BOOK – I

  AWAKENING

  AWAKENING - GATHERING - BINDING BLOODLINE - PROPHECY - PHOENICIA - FUTURE DIG

  AN HISTORICAL FICTION SEPTALOGY BY: CONNER KING

  COPYRIGHT:

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means,

  including scanning, photocopying, or otherwise without prior written permission of the copyright holder.

  Copyright ? 2026

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  OH children of light be still your worried hearts – put aside the troubled fears of the as yet unseen;

  for it is “WE” the three-spirits of heaven’s Holy Trinity, who have parted the vast firmament

  in our creation of all worlds. You are made from our dust to live through eternity.

  Be mindful as “WE” watch your paths from both high above and the deep depths below.

  CJM-2008

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  TO grams, our blossoming flower of love and responsibility,

  a secure cover to cure our every ill – the patch for every shortcoming.

  Even when we found ourselves unknown to you, the spirit of your soul kept us all from self-falter.

  Life’s loss so profound as you were taken too soon, all in your knowing so sad to see you go…

  CJM-2012

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  **Please Note**

  Some of the contexts within this literary work have been adjusted for a better clarity of fit, format,

  and where needed, to provide the rider with a more modern flare…

  The author wishes for all readers of this material to be fully aware:

  This story was not scribed in stone….

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  JOSIAH was a child from our not-so-distant past, his thoughts cast adrift among clouds of restless daydreams. As the midday-sun climbed high in the sky, he felt himself being carried ever deeper into the quiet simplicity of his carefree world. A subtle stirring rose within him. His spirit quickened by excitement as it mingled with his newly awakened awareness.

  His face bore a blank-yet peaceful expression, and he carried the look of a boy who had become solely absorbed in the wonders of his youth. His every breath seemed charged, the possibilities endless. Each exhale meaningful as it mixed with the warm breeze of each given day. With his chest swelling slightly, he gazed outward toward the horizon, his unspoken question: “What new adventures would this miraculous day bring..?”

  Josiah’s world was small and familiar, his lessons in life few, and his experiences limited. On rare occasions he might venture beyond the narrow boundaries of his family’s homestead, but on most days he could be found bounding closer within the comforts of home. Yet, as this day would unfold, his life would be changed forever.

  Alongside his faithful dog, Mechukmac, the pair would soon find themselves stumbling upon a trove of forgotten relics—ancient doctrines and sacred artifacts that had remained hidden for centuries, their remnants in total, destined to reshape our modern understanding.

  This accidental discovery would reveal a host of parchment scrolls, papyri, and heavy stone tablets—each one far rare and treasured beyond measure. Every item shrouded in mystery, every preserved fragment held dear. These self-proclaimed writings had been painstakingly crafted by the steady, impassioned hands of scholars who were long departed. Yet now, with their ink laid faint, their inferences fractured and fragmented from one another, and many of their symbols having been erased by the slow passage of time—they still endured on and were carried forward into the future, rescued from loss in the depths of human history, their messages remained vital, more relevant than before.

  This remarkable collection would soon come to be known by the unassuming name of; "The Dead Sea Scrolls"—a title which arrived from the barren desert regions in which they were first discovered. In total, over two-thousand manuscripts had been found, the scrolls offering a complex and profound biblical perspective that would challenge the beliefs of any modern reader. And once fully translated, they would eventually reveal their long unknown truths: the hold of these remnants a lost soul’s hopes and dreams, one who had once belonged to an ancient sect of religious practitioners known as the "Essenes"...

  Thanks to their foresight, and their careful preservation, these voices from a long-forgotten age could now be returned—their stories, their wisdom, and their faith in contemplation, continuing to echo, while they waited patiently in hiding until once again revealed...

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  Locked at attention but seated in repose, Josiah sat balanced along the edge of a small table. He leaned in slightly and sipped from the rim of a blue-plastic cup, its top etched with diamonds which were patterned in place.

  Josiah admired how the triangles lay still—their elliptical forms being tear-dropped in shape at their bottoms as they sat like small islands set adrift in the sea. The patterns came stacked sequentially in order, row upon row as they encircled the vessel in their perfect display.

  He lifted the vessel again and chugged another swallow. He savored the cool milk as it entered his belly, sweet and refreshing as it left a creamy ring of white-residue on his tanned-olive lips.

  Annoyed, he brushed aside the strands of stray bangs which criss-crossed his brow, their behavior disobedient in nature before snapping right back—“more stubborn than ever..,” he thought. Then came a growl…

  It rose from beneath and off at one side, just near his overlapped ankles. It was an unmistakable sound—and came immediately followed by the hungry rumble of a small animal's tummy. Josiah grimaced inside but ignored it at first, his expression held blank as he took another sip.

  Distracted in thought, he plucked absently at the midday kosher meal that his mother had prepared: oven-baked matzo bread, darkly crisped at the edges and then topped with fresh goat-cheese. Beside the bread sat a cluster of sour-radishes, a small comfort food from his youth and one he’d grown up with. It was a simple feast in its gift and one he well cherished.

