Tuesday, May 26, 2009

TOUR: City of the Dead by T. L. Higley

It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!

You never know when I might play a wild card on you!


Today's Wild Card author is:


and the book:


City of the Dead (Seven Wonders Series)

B&H Books (March 1, 2009)


ABOUT THE AUTHOR:



From her earliest childhood, there was nothing Tracy loved better than stepping into another world between the pages of a book. From dragons and knights, to the wonders of Narnia, that passion has never abated, and to Tracy, opening any novel is like stepping again through the wardrobe, into the thrilling unknown. With every book she writes, she wants to open a door like that, and invite readers to be transported with her into a place that captivates. She has traveled through Greece, Turkey, Egypt, Israel and Jordan to research her novels, and looks forward to more travel as the Seven Wonders series continues. It’s her hope that in escaping to the past with her, readers will feel they’ve walked through desert sands, explored ancient ruins, and met with the Redeeming God who is sovereign over the entire drama of human history.


Visit the author's website.

Product Details:

List Price: $14.99
Paperback: 400 pages
Publisher: B&H Books (March 1, 2009)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0805447318
ISBN-13: 978-0805447316



AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:


Prologue

In my dreams, it is often I who kills Amunet. Other nights it is Khufu, in one of his mad rages. And at other times it is a great mystery, destined to remain unknown long after the ka of each of us has crossed to the west.

Tonight, as I lay abed, my dreams reveal all the truth that I know.

Merit is there, like a beautiful lotus flower among the papyrus reeds.

“Hemi,” she whispers, using the shortened form of my name in the familiar way I long for. “We should join the others.”

The tufts of reeds that spring from the marsh’s edge wave around us, higher than our heads, our private thicket.

“They are occupied with the hunt,” I say.

A cloud of birds rises from the marsh in that moment, squawking their protest at being disturbed. Merit turns her head to the noise and I study the line of her jaw, the long curls that wave across her ear. I pull her close, my arms around her waist.

Her body is stiff at first, then melts against mine.

“Hemi, you must let me go.”

Some nights in my dreams I am a better man.

“Merit.” I bury my face in her hair, breathe in the spicy scent of her. “I cannot.”

I pull her into my kiss.

She resists. She pushes me away and her eyes flash accusation, but something else as well. Sorrow. Longing.

I reach for her again, wrapping my fingers around her wrist. She twists away from my grasp. I do not know what I might have done, but there is fear in her eyes. By the gods, I wish I could forget that fear.

She runs. What else could she do?

She runs along the old river bed, not yet swollen with the year’s Inundation, stagnant and marshy. She disappears among the papyrus. The sky is low and gray, an evil portent.

My anger roots me to the ground for several moments, but then the potential danger propels me to follow.

“Merit,” I call. “Come back. I am sorry!”

I weave slowly among the reeds, searching for the white flash of her dress, the bronze of her skin.

“Merit, it is not safe!”

Anger dissolves into concern. I cannot find her.

In the way of dreams, my feet are unnaturally heavy, as though I fight through alluvial mud to reach her. The first weighted drops fall from an unearthly sky.

And then she is there, at the base of the reeds. White dress dirtied, head turned unnaturally. Face in the water. My heart clutches in my chest. I lurch forward. Drop to my knees in the marsh mud. Push away the reeds. Reach for her.

It is not Merit.

It is Amunet.

“Amunet!” I wipe the mud and water from her face and shake her. Her eyes are open yet unfocused.

I am less of a man because, in that moment, I feel relief.

Relief that it is not Merit.

But what has happened to Amunet? Khufu insisted that our royal hunting party split apart to raise the birds, but we all knew that he wanted to be with Amunet. Now she is alone, and she has crossed to the west.

As I hold her lifeless body in my arms, I feel the great weight of choice fall upon my shoulders. The rain pours through an evil gash in the clouds.

Khufu is my friend. He is my cousin. He will soon wear the Double Crown of the Two Lands of Upper and Lower Egypt. And when Khufu is Pharaoh, I will be his grand vizier.

