Josprel's Articles

The Archer of Paran - by Josprel

Tue, 20 May 2008 19:09:28 +0200

The Archer of Paran
by
Josprel

Chapter One

The Wilderness of Paran was a wild place. Bounded on three sides by mountains some 4000 feet high, its limestone tableland reached upward some 2000 to 2,500 feet. Consisting of rolling, gravelly plains it was graced with only a few springs of mostly impure water. The Wady el Arish – River of Egypt – also flowed through it, but it was dry most of the year. It was no wonder that, molded by this environment, Ishmael, Abraham’s first-born son, whom Hagar had birthed at the whim of her long barren mistress, Sara, Abraham’s wife, developed into the “wild man” predicted by the angel. When, finally, through an apparent miracle, Sara did bear Abraham a son, in a fit of jealous rage against Ishmael, she demanded that Abraham drive Hagar and her son into the desert. “Ishmael shall not share the inheritance with my son, Isaac. Drive out Hagar and her son!” she announced. Abraham reluctantly did so, banishing them, with some water and food, into the Wilderness of Paran. When the water ran out, Ishmael almost died of thirst. His rescue came when an angelic being directed Hagar a source of water.

On that harsh wilderness playground, Ishmael honed his archery skills, developing into an archer who could launch an arrow unerringly into his prey from a great distance. He was one who lived for the hunt. As a result, he and his mother never lacked for meat. What they did not consume, they traded to the frequent caravans that traversed the desert routes. Life for them was lonely, but endurable. However, Hagar eventually noticed that Ishmael no longer hunted as frequently as he once did. As she mulled the problem, she arrived at a solution.

“My son, you are a man now and a man needs a wife. You must marry. I shall arrange for you to take a wife from among the Egyptians, because they are my people.”

“But there are many tribes not far from here like those of my father, Abraham. Their women know how to exist in the desert. The Egyptians do not. They would parish.”

“Have we perished? Am I not also a woman of Egypt? Who was it that brought you into manhood?”

Ishmael lowered his head, giving no response.

“I ask one more thing, Ishmael, my son. I have never told this before. After I conceived you, my mistress, Sarah, beat me so badly that I ran away into the desert. I was resting at a water spring and an angel found me. He asked me what I was doing there and I told him. He said for me to return to Sarah and obey her.

“This angel promised that the number of my descendants would be so great that no one will be able to count them. He also told me that I would bare a son. He said your name would be “Ishmael.” Then he said something I never understood until now.”

“What is that, Mother?”

Hagar took on a pensive look. “He said that you would be a wild man and your hand will be against every man and every man’s hand will be against you. And you will dwell in the presence of your brothers.”

Astonishment played on Ishmael’s features. There was a long silence before he spoke.

“Already, I am a wild man. And according to what you have told me, I also shall be a man without friends – a man who has only enemies!”

Chapter Two

“What is her name, Mother?”

“Have you no tongue, girl? Speak! Tell your husband how you are called!”

“I am called Aseneth, daughter of Potipherah.” The girl spoke without fear.

“Her father, Potipherah, was a soldier in the armies of Egypt. He was killed in battle and her mother sold her in the slave market. I bought her as your wife.”

Ishmael seemed dubious. “She is beautiful and unafraid, but can she endure the wilderness? She appears so delicate.”

“Your mother has said that I am your wife, but I know that in truth, I am your slave. Though I did not choose to be here, I shall survive this place,” Aseneth haughtily replied.

“Have a care how you speak to your husband, girl.” Hagar made as if to slap Aseneth, but Ishmael prevented it.

“You shall not attempt to escape from us?”

“Where can I go? There is no place for me in Egypt. My father is dead. My mother sold me as a slave. There is no place for me, but here.”

Ishmael took Aseneth’s hands in his. “Then know that I, Ishmael, promise to treat you with only tenderness and love. I shall be your protector and provider.”

Aseneth’s features softened into a smile and Ishmael continued, “You shall call me your husband and I shall call you my wife. Hagar you shall call, “mother,” and she shall call you “daughter.” You shall treat her with love and she shall treat you the same.”

“Yes, I shall treat her so if she is a good wife to you, but if she is not, I shall beat her with a stick!”

“Then you shall not beat me at all, for I shall be a good wife to your son and a true daughter to you.”

Now it was Hagar’s features that softened. Moving to Aseneth, she embraced and kissed her.

“Come, my daughter, it is time for us to cook a meal.”

Chapter Three

Hagar and Aseneth bonded into a true mother-daughter relationship. As the decades passed, Hagar had the joy of serving as the midwife for the birth of her first four grandsons. Yet, with the weight of her nomadic existence and the passing years pressing heavily on her, she finally responded to the summons of death. According to her wish, with great pomp and ceremony, she was buried by Ishmael in an Egyptian tomb. Having now given Ishmael twelve sons, Aseneth also was feeling the pressures of their wandering existence.

“My husband, when I first came to you, you promised to be a good husband to me. You have indeed loved me, as I have loved you. I have borne you twelve warrior sons.”

“Yes, you have given me many sons. They are superb horsemen and camel riders, who are now the lords of the desert. Because of them and their riders, we are paid tribute by all the caravans that pass through our lands. When those who travel see our black tents, they know who we are. Even the armies of pharaoh fear us.”

“Yes, my husband, you and our sons have made us rich beyond our dreams. Yet, we are growing old. I have grown tired of wandering. Can we not now remain settled in one place until we die?”

“I shall speak to our sons about that which you ask.”
* *
It was Nebajoth, Ishmael’s firstborn, who responded to his father’s question.

“Yes, Father, we have discussed it among ourselves. We have planned to each build a castle here in the desert. We shall construct them at a distance apart from each other. Thus, the entire desert shall be under our control. No one can pass through without paying tribute to us. You and mother may choose in whose castle you wish to live.”

“We first shall have our men dig until we have twelve wells of water,” added Kedar, the next oldest, “Then we each shall build our castle near one well. Once I have the water, I shall have my men gather many desert sheep into folds.”

“But what will they eat? There is no grass in the desert,” his father asked.

“Once I have water, my castle will be like an oasis. Then I shall dig many wells and my will men grow food for the sheep to eat.”

“When the angel spoke to my mother in the desert, she found a well of water there, but that was long ago. I have not found many other wells since then, but I have heard that your Uncle Isaac dug wells for his flocks to drink. Each time he did so, others came and drove him away form his well and used them for themselves.”

“Our Uncle Isaac should have fought for what was his own,” Kedemah, the youngest son, responded.

“That is true, but my brother is a peaceable man. He will not fight. He finally dug a well that remained his own.”

“I shall kill any who seek to take the wells we dig.”

The threat was voiced by Massa, who most resembled his father in appearance and temperament. The others grunted their agreement.

“Well, I suppose if one digs deep enough there will be water, but who can dig that deep?”

“Our men will do so, or they will die!” Massa responded.

“If the task is impossible, you still would kill your men for not doing it?” asked his brother, Tema.

“My men will obey me or they will die!”

“For not doing what no one else can do, even yourself?!”

“I am their chief: they must do as I command! If I command them to dig until they find water, they must do so!”

Noticing Massa’s anger mounting, Nebajoth changed the topic.

“Our father and mother desire to remain in one place. They are tired of wandering in the desert!” he said to the others. “Since I am the oldest, they shall dwell with me in my camp. Do we all agree?”

He received eleven affirmative answers.

Chapter Four

Zephan, Supreme Commander of the Egyptian military forces, was kneeling face to the pavement before his furious king, Pharaoh-rams.

“Lift your eyes, worthless one! On your knees! Look upon me!”

Leaning forward on his dais, Pharaoh-rams fixed Zephan with a probing glare. “Why do you not protect the caravans that pass through the desert? All who travel to and from Egypt suffer attacks by desert bandits! Our land grows poor because them!”

The commander’s features twitched in anguish; his voice quivered. “My great pharaoh, these are not mere bandits who attack our caravans. The wild man, Ishmael, and his twelve sons have gathered many desert tribes into a mighty confederation.”

“And what does this mean for Egypt?”

Zephan’s voice now took on its natural deepness. “Ishmael is molding the tribes into an army, oh mighty pharaoh. The desert chiefs of the Wilderness of Paran acknowledge him as their supreme chief. They now call themselves, “The Ishmaelite Confederacy.” They consider all who pass through the desert as their enemies. It is reported that they look upon the desert as their home-land. Only their own may pass safely through the Wilderness of Paran. No other is safe from attack. They kill the men and take all. If there are women with the caravans, they sell as slaves.”

“Is that not your task guard the caravans? Send troops into the desert to kill these marauders! Eliminate their black tents!”

“I have sent many troops, sire, but Ishmael and his bands vanquish them all and then vanish into the desert. Even the Rephaim in the highlands of Bashan, fear them, as do also the Amorites and the other nations. I have received reports that the twelve sons of Ishmael no longer dwell in black tents, as do their followers, sire. Each is building a castle in a strategic location to make permanent their rule over Paran.”

Pharaoh-rams brow shot up in surprise. “Even the Rephaim, with their great height and strength, fear the confederacy of Ishmael?!”

“Yes, my pharaoh, they now refuse to leave their homes in the mountains, fearing that Ishmael and his hoards will attack their families while they are gone. Though they will defend their mountains, it is reported that they do not think they can gain victory over Ishmael’s confederacy.”

Pharaoh-rams pounded the arm of his throne. His eyes narrowed with distain. “Then I swear on the heads of my ancestors that I shall eliminate this scourge of the desert!” With a terrible resolve, he added, “I, myself, shall lead the army into battle against Ishmael and his sons and their confederacy. When I capture these desert rats, I shall flay the skin from their bodies while they still live!”

Chapter Five

Though the construction of the castles was not yet completed, enough of the work had been done to make them livable. For more than three long years, it seemed to the exhausted laborers that every stone, from pebbles to boulders had been dragged in from the desert by camels, horses and men. A deep, dry mote surrounded each edifice, and dotting the vast areas between the motes and the castles were sheepfolds, stalls for camels and horses, and the black tents of The Ishmaelite Confederacy. Recently dug wells also occupied the space. In addition to the motes, the castles were guarded by patrols armed with scimitars, spears, and battle axes; skilled archers also manned each castle ramparts.

This day dawned no differently than those previous. Dispelling the chill of the night, the blistering heat of the morning sun was beginning to dominate the desert, yet those within the castles still enjoyed the residual coolness of the walls.

It was one of Nebajoth’s outlooks who first blew the ram’s horn battle alarm and then shouted, “Battle alarm! Battle alarm! An army of riders approaches! Battle alarm!”

While Nebajoth and his riders armed themselves and mounted their steeds, the battle alarm was relayed to the other castles, whose warriors also prepared for combat. It did not take long before the twelve companies converged into a unified army under the command of their twelve princes, with Ishmael as their general. At his signal, the mote bridges were lowered. When the army crossed they were raised again.

Chapter Six

Resplendent in his combat attire, mounted on his white battle stallion, King Pharaoh-rams waited next to Supreme Commander Zephan, also geared for battle. Already the desert sun was taking its toll upon their warriors; after succumbing to the heat, many had to be kicked to their feet again by their superiors. The king’s tasted for battle now waning, he was having second thoughts. Across the sands, they could see the banners of The Ishmaelite Confederacy moving toward them.

“Our men and horses are not trained to fight in the desert, Zephan. Without our chariots and much water, we are at a disadvantage. The Ishmaelite Confederacy is trained for desert battles. They seem able to find water where no one else can.”

“True, sire, we did not take our chariots because they would serve no purpose here in the desert. Their wheels would sink into the sands and the horses would not be able to pull them over the dunes. We have some water, for I commanded the army to carry water on camels.”

“But, is it enough for all of our troops and animals in such heat as this?”

Zephan appeared dubious. “It will depend on how long the battle lasts, sire.”

There was a long pause, after which Pharaoh-rams summoned a high-ranking officer, who approached and saluted.

“Carry a flag of truce and ride with me and the Supreme Commander toward the lines of the Ishmaelites.”

Both officers gawked at their king with alarm.

“You dogs! Do as I have commanded! Make a flag of truce!”

White flag lifted high, the three slowly rode toward the confederacy lines. At the center of no man’s land, they reigned in and waited. The wait was a short one, for soon they saw an equivalent number of riders, two mounted on camels, the center rider on horseback. Attired in the robes of desert dwellers, upon reaching the Egyptians, they also reigned in.

For a moment, both parties gazed silently at each other. The Ishmaelites each had their features covered by white cloths reaching from just below the eyes to the necklines of their robes. The aura of mystery this lent them, made the king uneasy.

“I am Pharaoh-rams, king of Egypt. This is Supreme Commander Zephan of the Egyptian forces.”

“We know who you are,” responded the Ishmaelite horseman, “Why have you entered our land with your army? Do you not know that the desert belongs to us? We do not enter your land, yet you invade ours!” The speaker’s eyes were filled with dark portents.

“Are you he who is called Ishmael?” Zephan inquired.

“I am Ishmael, ruler of the desert tribes. He on my right hand is Nebajoth, my oldest son, who also commands a large company of my warriors. He on my left hand is my son, Adbeel, another of my sons. He, too, commands a large company of warriors, as do all my sons, who are known among the desert dweller as the twelve princes of Ishmael. Each rules over part of this desert land. From their childhood, they have been trained as warriors as are all the men of The Ishmaelite Confederacy.

“I asked you why you invade our land, but you do not respond. Why is this?”

“You say that I invade your land, but the desert belongs to no man. All may travel through it. This is why we have come,” responded Pharaoh-rams “You capture our caravans. You kill all the men and take all the good. If there are women, you sell them as slaves. Egypt grows poor because of you.”

“Do not speak to me of those we sell as slaves, Pharaoh-rams. Though Hagar, my mother, was an Egyptian, the Egyptians sold her as a slave to Abraham, my father. In my youth he than sent us into this desert to die of thirst, for no wrong that we did. But I remain alive. The desert is now our land. We rule here!

“Like you, the caravans and traders that pass through here think the desert belongs to no one, but it is ours. Our castles are here, as are our families, and our herds and flocks. We have much water for we have for dug many wells, and we will fight to the death for what is ours. Even the Rephaim fear us and remain in their mountains. Learn from them, Pharaoh-rams. Return to Egypt while you still have life in you.

Ishmael’s tone grew ominous. “You have often sent assassins to kill me, but they have never returned to you, yet I have not sought to kill you. Know that had I done so, they would not have failed, as we shall not fail to win this battle. You came to me under a flag of truce and you may depart from here without harm. Again, I say to you, return to Egypt while you still have life; if you do battle with us, you shall surely die by my hand!”

Despite the heat, Pharaoh-rams felt chills running playing along his spine and a cold fist closing over his heart. He realized it had been a mistake to make an attempt to move against this desert warrior. How could he back off and still save face?

“Our talk has ended, Pharaoh-rams. Return to your troops. I shall wait with my warriors until you attack us or turn toward Egypt. Heed my warning: decide to return to Egypt and enter our land no more!”

The Egyptians backed their steeds several feet, and then swung around and returned to their troops. They conferred among themselves, after which, Zephan again approached the Ishmaelites under the flag of truce.

This time, he placed a clenched right fist over his heart in salute to Ishmael, who did not respond.

In a voice edged with tension, he stated, “My king has sent me to report that we have not come to do battle against you, sire. Our purpose is to request that you do not prevent the caravans from entering Egypt, for our people grow weak from hunger. As one sovereign to another, he asks that you do him this kindness. We shall not again enter the desert without your permission.”

With a patronizing smile, Ishmael responded, “Only the gods know the future. You are free to return to your land in peace.”

Chapter Six

The ram’s horn battle trumpet sounded from Mibsam’s castle, followed by shouts of, “Battle alarm! Battle alarm! Strange riders approach the castles. Battle alarm! Battle alarm!”

The alarm was taken up by the other castles. With a feverish scurry of activity, the Confederacy of Ishmaelites armed them-selves and mounted their steeds. The mote bridges were lowered and they road out to meet the strangers. Before the Ishmaelites could launce an attack, the intruders stopped their advancement and unfurled a white banner with which three riders moved forward to the center of no man’s land and waited.

“Hold!” Ishmael commanded, “They fly a flag of truce. Nebajoth and Tema, meet with them. Learn why they intrude into our land.”

Advancing slowly, the two princes complied. To Ishmael’s amazement, they and the foremost stranger dismounted and embraced each other. Nebajoth waved to for his father to advance and the two parties converged. Like him, the stranger wore a full, black beard. The diadem of a chief secured his head cloth. Though his garments were stained with the dust of his travels, it was evident they were designed from expensive cloth. And, judging from the burdens carried by the camels, the stranger possessed great wealth.

Turning to Nebajoth in puzzlement, saw that his eyes were shinning with pleasure.

“Who is this stranger, my son?” Nebajoth was about to respond, but the visitor spoke first. An inner pain seemed to haunt him.

“You last saw me as a babe in my mother’s arms, Ishmael. I am Isaac, your brother.” Ishmael stiffened in apprehension, his eyes blinking with incredulity. Brow lowered in suspicion, he responded, “You say you are my brother, Isaac, but to me you are a stranger. Why have you come into my land?”

“Abraham, our father is dead and has been gathered to his people. I ask you to go with me to Mamre, that together we may bury him in the cave of Machpelah, in the field of Ephron.”

At first, Ishmael stared impassively. Then he bowed his head and lowered his eyes, before covering them with his hands; everyone present knew he was anguished. Moving forward, Isaac embraced him and Ishmael did not resist.

When he stopped sobbing, his brother released him and Ishmael said, “I thought my heart was filled with hated for our father because he drove me into the desert. Now I learn it is filled with love for him.”

Isaac nodded. “When I came to understand what was done to you and Hagar, I knew it was unjust. As Abraham’s eldest son, the birthright should have gone to you. Please do not blame our father for your exile; it was my mother, Sarah, who in her jealously against you, demanded otherwise.

“When our father departed from Ur, he hoped to find Melchizedek, the king of Salem. He desired to learn from him where to find the god most high, who does not demand the sacrifice of children. Though he did not find Salem, he found his God, Yahweh.

“Our father said to me many times that Yahweh commanded him to heed the demands of my mother, Sarah. Yahweh promised him that He would make you the father of many nations. It is right that you love him, Ishmael, for he greatly loved you. It grieved him to send you and Hagar away.”

Ishmael again nodded. “Come, my brother,” he said softly, “you and your travelers shall be taken to Nebajoth’s castle. You shall be fed at our table and then rest. Tomorrow morning we shall depart to bury our father.”

Chapter Seven

The burial procession that wended its way through the desert was a lengthy one. In addition to Isaac’s and Ishmael’s tribes, all the desert chiefs who had submitted to The Ishmaelite, as well as those who knew Abraham and Isaac were in attendance with their women mourners, whose duty it was to dolefully bewail the death of Abraham. Eventually, at Mamre, the procession converged with the tribes ruled by Isaac. At his command, the camels on which Isaac’s mourners traveled joined with those of their Ishmaelite counterparts. Upon arriving at the burial cave, the women dismounted to assume their positions, Ishmael’s women in a single rank on one side, Isaac’s taking a similar stance on the other.

As the wrapped body was carried toward them, the women moaned softly. The moans became progressively louder, until they reached a crescendo of loud, heartbreaking sobs that moved the other procession members to join in.

“Abraham is gone form us,” the women loudly wailed.

“Yes, Abraham is gone from us,” responded the others, including Ishmael and Isaac, “Why have you gone from us, our father?”

“Why have you left us, Abraham; when shall we again behold your face?” the women wailed.

“Abraham, our father is now among the gods. When shall we see him again?” Ishmael mourned, in a hopeless tone.

“Our father rests on the bosom of Yahweh, the unseen God,” Isaac responded, “We shall see our father again when the promised one comes.”

His face a study in desolation, Ishmael turned to Isaac, “Though I cannot believe that a promised one shall come, I would that it were true, my brother; I would that it were true.

“Why do you think it not true?”

Ishmael grimaced. “Did not our father seek all through his wanderings for the city of his God?”

“That is so. I also was with him in those wandering. He sought for the city because he believed it was built by our God, Yahweh.”

“Did he ever find it?”

“No, our father never found the city he sought.”

“Why did he not find it?”

Isaac did not respond.

“Do you believe such a city exists, Isaac?”

When Isaac kept his silence, Ishmael continued, “Our father did not find such a city because it does not exist. Why should the gods build cities on earth, my brother? They cannot live in them. It is men who build cities with walls to protect themselves against those who would kill and steal. Who can kill the gods, Isaac? Who can steal from them; so why would they need cities? All talk of a city whose builder and maker is Yahweh is a fantasy.”

“All else that our father taught to me is true, so this must also be true. Our father believed such a city exists. I also believe it.”

Ishmael laughed contemptuously, “Believe what you will, Isaac. When you find this city, send a messenger to me and I shall visit it with you. Let us depart from here. I must return to my land. Our castles are lightly guarded.”

Chapter Eight

“Please stay with us a while longer, my brother,” Ishmael coaxed as Isaac made preparations to depart, “We have just come to know each other and we may never again see each other.”

“The God of our father, Abraham, may decree otherwise, Ishmael. Perhaps he may move you to visit with us. Would you then visit?”

“This God of Abraham is your God, Isaac; he is not my God. Long ago, at your birth, He made this clear when He told Abraham to drive my mother, Hagar, and me into the desert. There I almost perished from thirst. This is the God you serve, Isaac. He is the God who cheated me from my rightful inheritance and bestowed it to you, at the whim of a jealous woman. I understand that my subjects also worship the God of our father, Abraham under a different name. I permit them to do so because they need a god to worship. I do not, especially one such as yours who hated me and Hagar, my mother, but loved, Sara, your jealous, hate-filled, vengeful mother. There are no gods for me, especially the God of Abraham.”

Isaac gazed intently at his brother. Then he said, “Tell me again how you and your mother, Hagar, were saved from death in the desert.”

Ishmael gestured with impatience. He appeared mildly agitated. “Do we not have better things to discuss at your departure than a thing that happened so long ago? I have told you that I no loner bear have hatred in me what was done to my mother and me. Why would you would you have me repeat them now? These things are best left in forgetfulness, now that we have seen each other.”

“For my sake, please indulge me in this that I ask, Ishmael, my brother. I have a purpose in asking it of you,” Isaac said.

Still somewhat angry, Ishmael complied. “After your mother forced us into exile in this desert, we no longer had water. My mother, Hagar, had saved most of the little water Abraham gave to us for me to drink, but it was not very much and was soon gone. I was dying of thirst and could no longer walk and even stand. After I fell to the sand, Hagar could not bear to see my death, so she laid me under a bush, moved away a little distance from me. She began weeping. She afterward told me that an angel of God spoke to her . . .”

