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World War III: The Only Way to Return Truth to the Foundation of our Society
Michael A. Smith
Associate Adjunct Professor at University of Maryland Global Campus Writer
Looking back through history, when truth was lost as a standard around which thinking people could rally, it took a brutal war to restore truth as a foundational reality. I share three most recent examples: the American Civil War, WWI, and WWII.
Our Founding Fathers did us a major disservice when they refused to deal with human slavery at the 1787 Constitutional Convention. They enshrined slavery into the Constitution and kicked the can forward for a later generation to solve. From 1820, lies, divisions, and all manner of dirty tricks ensued that tore at the unity of the United States. Denials and abuses of power were rampant and threatened to end the great experiment of the democratic republic. Finally, the election of Abraham Lincoln was the step too far, and South Carolina seceded from the Union, followed by other Southern states. Four years later, 700,000 men from both North and South lay dead. It would take a hundred years for normalcy to return. Lincoln's Gettysburg Address, scribbled hurriedly on the back of an envelope, was a master piece detailing the nation's testing and its hoped survival. With two sides at an impasse, it took brothers' blood to restore common sense. Christians fought Christians during the most significant religious revival in American history. Every day, soldiers went out to kill each other, returned to camp, washed up, ate dinner, and held religious services, celebrating that God was on their side.
The war winds in Europe heightened from the unification of Italy and Germany in the 1870s. The problems were European, prompting the US to stay out of the first three years and enter the fourth to help the allied powers win. It was called "The Great War," or "The War to End all Wars." It was not the first world war, but it was termed that way. This time, the cost was 8.5 to 11 million casualties. The loss in property was tremendous. For our one year of participation, the US lost 117,000 men.
Leading to the war, European leaders, especially the German Kaiser, who was the grandson of Queen Elizabeth, and his Prime Minister Bismarck were bullies and were jealous of other nations. Kaiser Wilhelm visited his grandmother in England and was envious of England's vast navy. He returned to Germany to start a weapons race and try to outdo his cousins. The war in the west was brutal and fought in trenches and shattered the idea of Christian unity, as Christians fought against Christians. Millions dead.
The seeds of WWII were planted at Versailles, where the Axis and Allied powers met to arrive at a peace. Woodrow Wilson showed up with his Fourteen Points to World Peace. He walked into a buzz saw of treachery among the Europeans. They had made secret deals with smaller countries like Italy to ensure they got land. They worked hard to ensure the Germans were not made to feel they were the aggressor. They penalized the Germans with reparations and a return to former borders. They drew borders that left German citizens under the rule of other countries, which gave Adolf Hitler his propaganda.
Adolf Hitler was a mesmerizing speaker who could spin lies one after another and hold an audience until he had them under his spell. He rose to chancellor of Germany in 1938 and rearmed Germany rapidly. It took him just fifty-three days to dismantle the democratic republic of Germany to a dictatorship. He began bullying countries. Most ignored it until he directed his army to invade Poland on September 1, 1939, initiating WWII, followed by invasions of Denmark and Norway in April 1940, and later Belgium, Luxembourg, and the Netherlands in May 1940. The attempts to appease him were legendary but failed. Eighty-five million was the death toll to bring the world back to truth and to abandon misinformation. One-half million were Americas.
After the Jan. 6 incident, which Trump denies was an attempt to overthrow the government, and in the same breath claims that attacks on Musk's Tesla Charging Centers are domestic terrorism, the question is how do we get back to truth? Both sides are entrenched in their false ideas and are not changing. Sadly, a significant war, and this one is destined to be on American soil, might either bring us to our senses and return us to a foundation of truth or destroy us entirely. Sadly, these are our historical choices.
~~~
Given the exploration of "war" as a part of my discussion the last few days surrounding the Civil War-set novel, Some Like It Hotter, I continue to be amazed, and thankful, when I found that Professor Michael A. Smith has already raised his concern and written of the possibility of WWIII. Certainly if the president of the United States has anything to do with it, I am forced to agree, sadly...
In attempting to proclaim his dictatorship, the president attempts to use his own slogan, "I, Alone, Can Fix It..."
Yet, all he does is create chaos, disruption, and fear. He has accomplished, exactly, NOTHING, since he entered the office...Daily we are faced with the latest "whim" that crosses the mind of an individual who has absolutely no guidance, nor, it seems control by anyone... More and more, people, though are now speaking out...Will it be enough to prevent another World War? Let's look at just a few of his attempts to take over the world...
He first started with attempting to take over the United States with the January 6th Insurrection...
Acquire Greenland for the United States...
Take Over Canada as another State of the United States.
Take over the Panama Canal and surrounding area.
Stop assistance to Ukraine and take over control of negotiation which has failed...
Take over Gaza - while at the same time, the Prime Minister of Israel is spouting the same decision and acting upon it!
Attacking Iran, participating in skirmished with Iran-financially supported terrorist groups, including Hamas...
Declared Tariffs against every single country in the World!
Shot down boats coming out of Venezuela. Without authorization or notice to the country... And, without knowing exactly what those boats were being used for.
Spoke against Brazil's overthrow of their president, increasing tariffs placed against the country...
Removed all entry into the United States from any other country. At the same time, attacking all immigrants, mostly by violence and relocation into holding pens or out of the country...
Placed a mandate against DEI and removed staff, employees and programs in support of diversity.
Attacking higher education, removing funding, based upon some attempt to take over the control... Now going after Smithsonian and other cultural institutions.
Totally destroying the medical care system of the United States.
Instigating lies and complaints against the minority political party, controlling the entire congress, as well as the supreme court... Although judges across the nation have been successfully fighting back...
Yes, I could go on, including the very clear evidence, via redistricting, that our entire voting apparatus is being destroyed, if not stopped...
Indeed, could it be that a Cold War, as was earlier with Russia, has been underway since this administration took office? Will it lead to WWIII, as spotlighted by Professor Smith?
At least once in the past, I've guesstimated, based upon my working in a federally funded university for over 35 years, that the time it will take to just repair the damage done in less than 6 months, will take at least 100 years to return to where we were before he was reelected--I don't even want to discuss how that happened... Bureaucracy takes time if you are doing it properly--justifying, proposing, budgeting, funding, purchasing, project management, etc...
Given that those outside of the Government, namely, The Heritage Foundation, had already created a mandated destruction of America (even if they called it something different), suddenly, not even the president had any idea what he was signing as the stacks of executive orders started being placed for his signature. They had found the perfect stooge...
Except they forgot he was a conman, first, and he soon started making decisions related to money coming back to HIM via loss of funding for what earlier had been approved and funded... and it... just... keeps... on going... After all, he needed a golden office and, of course, needed to add a gigantic ballroom that no other president even considered they needed...
Because, of course, creating a kingship with all the power and glory required that money come to the king, first, to acquire all that he needed to magnify his ownership role to his...worker bees... Because all that he had to be bigger and better than any other king ever had before him... Right?
All I can say is that I hope that the majority of America will see the Truth of what has already occurred... and Vote to Avoid World War III!
Professor Smith is an ongoing contributor to Book Readers Heaven. Thank you so much for sharing your thoughts here and across the world...
No, things would never be the same. She knew that. The foolish war had turned the entire world topsy-turvy. Sighing, she glanced up at the cloudless sky. Nature had a lot of nerve creating a day this perfect while so many people suffered. As if to punctuate her thoughts, her stomach rumbled audibly. How embarrassing. Though she was completely alone, Abigail felt her face flood with heat. Old habits were impossible to break. Years of training refused to abandon her, even when the thought of being a lady was the least important thing in the world. Besides, she was hungry—really hungry...
