The first part contains the concluding part as well, with the interlude of the Basque campaigns over with in Part II.
Now it was deserted--as this city was stuck in virtual reality, with scarcely an inhabitant to hold down Fort Nisqually since it had been moved up to be the centerpiece of Point Defiance Park. He wandered around in the Park and looked in at Never Never Land, which included both Mother Goose Land (a children's area with nursery rhyme characters) and the old, reconstructed fort.
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
All the king's horsemen and all the king's men
couldn't put Humpty together again!"
That's what Ero read on the old WPA board, the letters now showing weather, badly stained and the paint flaking off.
But his popup alerted him, and he found that Wally had something to say that Humpty might not have thought of, but which could be of use to Ero.
He read the new verses of the Wally-amplified nursery rhyme.
"No egg but a cannon to blow parliamentarians to smithereens--
"Humpty" set on top the Colchester church tower while a squad of royalists cooked their beans.
They didn't know what hit them-- but Humpty met his match, that day.
The top of Colchester church's tower was blown off, poor Humpty tumbled down all the way.
The crash was terrific, you could hear it a mile around,
and royalists scrambled to retrieve it, where it lay half sunk in the ground.
Alas! Twelve weeks less one they held Colchester Towne,
Yet Humpty would never be mended,
as a royalist blacksmith could not be found!"
Ero was completely puzzled, of course, like any Greek would be by this 400-pound Anglo-Saxon oddity. He had no idea whatsoever what these parliamentarians and the royalists were fighting about. All they seemed to have in common were cannons, powerful ones at that, and a determination to wipe each other out if they could! It appeared that the royalists lost the civil war, at least at Colchester. Did they lose the whole kingdom after that defeat? he wondered. He himself didn't seem to be the worse for it, however it turned out, so he saw no need to be concerned.
But Humpty himself, in his eggy-form, was very much alive.
"Not that intrigued by British politickings, I take it!" Humpty remarked chattily.
Ero nodded. "I never was much for English nursery rhymes, Sir. I am Greek, you see. We Hellenes have been around a lot longer than any Briton! We have plenty of our own tales and verses. You know, Aesop's Fables? Well, I loved those as a child! They wsere fed me with my mother's milk. And our famous heroes--Perseus, Jason, Achilles, Herakles, Hector, Aeneas--they were great stuff for me as a boy. I couldn't imagine life without them. But eggs that are really cannons used in a civil war--well, that is a bit too much of a stretch of imagination for a plain Greek like me. Can you explain why it should matter to me, sir, what happens to a cannon that looks like an egg-man? It is nothing but silly stuff and nonsense!"
Humpty looked less grim, and more than a little indignant. "Really! You are a bit condescending for a little Greek, aren't you? It should be the other way round. We Brits rule the world, don't you know, something you Greeks never quite achieved from your little pond of the Aegean Sea! And I am not an 'egg-man,' as you describe me. I am perfectly human in every respect! Perfectly human! Michaelangelo's first study for his statue of David in Florence--if I have to say so myself. It is you that looks most odd a specimen in my estimation!"
"No, I don't know that you Brits rule the world!" Ero retorted, a bit annoyed himself at the Egg's tone, which sounded to him a bit testy and arrogant. "But I do know that we Greeks ruled it, for quite a long time too--don't you remember Alexander the Great? Come now! Whom can you name of your country that compares to him?"
"Harumph, where would I start? Harumph, where would I end? We have plenty such fellows as your bloody Alex! Everybody knows the sun never sets on the British Empire! That's how big we are--er, I admit the Empire isn't all what she used to be, and has shrunk a bit more than we like these days, but we ought to be given some modicum of respect for that, ah, accomplishment! What do you say to that, boy? Where is the respect due us, the British Empire, I mean, from you colonials?"
Ero stared at the Egg-Man for a moment. "I am not your colonial and really don't know why I am speaking to the likes of you. According to my instructions, you aren't an egg at all, you are really supposed to be a cannon that was damaged in a fall from the Colchester church tower. Just because someone from the WPA made an Egg-Man character out of you and set you in Mother Goose's Land, you needn't take on airs and think yourself a cut above a Greek and carry a chip on your shoulder. Can't you just sit there and let it pass, whatever I think of you-- after all, need I remind you, I am the visitor, you are the exhibit. I came for a good time, not a lecture on manners from the exhibit!"
"'Exhibit! Indeed!'" the Egg-Man snorted as he rocked back and forth. "I never heard the like before! What an outrage to a gentleman's sensibilities! Is this what we've come to in civilized society? Must we pillars, the old guard and soldiers of the Realm, be insulted by a mere puppy of a boy like you?--and a foreigner at that!"
The huffing and puffing Egg-Man nearly fell from the wall, he was so indignant by now. And he wasn't finished with Ero either. "By the way, you rude, little fellow," he contined. "Do you always go about without a hat, coat, tie, trousers, the proper hose, spats, gaters and tails? It is disgraceful! Cover yourself up, boy! Look at me! I am most properly attired, as you can see, and I am only an 'exhibit,' as you so vulgarly put it. At least we Brits, unlike you low-bred Greeks, have enough sense of dignity to dress properly licwhen going about in pub, whereas--"
At this point Ero felt he had enough of the pontificating Egg-Man, who was wheezing and short of breath and seemed about to fall off his perch. Not wanting to converse any longer with such a ridiculous stuffed shirt, he turned away.
"Now just a minute, come back, young man! come back! I'm not finished with you! I've got more things to say--" Humpty shouted, but Ero kept going anyway.
"Such shameless, bad manners in these ignorant, little colonials!" the Egg-Man remarked. "He just walked off when I was speaking, without so much as a tip of the hat! Such cheek! Well, that's an American for you! Manners are entirely lost on such barbarians and ruffians! No wonder we turned them out of the Empire--they would have been the ruin of it!"
"WE REGRET TO INFORM YOU, SOMEONE HAS STOLEN HUMPTY DUMPTY. IF YOU SEE HIM, OR KNOW WHERE HE IS, PLEASE CALL 535-HUMP. A REWARD IS OFFERED."--PARK SERVICE
What a job that would be, lifting this 400-lb. Egg-Man without breaking him and then getting him off the property! He must have had some awful experiences, yet acted like a conceited ass so stuck on himself. But something came of the strange encounter. Ero was extremely curious to discover where reality and the WPA ended and the fantasy took over. Was it all fantasy, sheer make-believe, was he in a world of its own? How could he tell what was real anymore? He had to try to find out if he could. He spotted a castle beyond the Egg-Man's wall. Was it real or a fake? This sort of question suited a Greek more than any other question. This would be just the thing to check out, he thought.
He was still standing there, wondering where he should go next, or whether he should just take the shortest trail out and back to the City of Destiny, when the loudspeaker system crackled to life.
Ero heard someone manhandling a crackling microphone, then a voice, "Testing, one-two-three-four-
if you think this is too loud,
then don't get sore.
It was too loud, but the voice continued, singing.
"Hey, this is Matthews Washington Nesby your pal and friend
--you can have my shovel, pick, paintbrush, hammer and nails!
I now workin' for the old Navy, which like Uncle Sam never fails!
Sorry I can't work with you to the end!
I'm gonna sail, I gotta ship,
If ya'll don't like it, I don't care a flip!"
Hey, like that rhyme of mine? I worked hard on that one to record it for the loudspeaker system! Ya'll deserve that much from old Nesby. Well, I enlisted in the Navy, and I'll be leavin' here and you won't see me come next shift. Say a prayer for me, I gotta go fight the bloody little Nips who done us bad at Pearl Harbor--"
The loudspeaker crackled, sent out ear-splitting, high-pitched shrieks, and then went dead.
Ero rubbed his ears, then left the WPA's fake castle. He decided he would still look around a bit more. Continuing on his tour of Never-Never-Land and Mother Goose, he came next to a girl sitting by herself, eating something he couldn't imagine any girl in her right mind would want to touch--something that looked like--well, Greek goat yogurt that had gone bad!
"Little Miss Muffett,
sat on a tuffet,
eating her curds and whey.
Along came a spider and sat down beside her,
and frightened Miss Muffett away."
Ero read the rhyme, which he hadn't seen before, and it meant nothing to him, of course. But again, the Wally-popup on the screen tried to be helpful:
"NO CERTAIN MEANING KNOWN. MEDIA LIBRARY ARCHIVES SUGGEST THE POSSIBLE ASSOCIATIONS AND MEANINGS:
The reason MISS MUFFETT screams and runs off is apparent by the looks of her uninvited GUEST, who happened to be a governor of the PROVINCE when it was a province of the COUNTRY in question.
Ero saw the highlighted words and clicked on each in turn.
MISS MUFFETT turned out to be: the horrified electorate, that learned too late what scandals and corruption riddled the whole administration that they had voted into office.
GUEST was the loathsome, money-grabbing spider-governor, Garry Locke, who headed the administration that was sucking the blood out of the electorate with an elaborate system of bribes, pay-offs, kickbacks, excessive taxes, runaway spending, diversion of public monies to private bank accounts and rewards to political cronies and groups that had helped him get elected.
PROVINCE was Washington State in the COUNTRY, the now defunct Federal Union of the United States of America.
Ero clicked on HOME, and the popup snapped back. "Well, that explained the old English nursery rhyme," he thought. Why should he care about the piggish and priggish Miss Muffett and her problems though? Greeks had their own corrupt governments. Their governments had always been corrupt to the core. It was nothing new. They had the Turks once to deal with too, making everything infinitely worse, a fragment of hell. At least now, the monsters in office were their own! That was something at least to be thankful for, even if there was never any improvement in the government, and the country was always on the verge of bankruptcy and chaos.
Again, he reminded himself that Miss Muffett was just a cardboard or paper mache mannequin, with a soundtrack and voice pre-recorded on big 78's and and set to play whenever a visitor showed up at her site.
Now what else was there to see. He looked around, and couldn't miss the mountain covered over with glowing lollipops. They glowed all the more as the lights suddenly dimmed to night, intentionally or not.
But he didn't want to remain there, and started to run through the scene, hoping he would find the path that led him out of Mother Goose territory and back to the main gate.
Then, even more crazy, a Cookie-Man dashed by him.
What was that? he wondered. He followed to find out. It took a burst of speed for him to catch the fellow, who was anxious to keep ahead of a flock of hungry, big black crows.
He next encountered someone very different, not so likeable. It was like watching Miss Muffett making a pig of herself on spoiled yogurt!
"That's the mistake of being too edible in this world!" Ero thought, as he observed the latest Gingerbread Man torn apart by the vicious crows.
To get it out of his mind, Ero continued walking down this lane and that. He came to a pleasant country scene, very much like farm country.
"Little Boy Blue,
come blow your horn.
The sheep's in the meadow,
the cow's in the corn.
Where is the boy who looks after the sheep?
He's under a haycock, fast asleep.
Will you wake him? No, not I.
For if I do, he's sure to cry."
Ero took a closer look at Little Boy Blue under the haycock. Really? Would he cry and shed real-looking fake tears if he waked him? Should he test the rhyme out?
Ero couldn't help himself. He reached out and prodded the sleeping shepherd boy, who should have been awake to protect the corn and watch the sheep but was dozing soundly, as if the whole world could go by and he had no care for it whatsoever!
It startled him when Little Boy Blue's eyes popped open, saw Ero, and didn't cry exactly but began quoting Thomas Wolsey to the effect things were not going so well for him. Now Thomas Wolsey was a notable figure of the distant past Ero knew nothing about, but who cared to mourn with him that he had put all his eggs in life in the wrong basket? What in the world did a shepherd boy like this have to do with a man called Thomas Wolsey who had made some kind of bad investment?
