Of Images and Angels 8

Posted on April 15, 2013 by ehurst

They did an awful lot of experimental shooting around the place.
To Angie, the camera looked like a fat smart phone. The lens was better than what one found on cellphones, and would telescope outward for most shooting. “It shares much of the same technology with cellphones,” Preston assured her. He pointed out that the only two external controls were a pair of buttons near opposing corners along one side. “Both are double deep. This one, the first click turns it on or wakes it up from sleep mode. Once the camera is activated, it does nothing. Press farther to the second click and it takes a still shot. The other button allows you to view through the lens on the first click to compose your shots, or records the view as video on the second click. Everything else, including power-down, is on the touch screen controls.” The entire back panel was a view screen.
The old man was a little nervous about them poking around the apple cider presses, but when Preston began discussing the various pieces of equipment and maintenance, he relaxed visibly. It was painfully obvious English was not all that easy for him, and he sometimes paused to think of the word for this or that piece of equipment. So while Angie practiced framing shots with high contrast and visually appealing angles, Preston learned about pressing and juicing apples, separating the solids and the fermentation process.
The man stepped away to do something or other while Preston discussed with Angie the results of her efforts. Suddenly, he stopped. One image indicated an anomaly his eyes had missed earlier. Among an array of pipes, one was not quite parallel with the others. He stepped around and took a look. His eyes chased the pipe back to see if this misalignment had any significance. He wasn’t sure, but it looked like a joint was bent back behind one of the vats.
The old man seemed only mildly irritated when Preston interrupted his work to ask about it. Preston showed him the image on the camera viewer, then pointed out what he saw. The old man looked back and forth between the two, then became absorbed in walking around the vat in question, back and forth. He went and got a folding ladder from the corner of the building and came back, opening it out near the corner of the pipes. After a bit of shifting it around, he climbed slowly, carefully turning himself for the best view. A bit more shifting and then he froze, starring at the backside of the joint. He touched it with his fingers, rubbing back and forth gently.
“Cracked,” he announced.
Preston had not forgotten any of his mechanical knowledge, and the old man seemed genuinely grateful for Preston’s help in replacing the joint. When they were through, the old man insisted on a careful inspection of all the rest, even asking Preston to take more pictures. Preston coached Angie through more shooting for the particular purpose of engineering analysis. They found nothing wrong, but a repeat of the earlier shot confirmed things were now neatly lined up.
From then on, the old man seemed to take a good deal more interest in their camera work around his property.
As they sat down to dinner that evening in their apartment, Preston said to Angie, “Tell me about camping in the dunes.”
She grinned and blushed just a bit. “At the orphanage, our presiding priest was old and pretty tame. We loved him. Unfortunately, his bishop was younger and not a nice man at all. Whenever he came to visit, at least one or two students always got raped. The nuns were powerless and didn’t seem to believe us, anyway. Three of us girls didn’t like the risks, so we would hide. There were all kinds of places around the school seldom used. When we got old enough to have our own student rail passes, we would find some excuse, like going to one of the museums or a music recital somewhere, coming back as late as we dared. As we got older, we took greater risks. Once or twice we simply stayed out overnight, coming back and taking our punishment after the bishop left. In our wandering, we discovered that spot. We pooled our money for a tarp and camped out there because no one ever bothered us. Over the years, I replaced the tarp once or twice and used the place just to get away.”
Preston thought for a moment. “Can you picture this? While you were going through that, I was here with the US Army running all over the countryside, completely oblivious to such things.”
The next day began the lessons on photo editing software.
They were interrupted when their hostess came by about mid-morning. She began by expressing gratitude for their help with the equipment. Regardless whatever else she and her husband were were doing, they still had to make a living and fixing the cracked joint before the system pressured up and blew apple juice all over the building saved them all kinds of money. Apple season was not that far away.
“It becomes necessary to explain a bit about your staying here and who we are. Naturally, you would expect me to avoid saying more than you really need to hear,” she said.
Preston knew all too well from his days in the service. “I learned to bridle my curiosity a long time ago. It’s harnessed to much more important things.”
She smiled. “Yes, I see that. You’ve been no problem at all for us. We simply told you not to leave because we can’t help you much otherwise, but no one here will physically restrain you. Your measured curiosity has served us quite well up to now and we want to encourage your apparently wise choices.”
Preston turned his head to one side as he looked at the older woman. “How much would you be able to explain about this ‘we’ that Angie and I have stumbled upon?”
Her smile faded somewhat. “That’s what I came to talk about this morning. Hendrik gave you a hint of the complexities and you appeared to accept, even if you didn’t exactly understand. We are nothing like your military, nor anything you might have read about regarding the various clandestine services. We don’t actually serve any particular government or the global banking system. Much more than that I shouldn’t say. Perhaps I could characterize us as people involved in a lot of other things who have agreed together that, once in awhile, someone should do something sane and actually help common people who may never know. We don’t pretend our goals are all that lofty because our decisions and our operations are more instinctive and philosophical than activist and political.”
She waved her hand as if to dismiss a world of things. “It’s almost like a hobby; we all have to pay our own way. We fail more often than we succeed, if you measure things in terms of objectives. Yet, we agree we cannot stop trying to do some things. There is no real structure; we each volunteer for each project. People come and go in our association; it’s been active since World War II. So far, nothing has ever come back to haunt us in ways we find unbearable. It could come apart at any moment and we would all go on with our lives still trying to do what we find we must do.”
Angie spoke up. “It sounds like a homily from my favorite old priest. He said the only worthy goal in this life is peace with God at whatever cost in human terms. Even if you don’t believe in God, it’s the optimal life to seek the place where the soul and conscience agree to rest.”
The hostess smiled. “That’s a more familiar way of saying the same thing. What holds our association together is not what we believe, but what we can agree on today as something we simply have to stop or we’ll never be able to live with ourselves. Instead of activists loudly promoting some popular causes, we happen to have stumbled upon an affinity among certain people who have talents and an acquaintance with greater political power and what goes on behind the scenes. We recruit very carefully. Hendrik is not in a position to become your case officer, as it were, but my husband and I are. We think you two would make a marvelous addition, adding capabilities impossible to duplicate without a far higher cost.”
Then she added, “We can’t hire you ourselves, but it so happens an associate of ours is hiring photographers for a legitimate publishing business.”