But it would seem that I hold our future in my hands now, as surely as I hold this girl’s body.

I lower Amunet to the mud again and awake, panting and sweating, in my bed. I roll from the mat, scramble for a pot, and retch. It is not the first time.

The sunlight is already burning through the high window in my bedchamber.

The past is gone. There is only the future.

And I have a pyramid to build.




1

In the fifth year of Khufu, the Golden Horus, Great in Victories, Chosen of Ra, as the pyramid rose in the desert like a burning torch to the sun god himself, I realized my mistake and knew that I had brought disorder.

“Foolishness!” Khons slapped a stone-roughened hand on the papyri unrolled on the basalt-black slab before us, and turned his back on the well-ordered charts to study the workforce on the plateau.

I refused to follow his gaze. Behind me, I knew, eight thousand men toiled, dragging quarry stones up ramps that snaked around my half-finished pyramid, and levering them into beautiful precision. Below them, intersecting lines of men advanced with the rhythm of drumbeats. They worked quickly but never fast enough.

My voice took on a hard edge. “Perhaps, Khons, if you spent more time listening and less blustering—”

“You speak to me of time?” The Overseer of Quarries whirled to face me, and the muscles in his jaw twitched like a donkey’s flank when a fly irritates. “Do you have any idea what these changes mean?” He waved a hand over my plans. “You were a naked baboon at Neferma’at’s knee when he and I were building the pyramids at Saqqara!”

This insult was well-worn, and I was sick of it. I stepped up to him, close enough to map every vein in his forehead. The desert air between us stilled with the tension. “You forget yourself, Khons. I may not be your elder, but I am grand vizier.”

“My good men,” Ded’e interrupted, his voice dripping honey as he smoothed long fingers over the soft papyrus. “Let us not quarrel like harem women over a simple change of design.”

“Simple!” Khons snorted. “Perhaps for you. Your farmers and bakers care not where Pharaoh’s burial chamber is located. But I will need to rework all the numbers for the Giza quarry. The timeline for the Aswan granite will be in chaos.” Khons turned on me. “The plans for the queen’s pyramid are later than grain in a drought year. A project of this magnitude must run like marble over the rollers. A change like this—you’re hurling a chunk of limestone into the Nile, and there will be ripples. Other deadlines will be missed—”

I held up a hand and waited to respond. I preferred to handle Khons and his fits of metaphor by giving us both time to cool. The sun hammered down on upon the building site, and I looked away, past the sands of death, toward the life-giving harbor and the fertile plain beyond. This year’s Inundation had not yet crested, but already the Nile’s green waters had swelled to the border of last year’s floodplain. When the waters receded in three months, leaving behind their rich silt deposits, the land would be black and fertile and planting would commence.

“Three months,” I said. In three months, most of my workforce would return to their farms to plant and till, leaving my pyramid unfinished, dependent on me to make it whole.

Khons grunted. “Exactly. No time for changes.”

Ded’e scanned the plateau, his fingers skimming his forehead to block the glare, though he had applied a careful line of kohl beneath his eyes today. “Where is Mentu? Did you not send a message, Hemiunu?”

I looked toward the workmen’s village, too far to make out anyone approaching by the road. Mentu-hotep also served as one of my chief overseers. These three answered directly to me, and under them commanded fifty supervisors, who in turn organized the twelve-thousand-man force. Nothing of this scale had ever been undertaken in the history of the Two Lands. In the history of man. We were building the Great Pyramid, the Horizon of the Pharaoh Khufu. A thousand years, nay, ten thousand years from now, my pyramid would still stand. And though a tomb for Pharaoh, it would also bear my name. A legacy in stone.

“Perhaps he thinks he can do as he wishes,” Khons said.

I ignored his petty implication that I played favorites among my staff. “Perhaps he is slow in getting started today.” I jabbed a finger at the plans again. “Look, Khons, the burial chamber’s relocation will mean that the inner core will require less stone, not more. I’ve redesigned the plans to show the king’s chamber beginning on Course Fifty. Between the corbelled ascending corridor, the burial chamber, five courses high, and the five relieving chambers that will be necessary above it, we will save 8,242 blocks.”