Ero consulted Wally's Library immediately, and he was led to various sites with information on Thomas Wolsey.
He found among the items this anonymous portrait of the great Lord Chancellor of England:
"My, oh, my! He was a fighter,
one hat red, the other York's mitre.
He was not only churchman,
but verily the king's right hand.
Not fish, not fowl, his powers combined
mix't fear and hell into the writs he signed.
Lord Chancellor, he was kept very busy
and knocked the English Nation into a tizzy.
Henry VIII gave him loose rein,
you might say it was Wolsey's reign.
A wizard with his courts and tax,
gold and silver stuffed his sacks.
He built a palace fit for kings,
forgetful that man's fortune swings.
One day he may dine on gilt,
but on the morrow his blood is spilt.
Henry--in trouble with Pope--had had enough
of Wolsey and his pearly cuff.
He took Hampton palace, gave Wolsey gaol,
the kind with no reprieve or bail.
But on the way poor Wolsey croaked,
Matthew Sixteen rang his death knell--
he knew it, he knew it, quite well!
No wonder he turned so sad and blue!
The fowler jerked, Tom's spent soul came due!"
But nursery rhymes have great variety, he found. Anything was possible with them.
The next character was seemingly just the opposite from Little Boy Blue, he discovered. Unlike Thomas Wolsey, the little maiden with the huge bonnet and dark, saucer-like eyes wasn't dozing at a critical moment, unaware of the forces that were about to pounce and sweep him away forever. No, she was very much awake, and frightened too. What was making her so upset?"
He read the old WPA board that he found lying down on the ground in the tall grass.
Oh, is that all? he thought. The girl lost her sheep!
"This is ridiculous. Am I supposed to care about that? Shepherds are always losing their sheep, aren't they? They do on Seriphos! Sheep are fools and love to wander--they always will. It's their nature to wander and get themselves in all kinds of trouble!"
The popup helped him out with the information that a 1927 silent film was one of the last made by the famed pioneer filmmaker, Griffiths, with the Gish sisters starring and featuring various nursery rhyme characters including Miss Bopeep. It had been a smash hit for seven straight months at the Broadway movie houses, and another film along the same lines was planned but all the silents in production were suddenly cut one dark day when the Talkies came. That was in 1929, transforming the movie industry instantly overnight. The Gishes, silent screen heroines who had already made millions, lost more than sheep in the transition and also the Wall Street crash. From then on, like hundreds of other silent film stars, they had to be content with bit parts in Talkies, or become complete Has-Beens--the very worst thing that could happen to celebrities. Aging actors and actresses, living in cheap hotels and decaying Catskill resorts, their costumes gathering dust and moths in trunks and empty brandy bottles thrown under the bed--horrible!
He caught up with her, curious to find out how she might react.
Was she a mindless doll? She certainly looked like one. But the WPA had done a great job, and Miss Bopeep turned to face him when he called her name.
"Yes?" she said in a tiny, childlike voice. "I heard you and your sister lost your careers in the movies, I mean, when sound pictures came in. Wasn't that a hard thing for you to deal with back then, Miss?"
Miss Bopeep's eyes widened, if they could widen anymore. Her mouth, a rosebud, nearly disappeared as she considered what he had just said, and her forehead showed a crease as if she were thinking very, very hard.
Then a brilliant smile flashed at him from her eyes, without any teeth showing, however, just that tiny red, rosebud mouth of hers.
"Oh, not at all! Lilian and I had such a smashing good time. Where is Lilian anyway? She has to be backstage waiting for me. She's my stand-in, when my feet get tired, you know. And when I take my turn at stand-in, I do the same for her, and our producers never seem to know the difference just which one is doing the acting! Well, as I was saying, we both realized this fun we had making films couldn't last forever. Nothing ever does, does it? So when we weren't wanted anymore as leading stars, we did the next best thing and applied for bit parts. All the producers in New York and Hollywood knew we were experienced at acting and could carry our lines without stumbling and forgetting, so they didn't mind using us, despite our names being so famous, more famous still than the actors in those films they were making with sound in them. Often, we took parts with no names attached, just walk-ons, just in order to keep working.
Yes, some younger actors and actresses resented us having become big stars long before them, but they soon got used to us, and saw we simply adored making movies with the gang, whether we made any more money or not-- that wasn't really our intention anyway, as both Lilian and I had plenty to last us, and then some, even if we both lived to be 100!
She took a few girlish, mincing steps toward him, then stopped. Her eyes widened.
But who are YOU, dear boy with all the questions? I don't believe we ever met. And what character are you playing, pray tell? I can't place you at all in the script. Are you a stand-in for somebody? Are you sure you are on the right set? This production is 'Mother Goose Goes to the City of Destiny.' It's a sequel to 'Mother Goose Goes to Washington,' I think. Well?"
"My name is Ero," he said. "No, I am not a stand-in. I have never been through here before. You see, I am a visitor."
At first she stared at him blankly. Then she reacted, all of a sudden very talkative and lively. "A visitor? But we don't have 'visitors'! You mean you just wandered onto the set like this? Who gave you permission to do that? And what sort of name is that? 'Arrow'? I never heard the like, except I recall an 'Arrowsmith', or something like that in men's haberdashery. How very strange! I had my doubts you were on the right set!" she declared.
"We don't have 'visitors' on Mr. Griffiths's sets. Imagine such a thing! How could we get any work done! His epic, "Birth of a Nation" drew loads of looky-yous, but Mr. Griffiths had been quite stern and made sure they didn't interfere, else he could have never gotten it done? Now I really suspect you don't belong here, Mr. Arrow! You take yourself off immediately, or Mr. Griffiths will hear about it surely, and send the Pinkertons to escort you off!"
When he didn't move immediately, she remembered that there was a list somewhere that could prove if he belonged or not, if she could remember where she had last seen it. She had to find out if he was truly an actor on the Mother Goose production or was a walk-on tourist trying to rub elbows with famous movie stars--they had plenty of such nuisances invading the lots in Hollywood and didn't need any more.
She fumbled in her bag, which she pulled from behind some fake hollyhocks, and the script fell out of her hand, and the list she was searching for flew in a different direction.
Ero quickly scooped both items up and handed them to her.
She smiled again, curtseyed in an old-fashioned way, then excused herself. "Sorry, I treated you so rudely, young man. I was so surprised to have to deal with an intruder, I mean, a 'visitor' on the set. But I don't have time to check your odd little name! I really must be going! The director will be angry if I don't keep playing my part to the end. I can't risk being put out to pasture--not at my age, as I'd never get hired back once I left. And darling Lilian would kill me if I got us both sacked, that is, so I mustn't delay any longer. Adieu!"
Ero watched the little worrywort run off, pause dramatically to shade her eyes with a hand, and then call with the other gloved hand cupped to her rosebud voice--soundlessly--to her lost sheep in the meadow.
It was all done so dramatically, as if a piece of sculpture were moving, and it fascinated him to see her old-fashioned acting style performed with such perfection.
Apparent to him, this little aging but still eternally girlish star of the silent screen loved her bit part and was content to play it forever, exchanging places with her look-alike sister in the wings whenever she felt like a rest.
"Well, let her play the part then, silly as it is!" he thought. There had to be more to life than being big-eyed and running around looking for lost sheep in a land of make-believe, wasn't there? Who was there, besides himself, to admire her acting ability anyway? He didn't see anyone connected with the production staff around. The director and producer, Mr. Griffiths, where was he? Or her sister Lilian? She seemed to be the only actress on this part of the set. Nobody was even filming it!
Ero continued walking. He came to a strange scene--rail tracks and a little railway car fashioned like a washtub that ran on the rails, with the main character, Jack, flying overhead on wires and little wheels and pulleys.
"Jack, be nimble,
Jack, be quick.
Jack, jump over the candlestick.
Jack jumped high,
Jack jumped low.
Jack jumped over
and burnt his toe!
Three Men in a tub.
And how do you think they got there?
The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker--
They all jumped out of a rotten potato!
It was large enough to make a fish stare."
Ero looked again at the scene, then thought he recognized the three men in the tub, though they were all sleeping, or stone drunk. No wonder Jack was jumping over the candle in the rhyme, the Candle Stick Maker crammed in with the other two characters.
But where or what was the fish? he wondered. And there was no sign of a rotten potato either.
Poor Jack, even if he was wearing Banana Republic's pants, all he got was a burnt toe!
He tried Wally's HELP again for any more references, and was immediately presented with ROTTEN POTATO and FISH and TOE FRAGMENT DISCOVERED FROM LOST STATUE OF LADY LIBERTY.
"I'm in luck!" he thought. The mystery would soon be explained.
Rhymes came with ROTTEN POTATO, one of a number of more modern nursery rhymes that children were singing long after the events, without any understanding of course what they were really about. It just amused them to sing about a rotten potato named Nancy.
"Ms. Nancy Pelosi is a rotten potato.
She puts out for big union guys, you know.
Don't wake them up, they earned their rest.
They rode her rails--tsk, tsk--and did their best."
Ero didn't know who this "Nancy Pelosi" was, so it meant nothing to him.
He tried Wally's HELP again.
HELP drowned him with screen after screen of rapidly scrolling dope on Ms. Pelosi. Nancy had been a 21st century liberal Congresswoman and a radical activist for all sorts of shady causes that always served her interests first. Becoming "Speaker of the House" after years of wheeling and dealing, she lay in bed with unions and with extreme activist groups and even Muslim jehadists--for she was a "reconstructionist," a socialist or Leninist, determined to make over the constitutional republic of her country into a socialist paradise that would support her high among the super wealthy governing elite while reducing the mass of people to cringing, dependent wards of the all-powerful State.
Ero didn't like the Speaker- Woman's description from these details. Speaker-Woman claimed to be a loving grandmother, but she was so cruel as a witch at heart, to rob her own people (and her own descendants TOO)of all their freedom just so she could gain immense power and money and prestige while she was in office. As a Greek who loved freedom more than life, he could not help but abhor such a low creature, who sold everyone down the river to serve her own interests and her party's.
That was enough Grubstreet politics of the 21st century for Ero! He was Greek, a nation famed for clean, sharp lines, not foggy grays. Oh, certainly, old as it was, Greece had long-standing problems with self-serving politicos of its own to deal with, so he didn't need those from this no longer existing country called the United States of America! But evenso, Greek crooks stood out in sharp contrast, they couldn't be disguised because of the clarity that surrounded them--such a contrast with the 21st century's crooks, who merged one with the other, a clot of sameness and mediocrity with only one passion: getting more wealth and power, no matter how many people had to suffer for them. Sucking parasites, they finally sucked their host white of all its vital juice, then they started on each other, and finally at the end there was nothing but drying husks of parasites littering the barren landscape! Oh! he thought. Couldn't they see what was coming? Didn't they care? Apparently not! All they could think about was sucking, sucking, sucking, till they had sucked out the last drop of blood from their host's veins. Vampires all, they never changed.
The scene shifted to something very different with FISH, fortunately, as Nancy Pelosi's scene left a bad taste in his mouth.
So how about FISH?
Another rhyme from the HELP icon: "'Fishy, fishy,
in my dishy!'"--
sings Sally, that saucey servant wench.
I eat her fish,
clean up the dish,
and Jack in scullery does the wash-y.
That seemed innocent enough to Ero, but a HELP WORD, MOSQUE, popped up.
It gave him:
"A mosque on Ground Zero deseves a zap.
Mayor Bloomberg okayed it,
but he's a sap.
they know the cost
when over three thousand lives were lost.
They didn't die by some mistake.
It was all planned out, for Allah's sake.
