Spring House by David Bowles

Chapter One

The Old Wagon Road

Young Adam Mitchell handed the reins to his sister Mary and climbed down from the wheel horse.¹ He helped his father remove a pile of fallen trees and large boulders from The Great Wagon Road.² That sounded like a grand name for the buffalo path that had been enlarged into a trail by the Indians and settlers who had moved west before them.

Adam rubbed his back, but he wouldn't let the aches that came from long hours sitting on the lazy board³ or the broad back of the wheel horse and the hard labor of moving the obstacles in their path dampen his natural zest for life or his excitement over their journey this fall of 1762. They were finally moving to North Carolina to join other members of the ScotsIrish⁴ Mitchell clan after many months of preparation.

Robert Mitchell, Adam's father, mounted his horse to lead the way again. Adam climbed back onto the wheel horse and took the reins back from his sister.

“Good job,” he said.

“You did a good job of teaching all of us,” his older sister Jean said. “As always, Dad's right hand ...” Her voice trailed off, and she wiped a tear from her eye.

Adam knew she was thinking of all of the friends they'd left behind in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. As excited as they were about moving, the thought of never seeing the friends he'd grown up with and the farm he'd lived on all his life might have brought a tear to his eye if he hadn't been a man grown at age seventeen.

The trip didn't allow much time to think about what they'd left behind or what they'd find when they got to their new home. They always seemed to be fording a creek, climbing a peak, dealing with rocks in the road, making camp, breaking camp, tending to the team, or doing something they hadn't imagined doing when they left Pennsylvania.

Thank heavens for the new Conestoga wagon that was built to deal with the rough terrain, so unlike the gentle rolling hills the Mitchells were used to. The new wagon was built by German immigrants in the borough of Lancaster in the Conestoga region of Pennsylvania. It was designed to carry heavy loads over great distances. When Robert bought the wagon, his wife had complained about the cost, but now Margaret realized the importance of the four broad wheels that prevented the heavy load of housewares and farm implements from getting stuck. She appreciated the white canvas cover that protected her cherished belongings from the rain and the three girls' light Scots-Irish complexions from the sun. The wagon also sheltered the family during the night, with the women sleeping in the wagon and Robert and Adam sleeping underneath.

The adventures of the days on the road west worked up hearty appetites. Every evening the womenfolk cooked a hearty meal of beans and salt pork over the campfire. Sometimes Adam shot a squirrel or a rabbit, and they ate fresh meat. Robert had taught Adam to make every shot count with the family musket -- ammunition was scarce in Pennsylvania but they knew from everything they'd heard it would prove to be more so in North Carolina.

After Margaret and the girls washed the Dutch oven and cleaned up the campsite, the family gathered round the fire. Robert read passages from the family Bible. Margaret and Mary sang the familiar hymns from the Presbyterian Hymnal. Often a smile or a tear would appear as Margaret or one of the girls remembered that the hymnals had been given to them as goodbye gifts from the congregation of the beloved Nottingham Church in Lancaster.

Adam and Robert discussed Benjamin Franklin's recent electrical experiments that they'd read about before embarking on this journey. They also had long discussions about whether the new King, George III, was really insane and about his new British Prime Minister, Bute. The events of the next few years would soon turn the Mitchell family into Whigs, who resisted the Crown's control over the colonies and opposed the Tories or loyalists, who supported the Crown's rights to control the colonists.

As the oldest, twenty-year-old Jean often had the privilege of reading aloud the letters from Uncle Adam Mitchell, Robert's older brother, for whom Adam had been named. Their new home would be five miles west of Uncle Adam, who had moved to North Carolina some ten years ago to homestead a land grant from Lord Cateret, Earl of Granville.

More excited by the day at seeing their new home, the Mitchells loved hearing the letters over and over again, even though they were months old. The letters told of the Nottingham settlers starting The Buffalo Creek Presbyterian Church in a log cabin near Uncle Adam's home on the Buffalo Creek some six years earlier. Before this cabin was built the congregation had met in Uncle Adam's home. The actions of the new King George III affected this small clan of Scots-Irish settlers; as the entire congregation of the Buffalo Creek Church spoke out on the subject of colonial resistance, the British loyalists and Tories harassed many of the families for their political beliefs.

