Sunday, September 6, 2009
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Saving Freedom by Jim Demint - MY REVIEW
“I, (name of political/military leader), do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign or domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; and that I will faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter. So help me God.”
In 2004, Jim Demint spoke these words as he became
Senator Demint isn’t just voicing his personal opinion upon these pages. He has the research and a detailed annotated bibliography to support the information he presents upon the pages of Saving Freedom. Senator Demint is convinced that many Americans are living beneath a cloud of ignorance, and he makes every effort to identify and define socialism and the threat it represents to our country. He begins with the first siren’s call of government dependence during the Great Depression, and follows this deceitful trial to President Obama’s oval office.
This present and very real danger of blatant socialism destroying our nation did not originate with our current elected officials. However, the current residents of
Senator Demint not only identifies the problem, he offers practical, biblical ideas for people to use to combat the dangers of socialism. He offers a detailed list of information sources that people can use to discover for themselves the active threats against our freedom. He also encourages people to get involved and suggests practical ways that people can make a difference and change the direction of our country back to the strong, freedom-loving, freedom-supporting nation that it was founded to be.
Don’t waste a moment! Purchase your copy of Saving Freedom today! It is time to take back our country from the deceitful, evil intent of the socialists that have invaded
Please visit the Saving Freedom site today to learn how you can make a difference!
Friday, September 4, 2009
A View From Laura Frantz' Window! The Frontiersman's Daughter
As you know by now, author interviews hold a special place in my heart! It is especially gratifying to introduce a NEW author and their debut novel! So, it is with great pleasure I introduce you to Laura Frantz! The Frontiersman's Daughter is an incredible historical novel with elements of romance that will leave you breathless!
I hope you enjoy getting to know Laura, because her second novel is already in the works with an art team already busily designing the cover art! Laura is a delightful lady with a heart filled with the desire to serve the Lord through her gift of writing!
Please, welcome Laura Frantz to my Window!
I'm particularly interested in the research that was involved into the healing herbs. Can you tell us about your interest in this? How you researched this topic?
I'm an avid gardener from a long line of
I'd love to know how you so beautifully captured the types of meals they ate (several scenes made me hungry!) and the way the people in the settlement gardened and hunted for their survival.
The meals described in the novel are straight out of
I'd love to know if your grandmother was part Indian and how she fostered such a love for the history of your state and its people.
My grandmother, to whom the novel is dedicated, was half-Cherokee. When she married a Kentuckian, her Indian father sent her a box of beautiful herbs and plants from
My family still resides on this property in
SPOILER ALERT!!
What ever happened to Captain Jack?! Was that him at the end? Did he die of the pox?
SPOILER ALERT!!!!
I have such an affinity for Captain Jack and my readers feel the same from what I'm hearing. Because I cared about him so much I cried when I wrote him out of the novel:) I do like to think of him standing amongst those wind-tossed trees at novel's end. I also like to think that he cared enough about Lael, and knew that his future was so uncertain, that he let her go. The
And however did you capture such intense scenes like the one with Captain Jack and Lael in the water? I needed a cold shower after that!! Are you just a romantic at heart?
I am definitely a romantic at heart! If the waterfall scene worked for you and other readers it was because it was so intensely real to me. During the writing of the book Lael became so much more than a fictional character I'd created. What she felt, I felt. My editor says I'm able to create strong romantic tension in a scene without the characters even touching each other. I can't tell you how I do it because I don't know - it's a gift and I can't take credit for it! But I'm so grateful it's there. Writing those romantic scenes are my very favorite!
What's next for your readers?
My next novel, Courting Morrow Little, will be released next August 2010. This isn't a sequel to The Frontiersman's Daughter but a stand-alone. The art team is hard at work right now creating an exceptional cover which I will post on my blog as soon as I can. This second book is also set in 18th-century
What does your family think about your book?
My family enjoys all the book fuss. My husband who isn't a reader but an action man actually finished the entire 412 pages of TFD recently and said he loved the scenes between Lael and Ian among other things. Since he's honest to a fault I took this as a good sign. My boys, ages 10 and 12, haven't read it but think it's interesting to have a mom who's an author.
What exciting things is God doing in your life right now? Words of encouragement you’d like to leave with your readers?
God has become so real to me in so many ways through this sometimes difficult, always emotional writing journey. He planted the dream in my heart to write when I was just seven years old and since then there were many desert years when I nearly gave up on the dream. I had no agent, no writing contacts, no writer's conferences, no computer skills - nothing! But He proved to me that He was all I needed and He opened every door to publication. He's shown me that he loves me in a personal way through my writing and that I can trust Him with all things, even a cherished writing dream. If you have a writing dream, or any dream, that you feel He has put in your heart, please rest in His timing and incredible ability to overcome any obstacle. If He did it for me He can do it for you. I'm living proof! Delight yourself in the Lord and He will give you the desires of your heart. Psalm 37:4
Thursday, September 3, 2009
The Frontiersman's Daughter by Laura Frantz - MY REVIEW
“Just remember, won’t nothing ever befall you that the good Lord don’t allow.” (p. 97)
I am so pleased that the Lord allowed the time for me to read Laura Frantz’ novel, The Frontiersman’s Daughter! Oh reader, when is the last time you read a book that left you breathless? When have the characters’ hearts ached so deeply, that you felt your own heart squeeze tightly with longing? Laura Frantz has written a tale that will carry you away to the wilds of the
Lael Click (pronounced Lay-elle) is a woman as exotic as her name. Born to a man who spent several years as a
Lael’s return to the frontier brings with it sure direction and blessed freedom from societal constraints even though her heart is almost broken by the circumstances that allow her to return. Re-established in the
Lael’s journey is arduous, delightful, exciting and breathless! There are scenes that will cause your heart to leap with joy and weep with sorrow. There are romantic scenes that will leave your heart racing, and there are also scenes where the soul is laid bare by the unfathomable depths of human suffering. The Frontiersman’s Daughter is everything an historical novel should be, and I am pleased to recommend it to everyone!