Islam has a darker side,
It lays a trap, Obama lied.
Hooked and drawn to your defeat,
you've no one to blame, but the elite.
They eat their fish, and throw the bones,
and dance in the ballroom while the beggar moans.
Betrayed and beaten, no house, no job,
you voted for leaders who know how to rob.
It's too late now to turn it around,
your country is now wholly socialist-bound."
Well, what about TOE? He thought he could do no worse than he had already done.
"When Iranian missiles struck New York,
and hit capitals across Europe in a lightning strike,
Obama was lifting a champagne cork,
and naked riders in Seattle cruised downtown on a bike.
Those clouds took some time to dissipate,
and while doing so sealed Western Civilization's fate.
As glaciers receded in the long ages ahead,
and nothing was remembered, so nothing was said,
a simple Toe, giantess-sized, washed up on a beach,
and if it could speak, a lesson it could teach--"
'Don't be fools, like us who burned,
we threw away Wisdom, what our Founders had learned.
We made our own rules, and laughed at the thought
that we had enemies, and that we could be bought.
Oh, they bought us for sure, and then foreclosed,
and bought armies in while our sentries dozed.
After the EMP, they pulled the net trip,
and by the fowler we were taken, just like Ismay's ship."
"Ismay's ship?" he wondered. He hit SEARCH. That gave him Lord Bruce Ismay, owner and director of the White Star Line that built and launched the R.M.S. Titanic in 1912.
My, he was certainly learning a lot, he thought, but he decided to go on, as he was spending too much time on these items, and needed to complete the tour of Mother Goose Land.
Here was a WPA sign that had escaped the ravages of weather and time:
"Three blind mice,
see how they run!
They all ran after a farmer's wife
who cut off their tails with a carving knife!
Did you ever see such a sight in your life
as three blind mice?"
No, he hadn't!--as a matter of fact.
Ero looked around, but no farmer's wife appeared to cut off the mice's tails.
Not that he wanted to see this part happen! But the mice went through their role in the story anyway, and ran from the squash-house belonging to the farmer as though his wife were pursuing them with a big knife.
He turned to the unfailing, faithful little Wally via the screened console.
Wally first gave him, surprisingly enough, WALLY:
Ero clicked WALLY. "Iranian whistleblower in early 21st century. Classified information from secret service files that was later declassified, identifies the mice in the well-known nursery rhyme as a volunteer informant in the mullah-run dictatorship of a certain Iranian regime. Taking the name Wally, he fed information to the Americans for years about the secret attack plans of Iran, which targeted European capitals and Israel and the Persian Gulf emirates and states. One of his messages: 'RED ALERT! REPEAT. RED ALERT! They are going to attack with a pre-emptive strike, it is certain! An electro-magnetic pulse, generated by a plutonium explosion high over the American Midwest, will be the means to render the whole country powerless to defend itself, and at that time Iran and her allies will send in their attack forces from the north and south, east and west, simultaneously in order to overwhelm any tracking agencies that are still able to detect incoming objects.'"
Really? Ero thought. But did they ever catch the mouse and his two friends? The rhyme wasn't very encouraging. And that farmer's wife! She certainly had a cruel streak to her! Did she represent those mullahs that ran Iran? Evidently, and knife-wielding mullahs did not promise a particularly nice ending to the story of the fleeing mice.
But HELP could not furnish him with any more data on the Wife directly, as the files had not survived that could tell him the secret agent's end, whether good or bad. Instead, the CROOK-NECKED SQUASH came up, taking him yet another direction with a set of verses called:
"The Pumpkinification of Governor Gregoire,"
"The Crook-Necked Pumpkin swelled orange and mostly round
admidst eco-green vines that choked the ground.
This goddess springs forth at birth,
no shell for Venus but plain earth.
Tractors pull her hybrid car
covered with crepe to where the Fair crowds are.
ACORN bands with pot plants twirled
escort Christine in parsley swirled.
'O Queenie of Hope and Change for all!'
intones a priest in the Progressive-packed hall.
'Bless thou our diverse society,
and crush all right-wing extremists from Spokane to sea!
Reign over this thy paradise,
no ethics here, no morals, just lies.
Sell hard stuff in state-run stores,
thanks to Her Majesty the booze tax pours.
Yes, on Sunday too, that's her law;
You say DUI's took your ma and pa?
Dry your tears, child! Drink Christine's Reserve Beers,
and just be glad Comeuppance nears!'--
"Well, they hauled him away,
he's lost his mind.
He'll get sensitivity-training and a
very stiff fine.
Judgment Day's coming for the Crooked Pumpkin,
She'll not talk her way out of a single sin.
He decided to move on to something more pleasant if possible, and he came to a big clock, the kind once seen on street corners outside downtown jewelry shops. He had to wonder how long it had been stopped at that particular time, and why no one had come to fix it.
TITANIC and DOOMSDAY CLOCK.
He was surprised, for he knew that was the name of an old ship that sank a long time ago in the north Atlantic. Was this clock taken from the ship? he wondered.
The verses that Wally supplied from an anonymous source gave him more information:
"Mark the time, when this ship shook,
when star and ice produced a hook,
a cruel thing that struck its prey, by thousands drowned, on the seabed lay.
There the rich man, there the poor,
there the boilerman under a watertight door.
Is that the captain that went down with his ship?-- right next to a champagne glass with a ratfish at its lip?
There the sucker, there the card sharp,
there the cards scattered across a gaily striped tarp.
Deck chairs, Parisian gowns, toilets and jewels, all tossed in a salad with wise men and fools.
There's no such thing as a lesson learned.
Nothing is gained when a finger is burned.
Man's other parts will yet be hazarded,
experience is scorned, when all is done and said.
They perished in vain, and are voicelessly crying,
"Take your flowers away,
they scorch us, for dying.
What happened to us will happen to you!
Go mind your own folly, you'll reap your fate too.
Just mark the great Clock that stopped with our lives--
that Clock chimed for you as well as Dives!"
Ero clicked it.
he never gave one thought to hell.
Whate'er he wished, he could afford,
in his vaults his gold was stored.
A poor old man lay outside his gate,
while Dives dined until very late.
The banquet over, he went off to bed, while the old man outside groaned unfed.
Lazarus was his name, and dogs his friends,
the only comforters misfortune sends.
They licked his sores, warmed him at night,
that was all they could do until it grew light.
Another day dawned, but Lazarus had died,
the dogs howled for him, whimpered and sighed.
Angels came and took his soul in hand,
and brought him to his loving Father Abraham.
There he was comforted for years of pain,
when outside Dives' iron gate, suffering, he had lain.
Dives died, but found himself in fire,
in darkness and heat like a funeral pyre.
He lifted his eyes and saw a beautiful scene,
flowers, trees, and grass--what could it mean?
He looked again, and then cried most amazed,
"Why, that's old Lazarus!" Or was his wits dazed?
Yet it was he, the beggar he knew,
who dirtied his gate and spoiled the view.
Why should he be in such a nice place,
such a horrible creature, with sores on his face!
Then he saw next the beggar, his arm round him fast,
Father Abraham who all good souls eternally hast.
"Am I in hell? Was I so bad?" thought Dives? I never killed anyone, just beat my wives!
Plenty men I knew deserved such a fate,
but this beggar--how can he paradise rate?
He called out to Abraham across a deep pit,
so deep, so wide, none ever crossed it.
"Father Abraham, cool my tongue, I thee pray. It burns, scorched black, all the long day!"
"Nay, son," said Abraham, "that cannot be.
You lived for yourself, with every luxury.
You closed your heart to the poor at your door.
And now you've become like one huge burning sore."
"Yes, that's true, but go send and warn my close kin,
lest they too continue in their sin.
My brothers--surely, they will listen to you,
please warn them not to come here, if they ever knew!"
"But they won't listen--they scorned prophets sent.
God's warnings rejected, they'll never repent." So that was the last time they ever spoke.
The nightmare continued--Dives' clock had broke.
He had seen some awful places in his life, but what happened to the selfish rich man was worse--and it was the result of his own choices, apparently.
Yet he soon found he was mistaken if he thought there was nothing that approached Dives' torment. As he walked further on, he soon came to a scene of terror and destruction beyond anything he had yet witnessed. A whole city was engulfed in flames mounting high into the sky!
He turned around so he didn't have to see it, struck out in another direction, and found himself surrounded by thick woods.
He wanted to know, nevertheless, what city this could be, if only to avoid it if he possibly could! Wally's programming was helpful once again, and gave him, "SEATTLE" to click on.
What came up explained what Seattle, the Emerald City so-called, was all about, as he read:
The tree trunks were enormous! Greece had nothing like these trees for size. Nor had the ancient aboriginal Hellenes reported the existence of giant trees in old, pre-Greek Hellas. One was even large enough to be used as some kind of dwelling, apparently.
He could see signs it had been long abandoned, though. Cobwebs and dust were thick, and there was no sign anyone had been there for a long time.
He felt like an intruder, but he went in.
As soon as he was inside, a very tall, lanky shadow moved and stepped forward, astonishing Ero. He was the strangest looking man he had ever seen, other than the Egg-Man!
The old gentleman smiled gently down on Ero, then looked a little confused. He removed his stovepipe hat and scratched his head. "Reckon my memory is resting a spell, young fella," he finally drawled. "But would you be so kind, Perhaps you can tell me a little something--and I'll get get my box of memories back. Otherwise, maybe I ought to go look for it."
Ero was at a total loss, but he could always consult Wally's yellow questionmarked HELPs. Maybe Wally could come up with this nice old gentleman's lost identity.
He had to type in a description, as he hadn't a name, and Wally the expert at deciphering mysteries came to the rescue with ABRAHAM LINCOLN, U.S. PRESIDENT, EARLY DAYS, LAW CAREER, POLITICAL CAREER, REPEATED DEFEATS AT THE POLLS, PRESIDENCY, CIVIL WAR, MARRIAGE, ASSASSINATION BY JOHN WILKES BOOTH, CHIEF CONFEDERATE CONSPIRATOR HEADING ATTEMPT TO OVERTHROW FEDERAL GOVERNMENT BY ASSASSINATING TOP LEADERS.
Ero was given a poem to start the file:
"Repute," by Stuart Hawkins, a poet in the 20th Century, who was one of the few honest men left in the City of Thieves
"Abe Lincoln was once a shopkeeper
who rose to the ultimate top
But who would remember his wisdom
if he kept on keeping shop"
For starters, this was enough, Ero thought. "You kept a shop somewhere, sir, before you became President of a country called U.S."
The gentleman stroked his wispy beard, meditating on what Ero had revealed.
"A shopkeeper, you say? Still don't ring a bell, son! Well, that is at least an honest trade, I reckon. What was the merchandise I traded in, son? Maybe that would help me a tad more get my bearings straight."
He went into that and found items like: Higgins' Superlative Boot Black, Paul Revere Silver Tarnish Remover, Jenkens and Son's Nails All Sizes, Iron, Bronze to Copper, Mother Jubilant's Soda Crackers, by Barrel or Crate, Godey's Fancy Dresses and Hats for Ladies of High Fashion, Gingham by Bolt or Piece Measure, Calico by Bolt or Piece measure, Roebuck Shovels, Pitchforks, Hoes (all sizes), Cultivators, Harness for Mules, Horses, and Donkeys, Olson and Son's Fancy Chicago Canned Meats, Onion Sets, Wheat Seed, Corn Seed, Hatched Baby Chicks by the Crate, Roebuck's Fancy Straw Brooms, Feather Dusters, Flypapers, No-Fail Gopher Traps, Remmington Rifles and Pistols, Horse Shoes all Sizes, Nabisco Flour by Sack or Measure, Sorghum Molasses, by Bottle or Tin, Select Havana Cane Sugar by Sack or Measure, Rice by Sack or Measure, Argo Cornmeal by Box or Can, Madame Tourray's Whale-Bone Corsets and Bustles, With Assorted Trusses, and Gynmnastic Appliances for Weight Reduction After Child Bearing, locally brewed Spirits and Hard Apple Cider in bottle or earthenware or hickory-lined jug, --the list went on for a couple thousand other items. Ero thought these would do as a sampler to jog the old gentleman's memory.
