Third Dave Cubiak Door County Mystery Proves it! Patricia Skalka is Fantastic Mystery Writer!

Dave Cubiak cast his line into the gray water and waited. Perched on the rock ledge along the Green Bay shore, he'd waited all afternoon: For the sun to break through the clouds. For a fish to take his hook. For the autumn leaves to be done with their annual display of color. For the tourism to pack their bags and depart. For Cate to come home.
Watching the sun fall toward the horizon, Cubiak checked the time. It was late and he'd missed pretty much all of Sunday's big football game: The Bears versus the Packers or, because this was Wisconsin, the Packers versus the Bears. He'd done so deliberately, even though skipping the match was an unforgivable sin in his adopted Door County. He'd have to pick up the highlights later. A few of the important details would provide fodder for a week's worth of small talk around the department and elsewhere on the peninsula.
The day was cooler than predicted, and Cubiak wished he'd worn gloves and an extra layer. He tugged his collar up to his chin and reeled in his line. For the third time in thirty minutes, the bait was gone. Maybe he should try a lure, he thought, and reached for his dented red tackle box. As Cubiak rummaged through the jumble of jigs and plugs, he heard a rustling in the bushes and looked up to see a white bundle sail over his head toward the bay.
The sack hit the water about fifteen feet from shore.
"What the hell?" he said.
He figured it was a plastic bad filled with trash and wondered if he could snag it with his line.
Then something inside the bag wiggled, and there was a sound, a cry like that of a baby.
Cubiak struggled free of his boots and jacket and jumped in.
The momentum pulled him under, and the sheer cold of the water left him unable to move. After a panicky moment, he began to flail about. Pumping his arms and kicking his legs, he fought his way up and surfaced ten feet from the bag. It was sinking fast. Never much of a swimmer, Cubiak stroked desperately toward it. When he was within an arm's length, the bag went under, trailing the rope that knotted it closed. Cubiak lunged for the cord and snared the end between his numbing fingers...It was an old pillowcase. Cubiak loosed the rope and began unknotting the top. The cries had ceased. Was he too late?
Cubiak peered inside and then fell back on his heels. He'd braved the icy water to save a litter of newborn kittens. The sheriff would have laughed if his teeth hadn't started chattering. Who else would go out for fish and come back with kittens?

Still, it was a cruel thing to do to such helpless creatures. And Cubiak had no tolerance for wanton cruelty. Which is why when he saw a familiar blue pickup outside the Tipsy Too, he swerved into the parking lot... Dubiak didn't care that he appeared ridiculous to the crowd in the car. Ignoring the sniggers and sideways glances from the clientele, he searched through the cluster of regulars until he found the owner of the truck...The sheriff slapped the wet pillowcase in front of the burly, bearded man. "This yours?" 

~~~

Death in Cold Water:

A Dave Cubiak Door County Mystery

By Patricia Skalka

University of Wisconsin Press published the third in series from Patricia Skalka, who has quickly gained recognition for her outstanding mystery series. It took me until this novel to identify Dave Cubiak in my mind... If you have either read the Jesse Stone series by my top favorite author, Robert B. Parker, or seen the television movie series, I think you'll see a similarity in the two characters, making Tom Selleck the perfect man to play Cubiak. I loved Parker's Spencer series first, but Jesse Stone quickly won a place in my heart, just as Dave Cubiak has... If you're a mystery fan, Patricia Skalka should become a must-read for you!

Skalka quickly pulls readers in when the son of a local legend is pulled in for drunk driving. He was actually already on his way to report that his father was missing. Of course Cubiak didn't know who the man was and his deputy, who is an excellent character that adds greatly to the duo law officers, quickly explained that he was called "Mr. Packer" due to his strong loyalty and financial support of the team.

The missing person was Gerald Sneider who had made a fortune in lumber. His son and family were with him in Chicago at the latest game when his father got a phone call. 

Andrew had been amazed that his father actually left since the game was tied and he'd never left a game until it was completely over. Andrew responded to Cubiak's question, that he'd never asked his father about his leaving--that he'd learned long ago not to question or cross his father... Great! How would they even get a beginning hold on where his father had gone?!

As Cubiak began his investigation at the victim's home, they discovered a super bowl ring hanging from a light fixture with a thin piece of cardboard underneath with the words. Pay or he dies...

But this is not a simple kidnapping...

One of the things I most enjoy about this series is that the author takes the time to provide readers with parts of the main character's life. He becomes real to us and we come to care about him. For me, it is very important that the characters come alive so that we can more fully sink into the story... Cubiak had lost his family and had moved to Wisconsin to a small town where he was trying to make a new life for himself. At least he seemed to be making it on the job, but his personal life was still in question...

Maybe last night's business with
Andrew Sneider had been a
dream and in reality he and Cate
had flown to the tropics as they'd
so often planned. Or they were
starting another morning at
home in Door County with Cate
in the kitchen fixing breakfast.
When he'd returned from Ellison
Bay, Cubiak had expected to find
her sound asleep, with Burch
curled up at the foot of the bed.
But at a quarter past three,
when he finally got in, the house
was empty. Had Cate come in
later or had he spent the night
at her condo? He ran a hand
over her side of the bed. The
sheet was smooth and cool.
~~~

Cubiak woke to the smell of coffee and the sound of music, classical guitar, floating in from the hall. He was groggy and lay still, imaging himself somewhere far from his little house on the Lake Michigan shore. Mexico, perhaps, Or Belize, even. He'd never been to either but after listening to Rowe's chatter about his vacation the sheriff couldn't help but fantasize about palm trees and water sports, the kind that didn't include swimming into shark caves.

In the shower, Cubiak faced up to the real truth about why he'd been fishing the day before. Yesterday was the day his daughter should have turned eleven. He'd spent the afternoon away from home to avoid seeing reminders of Chicago flashed on the TV screen during the game and being reminded of Alexis' birthday, but...all he could think of was the cake lit with candles, the party, and her gleeful delight as she ripped the wrapping off her gifts. This was the nature of grief and its litany of perpetual reminders.