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Of Images and Angles 7

Posted on April 14, 2013 by ehurst

It was a honeymoon, indeed.
The truck stopped and a moment later, the driver opened the back door, hiding himself behind it. Clambering out, they stood and gazed around the walled courtyard of a very old rural manor. His voice behind the door said, “Rode deur.” They walked toward the only red door visible in the place. The van hurried out the gate. Turning the long handle, Preston opened it and looked inside. To his eyes it appeared as a nice little townhouse apartment, fully furnished. He turned and found Angie waiting, so he scooped her up in his arms and carried her inside. It was the first time he heard her actually giggling like a girl. It was a good sign.
Preston set her back on her feet and wandered to the back window. The joke was on them. He saw endless rows of apple trees. Off to one side was a large building with what he was sure were large vats, fat plumbing and conveyor belts. “Apple cider mill,” he said out loud. She chuckled.
They eventually met their hosts. The old man was taciturn and they seldom saw him. His wife was quite the social butterfly. She gave them their security briefing, sounding very much like some of the government bureaucrats Preston had encountered in the military, just with a much nicer tone of voice and choice of words. Her English was pure American Midwest.
They shouldn’t leave until further notice, but that meant they had the run of the place as long as they didn’t get in the old man’s way. Preston wasn’t in a hurry to explore. The old lady had some assistant measure them and fetch in local clothing of reasonable quality the next day. They hadn’t been in any particular hurry to get dressed the next morning, but found the clothing laid across the two armchairs downstairs.
For the next couple of days they strolled around the property and simply got to know each other. Both had seen so much trouble, there were no significant conflicts or implacable demands. They were still getting over the shock of their good and bad fortune, deciding it was definitely worth it in the balance of things. Still, the sudden and dramatic changes were mind-numbing at first.
At some point, they really needed to let their real world friends know they were okay. Angie had been living in part of the old nun’s quarters at the school where she served as a teacher’s aid. In a quick phone call, she simply told the sister in charge that she had been falsely arrested in an overzealous police sweep during a riot. This was the protest and demonstration season in The Hague. Angie said it would take some time to process her case but she already knew how it would turn out.
Preston had a much tricker problem. Harry would worry but only if Preston never got back to him. However, Harry was notoriously bad about answering any of his phones and Preston didn’t trust anyone else to get him a message. Since Harry was an avid reader of the nautical forums, Preston decided that was the best way to contact him. Once he explained what he planned to do to avoid Harry calling the police or anything, their hostess gave him access to a wired broadband connection. He had never used the ethernet adapter so his MAC address would be unknown on the Net. He immediately connected with Tor and posted a pre-written message where Harry would surely see it:

Been kidnapped by a foxy redhead and have no idea where I am. If I can’t escape I’ll whisper for help next month.