He started reading them off, and he didn't quite get half-way down the list when he heard a commotion, looked up and saw the gentleman was tapping his huge head head with his big, bony hand, and shifting back and forth on his feet, his eyes wide with what he was remembering.
"Hold it, hold it, young fella!" the gentleman cried out. "My head is plumb near to splittin' with--with--"
He staggered to a bench, slumping down on it, and Ero thought it might collapse, by the sound it made.
"Lord, Lord, I do recollect," the man marveled. "It's all come back! Why, I was store keepin' back in my own home state, doing none too good a job and going bankrupt at one point, but paid back all the creditors, then went to lawyerin', did better at that, almost got myself a sweetheart of mine, but--but she passed-- nearly killed myself then, but got my spirits up and went on, lost so many elections, can't count them all-- got married to a society lady from the South, children, the Presidency, then the war that tore the Union and us all apart--"
He broke off, his head dropping, and Ero wondered if he were ill, he just sat there breathing heavily, so heavily he was sounding as if he were in deep pain.
Ero watched in astonishment as huge tears began to course down the man's heavily lined cheeks and spatter on his shirt front, and the man made no effort to wipe his eyes as if he didn't notice.
With that remark, Lincoln rambled down the path away from the tree house.
He too felt his feet restless beneath him. Why should he stay in the WPA's old hangout. Doubtless, there were many other things to see.
He took the path leading away and was soon in the thick woods again. The path narrowed, then vanished beneath his feet.
Looking at it, he was wondering what stage presentations the children had once viewed there with delight. It must have been wonderful, he thought. He went round the back, and found a backstage door off and the room tumbled and torn up by vandals. Peering into the gloom, he saw paper litter on the cement floor, and he reached and pulled out some items. Two were playbills from the 1990's, describing the last presentations.
Ero turned back to read the faded, water-damaged playbills. One was "Peter Pan" by J.M. Barrie.
He knew nothing about Peter Pan, of course, but the illustration showed what looked like a young man, or possibly a girl, dressed in green tights swinging on a rope above the stage.
He wanted to know what Peter Pan was about, so turned to his helpful, big yellow Question Mark icon and clicked with his index finger twice on PETER PAN REVISITED, A BALLAD OF THE ?? IN GREEN TIGHTS. What came up was:
"The Ballad of the ?? in Green Tights,"
And bow and arrows? These are some sights!
A cross, a hybrid—a Robbin’ Hood-Peter Pan?
She swings from the rafters for the wallet
Of every man.
Does she really think she fits this our time?
I guess, as she scoops up every nickel and dime.
She’s green like the grass, and trees, and our bucks,
But her tax program soaks everyone including the ducks.”
She’s “Robbin’” and got her big hooks in our Hood.
We’d ship her to China, slow boat if we could.
People like her they grind for chop suey,
Before they even get one little clue-y.
Whatever the Chinese perceive as a threat,
Off goes its head, it won’t last, you can bet.
Thousands of years, they’ve seen every type
Of con artist, crook, and wolf in pin stripe.
This masquerade foisted on us as our chief,
Over there would be treated as a petty thief.
Let her crack the whip, and sign her tax bills,
When the Sheriff arrives, she’ll be gobbling horse pills.
It won’t help a bit when her whole crew ships out,
From her thieves’ nest that has a convenient seaport.
Maid Marian, where are you when you’re needed most?
Can’t you rally Seattle’s worst, not best, to boast?
They’re paid good money to support such as her—-
It’s normal for them to stick on like a burr.
But maybe they got wind like rats there’s a hole
Right in the hull of the ship’s very soul.
It’s gonna sink fast, this whole scheme of hers,
So why climb aboard?—you need feathers, not furs.
You better run, or fly if you can,
From this wriggling, sinking, hopeless worm can.
She may think she’s got a Royal Viking cruise ship,
But look what greed opened—in the bow a big rip!
Oh, Friar Tuck, can’t you bail out her boat?
But the hole’s got too big, and she can’t stay afloat.
Bye, bye, it’s no surprise there goes sly, old, fat Tuck,
First to high-tail it now Robbin’ ’s lost Lady Luck.
Amazing how votes put her in over Dino Rossi--
they kept “finding" more ballots just ahead of his posse.
But we shouldn’t be surprised when someone
Wears silly green tights?—-
Robbin’ Hood? Peter Pan? O King Arthur, PLEASE SEND YOUR KNIGHTS!
Yes, we have no money.
Liberals had a big tax ball,
And stripped us bare, right to the wall!
Born long after that era, Ero still didn't know what in the world Wally was talking about, until he viewed the clips that Wally provided for him to click on, using the screened console that popped up out of the strangling blackberry vines and litter of smashed seats.
Rockin' on Joanie's horse,
Her Pop and Mom her joy,
A horsey was her toy--
Joanie out-smiled any boy!
Singin' brought her fame,
and then she toured the world,
hair, bangs, uncurled.
Hair short, she raised a son.
There's Someone at the door who's waitin'.
The inside latch not yet releasin'.
Hear that gentle, faithful knockin'?
Has she heard the Answer in the wind?
Is she still out travelin' and folk singin'?
Is she still out war and nuke protestin'?
There's Someone at the door who's sighin'.
Even feet of steel can't last.
She's done her draft resistin',
and done her meditatin',
but every soul needs restin',
He found the ruins of a train station! It was about twenty feet long, but shaped like a giant hotdog in a bun with all the trimmings. The remnants of one of the cars lay on the tracks, a tea cup turned over and its seats ripped out. He continued down the weedy tracks until he came to a ravine. Looking over into it, he saw there had been terrible disaster, the train trestle had collapsed and the engine and tea cup cars had all gone down and lay broken on the big rocks. Had there been passengers in them? If so, they would all have been killed, it was so far down.
“All aboard!” a voice cried out,
The crowd rushed forward with a shout;
the whistle blew, the steam out puffed,
the clinkers clinked, the engine chuffed.
This train! Oh this train!
Don’t take no preachers, no Bible-totin’!
This train! Oh this train! No public prayer, no gospel singin’!
This train! Oh this train! Sheer vanity, but gets you there!
This train! Oh this train! Climb aboard, Child, if you dare!
The Gravy Train is par to none,
you’re going to have a lot of fun!
Drugs, sex, and anything you want, it goes;
Where this train stops everybody acts like nobody knows.
A judge got on, attorneys too,
Their baggage stuffed with cash brand-new;
In First Class sits a billionaire,
and his banker and his best lawyer.
And there she is! That lovely lass!
Miss USA sure has got class!
Scholarshiped by U of Dub,
she wears her crown in the hot tub.
Drink up, boys! And do some drugs;
This latest stuff has got some bugs;
You might not see the coming day, but take the chance, man, anyway.
Those blond-haired kids tied up and gagged--
Seattle chicks that some trader bagged
in a mall or out from school--
they bring big bucks--oh, ain’t it cruel?
Want a magazine of porn?
The racks are stuffed like cribs with corn;
Here’s “How to” on kinky sex,
teens all use it for their text.
Choose a movie from the list,
Bette Midler’s never missed;
Like some violence and gore?
PG-flicks no longer bore;
Anyone with a gay bent
now can gang-bang, slice Clark Kent.
Or how about an “Evening Star”
whose PG-13 was an R;
Shirley MacLaine had it changed
(anything can be arranged).
Up front there’s “Jump on the track”
for those tripped out on crank and crack;
What else is there when you’ve done all
except to take the final fall?
Tonight there’s Beefcake in the bar,
add whipped cream,and he’ll go far;
Mickey Mouse is on tee shirts;
it adds some class to same-sex flirts.
“I did it my way,” croons a lush
as gay to gay connect up tush.
Need some cash? Go play the slots;
The tribal council’s upped the pots;
Bingo, high-stakes gambling too,
one-armed bandit, Topsy GREW!
Gangs, oh, well, it’s just some phase
these kids need to fill their days;
Parents let them play at school,
now they’re trained, each one a fool.
Empty-headed, goal-less thugs,
they prowl the streets, malls, for new drugs;
Now they’re on this train for sure,
headed straight for “Air-head Pure.”
No matter that they rob and kill
to get a fix, another thrill;
No matter that their victims die
most brutally, to their last sigh.
The judge on board, he’s lenient;
He treats their crimes like unpaid rent;
Society, he says, must pay,
for these poor youth it cast away.
“They’re victims! Not all those they shot;
Their big mistake was to get caught;
This court awards them to the street
[that butcher shop that makes ground meat!].
He lets them know with "bargain plea,"
they’re free to strike again most certainly!
Whene’er they’re hauled before his bench,
it won’t be such a nasty wrench.
They’ll know they’ve got a big heart here
who lets them off without a tear;
No matter what they’ve done again,
the game goes on, plug in, my friend!
How this train does roll along!
It’s no use to cry over wrong;
So times are bad and won’t reset?
Oh, well, who cares? Why stew and fret? You’ve got your fare paid to the end,
the train will crush what it can’t mend;
Officials and the candidate
boarded last --almost too late;
Bands, balloons, and speeches made,
his campaign surely earned high grade!
Promise good times are ahead,
pull some young thing into bed;
Pay her off if there’s a squawk;
Party Faithful? Take a walk!
This train rolls on no matter what,
the bridge is out, trestle kaputt;
The party still goes on full blast,
no matter that it cannot last.
Each passenger rides thoughtlessly--
“Why worry ‘bout what I can’t see?
Sex and drugs and party deals--
they’re thirty-weight to grease our wheels!
“Don’t ever tell us right from wrong,
or sing that old James Lowell song --
"We live our life in our own way,
yeah, who are you, sir, to gainsay?
“Where this train goes is our choice, [a trip to Hell in a Rolls Royce?]”;
Do you think they listened back when
Noah cried, "Repent, be saved, O men!’?
They had their train, he had his boat,
the problem was theirs couldn’t float;
“Repent!” he said, “or you will drown;
A Flood will cover up the town!”
“They partied then, we party now;
"Is that YOUR problem? I don’t see how;
This is OUR train, don’t you forget,
we’re going all the way, you bet!”
So onward rolled the Gravy Train,
playing smooth jazz (what, no Cobain?);
In diamonds and designer jeans,
they dined on Lo-cal French cuisine.
This cool and glitzy, done-all crowd
grew bold and brash and really loud
until a silence stunned the ear
as rolling wheels met thin, thin air....
At Dead Man’s Gulch the track stopped short;
The Good Times? All abort;
Tumbling, screaming stream of woe,
landing, smashing far below.
There goes Beefcake down the river,
he don’t move and he don’t shiver;
The rest are piled upon on the bank,
except for coaches that just sank.
Strange enough, the people cried the very Name they once denied;
“Christ!” wept a leading prize fighter,
the same man known ear-chewer, raper.
“Jesus!” moaned the Candidate.
“I’ve got business that can’t wait!”
His campaign’s clearly over now,
blood is bubbling down his brow.
“Pardon me, O God, my sin!”
pled the unjust judge within a shattered skull
as brains ebbed out,
his money scattered all about.
“I printed slush,
I purveyed mush!”
someone confessed in the hush
of bodies laid in long, white rows--
those who shuddered with death throes.