Please visit Revell's website to read an excerpt from the novel, learn more about the author and find out how to order your own copy of this fabulous book!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
I grew up playing on the original site of Fort Boonesborough and swimming in the Kentucky River and climbing the Pinnacle near Berea and watching the great outdoor dramas of the early settlers. Often my cousins and brother and I would play in my Granny's attic and dress up in the pioneer costumes she made us and pretend to be Daniel Boone, Rebecca, Jemima, or the Shawnee.
As I grew up I began to write stories and they were always historical, filled with the lore I had heard or read about. It's no accident that my first book (which is actually my fifth book - the others were practice!) is about those first Kentucky pioneers.
I feel blessed beyond measure to write books. My prayer is that you are doubly blessed reading them.
Note: Laura Frantz credits her 100-year-old grandmother as being the catalyst for her fascination with Kentucky history. Frantz's family followed Daniel Boone into Kentucky in 1792 and settled in Madison County where her family still resides. Frantz is a former schoolteacher and social worker who currently lives in the misty woods of Washington state with her husband and two sons, whom she homeschools.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
The Call of Zulina by Kay Marshall Strom - MY REVIEW
Slavery. This is not a topic easily approached by anyone in any time period. Kay Marshall Strom’s latest book, The Call of Zulina, deals with this topic from a very unique and difficult point of view – that of Grace Winslow, daughter of an English sea captain dealing in slaves, and his wife, an African Queen. This sounds unlikely to some, perhaps, but in the late 1700’s this was not only likely, it was reality. Of course Kay Strom’s book is fictional, but it portrays a reality that makes most of us very uncomfortable.
Grace Winslow is a woman whose skin color places her in the netherworld of not belonging to any one race. While this wouldn’t necessarily be problematic in the twenty-first century, it was a nightmare in the late 1700’s, especially when your father made his living by capturing and selling slaves. Grace understands that her parents are eager to marry her off to a wealthy English land-owner, but she is headstrong enough to pursue life on her own terms. Her greatest and fiercest obstacle proves to be her own mother, an African princess whose marriage to a white English slave-trader is a horrific anathema. When Grace decides to go beyond the reaches of her “English” home, she finds herself in circumstances more terrifying and hellish than her mind can comprehend. However, what she faces changes her life forever.
Through the characters of this novel, Kay Marshall Strom examines slavery from every angle. The reader is made to understand everything from the capture and animalistic treatment of the slaves to the obscene hunger for power and control of the slave traders. She even explores the viewpoint of an African princess who, although married to a wealthy sea captain, is as much a slave as those helpless souls chained in the holds of her husband’s ships. The story is often disturbing, but it serves as a poignant reminder that freedom is bought with a price, and sometimes it costs us everything.
I wasn’t sure about this book when I first began reading. I was a little uncertain about the author’s direction in the story. However, knowing that this is the first story in a trilogy, I kept reading, and I’m so glad I did! The ending of the novel is the perfect setting for future stories, and Grace Winslow’s strong character demands further exploration. I won’t disguise the difficulty of the subject matter – it’s not pleasant. Yet what the reader learns about slavery, true slavery, makes for a satisfying and challenging read. Please look here for an opportunity to read the first chapter of The Call of Zulina and learn more about this author.
Kay speaks at seminars, retreats, writer's conferences, and special events throughout the country. In addition, more and more her writing and speaking are drawing her to countries and cultures around the world. Most recently she trekked through India, China, Indonesia, Sudan, Morocco, and Senegal - tape recorder and camera in hand - preparing to tell “the rest of the story” of our donor dollars at work in the lives of individuals and villages around the world.
Kay is a partner in Kline, Strom International, Inc., leaders in communication training.
Lost Mission by Athol Dickson
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!
and the book:
Howard Books (September 15, 2009)
Athol Dickson is an award-winning author of several novels. His Christy Award-winning novel River Rising was name one of the “Top Ten Christian Novel of 2006” by Booklist magazine. He lives in California with his wife.
Visit the author's website.
Product Details:
List Price: $14.99
Paperback: 368 pages
Publisher: Howard Books (September 15, 2009)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1416583475
ISBN-13: 978-1416583479
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
By Athol Dickson
[Howard Fiction Logo] Published by Howard Books, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
www.howardpublishing.com
Lost Mission © 2009 Athol Dickson
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, address Howard Subsidiary Rights Department, Simon & Schuster, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.
WordServe Literary Agency
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data TK
ISBN-13: 9781416583479
ISBN-10: 1416583475
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
HOWARD and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
Manufactured in TK
For information regarding special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact: Simon & Schuster Special Sales at 1-800-456-6798 or business@simonandschuster.com.
Edited by Nicci Jordan Hubert
Cover design by DesignWorks
Interior design by TK
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or publisher.
