Boden

By T R Price

"Nobody lives the life he chooses to live."

-Menander, fourth century BC

Confluence rivers merge consisting of time. The headwaters behind you are of a primordial waterway birthed out of the chaos. Trust only the voice in your head. Outlive everyone, but the one in the mirror who does not age. Live life earned throug

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trilogy Christian Publishing
• Release date: May 24, 2021
• ISBN: 9781647738709

Book preview

Prologue

There is a path through the wilderness and the rivers will rise.

31.7683° N, 35.2137° E

3216 BCE, Harvest

Nothing makes sense. I am alone. Sharply breathing in, I held my breath as a mantle of effervescent material covered me from the top of my head to the bottom of my feet. Its veil was made of pure white light. I sensed protection within its covering. Laughter tried to escape my lips, but my laughter made no sound. Only muffled echoes of past laughter bounced off the walls inside my skull. Tiny tendrils of liquid light tickle my skin with thousands of vibrations. Every part of my body was exposed to these tiny fingers of lambent illumination. The last thing I remembered was grabbing ahold of Kapporeth’s horn. Now catapulting through a world of complete darkness, I go. My cloak is the only light. Multitudes of kokab (stars) streak brightly along the darkness draped over me. Sense of speed increased, faster, then ever more acceleration. The forward movement carried me up like on the wings of an eagle soaring high above the mountaintop. No wind touched my face. All was silent. In what seems like only moments, it was ravenous black again. There was no mountain.

Was I deaf?

I reached to touch my ears. My hands were invisible one moment, then solid, and then effervescent next. The apparition muddled my thoughts. I could not think straight. My mind was cognizant of my heart. Its pulse sped along at a furious rate, almost ripping out of my chest. Pain tore through my upper ribs, extracting its torture without knowing who the torturer was. I tried to regain my bearing, but there was no ground to put my feet on. I was anxious for an end to this insane ride, and fear had become my constant companion. Closing my eyes, I refused to believe this was happening. I sang a song taught to me by my mother when I was a child. Even those words struggle. With no breath, no sound would come.

Come morning light and dispel the wrath of night—words lodged in my throat, with no escape.

My lips were sealed like the stone covering a tomb’s mouth. I push at the inner walls of this luminous cloth binding me, making me its captive, now at the whim of the darkness surrounding me even though the solidity of my body was in flex. I passed out, and the only light, my covering, faded. As I slowly got buried in this dark labyrinth, unconsciousness came, blowing out the only candle that gave me comfort. I was blind and deaf. Darkness arrested my heart and I died. Silence reigned.

Temple priests shouted, Arrest him! Take him to the king. He will pay for his crime!

A guard ran down the steps outside the temple’s wooden doors. Lower priests were slow to respond, and their servants even more so. The king’s guard counted on a reward for his pursuit from these pious leaders. He will catch the thief. He need not bring the man back for the bounty when just the criminal’s right hand will do. The thief will steal no more, and coins will fill his purse.

Like a nightmare, I ran until I could run no more. Down the stone steps and onto the path leading up from the temple and into the light. Up on the mountain was my only hope. I cleared the homes of the merchants that make their dwelling in the shadow of the temple. I used one of the silversmith’s walls to hide my tracks. I jumped its one-meter height, tripping, then rolled on the hard gravel ground inside the yard. Quietly I peered over the ledge. The guard saw me and rushed to catch me. The smithy’s back wall was higher. A wooden ladder leaned against the home’s roof. I grabbed it and leaned the ladder over the wall. The ladder reacted like a plane and fulcrum, tipping at its midsection, and lowered me hard, falling on the outside ground beyond the silversmith’s home. Pressing with my hands and lifting my body up, I began the uphill climb to the mountain peak, where Kapporeth stood. It was a smooth path, but the rise is steep and required stamina to run its length.

Breathing heavily, my lungs cried out, Stop! but my mind roared, Keep going!

Once, then twice, I looked over my shoulder. The guard persisted and did not relent. He ran hard after me. The weight of his helmet and sword did nothing to hinder his chase up the hill. I committed no crime. The temple servants invited me to sample the reward of their winepress. One girl handed me a silver beaker to catch some of the pressed grape’s fruit. The vessel was not hers to give. The high priest’s food taster only meant to fill it but stepped away temporarily. The girl thought nothing of using it. She did not know. The silver beaker full, I sat on the step of the press and drank from it. The sweet, dry taste of the fermented wine satisfied my mouth and nourished my heart.