  Do to his doting parents Mahala and Avner, Josiah’s life at home was one of ease and security. The Haggai family lived in comfort on their ranch-land and small homestead on a tucked-away parcel just outside of a modest neighborhood near the outer reaches of Qumran, Jordan.

  It was early July, 1947, and Josiah—now twelve—felt a rising sense of excitement. His birthday had arrived a mere two weeks before and with it came the gift of twelve sheep and a puppy—these being tokens of his transition toward a new stage in life.

  “Josiah..,” his father Avner had advised, “this is an important time for you my young son...and your mother and I have both agreed that now is the right moment in time for you to take charge of some new responsibilities...You’re not so small anymore lad...and at a good age to learn the old ways of a herdsman...After all...this was your grandfather’s call...and we believe it will also be a valuable experience for a good boy like yourself...”

  Josiah smiled brightly, he was delighted and full of pride at the memory of his grandfather. How his heart had swelled during his most recent birthday when the mood of his parents had showered him with gifts, warm hugs and spent kisses.

  Then, with the new arrivals in tow, he had decided to name the small puppy, "Mechukmac"—a name he drew out from a slang “Hebrew” term witch meant, “little ugly duckling...”

  The name fit the dog well, and though the animal was almost pure white on top he had mitten-like black-paws. Mechukmac was a scrappy little critter, and very excitable, and he seemed to never fail at getting into mischief.

  Time elapsed, and when returned back at that table, Josiah appeared eager, his body at a rise as he sat basking in anticipation of his newly gained responsibilities. His mind raced onward toward the day's new adventures, and yet…unknowingly…the day’s greatest journey had yet to begin...

  In an instant—a snatch broke the silence. The sudden pull startled Josiah, his soft eyes widening as the piece of cheese he lowered down had completely disappeared into the clutches of a swiftly granted mouth-grab; the small animal below so anxious to appease.

  From across the room came Mahala’s raised voice, it was laced with aggression but gentle in admonishment: “Josiah, love…what has your mother told you about feeding Mechukmac people food from the table..?”

  Her gaze was hardened, her lips pinched, and yet her hands never stopped in their rhythmic rotations of slicing through the lines of fresh garden greens which she had spread on the butcher-block before her.

  Josiah smirked, and then narrowed his view in a cast of amusement. He caught his dog’s expression from below—a perfect mirror to his own. The two co-conspirators now shared in their looks of pure deviance, both bonded in the silence of their quiet deception…total rebellion...

  Mechukmac tilted his head as he locked eyes with Mahala, his four dark paws planted firmly beneath his offer of a stiff-bodied display, his stature braced in the air of a creature who was held with little or no understanding. With a soft, dramatic grunt, he then turned a blind-eye...

  Josiah pondered on this, and not for the first time: “How can she see me so clearly without turning her head..?”

  With feigned innocence, he reached down and gave Mechukmac a few stealthy pats on his neck as his other hand was then quick to reach out again for that semi-filled cup of cool milk.

  “We’ll be heading for the back slope..,” he announced rather quickly. “Those same two sheep have wandered off once again...”

  In a flash, Josiah returned to his feet and paced toward the rear kitchen door. Mechukmac, being his ever loyal companion, had sprung into action and strolled right beside him...tail high, poised and matched perfectly. Together they moved as one—boy and dog, stride for stride, like a single spirit being set loose in the world.

  “Dinner’s at six..!”, Mahala called after, her voice floating loudly above the clatter of her work...“And be careful of the heat, sweetie..,” she then added quite softly, though her words fell to a whisper, for the pair had already vanished into the freedom of outside. The only reply being offered was the clap of the screen-door as it slammed shut behind them.

  Outside, Josiah gave a sigh of relief. He and his ruddy-faced sidekick were already somewhat pervy to where to go and look, these missing lambs in the past had been regular offenders, and they were prone to wander-off and go feed on their own.

  The lambs dispersed in their versions of a child like hide-and-seek. These weren’t wild escapes, but rather calculated jaunts to go out and reach the more greener and grassier spots which ran along the low runs about the sand-sculpted cliffs.

  After a fair walk which included plenty of horseplay, Josiah and Mechukmac had finally arrived at the cliffs. They burst into a clearing, the pair panting and playful as the two-lambs in question then came into view. They where grazing in the shadows. A series of tall rocks stood close out beside them, and the full morning's theme was cast in golden-light. The day was mild, the breeze gentle. Josiah smiled with relief.

  Climbing up on a rocky outcrop, Josiah sent out with his standard practiced whistle-spit. Mechukmac stood pointed and then bolted away, his motions quite rapid as he barked out in a fury. This startled the sheep and caused them to scatter, each bounding about wildly in the quickness of wide, frantic arcs.