The two angels arrived
at Sodom in the evening,
and Lot was sitting
in the gateway of the city.
When he saw them,
he got up to meet them
and bowed down
with his face
to the ground.
—The Book of Genesis
In the event of a suspicious find
those exposed should be re-vaccinated
and placed under medical supervision for 21 days . . .
The potential risk to public health is so great
that a contingency plan must be in place.
—Margaret Cox,
“Crypt Archaeology: an approach”
Institute of Field Archaeologists, Paper Number 3
CapÃtulo 1
La DÃa de los Reyes, 6 de Enero, 1767
Let us begin the story of La Misión de Santa Delores on the holy day of the three kings, in Italy, in Assisi. To commemorate his twentieth year among the Franciscan brothers, Fray Alejandro Tapia Valdez made a pilgrimage to his beloved San Francisco’s humble chapel, the Porziuncola. For more than a week the friar prayed before the chapel’s frescos, rarely ceasing for food or sleep, But despite his lengthy praises and petitions, despite his passionate devotion to Almighty God, Fray Alejandro was a pragmatic man. He did not believe the rumor, common in his day, that the frescos’ perfection was beyond the reach of human hands. As we shall see, in time the friar would reconsider.
The Franciscan stood five feet four inches tall, an average Spaniard’s height in the eighteenth century. He was broad and unattractive. Heavy whiskers lurked beneath the surface of his jaw, darkly threatening to burst forth. Fray Alejandro’s brow was large and loomed above the recess of his eyes as if it was a cliff eroded by the pounding of the sea and ready to crash down at any moment. The black fullness of his hair had been shaved at the crown, leaving only a circular fringe around the edges of his head. His nose, once aquiline and proud, had become a perpetual reminder of the violence that had flattened it at some time in the past.
For all its ugliness, Fray Alejandro’s visage could not mask the gentleness within. His crooked smile shed warmth upon his fellow man. His hands were ever ready with a touch to reassure or steady, or to simply grant the gift of human presence. When someone spoke, be they wise or not, he inclined his head and listened with his entire being, as if the speaker’s words had all the weight of holy writ. In his eyes was love.
Love does not defend against the sorrows of this world, of course. On the contrary, each day as Fray Alejandro knelt in prayer at the Porziuncola he became more deeply troubled. His imagination had recently been captured by strange stories of the heathen natives of the new world, isolated wretches with no knowledge of their Savior. This tragedy grew in Alejandro’s mind until he groaned aloud in sympathy for their unhappy souls. Other brothers kneeling on his left and right cast covert glances at him. Many thought his noisy prayers an uncouth intrusion, but caught up as he was in sacred agony, Alejandro did not notice.
Then came that holy day of the three kings, when in the midst of his entreaties for the pagans of New Spain, Fray Alejandro suddenly felt a painful heat as if his body was ablaze. In this, the first of his three burnings, Alejandro became faint. He heard a whisper saying, “Go and save my children.” The bells of Saint Mary of the Angels begin to peal, although it was later said the ropes had not been touched. As startled pigeons burst forth from the bell tower, Alejandro rose.
How like the Holy Father to command such a journey on that day of days! Without a backwards glance Fray Alejandro strode away from San Francisco’s little chapel as if following a star, determined to return at once to Hornachuelos, in Cordoba, there to seek permission from the abbot of the monastery of Santa Maria de los Angeles for a voyage to New Spain.
The abbot’s assent was quickly given, but Fray Alejandro spent many months waiting on the vast bureaucracy of King Carlos III to approve his passage. Still, while the wheels of government turn slowly, slowly they do turn.
Finally, in late May of the year 1767 the good friar stood at the bulwarks of a galleon in the West Indian Fleet, tossed by the Atlantic, quite ill, and protected from the frigid spray by nothing but his robe of coarse handmade cloth. In spite of the pitching deck, always Alejandro faced New Spain, far beyond the horizon. His short broad body seemed to strain against the wind and ocean waves with eagerness to be about his Father’s business.
But let us be more patient than the friar, for this is just the first of many journeys we shall follow as our story leads us back and forth through space and time. Indeed, the events Fray Alejandro has set in motion have their culmination far into the future. Therefore, leaving the Franciscan and his solitary ship, we cross many miles to reach a village known as Rincon de Dolores, high among the Sierra Madres of Jalisco, Mexico. And we fly further still, centuries ahead of Alejandro, to find ourselves in these, our modern times.
Accompanied by norteño music blaring from loudspeakers and by much celebratory honking of automobile horns, we observe the burning of a makeshift structure of twigs and sticks and painted cardboard, which seemed a more substantial thing once it was engulfed, as if the trembling flames were masons hard at work with red adobe. The people of the village of Rincon de Dolores were encouraged by the firmness of the fire. All the village cheered as the imitation barracks burned before them. They cheered, and with their jolly voices dared a pair of boys to stay in the inferno just a little longer.
There was much to enjoy on that Feast Day of Fray Alejandro—the floral garlands, the children in their antique costumes, the pinwheels spun by crackling fireworks, the somber procession of the saints along the avenida—but one citizen did not join the festivities.
Guadalupe Soledad Consuelo de la Garza trembled as she watched the flaming reenactment of the tragedy of La Misión de Santa Dolores. Who knew, but possibly this year the boys would stay too long within the flames? Who knew, but possibly this time the sticks would burn, the cardboard become ash and rise into the sky, and “Alejandro” and “the Indian” would not emerge? Spurred to foolishness by those who called for courage, might this be the year when merrymaking turned to mourning? The young woman with the long name—let us call her merely Lupe—feared it might be so, while the imitation barracks burned and the boys remained inside.