The Nottingham Group of settlers was an independent group, to say the least. Their free-thinking spirit and 150-year history of persecution had created a very strong-willed group of Scots-Irish Presbyterians who were predisposed to embrace the revolutionary movement and declare openly that they were Whigs. The Nottingham Group was made up of farmers, tradesmen, and trappers who had moved west to avoid the impositions forced on them by Parliament. In the backwoods of North Carolina, they felt they were far removed from the problems of this conflict. Time would soon prove them wrong.

As the Conestoga wagon and its team inched its way toward the Potomac River and the Evan Watkins Ferry at the mouth of Canacocheco Creek in Maryland, the activity around the Hamlet of Hagerstown amazed the Mitchells. Hagerstown was just now being formed by German immigrants led by Jonathan Hager who settled there in 1739. Adam stopped to stare at the impressive house built by Mr. Hager for his wife Elizabeth - Hager's Fancy, the locals called it. The young Mitchell lad wondered if he could achieve such success in the backwoods of North Carolina and someday own such a home of his own.

One week had passed since leaving Lancaster County; they could move only about four miles a day on The Great Wagon Road. Adam had started to keep records of the parties they met; they averaged five to six groups per day now. Most of the weary travelers were of Scots-Irish heritage like the Mitchells, and many of the settlers had young sons and daughters the ages of the Mitchell children.

“It's going to be all right,” Robert said as he patted Margaret's hand. “Our children will have ample opportunities to marry into good Presbyterian families even in this vast wilderness we're moving to.”

Margaret smiled and said, “I am relieved.”

They reached Williamsferry,⁵ the ferry crossing of the Potomac River founded by Otho Holland William, on the eighth day.

At the crossing, a line of wagoners, pack horses, carts, and travelers on foot and horseback were anxiously awaiting their turn to take the ferry across the river. Few travelers were going east; most like young Adam and his family were headed west toward the new frontier and the hope of cheap land.⁶ It took several days for the Mitchell family's turn to load their large Conestoga wagon on the ferry for the trip across the river. Once across they worked their way down the east side of the Shenandoah Valley to Fredericktown, Virginia. This portion of the trip took another week to traverse.

The family had heard about the Opequon Presbyterian Church, named after a nearby creek. The church -- the first Presbyterian congregation in the Shenandoah Valley -- had been established by the first Scots-Irish settlers to arrive there in 1737. Margaret looked forward to going to church as it had been several Sundays since the family had attended a real service. Robert and Adam felt they were very close to God in the great outdoors and on the road. The women wanted to hear a real preacher and a choir that might even have an organ or piano to accompany the choir and congregation. It would be just like it had been in Lancaster at the Nottingham Church.

After two weeks on The Old Wagon Road, the Mitchells made camp near the Opequon Creek within sight of the church, some three miles south of Fredericktown, Virginia. The area had been a Shawnee Indian camping ground before the arrival of the first Pennsylvania Quakers in 1732. The Mitchells arrived on a beautiful Saturday afternoon. Margaret, Mary, and Jean set about washing clothes, baking bread, and getting caught up on chores. Robert and Adam allowed the team of horses to graze the lush grass on the banks of the creek. Twelve-year-old Rebecca set about gathering firewood and finding Indian arrowheads around the camp.

They could all bathe tonight for the first time in many days. Robert had bought soap from a drummer⁷ while awaiting the ferry at Williamsferry. Margaret and the girls were excited about using the store-bought soap, as it smelled so different from the soap they made from hog rendering and lye. Tonight it would be put to good use ensuring the family would make a proper impression at tomorrow's church service.

A man walked up to the camp. They could tell from the way he was dressed that he hadn't been traveling in a wagon for days. The women looked down at their simple homespun dresses, wrinkled and dusty from travel, then at the portly gentleman in his tailored clothes, nothing like what the farmers in Lancaster wore.

“Hello. I'm John McMachen.” He reached out and shook hands with Robert.

Robert introduced himself. “This is my wife Margaret and my son Adam. My daughters -- Jean, Mary, and Rebecca.”

“Welcome to Frederick County. I came to invite you folks to church. That is ... if you're Presbyterian.” McMachen's voice went slightly higher at the end of the sentence, turning the statement into more of a question.