Abigail stood on the road in front of the house, staring at the only home she'd ever known. Before summer's end, it would be hers no longer. "It isn't fair," she whispered, feeling a cruel knot form in the pit of her stomach—cold and hard, like a stone. That's how she felt right now. Cold as stone. Dead...like that soldier. She brought her knuckles to her mouth and bit down hard, swallowing the burning sensation in her throat and commanding her tears to remain unshed. Nothing in this lifetime could ever make her forget that awful night. She suspected even death couldn't provide respite from that eternal nightmare. Nightmare? Yes, it had been a nightmare from beginning to end. But if not for that night of terror and death, she wouldn't have the most precious gift of her life. Wade. That lone thought drove the coldness away, though she knew it was never far. The slightest impetus would bring the chill racing back to torment her. She drew a deep breath, then closed her eyes as she slowly released it. When she opened her eyes, Abigail knew she couldn't face Rosalie and Wade just yet. She needed time to be alone, to consider everything that had happened today. Like the letter. The coldness threatened to reappear, but she shook her head and pressed her fist against her abdomen, willing the sensation to pass. Where could she go? There had to be someplace where she could rest for a while before facing Rosalie and Wade. If she slipped through the house to her room, they'd know. Then she'd have to pretend again. I can't. I just can't. Not yet. Her gaze swept the surrounding countryside, surveying the dilapidated cabins, the empty smokehouse, the barn. Then she remembered one clean cabin where she could hide for a while. A sensation of calm washed through her, urging her to pivot in the direction of Mike's cabin. Surely he wouldn't return for hours and all she required was a little privacy. A trifle of time to gather her thoughts before facing Rosalie's questions and her son's needs. Time for herself? She almost laughed. How long had it been since she'd thought of herself as something or someone more than the woman responsible for her son, Elysium, and Rosalie? How long? Oh, but she knew the answer only too well. The date was one she'd never forget no matter how desperately she tried. Abigail hurried her pace until she came to the cabin, small and square, built directly against the ground with a stone chimney at one end and a small window beside the door. Anticipating blessed privacy, her heart flipped over in her chest, but guilt immediately followed to chase away her moment of peace. Rosalie would be waiting for her. Abigail shouldn't shirk her responsibilities, nor should she enter someone else's home—albeit temporary—uninvited. Yet she knew she'd be more capable of handling Wade and Rosalie after a smattering of time to sort through her jumbled thoughts. What was wrong with her taking a rest after her long walk? After mailing that dreadful letter? A quaking sensation in her middle reminded her of the possible consequences of her actions.
"I can't believe I sent it." What would his reaction be when he opened her letter? Would he deny his own son? Possibly. She knew all too well what heinous acts that man was capable of. Anything for Wade. Drawing a deep shuddering breath, Abigail pushed open the cabin door and stepped inside. The cool dimness enveloped her and triggered a shiver from a corner inside herself she rarely visited anymore. After a moment, her eyes adjusted to the diminished light. She sighed and walked toward the chair, but her gaze was drawn to the bed. She felt so tired. So heavy. A short nap might refresh her and restore her spirits. Soon she'd be able to resume the façade, but not now. Not yet. Her decision made, she walked to the clean straw tick and paused. Mike had slept in this bed. A strange, comforting warmth chased away her earlier chill as she lowered herself to the smooth surface. Serenity—foreign and unexplainable—descended over her as she stretched out on the bed and closed her weary eyes. Mike. She smelled his singular scent and it brought her peace mingled with something totally contrary to that benign sensation. There was something about that man.
Gone with the Wind...Most of the miseries of the world are caused by wars. When the wars were over, no one ever knew what they were about.
~~~~
The same sickly sweet odor Mike had noticed in Honey's hair permeated the interior of the shabby building. Other hookers occupied the hallway in various stages of undress. A few open doors revealed couples in the midst of getting their cheap thrills, oblivious—or indifferent—to being observed. Milton's ancestor might be here in this hell-hole. Mike's gut coiled into a hard knot of readiness. At this moment, he could do the deed and take Milton out. What he remained uncertain of was how he would verify the identity of his victim. All he had to go on was a name and a face from the future. "This way." Honey held his hand and led him down an adjoining hallway where most of the doors were closed. Yellowed, peeling paper covered the walls; stains and scars marked the wood flooring, which creaked and groaned beneath Mike's weight. A thin film of smoke crept from beneath one closed door to mingle with the cloying moldy stench of the old building. Mike knew the peculiar odor and its insidious future all too well. So what? He had to concentrate on finding Milton. It wasn't as if he had any jurisdiction here anyway, even though he had a badge that boasted otherwise. Besides, these people weren't about to listen to reason. "In here." Honey pushed open a door at the end of the hall and gave Mike's hand a tug. When he stopped and refused to budge, she frowned. "What's the matter?" He looked beyond her toward the bed—a bare, stained mattress hanging haphazardly on a rusted iron frame. "Don't you think we'd better let your Uncle Milton know you have a customer?" Mike smiled, though he knew it probably more closely resembled a grimace. "I'd kind of like to meet this guy anyway." "Why?" Honey's brow furrowed and she dropped Mike's hand. "Why you want him?" Think fast, Mike. A shudder bolted down his spine, but he denounced it, ignoring his anxiety. He gave a cynical laugh. "Why not? I'm not afraid of him." But he'd better be petrified of me. "Why you wanna see him, sugar?" Honey's lower lip protruded and she narrowed her sultry green eyes to small slits of candid suspicion. "Did you come in here to let me pleasure you or not?" Without hesitation, she reached up and slipped her thumbs beneath the gaping neckline of her dress, then slid the garment down until it pooled near her bare feet on the filthy floor. "Take a good, long look at Honey." And he did. He didn't want to, but his gaze fixed itself to the base of her throat where her pulse thudded against smooth skin. Then he followed the line of her collarbone downward to where the two halves almost met. From that point, he looked lower still until the lush curves beckoned to him. The flesh over her breasts was taut and glistening, the color varying from brown sugar to mahogany where her nipples gathered to a tempting pucker. Damn. "You like?" she asked, taking a step toward him to wrap her arms around his neck. Her lips were slightly parted and moist—inviting. Mike's blood pulsed through him at a dire pace, left no extremity untouched, and pooled to near bursting between his legs. "I want to see Milton," he repeated, his voice hoarse. He swallowed hard. It didn't help. Honey reached down and took his hand in hers, boldly bringing it up to cover her breast. She felt soft and warm to the touch—hot. Her nipple, hardening and begging for his mouth, pierced an illusory hole through his palm. Instinctively, Mike's hand closed over her breast, kneading the pliant flesh until she moaned and dropped her hand away. She reached between them and ran her fingers along the hard ridge at the front of his jeans. "Oh, you're a big one," she murmured, rubbing the length of him through the fabric. "Big and hard. Honey likes 'em that way." Mike