As was their ancient custom, after the fire was set by eager boys in Indian costumes, the village people chanted, “Muerte! Muerte! Muerte! Death to Spaniards! Death to traitors!” Their refrain arose in tandem with the flames. Only when the fire ascended to the middle of the mock barrack’s spindly walls did some within the crowd begin to yell, “Salido! Salido! Salido!” Come out! they called, a few of them at first, mostly girls and women, then as the minutes slowly passed this call became predominant, until the entire village shouted it as one, Come out! and the boys inside could flee the fire with honor.
Yet they did not come.
“Agua!” someone shouted, probably the boys’ parents, and nearby men with buckets hurried toward the crackling barracks walls. “Agua rapido!” they shouted, and the first man swung his bucket back, prepared to douse a small part of the flames.
Such wild and forceful flames, and so little water, thought young Lupe. Holy Father, please protect them.
Even as she prayed, the first man thrust his bucket forward. Water sizzled in the burning sticks and rose as steam, and from the conflagration burst two little figures. One boy came out robed from head to foot in gray cloth, the cincture at his waist knotted in three places to bring poverty, obedience and chastity to mind. He carried a bundle, the sacred retablo of Fray Alejandro concealed in crimson velvet, a small altarpiece which no one but Padre Hinojosa, the village priest, would ever see. The other boy came nearly naked with only a covering of sackcloth, his bare arms and legs agleam with aloe sap as protection from the heat. The fire around them roared.
Chased by swirling coals and sparks the two brave boys went charging through the crowd, yet no one turned to watch. It was as if young Alejandro and the Indian were unseen, as if they were already spirits on their way to heaven. All the village chanted “Muerte! Muerte! Muerte!” again. All the village faced the burning barracks. All of Rincon de Dolores called for death to Spaniards, death to traitors as the two small figures fled invisibly across the plaza to the chapel, where they entered and returned the treasure, the retablo handed down through centuries.
Alone among the village people, only Lupe seemed to see the boys escape. Watching from the shop door, she alone thanked God for yet another year without a tragedy; she alone refused to play the game, the foolish reenactment they all loved so well, pretending blindness as two boys cheated death. Lupe’s imagination would not let her join the celebration of their unofficial saint’s escape from murderous pagans. She had never felt the kiss of flames upon her flesh, but she had suffered from flames nonetheless.
Often Lupe recalled the winter’s night when her father had laid a bed of sticks within the corner fireplace. The flames took hold and a younger Lupe drew her blanket up above her head as other children did when told of ghosts. Even now the memory of resin snapping in the burning wood intruded on her dreams, conjuring a thousand nightmares drawn from Padre Hinojosa’s homilies about Spanish saints who perished in the flames, Agathoclia and Eulalia of Mérida, and the auto de fe, that fearsome ritual of early Mexico, the stake, and acts of faith imposing pain on saint and heretic alike. Her most grievous loss, many sermons, dreams and sacrifices of the flesh had left her terrified of fire.
Watching from the doorway, Lupe heard a voice. “Do you think this is how it was?”
Although she had not heard him come, a stranger stood beside her, a man in fine dark clothing with full black hair that shimmered slightly in the midday light like the feathers of a crow. From his appearance this man might have been her brother. Like Lupe, he was not tall. Like Lupe his features called to mind stone carvings of the ancient Mayans. Like Lupe, he had a smooth sloped forehead, pendulous ear lobes, and cheekbones high and proud. His golden skin was flawless, as was hers. Like hers, his lips were thick and sensuous, his teeth the flashing white of lightning, his eyes a pair of black pools without bottoms.
“Pardon me, señor?” said Lupe, unaware she might be looking at her twin.
“Do you think this is how it was?” asked the stranger once again. “With Fray Alejandro, and the Indian?”
Lupe only shrugged. “Who knows, señor? It is a very old story.”
The stranger nodded, his unfathomable eyes focused on the plaza.
Perhaps, being a stranger, he did not know the story of Fray Alejandro, how the Franciscan had walked two thousand, four hundred kilometers to Alta California with two other Fernandino brothers. Because he was a stranger it was possible the man knew nothing of the apostate priests who corrupted Alejandro’s efforts to advance the gospel, how his hope to be the hands and feet of Christ to pagan peoples in the north was undone by Spanish cruelty and indulgence, how Alejandro, forced to flee his beloved mission in the north, had escaped the burning buildings with the Indian, his trusted neophyte companion, the two of them miraculously unseen even as they passed among bloodthirsty savages, much as Saint Peter once had passed his guards in Herod’s prison.
If the man knew nothing of this history he would surely learn that day, for every year at Alejandro’s feast all was reenacted by the village children to commemorate the holy man’s exploits. Rome had thus far not enshrined Fray Alejandro among the saints, but Rincon de Dolores had nonetheless adopted him as their patron, for the man of miracles had settled in their little mountain village when the pagans in the north rejected him, and through many acts of kindness he had become their eternally beloved padre, entrusting them with memories of the mission he had lost up north, somewhere in the hills of Alta California.