When Isaac lifted a hand to indicate that he wanted to speak, Ishmael ceased speaking and gestured for him to do so.

“Whose God sent the angel to your mother and you, my brother?” he inquired, “Was it the God of our father Abraham, or one of the gods whom even you say do not exist?” Ishmael stared, dumfounded. He understood now why his brother asked for him to tell the story of his and Hagar’s deliverance from death.

“I await your answer, Ishmael. Whose God sent the angel who delivered you from death?”

Ishmael’s composure returned, and he began to laugh uproariously and the others joined in. “So, Isaac,” he acknowledged, “You have ensnared me with my own words. We all know it was the God of Abraham who sent the angel. It was he who saved me and my mother from death.”

“And did this angel sent by the God of our father, Abraham, say anything else?” Isaac asked.

Ishmael again went silent, before answering. This time his silence was a long one, but no one dared breech it, not even Isaac. When he finally did speak, his features were thoughtful, and his tone held a seriousness quality hitherto not manifested during his account.

“Yes, my brother, the angel told my mother he would make me into a great nation.”

“And has that not already begun? The God of our father Abraham has blessed you with twelve brave sons. Each is a mighty warrior; so mighty that the armies of Egypt fear them. Each rules from a castle that belongs to him alone. Together, they rule the desert tribes. Even my people have heard of The Ishmaelite Confederacy. Some speak of it with fear, knowing how you were exiled by our father.”

“They need not fear me or my sons. I would never attack you and your people. Neither I nor my sons would ever commit fratricide and do as Cain did to his brother, Able,” Ishmael categorically responded.

“I know this, for I now know you and your sons, my brother. But, my people have yet to meet you. For this reason I entreat you to visit with us, that my people may see that we love each other as a family should love. Again, I entreat you to visit my people with your sons and their families,” Isaac pleaded.

Ishmael surveyed the faces surrounding him. One by one, as his eyes took inventory of his sons, each son nodded assent.

“Yes, I have now decided; we shall go with you, to visit your family, Isaac,” he stated, “But before we leave, I must make preparations for the protection of my people. My sons and I must give orders to our warriors who remain behind. Then we shall depart with you.”

Chapter Nine

Isaac’s sons, Jacob and Esau, were twins, but a person wouldn’t suspect it by looking at them. From his puberty, Esau was hairy and rugged. The tribal history chroniclers alleged that Esau’s name was derived from the word “Seir,” claiming that the word meant “hairy.” Tribal seers and prognosticators predicted that Seir was a territory Esau would one day claim as his own.

An outdoorsman, camp life bored Esau. Instead he delighted in the chase of the hunt, often returning to the encampment with an antelope, a wild goat, or a bighorn mountain sheep he had slain slung over his broad, hairy shoulders. On his return with game from a successful hunt, Esau always simmered a stew from the meat of his kill, sharing it with his father. Isaac relished these stews; he looked forward to them. It was well known among Isaac’s tribes that Esau was his favorite son.

Jacob, who was born a second or so after Esau, entered life clutching onto his brother’s heel. Tribal chroniclers were at odds regarding the meaning of his name. Some claimed it meant, “heel-catcher,” while others asserted that the name meant, “Supplanter,” implying that Jacob would attempt to undermine Easu’s status as the elder brother and future Supreme Chief, and make an attempt to gain the inheritance for himself.

Unlike Esau, Jacob was a man-about-camp, a homebody who enjoyed the activities associated with domestic life, especially that of cooking. Perhaps it was for this reason that he became the son favored by his mother, Rebecca. The favoritism displayed by both parents engendered a scorn for each other within the twins. Jacob considered Esau an ignorant lout, often implying that his twin’s shagginess indicated that he should live among the wild animals. He also vilified Esau as an oaf who brought disgrace to the family.

Esau, on the other hand, heaped insults on Jacob. Now into his adolescence, Esau was enormously popular among the tribesmen. He once laughingly stated to his numerous camp cronies, “My brother, Jacob, is still our mother’s infant. He continues to suckle at her breasts. I believe he shall do so even when he attains his manhood – if one can call that which he attains a manhood.”

Another time, after they had a scuffle in which Rebecca, as always, intervened on the side of Jacob, Esau referred to his twin as a “cowardly camp puppy that fears to defend itself, when other puppies steal a bone it is chewing on. Like a cowardly puppy, he whimpers and whines until his mother comes to defend him.”

Rebecca slapped Esau hard across his cheek for making the statement. He only chuckled and said, “Jacob, my brother, our mother has courageously defended you. Now follow after her like an obedient camp dog.”

Chapter Ten

Esau had just returned from a hunt with an antelope and a large mountain sheep slung across the back of a packhorse he lead behind his own stallion. Dismounting, he thoughtfully unloaded his kills some distance from the cooking fires. He did not want to disturb those who attended the fires, where Jacob assisted Rebecca in supervised the camp cooks; they were readying bread dough for baking on the flat hot stones placed over the cooking fires. Having been notified by an advance rider of the soon arrival of Isaac and his brother Ishmael, the entire camp was in a state of anxious anticipation.

“Jacob, come, help me skin these animals,” Esau called out, “If we cut them up quickly, there shall be meat for our father and those who come with him. Come help me.”

“Can you not see that my son, Jacob, is too busy that which you ask of him,” Rebecca sharply remonstrated, “Unlike you who, in your laziness, do nothing but ride horses and chase after animals, Jacob works hard here at the fire.”

Before Esau could respond, the blast of a ram’s horn sounded, and a camp sentry shouted, “The caravan approaches; the caravan approaches! The caravan of our Supreme Chief is still distant, but it is drawing closer! The caravan of our supreme chief approaches!”

Hearing the urgent summons, each of Isaac’s chieftains mounted their camels to ride out and meet the caravan. Esau dropped what he was doing, jumped on his horse and raced after them. As he speedily passed the camels, it left a cloud of dusty sand that forced the chieftains to cover their faces. Speeding on, his mount taking tortured breaths in the blistering heat, Esau soon arrived at the his destination, reigning up next to his father.

“I am happy to see you, my father. I greet you in the name of the God of Abraham,” he greeted.

“And I greet you in the name of my father’s God, my son.” Isaac stared intently at his son. “But why are you thus attired? Your garments are stained with blood. Have you suffered injury?”

“I have no injury, my father. I have just returned from a hunt. I was beginning to skin the animals I slew, when the report of your coming sounded. I left all to ride out to greet you. Please forgive my soiled garments. I thought only of meeting you.”

“I understand, my son,” Isaac assured him, motioning to Ishmael. “This is my brother, your Uncle Ishmael.”

Esau bowed his head in a gesture of humility. “I greet you in the name of the God of Abraham, my uncle,” Esau said in a tone of meekness, “Please forgive the rudeness for having greeted you in garments such as these. I mean no disrespect.”

“I thank you for your welcome, Esau, my nephew. I take no offence at your appearance, for I understand the hunt. I also am a hunter.”

Isaac summoned one of his outriders. “Halt the caravan,” he ordered, “I would have my son meet his cousins before my chieftains arrive.”

Chapter Eleven

For the first few days of Ishmael’s stay, all appeared to go well. He and Esau went hunting together and the nephew marveled at his uncle’s prowess with the bow. Nonetheless, it wasn’t long until the visit was shattered by a complaint made by Ishmael to Isaac.

With a stony expression and spasms of anger flexing his brow, his dark eyes flashing with deep indignation, and his voice ominous with threat, Ishmael stated, “Isaac, my brother, your son, Jacob, has grievously slandered me and my sons; so much so that, though he has not yet reached his full maturity, if he were not your son, I would have slain him where he stood!”

Isaac gawked in disbelief. When he recovered, he asked, “Ishmael, how has Jacob done such injury to you and your sons? What did my son say, that so grievously slandered you?”

“Jacob told many of your chieftains, in my presence and also of my sons, that I and all those who came with me are as wild, savage boars. He said that, like such boars, we are not fit to dwell among civilized tribes.”

During the exchange, Isaac had been sitting just outside the door of his tent. Now he stood to his feet, his features expressing both anguish and rage. With a gesture, he waved the chief steward of his household to him.

“Yusaf, send three of your strongest menservants to find my son, Jacob. Order them to bring him to me, at once. If he rejects their summons, have them bring him to me in bonds,” he commanded.

“At once, master,” the flabbergasted Yusaf replied and hurried to obey.

Chapter Twelve

In Isaac’s tent, Jacob stood apprehensively before his father. His uncle sat across the tent from them. Jacob had never seen his normally placid father appear so angry. Just as Isaac was about to speak, Rebecca rushed into the tent and stood next to her son.

“Why have you come, Rebecca?” her husband asked.

“It was reported to me that Jacob is here and the lies you have been told about him. I come to defend him,” she replied.

“You will leave here now, Rebecca! This is a matter for which Jacob must answer for himself,” Isaac ordered.

“I shall not leave without my son!” she stated.

Isaac stood and walked to the entrance and called, “Yusaf, please enter!”

After his chief steward entered, Isaac instructed him, “Yusaf, have the same servants who brought Jacob to me escort your mistress from this tent. If she resists, have them gently carry her out. No one is to enter here until I say otherwise.

“Yes, my Supreme Chief, Isaac,” Yusaf replied with a respectful bow of his head.

Furious, but unresisting and herself apprehensive, Rebecca permitted herself to be led away. This was a side of her husband she had never before seen. Before this episode, she always felt able to get her way with him. And, like Jacob, she also had never seen Isaac so angry.

“Now, Jacob,” Isaac began when the three were alone, “Your Uncle Ishmael has told me of your slander against him.”

“My father, I did not slander Uncle Ishmael,” Jacob whined.

“You did not tell our chieftains that your uncle and those who came with him are as wild boars?” Ishmael asked.

“No, father.”

“And you did not say that my brother Ishmael and his sons are not fit to dwell among civilized tribes?”

“No, I did not say these things, my father,” Jacob affirmed.

Isaac continued his interrogation of Jacob. “Then, are you saying to me that your uncle has lied in reporting that you did say these things?”

Jacob went silent, understanding that if he affirmed that his uncle had lied, and that he himself was telling the truth, there were witnesses among the chieftains who would back up Ishmael’s report.

“I await your answer, Jacob,” Isaac prompted, his tone harsh.

“I have no answer, my father. My uncle did not lie. I know there are chieftains who can witness that I did say these things. I beg my uncle’s forgiveness.”

“Hear me, Jacob. Understand what I say now, for you are no longer a child. Had a stranger said the thing you said about your uncle, the stranger would have slain been executed by him. You live now only because you are my son.

“Hear my sentence upon!” Isaac decreed, “Each day until they depart, you shall wash the feet of your uncle and your cousins each time they ask it of you. I shall ask them if you have done so. You shall feed and water their camels and horses, as well as our own. You shall trim the hooves of their animals and our own. You shall milk the sheep and goats, bake the bread, make the cheese and churn the butter.

“No servants shall assist you in these tasks; neither shall your mother do so. You shall remain apart from her, until I say otherwise. If either you or she refuses to remain apart, I shall extend your punishment. If you refuse to fulfill this sentence, I shall disown you as a son, and you shall be driven from the camp. Hitherto you have been an indolent, lazy and have refused to do the work of the encampment. Now you shall know what it is to work. Should you abandon this camp and go elsewhere to escape my sentence, do not attempt to return. Your sentence begins immediately! Do you have more word to speak to me?”

His eyes lowered, Jacob replied, “No my father.”

“Then leave us and ask Yusaf to return. He must be made aware of your sentence.”

Chapter Thirteen

Except for Jacob, the next three months passed quickly. Ishmael, his sons and their caravan were about to depart for home. Isaac, Esau and the chieftains had gathered to bid the travelers farewell. Rebecca also was present, but reluctantly, and at Isaac’s explicit command. Isaac, however, had excluded Jacob, whose sentence had not been lifted.

Each of Ishmael’s sons gave Isaac a kiss of departure. Isaac kissed his brother on both cheeks, saying, “Farewell, my dear brother Ishmael. May the God of our father, Abraham, guide you safely to your home.”

Ishmael returned the kisses. “And may your God bless and keep you, Isaac,” he replied.

He took both of Rebecca’s hands in his and kissed them. “I and my sons leave you now, my lady. We thank you for your hospitality to us. Would you’re your God had permitted my spouse Aseneth, the mother of my sons, to live. She would have loved you as a sister, he stated. Rebecca nodded, but remained silent.

Ishmael drew his brother aside. “Isaac, for my sake, please pardon the young man, Jacob. Lift your sentence from upon him. Please, do this as a farewell gift to me. And send for him now, that I also may bid him farewell. Remember how you forgave my son Massa, when he spoke disrespectfully of you?”

“I remember,” Isaac responded. “Bring my son, Jacob, to me, immediately.” he said to a servant.

“Yes master,” the man replied.

It wasn’t long before Jacob arrived, appearing tired, disheveled and disheartened. “I am here, my father. What do you wish of me?”

“I have sent for you at the request of your uncle. As you know, he and his sons are now departing for home. Your uncle Ishmael desires to bid you farewell.”

Embracing his nephew, Ishmael kissed him on both cheeks, and then said, “Come my nephew, kiss me farewell, also. I have asked your father to release you from your sentence. I desire that we part from each other with love.”

Jacob began to weep. Though his sobs, he said. “Forgive me for my foolish word, Uncle Ishmael. It was right for my father to punish me, for my speech against you was worthy of my execution. Forgive me my uncle.”

“I gladly forgive you, Jacob. Stop weeping now and kiss your cousins farewell.”

As Jacob did so, Ishmael walked over to Esau. Facing him, he grasped his favorite nephew by both shoulders. “Esau, my hunting companion,” he loudly exclaimed, “you must come to visit me and we shall again hunt together. There are vast herds of wild oxen near our castles, near the land of the Egyptians. When you visit us, we shall hunt them together. It shall be great sport. The Egyptians shall not attempt to prevent us, for they fear us, since we made plain to them that the desert is our nation, not theirs. We shall have great sport. What say you?”

Esau was about to respond, but Isaac intervened, saying, “It is my prayer that I also shall again be able to again visit with you in your land, Esau. At that time, I shall have all of my family with me.”

“And at that time, shall you and Jacob battle the Egyptians alongside my sons, Esau and me, should they foolishly choose to once more move against us?” Ishmael teased, “I venture you shall not, for you and Jacob are a lovers of peace. I again bid you farewell, Isaac, my brother.”

As the caravan moved out, Esau asked, “My father, please permit me to ride with them for until they arrive at the Oasis of Medi; it is only a short ride. I shall then return.”

Receiving a nod from his father, Esau mounted his horse and followed the caravan. When it reached the oasis, he again waved goodbye to his uncles and cousins, waited until the caravan blended into the horizon, then spurred his horse homeward toward the encampment.
-30-

Comments

The Agnostic Violinist: by Josprel

Fri, 27 Apr 2007 00:35:03 +0200

The Agnostic Violinist
by
Josprel

Based on a true incident.

The two friends grew up together as inseparable brothers. One was a confirmed agnostic, who claimed the existence of God could never be verified. The other one was a religious hypocrite. Both studied music, and together they formed a popular orchestra. Neither one thought anything could ever sever their friendship - until one claimed that he had been “born again,” and attempted to convert his friend. That’s when the friendship ended. It took a strange, dramatic, religious experience on the part of the agnostic’s spouse to heal the rift.
** **

The Agnostic Violinist
by
Josprel

Chapter One

Broszi Lombardino and Paul Perrello grew up like brothers. Leaving Italy, their Sicilian immigrant parents had met at Ellis Island, became steadfast friends, and settled almost next door to each other. Shortly thereafter, their sons were born, only two days apart, growing up like twins, with almost no life apart from each other.

Provided with an opportunity to study music, both developed into superb musicians. Broszi, a master drummer, referred to himself as ‘“The Percussionist,” as though on the entire planet Earth, he alone played the drums. Moreover, Paul, a virtuoso of the violin, often bragged that no one could "percuss like Brosz." On the other hand, often referring to Paul as “The Violinist,” The Percussionist frequently claimed that Paul "invented the strings."

In their early years, Broszi had continuously prodded Paul to form his own orchestra. "I don't have the patience to lead one, Paul, but you do. I'll be your percussionist, and I'll help any other way I can."

Finally, The Paul Perrello Orchestra was organized. Orchestras usually employed "wind" leads, but Paul's violin led their group. The orchestra's sound instantly captivated immigrant and ethnic Italians, expanding to general audiences, until it was in popular demand throughout several states, and much of nearby Canada.

Though he never used the term, The Violinist was an agnostic. He claimed that no one could know that a God really existed. He even attempted, unsuccessfully, to prevent his wife, Sara - who was devoutly faithful to her religion - from attending church. Only through her perseverance was Joey, their infant son, baptized.

Broszi, however, did attend church. An irrepressible jokester, he often teased Paul about his anti-religious views. It was a liberty Paul accorded only to him. That is, until an altercation about orchestra affairs when, in exasperation, The Percussionist branded Paul a stubborn heathen, hoping he would burn in hell.

Broszi had never seen the slim, five-foot-seven, normally mild-mannered, Violinist so livid. Fulminating at the burly, six-foot-three Broszi, Paul erupted!

"You impious hypocrite; you’re lucky we're friends!! You’re worst than any heathen! Your act holy in church, but I see what you do on the outside. If Grace knew what you do when we’re out of town, you wouldn’t have a family left.

"If there was a God, He wouldn’t let you make such a fool out of Him, the way you do. If one does exist, you’d be in your grave right now. He would have struck you dead a long time ago! I'll tell you this, you big phony; if I knew that there really was a God I’d serve Him the right way, not like you pretend to do."

Turning to leave, Paul added, "Don't you ever mention religion to me again - not ever! Is that clear?"

Then he stalked away!

Taken aback, Broszi feared he had destroyed their friendship. He and Paul had argued before, but never like this. They were just brotherly spats. And Paul never had reacted this way – eyes blazing, fists clenched and voice menacing.

Reflecting on the argument, Broszi realized Paul's charges were true. Out of town with the orchestra, he partied excessively, gambled, and was not above easy flirtations, things his wife, Grace, didn't know. A good family man, Paul did none of these things. Moreover, he always was ready to help others. It was a matter of honor for him never to renege on his word, and his friends claimed that Paul's word was "like money in the bank."

Broszi apologized almost immediately, but for weeks afterward, they conversed only when unavoidable. Eventually, the gulf narrowed, and then closed. The old camaraderie resurfaced, with their mutual concern for each another. And it was that concern over The Percussionist’s two inexplicable absences from rehearsals that now brought Paul to Broszi's door.
** **
Chapter Two

Home alone, The Percussionist was thrilled to see his friend. "Paul! Come in! Come in! I've been expecting you!"

Surrendering his hat and coat, The Violinist noticed that Broszi appeared well.

"You've been expecting me?"

"Yes! Yes! I've been praying for God to send you, so you could hear what happened to me."

Paul groaned in disgust. "Oh no! I'm here because I was worried about you, and you joke around! Get my things; I'm leaving! Be at rehearsal tomorrow - without the jokes!"

Broszi sought to placate Paul's indignation. "Please Paul, I beg you, don't leave. It's no joke. I have been praying. Stay; let me tell you what happened."

Gradually, Paul's indignation melded with curiosity. He had never heard Broszi begged before. He seemed different, somehow. Accepting the proffered chair, The Violinist responded apprehensively, "O.K. Brosz, but, this better be good!"

Over coffee, Broszi began. “I’m born again, Paul. I’m going to a church that teaches right from the Bible.” As he spoke, he told of the things he had learned. Then he exclaimed excitedly, "Paul, I never knew these things were in the Bible. I'm saved!”

Unfamiliar with the terms "born again," and "saved," Paul grunted incredulously. What in the world was Broszi talking about? He was sure that, like him, The Percussionist had never even held a Bible, much less read from one.

“Brosz, I don’t know what in the world you’re talking about. Either you’re drunk, or this really is another one of your nutty jokes. And, believe me, when I say “nutty,” I mean like a fruitcake!”

"Wait, Paul. Just hear me out. I know you’d love the music in this church. It has a big orchestra – all the winds and strings, two pianos, an organ, accordions!"

Then, in a voice bordering on awe, he added, "And percussions, Paul. This church even has percussions in the orchestra. Can you believe it?"

A look of sheer scorn contorted Paul’s features. Now he was sure Broszi was pulling another of his practical jokes. Drums in a church? Did Broszi really expect him to swallow this line?

Lifting a hand for silence, he emphatically declared, "Enough, Brosz. So this is another of your stupid religious jokes, eh? You know what I told you about this garbage."

"But it's all true, Paul; the services are in Italian. The people sing and are so happy. They even clap to the music. Oh, the prayers and song, Paul; they’re just beautiful! You should hear those people sing and pray. They sing and talk to God like He's standing right there in front of them."

The earnestness on Broszi's face baffled Paul; it shouldn't be there. This was a joke.

Reaching across the table, Broszi gripped Paul's wrist, his voice reverent, "Paul, I know you won't believe this either, but the preacher asks people to get saved. He prayed with me and Grace. We've been saved. You and Sara should get saved, too. Grace and I have been praying for you both to get saved.”

This was more than Paul could take. Now Broszi was "saved”!

“So you’re saved. How are you saved - in a trunk? Or maybe in a bank? How about Fort Knox? Now, there’s a good place to be saved. I think the banging of your drums has finally driven you batty. What you really need to be saved from is your nuttiness! That’s what I think!”

Standing, Paul asked for his things. Slipping into them, in a voice full of concern, he said, "Broz, at first I thought you were kidding. Now I'm not so sure you are. I don't even know what you’re talking about, and neither do you. For once, I really hope this is one of your stupid jokes.

“But if you really believe all this malarkey you just fed me, then you’re bonkers. You really need to see a head doctor. I’m serious about that. If you make an appointment with one, I’ll even keep you company when you go. Anyway, I'm leaving, now."

Paul aimed for the door, but Broszi instantly moved to block his path. Gripping the knob, he remarked, "Just one more thing, Paul, I'm leaving the orchestra."

Paul’s jaw dropped; Broszi never had threatened this before. The group was as much his as Paul's. The Percussionist knew this; his love for it equaled that of The Violinist.

At a loss for words, the Paul stammered, "B... B... But, w... w... why? We've disagreed before. The group is as much yours as mine. Even, though you’re crazy, no one can percuss like you. Just don't talk to me about religion. I’ve told you that before. That's not too much to ask, is it? Be at rehearsal tomorrow. Just leave all your religious talk home."

"No, Paul. I won't be there; really. I've given up that kind of life. You know what a hypocrite I’ve been. You’ve told me often enough.”

"Aw, come on, Brosz! You know I say that when I get mad at you for talking about religion. It’s just talk."

"I know; but you were right, Paul. Anyway, I'm quitting because my talent belongs to God, now."