“Yes sir, we are,” Robert said. “And we're planning to go to church in the morning. We've heard a lot about the Opequon Presbyterian Church. You been going there long?”

“As a matter of fact, my family founded the church and the county too. Why don't you folks come have supper with my wife Isabella and me? We're always glad to meet good Presbyterians.”

The Mitchell family walked the short distance to the McMachen home. Margaret whispered to her husband, “I'm glad we bathed and put on our best clothes. Look at this elegant house! I'm not sure we belong here.”

It didn't take long, though, for everyone to feel right at home. The house might have been more luxurious than they were accustomed to, but the McMachens were Scots-Irish Presbyterians, just like all the Mitchells' family and friends.

After the days of eating beans and salt pork, the meal of chicken, vegetables, biscuits, and pie was a treat. The food was served on pewter plates decorated with the letter “M” for the McMachen name. Even better, no one had to build a fire, unpack or pack up anything, or cook anything in a Dutch oven. The womenfolk felt almost guilty for being so pampered.

“Adam, how old are you?” Mr. McMachen asked.

“Seventeen, sir.”

“The same age as Johnny,” Isabella whispered as she dabbed a tear from her eye with a lace handkerchief.

Mr. McMachen explained, “Our son John drowned three years ago. As a matter of fact, it happened near your campsite.” He paused for a moment. “He was barely fourteen at the time, but he was already showing signs of being a fine young man. Like Adam here.”

Adam hardly heard Mr. McMachen -- he was busy looking at the lovely raven-haired Elizabeth McMachen. He'd never felt like this before. His knees were weak, and he knew he must have a silly grin on his face, but he couldn't help himself. She kept looking at him, too, and smiling. Did she feel the same way? he wondered.

“Girls, why don't you show Adam around the farm?” Mrs. McMachen asked.

Elizabeth and Adam walked side-by-side, followed by Elizabeth's sisters -- Sarah, Rosanna, Nancy, and Jame -- and Adam's sister Rebecca. Elizabeth must have told him about the farm because she was talking to him and pointing things out, but Adam didn't hear anything but the sound of her voice and the giggling of the younger girls.

John and Robert moved to the large front porch overlooking the creek for a lively discussion of politics, farming, and the other things that men discussed after the evening meal. They talked about books, and John told Robert about his father, William McMachen. “He was one of the Justices of Frederick County, and he helped organize Fredericktown -- you know it's the county seat?”

John also had his own still for making whisky and offered some of his special corn whisky to his new friend.

Robert took a swig and smiled. “I prefer my corn in the bottle rather than on the cob.”

They agreed they never knew a Scots-Irish gentleman that didn't enjoy a good drink of whisky.

Right after the men left the table, Isabella McMachen rose and said, “Ladies, let's retire to the parlor.”

Margaret Mitchell said, “Let us help clear the table and clean up in the kitchen.”

“Oh, the servants will take care of everything. We can visit and enjoy ourselves.”

The women walked to the stately parlor. Margaret and her daughters were not accustomed to being served and at first felt uncomfortable sitting and talking when other people were working in the kitchen. However, Isabella was so gracious they soon found themselves visiting with her and enjoying themselves just as they had with their friends back in the Nottingham community.

When they joined the men on the porch, Robert and Margaret agreed it was time to head back to their camp. They sent Jean and Mary to call Adam and Rebecca; the older girls returned with Rebecca, but no Adam.

“Where's Adam?” Margaret asked.

Rebecca answered, “He said he'd be here in a minute.”

“Did you tell him we need to get home so we can sleep and get to church in the morning?” Margaret asked.

“Yes, Mother,” Jean answered. “Mary and I both told him.”

Robert looked around and frowned. “It's not like Adam not to come right away.”

“I think our Adam is smitten. Here he comes now, but he sure looks like he'd rather keep walking with Elizabeth.” Margaret smiled.

Adam didn't want to leave, but he could see everyone else was ready, so he and the rest of the Mitchells said goodnight to their hosts and went on their way. He didn't pay attention to the conversation on the way home -- he was thinking about Elizabeth. She was just about the prettiest girl he'd ever seen.

He did the chores he had to do when the family reached the camp, but he couldn't stop thinking of her pretty black hair and her green eyes. When he closed his eyes to sleep, he saw her smiling lips and dancing eyes and tossed and turned in his bedroll. Would those church bells ever ring? He couldn't wait to see her again at Sunday services.