He was still learning what it meant to forfeit one reality, to lose those he loved, and still trying to understand what it meant to try to create a different and separate existence. How to be faithful to what had been, while being true to what was now. His friend Evelyn Bathard had found a way forward following the death of his wife. Could Cubiak do the same? And how did Cate fit in?...

~~~

Still this case was bound to be different because of the victim. And he was not surprised when the Packers became interested in the case, after all, he was a major funding source for them.
And the FBI soon got involved...

But it was Butch, Cubiak's dog that moved the case forward when he, during a trip to the beach with Cubiak and Cate, had found a bone, probably human... And that's when the story moved from a simple kidnapping mystery to an unbelievable murder cold case!

They'd waited for him, Cubiak realized. After thanking them, he approached the platform for one last look. Bathard had talked about Milton's concept of good and evil, but all Cubiak could think of were Dante's nine circles of hell. Those who acted violently against others were consigned to the outer ring of the seventh circle, where they were immersed in a river of boiling blood and fire for eternity. A fitting punishment for...., Cubiak thought.     The sheriff bowed his head and prayed...

~~~

Skalka has moved into a darker topic in this novel, but one that constantly needs to be brought to light. Thank you, Patricia...

This author continues to get better and better, providing a novel that pulls together wonderful characters, a beautiful setting, and a masterful mystery that places her as one of the best in the genre, in my opinion. You really need to check her out... This book is highly recommended!

GABixlerReviews

See my Review...http://gabixlerreviews-bookreadersheaven.blogspot.com/2014/08/new-door-county-mystery-series-by.html

See my Review of Second Book

http://gabixlerreviews-bookreadersheaven.blogspot.com/2015/06/second-in-dave-cubiak-door-county.html

It Was Bound to Happen - BRH Introduces Nate Maingard - Just Because I'm A New Fan...

I Loved Barefoot Romance and Slow it Down...but liked all of his songs...

Although I'm asking, Nate...What's behind "I Will Devour"???

I started following Nate on Twitter and he sent his songs to me! Cool, right?! So I, in turn, decided to share them here! But I also immediately started following him on UTube, so you just may see some of his songs somewhere in the middle of a book review sometime in the future! LOL

Until then, I do highly recommend you check this Troubador out! 

@NateMaingard 

Erica Jong - From Fear of Flying to Fear of Dying... Provocative, Real, Memorable...

“The zipless fuck is absolutely pure. It is free of ulterior motives. There is no power game . The man is not "taking" and the woman is not "giving." No one is attempting to cuckold a husband or humiliate a wife. No one is trying to prove anything or get anything out of anyone. The zipless fuck is the purest thing there is. And it is rarer than the unicorn. And I have never had one.” 
― Erica Jong, Fear of Flying

I don't remember how I first acquired Erica Jong's Fear of Flying way back in my youth. But I do know that it was my first "big of naughtiness," a fantasy that used that forbidden "F" word (at least in the correct context rather than a daily curse word as it is today). I must admit that one scene on a plane has always stayed with me... It was racy, stunning, and memorable, but what I do know is that it was a fantasy that made me start to think about...being a woman within the world of that time... Yes, I am about the same age of the author and have "grown" from that first book she wrote...

And now, I've reached another stage of life with Jong, as she presents her latest novel, Fear of Dying... 

Fear of Dying

By Erica Jong

Days pass and the years vanish, and we walk sightless among miracles. Lord, fill our eyes with seeing and our minds with knowing; Let there be moments when Your Presence, like lightning, illumines the darkness in which we walk. Help us to see, wherever we gaze, that the bush burns unconsumed. And we, clay touched by God, will reach out for holiness, and exclaim in wonder, “How filled with awe is this place and we did not know it!” 

—Attributed to Mishkan Tefilah: A Reform Siddur

With memories of her first book, Fear of Flying, in my mind, I was expecting...sex...but the laughter didn't often come for me. It was too real...it was escapism from fear. The fear of dying. In my mind, Jong included it almost as a "wake-up call" that some might look to, and use sex, to counteract, to prevent facing that fear we both had reached...the fear of dying... So, of course, she had to find out whether it would work!

Specifically her first chapter asks, "Is There Sex After Death?" Well, I couldn't give her an answer, but I suspect there isn't, what do you think? Still, she quickly shares why these thoughts have crossed her mind...

My parents were dying and I was growing unimaginably older but was that a reason to pursue what my old friend Isadora Wing had called “the zipless fuck”? You betcha. It was either that or spiritual bliss. Apparently the creators of Zipless.com had ripped off Isadora without paying a penny. The company that bought her movie rights was sold to a company that owned publishing rights, which was sold to a company that exploited digital rights that was sold to a company that exploited well-known tags. Such is the writing life— as savage as the acting life. Isadora and I had been friends forever. We met over a movie that was never made. We even got sober together. And I could call her for moral support whenever I needed her. I thought of her as my BFF, my alter ego. I really needed her now.
~~~

I thought I was searching 

for love— 

but it was reincarnation I really 

sought. I wanted to reverse time

 and become young again— 

knowing everything I know now.

~~~

The book is written in first-person and reads somewhat like a diary. It may be fiction, but I felt that there was much about Jong's own life in the words. In fact, I didn't even think to identify the name of the main character... I thus allowed the author's words to be as if she was directly speaking to me...

The main thrust is that her parents are both dying. She is caught in despair, knowing that there is nothing to do but wait. But she hates seeing the vitality of two people who she loves greatly slowing ebbing away.

And then her husband is discovered to have an aneurysm, plus her beloved dog/friend dies...

I felt she was in panic mode. Death surrounded her and she was afraid. Afraid of her own mortality at the same time fearing the loss of those she most loved.

Sex and love had once been separated, but now she was totally in love with her husband, and feared his loss. Fearfully and in a flippant attitude, she seeks love through sex...and she delights readers as she posts an ad and receives responses from many who have some strange perversions...At least it was making her laugh a little but confirming what she already knew...sex and being in love can be two widely diverse things...