clenched his teeth, commanding himself to resist this professional seductress. He had to find this man named Milton. Nothing was more important than that, especially not a romp in a bug-infested bed with a possibly diseased prostitute. He dropped his hand from her breast and jerked hers away from his overzealous erection. "I want to see your Uncle Milton." She took a step back, holding out her hand. "Gimme the ring first." Mike grimaced. "Some things never change." He wrenched the ring from his finger and slapped it into her outstretched hand. "Now, take me to your Uncle Milton." And I'll bet he's no Uncle Miltie. She examined the ring, then slid it onto her thumb before pulling her dress up to cover her breasts. "I can't figure out why you don't want what you paid for." "Don't worry about it. What do you care as long as you got paid?" Mike wanted this over with. While she straightened her dress, he instinctively checked to ensure his weapon was present and accounted for. Four bullets—if all went well, he'd only need one. She pushed past him and walked back toward the front of the building. Mike followed her, listening to all the strange sounds along the way, keenly aware that within the next few minutes, his time in this world might come to an abrupt halt. The death of Milton's ancestor meant Mike's death as well. Gee, that'll make Slick real happy. Big surprise—that thought brought Mike no pleasure whatsoever. He had to concentrate on the main purpose of all this—Barney and Carrie. And their baby. And all the kids who might not die from drug overdoses if Frank Milton were never born. Honey paused outside a door at the end of the hall and lifted her hand to knock, but Mike reached out and stopped her. He shook his head very slowly. "No," he whispered. "Is he in here?" Honey nodded and took a step back, looking down at her hand to admire Mike's ring. Mike turned away, no longer caring about Honey or the ring, if he ever had. The man behind this door was far more significant. Banishing thoughts of Honey—and Abigail Kingsley—Mike turned to face the door. He drew a deep breath and lifted his hand to knock. "Who the hell is it?" an angry voice growled. "Go away. I'm busy." Mike tensed and stepped to one side of the door frame. He reached for his weapon and the door knob simultaneously, checking once to make sure Honey was out of the line of fire, just in case. Instinct took command, making every muscle in his body tense to alertness. Knees slightly bent with his hand fastened over the familiar smoothness of his service revolver, Mike flung open the door and swung himself into the room with his gun drawn and aimed. Adrenaline surged through him, conversant with this routine from years of experience. Mike's gaze encompassed the room in one expert sweep, ensuring the only person present was the white-suited obese man seated behind the small desk. This was no Colonel Sanders. The man's jaw went slack and his cigar hung from his mouth at a bizarre angle as he stared at the intruder, money clutched in both pudgy hands. After a moment, he clamped his mouth shut around the cigar, puffing several times and sending up a cloud of pungent smoke. He dropped his hands to the desk and covered the bills. Good. That would keep the pimp's hands busy. Mike held Milton's gaze with his, allowing himself a leisurely inspection of fleshy jowls and beady eyes. Finally, the man reached up slowly and removed the cigar from his mouth. "Who the hell are you?" he asked with a thick Southern drawl. "A customer checking out the facility." Mike banished all emotion from his voice—a feat of gargantuan proportions. "Just make sure you keep your hands on top of the desk where I can see them." "Fine." The man complied. "I repeat—who the hell are you and why are you in my office waving that damned pistol in my face?" "I need to find out who you are." "Why?" Mike hesitated. The man's skin had a slight pigmentation suggesting the possibility of mixed race. That didn't help at all, because Frank Milton had been—would be—blond and blue-eyed. Or maybe it did help... "What's your name?" Mike asked carefully, not straightening from his crouch or lowering his weapon. "Your full name." "Milton P. Snodgrass." The man carefully enunciated each syllable. "Now, again, what the devil are you doing in my office with that gun?" Devil? Mike's hopes plummeted as suspicion coiled through his subconscious. "Snodgrass?" "That's what I said, dammit. Now what in tarnation is the meanin' of this? If you're a thief, you're a piss poor one." The man's face reddened and he leaned forward to glower at Mike. "One of my girls fail to give you your money's worth? Is that it? We got a money back guarantee here, but you don't need that gun to collect it." Mike shook his head, searching for the words necessary to get himself out of this mess and away from this man with his hundred questions. "No, nothing like that. I thought you were someone else. Sorry." "Yeah, well...?" Mike pointed his weapon toward the ceiling to indicate his intentions, then he lowered it and slid it into its holster. "Sorry for the intrusion." "Well then get the hell outta my office before I call one of them soldiers." Mike backed out through the door and pulled it shut. With a sigh, he closed his eyes and leaned against the wall, allowing his head to hit with a soft thud.
"Mike, Mike." An appropriately perverse epilogue to this scenario, the familiar voice speared right through him. He groaned. Of course, he should've known Slick would be lurking nearby to witness this fiasco. "Oh, God." "Not hardly." Mike opened his eyes and looked in the direction of the voice, but saw only Honey leaning against the opposite wall. "Where is he?" Mike asked, realizing how stupid he sounded. "Right here, boy genius." Honey's mouth moved. That slimy used car salesman's voice came from between her lush lips. "Man, you just get sicker and sicker with these disguises." "Yeah, and I'm getting one helluva kick out of this one, too." Slick sighed and ran a hand over Honey's voluptuous breast. "Too bad you didn't take Honey up on her offer. I was sorta looking forward to revealing myself to you at just...the right moment." "Like I said—really sick." Mike pushed himself away from the wall and took a few steps toward the door, but he hesitated, pivoting to stare at Honey—rather, at Slick. "Is there a Honey, or are you going to disappear again with some cheap theatrical gimmick?" "Oh, I'm just borrowing Honey's bod for a while. First thing I did was give her a nice, long bath." Slick looked down at Honey's breasts, cupping both of them and squeezing them into greater prominence. "These are magnificent, don't you think?" "For some reason they looked a lot better to me earlier." Thank God there was no one else in the hallway to overhear their ridiculous conversation. Mike couldn't imagine what someone might think, hearing Slick's voice coming from Honey's body. "Why don't you leave the poor girl alone?" "Yeah, I suppose it's just as well. I can't quite figure out a way to pork myself. What a waste." Slick's diabolical laughter filled the narrow hallway. "You think you came in here on a wild goose chase, huh?" "Yeah. I suppose you had something to do with this, too." Slick's gaze narrowed and Honey's green eyes underwent an instantaneous transformation. Piercing, hypnotic red held Mike in place with brain-numbing power. "Mike, I think you're beginning to figure out that old Slick doesn't do anything without a reason." He laughed again. "At least I hope you are...for Barney and Carrie's sake." "You son of a—" "Time for me to vacate this luscious bod. Remember, listen and pay attention to everything. You might get lucky when you least expect it." Slick sighed and gave Honey's breasts another squeeze. "It's been nice, Honey. Gotta go—someone's coming." Mike took a step toward him—or her—but a pair of voices from the adjoining hallway distracted him. Instinctively, he stiffened and slipped his hand inside his jacket to rest near the butt of his gun. Heavy footsteps came closer and closer.
