, vinemarc.com .

Purchase One Smooth Stone from
Amazon, Barnes and Noble, or the publisher.

If I copy all three of the others, this will be much too long. So please follow the links for the titles to read my reviews. Author websites are given as links under the author names.

Mags Storey's Story: IF ONLY YOU KNEW (Since I originally wrote this review, Ms. Storey has won some well-deserved awards for her novel. The Word Guild's Canadian Christian Writing Awards bestowed three honors: Best Romance, Best Youth Novel, and the prestigious Grace Irwin Award for Best Book of 2009.

Keith Clemons: Mohamed's Moon (interview)

Laura Davis: Come to Me

Best of CFRB Day 4: League Of Superheroes

2010-08-12T03:36:00.000-04:00

The world is full of turmoil and evil. There are scheming powers that want to destroy humanity and take control of the world. Where can the people of the world turn for help? Look! Up in the sky! It’s . . . geeks!?! Make that Teenage mutant ninja geeks. Okay, so they are neither mutants nor ninjas. But they are teenage geeks, and they are definitely pretty cool once they get their super suits. Suits that are designed and created by a seven year old genius that they met online, no less.

League of Superheroes is the book that many a geek (teenage or older) and many a comic book aficionado has been waiting for, whether you knew it or not. I know this from the reaction of several self-proclaimed geeks and comic maniacs when I described the book to them, a reaction that has been further promoted after said geeks and fans read the story. Myself included. Oh, and by the way, this has a really important added dimension: the League is made up of extraordinarily committed Christians who desire to live according to the way that Jesus would want them to. I know: that’s the hardest to swallow of all in this story, right? But Stephen Rice makes it all work, and he does so in a most entertaining way.

Briefly, there are four teenage boys who call themselves the Mad Scientists. They each have certain special talents and gifts; each is extremely intelligent. And, as I mentioned, each is unapologetically Christian. They all attend different denominations (except Tom, who is part of a nondenominational church), they tease each other about their differences, but they really respect each other and share a love for certain comic superheroes. One day Allen’s chatty sister Clarice introduces them to her new online friend, Genie. It appears that Genie isn’t in any bottle, but she is able to grant wishes. One by one, super suits start arriving for the guys that equip them with unheard-of technological means to “become” their favorite superheroes. First is Titan for Rod; he’s kind of like a human tank. His strength is incredible, but Rod’s first attempts at controlling his powers and ability to fly are hilarious. As are his first efforts to thwart crime. Within a short time Allen becomes Tachyon, apparently reaching super speeds by distorting time, Tom turns into Darklight with invisible tendencies, and Charlie shrinks into the role of Micromegas (for you DC Comic fans, think the Atom).

The guys are on cloud nine, but to whom much is given, much is required, and life as crime fighters isn’t all fun and games. There’s the kidnapping which ends rather unhappily and alerts the guys to something very sinister behind the people that have Genie under their thumb. Her whole story is strange, and as they all get more acquainted, it becomes all too clear that she is involved with really dangerous people. Is Rod correct in his belief that this corporation has to do with the antichrist and the mysterious Troika? And what about Genie herself? Is she using the guys for her own purposes, revenge and some definitely unchristian activities?

This book is just the introduction to a whole series that Stephen Rice is developing using his characters, but for my vote it is a great beginning. Lots of action, lots of fun and humor, and some deep issues to ponder. Stephen says there is a lot more action and adventure in subsequent tales, leading me to expect a dynamite series!

Visit Stephen Rice's blog: Back to the Mountains and his League of Superheroes Series wiki at ansric.pbwiki.com.

Product Details:

List Price: $ 9.95
Paperback: 200 pages
Publisher: Writers Cafe Press, The (October 1, 2008)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 193428405X
ISBN-13: 978-1934284056

League of Superheroes is available through the publisher, The Writer's Café Press (can be autographed), Barnes and Noble, and Amazon.com.

Best of CFRB, Day 3: Time Masters Book One, The Call

2010-08-11T01:08:00.001-04:00

The Call is a tale of shifting time, shifting shapes, and of love and purpose that stretches beyond normal boundaries. Time travel, romance, and fantasy all rolled together, the story begins in 1692 in the midst of Scotland's historical Glencoe Massacre. Dallan MacDonald, unable to save the ones he loves, is snatched away just as a murderous villain holds a knife over his young brother. When the next chapter begins we find Dallan in a small village defending a young boy from the current Time Master, Kwaku Awahnee, in the year 3698. We soon learn that Dallan has been in this place for ten years, ten very long years and every day has had to fight grueling battles with Kwaku. Dallan hates every minute of it and is consumed with not only going home to Scotland, but with anger because he could not save his brother, not to mention being held against his will in a place he hasn't a clue is in a time far from his own. Little by little the reader learns the facts and reasons for this brutal treatment. The truth is, Dallan MacDonald is the one man who can save the world and all humanity. But first he must be ready to fight the worst of evils and come to believe the truth of the Creator. More than that, he has to find the one girl in the world who is destined to join with him, to love and marry him and thus save all mankind from total destruction. Oh, and did I mention she was kidnapped as a baby and hidden in another time? She's been blissfully living in the USA in 1995. Oh, and did I mention she is oblivious to her destiny? That she thinks she is human, but she really isn't? She's Muiraran, and she has special traits that she is ignorant of, although the manifestation of these traits has just begun to take place. A sure sign it's time for her to meet her one true love, to join with him and create a supernatural force that can only happen when the two of them are together. So, a simple task for Dallan to perform. Right? Find and rescue the Maiden, convince her she's not human then get her to fall in love with, and marry him? Only one problem. Dallan doesn't beleive any of it. Enter those chosen to help Dallan accept his role, which is to become the new Time Master, to control his temper and use his strengths well, to believe the truth about splitting and traveling through time and the will of the Creator, to accept the need to find the Maiden, and then get her to love him and agree to marry him. But they are running out of time. Even worse, there is a villain in the wings who intends to take the girl for himself.

Whew! This is the shortest summary I could come up with that still held the essence of the story. Time Masters Book One: The Call is a lengthy book at 566 pages, but it is fairly easy to read with lots of action. It's a long ride full of twists and turns, hills and long drop-offs. The characters are strong and well developed, even the minor ones. Written in a third-person omniscient point-of-view, the novel opens up all the thoughts of different characters so that the reader is aware of what each one is thinking and doing most of the time, except when the author wants to surprise us. For this story, I think this was a good choice. Some of the characters, such as Kitty, the Maiden's talkative and klutzy friend, are added mainly for comic relief. Geralyn Beauchamp has included a great deal of humor, from Kitty's slapstick to Dallan's wry wit in his speech.

While Time Masters is a very entertaining adventure story, it is also chock full of spiritual themes. What struck me in particular was the emphasis on the sanctity of marriage and the special 'power' in the joining of man and wife as two become one. The strength of commitment and true vows, purity before marriage, are so well demonstrated even if it is fiction. Other themes include yielding to the will of God, faith, living out your salvation, and submitting to God are also included. The tale is never preachy or heavy, however.

If you are too impatient to read a long story, you may not care for Time Masters. It will take a while to peruse, even though the action makes the time pass quickly. If you are willing to try it, I think you will enjoy the tale, especially if you enjoy speculative fiction with lots of romance and action/adventure. For those of you who like a lengthy tome, you'll be in Heaven.

Time Masters Book One: The Call by Geralyn Beauchamp

2007; 566 pages in paperback. Also available in hardcover

ISBN 978-1-58385-198-2published by Cold Tree Press, Nashville TN

Available at amazon.com, Barnes and Noble stores and barnesandnoble.com

Best of CFRB: Nor Iron Bars a Cage

2010-08-10T12:34:00.000-04:00

Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage;

Minds innocent and quiet take that for an hermitage;

If I have freedom in my love, And in my soul am free,

Angels alone that soar above Enjoy such liberty.( “To Althea From Prison,” Richard
Lovelace 1618-1658)

For her second novel in the Ascendancy trilogy, Caprice Hokstad chose an appropriate title, Nor Iron Bars a Cage, alluding to themes in the above poem as well as referring to events in the novel itself. In a fantasy world where slavery is a normal part of a culture, one of the big questions is, “what is true freedom?”

Events take up right where they left off in The Duke’s Handmaid. In case you haven’t read the first book, there are enough details that you can easily follow the story, although it would be preferable to read both books. Nor Iron Bars a Cage is set in the imaginary country of Latoph. (You can find some cool details about Latoph, including a map, at http://www.latoph.com/) In this world there is a duality to everything: two suns, two moons, two races of people. Even twin brothers who were supposed to reign together as kings, but only one was given the throne. The other one, our hero Duke Vahn, has only his duchy at his control. This is a cause of major sibling tension.

The story starts up a while after the Duke’s former wife had taken off with their son, fleeing with her lover back to her father’s kingdom of Ganluc. Prince Duke Vahn has searched in vain to discover where his former wife Saerula had hidden Dauntère in Ganluc. Finally, kee, his secret wife and handmaiden extraordinaire, devises a plan enter Ganluc as a recaptured runaway slave, reasoning that a slave will not be suspect and may get information that others could not. The plan is dangerous for all of them, but especially kee, who must be kept locked in a cage as they transport her through the country. There are some very serious misadventures, but I won’t spoil that here.

Meanwhile, while kee is gone, the Duke finds himself in hot water due to a hasty bet with an angry duchess who tried in vain to snatch the Duke as a groom. The loser has to act as slave to the winner for eight weeks. As the saying goes, “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.”

There are some very deep issues in this novel, much deeper than they may appear on the surface. Quite honestly, I had to come to terms with the slavery, which is nothing like the slavery that existed in the United States, but there is a natural repulsion to the whole idea. This is a totally different culture, but even more than that is the Biblical example that kee in particular was following. We serve either God or Mammon, as it says in the King James Version, so while we do have free will, we will end up serving someone. True freedom is found when we willingly submit to the will of God and allow Him to be the Lord of our lives. One of the gems that this novel contains is coming to terms with what Lordship means. When God is truly Lord, He is also our Father. He takes care of us, feeds us, protects us, and has our welfare in mind even when He corrects us. Vahn learns to be more of a Christ figure in the second novel. Hebrews 2:18 reads, “Because he himself suffered when he was tempted, he is able to help those who are being tempted.” You will have to read the book to discover how he suffered. There are several other Christian values and world views expressed: loyalty, friendship, faithfulness, a desire to bring honor and glory to the Lord, a willingness to accept blame and not find fault with others, respect for all people, and substitution and sacrifice. The virtue is not so much in getting our rights as being submissive to God and others.

One point I wish to make clear: just because this is fantasy, do not expect it to be a Young Adult or children’s book. It is quite definitely written for adults and describes adult issues. Mrs. Hokstad has said that since she couldn’t find the kind of book she wanted to read, she decided to write it herself. Adult scenes are worded carefully, with no vulgarity or cheapness, but it is suggested that parents read the novel first before handing it to any teenagers. You won’t find anything more graphic than is depicted in the Bible, in fact many passages in the Old Testament are a great deal more violent and graphic.

By and large, this was a very entertaining and insightful, richly detailed story. Caprice Hokstad has painstakingly laid out a new world with luxurious descriptions, from the topography and weather to the racial and cultural differences to the events and décor of the homes. The duality theme is carried out in so many levels. Her descriptions made me wince with pain, smile at the sweetness of kee, and feel the thirst in the desert. It was not a book with action packing every paragraph, since a great deal of the action was internal. Nevertheless, there were plenty of exciting scenes along the way, and quite a few truths to ponder as we impatiently wait for the third book in the series.

Nor Iron Bars a Cage by Caprice Hokstad
348 pages
Publisher: Vici Publishing
Copyright: © 2007 Caprice Hokstad Standard Copyright License
Language: English
Country: United States
Available in hardcover, paperback, and download.
If you would like to read a preview of the first three chapters, you can find it at http://www.latoph.com/NIBAC.html
Caprice Hokstad’s website: http://www.latoph.com
Available through her website and http://www.lulu.com/caprice
Should be available very soon at http://www.amazon.com/, but the price is better at lulu.com.

"BEST OF CFRB" Tour; Day One--FLASHPOINT

2010-08-09T04:49:00.000-04:00

Flashpoint--Book One of the Underground by Frank Creed was the first book that I wrote a review for. When I reread it now, I see lots of things that I would change. At the time, however, I was woefully unaware of what was going on in Christian literature and the publishing business. The original CFRB tour was in October, 2007. Here's a reprise of that early review:

Flashpoint by Frank Creed

Imagine a book that combines the super-cool action of The Matrix with a big portion of Left Behind, and then mix in a few tablespoons of Frank Peretti’s This Present Darkness and the powers of all the superheroes you know. This only begins to give you an idea of what to expect in Frank Creed’s futuristic Speculative Fiction book, Flashpoint.

This tale of Good (The Body of Christ and God) versus Evil (the Devil and his crowd) takes place in Chicago in 2036, a time when Fundamentalist Christians are considered dangerous terrorists who need to be taken to insane asylums and reprogrammed in order to serve society. The true believers meet secretly in house churches which are always in danger of being discovered and raided by “Peacekeepers.” The life-or-death action begins as Dave and Jen Williams are traveling home with their dad, only to find Peacekeepers have stormed the neighborhood and arrested the members of their house church, including their mother and older brother. Their father hurriedly takes Dave and Jen to hide where he thinks they’ll be safe until one of the members of the BOC (Body of Christ) can get them underground. Their rescuer, Legacy, makes a last minute appearance as the Peacekeepers are ready to take them. With super strength, super speed and some high-tech toys, Legacy knocks out the Bad Guys. From this point on, the action REALLY gets hot and heavy!

What is most remarkable about this book is how Frank Creed laces the book with scripture, important Christian values, and humor without ever slowing down the pace. The mindware that has been developed works in conjunction with the Holy Spirit, and Dave (who chooses Calamity Kid as his street name) must learn to surrender his own will and let God’s will be done. The humor is everywhere, and sometimes I had to reread portions because I missed it.

The only point that some readers may have a problem with is that this is not written with a rapture taking place, as in Left Behind, before the One World Government starts to take over. However, this book is not taking a stand on one view of the Tribulation or another; it is a speculative look at what the church may face if current trends continue. As such, I think it handles situations and scripture nicely.

I would recommend this book to anyone who enjoys action-adventure, cyberpunk, science fiction, or end-times speculation. It is particularly geared for young adult guys, but we older folks--even ladies-- will enjoy it as well! There isn’t a dull moment, yet it gives you some truths to chew on at the same time.

Flashpoint: Book One of the UndergroundAuthor: Frank Creed
Publisher: The Writers’ Café Press, Lafayette, IN
Pub. Date: September, 2007
ISBN: 978-1-934284-01-8
Biblical speculative fiction
200 pages
Retail Price: $9.95, softcover
Contact Frank Creed at www.FrankCreed.com

Since I wrote this, I have read quite a bit of sci-fi and fantasy, as well as other speculative fiction. I've learned a lot more about cyberpunk, film noir dialog and style, and I've come to a better understanding of how futuristic fiction with can be written with Christian values and yet not line up with your--or my--interpretation of Revelation. As a result, my original impression of Flashpoint and Frank Creed stands. Back then I declared Frank as the best living Christian author. Well, kay, I hadn't read much then, so a few others are on the podium with him, but his style is still exemplary. Smart, succinct, unapologetically Christian and yet honest non-Christians enjoy the story. I'm not sure, but I think he's the first in this sub-sub-genre of Christian cyberpunk (one other I saw recently was Eternity Falls by Kirk Outerbridge). In any case, Frank Creed is an important author in the speculative realm. The long-awaited sequel, War of Attrition, should make its appearance very soon. I recommend getting cozy with Flashpoint before diving into book two.

CFRB Book Tour for August: "Best of CFRB"

2010-08-09T03:34:00.002-04:00

The Christian Fiction Review Blog (CFRB) has been in operation since January 1, 2007, when the first book toured was Arms of Deliverance by Tricia Goyer. 43 novels have been spotlighted since that time, and there was a feeling that it would be good to recap some of the better titles. Most of the CFRB members weren't there at the beginning; but it's my understanding that quality writing was evident from the outset. This week various members will be reaching into their individual archives to revisit titles that each of them considers top-notch. Since I am not sure just who will be contributing this time, I ask you to look at the scrolling bar--CFRB--on the right side. Current and recent members are listed there, many of whom should be reviewing this week. As for me personally, I have had great difficulty choosing, so I'll be rerunning one review per day. Six still wasn't enough, but choices had to be made.

SPLASHDOWN BOOKS Takes On Growing Speculative Market

2010-07-30T18:57:00.000-04:00

A few months back, a new publisher started up rather quietly, filling a need in an area with high interest but limited representation in Christian circles. Splashdown Books landed with The Muse by Fred Warren, a quirky fantasy that is attracting accolades and attention, even award nominations. Since then three more books have been published with more to come within the year. Grace Bridges, the publisher, has produced this nice little video (narrated by author Adam Graham) which introduces the publisher and current books well.

Unexpected Long Dry Spell; Hopefully Ending Very Soon

2010-07-24T02:39:00.001-04:00

It's been an incredibly long time since I posted anything on this blog. As they say, "due to circumstances beyond my control." Not to go into the boring details, but increasing health issues mixed with a string of computer problems (I'm beginning to think computers are allergic to me) prevented me from writing for several months. In that time I managed to do only short, unoriginal entries for a couple of books that deserve much more attention, attention I intend to give them soon. From May 12 until July 15 I was totally out of commission, in the hospital and a convalescent center. Home has never looked as good as it does now. I'm still a bit slow about writing, partly because I'm still not running on all four cylinders, but there's a huge backlog of books that I need to review. My apologies to all the authors and publishers who rightfully expected a post on the books sent to me. Now I have to find them all again before I can begin, since some of my incredible friends straightened up my apartment while I was gone.

I also want to take a moment to thank my friends who knew about my problems, who lifted me up in their thoughts and prayers. The prayers kept me going, I know. Your concern and care has overwhelmed me; I feel so very blessed!

So, God willing and a computer is working, I should get started next week. I may not get the reviews out in the proper order, but they will be forthcoming!

CFRB May Blog Tour--RABBIT: Chasing Beth Rider

2010-05-03T07:01:00.000-04:00

Rabbit: Chasing Beth Rider
by Ellen C. Maze

This month, CFRB
presents Rabbit: Chasing Beth Rider by Ellen
C. Maze.

About the Book:
Bestselling author Beth Rider enjoys her fame as the South’s newest literary star.

That is until Jack Dawn, a real-life vampire, vows to kill her because of the vile redemptive message her book is bringing his people. The ancient race of bloodthirsty immortals to which Jack belongs, known as the Rakum, have spread evil among mankind since the Beginning. But Jack alone recognizes the novel’s destructive potential and she must die.

Jack’s proselyte Michael Stone was brought up from his youth to be strong, sensible and brutal. But at one hundred and thirty, Michael is old enough to appreciate his quiet and ordered life. When he stumbles upon the beautiful and apparently innocent Beth Rider, he is puzzled by his Elder’s unreasonable actions against her. Instantly smitten, Michael takes it upon himself to protect her from the limitless lust of his brethren.

Facing the most terrifying trial of her life against creatures known only in fables, one simple woman will threaten the existence of a powerful and accursed people. In the climactic final battle, it is a race to the death, or if Beth has her way, a race to the life—of every Rakum who makes the choice.

About the Author:
A recovering vampire fanatic, Ellen uses her experience in that subculture to bring the Light into this burgeoning genre. Addicting and delicious, Ellen’s brand of story-telling is rife with deep character study and honest emotion. Ellen lives in Historic Montgomery, Alabama with her husband, daughter, four cats and one spoiled dog. This is her first novel and Ellen has no holes in her neck.

Visit the book website.

Preview the first 171 pages (that's almost HALF of the book!)
free at FREADO.com.

Watch the book trailer.

Purchase Rabbit: Chasing Beth Rider from
Amazon, Barnes and Noble,
or the PDF eBook from Outskirts Press.

Check out these other member blogs this week for more info.

THE MUSE--Excerpt, Intro,and Free Book

2010-04-09T21:02:00.001-04:00

I'm a bit slow in getting a review out for The Muse by Fred Warren for several reasons beyond my control. Although I plan to put up a whole review tomorrow, today you can read my blurb that's in the front of the book and the first chapter. AND...(drum roll) announcing a GIVEAWAY to one specal reader!

I will have drawing a week from today, on Friday, April 16, for a copy of The Muse. I have such a high opinion of this book that this one is on me, not the author or the publisher. I really believe it should be read be scads of people, and I hope it will. TO ENTER this drawing: simply leave a comment (with your email address included) on one of the CFRB blogs about The Muse. That includes the whole week at CFRB's main site and all three of my posts. I'll also have posts at Shoutlife and Gather to include.

Here's the blurb I wrote (and was honored to find incuded in the front of the book):

This is an engaging, slightly twisted tale of a trio of aspiring speculative fiction authors who do battle with that most dreaded foe--writer's block. Although this may sound like something to appeal only to authors, that is far from the truth. Fred Warren's deftly-designed characters and well-developed scenes will draw in a variety of readers and carry them along for the ride. I laughed and cried out loud and found myself wishing for certain denouements, most of which were different than the actual outcomes. Reality and fantasy blur then clear in this kaleidoscope of action.

This is a portion of Fred Warren's introduction explaining his book:

This story is about inspiration--its meaning, origins, and purpose. It also explores the idea that there's more than one kind of inspiration, and it's important to understand the source, nature, and ultimate effects of the creative energy we're using.

Creation is perhaps the most human activity of all, for in the act of creating, whether it's producing a work of art, telling a story, building a business, or raising a family, we express in microcosm the nature of the Creator, who gave us life and made us in His image with the intent that we, in our small, clumsy way, attempt the sorts of things He does with perfect excellence.

I didn't start out writing The Muse with the intent of producing a "Christian" novel, though my own faith can't help but emerge somehow in anything I write. References to the spiritual world unseen to human eyes are pure speculation. I know the power of love, loyalty, truth, courage, and self-sacrifice beyond any shadow of doubt, and I am likewise certain that God works purposefully in our lives, for our good, though we often don't recognize His hand except in retrospect.