The thing I admire most about Jong's story is that she is willing to share internal thoughts and worries, that many of us have, but keep hidden inside. I used to sit while watching television, once in awhile glancing over to check my mother's breast, to ensure it was moving as she breathed. She was only in her seventies when she died. I knew that having parents living so long and having to see such deterioration of their bodies would be heartbreaking and very hard to deal with. As she said, she would move from hoping they died to dreading their loss. I empathized greatly with her. Her father was the first to die...

“La vida es un sueño,” he said. “Life is a dream. I look forward to that deep sleep.” And then he went under and never quite came back. Three days after the surgery he was babbling gibberish and clawing the air. Six days after the surgery he was in the ICU with a tube down his throat.

When he was diagnosed with pneumonia, I stood at his side in the ICU and sang “I gave my love a cherry” while his eyelids fluttered. We never thought that he would emerge from that hospitalization. But he did. And now he and my mother spend their days sleeping side by side in their apartment but never touching or speaking. Round-the-clock shifts of aides and daughters attend them. Every day they sleep more and wake less.

~~~

And later her mother...

“We all love you so much,” I say. “Thank you for the books, the plays, the music, the poetry, the movies. Thank you for Gershwin and Mozart and Cole Porter and Beethoven. Thank you for Duke Ellington, Gilbert and Sullivan, Mitropoulos, and Bernstein. Thank you for Yeats and Dickinson and Millay. Thank you for Leonardo and Michelangelo and Hogarth and Vigée Le Brun. Thank you for stuffing our heads full of your amazing knowledge of everything.” And I kiss the air as I have kissed her before. And we all stand stupefied by the power of death.

Of Primary importance to me in her book was the dichotomy related to God...She announces herself as an atheist, not being able to accept the Holocaust and other events that have been hard for many of us, too, to understand. But as death rears its ugly head, she "wishes" she could believe, she "wishes" she could pray for those she loves... 

Again, her willingness to open her thoughts to others in this important area, allows us to also acknowledge that we, too, have things we don't understand. We, too, also wonder, worry, at times, is there Someone there listening to our prayers... I think the difference with the author is that she's always been open with her contradictory statements--she's willing to share ideas and thoughts purely for her writing, even if others might interpret them incorrectly. This was shown with her first book and undoubtedly will occur with her latest.



But, for me, having a writer express our own fears through her characters allows us to ponder, to consider changes in our own lives, and find and make our own decisions if and when confronted with the different situations she covers in her books. 

I got what I anticipated in Jong's book... She's provided us a look into our own fears, at the same time she openly shares what the fear of dying has meant in her own life...

Her book is provocative, real, and memorable in so many different ways. I highly recommend it, especially if you...have a fear...of dying...

Words of Inspiration 
All the good things that have happened to me in the last several years have come, without exception, from a willingness to change, to risk the unknown, to do the very things I feared most. Every poem, every page of fiction I have written has been written with anxiety, occasionally panic, and always with uncertainty about its reception.… I have accepted fear as a part of life, specifically the fear of change, the fear of the unknown. I have gone ahead despite the pounding in the heart that says: Turn back, turn back; you’ll die if you venture too far. I have learned, in short, to trust myself. —ERICA JONG

Jong challenges us. She's thrown in a little sex to titillate but it's of little significance in what she has really provided. God and I thank you Erica Jong, for writing this book... And He understands your confusion just as He understands and accepts it from me and readers who needed to learn about others who have similar thoughts and fears... 

GABixlerReviews

ERICA JONG
(Bio used www.ericajong.com)
Erica Jong--novelist, poet, and essayist--has consistently used her craft to help provide women with a powerful and rational voice in forging a feminist consciousness. She has published 23 books, including nine novels, seven volumes of poetry, six books of non-fiction and numerous articles in magazines and newspapers such as The New York Times, The Sunday Times of London, Elle, Vogue, The New York Times Book Review and The Wall Street Journal. 

In her groundbreaking first novel, Fear of Flying (20 million in print around the world in more than forty languages), she introduced Isadora Wing, who also plays a central part in three subsequent novels--How to Save Your Own Life, Parachutes and Kisses, and Any Woman's Blues. In her three historical novels--Fanny, Shylock's Daughter, and Sappho's Leap--she demonstrates her mastery of eighteenth-century British literature, the verses of Shakespeare, and ancient Greek lyric, respectively. Erica's memoir of her life as a writer, Seducing the Demon: Writing for My Life, came out in March 2006. It was a national bestseller in the US and many other countries. Erica's much anticipated novel, Fear of Dying, is due for publication by St. Martin's Press in September 2015.

A graduate of Barnard College and Columbia University's Graduate Faculties where she received her M.A. in 18th Century English Literature, Erica Jong also attended Columbia's graduate writing program where she studied poetry with Stanley Kunitz and Mark Strand. In 2008, continuing her long-standing relationship with the university, a large collection of Erica's archival material was acquired by Columbia University's Rare Book & Manuscript Library, where it will be available to graduate and undergraduate students. Ms. Jong plans to teach master classes at Columbia and also advise the Rare Book Library on the acquisition of other women writers' archives. 

Calling herself "a defrocked academic," Ms. Jong has partly

returned to her roots as a scholar. She has taught at Ben Gurion University in Israel, Bennington College in the U.S., Breadloaf Writers' Conference in Vermont and many other distinguished writing programs and universities. She loves to teach and lecture, though her skill in these areas has sometimes crowded her writing projects. "As long as I am communicating the gift of literature, I'm happy," Jong says. A poet at heart, Ms. Jong believes that words can save the world. 

Known for her commitment to women's rights, authors' rights and free expression, Ms. Jong is a frequent lecturer in the U.S. and abroad. She served as president of The Authors' Guild from 1991 to 1993 and still serves on the Board. She established a program for young writers at her alma mater, Barnard College. The Erica Mann Jong Writing Center at Barnard teaches students the art of peer tutoring and editing.
Erica Jong was honored with the United Nations Award for Excellence in Literature. She has also received Poetry magazine's Bess Hokin Prize, also won by W.S. Merwin and Sylvia Plath. In France, she received the Deauville Award for Literary Excellence and in Italy, she received the Sigmund Freud Award for Literature. The City University of New York awarded Ms. Jong an honorary PhD at the College of Staten Island. In June 2009, Erica won the first Fernanda Pivano Prize for Literature in Italy.

Erica Jong lives in New York City and Weston, CT with her

husband, attorney Ken Burrows, and standard poodle, Belinda Barkowitz. Her daughter, Molly Jong-Fast, is also a writer.

Guest Blogger Guy Graybill Shares The Grand International Potlatch ...and more...

 The Codger Muses

The Grand International Potlatch





Yes, yes. I dreamed it. But, it was such a vivid dream: such a compelling dream, that I must share it.