It was true enough and Harry was quite likely to buy it, not to mention have a good laugh.
After a few days Preston had an itch for some photo work. He brought his camera to the breakfast table. Angie looked at him with a faint smile and a raised eyebrow. “Time for your training, apprentice,” he announced.
Preston estimated they were on a high ridge because the wind was more constant and the temperatures marginally cooler than what he expected. They hadn’t crossed any borders because he could see Dutch traffic signs on roads running near the property, so there weren’t that many places they could be driven in less than three hours and still be in the Netherlands.
They wandered the property at length as he taught her to think like a photographer. “The lens hardly replaces the eye. They are symbiotic. The lens catches things the eyes cannot see, but it requires the eye to give meaning to any resulting image. Thus, all the details my eyes could not see in that video from the night we met.”
Angie responded, “And all the meaning which gave us so much trouble, but also gave us each other.”
He grinned. “I have no doubt you would have carried through your plot to attach yourself to me one way or another. And I surely would have fallen for you sooner or later. This just hurried things along by stripping our existence down to the bare essentials.”
There were more than just apple trees on the place. The Dutch government keeps a tight regulation over old growth forest, which stands in odd patches all over the country. Preston spotted a very substantial old tree on a faint elevation in the ground. The bark showed signs of wear from previous climbers. “Ah,” he said holding one finger in the air, “time for an elevated viewing angle.” Angie was a more energetic climber than he, but his reach was much longer. He managed to get up into the higher branches before he felt the tree waving too much under his weight.
“The problem with trees,” he said panting, “is there aren’t many open angles through the foliage.” He was turning as best he could without losing his grip. Something caught his eye to the north. With great care and shifting around a bit, he caught a glimpse of a white cross atop a round structure. While describing what he saw, he took out his camera. Zooming in the viewer, he saw something move, and then dropping down from the tower at an angle. He watched a little longer and saw it again. He held the camera overhead in a blind estimate and took a short video, panning slowly and as steadily as possible.
He was reminded that coming down was harder than climbing up if you wanted to avoid getting hurt. It gets harder when a man passes forty. At the bottom, they huddled over the back of the camera watching the viewer. They decided it was a spire or tower, but with an open top. After zooming in, Preston recognized the movement he saw earlier. “Slide for life,” he said. People were dropping out of the tower harnessed to a cable.
More importantly, he saw a high hilly background behind and it clicked. “We are in South Limburg, the only part of the Netherlands with any kind of hills. A tall spire with a white cross is common to just about any part of Europe, but one used for recreation like that could only be the Wilhelmina Tower, don’t you think?”
She grinned. “Valkenburg!”

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Non-Political Unity

Posted on April 12, 2013 by ehurst

Mysticism offers a very powerful weapon against evil.
Yes, I do blather on at length about mysticism and clinging to the realm above. I also blather a lot about the Laws of God having tremendous power on this realm below. We do the latter to draw attention to the former.
My mysticism says one of the greatest threats is the concerted effort to divide us. That is, to keep us stirred up and fighting over the things we can’t let go. Don’t you see? Activism is the Devil’s ploy to keep you focused on the wrong things.
Example: I preach homosexual relations are a sin. Bible says so. But that cannot justify any sort of activism harassing gays. They are still people, some of whom claim to follow their own calling with God. Am I so perfectly clean I have to hammer them on something like that? What do they have to compromise to accept me? So if they ask, I’ll tell them where I stand. Until then, we each do what we know best from God’s hand and mind our own business. If they can handle that, so can I.
Looking for a fight is not God’s way. That’s what serves the Devil’s purposes. It’s the Devil who wants us all stirred up and fighting each other. That keeps us focused on things God won’t bless. I have no earthly authority from God to compel any man’s thoughts or behaviors. No man on this earth has any authority to demand I conform to things God says are wrong for me. That leaves an awful lot of room to cooperate.
And if you choke on this, it’s not my problem.

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Of Images and Angels 6

Posted on April 12, 2013 by ehurst

They were looking for one of the many tourist information kiosks.
It was a short walk south from the Rotterdam central station. Among the many large buildings with odd shapes, they found the street. They did their best to keep track of the numbers. At one point she was sure they had found it, but it was a free-standing kiosk too far off the street in an open plaza. Preston stood staring into the glass front of a convention center. He pointed; “Is that it?”
There was a booth inside the lobby of the building. She doubled checked the address, then decided he was correct. This one had the same collection of pamphlets, maps, souvenirs, and transportation tickets as any other, but displayed differently. Preston decided this one included a wider array of languages than what usually festooned the ones at tourist traps. He stood back a bit and let Angie handle it.
“Konnten wir die Apfelwein-Anlage?” She held out the card Mr. Venkman had given her.
The woman behind the counter took the card and glanced at it. Without the slightest hint of a smile she dropped it somewhere behind her counter and pulled out a garish pamphlet with cartoon apples and jugs on the front. It was all in German, but she opened it and tapped a spot in one corner. Preston drew forward close enough to see that it was a single paragraph in tiny clear English text.
Angie looked up with a smile, took the pamphlet and turned to walk away. Part of Preston was thinking that this was getting pretty melodramatic. He started laughing and it was infectious; Angie chuckled but was not exactly sure what caused the hilarity. They were supposed to find a hostel called “The Room” down close to the water as their next landmark. The small typeface English paragraph in the pamphlet said they should walk down to the river quay directly nearest the hostel and someone would meet them. This made Preston just a little nervous, given how this whole mess started on a river barge.
They never got there. It seemed some portion of Rotterdam was always under renovation, with scaffolding and usually shrouds hanging from it. In sight of the hostel, they were forced to walk inside one of the half-darkened curtained side walks where noisy work was taking place above them. A workman suddenly stepped out and, with a very big smile, guided them inside the work area. He pointed to two folks dressed somewhat the same as they, who turned and walked off where they had been headed. The man placed hard plastic safety helmets on their heads and allowed them to watch from behind a billowing sheet of plastic. The couple walked all the way down to the nearest quay, stepped into a water taxi and rode off across the river.
Then the man guided them through a maze of temporary walls and curtains accompanied by the noise of various power tools along with the shouts of workers. No one seemed to pay them any attention at all. They approached a work van backed up under one of the tarps. The man opened one of the back doors and beckoned them inside, taking their safety helmets. It was loaded with rolls of carpet and thin foam padding, so they clambered on top. Preston couldn’t resist lying down lengthwise on a fat roll of padding and found it surprisingly comfortable. Angie arranged herself along a roll next to him. They couldn’t see who got into the front seat and started the motor, but decided it was too late to worry about such things any more.
Preston awoke to see Angie leaning back with her rump down between two of the large diameter rolls. He checked his watch; two hours so far and truck kept zooming along at highway speeds. It was a noisy ride, but they were able to talk by putting their faces close together.
She asked, “Why do you suppose he was so adamant about us remaining physically close?”
Preston didn’t hesitate. “Trust. Anyone trying to hurt us would naturally try to use one of us against the other. So long as we are together, we can watch each other and our trust grows. There’s no such thing as absolute trust, because we can’t even trust our selves, in one sense. But once we confide in each other, we become responsible for each other until it’s over with.”
He paused a moment, and then continued. “If you believe in God and angels, there are some things you just take on faith. You have to listen to something stronger and yet quieter than mere intellect. Something in the circumstances told me to trust you, and it appears you trusted me already.”
Angie nodded affirmatively.
“You can’t always test and analyze things. You can’t always trust the results when you do analyze. You have to learn to choose some things on factors beyond the conscious mind. For every demon there are two angels; when you run toward a clear conscience, things tend to work out in the long run. For now, at least, you and I can trust each other far more than anyone else in this world.”
She took his hand. “Did you mean it literally when you asked if I wanted to marry you?”
He explained he didn’t care about government or church permits, but at that moment he had been ready to make a genuine offer of lifetime commitment, and hadn’t changed his mind. If anything, he was even more sure it was a good idea.
“I think so, too,” she said with a smile. He responded by half rolling over and kissing her lips until she nearly melted.