Looking up from the stone seat, one of the lower priests cried out, He has the priest’s chalice. Thief! Thief!

The temple was now alive with servants and other priests rushing to arrest me.

From teachings as a child, I could run to Kapporeth and defend my innocence there without arrest. The temple stood in its shadow and revered its power to bring justice or mercy to any given situation. Kings and priests are required to abide by its power. Only a few knew firsthand of its reach. Upon touching one of the horns, a judge would be called by heaven’s watcher. Stories beyond gripping the horn are vague, for not many have attempted its justice and lived to tell it. Kapporeth dealt quickly with every offender accused of any crime, no matter how great or how small.

I hear the guard’s labored breathing. He is close. Coming around the last bend of the path, I tripped over a stone, falling headlong into the bushes beside it. I got up. The guard was only a few meters down the path. Turning toward the stone Kapporeth, I ran and tripped again. My feet are twisted up in tangled vines along the path. My right sandal came off as I fell. The guard grabbed for my bare foot. His grip was sure, and I could not break free. He dragged me a few feet back down the path, away from my salvation, my rescue.

I cried out, I’m innocent, I did nothing wrong! almost screeching.

What do I care about innocence? I will have my reward from those priests!

The guard, still heaving from the exertion, drew his sword from its scabbard. He held fast to my foot. He brought the sword’s blade down on my calf. I flipped in that moment, and his grip loosened. The blade nicked my skin and drew blood. But I was free. I rolled away from his hand. The guard lay prostrate on the ground, grappling for a foothold.

He cried out once more, No! Yield!

I will not!

Limping the remaining four meters to the stone-encased Kapporeth, I saw it. It was a monolith standing about two meters in height. Blood streamed down my calf and onto my foot, leaving red droplets on the path. A one-foot wall encircled the spirit’s saddle. I stepped over this last obstacle, almost falling once more, but held my balance. My right hand, covered in blood, reached out for one of its horns. The guard threw his sword at me. It would have pierced my heart except for an invisible wall now surrounding me. I held on to the horn, and the force separating me from the guard stayed, keeping me safe. Memories of lessons from a teacher speaking of the Strong Tower fluttered through my thoughts. I removed my hand only once, and the invisible wall fell. I gripped the horn with my bloodied hand again and held fast. Within moments, a loud blast of a horn could be heard, and the guard knelt before its sound. Blood soaked the stone horn, dripping down the structure’s side. I looked just a few feet down the path—the guard was trembling. Other priests joined at his side and knelt before Kapporeth. The horn continued to blow its supernatural sound a minute more.

Moments ago, accusers raced behind me, intent on arresting me for a crime I did not commit. Now they knelt before me, or rather Kapporeth, and their bodies trembled.

From my position on the spirit’s seat, I declared, I did not steal anything! The servant girl handed the silver chalice to me. I drank of the wine contained in it. Ask your priest Eli—he invited me to come and drink.

Shouts from the priests, You are not only a thief but a liar as well! We have no priests named Eli!

High Priest Itha stood up but waved his right hand and instructed the others to stay on the ground.

He explains, Eli is not one of ours. You are deceived, and you are still a thief. The law calls for your hand. We demand justice!

I took a step toward them but stayed inside the circular stone wall. I could not move farther. My hand is fixed fast to Kapporeth’s horn. No matter what I did, I could not release its hold on me. The sky darkened overhead. The sunlight a moment ago was now fading quickly. Mist like the morning fog on the mountains rose up from the ground, surrounding Kapporeth. Like steam, it rose until it encompassed the entire monument and looked like it reached to the sky.

From outside the circle, a priest muttered, Now the judge will decide for us. He has arrived.

The high priest knelt back to the ground. A large man now stood across the ecliptic enclosure. The stone pillar was the only thing between me and this individual on the other side. Small peals of thunder rolled across the sky above. The rumbling vibrated within my bones. The man’s eyes were white light and stared deep into my soul. Like the sharp edge of a knife heated in the flames, it cut deep into my chest. I screamed out in pain. Still, my grip of the horn did not loosen. I looked again. The man disappeared as quickly as he appeared. There was movement inside of me. Drawers of my soul were being opened and closed. Tears poured down from my eyes.