When my dream began, I was in the lobby of the magnificent hotel at Banff, Alberta. That's the hotel that looks so much like some Scottish baron's castle.
Normally today, even in my dreams, the first thing that I do when in new surroundings is look for the restrooms; but in this dream I was hunting for one of the hotel's dining rooms. That's when I saw the easel and its poster: THE GRAND INTERNATIONAL POTLATCH: IN SESSION.
It's likely that you already know the following: The Kwakiutl Indians of the area of what is not Britich Columbia, are not reduced to mere hundreds of members. The Kwakietl and several other area tribes once practiced a very strange cultural activity that has been noted by scholarly ethnographers. 

The Potlatch:

The potlatch is a gift-giving ceremony held at major life events. In the words of Agnes Alfred of Alert Bay:

"When one's heart is glad, he gives away gifts. Our Creator gave it to us, to be our way of doing things, to be our way of rejoicing, we who are Indian. The potlatch was given to us to be our way of expressing joy" (1980).

A modern potlatch generally lasts one day and night and is accompanied by a feast and dances depicting ancient stories. Each family has their own dances which were given to them by the Creator and passed down through the generations. One of the most important gifts of the potlatch is T'lina, made by rendering the oil of the dzaxwan (eulachon fish). Families travel to a sacred location every spring to catch dzaxwan and make T'lina (U'mista 2009). Other common gifts at a potlatch include jewelry, appliances, and money (Kwakiutl Indian Band 2008).

Note: This video shows scenes of Kwakiutl potlatch. One of the first acts in the first 72 hours of the Bush Administration was to strip the Duwamish Tribe of Federal Recognition.It was from them that I learned about potlatch. Without them the City of Seattle would not exist;

That particular activity is the potlatch. The potlatch was a complex cultural phenomenon that we oversimplify by suggesting that it was simply a sharing of the host's wealth for status purposes or whatever. It had much wider ramifications; but in my dream the usual non-native interpretation worked very well.
Here in this marvelous hotel conference center, which is located just a few hundred miles east of the British Columbia coast, I saw dozens of colorful national flags in a variety of national apparent, were moving about and settling in for an afternoon session. A hotel clerk was observing the session from a chair near the back wall. I approached him. His name tag identified him as "Mackenzie," likely because that's one of the few Canadian names that is in my memory bank. Anyway, I asked Mackenzie was I was witnessing.
"Yank," he informed me, "you are watching the gathering of delegates for the start of the primary session of "The Grand International Potlatch." This, he added, was a conference that had been the brainchild of a Chilean gentleman. The man was a local magistrate who lived near the Atacama Desert and who felt that international peace and harmony would be fostered if all the world's countries sent delegates to a conclave where each delegate would have the authority to give some bit of territory or property that would show a spirit of magnanimity in a world forum.

"That will never happen," I groused; but the hotel staffer protested:

"But, it is happening!"
I saw, on the tables in front of each attendee, a glass of wine and a pile of roasted peanuts. I inquired of Mackenzie about the refreshments.
"Well, Chile is considered to be the host of this entire conference; but other countries got involved in providing the snacks. This afternoon's session has France providing all the wine and Ghana, a major peanut growing nation, providing the roasted peanuts."
A tall, distinguished woman was walking toward the podium to speak.
"She's the M.C.," said Mackenzie, lowering his voice, "She was a diplomat's daughter in the former French Congo."
She began speaking, with obvious passion; but I had no idea what she was saying. She was speaking French. Luckily, Mackenzie, a native of Quebec perhaps, translated, sotto voce.
"She says that the session we've been awaiting is about to begin. She also says that the very first nation that volunteered to make a gift to another nation is our host country, Chile."
There was a very low rumble among the conferees. Anticipation was obviously high. Mackenzie leaned toward me to whisper that everyone knew what Chile was going to promise. It had been the topic of all last evening's parties throughout the hotel. I was quite curious; but, as the delegate from Santiago rose to speak, Mackenzie fell silent. I, too, was now anxiously waiting for the national gesture to begin.

To thunderous applause, the Chilean delegate announced that a twenty-mile wide strip of land along the northern border of Chile was being ceded to Bolivia in order to give the continent's largest land-locked nation its own outlet to the sea, where the Bolivians could build a Pacific port.
Since a dream's duration is very uncertain, I'm grateful that the remaining national gifts were rapidly announced.

• The Spanish and French delegates announced their joint gift of giving up all claims to those regions of the Basque's homeland that exist within their own respective nations.
• China gave Tibet to the Tibetans and announced that they were also renouncing any claim to all islands north of Hainan, including the islands of Quemoy, Matsu and Taiwan.
• While I suddenly heard some guitarist playing guantanamera" in the lobby, the delegate from the United States announced the ceding of the U.S. military base, at Guntanamo, to Cuban sovereignty.
• Turkey was ceding all claims to any part of Cyprus.

With each announcement, the delegates offered louder and louder applause. The excitement was building as the session progressed.

Suddenly, a delegate from Haiti jumped to his feet. The conferees, who were still applauding the Turks' generous gift, stopped clapping and returned to their seats. The M.C. asked the delegate from Haiti, one of the world's most impoverished nations, what he wished to give. Very loudly, he told the convention.

"We want to give Haiti back to the French!"

The conferees all began to shake their heads from side to side, in a gesture of refusal; with the French delegate shaking his head more vigorously than any of the others. As Haiti's offer was being rejected.

• The delegate from India announced that the second largest nation in the world was giving their portion of the Punjab to Pakistan.
• A Russian official announced that they were returning an entire trainload of rusted machinery to Poland.
• A stern-faced German official noted that Nefertiti's busy was being returned to Egypt.
• England then announced that it was ceding the Falkland Islands to Argentina, Gibraltar to Spain and Ulster (Northern Ireland) to Ireland. The honorable delegate from England kept reading from a lengthy list and continued to identify objects, from world-wide locations, that his nation was returning to their original lands. In fact, when he had finished, he hung his head, dejectedly, and said that this meant that the British Museum was now being closed.

Before the delegate from London was finished, I noticed a large bevy of reporters coming into the room, in anticipation of some pending part of the conference. As a European correspondent and a couple of her assistants pushed in front of me, I turned, once more, to question the hotel clerk.

"What's all this activity?"

"Well, Yank, all the media teams are getting into good positions to record the next delegate. He's the one from Israel."

I glanced about until I noticed a bald pate partly covered with a yarmulke. The man was just beginning to stand.

"Well," I remarked to Mackenzie. "This is a pleasant surprise. I'd not even thought about their gift."

I began to elbow my way past some photographers, who were elbowing me in return.

That damned bladder!

In an instant I was wide awake, in my dark bedroom, with my bladder in full charge. Dreams allow no intermissions or replays. By the time I lifted that nicely lacquered oak seat, I was wide awake for the rest of the night...

