NOTE TO SELF: Biography

Notes to self on the Process of Writing...

 how to write a biography on someone - YouTube

BALTHENORN

 "BALTHENORN"

..(A Story for Mike Cope )...

In the old tongue, he was called Padalor, the Dream Walker. But in the later language of Sinquinto, Balthenorn. He embraced the sound of the new name more. Balthenorn was many things to many people and in the end was known as an adventurer of inspiration, for he inspired many who thought he had only touched their lives alone.

Balthenorn’s closest of boyhood friends was a Half-Fae named Fayendar. They were inseparable, twins to some, brothers among themselves. It was not that they had ever fallen out of favor with one another, only that life’s choices and paths led them both through diverse lessons to learn. Yet they always kept in touch through letter correspondences.

   Fayendar had received one such letter, one he thought was long overdue to his own replies; yet, nevertheless, he was enthusiastic to receive it. Being busy, but feeling ill the artist Balthenorn desired his friend to come for a visit to the village of Sinjar. Fayendar had not visited the city carved from living rock in many years. Balenthorn’s last letter made up his friend’s mind to make the distant trip, away from the demands of his own life. Fayendar greatly missed the company and stories of his dear friend. The trip by foot would do him good and allow him time to think.

   Leaving Lindol’s white marble terraces, oversized statues and many bubbling fountains for life in the near-desert conditions would be a challenging difference, but to see Balthenorn again would be worth the full day’s excursion. Leaving before daybreak saw Fayendar arrive at the Crossroad’s Altar, beyond the tent village of Slavath where he had stopped for a meal. The Nasilian villagers said that a trouble maker named Shay had disrupted the daily affairs in Mithar, but the people of Slavath revered the odd man. Fayendar had only just missed meeting him as Shay had left the day before, the Scribe was unsure if he even wanted to meet the old wizard in person.

   Continuing his journey toward the carved foothills, of the Blue Mountain’s western wall, Fayendar was glad he had brought his walking staff with him. The eastern road to Sinjar was less hospitable or cared for as most prophets and Witches came from the rock city. Most of those odd folk were not friends of the Mitharian crown. Fayendar loved the area but confessed to himself it had been far too long since his last trek there.

   Fayendar reread his letter from Balthenorn. He found himself audibly laughing to himself of his recount of falling into the Bay water and vowing to never net fish again! Looking up, the Scribe began to realize that he was the only one on the road. There were no wagon loads of goods or groups of colorfully dressed folk, with their strange traditions or chatter passing him. The usual migrants heading to sell their wares at the twin city’s grand Sibling market seemed to have stayed home, which indeed was a strange sight in itself.

   The details of the southern forest of Kinderval began on his right even as the foothills grew before him and on his left. The road curved and over the next rise, a few people could be seen gathering and heading for Sinjar. The closer Fayendar came the more crowed the landscape became with colorful wagons being draped in black. The tents that usually sprang up before Mithar’s grand Sibling Gate appeared to have sprung up in even greater numbers before the cut sheer walls of Sinjar. Many tents were beginning to have their bright banners replaced with black ones instead. Meandering through the growing number of people Fayendar caught a more somber mood over their usual festive tradition of constant music and laughter.

   Sinjar was a series of ramped stairs leading to the many, ornately designed doorways; all meticulously carved from the sheer face of the mountains that began The Great Blue. His friend Balthenorn resided in the middle of the fourth tier, a climb in the summer heat to be sure!

   As he began going up the first level, Fayendar saw an old blind man weaving a basket as passers Byers were dropping coins near him, “Old man, why is there no spontaneous market at Mithar today?”

   “Here now is yet another stranger’s voice who asks the same question! Lo, a rich man has died and the entire world has decided to stop in his honor. Are you the one they wait for?”

   “I am a nobody, and certainly no one of concern to nobles, the rich or famous,” the Scribe smiled.

   “The smile betrays your importance to those who know you, my friend,” the blind man smiled in return.

   Fayendar dropped a few coppers with gratitude for his time. The pathways, though broad, felt crowded with the movement of so many people. They were consumed in their conversations about how the dead man the city mourned for had influenced their lives with his compassion, wit, and wise words. They all sounded surprised that strangers had known him as close as they did. Fayendar awkwardly smiled or nodded as he passed among them, feeling like he was intruding in their personal lives. The Scribe questioned if he had come at the wrong time, ‘Maybe Balthnorn knows who they are talking about he thought to himself.