Finally Sunday morning arrived, and the service that seemed to last forever ended.

After church the congregation held a potluck dinner in honor of the Mitchells' visit.

Adam, his mother, and the girls loved it in Frederick County and tried to persuade Robert to homestead in the Valley close to the church and the McMachen home.

However, Robert was a man of his word. He'd already committed to buy 560 acres from Robert Donnell in Rowan County, North Carolina.⁸ He would be joining his brother Adam from The Nottingham Colony there. He would not violate his own conscience or embarrass his brother's family by backing out of the sale.

The Mitchell clan stopped by the McMachen house to say their goodbyes. Isabella and Margaret each wiped tears from their eyes as the Mitchell women and Adam started down the lane toward camp.

John clapped Robert on the shoulder. “We have a lot in common and agree on many things. I wish you could stay here, but I know you're a man of honor and have to meet your obligations. I hope to see you again.”

Robert answered, “Of course we'll see each other again. We need strong Scots-Irish Presbyterian families. Let's agree that Adam and Elizabeth will marry and bear us many grandchildren.”

“I will provide young Adam with a generous dowry⁹ to marry my eldest daughter, and I will forbid any other man to court her, telling them she is spoken for.”

Both men smiled and shook hands in agreement, and the Mitchells walked back to the camp.

On Monday morning, the Mitchell family broke camp and headed southwest on the road to North Carolina. They wouldn't see civilization again until they reached Roanoke, Virginia -- a good thirty days ride over some of the roughest road they had yet to encounter. The Indian summer was over, and fall was in the air. The family had to get to Rowan County before the winter set in. They passed many settlers that had homesteaded along the Shenandoah Valley who were already preparing for the coming winter.

Robert was not only a good farmer, but he was also a shrewd businessman. His brother Adam had written him about the shortage of salt in the backwoods of North Carolina and Virginia. He'd loaded a wooden barrel with salt for the trip. He also had with him all the money he'd acquired over the forty-nine years of his life. The money wouldn't buy much on The Great Wagon Road, but he could trade salt to hunters and trappers for meat, hides, or whisky. In the wilderness salt was medicine and a preservative for curing meats and hides. Everyone needed salt, and Robert was prepared with several hundred pounds on the wagon.

The Mitchell family arrived in Roanoke, Virginia exactly six weeks from the day they left Lancaster, Pennsylvania. Now they would get needed provisions and head due south at least two more weeks on the trail. The leaves were turning early, and Robert and Adam had noticed that the bears were very active and foraging for the winter. The family had to keep moving, not even taking off the Sabbath, which upset Margaret immensely.

On the last day of September, 1762, the tired and weary family rolled into the farm of Uncle Adam Mitchell on the watershed of Buffalo Creek, in what was then Rowan County, North Carolina.

Title: Spring House, Book 1 in the Westward Sagas

Author: David Bowles

Web site: http://www.westwardsagas.com

Link to buy book: http://www.westwardsagas.com/order.html

Tears and Tales by Russ Vassallo

Tears and Tales: Stories of Animal and Human Rescue

By Russell A. Vassallo

GIT

A rainy mist blanched the darkening land as she descended

from the truck with the all too familiar “Git.” The man always spoke

harshly as he had when he commanded her into the truck. She had not wanted to leave the squirming mass of life she called her puppies for it had been warm and comfortable with them, and their tiny squealing brought happiness to her face. Now, as Git exited the truck, the wind brushing through high trees that sloped to the road, she wondered how long it would be before she saw them again. She did not know that they were already loaded into a plastic sack and tossed mewing and wriggling into a garbage pile. In time the wriggling would stop and then the mewing and the sack would lay motionless in the refuse. She did not know that.

Nor did she know why neither the man nor the boy looked back as the pickup motored away, belching its black smoke into the damp air. Dutifully, she trotted after the truck as she had so often on the farm where she was born. A failed gun dog, frightened by gunfire, run over by the man's tractor and left to heal on her own, she learned respect and fear for the man at a young age. Yet, she loved and forgave the boy who pelted her with stones and the man who kicked her out of the way. She knew there must be kind people in the world because she had seen other animals with their human friends. They were not mean or vicious. Thus she trusted the man and the boy, hoping she would one day receive the affection and praise she craved.