“Exactly 8,242? Are you certain?” De’de snorted. “I think you must stay up all night solving equations, eh, Hemi?”

I inclined my head to the pyramid, now one-fourth its finished height. “Look at it, De’de. See the way the sides angle at a setback of exactly 11:14. Look at the platform, level to an error less than the span of your little finger.” I turned on him. “Do you think such beauty happens by chance? No, it requires constant attention from one who would rather lose sleep than see it falter.”

“It’s blasphemy.” Khons’s voice was low. It was unwise to speak thus of the Favored One.

I exhaled and we hung over the plans, heads together. Khons smelled of sweat and dust, and sand caked the outer rim of his ear.

“It is for the best, Khons. You will see.”

If blasphemy were involved it was my doing and not Khufu’s? I had engineered the raising of the burial chamber above ground and, along with it, Khufu’s role as the earthly incarnation of the god Ra. It was for the good of Egypt, and now it must be carried forward. Hesitation, indecision—these were for weak men.

“Let the priests argue about religious matters,” I said. “I am a builder.”

Ded’e laughed. “Yes, you are like the pyramid, Hemi. All sharp angles and unforgiving measurements.”

I blinked at the observation, then smiled as though it pleased me.

Khons opened his mouth, no doubt to argue, but a shout from the worksite stopped him. We three turned to the pyramid, and I ground my teeth to see the workgangs falter in their measured march up the ramps. Some disorder near the top drew the attention of all. I squinted against the bright blue sky but saw only the brown figures of the workforce covering the stone.

“Cursed Mentu. Where is he?” Khons asked the question this time.

As Overseer for Operations, Mentu took charge of problems on the line. In his absence, I now stalked toward the site.

The Green Sea Gang had halted on the east-face ramp, their draglines still braced over their bare shoulders. Even from thirty cubits below I could see the ropy muscles stand out on the backs of a hundred men as they strained to hold the thirty-thousand-deben-weight block attached to the line. Their white skirts of this morning had long since tanned with dust, and their skin shone with afternoon sweat.

“Sokkwi! Get your men moving forward!” I shouted to the Green Sea Gang supervisor who should have been at the top.

There was no reply, so I strode up the ramp myself, multiplying in my mind the minutes of delay by the stones not raised. The workday might need extending.

Halfway up the rubble ramp, a scream like that of an antelope skewered by a hunter’s arrow ripped the air. I paused only a moment, the men’s eyes on me, then took to the rope-lashed ladder that leaned against the pyramid’s side. I felt the acacia wood strain under the pounding of my feet, and slowed only enough for safety. The ladder stretched to the next circuit of the ramp, and I scrambled from it, chest heaving, and sprinted through the double-line of laborers that snaked around the final ramp. Here the pyramid came to its end. Still so much to build.

Sokkwi, the gang supervisor, had his back to me when I reached the top. Several others clustered around him, bent to something on the stone. Chisels and drills lay scattered about.

“What is it? What’s happened?” The dry heat had stolen my breath, and the words panted out.

They broke apart to reveal a laborer, no more than eighteen years, on the ground, one leg pinned by a block half set in place. The boy’s eyes locked onto mine, as if to beg for mercy. “Move the stone!” I shouted to Sokkwi.

He scratched his chin. “It’s no good. The stone’s been dropped. We have nothing to—”

I jumped into the space open for the next stone, gripped the rising joint of the block that pinned the boy and yelled to a worker, larger than most. “You there! Help me slide this stone!”

He bent to thrust a shoulder against the stone. We strained against it like locusts pushing against a mountain. Sokkwi laid a hand upon my shoulder.

I rested a moment, and he inclined his head to the boy’s leg. Flesh had been torn down to muscle and bone. I reached for something to steady myself, but there was nothing at this height. The sight of blood, a weakness I had known since my youth, threatened to overcome me. I felt a warmth in my face and neck. I breathed slowly through my nose. No good for the men to see you swoon.