I enjoyed writing The Muse, and I hope you'll find it interesting, entertaining, and maybe even a little inspiring.

AND NOW for the first chapter:

TARON surveyed the enemy lines, row upon row of grotesque, iron-sinewed goblins rhythmically scraping swords on shields, filling the air with the soul-melting screech of metal carving bone. It was hopeless. The Alliance Army was outnumbered twenty to one in an indefensible position, their escape blocked by the sheer precipices of the Glass Mountains. He sighed. This would be the end. So much blood to be spilled today, for so little purpose.

Siri pulled up beside him, struggling to rein in her spirited chestnut mount. The horse, at least, was eager for battle, but Siri’s face was a picture of despair. She knew the odds, what the outcome must be.

“My Lord, the troops await your orders.”

Taron nodded, raising his sword, Illustrion, on high as he wheeled his destrier about to face the haggard ranks of the Alliance. He opened his mouth to shout the order that would send them all to certain death.

Silence.

“My Lord?” Siri whispered, “The order?”

Silence.

Behind them, the goblin army roared and scraped, roared and scraped, roared and scraped.

“My Lord! What is your order?”

The general’s mouth was a gaping cavern from which no sound emerged.

“Aaagh!” Stan shoved himself away from his desk, pounding his head in frustration. It was no use. He’d written himself into a corner... again.

Charity’s voice wafted down the cellar stairs. “Honey, are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he hollered back. “It’s nothing. I’m stuck again. Blasted writer’s block.”

“I thought so. Give it a break. Come upstairs for a while.”

“In a minute.” He rolled his chair back to the desk and tapped the keyboard. The printer whirred and spooled out the current page of Stan’s manuscript. He snatched it up and read the last paragraph, then he read it again. Maybe seeing the words on paper would trigger a new insight that would allow him to move ahead.

No such luck. He wadded the paper into a ball and flung it at the wall, where it bounced off a poster advertising last year’s Renaissance Festival. Across the room, a scruffy little terrier whined softly and leapt from his perch on the futon to retrieve the errant scrap.

“Don’t even think about it, Squick.” The vet bill for the little dumpster-diver’s last digestive misadventure was still a painfully fresh memory. Squick bounced back onto the futon. At least he was obedient, unlike Stan’s imagination. There had to be an original way to get his story past this latest roadblock. He could taste it, smell it, feel it on the edge of his consciousness, mocking him...

“It’s getting cold, Stan!”

“Coming, coming.”

Read more about Fred Warren and his work at his website and Splashdown Books.

Purchase The Muse from
Amazon and Barnes and Noble.
Check out these other member blogs this week for more info.

THE MUSE--CFRB Book for April

2010-04-07T13:37:00.001-04:00

The Muse
by Fred Warren

This month, CFRB presents The Muse by Fred Warren.

About the Book:
Stan Marino needs a muse. He's written himself into a corner...again. A shot of inspiration is all he needs to finish his story ...where is he going to find it? What Stan doesn't know: Inspiration has found him. And it's about to take over his life. Ripped from reality, he must lead a band of lost souls in a life-or-death battle with a merciless enemy. Stan has found his muse, but will he survive it?

About the Author:
Fred Warren hails from the merry old land of Kansas, and his short stories have appeared in a variety of online and print magazines, such as A Fly in Amber, Beyond Centauri, Every Day Fiction, Mindflights, and Residential Aliens. The Muse is his first novel.

Paperback: 196 pages
Publisher: Splashdown Books (November 1, 2009)
ISBN-10: 0986451711
ISBN-13: 978-0986451713

Visit the author's website.
Read the FREE first chapter.
Watch the book trailer.
Purchase The Muse from
Amazon and Barnes and Noble.
Check out these other member blogs this week for more info.

Love Crucified Arose!! Why?

2010-04-04T09:15:00.002-04:00

Two more music videos with songs that say so much more than I ever could, lyrics so enthralling that I am certain God gave them to Michael Card. First, the haunting question "Why?" Following it is one of my favorite songs of all time, "Love Crucified Arose." In this concert tour, Michael was joined by Sarah Groves, John Catchings (cello) and Phil Keaggy. May you draw closer to our Lord today as you praise and remember His great gift and sacrifice.

Why did it have to be a friend
Who chose to betray the Lord?
Why did he use a kiss to show them?
That's not what a kiss is for.
Only a friend can betray a friend
A stranger has nothing to gain;
And only a friend comes close enough
To ever cause so much pain.
And why did there have to be thorny
Crown pressed upon His head?
It should have been a royal one
Made of jewels and gold instead.
It had to be a crown of thorns
Because in this life that we live,
For all who seek to love
A thorn is all the world has to give.
And why did it have to be
A heavy cross He was made to bare?
And why did they nail His feet and hands
His love would have held Him there?
It was a cross for on a cross
A thief was supposed to pay,
And Jesus had come into the world
To steal every heart away.
Yes, Jesus had come into the world
To steal every heart away.
(copyright Michael Card, Mole End Music, 1984)

Long ago He blessed the earth
Born older than the years
And in the stall a cross He saw
Through the first of many tears.
A life of homeless wandering
Cast out in sorrow's way
The Shepherd seeking for the lost
His life, the price He paid.

Love crucified, arose
The Risen One in splendor
Jehovah's sole Defender
Has won the victory.
Love crucified, arose
And the grave became a place of hope
For the heart that sin and sorrow broke
Is beating once again.

Throughout Your life You felt the weight
Of what You'd come to give
To drink for us that crimson cup
So we might really live.
At last the time to love and die
The dark appointed day
That one forsaken moment
When Your Father turned His face away.

Love crucified, arose
The One who lived the died for me
Was Satan's nail-pierced casualty
Now He's breathing once again.

Love crucified, arose
And the grave became a place of hope
For the heart that sin and sorrow broke
Is beating once again.
(copyright Michael Card, Mole End Music, 1983)

He's Alive!!--Don Francisco

2010-04-03T18:42:00.001-04:00

There are many differences between Jesus Christ and others who have had faithful followers through the ages. As far as I know, the greatest is this--we serve a risen Savior. The tomb is empty and "He's Alive!"

Many years ago, Don Francisco wrote this inspired narrative of the Resurrection from Peter's viewpoint. Many others have recorded it since, but I prefer that raw emotion and energy when Don sings it. This video was recorded in South Africa in 2008.

If you don't feel a chill at the end, someone needs to check your pulse. Hallelujah! He's alive!!

Too Small A Price/Joy

2010-04-02T03:29:00.002-04:00

Today we remember the day when Jesus paid the highest price that we could not pay for ourselves. The day He wore my crown. Several years ago Don Francisco wrote a powerful song that took the viewpoint of one of the thieves on the cross beside Jesus--the one who believed. I found it on Youtube and still felt the same deep anguish, chill and joy that I did when I first heard it. May it affect all who watch and listen to "Too Small a Price."

FINDING INNER PEACE DURING TROUBLED TIMES

2010-03-30T23:29:00.001-04:00

William Moss

and the book:

Finding Inner Peace During Troubled Times

The Barnabas Agency (December 4, 2009)

***Special thanks to Audra Jennings, Senior Media Specialist, of The B&B Media Group for sending me a review copy.***

My Two Cents' Worth:
This little book is a concise guide full of scripture dealing with true inner peace and how to find it. The author, William Moss, writes from his own journey to fill the spiritual void and turmoil in his own life, a very distinguished life full of public service and accolades, yet with a missing chunk until his later years. Now 90 years old, Mr. Moss only came to know Jesus in a personal way in the 1990's, and ever since he has been researching and practicing real Christian meditation. This is the subject of Finding Inner Peace During Troubled Times. It certainly is timely: no one would argue whether or not these are troubled times. For many of us, the verses and the points that Mr. Moss makes may be familiar, but it is handy to have it gathered together in one slim volume. You can use it for quick reference or choose verses from it for your own meditation. It's surprising just how much the Bible has to say about meditation and peace. In this rushed, busy, worry-filled life, we all could take a little time to read through this book and reflect upon the truths of scripture. It makes a world of difference.

(For an interview with William Moss, see an earlier post on February 24, 2010.)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Moss has become an important figure in the Republican Party and has been entrusted with several key responsibilities. In 1988 he served as Vice Chairman for the George H. W. Bush the President’s National Finance Committee. He also served on the George H. W. Bush for President National Steering Committee, was founder of Team 100, and also a member of the National Republican Senatorial Trust Committee.

In 1989, at the request of President George H. W. Bush, Moss organized and was chairman of the President’s Drug Advisory Council, which functioned as part of the Executive Branch of the White House. The Council was formed to advise the President on ways to involve the private sector in the war on drugs, ultimately resulting in the “Community Anti-Drug Coalitions of America,” which is currently operating in approximately 40 states and communities across the nation. Having worked closely on several occasions with pollster George Gallup, Moss continues to research moral and ethical trends among voters—particularly young voters.

William Moss counts presidents, prime ministers, and other world influencers among his many friends. His career has been an unqualified success. But neither the friends nor the achievements could fill the spiritual void in Moss’s life. In recent years, he has found true inner peace in Christ and through the practice of Christian meditation. Moss joined Alcoholics Anonymous at the age of 85 and will soon celebrate 5 years of sobriety.

Visit the author's website.

Product Details:

List Price: $5.99
Paperback: 64 pages
Publisher: The Barnabas Agency (December 4, 2009)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0578042444
ISBN-13: 978-0578042442

AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:

The Biblical Writers

It is evident that the biblical writers want us to find peace because the Psalmist says,

“Turn from sin and do good; seek peace and pursue it.”1 In Romans Paul says, “Therefore, since we have been justified through faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ.”2 In Ephesians the author says, “For he himself is our peace, who has made the two one and has destroyed the barrier, the dividing wall of hostility.”3 In Colossians it says, “Let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts, since as members of one body you were called to peace.”4 In John Jesus says, “I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.”5

However, there are many difficulties, distractions and hardships that stand in the way of our inner peace. As Paul said to the Galatians, “So I say, live by the Spirit, and you will not gratify the desires of the sinful nature. For the sinful nature desires what is contrary to the Spirit and the Spirit what is contrary to the sinful nature. They are in conflict with each other, so that you do not do what you want. But if you are led by the Spirit, you are not under laws of Moses.”

Paul says “that the acts of the sinful nature are obvious: sexual immorality, impurity and debauchery; idolatry and witchcraft; hatred, discord, jealousy, fits of rage, selfish ambition, dissensions, factions and envy; drunkenness, orgies, and the like.” Today there are some

distractions Paul did not include such as: worry, self preservation, hunger, lack of money,

arrogance, competitiveness, criticism and illness, to name a few.

Paul continues. “I warn you, as I did before, that those who live like this will not inherit the kingdom of God. But the fruit of the Spirit is by practicing love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control. Against such things there is no law. Those who belong to Christ Jesus have crucified the sinful nature with its passions and desires. Since we live by the Spirit, let us keep in step with the Spirit. Let us not become conceited, provoking

and envying each other.”6

Through prayer and meditation we can transcend all these distractions and difficulties

if we live by the Spirit and put God’s love and presence first.

1 Psalm 34:14; 2 Romans 5:1; 3 Ephesians 2:14; 4 Colossians 3:15; 5 John 16:33 6 Galatians 5:15-26

CHOSEN--Ginger Garrett

2010-03-19T09:14:00.001-04:00

Today's Wild Card author is:

Ginger Garrett

and the book:

Chosen

David C. Cook; New edition (March 1, 2010)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Focusing on ancient women’s history, critically acclaimed author Ginger Garrett creates novels and nonfiction resources that explore the lives of historical women. In addition to her writing, Garrett is a frequent radio and television guest. A native Texan, she now resides in Georgia with her husband and three children.

Visit the author's website.

Chosen, by Ginger Garrett from David C. Cook on Vimeo.

Product Details:

List Price: $14.99
Paperback: 304 pages
Publisher: David C. Cook; New edition (March 1, 2010)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1434768015
ISBN-13: 978-1434768018

AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:

Prologue

Fourth Day of the Month of Av

Year 3414 after Creation

If you have opened this, you are the chosen one.

For this book has been sealed in the tomb of the ancients of Persia, never to be opened, I pray, until G-d1 has put His finger on a new woman of destiny, a woman who will rise up and change her nation. But we will not talk of your circumstances, and the many reasons this book may have fallen into your hands. There are no mistakes with prayer. You have indeed been called. If this sounds too strange, if you must look around your room and question whether G-d’s finger has perhaps slipped, if you are not a woman with the means to change a nation, then join me on a journey. You must return with me now to a place without hope, a nation that had lost sight of G-d, a girl with nothing to offer, and no one to give it to.

I must introduce myself first as I truly am: an exiled Jew, and an orphan. My given name was Hadassah, but the oppression of exile has stripped that too from me: I am now called Esther,2 so that I may blend in with my captors. My people, the Hebrew nation, had been sent out of our homeland after a bitter defeat in battle. We were allowed to settle in the kingdom of Persia, but we were not allowed to truly prosper there. We blended in, our lives preserved, but our heritage and customs were forced underground. Our hearts, once set only on returning to Jerusalem, were set out to wither in the heat

of the Arabian sun. My cousin Mordecai rescued me when I was orphaned and we lived in the capital city of Susa, under the reign of King Xerxes.3 Mordecai had a small flock of sheep that I helped tend, and we sold their fleece in the market. If times were good, we would sell a lamb for someone’s celebration. It was always for others to celebrate. We merely survived. But Mordecai was kind and good, and I was not forced into dishonor like the other orphans I had once known. This is how my story begins, and I give you these details not for sympathy, but so you will know that I am a girl well acquainted with bitter reality. I am not given to the freedom in flights of fantasy. But how can I explain to you the setting of my story? It is most certainly far removed from your experience. For I suspect that in the future, women will know freedom. And freedom is not an easy thing to forget, even if only to entertain an orphan’s story.

But you must forget now. I was born into a world, and into this story, where even the bravest women were faceless specters. Once married, they could venture out of their homes only with veils and escorts. No one yet had freed our souls. Passion and pleasure, like freedom, were the domain of men, and even young girls knew the wishes of their hearts would always be subject to a man’s desire for wealth. A man named Pericles summed up my time so well in his famed oration: “The greatest glory of a woman is to be least talked about by men, whether they are praising you or criticizing you.” Our role was clear: We were to be objects of passion, to receive a man’s attention mutely, and to respond only with children for the estate. Even the most powerful woman of our time, the beautiful Queen Vashti, was powerless. That was my future as a girl and I dared not lift my eyes above its horizon. That is how I enter this story. But give me your hand and let us walk back now, past the crumbling walls of history, to this world forgotten but a time yet remembered. Let me tell you the story of a girl unspared, plunged into heartache and chaos, who would save a nation. My name is Esther, and I will be queen.

1 Out of respect for God, Jews write the name of God without the vowels, believing that the name of God is too holy to be written out completely by a human. God is referred to as either “G-d” or “YHVH.”

2 The name Esther is related to the Persian name of Ishtar, a pagan goddess of the stars.

3 Esther refers to the king by his Persian name. In the Hebrew texts of antiquity, he is also referred to as Ahasuerus.

1

Eleventh Day of Shevat

Third Year of the Reign of Xerxes

Year 3394 after Creation

Was it today that I became fully awake, or have I only now begun to dream? Today Cyrus saw me in the marketplace haggling gently with my favorite shopkeeper, Shethana, over the price of a fleece. Shethana makes the loveliest rugs—I think they are even more lovely than the ones imported from the East—and her husband is known for his skill in crafting metals of all kinds. When I turned fifteen last year, he fashioned for me a necklace with several links in the center, painted various shades of blue. He says it is an art practiced in Egypt, this inlaying of colors into metal shapes. I feel so exotic with it on and wear it almost daily. I know it is as close to adventure as Mordecai will ever allow.

But as Shethana and I haggled over the fleece, both of us smiling because she knew I would as soon give it to her, Cyrus walked by eating a flatbread he had purchased from another vendor. He grimaced when he took a bite—I think he might have gotten a very strong taste of shallot—and I laughed. He laughed back, wiping his eyes with his jacket and fanning his mouth, and then, oh then, his gaze held my eyes for a moment. Everything in my body seemed to come alive suddenly and I felt afraid, for my legs couldn’t stand as straight and steady and I couldn’t get my mouth to work. Shethana noticed right away and didn’t conceal her grin as she glanced between Cyrus and me. I should have doubled the price of her fleece right then!

Cyrus turned to walk away, and I tried to focus again on my transaction. I could not meet Shethana’s eyes now—I didn’t want to be questioned about men and marriage, for everyone knows I have no dowry. To dream of winning Cyrus would be as foolish as to run my own heart straight through. I cannot dream, for it will surely crush me. And yet I can’t stop this warm flood that sweeps over me when he is near.

I haven’t told you the best part—when Shethana bought her fleece and left, I allowed myself to close my eyes for a moment in the heat of the day, and when I opened them again, there was a little stack of flatbread in my booth. I looked in every direction but could see no one. Taking a bite, I had to spit it out and started laughing. Cyrus was right—the vendor used many bitter shallots. The flatbread was a disaster.

©2010 Cook Communications Ministries. Chosen by Ginger Garrett. Used with permission. May not be further reproduced. All rights reserved.

The Confession of Saint Patrick

2010-03-16T23:49:00.003-04:00

Happy Saint Patrick's Day! For some that means green beer, pins with the message "kiss me, I'm Irish," jigs, happy Celtic music, and the wearin' o' the green. And what do you think of when you think of Saint Patrick? Ireland, without a doubt. He gets credit for chasing the snakes out of the Emerald Isle, but it is unlikely that snakes ever lived there. Some people know about the story of him using the shamrock to explain the Trinity, but not much more.

Most of what we know about Patrick comes from second or third-hand reports and legends that grew up over the years, but there are two important writings that are directly attributed to him. One is "A Letter to Coroticus," addressing the soldiers under this man who raided some of Patrick's converts, a scathing complaint lodged against such raids. The other is "The Confession of Patrick," an autobiography that he wrote in Latin near the time of his death. Most of what we actually know about Patrick comes from his confession. What is remarkable is his humility, devotion, love for God, desire to serve God and the Irish people. To commemorate this day of Saint Patrick, I feel like the best words are those of the man himself; well, a translation from Latin to English thanks to Ludwig Bieler. The following is just a small portion from the beginning, but hopefully it will inspire you as you read it. I chose it not so much for the historical content, but for insight into the beliefs and faith of a true servant of God.

...I was then about sixteen years of age. I did not know the true God. I was taken into captivity to Ireland with many thousands of people---and deservedly so, because we turned away from God, and did not keep His commandments, and did not obey our priests, who used to remind us of our salvation. And the Lord brought over us the wrath of his anger and scattered us among many nations, even unto the utmost part of the earth, where now my littleness is placed among strangers.

And there the Lord opened the sense of my unbelief that I might at last remember my sins and be converted with all my heart to the Lord my God, who had regard for my abjection, and mercy on my youth and ignorance, and watched over me before I knew Him, and before I was able to distinguish between good and evil, and guarded me, and comforted me as would a father his son.

Hence I cannot be silent---nor, indeed, is it expedient---about the great benefits and the great grace which the lord has deigned to bestow upon me in the land of my captivity; for this we can give to God in return after having been chastened by Him, to exalt and praise His wonders before every nation that is anywhere under the heaven.

Because there is no other God, nor ever was, nor will be, than God the Father unbegotten, without beginning, from whom is all beginning, the Lord of the universe, as we have been taught; and His son Jesus Christ, whom we declare to have always been with the Father, spiritually and ineffably begotten by the Father before the beginning of the world, before all beginning; and by Him are made all things visible and invisible. He was made man, and, having defeated death, was received into heaven by the Father; and He hath given Him all power over all names in heaven, on earth, and under the earth, and every tongue shall confess to Him that Jesus Christ is Lord and God, in whom we believe, and whose advent we expect soon to be, judge of the living and of the dead, who will render to every man according to his deeds; and He has poured forth upon us abundantly the Holy Spirit, the gift and pledge of immortality, who makes those who believe and obey sons of God and joint heirs with Christ; and Him do we confess and adore, one God in the Trinity of the Holy Name.

For He Himself has said through the Prophet: Call upon me in the day of thy trouble, and I will deliver thee, and thou shalt glorify me. And again He says: It is honourable to reveal and confess the works of God.

{I invite you to read the whole translation at Episcopalnet or at Celtic Twilight, which contains both the Bieler translation and an older one (1905) by Rev. Dr. White of the Royal Irish Academy.}

Ronie Kendig's DEAD RECKONING: A FIRST Look

2010-03-16T08:24:00.001-04:00

You never know when I might play a wild card on you!

Today's Wild Card author is:

Ronie Kendig

and the book:

Dead Reckoning
Abingdon Press (March 1, 2010)

NOTE: Unfortunately, I haven't had a chance to read this one yet, but it sounds like one I will really enjoy, and I'm planning on getting a copy very soon.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Ronie Kendig has a BS in Psychology and is a wife, mother of four, and avid writer. In addition to speaking engagements, Ronie volunteers with the American Christian Fiction Writers and contributes monthly to the highly acclaimed Novel Journey blog, and is a columnist for the International Christian Fiction Writers blog. Her espionage thriller, Dead Reckoning, releases March 01, 2010 through Abingdon Press and the first in a military thriller series, Nightshade, will release July 2010 from Barbour Publishing. Ronie can be found online at or at Facebook.

Visit the author's website.
Visit the author's Facebook.

Product Details:

List Price: $13.99
Paperback: 400 pages
Publisher: Abingdon Press (March 1, 2010)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 142670058X
ISBN-13: 978-1426700583

AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:

Mumbai Harbor, India

Shafts of yellow light pierced the blue-green waters, silhouetting the dive rig that hovered on the surface of the Arabian Sea. Shiloh Blake stopped and watched a wrasse scuttle past, its tiny fins working hard to ferry the brightly striped fish to safety.

