Scarlet

The second book in Stephen Lawhead's King Raven Trilogy is entitled Scarlet and picks up just after Hood ends off. This book was written from a different point of view than Hood, in that the narrative was mostly delivered by a captured member of the band of Rhi Bran y Hud (i.e. Robin Hood). A desperate and ill-fated attempt to kidnap the wicked sheriff of the forest, not borne out of cunning and planning, but out of rage and bravado, led to the capture and judgment of one Will Scarlet. Will sits condemned in a cramped cell, telling his story to a local monk. The monk is controlled by the evil and power hungry Abbot Hugo, who is seeking information that could lead to the demise of King Raven and his entire lot of outlaws.

Will represents one of the newest members of Hood's band of forest dwellers. At one time an important member of a small Welsh holding, he was suddenly forced out by the overthrow of his king due to the politics and greed prevalent within medieval Britain. Scarlet then searches out the growing legend of King Raven and his justice-seeking troop. His perspective is interesting and helps to develop the man out the legend that has become Hood. Along the way we are treated to a love story and to a desperate plot by Hood to expose the traiterous plotting of several powerful barons working to overthrow the king using the influence of the catholic church, all in his attempt to retake control of the kingdom taken from his family. A wonderful second entry in this saga. Now, onto the final book in the series, Tuck.

Book Exchange

I have read a lot of books over the past five years or so. Certainly most of them have given me at least some modicum of pleasure in the form of insight gleaned, gained wisdom, a vicarious adventure, or the appreciation of a skilled artist demonstrating their craft. I have taken advantage of my local library, located just a few blocks from my house, and checked out a fair number of tomes. However, I have also purchased a goodly number of books in this same span. I have taken no small measure of pride when incorporating the finished books into my personal library and then, over time, watching the stacks grow and fill the shelves in my bookcases.

But you know what is curious? There are very few books that I own that I have read more than once. I wonder then what the allure is that these bindings hold over me. For it seems that if those spines are not stressed and those leafs aren't rifled through from time to time, I have taken a bit of gold and buried it. Surely those volumes are more than just a decoration in my personal repository.(?)

At work recently, someone had the idea to set up a book exchange. Basically it is a bookcase filled with used books. The supposition is that if you want to take a book, the only price is that you replace it with another book. Thus the collection takes a different shape from week to week. The other afternoon, I passed by the display and paused. I ran my finger along the rows and up and down the jackets. These stories, passed one by one from hand to hand, really can make a wonderful treasure for all who stumble across them. In fact, they gain their greatest worth when they are shared.

Winter Marches On

Dreams have frozen,
Crystal in the morning
Birthtime rose,
A thorn for coronation

The unwelcome visitor creeps up on me each year like a thief. Slipping in unnoticed with his frigid touch. What confounds my mind is that he always catches me unawares, as if it were the first time. One day I come home from work and have a nice period to read and unwind outside on the porch. I pause every once and again to look out over my yard and breath deep the sunlight, the colors, and the warm, gentle breeze. Then it seems the very next day I arrive home in twilight. The once soft and formless trees, starkly mock at me with sharp and angular features in muted gray tones. The notion that the cold season has pushed out the warm, coupled with the knowledge that it will be a stretch before Aestas comes round to hold court on her emerald throne, leaves me melancholy. The sweet, flowing sap of life suddenly ceases to course through my veins. My attitude turns sour in direct proportion to the available light. Windows that used to reveal a scenic vista late into the evening, now display only harsh and glossy black holes that no fabric can mask. An unstoppable force that can be survived only through holing up into a sort of hibernation ... and the winter marches on.

Hood

I have just finished reading what I have rated as my first 5-star novel of the year. A tale so finely crafted, so vivid in each and every detail, that I was moved in mind and spirit to another place and time in a way that I have rarely experienced. Certainly this was a work on a different plane, penned by a seasoned craftsman well honed in his skills. But first, a related back story is needed for you to appreciate how I found this treasure.

Several weeks ago I posted a blog entitled "More Than Gruel?", where I pondered aloud whether I was getting the most out of the novels that I read. Was I spending my time with crude and middling fare when there was a much more delicious feast out there? As I response to this post, a reader that I do not personally know (who goes by the mysterious moniker Ricky Anderson), suggested that I look into works by english author Stephen Lawhead. This lead me to my local library and a slew of books from which to choose. After a few moments of thought, I selected three books that are part of his so-called "King Raven" trilogy. The first book is entitled Hood.