I knelt and placed a hand on the boy’s head, then spoke to Sokkwi. “How did this happen?”

He shrugged. “First time on the line.” He worked at something in his teeth with his tongue. “Doesn’t know the angles, I suppose.” Another shrug.

“What was he doing at the top then?” I searched the work area and the ramp below me again for Mentu. Anger churned my stomach.

The supervisor sighed and picked at his teeth with a fingernail. “Don’t ask me. I make sure the blocks climb those ramps and settle into place. That is all I do.”

How had Mentu had allowed this disaster? Justice, truth, and divine order—the ma’at—made Egypt great and made a man great. I did not like to see ma’at disturbed.

On the ramp, a woman pushed past the workers, shoving them aside in her haste to reach the top. She gained the flat area where we stood and paused, her breath huffing out in dry gasps. In her hands she held two jars, brimming with enough barley beer to allow the boy to feel fierce anger rather than beg for his own death. The surgeon came behind, readying his saw. The boy had a chance at life if the leg ended in a stump. Allowed to fester, the injury would surely kill him.

I masked my faintness with my anger and spun away.

“Mentu!” My yell carried past the lines below me, down into the desert below, perhaps to the quarry beyond. He should never have allowed so inexperienced a boy to place stones. Where had he been this morning when the gangs formed teams?

The men nearby were silent, but the work down on the plateau continued, heedless of the boy’s pain. The rhythmic ring of chisel on quarry stone punctuated the collective grunts of the quarry men, their chorus drifting across the desert, but Mentu did not answer the call.

Was he still in his bed? Mentu and I had spent last evening pouring wine and reminiscing late into the night about the days of our youth. Some of them anyway. Always one story never retold.

Another scream behind me. That woman had best get to pouring the barley beer. I could do nothing more here. I moved through the line of men, noting their nods of approval for the effort I’d made on behalf of one of their own.

When I reached the base and turned back toward the flat-topped black basalt stone where I conferred with Khons and Ded’e, I saw that another had joined them. My brother.

I slowed my steps, to allow that part of my heart to harden like mudbricks in the sun, then pushed forward.

They laughed together as I approached, the easy laugh of men comfortable with one another. My older brother leaned against the stone, his arms crossed in front of him. He stood upright when he saw me.

“Ahmose,” I said with a slight nod. “What brings you to the site?”

His smile turned to a smirk. “Just wanted to see how the project proceeds.”

“Hmm.” I focused my attention once more on the plans. The wind grabbed at the edges of the papyrus, and I used a stone cubit rod, thicker than my thumb, to weight it. “The three of us must recalculate stone transfer rates—”

“Khons seems to believe your changes are going to sink the project,” Ahmose said. He smiled, his perfect teeth gleaming against his dark skin.

The gods had favored Ahmose with beauty, charm, and a pleasing manner that made him well loved among the court. But I had been blessed with a strong mind and a stronger will. And I was grand vizier.

I lifted my eyes once more to the pyramid rising in perfect symmetry against the blue sky, and the thousands of men at my command. “The Horizon of Khufu will look down upon your children’s grandchildren, Ahmose,” I said. I leaned over my charts and braced my fingertips on the stone. “When you have long since sailed to the west, still it will stand.”

He bent beside me, his breath in my ear. “You always did believe you could do anything. Get away with anything.”

The animosity in his voice stiffened my shoulders.

“Khons, Ded’e, if you will.” I gestured to the charts. Khons snorted and clomped to my side. And Ded’e draped his forearms across the papyrus.

“It must be gratifying,” Ahmose whispered, “to command men so much more experienced than yourself.”

I turned on him, my smile tight. “And it must be disheartening to see your younger brother excel while you languish in a job bestowed only out of pity—”

A boy appeared, sparing me the indignity of exchanging blows with my brother. His sidelock identified him as a young prince, and I recognized him as the youngest of Henutsen, one of Khufu’s lesser wives.