  Josiah laughed as he leapt from his place on the edge of a large lifted rock, his body then fast landing waist-deep in the soft shift of white-sand. “Holy crap..!” he gasped.

  He struggled, then laughed, and then got caught up in the moment before he gave out with great efforts to wriggle himself free—only to then notice the faint glint from some pottery which lay partially exposed, down and below. He was left-buried to one knee, and as he peered around feverishly, his eyes began to widen with growing excitement as the simple shapes of three stout clay-jugs had made their appearance. Ancient. Sacred. Timeless...

  Leaning down, he first touched and tested, one of the jugs' handles before jiggling it to freedom and dragging it aside. Gently, he pried free the grip of its old-age clay-stopper. And with a loud "POP..!", a rush of ancient dust then puffed up in the air.

  He reached into its darkness, his fingers sent to nervous as they brushed against something textured, something crinkly...—an ancient scroll...and while cast to a tremble, he carefully brought forth his new find into the light of the day...

  This was no ordinary morning, and surely no ordinary find, for here...beneath the sand...lay a whisper from the past—a treasure trove not of gold, but of wisdom...of story, and of memory...the past...once sealed away, had now been returned to us here in the present—not asking to be worshiped, but rather understood...

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  “SHALL we now join together as a single-entity and move beyond our hardened realities of thought and mind to an older majestic period which was back before all currently faith-held binding? Let us return to those long-displaced times and to a more wholesome place of a prophetic origin which existed in and about the era of 301 A.D...?”

  ◆ ◆ ◆ ◆ ◆ ◆

  Our New Setting — A Far Gone By Era...

  Long ago and in an age that had been swallowed up by time, those very same jugs—these ones which had only now been re-discovered—they still carried with them their sacred inheritance of God’s holy laws.

  Here they had remained sealed...and here they had remained buried...Here they had sat lost to the ages of wisdom while being forever locked beneath the shifting sands of a relentless, dry desert...

  Millennia had passed

  Questions lingered on...

  "Who had buried them..?"

  "Why had such miraculous treasures been left to weather behind...Hidden and abandoned…lost forever..?"

  The plot only deepened...

  After all, these jugs were simple, handcrafted vessels—unassuming in appearance, yet sacred. Their contents had once been misjudged as being heretical in nature by the governing bodies of their controllers in time, even dangerous.

  Zealots of the unknowing, they had destroyed all remaining copies—or so they had thought—and corrupted what remained. They had been re-transcribed, their original messages modified to serve their own dogmas of power. The languages they once held, manipulated; their stories reshaped—and then stripped free from the consent of those who had first penned them to parchment.

  We had inherited these revelations through their altered deceptions—their ancient knowledge re-filtered through centuries of omissions of misgiven distortions. These injustices had occurred during the religious upheavals of the 5th and 6th centuries A.D.—a time far removed from the origins of our tale.

  For what we now call, "The Dead Sea Scrolls" they were once, in truth, fragments of something far more profound—the lost gospels of the fabled, "Gnostic-Essenes"...

  This, then, is not simply the story of a modern sheep-herder, a boy who had wandered through the hills of "Qumran" and found some lost treasures, but rather, it is the story of the scrolls themselves—and that of the young orphaned “Roman” boy who had first sought to gather them up long ago, and who would grow-up over time to be something more: a visionary, a protector, the founding father and leader of the very "Essene" sect which had tasked themselves with the safeguarding of the sacred knowledge at its far back conception, all for its later use in time. To later be recovered...

  "How could he have known..?"

  “How could he have prepared..?"

  These are the "Scrolls of the Prophet…"

  Their reincarnation now brought to you in preparedness for your own gift of discovery...

  ...Select Next Scroll...

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  FOR those who cater to disbelief and reject these communications,

  they are the inmates of the fire, to abide therein, and evil the result – in the name of Allah,

  the beneficent, the merciful. May “WE”, the three-spirits of the trinity, grant upon you true peace?

  Shall the endless love of YAHWEH, travel within you and may the gods of the highest heavens

  and he who guides them, bless and keep you safe;

  for all are most welcome to experience, ponder, and reflect upon: the “Scrolls of the Prophet”….cjm

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  ***SOME of the texts contained within this literary work are the direct quotes and English translations

  from their original scroll mirrored images in: Aramaic, Assyrian, Babylonian, Cuneiform, (Kemit) Egyptian, Hebrew, Hindu and Sanskrit verbiages

  as provided by, but not limited to, the following doctrines:

  Scrolls of the Nineveh library - The Code of Hammurabi

  The Dead Sea Scrolls - The Apocrypha

  The Torah - The Quran - The Bible

  ◆◆◆

  Scrolls of the Prophet

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Book I

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  The Sea of Galilee

  OBSTRUCTED by darkness, the vast sands of time stretched out before me.

  It was I, Octavius Riolet—an orphan, a boy cast out and forgotten. I had no hearth, no home. I was abandoned...trapped in a timeless exile that was rooted in my Pagan past. Yet, in this solitary desert, even that connection had seemed to be lost.