~~~

Alastair Gunn Presents The Bergamese Sect

Prologue - Valladolid, Spain, October 1493 

A woman’s wailing pierced through the fog, echoing around squalid huts, along the dank, dirty streets. The shrill cry shattered the early morning calm of the city. A stork, nestling on the church of Santa Maria la Antigua, craned its neck, inspecting the square below for the source of the scream. But the fog hid the muddy ground. 

Alfonso de Morillo frowned. His dark eyes squinted from his shiny head, past the young man before him, searching for the commotion in the gloom. Suddenly, the woman’s howling was lost in the rumble of a jeering crowd. The two monks watched as a throng emerged from the swirling mist, moving en masse into the square. People were shouting and whistling, running ahead of the mob to meet its approach. Amid the frenzy, a middle-aged man with long, dark hair was bent over, shielding himself from the violent jostling. He wore nothing but a sulphur-yellow tunic, badly fitting, emblazoned with black crosses. Barefoot, he scraped over the sand and pebbles, his legs bruised and cut, his thin arms trying to cover his exposed lower torso. People struck at him, pushed him. 
The wailing woman, dark-skinned and short, grasped the seam of his tunic, her eyes wet, pleading with the scrambling horde. To her skirts clung two sniveling children, confused and frightened, dragging after the spectacle. ‘Marrano,’ 
Alfonso de Morillo whispered as the riot loomed nearer. He turned to his companion. A pained expression was squeezing the young Italian’s face. His eyes glared wildly at the approaching horde, revulsion etched in the curve of his lips. The people pushed the cowering man toward the church. The convert, suspected of hidden beliefs, had been sent for judgement. But the journey to the inquisitor’s halls was through a crowd keen to condemn. The fog seemed to part before them as the noisy riot rushed on. Alfonso and the Italian stepped away as the crowd approached. 
A dignitary, dressed in red and purple, appeared from within the cavernous church doorway and pushed forward through the throng. He began shouting a list of heresies at the crowd, pointing accusingly at the man. Cheers and further accusations flew up from the onlookers. The impeached man was unmoved, concerned only with his wife and children. He tried to push the woman away, whispering some assurance to her. But she was inconsolable, her face red with terror. 
Suddenly, something hard and pointed shot from the throng and hit the man on the shoulder. He fell to his knees, dropped his gaze to the ground. His hands went up, shielding his head from the kicks that rained down on him. ‘Take him to the house of Zúñiga!’ a voice cried out. The crowd applauded. 
Alfonso turned to the Italian, nudged him, and began walking away. From what he already knew of his companion, the flogging would not be to his liking. The young monk drew his stunned eyes away and followed Alfonso across the square, glancing back once or twice with a frown on his face. They stopped by a row of graves beneath the wall of the Collegiate Church, almost hidden in an untidy line of squalid huts. A vapour was rising from the nearby stream. It mingled with the acrid stench of decay along the slippery banks, dissolved into the dense fog. The rank odour made Alfonso swallow uncomfortably. ‘We must leave them to their sport,’ he said. 
The other man didn’t respond. His eyes remained on the excited mob, still visible through the wet dullness. 
‘So, Gaetano,’ Alfonso said, trying to distract the foreigner. ‘What is it that interrupts the Consejo Supremo?’ The Italian looked back. Alfonso thought he hadn’t heard the question, but then a respectful expression descended over the Italian. 
‘My lord,’ he replied in a thick accent, ‘apologies for diverting you from your work. My master, Abrazzo of Bergamo, has sent me on this errand. He invites you to become officiator for a new order of devotion.’ Alfonso raised his brow, inviting more explanation, but the Italian returned to inspecting the commotion. Two burly men now held the accused man up – people taking turns to strike him across the face. 
‘Come, Gaetano,’ Alfonso said, and tugged on the monk’s grey habit. They strode quietly, circling around the unkempt graveyard, until the crowd was lost behind the heavy buttresses of the church. The occasional shout still erupted through the fog. Alfonso stopped, looking up at the imposing building before them. The walls were strong, geometric, the stone grey and worn. Gargoyles huddled beneath the eaves, their bulging eyes cold and menacing. Above, a square tower thrust majestically skyward, its pyramidal roof tiled in bright terracotta, the summit almost lost in the vapours. Alfonso looked back at his companion who was also staring up at the high tower. The Italian was lean, some would say thin, yet sturdy, resolute. His face was striking, yet dour in expression. Swathes of dark hair covered his head, the tonsured scalp tanned and shining. Gaetano had arrived in Valladolid the previous day, presented himself before the High Council on the Calle de Francos and requested a meeting with Alfonso, an apostolic inquisitor in Torquemada’s entourage. 
The work of the tribunal took most of Alfonso’s time; poring over documents from dawn to dusk, travelling the length of Castile, sitting in judgement on men like the one now being beaten before the door of the church. Alfonso wasn’t often inclined to relinquish his duties so freely. But the young Gaetano had seemed overly agitated by the possibility of refusal and Alfonso had agreed to meet him the following morning. The inquisitor glanced briefly around. He pulled his black mantle around him. His tonsured head, of sixty or more years, was feeling a slight chill from the late autumn morning. He shook his shoulders to warm himself. 
‘So, Gaetano, a new order?’ he said. ‘You wish to divert me from the Dominican doctrine?’ There was a touch of sarcasm in the inquisitor’s voice but it seemed to pass over the other cleric. His face remained stern, as if questioning his worthiness. Alfonso watched his brown eyes, engaging in their deepness. 
‘No, my lord,’ Gaetano replied nervously. ‘Our doctrine is not changed, only our method of devotion.’ The young monk fell silent again and returned to inspecting the church...
It was the usual bustle of the mid-week, a semblance of normality. But Alfonso noticed something was missing in the faces that passed by. The men were worried, fearful of each tap on their shuttered doors. Suspicions lay on every lip, but were not dared whispered. Even the devout and unblemished were concerned. The tribunal’s familiars lay in wait everywhere, ready to catch the merest whiff of the impenitent sinner, routing out the false converts. The faces were downcast. The city’s most infamous son, Tomas de Torquemada, was among them again, sitting in judgement on the citizens of his homelands. It had been fifteen months since the Jews were expelled from the dominions. But the people hadn’t forgotten the upheaval of that sour alliance of church and state. Many argued Torquemada was devout, a saviour of pure Christian spirit, but the methods of the Holy Office were uncompromising and and thorough in their fervour. It unnerved everyone...