Lupe considered speaking to the stranger of these things, but he had departed unobserved. She searched the crowd beyond her door to find him. With the Burning of the Barracks finished now, people strolled throughout the village, passing in the shade of well-trimmed ficus trees around the plaza or along the tiles beneath arched porticos where they haggled with the venders who had traveled from afar to set up booths for the fiesta. Some of the venders offered plastic toys for children: balloons, whistles and balls in a hundred riotous colors. Others hawked recordings of mariachi and norteño music. Sweets, hand tools, shawls and pottery . . . everything was there. Near the chapel on the far side of the plaza one could purchase votive candles and milagros, those tiny metal charms that symbolized the miracles requested of the saints. In spite of so much competition, a few still patronized Lupe’s tiendita, her little shop where soda pop and newspapers and other such necessities were offered to the good people of Rincon de Dolores, Jalisco, high in the Sierra Madres.
Forgetting about the stranger, Lupe left her place in the doorway and tended to the customers who visited her shop all afternoon, both villagers and strangers. She took their pesos as the sun outside moved closer to the western mountains and the shadows lengthened. Finally it was almost time for the best part of Fray Alejandro’s fiesta: the gathering at the plaza. The young woman stepped across the stone threshold of her little shop, where the sandals of a dozen generations had shaped a smooth depression. She closed the wooden door. She felt no need for locks. Dressed in a blue cotton skirt and white blouse with a traditional apron, wearing no jewelry and no makeup, with her pure black hair restrained only by a plastic clip, Lupe approached the plaza.
She followed the familia Delgado along the avenida, Rosa and Carlos in their finest clothing normally reserved for Sunday Mass. Rosa’s blouse was perhaps a bit too tight and too low cut in Lupe’s opinion. Carlos was very handsome with silver tips and silver heel guards on his pointed boots. The three Delgado boys were likewise attired in formal fashion, and the youngest child, darling Linda, toddled on the cobblestones in patent leather shoes, with petticoats and a pretty pink dress trimmed with sky blue ribbons.
Lupe sometimes wished for children. The thought arose in moments such as this, but it was always fleeting. At other times she praised the Holy Father for her call to chastity. It was good to be unmarried unless one burned with passion, as San Pablo said, and her passion was for Christ.
When Lupe reach the plaza, oh, such a festivity! She saw men at their carts selling little whimsies—empanadas and tamales and nopales from the prickly pear—and strolling toy vendors with helium balloons and plastic snakes on sticks, and groups of girls approaching marriage age who moved about the plaza casting covert glances at the boys whom they pretended to ignore. Soon everyone would laugh as mariachis in the central gazebo serenaded blushing grandmothers, then the people would ignore the mayor as he promised vast improvements through a needless megaphone, and they would admire Rincon de Dolores’s own ballet folklorico, the handsome boys in black charro suits with felt sombreros and shoulders proudly squared, and the beautiful girls in swirling multicolored skirts like rose bouquets.
Lupe traversed the plaza, greeting all as friends, for she was a friend to everyone. Like Fray Alejandro, she longed to be the hands and feet of Christ to them. She went slowly, smiling on her way, touching this one, kissing that one, freely offering her kindness. Normally this bonhomie was as natural as breath to her, but that day it was a kind of sacrifice she offered. It came from force of will. She did not feel it in her heart, and she was uncertain why. Perhaps her dread had lingered since the moment when the barracks flames had nearly claimed two boys. Yes, probably it was only that. Yet she sensed something else at work within her heart, a conviction, and a fear.
On the far side of the plaza Lupe approached the embers of the imitation barracks, a mound of charcoal now, a black mark on the beauty of the day. It frightened her, yet drew her closer. Remarkably, it still emitted smoke. Only Lupe gave attention to that fact. All the others laughed and strolled and savored conversations unawares, but Lupe there beside the blackened ruins felt her pulse increase and heard the beating of her heart within her inner ear. She found it necessary to remind herself to breathe. She saw the smoke still rising like a slender column standing far above the village, straight and true, until it met the burning fringes of the sunset. Surrounded by festivities, she turned her face up to the sky and saw the strangest thing among the orange and purple clouds. She saw it, yet it could not be.
“Concha,” she called to a passing friend. “That smoke. Would you look at it?”
The woman, whose seven children swirled around her knees, replied, “I told those foolish men to pour more water on those ashes.”
“But the wind . . . .”
Concha and her perpetually squirming offspring had already passed into the crowd.
Lupe wiped sweating palms upon her apron and tried again to find someone to observe this thing and tell her it was real, but the mariachis had begun their brassy serenades and the people moved away from her, toward the gazebo in the center of the plaza. She stared up at the sky again, and asked, “How can that be?”
Someone behind her said, “Perhaps it is a sign.”
Guadalupe Soledad Consuelo de la Garza looked around and saw the stranger with dark hair that shimmered slightly like the feathers of a crow. She felt comforted immediately, for he too had seen the cause of her confusion; he too stood with face turned toward the sky, toward the smoke arising from Fray Alejandro’s ruined mission, the smoke which drifted north against a wind that traveled south.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
The Pravda Messenger by Robert Cornuke with Alton Gansky - REVIEWED
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!
and the book:
Howard Books (September 1, 2009)
ROBERT CORNUKE
The president of the Bible Archeological Search and Exploration Institute, Robert Cornuke is an internationally known author and speaker. He has lectured on Bible history around the world more than a thousand times and conducted a Bible study at the White House under special request from the White House staff.