“His Majesty Khufu, the king, Horus,” the boy said, “the strong bull, beloved by the goddess of truth—”

“Yes, yes. Life, Health, Strength!” I barked. “What does Khufu want?” I was in no mood for the string of titles.

The boy’s eyes widened and he dragged a foot through the sand. “My father commands the immediate presence of Grand Vizier Hemiunu before the throne.”

“Did he give a reason?”

The prince pulled on his lower lip. “He is very angry today.”

“Very well.” I waved him off and turned to Khons and Ded’e, rubbing the tension from my forehead. “We will continue later.”

The two overseers made their escape before Ahmose and I had a chance to go at it again. I flicked a glance in his direction, then rolled up my charts, keeping my breathing even.

Behind me Ahmose said, “Perhaps Khufu has finally seen his error in appointing you vizier.” Like a sharp poke in the kidneys when our mother wasn’t watching.

“Excuse me, Ahmose.” I pushed past him, my hands full of charts. “I have an important meeting.”


MY REVIEW:

An excellent tale, set in Ancient Egypt! This was very well-written, and I had a hard time putting it down. There was romance and mystery mixed in, too, which really appealed.

Maybe my love of stories set in Ancient Egypt makes me biased. ;) But I think that the author really did her homework and researched things well for this story.

The faith element really made this book unique for me, as well, as I'm used to reading secular fiction set in this time period.

Highly recommended!

Rated: A-

Sunday, May 17, 2009

REVIEW: Never Give Up by Joyce Meyer


Fabulous book! I love books like this, mind you, that encourage you to persevere, no matter what.

This one is laced with stories of people like Alexander Graham Bell, Marie Curie, Winston Churchill, Ben Carson, and Rosa Parks who all overcame obstacles in order to persevere and see their dreams fulfilled (and then some!). So encouraging!

My favorite quote from this book was this:

“…make a fresh determination to pay the price of progress…” (p.65)



Highly recommended, especially if you’re feeling low and need a fresh burst of motivation.

Note: This book is also really inspirational for those who are working on weight loss, as Joyce mentions that a lot here, too -- and we can be encouraged to put what she says here into practice regarding our weight loss efforts. :)


Rated: A+

REVIEW: Weight Watchers Tools for Living Companion by WW Int'l


Weight Watchers’ Tools for Living Companion is a handy, little reference book that outlines their 8 “Tools for Living“:



Winning Outcomes
Empowering Beliefs
Anchoring
Storyboarding
Mental Rehearsing
Motivating Strategy
Reframing
…and Positive Self-Talking


I’d read about these before, and thought them to be really helpful. I’m glad to now own this book where I can reference back to these from time-to-time, and find inspiration!

Rated: B+

REVIEW: Finally Thin by Kim Bensen


Kim used to weigh over 350 lbs. Finally, one day, a Bible verse sparked her to try losing weight just one more time, even though she’d almost completely given up hope that she could ever be thin again. (Don’t be turned off by the mention of the Bible, though, as this book only had a couple very brief references to verses).

With a friend, Kim signed up for Weight Watchers and, within two years, had lost 212 pounds! (without surgery!)

This book doesn’t necessarily outline yet another plan. Instead, it’s meant to be used in conjunction with whatever diet plan you’ve already chosen to do. And, if you’re still searching for what plan might work for you, there’s also a fairly thorough list of the diets out there, with pros and cons of each one.

The book includes tips for the “journey” as well as for the maintenance phase. I really enjoyed this one!

Rated: B+

REVIEW: The Courage to Start by John Bingham


A fantastic book for those who are thinking about taking up running, or for those who are seasoned runners and just need to “return to basics” a bit.

I loved how most of this book stressed the importance of following your intuitition, and listening to your body for what it needs! And, I loved how Mr. Bingham showed that it’s okay to do your own thing — and not have to strive for the same things others strive for. Just because someone else says you “should” do your running “this way” doesn’t mean you have to… your body is the better judge of that. Of course, there are certain rules & guidelines to be followed in order to avoid injury. But otherwise, it’s all up to you!