Paul felt bile surging in his throat. "Look, just let me leave," he demanded.

"Will you visit the church?"

"I said, let me leave, Brosz!"

"You can't leave until you promise to go to church with me!"

Now Paul was certain Broszi's mind was gone. "Open this door, Brosz," he fumed.

“Not till you give me your word you’ll to church with me.”

Paul didn't know what to do. He could never really strike Broszi; they’d been friends too long. Anyway, The Percussionist was a lot bigger than he was. He tried prying Broszi’s hand from the knob. The grip was too strong.

“Let me leave!”

"Not without your promise that the next time we meet, you'll go with me!" Broszi demanded.

Seeing no other alternative, the flabbergasted Violinist finally surrendered. Hotly, he answered, almost yelling, "O.K; O.K! But it’s got to be an accidental meeting. You can’t meet me anywhere you’ll know I’ll be?”

"Agreed!” And the door swung open.

Then, with a brutal detachment, Paul spoke the words neither of them ever thought possible. Face hardened into a scowl, he spaced them deliberately, punctuating each word with a finger jabbed in Broszi’s chest. "From this day on, our friendship is ended. No longer are we brothers!”

And feeling as though his heart had been torn from him, The Violinist stepped through the door!

Chapter Three

When he arrived home from his visit to Broszi, Paul paced the floor absorbed in thought. Sara surmised that something had happened, but asked no questions, waiting for him to speak. Finally, he told her everything.

"If he hadn't quit I could have overlooked everything else," he exclaimed, "Friends always have their differences. We always got over them before. Sure he teased me; but I teased him too. What really makes me mad is his quitting.

"Now he's religion crazy! He's so holy he can't play in the orchestra any more. 'I've given up the kind of life I use to lead,' he told me; like he's joining a monastery; like, all of a sudden, his God is going to strike him dead for being in the orchestra. Can you imagine that?"

Then, waggling one of his forefingers at his wife, he declared: "Believe me, honey, if his God wanted to strike Broszi dead, He has more reasons than I can count. He doesn't need the orchestra as a reason.

Lowering his hand, he continued, "You know, if he had stayed, he would have pestered me to visit that church with him. Nincompoop that I am, I probably would have gone - just to make him happy."

Sara looked up from her ironing with a scowl. She was shocked that Broszi and his family had "changed religion." According to her view, what their former friends had done was unforgivable. They were heretics.

"Don’t you dare!" she exclaimed, "I'm glad he quit. Don't you ever go to that church, even if you do see him again."

"Don't worry, Sara," her husband assured her, "I told him it has to be an accidental meeting. In a city this size that will never happen!"
** **
The new drummer was working out fine and the orchestra was doing as well as ever. Yet, for Paul things weren't the same. A malignant tumor had developed on Sara's neck. The doctors wanted to operate, but refused to offer assurances.

As he surmised, the chance of an accidental meeting with Broszi in a city of some two million people was remote. He hadn't seen The Percussionist for several months. Though still angry with him, it felt strange not to have him as his confidant. He knew the big man and his wife would have been as concerned for Sara as he was. Paul missed them.

Like now for instance - before the rift, he would have asked Broszi to drive downtown with him, to help shop for this expensive orchestra equipment. They would have consulted together on the best quality. And, possibly, they would have picked up Sara and Grace for dinner. Instead, Paul went alone.

After making arrangements for the delivery of his purchases, Paul entered the parking lot. He noticed a book store had opened across the street. An avid reader, he walked over and entered the well-stocked shop. Like him, several others also appeared to be checking it out, but Paul paid them no notice. At the rear he noticed shelves and bins filled with hundreds of old books. Old books were his hobby.

He had been browsing for a while, when someone brushed against him. Making an apology, without looking up, he moved to clear the passage.

"Hello Paul." The Violinist tensed, but kept his eyes glued to his book. That voice was unmistakable!

Again, the voice spoke. "Hello Paul."

This time Paul turned. The big man's hand was extended for a handshake, but Paul did not reciprocate. Remaining silent, he noticed Broszi looked well. The season was warm and, like Paul, he wore slacks and a sport shirt.

Withdrawing his hand, Broszi inquired about Sara. “Grace and I heard about Sara. Our whole church is praying for her to get well.”

Still Paul's silence continued, creating an atmosphere of awkwardness. “There he goes talking about religion again,” he silently mused.

When at last he spoke, it was with cutting sarcasm. "Did your God tell you I was here, or did you sniff me out on your own?"

"This meeting is completely accidental, Paul. You know I’d never lie to you."

Paul knew that was true. Broszi had a lot of faults, but lying wasn’t one of them - if deceiving his wife wasn’t factored into the equation. At any rate, Sara was the only one who knew that he had gone out. More to the point, he had not known about the new book store, so how could Broszi know he would be there?

"I suppose now you expect me to visit that church of yours," he bitterly observed.

"No Paul. What I did was wrong. I was totally out of line. It's a wonder you didn't hit me. I told my pastor what I did, and he said I was wrong to force that promise from you.”

“Well, at least he has more sense than you do,” Paul replied.

“I was wrong, Paul. I release you from your promise."

"Oh! You were wrong. And, you release me from my promise. How kind you are."

Ignoring orchestra leader’s dripping sarcasm, The Percussionist responded, "Yes, I was wrong. I have no excuse, Paul, except maybe my ignorance. Please forgive me."

Paul stared, slack jawed. To his astonishment, Broszi’s eyes were brimming with tears. In all the years they had chummed together, the only time Paul had ever seen his former friend cry since childhood, was when he and Grace almost lost their son to a swimming accident. Even then, the brawny man hid in a corner. But, these tears were flowing openly; in public.

The Violinist felt uneasy - plagued by vague sense of cruelty. His sarcasm dissolved.

Again, The Percussionist’s hand was proffered. This time it was grasped. Pulling the smaller man to him, Broszi embraced him, and Paul could feel tears welling in his own eyes.

Releasing him, Broszi stated, "Paul, Grace and I really miss you and Sara. Can we visit you?"

"No, I don't think that's such a good idea. Frankly, Sara wants nothing to do with you since you changed religion."

Broszi nodded his understanding.

"Brosz . . . about . . . that . . . promise,” Paul began hesitantly, “I . . . I . . . just . . . I just . . . Well, you know that I always try to keep my promises, and I wouldn’t feel right about not keeping this one,” The Violinist finally blurted out, “I've been limiting the orchestra to local gigs because of Sara's treatments. So I have a few open nights. When's your next mass?"

"Our church is having services every night for two weeks. They start at seven-thirty. I really want you to attend, but not because of the promise."

At first, Paul stared at Broszi with openmouthed disbelief. Then his words fairly exploded from him, "EVERY NIGHT! YOU’RE GOING TO CHURCH EVERY NIGHT?”

Apparently, still befuddled at his own sweeping change of life-style, Broszi responded, "Yeah Paul, ain’t that a kicker; who’d of believed it?"

Paul shook his head in bewilderment. "Give me directions to the church. I'll meet you there tonight, so I can get that promise out of the way."

Broszi wrote out the directions. "I'll be waiting in front of the church," he promised. And, with a final handshake, the two separated.
** **
Chapter Four

Convincing himself that it was best not to upset Sara,
Paul left the house without informing her of his
destination. His evenings usually were occupied with the
orchestra, so she thought nothing of his leaving. Still, he could feel his conscience twinge. He and Sara never kept secrets from each other; this was a first.

The spacious church parking lot already was filled to capacity when he arrived. So were the near-by curb spaces, forcing The Violinist to park a distance from the church - a fact that surprised him. He entertained a vague concept that Brosz was involved with a small cult.

He found Broszi waiting expectantly. In front of the church - up the steps - even in the foyer, with exclamations of joy, women hugged women, and men embraced men. Never - not even on the orchestra’s most festive gigs - had The Violinist seen people who appeared so happy to see each other.

Broszi also hugged his way toward the sanctuary, often pausing to say in Italian, "This is my best friend, Paul Perrello. We've been like brothers since we were kids. Please continue to remember his wife, Sara, in prayer; she needs healing."

Paul was overwhelmed by the solicitude these strangers voiced for Sara. Several even promised to pray daily for her healing. None of his friends ever voiced such compassion.

"Thank you; thank you," he graciously responded, "I appreciate your concern."
** **
The Conclusion

Sara was in attendance at Paul’s “heretic” church under protest. Her husband shamed her into attending, to have baby Nina prayed for. Nina had a serious case of pneumonia and the doctor had said there was nothing more that could be done for her.

“Even if there’s a slight chance that God will heal Nina, you won’t take it away from her, will you?,” Paul asked his wife, “You wouldn’t let the kind of church it is stand in the way of a chance for the baby to be healed, would you?”

How could Sara refuse Laura such a chance, even if it meant she was committing a mortal sin by attending a heretic service?

The church was crowded to overflowing; however, Sara thought nothing of it. Her own church was a large one; moreover, as the wife of a musician, and a woman who loved to party and dance, she was accustomed to large gatherings. It was the service that bewildered her; she couldn’t relate it to anything she ever before experienced. She found the music and singing exhilarating, realizing now, that Paul did not exaggerate when he told her that the music in this church was “fantastic.”

Mostly, it was the kind of praying these people did that astonished her. It was a strange kind of praying. The man behind the pulpit made a remark and the congregation - Paul included - rose to its feet, turned and knelt between the pews. Not Sara, however. She remained uncompromising, sitting rigidly at attention, cradling Laura.

After several voices in succession uttered what Sara took to be prayers, one man close by spoke right out loud in a language she knew was like no Italian she had ever heard. The man’s voice subsided and an expectant hush fell on the gathering. Then, from several pews away, a women voice spoke out in English, “You are seeking to enter heaven by following a religion, but no religion will get you there. Jesus Christ said that He is the way, the truth, and the life. No one can come to God, the Father, without going through Jesus Christ. Only Jesus can lead you to eternal life.

“You have come to this service tonight only to receive healing for your child, yet God will also heal you from the terrible tumor that afflicts you. But, your soul also needs to be healed from your sins and your doubts and fears. Tonight you shall be born again by God’s Holy Spirit and you shall become a new person. God will fill you with his Holy Spirit and you shall witness to many others of the wondrous things Jesus Christ has done for you.”

It was a flabbergasted violinist’s wife who sat through the offering and the message that followed. Just before the preaching ended, Sara turned to Paul with a puzzled look. She whispered, “A voice in my head keeps saying that I’ll saved and healed and filled with the Holy Spirit tonight. That’s the same thing that woman said would happen to me. I don’t know what that all means. I’m scared. Let’s leave here.”

Paul took her hand and whispered back, “But, God is going to do it, so it should be fine. You want Laura to be healed, don’t you? If we leave now, she won’t be prayed for.”

With an uneasy look, Sara nodded.
** **
The alter call was given. The minister progressed down the long line of supplicants, finally reaching Sara, Laura cradled in her arms, Paul and Grace behind them. Addressing her in perfect English, the minister inquired, “Are you saved?”

“I believed in God,” Sara responded, defensively.

“But are you saved? Have you received Jesus Christ as your own personal Savior?” he persisted.

“I really don’t understand what you mean. I said I believe in Jesus.”

“You must receive Him into your heart and life, personally,” the minister explained, “You must believe that He died to save you from the power of sin, and that He rose from the grave to give you eternal life. When you confess that, He will save you from your sins.”

“But I already believe all those things. My own religion taught them to me when I was only a little girl. Anyway, I’m not a bad person. I’m not a sinner.”

“Do you read the Bible?”

Sara shrunk back in horror. “No! Never! I would never do something like that! My church taught me that I could never understand what that book says. My husband just started to read it, but I don’t want him to. I try to stop him, but he won’t listen to me. He shuts himself in the bathroom, so I can’t stop him from reading it.”

The minister prayed for her, lightly touching her brow. Instantly, her legs buckled, and Grace grabbed Laura!

Covered by a blanket, arms lifted, eyes closed, oblivious to her surroundings, Sara sang to the Lord in songs so soul-stirring, that other worshipers wept.

Not Paul, though!

Stunned, he watched Sara’s tumor diminish, and then vanish. Informed by Grace that Laura's fever was gone, he just gapped, slack-jawed. But, oblivious to time and surroundings, Sara continued her song.

When, finally, she opened her eyes and attempted to speak, melodic tunes were all she could utter. This lasted for several days, then the phenomenon ceased. Afterward, Paul brought Sara and the baby to their physician, informing him of the miracles. Having no other alternative, the doctor pronounced that Sara's tumor had spontaneously disappeared, and that Laura also was cured.

Now Paul knew God existed, and that He answered prayer. Telling his orchestra he was leaving, he gave all orchestral rights to his assistant, Frank, consecrating his own music to God. Paul and Sara zealously witnessed of God and His Son, Jesus Christ. They gave their testimony to all who would listen.

Conducting street meetings in Sara’s hometown, brought persecution to the couple. Though they never attended their own church, Sara’s conversion devastated her parents. Even her healing failed to move them. Her brother, with whom she had been exceptionally close, slapped her across the face and disowned her as his sister.

Paul fared no better with his family. His six brothers and two sisters wanted nothing more to do with them. Paul’s mother, a plain Italian woman with extremely poor vision, always before had treated Sara as her own daughter. Immediately after Paul’s marriage, mother-in-law and daughter-in-law bonded into a loving relationship. Now Paul’s siblings told their mother that Paul and Sara had “lost their minds.” They insisted that she stay away from them because they might harm her.

The persecution did not last, however. Within a decade, Sara’s brother was born again. So, were Paul’s mother and three of his brothers, with their entire families.

Both Paul and Sara continued to give glory to Jesus Christ, who redeemed them and who answered the prayer of a former agnostic violinist.
-30-
© Josprel
josprel@yahoo.com

Comments

Bread uopn the Waters: by Josprel

Thu, 26 Apr 2007 22:04:49 +0200

BREAD UPON THE WATERS

Josprel

His name was Dwain and he was twenty-six years old. As an infant, he lost his soldier father on a battlefield. Everyone who knew his Oriental mother, praised her as a wonderful Christian. She had done her best to instill this quality in her son. In most respects, she succeeded. Sadly, in his early teens, she died, too. Then, he had no one but himself.

After completing high school, Dwain joined the army. At first, he did well as a communications specialist, but the drug culture ensnared him. His habit reached a point where he was hospitalized and, because of the severity of his habit, an army medical center attempted a cure; it failed. Transferred to a veteran's hospital, Dwain subsequently received a medical discharge.

A barroom brawl was instrumental to our introduction. I learned later such fights were routine for him. This time, though, after he was bounced from the bar, he ran into someone from our church and invited him to a service. On that first visit the compelling warmth displayed by our congregation captivated him. And that's when my wife, Marie, and I met him.

We learned that Dwain had no home, no place to sleep and no real friends. Rudderless and without purpose, he just drifted with the current. When we invited to spend the night at our home, he hesitated, but then agreed; and he remained with us for some three months. Neat and clean and considerate, he helped with the chores whenever he could. He never hesitated to join our devotions, and attended the services regularly, eventually making a commitment to Christ. He studied the Bible and was a consummate questioner. Baptism especially, intrigued him. He inquired into it, but felt unready to go deeper.

During his time with us, he remained drug-free and we rejoiced. Then, one night, Marie awakened from a sound sleep, sensing that something was wrong. She went downstairs where she found him on a couch, fast asleep. A burner on our electric kitchen stove was on high heat. On it, the bottom of a cooking pot was near its melting point. Marie turned off the burner, carefully removed the pot, and returned to bed without disturbing him.

When we told Dwain of the incident the next morning, he showed a deep remorse. All he could recall was having attended a party with some old acquaintances, who offered him drugs which he accepted; after that, everything was a blank. He wanted to serve the Lord, he said, but couldn't kick his habit without help. He thought of attending Teen Challenge, doubting he would be accepted because of his age. Our church supported Teen Challenge and was an advising pastor for our local center. However, I thought it best for him to apply to a center other than ours. I made inquiries, and the compassionate staff of the Teen Challenge center in another city accepted Dwain. They had ministered to him for three weeks when I received a call from them informing me that he left, complaining about the rules. We never saw Dwain again. Inquiries were made, without success. Heartsick, we finally committed him to the Lord.

Shortly thereafter, we left that city for a new pastorate. Four years passed, and we often wondered what became of Dwain. One day, the phone rang and, there he was, on the other end - hundreds of miles away! He said that he still felt the love our church demonstrated toward him. He had tried to contact us, and learned we had moved. Repeated attempts to trace us had been fruitless. Then, he met someone who knew us, received our phone number and called us.

After leaving Teen Challenge, he said, he felt he that he failed us and, for several months, he just drifted. Realizing he had to come to terms with the Lord, he eventually admitted himself to a veteran's hospital drug program, started attending church, and re-dedicated himself to Christ.

How victorious Dwain sounded! The hospital had released him more than two years before, although he still was an outpatient. He now worked full-time in the communications field. He said he found a home church like ours where he met a born-again young woman. They both were serving the Lord and faithfully attending services.

Our eyes were moist when Marie and I hung up the phone. We had just received confirmation that what that wise preacher wrote in Ecclesiastes 11:1 is true. When we cast our bread upon the waters, we do find it after many days - often multiplied many fold!

-30-

© Josprel (Joseph Perrello)
josprel@yahoo.com

Josprel resides in Western New York - just across the Niagara River from Canada. Josprel was among the first Air Force troops to enter Japan . He served three years in the Air Force, two and one half years on overseas duty, as a sergeant of operating engineers. Upon separation from service, he studied theology under the G.I Bill of Rights and holds a Master of Theology degree. A prolific writer, many of Josprel's stories and articles have appeared in print and on the Internet. He is the author of two novels in progress, "Beloved Apostate" and "Kanfal."

Comments

The Haunting of Bowen Corners: by Josprel

Thu, 26 Apr 2007 06:57:26 +0200

The Haunting of Bowens Corners
by
Josprel

Chapter One

The day started off ordinarily enough. That is, until a bevy of teen-aged girls stampeded into the kitchen of High Sheriff Loren Kregs’ farmhouse. One of them, Swanna Wendler, belied her incredible announcement by her calm demeanor.

"We saw a ghost in the cemetery!" she coolly declared. However, the other girls appeared terrified.

When the girls burst into the house, Loren’s wife, Verony, almost dropped the cake she was icing. Loren would have felt its loss. Due to the World War II sugar shortage, the cake condemned him to weeks of bitter coffee substitute. Tomorrow, the first Sunday of June, 1944, decked with creamy frosting, it would grace a dessert table at the annual church dinner. What a time for an intrusion; just when he was about to lick the icing bowl.

Summer workers from the Jarvan farm, the intruders walked past the sheriff’s home most Saturday nights, hiking the two miles to Collins for a movie and soda. Always returning in darkness, they used his veranda as a halfway rest stop. Some ten minutes earlier, after walking home in company with the boys from the farm, the couple's only child, sixteen-year-old Marty "Butch" Kregs, had announced his arrival with his customary slam of the screen door. He then scaled the steps to his bedroom two at a time. Drawn back down by the excited voices, he now stood on the bottom landing, observing the girls mob his father's strapping frame.

Retaining vestiges of the blithe, college, football hero he once was, fortyish Loren was informal to a fault. A stickler that his deputies be fully uniformed and armed, he hardly ever conformed to his own code. He went without a tie and sidearm, wore various combinations of official and civilian garb, kept his sleeves rolled to above the elbows, and almost never observed protocol; nevertheless, his badge always was prominently displayed, the only visible proof of his office.

Despite these quirks, he held the deep respect of his constituency, especially that of his deputies. Now, however, the brawny, six-foot-three sheriff seemed like a befuddled giant besieged by Lilliputians. His perplexity at being pressed by the budding girls was decoded by his sonsy wife, who noticed his long fingers combing through his receding ash blond hair. Removing her apron, she sauntered to the group.

"Quiet!" The girls turned in astonishment. Even Loren's baby-blue eyes expressed shock.

"Wait in the parlor!" Meekly, the visitors filed from the kitchen, followed by Butch.

Amused, Verony teased, "Your rescued, sheriff. Grab some glasses. I'll get refreshments."

The girls flopped on an enormous oriental rug that centered the spacious parlor. Delegating the glasses to Butch, Loren eased himself into the flowery patterns of a deeply cushioned sofa. When Verony was settled next to him, he asked, "What happened?"

The response exploded from Swanna, "Are you deaf, Mr. Kregs? I told you! There's a ghost in the cemetery!"

"Whoa! Watch your tongue!"

"I'll speak as I wish, Mr. Kregs!" Swanna's searing stare would have curdled the milk of an entire dairy herd. Her nose wrinkled, as though Loren had halitosis.

Loren turned to the others. "Maybe what you saw was a dog or a . . ."

"Don't ignore me, Mr. Kregs! It was a ghost! Do something about it!"

Verony saw Loren's jaws clench. Her touch checked him. "Please listen, Swanna," she requested.

"Owls hunt in the cemetery.” Loren continued, “They . . ."

"I said it was a ghost, Mr. Kregs; all in white! Do something!"

Loren threw up his hands. Discretion advised him to close the interview before he did something that might end his career. He nudged Butch, who was sitting on a sofa arm, infatuation for Swanna etched on his face. "Did you boys pull a prank?"

Embarrassed at being caught with a puppy-dog look on his face, Butch only shook his head.

"Okay, girls. Butch'll drive you home."

"It really was a ghost, Mrs. Kregs," one of the girls whimpered.

"The sheriff will check into it, Debbie. Won't you dear?"

Verony's hazel eyes telegraphed the response she expected. Loren’s were eyes were saturnine. He nodded.

"Why would you blame Butch, Mr. Kregs?" Swanna asked.

"Into the truck, Swanna."

"I'll walk, Mr. Kregs."

"Get in now!"

"You needn't shout! I'm going!"

Chapter Two

Friendly, outgoing Loren Kregs was born on his parents 200 hundred acre farm, one-quarter mile from the intersection of Bowen and Versailles roads; Bowen Corners. He loved the place; nonetheless, after earning an advanced degree in criminology, he entered law enforcement and then married, Verony, his high school sweetheart. When Loren inherited the farm, they moved into its rambling house and, with the outbreak of war, the land was rented to Dwain and Ken, the eldest sons of Loren's alter ego, Roger Jarvan.

In renting the acreage, the Jarvans were complying with the government’s request for increased farm production. By renting Loren’s land more than doubled the yield of their farm. However, the war had caused a farm labor shortage. Planting the added acreage was tinged by the concern of finding enough workers for the harvest. So like other farmers, each spring the Jarvans recruited city women with teen-age children to gather crops, trucking them, together with furnishings, to hastily built, farm shanty communities. There they lived while they gathered crops until the beginning of the next school year.