   After having climbed the remaining three sets of ramped stairs the Lindolian Scribe finally arrived at his friend's home but noticed many people were being turned aside from entering. Two men stood at the ornate doorway. Upon seeing him among the loud crowds of turned-away mourners, one of the guards called out, “You there! Yes, you. What is your name?”

“I am Fayendar of Lindol.”

   He shouted the answer into the darkened cave. Then turning back to the visitor, “Fayendar!! It is him, he is here!”

   He was bewildered by the cascading of silence falling over the entire village, from the highest tier down to the pitched tents below.

   After his eyes adjusted from the brightness of the noonday to the dim lamp-lit cave, Fayendar saw familiar faces, though grief-stricken, smiling and embracing him with warmth and words of enthusiasm in seeing him again.

As they parted, Fayendar saw the body of Balthenorn laid out before him. He was still and as pale as the cold sheet that covered him below his clasped hands. He burst into tears and wept. Standing he poured out his sorrow for all of their loss.

   It was only then that the Scribe saw a haggard figure seated in the corner. Having never met the stranger before, Fayendar instantly put a name to the image before him of the old man, with one stray eye and a left ear nearly bitten off, as the Prophet Shay. They called him a Prophet because of the strange admonishments he made against the rulers and priests alike. His harsh words always caused an uproar wherever he went as well as the unexplainable events that surrounded his rare appearances. The rumor was one loved him or hated him, there was no ground in between to tread.

   The old man’s voice broke, “Rarely has the world witnessed such an outpouring of real love and loss. Tell me truly, young man, if this one here, was allowed by Eru-Illuvatar to answer back, what would you tell him now?”

Looking down at the unmoving dead man beside him, Fayendar held his tearful emotions, “I have always loved you, and no one compared to how much you influenced me in wanting to be a better person. I am so very sorrowful I arrived late in coming and failed you.”

   It was then that old man, Shay stood and placed both of his hands over Balthenron’s pale face, “If Eru allows it, may you all find some peace in his.” Shay left that cave-dwelling as he did the crowds parted without hindrance.

As he had given them over to their private grieving, the gathering suddenly felt the weight of all their sorrows and embraced one another with tears. Fayendar stood alone, speechless and overwhelmed.

   

   A moment later they all hushed at the voice wondering from where it came, “Hail Eru of the Summerlands.” His mouth had not opened but then his moving lips said, “I loved and adored you all in my own way, know that will always remain.” Then Balthenorn’s eyes blinked open as he continued to lay there unmoving from the bed in the middle of the room, “Hold no ill will for me or one another, for these days are too brief for such trifles. When you are found in your own sorrows do not neglect to love the one beside you. But for now, there is a need for me to leave you to the cruelty of lessons yet to be learned, as my time is over now.” With that Balthenorn’s eyes softly closed their last even as he drew pale and colder than before. Yet from then on they never neglected to visit with one another and hold each other dear, as Balthenorn had been for them.

...

NO EXCUSES ANYMORE

 No Excuses Anymore

________________________

In sorrow, we cry

not for them but ourselves

not our loss but things undone

cry for thinking time was enough

we have no control over time

only what we do in its briefness

do not be guilty of self-deception

love unconditionally regretting nothing

follow your heart, dreams, and intuitions

the meaning of life is doing what

in death, we can not do.

David DeLane Snow.

MAY THE FOURTH BE WITH YOU

 Mike Cope

...

MY FUNERAL

   No, I am not suicidal, not depressed, and not facing ill health or crisis.  Maybe, like not grocery shopping when you are hungry, maybe now is a good time to talk about death and our after life "wishes".  I have often made the satirical humorous remark: What happens after you die? They just hire someone else.  I love that truth packed statement.  But, what is a life.  There is more to life than just the dates, the most important is the dash.  All the experiences acquired are summed up in a little "dash" between those two dates of our birth and passing.  I see "death" as when we are 'forgotten' and no longer recalled.  I may not remember every tiny experiential detail of everyone I ever met, but there are many many times through out the day when sights, sounds, smells evoke a person's influence in my life.  I believe we all struggle as individuals to somehow contribute that one amazing thing into the experience of others.  Yet let us not neglect to recall that it is exactly "the others" about us that influence, guide and shape who we ourselves 'were'.