‘What is this change in devotion that should interest me so?’ Alfonso asked. He watched Gaetano carefully. Although young, a sense of great erudition hung about the man. It had not been undetected by the older monk. But the Italian seemed unaccustomed to speaking freely in so open a place and glanced across the busy road uneasily. 
‘A radical methodology of inquisition,’ Gaetano said, almost in a whisper. Alfonso allowed himself a stilted smile and placed his hand gently on the monk’s shoulder. ‘Gaetano, the methodology of His Eminence’s Holy Inquisition is sublime. Do we not follow the inspiration of Bernardo Guido? You Venetians presume a new methodology is required? I see nothing wrong with the present one.’ 
Gaetano seemed displeased, or perhaps it was just nervousness. He shuffled about in the wet sand. ‘It doesn’t ensure faith, my lord,’ he replied solemnly. ‘It is not meant to, Gaetano. The path we follow is paved many ways. It seeks to bring His Kingdom to fruition on Earth. It seeks to realise the sangre limpia. It seeks to turn souls from deviancy. Whether we follow the writ of Guido, or choose other, less empirical means, it is our success that is our justification.’ Alfonso hoped his response didn’t sound like a seminary lesson. The young monk was headstrong and educated, and Alfonso didn’t want to insult his pride or conviction. 
But Gaetano wasn’t moved by the correction. He remained stern, now looking the old inquisitor in the eye. ‘We also wish to promote adherence,’ he said, ‘but does condemnation, excommunication, even execution bring about faith?’ The question was meant as a challenge, but Alfonso wasn’t alarmed. ‘They don’t seek to,’ he replied. ‘The Holy Office is merely a hunter of sin. Its pronouncements are the responsibility of the state. The auto-de-fe is purification, a ceremony through whose medium the impenitent reach absolution – eternal absolution. There’s no need to instil faith in the saved, for they reside in the heart of the Saviour himself.’ ‘Indeed, my lord. But we are not concerned with the saved – with those whose salvation is already granted.’ ‘
But you should be, Gaetano. You can’t ignore the state to which you aspire.’ 
A glimmer of doubt reflected in the Italian’s eyes. ‘We are concerned with the preservation of doctrine and faith. We wish to prevent decay of belief. We do not believe the Holy Office achieves these aims.’ 
Alfonso sensed the struggle in Gaetano’s words. His Spanish was good, but lacked expression. He reached out, took the young man’s elbow and turned him away from the busy street. They looked down at the bank of the stream, its dirty waters lapping below the church walls. ‘I’m an old man, Gaetano,’ said the inquisitor, ‘and in all my years, I have never witnessed the Holy Office preserve faith. The tribunals on which I preside offer salvation to the individual, not devotion to the masses.’ 
Gaetano stared uncomfortably across the river, began playing with the loose cuff of his habit. ‘Perhaps we have misrepresented the aims of the Inquisitor,’ he went on. ‘We are learned men merely concerned that faith is eroding. We foresee the onslaught of contrary ideals.’ 
Alfonso folded his arms. Another hint of sarcasm tainted his expression. ‘Contrary ideals?’ he said. ‘Is then a new Messiah arisen?’ Again, the irony was lost on the stern-faced Gaetano. 
‘No, my lord. We fear the scourge of unrevealed wisdom. Already conflicts arise.’ Alfonso was confused. He frowned, followed the monk’s glare across the flowing brown water. The smell of decay rising from the stream was almost overpowering. 
‘Ah,’ Alfonso said, ‘you mean the scourge of natural philosophy? Don’t worry about that, Gaetano. Does the Holy See not follow the doctrine of the greatest of ancient naturalists, the infallible Aristotle? These new ideas offer no danger to the Church. They are merely a different voice declaring the glory of creation. Man’s powers of thought cannot create designs greater than those the Lord provides.’
The monk remained unmoved by the reassurance. ‘We are not convinced. Abrazzo envisages times of great conflict ahead and wishes to prepare. This is why we contemplate our new order of devotion.’
‘Are you asking me to advise on the form of this devotion?’ asked the inquisitor. 
Gaetano nodded. ‘We have great respect for your work under Torquemada. One who has served the Holy Office so well will give us great wisdom in our decisions. Abrazzo asks if you will come to Bergamo to sit in council next spring.’ 
Alfonso didn’t answer. He stared at the monk for a moment, a distant look in his eye. The young man had come many miles to ask for help but offered little except the promise of a stimulating debate. Such diversions were commonly had and Alfonso was doubtful whether the arduous journey to Italy would suit him in his old age. But he felt a warm glimmer of curiosity in his mind. The Italian conveyed much more conviction than he probably realised. ‘What will be the form of this new methodology, Gaetano?’ Alfonso asked.
‘I can’t say. This is the purpose of our council. But we live by our conviction that fear of man does not generate faith. It is the fear of the Almighty, fear of the unknown that ensures adherence. May I report to Abrazzo that you will offer your advice?’ 
‘I have many duties to perform here in Castile. I would find little benefit from such a journey.’ 
Gaetano’s expression dropped. A slow sigh escaped his lips. ‘I can only offer our grateful hospitality,’ he pleaded. 
Alfonso’s eyes narrowed in thought. ‘Perhaps,’ he said, ‘perhaps I’ll come, if providence permits. We shall see.’ 
The young monk immediately bowed to the inquisitor and offered his thanks. Alfonso took him by the arm and led him away. ‘Come. Let us eat at San Pablo.’ They strode off toward the bridge that hid in the fog beyond the church. High up on the buttress above them, the stork watched the noisy crowd with a single, lazy eye. Unimpressed, it clattered its beak again and shuffled down into its spiny perch.

~~~

The convent of 'Santa Domenico e Stefano' in Bergamo, Italy, was demolished in 1561 to make way for new city walls. I chose this non extant monastery as the eventual home of Alfonso de Morillo and the global conspiracy he instigates in The Bergamese Sect. There were few records of the original buildings on which to base my writing. I found only one description and illustration in a dusty old book in the archives of the Civica Biblioteca ‘Angelo Mai’ in Bergamo. The other is shown here - a woodcut from the first half of the 15th century preserved in the Municipal Library of Mantua, which clearly shows the location of the church of 'Stefano'. From these documents we can deduce that this large monastery stood just below the Porta San Giacomo, one of the four gates that lead into the Città Alta (High City) of Bergamo. Alfonso's departure from Bergamo in the epilogue of The Bergamese Sect, starting his journey of deception, is through the city gate that originally stood near the present-day one, down the steep road that is now Via S. Alessandro.--Alastair Gunn

