Elizeum Striving

By Jean Harris Anderson

Elizeum Striving is about human love, not necessarily the romantic kind. Specifically, it is of Gods love for the human, made in His image.

That identity is purposefully changing. Were experiencing a shift of the medical paradigm away from our natural world. By the end of this century our species will hardly be recognizable. Only a trace similar to our ancestors, a dramatic alteration of our offspring is already calculable, for within ten years our progeny will be of a genetically modified species.

Because of the rapid rise in technology and with the coalescence of medicine, science, and synthetic biology, during our lifetime everyone could become cyborgs. Enhanced humans will be robust and will have superior intellect, capable of creating wondrous inventions.

Beholden to a cloaked emissary from deep space one who molds superheroes the new human will no longer need God because every person will become a god.

Were permanently altering the species made in Gods image, from neural prosthetics to human and animal chimeras. Based on the model of logical extension in both medical possibilities and prophetic probabilities, an unrestrained revolution is upon us, producing hybrids of species while destruction of the human race escalates.

Alastairs odyssey projects a complex field of ideas, leaping over the stereotypical genre. The result is unprecedented in its Christian speculative category with its cutting-edge scientific and medical effusion. Examine a societys soul and follow those seeking a profound, geographical afterlife.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Apr 21, 2017
• ISBN: 9781512777161

Jean Harris Anderson

JEAN HARRIS ANDERSON, a child at heart, is described as a prophetic novelist. Cognizant of the current death culture, and knowledgeable of Divine will, she writes of a future world where there is no innocence, when there will be no children and the human race is an endangered species. Her identification with Christianity, since childhood, has influenced her outlook and endowed a specialism as visual artist and writer, and the work of Christian apologists have served as inspiration. While she’s responsive to scripture she has ease in using allegory, symbolism, and irony in this speculative fiction narrative. www.firstandlastking.com

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Copyright © 2017 The Journals of Davin Alastair.

Scripture quotes are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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ISBN: 978-1-5127-7717-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5127-7718-5 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5127-7716-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017903031

WestBow Press rev. date: 04/21/2017

CONTENTS

DEDICATION

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

PROLOGUE

PREFACE

ESSAY ONE - Near The Water, Dragonflies

ESSAY TWO - Interlineation

ESSAY THREE - Skolios

ESSAY FOUR - Orthos

ESSAY FIVE - Absinthe Without Leave

ESSAY SIX - The Customer Is Always Right

DEDICATION

A long journey to arrive, this work also took a long time to write. The manuscript, hidden away, with the mysterious author’s whereabouts undisclosed, was inspired and enabled by loved ones. It is my assignment to carry the lamp to light the pathway, which is brighter because of those who support this effort, whom I wish to thank with my greatest appreciation:

Rycharde Godfrey, M.D., esteemed husband, for the final polish of his blue pencil.

J.D.A., for the initial guidance and valuable instruction that continues to empower.

T. Elizabeth, my Morla, who made me stronger by way of her tenacity and example.

K. Bradley, whose companionable years of precious literary talk and walk emboldened me.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Beautiful Marie, sister twice, for encouragement and reverence of God’s engineering.

Dori Haley, honored friend, for attentiveness in reading this story.

PROLOGUE

PROLUSION

Some might say this is a book of science fiction, with its flawed cacotopian society, or perhaps an exercise inspired by oracles from the ancients, a draft not penned for our advanced time - so drawn from antiquity; yet our concerned population, with urgency to foresee, might perceive its relevant message as current, one projecting the credible plausibility of our future, affecting all life, if we model fallen societies. It is to your judgment, for you are stepping into a labyrinth of faith reading one word beyond this portal.

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Salvor is a tag given to an instrumental person who voluntarily engages in salvage of a vessel, its passengers and cargo. He must be capable of rescue and preservation of the damaged or disabled.

Barely can I fulfill the duties described, but now I do know the one true Salvor. And this is how the introduction began, and why I know the relationship will not end.

It was with such improbability for success, to sort and order the jottings from shreds of faded paper, journals discolored from red clay - streaked of martyrdom’s blood - and blemished tablets strangely labeled in the margins; in such askew, I must remark at my incredulous belief that such artifacts could come into final cohesion. At first, my solution was to approach the task as a jigsaw puzzle.

This was the beginning of my involvement in forming this series of books. While exercising all aspects of ingenuity, throughout the process, a bewildering undercurrent prodded me as to its purpose and my election to this assignment. There were others with far more depth of intellect and greater training. Not discouraged, here lie the results, though I had but a willing heart.