So when the boy ordered her away from her puppies and out the door, she surmised only that she must obey, putting her trust in those unworthy of that trust. But she did not know that then.

The truck drove slowly away. She trotted behind. Trotted without question and with the loyalty inherent in her breed. And that breed was questionable, but sported some retriever, some border collie and perhaps the remnants of beagle. She was truly beautiful when she stood with upraised front paw, motionless before a hidden bird. But now she trotted behind, picking up the pace as the truck moved more quickly away from her. Then the panic --- as it surged away, gathering speed and moving out of her life, out of the lives of her pups. Weakened by giving birth with no care or medical aid, she soon faltered, finding herself on a quiet road with only the wind-filled trees and the forbidding woods for companionship.

She lay in the road until a vehicle came. Hopefully, she snapped alert, believing the man and boy had returned. But the headlights only

illuminated a tiny white dog, with cinnamon brown patches over her face and body, teats hanging low from recent birth and a hopeful face believing that her owners had returned for her. The car passed her by and she stood wonderingly, painfully disappointed that she was alone. Her human family had abandoned her.

Off to her left ran the fields that flanked the tree line.

It was dark and the mist made it darker still. Raindrops soaked her long

white hairs, making her appear drab and disheveled. The field

stretched out before her. She waited a very long time. And in that time

cars and trucks came and went. None contained the man and the boy.

In desperation she paced into the fields and lay down to wait but when dawn streaked the eastern horizon with light horizon, she was still abandoned. Sometimes the man commanded her to stay at the edge of the field. Perhaps that was what he was doing now. He always returned and always commanded with a gravely voice to “git” in the truck, and she always complied obediently. By her nature she was docile, frequently rolling over on her back to signify surrender and friendship. For animals which are non-aggressive, this is a sign of submission and she had survived more than one battle with other dogs because of her gentle nature.

Desperation seized her. That instinct, which is inherent in all mothers and even in the things of nature, alerted her that her puppies were hungry and needed to suckle. She circled the road, picking up the truck's scent and tracked along the country road. Tracking, sniffing, gaining scent, then losing it again, she wandered along the roadway until exhausted. She ended her thirst by dawn's light, by a glittering brook that shattered the choir of tree frogs and cicadas with their whirring buzz. For the first time she realized she was hungry. For the first time she was lonely.

What crime had she committed to be left along the roadway, abandoned and without her pups? After all, what had she really asked of them? That she have a warm place in the barn, curled in her corner hay bed? That she have food and water in return for her work? She wondered as only dogs can wonder. She had never known kindness at her home, not from the man, nor from the boy nor the woman. Not even the other animals there accorded her any kindness. It was an angry home filled with angry inhabitants. But it was home. It was where she nursed her pups and felt useful. In the mornings when the barn door was opened, she sallied outside to bark at the world and announce her presence. She was watchdog, companion, cattle herder and even supplied most of her own food, so why had they removed her from her pups and brought her to this lonely place?

When she lay weary and hungry along the roadside, stillness descended over the woods, fields and highway alike. She lay there until nightfall. A somber moon rose up through dark clouds. The grass hushed before the wind and lay still. She was alone then with her thoughts, simple thoughts, of a warm, paper bed with squalling, whining pups waiting to be nursed as they stumbled blindly about until her teats were found. And others, clambering over one another in their blindness, searching for the food that is life.

It was before dawn when she moved, motivated by hunger. She drank again from the stream, then searched for food. Her early experience taught her to feed herself because food was hard to come by with the man and boy. Sometimes, though, the woman fed her table scraps. Not often, but sometimes.

There was no woman now, nor any table scraps. She scented the air. Something familiar wafted on the currents. Perhaps it was a fire, and fire could mean food. She trotted toward the scent, stopping every so often to check her direction. Then there it was, off in a small unfenced field, just a shanty hastily thrown together out of fresh-hewn logs and aging along with the land. A wisp of smoke puffed up from the chimney and with it came the smell of cooking food. Perhaps there would be a kind person to give her food.

“Lard a mercy,” she heard the woman say. “Y'all look like a bandit with that brown patch over one eye. Half starved too. I dare not feed ya' though. Pa won't like it. He shoots dogs. So scat.”