“I cheated on my husband, Dave;
He never knew, O God, please save--”
And then the woman died,
both legs cut off, laid by her side.
“I blasphemed You, dear Jesus, Lord!”
cried a lawyer beneath Death’s sword;
His testimony came too late
as devils dragged him through Hell’s gate.
Psychic, Larry Rainbow hissed
the Savior’s Name he widely missed;
His horoscope read “Take a trip”
and so he made his final slip.
His gang friends offed, a tough kid cried
“Who can find my arm?" and died. “No-ooo, not me...” the beauty queen told him,
her crown now lost to eyes grown dim.
Tribal councilman no more,
an old man turned from out-worn lore;
“Dear Lord Jesus, this is me!”
he cried for help belatedly.
A local mayor, he too was hurt,
his best-laid plans all lay inert;
“What matters now is...” all he said,
then medics covered up his head.
A young man and his wife and child
lay thrown amidst a tangle wild;
he wondered how his theater would fare
without him acting manager.
A renowned bishop, firm Pro-Choiced,
heard the cries of the Unvoiced;
“You killed us, forty million strong,
then preached on civil right and wrong!”
A warlock sweating sure, sharp fate
now thought of all the things he ate
in rituals his coven staged
with children kidnapped and then caged.
A teacher in the public schools
now said, “God, we acted fools!”
Too late she turned a penitent,
the Class of ‘10--hell-bent!
A master contractor of fame,
Curt built great mansions for sheer gain;
Now they’ve crumbled in his view,
his prospects void, to start anew.
He thought of housing for the poor
he could have built--but no more!
Instead he catered to the rich,
and now his dreams lay in this ditch.
A pro athlete figured his score:
“Zilch, I guess, I’m out the door!”
No more babes and drugs and stash,
no more chance, it all went smash.
He lay a rag doll, paralyzed,
it hit so quick he was surprised;
There was no way to use his legs,
for now they’re stiff like wooden pegs.
A hustler on the SeaTac scene,
Krysti saw her life obscene,
how she threw away all good
for nothing really--just: she could!
A producer of filth and trash,
awarded Golden Globes like hash,
rolled in his own body waste,
clever brains now pressed to paste.
Talk show hosts, too, got their due
as lives then flickered in review;
Sighs, and sighs, and still more sighs
over fortunes built on lies.
“Help me, Lord!” was Oprah’s plea,
so strange to hear from one like she;
a thousand shows, and not one true,
her day of birth she now could rue.
The businessman who paid slave wage,
then bought a yacht, the latest rage,
he hasn’t saved, not one red cent--
his wealth all stolen and misspent.
CEO of a mall chain,
Stan lay in blood, all filled with pain;
The high price of pain-killer brands?
Like life, it’s now torn from his hands.
Trainmen, too, who worked the line
found it hard to Death resign.
“Why me, Lord?” asked one of those.
“My record’s pretty as a rose;
Always did my job, then some;
St. Peter, why’s your face so glum?
I paid my bills and union dues,
I own my home, don’t drink much booze;
Anger, yes, I have done that,
but nothing worse than kick a cat!
Some cussin' too turned the air blue
when things refused to go just right--
I couldn’t help but get uptight.
Just little things like that, O God;
I surely don’t deserve thy rod!
So why am I now sinking down?
I feel fear and hear a sound
of cackling laughter, a voice obscene:
“Gotcha! Gotcha!” cries a fiend.
And at the same time he crossed the bar,
another soul dropped just as far;
He lived his life as he had sung,
and now the noose on him was hung.
His cooling tank is dark and cold;
A one-inch cube will both enfold
a sinner’s soul, and swarms demonic--
Hell’s greeting corps and Philharmonic.
Heavy metal’s not as loud
as racket from this attack squad;
They jeer, they sting, and celebrate
the day he swallowed up their bait.
The Word of God--he never read;
And as for what Bill Graham said
he thought, “You’re wrong, we live, then die,
then we go--poof! with our last sigh.”
“I did it my way,” moaned the lush
as devils gave him one big push
that sent him down to a cold tank,
for which he had himself to thank.
And what about the billionaire
who built a palace for his lair?
He lay now on a muddy plot,
a few square feet on which to rot.
He called on God--it’s true, he did,
then waited for a lower bid;
When one was offered for his soul,
he grabbed and fell down a deep, dark Hole.
His banker? Oh, a broken neck!
His life was like a returned check
that came back with a stiff bank charge--
could he pay it and discharge
both debt and fee accrued to him,
this soul bankrupt because of sin?
(No, his debt’s too big for human good
to ever pay all that he should;
Only Christ’s blood sacrifice
will ever pay it and suffice;
Except Christ pay up your account,
there are no funds that can amount
to what a soul owes from the day
when each of us fell in sin’s sway.)
And thus his soul was foreclosed on,
and he was thrown in debtor’s prison;
And he could see there was no door;
Whoe’er came in would leave no more!
Agnostics, atheists not few
cried out “Jesus, please forgive me too!”
Just as hospice doctors say,
no other name was prayed that day.
What a contrast, back to back,
with the train of narrow track!
Travolta, Van Damme, Stallone--no sign!
Real men are Christ’s own kind.
This train! O this train! E. V. Hill and Bible totin’!
This train! O this train! The Lord’s own prayer and gospel singin’!
This train! O this train! Sheer happiness, and gets you there!
This train! O this train! Climb aboard, Child, with free fare.
Magic Johnson’s got a berth,
ever since his second birth;
Remember Mickey Mantle who died sick?
He’s arm in arm with mighty Chick.
Little Richard, up from Macon,
has a Reason for his jivin’.
Bob Dylan weeps and sings a song,
proclaiming Christ who rights all wrong.
Mahalia, she rocks the train
with a celebratin' strain:
“Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound!...”
is her song heard all around.
Dale Evans, Roy and Trigger--
they look super, and somehow bigger.
“Happy Trails” rings out too,
all its promises come true.
Great Pascal, Newton, Wilde--
each man humble as a child;
This Kingdom train rejects proud man,
each passenger is born again.
And children! All the children lost
by choice at cruel cost
-- they’re safe aboard this glad express
that runs on Jesus’ faithfulness.
And martyred millions tyrants killed--
their graves unmarked in death pits filled--
all these sheep who bore Christ’s Name
wear the crown, Undying Fame.
Wiping tears from their dear faces,
Mother Teresa, ever full of graces.
Billy Graham and wife, Ruth,
still are sharing Gospel Truth.
Efrem Zimbalist reads the Word,
majestic is the tone that’s heard,
where Moses watched with skipping heart
the great Red Sea split two part
(no marsh of reeds, a real sea
divided by the Almighty!).
Now likewise there’s Vict’ry too:
Jerusalem shines in full view.
Aren’t you glad you chose to ride
the train that runs from Jesus’ side?
Across the chasm, Sin, has stretched,
the Glory Train is safely fetched!"
Wally's screen told him these facts in addition:
"2TrainsRap dedicated to James Russell Lowell, composer of “Once to Every Man and Nation”;
The Glory Train Fare: ”Most assuredly, I say to you, he who believes in Me has everlasting life.” John 6:47; Last Days like Days of Noah: Luke 17: 26-30;
The billionaire, CEO, and such: Luke 18: 24-25; Trainman: Luke 18: 9-14
Blackberry vines choked the track. He went back in the station. He found a gift shop that once sold souvenirs, candy, pop, and popcorn. He picked up a souvenir--a little rocking horse, blue painted, the horse's head broken off. There were also miniature Humpty Dumpties, smashed flat by someone stomping on them. Broken bottles, parts of the popcorn machine, the whole counter and its stools torn back to the metal--it was a dismal sight, so he left.
Out the side door he found a path the raccoon-man had taken that led back into the deep forest called, a greenish, weathered sign said, the Grove of the Patriarchs. There he discovered a house hidden amongst the dark, tangled roots.
He clicked on them and a whole tale in rhyme came up:
"A Woodcutter despaired one day,
for he and Wife could see no way.
Crops all failed, his business too--
and Wolf was scratching at their door.
Cow went dry, and a sly fox
had snatched their hen in her coop box.
No eggs, no milk, one slice of bread,
their children would starve in bed.
"If someone rich, a nobleman,
would adopt them as his children..."
It was their wish, a fading hope,
the father sighed, he could not cope.
Good Wife, however, hatched a plan. "Let's go and take them by the hand.
We'll lead them into the big trees--
tell them we go hunting honey bees.
I've fixed them lunch, a little bread. "We'll leave them someplace," she said.
"And tell when we find the honeycomb,
we'll return and take them home."
"But Wife, that cannot change our plight,
if we return for them," said the poor wight.
"But we will leave them there, O Husband dear!
But hush now, lest the children hear!"
So on the morrow they all set out,
this woodcutter who's turned a lout.
They carried through their evil plan
and thought they'd done all that one can.
Hours passed, and it grew late. Soon the wolves would be their fate!
Hansel thought, while Gretel cried. She feared the worst--their parents died. "That mossy log could make a bed!
Let's crawl beneath it," Hansel said.
And there they slept all that dark night,
and woke, still safe, at the first light.
Gretel cried, "There's no way back!"
But Hansel laughed, and shook his bread sack.
"I dropped bread crumbs the whole way here,
they'll lead us home, O Sister dear!"
Gretel smiled and wiped her tears,
but then her joy was turned to woe,
the bread was eaten by a doe!
Just then a birdie sang so sweet,
it hopped around on bright gold feet.
First forth, then back away it flew,
and chirped and chirped as if to say,
"Come follow me, I know the way!"
And so they followed, hand in hand,
and were led to an enchanted land.
The birdie drew them into the forest deep,
then left them in the great trees where dark things creep.
But up ahead shone a wondrous sight,
a house of cake and candy, full of light!
The children rushed to get a taste,
and Hansel put goodies in a bag at his waist.
The door swung open much to their fright,
and an old woman in red robe, and green shoes,
gripped Hansel tight.
"I've just the place for a boy to take a nap!" laughed the old crone in the yellow cap.
She locked him in an iron cage.
"You're needing fat for a boy your age! Ten pounds, I think, you'll need to add, and then I'll roast you, my pretty lad!"
Ero kept reading. Days passed, as Gretel cried her eyes red, and Hansel was fed with food the witch brought to him. He didn't want it, but acted like he was eating while he passed Gretel a lot of it, so that he remained thinner than the witch liked. Deaf as a post, she didn't hear Hansel and Gretel talking to each other. She couldn't fathom why he wasn't getting fat. Finally, she was going to boil him in the big black pot on the top of the stove, thin or not. After she loaded the stove with big logs and filled the pot with water she had Gretel carry in jugs from the well, she was ready. She ordered the girl to open the oven, stick her head in, to test if the oven was hot enough. Gretel pretended that she couldn't understand, and when the witch had her back turned to Gretel, she unlatched the cage door for Hansel. Exasperated, the witch cried out that she would show the stupid girl what she wanted, and the moment the witch stuck her head in the door of the oven, Hansel was out of the cage in a flash, and he and Gretel ran forward and pushed her in, then banged the door shut. It was quite a story, how Hansel and Gretel got the best of the wicked old witch! Of course, later, more compassionate society grew squeamish about exhibits commending children who killed witches before the witches killed and ate the children, and the house was locked up against the public, the reason given by the Park Board that children's minds might be damaged by such violence.
Ero turned to SEARCH, and after many false leads he narrowed the search down to a Revolutionary War hero called Paul Revere. The version given, Wally informed him, was a late 20th century production by a local poet describing the infamous, politically and morally corrupt Clinton co-presidency of the late 20th century.
