Keith G. Alderman

Crossroads

Crossroads
Chapter 12

The rickety bridge proved much more stable than they had initially guessed; and though the raging water underneath intimidated them, watching the heavy-footed Balaam scamper across, gave them the confidence to do it. The children held hands, with Esther at the front holding Balaam’s tail, and Marian at the rear behind Herbert; she felt it her duty to make sure her youngest sibling made it across safely. The river looked dangerous, but they had conquered it; bringing them the first great sense of victory. But it would prove to be premature, for the hardest parts of their journey were still ahead.

On the far end of the bridge, the children welcomed the sight of a simple path cutting south-southeast into the forest on a slight grade. The slope was easy-going, far less taxing than the first mountain pass, that they hadn’t realized how high they soon were; videlicet when the underbrush cleared and they veered around a natural shoulder in the mountain, it surprised them to see an enclave several hundred feet below, two miles wide, full of endless, crammed trees, underbrush, ivy, and wildlife.

A raven soared by their heads—a blurry flash of black—landed in a white oak, and cawed at their presence. It stared so harshly at them that the group wondered if it knew something they did not.

Presently, and methodically, the children individually became aware of a quiet, surreptitious voice on the wind. A sweet song carried over the forest canopy; so frail, they could have mistaken it for the wind.

“Uwe la na tsiku; su sa sai.”

Just as dimly as it had come, it faded away, and with it, the raven dove from the oak tree and disappeared into the enclave below. Marian smiled at the song, but noticed Balaam’s quickened pace and hunched shoulders, indicating what she assumed was fear.

Without warning, thunder clapped its heavy hands above the mountain and a torrent of blistering, icy rain fell on the group; fierce winds and petulant raindrops—tiny needles, flying horizontal, stung their faces and soaked their clothing in seconds. The children perked their shoulders up around their ears and dug their chins into their chests, suddenly miserable from the rain and cold.

Balaam stepped off the mountain shelf, onto the steep slope, standing acrobatically at an awkward angle as if he had done it a thousand times before. He waited while Aaron passed to saddle up next to Herbert and Esther, between them and the brim of the cliff. His hooves melted into the mud and leaves as they leaned against his thick barrel. “Stay by my side for now, children,” Balaam whispered to the two.

The group struggled along; their pace dropped to a mere crawl, sloshing over roots, rocks, and leaves, while keeping one hand on the earthen wall next to them to steady themselves.

“Boy, it’s rainin’ pitchforks and bull yearlings!” Aaron shouted through the deep thundering booms and violent twisting branches.

Heaven split; a bolt of lightning streaked down the mountainside; a tree at the bottom of the enclave exploded into flame. With each rushing wind, a sickening feeling grew that an impending doom was racing upon them, and for whatever God-forsaken reason, they could not determine when it would come or from where. Danger lie everywhere; but the children pressed on. There was no time to fear, doubt, or second-guess their adventure; the path ahead was the only way out of it.

And then, the inevitable happened. A mudslide erupted underneath Aaron; he leaped away and grabbed hold of the roots jutting from the wall next to him. But Herbert, shocked and unaware, lost his footing in the mud. His feet sunk; he fell with the falling shelf; his body slid on the mudslide; he was gone. Esther screamed. Marian lost her breath in horror; how could she lead her brother to such a dangerous place?

But Balaam’s bite was too quick for the him to be lost for good. He had snapped Herbert’s collar and the boy dangled over the cliff from his shirt, all bunched up inside of Balaam’s teeth and wrapped around his shoulders; he didn’t even know what had happened before Balaam tossed him back to the shelf where Aaron caught him.

Esther jumped the gaping hole, grabbed her brother, and burst into tears. But Marian was in too much shock to move. She stumbled to the ground on the far side of the hole and held her chest, fighting to catch her breath.

Herbert stared, dumbfounded, while Aaron laughed, arms clasped around him, in disbelief. The rain kept dumping on them while Balaam corrected his footing and galloped up the mountain slope back to the trail, just ahead of the children; he whinnied and shook the rain, mud and leaves from his mane.

Composing and forcing herself to continue, Marian crawled across the collapsed shelf and bundled up next to the others, thoroughly ashamed that she had brought her siblings on this journey. The children cried, blubbered, and gasped, but kept their frightful thoughts to themselves for now.

In a way, keeping silent in fear often spurs a group beyond its limits; silence, therefore, is the greatest factor in facing them. In their sheepish quiet, they assumed the next of them was less afraid than the last until they picked themselves up again and prepared to move on.

Balaam stamped his feet. “Better time than never to get started going nowhere,” said he.

Presently, the rain would die down, and the children descended the long and precarious mountain side. After a few minutes, they found themselves within a valley in a brief gap of sunshine where they collapsed into a pile on the ground and caught their breath before turning into slop and crying and laughing hysterically.

Weakened and shaken, the children let out a few tears and shouts. Marian was doubting their abilities and sound judgment; should they have come at all? She had trusted the Ghost and his reason why; but at most, had expected a few hours of walking through the woods to a fountain, and discovering some obvious way to close the gate. But the notion of climbing multiple mountains, crossing raging rivers, and stumbling through sudden downpours never crossed her mind. Yet she did not know how to express her doubt with the others.

So on they went, and the path meandered around a shallow brook that eventually led to the mouth of a deep cave. Here, the path diverged into three directions; one path traveled northwest into a hollow; another northeast directly into the cave; and the third aimed southeast, up a steep, muddy incline on the mountain pass again.

“What are we looking for?” Balaam asked.

“Atagahi,” said Esther. “The Fountain of Youth.”

“What’s the matter, Balaam?” Herbert asked him, as he saw the Donkey looking disturbed and hesitant.

“I’m just collecting myself, Herbert,” said the Donkey. “Thank you for asking.”

“That’s not the problem, Herbert Dolor,” a deep, treacherous voice declared, and the children were surprised to see the Top-Hat Man in their presence. He leaned against his cane just off the path, while dusting mud from the bottom of his crocodile and snake-skinned boots. “He doesn’t know which way to go,” he continued.

The children were confused by the Top-Hat Man’s sudden appearance, yet much more baffled by the indictment he gave that Balaam may be lost.

“Balaam, is this true?” Esther asked.

“Who are you?” Marian interjected.

Balaam’s long face looked into Esther’s eyes; a shred of doubt was hidden behind them.

“Well, fry me brown,” answered Aaron. “It’s that there cankered old acorn-cracker Herbie and me seen in the quarry. How’d you gettup ‘ere?”

“I’ve been here all along,” replied Mr. Dauer, lifting his cane into the air. “Right, Esther?”

“I suppose you had to be,” Esther replied, scowling at him.

“Excuse me!” Marian stomped forward between Mr. Dauer and her siblings. “Just who are you?”

“We haven’t been properly introduced yet, Marian.” Mr. Dauer took his top-hat off to bow, and revealed his bald and jaundiced scalp; he placed the hat back on it and smirked at Marian. “I am Mr. Dauer.”

“He’s the Top-Hat Man I was telling you about,” Esther whispered in her ear.

Mr. Dauer’s neck twitched, and he made eye-contact with her. “Still catching everyone up, Esther? That’s why you are the best leader, really.”

Esther blushed, and Marian noticed.

“Well, Mr. Tower,” said Marian. “Maybe you know how to get to the Fountain of Youth.”

“Oh, the Fountain of Youth—Atagahi.” Mr. Dauer straightened his back, and it sounded as though it were wound by rubber bands. “I suppose there is only one way, and that is on through the cave. I thought Esther told you all about this. She’s always keeping things to herself.”

“What?” Esther exclaimed, and Marian stared at her.

“A-right, you weaked coot,” Aaron said. “I says aready oncet afore, and I says it agin—yer stirrin’ up hell with a long spoon. Get yer agley butt aways from us or ye’ns gonna regret it.”

Mr. Dauer smiled. “Ah yes,” he said. “Aaron, the delinquent wants to fight just like his father, but doesn’t know enough to keep up with the likes of the clever Dolors. How many nature books did you read last night to appear intelligent today?”

Aaron’s eyes narrowed, and his jaw clenched. He looked angry and ready to fight, but, inside, embarrassment germinated.

“Maybe we should just get going,” Herbert added.

“Ah, Herbert has joined the conversation!” Mr. Dauer turned his attention to him. “Still holding on to that cougar figurine you ruined everything with, are you?”

Herbert’s eyes widened. He looked at his sisters and Aaron; they were staring back. His heart-rate quickened; he dropped his head between his shoulders conspicuously.

“We should go over the mountain,” Balaam insisted.

“Why?” Marian challenged, feeling an overwhelming sense of frustration from the whole conversation.

“Are you sure, Balaam?” Esther asked.

Balaam nodded.

“Of course, not!” Dauer interrupted. “He hadn’t a clue where he is. But I do.” Lightning flashed in the south, and a roll of thunder followed. The kids glanced up the valley to see a thunderhead creeping over the mountain toward the southeastern path. “If you want to reach Atagahi, you must enter the cave,” Dauer continued.

“Bread wagon on the wind; rain’s a-comin agin,” Aaron whispered to Marian.

“Very good, Aaron,” Dauer mocked. “Now perhaps, you would all follow me through the cave.”