Apprehensive, Mike pressed himself against the wall. "Where'd they say Lieutenant Denny was heading when he was last seen?" one voice asked. "Some plantation a few miles north of town," another man answered. "For a while, we thought he'd been...killed at Vicksburg, but his body was never found." The footsteps stopped and Mike strained to hear the words, never moving his hand away from his weapon. Who were they? Why did overhearing their conversation suddenly seem so urgent? Then he remembered Slick and shot Honey a probing glance. She looked up at the soldiers and he swore there were dollar signs in her eyes. The real Honey had definitely returned. What Mike couldn't be certain of was at which point in this comedy of errors Slick had taken control of Honey. Terrifying thought. "Which plantation?" the first voice asked, jerking Mike back to the present. Then another voice sounded in his mind—a taunting, sing-songy voice. Listen and pay attention to everything. You might get lucky... "Slick." Mike barely whispered the word and his heart hammered against the wall of his chest. The red-eyed monster had been trying to give Mike a hint for some reason. Pay attention, Mike, he reminded himself when the sound of a boot scraping against the wood floor reached him. Slick's words held him paralyzed, waiting for the men to continue their discussion. "It had a really bizarre name. Utopia, or something like that." The other man chuckled. "You gotta be kidding." "No, it wasn't Utopia, but something real similar." Silence. Mike frowned—his brain had slipped into neutral, but he forced it back into gear, trying to sort through the jumbled messages until they made some sense. Hell, nothing made sense anymore. "E-ly—Elysium—that's it." Elysium? "These Rebs sure were proud of their plantations. Can you imagine naming a cotton farm something like Elysium?" Elysium. Their laughter was loud and rough. "So Denny was on a mission behind enemy lines when he disappeared?" one man asked. "Yeah, he was with Milton's scouting expedition just after the Vicksburg campaign." No! "Oh, yeah. I remember that incident now." The footsteps paused again near the intersection of the hallways. "Denny'd been reported missing after a small skirmish. Somehow, he ended up here. Milton said..." Milton. "That's right." The sound of a match striking wood filled the silence. "I don't understand why we're going to so much trouble over one missing lieutenant." "You don't have to understand, Brown. Denny's daddy owns a huge shipping company. Andrew Johnson says find the man's son, so we're gonna find his son." Damn. "Or at least find out what happened to him." A derisive chuckle punctuated the other man's comment. "Hell, you and I both know Denny's dead. He must be dead—he has to be." The man's voice roughened. "All I can say is his daddy must be one powerful son of a bitch." "Waste of time, if you ask me."
Mike remained pressed against the wall as the men walked by. They paused to stare at him for a moment, but all he could do was swallow. He didn't trust himself to speak. The taller soldier shook his head slowly. "Must be one of those poor bastards who came home with only half his wits." "Hello." Honey stepped out in front of the soldiers, swishing her skirts around her bare ankles. "You come to see me?" "We're leaving now," the tallest soldier said, turning away from Mike. "What's your name? I'll ask for you next time I'm down this way." "Honey." "Hmm. Honey. I won't forget that." "Promise?" At his nod, Honey stepped aside and let the soldiers pass. Mike continued to stare as the blue-clad officers turned the corner, leaving behind only lingering pipe smoke and the thundering between his ears. His gut coiled and wrenched, threatening to spill this morning's fish on the floor. Elysium was the key—had been all along. "Holy shit." Mike's whispered words sounded more like an injured animal's last breath—the death rattle. Old Slick never does anything without a reason... Mike jerked his gaze around to where Honey still leaned against the opposite wall, admiring his ring. No sign of Slick now. Raking his fingers through his hair, Mike pushed away from the wall and let his hand fall away from the butt of his gun. His fingers felt numb—his brain felt numb. Instead of solving riddles, his adventure had merely provided more questions demanding answers. But now he had some idea where to look. He'd been there all along. There had to be a reason for Slick to have sent Mike to this particular point in time. What? Damn. Mike swallowed hard, clenching and unclenching his fists to restore circulation.
For a few hellish moments, his heart must've stopped. Just like that night. Like Barney. His constricting throat nearly gagged him as he took a few staggering steps toward Honey. He didn't know why. All he knew for certain was that he had to solve this mystery soon. It hurt too damned much to continue like this. Was Honey another key? Or simply a vehicle for one of Slick's depraved games? She didn't look up, even when he stopped in front of her. Breathing seemed to take every ounce of strength Mike could muster as he maintained his balance. The pounding in his head did a fair imitation of the last rock concert he'd attended, reverberating through his bones, making the blood in his veins quiver like gelatin. The New Madrid Fault had nothing on this. Elysium. A man had disappeared there during the war—Denny. Who the hell was Denny and what did he have to do with Milton? Major Milton. Imagine that. And Abigail had denied knowing anyone by that name. Realization unfolded inside him like internal chemical warfare. Mike stiffened—every muscle in his body tightened. His heart hit the gas pedal and sent his pulse into overdrive. Elysium was only part of the picture. Like a combination lock, other factors were required to open the mechanism. Other factors like Abigail Kingsley.
"Well, it's about time." Mike looked up at the sound of Slick's voice. A sneer transformed Honey's face into a hideous mask of evil. The devil's flunky had set Mike up big time. "I want to know where to find Milton. Tell me, damn you." Mike clenched his teeth and waited, though he knew Slick had no intention of making this mission easier. After a few moments, he took a step closer, not caring that his chest pressed against Honey's breasts. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?" "Smart, Mike. You're making progress. For what it's worth, we're both already damned, but go ahead and say it if it makes you feel better." Slick laughed, then consumed Mike with his cutting gaze. Honey's green eyes slowly gave way to the red flames of Hell. "This is your mission, Ace—you find your own answers. I'll leave you with a few more hints, though. It keeps me... entertained." The junior-devil's voice sounded like F.D.R. announcing the bombing of Pearl Harbor. Doom. Peril. Mike stared, transfixed, as the flames seized control of his mind and implanted Slick's message.
Abigail. Elysium. Lies. Secrets.
As Slick's eyes slowly lost their feral glow, Mike came out of their spell. The hints he'd been promised had done nothing but plant more questions—more doubts. Dizziness gripped him, threatening to send him crashing to the floor as the redness vanished completely and Honey became herself again. "Oh, you changed your mind," she said, pressing herself more firmly against him. "No." Mike jerked himself free, staggering to the opposite wall. He let his cheek rest against the peeling paper for a few moments. "Abigail," he whispered in supplication. "Who's Abigail?" Honey's voice came from right beside him. "She your woman?" Mike slowly shook his head and forced himself upright. Drawing a deep breath, he looked at Honey. "Where's the door? Get me out of here." Honey sighed and clicked her tongue. "Suit yourself." She walked ahead of him, then stopped where two hallways intersected. "There." She pointed down the shortest of the two passages. "And don't come back 'til you got money. Honey'll cost more next time." "Not in this lifetime." Mike squared his shoulders and walked purposefully out the front door. Outside, he paused.
Abigail. Elysium. Lies. Secrets.
Slick's words reverberated through Mike's mind as he turned and walked up the hill. Reaching the edge of town, he turned onto Cemetery Road and broke into a run. A dead run. Anger fueled him—charged his muscles and made him fly along the red dirt road.
Abigail. Elysium. Lies. Secrets.
His endorphins kicked in, but rather than calm him, his body's chemicals made him burn. Burn for revenge. Burn for justice. He had to find a release. Somehow there had to be a way to break this consuming madness before it broke him. Images flashed through his mind as his arms pumped at his sides, alternating with his long strides. Carrie's face when she'd announced her pregnancy. Barney's neck—a pulpy mass. His first encounter with Slick...
Abigail. Elysium. Lies. Secrets.
Abigail had answers. And, by God, he'd have his answers today. Dark, sinister clouds gathered, darkening the sky to slate. Mike looked up, slowing his pace as he neared Elysium. Lightning sizzled across the sky; thunder shattered the quiet countryside. The perfect ambiance for his mood. His rage was a palpable entity, feeding off his physical form to torment and control him. A frigging vampire. He was crazy with the need to vent his fury...