As a former police officer on the Costa Mesa (California) Police Department, Cornuke worked on the SWAT team and as a crime scene investigator. He has led dozens of international Bible research expeditions, including travels to Ethiopia, Israel, Egypt, Arabia, Turkey, Iran, and Malta. His research into the archeology of Bible times has resulted in appearances on the History Channel, National Geographic Television, CBS, MSNBC, CBN, Fox, and TBN's Ripley's Believe It or Not.
Visit Robert's website.
ALTON L. GANSKY is the author of 20 published novels and 6 nonfiction works. He has been a Christy Award finalist (A Ship Possessed) and an Angel Award winner (Terminal Justice). He holds a BA and MA in biblical studies. He is a frequent speaker at writer's conferences and other speaking engagements. When not writing his own books, Alton is often retained by publishers to bring his experience to various projects. He has also written video scripts, radio ads, copy and other material for business of all sizes.
Alton brings an eclectic background to his writing having been a firefighter, spent ten years in architecture, twenty-two years in pulpit ministry. He now writes fulltime form his home in southern California where he lives with his wife.
Visit Alton's website.
Product Details:
List Price: $12.99
Paperback: 272 pages
Publisher: Howard Books (September 1, 2009)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1416549846
ISBN-13: 978-1416549840
MY REVIEW:
The ability to discern truth would be a great gift, wouldn’t it? To be able to detect in the human voice whether truth or lies were being spoken…amazing! However, just like all precious gifts from God, the world would take the gift and use it for evil. So it has been since the dawn of time.
So it continues upon the pages of Robert Cornurke’s The Pravda Messenger. Tanya possesses the gift of truth, and there are evil men who would do anything to misuse her gift. From the opening pages to the final scene, The Pravda Messenger is a series of dramatic escapes, captures, rescues and emotional upheaval as Tanya tries to discover her intended role in this centuries’ old possession of the gift of truth. Along the way, she discovers that the source of real Truth is available to everyone, and perhaps her special gift has a much greater purpose.
The Pravda Messenger was an unusual blend of mystery and history. The authors didn’t try to disguise the evil that human-kind is capable of perpetrating upon one another, nor the fact that discovering the source of real truth doesn’t mean that the truth will be embraced. I enjoyed this novel, and do not hesitate to recommend it to anyone looking for an entertaining read.
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
Book Two
Robert Cornuke
with
Alton Gansky
[logo] Howard Fiction
[Howard fiction logo]Published by Howard Books, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.,
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020,
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The Pravda Messenger © 2009 by Robert Cornuke with Alton Gansky
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, address Howard Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.
In association with Alive Communications, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
[to come]
ISBN-13: 9781416549840
ISBN-10: 1416562982
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Manufactured in the United States of America
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Edited by Ramona Cramer Tucker
Interior design by Davina Mock-Maniscalco
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This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the authors or publisher.
My grandmother Mary was a short Belarusian immigrant with silver hair and a golden heart. When I was a young boy of seven or eight, my grandmother would walk to the library once a week and carry back a short stack of books that she would return the next week, having read them all cover to cover. My grandmother never owned a car, nor had she learned to drive. She walked everywhere. If my grandparents bought anything, they did so with cash. If they couldn’t afford it, then they believed it wasn’t needed.
I would often interrupt the pleasure of an outside summer day to watch her old but bright eyes dart across the pages of those library books. I remember asking her: of all the books she read, which she considered the greatest. She looked at me with a smile that would melt the Rockies all the way to the sea and said, “The Bible, dear.”
This book is inspired by and dedicated to my grandmother.
—Bob Cornuke
The Pravda Messenger
chapter 1
The Tomb
January 22, 1975
Monastery of the Holy Martyrs, Leningrad, U.S.S.R.
Yuri tucked his chin under his coat collar, trying to ward off the stabbing wind that gusted across the frozen Neva River. The street slithered with white rivulets of snow as Yuri and his young daughter stepped around an old man struggling to shovel a narrow pathway up the monastery steps. Fat snowflakes churning in the raw wind accumulated faster than the old man could scoop them away with his one good arm. A pinned-over coat sleeve covered the stump of his other arm. A row of ribbons and war medals hung from his chest.
As Yuri and his daughter approached, the man paused, squinted against an icy gust, and leaned on the broken end of his shovel. “The monks have bread for the hungry,” he said, then bent over again and scraped his flat, rusted spade over the hard-packed ice that covered the path.
Yuri and Tanya moved up the steps and arrived at a pair of locked, cedar plank doors. Yuri pounded the wood with a leather-gloved hand. A few moments later, the door creaked open, exposing bone-thin fingers that held a thick chunk of brown bread.
“We are not here for food,” Yuri said.
A voice wafted from behind the door. “Then why do you come here?”
“I bring the girl. She has the gift.”
“Gift?”
“The gift of the Pravda legend.” Yuri waited for a response.
The thin fingers unfurled and the brown bread tumbled to the floor. The monastery door moved, widening the gap between it and the jamb.
Yuri and his young daughter stepped inside. A gray-bearded priest wearing a brown floor-length cassock with a black Byzantine klobuk perched upon his head watched them with sunken eyes. A large, ornate, silver cross dangled from his neck. He lifted a flickering paraffin lamp and bowed in silent greeting. He then turned and pushed the heavy door shut against the invading blast of cold and latched it with a large sliding bolt.
“I am sorry, but I usually tend to the welfare of men’s souls—not the digging up of their bodies, as we are about to do.” His words flowed over blue lips and lingered in a vaporous mist.