~~~

The Bergamese Sect

By Alastair Gunn

The Prologue is the last you will hear of an exchange between two religious leaders and an invitation visit to Bergamo... It was clear that the representative from Italy, agitated by the actions of both the citizens and the priest in dealing with a supposed sinner,
who was being beaten, might have affected what he reported back to his leader, perhaps in this stately church. The Council that was represented by Gaetano, I would guess, was not necessarily comprised of church members from one church, or even monks from one monastery... Frankly, I was bothered by both the men who held the conversation in Spain. There are others who have written about how The Church at that time forced individuals to either join The Church or...  While Gaetano's group advocated that The Church should prepare for future conflict, heighten devotion...

Neither offered options that allowed individuals to find faith as a basis of their own response and decisions about God.

Years later, are we any different, I wondered...

A horn sounded and the eighteen-wheeler sped past, showering the windshield with brown water. It shook Castro free of his daze. He gripped the wheel firmly, glanced in the rear view mirror at the truck’s receding taillights and squeezed the fatigue from his aching eyes. 
He was speeding along a lonely highway, spraying the recent rains over the red desert. It was late. It was always late. To Castro, night and day were a single entity. Hours ticked by, eating up the miles of straight, monotonous road. He felt utterly alone – the way he liked it. He checked his speed, wound down the window to let the cool, damp breeze refresh his face, and flicked on the radio. Emmylou Harris crooned a silky ballad at him. He crooned back in sarcastic imitation. 
He’d almost dozed off there for a second. Lucky. David Castro hadn’t got time for sleep. Sleep was a hazard he was learning to do without. He was vulnerable when asleep. Vulnerable to things he’d rather forget. Those vulnerabilities he liked to keep hidden, at least until he could confront them. And confront them he would, if he ever reached the end of this damn road. 
Behind him lay a shattered life. That narrow-minded Arizona town hadn’t been up to his honesty. He’d been pushed out. His business, a small law firm, was history. Those sanctimonious bastards had driven him to bankruptcy, taking their business fifty miles out of their way. And just because he’d had the balls to tell the truth. He blamed the evangelists. Out there in that festering desert they had replaced God, not proclaimed Him. He was glad to be rid of that shit-hole.

~~~

‘Whaddya want here?’ 

he demanded, 

urging his wife back into the

 house. She disappeared inside. 

‘I’d just like to ask you a few 

questions,’ said Castro. ‘

You FBI?’ the old man 

enquired. 

Castro had to contain a smile 

at the irony of the question. 

‘No, Mr Campbell, I’m not 

with the FBI, nor the CIA.’...
‘The same thing happened

 to me, Mr Campbell.’

~

It is obvious to this reader that Alastair Gunn has done extensive research as he developed the historical parts of this novel. It is also obvious that he has a talent for creating a suspenseful novel that keeps readers guessing exactly what is happening. For me, it was the Prologue that set the tone for the novel. And just as obvious that the Council meeting at Bergamo went on in their formulation of a different group from within The Church. But what was the mystery? How and why did this ancient sect become of importance in the 20th century?

I was intrigued...

The search begins when David Castro faces a loss of his personal life as he knew it. He couldn't accept moving on without knowing... His first stop was at a farmer's home...

And continued on...and on... He was soon searching for a picture--a picture that had once hung in the convent of 'Santa Domenico e Stefano' in Bergamo, Italy... And as he searched, he began to hone in on a small mark appearing on the man in the picture. He had seen it before, under very different circumstances... Then, suddenly, he is pulled into a group, whether he wanted to be there or not... The group is...seeking the truth...

At the same time, Larry Walsh of the NSA, was leading a search for a man, code name Sebastian... "something to do with a government conspiracy..." 

Two investigative searches, running concurrently cover the main part of the book, until, somehow, they merge... Secrets, so many secrets are kept by the government, by other groups... Only the general public are kept from learning about any of them... Be very careful in this type of environment--you never know who to trust!

Sometimes, it is hard to understand how religion has been sustained over so many years. There has always been blood, murder, as part of the religious beliefs of some...or is it a cover for something else that must remain hidden.

But rebels and sinners shall be broken together, and those who forsake the Lord shall be consumed. Their time is near, Radich thought...

The book is very complex, bringing in many historical issues that sometimes becomes confusing until the ending begins to pull things back together. Readers travel across the world and back, moving from time to time. Somehow we are left with the impression that things will continue similar to this through the years, with only the people changing over time...