In addition to his law enforcement duties, Loran served as a member of the local draft board, a position that often impacted his attitude toward the youth. Throughout his long tenure as sheriff, he always was markedly tolerant with kids, often to the exasperation of the victims of their high-spirited monkeyshines. Now, the war made him more so. The front windows of several Cayuga County homes displayed gold stars, indicating a member killed in action. A lump filled his throat whenever he saw one; he knew most of the boys those stars represented.

The death of Daniel Mancione, the county's first gold star casualty, especially devastated Loren. Not waiting to be drafted, after high school, Marcione enlisted in the Air Force. A mathematics wiz he trained as a navigator, received his wings and an officer’s commission, then was sent to England. Not long after, while returning from a mission, his bomber attempted a landing with two engines in flames. It exploded, killing its entire crew.

Before the war, the high-spirited, prankish Marcione often served “The Kregs Alternative,” a program of the Sheriff's Department. Subscribed to by all of the county justices and the district attorney, it permitted kids to make restitution and perform community service, in lieu of the more serious consequences that could result from their inoffensive pranks, inadvertently gone awry. Thus their records remained unblemished.

There were other things Loren recalled about Danny Marcione: he never was disrespectful to his elders. He always accepted his discipline without complaint, never denying that he deserved it. Moreover, he fulfilled his Alternative assignments to the best of his ability. Yes, Danny was a high-spirited kid, who loved to play pranks. Yet, they always were done in a spirit of innocent fun. And if he was caught, he accepted the consequences with a good-natured grin.

Swanna, though, was a new experience for Loren: it was the first time during his service as sheriff that any kid ever defied him. As he now watched through the screen door, he noticed only she was occupied the wide truck cab with Butch. He understood the boy's infatuation. The girl was gorgeous. Too bad her attitude didn't match.

Loren was sure it was an animal the girls had seen. It also was possible they were victims of heightened imaginations. What did city kids know of dim roads rimmed by swaying shadows, or of nocturnal animals prowling dark fields in search of a meal, or of a muted moon shadowed by wind-swayed trees? They easily could have been fooled.

“Me investigate a ghost!” he bellowed to Verony, “I’ll be put in a loony bin if I go to a cemetery searching for a ghost?”

Verony was amused. "I'll go with you, honey, so you won’t be alone in your loony bin.”

“You think it’s funny!” Loren sullenly responded. We’ll see how funny it is come Election Day and I’m laughed out of office!”

“Honey, how did we get all the way from girls who were frightened by a boys’ prank, to your loosing the election for checking out a complaint about the old cemetery?” Verony chided.

Loren assumed a hangdog look. “If rudeness was a crime, Swanna'd get life in Alcatraz!" he muttered, "Okay, let's go,"

Chapter Three

As usual on Tuesday mornings, the large, round table at the rear of Frank's Country Kitchen was surrounded by an informal gathering of farmers and other locals, including Loren and the Jarvans.

Word of Loren’s graveyard investigation was the current topic and he was the butt of good-natured teasing. Before Loren entered, Frank - the eatery’s corpulent proprietor - and Bob Stroggen, whose large dairy farm straddled Versailles road concocted a prank. Frank waited until Loren and his friends were served, then, poured himself a cup of coffee and joined them.

Assuming a deadpan demeanor, he asked, “Say, sheriff what’s this about a ghost in your house? I hear you’re investigating it. I didn’t know you believed in ghosts!”

“Frank, I’ve taken enough ribbing this morning. Some boys played pranks on some city girls, who told me they saw ghosts in that old graveyard at Bowens Corners. That’s all!”

Grimacing, Loren paused before adding “There aren’t any ghosts.”

Apparently taken aback by Loren’s declaration, Frank responded, “You don’t believe in ghosts, but I sure do! My grandmother used to get rid of them by casting holy spells. She taught me how.”

“Hogwash!”

Bob Stroggen listened attentively. Sensing this was the moment to pull the joke, he called out, “Just a minute, Loren, I’ve been listening to Frank toot his horn about knowing those spells. Let him prove it.”

Loren hand fanned the air. “I haven’t time for this garbage.”

“Come on. Let’s call Frank’s bluff.”

After tossing a graphic gesture, Loren left.

Chapter Four

Loren had dropped by Jarven’s office for a chat. Roger’s son, Mark, also was there, consulting his father on family affairs. "Well, the girls on your place won’t see any more ghosts, no matter what Swanna claims. My problems with her are over.”

"But not ours," Roger responded.

Sporting the logo of a farm machine company, the cap on Roger’s head, when compared to his studious features, was a study in contrast. A homburg would have better suited the public accountant.

Unlike Loren, Roger enjoyed working the family farm; however, selecting the most prestigious scholarship offer his brilliant scholastic achievements had brought him, his parents enrolled him in a university at Boston. He earned a summa cum laude master degree in accounting, and was offered a teaching fellowship by the college. Instead, he chose to open an accounting practice in Collins and married Marcy. Farmers and agribusinesses throughout the state sought Roger’s services. He established numerous branch offices, developing into the state’s foremost authority on farm economics.

Nowadays, sadness hounded the Jarvans. Early last year, a congenital cardiac defect claimed Marcy. Somewhat simultaneously, Tommy, Roger's youngest son, was severely wounded while serving as a naval officer in the South Pacific. His wounds prompted the Navy to delay informing him of his mother's death, until he was approved for furlough. Home on leave now, tormented by a profound melancholy, he blamed himself for his mother’s death.

Loren realized the last thing the Jarvans needed were added problems from a spoiled city brat. His brows knitted. "Why isn't your problem with Swanna over?"

"The mothers asked us to drive the girls from town every Saturday. Swanna said she'd rather walk. Now all the girls want to walk. Their mothers are fuming!" Mark explained.

"You mean the girls won't ride the truck without Swanna?"

Receiving a dejected nod, Loren combed his fingers through his hair, and then asked, "Tell me what you know about her.”

Chapter Five

Given to three-piece, pin-striped suits, and always one to assume a posture of hauteur superiority toward others, Mr. Wendler was putty in Swanna’s hands; he doted on her. An only child, she was tutored at home by the best teachers his millions could hire. Knowing mostly the company of snobbish adults, she acquired the demeanor of one who viewed those outside her social standing as one views a cockroach needing extermination. Manure-smelling boots had a better chance of acceptance by Swanna, than someone she disliked!

The girl’s demeanor was that of one much older than her sixteen years; even so, she was badly spoiled. Like those of her father, her dealings with the household staff were tyrannical and haughty. Outside of the family’s ear-shot, the staff referred to her as, “Miss Bully-Two-Shoes.”

Indeed, Swanna was in defacto control of the Wendler household. Her every whim was granted by her misguided, over-indulgent, snob of a father, in whose opinion Swanna could do no wrong. So Mrs. Wendler didn’t stand a snowball’s chance in Hades when Miss Bully-Two-Shoes decreed that her loyalty to her country required that she and her mother harvest crops for the war effort.

“Our boys are fighting for our country,” she announced to her father, “They need food! My tutor said there’s a shortage of harvest workers. Some of his students will pick crops for the war effort. I think Mother and I should help, too.”

Her features haunted by an inner anxiety, Mrs. Wendler gave her husband a smile of mute appeal. “We don’t have the ability for that kind of work. We can help our boys by working for the Red Cross or helping out at a U.S.O. canteen. That way . . .”

Swanna went spastic! Raking her mother with a keep-your-mouth-shut glare, she stamped her feet, hysterically shrieking, at the highest octave she could manage. “I want to pick crops! You’re a traitor!”

Swanna put her arms around her father, lowering her tone to a pitiable whimper. Through pouty lips, she pleaded, “Daddy, make mommy go to a farm with me this summer. I want so much to help the war effort.”

Mr. Wendler stared adoringly at Swanna, then, fixed cold eyes on his wife. “See how you’ve upset the poor dear? All she wants is help our servicemen. It’s wonderful she’s willing to pick crops.”

With a backhanded gesture of disgust, Mr. Wendler declared, “Well, you’re going! The country air will do you both worlds of good! I’ll visit you from time to time. My secretary will make arrangements.”

That did it! Mrs. Wendler’s summer fate was sealed.

Chapter Six

Mrs. Wendler soon became overwhelmed by the grueling harvest schedule. After one week, she phoned home, telling her husband that a limousine be sent to take her home.

“Does Swanna want to leave?” he asked.

“What difference does that make? I want to leave,” Mrs. Wendler shot back. “I’m all aches and pains. Send a car right away.”

“Let me speak with Swanna.”

“She’s in town.”

“Does she want to leave?”

“I’m the mother; I want to leave!”

“If Swanna wants to come home, I’ll send a car. Otherwise, you stay. Goodbye.” With that, a telephonic replaced his voice.

In the wake of that call, Mrs. Wendler resigned herself to her summer in purgatory. Though she loved Swanna, she noticed an increasing sense of ambivalence toward her.

Swanna was keenly aware of her assets. When she joined the teens on Saturday night hikes, boys besieged her for dates. She never accepted, choosing instead to keep them in limbo. Toward other girls she behaved as a Cleopatra among handmaidens. Woe to the girl who didn't kowtow to her.

"She tries to control everyone. Even us"

Loren stood to leave. "I know the feeling."

"Please do us a small favor, Loren," Roger requested.

Moving toward the door, Loren listened dubiously. "That’s some small favor!" he exclaimed, dourly. “Why not ask me to do something simple, like arrest Hitler or blow up the Japanese navy?”

Heading for his office, he jaywalked across Main Street against the light, berating himself for not having the guts to say no to Roger’s favor. “The things I do for my friends!”

Chapter Seven

For over a century, the graveyard at Bowen Corners had huddled next to an ancient edifice, as though consoling its occupants, by embracing the abandoned relic that once was their church. A grove butted the building's opposite side, edging Versailles road, and then fronting on Bowen. Not even the brightness of the waxing, gibbous moon revealed the green and white patrol car camouflaged by the prolific vegetation. The officers in the car could think of things they'd rather be doing than this Saturday night, graveyard surveillance. Nonetheless, Loren had promised the Jarvans, and he always kept his word, even when it made him feel as ridiculous as he did now.

With him was Chief Deputy Billy Greenoak. Cayuga County salvaged the cemetery from oblivion by granting Marcy's request that it be her final abode. Her white, marble monument was flanked by a matching bench where visitors could pray and meditate, while reflecting on eternal mysteries.

Tonight, such enigmas occupied neither man's mind. Hunched behind the steering wheel, Greenoak sighed wearily. Each time his cigarette rose, its glow illuminated gaunt features strikingly appropriate to the vicinity. Then, like a spooked firefly, it drifted downward.

"I hear them. What's the time?" Loren asked.

Again, the glow braved Greenoak's features. Retreating to his wrist watch, it then expired between a thumb and forefinger. "Almost ten."

The lawmen positioned themselves behind some shrubbery. The moonlight revealed a troop of boys joshing their way across the intersection. Loren knew the one turning onto Versailles road was Chris Stroggen, heading for home. The boys passed the officers, their rowdiness cresting for several seconds, and then waning.

Singing feminine voices came into earshot. Soon, some twenty girls approached, their songs subsiding as they neared the Corners. By the time they crossed, they were pressing away from the cemetery, to the far side of the road. Not until they again were invisible, did their singing resume.

Loren stood. He was about to return to the car, when Billy leaped up, exclaiming incredulously, "What’s that?"

Close to where the girls had faded, a barely visible white apparition emerged! "Where'd that come from?" Loren asked, disbelievingly.

Billy's lips formed a silent pucker. Brows lifted, hands extended, he slowly shook his head. The hobbling figure turned suddenly, seemed to drift over the near culvert and disappeared.

Billy gasped! "See that?" he blurted, "It floated right over the ditch! They're right! It's a ghost!"

"Don't you go yelling ghost! Get in the car; let's get down there!"

When they reached the spot where the figure vanished, Loren dissolved into sidesplitting laughter. On either side of the road wide, heavy crossovers bridged the culverts. "No crossovers at your place, Billy? Do you just over the ditches?"

Noting Billy’s chagrin, he promised, "I won't tell anyone, Billy. Let’s go; I've got a hunch!"

Chapter Eight

Flashlight darkened, Greenoak tracking close behind, Loren silently moved past the rear of the old church. At the edge of the graveyard, he scanned the headstones. The mysterious figure was seated on Marcy's bench, its mournful voice wafting on the night breeze. Realizing that his suspicion was confirmed, Loren felt like a sinner profaning a benediction. His instant about-face caused a collision with Greenoak, generating loud grunts that brought the figure to its feet.

"Who's there?"

"Loren Kregs and Billy Greenoak. Sorry we disturbed you."

Hobbling closer, the figure stopped, leaning heavily on a cane. It was Tommy Jarvan, wearing the white, summer uniform of a naval Commander. This was only the second time Loren had seen him since his homecoming: if the first time could be considered seeing him. Tommy had retreated to his room when Loren and his family stopped by to visit him. Though he still seemed distant, it was he who broke the awkward silence. "Checking the girls' story, Loren?"

"Yes."

"I was the one they saw."

"Why didn't you say so?"

"You know I'm Dad's black sheep." Tommy's deep voice betrayed an inner agony.

Loren hesitated, before firmly responding. "He asked you to forgive him. I read the letter. You didn't answer; so, what more do you expect from him, Tommy?"

When Tommy gasped, Loren worried he'd gone too far. But Roger and he always were like second fathers to each other's kids. Roger and he were so close, Marcy once observed, that when one felt pain, the other winced. Loren considered Tommy's remarks unfair to Roger.

The exchange also startled Greenoak, leaving the taciturn deputy uncertain of how to react. "Your Mom sure was proud of you, Tommy."

The words ignited an explosion from the officer. "Why, for killing her by joining the Navy?"

"That's enough!” Loren’s stern tone brought Tommy up short, slack jawed.

Loren’s tone softened. “You didn’t kill your mother, Tommy. It’s true she wanted you to continue college, but she had heart problems from the time she was a kid. Your Dad knew it. At first she refused to marry him even though she loved him. But he told her that her illness didn’t change his love for her; he wouldn’t marry anyone else. It took some persuasion on his part, but she finally consented and lived lots longer than the doctors predicted. I think her love for your Dad and you kids kept her going; she didn’t want leave him with motherless children, so she held on until you all were grown. That took loads of love, Tommy.”

Moonlight reflected from the wetness flowing down the cheeks of the young officer. He declined Loren’s offer to drive him home. The lawmen drove most of the way back to town in silence. Arriving at the outskirts, Greenoak observed. "Well, Loren, the mystery's solved."

"Seems so, Billy; seems so.”

Chapter Nine

Tommy Jarven inherited his father's prodigious intellect, without his ties to Collins. He wasn’t yet twenty when he completed college with a summa cum laude, master degree in pharmacology, his passion. His parents wanted him to enter the doctoral program; however, a year before Pearl Harbor, he devastated Marcy and enraged Roger by enlisting in the Navy.

When Roger rebuffed him on his first leave, family contact became limited to correspondence with Marcy. After his graduation from Officers Candidate School, he was commissioned as a pharmaceutical officer. With the outbreak of war, he saw action aboard an aircraft carrier during the Battle of Midway. Shortly thereafter, he slogged ashore at Guadalcanal in command of combat corpsmen attached to the Marines.

For several months he endured Guadalcanal’s nerve-shattering, jungle combat conditions. Then, while crawling under heavy fire, to rescue three Marines being raked by an enemy pillbox, he sustained near fatal wounds. Only the quick action of his own corpsmen saved him. Nonetheless, from hip to toes, his right side suffered the permanent loss of all sensation. It required months of excruciating therapy for him to finally hobble from the hospital, using a cane.

In March of 1944, he returned home on convalescent leave. Tormented by the belief that his rebellion killed his mother, he rejected his father’s explanation that a congenital heart defect had taken her. His graveyard encounter with Loren now prompted him to read her letters, long stashed unopened. Trailing in the wake of his battles, they at last had caught up with him a few days before his leave. In his grief, he had refused to read them.

Just as Loren had said, there was his father's letter asking for his forgiveness. It was mailed just before the landing at Guadalcanal. Reading Marcy's final letters, he noticed the glowing pride Greenoak mentioned. And he detected something else: the subtle confirmation that what he'd been told about her death was true. Under combat conditions, it would have been easy to miss. Yet, there it was, between the lines; her very subtle message, telling him of her chronic tiredness and her desire for a quick end to the war so that they could be together again, but avoiding any mention that an imperfectly formed heart soon would claim her.

"No mother could hope for a better son. I've always been so proud of you. And I’m so very, very proud of the job you’re doing in the Navy, helping to save the lives of so many of our servicemen, so they can return to their families.

“I'll love you throughout eternity, my wonderful, darling son. And I know that God will reunite us in His own time," her last letter concluded. By the time Tommy finished reading it, his tears again were flowing, wetting the pages.

That night, he revisited Marcy's grave, together with Roger, to inform her of their reconciliation. Standing beside her grave with his father, he told her, “I love you, Mom. I’m finally home.”

Chapter Ten

The next morning, while the pickers waited at the shanties for Mark to arrive with the truck, Tommy drove up with Roger and Loren. Swanna alone rejected his explanation about the ghost.

"Another stupid story, Mr. Kregs?" she fumed, "It was a ghost, not this silly Sea Scout . . ."

Mrs. Wendler's forceful shove sent Swanna stumbling backward, until she solidly rear-ended the ground. Face flushed with anger, the mother glared down at her daughter. A pang of guilt plagued Loren when Swanna's gawk of disbelief, enhanced by her blushing embarrassment, increased his estimate of her mother.

Mrs. Wendler's voice dripped with indignation. Stand up right! Apologize this instant!"

The command came through a furious tone. But Swanna was afraid to stand. She just stared up at her who now appeared so formidable. Even Loren calculated that wisdom decreed nonintervention.

"On your feet!" The order was enforced by a forward step. Swanna took several backward pushes with her heels, and scrambled up.

"I told you to apologize!" The mother took another step, and Swanna whimpered a hurried, "I'm sorry."

"For what? Use their names!"

"I'm sorry for what I said, Mr. Kregs."

"He's High Sheriff Kregs!"

Swanna repeated the title, then blubbered, "What do I call the other one?"

"He is Commander Jarvan!"

"I'm sorry for what I said, Commander Jarvan!"

"Now go to the shanty. Stay inside, until I say you may leave!"

Swanna hurled through the crowd and rounded a row of shanties. Vibrating the crisp, morning air, the furious slam of a screen door announced her compliance with her mother’s demand.

"I'm sorry, gentlemen," Mrs. Wendler apologized, struggling to regain her composure.

"It’s not your fault," Tommy said.

With an insipid smile, Loren nodded, and then headed for his car. He was accelerating when a blue stake truck barreled over the crest in the road. Mark flagged him to a crawl. "How'd it go, Loren?"

"Don't ask. You wouldn’t believe it."

Chapter Eleven

Strawberry season blended into bean picking time. Though Swanna constantly yammered to return home, a belated try at discipline by her father continued her demonstration of patriotism. The girls avoided her now. And, Loren noticed an intense hatred consuming her eyes whenever she saw him. Tommy also mentioned being fixed by that malevolent stare.

The night before, Roger had driven him to the Niagara Falls Air Force Base, where Tommy piggybacked a ride on a plane bound for Seattle. No longer eligible for overseas duty because of his severe disability, he was assigned to the post of Chief Pharmaceutical Officer of the Seattle Veterans Hospital, with the rank of Captain.

Loren knew Roger had returned from his trip. He had driven back to Collins in last night’s soaking rainstorm. The stifling mugginess that followed had permeated this second Saturday of August, until it was conquered by the evening breezes.

Enjoying the change, Loren sat with Verony on the front veranda, listening to approaching male voices. Bantering their way from town, the boys from the Jarvan farm entered the circular glow radiating from the driveway lights. Not seeing his son, Loren called out, "Where's Butch?"

"Still at Guggin's, sheriff."

The group's voices receded, and Loren dozed. The sudden silence of the night creatures woke him! Their calls had been replaced by another sound!

Verony moved to the lawn. "Are those screams?"

"Yes! Sounds like girls!"

Growing louder, the cries echoed from the direction of Bowen Corners. "Wait here!" Loren ordered.

"Oh, no! I'm going, too!"

Chapter Twelve

They hadn't driven far when the headlights revealed
three girls, waving frantically. The couple got out and more girls bolted from the darkness. And, moseying calmly behind came Swanna.

Surrounded by the nearly incoherent girls, Verony
demanded to know what had happened. Debbie - usually so timid - managed to stammer, "In graveyard . . . two ghosts! Carrie . . . in ditch!"

A sickening anxiety stabbed Loren's gut. "You mean the culvert?"

"Yes . . . near . . . church!"

A glacial freeze encased his heart! Near the Corners, the culverts deepened to pass under the intersection. After a storm, even large animals occasionally drowned in them. The girl could be dead!

"Get going, Loren!" hurried Verony, her voice quavering. I'll take the girls home in the truck."

"Radio Greenoak first, and phone Doc. Tell them to
watch for my lights. Come with me, Debbie!"

The beam from Loren's spotlights skimmed the shoulder of the road. They were nearing the cemetery when Debbie yelled, "She's there! Over there! She didn't fall in!"

Her finger directed Loren's gaze to what appeared to be a discarded bundle of rags. Inching the car forward, he illuminated the place with the car’s two spotlights. Then, handing the keys to Debbie, he instructed her to bring him the medical kit from the car trunk, and hurried to Carrie.

He found her unconscious, legs dangling over the ditch. Had she revived alone in the dark, the waters would have claimed her - of that, he was sure! Not until he drew her away from the brink did his heart thaw.

Debbie brought the kit, and the smelling salts worked instantly. Carrie bolted upright with a snort and a saucer-eyed stare! She immediately recognized Loren, on his heels next to her. Clamping her arms around his neck, she toppled him into a sitting position, ending up seated in his lap!

Even with Debbie's help, he couldn't break free! And that's when Greenoak arrived, followed by Doc Krastil and Glen, his assistant. They found Cayuga County's High Sheriff sitting on the shoulder of Bowen road. His patrol car illuminated his futile struggles to free himself from the firm embrace of a pretty girl cuddled in his lap. As though vying for his attention, a second girl assisted his efforts.

Seeing the three men practically doubled over from gales of convulsive laughter, Loren bellowed, "Don't just stand there laughing through your teeth! Get her off!"

Carrie's hysteria was obvious, prompting Doc to ask
what had happened. A string of roaring profanities spewed from the enraged High Sheriff! "Stop asking your stupid questions, and get me loose! She's choking me!"

It required a sedative before Glen could pry loose Carrie’s grip on Loren. Doc found her relatively unharmed and prescribed rest for her, until he ordered otherwise. Then Glen drove both girls home.