Great book! Highly recommended!

Rated: A-

REVIEW: Naturally Thin by Bethenny Frankel


While this book teaches you the basics of non-dieting (eat only when hungry, eat what you love, pay attention, stop when satisfied, etc), there’s also a lot of ‘avoidance‘ mentality, too.

Even though Ms. Frankel is constantly encouraging you to eat what you want, and what your body needs, she also frequently mentions how she avoids this or that food, and suggests that you should “choose” to do the same if you want to be naturally thin.

Still a good book with a lot of great advice, but I just don’t agree with having to avoid foods, regardless. If you’re going to follow your hunger signals to be naturally thin, that’s all you need. I learned that through practical experience, so I know it’s true.

Rated: C

Thursday, May 14, 2009

TOUR: "The Deliverer" by Linda Rios Brook

It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!

You never know when I might play a wild card on you!


Today's Wild Card author is:


and the book:


The Deliverer

Realms (May 5, 2009)


ABOUT THE AUTHOR:



Linda Rios Brook is the author of numerous books including the popular novel Lucifer’s Flood. The president of the RiosBrook Foundation, she is a sought after speaker and teacher on matters relevant to cultural restoration. She is an ordained minister, serves on the WLI faculty and has served as a guest lecturer at the University of Minnesota.

Visit the author's website.



Product Details:

List Price: $13.99
Paperback: 291 pages
Publisher: Realms (May 5, 2009)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1599794764
ISBN-13: 978-1599794761

AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:


Save me, Samantha. I didn't mean to do it."

The disembodied spirit called out to her, begging her for help. She blinked hard and peered into what seemed like an endless sea of putrid fog.

The eerie voice cried out again.

This time she had to find him. If this was a prank, it had to stop. If it wasn't, well, she was less sure what she would do if it turned out to be real.

"Stay where you are," she cried. "Don't run away again." Her voice shook with fear.

"You know I'm innocent, Samantha. I don't deserve to be in hell. Hurry! You must help me while there's still time."

Her heart pounded so hard it seemed to catch in her throat and she couldn't breathe. Fear welled up within her. But fear of what or whom?

It didn't matter; she must pursue the desperate cries for help.

The ghostly voice cried out in anguish again as she groped her way through the gloomy maze that she already knew led to nowhere. She'd been this far before. It was always the same: a mournful voice pleading for her help, and each time the voice faded before she could reach its source. This time she wouldn't stop until she found the one calling out to her.

The foul-smelling fog thickened and concealed the path beneath her feet, and like the times before, she knew she was descending lower and lower with each erratic step forward. How far did she dare to go? She opened her mouth to call out, but her own voice failed her. An invisible hand tightened around her throat, holding her words captive.

This isn't real. I won't be stopped by something that isn't real. I must keep going.

"Where are you?" she screamed, surprised with the force of the words as they broke free.

Stumbling on through a darkness that grew denser with every step, a cold, slithering tentacle tried to wrap itself around her feet. She screamed again, kicked it away, and ran faster.

"Who . . . who are you?" Her breathing was becoming more labored. "How can I help you if I can't see you?" Her voice was raspy, and her throat hurt. The thickening haze was hot, and a nauseating odor assaulted her nasal passages. She paused and gagged.

"Pray for me, Samantha." The voice drifted farther away.

Gasping for clean air but finding none, she wiped her mouth on her sleeve and pushed onward toward the black hole that swallowed every glimmer of light. How much deeper could she go? What if she couldn't find her way back? She swallowed her terror and pressed downward into the darkness. He must not get away again.

"Wait!" Her throat was tightening, and her cries faded into hoarse whispers. "I'll pray for you. I'll find a way." Desperation percolated through her body as she lunged forward, her arms grabbing for someone who wasn't there.

"Stop running," she pleaded, her words barely audible. "How can I pray for you? I don't know your name."