*Longfellow’s “The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere”; **Paul Revere, resident citizen of Boston, from a French Huguenot family that emigrated to America and established household businesses in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts in colonial days; patriot, silversmith, coppermill founder, Paul Revere is being rewritten out of American history books for public school children; Exekiel 3:17-19. For further study, doubleclick on PAUL REVERE FIELD STUDY (INTERACTIVE SERIES). To return, rightclick on HOME.
Where was he being re-located now? What was going to happen to him?
Again, vandals had proceeded him and torn everything to pieces. He tried to make sense of it, but couldn't. So he did as he always did, he consulted Wally. Wally gave him a number of items to check out. One was RAVEN AND THE POISON APPLE.
“They come in full and go out stripped,
They cannot help but get horse-whipped;
They throw their money in a hole,
Then hand their kids a begging bowl.”
While he watched the crowds galore,
A roar went up, “The Governor!”
Greeting all with practiced nod--
It was as if they saw a god.
Locke signed the Pact that gave them this,
The legal means to rob--what bliss!
No longer would thieves go to jail,
They’re dressed in silk, from snout to tail.
High-stakes now, and slots come next,
Lawyers too have stacked the decks;
Petitions, if they serve the cause,
Also work to subvert laws.
Promise voters kick-backs too,
Casino with a heart true blue;
Throw some charities a buck,
Bank the rest by armored truck.
“Who are these thieves?” Br’er Raven mused.
“They get rich quick off the abused;
No matter that our Valley dies
Beneath dark wings and clouds of flies!
“Gangs and rape and murder grows,
The Temple thieves add to these woes;
The wealth they take is income lost
By foolish people at great cost.
“This Valley is no place for me,
It’s filled with violence, I see;
It was my home, a gentle place
Of friendly people, laid-back pace.
“But now, this Temple’s changed all that,
With poison worse than rabid bat;
One bite and they’re hooked for life,
A vampire they took for wife.”
With a sigh Br’er Raven rose,
He flew off where the sunset goes--
The land where once he came from hence,
To look for people with more sense.
He flew and flew, an ocean crossed,
Until he found a land long lost;
The people there were long since dead,
Destroyed by greed and graft, it’s said.
“At least, it’s quiet here!” he thought.
“No sirens, bullets, for my lot;
Here I’ll spend my final days,
And ponder mankind’s sorry ways.
“Why should they choose what’s clearly wrong?
What’s the reason, short or long?
Madness must be the main cause,
That makes them break all nature’s laws.
“You cannot rob unless you gain
A thing that turns to deadly bane;
Hurting one must hurt them all,
On this road, they’re bound to fall.
“‘It won’t harm us!’ thinks some poor fool.
‘And look, I’ve got a swimming pool!
And my children? College-bound!
Lawyers, doctors, parade gowned.’
“The truth of it, they’ve lost all soul,
They wander blind, without a goal;
All because their leaders thought
A future could be money-bought.”
Br’er Raven shook his sleek, dark head,
And grieved for those who made that bed,
For those who rushed to certain doom,
To stoke a pit of fiery gloom.
At last these words came to his mind:
“What others loose, you cannot bind;
Unless they see their hopelessness,
They think that Wrong can somehow bless.
“I’ve given them all that they need,
My holy laws for word and deed;
‘Covet not, nor kill and steal,
Unless you hate the commonweal.’
“Now, Raven, weep for them no more,
It’s useless to scratch up a sore;
I paid the price of sin, you see;
My Son, He died to set them free.
“If they turn from Him and run,
There is no more that could be done;
If they refuse and won’t obey,
Judgment falls as their due pay.
“So, Raven, rest your weary brain,
This started even before Cain;
When Eve, the woman, first had sinned,
Her husband, at her fall, then grinned.
“‘What harm is it?’ he thought back then;
He took a bite, and lost Eden!
For like the fruit of Adam’s fall,
Gambling’s sweet, but turns to gall.’”
After the nursery rhymes, RAVEN did not appeal so much to him, so he went off down another path, which ran up a steep slope to begin with and thus was little used, and found a number of nursery rhyme characters all set up as if marching in a parade. They were mostly all intact, with little signs of damage by vandals. Along the route were people dressed in odd clothes and strange headgear, looking as if they were cheering the fat-bellied, skinny-legged naked man with the king's crown leading the parade--except for one little boy who seemed to be laughing and pointing to the naked man.
What is this about? Ero wondered, turning to Wally. He was given THE EMPEROR'S NEW CLOTHES.
The nursery rhyme told him all about political correctness in the early 21st century. But who was the naked "Emperor"? Wally's HELPS gave him PRESIDENT BARACK HUSSAIN OBAMA. Who were the foolish townspeople cheering him? Wally gave him DEMOCRAT PARTY, DEMOCRAT VOTERS, and various BILLIONAIRES, HOLLYWOOD CELEBRITIES, BANKERS, OPRAH WINFREY, as well as MAINSTREAM CHURCHES, FOUNDATIONS, MAJOR CORPORATIONS, MAJOR BANKS, THE AMERICAN RULING CLASSES, THE IVY LEAGUE UNIVERSITIES, THE LIBERAL MEDIA, UNIONS, ALL MAJOR NEWSPAPERS, and MIDDLE-EASTERN DICTATORS and OIL MOGULS, both Middle Eastern and American and British.
Despite all this impressive support, one bright, rather plump little boy wasn't fooled, nossir, and he cried out in a shrill voice that carried across town, "Obama, the king, is stark naked!"
Who was the little boy in leather jerkins who broke the spell Obama had cast on all those people? Wally, without fail, supplied CONSERVATIVE TALK SHOW HOST AND COMMENTATOR, RUSH LIMBAUGH.
Wally had a quote from Mr. Limbaugh that laid the first ax blow to Obama's illusion: "I hope he fails." From the moment he said that to America, the Emperor's gorgeous new clothes of political correctness began to be stripped away by reality--and in only twenty months of his administration he was exposed and walking about buck naked, only he was the last to know it! By then the snickering laughter of one "little but honest boy" was joined by the laughter of millions of people. The self-infatuated Emperor, who had been suckered by his own tailors who had fashioned a suit for him of his own ideology sewn with his own pride, was forced to dash back to the palace to escape the jeers and hoots and rotten eggs and stale vegetables (whatever had at hand) of his own subjects, who now all saw him revealed for the fool he treally was.
What a lesson that was, all wrapped up in a simple nursery rhyme! Ero thought. Still laughing, he ran down another path, then suddenly came up against giant vine blocking his path. Fortunately, it wasn't a prickly blackberry. A bean's vine is smooth, making for easy climbing if it is big and leafy enough giving numerous hand-holds.
This vine definitely was perfect for climbing! Always a Greek wanting to discover some place new, he couldn't resist, even if he knew he were hazarding life and limb.
Still the vine stretched upwards, though the trunk grew slimmer and the leaves fewer. He found he could climb using only the trunk grasped in both hands, and he made more rapid progress. It was just as well he did! It was getting very cold, ice had formed on the trunk and leaves, and as much as he breathed in, he couldn't seem to get a good breath.
Should he turn back? How far would this vine take him? It seemed to be taking him out of the world! But where?
He had his answer as he climbed further on.
Loving the feel of real earth beneath his feet, he retraced his path on the steep streets to the waterfront, which suited him more, being a sea-loving Greek.
A cosmic Carbuncle, the Vampire-Stone, moved from Earth II to Earth I, as things get too hot for it in its old haunts. The Time Portal serves to give it entrance, as it answers the call, not of distressed cells resident in Marty Yeager, freshly killed and hidden in the forepeak where they kept the anchor chains of the Titanic, but of unbelief and faithlessness residing in the statue of Karl Barth (which contained some timecapsuled papers and writings by the author), the famed theologian of the mid-20th century. Vampire-Stone and Karl Barth, it was a passionate same-sex marriage from the first. These two malevolences were meant for each other. Zeroing in on the emanations from the statue and its nearly decayed but lucite-encased writings, the Vampire-Stone found a habitat it could use as a base for exploiting and overwhelming billions of people during the Millennial Reign of Yeshua.
What kind of god was he? The titanium-encased writings were found in an exploratory penetration, and they gave a most complete answer, though it was hard for the Millennialists to comprehend, as the concepts were so foreign and new. That it was all written down in a dead language was difficult and slowed the process, so it was good the Millennium was just that: there was a lot of time to spend on such questions, and the researches themselves lived indefinitely, so they weren't impelled by sickness, age, or other considerations, but could and did spend more than a century on the project. Just as slowly, the meanings were deciphered as the entire text was reviewed by many scholars, and then a translation was made that could be shared with the public that was eager to find out about the discovery.
She had been translating the ancient script into her modern Welsh language, spoken over virtually the whole continent formerly called Europa and once divided, in Karl Barth's time, into France, Spain, Britain (U.K.), Germany, etc. Those nations and the godless empire that had bound them together under the Anti-Christ in one last violent effort to overthrow the rule of the Lord God had long ceased to exist, of course, and their names buried and forgotten hundreds of years ago, beginning at the time when the Messiah returned to rule the Earth at His Second Coming.
But Rowena was not thinking of these dead nations or the Anti-Christ and his prophet who had been cast into hell, so much as this remnant of tidy, ancient script before her, speaking of a defunct but once flourishing "Switzerland", a tiny mountainous country that prized its isolation and freedom among the snow and glacier- capped crags once called the Alps. But the ancient wiseman did not spend much time describing the land of the Swiss, though he lived and wrote there for many years, producing his greatest works. He was called by his own people and times a "theologian." Theologians were a special kind of scholar devoted exclusively to the study of holy books and the Bible in particular, both Old and New Testaments. Karl Barth was one such Bible-scholar, and his writings were focused on certain questions he asked and attempted to answer in many volumes on the general theme of how he thought it was best to approach understand the Word of God, called the Bible. The right perspective, in other words, was what he aimed to lay out in detail, in books that numbered 4 million words in total.
Rowena found all of this intense study and highly nuanced and detailed "theological" argumentation so amazing! That they were so rich in those times that certain men could devote all their time and energy to studying the Word of God--when it was readily available to every one in society, being the most disseminated and published book in those early societies. What drove particular men to become life-long Bible scholars? Was it love of the Word of God, coupled with a driving passion to discover all of its riches of meaning and truth?
She saw little such men, or evidence of such a love for the Bible and a desire to inquire into its meaning and truth in the society around her, indeed, as far as she travelled, which was to the world center and Messianic capital, Jerusalem, every year to attend the prescribed Festival and Feast of Tabernacles.
It was regarded as a tiresome duty by most people nowadays she knew to attend the Festival, as they did it only to escape the well-known penalties for not honoring it--poor harvests, scanty rainfall, disease among the flocks and herds, miscarriages among women and animals, etc. Of course, many authorities now explained such things as purely natural things, a sign of the deteriorating natural order under the iron scepter and rule of the world's overlord and king of kings, Yeshua the Messiah. But she wasn't so sure--her parents had instilled in her an old-fashioned reverence for God and the Bible, and even now, as a graduate from a secularist-leaning School of Exhumation (as digging up the ancient pre-Millennial past cultures was called), she tended to handle any artifact relating to the Bible and divinity with trembling in her hands and a certain awe deep in her heart.
She kept such things to herself of course, as she had written her thesis on subhumation in the acceptable secularist mode, without a single reference to God being the origin of life and the center of civilization on earth, whatever names it was called in its various divisions, or "nation states."