(This is very much like the one we picked out).

   We speak the name of a celebrity and instantly we are flooded with emotional responses; least of which is our own compassion among them and we are made to feel somehow less than they.  Who was I?  I can only have been me, and hope some of my behaviors, deeds and words were a positive influence on others.  I am not really sure of what all the perceived impressions are about who I am or what influence I was on others.  But for me personally, my biggest source of pride is; that I was a servant.  I tried in my own, behind the scene, "extra" in the background blur of life to be an important 'prop' to everyone else.

   When I was a child my dad gave us a Bible verse to memorize, and mine was Colossians chapter Three verse twenty-three; with it, my path was set.   As a child was I "the doorman" at our place of worship.  I mowed yards, worked years in Fast Food, served as a Chaplain's ASSISTANT in the National GUARD, work for the state SUPPORTIVE living center, was for years as the CAREGIVER for my disable wife.  So, looking back over my own life all I see was "a servant".

   Religion touts a thousand different roads, each spreading their own agendas, but the honesty of any religious path's core should be that of "servant-hood".  To GOD (the gods) and then vicariously exemplified into the lives of others about us.  I asked Brother Bounds, an 80 year old senior, who had memorized the Bible, and one of my most beloved mentors: "What was the meaning of Life?"  His simplistic answer again resounded servitude into my ears, "The meaning of life is 'Relationships'. Whether it's sixty seconds at the bus stop or sixty years with a loved one; we all desire to give back and make them better."  My heart-felt desire in life has been nothing less that, "giving back and making things better".  I have not always been perfect in achieving the ends of that purposeful goal in my life, but I hope I have not neglected nor strayed far from trying.

   Everyone I have ever met, I viewed as being so much above me, others were always 'better than me'.  Yet the older and hopefully more mature, hopefully wiser I have grown; I see all this time they have only been "different" not 'better'.  Different is good.  I would love to give even a frail thumbnail list of some of the people who have influenced my life and directions, but I would sorely be leaving someone out or not crediting them with enough of what I took and learned from their example.  I will say, I'm sorry I never said "I love you" and "thank you" enough.  More importantly, my prayer is that I showed them how precious they were to me.  I never had money, when I did it was spent on others and rarely on myself; which brought a better happiness to me.  Seems I always spread myself too thin, my regret (if any) is that I wish I had given more.  From today onward let me not neglect in doing so.

   I scribbled my thoughts with words in an effort to craft stories, many unfinished but all with the intent of thinking beyond the box of complacency and what if life isn't what we believed the moments were really about?  I liked writing things that had the reader wondering what came next.

   At my death, and passing from this life filled with experiences I want to be remembered.  Just remembered, as you see fit; because your version was probably the truth.  Our lives are made up of slices and views and bits and pieces of choices and consequences that are layered if not building toward - something.  What will my Obituary say about me? Who will write it? What was MY LIFE about?  Thank you all for being a part of my experience, my relationship with you was momentous, for you were an amazing slice I enjoyed with ever fiber!

A Servant's Prayer

   I am to be cremated.  The urn, and funeral plan have already been purchased (locked away in a safe box in the living-room).  I would love DUST IN THE WIND, and BREAK EVERY CHAIN, played.....(and of COURSE this one!!!)  Maybe some will be sad, but I would love to hear laughter and jokes shared and the silly things told; I had joy, I had hope, I had love, I had peace in this experience... and after this post I pray to go on crafting the rest of my own personal story.





......

Painting

 

This is a painting I did THE TOWERS OF ROMORE, done on a Masonite board using acrylic paint; given to my wife as a 33 wedding anniversary gift.

   Years ago I assisted a dear friend of mine, Mike Cope with a junior High School project of painting a picture for our teacher, Pat Dunn.  I would say Mike did maybe 90% of it. A scene looking "through a window" into Middle-Earth. The predominant feature was the Hobbit Tree, and yes The Lonely Mountain in the background; which was my 10% contribution.

   I can sketch and do fairly well at pen and ink drawings but am uncomfortable with the fluid and lack of control and no patience with acrylic or oil painting.  My father enjoyed oil painting and did several wonderful examples.

...

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS 

  I would like to give thanks to several people, both Christians and Pagans alike: Mike Cope, Rick Fairchild, Michael “Mickey” Fruge, Goran Waldeck, Anthony Belcher; for their encouragements, advice and friendship, (some via the Internet).  Also, countless thanks for all those who have gone before me and whose labors I have drawn upon.