The slithering tentacle returned and tripped her. She gasped and fell to her hands and knees on a rippled surface that had once been a river of molten lava. It had cooled and hardened but was still active below the thin crust. The steam continued to rise from beneath, and it burned her hands as she struggled to stand.

It was becoming impossible to see. Disoriented from the fall and fearful of careening into an abyss, she spun in circles, unsure of which way to go. A night bird flew near her head, pulling out strands of hair and mocking her as it sped away.

"Run away, Samantha. Run away while you still can."

"Stop it! Leave me alone!" She tried to cover her hair with her blistered hands.

"Pray for me, Samantha. Pray before it's too late." The voice faded even more.

"Wait! I don't know your name." Her desperation gave way to panic as if she were about to fail a critical mission. "Why won't you tell me your name?"

"Pray for yourself, Samantha."

"Please, don't go."

"Good-bye, Samantha."

She dropped to her knees, wailed in defeat, and sobbed.

A terrified scream.

A ringing telephone.

Samantha wasn't sure whether her own cry or the ringing BlackBerry had startled her awake, but she bolted upright, escaping the nightmare that had plagued her for weeks.

The cell phone rang again.

Still groggy, she blinked hard, sat up straight, and glanced about the room, trying to remember where she was. She rubbed her eyes and blinked again. Of course she was in her office at the University of Jerusalem. Alone.

The phone was still ringing amid the stacks of paper on her desk.

"Don't hang up." Her hands trembled as she groped for it, knocking over a cup of forgotten tea from the day before. "Just don't hang up."

Still disoriented, she fumbled with the BlackBerry as she pushed a strand of hair away from her ear with one hand.

"Yes, hello," she managed.

"Dr. Yale?" The unsteady voice on the phone was unmistakable.

Samantha Yale slumped down behind her antique desk, ignoring the spilled tea dripping onto the floor. Carefully, she cupped the telephone with both hands, afraid she might drop it and lose the connection she had been anxiously awaiting. She breathed in deeply and measured her words lest she startle her nervous caller.

"Yes, this is Samantha Yale."

"Dr. Yale, it's . . . "

"Yes, Wonk, I know who you are. Where are you?"

Silence.

It had been six months since the mysterious Wonk Eman, the nervous little man with no address, no telephone number, and no e-mail, had visited her and delivered the ancient scrolls to her office. His silence told her she was moving too fast. She took a deep breath, slumped back in her chair, and tried again.

"All right. You don't have to tell me where you are. Are you safe?"

"Why do you ask that?"

Before she could answer, he blurted out, "Am I in danger? I'll call back."

"Stop it, Wonk." She took another deep breath and lowered her voice. "You're in no danger."

"Then why did you ask me if I was safe?"

"No reason." She rose from her desk and walked over to the window where the Dome of the Rock could be seen in the distance against the blue Jerusalem skyline. Maybe a shift in position would make her sound less tense. "It's just that when we last talked, you were concerned about safety. Remember? You were worried someone else might try to contact me about the scrolls."

"Has anyone contacted you?"

"No, no one at all." She heard him slowly exhale.

"Have you told anyone else?"

"No one, just as you directed me."

She restrained herself from asking questions too soon. Slowly she began a silent count from one to ten. If he didn't speak again in ten seconds, she would prompt him. She only got to five.

"I have more scrolls."

"Good. When will you bring them to me?"

Another of his interminable pauses. She ran her fingers through her rumpled hair and tried to control her exasperation at how long it took him to say anything. Her ring caught the edge of the newly formed scab just above her right ear. A drop of blood smeared on her fingertip. Now what have I done? She turned to the wall mirror to examine the injury but gave up when she couldn't make her eyes shift far enough to see it. OK, that's long enough.

"Wonk?" she said, attempting to prod him back into the conversation.

"Yes. How long will it take you to translate them?" Impatience, anxiety, or both had crept into his voice.

"You know that's almost impossible to say. It's a difficult task to translate cuneiform."

"But you're an expert."