“Balaam says that we should go over the mountain,” Esther pleaded. “And I don’t trust the Top-Hat Man.”

“But I won’t take our brother over that mountain in the rain again,” Marian thought aloud. She addressed Mr. Dauer. “What assurances do I have that you can get us through the cave?”

Mr. Dauer smiled and tapped his cane on the ground; magically, a dim but apparent beam of light shone from its tip. “I can lead you through it,” said he.

“The path eastward doesn’t lead over the mountain,” interjected Balaam. “It cuts through the mountains in a narrow pass. You must trust me, Marian, it is not as dangerous as you think.”

Mr. Dauer stared deep into Marian’s eyes; her head hurt from the look he gave her. “Perhaps, we should just listen to Esther instead,” he whispered.

“Marian!” Esther, who hadn’t heard what he whispered, yelled. “We need to follow Balaam through the pass.”

Overcome by jealousy, fear, and confusion, Marian shouted at the Top-Hat Man and everyone else to hear, “I don’t know who you are—but we are going through the cave!” She looked at Esther and Balaam. “And that’s final.”

She stomped toward the mouth of the cave, but Balaam stood in her way.

“Move, you dumb Donkey!” she yelled.

Balaam remained still and didn’t say a word.

“I said move, idiot!” She hollered again.

She didn’t think Balaam was an idiot, nor was she mad at him. But something about how the Top-Hat Man talked about her sister leading the group made her blood boil. It wasn’t only this, you see, because the Top-Hat Man’s presence had a dark magical effect on all the children that made all of them want to run away, or fight, or argue, or throw something. It was the sort of feeling you get when you think someone is hiding in the closet and your hair stands up on end—or, more precisely, when you feel grumpy and tired and end up stubbing your toe on the leg of a dining-chair because of it, and you get real angry but have no one to blame but yourself, yet you end up taking it out on the closest person next to you, anyway.

Marian felt like that. And with every passing second, she grew more agitated that her options were limited and seemed futile, and what’s more, that no one was listening to the decision she had already made. She raised her hand and smacked Balaam’s rear as hard as she could.

Balaam stood still. “I don’t think it’s the right way,” he whispered. “Why must you hit me for it?”

“I don’t care what you think,” Marian retorted. “I’m not taking my brother through that mountain pass in the rain again! We almost died up there and you led us into it. This is the way I’m going, and it’s the way we are going.”

“But—”

The tense back-and-forth had fed Aaron up. Ever since the Top-Hat Man addressed how little he knew compared to the Dolors, his insecurity had grown insurmountable; but now, after seeing Marian struggle to lead them out of the crossroads, he grew angry and violent. He stomped his feet on the ground, like he used to do when he was a little boy, and bent down to pick up the largest stick he could muster. It was old, rotten, and covered in mud, but would work. It swung through the air as hard as he could fling it and struck Balaam on the back. The stick broke into many pieces against the talking beast, and didn’t hurt Balaam’s back near as much as it hurt his feelings.

“Move!” He screamed.

“Haw-Hee!” Balaam bellowed in sadness.

Aaron dropped his fists to his sides, red in the face; Esther whimpered at the sight; Herbert looked at Marian for help, but she was just as mad as Aaron. Mr. Dauer’s lips curled slightly.

“Marian says where a-goin’!” Aaron hollered at Balaam. “So get movin’, you stoopid an’mal!”

“Why must you strike me for standing my ground?” He whimpered.

“Because you are in our way!” Marian hollered and pushed Balaam, though he was too heavy for her to budge. “We are going through the cave, with or without you.”

Balaam lowered his head and sighed. His shoulders trembled, and his back legs shifted in the mud. He turned slowly and met Esther’s eyes; she watched two great, big Donkey tears roll down his long face and splatter in the mud. She looked down, feeling awful. His head swung round and faced Aaron; the boy sighed heavily. Seeing the animal’s tears made him at war with himself; he wanted to be angry, because all the words that the Top-Hat Man said convinced him he had a reason to be angry. But looking at the sweet Donkey’s sad face made him realize he was wrong. He was proud of what shamed him, ashamed of his pride, and too prideful to admit any of it. In the end, he couldn’t make left or right of his feelings and looked away, clenching his jaw over and over.

Balaam took a step back, and the forest was silent except for the mud squishing under his hooves. He ascended the climb back up the mountain the children had just desperately fought their way down.

“Hay!” Aaron yelled after him. “Where’re you a-goin’, ye’n stoopid Donkey? David Crockett gave ya ta us! Get aback chere!”

Balaam didn’t reply; the children watched him fade behind an elm, around a maple, and out of view without a word.

“This is all your fault,” Esther shouted, and pointed her finger at Mr. Dauer.

“My fault?” Mr. Dauer responded, his spindly hand on his chest. “I’ve done nothing but help you?”

“Help us?” Herbert mocked. “What on earth have you done to help us?”

“Well, I gave you confidence at the bridge, didn’t I, Esther?” he asked rhetorically. “And you found the way, just as I knew you would. And Aaron, who do you think threw the camera down for you when you foolishly left it behind on top of that mountain of rock and sand? Girls, do you really think a unicorn just magically showed up at your home? Why, I led it there for you to see. It’s not my fault Marian bungled the camera. And in fact, David Crockett had me get that stupid Donkey for you. I tried to tell him Balaam wasn’t the correct choice, but he was adamant that the griping buffoon was perfect for your journey. Seems about right he would abandon you at the moment you need him most.”

Marian’s eyes shifted back and forth in confusion. She was trying to make sense of what the Top-Hat Man had said and thought, Why was he meeting with my brother and sister and not me? Why did they seem to know so much, but I didn’t? What else were they keeping from me? How did he know about the camera? Did Esther tell him about me? Is she making fun of me? Yes, I’m afraid that everyone’s been making fun of me from the beginning. “I—don’t understand,” she said weakly. “Herbert, is it all true? Did you see this man with Aaron?”

“Well, yes,” Herbert replied. “But—”

“—But nuthin’,” Aaron interrupted. He shook his head at the ground and dug the sole of his sneaker into it.

Mr. Dauer smiled menacingly. “Well, it seems I’ve only ever told the truth and helped. And now you are without a guide. Would you care for me to lead the way?”

“No!” Esther jumped in. “I don’t like him. He’s scary. He has dust in his pockets and a cork in his ear. He looks at us weird.”

“Ess, those aren’t really the best reasons to not believe him,” Marian said.

“And you sound like Mom and Dad now!” Esther shouted.

Deep down, Marian didn’t like the way the Top-Hat Man made her feel either, but she didn’t like the way Esther made her feel right then even more. “Aaron, can he help us?”

“I reckon I dun’t lak any a-grown-ups,” Aaron growled. “But I spose what-all hem says is true. Herbie’d knowed loss more abouten hem than me. Theys was up on the hill longer.”

“Herbert?” Marian asked.

Herbert shook his lowered head, too ashamed to talk about it, and thinking only about the broken cougar figurine hidden in his bedroom.

“No—” Esther interrupted. “I don’t care. It’s something in the pit of my stomach. I don’t like him.”

“Esther,” Mr. Dauer encouraged. “When have I ever not been proud of you? You’re such a great leader.”

“Enough!” Marian shouted, and Mr. Dauer grinned.

“We shouldn’t follow him!” Esther yelled at Marian. “We’ve lost Balaam because of you! Just like we lost Aaron! It’s all your fault—just like usual—you get so mad at people and then they leave us. Now you want to follow the Top-Hat Man?! I won’t do it. I won’t allow it!”

“Oh! So now you are leader, then?” Marian struck back. “Been talking behind my back and wanting to run ahead this whole time!”

“I never said I was the leader,” Esther retorted. “But maybe I should be if you can’t make an obvious decision like not trusting someone as creepy as the Top-Hat Man.”

“Maybe we should go home,” Herbert suggested quietly. He hated seeing his sisters fight, but more than that wanted to get away from any chance of the Top-Hat Man mentioning his secret again.

“Shet up, Herbie,” Aaron said. “We-all knows ye’ns lion bout summen.” Herbert looked down. “‘sides, it ain’t lak we-all’d finds ourn away back through them there hills anyways. Face it—we lost out hyar. And this here old canker might be right. Ain’t no other choice anyways.”

Marian and Esther stared at one another ferociously, but Aaron’s logic won the bout. Marian glanced down at the ground and shook her head in frustration. “I just don’t see another way.”

Esther felt the wind knock out of her at the words. “No,” she pleaded.

“Mr. Tower,” Marian relented, “lead the way.”

“With pleasure, children,” he replied.

“There—” Marian turned to Esther. “I made a decision.”

Mr. Dauer dug his cane into the wet earth and turned on his heels. He led the four along the northeast path to the cavern mouth. As they passed into it, Marian had a terrible gut feeling that she’d made a horrible mistake.

The passage into the mountain was a small, roundish, and gray slate stone opening. When they entered under the dripping moss, it surprised them to see a vast chamber dug out from the mountainside; stalactites, stalagmites, and pillars of limestone as far as the eye could see on the dim little light from Mr. Dauer’s cane-top; light bounced off the glistening rock and shimmered on shallow pools of water. Under different circumstances, the children would have stopped in awe of its undeniable beauty; shimmering gypsum, powdery dolomites, and wet, rough limestone crowning every edge, corner, turn and chimney; chirping bats and smacking droplets; endless caverns and deepening chambers. But its beauty was lost on them as they uneasily followed the decrepit Mr. Dauer and listened to his bones creak and groan as he walked ahead down the slippery, wet stone floor; it sounded like wood dragged across a pile of dried rice.