FROM ASHES (By Mike Cope, and others...)

 

   I created the idea of ADD A LINE story on Face Book.  THIS story first appeared on my friend's account, and most of it was written by MIKE COPE, the comments that were posted increasing the tale was done by the following people: (me) David Snow, Liz Rowe, Randy Sites.

___________As it originally appeared_________________

He picked me to go next. I'll start us off and you are all invited to contribute. So here goes...

The landing craft bucked and pitched as it sped toward its destiny on Omaha beach. Nearby shell bursts sent sprays of water, drenching the occupants within. 

Dr. Solomon crouched as near to the bucking floor as he could and flinched at every explosion and ricochet. He looked at the soldiers in front of him and felt sick knowing how many of them would not survive the day. The craft made a final jarring lurch and the big ramp went down, men charging forward into the bloody waves of Normandy. 

Bullets pinged off the enormous steel crate beside which the diminutive Dr. Solomon sought cover. 

"You're up doctor!" shouted the lieutenant. 

"I should have just settled down and opened an ice-cream shop," he thought to himself. He was only supposed to observe these people. His Prime Directive was not to get involved in any way. But since the explosion and fire that had destroyed his laboratory and left him marooned among these people he had come to know and like them, even love them. Day after day he watched his friends and neighbors go off to war, never to return. His heart sank with every radio report. Against his better judgment he looked up his friends in the history database. He knew exactly where, when and how each of them would die. That was when he decided to violate his mandate, an act punishable by death if he should ever be found. 

With trembling hands he threw back the bolt on the giant crate and swung open the door. His invention might save some lives. It would most likely change the course of the war. It would very probably change the course of history-- and that was unforgivable. 

The crate shuddered as his invention came to life. It seemed the vibration would tear the landing craft apart if the Nazi artillery shells didn't do the job first. 

High above the beachhead from the relative safety of a German pillbox an SS observer peered through binoculars with interest at the little landing craft and its occupants. He saw the door of the unusual box swing open. Something stirred within it. 

"Mein Gott!" he gasped...

   All guns turned. The redirection of bullets fired upon the craft as the newly deployed forces strived to engage the enemy. Though many were instantly mowed down before they could wade their third step out into the waters. The incoming rounds did not let up. The Lieutenant's horrified expression was not so much the direct result of witnessing the sudden loss of his men's lives, but because of the doctor's invention. With every ping of incoming rounds a pool of blue light ate up the bullet while it was still in mid-flight; about the stranger and his cargo. Like some kind of "force field". The doctor turned to the young Lt. and said, "--

   "Get to a field radio as fast as you can, and tell your men to cease fire.Everybody on the beach must get down." [The] Lieutenant was looking at the crate in a trance. What the hell is that Doc? Lieutenant did you read me all your men must lay down there arms. I turn this thing on. I dont know how to turn it off. or if it knows the difference between us and the Germans.

?"Stand aside lieutenant, we've got work to do." 

The machine lumbered forth, crab-like, incoming fire absorbed completely by its force-field. The more bullets it absorbed the larger and brighter the protective dome of energy grew. Soon it had expanded to enclose the landing craft and its surviving contingent of soldiers. It scuttled down the ramp, into the water and up onto the beach providing an oasis of safety for the ever growing number of soldiers who clustered around it. 

Though the rippling screen of energy devoured the shells of every weapon directed against it, outgoing fire was not affected. The advancing American forces no longer in danger took their time and placed every shot with deadly accuracy. 

Perhaps this is enough, thought Dr. Solomon as he and Lt. Hanley watched from the landing craft. If I only shield our boys, if I use only passive interference, it won't be so bad for me if the Council finds me, he told himself. 

Just then a mortar shell exploded among a group of soldiers just beyond the protective dome. Bodies and parts of bodies were thrown high into the air. Solomon cringed. 

"Watch this," he said, thumbing a toggle switch on the black control box he held in his hands. The machine reared up on its steel legs, doors within its chest swinging open, the barrels of some strange, unknown weapon emerging, pulsating with energy. 

Dr. Solomon pressed a red button and a beam of blinding green light shot from the strange machine ambling up the beach toward the German defenses. 