A lull in the weather seemed unlikely, at best. It was just as well—a few hours to devise a plan might help him control the rage that continually warred with his sense of reason for jurisdiction. Maybe. Lightning struck close again, making the ground rumble and shake beneath his bare feet. "Damn, that was cl—" A startled cry from the corner knifed through him and he jerked his head around to stare in disbelief. At Abigail Kingsley. In his bed...
~~~~
By now, you may have read my Memoir brief Intro based upon this book on my sister blog. I will be doing a closing one as well. In addition to the many things about the book that I enjoyed--time travel, romantic suspense, extreme emotional issues, the main character--you might say the extreme villain--added a dimension to the story that I appreciated, especially at this time when religion has entered the political scene. In fact, when you think about it, many individuals are considering the time of the civil war and that division of the country, as very similar to what "appears" to be happening in the world right now.
We enter Stover's novel in the present, when a police team had been caught in a bad situation where both are in danger. The two officers happen to be related. One is married to the sister of the other officer. In other words, not only do they have the normal bonding related to being partners in a constant dangerous environment, they also enjoy sharing about family. In this case, the main character, Mike, has just learned that he is about to become an uncle. But Barney, his brother-in-law apparently didn't see that this needed to change how he acted on the job. Because before Mike knew it, Barney had acted quickly and soon...was...dead...
Mike went crazy. Not only seeing his partner dead, he immediately thought of his sister, alone, having her baby without Barney... Blame, remorse, anger at the criminals set Mike into a whirlwind of devastation that he couldn't handle... It was the perfect time for action by a nearby demon, to be called Slick...
And, of course, Slick had an offer that he was sure that Mike couldn't refuse... Even the presentation of the deal, for me, flashed as to who is known for deal making, which seems to never be carried out. But, of course, Mike in his fevered state, said he would do anything...
Now, the readers, if they are "connecting" what they read, will quickly know who Mike has been sent to kill... What he wanted was to find the man who had killed Barney and at least stop the criminal enterprise that was doing so much damage... Of course, personal retribution was really what Mike sought...
Now, here's the kicker, in the deal made, he would be sent to a location where he could find and eliminate the entire mob... He wound up in the same location, but had traveled through time to the period when the Civil War had ended, but the misery continued for the families who had been caught--the innocents who had never wanted a war in the first place!
Mike's trip resulted in his being found on the floor of a local plantation home called Elysium. He wakes up as Rosalie is calling to Abigail that there is a man laying on their floor... Abigail and Rosalie were born in that home. Now everybody else is gone. There is little to eat, and little to purchase food. Everything in their home has been stolen by the soldiers... It didn't matter which side, it seemed, soldiers were men and they were "in charge..." After one high ranking soldier visited, he did leave a "surprise"... Wade was born 2 years before Mike was found in their home...
Wade was the only thing that was keeping Abigail and Rosalie together as a family, striving to keep them all safe. Trying to find some type of food which would be given to Wade first to eat... An egg found in the barn... Some hidden coins that could at least buy cornmeal that would be cooked with water--not tasty but they all had to survive... Day after day...
But that wasn't enough. Soon the federal government came in and declared that back taxes on their homes would have to be paid, or the property would be taken as payments... Abigail was becoming even more desperate. And when, Mike literally fell into their home, they didn't even notice his strange clothes. Little by little Mike realized that he had been sent here for a reason, and he could see these people needed help, and also might be able to find the family he was seeking. They formed a tense agreement to help each other... First, Mike began fishing! Both women had tried, but had little success. Now fish was being provided at each meal... More importantly, Mike had traded his watch for a cow, even knowing he had conned the farmer because the watch would soon die without power... The goal was to feed Wade and bring him back to being a healthy normal little boy...
Of course, there is a romantic attraction that develops between Mike and Abigail; however, each of them also has a secret--Mike's real identity and what his deal requires him to do... And, Abigail's secret of who is Wade and who his father is, and will she choose to contact him to ensure a long-term home for her son!
One of the spotlights of a book such as this is to immediately begin to see the comparisons between our present life and our historical background. It should not be surprising that the innocent family members who are torn apart by a war initiated by men for the supposed good, suddenly becomes just another way to control those affected by that war and ensure that some type of financial gain will result for the government. Does the greater good mean that the individuals affected must continue to suffer? To me, this was illogical. IS illogical. I don't know the historical accuracy of this novel, but it struck me that when the union soldiers came in, they were treating those whose lives had been torn apart, just as the slaves had been. They were then forced to continue to pay through the loss of their homes! It of course made me realize that, just as now, political promises are forgotten and, often, power grabs for wealth and personal gain becomes the driving force...
On the other hand, the author has created a brilliant ending that still has me wondering--Who, exactly, won the Deal? I'll be talking more about this in my follow up discussion for this book...
GABixlerReviews
Note: I had previously reviewed this for the publisher in 2011... I recently got a copy free, not immediately remembering I had read earlier. I found my response even stronger having read it during this time now in the United States... My thoughts and opinions now were moved much more strongly, so if you're curious, I've provided link.
In a world awash with information, the line between hoax and reality is often blurred. Rumors, conspiracies, and fabrications coexist alongside genuine tragedies and historic events, sometimes clouding our collective understanding and undermining the gravity of real suffering. This dynamic is particularly evident in the ongoing controversy surrounding Jeffrey Epstein, whose life and crimes have become the focal point of both fevered speculation and undeniable trauma.
At the heart of the Epstein case lies the plight of his victims—individuals whose stories are not mere rumors or speculative tales, but stark realities with profound consequences. Their pain is real, their futures shaped irreversibly by the abuse they endured.
In sharp contrast to their suffering, however, stands the cold response of political leadership: a reluctance to confront uncomfortable truths and a resistance to releasing the Epstein files, which could provide answers and a measure of justice. This essay examines the distinction between hoaxes and realities, utilizing the Epstein case to highlight the consequences of real-world abuse and the dangers of political apathy.
Understanding Hoax and Reality
Before delving into the specifics of the Epstein case, it is crucial to clarify what constitutes a hoax and how it differs from reality. A hoax is a deliberate deception, designed to mislead individuals or the public. Hoaxes may take many forms—fabricated news stories, staged events, or false accusations—and are often propelled by the rapid dissemination of information online. They are ephemeral, untethered from evidence, and ultimately unravel under scrutiny. Their consequences, while sometimes damaging to reputations or sowing confusion, are rooted in illusion.
Reality, conversely, is anchored in facts, evidence, and lived experience. Real events have tangible consequences, both physical and psychological, as well as emotional and societal. When suffering is real, its effects endure beyond the news cycle and are felt by individuals, families, and communities. The difference between a hoax and reality, then, is not merely one of perception but of substance—one is manufactured, the other experienced.
The Plight of the Epstein Victims:
A Story of Reality
The crimes committed by Jeffrey Epstein constitute a grim reality for dozens, perhaps hundreds, of victims. These individuals, many of them young and vulnerable, were manipulated, exploited, and abused for years. The consequences of these acts are not theoretical; they reverberate in the bodies, minds, and lives of those affected.
Psychological and Emotional Trauma
Survivors of sexual abuse often grapple with lasting psychological repercussions: post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), anxiety, depression, and difficulties forming trust or intimacy. These outcomes are well-documented in academic literature and clinical settings. In the case of Epstein’s victims, many have spoken publicly about the nightmares, panic attacks, and emotional numbness they experience. This suffering is not the product of rumor, but of lived reality.