Billy and Doc turned to Loren in silent expectancy.
Now that his ordeal was over, he stared back with an affected grin. "Okay! I'll tell you!"

Somewhat sheepishly, he apologized for his anger, then explained what happened. "But she really was strangling me!" he rationalized.

"You rescued her, Loren. You’re her hero!" teased Doc.

Loren's hands fanned the air in disgust. "I should of known better than to tell you about it!”

"Seems you’re the one who needed protection, chief!" quipped Billy. "Two ghosts now, huh?"

Loren sidled toward his car. "More like two boys in sheets, I’d say."

Billy left for town with Doc. And, as Loren pulled
away, he fervently hoped that tonight's humiliating fiasco was only a horrible nightmare!

Chapter Thirteen

Loren sat in his office, glumly drumming his fingers on his desk. Having gotten wind of the incident at Bowen Corners, his political opponents had dubbed him, "Lover Boy Kregs." Even the media were capitalizing on the smear!

What had gotten into Butch and Chris? The prank could have cost Carrie her life, not to mention ruin their own! He pushed the thought away. What a mess! Initially, both boys had denied any involvement in the prank. But when Verony returned home from driving the girls to the shanties, she had noticed Butch's muddy shoes by the side steps. He was sitting in the kitchen, nonchalantly munching a sandwich. The muddy shoes and his forced smile had roused her suspicions, so she quizzed him. He claimed his shoes were dirtied while he was roughhousing with Chris.

Loren checked the cemetery the next day. The evidence was irrefutable! One set of muddy tracks led from the graveyard, gradually disappearing in the direction of the Stroggen farm. Another set faded in the direction of the Kregs's home; still, Butch and Chris clung to their story -- until Bob Stroggen discovered the clincher.

At first, Bob had been amused by the prank. But when he learned of Carrie's close brush with death that changed. His wife's puzzlement about two missing sheets prompted him to investigate. He found them deeply buried in one of his haylofts, and the boys confessed.

The possibility that Butch or Chris might someday be serving The Alternative had never occurred to Loren. Greenoak carefully paced those on the program, working them three hours a day, five days a week. Butch and Chris began their three months yesterday, when they washed windows in the County Courthouse. Today they were loading a truck with scrap metal for the war effort. Tomorrow it would be old newspapers, also for the war effort.

Hearing his stomach grumble, Loren stood to leave for Frank's, when his secretary ushered in two visitors. The Army officer was Major Kremple, Chief Military Inspector of Cayuga’s food processing plants. The civilian with him was a stranger. His summer striped suit and paisley bow tie fought vainly to overcome the anonymity of his nondescript features.

"Afternoon Major."

"Afternoon, sheriff. Meet Agent Euler of the FBI."

Loren's eyebrows shot up! He extended his hand, then indicated a brown leather sofa before folding himself into a matching chair.

"Now, how may I help Hoover?"

"Sheriff, there's sabotage in your county!" Euler's monotone was reminiscent of an auctioneer's chant.

Loren gagged. "What! Where!"

Kremple took over. "The cannery's getting rocks in bean sacks from the Jarvan farm! The conveyer system was damaged two weeks ago. You heard?"

Receiving a nod, Kremple continued. "Before arriving, Agent Euler sent a code to secretly mark each worker's sacks. The rocks come from a Mrs. Wendler."

Loren blinked. Know her?” Euler asked.

"I’ve met her. It not her; must be her daughter."

"Why?"

Loren gave a soft snort. "Agent Euler, when you meet Swanna, you'll know why."

Noticing Euler’s puzzled look, he added, "If you'll play along with me, we might pry the truth from her. I'm sure the Jarvans’ll help!"

Chapter Fourteen

The next morning, a astonishing motorcade of six sheriff’s cars, three Army Jeeps, a paddy wagon, an Army sedan, all with wailing sirens and flashing strobe-lights, naked their way along the dirt road that led to the bean field, astonishing the Jarven bean pickers. Several Military Police dismounted, assuming a parade rest stance in front of the weighing area. At the edge of the field, Loren’s deputies faced the workers in a similar stance.

Fully attired in a gray, summer dress uniform, High Sheriff Loren Kregs now advanced. Dark aviator lenses shaded his eyes. And, on each shoulder, four gold stars indicated his rank as the High Sheriff of Cayuga County. A trooper's hat adorned his head, the braided, gold cord around its crown matching a similar frog looped over his left shoulder. Beneath his badge, rows of service ribbons decorated his chest. And his Jodhpur pants, ribboned with gold side stripes, were tucked into spit-polished, police boots. From a wide, black belt hung a glistening holster. And, while his left hand rested on his hip, the other fingered the pistol. Even the MPs snapped to attention at his approach!

"Assemble your workers, Mr. Jarven!" Loren’s command carried across the field. Mark immediately complied.

Now, the occupants of the sedan stepped out: an Army officer and a civilian. "Keep alert, sergeant!" the officer commanded.

"Is there a Mrs. Wendler here?" he shouted,

Heads turned toward an eye-catching, petite woman wearing a white, long-sleeved camise, tucked into a blue, ankle-length, peasant skirt. Blond hair peeked from under an enormous straw hat that shaded eyes already protected by sunglasses. Her fidgety hands, covered by gardening gloves signaled alarm. Appearing equally dismayed, a pretty girl at her side gracefully reached for the woman's arm.

"I'm Mrs. Wendler, gentlemen."

"Please come here, Mrs. Wendler," the civilian ordered, "I'm F.B.I. Special Agent Euler!" he announced, showing his credentials. Mrs. Wendler, I'm taking you into federal custody for treason! Cuff her!"

On seeing Mrs. Wendler in handcuffs, the girl uttered a strangled cry, ending in a hysterical wail. Mrs. Wendler blanched. Noticing the woman’s legs gradually folding, Greenoak reacted instantly. Sweeping the woman into his arms, he sat her on the weighing table and dampened her face from a dipper of water offered held by the sergeant.

Loren introduced Swanna to Euler and Kremple as Mrs. Wendler's daughter. "I’m sure Swanna here had nothing to do with her mother's sabotage of the canning factory."

Swanna's carefully-cultivated tan seemed to lighten by several shades. Loren expected a second volley of shrieks. Instead, she stuttered, "Sab . . . sab . . .," and fell silent.

"I'm so sorry you learned of your mother’s sabotaged of the cannery, this way, Miss Wendler," Euler said. His remark was overheard by Mrs. Wendler. This time the mother’s reaction was ear-splitting!

"Sabotage! I never did such a thing!”

"It’s you, Mrs. Wendler. Rocks were found in your sacks," Kremple responded, "Put her in the paddy wagon."

"Noooo! Noooo! I did it; I did it; I did it!” Like a broken, repetitious phonograph record, Swanna repeated herself until she wound down to a whimper.

"Swanna!" Mrs. Wendler wailed, “How could you!”

Slumped on empty sacks, Swanna pressed her face into her hands. When she looked up, cheeks and forehead smeared by the soiled wetness of her palms, she blubbered, "I'm sorry. I wanted to get even because Commander Jarven made me look stupid."

The Jarvans were flabbergasted. "Is there a Mrs. Wendler here?" Seeing Dwain’s lips purse with anger, Loren put a hand on his shoulder. "I'm okay, Loren," he muttered.

"But why the rocks?" Kremple asked.

"So the cannery wouldn't take their beans."

"Hogwash," Loren scoffed, casting a sidelong wink toward Euler, "She's just protecting her mother."

"No, I really did it, Sheriff Kregs. Butch and Chris helped me carry rocks from the creek. Then Chris would drive me to where I'd be picking and leave them there."

"Baloney; they'd never hurt us," Dwain observed.

"They didn't know what I was doing. Anyhow, they're not angels. When I promised to date them, they scared the girls for me when Carrie fainted."

"So you’re responsible for that, too!" Loren's declared, almost furious, "Carrie could've drowned! I want Agent Euler to arrest you for sabotage! And, if he doesn't, I’ll arrest for attempted manslaughter; you belong in a reform school!”

Terror captured Swann’s features. "But I only wanted to prove there was a ghost!" she wailed.

"Oh, no: please don't arrest her!" Mrs. Wendler pleaded.

Euler drew Loren and Kremple aside. "Well, Sheriff, we did it!"

Loren’s fury diminished into a roguish grin. "Yep, she confessed. She’s plenty scared, but she wouldn't let her mother take the blame. Must some good in everyone, after all. It’s way down deep in that girl, though. What now?"

"I'll take Swanna and her mother’s statement. Unless you’re pressing charges, she’ll be free to go."

"No charges. She's scared enough."

When Euler ordered Swanna into the car, Mrs. Wendler clasped her tightly. "Don’t put her in jail! She's a baaaaaaby!"

The lament melted Loren's affectations. To prevent his tall frame from overwhelming the diminutive woman, he descended on his heels, gently explaining, “Mrs. Wendler, you and Swanna will be free to go after you give Agent Euler your statements.”

Euler nodded. “But you must reimburse the cannery for the damage Swanna inflicted on it.”

“Of course, I’ll write a check and take it there today, if someone will drive me there.”

“I’ll be pleased to drive you to the cannery and then to your shanty”, Mrs. Wendler,” the major offered.

“Thank you, Major Kremple. Mr. Jarven I apologize to you. I shall send for my chauffeur. As soon as he arrives Swanna and I shall return home.”

“I understand, Mrs. Wendler.”

The procession of vehicles paraded down the dusty road to the highway leading from bean field, with the MPs jeeps bringing up the rear.

High Sheriff Loren Kregs was a contented man. Three cases had been solved – that was a relief. A badly spoiled girl was taught an important lesson – that, she deserved. The Jarvens' sacks now would contain only beans – that was extremely important. Butch and Chris learned an invaluable lesson about the subtleties of the feamale gender – that was part of growing up.

But what of the probability of more ghosts at Bowen Corners? That remains to be seen!

-30-

Comments

Who's Praying for the Arabs: by Josprel

Thu, 26 Apr 2007 05:40:50 +0200

Who’s Praying for the Arabs?
by
Josprel

Who’s praying for the Arabs? In our zeal to experience the fulfillment of Bible prophecy in the Middle East, Christian Arabs who have been born again, have become the forgotten sector of the Church. Is anyone praying for the Arabs?

There are approximately 175, 000, 000 Arabs dwelling in 21 Arab countries, and we seem unaware that Christ also died for them. Among them are Arabs who already have experienced the new birth; Evangelical Christians, suffering hardships along with other dwellers of the powder keg Middle East. Since these believers are neither Jewish or Moslems, they are viewed with suspicion by both sides in the explosive Arab Israeli conflict. The hardships, which are engendered by this "caught in the middle" intensified status, is the militant theology disseminated against Arabs by so called "muscular Christians" some of them well known Evangelical fundamentalist Americans.

Amazingly, these muscular Christians endeavor to hasten the fulfillment of Middle East Bible prophecy by manipulating events in that area of the world, even at the risk of provoking a full scale "holy war" between Israel and an alliance of Arab nations; a war that would result in a catastrophic loss of life on both sides.

Such results are of no concern to muscular Christians since according their view the war is absolutely necessary to the return of Jesus Christ to Jerusalem, and God has preordained such deaths. Anything they can do to hasten the pace of prophetical fulfillment is considered by them to be a plus. In actuality, muscular Christians are attempting by human manipulation to force the hand of God through political actions, finances and propaganda.

Among the activities applauded and encouraged by muscular theologians are terrorist activities against Arabs by groups outlawed by the Israeli government. This includes attempts to destroy the Dome of the Rock mosque in Old Jerusalem. They believe destruction of the mosque will lead to the rebuilding of the Jewish temple, thus facilitating Christ's return.

Though most Jews and Christians, who revere the Old Testament prophets, agree that the Dome of the Rock mosque someday shall be destroyed and replaced by a Jewish temple, the vast majority of them are nevertheless willing to leave these events to God's discretion. Since God requires no prompting by man to fulfill His Word, they hold that the mosque will be destroyed by an act of God, such as an earthquake, not by an act of terrorism. For those who subscribe to this view, God's time clock does not run slow.

When muscular Christians are warned that their attempts to destroy the Dome of the Rock mosque most likely will trigger a full scale Arab Israeli war with a horrendous loss of life, their response is a fatalistic one. They reply that it has all been predicted in the God's Word; God predetermined it all. They also respond that, since Zechariah 13: 8 9 predicts that Israel will suffer the loss of two thirds of her population in her final conflict, such heavy casualties cannot be avoided; they are the will of God.

Muscular Christians also view the Arabs as expendable, stating that they are the enemies of Israel and, therefore, the enemies of God. With such a calloused exploitation of scriptures, they rationalize their attempts to quicken the pace of prophetical fulfillment Arab Christians find themselves in a precarious dilemma. Moslems hear much regarding the views of muscular Christian preachers who broadcast over evangelically built radio and T.V. stations located in the Middle East. These preachers beam anti Arab messages that equate anti Arab, Middle East politics with Christianity, charge Arabs with condoning terrorist activities, and support the take over of Arab lands by Israel.

Moslem Arabs consider such propaganda as representative of all Christians. Understandably, the Moslem Arabs react negatively to born again Arabs and the Western nations. They reject the message of redemption through the blood of Jesus Christ. After all, they reason, how can an Arab be a Christian when Christians hate Arabs?

As we pray for Israel, can we not also pray for the Arabs? As we love the Jews, can we not also love the Arabs? After all, God does; He loves the world. Jesus assured us of this truth when He stated that, "God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believes in him, should not parish, but have everlasting life. For God did not send His Son into the world to condemn the world, but that the world through Him might be saved (John's Gospel, 3: 16 17; The Holy Bible; New King James Version).

-30-
© Joseph Perrello (Josprel)
Josprel@yahoo.com

Comments

Things that Cannot be Shaken: by Josprel

Thu, 26 Apr 2007 05:21:41 +0200

Things That Cannot be Shaken
by
Josprel

Matthew 27:50-54: “And Jesus cried out again with a loud voice and yielded up His spirit. Then, behold, the veil of the temple was torn in two from top to bottom; and the earth quaked, and the rocks split . . .”

The crucifixion of Jesus literally was an earthshaking event. Meditating on the event, it appeared to me that creation trembled and quaked over what puny men had done to their creator, as though that when a nation rejects God, that nation invariably experiences upheavals and finally oblivion. As the Psalmist noted, “The wicked shall be turned into hell and all nations that forget God” (Psalm 9:17).

God takes a nation’s mocking of Him and what belongs to Him seriously. Belshazzar, the king of Babylon during the captivity of Daniel, learned this first hand. Daniel recorded that, some time after Babylon sacked the Jewish temple and carried off the consecrated worship accessories, “Belshazzar the king made a great feast to a thousand of his lords, and drank wine in the presence of the thousand. While he tasted the wine, Belshazzar gave commandment to bring the gold and silver vessels which his father Nebuchadnezzer had taken from the temple which had been in Jerusalem, and the king and his lords, his wives, and his concubines drank from them. They drank wine, and praised the gods of gold and silver, bronze and iron, wood and stone.

“In the same hour the fingers of a man’s hand appeared and wrote opposite the lampstand on the plaster of the wall of the king’s palace . . . Now all the king’s wise men came but they could not read the writing . . . Then Daniel was brought in before the king . . . [and said,] ‘You have lifted yourself up against the Lord of heaven. They have brought the vessels of His house before you, and . . . have drunk from them. And you have praised the gods . . . which do not see or hear or know; and the God who holds your breath in His hand and owns all your ways, you have not glorified. Then the fingers of the hand were sent from Him and this writing was written. And this is the inscription that was written: MENE, MENE, TEKEL, UPHARSIN.

“‘This is the interpretation of each word. MENE: God has numbered your kingdom and finished it: Tekel: You have been weighed in the balances and found wanting: Pares: Your kingdom has been divided and given to the Medes and Persians.’

“In that very night Belshazzar, king of the Chaldeans was slain. And Dirius the Mede received the kingdom, being about sixty-two years old” (Daniel 5:1-30). God’s warning to Belshazzar occurred almost immediately after the handwriting appeared on his palace wall. In a single night, the powerful, majestic, tremendously feared, presumably unshakable, Babylonian Empire toppled and passed into the shadows of history. “That very night” Belshazzar’s kingdom fell to the Medes and Persians.

Media was the ancient name for north-western Iran. The inhabitants were called Medes or Medians and were descendants of Noah’s son, Japheth. After the Medes participated in the capture of Babylon (Isaiah 13:17 and Jeremiah 51: 1-24) many centuries after their ancestor’s death, Darius the Mede - so-called because his father, Ahasuerus, was of Median ancestry - became the new ruler of Babylon.

Persian history began with the Indo-European nomads of South Russia, who most likely entered the Iranian plateau during the second millennium BC. The nomads, known as “Fars,” began their Iranian community as a small province on the Persian Gulf. Its people were of the Aryan race, descended from Japheth, the son of Noah. Their community was bordered on the north by Media, on the south by the Persian Gulf, on the east by Carmania, and on the west by Elam. Though at first, the Fars’ province was subjected to the Medes, after revolting under Cyrus the Great, it became the principle power in the conquering of Nebuchadnezzer’s empire. Known as the Persian Empire it became the most far-flung of the Oriental empires, conquering and ruling over all the regions from India to Ethiopia. Its capital was Susa, called in the Bible “Sushan the Palace” (Esther 1:2). Though seemingly all powerful, the Persian Empire was itself eventually was conquered and subjected by Alexander the Great in his quest for world dominion. He, in turn, died at an early age and his empire was partitioned by his generals, who ruled the divided empire in his stead. Each of these kingdoms eventually was conquered by Rome.

There is no permanency for a nation that forgets or out-rightly rejects God. In our era, the Soviet Union is a quintessential example of this truth. It leaders often vaunting their atheism, it disintegrated at the instigation of an American president who knew and loved God. Even so, America also is being weighed in the balances by God. And though we grieve to mention it, America also is found wanting. In the last several decades, our nation has had one president assassinated, one attorney general also assassinated, a civil rights leader assassinated, an entire administration quake and then fall, and an attempted presidential assassination.

In our lifetime, America has experienced race riots, youth rebellions, the undermining of family values, the abortion of millions upon millions of pre-born infants, the acceptance of the homosexual agenda, legal wedges driven between parents and their children, God shut out of the classroom and replaced by humanism, which is undermining our schools and all levels of our governments.

It may be a beneficial, though not very pleasant thing, to experience social earthquakes. I know a literal earthquake can be terrifying and I can think of nothing as attention-getting as one. I served a lengthy tour of duty with the U.S. Air Force, and was assigned to Japan, an island nation prone to devastating earthquakes. More than once I felt tremors under my feet. Imagine if you will, taking off and landing a plane, when the runway suddenly begins heaving and rolling. Thankfully, no one at our airfield ever was hurt as a result of an earthquake, but we certainly were apprehensive.

Yes, an earthquake certainly catches one’s attention, and this is what occurred at the crucifixion of Christ. “The earth shook, the rocks split apart, the graves broke open, and many of God’s people who had died were raised to life. They left the graves and after Jesus rose from death, they went into the Holy City, where many people saw them. When the army officer and the soldiers with him who were watching Jesus saw the earthquake and everything else that happened, they were terrified and said ‘He really was the Son of God!’” (Matthew 27:51-54; “The New Testament in Today’s Modern English”: The American Bible Society”).

There may be times when personal “earthquakes” shake our own lives. As we pass through them, it will stabilize and bless us to meditate on things that cannot be shaken:

The Word of God Cannot be Shaken!
In Psalm 138:2 David wrote: “I will worship toward your holy temple, And praise Your name For your lovingkindness and Your truth: For you have magnified Your word above Your name” (Psalm 138:2). “The New King James Version.”

We should permit these words of David to saturate our souls. He is exalting because God rests His reputation upon the truthfulness of His word. Governments may lie, persons may be untruthful, legislators and other may not keep their promises, but God’s word never fails; He rests His reputation upon His truthfulness. His word cannot be shaken. It never returns void.

The Word of Jesus Christ Cannot be Shaken!
Referring to His second coming, Jesus states: “But in those days, [Matthew 24: 29, includes the word ‘immediately’ before the following phrase] after the tribulation, the sun shall be darkened, and the moon shall not give her light, And the stars of heaven shall fall, and the powers that are in heaven shall be shaken. And they shall see the Son of Man coming in the clouds with great power and glory . . . Heaven and earth shall pass away: but my word shall not pass away” (Mark 13:24-25 & 31). Our Lord assures us that His word is eternally more durable than heaven itself. It shall never pass away! As finite creatures, we find it impossible to fathom such mysteries.
How can the powers of the heavens be shaken, thereby creating what amounts to heaven-quakes? The Pulpit Commentary states: “The powers may here mean those great unseen forces of nature by which the universe is now held in equipoise. When the Creator wills it, these powers shall be shaken.”

How can words [promises] endure forever? As this author meditated upon this question, he concluded that this is possible only when an eternal redeemer such as our Lord Jesus Christ makes the promises. As to His other eternal promises to us, when he transforms us like unto His own image, we shall be continuing recipients of all of them, among them the promise that where He is we also shall be.

The Person of God Cannot be Shaken!
Some time ago, the author listened to a radio discussion by two liberal women ministers. They were discussing their plans to change the Bible by removing all masculine gender references to God and replace them with the neuter. Of course, we all realize that God is neither male nor female; He is God. Nonetheless, condescending to our finite comprehension, He inspired the Holy writers to refer to His in the male gender. Not only so, but He chose to send us His Son, in the form of a man. In doing so God did not discriminate against women; rather, he created in Jesus Christ the second Adam, to regain for those who trust Him that which the first Adam lost because of his disobedience.

God is eternally God, eternally the same. His person cannot be shaken or changed, nor can that of His Son. However, in condescending to take the form of a man, the Lord Jesus Christ made an eternal sacrifice by stooping to become eternally identified with us as the Eternal Man.
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Comments

Can These Bones Live?: by Josprel

Thu, 26 Apr 2007 02:19:59 +0200

Can These Bones Live?
by
Josprel

[A study of prophecy relating to Israel, the Gentile nations, and the Biblical relationship these nations have to near-future events.]
* *

“The hand of the Lord came upon me and brought me out in the Spirit of the Lord, and set me down in the midst of the valley; and it was full of bones. Then He caused me to pass by them all around, and behold, there were very many in the open valley; and indeed they were very dry. And He said unto me, ‘Son of man, can these bones live?’ So I answered, ‘O Lord God, You know.’

“Again He said unto me, ‘Prophesy to these bones, and say unto them, ‘O dry bones, hear the word of the Lord! Thus says the Lord to these bones: ‘Surely I will cause breath to enter into you, and you shall live . . .’