Lt. Hanley stared in disbelief. "Sweet merciful Heaven, the damned thing works," he said to nobody in particular. "I gotta hand it to you doctor, that's really something," he said, turning to face his companion. But Dr. Solomon did not hear him. His attention was fixed on a small indicator screen on his control box. He looked worried.

The mechanical beast swung its weapon wildly, as if it were confused. "Didn't you hear what I said?" Dr. Solomon implored. "The men must cease firing!"

The lieutenant keyed the mic of the field radio and screamed, "Cease fire! Cease fire! Pass the word. All units stand down!"

The orders were screamed through bullhorns, barely audible over the sounds of battle. Slowly firing from the American forces subsided and the infernal machine swung it's gaze back to the German lines. 

But suddenly a shell from a naval vessel from somewhere in the English channel split the air overhead. Dr. Solomon's machine reared up again and swung to face the direction of the ship.

Feeling like the weight of the world up on his shoulders. Like a man who started something that he could not stop. Reaching in his pocket. The doctor pulled out what looked like a egyptian medallion. Doctor looking over it. thinking, I wonder if Moses new what the hell he had. 5 thousand years ago.

As the mechanical Turned and began firing towards the naval vessel, the Doctor studied the glowing image in his hands. "Do I let it change history, will this add to my mistakes, or do I stop it all now? How do I decide?" He looked desperately around him, as the Nazis again fell before his invention. He needed a sign, something to tell him what to do....

He felt a sharp sting as if a bee stung his neck and swatted his hand to his throat. He nearly dropped the precious control box and barely managed to grab it with both hands before it smashed to the deck. His eyes widened as he looked down at his blood covered hands and realized the strange bubbling noise was coming from him. He sank to his knees and pitched forward onto the hard steel plating. With his waning strength he tugged at Lt. Hanley's leg. 

"Holy crap, Doc!" Hanley yelped, turning his attention from the amazing machine to where Solomon lay crumpled on the dirty deck in a rapidly growing pool of red. The lieutenant dropped to his knees and pressed his palm to the hole in the other man's throat. Solomon shoved the control box at him. 

"I don't know how to drive that thing!" screamed Hanley, trying desperately to stop the bleeding. With his final reserve of strength Dr. Solomon sputtered, "History is... in... Your hands. You must contact... The Council... The Council..." His voice trailed off. A gold medallion with the image of a scarab minted on it rolled from his twitching fingers and clattered loudly on the deck. The mysterious Dr. Solomon was no more. 

"jimminey Christmas, son-of-a..." Hanley growled through gritted teeth, not completing his thought. He grabbed up the control box and stood, completely dumfounded by the array of knobs, dials and switches. He swung back towards the battle, his panic academic as the mechanical beast was no longer on the beach. From atop the cliffs of Normandy great green flashes could be seen and with each flash more Nazi guns fell silent. The monster was headed inland, toward the villages of France, an uncontrolled and unstoppable juggernaut. 

Hanley bent down a scooped up the medallion. He turned it over in his fingers, examining it. "Solomon said to contact the council," he thought. "Council of what?"

In the fading afternoon light of Omaha Beach, Lt. Jordan Hanley was a man in over his head.

A radio static squawked nearby. Without the immediate cover of the mechanical beast and the nearby German forces seemingly defeated; the Americans that were alive along the Beach of Normandy gathered their wits, and aided the wounded. Sporadic, makeshift camps began to emerged within minuets of the silence. The young blonde hair farm boy from Indian, Jordan James Hanley had done more growing in the last hour than he ever experience his entire life. He began yelling orders for his remaining men to advance forward in an effort to locate the dead doctor's invention. He knew his mission, he was uncertain of the Beast's course.

Looking at the blood smeared control box and its array of switches took a gamble and depressed a small red button on the side. Scanning the horizon before him no longer saw the green flashes of light illuminate the darkening skies overhead. A small ping began to sound as a yellow indicator blinked with three second intervals. "Darn thing's got a homing devise on it." The Lt. said aloud. Next to him a Sargent came up, stopping his own near salute looked around, "Sir, Sargent Bakerson reporting - what the hell was that thing?" Trying to come up with a credible response, the Lt. said,"-

?"Our best hope of winning this thing, Sargent - a new weapon. Gather your men, we're fixing to move out in a few." "Aye, Sir." After returning his salute, Bakerson began directing sixteen men. As they gathered themselves and gear into a formation, the Sargent took point. Hanley stood post, "At ease. Men - follow me." Causually he passed them, heading up the steap embakment in search of the mechanical device, he now refered to as "The Beast".