Aaron flicked on his headlamp and illuminated the tunnel, which seemed to displease Mr. Dauer.

“By juckies! It’s colder’n a banker’s heart down here,” exclaimed Aaron.

The group continued on a downward slope, while Aaron’s light danced all over the walls, floor and their faces.

“I don’t like it either, Ess,” Herbert whispered to his sister in the rear of the party. “But what other choice do we have?”

Esther stared at her boots, nearly indiscernible in the dark. They lifted one slow step at a time and splashed down into wet puddles. On and on they trudged, and soon she couldn’t discern if there was even a path, what was merely more rocks and walls, or where they had been. Any sense of direction had disappeared long ago.

I can’t believe she wouldn’t listen to me, she thought. Her mind was reeling and racing. This is why I should have been leading all along. And this isn’t going to end well for any of us. If I was bigger, I’d show all of them—and they would listen more. Just like those stupid girls at school. “You’re not cool.” I don’t need to be “cool”. Maybe because I’m the only one who knows what she’s doing. Ever think of that, Marian? No, you don’t! Oh, God—where are we going now? And following this nasty old man instead of Balaam. Why did he leave us? He could have stayed with me at least. He could have told me what to do. I’d be better than Marian. She blurted out loud, “Why did Balaam leave us?”

“Maybe he knew he wasn’t the best helper on our journey,” Herbert offered. “He did complain a lot about the mud and hiking and everything so far.”

It surprised Esther that she had asked her question out loud. “That’s not the point,” she replied.

Herbert sighed. “Well, maybe the Top-Hat Man is helping us.” Herbert didn’t believe this for a second, but he trusted Marian, and wanted to make Esther feel better.

“What did he mean about the cougar figurine, Herb? This isn’t the first time he mentioned you were hiding something.”

Herbert clenched his jaw and shook his head. “It’s nothing, Ess. I don’t know. He’s crazy and old.”

“Herbert.”

The two stopped walking. They were deep underground now, far from sunlight, breeze, and fresh air; their path seemed as invisible as their plan, an aimless wandering hike through black, abysmal darkness. Water dripped from the ceiling onto their heads.

Herbert sighed. Tears glistened on the edges of his eyes. “Ess,” he began. “I—”

“Where did he go?” Marian shouted from down the cavern. Esther and Herbert looked up; the others were quite a distance from them. They ran carefully across the darkness and slippery rocks to Marian and Aaron.

“The ol’ canker’s gone!” Aaron confirmed, his light dancing all about in spastic motion.

“What do you mean?” Esther asked as she reached them.

“He was right here one second and then—POOF!” Marian exclaimed. “Nothing but a cloud of dust.”

“Lookie hair!” Aaron pointed at the watery ground; a puddle of hot, yellow wax was glistening on the wet surface.

“Guys,” Herbert said. The others looked at him. His face was pale, eyes wide, and he was staring with one arm up, pointing beyond them through outstretched stalactites. His hand shook as he whispered, “Who is that?”
Riddles on the Bridge

Riddles on the Bridge
Chapter 11

Esther shouted for the group, but they were too far behind to hear. Rocks and pebbles crowned the edges of the violent river, Weeper’s Run, while Volkswagen-sized boulders popped up, here and there, and weaved the river’s white rapids every which way, shrouding the vicious black water in mystery.

Esther watched a branch fall from an oak tree and land in the water; it was sucked under and bobbed up fifteen feet away before it crashed into three separate boulders and tangled into a small dam. Her heart thumped wildly as she imagined the thought of fording the intense river. But her fear was vanquished when she saw twenty feet north, a rickety, makeshift bridge of discarded lumber that crossed along the tops of brilliant gold and white boulders to the opposite side. She recalled it was the type of stone that Aaron kept describing during the ascent. “Soapstone,” she said to herself.

Wrestling the overhanging saplings, she made her way along the bank until she stood at the edge of the first rickety beam and gazed across the bridge.

“That’d be a nasty dip for a little girl to take alone in the forest,” a voice said.

She jumped round, startled and afraid, to see a man hidden back among the trees, whom she immediately recognized as the man she’d seen around town watching her family; the thin, pale man with black top-hat, crocodile-and-snake-skinned shoes, and an elegant cane supporting his decrepit figure. His top-hat shaded his eyes; nonetheless, she felt their cold hard stare piercing through her.

“What are you doing here?” she asked. Esther never greeted people angrily, and she rarely spoke as such to her elders, but something about the Top-Hat Man brought out the most spiteful voice she could muster; though to be honest, it still sounded rather sweet.

“Oh hello, Esther,” replied Mr. Dauer. He lifted his hand to shake hers. She didn’t want to take it for two reasons. One: she didn’t trust the Top-Hat Man and being so close to the edge of the river frightened her, and two: his hand was covered in dust and dirt and looked icky.

“How do you know my name?” She asked.

“My name is Mr. Dauer; and I know lots of things, Esther Dolor,” said the Top-Hat Man. “I know the names of these trees and the birth of this river; I know the birds in the air since the day they first shivered; I go whence-ever I please, up that mountain, or down this valley. I came from this forest, you see, but there’s no more time to dally.” He swung his free hand through the air, pointing at all that he sang about, and looked up to the canopy careening over the river. “It’s nice to be home.”

Something strange happened to Mr. Dauer. A chill or spasm went down his spine and his head jerked to the side wildly; it looked painful, and for a moment, Esther felt bad for him.

“You came out of the gate when I opened it?” Esther asked.

“No, quite the opposite.” He removed the cork protruding from his right ear. “In fact, I should thank you for opening the gate and letting me back in.”

“Well, I didn’t mean to do that,” said Esther smugly.

“And yet, you did, didn’t you?” Mr. Dauer tilted his head to let a dollop of wax and oil drip from the ear to the ground. “Opening the gate; convincing your sister to enter it; and finding the bridge across the Weeper’s Run! Why do you even need your brother and sister?” He tapped his cane on the wooden plank between her legs.

Goosebumps lifted the hair on Esther’s neck and arms. “They do good things, too,” Esther replied. “We are a team.”

“Marian couldn’t even take a proper photo of a unicorn,” Mr. Dauer mused. “My goodness, a once in a lifetime opportunity like that, wasted.”

Esther furrowed her brow; she almost said something, but Mr. Dauer wouldn’t give space.

“Oh, I suppose she brought a sandwich for you.” Mr. Dauer put the cork back in. “So she’s as good as a lunch-lady. And Herbert—well, Herbert doesn’t do a darned thing, does he?”

“I love my little brother. He’s sweet and brave.”

Mr. Dauer drummed his cane with his crooked fingers before tapping it on the plank again. “You know, Esther, soon enough you will learn you are very fast all on your own, and then you won’t have to sit around, waiting for others to catch up—that Marian who is always distracted by her emotions, and that Herbert who is always afraid and…hiding something.”

Esther’s thoughts felt cloudy and unsure; she tried to shake them from her head, but found herself staring catatonically into the rushing water below and lost the sense of time. Where was she again, and how long had she been dreaming? It was a glorious dream about a talking Donkey and a funny looking Ghost; there were magnificent unicorns and spooky Bigfoot creatures. But somehow it all grew dark and horrifying; her Dad was in trouble. A vampire that could change him forever if she didn’t act quick enough. She had to get back to Dad! Oh, but Dad wouldn’t listen! Oh, God, what was coming next? Some sort of stiff, hideous Monster like Frankenstein with arms reaching out for her. Was it her father? Was it someone to help—Oh, how could anyone help? But the glory of this forest remained. Maybe if she didn’t leave, maybe is she stayed here forever all would be well! The next coherent moment, she heard voices from behind her and realized that Mr. Dauer had disappeared.

“I tell you, I always hated crossing mud.” Balaam’s rusty voice came through the forest. “It gets in your horseshoes and takes weeks to get out.”

Esther smiled and waved her hands in the air. “Over here! Come quick!”

“Whoa!” Herbert’s amazed eyes ran down the wild river bank as the group found their way up to where Esther stood. They stopped at the largest boulder nearest the bridge, and busied themselves brushing the cuffs of their pants and hooves. Herbert removed his shoes and squeezed the soggy brown water from his socks.

“About time you showed up.” Esther crossed her arms, leaned against a young red cedar and smiled proudly.

“Wadn’t our doin,” Aaron whined. “This dummern heck Donkey don’t do nothing but drag ‘is hooves and whan.”

“I beg your pardon, sir Aaron,” Balaam quipped. “My name is Balaam, I have hooves, and your slippery, sinking sneakers are the cause of our delay.”

Esther giggled when she looked down at Aaron’s white sneakers covered in filth. Huffing and puffing, Aaron balanced on one while attempting to wipe the other in the air; which gave him the look of an ungainly flamingo forgetting how to balance. The group laughed when he finally fell over onto his backside; but not in a mean way; rather, like all jokes should be expended, with delight and selfless behavior. After a good laugh, and Aaron finished cleaning his shoes, Balaam interjected, “Now then, where are we going?”