What unnerved her, however, and increasingly made her both excited and feeling as if she had stolen and eaten forbidden non-kosher candy, was the unbridled spirit and voice of post-Christian secularism she found in Barth's writings. It was so much like the secularism that dominated her own time and society, that she felt a kinship, a certain identification, with Barth, even though he was definitely of an alien culture and a dead, condemned, anathematized society and nation--one representing a proscribed, fallen, anti-Messiah civilization that met its total destruction and eradication when Christ set foot the second time on the Mount of Olives just outside the eastern Golden Gate of Jerusalem. Imagine, such cultures had practiced infanticide for profit, while killing elderly people to save the health care costs! How barbaric and inhumane and cruel they were, while constantly calling themselves civilized people of the highest order! It was clear they were beasts in human bodies--but with technology they had risen to heights that made them imagine themselves to be gods! That pride and arrogance caused them to defy Almighty God and the Son, the Messiah of the Jews, precipitating their greatest folly, declaring war on God to the bitter end, their own utter destruction.
So why was she so drawn to them, when they were clearly so depraved and misguided and self-destructive a race and civilization? Why did it excite her and unsettle her at the same time? She was looking at forbidden things, she knew instinctively and also by her childhood training showing her the whites and blacks of rights and wrongs. But yet she identified somehow, feeling and seeing at the same time a likeness to what they said and felt and thought in Barth's time to what people were now daring to feel and think and even speak about openly in society. Jerusalem's hold was weakening, and the powers emanating from the Davidic throne on Mt. Zion had been waning for many years in fact; people were becoming more and more liberated and gradually shaking off Messianic Rule from Jerusalem, it was clearly apparent to all who lived in the Welsh-speaking regions. Someone even had lately suggested people ought not to put so much value on the "slaughterhouse religion" being practiced in Jerusalem and particular in the Messianic Temple! It was a most daring thing to say, and Rowena, like most of her class who heard it, were shocked almost speechless. But once said, it became common currency in an amazingly short time. "Slaughterhouse Religion," that stuck fast to all that signified the Messianic Temple and everything that Jerusalem represented. The sacrifices of animals that went on there, all supposedly depicting for the Millennial Generations the Atonement achieved by the Substitutional Sacrifice in the Death and Crucifixion of the Messiah in 33 A.D. of the previous world order? Well, they--along with the Messianic Atonement for mankind's sin and rebellion of the past world--were now viewd by an ever growing number of the world's peoples and empires as products of a backward, retrogressive, messy "slaughterhouse religion." It was all rather poor taste, in other words, and beneath their refined sensibilities--and they increasingly resented being forced by severe consequences and penalties to take part in them as a civic duty under Messianic World Rule.
Billions of people now thought and felt unashamably and even outspokenly in the same way, that the Slaughter-House Religion centered at Jerusalem was oppressive and out of step with the times, though she, a more timid, old-fashioned sort of person, was gradually learning how to think and feel the same way while fighting a deep-seated tug in the opposite direction.
Why had she volunteered to work on Barth's artifacts? After all, if it didn't suit her, she could have chosen any of a hundred other exhumed periods of pre-Millennial cultures and nations. Why did she center on the Karl Barth find?
Something in the night, perhaps, coming from far stretches of space and stars, had bewitched her and drawn her to Barth? Wild tales of her ancient Welsh culture told of such things--and were passed on from one generation to the next in children's nursery tales.
An educated soul, even one so old-fashioned as she was, so "traditionalist", with so much residual respect and reverence for the Messianic customs and Festivals, not to mention the Word of God, the Bible, still ought to be above childish, nursery-tale "bewitchment" or subject to the influences of similarly non-rational things. Or maybe she wasn't as educated and fact-centered as she thought she swast? She had to wonder about this. Perhaps, she ought to have stuck to animal husbandry, her natural gift, which led her to cultivating very fine, highly prized flocks of wool producing sheep, goats, chamois, and eveb some mountain-bred varieties of llama too. Weavers, merchants, and buyers from all over the world all knew her from her various, highly sought after woolens, which she wove herself on her specially hand-crafted looms of her own design. Why then did she leave her trade, which she found so satisfying and akin to her quiet-living disposition, for the vigorous, intellectual pursuit of Exhumation and Study of Ancient Pre-Millennial Cultures?
She couldn't settle on a satisfactory answer. She simply followed where she felt impelled to go. There was a drive in her that weaving and animal husbandry could not fulfil, and she thought it might be in mental development, study of ancient texts, and discovering just what the dead, ancient civilization had to teach those who followed.
Well, she ought to be happy then, at her work translating the ancient Dead German of the Barthian texts into modern Welsh--correct? No, she was not happier. She was excited, even tantalized, but not happier. It was unnerving, unsettling, the further she delved into the meanings Barth was attempting to convey. Yet she couldn't stop, though her instincts all cried to her increasingly to stop and put the work away, let someone else have it who wanted it more than she did, but who would that be? She herself was more passionate about Barth than anybody else in the field at present. The circle of fellow Exhumers and Studiers was small and select, really an elite of experts in that subject of inquiry, and she was ideal for the task--and so the Chief Exhumer had given her what she requested: the main body of work on the Basel excavation writings to translate, as much and as long as she wished to do the work. Others could come after her to resume wherever she chose to leave off, it was understood, but she found she could not leave off. The writing was gripping her very soul-- tighter and tighter! She felt a Greater Power than her own spirit reaching out and the long, ghostly, pale, bluish fingers of the Ancient Past, the Deadman's own bloodless hands were digging into her being at its core and squeezing the very life out of her!--yet she could not get free or drop the work, she was captivated by this supernatural force entangling her with almost a convulsive rapture, she was forced to continue, though she was growing very frightened, feeling it might well kill her before long if she didn't make a violent effort and somehow wriggle out of its vise-like grip and escape.
Was this what the Ancients of the lost, dead civilizations before the Millennial Kingdom Reign called "addiction" or even "psychotic fixation" or the more vernacular "madness"? Whatever it was, she was helpless in its clutches, she found, and sensed it was too late to get free. Strangely, she no longer cared very much about her freedom. This attraction had turned into an intoxication, even to the point of rapture. In other words, Rowena was "hooked bad."
She knew children loved to climb their backs, and the beasts wouldn't shake them off, or grow annoyed and put their big feet on them. But still, it was not safe to do so, as the beasts uually had small heads for their immense body size, and that meant their eyes were small and their vision limited. Try and explain that to fun-loving little boys! She knew they would always be playing with the Grazers, no matter what their parents said--and take their chances one day the poor beast wouldn't see what he put his foot on. It was tragic when that happened, but it wasn't the beast's fault, and so they just had to be more careful to warn the children not to take such chances and hope they obeyed.
She herself was glad she hadn't children, and remained unmarried so long. She could still choose to marry if she found someone suitable, who wouldn't interfere with her intellectual pursuits, but she rather liked her independence of men. And what would she do with children under her feet? She loved her animals and now her work as an Exhumer. Everything she had done previously to Exhuming seemed inconsequental in fact. Barth was everything to her! Everything! She couldn't get enough of his wonderful philosophy! It was so liberating to her mind and soul. What puzzled her was how this spiritual giant could be writing so many books, and yet the world he lived in took such little notice at the time, though he received quite a lot of prestigious honors from various universities and colleges. If only they had given him the attention he deserved and followed out his teachings to their logical ends! Wouldn't their world have been much better for it, and possibly have escaped destruction? Yet they continued to co-exist with lesser ideas, with lesser expressions of the intellect and man's spirit, and the pathologies of the whole culture overwhelmed them in the end and destroyed them.
Now it remained for her to bring the liberty and truth of Barth forth for her own people to read and learn all the things he taught an earlier mankind.
What things? a voice seemed to ask her as she turned her feet toward the site of the diggings.
"Why, for instance, that God is infinitely transcendent, infinitely beyond human grasp and understanding! That thought alone could be the subject for an entire volume! It was a most revolutionary thought. It was earth-shaking, in fact. Imagine such a God as Barth conceived Him-- it would liberate the whole population of earth from the degrading, enslaving, autocratic idea that God could be touched and spoken to and whom they needed to deal with problems on a human level. All that interference and meddling by the Absolute was quite impossible, and unnecessary. God, since he was Absolutist, was infinitely removed from humanity, being infinite being. Man was limited being, there was no denying it, and therefore that was all he could possibly know--finitude and the humanly knowable world. There was a gap between God and man that nothing could bridge--nothing whatsoever! Even God could not bridge it--as then he would cease to be less than Infinite Deity. To be personal with man, then, was logically a contradiction, by the very definition of God the Absolute. To become personal, God would have to give up his own essence and cease to be Infinite God!
This liberating, thrilling thought took her all the way back to her quarters. She paused before going in her private office to touch the face of Barth, and the coolness of the stone made her tingle with joy. How much she owed this great man! He was setting her free from centuries and centuries of shackled thought and bondage to a knowable, personal, demanding Godhead. Now she could exist on her mundane human plane, and God would exist on his infinite plane, and she could contemplate Him, while remaining absolutely free, without being forced to worship and praise and give offerings and make the yearly pilgrimage to the Messianic Temple in Jerusalem at the the Feast of the Tabernacles.
Absolutely free as she now recognized herself as a moral agent, could she refuse to go? What would happen if she didn't? She had always gone out of solemn religious, traditional, and family duty and fear of God, but now she wanted to exercise her newfound freedom, whatever the consequences. After all, her intellectual integrity demanded that she not compromise what she had discovered: man is a free agent in the universe, created so by God the Absolute who could not deny His own infinite apartness from Creation.
Then a thought came to her that clinched the entire question for her: how could this Son of God reigning in the New Jerusalem over the entire earth possibly be what He was claimed to be--the Savior and Lord over all people and the earth? God could not have such a Son in the first place! An Absolute, Supreme Being could not produce an intermediary who was God too! God had no such Son! What was the logical conclusion? This "Christ," Yeshua, the "Son of God," "Messiah of the Jews," was nothing but an imposter!
With this conclusion, her mind closed on the question like a steel trap. There could be no other rational, logical conclusion! It was settled. Yeshua was a vast fraud perpetrated upon all humanity and the whole earth, for hundreds and hundreds of years. But something had to be done. Mankind was enslaved by a lie. Mankind was enslaved to a false God, a mere man made up to be God.
What should be her response? She had to think long and seriously about that. She left her work and went on yet another meditative walk.
This time she did not go along the lakeshore, she went to the Basel excavation, and gazed upon the revered statue of the Great Ancient, Barth.
Since this was the very man who had helped set her free beyond anything else she could identify, she felt great gratitude toward this dead giant of intellect and truth. It was a gratitude that caused a kind of worship to well up within her heart, and so she found herself praising him and even praying to his dead spirit that still lived and flourished in his immortal words and writings.
"O Great One of the Ages, you have set me free from the shackles of the Age, from the false one who sits on the throne this day in the city of Jerusalem on the mount, who has enslaved all men, and whom must be exposed and driven out from the temple and his shackles dashed to pieces! Great One, you have inspired me, your daughter, to begin the noble struggle to fight for the freedom of my fellow men. They are lost in darkness, slaves who do not know yet they are slaves, but I know the truth, and I will never compromise with the darkness and the lies of the imposter. I promise you, O Great One, I will remain true to your teachings, even if I should suffer early death at the hands of the imposter's many armed men and servants. Give me strength of will and resolve, O Great One, that I will not relent until the innocent, oppressed masses are set free, to be once again free moral agents as I am lately become, and no longer abject subjects of a false son of God, when God being Absolute and Supreme and Infinite could never have birthed a son. In honor to the Absolute God who reigns beyond the universe, in honor to you, O Great One of Tel Basel and the Ages, I commit myself and all my endeavors in the coming days. Amen!
