Notes From The Desk of Dub

Manuscripts

 Manuscripts and Articles

Articles & Essays

All articles are stored at Faithwriters.com

Complete Manuscripts and Works-in-Progress cuttings and short samples of longer works.

Nan McHough Series: Adventures of a young city beat reporter in New Orleans

Willies Requiem

St. Zita's Tears

September Fog

Scarlet Murders

Other Manuscripts

A Crepe Heart - a critical look at the possible future end of Christianity

Twin Rivers Christian Widow's Coffee Club - Recipes and fun stories of three ladies

Hannah Parker - Settlers in the new world

Emmett - tales of a Christian Cowboy

Forbidden Treasurer - Discovery of a haunted treasure

Beware of the Vines of Ortheon - Tongue-in-cheek story of a future young Christian

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   From Chapter 12 - Willie's Requiem - A Nan McHough Mystery

Minutes later the cab stopped along the curb on Ramparts and Nan got out, paid the driver, and walked up to the small stucco sided building. She pounded on the side door. “O.K. Bob Smith where are you?”  The church was locked and no sound of life was stirring. She looked toward Ramparts - the cab was gone.

            Nan glanced at the hand written notice on the side of the church. It was contained in a small marquee with a Plexiglas covering; it read “God’s Singers and Chorale meet at civic auditorium at 7p.m. Friday.”

            “Guess I will hoof it,”  she hoisted her bag even higher in her arms. Nan quickly calculated the distance to the Esplanade Ave. and the remaining distance to her friend’s house. Probably shoulda called somebody. She began walking across the lower quarter toward Esplanade Avenue, her long strides keeping pace with the sound of nearby traffic. Streetlights were beginning to reflect off of nearby houses.

            About five minutes into her walk Nan paused to shift the bag in her arms. From out of nowhere her body was suddenly and violently sent airborne. As she hit the ground she felt a searing pain shoot through her arm and shoulder and then the feeling of air being extracted from her body.  Her cheek clashed with the sand and gravel of the gutter and her teeth bit into her lip; her glasses ripped from her nose; her knees bounced helplessly off of the curbing; and an ear ring tore from its holding.

            Her mouth suddenly filled with bile and blood. She tried to lift herself with one hand, but her head was pushed into the cement by the force of the attacker’s boot.  Their words of hate and contempt fell like depraved rain, encasing her ears in obscenity as she struggled. Nan felt the bag under her left arm being ripped from her side, her blouse being torn asunder, and the chain around her neck severed -- all the while a continued barrage of laughs and disgust were thrust upon her devastated body.  Again, she attempted to lift herself with her right hand and as she did a boot suddenly caught and wedged in her elevated side.  With an explosion of pain, the air in her body escaped as she gasped in breathless agony. The gold cross she once wore around her neck was lying in a pool of blood in the gutter as her face once again bounced off the gravel and dirt. Her unfocused eyes found the cross, “Oh, Jesus,” in anguish she managed to create a sound in her throat and cry earnestly, “I need you Jesus,” she weakly whispered as she continued to struggle. Then, as suddenly as the violence began, it ended, and a peaceful veil of darkness covered her eyes.

            The next thing Nan remembered was a large hand being placed under her shoulders, and another large hand and arm going under her legs. She tried to struggle but found that she was powerless. The arms that elevated her were strong and kind, her defenses immediately subsided and she turned her face to the person carrying her. It was then she realized that the swelling of her face and eyes precluded her vision. She buried her cheek into the body of the person carrying her. She heard her transport say, “Oh Nan, what have you done.”

            The voice was familiar and kind, she knew it from sometime in her past. “Harley, oh Harley, “ she cried.

            “Nan, Nan, wake up Nan,” she heard a woman’s voice and felt something cold and wet on her face. “I think she is back with us Edna.”    

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From Chapter 2 - St. Zita's Tears  - A Nan McHough Mystery

After excusing herself from late night tea and cookies, Nan departed the Minina estate. She pulled out of the long driveway and was immediately followed by flashing blue lights.  “Sheesh, what now?”

            “License and registration please.” The matter-of-fact tone was irritating to Nan.