"Even for an expert, it requires a thought-for-thought translation, as opposed to a word-for-word technique. Besides, you haven't told me how many more scrolls you have."

He ignored the bait.

"Tomorrow, then," he said.

"Will you bring them yourself?"

A thud told her he had dropped the phone. She could hear him scrambling to retrieve it.

"Hello?" His fumbling sent piercing beeps into her ear. "Sorry. No, no, I . . . very risky . . . not wise at all." His voice had become shriller as he floundered to answer her question.

"That's OK." Take a breath. "Don't worry." Pause; let him calm down. "How will they be delivered?"

"By messenger; same as before. Good-bye, Dr. Yale."

"Wait—" She stopped him before he could hang up. Did she dare go any further? He was so high-strung he might flee at the slightest provocation. Maybe she should wait until she had the scrolls safely in her possession. Too late. She had to say something.

"Can I ask you something else?"

"What is it, Dr. Yale?"

"When we last talked . . . " She hesitated. Do I really want to go down this road?

"Dr. Yale?"

"Yes, sorry. When you were in my office and we talked about the Torah and other relics of antiquity, you brought up Noah's ark. Do you remember the conversation?"

"Yes."

"You were concerned about someone who might have survived Noah's flood—besides Noah's family."

"Og," he whispered.

"Yes, that's it. Og, the Nephilim king." She waited for his reaction.

There was none. She ran her fingers through her hair again. Afraid he might hang up, she preempted her ten-second rule and pressed in.

"What did you mean?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"No reason except it seemed important to you. Suppose such a thing had actually happened. Why would the idea distress you so?"

Silence.

I shouldn't have said "distress."

"Then he has contacted you." His voice was distressed. "You said no one . . . "

"What? No, of course not. Don't be ridiculous."

Seeing her reflection in the mirror on the wall, she began a silent exchange with herself.

You're having a conversation with a deeply disturbed man about someone who's been dead for five thousand years—if he ever existed at all. No wonder you can't sleep. Wonk doesn't seem capable of playing mind games, but what else can he be doing?

"I was only curious to know what you meant," she continued gently. "It's hard to understand why you would care about something that might have happened so long ago."

Silence.

One second, two seconds, three . . . 

"He must not get the scrolls, Dr. Yale. You must promise me that will not happen. You have no idea the consequences if . . . "

"No, it's OK. I'm sure I can keep them safe." She glanced at her reflection again to see if she looked sincere.

"Tomorrow, Dr. Yale. Wait for them. Remember your promise." The dial tone signaled the end of the conversation.

Samantha clicked the end button on her phone, sighed with relief that the conversation was over, and sat down on the window seat as she lingered at her personal portal of the world.

g

"Sign here, Dr. Yale." The burly man in the brown delivery uniform handed her the electronic notebook to register her signature as the authorized recipient of a carefully packed crate. She scrawled her name in silence, not wanting to engage him in any conversation that might delay his leaving. The man was barely out the door before she found a sturdy letter opener in the desk drawer and began prying open the container. At last the lid slid off, and Styrofoam peanuts went flying as her hands carefully reached inside the box. Just as she had done with the first scrolls, she gently removed each of the twelve and laid them out in what she guessed would be a somewhat chronological order on her conference table. Her only hope was that Wonk, or whoever packed them, had some appreciation for sequence.

Selecting the first scroll, she carried it to her desk and gently unrolled it. To an untrained eye it would have looked exactly like any one of the others she had already examined and locked away. Only an expert would recognize the difference in the markings of the ancient written language of the Phoenicians, cuneiform, which predated hieroglyphics by who knew how many centuries.

"I wish I knew what this material is," Samantha said, talking to herself as she fingered the scroll kept her from rushing through the delicate process.

With magnifying glass in hand, she peered intently at the first line.

"Are you in there?" She spoke aloud as if the scroll was listening. "A fallen angel with no name; what do you want to tell me? How can I help you if I don't know your name?"



PLEASE NOTE: I have not yet received this book to review, so I cannot post any thoughts on it.

Stay tuned for my review, coming later!