Everything was raven-black. Darkness covered me. Every bone in my body shook. The trembling overtook me and rattled me to the core. Skin was being peeled from my bones. There was no wind. I felt pain. Tiny needles pierced through my skin all at once. The horn (Qeren) was relentless and would not release me.

My accuser still called out, Boden! but was muffled and distant.

I try to understand. The needlelike pain lifted. Some breath entered my lungs, as if a breath was exhaled into my mouth. Suddenly, the darkness was cut. A small pinpoint light shone in the depth of shadowed walls. Translucent light seemed to ebb in strength, and with each increase of brightness, it grew stronger. A crystal blue orb appeared at its center, as if sewn into the light’s fabric. In moments, darkness dissolved into a myriad of colored thread representing a tapestry of blue waters and surreal green fields. The vibrations in my body dampened. Consciousness and unconsciousness came and went with the visions around me. A kaleidoscopic view of heaven and earth splintered with man’s sight and woven with a spirit’s eyes cascaded before me.

My throat was parched, dry, and rough. Time meant nothing to me. Reality was out of my grasp. Endlessness of this space wrapped itself around the cylindrical cocoon housing me in its prison. The sphere spun in circles with no understanding of gravity or its force. Images of my mother and father floated past, and voices of the dead spoke wisdom and knowledge. Surely, I am insane.

Flocks of white and black sheep covered the green grass in the fields, walking along under my protection. I sat down on a rock to rest from my shepherd duties and held a silver cup in my hand. I took a drink to quench my thirst and found only sand. I threw the cup into the void, angry that someone would trick me. Sheep are now scattered across two hectares. Mother will be upset that I have not kept watch over the flock. She will have to pay workers to gather them back up. Money she does not have.

Mother mutters, Boden! Where are you?

Accusations: You are just like your father, Enoch, abandoning your family and walking with the Spirit. He was seen no more!

Mother will disown me, and shame will forever be in my heart, I thought. I am broken.

I miss my father… Spoken in my heart without my mind’s permission.

He just went for a walk one night. The teachers said he walked with the Spirit and was no more. The heavens roared. Thunder rolled and crackled across fields of white. I clenched my teeth, as if expecting impact or some other cataclysmic collision. A sense of death hung close to my thoughts. My heartbeat slowed, almost stopping, weak and afraid. I expect to die tonight for having stolen the high priest’s silver cup. My capsule slowed its descent into the underworld, a place marked for criminals. The effervescent cloak still clung to my shoulders and head, bound like a bag at my feet. Land dangled beneath me, and my stomach felt sick, nauseated. Throw-up filled my mouth, but my lips were still sealed. I swallowed, quenching my thirst on ruminated retch sparked by stomach acids spoiled in poisonous gases being burned.

I screamed, Father! from sealed lips now released.

The effervescent mantle stripped itself suddenly from my body, leaving me naked and horribly afraid. I gave myself to the fall, unable to prevent it. Cold now clothed my nakedness, wrapping its armlike tentacles around me. Trembling from the chill seeking my death, I waited. Plummeting like a falcon shot from the sky with an arrow, now twisting in death’s grip, I was unable to release the grip on the stone horn.

Atmosphere warmed as I fell. Hades called my name, desiring to consume my flesh. An ocean of turquoise liquid rose to meet me, and I passed through white clouds filled with water. The sun showed bright overhead, and still the winds warmed and caressed my soul. Colors shifted in kaleidoscope fashion, grays to greens to orange to yellow to blue, twisting multiple times before resting on a green field. A low valley with tree shadows and bright pastures populated not by sheep but by strange goats covered in matted gray wool.

The fall threatens injury, but what more can I endure?

Strong winds buffeted my body. Proud drafts shoved sand and dust in ever-widening circles. Invisible hands shaped it into a cylindrical apparition that danced. Its mouth wanted to devour me. The gaping portal became visible and stretched wider still, becoming a whirlwind, tornadic funnel. The spinning sarcophagus sucked me deep into its stomach. Walls flexed its curtain like an ornate veil covering a young girl’s face. I bounced from one wall to another, holding tight inside the vortex’s vise. Debris spun within its cage, and large stones pelted my already-tortured skin. My eyes went raven-black again, unable to focus in this hellacious sandstorm.