            She fumbled for her license and handed it to the officer. “This is my bosses’ car, I’ll have to dig for the registration.”

            “Your boss lets you drive his car?”

            “I was about to deliver it to him, I drove it to an assignment.”

            “Okay, take the vehicle to him, and tell him he has a bad brake light.”

            Nan was going through the glove box looking for the registration. “Uh, okay.”

            When she turned back to the window the officer was gone and her license was resting on the dash.  “Wow, that was strange.”

The Land Rover scooted along St. Charles Street until it came to Que Sera, a popular local lounge. Nan parked the Rover a few doors down but on the street. She walked toward the bar and noticed that a number of the patrons were standing in the sidewalk veranda, conversing and generally watching traffic go by. Nan squeezed her way in the front door of the bar and began looking for her boss.

            Her cell phone began to chirp, she looked at the caller ID, it read “Lee,” so, she   answered. “Nan.”

            “Nan, this is Lee, look to your immediate right.”

            Nan glanced to her right, and there through dense cigarette smoke and two tables away sat her boss in a crowd of other men and women. Lee motioned her over to the table. 

            Clutching her purse tightly to her chest she wormed her way to Lee’s table and stood at his left side and dropped the keys on the table. “Delivered, I’ll get a cab from here.”

            He waved his hand in the air. “Folks, this is the famous Nancy McHough, who single-handedly cracked the mule case that the police had given up on, and in the process, she wrecked a Porsche, had her car trashed and impounded, spent a few days in jail, and got rolled.” Lee had obviously been drinking for some time.

            Many of the folks around the table acknowledged Lee’s announcement with comments and thumbs up. Nan simply stood at the shoulder of her boss, somewhat humiliated.

            Lee looked up at Nan. “Kid, someday you need to loosen up, go ahead and take the Rover home with you, these guys will drop me off,” several heads nodded, “I will be at the office tomorrow after lunch, drop it off then.” He picked up the keys and handed them to her.

            Nan turned without comment and pushed her way out of the bar and up to the Land Rover. A parking ticket was on the windshield because the vehicle extended over the line and into a handicapped zone. Nan kicked the driver’s side tire. “Ouch,” Sheesh, that’s the toe I jammed last fall.

 

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------From Chapter 3 - September Fog - A Nan McHough                                   Mystery

            Sirens blared outside and William stood shaking in front of her. He slowly raised his hand and pointed the barrel of western style Colt 45 at Nan.  She tried to scream but her voice was stilled, and then she tried to run but kept falling down. Finally, she began coughing and woke up.  “Argh,” she looked at the clock, it was four o’clock in the morning. I’ve been in bed three and a half hours. Got to get William out of my head. Nan took a drink from the water bottle on her nightstand and then rolled over. The next sound she heard was the loud beep of her clock radio. She tapped the button and the sound changed to her favorite local radio station.

            Suddenly, an announcer broke in, “Bagatelle photographer sought in local killing.” The reporter went on to say the William Cordberry, was being searched for, and asked the public to report any sightings. The report described William, his truck, and his normal hangouts.

            “Where’d they get all that information?”

            Nan hurried to get ready for work. By 10:30a.m. she was in the kitchen with Juanita and Gabby.

            Juanita poured a cup of coffee for Nan. “Do you think they will find him?”

            Nan shook her head. “I don’t know, this all so rushed and incongruous – just not right. William wouldn’t do or be involved with anything like that.”  The morning Bagatelle lay open on the kitchen table. William’s picture coming out the employee entrance was clearly visible. The tag line read, “Cordberry leaves Bagatelle at 12:43a.m.  Southern Water Investment Company security photo.”  The Southern Water Investment Company sat opposite the Bagatelle parking lot. One of their cameras had a general view of the parking lot side of the Bagatelle building including the employee door.

            “I left at a quarter after twelve, I wonder if William was in the building all along?” Nan sipped her coffee and tried to read the paper.  “I guess I’d better get up to the plant.  There’s going to be a lot hitting the fan today.”  She picked up the slip of paper Juanita had placed by her cup. “Hmmm, Isaiah two, ‘and he will teach us of his ways, we will walk in his path’.” She dropped the paper into her briefcase. “Thank you Juanita.”