“Where indeed!” An unfamiliar, spry voice cried out from above.

The children looked across the makeshift bridge to see a bright red fox wearing a pair of trousers, button-down dress shirt, and a red pocket-handkerchief, sitting with his legs crossed on a red and orange boulder; his eyes were peering from underneath a wool bycocket and playfully dancing from child to child.

“A talking fox!” Herbert couldn’t contain his delight and grinned while he beat his socks into the side of the plank.

“Where did you come from?” Esther asked.

“The forest,” replied the fox, wryly. “The name’s Pascal, and this is ma’ home.” He leapt off the boulder to the bridge and landed on his rear legs like a human; reaching in to his pocket, he presented a pipe.

“Hello, Pascal,” Marian replied. She introduced the group while Pascal stuffed tobacco in his pipe and lit a match. He fascinated the children with his whimsical mannerisms and cocksure behavior, but Balaam remained unamused. “Never much liked foxes,” he muttered.

“If you were nearby, you must’ve seen the Top-Hat Man,” Esther blurted out.

“Top-Hat Man?” Aaron asked and glanced at Herbert, who looked up from his socks like he heard a curse word.

“Yes,” Esther confirmed. “He was just here speaking to me, and then he vanished. Herb knows who I’m talking about. We saw him around town. Right, Herb?”

Herbert nodded.

“Yeah, I don’t know if I know anything about all that yet, dearie,” Pascal replied, and puffed his pipe. “What I do know is the bridge belongs to me, and no bunch of kids and their half-witted Donkey is getting through the Forest without passing the Queen’s riddles.”

Esther’s eyes widened. “There’s a Queen of the Enchanted Forest?”

“Oh, the greatest Queen anyone has ever known,” Pascal replied. “Alas, she is gone. And I don’t know if anyone will ever see her again. But I stand by her rule and governing.”

“You seem like a very noble fox, Pascal,” Marian said.

“Eh—noble? No, not me—well, at least not ’til very recent, like. I used to walk on the walls and try to break ‘em down. I’d tell false stories and tricks…” Pascal spat on the ground and turned his pipe upside down. The used tobacco dumped into the river. “But I don’t do those sorts anymore.”

“I ain’t buyin’ it,” Aaron said. “Foxes’re ah-ways up to summin. I reckon this here a-riddle thang is a trick, twos.”

“Only one way to find out, Freckles, cos you ain’t getting by the bridge without three answers.”

The children huddled together, while Pascal leaped onto a boulder on the opposite side of the bridge, and resumed his leisure. The girls didn’t see a problem with answering a few questions, but Aaron warned them. “That there’s jist how all this sorta thang starts with abody like hem,” he said. “Hem get you-all thinking and unawares, and sunly you bean robbed and lef fer dead as four o’ clock. Happen all a-time. We-all a-need to keep up our wits and aready to fight hem.”

“Fight him?” Marian asked.

“With what?” Esther added.

“Our fists, a’course!” Aaron answered.

“Why wouldn’t he attack us before we noticed him?” Herbert asked. He looked over Esther’s shoulder and saw Pascal the Fox laying on his back, tossing a small stone into the air. “I like him. He’s got a funny hat like Robin Hood and talks nice.”

“Robin Hood is a thief, ye’n—” (Aaron was going to say “dummy”, but stopped himself short.) “Who do you-all athink Robin Hood robbed from? People whacking afoot in the woods!”

“We can’t fight him,” Marian said matter-of-factly. “There’s just no option for it. We have nothing but a talking Donkey on our side.”

“Who has a name,” Balaam reminded.

“Sorry,” Marian corrected herself. “We have nothing but Balaam with us.”

The Donkey smiled proudly.

The children glanced knowingly at one another and then over their shoulders to Pascal; he was eating a piece of cheese, but quickly stuffed it in his pocket when he noticed all of them staring at him. “Ready for some riddles, kids?” He shouted and grinned at them.

“I think working together and answering them is our only good option,” Balaam declared.

The group followed Marian to the start of the rickety boards while Pascal dropped down to meet them.

“Alright, Pascal,” said Marian. “We don’t quite understand what’s going on, but we need to get through to find Atagahi. What are the riddles?”

Pascal bowed before them, removing his bycocket with grace. He recited:

“I’m always ready, while not, though,
I’m too fast, but I’m too slow;
You think you need me, but it’s not so
Once you found me, now I go.”

“‘Unce you-all afound me, nows I go’.” Aaron recited quietly in thought.

“Poppy-cock and nonsense,” Balaam complained.

“Write it down and let me see,” Marian said. “I’m not very good at things read aloud.”

“I’ve got one!” Herbert raised his hand. “It’s a race. Hares and tortoises. Going fast and slow. No—that’s nothing.”

“Kep an eye on yer pockets, fellers,” Aaron warned.

“Let me write it down for you, Marian,” Balaam said, and dragged his hoof in the dirt.

“Esther, you’re the good one at this,” Marian said. “Any ideas?”

“Clocks…” Esther whispered to herself. “Clocks that leave when you find them—It’s time!” She shouted. “Is it time?”

“Very good, dearie,” Pascal said, and smiled grandly at her. “Only two more to go and Freckles will be rid of me.” He winked at Aaron.

“Give it to us!” Marian cheered. “We’re ready.”

Pascal the Fox continued:

“What strengthens and tears down,
Always produces and destroys?
What’s a cause and an effect,
And births young girls and young boys?”

“This one’s weird,” Herbert said.

“It equals is-self out,” Aaron added. “Produces and ‘stroys. Ain’t nothing a-can’t do both.”

Esther thought quietly; she desperately wanted to get it first again.

“It’s time again,” Marian said. “Right?”

“No, is worser than all that,” Aaron responded. “Vi’lence and Anger, or summin.”

“Moms and Dads?” Esther whispered. “What else produces young girls and boys?”

“If I may,” Balaam interrupted. “Begging your pardon, Pascal.” Here, he addressed the Fox on the bridge. “Are Talking Animals allowed to partake in this gesture?”

“What kind of person would I be if I didn’t allow such a thing?” Pascal answered.

Balaam looked at the children. “Then the answer is simple,” said he. “Though I suppose it doesn’t make it any less difficult. But I’ve felt my fair share of this in the many more years that I’ve had than you. And one thing I know is that it is something that both greatly hurts and strengthens, develops, and ends all things. And all mothers know the joy and presence of it in childbirth. The answer is: pain.”

“Very good, my Sho-gwili friend,” Pascal congratulated.

The children cheered; Aaron and Herbert patted Balaam on the back; Marian and Esther kissed his neck; Balaam appeared taller and prouder than ever in his life.

“I suppose that only leaves one last riddle for you, kids,” said Pascal. “If birds have nests and foxes have holes, what do four little children in an enchanted forest have?”

The company thought silently.

“That ain’t a riddle!” Aaron critiqued. “S’just a question with ain’t no real answer!”

“That may be,” Pascal replied. “But I didn’t write the riddle, and neither did you answer it.”

No one said a word. They each in their own way grew flustered, sitting down on the pebbles at the edge of the river.

“What do we got?” Marian asked.

“A biddy-peckin’ Donkey,” quipped Aaron.

“Back to nothing but a Donkey,” moaned Balaam.

Aaron smirked at him. “Jist pullin’ yer hoof, Balaam.”

Marian tapped her lips; Esther wiggled her nose back and forth; Aaron drew his fingers in the sand; Herbert drummed his knee; and Balaam stamped in the mud. Marian thought about giving up and pleading with the Fox when Herbert slapped his knee and jumped up.

“Each other!” Herbert shouted at the Fox. “We’ve got each other!”

Pascal smiled at him. “I’ve always appreciated your spunk, kid.”

“Wait,” Esther said, with her hands outstretched. “That’s actually the answer?”

“And one I hope you won’t soon forget, dearie,” Pascal replied. “I also hope the rest of your journey is as easy and pleasant. Though, to be honest, I have it under good authority that it won’t be. However, if you recall the things I taught you, that good authority also believes you will do much better than you could without it.” Pascal removed his hat again and bowed low to the ground. “Children, it’s always a pleasure. I hope to see you again sometime. Though I don’t think I’ll remember when I do.”

The children watched Pascal leap to the branch of an oak, run the length of it, dive into an elm, and bounce off a persimmon into a magnificent maple; before long, he was a blurry shadow of red and brown in the canopy, and then, gone.

“I like him,” said Herbert, and grinned. “He talks funny.”
I See a Bride

I see a Church ashamed of her Husband and the strength He holds. It is something she does not want her friends to know of.

She desires her parties, decadence, lavish living, and mild gossip. But when He comes home, she rushes her friends out of the house, because He does not look like the image she hoped for; she expects different from Him.

She’s been let down by His approach too many times; now when says she wants to see Him, she is only lying. She gives pictures of Him to her friends, but they aren’t Him at all. They are morphed photos of some other time.

All He wants is to love her, but she won’t let Him.

She’s too busy entertaining.

I see a Church on her knees in her entertaining parlor; she is desperate and ashamed.
I see tears and heartache and bitter repentance; she does not think He is good enough to forgive her again. She has played the part of Daisy and abandoned Gatzby.