  I had found my existence to be suspended in the moment while I was caught within the weight of a suffocating desolation. My body left dreadfully unfamiliar to the heavy burdens I pulled, my form caught unguarded and completely at a loss as I melted into the cold, harsh landscape which spun off unending. Unbound to the earth, these very sands themselves ever hindering my progress as they drew me right in.

  For a moment, I held still, my thoughts lost in the dreadful quiet of the night, my senses cast adrift in a mix of wonderment and despair.

  “Would this be my end..?”,—my mind questioned at the sobering reality of my eventual mortality. "Would desolation be my fate...or was I nothing more than a fleeting memory in a land of uncaring which swallowed time whole..?"

  The silence persisted, in and around me.

  The moon rose high above the desert with its weak, waning light, and the rays it gave off were barely strong enough to cut through the vast, starless sky. The land's pale glow had surrounded my placement, and it mirrored the emptiness that filled up my soul. The scene was harsh and a silent witness to my sorrows.

  My body—aching and sore, was dried out and withered—I felt like a mere echo of my previous self. The dust of the desert clung to my lips, their surfaces cracked and split from their exposure to the heat. They burned with a cruel and unending thirst. Yet still, my body desired life, its life-force being drawn in further by the pull of each breath—my chest rose and fell with an intense labored effort, each breath on arrival a veined struggle against the desert’s cold reply.

  “Gods above...”, I questioned, “where are you now..?”, “What good are your gifts to such a desolate young man..?”

  I had no answers. Only the shifting sands would accept my steely cries. These were the sands of forever, the holders of time, they stretched out before me, constant and unending.

  “Oh, significant trinity of the gods-do grant one his receipt of set peace, this at his most desolate run in of moon-times, for was it not “WE”, the three-spirits of the “ONE”, who had created all life from the grains of barren dust and thus issued precious flesh upon the bones of all men? Oh, great deities above, and holiest rulers of the heavens, will “WE” not be provided with even a scant gift of given pity..? A return from utter darkness to address the enlightened needs of his disparaged, mournful soul..?”

  Beset with flushed cheeks that were half-twinged to a wince, I skirted past the pain. My white-knuckled fists shown clinched to their max. My palms held in force upon their application of strife, while securing the borders of a bedraggled gray-sheet; its form simply ragged-a cloth of lost cause...

  The fabric I held tightly to was heavily weathered and torn, its every seam nearly split. The material had been way overused and was nearly worn through at its middle, its former life of acceptance soon to fade to its end. This tote of creation, it had been sewn from an accumulation of gathered throwaways and patches, the ensemble in the end showed out worthless at best.

  However, to be free of its burden, its long-carried weight, this on its own would not grant one with rest. I required every strand of its battered old weave to be dragged on from behind as I trudged along further in my quest to survive. The load being ferried, offered out with great stress.

  My mind responded in deliverance, “For only if the “Heavenly Father” would send his voice to that of the “Holy Earthly Mother”; she alone-in due course, and of her own volition, could then offer up with the summoning power of her life's sustaining breath...” This being a return in transference from one’s own hurried actions to bury his path; and to hide his discovery, the sole purpose of my misdirection, to hold every eye from its view.

  Then, and only shortly thereafter, the appearance of the “Holy Earthly Mother's” sultry spirit-wind did arrive. And from within this willful force came the issued commands that would transcend all my foot-tracks to a more elusive view; well that, and to then lower their presence to a new hold beneath the betrayal of the moon-lit night-sands.

  With a hardened voice I cried out, “Oh, to the most gracious lord above, if only to be granted with the deliverance of a slightly lighter load; one accepting some reprieve from the unforgiving weight of a single clay jug..!”-this being my request to increase my own chances at an extension of life's run. An allotment that would grant me the ability to gather up with enough strength to ensure that my motions in play would move my weary carcass yet further on and on.

  My breaths lingered more heavily as I agonized over each step, all reserves being needed to pass my body further forward and through these vast-sanded dunes.

  One's mind raced on; it was ferried in a ruckus as it turned to recall of a far different focus-all my thoughts in their avoidance. My conceptions reached out beyond their more current impressions. Mercilessly driven. One's inner-self being sent to ascertain a set of much older and dissimilar dark thoughts:

  “Perhaps something else was at play in this dark sullen place, something more evil and treacherous in its foul gift of knowing..! A bandit long parsed within my holds of misgiving..? A person who lay hidden and silent and calmly at wait...an opportunist in his play to come and seek me out..?”

  I reconciled my thoughts to repress these expectations. Perhaps any dreaded villain, or even the embodiment of that notorious villain, “Hassani — the Assassin...”, he might be out and about and tracking me this night. His figure stayed silent in a presence that was locked at the ready to offer up with his own virtual gifts in repeated betrayals of deceptive spied-lurks.