            “Would you care to take a cup of coffee with you? I have a travel cup.”

            “No Juanita, but thanks.” Nan reached into the refrigerator and produced a diet Pepsi. “I’ll ride with this today.”  She gave Juanita a quick hug and stepped out the door. The fall breeze was cooler than expected. Maybe I should get a sweater.  Nan turned around to go back into the house but Gabby met her in the doorway, holding a light jacket for Nan.

            “You’re too much Gabby.”

            The maid smiled. “I was out early, I knew it would be chilly all day. Oh, Miss Nan, will you be here this weekend?  Mrs. Minina would like you to accompany her to church if you are here.”

“Yes, I’m in town. I’m afraid this story will definitely keep me in here for awhile. Tell Rosa that I would be honored to accompany her.”

Nan slipped on the jacket while Gabby held her briefcase and Pepsi.  Seconds later she was in her car and headed down the tree lined streets of New Orleans.  “Thank you Lord for giving me the courage to go one more day.”

 Ahead of her car and standing in the middle of the street was a man in a dark coat. He was waving for her to stop.

“Oh, dear Lord, I need you now. It’s William.”

 

 

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From Chapter 1 - Scarlet Murders - A Nan McHough Mystery

             “George O’Baine looked across the table at his luncheon companion, smiled, and fell face-first into his cheesecake.” The investigating officer had scribbled his brief comments across the notes section of a standard police report. By dinner-time the report made its way across town to the local newspaper and Herald Bagatelle operations center.

            Nan McHough, a reporter from New Orleans, working in Acworth during the corporate reorganization, looked at her notes taken from the police report. “Sheesh, another old man has a heart attack, this really belongs in obits.” She stapled her notes to the report and tossed it into her out basket. Then, reached into the basket and pulled the notes back out. She blew a lock of hair from her eyes and picked up the phone and dialed a friend at Smith Chapel Baptist Church.

            Carole Ogle, a woman Nan had become friends with since her assignment in the Atlanta area, answered the phone.  “Smith Chapel.”

“Carole, this is Nan McHough.”

“Hey Nan. What’s up.”

“Do you know the realtors around here?” Nan picked up a pencil.

“We have a couple in the church, and Tom and I used another one to purchase our house. Why the realtor question?  You and Manny going to buy a house?”  She referred to Nan’s fiancé, Manny Minina.

“No, but this guy George O’Baine, as in O’Baine Real Estate died today, fell over dead at Miss Scarlet’s.”   

Nan  heard Carole fumble with the phone. “He’s the guy who sold us our house. I think he and my brother-n-law worked some deal with the finance company because we came in under the going rate. Too bad. Wonder what got em’? Did you say at Miss Scarlets?”

            “Didn’t say what killed him, just said he died while dining at Miss Scarlet’s in Acworth. Probably a heart attack.”

“Hold for a second Nan.” When she came back she said, “Pastor Klingbottom is leaving.  I told him.”

“If I tell anyone else there won’t be anything to print,” Nan laughed.

             “Wow, I love Miss Scarlet’s.  Hope this doesn’t mess up her business.”

            Nan made a note. ‘Research cause.’ “Health Department has to do their investigations; I imagine she will have to close the place up for a few days.”

            Carole said, “I probably need to go over and see her anyway. My mother wants one of those Red Hat plaques. Surely, the health department won’t close the gift shop.”             

            “Listen, I just wanted to pick yer brain. I was going to send this to obits, but I may make a story out of it.”

            “Nan, you guys could make an empty soda bottle into a national calamity,” Carole laughed. “See you Sunday.”

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 From Chapter 3 - A Crepe Heart

A cool breeze whisked through the Austerlitz station and greeted the arrival of the night train from Bordeaux. I glanced at my watch, it was midnight, I was late, but the train was not. I had missed an earlier coach, and was lucky to find a vacant seat on the later train to Paris. A faceless group of passengers pushed passed me on the platform; I guessed that they were off to find waiting loved ones or pursue the clandestine destinies of the old city.