The whirlwind released me.

Am I standing? More questioning my sanity.

My body was spent. The wind dissipated. All was quiet and still.

I feebly walk three steps, maybe four. Sunlight-blind, I did not see the whirlwind dissipate. I collapse to my knees after another step forward and fell flat facedown onto an unforgiving ground. I gasp like a drowning man. Grit in my teeth was caked with spittle. My mouth spit, not saliva, only dust. Figures in the distance walked toward me.

Am I home? Please? escaped my thoughts as I lost consciousness.

I dreamed of my father.

Your father walked with me and is no more was the last sound heard.

My soul screamed, I am thirsty!

Still Waters

There is a door where madness cannot enter,

but still it knocks.

37.7749° N, 122.4194° W

2021 CE, February

Modeling casualties from a nuclear attack has always been problematic. Most numbers promoted are based on specific detail of the size of the bomb, time of day initiated, wind direction and weather patterns, and whether the nuclear explosion is ground based or detonated in the air. On February 15, 2021, all preparation and predictions were of no use. The size of the bomb that most predicted in the 150-kiloton yield category and air detonation became a 550-kiloton yield and ground based. Most experts, if you could ever have an expert on what to expect in an actual nuclear explosion, agreed that if there is one, it will be in the air. If a nuclear bomb was detonated on the ground, the ground would absorb at least 45–65 percent of the blast and would not have the effect of an air detonation, which will quickly lay waste to eighty to one hundred square miles of population estimated at seventy thousand people per square mile in this populated city such as San Francisco.

Sometime after midnight, a behemoth glossy black tractor trailer rig moved quietly from the I-80 West freeway onto the Fifth Street exit and smoothly maneuvered onto Harrison Street. The driver tried not to downshift but used the brakes to slow down the massive beast. Downshifting will call attention to the truck. Traffic signs stated, No Trucks. The driver was experienced, having logged 1.2 million miles on the North American continent, certified to cross Canadian and Mexico borders. Some turns on the way into the downtown area of San Francisco gave even an average tractor driver a run for his or her money. The driver’s end destination lay somewhere along Taylor Street. An automaton robot continued to welcome tourist to the closed magic shop, moving its arms up and down until the gear needs to be rewound. The driver laughed at its theatrical antics, lit only by a small spotlight shining down from the building’s flat roof. After two blocks going northwest on Taylor, he found the public parking lot he had been searching for. Normally on the weekends, this lot would still have a few cars from the nighttime revelers and tourists visiting downtown San Fran. But this is Tuesday in the early morning. He tackled the small driveway with no difficulty and wrangled the beast onto the lot. He pulled stealthily along its perimeter and shut the big rig down along the west side of the parking lot. He applied the air brake, and a loud swish of compressed air broke the silence of the night. Truck lights went off with the ignition switch, and a small man opened the driver’s door. He stepped down the two steps. A buzzer sounded for a moment as the air pressure balanced itself with the brakes. He shut the door but did not lock it.

The backup switch (initiator) for the bomb activated the moment he turned off the ignition. He knew if he opened the door again, the bomb would explode. He was a radical, but from what organization, we do not know. With the propensity of the bomb and its size, it gave rise to the discussion that he must have been part of a large terrorist network. Many thought ISIS was obliterated back in 2018–2019 by President Trump. According to those prior news reports, terrorist organizations were left in shambles and all leaders were dead. Terrorist activities in the United States and the world have been nonexistent for over a year, with no sign of subversive activities anywhere. The terrorist cells simply went underground. They waited until early 2021 to raise its evil head. Multiple suicide-bombing attacks on seventeen schools in Paris during January brought terrorism back into the news. The previous year’s battle against COVID-19 quickly became back-page news.

Second-term elected president Trump declared, I will ensure that all terrorist organizations will be eradicated, and we will support France in this, their hour of crisis. Our military is quite capable to accomplish the task!

The attacks did not stop there. Europe was caught unaware. They were not ready for what unfolded during January and February. Hundreds of thousands were killed in attacks. Most were the result of suicide bombers. They left little to no leads for interrogation or investigation. All known suspects died in the explosions, along with thousands of innocent people. Materials used for these bombs were easily resourced in local communities and left little trace.