  Surely, he and his so-called gang of, “Daggers of Death...”, they would be stationed not far off in the distance while dressed in their preparedness to provide one with a curse. One's mission in palm, to survive through the night. For this much was written to be right, just and true; for out in the shadows and criss-crossing the sands, lay a harsh death in my travels upon any given path.

  In remembrance, and to my surprise, one’s formerly accomplished rival had only recently taken-back from my hold the famed: “Sword of Palmyra...”, a priceless and treasured relic, an intrinsic weapon of war. Its possession when palmed the assassin’s best friend.

  I had grafted its freedom from the merciless killer's own clutches. My motions of stealth in a most precarious fashion. A fact undisputable and perfectly just and fair. Surely, such a phantom of aggression had arrived here beforehand and now sat in his wait to present me with a return in the same equaled recourse, that, or to bath my withered body in the deception of a not so dissimilar flavor..!

  One’s proposed question indeed: “If the assassin had made his arrival in real, could I once again in my efforts keep these fantastic scribed treasures protected..?” and, “would in the end-only true love make its tell..?”

  In a covenant of brashness, my dry-puffy-eyes squinted much tighter as my legs grew out numbed. I felt myself being drawn out from the weight of the load that I ferried. One’s perception in sight now only growing slowly dimmer. An infliction put to hand as all of my extremities began to emit with their increased weary calls—the conversant combination of both my calves and my thighs now sorely overwhelmed. Each step at its falter as I came to imprint the sand with no less than my full form, my limpness in body then fast growing closer to a state of overcome.

  This newer-stout stature, the one I now possessed, it proceeded to fall down in a slowly mired decent. I then found myself splayed atop the cool desert sands. A conclusion in finality as I lay grounded at mid-pathway upon the lead of my trotting. Any freedom however, its gain was denied. One's self-reliance in wane. Then, and patiently, as though I was locked in the slow motion of my last reserves, I reached out with an arm and pushed myself over. The effort only hastened as one came to find himself being released from that fettered old sheet, its loss from my palms a mere shot at redemption.

  In and about my soul, there arrived no display of any held fear. No struggle to proceed. I remained without drive as my torso then laxed. My motions at pace would return to their task as soon as the warm blood of my fresh would re-energize my arms.

  I sighed; And then applied all the retention of my remaining vigor to brush away the powdery-quartz pigments which adhered to my eyes. It was a deliberate performance. One which came accompanied with a subtle release in clouds of soft dust. My actions short lived as all hope fell away.

  Now, with those more tedious labors finally completed, one’s attentiveness then fell to address the new distress of my eyes. Every conception shown hindered. Each view set reluctant. My mind left trapped in its refusal to comply with commands. That, and-or, any other set of directives which my mind could then foster.

  Hurriedly, I took in a much-needed breath as my contemplation in vision grew increasingly blurred and I fell yet deeper into the basin of an oncoming delusion. All in acceptance as I peered out for a sign, one's grasp for a gift-or any distinct detail which might be unveiled from the ageless expanse of the faintly lit heavens.

  With an evaluation of heart that was both beaten and betrayed, the inner muscle itself now gave out with its cry. Its summons, to spit forth with a gift, “Well Tav my son, with all the protection from the gods up above now being forbidden, it seems that one’s true spirit shall be granted no reprieve..!”

  The idea, though slated, it had haunted my subconscious to the center of its core and left me half-hindered.

  “Was I defeated..? Completely overcome..?” to this sorrowful prognosis came the relinquishment of a single palm. And once cast into use, I first groped at, then grasped at — the sole purpose of my intention; to take comfort in the possession of a once small crafted talisman. An object of leisure which I kept gingerly held captive and consigned to the roundish-oval recess which indented my chest.

  “Mary..!” I cried—"Marianna Elizabeth Magdalana"—a name that had once echoed so sweetly in the hold of my heart. She being the one who had, in an instant of sorrow, gifted me this very same token to take care in remembrance: an elongated oaken image. Its form bearing the likeness to that of a martyr, one who had arrived drenched in agony on this, his darkest-day of crucifixion—a solemn reminder, cruel in its show and now bitter in my told story of recollection. It had come to me as the final parting gift of our love, a cruel precursor to our last painful meeting.

  Alas, the love of my life. The one I had betrayed with the lies of my own cheating heart. No pleas, no words, nothing asunder to undo the damage I'd caused. The deceiver—it was I, Octavious—the one who had stood out before her, and held this precious token of her last gift of affection, a gift which had once carried warmth, but now only brought the taste of a much colder sadness to each beat of my heart.

  The memories of my past misdeeds now gnawed at me deeply. Those actions—those foolish choices, the ones that had led me away from her confidence—they were now the roots of the mistrust that had gripped at my being.

  I had fled from her side, abandoned her, she being the one for whom I cherished the most, and now, in the silence of the night, only the weight of the somber token she'd given was left to remain. A symbol of a once flourishing love that had now been turned hollow, been stripped of its glow and left jaded within. I was allotted to sift through the remnants of what we had once dearly shared.