Though it had been nearly a year since my first meeting with the organization, I had been embraced into the group, and found myself much like a courier, pretending to be a tourist and all the while running messages between our cell groups.

I carried only my satchel and copy of the Times, my luggage had been long since forwarded to Brussels, my final destination. Soon, I would have to catch a cab to Saint Lazare, to meet the next east bound train. My current ticket was for Strasbourg. I looked around the old station for my contact, but few people walked in my direction. I found a bench near the gate and opened the paper, the news section hardly mattered, I was just killing time. The station emptied, then was quiet. Only a group of sleeping tourists remained, apparently waiting another arrival.

“Peux-je voir votre journal s'il vous plaît?” A soft voice broke the stillness of the vacant station. She had seated herself behind me.

I rolled up a section and passed it over my shoulder. “Speak English, there’s nobody here. Besides, my French causes revolution and is not for polite society.”

She took the paper from me. “You’re late you know. What’s this?”

Obviously, she had discovered the two envelopes I had hidden between the pages. “The brown you’re expecting.” I waited but there was no reply. “The other’s a valentine, today is Valentine’s Day.”

“Oh, so it is.”

“You used to cut hearts out of red paper, remember.” I shook my part of the paper. The little girl I once knew would sit at her mother’s feet cutting out valentines then deliver them all over the neighborhood.

“That was long ago.”

“Too grown up for valentines now?” I asked.

“Where’d you get it?” She avoided my question.

“Jaca.”

“Cavorting with bandits again? Better watch who you pick for friends.”

I let her caustic remarks slide, I was used to her barbs, it was part of her personality. With me she was teasing, with opposition she was lethal. It seemed like yesterday that a little girl with braces would deluge me with silly questions whenever she saw me. The orthodontia must of have paid off. I have been told that she now lights a room with her smile, but her questions have turned deadly.

“You didn’t sign it?”

“Of course not.” We had learned to avoid signatures of any kind especially those that would link us to time, place, or person. Absence was a virtue.

“It’s the thought,” she said. I detected a little compassion in her voice.

“Right.”

A group of college students passed us on their way to the southbound train. Their night in Paris over, they would sleep on the same train on which I arrived. Their laughing and jostling broke the tranquility of the old station. Above their chatter I could hear her paper rustling and movement behind me.
            “Votre monsieur en papier,” she said, and passed the newspaper back to me. “Merci.” She switched to English when she whispered, “don’t miss your train.”

I reached over my shoulder and momentarily touched her fingertips. “Remercier vous Manque.” The paper dropped down my coat, I recovered it and turned but she was gone. When I opened the newspaper a small red crepe paper heart fluttered to the floor.

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 From Chapter 4 - The Twin Rivers Christian Widow's Coffee                                                   Club

Five thirty Easter morning found me sitting in my front porch swing waiting for Dora Mae.  She and Elsie were picking me up for the annual sunrise service. It’s a community tradition to have one early morning service for all denominations at the city park; that’s where our two rivers run together.   

I was about ready to give Dora a call when the big Buick pulled around the corner. Minutes later we arrived at the park, where we discovered a good many others had already arrived and taken all the close parking spaces.  After several fruitless minutes, Dora Mae finally parked her big Buick about a block away -- in a lot belonging to one of the banks.

            “It figures,” said Elsie as she opened the trunk and handed us our aluminum lawn chairs.

              Dora Mae and I looked at each other in puzzlement. Then we both looked at Elsie, and said simultaneously, “What?”

          Elsie picked up her chair and started walking, waving her hand toward the park. “They’ve got a Baptist preacher this morning and you know those Baptists can draw a crowd,” then without so much as a pause, “I wonder if there’s refreshments.  I could use a biscuit or something.  Although, I do have some of my oatmeal cookies in my pocket in case I get hungry.”

            Dora Mae nudged Elsie from behind with her chair, “Refreshments? For heaven’s sake, Elsie, it’s a church service not a social.”