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Of Images and Angels 5

Posted on April 11, 2013 by ehurst

“Could I persuade you to come back up to my classroom? It’s vacant now and I’d feel much more comfortable discussing things there than I would here.”
Preston smiled while his muscles whimpered. Once inside the classroom, still relatively dark, the man closed and locked the door. Preston realized there was no light shining under the door from the sunlit hallway.
Mr. Venkman asked, “What have we got, Preston?”
Preston slipped his laptop from the backpack and placed it on the large desk there. Opening the lid, he brought the system to life. Digging into his pocket, he produced the camera chip and inserted it into the slot. As expected, Mr. Venkman wanted to see his altered version twice, then the raw version. He also asked to see the screen capture followed by the composite Preston had made from the video.
He shook his head and smiled. “Preston, you and Anja are in serious trouble.” He took a step back and held up his right hand in a gesture meant to forestall arguments. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m really very glad you two chose to bring this to me first, regardless of your reasons, and so soon after the fact. But I’m sure you realize none of this is can be made simple.”
Preston had heard this lecture before, in different terms. “Mr. Venkman, I decided long ago there were no real good guys, no right or wrong sides, just some that can hinder or help what I consider most important. I admit I know precious little of these things, but I do know what my conscience demands.”
The old man smiled broadly. “We are all bad guys to somebody. Even under the same government there are competing agencies and genuine bloodshed between them. I won’t bother to explain my position. It won’t mean anything to you and certainly won’t help you any. However, I do hope to keep you and Anja alive and able to pursue your personal quests in life.”
He crossed his left arm over his chest and grabbed the right elbow. His right hand held his chin for a moment, then he gestured slightly at the face on the screen. “Our man is Israeli, but not Mossad. Some other agency that does some of the same work. I’ll thank you for a copy of that raw video with the GPS data, because we can get someone out there today to find the body. That should prove quite interesting. Meanwhile, you need to disappear for awhile, because in order to use this evidence at all, a copy will eventually make its way to this man’s friends.”
He folded his hands, raising his index fingers together to his nose for a moment. Then he dropped his hands and gestured to the two of them. “For the next few days, probably weeks, you must not allow anyone or anything to separate you two physically. Sleep together, shower together, even go to the toilet together. Pretend you are handcuffed. I cannot emphasize that enough.”
He walked around his desk, reached into a side drawer and handed Preston a jump drive, brand new in the package. “Copy those files onto this.” While Preston busied himself with that, Mr. Venkman went on. “I suggest you remove your excess hair, Preston. Shave your head and most of your beard.” Preston glanced up with a grin, then at Angie. Mr. Venkman didn’t notice but was digging in another drawer. He produced a packet of blank index cards. Pulling one out, he replaced the pack. Then he pushed some papers aside exposing a glass sheet atop the wooden surface. With the other hand he reached inside his desk and pulled out a sharp lead pencil.
As he put his laptop away, Preston noticed the man printed carefully in all caps, barely pressing down with the pencil so as to leave the faintest writing. He passed it to Angie. “Go to the address at the top there; be very careful about that. Show them this card and speak in your best German, asking for a tour of the apple cider plant. Within in an hour from that, you should be safer than you’ve been since shooting this video. You’ll go on a nice honeymoon and forget the rest of the world for awhile.”
Someone knocked on the door. “Forget nothing I’ve said,” Mr. Venkman said with all seriousness, and then smiled and acted like they had been discussing old times. He moved toward the door while shaking their hands using both of his in a warm clasp. He started speaking in Dutch, basically thanking them for coming and wishing them well.
Outside on the street again, they stopped at a drug store and Preston grabbed a razor, hair scissors and some baby oil, among other things. He asked, “Where to next?”
“Rotterdam,” she answered with a far away look in her eyes.
Preston thought it was almost fun having Angie jammed in the tiny train toilet with him. He sat on the toilet and slid back against the wall, taking his shirt off. She was quite helpful though, clipping him clean with the scissors and making sure the hair fell onto the tracks through the opening of the toilet between his knees. Then she wet the remaining stubble from a water bottle before he applied the baby oil and began shaving his face. The cheap razor just barely managed to keep a cutting edge until his head was smooth.
They cleaned up the mess, then he showed her his passport while he struggled back into his shirt. “So that’s what you were laughing about,” she said. He now looked like his old passport photo, having grown all that hair and whiskers during the test voyage on Harry’s sloop.
She hugged and kissed him before they exited the confined space. “I like this look,” she affirmed.