  The weight of my betrayal had pressed down upon my thoughts. I was trapped, locked within myself and caught in a maze of regrets which were puddled in waves of self-pity.

  My mind was desperate to escape from these anguishes as I reached backward in time to grasp at the memories of a period when things were more pure, when love had first blossomed, and long before it had so quickly withered away...faltered to ruin. My eyes closed in reflection, and I felt my spirit-body being cast into a frail state as it grew numb to the world.

  The gift she had given me, one which was once full of meaning, it now lay in my hand like a cold plated stone, a final relic of our love. A symbol of everything I had lost. My fingers traced over its crisp silver-edges, the cross—its figure clear in my mind: a man, stretched wide and impaled on a beam, his limbs twisted in agony. Long forged nails had been driven through both his hands and his feet, a ring of thorns crowned his head—all of this treachery had been meticulously crafted into this smallest of fine figurines.

  The details of the crucifix now haunted me. Its painful realism echoing beyond the very suffering I now felt. The cross was a perfect reflection of my own internal struggles and torments—every detail of the sad martyr's suffering in their cold mirror to my own. The crown of thorns, it was sharp and merciless as it wrapped around the figure’s head, a symbol of cruelty, and yet, I could not let go of it. I had caressed it so often, as though somehow, through just the act of holding it, I could atone for my sins.

  The cross itself seemed to weigh heavier with each passing moment. It pressed firmly on my heart as if it were the key to some inclination of redemption that was beyond my grasp.

  "How much would this small piece of silver cost me..? Twenty talents..? Thirty..?", a sum far too high for just such an object, but one I could not bear to part with. It was all I had left of her...I held it so close...fingered its hard smoothness in its weight against the fabric of my life.

  Around me, the landscape flowed like a bleak reflection of my inner state. My camp was a meager thing, a crude apparition of rope-tent which possessed a single canvas sheet, its fabric stretched over a rope at length and which also left me with scarcely any shield from the dry winds of the desert.

  The earth beneath me felt cool as I lay in the shallow, a makeshift home of my own making that was built in the dirt of the valley. Around my camp lay the mountains, their slopes traipsing high as though they were a silent reminder of my own isolation. The valleys below stretched wide in their flow and came revealed as full-empty.

  In this desolate place, one could find no peace. My hearth—a small, crude thing which offered out to my worries with very little comfort. The dry, cracked ground below me, it was now my only companion, a dusting of sand and the occasional reptilian visitor who thought to stop by.

  But even as I was caught here in the solidarity of the “Jordanian” hills...the weight of my guilt flowed like a river...It was an ever-present force that wouldn't subside.

  These sands that held me were grounded in silence, my homeland just a short jaunt from the outskirts of “Madaba”, a town which lay nestled within the embrace of the far reaching “Holy Lands”. The town of “Madaba”, and that of my current hearth, though distinct in their features, they almost felt like the opposing faces of the same lowly “talent”. They were both caught up within the same geography, their edges surrounded by the many other small communities that dotted the plain as they stretched out toward the boundaries of the grand “Jordan River”.

  My home, it was a mere stone’s throw away and just south of “Moab”, a place where the winding river itself had marked the boundaries of my world, and where the towering city of “Jerusalem” rose high in the distance.

  The banks of the “Jordan” had bordered towns both small and large, each with its own spirit, but none were so commanding as that of “Jerusalem”. And beyond its great walls, the rough terrain of the “Canaanites” stretched far-off in the planes, their lands much more ancient, more untamed as well. Then even further out-ward, the “Mediterranean Sea” kissed at its coasts, the exotic shores calling and whispering in tandem to the untold promises of far-away places.

  The “King’s Highway” of travel.., it stretched through these lands like a great arterial snake that connected both towns and kingdoms alike, and when riding upon it there came the bold mounted knights with their painted-on shields and sharp bladed swords, they patrolled all these roads while offering out safe passage to all who dared travel—no payment requested, though gratuities were expected.

  “Do not stray beyond the hills, or their sands of time will make your call..,” warned Sir Tancred, the leader of the knights patrol, his voice firmly expressed within its weight of expression.

  I was much younger then, a boy who still sought to find out his place in the world, but the master's words lingered on as they echoed in my mind, they were a persistent reminder that the world which lay beyond that of my current knowledge could be both alluring and dangerous.

  My hand instinctively reached for the medallion once more, it rested over my heart and was the one which had been given to me by my most beloved Maggy.

  It had been provided as a gift for the day when I finally would reach manhood, when I would celebrate my seventeenth-year and then enter into the realm of one's awaiting adulthood—an event to be shared with both family and friends.

  But that day had come and gone...and now, with regret, the stress it bore was no longer in celebration, but more just a painful reminder.