              Because of Dora’s arthritic legs we slowly made our way through the park but were able to find a smooth, ant-free spot on the lawn.  It’s a lovely park at any time, but especially so when the sun rises over the “twin-rivers.”  There’s a gazebo for concerts and the occasional wedding; as well as a collection of benches, picnic tables, boat docks, and a playground.  For the Easter service, the chosen minister always sets up his podium with the rivers at his back and the choir occupying chairs set on risers in a semicircle around him.  This allows the congregation to face east.  Generally, the minister tries to time the close of his sermon to coincide with the sun coming up. Of course, such coordination only happens once every four or five years, which tells me God may be more interested in the message than the trivial showmanship of the clergy.

             The service progressed normally and the pastor turned at the appropriate minute to face east, but as usual the timing was off and there was a five-minute gap between the end of his sermon and the sun actually appearing over the pine trees on the far side of the river.  Generally, on a signal from the minister, the choir  would break into song as the sun broke the treetops. The congregation would then end the service with an “amen.”  If there is a Pentecostal or two around, they might shout out a “hallelujah” or “praise God.”

             About the time this spectacular wind-up was to occur, a hoard of sea gulls suddenly descended upon the choir and first few rows of the congregation.  I know sea gulls fly in flocks, but a hoard seems like a more fitting description – there was maybe a hundred or so. They seemed particularly interested in those folks seated higher up on the risers.  Chaos broke out all around the gazebo.  The sopranos shrieked, the basses waved their arms, the altos tripped down the risers, and the tenors tried to shoo the birds away with their sheet music. The pastor, attempting a prayerful gaze, lost his concentration and started chasing birds away from the podium.  It was pure pandemonium.

              “We might as well head back to the car.” Dora Mae looked at me while she folded her lawn chair.  “Where’s Elsie?”

              “She was just here a second ago,”  I peered around Dora Mae .

            “Uh-uh, she moved her chair back to get in the shade, but I don’t see her now.”  Dora Mae craned her neck in an attempt to look over the crowd.

           Slightly alarmed, we made our way around the frenzied congregation of people and birds. Suddenly, we saw Elsie behind the gazebo joyfully throwing broken cookie bits into the air.

             In the midst of the sea gull frenzy, the sun rose, the choir was song-less, the pastor forgot the benediction, and one little woman rejoiced with God’s creatures on Easter morning.

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    From Chapter 14 - Hannah Parker

“Tend ye the table,” commanded Mrs. McGrew.  She disappeared onto the cooking porch.  Only Mason remained, smoking his long pipe.

Hannah hardly removed a plate when Mason spoke directly to her.  “How many years do you have now child?”  The question startled Hannah for Uncle Mason rarely spoke without Mrs. McGrew present, and never addressed her without cause, and she feared the consequences of her answer.

She ducked her head so her bonnet shaded her eyes before she spoke.  “I have half a score plus four, sir,” she whispered.  The sweet smoke tickled her nose and she timidly waved her hand to push away the vapors.

Mason reached into his satchel and retrieved a wrapped package, “Here child,” he said.  “Brother Richard, says that you can read scripture well enough to make sense; I met a ship this morning, and purchased this book from the captain;” he held up a wrapped parcel, “the book being the former possession of a pastor who passed on during passage. Poor chap, all of his belongings are in the Captain’s store as we speak.”  He laid the paper wrapped book on the hewn table like a mother might settle a baby.  Then, he motioned Hannah forward to the package, as she approached he rose from his chair and stepped back into a shadow.

Hannah eagerly untied the string, quickly, but with care, for the paper was un-torn.  She knew that both would need to be used again.  Hannah gasped. A wisp of air issued from the opened package and the familiar scent of tanned leather filled Hannah’s nostrils.  There before her was a bound black leather book, with a vibrant red and gold stamp upon the spine.  It was larger than the ones she had seen so many men open in her home.  Hannah lightly touched the cover; the cool feeling of the smooth surface was a heavy contrast to the trembling of her body. 

“Oh, my,” she said as tears uncontrollably ran from her eyes, so much so was her sobbing that Mason summoned Mrs. McGrew to surmise the problem. 