She stood her ground cautiously, sensing something in the woman that made her unafraid. As dogs went she was not especially brave nor was she powerful enough to stand against other dogs except when her very existence was threatened. She gazed quietly at the woman, hoping for some small morsel of food, anything to placate her growing hunger.

Snap! Crack! She felt the lash of the man's rope as he scourged her from behind. She shot off the porch, racing for the protection of the woods, waiting for the boom to come, for she had heard gunfire before. But there were no gunshots. She slunk down into the grass and crawled away, taking no time to lick the welts. Finding the road again she trailed along the ditches on either side. Cover was her only asset. By her wits she had survived. By her wits she might survive again. Hunger forgotten, she took up the scent again but the traffic that had passed all but obliterated the one scent she sought. She plodded along the rural road. She understood then that she would never find her home or her pups. Yet she would never stop searching. As animals can think, she wondered whether there was any kindness in her cold world. Was there someone who might praise her, offer affection, comfort, a secure place? She was not cynical enough to lose hope. Somewhere there was someone who would treat her kindly.

She wondered why the man had struck her. What had she done? The other man had struck and kicked her too, often for no reason at all. Were all men like that? Surely she must have wondered if this were so. If so, she'd be less trusting in the future.

She stopped to survey each home she passed. None looked familiar. Nor did the landscape. She was a young dog, sixteen months or so, and she had seen only what she could see when they took her in the truck. She loved to travel, loved to sit in the center seat, intent on the roadway, each new thing an object of excitement.

The sky clouded over and the misting rain began again. Nearer the creeks the mist turned to fog, but she traipsed steadily along almost as if she knew where she was going. But she did not. She had never seen this landscape before. It was a lonely, deserted road, spotted with old houses that were weathered and gray with age. People built only what space they needed, added on as need dictated and abandoned the building when it could not be expanded. Shutters hung down and slanted at odd angles while roofs sagged and bent under the weight of age. When they leaned so precariously they were apt to tumble over, they were then abandoned and a newer home built. In time, the newer home looked almost as forlorn as the old one. Time moved on again until weed and growth overtook them all. Then the houses stood alone, cheerless, even though occupied and, in the end, it was as if they had never been inhabited at all.

She slaked her thirst in a nearby puddle but it did not slake her hunger and that was on her again. When had she eaten last? she wondered. Perhaps two or three days. It seemed the food had stopped right after the birth of her pups when she needed it most. And now there was a savage ache in her stomach that demanded sustenance.

All day she had circled and wandered, picking up one scent, then another, pressing her long, narrow snout to the ground and fending off the heavier rainfall by hiding under trees. Then, nightfall again. Her hunger was desperate. She'd chased some field mice but was too feeble to catch them. Her only choice was to steal.

She gaited along the road, searching for a source of food. A place with other animals would have food, but it would also be dangerous. Other animals defended their food and sounded alarms, and she'd no desire to be shot at again or struck with rope. She spotted a likely place

and stalked off into the high grass. It was an old house, with an old basset hound, an animal that showed as little enthusiasm for life as did the dwelling. Beside him lay a full bowl of gruelish food. There were humans there too. Perhaps they were friendly. Perhaps she might find a comfortable place to stay and they would be kind to her.

Should she casually walk up and test the old dog? Or should she wait and see if it was an inside dog? There was little enough activity. The people put on the lights, for darkness came early these days; but no one came out.

Patiently she waited, the hunger chewing at her insides like a fire fighting to be free. But she'd learned patience because impatience brought her the man's boot if she dared approach any food. The night turned cool and the hound lay so very still that she thought it dead.

Just when she resolved to approach, it rose, circled and lay down again.

Restless. In a fair fight she could easily have beaten the animal but she was not inclined to fight. Her retriever lineage made her docile and tractable and she fought only for protection of herself or her food.

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The Horse with the Golden Mane: Stories of Adventure, Mystery and Romance

The Horse with the Golden Mane: Stories of Adventure, Mystery and Romance

By Russell A. Vassallo

ERIC

He knew little of the man who befriended him. Only that he was an old man who was kind to him and who had known hunger and desperation. He did not even know how incongruous it was for such a man to befriend the very breed of dog that once hunted him for Nazi persecutors. Yes, Eric saw the tiny blue marks on the man's arm, but he did not know who put them there or that the man once waited in a crowded ship to be admitted to the newly formed State of Israel. Nor would he have cared about these things if he had known.