The world mourned, lamenting, We should have learned from past experiences. We let our guard down, again.

The small driver exited and walked around the massive truck, kicking a tire here and there for the casual observer that might be out walking their dog. Any observers would think the driver was just making an early-morning downtown delivery and was just checking his tires. He pulled a couple of orange cones from the chain netting underneath the trailer and posted them like sentinels on the driver’s side of the truck. One was placed slightly forward of the trailer, and the second at the aft end of the trailer, on the driver’s side. This obviously added more authenticity to the picture. People would think he is a good driver-operator, ensuring children do not come close to the truck.

I don’t want innocent people hurt. He snickered to no one in particular.

The truck’s key was still in his right jacket pocket, and he fished it out. He held it up to the light in the parking lot, and it glimmered for a moment. Then he tossed it into the bushes on the back side of the parking lot.

He walked north out of the lot and was picked up by a dark, late-model sedan almost immediately. The driver of the car was ignorant of who he was picking up. He was paid $100 to pick up a person located at this parking lot matching the truck driver’s description. The truck driver left his tractor trailer parked. The young driver took the tractor trailer operator to a fast-food restaurant just off I-80 North, a few miles away. He did not know he was handpicked by an observer weeks ago. The undercover terrorist had watched him for days while the kid worked at a party store not far from here. He readily accepted the temporary driving job. There was nothing to lose. He pulled off I-80 freeway onto the exit ramp and quickly saw the place for the drop.

The passenger said nothing on the way. When he pulled into the restaurant parking lot, the passenger motioned for him to go around to the back. The kid did as he was told. The passenger tapped him on the shoulder and motioned for him to stop. The passenger reached inside his pocket for what the young driver thought was a tip. Instead, the tractor trailer operator pulled a 9mm gun out and promptly shot the young man twice in the chest. Blood stained the driver’s green shirt a thick crimson red. The operator noticed an expression of surprise on the boy’s face shortly before he pulled the trigger. The kid’s eyes fluttered briefly, and then his eyeballs rolled up in his head, leaving a blank white stare. He slumped against the steering wheel as his blood dripped down and pooled on the floor mat.

The truck driver reached across the young man’s dead body and turned the ignition off. He opened the passenger door and got out of the dark sedan. He was observant and did not see anybody witness the shooting or his departure. Where he went from there is anybody’s guess. He was willing to die in the process of parking the big rig, but this time suicide was not necessary.

On Tuesday morning, many office workers and others migrated into the city, increasing San Francisco’s seventy thousand population ratio per square mile to just over ninety thousand people. COVID-19 regulations were lifted over the Christmas holidays. Exactly at 9:08 a.m. on February 15, the 550-kiloton nuclear bomb detonated. All buildings within an eight-mile radius immediately disintegrated. It left only ash and dust, taking with it all life that existed only moments ago. Satellites in the sky picked up the blinding flash of the blast. The fireball itself was over five miles wide, and the temperatures were upward of 222,000 degrees Fahrenheit. Still not nearly as hot as the sun, but it was hot enough to turn metal to ash and brick to dust. It carried with it a wall blast of radiation twelve miles in diameter, killing everyone outside the initial blast zone within minutes. People farther out, even up to twenty miles away, will soon die from the radiation push. Ocean seals down on the wharf did not have a chance to escape into the water. Miles of the bay water boiled within seconds and left nothing in return except the bitter smell of burnt crystalized sea salt.

The air blast from the explosion carried more than twenty miles in seconds. Buildings on the outskirts of the blast range collapsed from the force, claiming tens of thousands more victims in its path. A cataclysmic earthquake followed. It was intended, planned down to the last detail. Shock waves took over. Both Northern and Southern California rocked as if the land were on the sea. The bomb’s kill path stretched from San Francisco in all four directions, up to six hundred miles away. Gamblers burning the midnight oil in Vegas casinos died as building roofs collapsed. They did not realize their last bet was the final one.