Tucked into a worn and travel-stained valise, the original journals, told in story form, along with the rest of the assortment, came my way just as I was retiring as a literary critic for the Global Alliance News Ministry. A life of professional faultfinding and judgment merited my initial participation, or so I thought. Known as a literary sleuth interested in epoch verse, whether imaginative composition or reporting, my superiors posed the question as to the journals’ authenticity.

Initially, I ignored the glib request for my impression of what, to me, was so obvious. I resented in particular what had grown flagrantly apparent, the imposition of great labor upon a few, I being the subject of such treatment. However, being self-driven, and my strong, innate interest in this work, guaranteed my absolute submission. Others, those suppressed with the state of their nature, namely the claims of idleness and influence of holiday’s lingering, could have managed a professional opinion. After all, I didn’t have nearly the time required to sign off the last files in decent fashion before my replacement’s arrival. My bags were packed; I had but few days remaining on my Grub Street lease.

But, with peculiar anxiety for these historical possessions, I took this last assignment, surely destined to oversee this mystery to its conclusion, and I viewed it as a genuine farewell gift to those peers already burdened. I accepted the task upon the awkward and peculiar under laid comment that I wouldn’t want it wasted on a novice, an unfounded pretext at best. My concern was not in leaving an assignment for the inexperienced to determine. As to these acquisitions, I feared no flawed analysis in what was age evident and clearly rare.

Only a feeling of its manipulation by the powers that be haunted my soul, though at the time this intuition was without support. That being said, there would be no personal accountability. Of this I was confident, for in our society, and in the evolution of this profession, the taking of a position contrary to the expected autocratically driven is viewed with harsh skepticism. In fact, the mere act of admitting that a conclusion can even be made solely on evidence could, after all, annul one’s objectivity since final decisions rest in the feelings of the bureaucratic process.

Maintaining a blameless condition is the safe, open-minded way of most of my colleagues. When consensus answers upon collective interviews, and with subject polling, it is easier to acquiesce, even if conscience-stricken. Not only my fellow workers, but all members of the intelligentsia, believe the antiquated method of complete scholarly testing with knowledge and wisdom is discriminative, and uncomfortably close to the term prejudicial. And fine study and scrutiny may perhaps alter the desired outcomes. Besides, it is prudent to their needs, that it best be left up to the institutions, the embodied neutrality of the inventive organizations and holy orders, for advice and instruction, especially for mass consumption.

Our society believes it is illogical to make exhaustive examination when the inquiring mind of the public is so limited. In short, the masses are thought to be stupid. This subtle undermining has been gradually woven into our teaching and is now accepted as fact. I, on the other hand, dispute such positions. Since this observation has been made final, the need for my long over-due departure is more than fitting. With time, ideals have changed, and with these differences my endurance of such theories has dissipated. Therefore, in these perspectives, I am outdated and unsuitable for my position.

But this I will tell you, reader - the decision to take and study the contents of the valise has altered my life forever. And why is that, you ask? It is that Salvor Who is perceptible in all and each page I browse.

The condition in volunteering, for what has proved to be of historic importance, was that I work on the task at my leisure, unsure if work and retirement wasn’t an oxymoron, but eventually return the materials with a report at my convenience. Seen as one bickering with policy was my norm; it was somewhat of a surprise then when my stipulation was accepted and the project handed over to me. I had no hidden motive.

Never in my career of journalism did I have an inkling of the actual platform for which my research and reviews were used, nor did I have a single suspicion the intention was distorted to fit the philosophical agenda of the agency for which I worked. Thought of as having a narrow-minded conventionality is one thing, but being used deceitfully as an instrument by others is quite another. In working outside of my lengthy career, I can now see with shocking disgust what transpired with each critique: as quickly as I made, in bona fide intent, recommendation of a book, it was quelled. The journalist, with a variety of assumed house names, would doom its success. And my prediction of a book’s failure would be greatly hailed in another article by a writer of fictitious concealment. A beastly debate? A type of plagiarism? No, it was of the nature and plan of indoctrination. But of specific deception I could not establish. It had only the ink of propaganda. Now I truly know.