Eric only knew that when he passed before the clouded mirror in the man's store the reflection that stared back at him was black and tan, short-haired and muscular, with a narrow snout accentuated by black and tan streaks and short cropped ears. He was larger than the average Doberman.

Eric had once been sheltered by other people, for no one can truly own a Doberman. To be precise, he had been harbored by a young husband, his wife and their two pesky, noisy children who insisted on turning Eric into a play horse rather than a guard dog. And to be exact, Eric often wished he were elsewhere with voices not quite so shrieking or so loud that they hurt his ears. How he came to be the friend of the old Jew is not a matter of conjecture. He appeared in the old man's back alley soon after a fatal auto accident that happened near Sol's shop. It was thought he may well have been the sole survivor of that accident, for no one ever came looking for him.

Sol did not know where Eric came from. The man only knew that he was a lonely man. He only knew that the dog was abandoned. One summer evening as he emptied his garbage in the alleyway behind his store, he startled at seeing Eric lying near the cans, blood streaked across his muzzle. He felt no fear at seeing the dog and even when Eric emitted a low growl, daring Sol to come nearer, the old man went about his business as if the dog did not exist. Sol knew better than to approach. He'd seen Eric's breed in Germany and knew well enough to keep his distance. Handled kindly, the Doberman can be a staunch and loyal ally. But with attack training or mishandling, the same breed can be a lethal weapon. Eric knew nothing of this. He only knew he was hurting, hungry and frightened. He did not know that Sol had once watched German soldiers attack train shepherds and Doberman pinschers using Sol's bunkmates as quarry. But something about Eric seemed more frightened and wary than vicious, so Sol plied the animal with quiet words and slow, careful movements.

“So, vas is?” he cooed lightly, lifting the lid and slowly dumping the refuse into it. “Ve got neighborhood dawks, ach, I know dem all und dey are mutts. You got class, breeding. I know your kind. So, from vhere did you cum, ah? Maybe, I call you dawk until you haf a name. Is goot?”

Eric did not move but neither did he growl again. His eyes showed interest in the refuse being dumped in the trash; an interest Sol noted as he calmed the animal. There was something about the old Jew he liked, something that told him this man had been lost and hungry, too. His eyes never left Sol though. Wariness and suspicion were part of his breeding, and despite his injuries, he'd defend even the small piece of territory he now claimed. But Sol made no threatening move or gesture, and Eric felt himself relaxing.

The old man disappeared into the door only to reappear a moment later. He scooped a can of dog food into a round, small plate and pushed it slowly forward with his foot. He stopped when the dish was three feet from the dog. Though Eric had not eaten for two days, he did not rush to accept the offering. Instead, he crawled slowly forward as though stalking the dish, stopped to eye Sol, then inched forward. Only when he reached the bowl did he eat voraciously, stopping occasionally to eye the old man and take note of his position. The old man sat on the doorway step, unmoving, speaking calmly to the dog.

“I'm alone here. Ve could use a goot guard dawk. Mein store is vorthless. Still dere are men who vould steal from me. Ida, mein vife, is dead. Dey separate us in Germany. I tink I never see her again. Den, I go to Israel und dey find her for me. Vent to Israel und I tought ve haf a goot life. Den dey put a bomb in the place vhere she eats lunch und she is dead. Tventy-years gone mitt von bomb yah? Und I am not vit her vhen she dies. Such a voman dat Ida. So I leave Israel. I cum here. No more bombs. No more vife. Now, I jus' live alone, yah? A bomb snuffs out so many tings? So vhat is vun vife vhen so many udders are dying? So,” he drew out the words, “from vhere do you come?”

The dog still made no moves but neither did he growl again. The old man's voice seemed to reassure him.

“I don't get company. Und friends, I got none. Dead or in Israel. The Promised Land, ach. So I got nobody und you got nobody. Maybe ve stay togedder. You trust me. I trust you und ve stay. You tink about it. In der morning, if you are here, I feed you.”