Social and Economic Consequences
The stigma attached to sexual abuse can alienate survivors from their families and communities. Many victims of Epstein’s abuse have described feelings of isolation and betrayal, made worse by the public nature of the case and the skepticism they sometimes encounter. In addition, the disruption to education, employment, and relationships imposes tangible economic costs, including lost opportunities, diminished earning potential, and ongoing legal expenses.
The Search for Justice
For survivors, justice is not merely a matter of legal accountability, but also one of recognition and validation. The refusal to release the Epstein files—documents that may contain evidence, witnesses, and details of systemic abuse—prolongs their ordeal. This is not a hypothetical harm, but a real barrier to healing and closure.
Contrasting Reality with Political Evasion
Against the backdrop of the victims’ suffering stands the response of political leadership—particularly the president and congressional leaders who have resisted calls to release the Epstein files. This reluctance is not simply a matter of bureaucratic inertia; it sends a message of cold indifference to survivors and to the public at large.
The Cost of Silence
By withholding information, leaders perpetuate uncertainty and enable speculation. This atmosphere allows hoaxes and conspiracies to flourish, further obfuscating the reality of the situation and undermining trust in institutions. It also communicates a lack of empathy for those whose pain is not speculative but real.
Before the 2024 presidential election, both Donald Trump and JD Vance called for the release of more files related to convicted sexual offender Jeffrey Epstein. In its first months in office, the new Trump administration has promised more transparency in government — but it hasn't released any trove of "Epstein files" that supporters have demanded. (continue...)
The Failure of Accountability
Political leaders have a responsibility to ensure transparency and justice, particularly in cases where abuse has occurred on a large scale. The refusal to release the Epstein files suggests an unwillingness to confront uncomfortable truths, protect the powerful, or avoid political fallout. This abdication of moral duty stands in stark contrast to the courage shown by survivors in coming forward to speak out against it.
The Erosion of Public Trust
When leaders prioritize secrecy over accountability, they reinforce cynicism and alienation. The public, denied the answers it seeks, may begin to doubt the legitimacy of democracy itself. For survivors, this erosion of trust compounds the harm they have already suffered.
The Larger Implications: From Rumor to Responsibility
The Epstein case exemplifies the dangers of confusing hoax with reality. In the absence of transparency, rumors proliferate, and the truth struggles to emerge. But for the victims, the consequences are not confined to headlines or internet speculation—they are lived every day. The refusal of leaders to confront these realities and provide closure deepens the wound and perpetuates injustice.
In a society saturated with information, it is tempting to retreat into skepticism, dismissing stories as mere rumors or conspiracy theories. Yet to do so is to betray those whose suffering is real. Our responsibility, as individuals and as a society, is to distinguish between hoax and reality, and to respond to genuine harm with compassion, accountability, and action.
Conclusion
The difference between a hoax and reality is not simply academic—it is a matter of consequences. The plight of the Epstein victims is real, their suffering palpable, and their search for justice ongoing. In failing to release the Epstein files, political leaders are not merely avoiding controversy; they are exacerbating the pain of survivors and undermining the very principles upon which justice depends. It is only by confronting reality—however uncomfortable—that we can hope to build a society worthy of trust, dignity, and healing.
We conclude with a question: Who is scamming the public, literally hundreds of Epstein’s victims or the United States President?
“Trust no one. Know everything. Have eyes and ears around the world. Put nothing in writing—ever. But read into everything. Follow the leads, yet never leave tracks. Don’t allow anyone into your world, but enter everyone else’s.”--Martin Gruber
Colin Kavanaugh, like Martin Gruber, had studied at King’s College in London, and through a religion and philosophy professor, was encouraged to take a special off-campus curriculum taught by teachers from the Pontifical Scots College in Rome. The lessons were not in the catalogue or even sanctioned by the college. Rather, they were quietly offered on an invitation-only basis at a retreat in Bracciano, a small town thirty kilometers northwest of Rome. The school itself was founded December 5, 1600 by Pope Clement VIII, principally to provide religious education to young Scotsmen, who could not receive a Catholic education because of the laws against Catholics at home. Other than the two times it was shut down—when the French invaded Rome in 1798 and during World War II—it has remained a well-respected institution, renowned for sending priests to Scotland. However, the special, private program, which carried no course credit or affiliation, provided open-air education in a very closed environment. Secretum. It offered a way to screen for potential candidates who could answer a most important calling.
New Haven, CT
McCauley grabbed an oven-roasted turkey hoagie from the Book Trader Cafe on the Yale University campus and brought it back to his office. He logged onto Pandora’s Frank Sinatra channel, always his default when he had important things on his mind. It relaxed him.
Where? Exactly where this year? he thought as he took a satisfying bite of his dinner. He studied a topographical map of Montana with three strategically placed push pins indicating the final areas he was considering. Beside each pin was a yellow sticky note with numbers 1, 2 and 3. McCauley had put through the paperwork months ago for three potential sites; all offering interesting challenges for his students and the potential for a cool find or two. State park commissions had already given conditional approval for each location. But he still needed to complete the application process. They were due in Billings in just five days. At the end of last summer, McCauley had flown over the area and found each attractive for different reasons. Site 1, Hell Creek, Montana, was noted for its mudstones and sandstones dating back to the end of the Cretaceous period, with fossils of triceratops, tyrannosaurus, and Ornithomimids. Interesting. Site 2, further east, had real possibilities. It was just outside of Glendive, MT. Maybe, he said to himself. Site 3 was north, part of a pre-historic riverbed and was certain to garner great finds just a few feet down. But he found that less challenging. No adventure. He figured there’d be initial excitement, then with the same results week after week—boredom.
McCauley finished chewing another bite, quickly catching a piece of turkey as it dropped out of the bun. He did it instinctively, like the first baseman he’d been in Little League, high school and college. He still had a quick hand and a great throwing arm. He swallowed the last of his sandwich, studied the map again and pulled the pin and paper off Site 3. That makes it easier. Down to two. The music on his computer segued from Sinatra to Dean Martin,
Dean Martin to Matt Monro, a crooner considered the British Sinatra. The “From Russia to Love” theme broke his concentration. “Pete!” he shouted. “Need a little help.” DeMeo left his adjoining office and was at McCauley’s side in seconds. “Ready.” “I’m torn between Sites 1 and 2, but drawn more to 2. Give me arguments why we shouldn’t go there.” “You want them right now?” “Yes.” “Site 1 is better. Earth that you can dig and geological footprints evident everywhere. Perfect grazing grounds. And that means perfect remains.” “I know. But the strata at 2 appeals to me.” “Harder. More challenges. Cliffs and valleys. You’ll need better equipment. More money.” “Forget the money. If I made my decisions on money, I would have stuck with baseball. ” DeMeo had heard the stories about the Red Sox looking at the young McCauley. They even made an offer his junior year at Harvard which he turned down. “Let’s sleep on it for a few days. See what you can come up with.” After a pause he added, “And while you’re at it, find out why the Brits had this thing about Matt Monro.”
“Black is the color of my true love’s hair,” McCauley said, citing the traditional Appalachian folk song “Wrong again. You have no true love.
~~~
Readers will quickly discover there are two distinct settings for Grossman's book. One in a publishing company setting where various travel magazines are front and center... However, behinds the scenes, there is a world-wide group who are committed to "The Path." Gruber is now head of both; and, as he is growing older, is working to find and train his replacement for the more important part of what will be a life-long commitment.