I was seized with the burden to secure my original work, but what to do with it had I been able? If there’s no longer a fair exchange of ideas, if reviewers are only used for the self-aggrandizing of institutions, then they are no longer professionals in the sense they once were, holding literary opinions. No more printed pages - quite the disappointment, and a true set-back even in a technological age. No more book reviewers - part of the ever-growing demise and gradual extinction of quality professionals in many fields, an indescribable loss. But it is possibly tragic when made clear - if one should peer deeply into these losses – without intellectual freedom we become serfs, bound to the master in control of thought.

As it is not easy to tell of one’s losses, I will let the reading of the journals that follow lend insight into my own situation. Your compassion for me, dear reader, will be rightly transferred to others who have made far greater forfeitures. With that thought, I must also anticipate the ruling of others who will condemn.

For reason, not only in finding how my own materials have been mishandled, and my own words enslaved to another doctrine, I made sure this remarkable find has been reproduced in the sequence and order discovered. Though I toiled at first to manage the job under the aegis of its integrity, I worried that my enterprising might be meddling, altering its intention. Therefore, I have left it untainted, without conjuring an explanation, careful not to strike out parts lacking; nor have I edited for any purpose. So, the results will fall into the hands it will, and be interpreted by whatever god governs a reader’s mind.

A person named Davin Alastair writes the lengthy story, set in several journals, with the omniscient point of view. Without equivocation this narrator is knowledgeable of events. Recorded with the personal emotions and viewpoints of others, it may appear to be a work of fiction. But I say, regard the work as foretelling! And if it is a work of imagination, enjoy it, for it is such that will be weeded out and whose authors will be stopped in the future, because they see so clearly. Whether compiled by a mad man of inventive ability, or an assigned guardian, it is a work of the soul, touched by the God of gods.

You may ask why I have an evaluative hesitation in calling the journals fiction. It is because my study has led to the fact that some of these places named, or facts spoken of, serving in some historical reference, were compatible with the dimensional outline of all that has been written in these journals. It could be that in their travels together, Davin Alastair acquired such intimate knowledge that he took it upon himself to write, as he did with flourish, a woeful fiction prompted by a real pilgrimage. I am anguished that the words could be a real account of truth; I am tormented if this agony is not by memory, but stems from true prophecy.

That this account may actually have taken place somewhere haunts me, because their beginnings are so similar to that of ours in our forward fall. And I see here and now revolutionary trends have begun, with our own army trained to attack fellow citizens, causing rage, treason, even genocide.

You, of course, don’t know anything about us, about our world, but think of us as you would in your future: did you guard your freedoms, educate future generations to honor basic truths so that those in the next century could thrive? How valuable was that child’s soul while in your keeping? Tomorrow and eternity are linked; with the following entry of Alastair’s last days, a reverie of eternal anticipation, and a deep musing of the morrow after death, rises above it all:

There have been times when it was near as certain our traveling days were over, by illness or mishap, or by those trials of denouncing our original plan to pursue Beulah. Everyone’s trip is different, but the state of the road is trepidatiously narrow, and just when it looks easy, it becomes harrowing. Through temptation, despite tragedy, we have now reached the great divide, and it has been worth it. We have no words for the exquisite beauty of the other side; it already gleams of a supreme endowment. Now we have no need for suits of armor or sandals. This satchel I leave behind, along with the journals, diary, and other worldly goods, and a forbidden book with its cover shed, for the traveler who doesn’t yet know what before him lies.

Of this moving, handwritten form, the singular diary of a young man’s life and those of his companions, I am simply informed that the composition was located on an isolated beach of a most dangerous wilderness. But that same coast was also noted as being a strategic military locale, one in which an experimental launch pad, for phantom craft - water and the airborne, was being developed.

The written materials and all, packed in the old, leather satchel, was concealed in the footlocker of a border patrol soldier who found it on location of his assigned patrol. Troops were on guard since air sightings of a large boat had been seen leaving the beach on several occasions, then disappearing where radar could not detect. This particular soldier had held the post from the start, knowing duty the longest of his comrades, and was most anxious to draw conclusive specifics to trace the wakes of the boat to its owner.

It was the season of decline, regarded the coldest. In boredom, when his rotation ended, when the dampness and chill of the air invaded deep within his skin, he would enter his tent for an evening of reading the diary. Eventually, by his own hand, the soldier bore evidence of his part in depriving the authorities of the diary’s knowledge, of recovering more proof, and of consorting with those he obtained testimony from. In addition, notes of his own were added to this diary of Davin Alastair’s. And so it is that I am able to preface the total of what remnants were given to me.