?"Mike Six Four Charlie. You copy? Over." Belched another squawk of static from a radio. The reluctant private who had assumed the mantel of Radio Telephone Operator noded to the Sargent at his left shoulder. Bakerson called up ahead to the Lt., "Sir, call coming in." Again it squawked out, "Mike Six Four Charlie, Do you copy? over. This is Delta Six Tree Sierra. Copy? over."

Taking the handset, the Lieutenant answered back, "Delta Six Tree Siearra, this is Mike Six Four Charlie, reading you loud and clear, over."

?"Mike Six Four what is your location? Over." "Delta Six Tree, I am one click above entry point Alpha heading northeast." "Belay that Mix Six Four you are to link up with Echo Company's Charlie at point Brovo Two. Do you copy that? Over." Looking a little pissed, the Lt. replied, "Rodger that Delta Six Tree, we are to link up with Echo at Bravo Two. Over and Out!" Shoving the phone reciever back at the Sgt. Hanley barked, "Change of plans men." Then pointing down the cliff line they started heading dew south.

An hour later they came upon a crater. The area way a mess of gear and body parts, men were slaughtered everywhere. Picking through what could be salvaged and arranging what bodies they could for burial, the Lt. made preparations for camp as the day edged toward nightfall. Getting the mike from the RTO, Hanley called out, "Delta Six Tree Siearra, this is Mike Six Four Charlie, you read? Over."

A moment later he was answered, then replied into the handset, "Rodger. Look Delta Six Tree, Echo is a zero here. You copy? Over."

 A long stretch of silence. Then a moment or two later, "Mike Six Four you are to link up with Lima at rally point Foxtrot Two. Do you copy? Over." "Delta Six Tree - Copy that: Foxtrot Two; link up with Lima Company's Charlie. Over and Out." Looking at his men desiring so much to rest, could only nod at his Sgt. who pointed at the sky and made a circling motion then pointed out. With slumped packs, re-geared up and moved out following the Lieutenant. Changing course once again they headed northeast.

After about forty-five minuets later they again came up on yet another slaughtered group of American soldiers. A young man was placing a makeshift cross of sticks on a grave as the new platoon arrived behind him from the south. Ignoring them he continued patting the cross headpiece into place. The Lt. approached him asking, "What happened here, Private?" "Do know, Sir." After dropping his salute, added, "This spidery looking tank sprayed everyone with a green light and most of them just exploded or lost limps. Sorry, Sir I hid scrambling for my radio and things. My Lt. is dead, Sir - they're - they're all dead - Sir." The young man before Hanley was beginning to take on a distnt stare.

"You did good, Private; nothing else you could have done, son." Then, "What's your name?" Without missing a beat, he came to attention replying, "Private First Class Patrick O`Reilly, Sir - RTO!"

?"You playen me, PFC?" The Lt. looked at the young colored soldier's blood and dirt smeared face with a wary smirk. "No fool'en, Sir. Named after my grandfather, Boston born and bred, Sir." And then a bold, proud grin came over the Private's face as he added, "I take after my mama's Georgian roots, Sir." Shaking his head, the Lt. exhaled, "Too long a tale, Private. Go hook up with Sgt. Tracy for some rations, look like you could use some." Naturally relaxing to At Ease, Patrick began to walk away, then a step of two returned to the Lt. with, "Thank you, Sir."

?"-omon - ooou." Break of static, "no means -" Whistle and squelch, "ever" static noise, "age" then the radio called out again in a distant voice, "jet! Do you understand me!" Patrick was standing over his radio trying to angle the antenna just right as both Sargent Bakerson and the Lt. came up. Hanley strained a bewildering look at the speaker trying to descern the speaker's voice that suddenly repeated itself clearly.

"Do you hear me? Solomon, you are by no means whatsoever to engage the Phoenix Project! Do you understand me!"