Clad in her wetsuit, Shiloh squinted through her goggles and tucked the underwater camera into her leg pocket. Gripping a small stone artifact in her gloved hand, she propelled herself toward the surface. Ten meters and she would reveal her historic discovery to long-time rival Mikhail Drovosky.

Shiloh smiled. The guy would go ballistic. Score one for the girls. Between her and her new dive partner Edie Valliant, they had surged ahead in finds. Not that this was a competition. Not technically. But everyone with the University of California-San Diego dig team knew it was make or break time.

Shiloh broke the surface. As the warm sun bathed her face, she slid off her mask and tugged out her air regulator before hauling herself onto the iron dive flat. She squeezed the saltwater from her hair, the auburn glints catching in the sunlight. Her long auburn hair glowed in the sunlight.

“What did you find?” Khalid Khan knelt next to her.

With a smirk, she peeked at her best friend. Her own excitement was mirrored in his dark eyes. Then she noticed Edie’s absence.

“Where’d she go this time? And Dr. Kuntz?”

“She wasn’t feeling well.”

“More like she had another date.” Irritation seeped through her pores like the hot sun, boiling her to frustration. She couldn’t believe her dive partner kept cutting digs to flirt with locals.

Khalid reached over to remove her dive tanks.

With a hand held up, she shifted away. “No, I’m going back down.”

Footsteps thudded on the deck. “It’s my turn.” Mikhail’s glower fanned her competitive streak.

“Sorry.” Shiloh grinned. “Not for another ten minutes. You’re not going to stop me from qualifying for the Pacific Rim Challenge.” She nearly sighed, thinking about racking up enough dive hours for the deep-sea assignment—her dream.

On his haunches, Khalid swiveled toward her, cutting off her view of Mikhail. “What’d you find?” he whispered. Damp from his last dive, Khalid’s jet black hair hung into his face. “Please tell me you aren’t playing games.”

From a pouch hanging at her waist, she produced the lamp. “This for starters.”

He took the piece and traced the contours. “Soapstone.” His gaze darted back to hers. “You mapped it on the grid, right? And photographed it?”

Any first-year grad student would know to take a picture to verify its location and record it on the mapped grid of the site. “Of course.” She patted the camera in the pouch.

Not so many years ago a sunken city had been found in the area. Would she find another? Her heart thumped at the prospect. Tools. She would need better tools to safely remove the vase waiting at the bottom of the sea. Shiloh stood and hurried to the chest to remove an air pipe to suction the silt and sediment away and grabbed an airlift bag. As she plotted how to excavate the piece, she tucked the tools into holsters strapped around her legs and waist.

“I’m coming down there whether you’re done or not.” Mikhail bumped his shoulder against hers and pursed his lips. “If you find it in my time, I get to log it.”

Eyebrow quirked, she swept around him to the stern and sat on the ledge.

“I mean it, Blake!” Mikhail’s face reddened.

She slipped the regulator back in her mouth, nearly smiling. With a thumbs-up to Khalid, she nudged herself into the water. Glee rippled through her. The look of incredulity on Mikhail’s mug buoyed her spirits. Finding the lamp had been exhilarating, but one-upmanship had its own thrill. Besides, how many divers worked this dig in the last year? Like them, she found a piece of history. Divers and researchers had scoured this area and other sites along the coast of India.

Dr. Kuntz would have insisted on diving with her if not for ferrying Edie around Mumbai. Irritation at her new dive partner swelled. Why they had ever agreed to take on that useless woman, she’d never know. How could partying compare with the discovery of the past?

Although the silt and sand shrouded the lip of the vase, Shiloh spotted its outline easily where she had marked the place with a flag. She lifted the red vinyl square from the sandy floor and worked quickly, refusing to relinquish this relic to the overblown ego of Mikhail Drovosky. He’d beaten her out of top honors for her bachelor’s degree, relegating her to magna cum laude, lessening her scholarship. Enough was enough.

Why hadn’t anyone else found this vase? As she brushed away the sediment, confusion drifted through her like the cool waters. A spot in the clay smeared. Her heart rapid fired. Had she ruined the relic? Yet something . . . Shiloh stilled, staring in disbelief. What on earth?

She rubbed the piece. Metal gleamed beneath the clay. The lip and handle floated away. This wasn’t ancient pottery. She turned it over in her hand. What was it? It almost reminded her of a thermos. About eighteen inches long, the cylinder’s weight surprised her. What was it doing here, buried like treasure? Just as she freed the object, her white watch face flashed, snapping her attention to the competition. Time was up.

Joy ebbed like the tide. Whatever this thing was, she wouldn’t leave it down here for Mikhail. Holding the bag open, she tried to ease in the metal tube. The piece teetered on the edge, nearly falling out, so she slipped it under her arm and started toward the surface. Light again directed her to the rig. Suddenly, thrashing ripples fractured the luminescent water, stirring particulates beneath the wake of a powerful motor.

A speedboat? Why were they so close to the dive area? Didn’t they see the warning beacon, the one that announced divers below? What kind of idiot would put someone’s life in danger for a thrill ride?

A torrent of waves rattled her, threatening her grip on the vase. What . . .? A half-dozen bicolor parrotfish shot past. Shiloh paused, watching their incredible color—like a psychedelic underwater show.

Thwat. Thwat.

A sound vibrated against her chest. She searched for the source but found nothing.

She continued upward, and then someone dropped into the water. Could Mikhail not wait? Sticking to the schedule ensured everyone’s safety. He wasn’t supposed to enter the water until she climbed out. He was in such a hurry to win that he would risk injury to her and anyone who got in his way. She’d throttle him. Only, it wasn’t Mikhail.

Khalid!

A plume of red swirled around his dark form like some freakish science experiment. Blood? Was he bleeding? Her heart skipped a beat—he wasn’t swimming.

Shiloh launched toward him as adrenaline spiraled through her. She struggled to breathe, threatening the nitrox mixture in her tank. Why wasn’t he swimming? He’d drown if it he didn’t paddle back up.

She pushed into his path, and he thudded against her. Hooking her arm under his, she aimed toward the surface, scissoring her legs.

A shadow loomed over the water. Another body plunged toward her, sinking deep and fast. Mikhail’s open, unseeing eyes stared back at her, a shocked expression plastered on his face. Reminding her of an Egyptian plague, the water turned red.

Watery tubes pursued him. Bullets!

What’s happening?

Khalid. He needed oxygen. She wrangled him toward her so she could share her air. The metal cylinder fumbled from her grasp and sunk back into the oblivion where she’d found it. Whatever the thing was, it couldn’t be worth a life—especially not her best friend’s. She removed her air regulator and stuffed it into his mouth.

Khalid jerked. Pain hooded his eyes. His dark brows knitted as he gazed at her. He gripped his side and grimaced. That’s when she saw the source of the red plumes. He’d been shot too. Her gaze flew to the rig. What about the captain and his son?

Khalid caught her arm. With a firm shake of his head, he pointed away from the rig. Escape.

Shiloh linked her harness to his and swam from the rig. Uncertain where they could find safety if someone was determined to kill them, she barreled away from the nightmare. If she could make it to an island—she remembered seeing a small one in the east—they might be safe. Khalid tried to pump his legs, but not successfully. At least he hadn’t passed out. Or died.

Her stomach seized. No way would she let Khalid Khan die. Shiloh wagged her fins faster, thrusting both of them farther from the boat. Seconds lengthened, stretching into what felt like hours. With each stroke, her limbs grew heavier, dragging her down to the ocean floor. She pushed upward, refusing to become a victim.

Suddenly, she was drawn backward, pulled out to sea by the strong natural current hugging the Indian coast. Battling the forces of nature, she did her best to keep herself and Khalid aimed in the right direction. Her chest burned from oxygen deprivation.

The mouthpiece appeared before her. Surprised at Khalid’s attentiveness, she stuffed it in her mouth and inhaled deeply, savoring the strength it gave her. Another twenty meters, and the water collided with mangroves. Shiloh struggled around the roots to a small, shallow inlet. On her knees, she tore out the regulator, dragging Khalid as she clawed her way to safety. He attempted to crawl, but collapsed. She yanked off her goggles and released their d-rings.

Khalid coughed, gagged, and vomited sea water.

Warm sand mired Shiloh’s trembling limbs as she laid there, panting and gasping. The swim had been harder and much longer than she’d expected. They both could have drowned.

She squeezed her eyes shut. Thoughts of what was lost . . . Mikhail! Was he truly dead? Who would attack grad students on a dig? Why?

Shiloh pressed her hand to her forehead, tiny grains of sand digging into her flesh. She rubbed her temples and tried to make sense of the chaos.

“What happened back there, Khalid?” She flipped onto her back, the sun blazing against her pounding skull. “Who was it? Did you see?”

Silence.

Shifting, she rolled her head to peek at him. He wasn’t moving. On all fours, Shiloh scrambled and shook him.

“Khalid!” His gray wetsuit glistened red from the blood that poured from his side. She clamped a hand over his wound, the warmth sickening. “Khalid, talk to me.”

He groaned.

“No!” Fire flashed through her. “You aren’t chickening out. Not now.” Again, she shook him, but this time he didn’t respond. “Please!”

Shiloh examined his chest. Not breathing. With two fingers pressed to his neck, she tried to feel past the hammering of her own heart to detect his pulse. Nothing! She started compressions and breaths, counting between each to keep a steady rhythm. His blood stained her hands. While she pumped his chest, she took a cursory glance around the thick vegetation. It was so thick, she’d never know if someone stood five meters off.

They needed help—now! She activated the emergency beacon on her watch as she again searched—hoped—for help. Her heart caught when she spotted a “mechanical giraffe” staggering in the shifting fog. Jawahar Dweep.

“Butcher Island,” she mumbled, as she tried to revive her friend. The isolated spot only offered isolation and oil. No help. They were alone.

“At least we’re safe,” she said. But would Khalid die? “Don’t you dare!”

She pounded his chest. More blood dribbled from the wound that seemed too close to his lungs.

A rasp grated the air. His ribs rose.

“Khalid?”
He moaned.

Tears stung her eyes as she slumped next to him. “Khalid, stay with me. I’ve activated the beacon.”

His blue lips trembled against his chalky skin. “C-cold.”

She’d always admired his dark olive complexion, but the pallor coating his rugged face worried her. Would she ever see his dark eyes ignite when she made some snide, inappropriate remark? Who would help her through her episodes? She’d told only him about her rare disorder.

“We should move you closer to the rocks to stay warm until help arrives.” Shiloh once again hooked her arms under his and drew him to the side. Blood stained the sandy beach.

A wave rolled in, then out. Red streaks reached toward the warm waters. She nestled him against a large boulder and lay close to keep him warm.

“Stay with me, Khalid. No naps. This is the ultimate test, got it?” She looked to where the ocean kissed the horizon. Mumbai sparkled in the distance. So close, yet so far away it might as well be a million miles. She could only hope they would be found in time.

“You just wanted to kiss me,” Khalid mumbled.

Shiloh jerked toward him, frowning. “What?”
“CPR. I didn’t need it . . .” He coughed. “You just wanted to kiss me.”

With her hand pressed to his forehead, she smiled. “Ah. Just as I expected—delirious with fever.”

A half-cocked grin split his lips.

She tried to swallow. He had been her rock for the last four years. Despite the tight-knit relationship between their parents, Khalid and Shiloh had forged their own friendship in the fires of college life. They’d been inseparable since he came to America to study.

How long would it take Search and Rescue to locate her signal? What if the SAR team didn’t make it in time? If this were American waters, it would only be a matter of minutes, but in the Arabian Sea . . .

Shiloh’s head dropped to her chest. She had to believe everything would be fine. They’d be found, a doctor would tend Khalid’s wounds, he’d recover, and then they’d be off to the Pacific Rim Challenge. She had worked so hard for it. They both had. For the last two years, they had prodded each other toward their common goal. Their requisite dive hours were nearly complete. No, nobody would die, especially not Khalid.

Mikhail died. She clenched her eyes shut and blotted out the image of her rival slipping through the water, sinking lower and lower.

Biting her lip, she groped for something to refocus her attention. Naming the scientific classification for the sun star. Animalia. Echinodermata. Asteroidea. Spinulosida. Solasteridae. Solaster dawsoni.

“Miss . . . Amer . . . ca . . .” Khalid’s words, though broken, speared her heart.

She scooted closer. “I’m here. Be still, Khalid. They’re coming.”

“Marry me.”

“You dork.” She let out a shaky laugh as a shudder tore through her, threatening to unleash tears. Lips pulled taut, she forced herself to remain calm and look at him. “Rest.”

His fingers twitched. She lifted his hand and cradled it in hers.

A gurgling noise bubbled up his throat. “I love . . .”

“No, shh.” He couldn’t love her. Not her.

“Shil . . .”

When he didn’t finish, she knitted her brow. His eyes closed, and his mouth remained open.

“Khalid?”

His arm went slack.

“Khalid!” Tears blurred her vision, making it impossible to see if he was breathing.

A horn blared in the distance. She whipped around and spotted the massive white Indian Coast Guard rig racing toward them with its lights swirling.

* * *

Reece Jaxon straightened and watched the woman without watching. Seeing without being seen. She batted her auburn hair, thick and tangled with ocean water, away from her face. Hiding in plain sight on the rescue boat, he tracked her movement with ease. She hadn’t noticed him yet, even though he was less than a dozen feet away.

Wrapped in a gray thermal blanket Shiloh Blake stared at the injured Pakistani on the medical stretcher as the local authorities churned across the water toward Mumbai. She hadn’t left the man’s side since the rescue.

Another man in his early fifties hooked an arm around her shoulders and drew her close. Dr. Kuntz, according to the file, was fifty-three. Married. Three grown children. An unfaithful wife and a divorce later he’d partnered with a local Indian museum to arrange underwater excavations with U.C. San Diego. Something about the man didn’t sit right with Reece.

“Noor Hospital,” Dr. Kuntz insisted to the Coast Guard captain.

An hour earlier Kuntz had stormed into the Coast Guard station and interrupted Reece’s conversation with the officer. Surprised at the man’s intrusion, Reece feigned disinterest, although Kuntz’s story corroborated what Reece had relayed to the authorities after witnessing the attack. Then? The emergency transponder signal erupted.

Reece noticed Shiloh stiffen under the professor’s protective touch. Kuntz spoke soothingly to her, reassuring her that Noor Hospital would give Khalid the best care. Bent to shield his face, Reece tightened the laces on his boots while memorizing everything that took place in the boat’s small cabin. Now if he had judged her character right, in about twenty seconds she’d pull away from Kuntz.

Shiloh took a step out of the man’s reach.

Bingo.

“I need something to drink.” Reece watched her cross through the hatch. “They said they had coffee up front.”

Dr. Kuntz laughed, his arms outstretched. “But you don’t drink coffee.”

“It’s chilly,” she called without looking back.

Chilly. Interesting. It was a mild sixty-five degrees on the Arabian Sea, and she was chilly.

Shiloh Blake strode straight toward him with her head held high. Calm. Relaxed. Confident.

Come on, look at me, Reece silently dared her.

Blue-grey eyes collided with his. He scratched his beard, wishing he had more than two weeks’ growth, but it was enough to conceal his identity. With an acknowledging nod, he stayed in position. Now if she would only hold his gaze.

Oh, what he wouldn’t give to smile his pleasure as she stared at him. She only tore her eyes from his when it became impractical not to. Reece guessed she would never show any weakness.

Atta, girl.

Although he’d already skimmed the preliminary data on the American students, Shiloh’s impressive character made him want to know more. She had a higher confidence level than most of the people he had monitored in the region. What gave her that unshakable demeanor? Reece determined to get a DNA sample and run her through the system. Was she working undercover?

As the ship bumped Victoria dock, he leaped off and lassoed the pylons. Heavy thuds sounded against the weathered planks as the emergency crew transferred the young woman and her Pakistani friend to a waiting ambulance. Dr. Kuntz doted on her once again, but with no room in the narrow mobile unit, the professor was relegated to a rickshaw.

Shiloh huddled on a small bench in the ambulance, her glassy gaze locked on her friend as the emergency personnel worked on him. Just as the doors swung closed, she glanced toward Reece. A load of steel partially blocked his line of sight. Yet, despite the stenciling on the rear window, he saw her tilt her chin just enough to look for him over the emblem. The ambulance bumped over the sandy path, and then settled on PD Mello Road. Sirens wailed. Lights whirled.

Reece strolled down the boardwalk toward the beach, retrieving the cell from his pocket. He hit autodial. Having to report one American dead was bad enough. But having to tell Ryan Nielsen that another sat neck deep in an ocean of chaos—

“We’ve got trouble.”

What was Shiloh Blake doing at a nuclear arms dead drop?

FIRST Looks at THE RAVEN SAINT by MaryLu Tyndall

2010-03-15T08:17:00.002-04:00

You never know when I might play a wild card on you!

Today's Wild Card author is:

M. L. Tyndall

and the book:

The Raven Saint (Charles Towne Belles)

Barbour Books (January 1, 2010)

***Special thanks to MaryLu Tyndall for sending me a review copy.***

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

M.L. Tyndall, a Christy Award Finalist, and best-selling author of the Legacy of the King’s Pirates series is known for her adventurous historical romances filled with deep spiritual themes. She holds a degree in Math and worked as a software engineer for fifteen years before testing the waters as a writer. MaryLu currently writes full time and makes her home on the California coast with her husband, six kids, and four cats. Her passion is to write page-turning, romantic adventures that not only entertain but expose Christians to their full potential in Christ.

Visit the author's website.
Visit the author's blog.

Product Details:

List Price: $10.97
Paperback: 320 pages
Publisher: Barbour Books (January 1, 2010)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1602601585
ISBN-13: 978-1602601581

MY THOUGHTS:

I have already posted a review and an interview on this marvelous book. M. L. Tyndall uses words and ideas so deftly that I can't even imagine her writing a bad book. Thrilling, romantic, well-researched, action-packed--these are just a few of the words that come to mind when describing her work. While I was reading The Raven Saint, I felt like it was my favorite in the Charles Towne Belles series, but it's really hard to choose a favorite. Each one has its own pull. I can say, however, that this is one of the best books ever!

AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:

Outside Charles Towne, Carolina, October, 1718

Chapter 1

Black, menacing clouds snarled a warning from the Carolina skies.

Clutching her skirts, Grace Westcott trudged down the muddy path. A shard of white light forked across the dark vault, and she glanced up as thunder rumbled in the distance.

“I hope the rain doesn’t catch us, miss.” Alice’s shaky voice tumbled over Grace from behind.

“Never fear, Alice, we are almost there.” Grace pushed aside a leafy branch that encroached upon the trail. As the wind picked up and raindrops began to rap on the leaves above them, the wall of greenery arching overhead provided a shelter that brought an odd comfort to Grace.

“Look, miss. This plant. Isn’t it bloodroot?” Alice squeaked. “To heal afflictions of the skin?”

Grace huffed. Her legs ached from the mile-long journey from Charles Towne. She could hear the rush of the Ashley River in the distance. They were close to the Roberts’ cabin, to poor little Thomas, sick with a fever and in desperate need of the medicines they brought.

Whirling around, Grace examined the leaf in her maid’s hands. “Nay. ’Tis not bloodroot, as you well know.” She searched Alice’s eyes but the maid kept her gaze lowered. “Whatever is the matter with you today?”

The maid cast a quick glance over her shoulder and shrugged. “I am only trying to help, miss.”

“You can help by hurrying along. Thomas may be failing as we speak.” Grabbing her skirts, Grace turned and forged ahead. A drop of rain splattered on her forehead, and she swiped it away.

“But the rain, miss. Shouldn’t we return home and don some proper attire?”

“Mercy me, Alice. We are nearly there. A bit of rain will not harm us. We’ve been in far more dangerous situations.” Grace hoisted the sack stuffed with herbs, fresh fruit, and rice farther up her aching shoulder. “Besides we are going about God’s work. He will take care of us.”

Grace heard Alice’s shoes squish in the mud “Indeed, miss.”.

Her maid’s voice quivered—a quiver that set Grace’s nerves on edge, along with the dark tempest brewing above them. Something was bothering the woman, Grace couldn’t guess what.

Another flash lit up the sky. Releasing her skirts to the sticky mud, Grace pushed aside a tangled vine that seemed to be joining forces with Alice in attempting to keep her from continuing. Musky air, heavy with moisture and laden with scents of earth and life, filled her nostrils. Thunder bellowed, closer this time, and raindrops tapped upon the canopy of leaves overhead. Plowing ahead, Grace ignored the twinge of guilt at her most recent expedition. One of many expeditions she’d been strictly forbidden to embark upon—both by her father, before he set sail for Spain, and more recently, her sister Faith and Faith’s new husband, Dajon. But Grace could not allow anyone or anything to stop her from doing what God had commissioned her to do: feed the poor, tend to the sick, and spread the good news of His Gospel.

She glanced up at the dark clouds swirling like some vile witch’s brew. Perhaps she should have left a note informing Faith of her whereabouts. No matter. She would drop off the food and herbs, attend to Thomas, and be home before sunset.

Grace emerged from the green fortress into a clearing. Thunder bellowed, and she shivered as a chill struck her. In the distance, the wide Ashley River tumbled along its course. A cabin perched by the water’s edge, smoke curling from its chimney. Squaring her shoulders, she took a deep breath and quickened her pace. “Here at last. And, as you can see, Alice, all is well.”

A nervous giggle sounded from behind her.

Hoisting the sack higher up on her shoulders, Grace clutched her skirts and climbed the steps of the cabin, but before she could knock on the door, it swung open. Mr. Roberts, a burly red-faced man with unruly dark hair, stared curiously at her for a moment then cocked his head and smiled. “Miss Grace. A grand pleasure to see you.” His glance took in Alice standing on the steps behind Grace. His forehead wrinkled. “What brings you this far from home on such a rainy day? Helen, Miss Grace has come for a visit,” he yelled over his shoulder. The scent of smoke and some sort of meaty stew wafted over Grace.

“Why, we’ve come to help Thomas of course.” Lightning flashed, casting a momentary grayish shroud over Mr. Roberts’s normally ruddy face.

“Thomas needs help?” He scratched his thick, dark mane.