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Ancient Truth: Ezekiel Published

Posted on April 10, 2013 by ehurst

Cover art for Ezekiel

Cover art for Ezekiel

Published the latest in the Ancient Truth series with Ezekiel’s prophecy. The cover art is a reconstructed building dedication by Nebuchadnezzar II, and can be found at the Pergamon Museum in Berlin. You can get your free copy here. As usual, the editing was applied first to the web version on my static website.

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Of Images and Angels 4

Posted on April 10, 2013 by ehurst

Where could they go?
One of the few night trains slowed, and then stopped just a few minutes after they climbed the platform. The cars were nearly empty. Yet because of the bicycle, they took jump seats on the foyer where two train cars were joined together. They readied their rail passes but the conductor never came. That happened often enough not to worry them.
Preston really wanted to gather a few personal items from where he was staying, but decided not to risk it. Angie seemed totally unconcerned about any property she might have accumulated anywhere. She convinced Preston they could rest for at least a few hours. By then they could come up with a better plan. They switched trains a couple of times, then she signaled it was time to get off when the train stopped in a quiet neighborhood. He must have dozed because he had no idea where they were. She led him off and along some very quiet broad streets, until he realized they were headed toward Duinrell again.
They bypassed the park and eventually ended up out in the wooded dunes area. It was obvious she knew exactly where to go, turning down trails he hardly saw in the darkness. She dismounted her bicycle and turned up a draw between two large dunes. Just beyond the saddle there was a rather flat spot obviously well used for camping. She walked across this and up the far side of the bowl. A few meters farther was a blind of trees where she simply plowed through the underbrush. On the other side was a tiny open space in the trees, which had suffered little from human traffic recently. She leaned her bike against the trees and walked to a sandy hump on one side. Digging in with her hands, she pulled out a plastic trash bag. She opened the collar holding it closed and pulled out a neatly folded tarp. She spread this on the ground and invited Preston to lay down on it and roll himself up on the edge.
He scarcely remembered anything until he realized the sun was well up in the eastern sky. That’s when he discovered Angie’s red curls were on his shoulder, his arm wrapped around her. She was on her side with her free arm laying across his stomach.
“Well, ain’t this cozy,” he murmured. She stirred to life. Looking up into his eyes, she planted a quick kiss on his cheek, and then rolled away and began putting her shoes on. He realized his were off, and began poking around for them. They were under his backpack, somewhere down at his feet. As he began to put them on, he was about to say something else but she spoke up.
“I know who can help us,” she said with all the assurance she could muster. She went on in a quieter tone. “We had a man volunteer to teach for the Catholic school where I worked a few years ago. He had retired from some foreign service job. The students used to joke he was a Russian spy, but he seemed to know an awful lot about the various clandestine services of different countries.”
She pulled up the tarp and Preston helped her shake off the sand and fold it back neatly. As she took the last fold from him and he help open the bag, she added one more thought. “He said in the most solemn way possible that if I ever really needed help with something too big for me to handle, I should contact him. The school is not that far from here.”
“Can we talk about breakfast on the way? I still have my American appetite for a farmer’s breakfast and all this activity is making me even hungrier than normal.” Preston was still pretty stiff but starting to warm up the joints with a little stretching.
“Well, Den Haag Centraal has several real restaurants nearby,” she offered. “That’s on the way to the school.” Still dragging her bicycle, she led him to a small station where they boarded. It was a short ride with several stops, but the central station in The Hague was massive. Angie made a quick phone call from one of the public phones at the station, then came out with a smile. He chose Granny’s Cafe because it was close and had food already waiting. Once full, he was ready to sleep again, but knew his aching joints would get no rest today.
Angie paused a moment, and then locked her bicycle in the caged storage area near most train stations. She tied a brightly colored piece of cloth on the front wheel and mumbled something in Dutch about someone else coming to find it. They boarded a bus heading south. Preston couldn’t keep track of the municipal names as the bus wound it’s way along. Angie woke him a bit later and almost dragged him off the bus. He stumbled along beside her as they walked a few blocks and turned in at a metal gate. It was an older building, but for the time being, clearly used as a school. She led Preston up some steps, through ancient double doors and half-way down a long corridor to an open doorway.
She left him standing in the hallway waiting while she went through the social rituals of greeting, chatting a bit, then asking about something. The receptionist consulted a paper chart in front of her, then gave a quick answer of two short sentences. There was more socializing and she handed the receptionist her bicycle key. The woman paused a bit, then said “okay” and took the key. Returning to him in the hallway, she led him down the hall farther, and then up some stairs to the floor above. About three doors down she paused and looked through a tiny window in the door into a darkened room with flickering lights. Preston gathered it was a video presentation. Someone inside must have seen her, because Angie simply stepped back and waited.
An older fellow, very obviously a sophisticated gentlemen, opened the door just a few inches and whispered something to her. There was some quick back and forth even Preston couldn’t hear. He handed her a door key, smiled and turned back into the room, closing the door softly behind him. Angie grabbed his hand and dragged him back down the stairs and down two floors to the basement. It was much quieter here, none of the background hubbub typical of schools. On the left side were two swinging doors, followed by three sets of double doors, all closed. Preston guessed that was the kitchen and dining area. On the other side of the hall were two storerooms and a large wooden door. Using the key, Angie opened this, glanced inside, and then pulled Preston behind her before closing the door. He surmised it was a teachers’ lounge.
He sighed, took one of the more heavily padded chairs along one wall. Angie sat next to him and took his hand. He was almost asleep when the old gentleman joined them. The man spoke in precise British English, “Don’t get up, at least not yet.” Apparently he had more than one key, but Angie handed back to him the one she had. He accepted it without a word, then turned to Preston.
They shook hands; “My name is Hendrik Venkman.”