“No ‘I think,’” Gruber demanded of Kavanaugh. “Never ‘I think.’ Never! Own what you say. If you don’t own it, then it is not ready to be said.”
Colin Kavanaugh has been working with Gruber, but as time goes by, both find themselves unsatisfied with what is happening. There is a 40-year age difference; however, I think that readers will have the same type of concerns that Gruber has in evaluating his top candidate...
Past, present, future. It is all one. No mistakes.” “I understand, Mr. Gruber. You have my assurance.” “Not just your assurance. Your dedication. Your commitment. Your faith.” “Forever. Without question.”
“You will be a guardian without the luxury of failure.”
At the same time, we enter into the life of Professor McCauley who is teaching as Yale's paleontologist and is now preparing for his summer dig site. Three options now need to be explored and one will be chosen. His group of students will be small, all coming from other U.S. universities with one coming in from Spain. McCauley will be on his own this time since his postgrad assistant is touring Europe this summer... At least McCauley thought he would be on his own, until he learned that another professor would be doing an evaluation of him this year. He was not pleased--but this does work out very well...LOL Especially when she was both beautiful and an awarding-winning scholar from England...
A third, less covered, setting will take readers back into the 1600s. But don't think it will be a minor part. In fact, it is the basis upon which the entire book is built... Ever heard of Galileo? Well, don't be surprised that much of what he gets involved with, you will never have heard of. On Purpose...
The overall concept will center on science, versus religion, versus the good of mankind... Grossman does an extraordinary achievement in pulling each factor in the story--brining in each group as needed, just in time for the reader to understand the connection and also, sometimes, the results which keeps the story moving forward.
But it is certainly not a boring, dry tale. Readers will be centered on the student group in Montana, where Professor McCauley had established some basic areas for each students to become involved with. It is then he takes off to explore the area that encompasses what his site. It requires chasing away large birds next, and finding a cave which appears to have not been touched since, perhaps, the indigenous people who had once lived in the area that was now controlled and managed by the state. The area has been known for many years to have once been inhabited by dinosaurs--the group's main target of interest...
But McCauley's tour of the cave, with many paintings by the Native Americans is intriguing, especially when it appears that there is a guiding pattern leading further into the cave... Yes, the entire group gets excited because this appears to be a totally unexplored area! And they decide to change their plans!
And that is when the action begins. Soon news of their activities has reached across the world, especially to Room 10 in the publishing building...
Unfortunately this is not an easy book to break out any scenes of interest. As indicated earlier...starting in the 1600s, we learn that the violence begins, but not from an expected group--at least in today's world...
May 10, 1633
Rome, Italy “Assuredly, we can all reflect on the meaning of time,” Galileo argued. “It is not ours to control any more than the truth. You may do what you want with me now, but it’s temporal only to us; a pyrrhic victory for you and those who sit in judgment of science.” Father Vincenzo Maculano sat silently. His fellow inquisitors had left, as had the Vatican scribe. Just two men now, continuing to explore a most uncommon ground. “Tell me Father, how did you find out?” Galileo asked. The inquisitor smiled. “Quite simply. Your coterie.” “My coterie? I don’t understand?” “The thinker doesn’t think?” Maculano declared. “Are you so old that you have forgotten your friends Pino and Santori?”
June 21, 1633
Rome Galileo fully recognized it was not just the Church he faced. Father Maculano was charged with a goal greater than defending the faith. He was protecting the institution. “You believe that science justifies your vaulted intellectual pursuits; that your ideas are as limitless as the skies. They are not. We live with laws of the state and our firmly held Canon Laws. When it comes to standing up to you, Galileo Galilei, they are one and the same. You are a threat; a threat that cannot be permitted an audience or a place in history.” “I’m merely a thinker with no political power.” The priest grasped the point. “A thinker? Thinking is the root of political power—proposed by Plato, re-defined by Aristotle, and re-interpreted by heretics and outcasts ever since. Thinking leads to the organization of apostates who espouse the secular rather than the holy. We can’t afford thinkers, Galileo. We cultivate followers and believers. And so, by your own admission you are a thinker?” “I am.” “Then your guilt is solidified.” “It isn’t the Holy Inquisition that judges me or seeks to purge the name of Galileo Galilei from history. You represent something else.” “The Inquisition suffices for our purposes. And our decision will serve all purposes.” Galileo sat again and rested his head in his hand. “Perhaps your head hurts from all your thinking. It should. Your thoughts do the work for me.” “Thoughts, observations, intellectual pursuits. I have no arrows in a quiver; no knives in a sheath.” “Words that undermine faith are equally dangerous weapons. You are well-armed with those,” Maculano resumed. “So is research that threatens how things ought to be.” Galileo considered his next words carefully. He spoke slowly and with conviction. “I did not understand what I had come across. My interest was in my experiments. Though I somewhat described it to my two friends, I did so as a fantastic story. Bedtime tales and fodder to pass the time away.” “But what you discovered was real. As real for me as it was for you. It set the course for your greatest work. It pointed you to the stars and the heavens. But did you see God through your lens or his great deeds? No, only something that would challenge him.” Galileo, weakened by argument, years and pain, lowered his head. “Alas, dear Galileo, the cave is sealed and so is your fate. You see, I am a man who understands what needs to be done. And others are in accord. What was there represents chaos. I will not permit chaos to undermine order.”
~~~
The major thrust of the book is the time "after" the cave site is being explored... What is found needs further information, and getting experts in various areas, such as history requires travel to find these individuals... Only thing is, that the very first man they visited? His home was bombed immediately after the professors left! And the bomber is on their tail once the bomb detonated!
So, let's close by enumerating the issues that are involved in what the book covers: violence, dogma, the business of religion, science versus the Bible, lies, climate control, illegal acts, and more... And how do they come in? Let me just share one more excerpt to illustrate...
“Have you ever heard of “Gap Theory?” Fr. Eccleston (priest and scientist) asked. “Yes,” Katrina responded. “Pseudo-science. Dismissible. An explanation that covers ancient geological ages in support of biblical belief.”