Though most experts stated an air detonation of a nuclear bomb would be worse, they did not realize what impact a ground detonation of this magnitude would have on the tectonic plates that lie below the Earth’s surface. This line of faults also connects to two other tectonic plates, influencing fault lines as far away as Yellow Stone National Park. Over 2.4 million people lived along this one fault line, north and south. In the aftermath of this tectonic rift, the fault line plates shifted at least two feet, which was enough to create a crater-size crack over two miles wide at the surface and traveled 190 miles to the north and 450 miles to the south. This tectonic plate actually broke in half, causing a ripple effect moving entire landmasses. This was one thing that was not part of their plan. Pent-up gases in the Cascades opened a new channel for the lava deep within Mt. Rainier. It erupted, causing the sun to be blacked out in the westward sky for over two months. The crater-wide crack to the north stopped shortly after devouring Red Bluff. The quake left nothing of the former western cattle town.

Dormant volcanoes such as Lassen and Shasta came to life, spewing over one million tons of rock and acidic ash across northeastern California and into parts of southern Oregon. Mt. Lassen’s saddle ridge was no more. Previous eruptions a hundred years ago left a sloping ridge thousands of feet high. It was covered by snow most of the year. Now, there was only a molten valley rim. Wildfires raged in much of Northern California and Oregon, doing much more damage than past forest fires ever could. Although California’s drought was over, it still was not enough water to protect the forest fuel. The dam at Shasta Lake cracked but held, at least for the moment. The dam threatened to collapse if more shaking came.

During the aftermath, people, by the tens of thousands, began a painful migration east to escape the forecast radiation being carried on the winds. Experts on emergency radio broadcasts stated the radiation will be carried out to sea with westward winds. At this time of year, the weather, as always, was unpredictable. It was anybody’s guess which way the winds will blow. Radioactive dust combined with volcanic ash caught a million people in its path, killing ragged bands of refugees trying to escape.

One geologist based at the Albuquerque Seismological Laboratory in New Mexico was interviewed by the local Public Broadcasting Station (PBS), and he explained it this way: Hell has come upon the earth!

I stole a mountain bike from my neighbor’s garage.

First River

Deserts always have an oasis somewhere.

46.6021° N, 120.5059° W

1767–1805 CE, Planting

I lay on the ground only minutes. A group of men walked nearby, watching over a massive herd of goats. Korren, the leader, pointed toward the windstorm blowing on the high desert floor. His men looked in that direction. What he said, I do not know. Their language was strange, and I did not understand.

He ordered two of his men, Stay here and keep watch over the goats. Coyotes claimed two of our flock. We do not want to lose more.

The rest of the group walked toward my body. Korren knelt down and turned my body over. He was gentle in manner and did not hurt me but rolled me over carefully until he could see my face. He reached for the waterskin at his side and pulled the plug with his teeth from the opening. Clean water washed over my face. Korren cleared the grit and spittle from my mouth with his hand. Then he stuck his index finger inside my mouth. He probed my mouth with his finger, ensuring my throat was clear. Before he poured any water into my mouth, he pressed hard with the palm of his hand on the center of my chest with sharp thrusts. First once, then twice, and once more.

I coughed, and my body jerked in convulsions. He turned me to my left side and allowed more spittle to pour out. Then using both hands, Korren pinned me down to the ground until the spasms ended. Breath returned to my lungs. My tongue was swollen and felt like dry leather. I tried to talk but only made grunts, unable to articulate any words. At that point, Korren reached under my neck and helped me into a sitting position. My body was stiff, and it hurt to bend at the waist. From the same waterskin, Korren poured a small amount of water into my mouth. I tried to swallow but only coughed more. Dirt and sand still lodged deep in my throat.

He tried to give me more water after a moment more of coughing. This time I sipped slowly and was able to drink it down. I turned to the side and away from Korren and puked water and vomit onto the ground. I retched multiple times, each one causing a spasm to my lower abdomen. Sharp cramps followed.

Thirsty…, I roughly whispered.

Korren spoke. His tone was soft, and his actions were compassionate. He now handed me his water bag, and I greedily drank its contents until there was no more. The men with him laughed and said something unrecognizable. He held up his hand to the nearest man. The man quickly quieted and gave his waterskin to him. Korren, in turn, held it out to me. The man who owned the water bag looked a bit glum. I smiled and nodded in his direction. I drank again. The water was cool and sweet. My tongue was finally shrinking. I took one swig and gargled the water in my mouth. Then I spit it out, trying to remove any vomit residue. It was late, and the sun was setting. His men set up a small camp around me. The chill evening was made endurable with campfire. Some small game