Hood represents a re-telling of the legend of Robin Hood, set in the English and Welsh countrysides circa 1100 A.D. The story has as its backdrop the infighting and self-preservation of the royals of medieval Britain. The compelling antagonist is the prince of a small holding whose land has been taken away by a backroom deal. The author has undertaken detailed research with regard to his choice of setting and the descriptions of the characters and how they lived. His choice of the setting itself was not capricious, but one based on his following the legends of this vagabond back through the ages. Certainly though this portrayal is a mixture of legend, fact, and fiction. It is told in a carefully crafted and layered style so that the narrative and actions of the characters are fully developed and contained within the context of each scene and each part of the tale. Now, onto the second novel in the series, Scarlet.

Tech Savvy

I am someone who spends a great deal of his day working on a computer. Yet I am not as tech-savvy as I would like to be or as hip and "with it" with regard to these machines as you might think given what I do for a living. You know who I blame for this? Well, my woes are actually the fault of two causes.

1). The IT Department where I work. I mean, whenever I run into troubles with networking or hardware or software, these oompa-loompas come rushing to my aid the second that they sense I am stuck or whenever they find me violently weeping under my desk. I mean, how am I ever going to learn anything about these contraptions and how they operate if some little orange man rushes to my rescue the second that the soup gets a bit thick?

2). Inertia. Inertia is a great word. Folks likely have heard this term and, moreover, can probably use it effectively in a sentence. ("My, your inertia gleams in the moonlight darling.") But, just as likely, most folks couldn't define this word if I threatened them with a sock packed with cold butter. Inertia is the tendency of an object in motion to stay in motion unless acted on by an external force, or in my case, the tendency of an object at rest to remain at rest, unless said external force starts poking at things that it shouldn't. In this definition, I am the object at rest, or better yet, I am the one who doesn't know anything whatsoever about the computers that he is using and yelling at. Likely I will remain in this state until something changes.

Maybe the answer is that I need someone from the IT Department not to fix or solve my computer problems when they arise, but to threaten me or poke me with a stick until I learn how to solve my own issues.

Plinko

I came to know the game called "plinko" from watching The Price is Right as a kid. The plinko game board is flat with a regular pattern of pegs sticking out from its surface and bumpers along the side edges. A player stands at the top of the board and places a disk at the first row of pegs and lets it fall down under gravity. The disk then bounces and rebounds and careens off the pegs, moving willy-nilly, this way and that way, ever downward toward the bottom of the board. At that point the disk falls into one of a number of slots labeled with specific prizes.

The other day I heard someone use the term plinko and it gave me pause. I thought about the game and how that disk bounces around in a beguiling pattern. Just when you think you can make an accurate guess as to which slot it will end up in, it takes a couple of bounces in the opposite direction. I sometimes feel like my life is a game of plinko. It seems that so much of it is random and out of my control. If you are like me, someone who tries to stay in control of all their life variables as much as possible, then this erratic bouncing of life's prize disk is infuriating and gives rise to untold levels of anxiety and worry. Furthermore, even though my lifestyle is fairly lavish by any worldly definition, there are moments where I live on edge with the perilous, uneasy sense that I am just a couple of unexpectedly bad bounces away from my disk landing in the "busted" slot.

The Bride Collector

Imagine the beauty that would overwhelm our souls if we could see each other in the same light in which God views us ...

I have just finished the thriller The Bride Collector by Ted Dekker. This novel was written on several different levels. On the surface it is the story of a psychotic killer who is systematically abducting women and brutally killing them, all the while he is being pursued by a relentless FBI agent. On another level it follows a touching love story between the FBI agent and a young lady who provides assistance. If the story remained confined to these two threads, it would be a fairly generic story told time and again by countless authors. However, this tale, at its core, latches onto something more beautiful and profound.

The bride collector is the label given by the FBI to the mass murderer. This man, Quinton Gauld, is not killing women for sport or with evil intent in his mind. He believes that he has been charged by God to deliver the most beautiful women alive to be His brides. In order to purify them to be in God's presence, he must drain them of their blood and their humanity. He believes that he is operating solely out of love and devotion. However, in his mind, he somehow knows that something in his thinking and logic is amiss, that he is a sinner. In his conflict, he leaves a note with one of the brides. This note leads the FBI to an establishment housing a number of patients with mental disorders but who are exceptionally bright. One of the patients is a young woman named Paradise. Paradise is gifted with visions of the past and an acute ability to understand people, but she is psychotic and highly agoraphobic. Tentatively, she begins to work through her personal limitations and issues with the lead FBI agent on the case, Brad Raines. Slowly, however, feelings of trust and a bond of love begin to develop.

Yet how can there be true love between a handsome, talented, and outgoing agent and a homely, introverted, disconnected woman? Some might think that this notion is unrealistic or far-fetched. However, when both can see past the veneer of humanity, see past the labels, see past the baggage of the years that cloud vision, they ultimately can see into the heart and mind.