“‘So I prophesied as I was commanded; and as I prophesied, there was a noise, and suddenly a rattling; and the bones came together, bone to bone . . . Also He said to me . . . ‘say to the breath‘ Thus says the Lord God ‘come from the four winds, O breath, and breathe on these slain, that they may live.’ So I prophesied . . . and breath came into them, and they lived, and stood on their feet, an exceedingly great army. Then He said unto me, ‘Son of man, these bones are the whole house of Israel. They indeed say, ‘Our bones are dry, our hope is lost, and we ourselves are cut off!’

Therefore, prophesy and say to them, ‘O my people, I will open your graves and cause you to come forth from your graves, and bring you to the land of Israel . . . I will put My Spirit in you and you shall live . . .’” (Ezekiel 37:1-14; New King James Bible).

We are living in an era of the fast fulfillment of biblical prophecy. I recall being told as a young child by my father - a steadfast Christian who knew the scriptures – that Israel one day would become a nation again. He said this during a time when such an event appeared impossible of fulfillment; yet in our era Israel already has been resurrected for decades.

Since the scattering of Israel during the time of Jeremiah (who predicted both the captivity and the re-gathering of the nation) in approximately B.C 629, there were no lack of skeptics who doubted the nation would be resurrected. Even Israel itself voiced doubts about it. Israel’s estimate of its return from oblivion may be found in Ezekiel 37:11: “Our bones are dried, and our hope is lost: We are cut off for our parts.” In our vernacular this may be rendered: “It’s all over for us. We have been totally dismembered.”

The condition of Israel’s bones as seen by Ezekiel:
1. They were completely open to the elements (verse 2).
2. They were long dead, very dry and beyond human hope of life (verse 2).
3. They were disassembled and in disarray. The Living Bible records that the bones were very old and dry. They were scattered everywhere across the ground (Read the entire account).
4. There were an enormous number of bones (verse 2).

What God said the dry bones symbolized:
”Son of man these bones are the whole house of Israel” (verse 11).

Those whom God blames for the dry bones of Israel:
“‘Woe to the shepherds who destroy and scatter the sheep of My pasture!’ says the Lord, “Therefore thus says the Lord God of Israel against the shepherds who feed My people: ‘You have scattered My flock, driven them away, and not attended to them. Behold I will attend to you for the evils of your doing,’ says the Lord . . .”

By whose authority the dry bones live again:
“I will gather the remnant of my flock out of all countries where I have driven them and bring them back to their folds” [This already has been occurring in our era for several generations [Jeremiah 23: 1-4; NKJ].

God’s remedy for the dry bone of Israel:
“‘[Israel] shall be fruitful and increase. I will set up shepherds over them who will feed them: and they shall fear no more, nor be dismayed nor shall they be lacking,’ says the Lord” [The Lord Himself has been gathering Israel, and He continues to do so in our era (Jeremiah 23: 1-4; NKJ)].

God’s judgment upon those who did not believe the dry bones could live again:
“The word of the Lord came to me again, saying, ‘Son of man, prophecy and say, ‘Thus says the Lord God: ‘Wail, ‘Woe to the day!’ For the day is near, Even the day of the Lord is near; It will be a day of clouds, the time of the gentiles. The sword will come upon Egypt, And great anguish shall be upon Ethiopia, When the slain fall in Egypt, And they take away her wealth, And her foundations are broken down. Ethiopia, Libya, Lydia, all the mingled people. Chub, and the men of the lands who are allied, shall fall with them by the sword’” (Ezekiel 30: 1-5; NKJ).

Ethiopia did not believe the dry bones could live again: Rendered “Cush” in Hebrew, Ethiopia corresponds to what today is called the Sudan. The Sudanese are a people of dark skin tone, and Moses was severely criticized by his sister, Miriam, and his brother, Aaron, for his marriage to an Ethiopian woman (Numbers 12:1-16; NKJ).

Both Miriam and Aaron were envious of the leadership position of their brother Moses. Miriam instigated an open rebellion against Moses and Aaron followed her lead. To justify the rebellion, they used the excuse that Moses had married an Ethiopian (Cushite) woman. The Lord punished Miriam by striking her with leprosy; however, Moses pleaded with Him, “Heal her now oh Lord, I beseech thee.”

God heard the prayer of Moses. He healed Miriam, though not without inflicting profound humiliation upon her; she was ostracized from the people and shut outside the camp for seven days.

The Nations and the Millennium:

Ethiopia: According to Psalm 68, verse 31, Ethiopia “will quickly stretch out her hands to God,” and shall enter into the Millennium.

Libya (Also called “Phut” in the Bible): Libya did not believe the dry bones could live again: Writings of the 13th and 12th centuries B.C. describe Libya (also referred to as Lubim) as being a hostile, warlike people. During the 12th through the 8th centuries B.C., Libyans raided Egypt, then enter as settlers, and also served as soldiers in the Egyptian armies. West of Egypt, Libya still exists as a nation in our time. The Bible is silent regarding the future of Libya during the millennial age.

Lydia (Also called “Lud” and “Ludim” in some versions of the Bible): Lydia did not believe the dry bones could live again: During the time of Homer, the Pelasgic Meonians - akin to the Trojans - occupied Lydia. From what race the Lydians originated is a mystery. The Greeks considered the Lydians and their language barbarous; nonetheless, the Lydians were a highly civilized people.

Assyria (Modern Iraq) did not believe the dry bones could live again: After of reign of Solomon, all the leaders of Israel approached his son, Rehoboam, who became king of Israel. “Your father made our yoke heavy,” they complained, referring to the endlessly soaring taxes and other burdens Solomon had imposed on the people to finance and facilitate his projects, “now, therefore, lighten the burdensome service of your father, and his heavy yoke on us, and we will serve you.”

“Return in three days and I shall give you my answer,” the king replied.

During that period, he consulted with the elders who had served his father. They advised him to do as Israel’s leaders requested, but Rehoboam rejected the advice. Instead, he consulted with the young men with whom he grew up. They advised him to tell the leaders of Israel, “My little finger shall be thicker than my father’s waist . . . my father put a heavy yoke on you. I will add to your yoke: my father chastised you with whips, but I will chastise you with scourges [literally: scourges with metal points or barbs] (1st Kings 12: 9-11; NKJ).”

When the leaders returned for the king’s answer, Rehoboam responded as recommended by his friends. The results were catastrophic. Ten of the nation’s tribes separated from the two that remained loyal to the king and formed their own nation. The king assembled an army of one hundred and eighty thousand warriors to do battle against the ten separated tribes, but was warned by Shemiah, a prophet sent to Rehoboam by God, to not do battle against the separating tribes. He obeyed. The ten tribes became known as the nation of Israel; the two remaining tribes – Judah and Benjamin – became known as Judah.

Over the centuries, the nation of Israel digressed into idolatry, intermixed with gentile races, and became known as the Samaritans [Recall the question asked to Jesus by the woman at the well, when He requested a drink of water? “How is it that You, being a Jew, ask a drink from me, a Samaritan woman?” (John 4: 4).]

The verse adds this revealing comment by way of explanation for those unfamiliar with the centuries-long feud between Judah and Israel /Samaria): “For Jews have no dealings with Samaritans” (NKJ).

Judah, on the other hand, remained relatively true – with some lapses - to the worship of Jehovah. Ezekiel, chapter 23, characterizes Samaria/Israel and Jerusalem/Judah as two sisters. Both committed harlotry with other nations, Jehovah charged.

Of Samaria/Israel, the older sister, the Lord said, “I have delivered her into the hands of the Assyrians, for whom she lusted” (Ezekiel 23: 9).

Jerusalem/Judah, the younger sister, “became more corrupt in her lust then she [the older sister, Samaria/Israel] and in her harlotry more corrupt than her sister’s harlotry” (Ezekiel 23: 11).

“I will sir up . . . the Babylonians, All the Chaldeans [The Chaldeans were a warlike, aggressive people from the mountains of Kurdistan. They conquered and ruled the world of their era]

Pekod [Pekod was a powerful Armaenan tribe near the mouth of the Tigris River. During the time of the Prophet Ezekiel, Pekod was within the Chaldean Empire]

Shoa [The Shoa were a tribe of Semitic nomads who populated the Syrian desert during the 14th century B. C. Baghdad and assimilated with the Armaenans. The Shoa never were conquered]

Koa [Koa was located east of the Tigris River in the upper Adaim and Diyala rivers region]

All the Assyrians “. . . and they shall Judge you according to their judgment . . .”

Egypt did not believe the dry bones could live again:
Nonetheless, incredible as it may appear to our generation, during the Millennial reign of Christ Jesus, Iraq [ancient Assyria] Israel and Egypt, shall join together in becoming a blessing: “In that day there will be a highway from Egypt to Assyria [Iraq], and the Assyrian [Iraq] will come into Egypt and the Egyptian into Assyria [Iraq], and the Egyptians will serve with the Assyrians [Iraq]. In that day Israel will be one of three with Egypt and Assyria [Iraq] – a blessing in the midst of the land, whom the Lord of hosts shall bless, saying, ‘Blessed is Egypt My people, and Assyria [Iraq] the work of My hands, and Israel My inheritance” (Isaiah 19: 23-25; NKJ).

Since this author is making this study during a period of profound hatred and hostilities between Israel, Egypt and Iraq (Assyria) Isaiah’s prediction seems fantastic – impossible of fulfillment - if it were it not for the prophet’s assurance that Egypt “will cry to the Lord because of the oppressors, and He will send them a Savior and a Mighty One, and He will deliver them. Then the Lord will be known to Egypt, and the Egyptian will know the Lord in that day and will make sacrifices and offerings; yes, they will make a vow to the Lord and perform it” (Isaiah 19: 20-21).

It shall require a calamity that God permits to fall upon Egypt to bring the Egyptians to the Lord [“And the Lord will strike Egypt, He will strike Egypt and heal it; they will return to the Lord, and He will be entreated by them and heal them” (Isaiah 19: 22)]. Once they do so, Egypt shall be one of the three nations - the other two being Israel and Iraq [Assyria] - especially blessed by God during the Millennium.

Many contemporary nations did not believe the dry bones could live again: Many of today’s nations did not believe the dry bones could live again. Several of them, including the Palestinian nations, Hitler’s Germany and even Great Britain actively endeavored to prevent the rebirth of Israel. But it was God’s time for the re-gathering of His ancient people from the four corners of the Earth. From almost every nation under the sun they came. After His people had been cast into the world’s “valley of dry bones” for untold centuries, God opened the graves and drew together the dry bones, put flesh on them, breathed life into the nation, and Israel lives!

From approximately 446 BC until the United Nation’s recognition of the modern State of Israel in our generation, Israel was under the control of Gentile world powers. Sadly, as recorded by the Apostle Paul in Romans 11: 25, Israel still rejects Jesus Christ as its Messiah; however, Paul added a joyful note, “. . . blindness in part has happened to Israel until the fullness of the Gentiles [the time of Gentile world dominance] has come in [has been completed]. And so all Israel shall be saved, as it is written: ‘The Deliverer will come out of Zion, And He will turn away ungodliness from Jacob; For this is My covenant with them, When I take away their sins’” (Romans 11: 25-27; Paul’s partial quote is taken from Isaiah 59: 20-21).

According to Zechariah 12: 9-10, when the Gentile nations finally gather in a united, final attempt to destroy the nation of Israel, God will “seek to destroy all nations that come against Jerusalem. And I will pour out on the house of David and the inhabitants of Jerusalem the spirit of grace and supplication: then they will look on Me whom they have pierced. Yes, they will mourn for Him, as one mourns for his only son, and grieve for Him as one grieves for a firstborn.” What a graphic prediction of the crucifixion of Jesus and Israel’s future recognition of Him as the true Messiah!

Yes, the bones live!
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Comments

Captain Rainbrain and the Tanglevine: by Josprel

Thu, 26 Apr 2007 01:59:29 +0200

CAPTAIN RAINBRAIN
and
THE TANGLEVINE

It was completed! It had taken one hundred and twenty years but, finally, the ship Lord Logos commanded Noemin to build was finished. Ready to float, the massive four-decked vessel - five hundred feet long, eighty feet broad, and stretching upward fifty feet - awaited only its crew and passengers. And, yesterday, Lord Logos ordered embarkment.

"Noemin," he said, "the time has arrived. Prepare to enter the ship. Beginning at dawn, I shall guide into the ship one pair of all creatures ceremonially unclean, and seven pairs of those that are ceremonially clean. Have no concern for them until they have embarked. Just be ready to leave."

Since that time, long ago, when Lord Logos first warned Noemin of impending judgment, the shipbuilding was not easy. His father, Lamech, believed the warning; so did Grandfather Methusha. They gave invaluable assistance to the project, but they were gone now. Lamech died several years ago. And, Methusha, who, in the early centuries of his nine hundred and sixty-nine years of life, was a confidant of The First Parents, passed away this year. Noemin's wife, Shiana, and their son, Japhtho, believed. Over the years, Shiana bore Hamath and Shema, who also were faithful. Lord Logos guided all three sons to devout believing wives; but no one else believed - only eight; so few; so very, very few.

After Noemin received the Lord Logos’ first message, the couple informed their kin of the warning. Most, thinking it a hoax, laughed good-naturedly, and Mizra, the brother next oldest to Noemin, even complimented him on a good yarn.

Slapping his back he bellowed, "That's a terrific story, Noemin! I wish I'd though of it! So, Lord Logos told you it's going to rain until everyone drowns! You want us to repent and help you build a big boat to save ourselves! A raft wouldn't do it, huh? Come on - out with the rest of the joke, we're waiting!"

“But it is not a joke,” Noemin insisted, “What I told you is true.”

It eventually registered with the others that Noemin was in earnest. Congeniality dissolved until, eventually, the Noemins were ostracized.

Learning that Lamech and Methusha believed, agitated Noemin's siblings considerably; but discovering that they were helping to defray the cost of constructing a huge ship - well - that was the proverbial straw! A conflagration of hate-filled accusations lodged against Noemin. They were thrown in his face or he never would have believed his family capable of such slander: His fanaticism drove the old men mad; he was profiteering from their gullibility; he was plotting to steal the entire family inheritance; he was beneath contempt; he was no longer their brother.

Heartbroken, Noemin was overwhelmed by a grief so deep - that felt so physical - it almost incapacitated him. But Lord Logos' warning couldn't be denied; judgment was coming. Without procrastinating further, he commenced hiscommission. And though his grief was not forgotten, Lord Logos alleviated it.

A dresser of vineyards, Noemin situated the project in his largest field. Spreading far and wide, even to distant Kajan City, the royal capital, news of the lunatic who was building a huge ship
hundreds of miles from deep water reached emperor BenKaina, who dispatched emissaries to investigate the remarkable incident.

Seizing the rare opportunity, Noemin sent back a warning, "Emperor BenKaina, Lucifin, whom you worship as the Illuminator,' is he who beguiled our First Parents, Odom and Gwen, in the Garden Reserve. He is a false god. Reject him. Lord Logos, who is one of The Three, is He with whom we have to do. Repent! Return to Him now or face His judgment."

Enraged, BenKaina vented his wrath on the project. In a mocking play on the project's locale, he dubbed the ship, the
"Tanglevine," coining the title, "Captain Rainbrain," for Noemin. BenKaina’s command to disrupt the venture extensively publicized Noemin's labors. Spectators came from everywhere to view the
"harebrained" shipbuilders as well as to ridicule Noemin's
passionate warnings of impending judgment.

Persecution escalated to harassment and then to sabotage raids. Frequent ambushes were laid, with bodily injuries attempted against the builders, but Lord Logos permitted no harm to befall to the family or the ship. Yet He did nothing to alleviate the continuous, cruel verbal abuses. In front of their homes, as well as on the work-site, hecklings, taunts, jibes, imprecations, black magic spells, hexes, and enchantments, were cast at the Noemins. Ridicule, , "Ho! Captain Rainbrain! Will you sail the Tanglevine over your grapes? It should slide well during the harvest season, when they are ripe! You can use your new invention to press out the juice for your wine!" was heaped on them.

Slanderous public comments, such as - "Oh, the whole family is crazy. I heard that Captain Rainbrain even drove his father and grandfather insane with his fanaticism." - were customary.

Children at play recited a popular ditty that derided Noemin. It
circulated throughout all the regions. As they skipped rope or played hopscotch, the children often chanted: "Ho, Captain Rainbrain, when will you sail? Sail in the Tanglevine; tell us your tale. When will the rains come? Please, tell us do, or is it
your grape-wine that tells you 'tis true?" Spectators at the ship frequently chanted the mocking rhyme in unison.

The couple's kinsmen were mortified to be related to the Noemins. To retain the respect of their neighbors, not only did they participate in the abuse, they often instigated it. Then, a few decades before the end, to their relief, BenKaina claimed he had grown weary of toying with Noemin. He wanted the ship destroyed. Uris, king of the Larsa region, where Noemin resided, received the commission to carry out BenKaina’s command. He was ordered to handle it personally. No failure would be brooked.

When Uris and his forces attempted to fulfill the commission, the ground under them yawned open, swallowing them completely. The horrified emperor discontinued all overt opposition, though he still worshipped Lucifin. Temporarily unnerved, the equally horrified masses stayed away, though not for long. Eventually returning, they stood far removed from the ship and hurled rocks no longer whooshed toward the builders. The heckling, however, gradually resumed until it assumed former proportions.

The impending judgment now was about to fall; the end was at hand! The Noemins made a last attempt at warning their relatives and neighbors, but to no benefit. Angry rebuffs were their recompense. They were standing now, near the lowered ramp of the massive hatchway, waiting for the animals. At first, the ascending dawn revealed nothing unusual, and from the nearby lurking shadows, mocking titters were heard. Spectators, having frivolously passed along the gossip of Noemin’s disdained final warning, were hoping for some amusement.

"Ho! Captain Rainbrain," one called out, "We heard the animals are coming and you soon will sail from us! I have some rats you can take!"

Crescendos of laughter rewarded the remark encouraging another heckler to yell, "Oh, no! Please no - not rats! They'll chew
holes in the Tanglevine and it will sink in the vineyard! Ho, Captain Rainbrain, if you take the rats, take cats and snakes, too; they'll eat the rats so the Tanglevine won't sink! Do you see how we love you, Rainbrain? We don't want you to drown in your own vineyard!"

The mocking accelerated, attended by catcalls, squeals, barking, and other animal imitations, but the eight focused their attention on the sky and forest rims. The birds were the first to arrive. Single pairs and flocks of fourteen winged toward the ship from all points. Throughout their maneuvers, the avian passengers manifested an eerie silence.

And the jeering stopped!

The smaller birds entered immediately, while the larger ones circled the craft, waiting their turn. As the incoming flights continued, Shiana indicated the bordering forest. At its edges, a variety of animals paused, some sniffing the wind, others seemingly estimating the distance to the vessel. Finally, the boldest ventured forward, trailed by the more timid, until the landscape appeared alive with creatures migrating toward the vessel. They poured from all edges of the wilds, joined by domesticated animals from farms and city. Crawling creatures and hopping ones, moved with those that slithered in the dust. Tree swingers ambulated with imprecision the strangeness of the fields, but still they came.

In profound silence, giants ambled beside Lilliputians, hunters alongside natural prey, as though observing a truce that mollified their enmity. Directed by an unseen guide, all embarked the ship. And, with the entrance of the larger birds, the inventory was completed.

Noemin scanned the faces of the multitude attracted by the uncanny spectacle. In the brightness of the late afternoon, sun, some
appeared fearful; others dumfounded; and still others, incredulous. Approaching closer, he spoke loudly. "You have not believed my words believe what your eyes are seeing! There still is time to board the ship. Step forward, confess your allegiance to Lord Logos and you may enter."

But, no one moved.

"Even this doesn't convince you that judgment will soon descend?" Noemin marveled. Then, in the silence, a young woman pushed forward, tugging at the hand of the man beside her; he pulled her back.

Approaching, Noemin said to her, "He must make his own choice. You cannot choose for him or he for you. If he will not come, save yourself. Enter with us." Instead, she drew closer to her companion.

Several of Noemin's siblings pushed through the crowd. Going to them, Noemin inquired, "Will you come?"

In tears, the sister who first branded him as a disgrace to the family, now implored her husband, "Let's go with him. You can see that something is making the animals enter the ship. It must Lord Logos. Please, let's take the children and go in."

With transparent bravado, the man roared, "This fool of a fanatic has woven a spell over the animals and now over you, but I'll not be duped by his magic! Go, if you wish, but the children stay with me! When nothing happens, don't think to return to us! If you go, it proves Rainbrain cast a spell over you that made you insane. For that reason, I shall not take you back!"

With hand outstretched, Noemin implored, "Come, Reesa, enter the ship with us. All must choose for themselves. You cannot choose for him, nor can he choose for you. If your husband will let you take the children, they also may enter. If he will not, he shall be called upon by Lord Logos to render an account for these little ones. Come, enter with us, Reesa."

Her tears flowed unrestrained. Still she shook her head. "I can't leave him and the children here alone."

Standing behind Reesa, Mizra was listening to the exchange in fuming silence. Now he stepped forward. His father gone and Noemin, the oldest son, dishonored, he was the recognized the head of the family. With tremendous force, he shoved his brother backward, almost causing him to fall.

"Leave her alone, Rainbrain! Go to your animals; they're your family now!"

His angry outburst expelled the soporific hush, and the mob began
chanting, "Rainbrain! Rainbrain! Rainbrain!"

It was impossible for Noemin to make himself heard so, in tears, he headed to the ship and, as he went, the derision kept cadence with his steps: "Rainbrain! Rainbrain! Rainbrain!"

Suddenly, the chanting stopped! Near the ramp, a resplendent figure appeared in dazzling brilliance near the Noemins. Speaking through the brilliance, Lord Logos said simply, "Come, enter Noemin; its time to depart."

Slowly, the eight mounted the ramp. As the rest disappeared into
the vessel, Noemin pause at the entrance. He turned to look longingly at those who refused the invitation. Then, with a final, sad, hand wave, he entered the Tanglevine.

Fear intensifying to absolute terror, the scoffers watched as the resplendent figure pointed toward the Tanglevine. Seemingly of its own volition, rising on protesting hinges, the gigantic ramp
gradually lifted until it fitted into the spacious opening in the
hull and sealed it shut, leaving no evident seams to show that it ever existed. Lord Logos next lifted his hand toward the sky, slowly lowering its pointing finger until it indicated the horror-struck throng of people – and then He vanished.

Under its feet, the crowd felt Terra shiver. From every direction, earsplitting crescendos of thunder vanquished nature's horrified stillness. Broad bolts of jagged lightning relentlessly knifed through the deepening darkness of an increasingly tortured sky. Donning a dark shroud, the sun unconditionally surrendered to the thickening suffusion.