Laudate Dominum omnes gentes conlaudate eum universi populi. The interweaving chanting washed over Alfonso as he stepped through the gate in the outer wall, closed it tightly and turned up the narrow street. He hummed the soprano gently to himself as he walked beside the tall monastery wall. Quia confortata est super nos misericordia eius et veritas Domini in aeternum. When he reached the top of the hill and turned into the main road, the pure sound of rejoice was lost in the calm of the dark twilight...

The people within its walls, thought Alfonso, were like children. They cowered away from the terror of the night, adrift without guidance. They needed to hear the Word of God. ‘And how shall they hear without one who preaches?’ Alfonso whispered under his breath.

Quite an extraordinary book. If you choose to read it, which I highly recommend, pick when you'll have time to move forward to the end. I didn't have the chance on this one and got bogged down somewhat with the continuous scene movement and trying to keep up with the story. Still, that was my issue and doesn't have to be yours. There is an amazingly creative merge of historical and contemporary life. Individual characters are known historically; however, in this book, they are cast from a religious angle and taunts the reader to find ultimately the pieces of the puzzle and how they fit.

I suggest on this one you read many different reviews to further consider the story. The complexity seems well beyond those of similar novels, the Da Vinci Code coming readily to mind. Yet, this novel does bring the exciting mysterious hunt's conclusion, even if you might have been caught going off into other tracks that pulled you away...but then brought you right back, clearing out the false assumptions and leads. If I had the skills to write such a book, then I would imagine that the author quite enjoyed springing all these little traps for his future readers! LOL...

Check this one out!

GABixlerReviews

Facilitator of All Things Scientific and Creative: Astrophysicist; Science Columnist; Polymath; Fiction Author; Expounder; Musician; Artist and Lover of Life.

Dr Alastair G. Gunn is a professional Astrophysicist based in the UK and is a Fellow of the Royal Astronomical Society. As well as an active scientist, Alastair is an experienced and popular public lecturer on astronomy and is known for his accessible (though challenging), light-hearted, and visually stunning lectures. He has made guest appearances on many TV and shows around the world and has hosted a regular astronomy programme on radio. Alastair writes a regular column for BBC Focus magazine and has written for The Daily Telegraph, The Independent and The Guardian and is a contributor to many astronomy magazines including Astronomy Now, Sky at Night and StarDate. His fiction includes ghostly short stories, a collection of supernatural stories called Ballymoon and his debut novel, The Bergamese Sect.

What's Happening at Book Readers Heaven

Another Month has gone by! Hard to believe! Soooo, the above was created by Karlyle Tomms, whose books I've accepted to review. Cool, right? And a message worth much thought!

Just had a tooth pulled yesterday, so won't be writing much today. Spent the morning getting through "most" of my email, but still haven't responded to all!

Got a notice that I was among the top 1% for reviews on Goodreads. Soooo I've been posting all links to that site to BRH since then...Previously I only posted when requested...

So when I got an email from Twitter, thought I would check my stats there... fairly interesting...
My tweets earned 9.0K impressions over the last month, with an average of 323 impressions a day. I don't know whether that's good or bad...Anybody know?

But I do know that the hits of 51,765 was way up over 20,000 new hits...

Here's the articles that received the most hits...
Patrick Kelly Presents A Joe Robbins Financial Thr...
Sep 26, 2016,
959

Anna Klay Takes Readers Deep into the Memorable Ra...
Mar 5, 2014,
768

Christine Benedict Brings Spooky Debut of Anonymou...
Sep 23, 2016,
763

The 23rd Psalm - With Words for Busy People - Unkn...
Sep 4, 2016,
739

Lin Wilder's The Fragrance Shed by a Violet: Murde...
Sep 20, 2016,
715

Visited the Middle Ages 684

Acclaimed Author Warren Adler 683

Freedom of Info Act Spotlight 682

Guy Graybill Presents 665

Lin Wilder Presents Search 654

Coming up special is an author spotlight on an 83 year-old author that I wanted to recognize.

Guy Graybill, author of Bravo will be providing guest blogs from time to time in the future.
Also I'm reading Erica Jung's latest book, Fear of Dying (more a memoir) right now. I hadn't read anything from her since Fear of  Flying...Seems like being with an old friend, reading her as we
both kept working with our book interests...
I've been asked to work with another author who's doing something new with books...looking forward to seeing how that goes!

Lots and lots of ebooks and pdfs to be read and am trying to fit them in when I can. Paperback books continue to be given priority unless I'm working on a special deadline for tours or other reasons. Please continue to write me to remind me about your ebook request...I'll respond...

Another reminder that pdf books, even a printed one, I've received have been too small to read. I know I just got glasses, LOL, but 12 point is the minimum that books should be printed in. That includes whether they are ebooks or print...Do check out your ebooks to see that they are readable before you send...

Would you believe I read until 3 this morning and then couldn't go to sleep...Maggie Tideswell's latest book was the reason! Witches, and ghosts, and fun...oh My!

So, how was your month??? Had problems with this article, computer-wise, so sorry for format issues...


Glenda