The writer, Davin Alastair, told of deprivations and horrors they had encountered while wandering through this feared territory, recognized as The Wilderness. With hollowness of spirit and being, the young soldier must have felt a resonance of life within the diary’s pages. He was compelled to read on, shift after shift. But apparently he was unable to complete the reading before hasty directives of his long-awaited furlough.

It seemed not to be of material evidence at the time, though that conclusion was not his to make, as he made note of, and he knew it unacceptable behavior. Nevertheless, he remained mute regarding his discovery, selfishly, he stated, feeling a state of essential necessity in finishing the diary. He could not understand his own defiance of basic orders; he had been a good soldier. Perhaps he was just too weary to think clearly. Possibly it was fate - something influential working, deemed by a greater force than his weakened will. Or was it his resolute search for truth? His discontent? Maybe while on leave the principles of the imperial authority would claim preeminence over the small degree of personal autonomy he had stolen. Was this his intention?

The soldier took holiday in a fabulous place named New City of Black Haven Harbor. Purposely. It was the place Alastair cited in his diary. At the completion of his reading he faced a moral dilemma: one choice leading him to higher military rank; capturing the prize of his own soul was the other.

At the end of this exceptional reading he knew it to be affirmation of that proclivity for which his training had warned - he had come to oneself - that capacity of acknowledging his own senses, mental, emotional, spiritual, and physical. And these he reclaimed.

The reading, coupled with what appeared to him as a supernatural appearance on the beach that last night of his duty, eventually led him to believe that he was in possession of proof of the tracking of the waterways. Davin Alastair had expounded on the same discovery. It was not just in the sighting of the apparition, but it seemed in the soldier’s very heart that the annals were privileged communication, which had been left for him and were to be found by him. He could not turn state’s evidence. But what was he to do? One can only imagine. Would he continue following his own will during his hours from duty, then remain obedient to dictates so different from his own standards when a soldier? Could he report that which was contrary to his sense of ethics? Wrestling with the subject of a vision, and how he could describe it to a commanding officer in any way, the soldier wrote:

"During my first tour of duty with port authority, in supervision and enforcement of lawful trade and commerce, my unit of two troops found members of the resistance stowed away in a large proa, a fully restored Malayan canoe, a one of a kind antique. The white silk-like lateen sail looked like the wing of a giant dove, with the outrigger of wood, like purple mahogany. A large cloud appeared overhead, and the weather was clear but that. Heavy fog soon drifted from sea, to port, and inland. We couldn’t hold the proa for the security and surveillance team to arrive, and it was lost in the fog, to the sea. The following night a schooner of stateliness and great power swiftly sailed by, escaping radar, but not my vision. I saw others, from a lone ship reflecting unequaled radiance to a fleet of brightly painted Venetian gondolas. There was nothing either humanly possible or technically achievable to trace or hold these vessels. I declare this to be true.

"These memories come closest to describing my recent ‘mystical’ encounter with a psychopomp, a guide for the souls of the dead. Often this spiritual guardian is portrayed as a dolphin safely leading over the sea of death to another world. The boat I saw on that last night of duty was, in fact, that of a great sized dolphin. But here I deviate from death to life, for it was life in that boat, led by a living Salvor. I have been taught that human life is dispensable. Why do the appearances of these unique, well-proportioned, sea-faring designs teach me that there is a reason why no other person can match my fingerprints, that within me something both escapes and confirms the laws of science, just like those vessels? I must search for the answer."

While in Black Haven Harbor, the soldier attempted to meet a resident, maybe several, mentioned in the diary. After all, it was his reasoning that if the account were true, and the man who carefully composed the records had a last request, he would want them in the hands of someone he knew and trusted - not filed at a government agency. He totally overlooked the fact that the materials were likely written by a fugitive of the law. This confession of his leave follows:

Does this archivist serve truth? Of certainty, the oral history would be lost had it not been written. And it was not for his personal advantage that he had such willpower to protect the memories. An anthologist - not merely composing to entertain - and rather than warning us the story ahead is dark, foreboding, and difficult, has promised a way to a future kingdom providing fulfillment, and with a logical conclusion with disentangling the modern convolutions from the universal upheaval, and so his writings reveal the prominence of a framework in which to trust. It is set upon an everlasting foundation that is orderly for purpose, and correct, because it is conferred by the First and Last King for our benefit and blessing. This steady person, by the name of Alastair, has shown a path worthy of my belief in following; there is only one problem – this guide is either dead or not yet born. And so I will set out to discover on my own.