The shivers escalated to up-surging tremors. And as "that fanatic,” Captain Rainbrain, and the "harebrained" crew of his long-derided Tanglevine, began their voyage toward a new genesis, illuminated by the violent streaks of lightning, the upturned dread-wrenched faces of those outside the ship felt the first heavy drops of descending judgment. They believed now. They wanted to enter the Tanglevine, but the hatch was sealed. And it could not be opened until the waters receded.
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Comments

A Superlative Forgiveness: by Josprel

Thu, 26 Apr 2007 01:27:44 +0200

A Superlative Forgiveness
by
Josprel

Matthew 6:5-15

Several years ago in an American city, a gang of skinheads beat to death a teenaged foreign exchange student from an Eastern country. The parents came to claim their son’s body. As they left the plane, reporters mobbed them.

“You must hate the ones who murdered your son,” one commented.

No, we are Christians; we forgive them,” the mother replied. They demonstrated a superlative forgiveness.

Some demonstrate a superlative non-forgiveness. One such case was a Christian woman who told my wife and me how her husband’s family cheated her after he was severely wounded in battle and subsequently died in a veteran’s hospital. With lies, deceit and misinformation they manipulated the armed services insurance agency into assigning them the insurance proceeds rightfully belonging to the widow and her young son.

“They did you a great injustice,” I agreed, “but you must forgive them.”

“I do forgive them, but I’ll never forget what they did!”

One Christian gentleman said regarding another, who wronged him, “I forgave him, but I’ll never invite him to my house again.”

It’s been observed that forgiveness without forgetting is like vultures feeding on a dead carcass. It contaminates our prayers. If we want God to answer our prayers, we must forgive. Jesus coupled God’s forgiveness to our forgiveness of others. In His teaching on prayer, Jesus said, “This then is how you should pray . . . Forgive us the wrongs we have done, as we forgive the wrongs that others have done to us . . .” From among the six petitions in the Lord’s Prayer, Jesus expands only on forgiveness; He assigns it top priority. “If you forgive others the wrongs they have done to you, your Father in Heaven will also forgive you. But if you do not forgive others, then your Father will not forgive the wrongs you have done” (Matt. 6:14-15; Good News Bible; Today’s English Version).

Webster’s definition of forgiveness agrees with the Scriptures: “Giving up all claim to requital for an offense and giving up resentment on account of the offense.” C.S. Lewis observed, “We all say that forgiveness is a wonderful thing, until we have something to forgive.”

Forgiveness is a three-phase process. In the first phase Jesus admonishes us, “So watch what you do! If your brother sins, rebuke him, and if he repents, forgive him. If he sins against you seven times a day, and each time he comes to you saying, ‘I repent’, you must forgive him.’ The apostles said to the Lord, ‘Make our faith greater’” (Luke 17:3-5).

The “So watch what you do!” admonition is a critical one. It demonstrates we must forgive while searching ourselves to discern where we may require forgiveness in a matter. We may be like a cartoon I once read: A little boy was crying because no one would play with him. His discerning mother asked, “What did you do?” She learned he made such a nuisance of himself that he spoiled the fun of the other children; they boycotted him from their games. Jesus asks us to check what we may have done that deserves forgiveness and correction should problems arise between ourselves and another person.

The second phase in forgiveness also is found in Luke 17:3: “If your brother sins, rebuke him.” In this passage, the word “rebuke” also may be rendered, “admonish.” To admonish means to point out what needs correction in the person. Sometimes, before we can admonish another, we first must permit God to admonish us.

A woman testified of how terribly abused she was as a child. She hated her father until she accepted Jesus Christ. She then prayed that the Lord would lead her father to ask her forgiveness for his treatment of her. Then he was hospitalized and she visited him. The Lord admonished her, “Ask your father to forgive your hatred.”

After an intense inner struggle she confessed her feelings to her father, asking his forgiveness. He broke into tears, asking her to forgive him, also. And father and daughter were reconciled.

The third phase in forgiveness is the restoration of a brotherly harmony. Forgiveness endeavors to restore an erring person to harmony with the offended one. Joseph is the quintessential example of this phase of forgiveness. After his brothers sold him into slavery, Joseph was brought to Egypt where he ascended to a position of authority next to Pharaoh. When seeing his brothers in Egypt to purchase food during a great famine, Joseph displayed a forgiving spirit. “Then Joseph settled his father and his brothers in Egypt, giving them property in the best of the land near the city of Remeses . . . Joseph provided food for his father, his brothers, and all the rest of his father’s family, including the very youngest” (Genesis 47:11-12; Good New Bible; Today’s English Version).

It was Brooker T. Washington, the renowned scientist who said, “I will not permit any man to narrow and degrade my soul by making me hate him.”

How astute! An unforgiving spirit may or may not hurt the other person, but it is certain to degrade our own souls. We lived across the road from a neighbor who installed solar panels on his roof to capture the sun’s energy, thus converting it to electricity. He used it to heat his enormous, enclosed swimming pool so his family could swim during winters.

I inquired, “What happens on overcast days? Is no electricity is generated?”

“No, the panels draw energy from the sun even on those days. I’m the only one who can shut down the panels to not generate energy by closing the shutters over them.”

As I think back on that incident, it occurs to me that, in order to keep our spiritual shutters open to God’s forgiveness of us, we must open our spiritual shutters of forgiveness toward others. Only we can shut down God’s panels of forgiveness to us.
-30-

Comments

The Bean Field Murder : by Josprel

Thu, 26 Apr 2007 01:22:27 +0200

The Bean Field Murder
by
Josprel

Returning from the 1948 Law Enforcement Conference, Cayuga County High Sheriff Loren Kregs had barely entered the county seat of Collins, when his car’s dispatch radio crackled. Chief Dispatcher Vince Tandberg’s twang was directing Chief Deputy Billy Greenoak to the Sorell farm.

Loren doubled back to a narrow, dirt lane that masqueraded as Town Line Road. Turning into it, he entered the whirling dust storm that was Billy's wake. As usual, his tall, cadaverous Chief Deputy was barreling at floorboard speed, setting his usual bad-driving example to Vince Dennet, the young rookie riding with him. When Loren pulled up, both troopers already were bagging the clothes Doc Krastil and his assistant, Glen, were carefully stripping from an unconscious old farmer lying next to a newly sown bean field.

The High Sheriff had investigated numerous accidents during his long career, but this one spawned fluttering butterflies in his belly. A large, rear wheel of Sorell's mammoth tractor, follow by the bean planter and the sharp harrowing disks it was pulling, had crushed and horribly mangled the old man’s thighs and lower body. Apparently, the unmanned rig subsequently wandered aimlessly, before ultimately wedging itself between two lofty white cedar trees. For now, Loren ignored the machine.

Mrs. Sorell had braved the horror of finding her husband in gore long enough to summon assistance. Shaking violently, she continuously was asking what had happened. “Try to get her to into the house, Vince,” Doc suggested, “she’s in shock.”

Dennet nodded. “Will do, Doc.” The tall, barrel-chested rookie tenderly shepherded his charge through the small grove of imposing white cedar trees that served as a wind barrier for the weather-beaten house, his attentiveness contrasting sharply with his muscular physic.

Doc again turned his attention to his patient. Encircled by horn-rimmed bifocals, his eyes misted as he worked. His Old Dutch beard quivered; he and Sorell were close chess buddies.

In a choked voice, he responded to the sheriff’s unspoken question. “Well, Loren, my old friend won’t be playing chess with me any more. He’s still alive, but not for long.”

Loren nodded sadly. “How long before he’s ready for transport?”

“A few minutes.” Doc glanced at Glen. “I want you with him in the ambulance. The sheriff and I must check out this accident while the clues are fresh.”

Moving to Mrs. Sorell, Loren gently guided her away from the vehicle and motioned for it to leave. "Please wait with me, Mrs. Sorell. I’m sending for my wife. You know Verony. You work together on the church council. She’s your friend.”

After a moment, the dazed woman ceased struggling and stared intently at Loren. Her confusion gave way to recognition, “Why, Sheriff Kregs, I didn’t know you were here. When did you arrive?”

“A short while ago. Verony won’t be long. I’m sending a deputy for her. Please wait till she gets here. One of my men will drive both of you to the hospital. Will you wait for Verony, Mrs. Sorell?”

“Of course; it’s the least I can do since she’s coming to be with me.”

“Mrs. Sorrel, I’ll find out what happened. That’s a promise.”

Loren activated the radio. "Dispatch a car for Mrs. Kregs. Mrs. Sorell needs her. Hurry!”

It wasn’t long before Loren heard the fast approaching wails of two patrol cars. He brightened at Verony's arrival. He and his sonsy wife still shared those frequent times when she set his blood aflame, and then dissolved at his touch. Her way with people awed him. Mrs. Sorell instantly relaxed in Verony’s company. Both women entered the house, and when Loren again saw them, Mrs. Sorrel appeared refreshed and neatly dressed. Verony guided her into a patrol car, then climbed in next to her. Loren nodded to the driver, and the patrol car accelerated to chase speed toward the hospital.

Loren turned his attention to his task. He felt those confounded butterflies again tease his belly. Unsuccessfully, he attempted to force them to roost, then glared at the rig. Duty summoned.

“Doc; Billy; time to start our investigation.”

***

Loren's brawny, six-foot-three frame had served him well during his college football years. Now it offered no advantage to the fortyish sheriff, whose chest heaved as he lumbered over the rig with Doc. His criminologist's antenna was vibrating with questions: Why were the gears still engaged? Had they meshed accidentally? How? Had Sorell been refilling the seed hoppers? If so, he'd have been behind the tractor. That raised the question of how the wheel could have pass over him. Did he fall while mounting or dismounting?

“And that brings me back to those blasted gears,” Loren pondered audibly.

"The back of his head was crushed with deadly force, before the wheel passed over. Even if he survives, he'll be a vegetable," Doc pointed out.

He noted that the ground where Sorell had lain was soaked with blood. "That's blood from his lower body. There’s none where his head rested, but it bled profusely. Leaked cerebral fluid too."

Loren's baby blues eyes widened. Doc had limited his private practice years ago to become Cayuga County’s Chief Coroner; one whose conclusions he respected. All ears now, he asked, "Before the wheel passed over?"

Doc nodded. "I found coagulation in the head wound. The lower ones still bled."

"And . . .?" Loren prompted.

Doc smiled wanly. "Well, figure it out. I'm just a . . ."

"Yeah; yeah; you’re just a country doctor doing his job. And I'm a Boy Scout helping an old lady. Cut the malarkey; answer me!"

"We'll talk soon. I’m due at the hospital. Gotta roll." Doc could be frustrating.

Watching Doc amble toward his ride, Loren combed his fingers through his receding, ash-blond hair. He stared as the car, racing to challenge the ambulance’s receding wake, grew its own tail of billowing dust. It vanished around a bend in the road; silently cursing Doc, Loren resumed his duties.

*
Loren and Billy endeavored to confirm Doc's finding. Nothing! The High Sheriff felt like he did when searching for his reading glasses. They were somewhere, almost biting him, but where? He cursed silently, backing off to study the contraption, his fingers combing his hair. When he again stepped forward, there it was - in the cavity of the planter's hitching unit. He'd expected blood on the disks, but blood in that cavity was something else. Puzzled, he scrutinized the miniature pool. Then, realization struck! The clear substance marbling the blood was the cerebral fluid Doc had mentioned. The blood was jelled, proving extended exposure. Doc was right.

The finding deepened the mystery. Why had Sorell's head been over the cavity? How could he have tumbled from the planter to fall in front of the tractors rear wheels? Billy approached, asking if Sorell's cap had been found. The ancient headpiece was the old man's fetish. He jokingly claimed that he'd not gone bald because his hair had spent a lifetime under the cap and considered it home. He was never without it, yet it wasn't with his clothes.

A search located it, bloodstained and crumpled several rows from a narrow thicket that butted the far side of the field. Nearby, scores of bluebottle flies buzzed, swarming over a dark spot on the soil. The officers glanced at each other; they understood. With a stony expression, Loren pressed a lump of the soil between a forefinger and thumb. Blood!

A line of uncovered seed in the rows of the final cut caught the eye of the farmer's son in Billy. It revealed to him that the rig had stopped there. On restart, the planter had dropped surplus seeds, some left exposed by the furrowing disks.

“Loren, why would Sorell stop in the middle of a cut?” the Chief Deputy asked.

Loren wondered why, too. This close to home, Sorell would have answered nature's call in the outhouse or slaked his thirst at the well, both located close to the field. Furthermore, the rows were short; so after being filled on the other side, the planter easily could have made a few round-trips without reloading. Had there been mechanical problems? The officers had no answer, yet both agreed Sorell was hurt and had lain on his back for a time. His blood told them.

The bean field was an agricultural instructor's dream, marred only by the uncovered seed, the buzzing bluebottles, and the tractor still nosing the cedars. That nagged at Loren, and he wondered why. It was time to analyze the dilemma.

"Billy, your head's gushing blood. What's the first thing you do?"

"Try to stop the bleeding."

Loren nodded. "Find anything Sorell might have use for that?"

Billy frowned. “Nothing.”

Again Loren nodded. "If the old man took the tractor for help, he'd be standing or sitting. Where would the blood from his wound flow?"

Billy's eyes widened. "Straight down his neck,” he declared, “But there’s no blood on Sorell's shirt."

"Or in the tractor cab," observed Loren.

"Then Sorell didn't get up." Bewilderment filled Billy's voice. “How did he get to the other side?"

"Someone moved him." Loren's own words startled him.

Now he realized why the neatness nagged him. If Sorell had rushed for help with the tractor, he'd have made a beeline for the house. There would be a row of crosswise cuts over the completed rows. Yet, there were none.

The officers elbowed through the thicket, to an unused utility road that divided Sorell's property from an adjacent woods. Perpetually shaded by trees, it never lost its dampness, terminating several miles ahead, at the depleted natural gas wells it once serviced.

Billy studied fresh tire tracks on the shoulder. "A pickup, I'd say."

He noticed oil. "With a leaky oil pan," he grunted.

His finger raised culms of bent orchard grass within the tracks. Again they curtsied. "It left not long ago," he concluded.

Loren nodded assent. “Someone left the truck here and then entered the field from the road,” he theorized aloud. “Sorell must have climbed down from his tractor to see what the person wanted and was hit from behind.”

But Loren couldn't explain why the old man was left bleeding in the field for a while. Nevertheless, the blood-filled cavity proved he eventually was placed on the planter, with his head over the coupling. The assailants brushed out the footprints and even took time to finish the last cut before dumping him on the other side.

As he concluded his, Loren swallowed hard and his facial muscles twitched. Those confounded butterflies were active again! "By then, coagulation set in, but not before Sorell bled into the cavity. They tried to fake an accident by running the rig over him and leaving it moving. Then they jumped to the grass and ran. They forgot Sorell's cap, but you didn't, Billy!"

Billy shuddered. "Real brutal guys!"

Loren searched studiously for his notebook. "And we have to catch them! Get what we need to perverse evidence.” Billy left, tires smoking, and Loren radioed the county sheriff's garage. The jolly voice of Casper Tolinas, its foreman, responded. "Well! The boss! A 'tomic bomb explode, sheriff?"

Loren explained that he wanted Sorell's rig impounded. "Send a C-2. Priority code!" Tolinas's flippancy evaporated. The code meant: “Get here now!” He
promised speed, but Loren defined that by the sloth creep of the department's gargantuan, C-2 truck cranes, times the fourteen miles between the garage and Sorell's farm. The wait would be long; he wished those who viewed his job as
adventurous could see him now.

Sorell didn't make it. An autopsy revealed an oily substance in his head wound. Specimens of it were sent to the FBI lab in Washington, together with other evidence. Even before the findings returned, a coroner’s jury issued a verdict of homicide, shredding the fabric of trust that had characterized Cayuga County.

The unthinkable had occurred!
*
As he stood before his own desk, Jules Rimfurt's face looked peaked. Though he was Cayuga County's supervisor, his expensive, blue, 42 regular business suit looked tawdry on his 42 short physique. Its jacket hung too low, while the trouser cuffs sagged behind white brogues. Contrasting sharply, the hand-tailored, black, pinstripe suit now occupying Rimfurt's chair, blended perfectly with the glistening cordovans that were plunked brazenly on his exquisitely crafted, black walnut desk. Smoke from one of Rimfurt's Havanas spiraled from behind the desk, caressing a textured ceiling, then billowing in curling waves against paneled walls. A former dairy farmer, Rimfurt had sold his soul to the state political machine. Molded to its specifications and fitted with minor cogs, he'd been synchronized with its corrupt mechanisms.

Earlier, The Pinstriper had ordered Rimfurt to meet him at the county hall at 10 P.M., when they could be alone. Now his manicured hand motioned him into a plush chair. Like a wayward child, the apprehensive supervisor complied. He knew what was coming and his head ached. "Without us you'd still be squeezing milk. You repay us with stupidity! You idiot! Why'd you kill the guy?"

"Those goons did it. I told them to just scare Sorell," Rimfurt whimpered.

The Pinstriper glared. "You hired them! Stop that investigation before things explode or you'll join the old man!" He paused. "Get the drift?"

Rimfurt felt a sudden urge to use the men's room. He attempted to push his voice through a large lump in his throat. It squeaked. He swallowed hard and nodded.

"Good. I tell the Big Man. Enjoy your evening." The Pinstriper's cordovans carried him back into the night. And Rimfurt's brogues sped him into the men's room to retch.
*

FBI tests revealed that one of the truck's tires was deeply gashed; moreover, traces from heavy pipe threading were embedded in them. The substance from Sorell's head was driller's grease, commonly used for augers. Loren stared at the report. Driller grease! An agricultural county, Cayuga depended on drillers for the water so essential to its needs. Most were tough, hard-working men.

Consulting with Chief Dispatcher Tadber, Loren located Billy at Frank's counter, sluicing down a burger with coffee. "Let's take a booth, Billy. This you gotta see!"

Billy read, and his chewing slowed. "A driller's truck?" he whispered hoarsely.

Loren washed down a mouthful of his ham on rye. "Maybe; we'll search."

Billy volunteered to check out the county's numerous bars and Loren consented. "Take Paris, wear civvies and drive an unmarked. Our dispatchers are to know your location at all times. Understood?"

"Understood. We'll start tonight."

After his session with the Pinstriper, Rimfurt lost it. His constant explosions sent those around him scurrying in panic. Unable to eat, he lost weight he could ill afford. The short intervals of sleep he gleaned resulted in drenching sweat. Massaging his brow, sometimes nibbling his knuckles, he paced incessantly. His subordinates had always considered him to be erratic; still, they'd been able to limp along. Now there was chaos! Rimfurt gave orders, repudiated them, refused to sign documents, cancelled all meetings, and rejected all calls. He customarily shunned the Sheriff's Department, so Loren was puzzled when his intercom announced that Rimfurt insisted on seeing him.

The sheriff was appalled at supervisor's appearance. A life-long teetotaler, Rimfurt reeked of alcohol. Dark shadows rimmed his eyes. His hair, unkempt, hung over his now skeletal features. Tremulous, his right hand held an unlit Havana. In his left hand he clutched a Homburg.

"Jules! What happened?"

Rimfurt's features went from chalky white to crimson. So violently did he tremble that Loren reached to steady him. The supervisor erupted like someone cursed with an explosive disorder. "You happened to me! Doc Krastel happened to me! Everyone’s screaming murder! Sorell had an accident; close the case, now!"

He collapsed into a chair, sucking air. During the lengthy silence that ensued, Loren noticed a hint of pleading in Rimfurt's eyes. "Jules, you’re not feeling well . . .”

"I'm fine!" Rimfurt screeched, "The investigation's over on my say-so!"

Loren sighed. "You haven’t that authority, Jules. Calm down. We’re following leads."

"What leads?"

"Why do you want the investigation dropped?" Loren countered.

Rimfurt changed the subject. "Look at you; New York State’s sloppiest sheriff. When I kick you out of office, you won't yell murder any more!"

He scrutinized Loren's attire. "You disgrace the entire county; everyone laughs at your clothes!"

Loren realized he was no fashion plate. Verony told him often enough, with her self-styled "love nags." She wanted him to conform to the dress code he mandated for his deputies: neatly pressed uniforms, complete with side arms when on duty. Only undercover deputies were exempt. And, because of his size, he also was exempted, he informed Verony. She knew that stores that sold clothes in his size were expensive, so he bought sale items that just happened to fit his huge frame, wherever he could find them. Nonetheless, he did own one expensive, specially tailored uniform that was reserved for special occasions.

He glanced down at himself. Why were people so critical of his attire? There was no reason for Jules to be so insulting. He didn't look so bad! No matter that Verony claimed the enormous camp shirt he was wearing draped him like a horse blanket. It hung over faded, war surplus, Navy work pants, the waist and rear of which he had nagged Verony into expanding. They drooped deeply at the posterior, their cuffs reaching down to sneakers that long ago surrendered their whiteness. Ignored had been Verony's advice that the incongruent combination not be worn on the job. What was wrong with everybody? His clothes were neat and clean.

"I'll ignore your insults, Jules. Please leave."

"Lover Boy Kregs, the Romeo of Bowen . . . "

Loren's towering presence overshadowed the Supervisor! Rimfurt had overreached. The reference was to Loren's rescue of a teen-age girl. His opponents had tried to capitalize on its humorous aftermath by dubbing him, "Lover Boy Kregs."

Now, his two massive fists enclosed Rimfurt's tie and lapels. As the stubby man elevated, his slack finger's released the hat and cigar. His feet kicked air as he stared directly into the smoldering eyes of his nemeses.

"You drunken little frog,” Loren growled, “I could squash you, but your not worth it."

Loren lowered his thrashing captive, but still retained his hold. "When you insulted my clothes, I let it pass. Now you slandered my integrity! Your bosses tried it in the last election. I sued and won. You pip-squeak. You never learn, do you? Want me to have everything you own? Fine. Just slander me in public."

Releasing Rimfurt, Loren pressed the intercom. A young brunette in maternity clothes entered. A faint rash on her hands apparently embarrassed her, because she tried to hide it behind her steno pad.

"Mrs. Baymark, take Mr. Rimfurt's dictation. You were you saying, Jules?" Dampness beaded Rimfurt's forehead. Lips pursed with suppressed fury, he scooped up his hat and charged out. "Guess he changed his mind," Loren shrugged to the baffled brunette, He then hurried to Dispatch Central.
*
The Sheriff's Department was concluding its third week of searching for the pickup. Billy found it impossible to remain anonymous in the driller hangouts. He and Loren had failed to take his long service into account, and civvies did nothing to disguise his distinctive features. Each time he entered a bar, its patrons shouted greetings to him. After several such friendly encounters, it fell to the inconspicuous Paris to infiltrate the dives, while Billy focused on the vehicles in the parking lots. It surprised him how many leaky oil pans he spotted. Numerous damaged tires were seen, but none that meshed with the castings.