Alice’s boots thudded on the steps, and Grace turned to see her maid inching away from the cabin, her chin lowered.

Shaking her head, Grace faced Mr. Roberts. “Yes, you sent Alfred yesterday to inform us of Thomas’s fever and ask for my help, did you not?” The man looked puzzled. Grace slid the sack from her shoulder and set it down on the planks of the porch. “I’ve brought elder root and dogwood bark for his fever and some fresh fruit and rice for you and your family.”

Mrs. Roberts appeared in the doorway, her infant daughter cradled in her arms. “Grace, what a wonderful surprise. Henry, don’t just stand there. Invite her in out of the rain.”

“Thomas isn’t sick.” Mr. Roberts’ nose wrinkled. “And Alfred was here with us all day yesterday.”

Grace swerved about to question Alice, but the girl was nowhere in sight. Descending the stairs, she dashed into the clearing, her heart in her throat as she scanned the foliage for any sign of her maid.

A swoosh of leaves and stomp of boots reached her ears, then a band of five men materialized from the foliage. Armed with cutlasses and pistols, they stormed toward Grace. She tried to move her feet, but the thick mud clung to them like shackles. Mr. Roberts cursed and ushered his wife inside. The baby began to howl.

A tall, sinewy man halted before her. A burst of wind struck him, fluttering the green feather atop his cocked hat and the tips of the black hair grazing his shoulders. He shifted his jaw, peppered with black stubble, and gazed at her with eyes the color of the dark clouds churning above them. A slow smile crept across his lips, lifting his thin, rakish mustache. “Mademoiselle Grace Westcott, I presume.” His thick French accent turned her blood to ice.

Grace met his gaze squarely. “I am, sir.”

With a snap of his fingers, two of his men flanked her. “You will come with us.”

“I will not.” The men wrenched her arms behind her back. Pain shot across her shoulders.

The snap of a rifle sounded, drawing the man’s attention to Mr. Roberts pointing his musket in their direction. “Leave her be.”

A flicker of relief eased over Grace, quickly fading when she examined the man before her. Instead of fear, amusement sparked in his eyes. The men on either side of Grace chuckled as if Mr. Roberts had told a joke.

“Quel homme galant, but I fear I cannot do that, monsieur.” The leader crossed his arms over his gray waistcoat and scraped a finger along his lean chin. “With a bit of fortune and a good aim, you may shoot one of us. Mais that would leave you and your family completely at our mercy. Comprenez-vous?”

Mr. Roberts stared at him for a long moment, obviously measuring the man.

“Toss your weapon to the ground, monsieur and go into your house. If you come out, we will shoot you. If you fire another weapon at us, we will kill your family.

A short, barrel-chested man beside the leader drew his pistol and leveled it at Mr. Roberts. The sneer on his face suggested he would love nothing more than to shoot the man where he stood.

The musket quivered in Mr. Roberts’s hands as he perused the band of ruffians, but still he did not relent. Grace shook her head, sending her friend a silent appeal. She would not allow him to put his family in jeopardy for her.

Mr. Roberts swallowed, threw his weapon into the mud, and gave her an apologetic look before slipping inside the cabin and closing the door with an ominous thud that echoed Grace’s fate.

She faced the leader. Thunder roared across the clearing. “What have you done with Alice?”

“Alice? Hmm.” His eyes lit up. “Votre servante? I merely paid her well for leading you to us.” He grinned.

The skies opened and released a torrent of rain upon Grace as if God Himself shed the tears that now burned behind her eyes. How could Alice have done such a thing? She had been Grace’s personal maid for the past five years—had traveled with her in the crossing from Portsmouth to Charles Towne.

The rain bounced off the cocked hat and the broad shoulders of the man before her. Drops streamed down Grace’s face, her neck, soaked into her gown, and befogged the scene before her. If only the fresh water from heaven could wash away these devilish creatures like holy water sprinkled upon evil.

The black-haired man turned and marched away as though her desperate wish had reached God’s ears. But then his two minions wrenched her arms again and dragged her behind him. Panic seized her. This couldn’t be happening! She dug her heels into the mud but her captors merely lifted her from the ground. Pain scorched across her arms and neck.

“Please, sir. Please. What do you want with me?”

But the only reply came from the rain pounding on the leaves and the thunder rumbling across the sky.

They plunged back into the thick forest. Grace struggled against the men’s meaty grips. Even if she did manage to break free from them, tree trunks rose like prison bars on either side of her holding her captive within the dense thicket. They trudged down the path for what seemed an eternity. Each step dug the knife of fear deeper into Grace’s heart. Silently, she appealed to God for her salvation, begging to hear His comforting voice, but her petitions were met with the same silence her captors afforded her. Finally, they emerged onto a secluded shore, and the men shoved her onto the thwart of a small boat then launched the craft into the rushing river. In the distance Grace saw a two-masted brig swaying with the rolling tide.

Lord, where are You? She clasped her hands together and tried to catch her breath.

The black-haired man locked a smoldering gaze upon her. He did not look away as propriety demanded but perused her with alarming audacity. Rain streamed off his hat onto his black breeches, and a smirk creased one corner of his mouth. Averting her gaze to the agitated water, she considered leaping overboard. She couldn’t swim. At least not well enough to fight the strong Ashley current. Besides, surely God would rescue her from these brigands. He was simply testing her faith by waiting until the last minute when things were at their worst. Lifting her chin, she cast a defiant look upon her captor, but it only caused his smirk to widen.

Within minutes, they reached the ship and thudded against its hull. Shouts pitched upon them from above as faces popped over the bulwarks to peer down at her. Grace glanced about for the rescuer God should have sent by now. The leader pulled her to her feet, and before she could make a move, he hoisted her over his shoulder like a sack of grain and climbed the rope ladder without effort.

Grace could no longer feel the fear or even the damp chill. Numbness gripped her, born of shock at her predicament. Blood rushed to her head, and she closed her eyes, breathing in the musky scent of the man’s damp wool waistcoat and praying for the nightmare to end.

Once aboard, he carried her across deck as he issued a string of orders in French, sending his crew scrambling in every direction.

“Welcome back, Captain,” a deep voice shouted, then a shock of brown hair appeared in Grace’s vision. “I see you found her.”

“Oui, bien sûr.” His tone carried the haughtiness that excluded any other possibility as he tapped her on the rump.

“How dare you!” Grace shouted and tried to kick her legs, but the captain’s arm kept them pinned to his chest. The two men shared a chuckle.

“Weigh anchor, away aloft, and raise the main, Mr. Thorn. We set sail immediately.”

Raindrops bounced over the wooden planks, pelting her from all directions. Her head bumped against his damp coat. His hard shoulder pressed into her aching stomach as he carried her down a ladder. She stretched her hand to grab the hilt of his rapier, but it taunted her from its sheath at his other side, out of her reach. She pounded her fists against his back. Muscle as unyielding as steel sent pain through her hands.

With a chuckle, he sauntered down a hallway and kicked open a door. Grace tensed, fearing the man would toss her to the floor. Instead, grasping her waist, he gently set her down inside the tiny cabin.

Gaining her balance, Grace wiped the matted strands of wet hair from her face and faced him. “Who are you and what do you want with me?” she said in a stalwart tone that surprised her.

He doffed his feathered hat and banged it against his knee, sending droplets over the floor. Tucking an errant strand of wet hair behind his ear, he bowed. “Captain Rafe Dubois at your service, mademoiselle. I welcome you aboard Le Champion. And regarding what I want with you”—he raised one brow and allowed his gaze to scour over her—“I am to deliver you to Don Miguel De Salazar in Columbia.”

“Columbia?” Grace took a step back and gripped her throat.

“Oui, he has promised to pay quite handsomely for you.”

“For me? But why? I don’t even know the man.” A shudder ran through her.

“Ah, but your father does apparently. The two men are not…how do you say? Agreeable? Don Miguel holds him responsible for the death of his son in a skirmish with a galleon. He thought you would be adequate payment for the transgression.”

“Payment!” Grace’s fear gave way to anger. “I am no one’s payment. How can you take part in such a wicked scheme?”

The captain shrugged as if her words rolled off of him. “Like I said, he’s willing to pay handsomely.” He offered her a devious grin then donned his hat and closed the door with a resounding thud.

A FIRST Look at THE COUNTRY HOUSE COURTSHIP

2010-03-13T13:33:00.002-05:00

Today's Wild Card author is:

Linore Rose Burkard

and the book:

The Country House Courtship

Harvest House Publishers (January 1, 2010)

***Special thanks to Linore Rose Burkard and Dave Bartlett (Harvest House Publishers) for sending me a review copy.***

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Linore Rose Burkard is the creator of "Inspirational Romance for the Jane Austen Soul." Her characters take you back in time to experience life and love during the era of Regency England (circa 1811 - 1820). Fans of classic romances such as Pride & Prejudice, Emma, and Sense & Sensibility, will enjoy Linore's feisty heroines, heart-throb heroes and happy endings.

Enjoy the free resources on Linore's website: http://www.LinoreBurkard.com/resources.html

Visit the author's website.

Product Details:

List Price: $13.99
Paperback: 300 pages
Publisher: Harvest House Publishers (January 1, 2010)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0736927999
ISBN-13: 978-0736927994

MY THOUGHTS:
This is the kind of book that I can wander around and get lost in. I have always been a big fan of Jane Austen, and Linore Rose Burkard succeeds in creating a similar style with the same historical and social background. That is not to say that her writing simply mimics Ms. Austen; she most definitely
stamps her own personality in this beautiful tale. I love the witticisms and that cultured banter where words have importance. Mrs. Burkard paints a clear picture of the scene and the action. The characters are so well-developed and defined that we soon know what they are thinking and going to do. Although we are rather sure of certain outcomes in a story such as this, there are still quite a few surprises and unexpected obstacles. Part of the fun is discovering how the wrinkles get ironed out. The battle of self-will against God's will is prominent in the lives and choices of several characters, not all of whom chose wisely in the end.

AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:

London, England, 1818

Mr. Peter O’Brien felt surely he had a devil plaguing him, and the devil’s name was Mr. Phillip Mornay. The paper in his hand should have made him happy. Indeed, it ought to have elicited nothing but joy after two years of holding a curacy that didn’t pay enough to feed a church-mouse. Yet, instead he was staring ahead after reading a letter of recommendation for him as though he’d seen a ghost.

His previous naval commander, Colonel Sotheby, had recommended Mr. O’Brien to a wealthy landowner whose vicarage had gone vacant. It was the sort of letter that a poor Curate should rejoice over. The man who obtained the vicarage in the parish of Glendover, the Colonel said, in addition to having a decent curate’s salary, would have claim to a large glebe, a generous and well built house, and, in short, would see himself by way of having enough to begin a family. (If he found a wife to marry, first, of course. O’Brien could just hear the Colonel’s good-natured laugh ring out at that remark.)

But still his own mouth was set in an unpromising hard line: The landowner’s name was Mr. Phillip Mornay, none other than the Paragon, himself. And Mornay, Mr. O’Brien knew, would never grant him the living. To do so would go against everything he knew to be true of him. After all, no man who had once overstepped his bounds with Mr. Mornay’s betrothed, as Mr. O’Brien unfortunately had, would now be presented to the vicarage on the man’s lands. Of all the rotten, devilish luck! To have such a letter of commendation was like gold in the fiercely competitive world of the church, where there were more poor curates looking for a rise in their situations than there were church parishes who could supply them.

Therefore, instead of the boon from heaven this letter ought to have been, Mr. O’Brien was struck with a gloomy assurance that Mornay would sooner accept a popinjay in cleric’s clothing than himself. Even worse, his mother agreed with his appraisal.

He had taken the letter into the morning room of their house on Blandford Street, joining his mother while she sat at her breakfast.

“You do not wish to renew old grievances,” she said. “Mr. Mornay is not, to my knowledge, a forgiving man; shall you be put to the expense and trouble of travelling all the way to Middlesex, only to be turned down in the end? What can you possibly gain in it?”

Mr. O’Brien nodded; he saw her point. But he said, “I may have to do just that. The Colonel will never recommend me for another parish if he learns that I failed to apply myself to this opportunity.”

“Write to him,” replied his mama. “See if you can politely decline this honour, with the understanding that any other offer should be most welcome and appreciated!”

He doubted that any letter , no matter how ‘politely’ written, would be able to manage his desire to avoid this meeting with Mornay, as well as secure the hope of a future recommendation. But he thought about it, put quill to paper and sent the Colonel a reply. He asked (in the humblest terms he could manage) if the man might commend him for a living to be presented by some other landowner, indeed, any other landowner, any other gentleman in England than Phillip Mornay.

He could not explain the full extent of his past doings with Mr. Mornay without making himself sound like an utter fool; how he had hoped to marry the present Mrs. Mornay himself, some years ago. How presumptuous his hopes seemed to him now! Miss Ariana Forsythe was magnificent as the wife of the Paragon. He’d seen them in town after the marriage, but without ever presenting himself before her. It appalled even him that he had once thought himself worthy or equal to that beautiful lady.

When the Colonel’s reply came, there was little surprise in it. He assured Mr. O’Brien that his apprehensions were ill-placed; that Mr. Mornay’s past reputation of being a harsh, irascible man was no longer to the purpose. Colonel Sotheby himself held Mornay in the greatest respect, and insisted that the Paragon had as good a heart as any Christian. In short, (and he made this terribly clear) Mr. O’Brien had best get himself off to Middlesex or he would put the Colonel in a deuced uncomfortable spot. He had already written to Aspindon House, which meant that Mr. O’Brien was expected. If he failed to appear for an interview, he could not expect that another recommendation of such merit and generosity would ever come his way again.

Mr. O’Brien realized it was inevitable: he would have to go to Middlesex and present himself to Mornay. He knew it was a vain cause, that nothing but humiliation could come of it, but he bowed to what he must consider the will of God. He knelt in prayer, begging to be excused from this doomed interview, but his heart and conscience told him he must to it. If he was to face humiliation, had he not brought it upon himself? Had he not earned Mornay’s disregard, with his former obsession with Miss Forsythe, who was now Mrs. Mornay?

He no longer had feelings for the lady, but it was sure to be blesséd awkward to face her! No less so than her husband. Nevertheless, when he rose from his knees, Peter O’Brien felt equal to doing what both duty and honour required. He only hoped that Mr. Mornay had not already written his own letter of objections to the Colonel; telling him why he would never present the living to Peter O’Brien. The Colonel was his best hope for a way out of St. Pancras . It was a gritty, desperate parish with poverty, crime, and hopelessness aplenty—not the sort of place he hoped to spend his life in, for he wanted a family. A wife.

Prepared to face the interview come what may, Mr. O’Brien determined not to allow Mornay to make quick work of him. He was no longer the youthful swain, besotted over a Miss Forsythe. A stint in the Army, if nothing else, had hardened him, brought him face to face with deep issues of life, and left him, or so he thought, a better man.

******

Aspindon House, Glendover, Middlesex

Ariana Mornay looked for the hundredth time at her younger sister Beatrice, sitting across from her in the elegantly cozy morning room of her country estate, Aspindon. Here in the daylight, Beatrice’s transformation from child to warm and attractive young woman was fully evident . When Mrs. Forsythe and Beatrice had arrived the prior evening, Ariana had seen the change in her sister, of course, but the daylight revealed it in a clarity that neither last night’s flambeaux (lit in honour of their arrival) or the interior candlelight and fire of the drawing room had been able to offer.

Beatrice’s previously brown hair was now a lovely luminous russet. Ringlets peeked out from a morning cap with ruffled lace, hanging over her brow and hovering about the sides of her face. The reddish brown of her locks emphasized hazel-green eyes, smallish mischievous lips and a healthy glow in her cheeks. Beatrice noticed her elder sister was studying her, and smiled.

“You still look at me as if you know me not,” she said, not hiding how much it pleased her to find herself an object of admiration.

“I cannot comprehend how greatly you are altered, in just one year!”

“I regret that we did not come for so long,” put in Mrs. Forsythe, the girls’ mother. She was still feasting her eyes upon Ariana and the children (though the nurse, Mrs. Perler, had taken four year old Nigel, the Mornay’s firstborn, from the room, after he had spilled a glass of milk all over himself minutes ago). “We wished to come sooner, as you know, but Lucy took ill, and I dared not carry the sickness here to you with your new little baby.” At this, she stopped and cooed to the infant, who was upon her lap at the moment.”No, no, no,” she said, in the exaggerated tone that people use when addressing babies, “we can’t have little Miranda getting sick, now can we?”

Ariana smiled. “It matters not, mama. You are here, now. I only wish Papa and Lucy could have joined you.” Lucy, the youngest Forsythe sister, and Papa, had been obliged to stay home until the spring planting had been seen to. Mr. Forsythe did not wish to be wholly bereft of his family, so Lucy, who was a great comfort to him, had been enjoined to remain in Chesterton for his sake.

“I could not bear to wait upon your father a day longer,” she answered with a little smile. “They will come by post chaise after papa has done his service through Easter. And then we will all be together--except for the Norledges. Perhaps when Papa comes, he may bring your older sister and her husband?”

“I would want Aunt Pellham too, in that case,” murmured the blond-haired young woman.

“Oh, my! With your Aunt and Uncle Pellham, and the Norledges, even this large house would be filled with guests, I daresay!” said her mother.

Beatrice was still happily ingesting the thought that Ariana had evidently noticed her womanhood. At seventeen, hers was not a striking sort of beauty—one did not stop in instant admiration upon spying Beatrice in a room, for instance, as had often been the case for Ariana; but the younger girl had no lack of wits, a lively eye and countenance, and, not to be understated, an easy friendliness. Among a group of reserved and proper English young ladies, Beatrice would be the beacon of refuge for the timid; she was welcoming where others were aloof; inquisitive and protective where others looked away.

Nor was she the sort of young woman to glide across a floor, dignified and elegant. Instead, Beatrice was ever having to keep her energy in check; When rising from a chair (her mama had made her practice doing so countless times) she could appear as elegant as the next young woman. She ate nicely, even daintily. But left unchecked, her natural enthusiasm might propel her through a room with alarming speed. Her shawls were ever hanging from her arms, never staying in place over her shoulder; and her mother forbade her from wearing hair jewellery, as it tended to lose its place upon her head. Bandeaux were her lot; besides bonnets, of course.

“It is fortunate that I am only seventeen,” she had said to her mama only last week, while the woman was draping a wide bandeau artfully around Beatrice’s head. “Or I believe you would exile every manner of female head attire from this house, saving turbans! Although my hair holds a curl twice as long as Lucy’s!”

Mrs. Forsythe had paused from her ministrations and met her daughter’s eyes in the looking glass before them. “I daresay you are suited for turbans; perhaps we should shop for some. I believe they are very popular just now.” Since the last thing in the world Beatrice wished to wear upon her head was a turban—no matter how many ladies in the pages of La Belle Assemblée wore them—she simply gave voice to an exasperated huff, evoking a knowing smile upon her mama’s face.

“I should adore a full house of guests,” she said, now. “Please do invite the Norledges’ Ariana! Only think of the diversions we could have; play-acting with enough people to fill all the roles, for a change! Or charades; or even a dance!”

Ariana looked at her sister fondly. “Which dances do you like best?”

“The waltz!” she quickly responded, with a smile to show that she knew it was mischievous to prefer the waltz—the single dance which entailed more contact with the opposite sex than any other ballroom fare. Mrs. Forsythe clucked her tongue, but Beatrice blithely ignored this, taking a peek at her brother-in-law to gauge his reaction, instead. The host of the gathering was reading his morning paper, however, and not listening to the small talk between his wife and her relations.

And relations were virtually all around him. In addition to Beatrice and Mrs. Forsythe, there was his aunt, Mrs. Royleforst, staying with them at the present, and her companion, skinny, nervous Miss Bluford. These two ladies had not appeared yet for breakfast, which was probably on account of Mrs. Royleforst. She found mornings difficult and either slept in, or took a tray in her room.

“What do you think, sir?” asked Mrs. Forsythe, of her host. “Shall my daughter invite the Norledges to join Mr. Forsythe and Lucy when they set out for your house? Or is your home already filled enough for your liking?”

Mr. Mornay looked over his paper enough to acknowledge that he had heard her question. “As it is your and my wife’s family, I think the two of you must decide upon it. As long as there are bed-chambers enough,” he added, looking at Ariana, “you may fill them with guests as you please.”

“Thank you, darling,” she said, making Beatrice stifle a titter. Her sister and her husband were still inordinately romantic, to her mind. Good thing no one else was present save her mother! She would have been embarrassed for them in company.

“Shall I take the baby, mama?” said Ariana, for Miranda was beginning to fuss.

“I suppose she wants to be fed,” agreed her mother. Ariana nodded to a maid who was seated against the wall, who went and received the child from her grandmother and brought her gingerly to her mama. Ariana’s eyes sparkled with happiness as she took her little girl. She murmured to the baby, by turns picking her up and kissing her face, and then just holding her in her arms and gazing at her in loving adoration. “I shan’t feed her yet,” she said. “She isn’t insisting upon it.”

Beatrice’s thoughts were still upon the diversions that would be possible with a large group staying at the house. “If they all come, can you and Mr. Mornay hold a ball, Ariana? Or, will you take me to London this year for the Season? Then I may go to as many balls as I like, and you will not have the expense of holding them!”

“If she takes you to London for the Season,” put in her mama, “she will have a great deal more expense than just that of a ball! Besides which, you are too young for such.”

Beatrice looked at her mama, her enthusiasm temporarily dampened. “But my sister sees I am older, now,” she said, looking at Ariana with a silent plea in her gaze. “And I am not too young for a Season, according to the magazines. Many girls my age do have their coming out, mama!”

“Many gels,” she returned, instantly, “have little sense, and their parents, no better; your papa and I did not allow either of your sisters to go about in society at your age. You have been already too pampered, if you ask me. London society is out of the question!”

Beatrice was now thoroughly dampened in her spirits, but she looked about and settled her eyes upon her brother-in-law. “I daresay Mr. Mornay has seen many a girl of my age--and younger—make their debut during the Season. And to no ill effect! Why, I am sure some of them have made the most brilliant matches! Many a man of good standing prefers a younger lady for his wife. You had ought to let me go while I am young enough to enjoy this advantage.”