When Mrs. McGrew saw Hannah’s hand on the Bible she escorted Mason from the room and led him to the outer door.  “Go into the village and fetch an apple.”    

      Without saying more she pushed Mason onto the step, and then after closing the door she hurried to Hannah’s side.  “I know of this book,” she said, “as you read it, tell me the stories.”  Her wrinkled and course hand rested atop Hannah’s. 

Hannah looked into the eyes of her matron, and thought that Mrs. McGrew’s face shone with a sign of hope not seen in years.  Hannah’s tears began to flow again and her heart pounded until joy finally overtook her and she allowed herself to fall into the open arms of Mrs. McGrew.                                                                                              ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  From Chapter 3 - Emmett    

Emmett Swigert shifted in his saddle. “Whew Lucy, look at that.” Cimarron Creek was unusually high for early spring. “Whatcha think girl?” His horse danced on the sandy riverbank. “I don’t wanna freeze my tail off either, lets git outa here an see if there’s a ford somewhere else.”

Emmett stood in the stirrups and looked up and down the stream. “Which way?” Lucy started a slow pace northward. “Well, I guess you made up your mind, we’re going up stream.”  They rode about two miles along the edge of the river until they came to the beginnings of a Yazoo steam.

“There’s a trapper’s cabin in the boot as I recollect. We’ll camp there tonight.”

He nudged Lucy and she pranced across the grassy ankle deep water. “Good girl.” They rode through the marshy land until nearly to the river’s edge. Just before reaching the cabin he saw an Indian pony standing in a patch of brush. “Oh, oh, girl, we’re not alone, one pony, probably one Brave -- out hunting.” Emmett pulled the reins to turn Lucy. “Holy moly, lookee there.” A young Indian man was lying in the cold water near a growth of reeds. 

“Hey there,” Emmett gulped when he heard his own words. “Lucy, this is a problem.”

The young Indian tried to pull himself toward the brush, pausing occasionally to look at Emmett.

Lucy stepped carefully through the marshy grass until Emmett was a few feet from the man. “Looks like you got yerself in a mess.”  Emmett swung his body off Lucy and walked gently toward the young man. “Easy now, I’m gonna help you.”

The young man gave another tug at the grass, and then cried in pain.

“Okay, I see yer problem, you done broke yer leg. Let’s get you out of this water first.” Emmett reached down to pick up the injured young man. However, the frightened man swung his arms about at Emmett. “Whoa now. Lucy, let’s go get his horse, maybe that will calm him some.”

Emmett led the Indian’s pony back to the injured man.  The young Brave immediately looked up and seemed to relax. “Okay, kid, let’s try again.” Emmett reached down and this time was able to grasp the cold wet teen under the arms.  As Emmett expected, the young man screamed in pain as Emmett picked him up. “I’m moving you over to this dry patch.”

The young man said nothing more.

Emmett finally got the Brave to the drier ground; then Emmett pulled the blanket off Lucy and covered the Brave. “Warm up a bit and we’ll see what we can do, I’m gonna cut some branches up.”

The Brave remained absolutely still and watched as Emmett stripped four branches and cut them to two foot lengths.

“Okay, lets see if we can do anything for that leg, I think it’s a clean break, here we go.” He took a piece of hard leather and put it between the young man’s teeth.

Emmett cut off strips of blanket, placed the sticks on the ground next to the leg; then straightened the injured leg. Next, he tied the sticks to the leg with the strips of blanket.

“Done. Let’s get you back on the pony.”

The Brave spat out the piece of hard leather, but said nothing.

“Okay pony, I hope you two know the way home. Hold still and I will throw this Brave on yer back.”  Emmett wrapped the pony’s rope around the horn on Lucy’s saddle.

“Kid, you’re next.”

The young Brave seemed to know what was about to happen and sat up examining the makeshift splint.

Emmett reached down and grasped the Brave around the chest and in one motion swung him toward the pony. The Brave instinctively kicked his good leg over the back of the horse. Emmett then pushed the young man fully onto the pony.

“Here’s yer rope,” then slapped the pony’s rear. The brave rode up a tiny hill and stopped, turned toward Emmett and raised his arm.