It is evident that one contact was made with someone named Cassie, known by her given surname, The Prophetess Belonging to the Immortals. Cassandra Cassie Ambrose, was the one whom the writer - Davin Alastair - loved. Names, as any significant vestige, were important to outlaws, as they had no assigned numbers, and that very refusal alone placed them outside of the law with no benefits from civilization. Davin’s first name means the bright man, and the last name, protector of men. When you see his name, think of the heavy charge given to this gentle man.

Asking at the address indicated, the soldier was informed that rumor had Cassie joined to a renegade bunch in the inhospitable outskirts of the city, a place called Old Town, an unprotected border region and the location of a ghost town. Outcast members of society - the unruly, the poor, the sick and the lame, converts to the old, forbidden religion - those formed the class of citizenry there.

Old Town is situated atop an island, of difficult egress from city by washed-out bypasses and swampy glades, the two main highways long ago permanently quitted. The isle is naturally barricaded by a precipice on the sea side, a tangle of darkened passageways through timberland on the city side. In the dry slopes of the canyons grow drought-tolerant Oleander bushes. The tall rim of these toxic plants weave an impassible thicket, but if you do pass through, the poisonous Water Hemlock grows abundantly in the standing water of the canyon before one would face the towering sand bars. The sea had withered and its life had shriveled after a Tsunami had carved out the island hillsides and most of the port. Above, interspersed in the high bluffs on the sea side, grow the beautiful, but lethal, white flowers of the Death Camas. Most intruders would terminate their plans one way or another by any of these. But none stopped the soldier.

The soldier describes meeting Cassandra, no longer the youth written of when the soldier found her, but still bearing the presence of all the pleasing qualities attributed to her. She must have wondered why Davin Alastair hadn’t come for her, like their fabled King returning once again for his beloved followers. Instead, a soldier at the door came, bearing news no one wishes to hear. Had Davin Alastair left her presence out of necessity, saving her from certain sentence of infliction? Had he in anyway affiliated himself with her that would bring suspicion? His secret love…was it secret even from her? Did the soldier learn in the course of their conversations the answers?

With great appreciation she embraced the diary. Since risking his own welfare to carry it to her, she invited the stranger in to dine, and she gave the account of their lives in Old Town. The soldier remained in the community for the last of his leave. What the woman kept can only be surmised, probably personal letters intended for her only. Cassie persuaded him to take the rest of the collection with all of the journals when he left, giving the possibility that Davin Alastair’s narration might someday be reproduced.

By the defining elements, transcribed chiefly from one individual, I have substantiated these were diligently kept over a period of several years. Chronicles of hand printed letters, (the now uncommon form of recognizable marks left on sheets of bound paper, known as cursive, script, or longhand, where letters in a word are connected), comprised most of the bulk.

And from what I gather, there is added commentary, also set down in the antiquated method of hand lettering, using a known alphabet, from the woman, Cassie, who went through the completed diary in detail, and inserted copies of documents and certificates, all references regarding the named subjects.

She must have quickly scanned day and night to have taken in all the writings. Her signature, Cassandra Ambrose, is found at the last of the entries. With it, a note, hardly legible, acknowledging Matilde, my trusty assistant, who never left my side - this accomplished only by reliance on her unblemished sight, I do thank.

I rely on these records as proof of the characters’ existence at one time. But I have no way to prove the account accurate. Not now anyway.

I believe it was by Cassandra’s skill that the chapters of their lives were organized, specifics confirmed, and while she avouched she had first-hand knowledge, she made use in a fictionalized nature some of the details in legendary form. Beulah, for example, is beyond our awareness, and is considered a mythical place; but to them Beulah is real, of physical dynamics and spiritual energy. Perhaps this was done out of fear - what foreshadows us today.

If Davin Alastair authored these, then Cassandra Ambrose brought meaning and completion to the collaborative aim. Wherever they are this day, all traces of those named in these journals have disappeared, as if they are not yet born.

There were oddities within the satchel that still remain enigmas. A badge with a clip for wearing, which even now I have not been able to identify or solve the function of, holds silver prongs, a few missing, likened to tiny SD memory cards for a mini computer. Not like any media scanner I am familiar with, the internal/external storage prongs, if in fact that is what they are, do not fit into the particular ornament. This will require attentive application - a work I hope may yield more data.