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Not Many Miracles

Posted on April 9, 2013 by ehurst

He can’t do many miracles because of our unbelief.
This isn’t simply psyching yourself up to believe. It’s far more subtle. After many years studying philosophy and the difficult questions of epistemology, I’m just beginning to understand the depth of difference in some of the most fundamental reactions in the mind.
In the West, we are hung in a false dichotomy. We have two choices that are both wrong, and little else is even possible. There is either the truly silly superstition of the Germanic tribal mythology and all the worst of human guttural fears and passions, versus the purely cerebral analytical approach. Worst of all, the latter doesn’t ever really trump the former. Rather, that brand of reason is wholly dependent on the superstition as the whipping boy. Without it, the reason has nowhere to run when things fail.
It’s exceedingly difficult to explain the ANE epistemological assumption about the power of morality. It’s difficult because the entire range of Western thought cannot see the underlying pattern of ANE moral reasoning. This is a nasty parallel to the fundamental failure of Westerners to grasp the meaning of Hebrew expressions in Scripture. Most Westerners are so deeply buried in the limited approach to reality, they are literally unable to process genuine Hebrew thought. In like manner, they cannot move away from the moral assumptions of the Enlightenment. Suggesting any change is for them immorality itself.
Western minds make a god of Western epistemology.
So while I can typically get folks to understand the necessity of adding mythology to a child’s educational development, they rabidly refuse to consider changing that from the standard Euro-centric garbage to something from the Middle East. This visceral hatred for anything not Western is a plot of Satan, if not the knowing participation of some evil human servants of his. That same hatred makes Christians literally hate their own Bible while allowing them to pretend they love it simply because they think they understand the words.
This alone justifies God destroying the whole of Western Civilization. We won’t let Him do many miracles because we can’t imagine them being anything except wild and incomprehensible magic. It’s the most normal, routine thing in the world, but we refuse to understand what God says about this world.
I keep hoping a few more folks will understand and start reaching for God’s truth before it’s too late.