Mr. Mornay was frowning behind his newspaper. He knew that his young relation wanted his support in the matter, but Mr. Mornay was assuredly not in the habit of coming to the aid of young women, particularly regarding a London Season. So he said nothing, though an ensuing silence in the room told him the ladies waited for his opinion.

Ariana, who knew better, offered, “Let us discuss it another time. There are months, yet, before the Season. And with Miranda so young, I cannot decide at this point, in any case.”

Beatrice, who had no idea she was treading on dangerous ground, said, “Only let Mr. Mornay tell us his thoughts! I know my mother will listen if you tell her, sir,” she said, directly to him.

He put his paper down reluctantly, and then looked at Beatrice. “I think Ariana was young to face society at nineteen. At your age, you need to be sheltered, not put forth among the wolves.”

Her face fell so entirely, that he almost chuckled at it. “Why are you so eager for a Season?”

She smiled a little. This was better; he was inviting her to explain so that her mother could see the good advantage in it. “I have long lived with the memory of my sister’s tales of her experiences in London;” she said. “She met you there! Her coming out is what brought her to marriage, to Aspindon, to a better life! I have had my fill of Chesterton, I assure you! The prospects for marrying well in that region are as dismal as ever, if not worse;” she said. (Ariana closed her eyes at this; she could hardly bear to hear her sister telling all the reasons Phillip would most despise.) “Why does it seem that all the eligible young men in the county are either in a regiment somewhere, or at sea, or in need of a fortune? I must go to London or Bath, where there are more men one can meet!”

She paused, looking at him earnestly. “I have no fortune, sir, as you are well aware. And with your connexions, I am certain to make very advantageous acquaintances! What could be more certain? I shall end up, no doubt, just as my sister has, with a man like you, sir!” Beatrice evidently thought she was giving him a great compliment. She waited, expecting a gracious answer.

“Oh, Beatrice!” moaned Mrs. Forsythe. “You foolish gel!”

Mr. Mornay stood up, after folding his paper to a neat size. He said, “It takes more than wearing a corset to say a young lady is grown up, would you not agree?” He directed his remark to the whole room, and then settled his eyes upon Beatrice for one second too long, before giving a small bow to the women in general, and turning to leave the room. Beatrice considered his words for a moment. He had rested his eyes on her long enough so that she knew exactly what he meant.

Mr. Frederick met his master at the door, holding out a salver with a letter for Mr. Mornay, who took it but then looked curiously at the butler.

“It arrived in that condition, sir! I daresay it was lost in the mail or some such thing.”

“Hmm, very good, Freddie.” He held up a battered and ink-soiled missive for his wife to see, while eyeing it dubiously.

She looked amused. “Who is it from?”

He unfolded the paper, as the sealing wax was almost entirely worn off already, and scanned the signature at the bottom. “Colonel Sotheby. I’ll read it in my office.” She nodded, and Mr. Mornay left the room.

Beatrice was still smarting from his earlier remark, and said, as soon as he’d gone, “How ‘grown up’ can I be, when I am forced to exist in a small country village, with no prospects, and genteel company only upon a Sunday?”

“You overstate your case! That is not true,” answered her mama, disapprovingly.

“And as for wearing a corset,” Beatrice continued, after taking a sip of tea, “I do not pretend that wearing one is what makes me of age for a Season. I have formed my principles upon sound reason. I have sat beneath the tutelage of my father and of Mr. Timmons, and of his curate, and I should say my principles are well-founded.”

“We are glad to hear it,” Ariana said, with great forbearance, “but really, you should not be setting your mind upon seeking a man like my husband; you should be intent upon finding the man that God has chosen for you.”

“And so I am!” she protested, her eyes wide and laughing. “But look at the advantage He gives me in having you for my sister! Am I to ignore that? When it could be the very means of bringing me and my future husband together?”

Ariana played absently with little Miranda’s blanket, tucking it in about her chin more snugly. She met her sister’s eyes. “London is not the only place a young woman may meet a husband. And if you want my husband’s approval of your plan, the last thing in the world you should tell him is that you want to meet a man like him! Or that you wish to marry above you in any way!”
“But is it above me? To marry well? When my sister is Mrs. Mornay of Aspindon House?”

“It is above you,” said her mother, “because you are Miss Forsythe of Chesterton.”

“I am a gentleman’s daughter,” she replied.

“With no dowry to speak of,” said her mama.

Beatrice’s cheeks began to burn. “With a rich and famous brother-in-law!” she said, petulantly.

“That does not signify!” said her mother.

“It does, to me!”

“It should not!” Mrs. Forsythe was quickly growing ashamed of her daughter, and she was relieved that Mr. Mornay had left the room, and was not hearing Beatrice right now. Ariana’s eyebrows were raised and she was doing her best to act as though she had no part in the dialogue.

“But it does, mama!”

“Beatrice! You have already said far too much on this topic, which proves to me your great ignorance of the world.” She held up her hand for silence as Beatrice was about to protest; “Not another word! I shan’t have it, not another word.” Mrs. Forsythe turned her attention to her elder daughter.

“I think I will visit the Nursery to see how Nigel is faring. Do you mind?”

“Of course not! He will enjoy showing you his toys.” She smiled, while her mother rose to leave the room. “I’ll be up myself, shortly, to feed the baby.”

“Very good.” She nodded to her daughter, and then her eye fell upon Beatrice. “I think it would be wise if you said nothing more regarding a Season. In fact, I forbid you to mention it to Mr. Mornay again! Do you understand me?”

“I do, mama.” Beatrice was not happy but she recognized the tone of voice her mother was using. She considered, moreover, that it would be a simple matter to keep from mentioning her hopes to the man, for he evidently would not encourage her in them. But as for herself, she would continue to think of the Season in London. She would continue to hope; and some other day, when Ariana was in a good disposition, she would prevail upon her to sponsor her in London.

Beatrice did not want to seem disrespectful, but she knew that Mr. Mornay was quite in error regarding her. He did not know, for instance, that she was determined to make a good match, and recognized it as her lot in life. Every inch she saw of Aspindon just confirmed her sense that a rich life awaited her. She was born for it. And now all that was necessary was to meet her future husband—the man who could make it all happen. She had long prayed for just such a meeting, and knew that it was bound to occur. All she had to do was be properly outfitted, and in the proper company, for it to do so.

All she had to do was change her sister and brother-in-law’s mind on the matter. How difficult could that be?

ONE SMOOTH STONE: First Chapter Excerpt

2010-03-10T17:44:00.000-05:00

One Smooth Stone

Chapter One

Alex Donnelly was alone. That’s how he wanted it. He told himself that’s how he liked it. That was a lie.

He twisted the throttle on the boat motor to the off position, leaned back, pulled his floppy-brimmed river hat off his head and turned his face toward the sun. The silted water hissed against the bottom and sides of the boat. A breeze tussled his thick black hair. He heard a hawk whistle from a high cliff and squinted to watch it plummet from its perch.

Closing his eyes, he slumped low. He would let the current take him home. He had all day and there wasn’t anyone waiting for him, except his dogs. At least they would welcome him, if only in anticipation of being fed.

The hawk whistled again and Alex opened his eyes, letting them fill with the sweeping green hills and wide brown Yukon River. As the boat caught and circled in a whirlpool he dipped his hand into the cold flow. Two minutes, he’d been told. If he fell in – or jumped – it would take two minutes for this river to kill him. He knew it was true because it had almost happened. He’d been looking for the cabin where he now lived, had beached at the mouth of the wrong creek and decided to wade to the other side to search for a trail. Half way across he realized he was in trouble. It was deeper than he’d thought and his legs were giving out. Then the bottom dropped off completely and he’d had to swim. He barely made it to the shore in time; he couldn’t stand when he got there. His legs were useless for several minutes, even though the sun was high and hot that day. He remembered he’d shivered for two days.

His eyes caught the gray shifting of mist in the rift of a small valley far ahead as thick clouds spilled their burden of moisture down toward the river. He could smell it as the wind brought the fragrance of poplar toward him. The trees on the banks seemed to turn their leaves toward it. He pulled his hat back on and shrugged into an old slicker. As the rain came toward him he started the motor and steered the boat closer to shore. He knew a wind could come up strong enough to keep him at a stand-still. He snorted as he thought about that. It was the story of his life right now. Standing still. But at least he wasn’t running anymore. He wondered how long it would last.

Just before the rain hit him a sudden shifting of light curved over the hills in a faint rainbow. God’s promise. Funny how he always thought that when he saw a rainbow. Someone somewhere must have said it to him. He pulled his hat down and cut the motor again, to listen, as the first softness of rain touched him. Everything around him seemed to whisper. He breathed deeply and almost smiled. Out here a person could almost want to believe in God and promises. Almost.

****

August 19, 2003, Vancouver, British Columbia

Inspector Stan Sorensen slumped into the driver’s seat of his unmarked car. Another case closed. It was a good feeling, but as his eyes absently scanned the neighborhood he knew it would not last. There was always another case, always more people who’d been hurt, more creeps to chase down. He sighed. There was a time when he’d thrived on it, but retirement was going to feel so good. He flipped open his notebook and wrote one more detail down, then reached for the ignition. His hand froze as his eyes rested on a small house across the street. Much like all the others, it had seen better days. What was it that made him … Sorensen’s eyes narrowed as the memory surfaced. A young girl’s face - dark eyes that held such longing it hurt him to even remember. He sat up straight. That case had never been closed. He reached for his notebook again and made another note. He hated loose ends.

****

August 20th, 2003, twenty miles downstream from Dawson City, on the Yukon River.

Alex heard the boat but couldn’t see it. He took his binoculars down from a nail on the wall and walked to the bank. Making sure he was screened by the low slung branches of a spruce tree, he scanned upriver. He caught the long outboard, skimming with the current about a mile down. Adjusting the focus, he peered at the two people crouched in the back. He knew the one with his hand on the motor - the son of the mechanic in town. Alex couldn’t remember his name. Probably hired himself out to the man in the suit.

The suit was hunched into himself, a large leather briefcase clutched in his arms, his knees drawn up, head down. His tie escaped now and then, flapping into the wind with sudden urgency until he caught it and tucked it in again. The sight of a man in a suit on the river was so out of context, Alex kept watching until the boat veered and headed directly toward him.

He lowered the binoculars and squinted as it beached just below his cabin. Within seconds the men were out of sight but he knew they were scrambling up the embankment. They’d missed the trail. He considered slipping into the bush and pretending not to be there, but his curiosity got the better of him. He went back into the cabin and waited.

As the two men breached the top of the slope, Alex's dogs erupted into high-pitched howls. The suit hesitated, peered around and seeing the animals were chained, approached the cabin. Alex stepped back from the window and waited for the knock. When he opened the door, he took in several things at once: the man looked young, no older than Alex himself, but smaller in stature. He was wiping his face with a handkerchief, but wasn't breathing hard from the climb. His hair was the color of sand and short, spiked at the front, reminding Alex of a small porcupine he'd seen that week. The man's eyes weren't visible behind dark sunglasses but Alex had the feeling he was being sized up in return.

"Mr. Donnelly? Alexander Donnelly?"

Alex kept one hand on the door latch, shoved one hand into his jeans pocket and willed his heart to stop racing. "Who's asking?"

The man yelled over the barking. "I'm George Bronsky, of Adams, Ferrington, Lithgow and Bolt, attorneys at law, Seattle."

When Alex did not respond, the lawyer slipped his sunglasses off. "You're a hard man to track down, Mr. Donnelly."

For more information, you can visit the author's website, vinemarc.com .

Purchase One Smooth Stone from
Amazon, Barnes and Noble, or the publisher.

Check out these other member blogs this week for more info.

Danger in the Yukon

2010-03-09T05:35:00.003-05:00

Two men are running from the law, from their pasts, from society, from themselves, and from God. The thing is, no one can hide from God. As is written in Psalm 130 (NKJV):

7 Where can I go from Your Spirit?

Or where can I flee from Your presence?

8 If I ascend into heaven, You are there;

If I make my bed in hell, behold, You are there.

Even in the wild and danger-laden northern frontiers of the Yukon, Alex and Gil must face themselves and the pursuing God who will not let them go. Their paths cross unexpectedly as "coincidences" lead them in ways they never wanted.

The story shifts back and forth from Alex Donnelly to Gil, focusing mostly on Alex's story. Just a few weeks afte Alex's twenty-first birthday, a lawyer from Seattle found him living the hermit's life in the Canadian wilderness. It seems that the orphaned man had a million dollar inheritance just waiting for him to pick it up. Alex is suspicious, certain there's been a mistake, but he warily agrees to go back to civilization with the lawyer. In Seattle, he meets the sweet young researcher who had worked for so long searching for him, and they form an odd connection. He spends the weekend with her and her parents (her father is a senior partner in the law firm), and comes face-to-face with a family model unknown to him. The close relationships they have with each other and with God beckon to an empty place within him, but in the same time they intensify his dark memories of his own past, a past full of dark secrets and abuse. In agony and fearful of the police, he leaves without getting his money. Back in the Yukon, with winter coming on, he takes a caretaker job in an empty mining camp for the season. n the isolated camp, his only companion is a husky. Oh, and the grizzly. Oh, and a mysterious "ghost" who barely leaves a trace of his existence.

Meanwhile, Kenni, the young researcher, is compelled by God to persevere in pursuit of the troubled Alex. And remember the grizzly and the winter coming on? And that other guy, Gil? Everything comes together in tense adventurous ways.

The dark truths are eventually revealed as Mrs. Laycock skillfully laid them out piecemeal, drawing us in and making us care about a rough character like Alex Donnelly. When we see through the eyes of Kenni and her parents, we see how God loves even the most wretched and how His forgiveness, love and grace can work all things together.

This suspense and action-packed novel really held my attention from the very beginning.Marcia Laycock doles out little parcels of information (some of which I've spoiled) so dexterously, kind of like the carrot-on-the-string ploy. It kept me guessing about all sorts of details, some extremely important, right up to the end. It was a very satisfying story, but not all pie-in-the-sky. One Smooth Stone is definitely an adult suspense, although I am sure many teens would enjoy it as well. Once again, the timing for this tour was interesting to me, coming between the Olympics in Canada and the Iditarod (started March 7). Those who enjoy adventure, suspense and mystery should be captivated by One Smooth Stone.

Marcia Lee Laycock is an award-winning Canadian author known for her devotional writings. She received the Best New Canadian Christian Author Award for One Smooth Stone, her debut in fiction.

For more information, you can visit the author's website, vinemarc.com .

Purchase One Smooth Stone from
Amazon, Barnes and Noble, or the publisher.

Check out these other member blogs this week for more info.

CFRB Book of the Month for March: ONE SMOOTH STONE

2010-03-08T09:09:00.003-05:00

One Smooth Stone
by Marcia Lee Laycock

This month, CFRB presents One Smooth Stone by Marcia Lee Laycock.

About the Book:
Alex Donnelly is trying desperately to hide from his past, the police and especially God. He picks a good place to hide – the wilderness of Canada’s Yukon, but he finds even there he is pursued by all of the above. Confronted with intriguing information and burning to know more about his real parents, Alex returns to his birthplace, Seattle Washington, only to discover that his mother had tried to abort him. The trauma sends him on the run again but God has orchestrated a divine appointment for him back in the Yukon. The story is filled with miraculous healing, struggles with rage and an obsession with revenge. It illustrates that God never gives up, as Alex learns that no matter how far you run, God will find you and no matter what you have done, God will forgive you.

About the Author:
Marcia’s writing began in the attic of her parents’ home where she wrote stories for her dolls. They didn’t complain so she kept it up. God has blessed her with publication in magazines, newspapers, on radio and the web. Her work has garnered praise from notable writers Mark Buchanan, Sigmund Brouwer and Phil Callaway. Her first devotional book, The Spur of the Moment won an Award of Merit at Write Canada and her novel, One Smooth Stone, won the Best New Canadian Christian Author Award in 2006. Marcia writes a weekly devotional column that goes out to over 4,000 people. Her devotionals have been published by The Upper Room and The Quiet Hour, among others, as well as in anthologies compiled by Multnomah and Thomas Nelson. Marcia is currently the Sunday devotional columnist for Novel Journey.com and was a contributor to Hot Apple Cider.

Visit the author's website .

Purchase One Smooth Stone from
Amazon, Barnes and Noble, or the publisher.

Check out these other member blogs this week for more info.

The Mystery of the Cross

2010-03-07T23:23:00.001-05:00

I came across this book trailer as I was searching for something else at Youtube. Although I haven't read the book (yet), it intrigues me very much. At this time of year when we look forward to Resurrection Day, many of us are focused on the cross more than we might usually be.

In The Mystery of the Cross, Judith Couchman offers forty images of the cross for spiritual reflection. These artful readings will enrich your understanding of Christian tradition, draw you closer to Christ, and deepen your appreciation for the mystery of the cross. Available where books are sold.

The illustrations in the book trailer appear in the book.

Learn more about Judith Couchman's works at www.judithcouchman.com and www.judithcouchman.blogspot.com.

As Young as We Feel

2010-03-04T07:09:00.000-05:00

This new book trailer caught my attention because of my current state of minds and affairs. You see, my high school class, Glen Este Class of 1970, just started working on our reunion. As we look for people from that other lifetime, memories continually well up and invade the present chapter of life. So, for me, Melody Carlson's most recent offering, As Young as We Feel, is quite appealing. I haven't read it yet, but I thought I'd pass along the book trailer anyway.

DESERT FIRE: a F.I.R.S.T. Look

2010-02-25T03:04:00.002-05:00

Today's Wild Card author is:

Shannon Van Roekel

and the book:

Desert Fire

Kregel Publications (September 22, 2009)

ABOUT THE BOOK:

Personal turmoil amid horrific conflict-these are the elements of a career-making headline. . . and a journey toward healing.

On assignment in Darfur, journalist Julia Keegan is determined to open the eyes of average Americans to the atrocities taking place there-and to distance herself from the dark shadow cast by her father, a man she's never really known. So when Joel Maartens, her father's young lawyer, shows up in Sudan, Julia is completely unprepared to respond. She has steeled herself against the horrors of genocide, but she isn't prepared to face her own past.
As Joel's and Julia's lives are redefined by the injustice and violence around them, both are forced to face truths they would rather leave concealed. Fighting for justice is no easy task, but learning to forgive in the face of hatred may be the resolution that Joel and Julia both desperately need.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Shannon Van Roekel has volunteered on the mission field in both Africa and Mexico and much of this novel is influenced by her experiences. She published works in Guideposts 4 Teens and The Upper Room and now lives with her husband and five children in British Colombia.

Visit the author's website.

Product Details:

List Price: $15.99
Paperback: 304 pages
Publisher: Kregel Publications (September 22, 2009)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0825439221
ISBN-13: 978-0825439223

AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:

Dear Julia,

I want to die better than I’ve lived. So I ask you, please read this letter to the end.

It’s the only one I’ll send.

Cold, fluorescent light shone down on the metal desk where Fred Keegan sat. His hair was closely shaven along a massive neck between a pair of muscle-bound shoulders. He hunched over white notepaper, his right hand engulfing the pen.

A sigh escaped him, a moment passed, and then the pen scratched its way across the paper again:

If you receive this, it will mean I am gone from this world—so you can relax, I won’t come and disturb your life.

There are some things, however, that I’d like you to know about me.

One is that I’ve always loved you. I guess your mama didn’t spend much time talking about the father you probably had no trouble forgetting. I don’t blame either of you for having nothing to do with me. I was a real jerk. I was guilty, as charged, for the crimes I committed. That life, I am ashamed of, and I paid a high price. Thirty years in the slammer. And counting. I won’t bore you with the sorry-old-me stuff. Mostly, I want to tell you about the last eight years. Something important happened, and you should know not just who I was, but who I got to be and the Treasure I found. This is why I write to you.

I’ve got a picture of a cute kid taped to my wall. You’re missing your front teeth and have two of those pony things. You’re a cute gal and no mistake. Pretty, like your mama. The picture came in the last letter with the divorce papers.

Fred stopped, head bowed, eyes squeezed shut. The memories of that day still filled him with remorse. The rage he’d felt and his inability to control it. Two guards had taken the brunt, both of whom still carried scars marking the event. Two weeks in solitary was his punishment. Regrettably, not long enough to cure him of his anger-management problem.

Picking up his pen again, he gazed at the photo. The tape had yellowed with age. The girl never aged. She smiled back with sweetness and youth.

I guess you were seven in that photo. That means you’d be thirty-three now. I wonder if I’d know you if I saw you today. Can a man walk past his own kin and not feel the bond of blood that connects them? Recognize the spirit in the other who shares his same history, ancestors, and perhaps God? Maybe that’s why we get goose bumps. Maybe I’m a crazy old fool who’s had too much time to think about the inner workings of this thing we call life.

“Keegan, you got a visitor.”

Fred looked up as the guard unlocked the steel door and stepped aside, allowing a tall man access into his cell. His frown at being interrupted from his writing smoothed immediately into a grin when he recognized his guest.

“Mr. Lawyer, good to see ya.”

“Good to be seen, Keegan. How are you feeling today?” Joel Maartens returned Fred’s grin with one of his own.

“Feeling? I guess I’m fine. I’ve got things to do, and that helps keep my mind off the pain.” Fred tried to ignore the pity in Joel’s eyes.

“Let me guess, you’ve got new books?”

Fred followed Joel’s gaze as he glanced at the bookshelf on the opposite wall. His cell was compact: bed, desk, chair, toilet, sink. But the bookshelf reaching from floor to ceiling was the focal point.

“Nah! Not books this time. I’ve got a letter to write, and it’s not an easy thing to do, Mr. Lawyer.” Fred folded his large frame into a sitting position on the edge of his bed so Joel could take the chair. “That’s why I asked to see you. I need some help with its delivery.”

“You need a letter mailed?” Joel asked.

“Not mailed, delivered,” Fred explained.

“Got an address, Keegan?”