Also included are hand drawings by a little girl, watercolors and illustrations, and an unpolished relief map of Black Haven Harbor, signed with the initials ZK, both parties of the aforesaid journey. And an original children’s story is within the total. A compass, and a rough chart of Hispania’s wilderness were also left. Directions to Beulah are included in a book, its covers long ago shed; such are being considered for disclosure at the end of this series.

As to Alastair’s private diary, it has yet to be decided upon in its dissemination, as it is feared wide promulgation of such highly personal and detailed information might eventually be made aware to officials, endangering the known individuals, who could be denounced or even scheduled to die. Other than what is here stated, letters will remain unpublished; these undelivered letters gave me assistance into connecting the loyalties and affections of the author’s personal friendships. Letters also clearly told of Alastair’s motivation in writing when, to his friend, Mcambi, he explained his honor in journal composition, though the duty was all consuming:

"Hardly a treatise, as it deserves to be. Not my discipline, as you well know. (I took from my father the trade of bookbinding, and destroying the wingless insect - the book louse, found in the old papers - and then restoring. It is doubtful there are any hard-bound books left nowadays). Never distinguished as professional writer, nor my desire to be, it was the necessary succession of occurrences.

"Some would say the three Fates conspired against me for this burden, but you and I know, as followers of the true King, we are gifted as apologist and philosopher by way of His eternal nature He bestowed upon us. When I did not know what to do, ‘…the Lord answered me, and said, Write the vision, and make it plain upon tables, that he may run that readeth it. For the vision is yet for an appointed time, but at the end it shall speak, and not lie: though it tarry, wait for it; because it will surely come, it will not tarry.’ Habakkuk 2: 2-3.

"My, but I yearn for your skillful examination of this work, and I miss the fellowship you brought into my life. And what is the outcome of your choices – attentive leader in Old Town, helping fellow members keep the faith intact in so dreadful a time, or inspection of troops in Ariel - as you prepare for the Great War? I am confident you are all animis opibusque parati [prepared in mind and resources; ready to give life and property]."

Here the sheet of paper is torn, notations and single words are written on the reverse side, which have no continuation elsewhere. Note his language, from which I interpreted, almost exactly like Latin. It is clear his Lord is his King of Beulah, for in many instances I have come across the exact pairing of my English to his Latin: "It is most assuring when I read from our King – ‘ego Alpha et Omega primus et novissimus principium et fini. [I am Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end, the first and the last]. I know we are the victors.

You might spot missing entries, and what seems to be the reversal of order in the fascicle – yet each of these sections published in part make sense of the whole. I left the essays in the arrangement given me, as I stated, hoping to maintain the author’s very image and purpose for the work, and not knowing at first what was intended with regard to chronological order or what seems to be obvious missing pieces.

As to those essays which are incomplete or unfinished, they appear to have been rapidly written in hours of darkness; quite a disadvantage reading the words of a driven hand. The last of the journals, as well, are composed in necessary urgency for reason of Alastair’s timetable and destination, anxious to finish so that these could be revealed to you before the warning is too late. The compilation of it all has been hastily duplicated with utility and pragmatism on my part. By their epitaph or prediction, these are their veracious testimonies of toiling toward a promised kingdom, one that is apparently spiritual as well as physical.

It is not until the last of these written accounts, we read of the travelers’ pilgrimage as ousted members of their advanced civilization, and by then we have already read the background of each one of them in their own separate, solitary exploration in society. The introduction in exile, of people who have not before met, and then their blending, are sure to inspire. (Such memoirs are untypical, and the authorship of the final narrations, hinted by various styles, could very well have been shared by all).

Their common bond, suffering under the punishment of banishment for their political beliefs, brought them together in what is known to be a poisoned wilderness, and where other outcasts have actually sought refuge, having no other alternative; it is a natural realm, and it also concentrates on the profound allegorical, and the supernatural is described in real terms. By divine intervention a remote Salvor offers guidance, and the relic of a forbidden philosophy attends to their needs by miraculous effort, while these renegades are pursued by inventions and illusions on the eve of a glorious and horrible war requiring the souls of all.

As the story opens, modern life is not much different from that of my own, with the exception of a singular event the narrators convince me has changed time and foundation - a perceived extraterrestrial-being attempts to endow the human with his own image and infuse information and comprehension of the universe, while occupying the seat of ruler and enforcer of this celestial’s ideas, and defending all progressives working with him in preparation for this calamitous, universal war.

Now, with this divulged, it would be prudent to accept other data - imparted by official astronomical charts showing their coordinates of galaxies and constellations - including nautical files predicting tides and projecting weather and growing seasons.