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Of Images and Angels 3

Posted on April 9, 2013 by ehurst

Her name was Anja.
Preston reflected a moment. “That’s rather like Angie in America.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “You can call me Angie; I like that.” Angie it was.
By the time they arrived back in Gouda, he realized she had to be around thirty years old. Her story was pretty simple, in that she grew up in a Catholic orphanage somewhere close to Delft and never knew her parents. She managed to graduate just about the time the orphanage closed and found various jobs with an inter-denominational Christian missionary society. She played whatever volunteer sports were available.
“I was sexually abused along with all the other girls, but far less often because I was never as cute as the others. I was considered too boyish.” She was also exposed to numerous different languages and spoke a few with enough fluency to pretend it was her native tongue. He noticed her English had a hint of proper British enunciation, but not too strong. As she continued chatting with him, it faded noticeably into a standard American sound.
The night air was still warm as they entered Gouda and made their way to the old market plaza. Preston pulled a small gadget from his pocket and was delighted to see several unsecured wifi signals were still available. The only lighting was the minimal security lamps here and there. He sat down in the shadows; Angie huddled next to him as he opened his laptop. He transferred the memory chip from the camera to the laptop and copied the video first.
After running through it couple of times, Preston zoomed in the middle frames of it to see the action with as much clarity as possible. He used editing software to bring the ambient light level up just a bit more. This he saved as a second video file. Then he copied out several frames showing the man’s face as he walked back toward the wheelhouse after dumping the bag.
He explained to Angie, “First, we take advantage of the face recognition software on a couple of major social websites.” Sure enough, the site searching algorithms found a few matches, but only as a secondary person unnamed in the pictures.
“So it means he has a social life of sorts, but avoids being identified the way most people do.” Angie seemed rather surprised how easy it all was.
He turned to her and warned, “This next part is rather risky. I have access to a commercial vendor site that happens to have a development contract with several national and international law enforcement agencies. One of my friends works there and lets me use his login. It checks images on file with the likes of Interpol and the FBI to see if there’s a match. The problem is, if I get a hit, someone in those agencies is going to know about it. They might not have any idea who, simply because I’m using a public wifi connection, but they are going to know where it was and when. I would go through Tor, but the site doesn’t allow connections from there.”
As he logged in, he added, “Depending on what I find, I’ll probably try to send a copy of the video to whichever agency seems most interested in him.”
It took quite a while, but as long as the site seemed to be working and didn’t come up empty, he waited. He was about to give up, though, when suddenly a black and white mugshot popped up on the screen. It was the same guy a good bit younger. All the data boxes below it were blank, except for the Interpol case number.
“Why is there no data?” Angie asked.
Preston’s face went pale as the meaning dawned on him. He pressed the button combination for a screen grab, saved it to the camera chip and closed his laptop. He paused a moment and extracted the camera memory chip, stuffing it securely in his pants pocked. Then he thrust his laptop back into the knapsack. Jumping to his feet, he began walking immediately off toward the north. It took only a few moments for Angie to catch up on her bicycle. He cautioned her to silence with his finger and very nearly jogged along the narrow side streets. In the shadow of some trees a couple hundred meters from the train station, he stopped long enough to explain in a loud whisper.
“Our boy was arrested at least once in the past; that was a mugshot. However, something on the level of a government agency covered for him. That would mean CIA, MI6 or perhaps Mossad. What we witnessed was not likely a common criminal act, but some kind of espionage. While I don’t specifically know what they can do, nor how quickly, it is guaranteed to be very unpleasant if they ever find out about us and what we know.”
He paused a moment while she absorbed that. Then he went on, “As quickly as I can I am going to disappear. I’m going to get as far from here as I can, and I suggest you do the same. Pretend you were never here, that you never met me. And for God’s sake, make sure there aren’t any more tags following us around. Pull the battery from your cellphone. Go somewhere safe and wait at least 24 hours before turning it back on.”
She remembered the little tag and tossed it into bushes.
He turned to go in the direction of the open train platform. There were night trains at odd intervals in this part of the country. She caught up with him again. Keeping her voice in the same loud whisper he used, she pleaded with him. “Take me with you! I know this area better than you; I know places to hide.”
He barely turned his head as he walked a blistering pace along a narrow street. “Are you ready to give up your whole life and marry me? Can you team up with me as if the only thing that matters is whatever crazy shit I think sounds like fun tonight or tomorrow? Are you ready to watch me die under torture and not say anything? Because I assure you right now, I’m not all that interested in living a long and healthy life of peace and security. I’m a complete madman. I have an important mission in life and this business just threw me a curve ball. I’m going to face it but I have no illusion about saving the world. I’ll stumble along trying to estimate what makes the most sense according to what I believe.”
He paused and caught his breath. “Not much in this world really matters to me. Are you ready to sign onto that mission, sight unseen?”
He barely closed his lips before she said, “Yes! Of course I am. Do you think it’s been a nice life for me up to now? Until an hour ago I had no idea, but this is exactly what I’ve been training for my whole life. If I get killed chasing you around the world, that would be a lot more meaningful than what I’ve been doing so far.”
He grinned and turned to face her. “You’re my kind of gal. You may regret this just a few hours from now, but I’m willing to let you come along if you can keep up.”
With that, he pushed off in a renewed attack on the distance to the train platform.