“Well, no. No, I don’t. But it’s to my daughter.”

Fred watched Joel, wondering how his lawyer would respond to his proposal. They had known each other for the last five years, and during that time, he had learned to value the man’s opinion. Joel seemed less like his lawyer and more like a nephew.

Joel leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees and his fingers laced together as he spoke.

“I wouldn’t think it should be too difficult. There’ll be a marriage certificate if your ex remarried—would she be the type to remarry?” As Fred nodded and grimaced, Joel continued. “And of course, school registration forms. Maybe with some help from the Web, I could find an address or addresses where you can send the letter—”

“No,” Fred interjected. “I don’t want to mail it. It’s taken me a long time, Joel, but now that I have something of value to offer her, I want to know that it’ll get put into her hands. I don’t know who else to ask. I thought this thing through till my head feels like I’ve got two tumors, not one, and I keep coming back to you. I need you to do this.

“My daughter, Julia, will be my only heir, and you will be the executor—if you agree to it, that is. This search shouldn’t be complicated, but if it is, you can take any funds you require for it from the inheritance provision that you will write up with my signature and a third-party witness. I’m not a rich man, but I’m not a poor one, either, thanks to some of the investments you’ve helped me with.” He stopped. His outburst had winded him.

Fred prepared himself for disappointment as he watched Joel struggle with the ramifications of his request. Things that should be simple and straightforward were sometimes the opposite. For a lawyer to take on the unknown with no guarantee was a leap, and Fred knew it.

Joel hesitated for a moment, then gave a quick nod.

“I’ll do it, Keegan,” he told him.

As they shook hands over the agreement, Fred sighed with relief. He knew Joel would see it through. It was enough.

Q and A With William Moss, Author of FINDING INNER PEACE DURING TROUBLED TIMES

2010-02-24T08:32:00.001-05:00

Q: Our world is characterized by war, violence, and conflict, and many of us experience that conflict in our inner beings. What would you say to those who long for inner peace but wonder if it is possible to find?

A: I believe God wants us to find peace and will show us the way, if we are willing to accept it. But for many of us, the peace of God is elusive, and we are not sure how to accept it. How do we search for this peace? Should we isolate ourselves from the world around us by withdrawing and adopting an inward focus, that we might gain that peace for ourselves? Though this seems the obvious answer, I believe those who are in Christ should avoid the kind of self focus and withdrawal that would preclude us from being involved in the solutions of the many problems that confront us. Instead, we search for inner peace because we want to share it, that we may be able to help others. Inner peace, like life, is a gift from God that is for His glory—and it is meant to be shared.

Q: If God wants us to find peace, why is it so rare to meet someone who has truly found it?

A: Obviously, there are many difficulties, distractions, and hardships that stand in the way of our inner peace.

As Paul said to the Galatians, "So I say, live by the Spirit, and you will not gratify the desires of the sinful nature. For the sinful nature desires what is contrary to the Spirit and the Spirit what is contrary to the sinful nature. They are in conflict with each other, so that you do not do what you want. But if you are led by the Spirit, you are not under the law of Moses."

Paul says, "The acts of the sinful nature are obvious: sexual immorality, impurity and debauchery; idolatry and witchcraft; hatred, discord, jealousy, fits of rage, selfish ambition, dissensions, factions and envy; drunkenness, orgies, and the like."

Today there are some distractions Paul did not include such as: worry, self-preservation, hunger, lack of money, arrogance, competitiveness, criticism, and illness, to name a few. It is these distractions—whether due to circumstances or the attitudes of our hearts—that stand between us and the inner peace we crave.

Q: Who is the source of our inner peace?

A: The Bible clearly tells us, time and again, that Jesus Christ Himself is the source of that peace. In Romans Paul says, "Therefore, since we have been justified through faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ. Again in Ephesians, Paul says, "For He Himself is our peace, who has made the two one and destroyed the barrier, the dividing wall of hostility." In Colossians, we read, "Let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts, since as members of one body you were called to peace." And consider the words of Jesus, the Prince of Peace, found in the book of John: "I have told you these things, so that in Me you may have peace. In this world, you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world."

Jesus gives peace to every believer. But so often, we allow the distractions of our days and our choices to pursue sin instead of the character of Christ to prevent us from accepting that peace.

Q: Some Christians have been wary of the art of Christian meditation because they have associated the word "meditation" with Eastern religions. Why is meditation so vital to our search for inner peace?

A: We live in a strange and changing world shaped by banking collapses, recessions, wars, politics, famine, hurricanes, pollution, and diverse economies and demographics. How does this changing, strange world affect our daily decisions? Where does God fit into all of this? One of our biggest hurdles to hearing God's voice is the fact that we simply are not listening.

Many people wrongly believe that Eastern religions have the monopoly on "meditation." The truth is that meditating on scripture was a spiritual discipline valued by the early church fathers, and it is a practice the church desperately needs to return to today. Whereas the aim of eastern meditation is to focus on nothing (in effect, emptying the mind), Christian meditation is about filling the mind—focusing on Holy Scripture and Christ. With the constant stream of media, noise, commitments, conflicts, and other distractions, you will not likely find times of quiet, stillness, and spiritual reflection unless you are intentional, unless you pursue meditation as a discipline. Through prayer and meditation we can transcend all the distractions and difficulties of our days if we live by the Spirit and put God's love and presence first.

Q: What role does the Holy Spirit play in our search for inner peace?

A: God's Spirit is within us constantly. As we read in John, "We know that we live in Him and He in us because He has given us His Spirit." Therefore, because God is in Jesus, Jesus is in you, and you are in God. The Holy Spirit dwells in you at all times, and it is the Holy Spirit that connects you to Christ and to God, the power source that brings inner peace. Prayer and Christian meditation takes on a completely different quality when we realize that God knows us intimately from within. And God is love; within God's love are the seeds for inner peace. When God comforts and encourages our souls through His love and when we share that love with others, He is guiding us along the path that leads to inner peace.

Q: Because the practice of Christian meditation has been neglected for so long, many Christians aren't sure how to begin. Can you offer an example to get them started?

A: Start prayer and meditation by finding a quiet comfortable place, by closing your eyes, by breathing deeply until you are completely relaxed. Quietly and slowly open your heart and mind to a loving God whose Spirit is dwelling within you.

Breathe in love, breathe out anger.

Breathe in peace, breathe out despair.

Relax: let God's love into your heart.

Be calm. Be at peace. Take more deep breaths, and feel the stress, anxiety and fear drain from your bodies.

This exercise will prepare you to listen to God's voice as you concentrate on a scripture passage and to respond in prayer.

Q: What is the most important message you want to communicate in Finding Inner Peace During Troubled Times?

A: If we seek inner peace we will find it. In the book of John, Jesus says "And I will do whatever you ask in My name, so that the Son may bring glory to the Father. You may ask Me for anything in My name, and I will do it." So many people don't experience inner peace because they haven't truly sought it. My hope is that through reading this book, people will commit themselves to that search for inner peace and share this peace to the glory of God.

Website for William Moss is here.

Finding Inner Peace During Troubled Times
Author William Moss
Publisher: The Barnabas Agency (December 4, 2009); 64 pages
ISBN-10: 0578042444
ISBN-13: 978-0578042442

Available for purchase from Amazon, Barnes and Noble and Believers' Press.

Thanks to Audra Jennings and The B&B Media Group for providing press kit and a review copy of the book.

WHERE IS GOD? by Dr. John Townsend

2010-02-22T12:30:00.000-05:00


Buy		Read

Where Is God?
Finding His Presence, Purpose and Power in Difficult Times

By Dr. John Townsend

Hard times make us look for God.

Everyone has problems. But if we could solve all our difficulties ourselves, would we ever search for God? Psychologist John Townsend says "It is actually the very unfixability of our problems and our powerlessness to bring right results that keep us asking, 'Where is God?'"

With a compelling narrative, Townsend offers new insights into the pursuit for God's help and presence. Designed to give readers hope and meaning, he divides the discussion into three parts:

* Why does a loving God allow us to experience difficulties?
* How is God active in the middle of our hard times?
* How can I find God?

With powerful stories and practical applications, Where Is God? assures readers that even when it feels as though God is absent it is his nature to be in relationship, to connect with, love, and guide us. And when we seek him with all our heart, soul, mind, and strength, he shows up in ways that transform us forever.

Visit Dr. Townsend's website.
Sugg. Price: $22.99 (US)

ISBN: 0785229191
ISBN-13: 9780785229193
published by Thomas Nelson Publishers
240 pages
Retail Price: $22.99

The Country House Courtship by Linore Rose Burkard

2010-02-19T21:06:00.000-05:00

England, 1818: It has been five years since Ariana Forsythe married The Paragon, Mr. Phillip Mornay. Now, Ariana's sister, Miss Beatrice Forsythe, is seventeen and determined to marry advantageously as well. (Surely Ariana's society connexions all but guarantee Beatrice's success-especially if Mr. Mornay is created a baronet by the Prince Regent!

But the Mornay's have disappeared from high society as they raise a family at their country estate. Can Beatrice persuade them to chaperone her in London? And what about her business with the curate, Mr. O'Brien, whom Beatrice rashly promised to marry years earlier? She is too sophisticated now to settle for a mere clergyman-despite his agreeable countenance and gentle, understanding ways. When Mr. Tristan Barton becomes tenant of the Manor House, Beatrice's hopes seem to have found their object. But when Ariana falls gravely ill, secrets come to light, motives are revealed, and pretenses that are easy to keep up in the darkness begin to crumble. As hearts are bared and truths uncovered, a country house courtship like no other cannot be far behind!

Fans of Linore's first books, Before the Season Ends, and The House on Grosvenor Square, will be delighted with final addition to the Regency Inspirational Series, as will all readers of historical romance.

Author's website is http://www.linnorebukard.com/
Purchase links (Amazon, ChristianBook, BarnesandNoble,Website)

Buy from the author (autographed copy)

ChristianBook.com
Buy from ChristianBook.com

Amazon.com
From Amazon.com

BarnesandNoble.com
BarnesandNoble.com

Raven's Ladder by Jeffrey Overstreet

2010-02-16T10:45:00.001-05:00

Today's Wild Card author is:

Jeffrey Overstreet

and the book:

Raven's Ladder

WaterBrook Press (February 16, 2010)

[I'm sorry to say I haven't had a chance to read the book myself yet. I hope to buy it soon.]

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Jeffrey Overstreet is the skilled author of Auralia’s Colors, twice-nominated for a Christy Award, and Cyndere’s Midnight. His award-winning film reviews have appeared in Image, Books and Culture, Paste, and Christianity Today, and his “moviegoer’s memoir” Through a Screen Darkly is a popular exploration of faith and film in the U.S. and Europe. His website––LookingCloser.org––draws many thousands of readers each month. Jeffrey has recently spoken to large audiences in bookstores and universities across the U.S. and The Netherlands, including recent appearances at the Calvin Festival of Faith & Writing. Jeffrey and his wife Anne live in Shoreline, Washington.

Product Details:

List Price: $13.99
Paperback: 400 pages
Publisher: WaterBrook Press (February 16, 2010)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1400074673
ISBN-13: 978-1400074679

AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:

CAL-RAVEN IN FOUR

KINDS OF TROUBLE

Auralia reached out to Cal-raven. As he approached, the flame of the candle he carried flapped like a flag in a hard wind.

Her smile was mysterious, just as he remembered it. That detail had proved most difficult. Other aspects had come easier as his hands sculpted the stone. Her humble stature. The tiny knob of her chin. Her feet—ten small toes emerging like a row of beads beneath a leafy skirt.

Cal-raven was not a tall man, and yet Auralia, slight for sixteen, had stood only to his shoulder. He could see her open hands pressing through the span of fabric that she offered to any visitor.

Almost a year had passed since he’d found her in the Abascar dungeon, wrapped in a magnificent cloak. Their fleeting conversation was burned in his memory more vividly than yesterday. Unflinching, Auralia had voiced her faith in phantoms dreamed and legends whispered––like the Keeper, that benevolent creature who haunted dreams, a silent guardian, a listener.

Cal-raven had sculpted, erased, and then reshaped Auralia’s lips, her eyebrows with their question pinched between them, her whole face filled with trembling hope that others would receive and understand her vision. She had been more than human. Or better, she had been more fully human than anyone around her.

The king’s hunting hound, his golden tail wagging, sniffed at the statue’s ankles. “Hagah.” The dog slumped down to the floor and sighed, resigned to wait.

That fabric the statue held––Cal-raven had not even tried to give it the textures and colors of Auralia’s cloak. How could he? Its threads had glimmered with colors no eyes in Abascar had ever seen.

“Tell the Keeper,” he whispered, “that I don’t know where to go from here.” He ran his fingertips along the span that spilled like a waterfall from her upturned hands. “When I was a child, I’d have called out myself. It was easier then to believe.”

Auralia’s expression did not change; it would not unless he changed it. Her polished eyes would not return his gaze for, in the tradition of House Abascar portraiture, they lacked detail. While each statue in the cavern was distinct––the beloved and the burdensome, the wise and the foolish, the soldiers and the miscreants––they shared that same indecipherable gaze, an affirmation of something altogether unnamable, inimitable. The mystery of the heart.

Embarrassed at his habit of addressing this likeness, he knuckle-knocked Auralia’s forehead. “Last visit. Watch over these worn-out people for me, will you?”

Something shifted in the cavern behind him. Hagah lifted his head and followed his master’s gaze through the long rows of statues.

“Wynn?” Cal-raven waited.

Hagah’s huge black nose emerged from flabby rolls of fur and sniffed. Then the dog set his chin back down on the ground.

“You’ll catch our pesky shadow in a dream, won’t you?” Cal-raven said, but he gave another look back.

Why am I so agitated tonight? he wondered.

Because some of them are turning against you, replied his father’s ghostly voice. It’s been almost a year. You’ve mentioned New Abascar, but you still haven’t shown them a plan.

The statues that crowded the Hall of Remembering listened. These extravagant stone monuments gave shape to Cal-raven’s promise that he would never let his people forget the lessons they’d learned and that they would build a new house to honor those lost in Abascar’s cataclysm.

But the name grudgers, once given to those who had rebelled against their previous king’s oppressive ways, now applied to people distrustful of Cal-raven. Grudgers objected to his embrace of the foolish along with the wise; his equal concern for the weak and the strong; his insistence that every person, no matter how “useful,” be fed and shown the care of their healer. Moreover, grudgers grumbled about the way Cal-raven gambled their futures on possibilities revealed to him in dreams.

Tonight Cal-raven had taken the fire walk. Lesyl’s turn had come, but he had offered to patrol the passages for her. He wanted to hear her sing the Evening Verse one last time before his departure the next sundown.

“I’ve written a piece that can only be played by two, ”Lesyl had said when the fire walk brought him to the chamber of Auralia’s gallery. Sitting against the wall decorated by an array of colorful weavings, she tuned the twelve stringed tharpe, a formidable, sonorous instrument. She seemed relaxed, even happy, and oblivious that this was a farewell.

“Here.” She picked up a wooden spiral. “You remember how to play the hewson-pipe, don’t you? Oh, come now, don’t tell me you lack the time. You need the practice. ”When he did not approach, she persisted. “Scared?”

“No,” he laughed. Yes, he thought.

He had torn himself away from that conversation to continue the fire walk for fear of losing his fragile restraint. Not now. Not yet.

So while she sang, he paced that routine progress, ensuring that torches would not spark any mishaps, that candles burned within the spheres prescribed, that everything was in its right place.

He had led these survivors through a hostile winter and a dispiriting spring. Just as they had begun to define a possible departure, a visit from the mage sent him scrambling in another direction. Tomorrow he would slip away and venture north to pursue the vision his teacher had given him.

The day will come, Cal-raven, when you’ll have no choice but to leave Scharr ben Fray’s imagination behind and live in the real world. His father’s fury buzzed in his ear like a skeeter-fly. If you don’t, the ground will crumble beneath you.

Facing his father’s likeness, Cal-raven felt his throat tighten. “Whose inventions plunged into the earth?”

Listen to me, boy!You’re too old for toys.Who will lead the people when I’m gone? Someone whose head is full of children’s stories?

“Show me someone better prepared for the task,” he said. “I do not enjoy the burdens you’ve left me. ”He took the shield from where it was draped over the shoulder of the king’s likeness.

The statue’s lips were parted, and a strange feeling of discomfort crept up Cal-raven’s spine. He did not know what scared him more—the thought of the stone speaking or the thought that his dreams might prove false.

Hagah’s inquisitive nose bumped the edge of Cal-marcus’s shield, and he woofed.

“You’re not waiting for him anymore, are you?”

A rough tongue exploded from the hound’s expansive smile, and his tail thumped against the floor.

“You’ve given up on them both.” Cal-raven’s gaze strayed to the statue of his mother. The runaway.

It was a good likeness, or so he’d been told. Jaralaine’s appearance seemed an echo lost in time’s clamor. But troubled scowls from older folk told him that they recognized this imperious beauty. He did remember occasional tenderness and sighs of insatiable loneliness before her disappearance. He also remembered a fury against any suggestion of a will greater than her own.

He found himself suspended between the gravity of these statues and the forested world beyond, which called to him like a feast to a starving man.

“We’re all ready to be runaways now, Mother. If we don’t leave soon, the bonds that bind us will break.”

Hagah sniffed the base of the queen’s statue.

“No!” Cal-raven shouted.

Disappointed, the dog lumbered off through the rows to settle on the lanky figure of a hunter known by his nickname—Arrowhead.

Go ahead, Cal-raven thought. Arrowhead was a grudger. He threatened my father’s life. Wouldn’t hurt him to take some abuse for a change.

Hagah would have merrily complied, but the sound of something slithering sent him bounding back to Cal-raven’s boots, fangs shining beneath his retracting lip. Cal-raven blew out and dropped the candle, held his father’s shield close, and knelt to withdraw the throwing knife at his ankle.

There was only silence. Cal-raven tiptoed through the statues, Hagah stalking low before him.

The dog led him to the western wall, where a corridor ran along the inside of the cliff. Hagah put his snout down to a crack in the floor, noisily drawing in air. His tail stopped wagging.

“What have you found, boy?”

Hagah stiffened. Then he began to back away from the fissure, a low, rolling growl changing into a worried squeal.

“Something nasty?” Scars like burns from rivulets of hot oil marked the floor all about the break. “Let’s go. This place is giving me jitters tonight.”

A puff of wind touched his ear and then––thung! He turned to see an arrow embedded in the wall beside his head.

He sprang forward, leaping over the dog, and ran through the corridor. Down the stairs. Through tiers of tunnels.

In the distance Lesyl sang the Evening Verse. But his pursuer—pursuers, he could hear their footsteps now—did not falter.

Hagah turned around snarling. “No!” Cal-raven knew the dog was no match for an arrow. “Run, boy!” He pointed, and the dog bolted ahead just as he had been trained.

Cal-raven did not follow. He faced the rugged wall, placing his hands against the rock. His fingertips sought hidden inconsistencies, and finding those points, he applied pressure and heat in a way he could never explain.

The stone awakened, rippling in a sudden wind.

Cal-raven’s body clenched like a fist, forcing energy out through his hands. Then he pressed himself through the wavering curtain.

A midsummer evening’s breeze cooled his burning face as the sand sealed itself behind him.

The grudgers are out of patience. He brushed grit from his garments. It would not take long for his hunters to find their own exit. They were watching.Waiting for me to be alone.

“Keeper, protect me,” he murmured. Crouching, he moved away from the cliffs into narrow paths through thorn-barbed thickets that blanketed the plains.

Several turns into that maze, he sat down to catch his breath. I must get back inside where it’s crowded.

He thought about standing up and calling for the guards on the tiers above. But they would not see him here in the brake. And what else might come in answer?

A strange wind moved through the shallow sea of thorns. Bramble bugs skrritch-skrritched across the plains. Something wriggled under his foot. He set his father’s shield aside, tugged off his boot, and shook loose a rock spider.

He looked up through the brambled frame. A shooting star scratched a line across the night’s black dome. As if excited by the mysterious sign, faraway wood dogs shrieked in song.

When he jerked his sleeve free of a bramble and stood, his rustling stirred up a cloud of twilight-suckers. These insects were always a help to hunters, for they uttered tiny shrieks of delight as they descended on fresh dung or carrion.

Sure enough, as the pest cloud dissipated, he saw two copper coins. He knew that reflective stare from a hundred hunts. A lurkdasher. A year ago the sight of this swift, bushy-tailed creature would not have surprised Cal-raven. Lurkdashers were common burrowers in beds of brush. But Abascar’s best hunters had been catching little more than weakened scavengers, rodents lean for lack of prey. Across the Expanse the land had gone quiet, as if emptied by some mass migration.

If Cal-raven had been out for any other purpose, he’d have thrown his knife so fast the dasher would have fallen mid sprint. But he stayed still. Something wasn’t right.

The lurkdasher vanished. Cal-raven stood in the quiet, just another secret in this complicated night.

Then he felt a chill. He could sense a presence, fierce and intent.

He turned his head slightly and drew in a deep breath. Only a stone’s throw to his right an enormous animal, many legged, lurked in the thick web of boughs. He held that breath and waited, eyes slowly translating the contours of darkness and deeper darkness all around him.

Like a mighty hand, the creature clutched the ground, tensing knuckled legs. The bushes around it shivered as the lurkdasher stole away, and like a spider the creature raised two of its front legs from the brambles, bracing the other five against the ground. It was as big as a fang bear. Cal-raven felt a faint tremor. Then he heard a hiss, and the creature shifted its weight slightly, turning those raised limbs toward him.

Considering the sword at his side, he flexed his hand.

A crush of branches sounded to his left. His heart fluttered, a trapped bird, frantic. He turned and saw the second creature—the very same kind—with its feet planted as if it might pounce. In terrified confusion he saw the wind disturb a canvas that the creature drew behind it, a dark black sheet covering the thorns.

He did not know these monstrosities. They looked like they could outrun a viscorcat. And the forest was a long, long run ahead of him through a narrow, winding passage that he could not see clearly. But the cliffs—he might just make it back to the wall. The solid stone wall.