In their celestial sphere, colors are defined much differently than in my world’s perspective. Their colors are muted, perhaps because the sun is at a different slant. This carries over to their relating socially and physiologically: they are less racial, and loyalty is more tribal, or to a class in their particular grouping. You will learn more of their attitudes by reading the first journal.

Though not written in a hidden code, or intended to be understood by only a few, some expressions woven throughout the journals are difficult to cipher, because the original reference has been lost. Archaic terminology in a different language has permanently escaped us, of course, and while this is a minor loss, it is nonetheless a lack of materials that might add to our understanding of their history; many such references are academic, obscure and rare forms. There are words that altogether have an opposite definition in my culture, but that is here and now, where not all words are true, like laws, so in our society a numerical value has been placed on each; I am not regarding this system, but abiding by Alastair’s.

And then, there are little surprises contained within; a glimpse of a topic or person scarcely retained in readers’ memory may in later journals reappear so essential a part of the whole – to you. Modes of reading, of interpreting the essential or capturing the obscure, are among a variety of possibilities, depending on one’s capacity and mood - as hearing by the heart, understanding the symbolism, exercising the mind in and out of context, and by the awareness of legends. They are all worthy processes.

From the original tongue this has been translated, a language very close to my own. But in striving to retain the purity of each word of the journalist’s, it has been a challenge. The difficulty came in the formidable translation of reading and writing, as I mentioned, encountering many entries rapidly written, and striving not to mischaracterize, as the definition of words have been altered or have disappeared. Please note in Alastair’s preface, which follows, my translation of his uncommon words are bracketed in parenthesis. His words have been italicized. It is a rare location in which I felt indebted to do such.

Of the last generation in my own society to have abilities to read and write, I also have slipped into the ease of dependence upon audio visual aids, and up until the discovery of these written pages, I found myself out of practice. Audio books are cheap, and therefore reach many more readers. But we lost control in that process of the reproduced word, having been cheapened, and we let others select for us, and we forgot how to read, and write, and to connect ideas in thoughtful ways, while our books were made into interactive games and entertainment. Bound books are rarely made available now, are expensive, and have become exclusive, yet unpopular with the common person. It is no wonder we have been ushered to such a low state in all our affairs. We must learn to read and write again if we are to know the certainty of those things, wherein thou hast been instructed, as Davin stated. Word is coming back!

When I think of my own dispirited and artificial world, at our complacent condition of malaise, in a time of little leadership, and how the lovely and fragile are hated, I fear we are not far from the world of Alastair’s in seeking a sudden and dramatic captivation by any sympathetic emissary.

Not in my disordered world do I wish to leave you, but in the place Alastair has found. It would be impossible in any form of discourse, and I am quite incapable of offering in this humble attempt of a roadmap, exact meaning for Alastair’s descriptions – these are for your discernment. However, these are what have steadied me – of the magnificence that transcends our observable world, of Alastair’s acquaintance with phenomena - exceeding my comprehension, and yet his statements do not leave me dubious, but are rather a source of assurance we too may experience miraculous transmutation. As a fact, spanning the universe, I shall meet Alastair someday, waiting upon that shore he calls Beulah, and with him that Salvor - the only One Who is able to pull us to that land while we drown in the weighty sea of uncertainty.

Printed on an old press, by an underground movement, the nearness of danger that these copies will reach authorities, and be totally disavowed, banned, or censored in part, causes me some apprehension. I will continue this mission until my prevention or death, believing it donum e Deo. And so I find, it is in retirement that my work has just begun.

Please believe my introductory word of honest interpretation. While preparing this for you, as the principal amanuensis, I have witnessed the unfolding of some of its predictions. I respectfully withhold vicinity and date to protect the justifiable work of the persecuted, and to uphold truth everywhere, signing,

Jean

PERSONAL ESSAYS

Davin Alastair

PREFACE

I am Davin Alastair, a storywriter, and these logs may seem unconnected, but in its entirety the door to their understanding will open. This is my last entry, etched with a piece of campfire charcoal; may the message endure, as this introduction to my planet and our inhabitants’ circumstances offers explanation for the essays.

In my possession for the length of our consummatrum est [now completed] journey is a full satchel, carried in the hands of others before given to me, and their witness is equally important. Don’t think I give this up easily, for it has been a great responsibility, but its purpose is to this end, and my duty is now complete.