Yuri had no desire for small talk. “We must hurry. The KGB is looking for the girl. We must conduct our business and leave quickly. I will take the girl across the border to Finland and escape the madness of this vile government.”
The priest nodded, then waved for them to follow in the flickering glow of his light.
Two rats nibbled at the fallen chunk of bread on the floor, unconcerned as the priest limped past. Yuri and Tanya followed the priest’s lamplight and descended a steep set of stone stairs. The cold seemed to follow, pushing from behind.
At the bottom of the stairs was an arched stone chamber, its floor covered in a thin veneer of frozen scum that crackled with each footfall. Green water dripped from the ceiling.
The priest pointed to a dark corner, where a large, gray granite sarcophagus rested.
Yuri felt Tanya pull his coat sleeve as she released a muffled sob from under her woolen neck scarf. Chiseled on the face of the crypt, in old Russian Cyrillic, was the moss-encrusted name of Feodor Kuzmich, with the date of 1864 carved below.
A monk, head bowed and hooded canopy shielding his face, stood on each side of the stone coffin, murmuring somnolent prayers.
The old priest bent to the girl. “You are the awaited one of the legend…the girl with the Pravda.” His lamplight reflected in her small, troubled eyes. Tanya took a step back and brushed away a tear. The old cleric spoke slowly, his lips slipping over tarnished brown teeth. “The man entombed here has a message for you.”
Yuri stared at the smooth granite casket. “I bring my daughter at the request of my wife, Natalia.”
“Where is your wife?” the priest asked.
“She has died. Three weeks ago.”
The priest closed his eyes in a moment of reverent reflection. “You have done well to bring her.” Placing his hand upon Tanya’s black hair, the priest asked, “So it is true? I must know for certain. You can hear when a voice speaks an untruth? Do you truly have the Pravda?”
Tanya looked at her father, whose eyes relayed his approval. She then turned back to priest and nodded.
The priest sighed. “At long last the legend breathes.”
Yuri asked, “How did you know that the girl and I would come?”
“Your wife knew the legend. It tells of a girl born with the Pravda—a girl who should be brought here and given a message from the tomb.”
“My wife would have brought the girl, but she was gravely ill for some time.” The memory of his wife’s passing drove a hot blade through Yuri’s heart.
The priest gave a comforting smile. “Do not mourn. She awaits your arrival in Heaven. Her ears will be able to hear, and her lips able to speak words of love for you.” He returned his attention to the girl. “It is a mystery why your daughter was born with the Pravda gift when her mother lived her entire life stone deaf.”
Yuri studied the priest for a moment, long enough to remember the day his wife told him that when their daughter was old enough, they would visit the monastery. That was seven years ago. At the time Yuri didn’t understand his wife’s words. Now he did.
The old priest clapped his weathered hands, and the two monks standing by the stone coffin stepped forward and in unison curled their fingers under the edge of the stone lid. They slid it slightly to one side. The scraping sound broke the chamber’s silence. The lid refused to move easily. With a few more muscle-straining pushes, the heavy slab scooted a few more inches.
The priest turned his wizened face to the girl. “Remember this night well, child. Remember the legend. There is no secret in this world that time and Heaven does not unlock.”
Stepping to the sarcophagus, he held the glowing paraffin lamp over the narrow gap between the grave’s lid and stone side and peered into the coffin’s cavity.
Yuri moved to the priest’s side and craned his neck to see what lay within. He saw a skull topped with a coarse, tangled tuft of gray hair. The tomb’s occupant stared back with black, empty sockets. The skull had no jaw. His head, a stub of a spine, and a pair of arms was all Yuri could see. A full-length peasant chemise blackened with aged fungus covered the skeleton. In the naked bones of the right hand rested an old, golden snuff box.
The priest pulled back the sleeve of his cassock, then slid his arm through the space between the lid and side of the sarcophagus until his searching fingers found the golden object. It was fused to brown, curdled skin. He pulled again and the relic came free, the connected dry sinew disintegrating into gritty granules. The priest drew the box slowly from the coffin and held it close to his light for a moment. Despite a layer of dust, it glinted in the light. He held it out to Tanya.
Tanya looked at Yuri. He nodded. Her hands trembled as she took the box. “What is it?”
The priest spoke softly, as if muttering a prayer. “It is a snuff box, child—a gold snuff box. Inside is a message from long ago—a message for you.”
“Message?” Yuri asked.
“Yes, a message and a small glass vial of bread from Heaven—the manna of God.”
Yuri took the box and examined it. It was heavier than he expected and ornately crafted. Ornate filigree edged the golden lid and a double-headed eagle decorated the middle: the imperial seal of the Royal Romanov family.
“What’s a snuff box?” Tanya asked. She looked confused and frightened.
The priest explained. “Long ago men ground tobacco into powder. The wealthy kept their powder in a golden snuff box.”
Yuri gazed at the box resting in his gloved hand, his mind whirling with questions. “Who is the man in the grave? What does he have to do with us?”
The priest stepped away from the sarcophagus. “He once lived as a czar, his soul lost to the wind, but he died a monk saved by the cross of Jesus.”
“The czar?” Yuri said. The words drained him of strength.
“Yes—”
A loud pounding on the upstairs vestibule door rumbled down the stone steps. They froze in silence; the only sound Yuri could hear was the gulping breaths of his daughter.
They heard more pounding, followed by a muffled, harsh voice. “KGB. Open the door, priest.”