But He is greater than any love she can imagine. He lifts her head and takes her back.

I see them moving to the countryside in search of a smaller cottage: one where they can live simply, below their means, and intimate again. In this house, they will know each other. Here they will make love again.

And when guests visit, they cannot hide behind anonymity or phoney party tricks; they shall see and be seen.

I see a Groom full of strength, power, honesty, and grit; I see His bride beside Him, proud and honored to be His.

She no longer entertains, but merely lives intimately with her Groom. He is enough, and She is alive.

I woke this morning early, and on my front steps, this vision came quick, full and powerful. I fell to my knees and tears crested my eyes. This was the image, and I cried for Her.

At church, as I spoke, the Holy Spirit brought the image again, and as my lips formed the words, it was hard to breathe, much less speak. Here she is. And I beg and plead, she falls to her knees in humility and cries out again for her First Love.

August 18th, 2024
Ichabod

I recognize I have not written much this year. My spirit rails against me, back and forth, on whether to open my mouth or keep it shut. I am desperate often to speak, teach, and admonish. But I wrestle with the notion inside of whether the Lord is bidding me, or my fleshly desire merely wants it. And sometimes, I come against the demonic proposition that others may interpret it as the latter. People claim I am mad. But when I hear the Lord I stop and listen.

I do not fear man, but the Lord.

Nonetheless, I am silent often this year; and desperate to listen to the Lord for a word He has; given for a specific individual. And when He speaks, I deliver it, sometimes in spite of my own fear or consternation. This morning, He spoke so loudly, that I must open my mouth again in a wider format, thus, this message.

In my waking sleep, I saw my wife standing beside my bed and in the dark. She said, “Shouldn’t you be up to hear the Word of the Lord?”

I opened my eyes and she was not there; my wife still lay in bed next to me sound asleep.

I was reluctant to wake, as I was still very tired; but I could not shake the notion that the Lord spoke to me directly. “Speak, your servant is listening,” I cried, and woke to accomplish my duties on the farm.

Our new bull is below health right now. Therefore, he was quarantined last night. As I administered his daily vitamins this morning, the ticks were falling off of him like ashes; they were as fat and round as marbles. They squished under my thumb like grapes.

And this is what He showed me:

The old generation that honored the Lord has grown tired and weak like Eli. The generation that followed–the one in leadership now–is rebellious and arrogant. They steal the fat from the sacrifice before it has been boiled; they sacrifice that which costs them nothing. Priests act as though they are kings; they do not serve, they are not compassionate, they do not sacrifice.

But, oh how terrible! Ichabod is coming. Behold, it is on the horizon, and my heart aches for them; I fall to my knees and beg for them to repent. But they will ride into battle with the presence of the Lord, but It is not with them; for their hearts are prideful, and they have not sacrificed. By their habits, they have made men abhor the gift of God. By their habits, the glory of God has left them.

And this generation will be slaughtered. God, help them. Their wives will cry Ichabod!

But the glory of God has not left this place. It has only left them. The glory is upon the child that serves and listens. The glory of God is upon the one who serves and listens.

Oh, how terrible and how great!

The ticks are falling off; they are trampled under foot. The ones that feed like parasites on the blood are dying.

Praise the Lord for He is faithful. Cry out for those who are sacrificing nothing yet parade with their tall phylacteries like they are. Serve and listen.

This is the message from the one who has the sevenfold Spirit of God and the seven stars:

“I know all the things you do, and that you have a reputation for being alive—but you are dead. Wake up! Strengthen what little remains, for even what is left is almost dead. I find that your actions do not meet the requirements of my God. Go back to what you heard and believed at first; hold to it firmly. Repent and turn to me again. If you don’t wake up, I will come to you suddenly, as unexpected as a thief.

“Yet there are some in the church in Sardis who have not soiled their clothes with evil. They will walk with me in white, for they are worthy. All who are victorious will be clothed in white. I will never erase their names from the Book of Life, but I will announce before my Father and his angels that they are mine.

“Anyone with ears to hear must listen to the Spirit and understand what he is saying to the churches.“

This is the message from the one who is the Amen—the faithful and true witness, the beginning of God’s new creation:

“I know all the things you do, that you are neither hot nor cold. I wish that you were one or the other! But since you are like lukewarm water, neither hot nor cold, I will spit you out of my mouth! You say, ‘I am rich. I have everything I want. I don’t need a thing!’ And you don’t realize that you are wretched and miserable and poor and blind and naked. So I advise you to buy gold from me—gold that has been purified by fire. Then you will be rich. Also buy white garments from me so you will not be shamed by your nakedness, and ointment for your eyes so you will be able to see.I correct and discipline everyone I love. So be diligent and turn from your indifference.

“Look! I stand at the door and knock. If you hear my voice and open the door, I will come in, and we will share a meal together as friends. Those who are victorious will sit with me on my throne, just as I was victorious and sat with my Father on his throne.

“Anyone with ears to hear must listen to the Spirit and understand what he is saying to the churches.”

Revelation 3:1-6;14-22
Now is the Time

Thursday, on the way to Rogersville, I was especially perturbed in my spirit. And refusing to believe it was anything unremarkable, I decided in the moment to fast for three days. My daughters, upon hearing my decision, committed to fasting with me. Over the following three mornings I wrote the following message, which I believe it poignant and necessary.

The world will appear darker and darker;
and in that darkness, the light will shine.
Brighter and brighter will the Church stand.
Authentic and true;
Real and caring.

The Church will leave the “Mega” to find the small and true.
They will sacrifice a flashy concise message,
for the sake of knowing their pastor cares about them.
And the “Mega” will become a place for unbelievers to hear the name of Jesus.
In it, “pastors” of these churches will need to be wary not to become celebrities and idols,
which the unbeliever seeks.
By doing so, these “pastors” will become susceptible to the Devil’s snare.
Sin will follow.
Strike the “shepherd”, the “sheep” will scatter.
But these are neither shepherd nor sheep; it is celebrity and pagan.
Jesus’ name is a means to an end to them.
Nonetheless, Christ’s name is spoken and He will not let it return void.
Many will hear the Name and turn from sin.
They will turn from fame and idolatry,
and seek the humble Carpenter whom sits on the throne.
In His place, at the right hand of God.

These so-called “small” churches are fiery and resilient;
they do not scoff at small beginnings, nor loathe the mundane tasks.
They prove true and faithful, and Christ will not abandon them.
As the world becomes dark, they shine bright,
and Christ will set them upon the head of the wicked.
There is always a remnant, and it is strong.

Do not be afraid, Church;
Your King is coming.
Like the rain soaks the soil, and the sun feeds the seed,
the plant will sprout.
Its root will drive deep and its branches will reach far.
The Shallow will be uprooted,
but the deep shall send forth.
Hope does not disappoint.

Soon and very soon, will we see what we have sought.
Soon will we laugh in mercy.
The righteous shall reap what the wicked have stored up.
And the wicked shall proclaim that Christ is Lord.

Land made for evil will be given to the righteous.
Where the Liar has made his bed; he will lose it.
Those demons of fear that seek to confuse and titillate will flee.
And the sons of men, whom seek titillation, will not find it here;
The demons have all fled.
Businesses and land that thrive on fear and lust,
will no longer profit;
for their demons have all fled, and the King has come.
Doors will close, and beggars made—
but the righteous will inherit what the wicked have sown.

Great is His faithfulness;
Magnificent is His name.
The Tower of Babel will topple under confusion and deception;
A kingdom divided against itself.
But the Disciple of Christ will stand forever.
Hope does not disappoint.

This is the season of fruit and harvest.
Look at the field, they are ripe!
Move Church!
Believe again!
Proclaim the good works of Christ!
Stand on His authority!
Take back what the Enemy stole!
For God is with you, and who can ever be against you?

I dreamt last night that I was at a Sahara Experience amusement park. I paid to get in, but there weren’t any proper signage to find my way. I drove my vehicle the wrong way and nearly drove into the enclosure where animals roam free and only large vehicles are permitted. A lion attacked an antelope and tore its legs off as a gatekeeper hollered at me to turn back. There was no gate to keep the animals inside; only a turn and a tower.

Turning back, I asked an officiant where to go. He pointed in a vague direction and told me to “look for the white line” on my way to the Lounge. I found no white line; but I found the Lounge.

Inside were many people, and one was an elderly History teacher who sprang up a conversation with me. Every Monday evening, she listened to a reporter give her insight on the electoral primaries; and each week the History teacher grew more and more worried.

Well, by speaking to me, she learned that I, and several others that I knew, were unconcerned with such matters and especially had no idea what she was even talking about; this led her to belittle me. But this did not concern me either.

I asked her questions about what the possible outcome of our future could be, and if the worse things occurred, what change would that put upon her life? If civil war were to break out, or nuclear bombs fall on Florida and destroy it completely, what would that change in her specific life? Wouldn’t all of those things only expedite the coming of our Lord and our day in Heaven?

I explained that my attitude was not one of apathy or indifference, but instead, was rooted in the understanding that I have little impact on any outcome, and my worry surely does nothing at all. If all becomes a wasteland, and those of us who survive must live off of the land—well, then I am already doing that. Or if it’s civil war that comes next, then so be it. But Christ will still reign and I will always be free. Worry cannot add a cubit—a millimeter—to my stature.