Ever so slowly he planted his hand on the hilt of his sword. He stepped backward, placing his foot down soundlessly.

The creatures stood as still as sculpted metal.

He took another step, drawing his sword half out of its scabbard. No, he thought. The starlight. They’ll see the reflection.

At his third step the creature on the right planted its two raised feet down on the ground, digging in as if it might spring.

He heard movement behind him and felt a blast of air like a bellows. His feeble hopes went out. But something deeper than his mind, stronger than his will, unleashed a cry. He called out, as he had so many times in nightmares, for the Keeper.

The creatures leapt from the brambles and seized him. His sword never escaped the scabbard.

He had a moment to think of Lesyl, interrupted in her song, looking up to receive unexpected news, the hewson-pipe coiled beside her.

Hot limbs wrapped around him, and his feet left the ground. The creatures were shelled, bone-tough, their bellies cushioned with bundles of hair. He struggled, limbs flailing. He was falling skyward, upside down. The pressure did not increase. Nothing pierced or stung or bit. The ground, faintly chalked in moonlight, spread like the sky over his head, and beyond his feet the heavens glittered like Deep Lake at midnight. The creatures held him suspended, their vast canvases snapping in the wind as if they were wings.

And then he saw that they were wings, spread out from a towering creature.

His captors were not animals at all but hands. He hung unharmed in the clawed clutches of a monster and was carried up toward its massive equine head.

Its eyes, glassy spheres full of stars, were fixed upon the northern horizon. Flames lined its nostrils. Its mane wavered as if it were creating, not surrendering to, the night wind. And the scales on its golden neck caught more than moonlight.

A helpless toy in its hands, he watched its attention turn to him, and his fear turned to confusion.

He recognized this creature. This shape had been fixed in his mind since he first drew breath. It had moved at the edges of his dreams. In nightmares it had come when he cried out for help, and sometimes when he could not call at all. During the long days of learning, he had pillaged his father’s history scrolls and hunting journals for evidence.

Nothing had prepared him for this. The creature drew in a cavernful of air, the shield-plates of its chest separating to reveal a soft lacework beneath. It held that breath. He knew it was reading him, reading the night, the skies. Then the curtains of its eyelids came down.

Are you kind? he thought. Dreams…speak true. Let the Keeper be kind.

The creature was stranger than anything he had sculpted when imagining its shape and dimensions. He felt embarrassed by his simplistic appeals, his feeble prayers. He was a mouse in the talons of a brascle, and as the creature reared up on the pillars of its hind legs, wing upon wing upon wing unfolding from its sides like sails on a great ship, he waited for judgment.

A sound like deep recognition ran tremulous through its form. Calraven thought it spoke his name––not the name given by his mother, but the name given by the powers that had crafted him—and every thread of his being burned with attention. As the eyes opened again, the stars within were moving.

It exhaled a scattering of sparks, but gently. The sound was like the Mystery Sea, roaring as it received the river flowing out through the Rushtide Inlet.

The air about the creature shuddered. A wave of noise beyond the range of Cal-raven’s hearing stunned him, conveying a word as clearly as if the creature had spoken. He would not, in the aftermath, know how to translate such a word. But it provoked in him an immediate resolve, a reverent promise.

He would follow. What else could one do when commanded by the Keeper?

Smoke and spice clouded the air and dizzied him. He was passed from clawed hands at the edges of the creature’s wings to one of its enormous, rough-fleshed feet, which held him like a woman’s hand cradling a bird. The creature set him down within a footprint on the path, and a wind whirled fiercely about him. Squinting up through the storm, he saw that the creature had taken flight.

In the space of a sigh, it was gone, a succession of lights darkening across the sky, northward over the Cragavar forest. Cal-raven lay helpless and numb like a discarded doll in the Keeper’s footprint.

Breath burst back into his lungs. He heaved, folding and fighting, a bird shaking away the shards of a shell.

It came when I called.

Never more invigorated, never more single-minded in purpose, he smiled back toward the cliffs. He had been changed.

In that moment everything changed for House Abascar as well. It began with a jolt, not a tremor.

Tabor Jan had been yawning as he reclined atop a boulder and counted the brightening stars. Sleep, out of reach for many nights, had seemed almost possible.

But then the ground beneath him bucked like a furious steed.He scrambled to the path, unsheathing his sword as if he might smite the earth in reprimand. From deep within Barnashum came a sound like hundreds of drums. The shaking intensified. The refuge exhaled clouds of dust through shielded entryways.

“Not part of the plan,” he muttered.

Rubble spilled down the cliffs in the quiet that followed, dust sighing into the thickets below.

“Cal-raven,” he said. Another name came to mind. Brevolo.

Then came a distant cacophony of voices. Rivers of people were rushing out onto the open ledges.

Even as he scanned the scene for the woman he loved, Tabor Jan pushed his way through the crowds, shouting to soldiers that their first priority was to find Cal-raven.

Hagah bounded suddenly into Tabor Jan’s path. The soldier seized the dog’s flabby neck. “Hagah—Cal-raven!”

Thrilled by the command, the dog turned as if jerked by a chain and almost threw himself off the cliffs. It was all the captain could do to keep up with him.

He found himself running toward the sound of triumphant yelps beyond the base of the cliffs. Dog had found master. The king was alive.

Kneeling among the brambles, Cal-raven embraced Hagah, blinking as if he’d been knocked silly by a falling stone.

“Are you hurt?” Tabor Jan scanned the shadowed ground.

“Didn’t you see it?” Cal-raven pointed north toward the Cragavar.

“See it? I felt it. I think they may have felt it in Bel Amica. We may have cave-ins. I’m taking you back.”

“No, not the quake,” said Cal-raven, exhilarated. “Didn’t you see it?”

Tabor Jan braced himself. “See…what?”Then the exuberance of Calraven’s

expression triggered a spasm of alarm. “No! Don’t say it!”

“But Tabor Jan, I saw—”

“Swallow that story, my lord!” He would have preferred a beast man sighting. “Don’t speak of it to the people. Especially not tonight.”

“Not tonight! What could bring them more comfort than to hear—”

“If the grudgers hear you respond to this quake with some wild description of a phantom on our doorstep—”

“Grudgers attacked me tonight.”

“Did you see their faces?”

“No, but I became acquainted with their arrows.” He laughed. “I also became quite familiar with the Keeper. Nose-to-nose, in fact.”

Tabor Jan scowled. “I haven’t slept for so long I’m having nightmares while I’m awake.”

“It pointed me north, Tabor Jan! We’ve got to ride—”

“We’ll ride tomorrow, Cal-raven. Just as you planned.” He urged Cal-raven back toward the cliffs, and they clambered over piles of rubble newly shaken from the heights. A tumult of voices filled the sky.

Hurrying down a steep ridge, an enormous guard came stumbling to meet them.

“Bowlder, how many are hurt?”

“Cave-in!” he wheezed. “Must…dig out…three people.”

“I assume you’ve called for Say-ressa. Without her healing hands we…” Tabor Jan stopped, stricken as he read Bowlder’s expression.

He turned to Cal-raven, but the king was strangely preoccupied with the moon above the northern horizon.

Literary Lapses 101: Lesson 6--Al or All?

2010-02-15T22:43:00.001-05:00

I notice that a lot of people have a hard time deciding whether or not to mash a couple of words together. Now sometimes it may be a typing problem; I personally have trouble hitting the space key hard enough, so I have to constantly re-read and correct. Today we look at the Als, proper and im--alot, already, altogether, and alright.

ALOT or A LOT?
The big one comes first. Alot is NOT A WORD. There is a word allot, but every time I see this four letter word, it really should be TWO words--a lot. A lot of people misuse it constantly. I see it a lot in lots of blogs AND published books. In fact, this blog was prompted by a book I just read, one that was poorly edited. A lot of is a phrase equal to lots of. Interchangeable, but I don't know if that will help anyone remember.

ALREADY OR ALL READY?
Not interchangeable. Already means previously, at an earlier or time, or so soon. She's already asleep. I already finished my homework. Do you have to go already?

All ready means something "is prepared and completely set." The plans for the house are all ready. The papers are all ready for your signature.

ALTOGETHER OR ALL TOGETHER?

Once upon a time I wasn't sure that both words existed, but they do. All together means 'all in the same place' or 'all at the same time.' We were gathered all together in a tiny room. The crowd was working all together to find the earthquake victims.

This time the mashed word is more commonly used, and it is not equivalent to all together. Altogether can mean: with everything included; completely or utterly; on the whole. And naked. Altogether, that will be ten dollars. This adventure is altogether ridiculous. Altogether, it was a horrible tragedy. He got so drunk that he walked outside in the altogether.

ALRIGHT or ALL RIGHT?
Alright is considered as a non-standard version of all right, but it is used so much that it is more or less accepted, at least for informal purposes. It is used as a synonym of okay or correct. That's alright with me. Alright, I'll go.

It's always safe to use all right. But if you insist on using alright, Answers.com differentiates thusly:

Things that are honest and honorable are "all right," and that's "alright" (satisfactory or correct) with me!

All right is in proper working order or just average. Your engine is running all right now. The quarterback is all right, but not great.

The sources I looked at posit that the use of alright grew from use of already and altogether, both of which are now acceptable for standard usage. This is one that I have often wondered about, but, as I stated, all right is always safe. Save alright for conversational and colloquial stuff.

FORGIVING SEAN by Jessica Adriel

2010-02-11T02:35:00.002-05:00

A teenage pregnancy, baby lost, boyfriend walks away, then pops up again two years later. A romantic triangle. If this sounds like the ingredients of a dozen other romance novels or romantic movies, they are. But it isn't really the same. This triangle has another element that really makes it a rectangle. That other element, one that changes everything, is God.

Forgiving Sean continues the story that began in Drawing Marissa, the first of three volumes in the Chatham Series. Apparently the first book followed a teenage Marissa Gladstone and her relationship with the slightly older neighbor boy, Sean. Sean was the very popular jock who went on to play baseball with the Chicago Cubs, but now he was coming home with his leg in a cast, his career possibly in ruins. The King returned, but no one was treating him with the deference he was used to. Even worse, his little brother Phillip (the real reason for Sean's return after two long years--Phillip was graduating) and his father had "got religion" so bad that his father didn't even drink any more. And Sean really wanted a drink--or several. Topmost on his mind was Marissa; he desperately wished there was a way to make up with her, but everyone was against him. And then he saw something he hadn't counted on--a serious rival for her affections.

In the two years since the baby died and Sean left her without a word, Marissa had healed physically and spiritually with another young man, Hawke, by her side all the way. As it turns out, Hawke had some deep wounds of his own. But the two of them had discovered the great healing power only God could give. And as they continued to heal, they were sharing God's power and love with the teens in their church. It looks like everything is going smoothly until Marissa sees Sean again. Old hurts reemerge as do old feelings, and Marissa fights an inward battle.

I always look for the meaning behind a title, and, as is often true, there are several levels of meaning here. Most obvious is that Marissa needs to forgive Sean, but Sean also needs to forgive himself and accept the fact that God will forgive him of every sin. Those who love Marissa also have to forgive Sean--even his own family. Forgiveness, then, is a major theme, as are healthy relationships, the love of God and Jesus, God's healing and the blessings of living by God's rules.

This book targets a young adult audience, by which I mean teen and college age, not pre-teen. It deals with some serious issues, like teenage pregnancy and drug abuse, and although Jesus is the answer, the story doesn't candy-coat or whitewash the struggles real people go through. As I understand it, this book and the first one have already had an impact on young people. I do hope and pray that they continue to not only entertain but influence readers.

Visit the author's website and

check out the Free Chapter Downloads.

Purchase Forgiving Sean at

Amazon, or Barnes and Noble.

Check out these other member blogs this week for more info.

CFRB February Tour: Forgiving Sean

2010-02-08T15:36:00.001-05:00

Forgiving Sean
by Jessica Adriel

This month, CFRB presents Forgiving Sean by Jessica Adriel.

About the Book:

Marissa Gladstone has already buried her father and had one man walk out on her, so when her boyfriend Hawke Davies suddenly proposes, Marissa’s unsure things will last. Hoping that her quiet summer at home will give her time to think, Marissa forgets that her first love may be home for the summer. Before she can give Hawke an answer, she needs to find out why Sean disserted her. But when the competition heats up between the boys, Sean tries to win her back by making a staggering confession that links his former life to Hawke. Forgiving Sean may be the answer she has needed all along and allow her to choose the man she’s always loved.

About the Author:

Jessica Adriel is a licensed minister, author, mother and speaker. She spends her days penning books, preparing talks and delving into the world of teenagers. Her gifts of communication and compassion were noticed early on when she composed over 800 poems during high school and yet spent a great deal of time with volunteer efforts. A native to New England, it was Jessica’s tragic stint of car accidents, assaults and a four year career in modeling, that inspired her to write ‘real life’ novels that impact teenagers. Today Jessica inspires and ignites teens to find their God given purpose through her books and challenging seminars. Her stories provide a bridge between today's generation and the pressures of media and peer pressure which lead teens in the wrong direction. Armed with a plethora of stories and a deep love for God, Jesus introduces her audience to Christ in unconventional, yet very powerful ways.

Check out these other member blogs this week for more info.

Visit the author's website and

check out the Free Chapter Downloads.

Purchase Forgiving Sean at

Amazon, or Barnes and Noble.

The Life of Washington by Anna C.Reed

2010-02-03T16:30:00.000-05:00

Today's Wild Card author is:

Anna C. Reed

and the book:

Life of Washington

New Leaf Publishing Group/Attic Books (November 30, 2009)

SYNOPSIS:

A rare, faith-filled historic biography of America's first President, George Washington.

Pull back the dark shrouds of secular revisionist history, and meet the humble believer, godly leader, and devoted son who became a fledgling country's source of strength and inspiration. Constantly seeking to serve others and place God first in his life and in the struggle for American freedom. George Washington was a revered and reverent man.

In this special edition of a vintage 1842 original, readers will go beyond today's simple footnotes of this great leader, to discover the man behind the title of "Father of Our Country." From letters and personal accounts, a fuller and more accurate picture emerges of a man who lived by, and was led by, a deep and abiding faith.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Anna C. Reed, niece of a signer of the Declaration of Independence, authored this amazing work for the ASSU prior to 1850. Originally translated into over 20 languages, the book was among the most widely read biographies of Washington at that time. The ASSU, now called the American Missionary Fellowship, has been associated with some of America's most prominent citizens and religious leaders. Bushrod Washington, George Washington's nephew and heir of Mount Vernon, was vide-president of the ASSU until 1829. Other ASSU officers include Francis Scott Key, D.L. Moody, Laura Ingalls Wilder, and John Adams (descendant of both early presidents).

Product Details:
List Price: $16.99
Hardcover: 299 pages
Publisher: New Leaf Publishing Group/Attic Books (November 30, 2009)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0890515786
ISBN-13: 978-0890515785

AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:

>

The
LIFE OF WASHINGTON

CHAPTER 1

1732-1762

To give us the delightful assurance, that we are always under the watchful care of our almighty and kind Creator, He has told us that He notices the movements of every little sparrow; and as we are ”of more value than many sparrows,” He will surely ever care for us. It was His powerful and kind care that protected and guided Columbus, the once poor sailor boy, to obtain the favour of a great king and queen; and then to pass over the waves of a dangerous ocean, in a little vessel, and reach in safety an unknown land. The same powerful and kind care which protected and guided houseless strangers to a land of freedom and peace, gave Washington to their children, to lead them on to take a place amongst the nations of the earth. His history is as a shining light upon the path of virtue; for he “acknowledged God in all his ways.”

George Washington was the third son of Augustine Washington, whose grandfather left England, his native country, in 1657, and settled at Bridges Creek, in Virginia, where, on the 22nd of February, in the year 1732, his great-grandson, George, was born.

One of the first lessons which young Washington received from his faithful parents, was, the importance of always speaking the truth; and they enjoyed a satisfactory reward for their attention to this duty; for through his childhood, “the law of truth was in his mouth,” so that he was not known in one instance to tell a falsehood, either to obtain a desired indulgence, or to escape a deserved punishment or reproof. His character, as a lover of truth, was so well known at the school which he attended, that the children were certain of being believed, when they related any thing, if they could say, “George Washington says it was so.”

An anecdote is related of him to illustrate this trait in his character, which we introduce without being able to ascertain on what authority it is related. We hope it will not be supposed, however, that we regard such an incident as an extraordinary proof of an ingenuousness on the part of young Washington. We trust there are very few boys who would think of adopting any other course under like circumstances, and those who do generally find that “honesty is the best policy,” to say nothing of a quiet conscience and the law of God.

The story is, that he was playing with a hatchet, and heedlessly struck a favourite fruit-tree in his father’s garden. Upon seeing the tree thus mutilated, an inquiry was naturally made for the author of the mischief, when George frankly confessed the deed, and received his father’s forgiveness.

In all the little disputes of the school-fellows, he was called on to say which party was right, and his decisions were always satisfactory.

It is, perhaps, not out of place to remark in this connexion, that much of the injustice and oppression which are seen in the intercourse of men with each other, shows only the maturity of habits which were formed in childhood. At home, or in school, or on the play-ground, instances of unfairness and fraud are often seen, which, among men, would be regarded as gross violations of law and right. Washington in his boyhood was just.

When he was ten years old, his worth father died, and he became the care of an anxious mother, whose fortune was not sufficient to enable her to give him more than a plain English education. He was very fond of studying mathematics, and applied his mind diligently, in improving all the instruction which he could get in that science. As he grew up to manhood, he was remarkable for the strength and activity of his frame. In running, leaping, and managing a horse, he was unequalled by his companions; and he could with ease climb the heights of his native mountains, to look down alone from some wild crag upon his followers, who were panting from the toils of the rugged way. By these healthful exercises the vigour of his constitution was increased, and he gained that hardiness so important to him in the employments designed for him by his Creator.

Mrs. Washington was an affectionate parent; but she did not encourage in herself that imprudent tenderness, which so often causes a mother to foster the passions of her children by foolish indulgences, and which seldom fails to destroy the respect which every child should feel for a parent. George was early made to understand that he must obey his mother, and therefore he respected as well as loved her. She was kind to his young companions, but they thought her stern, because they always felt that they must behave correctly in her presence. The character of the mother, as well as that of the son, are shown in the following incident. Mrs. Washington owned a remarkably fine colt, which she valued very much; but which, though old enough for use, had never been mounted; no one would venture to ride it, or attempt to break its wild and vicious spirit. George proposed to some of his young companions, that they should assist him to secure the colt until he could mount it, as he had determined that he would try to tame it. Soon after sun rise, one morning, they drove the wild animal into an enclosure, and with great difficulty succeeded in placing a bridle on it. George then sprang onto its back, and the vexed colt bounded over the open fields, prancing and plunging to get rid of his burden. The bold rider kept his seat firmly, and the struggle between them became alarming to his companions, who were watching him. The speed of the colt increased, until at length, in making a furious effort to throw his conqueror, he burst a large blood-vessel, and instantly died. George was unhurt, but was much troubled by the unexpected result of his exploit. His companions soon joined him, and when they saw the beautiful colt lifeless, the first words they spoke were, “What will your mother say – who can tell her?” they were called to breakfast, and soon after they were seated at the table, Mrs. Washington said, “Well, young gentlemen, have you seen my fine sorrel colt in your rambles?” No answer was given, and the question was repeated; her son George then replied – “Your sorrel colt is dead, mother.” He have her an exact account of the event. The flush of displeasure which first rose on her cheek, soon passed away; and she said calmly, “While I regret the loss of my favourite, I rejoice in my son, who always speaks the truth.”

In his fifteenth year, he had so strong a desire to be actively employed, that he applied for a place as a midshipman in the English navy, (for our country was then under the government of Great Britain,) and succeeded in obtaining it. Full of youthful expectations of enjoyment in a new scene, he prepared ardently to engage in it, when he became convinced that by doing so, he would severely wound the heart of an anxious parent, and with a true spirit of heroism he denied himself, and in obedience to the command, “Honour thy mother,” he gave up his fondly cherished plan, and yielded his own inclinations, to promote her comfort. Thus, while his manly superiority to companions of his own age caused admiration, his filial tenderness was an example to them of compliance with the direction which is given to children in the word of God. “Let them learn first to show piety at home, and to requite their parents,” and they are assured that “this is good and acceptable to the Lord.” Washington proved the truth of this assurance; for, to the act of filial regard which “requited” the anxious cares of his mother, may be traced his usefulness to his country, and the glory of his character. If he had crossed his mother’s wish, and entered the British navy as a midshipman, it is not probable, that he would ever have deserved, or obtained, the title of “Father of his country.”

Being unwilling to remain inactive, young Washington employed himself industriously and usefully in surveying unsettled lands; and when he was nineteen years of age, he was appointed one of the adjutant generals of Virginia, with the rank of a major. At that time, the French nation had large settlements in Canada, and in Louisiana, and they determined on connecting those settlements by a line of forts; in doing this they took possession of a tract of land, which was considered to be within the province of Virginia. The governor of Virginia (Mr. Dinwiddie) thought it was his duty to notice this, in the name of his king; and it was very important, that the person whom he employed in the business should have resolution and prudence. Young Washington was worth of his confidence, and willingly undertook the perilous duty; as it gave him an opportunity of being actively employed for the advantage of his native province. The dangers which he knew he must meet, did not, for a moment, deter him from consenting to set out immediately on the toilsome journey, although winter was near. He was to take a letter from the governor, to the commanding officer of the French troops, who were stationed on the Ohio river; and the way he had to go, was through a part of the country that had never been furrowed by the plough, or, indeed, market by any footsteps, but those of wild animals, or ferocious Indians. Many of those Indians were enemies, and those who had shown any disposition to be friendly, could not be safely trusted.

The same day, (October 31, 1753,) on which Washington received the letter which he was to be the bearer of, he left Williamsburgh, and travelled with speed until he arrived at the frontier settlement of the province; and there engaged a guide to show him the way over the wild and rugged Alleghaney mountain, which, at that season of the year, it was difficult to pass. The waters to be crossed were high, and the snow to be waded through, was deep; but persevering resolutely, he arrived at Turtle Creek, where he was told by an Indian trader, that the French commander had died a short time before, and that the French troops had gone into winter quarters.