By then the Lt. was trying to contact the voice, "Who is this? What is your call sign, over?" But only silence answered in return, not even static - the radio just went dead. Feeling a chill run through him as he listened Patrick's words all he could do was stare, "Sorry, Sir - Nothing." Then facing the Lt. the Private continued; standing up, "Sir, yesterday at 2300 hours, my Lieutenant, Marlowe received a call from that same voice, Sir. An hour later a messenger approached him with a package, and I overheard him tell the Lt to link up with your unit and give it to a Doctor Solomon who was attached to Mike Company." Unwrapping the brown paper package, Jordan marveled at what he now held. A flat silver ring about five inches in diameter inscribed with photographic symbols topped and bottomed with letter esk characters. The ring itself could move within another ring clamped with four squares: north, south, east and west. The North clamp was large with a "window" where a letter/symbol appeared perfectly matched up. Northeast, northwest, south west, and south east were talon like nails that reached toward the middle without touching, almost forming a "window" at their tips.

As if hoping the private had more information about the mysterious medallion shaped ring, the Lt. looked up. Patrick hadn't a clue. Dismissed, he returned to his coffee as the men had began to bed down for the night. A fire watch sentry stood guard over them all pacing back and forth with weapon at the ready.

From his place in the tree, the young boy looked over Jordan's shoulder at the amazing disk. It was pretty, and kind of scary - but it had to be imoprtant. Why else would so many men die? He decided to move higher into the tree to keep a watch on Jordan and then men, so he could take that shiny, bewildering disk. It just might feed his family for a while, if he could find the right buyer. Silently, he inched into a more comfortable position, and waited.

?"THAT's IT, Stop there!" The Sentry yelled out while aiming his rifle at the young boy up the tree. He began kicking at the feet within the sleeping bags, "On your feet, intruder alert!"

?"Sarg over here!" Arriving Sargent Bakerson, said,"----------

?"Kid, just who the hell do you think you are? Dumbass, creeping up on soldiers!" The child looked at him, totally unfazed, as the Sgt began to express his displeasure in the most creative stringing of curses the soldiers had ever heard. When he stopped to take a breath, the boy said -----

?"Please sirs, I meant no harm. My family is hungry. The Bosch occupy my farm. They took my brother away. I have not eaten in two days."

 The sentry hauled the thin, dirty boy to the tent where Lt. Hanley had set up his command post.

"Kid says he ain't eat in two days," Said the gruff-voiced sergeant.

Lt. Hanley looked at the sad faced boy practically dangling by the ragged collar caught in the grip of Sgt. Bakerson's huge, hard fist.

He scowled and said impatiently, "I don't have time for this. Bakerson, get the kid some chow and send him on his way." 

He turned his attention back to the unusual package that had been delivered by Private O'Reilly. He was at a loss as to what it was or what it did or how it related to his runaway robot. He examined it closely in the lantern light. His thoughts were broken by his radio operator who suddenly appeared by his side.

"Sir, patrols report no contact with the machine and the fly-boys say the same thing. It's like the damn thing just disappeared. Too dark now to spot it from the air, they say they'll resume the search at first light."

Lt. Hanley squinted at his RTO. "You have any idea how far that thing might travel overnight Corporal?"

"No sir."

"Yeah, well neither do I, but from the way it got off the beach Hell bent for leather, it could be anywhere."

The French boy upon overhearing this twisted free from Bakerson's grasp and ran to Lt. Hanley.

"Sir! Sir! I have seen your machine not half an hour ago. At first there was only a horrible thrashing sound in the hedgerow. It split apart, but there was nothing there. Then some of the Bosch raised an alarm and ran to see what was happening. Suddenly the machine appeared, like a great silver dragon spitting green flames. It killed the Germans and then disappeared."

  "What do you mean disappeared?" Asked Hanley.

  "It is to say that one moment you could see it and the next you could not."

  "You mean that thing can go invisible?" Marveled the radio operator.

  "Yes! Invisible! That is the word." The boy seemed pleased at his mastery of English.

   Lt. Hanely's frustration was growing. 

   "Well, swell," he muttered. "How are we going to track it now?"

   "Pardon me sir," Said the boy, "The machine is-- what is the word? Invisible... but its tracks are not. It was headed straight for the village of Saint-Lô. I can show you!"

   Hanley leaped to his feet and began barking orders. 

   "Bakerson, round up a jeep! Corporal, grab your gear and send for Private O'Reilly! Get back here on the double! We roll out in three minutes!" He clapped the boy on the shoulder. "Kid you really earned your chow tonight-- and there's plenty more where that came from!"

   There was a voice in the darkness.

   "Col. Schroeder?"