At first, he easily adjusted to the change, the loss of the mast on his mast-bot. The base remained, and it served well enough, a free-flying saucer. He was able to see large parts of the Millennial World with it.
He saw incredibly fearsome winged creatures, one on the right and one on the left, standing guard along with some winged soldiers in full battle gear. He couldn't turn back now, his eyes were beholding things he had never imagined, and at the risk of his life he wanted to see more if he possibly could.
He flew closer, and to his surprise the houses or structures on the mount continue to grow in size, increasing as he was decreasing.
Whatever he looked at in particular, the name of it came to his mind without Wally's popups. He saw on the left, "Palace of the Alabaster Box." To the right on an upper level he saw, "Palace of the Wise Virgins." Above another level or two was a Menorah, the "House of Israel." Beyond that on the left was the Triumphal Arch of the 144,000 Martyred Witnesses. Above that rose a candle from the Menorah whose top he could not see, that was "Yeshua's Candle," he was somehow informed.
When he moved closer, however, guardians moved to meet him. They were all giants. One came and spoke for the others to Ero.
"Tsaddiquim greets you! We are the Guardians fof the Seven Churches of Asia and now the New Jersualem. The others are named Nesu, Ashre, Chesid, Smichu, Pallet, and Sether.
Wouldn't it happen now, after the most wonderful sights and experiences at Mt. Zion, the New Jerualem, still brightly glowing his mind?
SEARCH took him to various options.
But he couldn't find anything that answered to his particular dilemma.
Then he thought of something. He pull some long fibers from a palm trunk, that hung long and hairlike in huge tufts, and tied on the plates from the mast base, and then as he rose up, he tried to maneuver and even fly. But he couldn't coordinate, and soon found he was crashing back into the vegetation.
As he looked about, he noticed some things however that gave him some hope of improving his mobility. He found that the native winged fauna and even the huge insects such as dragonflies were not at all hostile to man or unfriendly to him. They were so tame, in fact, he thought he could ride them. He chose a dragonfly, since there were no dragons in the vicinity. Magnificent fliers and huge enough to carry him, they could take him anyplace he wanted to go.
Catching a dragonfly was easier said than done, he discovered.
Skittish creatures by nature, though fearless, the dragonfly he was approaching flew off the moment he showed any interest in it. He looked around for another. Fortunately, there were many, so he didn't have to look long.
He had to find someway to catch them them when they were sleeping or not paying attention, but their globular eyes were so multifaceted, and lidless too, he knew they could always see around them 360 degrees and never be caught off guard.
He asked HELP, and Wally had these suggestions:
CUT, PASTE, OR DRAG AND CLICK ON SPOT WHERE YOU WANT YOUR ICON PLACED.
The medallion lifted off the dome and fluttered down to the sidewalk, where it lay momentarily, while it was being booted up.
Ero noticed he was being followed. Was it a bird? A dragon? It had winglike appendages, a round flat body, with a hat like head.
Yet science followed art in this respect: the greatest leap toward understanding and discovering Orion's primal role in the Universe was not by the likes of Sir Edmund Hoyle, Britain's premier astronomer, but a teen-aged vicar's son with a huge talent for versifying coupled with a genius's capacity for revelation through giant strides of meditation and imagination.
Britain's Poet Laureate to be and most popular poet of the 19th century, young Alfred Tennison (spelled that way on Earth II, although spelling in the 17th century until the late 19th was anybody's choice and so his ancestral name could be "Tennyson," "Tennison," "Tenniesonne,"--however a bearer of that family name chose to write it) set out early like a comet to blaze a path for himself across the firmament of English poetry. With youth's infinite capacity for starting on impossible ventures with the greatest hopes and expectations of succeeding gloriously, Tennison thought he could become Britain's Homer, perhaps forgetting he would be standing on the shoulders of giants--Chaucer, Shakespeare, Milton, and Wordsworth--to name just a few. However you spell him and his forgivably youthful presumption, the brilliant young poet was on his way to guessing or intuiting something HUGE about Orion that astronomers hadn't even guessed at in the 19th century, though Orion was much admired for its arrays of spectacular stars, and the ancient Egyptians were first and foremost Orion's fans.
Before going on, consider ancient Egypt. We all have heard how the Giza pyramids were aligned with Orion, haven't we? But why? What was so vital about Orion to them? Since Alfred Tennison's time astronomers got hold of wonderful telescopes like Hubble and have revealed the spectacular splendors of Orion and the Nebula, discovering that it is the teeming with what seemed to be newly formed and forming stars. It is a "star nursery," astronomers like to say. But, evenif that were true, there is much more to it than that even. Well, let Alfred Tennison speak for himself, as he was always well able to do just that:
But even nice things can turn "unnice," can't they?
Feeling he had attained his majority and right to considerable independence, though his mostly younger siblings might not all agree to that, Alfred felt things had changed for him--it was metamorphosis, he had outgrown the pupa stage and needed to spread his wings and fly. All of a sudden, he couldn't bear all the eyes watching his every move and remarking on it too! He needed to breathe! The house was far too stuffy, smelling of camphor in the lately shuttered rooms stuffed with dusty dark furniture and ghastly red wallpaper. He thought he would perish if he remained one moment longer!
Once it had been his childhood paradise--now it seemed an aged horror. It was the house his family used only on holidays, but kept the rest of the year with a caretaker--an old cranky fellow housed free in a gardener's hut to tend the grounds but who did nothing but smoke his pipe and remark on the foul weather that agitated his ague and kept him to his chair, he said. The garden was overrun by brambles, the fish pool dried up after the pipe feeding in from the brook cracked and wasn't mended, the shrubberies a disgrace of half-dead or misshapen overgrowth littered with long abandoned starling nests. That was all his father could think to do with the place--preserve it in its state of decay. What with his father's drinking and his swwet but inattentive mother shut up in her sewing room taking no notice of the world, the household was a shambles, no order to anything, the servants who tended the kitchen seldom able to run up regular meals or change the sheets.
With his brothers rough-housing continually, or his sisters bickering peevishly over the least trifles right into the late hours, he could hardly endure sleeping there.
Fortunately, days of bad weather that forced him to stay indoors were few, as he went out walking and rambling, regardless. But it just wasn't the house stuffed with a large, squabbling, disorderly family. The time he lived in, the society around him, also stifled his vital spirit, to the extent of insult. Sensitive to things, he couldn't but feel it was a time of vast unquiet, noise, confusion, and demands of all kinds. Despite the wonders of industry, gaps loomed like caverns in the fabric of modern society. They weren't being addressed either--they were ignored or shamelessly belittled. There was no escape for the soul and spirit of his inner man--even God was denied, and that once sure Refuge cut off. A vicar's son, he knew how theology was now thought antiquated, really a despised calling, whereas once it had been the most respected, attracting the best minds.
The "important people" all seemed to believe Science now at last had the ability to identify all the answers, reasons, and causes of life--it was just a matter of a few years more and there would be no more questions worth asking, for Science would answer them all!
How mistaken they were! he thought, realizing he was very much alone in taking that stand.
That stertorius declaration voiced by various mouthpieces of the Establishment--"Science has surpassed God and all the Bible's so-called Revelation!-- galled Alfred's soul and spirit and mind, as much his stays in the old, lake district house. It made him feel almost claustrophobic. Oh, if he had only been born centuries before! Back when life still prsented vistas of the unknown yet for man to conquer! But now what was left to conquer? What indeed? Dry academicians, their moustasches stiff with tobacco smoke, claimed to know everything, and nature was utterly subdued, tamed, explained. Nature was a sort of trick dog now. These people made Nature to do amusing tricks for them in the laboratory and the lecture room. "See!" they cried, winking at each other. "Nature performs just as we predicted it would! Over the hoop, through the hoop, under the hoop! Nice doggie, here's your treat! Bloody nature's under our complete control!"
Well, Alfred knew they were wrong! They couldn't be more wrong, in fact. He knew there was so much they were missing, which, as Shakespeare said so well, they had not even dreamt of!
Of course, they all scoffed at such a suggestion, that there was something left outside their neat equations. Who can teach us anything? We are the ones to teach YOU!
How he detested such men. They had buried Mystery-- along with the Middle Ages and all adventurous, challenging times when young men, like the famed Argonauts, launched forth on great journeys of exploration and discovery.
Yes, they had ruined it for the young men of Britain! All the sparkle had been drained from life. Why live?--just to repeat their drab careers?
To get away from the house and just as much from the 19th century, he bolted out the back door and ran down through the unkempt garden. Without stopping, he climbed the ha ha wall keeping sheep off the house lawn and went walking alone in the hills he liked best in this Lakes District on the western coast. Unmindful how much time he was spending out there, he crossed fields and roads alike, climbing ever higher for the views.
How he hated the thought of returning to that old house where everything had seemingly lain in its place forever, begging not to be disturbed!
After being closed up so long during the winter, it smelled musty to him, and needed airing out, the shutters on all the windows thrown wide open. Even then, that musty smell lingered. And when he opened a drawer of any of the furniture, he smelled camphor and ammonia from the mothballs!
It took hours to clear all that out of his lungs and soul and feel free and alive again, with something to hope for.
He carried paper and pencil for when he thought of something to write, though he would need a lantern soon to see what he had written. It was late in the day, and the dusk was deepening, and the first stars beginning to shine. His family was used to his random ramblings taken at any hour day or night in the countryside, so wouldn't worry too much, he knew.
As he stared upwards, he could make out Orion the Hunter easily, and looking at it some thoughts formed that he felt he must try to capture on paper while there was still enough light for him to write. For weeks, the Zoadiacal patterns, the Arabic names and their meanings particularly, impressed him more and more toward an inescapable conclusion--these formulations and stories governing the starry host above him were not accidents or mere human whimsy--oh, no! In truth, taken together, they revealed the First Theology, written before there was a printed book in the stars's names and their positions as viewed from the vantage of Earth. Viewed from any other world, one would see only a jumble without any meaning of course. The millennial-old Holy Bible was right about it--these were precisely arranged and set Signs given man to guide him and explain the mystery of life itself! How set and arranged? He had read enough astronomy to know that the stars in any given constellation were no where near each other--they only appeared to be so. But that wasn't a problem at all. The stories handed down from the dawn of man in the Garden of Eden created the arrangements, and then explained them. You couldn't start with the stars themselves and arrive at sense and meaning. Revelation--the metaphysical stories and narratives--were the beginning point for tremendous discovery.
How exciting this was, to think such a Key was given man, to unlock all mystery. Well, he couldn't wait to turn that golden Key!
Writing large, he began to jot down his thoughts on note paper he pulled out of his shirt and tucked into his belt.
which is the second in a line of stars
That seem a sword beneath
a belt of three,
I never gazed upon it but I dreamt
of some vast charm concluded
in that star
to make fame nothing.
"Were I to find a ship of fire, perhaps with speed like light itself,
which flies from star to earth and sun to planets, what would I see in that far place?
Perhaps a cavern of palaces,
stars forming thrones beneath massy domes, so I might wander there ever going from chamber to chamber?
"What precious things would I find within those halls, that waited there in glorious chests-- treasures of the Universe, hidden since our Word first spoke these worlds' birth?
"At death at least, will my spirit fly, to realms, domains, and empires high? Will I find scepters glowing bright, many-colored and powered with pride?
"What Titans dropped all in their haste, their powers, dominions, all gone waste?
What Power o'erturned theirs so great, Greater still,
that cast them into depths of space
to wander in dreary dark disgrace?
"Secrets of the stars must await,
woven ingeniously in sworded belt!
A tapestry of destiny--
and a Door to crystal Wonders--
would we have the right key we'd see and know and those wonders embrace!"