  The sum of my actions—the lies, the betrayals—they pressed down on me harshly. "How could I have turned my attentions away from her, from the one who had trusted me the most..? How could such shame take root in my soul..?", I was the one who had betrayed her reliance, the one who had fallen prey to the temptations of deceit which came offered out from a pair of “Sodom’s” sinful daughters.

  I had abandoned her trust in a fleeting moment of lust. And with that single act, I had shattered my promise, the one I had made to her, and with it, my own heavy heart.

  But our story had not always been such as it was, one of betrayal. I recalled our earlier days of fun and the quieter moments we had shared, a time when our hearts had first come together, abreast of one-another. We were more child-like back then, unaware of our paths or the depths of our feelings, but nonetheless, we had been drawn toward each other via an undeniable force.

  Occasionally, our eyes would meet from across the streets of “Madaba”, our glances only shy at first, but then growing bolder. I recalled the days when we would sneak away from the town and its people, our forms locked in hiding behind the crumbling walls of a local agricultural ditch which appeared near the southern edge of town.

  We had made the area our secret meeting place, a spot where we could touch palms on countless occasions while displaced in the shadows where no one could see us.

  The ditch, it was a mere indentation in the earth that was deep enough to hide us, and it had offered up to us with the privacy that we so wantingly longed for. And there, amidst the cracks in its walls and the clear dryness of the day, we shared our life's secrets.

  We were young, but our hearts were bound by something that was far deeper and more profound than we could ever understand. Our closeness was unspoken, and held in, yet fully understood. This was something we had both really relished, even as we feared the arrival of a day when the world would force our closeness to then quickly part.

  I thought back on her sincerely in the clarity of the moment—Maggy, with her dark, coal-colored hair which cascaded down her back like a horses mane or its tail, the strands braided in tandem and adorned with silver-ringlets which glinted in the light as they sparkled in the sunshine.

  She was immaculate in appearance, hers was a gift that was clear in reflection. How she had offered out with great care in everything she did. I, on the other hand, was more rough-necked and tumbled.

  I was gruff on the edges, my clothes worn and dusty from the work of the day. My appearance less polished and in no reflection to her own. Yet, in that moment, it didn’t matter to us. We were two-souls in a dance that was caught up in a vision that was too big for our comprehension, no great gap or hard force could force us to part.

  Her eyes were deep-green, like the strong, furry moss that grows on the hidden corners of stones of an always wet grotto, they would gaze at me in a softness that spoke volumes from her heart. The faint dusting of gold that criss-crossed her skin, it shimmered in the light like a call gently sounding, and when I looked at her feverishly from my boyish demeanor, it felt as though the world around me would soon disappear.

  It was in those ever fleeting moments, those short stints together which we kept from the world, that I truly came to see her, to know her—not just as dear Maggy, a girl from “Madaba”, but as the one who had captured all the depths of my heart.

  “Maggy, my love..,” I whispered in the moment, my sole ached with longing. The years that had passed had done little to dull them, the intensity of the thirst for just one more kiss, the feelings I held still heated my flesh as they remained fresh in my mind. Their sweetness during moments of lingering, I could still feel their warmth address me as I sucked on my lip.

  And even now, some four years later, I could not shake the memories from the past, the tender touch of our hands, her body against mine, and the way that our longing had soared in the heat of such moments.

  In recollection, I came to question the touch of my love, sometimes while speaking from my hold of a ever-swept nervousness. “Are you not worried that our secret meeting will not stir them to notice..?” I asked, my voice slow and rough, while my form drew up closer and tight next to hers.

  We stood barely parted as we huddled together in our pretentious display of a lean. The dry, packed dirt, the only thing holding back both of our bodies from play. This, at a time when once again we had found ourselves freshly posed abreast of one another in that shallow-waterway of a crevice, the place where we often hid ourselves, bound and concealed from the view of all prying eyes.

  Maggy’s voice rose in a firm and resolute tone, “It matters not to me if they should stir and awaken!..let them see...for I care not what they think..,” and though her feelings ran deep as she stored them beneath a surface of determination, she was not without holding-back in her quick gift of release.

  She paused only slightly, and then turned her face shyly away...it was as if she wanted to hide from my sight any resemblance of an unseen vulnerability.

  “Did you not swear to me...Tav...that you would be my true love and protector..? That you would always be there...and be forever the guardian of my heart from now till eternity..?” Her words rang out soul-fully, both authoritative and pleading as they struck at me deeply and left me at a loss for further words. The weight of her gaze and the depth of her tone had begun to cause a tightness in my stomach.

  “Did you not swear your heart to me as well..?” she added, the words flowed from her lips in a quiet incantation that made my heart ache. Her lower jaw trembled...and she turned her head to a rise which then fell back quite slowly, her chin put to rest as it sat on my chest, her inner turmoil rising.

  Compassion surged through me. I reached out with my fingers and brushed them gently against the curvature of her cheek, a tender given touch which I offered to steady her...I then moved them to more address her bangs which had fallen, a section set loose which then rimmed her young face.