   The flight from Peenemünde to Berlin had been bumpy and unpleasant. Verner Schroeder was not a comfortable flyer and this was his first chance for sleep since he was called from his work to meet with the Fuhrer.

   His work, like Dr. Solomon's, was top secret, of a military nature, and quite likely to change the course of history. These were not the only things the two men had in common. Like Dr. Solomon he was supposed to observe this particularly tumultuous period of human history, and like Dr. Solomon he was trapped in this time-period when the explosion that destroyed Dr. Solomon's laboratory rippled through the entire network of portals and laboratories of the Council of Historical Reconnaissance, trapping any agents in the field wherever and whenever they might be. But unlike Dr. Solomon, the former Professor-- now Colonel-- Verner Schroeder's violation of his Prime Directive had not been of his own free will.

   Schroeder was considered an oddity among the researchers of The Council. Strictly an academic, he hated field work, preferring to study history from the safety and comfort of his library, far from the bad food, poor sanitation, primitive technology and frightening medical practices of times long past.

   The accident had changed all that and Schroeder, trapped in Germany, had been compelled to turn his considerable scientific abilities to the advancement of the Nazi agenda, a distasteful situation at which he continually balked. Unlike Von Braun, his colleague at Peenemünde, He could not in good conscience turn a blind eye to the party's outrages as long funds flowed for research.

   As an SS colonel, Schroeder had influence and authority, but his Gestapo "liaison" was always close at hand and his contact with the world outside Germany was limited. He had tried to track Dr. Solomon, to keep him in check, but with the outbreak of war in Europe in September of 1939, that had become almost impossible. In the early Spring of 1942 Schroeder had gotten word from another field agent that Dr. Solomon had met with Vannevar Bush, of the Office of Scientific Research and Development. But from that last scrap of information Dr. Solomon and his whereabouts had disappeared into the fog of top secret black projects. 

   "Herr Colonel, I hate to disturb you," Said the timid voice again.

   "What is it?" snapped Colonel Schroeder. "Any news from the French Coast?"

   "No Herr Colonel. There has been no word at all, from any units on the Atlantic Wall. The radios have all been strangely silent since just after the first reports of the allied landings at Normandy."

   "So much for the Fuhrer's impenetrable Fortress Europe, eh Hans?" Sneered the colonel, rubbing his aching temples.

   "It is something else, Herr Colonel... A message."

   "Well? What is it?" Snapped Schroeder.

   

   "The Phoenix has risen."

   Schroeder bolted upright in his bed.

   "Mein Gott! What has Solomon done? He has no idea of the nature of the forces he has unleashed. Quickly, Hans! My boots! We must leave at once. Perhaps even now it is too late."

   "Colonel Schroeder, what does this mean? What are we going to do?" Asked a startled Hans.

   "We can perhaps save the world instead of trying to destroy it, but we have no time to lose-- machen sie schnell!"

 Out there, in the darkness that covered the beaches and fields of France, under piles of rubble and in hastily dug graves, something unnatural was beginning to stir. The phoenix had indeed risen.

   The full jeep was bouncing down the rubble scattered roads in the predawn hours with its headlights off - blackout. Silence was the mood as Lt. Hanley sat there thinking of the events of the day and how all the twist and turns lead him to his current actions. Taking the Ringed Compus out of his shirt pocket he again investigated the pronged points, and the movable outer ring as it slid soundlessly through the top "window". The strange markings fascinated the man. What could they mean? After a spray of creek water washed the jeep, another thought jumped through the Lieutenant's mind. Remembering the golden Egyptian medallion and its image of the beetle - scarab minted on one side and an Eye on the other; Jordan removed it from his other pocket. Strange. There was one symbol in the middle of the Eye, and the same three symbols on the Compus' East, South, and West locked blocks that held the movable ring in place. Puzzeling it all out in his mind, the Lt. grinned - looking at the driver, "Eyes on the road Sargent."

 Hanley held the ring up in front of him with his left hand and in his right he held up the medallion. As the jeep raced over a branch in the road they all jumped in their seats. With that, the Lt. merged hands; sliding the medallion "behind" the ring with the compus "on top of" it seemed to make scene to him - somehow. There was a click. Like a magnetic feel to it. "Strange!" Came his audible whisper.

"Dam right it's strange." Bakerson blurted out, " Ain't nothing right about this whole mission - Sir." The Lt. smiled back and said, "------

THE STORY CONTINUES...