On this third Friday of the search, Billy and Paris had just arrived at The Drinking Well, a watering hole with an unsavory reputation, near Silver Creek. Each year, the Sheriff's Department could count a booming business from The
Well, especially on Friday nights, after its clientele had deeply imbibed. More than one deputy had been hurt quelling the stabbings, clubbings and gang fights that broke out there. Still, politics kept the place open.

"Dispatch Central, this is unmarked one. Over." Paris's tenor conveyed no enthusiasm.

"Unmarked one, Chief Dispatcher Tadber, here. Go ahead."

"Sir, this is Deputy Paris. I'll be entering The Drinking Well. Chief Deputy Greenoak, will be checking out tires."

"Let me speak to the Chief Deputy."

Hearing Billy's explanation, Tadber responded, "The High Sheriff'll have to
clear this. Stay put. Out."

Billy lit a cigarette. He appreciated Tadber's concern. Payday, booze, and The Well's clientele, made an explosive combination. If Paris were identified, he'd be in trouble. "I'm going in with you."

“Then there's no sense in you going in, sir."

Billy knew Paris was right. The radio crackled. "This is Kregs. Pick up, Billy."

Billy complied. "You and Paris are not to enter The Well. A call is sure to come in from there soon. I'll respond with the others. Go drink some coffee till then."

Paris's relief earned a smile from Billy. "You made both of us very happy, boss. Don't know about coffee, though. Can we check tires?"

"That's up to you, but don't go in."

"Understood, boss."

"Good. Kregs out."

The Well's rear lot was filled with rows of cars parked grille to grille, leading the officers to park their car in the last row. They'd been working some twenty minutes, pacing each other on opposite sides, when Billy heard a loud grunt.

Peering beneath the truck he was inspecting, he saw Paris prone on the asphalt. Next to him stood a pair of heavy work shoes, accompanied by two combat boots. Billy drew his weapon, remaining low. Moved cautiously between the
vehicles, he peered around the grille of a station wagon. Two men were standing over Paris, one holding a blackjack, the other keys. Both were apparently oblivious of his presence. Taking aim, the chief deputy stood.

"Deputy Sheriff! Drop what's in your hands! Hands on your heads! Now!"

The men stiffened. Blackjack and keys fell to the ground. Their hands went to their heads.

"Back away slowly, or you’re both dead!" Billy voice conveyed certainty. "Far enough. Slowly lower your left hands pull off your belts and drop them!" The men complied, securing their pants with their left hands.

"Hands back on your heads!"

This time they hesitated. There was a metallic click from the pistol. "On the three count!” Billy snarled. Up went the hands. Down went one pair of pants.

"Now kneel and press your noses together."

Gathering the belts, Billy approached until the pistol nozzle pressed against the
noses of both prisoners. He felt a tremendous relief when they at last were on their sides, cuffed together and tightly belted at the thighs.

Unconscious, Paris had a large goose egg on his head. Though he wasn't bleeding, his breathing was shallow. Medical help was needed, but it was necessary for Billy to move to his car to summon assistance.

"Now hop to that old Studebaker!" he ordered the men.

The obscene objections he received died when he advanced, brandishing the blackjack he had collected from the pavement. Hastily, the captives struggled to their feet. They sullenly hopped to the Studebaker, where, in a bent stance, they were coupled to the car's front bumper with Paris's cuffs.

A sudden wave of nausea engulfed Billy as he reached for the mike. He lit a cigarette, but it didn't restore his dissipated adrenalin high. "Unmarked one to
Central Dispatch. Officer down. Officer down at the Drinking Well parking lot. Deputy Paris hurt and unconscious. Dispatch immediate medical assistance and backup. Have two shackled prisoners. Greenoak. Over."

Tadber responded, "Chief Deputy, medical assistance and backup already en route. State condition of Paris; also your own.” Concern was in Tadber's voice.

"I'm okay, Central. But Paris is unconscious from a severe blow to the head with a blackjack. No blood, but shallow breathing. I am unable to ascertain more. Have the two perpetrators in custody and shackled. Repeat: We need immediate assistance."

"The Silver Creek patrol should reach you soon. Silver Creek's ambulance already en route. We're diverting units other to you. The High Sheriff is also heading to your location. We shall keep this channel open. Do you require anything else?"

"A tow truck to haul in a pickup."

"Tow truck will be dispatched."

"I can hear our boys approaching, Central. Greenoak out. And thanks."

"We're pulling for Paris, Chief Deputy. Out."

Preceded by the ambulance, the unit assigned to Silver Creek was just entering the lot when Billy signed off. Other units quickly followed. Patrons poured from The Well, protesting when the lot was cordoned off. Billy stood by anxiously, while a young ambulance doctor checked his now conscious partner. Uttering a low moan, Paris rubbed his head.

"What happened? Owww! What a headache!"

"I want you in City Hospital for observation," the doctor instructed. Paris protested, but Billy ordered his compliance and the ambulance left.

Dusk was near when Loren arrived with Watch Lieutenant Thompson. The downed trousers evoked amused, questioning looks. "I needed the belts," Billy sheepishly explained.

Loren inquired about Paris, and eyed the prisoners. The appearance of the older, bandy-legged man was squalid. A grizzled Viking beard draped his barrel-chest. Its matching head of hair apparently had never been caressed by brush or comb. Swinging beneath a filthy t-shirt, a bloated, blubbery belly attested that he lived for his suds. The embarrassment of literally being caught with his pants down exacerbated his surliness. And, judging by its loud jeers, the crowd harbored no sympathy for him.

Much younger, his companion was tall and athletic. A blond crew cut crested his Apollo features, and his storm sea eyes harbored concern. An Eisenhower jacket revealed that technical sergeant stripes recently had been removed. Tucked into worn combat boots, though now beltless, his faded fatigue pants remained steadfast. A vet in his late twenties, Loren guessed.

"Hey, skull-face. My back hurts," The Beard bellowed.

Fists bunched, Billy headed for him, but Loren's warning glance stopped him. Brandishing a clenched fist at The Beard, he blinked owlishly at Loren, and moved toward the pickup.

Assuming an understanding tone, Loren informed the men that he wanted to make them more comfortable, but he needed answers first. What was the older man's name? A series of expletives blasted him.

"Awwww, are you having a bad day?” Thompson sarcastically sympathized.

"Your name, kid?" Loren asked Apollo.

"I ain't with this bozo."

Your name?" Silence.

"Could be the killers," Loren mused. Apollo’s eyes widened, "I didn’t kill anyone!”

"Shut up!" The Beard yelled.

“Don’t tell me to shut up, blubber belly. I’m not going to get blamed for what they say you maybe did! I didn’t kill anyone!”

Winking conspiratorially, Loren remanded them to Thompson's custody, and turned toward the crowd. "And, for Pete's sake, lieutenant, have that fat one pull up his pants! There're women watching! Charge him with indecent exposure, too!"

A barrage of curses rewarded his drollness as he strolled toward Billy.
*

For the first time in their long acquaintance, the Big Man had castigated The Pinstriper. The Big Man had received a report that Rimfurt's two loonies had been arrested. That spelled trouble for the political machine, especially since Rimfurt assassins couldn't be trusted, and he was informed.

“They’re a dangerous liability!” the Big Man had raged.

‘You’re not doing your job!” he raged at The Pinstriper, “Those two screwballs will connect Rimfurt to the old farmer, and Rimfurt will implicate you! Then the rest of us will be up a creek with no paddle!

The Pinstriper tried to assure the Big Man that everything was under control. Nonetheless, he wouldn’t buy it.

“You had better get those loonies before they get us! We’re paying you big bucks to handle these kinds of things for us. Earn your money!” the Big Guy had demanded, just before The Pinstriper attempted to reach Rimfurt’s home by phone. Only a constant ringing at the other end rewarded his efforts.

Furious, he reluctantly dialed the Cayuga County Building, and was passed through to Rimfurt's office. An efficient female voice responded. Employing an alias, he stated, “This is Mr. Stemir. Supervisor Rimfurt, please."

"Sorry; he's away."

"Where can he be located? It's urgent!"

"He didn't say, sir.

"When is he returning?"

"Soon, I expect. He's been gone three weeks."

Cradling the phone, the Pinstriper lit a cigar, and cursed through the smoke.
"The jerk's skipped!"

He scowled venomously, and dialed again. He was leaving to locate and neutralized Rimfurt, he informed the Big Man.
*

The Beard was a troublemaker named Rus Decanner. Apollo was Anton Milnay, an Army vet cashiered for gross insubordination. Both were riggers, employed by a drilling outfit near Silver Creek, and both frequented The Drinking Well. The truck belonged to Decanner. It revealed a new oil pan gasket and its tires were recently mounted.

Sitting in his office with Loren and Billy, County Prosecutor Calson Zacaro was reviewing the case against the two men. He frowned. "I can only prosecute them for assaulting Paris, and obstructing a police investigation. Sorry, guys."

What about the truck?" Billy sounded disgusted.

"Only suspicions. The gasket and tires are new. So what? I think they killed Sorell, but if we try them, they'll walk."

Zacaro steepled his fingers. "Sorry. Assault and obstruction's the best I can do," he finished, tonelessly.

Loren knew Zacaro was right. If the pair walked, they couldn't be tried again for killing Sorell, even with absolute proof. The lesser charges must suffice for now. He stood. “You’re right, Carlson. We'll get proof. Don't know how, but we will."

Zacaro extended his hand and they parted.
*

Kenny Jarvin was a busy attorney with an accounting degree. He not only was the chief executive of his father's enormous accounting corporation, but he also held retainers from several of Cayuga County's large co-ops. This morning, however, as he waited for Loren in one of Frank's corner booths, other thoughts occupied his mind.

Loren's ham on rye was ready, even before he entered and managed to wedge his extended beltline between the seat and the table. As usual, he grumbled to Frank about needing larger booths. "You can afford them; I eat here often enough."

"That's why you don't fit."

Loren mimicked a scowl. "What are you - a frustrated comedian? Let's see your fat gut get in here."

Frank retreated, and Loren turned to Kenny grinning victoriously. He sobered when he noticed Kenny's furrowed brow. "Problems?"

"A pretty serious one."

Loren lowered his unbitten sandwich,.

"After Sorell died, Rimfurt wanted his farm. Kept upping the offer to widow Sorell. She wouldn’t sell. She said he did the same to her husband before he was killed. Told him he wouldn't be responsible for what happened if he didn't sell.

"Rimfurt's office informed me that he left town with his family three weeks ago, without notice. No one knows where he is."

Loren attempted to absorb this. All county executive officers, including Loren, were obligated to give County Clerk Rita Biscard, at least a month's notice before an extended absence. They were required to inform her in writing on where they could be reached.

"He's flipped," he exclaimed, "When did he say that to Sorell?"

"Just before the killing. Another thing; a few days ago Mrs. Sorell received notice of foreclosure from the county for tax delinquency. Luckily, I located receipts proving the taxes were paid. Sorell's county records showed four years of tax delinquency. Rita can't understand it."

"Would the records be hard to change?"

"Not for someone with authorized access. The files are loose-leaf ledger pages in heavy binders. Each property has a separate posting page that registers 10 entries; two a year."

Kenny's gave a startled gasp. "That's it! Somebody falsified Sorell's latest ledger!"

He calmed himself. "Will you go with me to see Rita?"

Taking a bite from his sandwich, Loren swallowed before answering. "I planned to observe Decanner and Milnay being arraigned today. But I'll go with you, if you'll ride to Rimfurt's with me, afterward."

"Let's take Billy in case there’s trouble," Kenny suggested.

Loren looked askance; nevertheless, he considered. Billy was assigned to head the detail that was escorting Decanner and Milnay to court. He then was scheduled to resume their interrogations. So far, claiming connections, Decanner was playing hard case. Milnay, though, seemed nervous. Loren felt that, if the correct emotional buttons were pushed, the cashiered vet would break. That would make the Sheriff's Department look good, especially if Decanner's claimed connections were identified. Loren wanted to be there should that happen. He decided Thompson would head the arraignment detail. The interrogations could wait for Billy's return.

"Okay. Billy should be in on this."

"Great! Lunch on me."

As he passed the register, Loren pointed back to his sandwich. "See, Frank?" he gloated, “Ate only half. You should eat less, too." And, with a brusque salute, he left.
*

The fresh ink on Sorell's ledger page confirmed Kenny's suspicion. Rita explained that, beside her, two persons had keys to the glass enclosed registry - Rimfurt and the deputy clerk. But only she and Rimfurt had keys to the main entrance of the tax department. She unlocked both doors at the start of each workday, and relocked them at day's end. Six registry clerks were authorized to enter transactions in the ledgers. In addition, either Rita, or the deputy clerk, or both, remained in the department whenever the registry was unlocked. Rita was adamant in her affirmation that neither she nor her clerks were culpable. She promised to personally correct the error.

"Has Rimfurt been in since Sorell's death?" asked Loren.

Rita conferred with her deputy clerk.

“No, not during the day,” she answered, “But that doesn’t mean he hasn’t been here. He could’ve come in after we closed the office."

Loren pocketed the counterfeit page for fingerprinting, and left with his friends.
***

Hidden behind manicured hedges, Rimfurt's estate was accessed by a long, curving drive, rimmed by lesser hedges.

"For a public servant, he sure likes privacy," Billy observed dryly.

In the back seat, Kenny chuckled. He was wealthy, but owned nothing like this grandiose domain; a magnificent fieldstone mansion, with several lesser buildings, set in rolling acres of private park! A stream, bordered by flowering trees, rippled through it. Cascading lazily down a stony glacis into an enormous, pristine pond, it resumed its meanders after exiting from the other end. A series of rock gardens, terraced alongside a lace-work of winding, cobblestone paths, were mottled by the prismatic hues of myriad flowers. Adjacent to the pool stood a sprawling summerhouse with lawn furniture stored inside. Loren noticed that the floors to ceiling windows were cranked tight, while the door swung wide.

Billy braked the car to rubberneck. "What's a County Supervisor paid, anyway?"

Kenny leaned forward. "Not enough for . . ."

A thundering muffler interrupted, succeeded by clashing gears. The thunder increased until, rounding a hedge, an ancient jalopy (still endeavoring to preserve its dignity as a red stake truck) shook itself onto the driveway. On its passenger side, a rusted, loose, running board waggled to a misfiring engine.

Billy engaged the flashers, and the rattletrap coughed to a halt, its engine dying. Dented doors bragged in rainbow lettering that it belonged to "Guido's Artistic Landscaping."

A giant with an olive face descended, his head shielded by a Panama, well ventilated by use. His ebony eyes evidenced concern, brightening when they noticed Kenny.

"Mr. Jarvini!"

"Hello, Guido.

"You know each other?" asked Loren.

"This is Guido Tonini. He does all our landscaping. Don't let the truck fool you; he's the best in his field!"

A snaggletooth smile lifted Tonini's cheeks.

Loren indicated his badge. "Why are you here, Guido?"

Tonini replied that he handled all the Rimfurt landscaping. He'd been commissioned to complete a special project while the family was away. He'd expected them back by now and had come for his money. "Body no boddy home!"

"So you work here a lot," Loren observed.

Tonini's sweeping gesture embraced the skyline, climaxing with a finger poking at his expanded chest. "Alla my work."

Asked if he'd seen anyone around since Rimfurt left, Tonini shook his head. "Bod see lossa trueble! Wassa goin fer da policea."

"What happened, Guido?" asked Kenny.

Tonini motioned for them to follow. The ornate front door of the house was demolished. The four doors to the garage yawned wide. On its concrete approach a new Olds 98 and a late model Lincoln convertible each had a breached side window. Glass shards strewed their interiors and their trunk lids had been pried open.

Inside, the mansion was chaotic. The contents of all the drawers, closets and cupboards were strewn. Rimfurt's desk and safe had been emptied. The contents of his file folders papered the rug of his den, mixed with mounds of books dumped from shelves.

Back outside, Loren asked, "Okay to search your truck?"

Tonini appeared stunned by what he'd just seen; still, he managed a nod, but all Billy found were tools. The boneshaker resurrected with a roar, gagging Kenny and the lawmen in the billowing smoke from its tailpipe. Tonini engaged the transmission with metallic grinding that set their teeth on edge. Then, trailing smoke and coughing fumes, it joggled away.

When he could hear himself think, Loren noted, "Looks like someone's after Jules. He's running!"

"Then why hire Guido?" asked Kenny.

"To make it seem like he's coming back. But I'll bet he emptied his bank accounts."

The radio was awakened by an urgent plea from Tadber.

"Unit one! Return! Priority code! Unit one! Return! Priority code!"

Loren picked up and heard, "Sheriff! Return, priority code! Decanner's been killed by a sniper!"
*

Rimfurt had indeed emptied his enormous bank accounts. He also converted all liquid assets to cash. Thinking to ward off suspicion, he had engaged Tonini, saying he would pay him on his return, but he wasn't planning to return. With his family, he had driven to Camden, New Jersey and taken a hotel suite. In the morning, Brenda found she'd spent the night with a bundle of cash. Her husband had disappeared!
*

The morning of his planned search of Rimfurt's property, the Pinstripper been warned off by a howling, off-key rendition of "Oh, Solo Mio" blaring through the hedges. The frustrated baritone had consumed valuable time, and the search had been fruitless. Then his sources reported that the State Police had received a Teletype from the Camden, New Jersey police. Rimfurt's wife had reported him missing. His Cadillac was in the Greyhound lot, where he may have boarded a bus for New York City. The Pinstriper had just landed there. He was in a limo, heading for the Hilton. And he wasn't happy. He sighed. Why hadn't his shooter completed the contract to eliminate those two morons Rimfurt hired? The whole ball of yarn was beginning to unwind. It was up to him to roll it back up.

Entering the Hilton lobby, the Pinstriper made several phone calls, feeding Rimfurt's description to the grapevine. In less than an hour, it was being digested by an underworld whose myriad eyes and ears Rimfurt would find impossible to escape.

The Pinstriper waited.
*

Decanner was taken out with a single shot by a sniper with a 30-caliber Army carbine. A professional shooter had fired from maximum range, reasoned Loren. Such a killer wasn't apt to leave clues. After an investigation confirmed this, his digestive acids seared his throat and red-hot intestinal pains plagued him. Yet, Milnay was a redeeming factor. Convinced that his freedom meant his death, he confessed. He and Decanner had been hired by Rimfurt to bully Sorell into selling, but the old guy wouldn't scare, threatening, instead, to call the sheriff.

Going to the truck, Decanner returned with an auger, and crushed the back of Sorrel's skull. "Then the freak ran him over with the tractor," Milnay sobbed, "How could I stop him?"

Roxby Prison became his home for the rest of his life.
*

Alone at Frank's, Loren sat staring at the fizz in his Seltzer water. He downed a lot of it lately to relieve his stomach. He didn't notice Paris until he spoke.

"You okay, sir?"

"Just tired, thanks." A vague gesture invited Paris to sit.

"Can't sir. Mrs. Baymark asked me to bring you this."

Loren took the envelope and Paris left.

8/19/48, 11:13 A.M. Teletype Dispatch.
To: High Sheriff Loren Kregs, Cayuga
County.

From: Lt. Peter Curelli.

Ref: Your requested info, Jules Rimfurt.
Mrs. Rimfurt reported husband missing
8/13/48, 10:17 A.M.

Since family strangers in Camden, search
time-limit waived. Rimfurt's 48 Caddy
located Greyhound lot. Ticket agent
reported Rimfurt boarded bus bound NYC.
Caddy claimed by Mrs. Rimfurt. End.

Loren grimaced. The dispatch only confirmed Brenda's answers to his questions, after she and the kids had sulked back to Collins. When informed of the charges against her husband, she registered a shock so profound that Loren had sent for Doc.

Loren’s satisfaction in having apprehended Sorell's killers was tempered by the fact that the real perpetrators still were free. Not only Rimfurt, but his bosses, too. They deserved to be with Decanner! He mulled over the dispatch. Oh, well; since Rimfurt was out of reach, he'd call his friend, FBI Agent Euler, in Washington. Maybe he'd help.
*

His gastric problems notwithstanding, Loren was seated before a heaping plateful of roast pork, stuffing, lemon rice, fried pan bread, and gravy - his favorite meal. His fork returned to the plate at the demanding summons of the phone. Ignoring Verony's advice to let the blasted thing ring, he heard Euler's monotone on the other end.

"Hello, Sheriff Kregs? Hope it's not an inconvenient time." Loren assured him it wasn't.

"I put feelers out on your request. This thing is huge! Goes to the very top of your state, plus two others. Something about natural gas deposits. Old ones are petering out, and I understand that powerful interests want to gain a private monopoly on all reserves. The members will become billionaires. They want Rimfurt killed because he knows too much."

Loren almost dropped the receiver! When he regained his voice, he said, “This is way beyond my jurisdiction!"

"Just between us, the President has ordered us to step in. I'll be top-dogging an investigation. My man in New York City tracked down Rimfurt. Rimfurt told him he knows he'll be killed if he doesn't come in. But he'll surrender only to you. Will you go to New York?" Somewhat cautiously, Loren agreed.

"Good. I'll arrange it and get back to you."
*

Rimfurt talked, pushing the first domino by fingering Deputy Governor Joseph Lisogen, alias Mr. Stemir - The Pinstriper. Lisogen spewed his guts about party chairman, Ross Wourtrer - the Big Man. Wourtrer, in turn, implicated Governor Keserton. Hoping to gain leniency, Keserton gave names, thus toppling the remaining dominos. When those so named scurried to follow suite, the entire state administration collapsed, along with its political machine.

Rimfurt testified that, while gobbling up properties rich in gas, his bosses discovered old utility company maps that indicated Sorell's land held one of the state's richest deposits. They ordered him to get it, so he hired Decanner and Milnay to pressure the old farmer. Instead, they killed him.

No deals were needed. With almost every cog squealing, the case against the machine was foolproof. Before long, Milnay and Rimfurt were put in isolation to protect them from a large company of newly arrived prisoners.

Exercising his emergency powers, the President appointed a caretaker administration over the state until the next election. It was granted sweeping powers to root out the corrupt vestiges still remaining from the former administration. Distilled through a screening process and pressed through a sieve left them sanitized and leanly efficient.

After the State Police were pressed through a similar sieve, the acting governor contacted Loren. The President had been impressed by his long participation in the unusual case; the toppling of the corrupt administration was due to his efforts. Washington was recommending that Loren head the reformed State Police.

Positively flattered and about to blurt out an instant acceptance, Loren reigned in his ego. Finally, he declined.

"Please thank the President for me, but I decline. Please tell him that I'm just a county sheriff, who was only keeping a promise to a little old lady."
-30-
© Josprel (Joseph Perrello)
josprel@yahoo.com

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