Furthermore, I explained, information should only be a means for what to assert our authority upon. But if I am gaining information to merely become more worried—then it is controlling me, instead of the other way around. And any and all News outlets, regardless of how nice the person seems, is feeding off the listener’s fear and making money off their worry. Remove yourself from them and pray.

The elderly historian did not like what I had to say. She faded into mulch when the bombs fell.

The reason for such great fear, unease, and tension in our country,
is that we have trained ourselves to be in control of everything;
In the palm of our hand lies our phone—“the power of a god”.
With it we can know all things, be all things, see all things,
and speak to anyone anywhere at all times.
We have consumed ourselves with power and pleasure, like the Greeks.
And like the Greeks, philosophy has become a pastime;
rather than a discovery of truth.
By it, we have allowed truth to evolve into something else whenever we want;
after all, we are god and we hold all power.
The rise of the “non” is evidence of this;
a generation which doesn’t necessarily disbelieve in God or Heaven
—they just don’t care.
And why should they, when we have prescribed an idea that truth and identity are fluid?
Why attach oneself to an ideal or belief or morale (indeed “fluid morality” is the future),
when tomorrow it may change altogether?
What is the standard of psychology or philosophy now?
Without truth to brace against, we are clouds, coming and going on the wind.
Morale will be sacrificed more;
and with its departure, death will come.
Pride will be the destruction of us.

But those who lower themselves;
who cry for the Name of God;
who repent humbly;
who give up their deity (as Christ gave up His and took up the cross)
—these shall be saved.
The meadows will turn green for them, and there will be a great harvest.
Dark will grow darker;
Light will shine brighter.
But this is not the end.

Fear is attempting to destroy the Believer’s faith and cripple a nation.
Shut your ears to fear, O People.
Open your hearts to Christ;
Take up your authority, O Church.
You have whined, wallowed, and sorrowed in your filth for long enough.
Heaven beckons you to stand up for truth,
and fall to your knees in prayer.
Proclaim the good works of Christ again.
Shout from your porch the glory of God!
Seek out the blind and beggar and pray for them.
Curse the works of the Devil,
and take back the land that belongs to the Lord.

And when taking it,
wrap your arms around the violent and afraid—
those whom the Devil has bewitched.=
Pray for them, love them, help them find truth;
give them food, jobs, and rest!
This world needs you to stop talking about your beliefs and use them.
God’s Children need you to stop whining about your entitlement, pain, and lost control.
Take up your cross and save someone!

Church, your Father loves you;
your Saviour holds you;
your Husband longs for you.
Be happy and rejoice;
you have been set free for freedom’s sake.

Holy is the Lord, God Almighty;
Who was and is and is to come.
The sun shines on a cool morning,
and its warmth is alien to this barren land.
But it shine in glorious splendor,
and nothing can hide in its shadow.
Only the Shadow of the Almighty is true.
All other shadows whither and die;
they are not comforts.

Appeasement;
Ideas;
Creativity;
Comfortability;
Complacency;
Contentedness;
They are false gods.
Only the true King Jesus is life and prosperity;
Only through Him do these others exist.

He is not merely the Beginning—
long ago forgotten;
in which all days hence are for us to discover our “right” path.
He is not merely the End—
in which we hope, one day all we do “won’t even matter”;
and until then we lazily wait for the coming of the Lord.
But He is the Beginning and the End—
in which our lives hinge;
understanding that everything matters and nothing matters—
We must make every prayer count,
every syllable holy and powerful.
What we mean to die, we must kill with our words;
What we mean to restore, we must bring back to life with our words.
And contrarily, none of our being matters—
He is King, and we are subject to His will.
Whatever He wants will be done.

Seek the King of kings, and not merely His works.
Many want to follow the message of Jesus,
but few want to follow the Saviour Himself.
Sell everything you have and follow Him,
and you will see the Hand of God move.

Unbelief has become an idol to the Church;
a desire to “make sense” out of faith.
Balancing faith and unbelief to make Christ’s message easier to swallow for the world
—it is “relatable”;
This is sin.

Christ’s message is not relatable;
it is foolishness to the world,
until the Holy Spirit opens the eyes of one’s understanding.
By carefully expressing the message of Jesus,
we have inadvertently made our faith safe.
And safe faith is not faith at all!
What is a man of faith if he does not have faith?
We cannot balance faith and unbelief, and call ourselves Christ’s.
Christ; the One whose loving arms outstretched and died for us.

The darkness will grow darker;
The light will shine brighter.

Rejoice for His promises are always fulfilled;
and His works are always evident around us.
Get your eyes off of your idolatry and look at what He has created for you.
Gratitude produces worship and liberty;
Complaining uplifts Hell in your life.

In due season, the King shall come.
Look! He is already here.
Now is the time for harvest.
Consider the songbird;
She waits all winter for food and purpose.
But when the spring comes,
she sings and prepares her nest.
She is relentless in worship and preparation.

Now is the time!
This Place Called Earth is Not Our Home!

I am pleased to announce the release of my third full-length album. In many ways, this space opera worship album has been developing in my mind for the last year. But all of it was suddenly made alive when our dear friend Sarah Hollis visited from Florida in January of this year. During the week’s visit, the two of us found ourselves in my studio discovering chord progressions and recording her piano’d movements. Sarah has a quality in her songwriting that is immensely pure and authentic. From the first time I saw her play, over a decade ago, I could see the beginnings of raw, perfect talent. Like her personality, her music is different, daring, and violent—though hidden under a soft exterior; when one hears her create, they feel those things come out. I am grateful that her compositions find a way to align with my own, yet differ enough, with ideas I never would have discovered myself. In the brief moment of composition, my music-soul came alive, and I was hard pressed to stop myself for several weeks from vomiting menagerie ideas I had compounded in the months prior.

My first album was a cathartic experience, full of anger, betrayal and hurt; the second, a fearful attempt to trust Jesus in the wilderness. At its heart, this third piece is a worship album; It is what I’ve had in my soul all along, yet couldn’t express until now. I knew that space would be the major theme throughout it; a place that consumes the majority of our universe, yet we know little of, misunderstand most of what we know, and have nearly naught capability of discovering its vastness. But the heavens declare God’s glory, and we have uncovered that the planets and stars are rejoicing in melody, and theirs together make a strange and foreign song. My attempt was to portray, through human weakness, an image of that beautiful madness.

I knew that this time around I would resort to covering worship songs, unlike previous albums. This, to me, was a necessity. For one, to honor the beautiful songwriting of generations before me, and secondly, because these songs specifically have taken me to the heavens several times before. Martin Smith’s “Come Holy Spirit” is a perfect example of raw, emotional words and melody that emulate what the angels must be singing in the third heaven. “Our Father”, made widely known by Bethel Church, continues this theme, though for me personally, has taken my imagination into other worlds, drawn by the Holy Spirit, and ripped from comfort and accessibility. Bien is a rich and talented band out of Nashville that has blessed me for the past few years; their song “Happy to be Alive” is exactly what the world needs right now—a jovial reminder that we are alive in Christ and that is a happy thing. Their song in my album is very specific to follow Perelandra, which to this day remains my favorite book ever written, full of hope, joy, beauty, terror, love, and redemption. Finally, I wanted to incorporate “To Him Who Sits on the Throne” because of its history in the church and, specifically, my life. A song that I sang as a boy playing in the garage or backyard; to this day I keep safe a small piece of shriveled, worn and yellowed parchment of the chord chart scribbled down by my father’s hand before he played it on cornet in the church band with Ray Goolsby leading.

My fascination with space has always been at the underbelly of my upbringing with a father that worked on rockets at Cape Canaveral for three decades. But my baptism into its fascination was, and forever will be, stirred on by C.S. Lewis’ Space Trilogy. I could not tolerate the thought of composing themes of space without incorporating Lewis’ story of Ransom and the Field of Arbol. Therefore, every ounce of this album is riddled by it; Malacandra, Perelandra, our Silent Planet; even Oyarsa and Glundandra (Jupiter’s Song)—a piece that I attempted to incorporate the violent reverberation of Jupiter’s bombastic melody under a song of glory to God.

It is one thing to express oneself’s worship and admiration to God—something that is holy and reverent regardless of the outcome, as long as it is honest and passionate. It is entirely different, and terrifying in its own right, to attempt the expression of another man’s great work; one of which I hold so esteemed. But the future is not for the fainthearted; it is for the brave.

To tell the tales I wanted to share, I knew my wife Carlia must take front and center on the microphone. Her voice’s ability to express power and vulnerability is unmatched. There wasn’t room for error in my mind, and though I love singing with all my heart, I knew that it would fail to capture what was paramount to me. For that, I am grateful to the Lord for giving me a bride with as much talent and humility as my wife; a woman that has decades of experience, training and talent behind her, yet can take the simplest suggestion with gracious aplomb and bloom it into a glorious treasure.

Therefore, after all of this, these wild and bizarre compositions, I am pleased and dedicated to releasing, in hopes that any and but one could find hope, joy, laughter, sorrow, and praise to the God of our universe and His heavenly realm.