  The soft dampness of her skin it stirred me so deeply, and I couldn't help but notice the intricate sections of the links which rolled over her shoulder, they cascaded down her back. Silken strands, shining in the morning's dim-light, each braid carefully set to flawless as I marveled at her beauty.

  My breath seemed to quicken as I gingerly moved my hands to the curvature of her fore-arms and traced their soft-delicateness. I slid my palms further and they shortly came to a rest just beyond the folds of her burgundy-tunic, the fabric so silky, it felt warm beneath my touch. A flutter of new sensations stirred in my body as my hold finally landed on the notches of her elbows, the proximity of her body making my pulse quick to rise...

  “Have I not given you everything...as the “Holy Earthly Mother’s” angel would demand..?” I whispered in her ear, my words faltering calmly as I sought once again to steady myself.

  Maggy’s small, intricate frame leaned into mine gently, pressing me, her body naturally drawing me in. The warmth between us intensified as her closeness made my heart pound unquestionably faster. My senses were overwhelmed—her scent, a mix of cinnamon and sandalwood, it filled the breast of my nostrils and sent my head to quick swirling. Her body brushed mine, the action sent a wave of excited heat through the entirety of my core.

  And then...at last...our lips met with wet kisses. It was gentle at first, not confused but uncertain.., and then they quickly they grew up to be, like myself, raised to a much greater intensity as the world around us faded.

  Her kisses were blinding. It was as if we had exchanged some part of our souls, and as we pulled-apart and then softly lifted, we were both left relaxed and seemingly breathless, our hearts raced on faster, and we were like two camels in unison. And for a brief moment, it felt as if our minds had combined, the states of our two-bodies becoming linked as just one.

  We parted slowly, with our faces still close, and I issued a gentle follow-up kiss to the puff of her cheek where a fresh teardrop had fallen. “Maggy..,” I sighed, and I pulled her up closer, my words gentle and reassuring: “You my sweet princess hold the key to one's heart...Nothing—no force, nor angel—could ever extinguish the flame of fire which rests within me and that burns solely for you...”

  Her name was “Maggy..,” it was one I had given her earlier in the past, and a name that I had come to cherish as much as the girl herself. I was transported back to a time long ago, and to a period when our paths had first crossed at the market of “Madaba”, some eight years ago.

  ◆ ◆ ◆ ◆ ◆ ◆

  Maggy had been no more than a child back then, just ten-years old. I arrived and came presented as a scruffy twelve-year-old myself, and I had watched as she and her guardians slowly made their way through the separate isles of the bustling bazaar, their presence for some reason, commanded my attention.

  In passing, they had strolled by my booth with little or no introductions. It was then that she had told me in an offering of regal air that her full name was, "Marianna Elizabeth Magdalana".

  Even then, as a young man, I had sensed that there was something incredibly special about her...something destined...something unique, and something that wantingly pulled at the very strings of my knowing.

  The three of them were patrons, and just like many of the other patrons of the day, they had come to shop and peruse at all of the fine holdings which were offered at the “Madaba” town market bazaar.

  Maggy, she had stressed that her name had been passed down to her from her mother’s, great-grandmother’s, great-great-great-aunt; a woman whose origins many people had questioned, but whose travels had included the not too far-off shores which ran about the “Sea of Galilee”…

  ...Select Next Scroll...

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  Thank you valued Rider's Vault Members..!

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  CURRENT VOLUME List:

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  Scrolls of the Prophet...historical/biblical/adventure/coming of age

  - Awakening

  - Gathering

  - Binding

  - Bloodline

  - Prophecy

  - Phoenicia

  - Future Dig

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  Scrolls of the Past...historical/adventure/coming of age

  - Amen Rey (Egyptian)

  - House of the Fawn - (Greek)

  - Spice Road - (Persian)

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  Dominatrix...sci-fi/thriller/action/space adventure/coming of age/assassin

  - Domina

  - Bisal

  - Alaran

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  Terraformation..sci-fi/action/adventure/alien love story/space travel

  - Terra-Form

  - Terra-Rise

  - Terra-Site

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  Quest of the Seeker..thriller/murder mystery/afterlife/coming of age

  - The Key

  - The Clown

  - The Seeker

  **Hint: The Seeker is the Grim Reeper's brother...:)

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  The Cleaner..action/thriller/coming of age/assassin

  - The Child

  - The Woman

  - The Teacher

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  Ready The Yeti..children's series/adventure/life lessons

  - I Am Ready

  - I Am Sassy

  - I am Abominable

  or

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  Follow my load of chapters 1-30 as I edit / proof-read / and post...

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  Scrolls of the Prophet - Book Volumes 01 - 07 + all other titles in progress (25 Book Volumes)

  Join and continue to chapters 01 - 30 of each volume

  Read them as a whole - or read them as I load them...

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