He went on with increased ardour, because the difficulty of his duty was increased; but he did not neglect the opportunity of examining the country through which he passed; wishing to discover the best situations on which forts could be erected for the defence of the province.

As the waters were impassable without swimming the horses, he got a canoe to take the baggage about ten miles, to the forks of the Ohio river; intending to cross the Alleghany there. In his journal he wrote, “as I god down before the canoe, I spent some time in viewing the rivers and the land in the fork which I think extremely suited for a fort, as it has the absolute command of both rivers. The land at the point is twenty or twenty-five feed above the common surface.”

The spot thus described was soon afterwards the site of the French for Duquesne. It was subsequently called fort Pitt by the English, and from this the name of the town of Pittsburg was taken, which was built near the for, and is not a city, containing 22,000 inhabitants. Washington remained a few days in that neighborhood, for the purpose of endeavouring to persuade the Indian warriors to be friendly to the English. By a firm but mild manner, he gained friends among the inhabitants of the forest, and obtained guides to conduct him by the shortest way to the fort, where he expected to find a French officer, to whom he might give the letter from the governor, as the commander was dead.

He arrived there in safety, and when he had received an answer from the officer, set out immediately on his return, and the journey proved a very dangerous and toilsome one. Some extracts from his journal, which he kept with exactness, will show his disregard of self, when he was performing a duty for the benefit of others. He had put on an Indian walking dress, and given his horse to assist in carrying provisions; the cold increased very much and the roads were getting worse every day, from the freezing of a deep snow, so that the horses became almost unable to travel. After describing this difficulty, he wrote thus:

“As I was uneasy to get back, to make a report of my proceedings to his honour the governor, I determined to prosecute my journey the nearest way, through the woods, on foot. I took my necessary papers, pulled off my clothes, and tied myself up in a watch coat. Then, with gun in hand and pack on my back, in which were my papers and provisions, I set out with Mr. Gist, fitted in the same manner. We fell in with a party of Indians, who had laid in wait for us. One of them fired, not fifteen steps off, but fortunately missed; we walked on the remaining part of the night, without making any stop, that we might get the start so far, as to be out of the reach of their pursuit the next day, as we were well assured that they would follow our track as soon as it was light. The next day we continued travelling until quite dark, and got to the river. We expected to have found the river frozen, but it was not, only about fifty yards from each shore. The ice I suppose had been broken up, for it was driving in vast quantities. There was no way of getting over but on a raft; which we set about making, with but one poor hatchet, and finishing just after sun-setting; this was a whole day’s work. We got it launched, then went on board of it, and set off; but before we were half-way over, we were jammed in the ice in such a manner, that we expected every moment our raft to sink, and ourselves to perish. I put out my setting pole to try to stop the raft, that the ice might pass by, when the rapidity of the stream threw it with so much violence against the pole, that it jerked me out into ten feet water.”

In this dangerous situation he was saved by the protecting hand of God, and enabled again to get on the raft; and by the next morning, the river was frozen so hard, that there was no difficulty in getting to the shore on the ice. The remainder of the journey was very fatiguing, being in the month of December, and for fifteen days it either snowed or rained.

He arrived the 16th of January at Williamsburgh, and delivered the important letter to the governor. The answer of the French officer, which was contained in the letter, was such as to make needful immediate preparations for defending the frontier of the province. The resolution with which Washington had performed the duty entrusted to him, and the judgment he had shown in his conduct towards the Indians, gained the favourable opinion of the people of the province, as well as that of the governor, and he was appointed a lieutenant-colonel of the regiment which was formed to march to the frontier, in order to prevent the French erecting their forts on it. Ardent and active, he obtained permission to march with two companies, in advance of the regiment, to a place called the Great Meadows, he thought that in doing so, he would have an opportunity of getting early information as to the movements of the French, and of forming a treaty with the Indians, to prevent their joining them. On arriving there, he was informed, by and Indian, that the French commander had sent a party to stop the American workmen, who were erecting a fort; and that they were forming one for themselves, called fort Duquesne. The Indian also gave the information, that French troops were advancing from that fort towards the Great Meadows. The night on which this account was given, was dark and rainy; but Washington marched rapidly with his soldiers to the place where the Indian said the French would be encamped; and there he found them, and surrounded them so unexpectedly, that they gave themselves up as his prisoners. The chief officer of that part of the regiment which was marching slowly on, died; and Washington then had the entire command of about four hundred men. They joined him, and he directed them to form a shelter for their horses and provisions; when it was completed, they named it fort Necessity.

After placing the horses and baggage in it, Washington marched with his troops towards fort Duquesne, for the purpose of endeavouring to drive the French from it; but when had advanced about thirteen miles, an Indian told him, that there were “as many Frenchmen coming toward him, as there were pigeons in the woods;” and he thought it was most prudent to return to his little fort, and meet their attack there. He returned, and assisted his men in digging a ditch around the fort, and while they were thus engaged, about fifteen hundred French and Indians made their appearance, and soon began to attack them. The ditch was not sufficiently completed to be of any use. The Indians sent their arrows from behind the surrounding trees, and the French fired from the shelter of the high grass. Washington continued outside of the little fort, directing and aiding his soldiers, from ten o’clock until dark, when the French commander made an offer to cease the attack, if the fort would be given up to him. The conditions he first named, Washington would not agree to; but at last, the French commander consented to allow the troops to march out with their baggage, and return to the inhabited part of the province, and Washington then gave up the fort. He returned to Williamsburgh, and the courage with which he had acted, and the favourable terms he had obtained from so large a force, increased the confidence of his countrymen in his character. This occurrence took place on the third of July, 1754.

In the course of the next winter, orders were received that officers who had commissions from the king, should be placed above those belonging to the province, without regard to their rank. The feeling of what was due to him as an American, prevented Washington from submitting to this unjust regulation, and he resigned his commission. Many letters were written to him, to persuade him not to do so; and he answered them, with an assurance that he would “serve willingly, when he could do so without dishonour.” His eldest brother had died, and left to him a farm called Mount Vernon, situated in Virginia, near the Potomac river; he took possession of it, and began to employ himself industriously in its cultivation. While he was thus engaged, General Braddock was sent from England, to prepare and command troops for the defence of Virginia, through the summer. Hearing of the conduct of Washington as an officer, and of his reasons for giving up his commission, he invited him to become his aid-de-camp. He accepted the invitation, on condition that he might be permitted to return to his farm when the active duties of the campaign should be over.

The army was formed of two regiments of British troops, and a few companies of Virginians. The third day after the march commenced, Washington was taken ill, with a violent fever. He would not consent to be left behind, and was laid in a covered wagon. He thought that it was very important to reach the frontier as soon as possible, and he knew the difficulties of the way; he therefore proposed to General Braddock, who asked his advice, to send on a part of the army, while the other part moved slowly, with the artillery and baggage wagons. Twelve hundred men were chosen, and General Braddock accompanied them; but though not cumbered with baggage, their movements did not satisfy Washington. He wrote to his brother, that, “instead of pushing on with vigour, without minding a little rough road, they were halting to level every molehill, and erect bridges over every brook.” What seemed mountains to them, were molehills to the ardent temper of Washington. His illness increased so much, that the physician said his life would be endangered by going on, and General Braddock would not suffer him to do so, but have him a promise to have him brought after him, so soon as he could bear the ride. He recovered sufficiently, in a short time, to join the advanced troops; and though very weak, entered immediately on the performance of his duties.

General Braddock proceeded on his march without disturbance, until he arrived a the Monongahela river, about seven miles from Fort Duquesne. As he was preparing to cross the river, at the place since called Braddock’s Ford, a few Indians were seen on the opposite shore, who made insulting gestures, and then turned and fled as the British troops advanced. Braddock gave orders that the Indians should be pursued. Colonel Washington was well acquainted with the manner in which the French, assisted by Indians, made their attacks; and being aware of the danger into which the troops might be led, he earnestly entreated General Braddock not to proceed, until he should, with his Virginia rangers, search the forest. His proposal offended Braddock, who disregarded the prudent counsel, and ordered his troops to cross the river; the last of them were yet wading in it, when the bullets of an unseen enemy thinned the ranks of those who had been incautiously led into the entrance of a hollow, where the French and Indians were concealed by the thick underwood, from which they could securely fire on the English. In a few moments, the fearful war-whoop was sounded, and the French and Indians rushed from their shelter on the astonished troops of Braddock, and pursued them to the banks of the Monongahela.

In vain did their commander, and the undaunted Washington, endeavor to restore them to order and prevent their flight. The deadly aim of the enemy was so sure, that in a very short time Washington was the only aid of General Braddock that was left to carry his orders and assist in encouraging the affrighted troops. For three hours, hw was exposed to the aim of the most perfect marksmen; two horses fell under him; a third was wounded; four balls pierced his coat, and several grazed his sword; every other officer was either killed or wounded, and he alone remained unhurt. The Indians directed the flight of their arrows towards his breast, and the French made him a mark for their rifles, but both were harmless, for the shield of his God protected him, and “covered his head in the heat of battle.” His safely, in the midst of such attacks, astonished his savage enemies, and they called him “The Spirit-protected man, who would be a chief of nations, for he could not die in battle.” Thud did even the savages own a divine power in his preservation; and the physician, who was on the battle ground, in speaking of him afterwards, said, “I expected every moment to see him fall; - his duty, his situation, exposed him to every danger; nothing but the superintending care of Providence could have saved him from the fate of all around him.” – This battle took place on the 8th of July, 1755. in a note to a sermon preached a month afterwards, by the Rev. Mr. Davies, of Virginia, (afterwards president of Princeton College) we find mention made by the author of “that heroic youth, Colonel Washington, whom I cannot but hope Providence has hitherto preserved, in so signal a manner, for some important service to his country.”

General Braddock was mortally wounded, and his few remaining soldiers then fled in every direction. But his brave and faithful aid, with about thirty courageous Virginians, remained on the field, to save their wounded commander from the hatched and the scalping knife of the Indians. They conveyed him with tenderness and speed towards that part of his army which was slowly advancing with the baggage, and he died in their camp, and was buried in the middle of a road, that his grave might be concealed from the Indians by wagon tracks. A few years since, his remains were removed to a short distance, as the great Cumberland road made by the government of the United States, was to pass directly over the spot where he had been laid. More than seventy-five years have passed, since the terrible scene of Braddock’s defeat. The plough has since furrowed the ground which was then moistened with the blood of the slain; but it is saddening to see on it white spots of crumbled bones, and to find amidst the green stalks of grain, buttons of the British soldiers, marked with the number of their regiment, even the brazen ornaments of their caps. “Braddock’s road,” as the path was called, which his troops cut through the forest, is now almost overgrown with bushes; and few travellers pass near to it, without stopping to look along its windings, and recall the time when it was filled with animated soldiers, who were soon to be silenced by the destructive weapons of war.

In writing an account of this dreadful defeat, Washington said, “See the wondrous works of Providence, and the uncertainty of human things!” he was much distressed by the loss of the army; and the officer next in command to General Braddock, instead of endeavouring to prepare for a better defence, went into winter quarters, although it was only the month of August. It was thought necessary to raise more troope immediately, and the command of all that should be raised in Virginia was offered to Washington, with the privilege of naming his own officers. He willingly accepted this offer, as he could do so without placing himself under British commanders, who were not really above him in rank. He immediately set off to visit the troops that had been placed in different situations along the borders of the province; and on his return to prepare for an active defence, he was overtaken by a messenger, with an account, that a number of French troops and Indian warriors, divided into parties, were capturing and murdering the inhabitants of the back settlements, - burning the houses and destroying the crops; and that the troops stationed there, were unable to protect them.

Washington immediately used every means within his power to provide for their relief; but it was impossible to defend, with a few troops, a frontier of almost four hundred miles, from an enemy that “skulked by day, and plundered by night.” While he was anxiously doing what he could, he wrote to the governor an account of the distress around him; and added, “I see their situation, - I know their danger, and participate their sufferings, without having the power to give them further relief than uncertain promises. The supplicating tears of the women, and the moving petitions of the men, melt me with deadly sorrow.” – It might have been expected, that the people in their distress would blame him for not protecting them better; but no murmur arose against him; they all acknowledged, that he was doing as much for them as was within his power.

He wrote to the lieutenant-governor the most earnest and-pressing requests for more assistance; but instead of receiving it, he was treated unkindly, as he related in a letter to a friend. – “Whence it arises, or why, I am truly ignorant, but my strongest representations of matters, relative to the peace of the frontiers, are disregarded as idle and frivolous; my propositions and measures as partial and selfish; and all my sincerest endeavours for the service of my country, perverted to the worst purposes. My orders are dark, doubtful, and uncertain. – Today approved, tomorrow condemned; left to act and proceed at hazard, and blamed without the benefit of defence. However, I am determined to bear up some time longer, in the hope of better regulations.” –Though disappointed in all his best formed plans, by the obstinacy and ill-nature of the person who had the power to control him, and pained by the increasing sufferings around him, which he was not enabled to relieve, yet he did not suffer to angry resentment to induce him to give up the effort of doing some good.

He continued his active and humane endeavours, and pleaded for the relief of his suffering countrymen, until his pleadings were called impertinent. In answer to this, he wrote to the governor, “I must beg leave, in justification of my own conduct, to observe, that it is with pleasure I receive reproof, when reproof is due; because no person can be readier to accuse me than I am to acknowledge an error, when I have committed it; or more desirous of atoning for a crime, when I am sensible of being guilty of one. But on the other hand, it is with concern I remark, that my conduct, although I have uniformly studied to make it as unexceptionable as I could, does not appear to you in a favourable light.” – With calm dignity he endured a continuance of such vexations, without ceasing to toil in his almost hopeless work of humanity.

A new commander of the British troops was sent from England, and he listened to Washington’s opinion, that the frontiers could not be freed from the dreadful visits of the Indians, in connection with the French, until they were driven from Fort Duquesne; for that was the place from which they started on their destructive expeditions. When it was determined that this should be attempted, Washington advanced with a few troops, to open the way for the army; but before they reached the fort, the French left it, and the English took possession of it, November 1758, and named it Fort Pitt. As Washington had expected the possession of this fort prevented all further attacks on the frontiers; and when his countrymen were freed from the dangers which he had left his farm to assist in defending them against, he determined on returning to it. His health had been injured by his being exposed to severe cold, and being often, for many days, unsheltered from the falling rain; and he felt that he ought to use means to restore it, as he could do so without neglecting a more important duty. He resigned his commission, and the officers whom he had commanded united in offering to him affectionate assurances of regret for the loss of “such an excellent commander, such a sincere friend, and so affable a companion.”

Soon after his return to his farm, in the twenty-seventy year of his age, he married Mrs. Custis, a lady to whom he had been long attached, and who was deserving of his affection. She had an amiable temper, and was an agreeable companion; and in performing all the duties of a wife, she made his home a scene of domestic comfort, which he felt no desire to leave. Employing himself in directing the cultivation of his ground, and in the performance of all the private duties of his situation, he lived for several years in retirement, except when attending the legislature of Virginia, of which he was a member.

For the benefit of his health, he sometimes visited a public spring in his native state, to which sick persons went, with the hop of being relieved by using the water. At the season when there were many persons there, it was the custom of a baker to furnish a particular kind of bread, for those who could afford to pay a good price for it. One day it was observed by a visitor, that several miserably poor sick persons tottered into the room where the bread was kept, and looked at the baker, who nodded his head, and each one took up a loaf, and, with a cheerful countenance walked feebly away. The visitor praised the baker for his charitable conduct, in letting those have his bread, whom he know could never pay him; but he honestly answered, “I lose nothing, - Colonel Washington is here and all the sick poor may have as much of my bread as they can eat; he pays the bill, and I assure you it is no small one.”

All his private actions were as deserving of the approbation of his countrymen, as those of a public nature had been of their respect and praise; and those who were nearest to him, and know him best, loved him most.

Why Groundhog's Day?

2010-02-01T21:22:00.002-05:00

Have you ever wondered about Groundhog's Day? How did it get started and why? I wonder about it just about every year when it sneaks up on us, but I never bothered to research it...until now. The wheels started turning when I read about St. Brigid's Day in Cindy Thomson's Celtic Wisdom. According to some ancient customs, on St. Brigid's Day, or Imbolc (Feb. 1), mild weather was predicted if a hedgehog was seen. On the other hand, more bad weather was expected if he hurried back to his burrow.

The hedgehog idea apparently spread around Europe, and so the Germans who settled in Pennsylvania get credit for switching over to groundhogs, since hedgehogs aren't native to North America. The earliest known written reference (in the Americas) to the German tradition is found at the Pennsylvania Dutch Folklore Center at Franklin and Marshall College, in a diary of Pennsylvania storekeeper James Morris: "Last Tuesday, the 2nd, was Candlemas day, the day on which, according to the Germans, the Groundhog peeps out of his winter quarters and if he sees his shadow he pops back for another six weeks nap, but if the day be cloudy he remains out, as the weather is to be moderate."

Other sources said that the Imbolc tradition once had to do with a serpent coming out of his hole. An old Scots Gaelic proverb states:

Thig an nathair as an toll

Là donn Brìde,
Ged robh trì troighean dhen t-sneachd
Air leac an làir.

"The serpent will come from the hole
On the brown Day of Bride (Bridget),
Though there should be three feet of snow
On the flat surface of the ground."

Since there weren't any serpents in Ireland, I don't understand this one. Not much wonder they changed to hedgehogs and badgers.

February 2 is also known as Candlemas. Originally, it was a day to commemorate the end of the Christmas season. It marks 40 days after the birth of Jesus, which would mean the final day of purification for Mary in the Jewish culture. That meant it was the first time she could enter the Temple as clean, so this is commemorated as the day Jesus was presented in the Temple and seen by Anna and Simeon (Luke 2: 22-38). 'Way back when, the Christian, pagan and just folklore traditions got jumbled together, and in the process hibernating animals became connected to ideas about the end of winter and the beginning of Spring. I mention Candlemas because I found a couple of sayings pertaining to that and the weather. For example, in England it was said that

If Candlemas be fair and bright,

Winter has another flight.
If Candlemas brings clouds and rain,
Winter will not come again.

From Germany, the saying goes

For as the sun shines on Candlemas Day,

So far will the snow swirl until May.
For as the snow blows on Candlemas Day,
So far will the sun shine before May.

The journey to Punxatawney Phil meanders from Ireland to Germany to Pennsylvania, mixing various cultures, traditions and animals, but always with hopes of a short winter. My parting thought: why do people always say there are six more weeks of winter if the groundhog sees his shadow but never go on to state what will happen if there is no shadow? I've finished the saying this way: If the groundhog sees his shadow, there will be six more weeks of winter; but if he doesn't see a shadow, there will only be a month and a half more of winter.

A Soldier's Devotion

2010-01-28T08:39:00.001-05:00

Slam! Before he can even react, Vince Reardon found himself catapulted off his Harley and into the rain-sodden intersection. Inside he is seething with rage at the stupid lady driver who hit him. She was too distracted on her cell phone to notice him in time to stop, and now his precious bike was splattered all over the road. If he wasn't in so much pain, Vince would have probably exploded in anger, but instead the woman saw a vulnerable part of him that he kept hidden. Worse yet, she was one of those praying Christians who insisted on praying over him unti the paramedics came. She pitied him, something he couldn't stand. Even worse still, she turned out to be a lawyer, the lowest form of life in Vince's opinion.

Cheryl Wyatt's latest novel, A Soldier's Devotion, starts off with a van-motorcycle wreck, promising action and tension from the very first sentence. In the sixth story of the Wings of Refuge series published by Love Inspired Books, the most cynical and crusty member of the Pararescue Jumpers is featured. Vince Reardon has already shown himself to be antagonistic to God, church, and Christians. He's a hard-drinking, sarcastic, biker dude who likes easy women and parties hard. Ironically, though, Vince is totally dedicated to his special ops team and their rescue work, belying a tender heart underneath all that grump and gruffness. He bemoans the fact that more and more of his team members are going "over to the enemy" by becoming Christian, yet he has a high level of respect for all these guys. His team members understand him better than he supposes: they know he has some deep hurts that have turned him bitter and hard.

Enter Valerie Russo, the van-wielding attorney who makes a bad--and painful--first impression on Vince. She believes God has brought her across his path for a purpose, in spite of the bad beginning, and she is determined to get through to him. So begins a battle of wills and stubbornness, with occasional misunderstandings alons the way.

Vince is the toughest of the team addressed so far, but as the story unfolds we learn what made him the way he is; the hardships of his life have served to both toughen him for his job and to insulate him from human contact. He cares for others, as he shows with the teens, but he is afraid to open up with peers.

In a secondary story, a group of at-risk teenagers are introduced. They serve to bring Val and Vince together, but through them a serious social issue is addressed. This time it's abuse. Each one of Cheryl's books has included some issue like this, real issues that teens and adults deal with every day.

Cheryl Wyatt has a strong grasp on scripture and what it means to live as a follower of Jesus, and once again it shines through her writing. Her Christian characters live their faith in their daily lives; this is what makes a difference in each of her stories. Two of the guys have been praying for Vince for five years; patiently being real in front of him and not pouncing. There is an understanding here about things happening in God's time and in God's way.

While A Soldier's Devotion is a part of a series, it definitely can stand alone. The characters from other books walk in and out of the story, but each novel is independent. It is a romance novel, so certain developments are fairly obvious from the beginning, but it still has nuances, turns, and humor that make it lively. Teens (at least 14 or so, anyway) will enjoy it as well as adults.

The way Love Inspired Books work, this will only be on shelves until the end of January in many stores. I found it at a large Kroger Store; I found Cheryl's other books at Target, Meijer's and Walmart. But since I got this review up so late, you can get it online after January ends at such sites as amazon.com, Barnes and Noble, and christianbook.com.

Mass Market Paperback: 224 pages
Publisher: Steeple Hill (June 1, 2009)
ISBN-10: 0373875320
ISBN-13: 978-0373875320