“Ancient doesn’t begin to describe it,” the priest said. Katrina looked confused. McCauley wasn’t certain why the priest was bringing up the subject. It was hardly discussed anymore and seemingly not on point. “If I may?” “Go right ahead, Father. Chapter and verse,” McCauley replied. The priest poured another glass of the house wine from Castelli Romani, south of Rome. He held it to the light to examine the rich reds, drank some, and continued. “Gap Theory proposes that a span of time existed between Genesis 1:1 and Genesis 1:2. From a strictly theological point of view, Gap Theory maintains that a cataclysmic judgment was prescribed as a result of the fall of Lucifer. For the sake of keeping you in the discussion, let’s put aside the religious construal. I’ll simply call it a line of reasoning.” “Appreciated,” McCauley said. “The argument can be traced to the early nineteenth century. As the science of geology gained, pardon the expression, ground, some theologians were at a loss how to counter the scientific claims that the formation of the earth’s surfaces occurred at imperceptibly slow rates. They needed an explanation that supported the biblical record. You might call it scriptural enlightenment: a way to describe the vast geological periods before Adam. Conveniently perhaps, a place was found between the two verses of Genesis. “It was proposed by a Scotsman, theologian Thomas Chalmers, in 1814. It was further espoused by two American ministers, Cyrus Scofield and Clarence Larkin, and evangelist Harry Rimmer in the twentieth century. Each wrote books on the subject, trying to justify the gap between ruin and reconstruction.” The priest took another satisfying sip of the wine. He saw that his guests needed more. He gave them each a liberal refill and signaled the waiter for a new bottle. “Now to specifics. Follow me.” “We are,” Alpert said. “Genesis 1:1 expresses the creation of the universe. Then, in geological terms, five billion years presumably came and went, producing ages you’re well aware of with its various life forms. Gap Theory then seeks to explain that all life on Earth was destroyed.” “The meteor that wiped out the dinosaurs,” Alpert stated. “Yes, leaving fossils for you to uncover. This cataclysmic event, according to the theorists, is what’s described in Genesis 1:2. This solved the biblical problem of time, and helped to square natural history with the scriptural interval, described as days.” McCauley interrupted. “Yes, but…” “Wait,” Father Eccleston said. “It gets better. Gap Theory rests on the need for re-creation. It holds to the paleontological record that has produced dinosaur fossil beds on every continent. It also allows for the sudden transformation of the environment. In a word, it works.” “But…” “Not yet, Dr. Alpert,” the priest chided. “I have one other point for you to consider.” She leaned back in her chair and listened. “What if…” Eccleston paused. He wanted the full attention of his companions. “What if we dismiss the theological justification? After all, it never gained much support. Strip away the religious argument and stay with the basic idea. Can we accept a gap between life forms? From trilobites through the dinosaurs to the evolution of man? “Of course,” Katrina replied. McCauley remained at the table but left the conversation, thinking, Gap. He repeated the word to himself. Definitions rushed forward from his years of study. General usage, medical, mathematical, geographic. An empty space; an interruption in continuity; a divergence; a difference; an interval. Disparity in attitudes, ideals and actions. If the priest was still talking, McCauley didn’t hear him. Etymology: gapa – a hole in a wall, a break or pass in a long mountain chain. Impossible possibilities were coming together. Quickly. The cave. The discovery. The conversations. The attack. The book. And still another notion. It was a dialectic he’d had with his grad students in Montana. “The absence of evidence is not the evidence of absence.” “What?” Katrina asked. McCauley hadn’t realized he’d spoken aloud. “What?” she repeated. “You said, ‘The absence of evidence…” “Is not the evidence of absence. A gap.” Katrina was still confused. “The gap?” “Not the gap. A gap. Before.” “Before? Before what?” Katrina wondered. “Before what is described in Genesis.” “Or part of it,” Eccleston said. “We better leave.” He signaled for the check. “Let’s move this to my apartment.” McCauley paid the tab. On the way out, Katrina pulled him close and asked the inevitable follow up while the priest walked a few feet ahead. “What were you talking about? It obviously scooted us out of there.” “An epiphany. Or,” McCauley admitted, “a wild ass assumption. I’ll explain.” Father Eccleston bounded up the three flights with Quinn and Katrina in tow. He asked forgiveness for the mess they’d face and the reason: “My roommates. I’ll keep the lights down. You’ll hardly notice. Even in full daylight there isn’t much to see except the simple residence of three priests, two of them slobs.” He directed them to the couch. “Sit down. We’re alone. Fr. Densey and Fr. Santiago left on sabbatical. So we’ll be able to speak openly. I’ll be right back.” As Eccleston went through his cabinets, McCauley glanced around the apartment. Eccleston’s description of Spartan was completely accurate. White walls, few chairs, low wood coffee table, lamps that didn’t match, an old throw rug, and no living room curtains. Apparently good enough for a trio of priests living off-site on limited Vatican stipends, right down to the three wine glasses Eccleston returned with that didn’t match. “Sabbatical. An interesting word in itself, wouldn’t you say?” Eccleston noted while pouring. “From Greek sabbatikos and Latin sabbaticus. And, of course, Hebrew Shabbat. From Genesis 2:2-3. On the seventh day God rested after creating the universe. Described in Leviticus 25 as a commandment to cease working in the field the seventh year, reiterated in Deuteronomy 5:12-15.” “You have your numbers down,” McCauley observed. “Chalk it up to my share of sabbaticals,” Eccleston laughed. Katrina chimed in, “We live for them, too.” Once the wine was served, Eccleston proposed a simple toast. “To our finding the answers we seek.” “I’ll drink to that.” Quinn reached for the bottle to see what it was. “Verdicchio?” “Yes, I think you’ll like this,” he said. The priest held up his glass to the lamp light and examined its luster. “So beautiful. From a magnificent yellow-green grape. See how the final product embraces and expands upon the original hues. Much like our conversation tonight.” His guests examined it in the same way. “Now, take in the floral aroma.” They brought their wine glasses to their nose and acknowledged the scent. “This Verdicchio hasn’t changed since the fourteenth century. It’s from Le Marche region, still produced by Brothers at Verdicchio del Castelli di Jesi.” “Quite a tradition, Father,” Alpert said. “I really like this.” “I’ll tell you someone who enjoyed the Verdicchio in Le Marche.” The priest captivated Katrina. “Oh?” “Galileo Galilei.” “When?” McCauley asked. “In the early 1600s he came to Le Marche to do experiments on a new invention—the thermometer.” Father Eccleston exhaled deeply. “The thermoscope,” Alpert remarked. “Quite right, Dr. Alpert. You’ve studied Galileo?” “Some. I knew he was credited with its development along with the telescope.” Eccleston nodded. “All and more. But there’s probably something else you don’t know. The section of Le Marche where Galileo experimented with his early thermometer is known for something other than wine.” The priest set down his wine glass. “A year before Galileo traveled to Le Marche, Giordano Bruno, a dissident thinker, was convicted of heresy by the Holy Office. He was burned at the stake. The Pope, or those who spoke for him, put reason and science on the opposing side of the religious scale that was completely weighted in the church’s favor. Authority gave them that ability. Ability equaled right. Right equaled power. It wasn’t merely so-called radicals like Bruno who came under scrutiny of the Holy See. It was anyone whose views challenged conventional wisdom, or as history has shown us, conventional myopia. “Galileo confronted church doctrine, though for a time he had actually worked under Papal sponsorship. He was even honored by mathematicians at Collegio Romano.” “Mathematics,” McCauley commented. “I forgot that was his principal field of study. We all think it was astronomy.” “Related. Inter-related,” Eccleston said. “The basis for everything.” Eccleston’s answer reminded him of the next piece of the puzzle he wanted to discuss with the priest. Soon, he thought.
~~~
I confess that I was disappointed at the ending... My hope dropped out of my body... Was this supposed to be satire or truly a "dystopian" book, which came to mind this morning as I thought about it... We hear so much these days about accountability... And the fact that it seems so much is happening which is against laws and the Constitution. I have to ask, have we thrown out all that was discovered based upon lies and rhetoric or through false prophets? Has religion become a business as opposed to the original intent?
While there are no footnotes, there is a Postscript which verifies, for instance, what was done to Galileo by the Catholic Church... So just how much of the book is based upon fact versus fiction cannot be considered, really, as other than complete fiction or as documented. However, what we do know is that today, many writers, professionals in their respective fields, universities and more are speaking out about how the legal system has been usurped by the republican party and other major financial supporters, driven by a man who seeks total control.
You'll have to decide on this one... I'm personally glad I read it, even though I didn't like what I was learning. For me, the life of Jesus is so very different than any of the major large churches or the larger catholic church dominion. I find it of great concern to see how power and the thirst for authority over all has corrupted our lives...again...
GABixlerReviews
Only one of them knew why McCauley
was playing Kinks hits on his iPhone—Katrina Alpert...