Emmett raised his hand in return. “Go with God my young friend; hope you find a warm home real soon.”

The Brave turned the pony and galloped into the woods.                           

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 From Chapter 2 - Forbidden Treasurer       

 

“Papa, Papa, are you asleep?” 

J.B. woke suddenly from his nap. His seven-year old granddaughter was tugging  on his shirt. He reached out a big arm an engulfed the little girl. “Asleep? Not now.” 

“Papa, I’m hungry.” 

“I bet you are sweetie, you missed lunch. Let’s go see what we can scare up in the kitchen. 

            They both bounded toward the refrigerator, Heather arriving ahead of J.B. She opened the freezer door first. “Ice cream. Papa, I want ice cream.” 

            “Hmmm, tell you what, how about a peanut butter and jelly sandwich first, so we can tell your mama and nana that you had lunch.”

            Heather shook her head. “Ice cream first.”

            “That’s a consideration, but, you better eat a half a peanut butter and jelly, then some ice cream, and after you finish all that I will let you help me dig in the yard.” He hoped his logic would tip the debate in his favor.

            “What kind of jelly?”

            “Grape.”

            “I’ll get it.” She reached into the frig and pulled out a large jar of grape jelly.

            “Two hands hun.” J.B. carefully held the top of the jar as his granddaughter carried the jelly to the kitchen table.

            Heather guided the purple jar with the care of a surgeon. “Papa, what’s all those cracks in the yard?”

            J.B. had been watching Heather and had not looked out the window. “You mean where I am digging?”

            “No papa.”

            J.B. looked over his shoulder. “Oh my gosh.” Long cracks in the ground spread from the hole in jagged lines, and to J.B. it seemed that steam was rising from one of the cracks. “Oh, oh, I must have cut into something.”

            “Let’s go see,” Heather was bouncing excitably.

            “After you have some lunch maybe we will go look, but not until I check it out first. Don’t forget we have some ice cream to eat.”

            Minutes later J.B. and Heather were piling dishes into the sink.

            “Can we go see now?” Heather danced by the window.

            “Okay, okay, I’ll walk out there and make sure the ground won’t cave in. You stand here by the window and watch.” J.B. wasn’t really concerned with the ground caving in, but he did want to do some exploring before Heather came out.

            “Who dug the hole Papa?”

            “I did.” J.B. sat on the lawn chair and pulled on his boots.

            ”Why Papa?”

            “New drainage line.”

            “What’s a drainage line?”

            “To run water through.”

            “Why?”

            “Ask your daddy.” J.B. laughed at the thought of Heather’s barrage of questions. “Go to the window honey, and I’ll wave to you.”

            Heather turned and ran to the window. 

            J.B. grabbed another shovel and heavy rope from the cabinet and propped the screen door open so he could carry the rope and the shovel out together.

            The first jagged line started just off of the back walk, and although not deep, the line ran all the way to the excavation area. J.B. stuck his shovel in the crack and left it standing while he ran the rope out to the hole on which he had been working. He reasoned that he might have to pull the object out of the ground and the tow rope needed to be straightened out.

            Suddenly, a hand tugged at this belt loop. “Papa.”

            “Heather I told you to stay by the window.”

            “But, you didn’t wave Papa.”

            “Oh, okay, lets look into the hole.”

            They both peered over the edge of the excavation.  Suddenly, a puff of gas emitted from the hole. J.B. picked up Heather in one swoop and started to run back toward the house. The gas surrounded them and pulled them toward the hole and finally, J.B. felt himself dropping into a cold darkness. Heather’s arms clung to his neck. Her face was buried in his shirt.

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  From Chapter 3 - Beware of the Vines of Ortheon

The vines of Ortheon were beautiful in the fall of the Othian year; indeed, so beautiful that they suckered many a species to try the fruit, thereafter the species wandered aimlessly through space seeking relief from a burning desire to become a Phoenix and thereby torch themselves over the roof of an ancient cathedral. Luckily, ancient cathedrals existed only in the annals of fiction, much like the vaulted Phoenix.