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Of Images and Angels 2

Posted on April 8, 2013 by ehurst

It was her again.
The first time Preston ran across her was in Katwijk. He had been trying to capture the ancient cathedral near the beach with some sails in the background. At one point he was lying on the sidewalk with his camera resting on a loose brick he found nearby. Out of the corner of his eye a figure rode by and he waited for her to clear his frame.
The gal was striking. Not in the sense of grand beauty, but she was possessed of a very incongruous set of features. Diminutive, she was riding one of the smaller framed bikes typically used by older children. However, she was not petite, but rather muscular like an athlete. Her middling shade of brown skin was common enough among the cosmopolitan Dutch, but it was matched with entirely Caucasian facial features and beautiful flowing red hair. For a moment he wondered if it could possibly be her natural color, but then turned back to his photo composition.
Apparently her image lingered in his mind, because he could have sworn he saw her again in Wassenaar when he was out at the Duinrell campground taking pictures of some of the unusual characters occupying the old horse track during a celebration. He saw here up near the rental office. The next week he was near Voorschoten photographing the shooter’s festival — men firing low powered .22 calibre rifles at tiny round blobs on a frame mounted at the top of a very long pole. The festivities included some deliciously creative military styled uniforms copying elements of just about every uniform men had worn in Western military history since firearms were introduced. He spotted her in the crowd just a few meters from where he stood.
He almost went up and spoke to her, but decided against it. Instead, he decided to test the limits of coincidence. Waiting until after dinner time one evening, he skipped the bike and grabbed a seat on a bus headed to Alphen, and from there took the train south to Gouda. It was a short hike to the old city center. He sat at a table in the triangular old market plaza, which was dominated by a baroque looking city hall he had seen too many times in photographs already. He waited and watched as the traffic nearly disappeared and some of the night spots closed. Paying his tab he walked along the northern edge of the market plaza and threaded his way through the ancient streets to the Rotterdamsweg traffic circle, and then south across the river.
Taking the southerly route, he hiked out across the bridge to the Kattendijk and followed it south out of town along the IJssel River. By now it was dark and the moon was setting early. In its first quarter, he was hoping to catch it against the roof of an ancient farm house across the river from him. There was still time to find a good angle which placed him along a fairly straight stretch in the channel. He sat hunched down in some tall grass along the road. It was very quiet and nearing midnight.
As the moon began to approach the ideal angle above the horizon, he heard a canal barge approaching from the right. There were a few old boat pilots around who knew the channels well enough to run them at night, but never without lights. This one was unlighted and he could barely make it out. Suddenly the motor sputtered and died and the barge slowed visibly as a dark mass in the water below him. He was curious. Since his camera was capable of capturing images in low light conditions without a flash, he steadied it on his knee and aimed the lens at the boat. His finger found and pressed the compose button, one click down. After a couple of seconds, the scene became just visible to him. Someone stepped out of the pilot booth and onto the deck behind it, which was the roof of the cabin.
Something in Preston’s instincts twitched his finger to press the button down to the second click, which recorded in video mode.
The figure reached down and began dragging a heavy load of some kind. Preston could just make out a long duffel bag, almost as big as the man dragging it. Stopping at the rear of the deck, he looked down at his load, then squatted to change his grip. He wrapped loose fabric from the bag in each hand across the middle. Hoisting it, he turned around completely. Then, keeping the load behind him, he took two very quick steps, twisted his body and heaved the load over the side. One end struck the gunwale on the way down, flipped and sank into the water. The figure watched as only bubbles rose to the surface; the boat drifted downstream away from the spot.
Then the figure turned back toward the wheelhouse and stepped inside. The engine coughed and came to life, driving the barge with fresh momentum down river again. As it reached the next bend, the lights came on and there was no sign anything had happened. That is, except for the video footage of the incident in Preston’s camera, which ended as the barge passed before him and he captured the name painted in bold letters across the stern.
He sat staring in the grass waving in the breeze directly in front of him. What did he just see? He had the laptop with him this time, but he suddenly felt the urge to get as far as possible from this spot.
It was at the moment his muscles tensed to drive him upright that he heard the female voice. “Heeft hij motorpech hebben?”
While his brain translated reflexively, he was too surprised to answer in kind. “I wouldn’t count on it,” he said as he rose to his feet. He turned to see the short sturdy redhead on her bicycle. He continued, “The pilot shut the motor off on purpose, then tossed a heavy bag into the river, just about the size of a human body.”
She gasped and put her hand on her mouth. While she stared downriver where the barge had disappeared, Preston briskly walked back the way he had come. She caught up with him and rode quietly alongside in the darkness.
Without slowing, he turned his head to face her and demanded, “Why are you stalking me?”
She sputtered for a moment in Dutch, then tried again in English. “I meant no harm. I was told you were a professional photographer and I wanted to see if I could learn from you.”
They continued along the Kattendijk a bit, while she made an obvious struggle to find words. “I was going to introduce myself when you got to Gouda but my cellphone died and I thought I had lost you. I rode around town a bit and almost gave up when I spotted you again coming out this way.”
With a bit of stammering, she offered, “I’m sorry, Sir.”
After a bit of tense silence, Preston asked, “What does your cellphone have to do with it?”
“Please stop, Sir, and I’ll show you,” she begged.
He stopped and turned to face her. She pulled her bicycle almost behind him and reached out to his backpack. From someplace on the bag she pulled at something that made an audible click when it let go. She held out her hand to show him a tiny gadget no bigger than a zipper pull.
“It’s all the latest rage with wealthy families,” she explained. “The government has been experimenting with tracking stations around this area under a private contract — train stations, some shops, popular hangouts. Parents can place this on anything their child is likely to carry and they won’t notice. Every time the child passes a tracking point, it registers with a central website and parents can see in realtime where their child is going.”
He stared at her hard for a moment. She added, “There is a cellphone app that connects to the website and updates with onscreen alerts.”
His face betrayed nothing. He breathed deeply, than asked mildly, “So when did you tag me?”
She seemed a bit relieved. “The day you were lying on the ground in Katwijk. I was riding through there and saw you, and became fascinated. An old man standing nearby said you were yet another professional photographer using the old church as so many others do. Except, I could see you were getting a totally unique frame of the image. You left your bag where I could get to it and not disturb you.”
She shifted on her bicycle seat, then spoke some more. “I may lose my job and I was hoping you’d be willing to apprentice me.”

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