The priest’s forehead creased. He motioned for the two attending monks to go up the stairs and tend to the visitor. As they turned to go, the priest spoke in a reassuring tone. “In Christ to die is gain.” The hooded monks nodded but said nothing. Their dark forms ascended the stone steps.
The priest turned to Yuri. “Bring the girl.”
Without waiting for a reply, the priest turned and started down a narrow, low-arched tunnel that snaked into darkness. He was old and bent over but moved with urgency. The passageway’s floor and walls felt slick. Yuri assumed the tunnel also served as drainage for the wet tomb. He gripped Tanya’s hand.
Light from the priest’s lantern reflected eerily off stone cavities cut in the walls. Stacked skeletons in various stages of decomposition plugged each cavity. A sour, pungent odor hung in the air. Yuri saw Tanya pulled her scarf over her face to keep from retching.
After a minute of shuffling and slipping in the icy maze of darkness, they reached the end. Yuri saw the faint blue hue of falling snow through the tunnel’s exterior opening. A moment later they stood in the monastery’s courtyard.
The priest gulped for air—more from exertion, Yuri assumed, than fear. The old man pointed to a dark clump of trees at the edge of the courtyard. “The evil one comes to take the child, so run; run with Godspeed.”
Yuri led Tanya by the hand and had made fifty trudging strides in the snow when he heard a shot split the howling wind. Yuri turned and caught sight of a flashlight beam scanning the courtyard. The beam silhouetted the old priest as he held out his arms in a desperate attempt to stop the man’s advance. The man easily shoved the old cleric aside, his frail form crumpling to the snow.
Yuri heard the crack of another gunshot, and something whistled past his ear. He began to turn when another gun blast parted the cold air, and a searing pain knifed through his leg. He collapsed into the snow. Warm blood seeped from his thigh and wafted steam in the flashlight beam that fell upon his body. The gold box lay in the snow by Yuri’s side. Tanya sank to her knees next to her father and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. He heard sobbing.
Yuri waited. He waited for the bullet that would strike him in the heart or in the head. More than anything he wanted to tell Tanya to run, to flee into the dark forest and hide from the monster with the flashlight and gun, but he knew she would never make more than a few meters before the KGB man caught her or shot her.
As he raised a hand to shield his eyes from the light, he saw the glint of the man’s smile—and his silver teeth. A second later he heard a thud. The beam from the flashlight jerked to the side and dropped to the snow. The man standing over Yuri and Tanya had released the light. A half second later, Yuri watched his pursuer fall facedown, still clutching the gun in his hand. The man fell on the flashlight; its beam now shone upward.
Yuri saw a wide flap of pink scalp hanging from the back of the man’s stump of a head. Thick blood matted his greasy hair.
Yuri turned his gaze to the one-armed man they had passed when entering the monastery. He held the same shovel, now caked with red snow. The caretaker’s chest heaved from the shock and effort of his actions, making the medals on his chest clink like chimes. As he gazed upon the still form below him, he said, “The way of the wicked is death.”
He then let the shovel slip from his hand and helped Yuri to his feet. The pain from the wound raced up Yuri’s leg and into his back as if someone had set fire to every nerve. Yuri winced and swayed despite the support of the one-armed man.
Yuri forced himself to speak. “We owe you a great debt of thanks. Thank you.”
“My name is Sergey.”
“The old priest? How is he?”
A voice came from the darkness. “I do not believe I am dead just yet.” The priest hobbled through the snow to Sergey and patted his back. “One good arm from a righteous man can triumph over an army of two-armed men allied with the devil.”
Yuri looked at the KGB man lying in the snow and wondered if he was just unconscious or dead. Yuri decided he did not care. All he wanted was to get his daughter away from this place.
“I fear more KGB will come soon,” the priest said. “Sergey, take this man to the abbey; he is unable to travel very far. The monks there will tend to his wounds. As for the girl, she needs to be taken far from here. If the KGB knows of her gift, they will take her away, and God only knows what will happen then.”
“Papa, what is happening?”
Yuri struggled to maintain his balance. “I am trying to understand that myself, Tanya.” The snow below Yuri was slushy with dark blood. “You must go with the priest, Tanya. He will know what to do.”
“I don’t want to go, Papa. I want to stay with you.”
A new pain coursed through Yuri, not from a wound to the body, but one to the heart. “Tanya, you are in danger. You must go with the priest.”
“But Papa—”
“No arguments. You will do as I say.”
“Yes, Papa.” She lowered her head. He could hear her broken heart with every breath she took. Every organ, every muscle in him melted.
He pulled her close and ran a hand over her dark hair. “You are all I have left. I see your mother in every twinkle of your eye, hear her in every giggle. I . . . must do everything I can to make certain you are safe.”
She turned her face up. Tears had left moist tracks on her cheeks. “When will I see you again?”
“We will see each other again. I don’t know how long. However long it is, know this: Our time apart can only make my love for you grow. Be strong, little one. Be wise. Will you do that, little one?” Yuri asked.
“Yes, Papa. I will.”
Despite the pain, Yuri lowered himself and kissed his daughter on the top of her head. He prayed it would not be the last time he did so.
Yuri, with the help of the caretaker, limped down a nearby path. He glanced over his shoulder and saw his daughter trailing behind the priest. A stinging gust of ice particles swirled around them, and Tanya wrapped her scarf about her face.
The trail of their steps parted in the dark woods.