This Place Called Earth is Not our Home. We are but renters and stewards of a land that has been pushing us from its womb since the day of our conception. Far into the heavens we must go; and nothing else matters but that journey onward across stars and galaxies into the Creator’s arms.

Releasing March 26th, 2024. Preorder available at https://distrokid.com/hyperfollow/keithgalderman/this-place-called-earth-is-not-our-home-2

The End

This is not the End;
  It's just the end of ourselves.
God will preserve,
  and rescue the needy.
"My children cry My name, and I hear them,"
  says the Lord.
Those who have put up in their hearts like little gods;
  they have defiled the sacred places,
  and ruined the sacred things.
But this isn't the End;
  It's just the end of ourselves.

Ascent and Descent

Ascent and Descent
Chapter 10

“Be always sure that you are right, then go ahead.”

Marian jerked from her sleep and sat upright in bed. The voice was as clear as if her own father had whispered in her ear; a rich, resonating voice full of color and warmth, like oak leaves and smooth coffee. It had disrupted her breathing to an irregular stutter.

She inhaled deep and exhaled sternly, scanning the dark room, but there weren’t any sign of its speaker. It did not frighten her, though, for the voice soothed rather than startled. Looking out the window, she saw the sun had not dawned. The ticking clock over her doorframe was indiscernible; she aimed her flash-light (the one she kept for late-night reading) at its face. 5:23 A.M.

She wanted to sleep, but her heart was beating too feverishly. She threw her legs over the edge of the bunkbed and jumped to the ground. Fumbling through the dark, she found the desk and chair and flicked her lamp on.

Esther looked like a clown, fast asleep, sprawled out with face at the foot of the bed, and one arm draped off the side. Marian pulled a Bible picture-book from her drawer and opened to the story of Abraham. Minutes passed until Esther’s watch alarmed them it was 6:00 A.M.

Thirty minutes later, the Dolor children stepped off the front porch carrying with them what they thought they needed most on their unknown adventure. Marian carried a backpack full of snacks and water-bottles. Herbert had stuffed his Gerber pocket-knife (a Christmas gift from his father) into his pocket. Each of them wore the new hiking shoes their mother got them as soon as they had moved. They felt prepared, but it wasn’t until they saw Aaron waiting under the poplar that they felt complete; he shone his headlamp through the dim morning light at their faces and waved.

The four children climbed the natural grade of the yard to the tree line and stood before the open gate; it was draped in honeysuckle and rhododendron, smelling of lavender.

It all felt so solemn that Esther asked if they should pray. At night, Mrs. Dolor would pray with each child since before they remembered. And Mr. Dolor prayed whenever they took long trips or were about to do something scary. It always made the children feel safer, like no matter what happened, everything would be okay. Aaron didn’t understand and sneered, because he hadn’t yet learned about anything like prayer from his mother. He shut his eyes and remained silent while Marian prayed. The yard grew calm, a woodpecker buzzed by, chirping excitedly, and the smell of honey filled the air.

“A-right, nows that that’s done-did,” said Aaron. “Less get goin and fixin’ this mess ya’ll did.” He smirked and turned to the gate. His eyes widened, and he jumped back when he saw they were not alone.

Under the wide arch of maple trees stood the Ghost of David Crockett, as he had promised. He was glowing blue and white, and next to him stood a Donkey with black and blue-grey stripes running from his tall, black ears to the dorsal cross and down the spine over his white and brown hair.

“Hello, sir,” Marian said respectfully.

“Good morn, ch’ldren,” replied Crockett. “I’m happy you are still together.” He looked at the Donkey next to him. “Balaam will help you on your journey—Won’t you, Balaam?”

“I suppose if I have to,” the Donkey muttered.

I’ve never heard a Donkey speak before, and I’m fairly confident you have not either. Just as you would imagine, hearing a rusty, brash voice come out of the lips of a Donkey left the Dolor children and Aaron speechless.

“It’s not too often I get to help human kids,” Balaam said flatly.

“You’re a—you’re a talking Donkey.” Marian’s mouth fell open.

“And you’re a talking delinquent,” the Donkey replied.

“Balaam ’s good for burdens and knows the forest well,” Crockett explained. “He can ‘elp you on your journey. Remember, you must find Atagahi, and you will discover how to close this gate.”

“This whut we get?” Aaron asked spitefully. “Yer a soup-natural bein and ye’n gives us a Donkey!? Tha’s alls we get?”

“I’m afraid so,” the Ghost said, smiling.

The blue haze faded, and Crockett disappeared. His evanescence left behind a golden glint and parade of mesmerizing creatures. Little faeries, shimmering and shining like the fireflies that fill the evening twilight, dancing in the air about them.

The children marveled at the sight of each winged creature spinning in grace and majesty. Esther giggled as one fluttered toward her and landed on her shoulder. The little blonde faerie curtsied and smiled; she stood no taller than Esther’s index finger and wore a dress made from moss and bark; a little hat of cardinal feathers wrapped in fox hair rested between her delicate, pointy ears; on her back, two transparent pink wings fluttered furiously, like a hummingbird’s need to keep flapping even when at rest.

Just as Esther felt as though she’d gained a new friend, the little faerie flitted away; the rest of the pixies joined her, scattering over a footpath at the entry of the gate and disappearing on the other side of a sugar-berry.

“Yunwi Tsunsdi,” said Balaam the Donkey. “Well, there’s better time than never to get started going nowhere. C’mon, children.”

Ofttimes, the beginning of a much anticipated journey can be as unexceptional as the mere waking and the passing of a day; it comes and goes and before you realize it, your feet have begun walking and the commencement is far behind you. This trip was no different; weeks of bated breath and worry, culminating into a night of shivering hands, wild imaginations, loathsome anxiety, and early risings, all to be met matter-of-factly by a talking Donkey, a quick hello from a Ghostly friend, and then, thrust upon a path through a forest into the unknown.

The path led the children and Donkey through a thicket of maple, hackberry, walnut, daisies and dandelions; great pines and cedars pierced the canopy like skyscrapers; their needles draped across the dewy rhododendron; powerful oaks reached their strong arms through the thicket, and their fingers snapped as the children brushed against them. After passing up and over a row of hills, the party splashed through a creek’s overflow along the path and veered north-northeast until they had jumped the rough terrain of a small inlet.

The morning sky was still dark behind the tall mountains, as Balaam turned east and scaled the uneven slope of the growing mountainside. Each child fought to stay with him, grabbing saplings and mossy rocks to help themselves up, while muddy stones protruded from the ground cover and gave the impression of an ancient walkway.

Aaron followed close behind Balaam, shining his bright headlamp every which way to guide the group through the dark green shadows. They didn’t say much, as the beginning of any dark hike is met with fear and apprehension—a slick stone could roll an ankle and an unfamiliar leaf may hide a copperhead. But soon the sun burst over the crown of the mountain, and their hard push was met with zipping cardinals, chirping robins, and bounding rabbits; a box turtle hid in its colorful shell on the path, and a red salamander squirmed underneath the wet leaves beside Herbert’s foot; syncopated cicadas screeched as the sun lifted higher; an eagle chirped half a mile over the western horizon; and the wind swept through the canopy like shallow waves rush into a luscious coral reef. With each step, the children disappeared into a world without people.

Balaam seemed to complain about most everything and never remembered where they were going or why it was so important. The children presumed he lived in this forest, and thought it strange that he despised it so vehemently. He would say things like: “I always hated crossing creeks,” and “why haven’t they made a road here, yet,” but he never explained who he meant by “they”, and the children suspected he didn’t know either. Every few hundred yards, he asked the children to remind him of what they were doing. Repeating themselves again and again was a chore, but his raspy, quiet voice reminded them of Mr. Dolor’s father, so that made up for it; it gave them fond memories of Granddaddy taking them fishing in the spring at Great Uncle Earl’s pond.

Balaam’s whining made Aaron’s arrogance more tolerable. He acted as if he knew everything, saying things like, “That there’s soapstone; You-all knows the deffrence ‘tween a hawk and a eagle? Them-there’s are deer tracks, not hawg tracks; iffen you walk afoot that there tree-gum, yer gonna get stungs by yeller jackets”. The Dolors had spent most of their time enjoying the look of forests instead of studying them, so they didn’t know if what he said was true or not. Regardless, it felt obnoxious.

After an hour, the peak came into view, and the children pushed themselves hard to reach it; it was a rocky summit of scattered slate, sandstone boulders, and loose gravel. The trees pealed back and the children counted seventeen peaks on the horizon, rolling like green and blue, luscious waves, masked by thin, smoky puffs in the north, and dark, ominous thunderclouds in the south; titanic ancient trees pierced the green canopy in scattered points, dead and lonely, robbed of all their glory, and waiting for a storm to knock them into the vast forest below.

The path ran north around the slotted slate and bouldered sandstone, before bending west into the trees again and descending harshly down a muddy slope for thirty yards and evening out onto a thin shelf overlooking a river, that they could not see, but heard, some three-hundred feet below.

“Weeper’s Run,” said Balaam. “This was as far south as I had ever been before today. Legend says the river was formed by the tears of our ancestors. But I can’t imagine they would need to give them up more than us.”