As to the contents - you must wonder of the importance, that it all should be guarded so long and so carefully. Within is life; it is all about lives, their seeking and their journeys. But that hardly begins the explanation - for this valise contains your future. We are memories; it is to you who remain, who still have time to decide and to prepare. No matter your situation, you will be involved while treading upon your own unicus [sole] pilgrimage. How is it that I know? Within this satchel is the Living Word, King Yeshua’s scriptures; it is forbidden to read in my world, and if it were possible to have this in one’s midst, many could not read it anyway. Dei puer [God’s children] are not taught to read or write where I have lived.

The heart of the Living Word offers the breath of eternal life – and here I can say no more - if capax Dei [capacity for God, if you endeavor to search], then your quest will be discovered. Alas, of all the joys within the Living Word, it reveals all truth; and this is why I must tell of my rarj nantes in gurgite vasto [forebodings for your future world, rare survivors in the immense sea], if it be anything like that of our own. But worry not, you who seek true revelation, for magna est veritas, et prevalebit [truth is mighty, and it will prevail].

In the satchel you will also find a war scroll that tells of the nations of vanity from where our war of two divisions – the Sons of Light and the Sons of Darkness – started. Though two factions, God poured into the human spirit understanding and ability to us all, to undertake marvelous things to improve our living, to overcome our circumstances, to administer kindnesses to those less fortunate, to embrace divine ideals and golden rules that give us extraordinary abilities in the arts and sciences, and places order and virtue to enhance our civilization. Such use of these endowments brought about our differences of the heart.

I gaze at it from a distance now – Sons of Light and Sons of Darkness – they each took to their side. Of two humans, alter ego [another self] - let us name them: the imposter and the genuine, one who represents the dark, and the other, that of light. The imposter rejected his gifts or misused them for carnal purposes, and the genuine used his intelligence to employ principles to create the remarkable for good.

The forcible imposter still blinds, abuses, and deceives his fellow and follower, distorting the divine and rendering his own self-fame and immortalization, saying, sic itur ad astra [such is the way to immortality]. While the unshakeable genuine human treats all with equality and freedom, proclaiming the great good that is coming from their work and their redeemed life as an immortal gift of God. The imposter declares God as his enemy. The genuine is a friend of God’s. The two have been with us ab initio, anno mundi [from the beginning, in the year of the world].

And so, the Sons of Righteousness turned all the way from walking with the people of the age who were in re jus divinum [against the thing of divine law], and we were delivered from the power of the seers of falsehood and teachers of lies. And, as described in the scroll, Deuteronomy 13:13, "Certain men, the children of particepts criminis [an accomplice] from de profundis [out of the depths], deus ex machina [a god from the machine; i.e., from a theatrical contrivance for making gods appear in the air] named Belial Leviathan, are gone out from among you, and have withdrawn the inhabitants of their city, poco a poco [little by little] saying, ‘Let us go and serve other gods, which ye have not known.’" We declared our sides; the conflict of spirits felt, and forces of death were upon us. I fought the good fight, but when I faced the end of life, King Yeshua - the Alpha and Omega King - stood in my stead. All of man-made armor could not have saved me from such death.

To simplify: we thrived until social and political management eclipsed our liberty, while the practice of eugenics to euthanasia had unparalleled freedoms. Our human race is no longer its original; it is an evolutionary breed, a hybridization that has bonded in power with the radical forces of universal evil. If all humans are predisposed to understand good and evil, libera te tulemet ex inferis [free yourself from hell], and wish for a moral law for their society, then the value of the account for which you are about to read is established.

My party and I have narrowly escaped. There are countless others who have struggled in this bitter fight, have undergone rigid control, violent persecutions, imprisonment - even unto death. Bellum domesticum, bellum internecinum [war among family, war of extermination]. It is a spiritual warfare as well; the supernatural surrounding everyone is no longer restricted, targeting at will. Many believe we are now lost to oppression and tyranny, as one from a different dominion stands conspicere [conspicuously] as the inevitable monarch of this age, antichristus [numerical 666, of his name, gematria, of man and beast] eager to lay hold of us; we are as lambs taken to slaughter.

Still, one of power and majesty will be coming in our defense, with bloodstained garments from the sheepfold, announcing vindication. We are called to go to Beulah now, cum privilegio [with privilege] to build de bonis no [of the goods not yet administered on], and learn from the genius loci [the genius of the place], and in medias res [into the midst of things], and et id genus omne [and everything of the sort]; we will join in readiness, as well, for what will certainly be a universal conflict, not just consequential – it is appointed!