The dark side of Ortheon featured a playground for the galaxy. Every diversion known under Ortheon’s two suns existed hidden beneath the Ortheon moons. Great convoys of Melmans to Xyonians found their way to Ortheon, much like the great pilgrimages of the years following the final peace.

Chip Slater knew the Othian pull. Teenage memories of daring another Vacan to try Ortheon fruit proved tragic. The Vacan youngster had ripped a bright fruit from an early vine growth, consumed the fruit, all the while extorting his fellow travelers to join in the fun, but pay up the wager of the dare. Moments later his eyes began to blaze and he ran through the vineyard until he found a pool of kayma mud. He then proceeded to swallow fistfuls of the blue sludge until he fell to the ground absolutely dead.

While Ortheon was a great landmark, and indeed was key signpost for any intergalactic traveler, its gravitational pull was to be avoided. Slater maneuvered his ship past the gravity of the sensual planet and set his course for Lizit, a Christian island in the Quatrant Galaxy. He didn’t really like the trip, but once he arrived he always wished he could stay longer. There was a young Vacan lady living on Lizit. When he last visited she had offered to show him the planet. I wonder if the offer still holds. He set the controls to automatic and stepped back into the galley of his ship. He had not eaten in four turns, and although his mother had urged him to build his strength before the voyage he shunned her offer and consumed a bottle of woco milk, and then grabbed a bag of cookies from the replicator. His purpose was to deliver some of his father’s noggels to the priest of Lizit. 

Long ago he and his father had chosen the economy model for Slater’s travel. Hence, there was not a lot of food storage available on board. Slater tapped the portable replicator. “I hope dad reset this thing.” The device sprung to life. “Great. Feed me.” Slater rested a hand on top of the small device. He loved giving obtuse orders, just to see what would result.

Seconds later the replicator shook and dinged. Slater opened the door expecting a huge hurring burger, but instead only a small black book lay on the glass plate.

“Hey, stupid, I asked for food, something that will fill me, so I can continue on.” Slater fumed at the arrogance of the inanimate machine.

Again the machine shook. Slater ripped at the door. A cross lay on a satin cloth. “Oh, I get it, I programmed in Lizit, and now we are getting nothing but church stuff. Okay, how about some grapes.” The replicator whirred and produced a basket full of grapes and a carafe of grape juice.

“That’s better.” Slater sipped the juice and munched a handful of grapes. He picked up the small book and flipped through the pages. His ship veered to the right, a normal flight correction move, but Slater, standing and reading, was jostled. “Ah, Lizit, the next stop.”

***

Slater rested the ship in a municipal area, paid the toll, and pulled out the map his father had sketched on the back of the replicator instructions. He also retrieved the instructions dictated to him by the young Vacan lady.

With the help of a Gorian cop he found the home of his young female friend. His father’s instructions were neatly tucked into his backpack. An older male Vacan opened the door. “Oh, I was expecting Marilia.” The man before him was dressed priest’s clothing.

“I’m her father. Welcome. Do come in.”

Slater was used to hospitality, after all he was a Vacan too, and manners with others were a rule in his society. But, if this was Marilia’s father, then the man at the door was the priest to whom his father was sending a sack full of noogles.

“Oh, sir, I am really here delivering noogles my father picked from his vines this week. The priest, uh you, are supposed to get these.” Slater patted his back pack. “I am Chip Slater, by the way.”

“Really? Slater, ah yes, I remember your father from my days at the university, and just last week we had communed during the Lurian Men's Conference. He remembered the noogles, how wonderful. Marilia,” he called, “Chip Slater is here to see you.”

“Oh, I wondered what the connection was". Slater handed the knapsack over to the priest.

The priest opened the knapsack.“Ah, there’s a book in here.” 

“Yes, the replicator created it when I approached the planet. I looked through it, looked interesting. You can have it.”

“My young friend, I have one or two. You don’t know about this book then?”

“No sir.”

“Would you like to learn?”

When Mirilia peeked her head around the corner and smiled at Slater he noted that she was nodding affirmatively.

Slater looked at the teary eyes of the priest. “Yes sir. Can we start with the story of the priest named Jesus from the old planet?”