Esther stopped on the shelf and gazed through an opening of silver maples and poplars; the height made her heart race and she loved it. On the far side of the river, she glimpsed the unruly climb of another mountain wall, rising equal to their height, and twice as steep, covered in poplars, elms, maples, and oaks; in their trough, she saw a hint of the rushing, black river. The opposite cliff was marked in red, clay drawings, indiscernible to the eye, but whimsical and fantastic; she imagined prehistoric people leaving them before the river wore down the rock and created the chasm. Who were they and where had they gone? For that matter, how did a Donkey learn to speak English?

“Don’t get left behind, Ess!” Marian hollered. Esther turned around and realized the group had gained thirty paces north without her. She scurried ahead to meet them.

“Hey Donkey,” said Aaron. “What’d ye’n means whenever ya said that you-all a-hadn’t gone this afar south afore? Ye’ns means you doesn’t knows where-all we’s goin?”

“My name is Balaam,” replied the Donkey. “And it all depends on what we are looking for—what are we looking for again?”

Marian smirked. “A special lake,” she answered. “A fountain…”

“The Fountun of Youth!” Aaron exclaimed. “Ah! I’mma gonna live foraver and get richer’n Dolly. Hey, Donkey, I thoughts you were a-suppos’ta be leadin’ us.”

“Ah yes, see, that is the funny thing about leading,” Balaam replied. “—More often than not, you are actually following.”

“Balaam,” Marian replied sweetly. “If you gave us an idea of how far away it is, we could decide whether we should rest and eat or not.”

Balaam stopped walking and grunted (the Donkey way of sighing in frustration). “I suppose resting is never a bad idea,” he said. “Though I wouldn’t be surprised if the food gets raided by ants and sandworms.”

“What are sandworms?” Herbert asked.

“You’ve never heard of them?” Balaam asked. “Great big worms that crawl out of the sandy soil at night and eat your leftovers.”

“Ah, that’s horse-scat! I ain’t never aheard of ‘em,” Aaron crossed his arms. “Sounds made up.”

“I’m sure ‘never hearing about something’ is the prerequisite for all things not known,” Balaam replied. “Though I wonder if that proves it to be ‘made up’.”

“Well, it’s not night,” Esther said. “And there’s no sand around here.”

“It’s a good time to stop,” Marian decided. “C’mon, I made sandwiches and snack baggies for everyone.”

Marian rationed the food out, and the kids ate a good meal, and there were no ants or sandworms, nearby.

“I’m sure they will be at our next stop,” Balaam warned.

The journey led them to a steep, rocky decline, heading northwest toward a wide enclave; dog-sized boulders and mid-sized tree roots formed a path downward that felt more like climbing-down than walking. Marian and Aaron sat on their butts and scooted from trunk to trunk on their descent, pushing the wet, soft underbrush out of the way as they went. But Herbert and Esther couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling about it, so Balaam let them push against his chest and barrel as they went—the two scooting the invisible shelf and the Donkey steadying himself with shaking, stiff pasterns. “I never much liked safety, anyway,” he complained. It was a kindly gesture, but Herbert still felt overwrought by the thought of the Donkey’s trembling hooves coming from underneath him and the three tumbling into the abyss.

“You alright?” Esther asked him.

“Yeah,” Herbert lied. “Just wish this Donkey were a little bit heftier for the two of us.”

“Are you saying you wished I was fat?” Balaam gawked.

Esther giggled, and Herbert lowered his head between his shoulders.

The shoulder began to slope, and soon the party reached the bottom of the ravine. The air was dense and moist and they didn’t hear anything but the buzz of mosquitoes, horseflies, and sweat bees flying close to their ears.

“What are we looking for?” Balaam asked.

“A lake!” Aaron hollered.

“Oh, right,” said Balaam. “Cross the Run, and on ’til the mountain splits.”

The children followed Balaam as he took them through a grove of thin water oaks and thick morning-glories. The ground became muddy, and each of them slipped once or twice down the slope, until they turned round an embankment and heard rushing water.

In her excitement, that she probably regretted later, Esther fled from the group and skipped over the rising and falling path to find the black river she had glimpsed from the peak. Mud flung from the wet underbrush and slapped the back of her sprinting calves. Twice, she nearly rolled her ankle, but corrected her footing on the roots, and kept running and giggling; the trees bristled in the wind, a starling chirped overhead, and all the while the sound of water grew louder and louder. She shoved a vibrant green rhododendron out of her way and bounded upon an expansive, rushing river.

“It’s here! It’s here!”
A Prophecy of a Kidnapping

I was in an offsite building with many former pastors that I knew. They were sharing the difficulties of their lives, whining and complaining. It all had to do with loving their children and others; specifically, they were tired of it and irritated.

I left the room and was aware of a property I owned. A large apartment complex. I was not a “landlord”, but a “landowner”.

One property had police and media around it. I discovered the tenant was a crazed woman-an ex-wife of a friend I knew in the city government; the man was now currently married to a principal of a school. They had two daughters whom they let visit this crazed woman. Unbeknownst to them, though they recognized something was amiss, the crazed woman had let a serial killer kidnap the oldest of the girls. The youngest, the woman forced to exhume a dead body of a brother whom the serial killer had killed, and sleep with it and her. Necrophilia.

The woman was arrested; but the serial killer/kidnapper was still at large.

I began taking precautions to better secure and present my apartments in a more respectable manner. The rooms were repainted; the walls insulated; and a police officer added to walk the property at night.

I recognized the apartments as the same Carlia and I once lived in at the beginning of our marriage. I surveyed the property and noted how the previous landowners had put automated gates to the hallways that they believed would better secure the facility. It however had the opposite effect. Instead of securing and protecting, the convenience of the landowner brought a slow, unresponsive detection and opened and closed its doors slowly; anyone running in a hurry would either be blocked out or trapped in.

At that moment, a man with grizzled hair, gnarled knuckles, and barely any teeth blocked my way at the door.

Knowing the man to be the killer and desiring to hurt me, I fired my pistol at him ten times. But the gun did little to nothing.

He put me in his truck and I was overcome with peace—I knew he was not capturing me, but that I was capturing him and he was leading me to the kidnapped girl.

On the way, we spoke and sang. He told me much of his life and tried to keep me deceived that he was not going to harm me. I assumed this he did with most of his victims. It was little matter to me, because I wanted to know this man, and more so wanted to find how I could pray for him.

He drove off the side of the road and crashed through a rock and two or three fire barrels. We stopped at an old shack in the woods, and upon exiting the vehicle he revealed that he grew up Amish. I gripped his hands tightly and told him I would pray for him. Believing to still be in control, the demon inside of him acted the part and smiled, threw his head back, and acted as a charlatan would. I dropped to my knees, held his gnarled knuckles firm in my grasp and prayed. He tried to pull from me, and even at one point attempted to interrupt with his own prayer: “I declare—”; but I cut him short and prayed over him.

I declared my authority, cursed the demonic hold over him, cast out the demon, and prayed for his soul and the life of the girl nearby. I demanded he take me to her in the name of Jesus.

I woke.

Many things can be interpreted in this; and I will not dive as deeply as some may hope. But I will note three things specifically and you can dive into anything more yourself.

One: the parents of these girls I know personally and their occupations are aide to the city manager and school principal. I believe our school and government have married a demonic ideal and handed their children over to it; but most of them are unaware of it, though they know something is wrong. Pray for our city government and school administration’s eyes to be opened, wisdom to come, and for them to take back their children from the demonic tendrils of the Enemy; they know not what they are doing. They are not the enemy; they are just deceived.

Two: churches have, and are, trying to automate out of convenience instead of standing at the gates and rescuing God’s children. Pray for convenience to die in churches and for our pastors to never say, “it’s easier this way.” While pastors have focused on building conglomerates, they have lost sight of the child of God and find him/her a nuisance and burden. Convenience must die in the church.

Three: authority is ours! We aren’t “captured”. The devil didn’t drag us down to hell, drive off the road, and lock us away. He locked himself in with us! Use the name of Jesus, get freakin’ angry at the devil, recognize the true enemy, and fight for the world on your knees! The demon possessed, government, schools, and world are not your enemy. They are deceived and given to something broken. Fight for them! Pray heartily. Be ready to open the doors to salvation for your tenants. You aren’t landlord, you are landowner. Now quit yourself like a man or woman of God and take your authority as owner of this land, and disciple of Jesus Christ.
Mirth and Merriment

Few things do the soul better than a hearty bout of laughter and ridiculous behaviour. Remember to laugh at yourself and those around you often. It’s really not all that bad as you suppose, and nothing of your constant severity can change it. Although, heaping joy can bring your family hope and tranquility.

I suppose the summation of life is that Everything Matters and Nothing Matters. On the one hand, we must instruct ourselves with utmost integrity, passion and servitude; for every ounce of our lives is given in serving God and His children. Whilst, also on the other hand, every moment is thrown away like milkweed on the wind, forgotten and fluttering away; having no real effect on the destiny of who we are to become. We are, as you know, already in Heaven or Hell—in an eternal perspective, that is; for if we bear Christ’s cross, then we partake in His promise, and nothing can intersect that.

Everything Matters; quit yourself like a man or woman of God destined for greatness.

Nothing Matters; laugh heartily about everything; especially the things you cannot change.

In this strange dichotomy, I think you will find enjoyment and dignity. Or insanity. But be not dismayed, I’ll be laughing beside you.