And then he rose and entered the building again because he slept in the tiny back room of that ramshackle place. He left the door open, something he never did. He hoped Dog --for that is what he named him--might trust him enough to make it his home.

In the morning, he placed a food dish and water near the rear step and went about readying the store for the morning crowd. Newspapers had to be opened and put out for sale. He reheated yesterday's coffee and placed fresh buns and rolls in the glass case that separated the front from the rear. The first morning customers liked their newspaper and their coffee. Some purchased hard rolls with chunks of butter in them. Others just took a donut or two, paid and left. No one tarried in the musty store with faded wooden floor boards encrusted with soot. And they ignored the walls with their peeling wallpaper and “Drink Coke” signs. Few even bothered to note the antique cash register perched at the start of the glass case. Even fewer bothered to note its contents, boxes of Dutch Master, Corona-Corona, Panatela cigars, packs of cheap cigarettes. Behind the counter lay shelves with straws, misted glasses, spoons, forks and other utensils. It was not much of a confectionery store, but it kept Sol alive and he enjoyed the few customers willing to tarry for conversation.

And he knew them all. The mechanic from down the street whose uniform never changed, the prostitutes chasing the evening hangover with cups of coffee and sugared donuts, the delivery man catching a quick break, the little kid who chose to spend his dime on something sweet rather than donating it to the Catholic Missions. They were part of his day, part of his existence.

Eric sniffed at the door. The smell of hot coffee melded with the odor of canned dog food wafting from the stairs. He was thirsty more than hungry so he finished the bowl of water, then ate. There was dried blood on his chest though he was not wounded. The blood dried and stiffened even though he cleaned himself. The old man stepped through the curtain that divided the storefront from his sleeping quarters in the rear, saw Eric standing over his food dish and slowed his movements somewhat. He wanted to do nothing to alarm the animal.

“Gooten tog, mein friend. Did you haf a goot sleep? Ach but you finish your vater. I get you zum.”

He approached the dish carefully as Eric studied him. He remained stone-like, observing Sol with deep, black eyes that pierced the man's every move. Sol filled the dish and the dog obediently drank from it as if wishing to reward the old man's efforts. What Eric saw smiling at him was a slightly-built old man, erect in stature, with thinning gray hair that flopped down over his ears and curled across his forehead. There was something almost boyish about the man as if he had once been young. Eric stared at the blue numbers on the man's arm as if he recognized them or knew their significance but he did not. He studied the worn shelves that lined the back room, dusty, unused shelves, yellow with age and dirt. A bed, a small round table with a single chair, a plastic tablecloth. Tucked in the corner, an old gas stove, buttressed by a small, rusty sink. Here and there, a glass or two, some cups, loose utensils completed the embellishments. The floor was faded linoleum with loose tiles that skidded across the floor if the old man didn't lift his feet high enough. It held the aroma of mold and mildew, stuffy and choking to the dog's sensitive nostrils, but he tolerated it. Somehow the claustrophobic room seemed little used except when the old man ate or slept there. But it was home.

A bell tinkled from the storefront signaling that a customer had entered and, before Sol could move, the dog strolled confidently toward the entrance. Sol experienced a tinge of fear that the customer might be in for a nasty shock, but Eric merely positioned himself by the cash register and sat. And so it was throughout the day. When customers came in, Eric stationed himself behind the counter. If they approached too near the cash register, he raised himself to full height and blocked their path. If nothing else, the dog's presence encouraged more conversation from customers than usual. The old man reveled in his new-found friend.

He marveled at the dog's protectiveness, too; and he was proud of his newly- acquired guard dog. Eric was beautiful, lithe and slender, his coat clean except for the dried blood. During lulls in business, Sol fed the dog tidbits from his own lunch and at closing time, he sat on the floor near the dog and softly groomed him with his hand.

“Vell, mein friend. Do I haf a beautiful dawk? Ve need to clean der blood, yah? Nicely, I do it. Sol has experience mit cleaning blood. I tell you sometime.”

He fetched a warm bowl of water, soaped it with gentle dishwashing liquid and soaked a cloth. Moving slowly, he held out the cloth, then made a slow swiping motion in front of Eric, barely touching him. When the dog made no movement, he soaked the stiffened hair and gently rubbed away the crusts of dried blood, stroking the nap forward and back until the coat lay bloodless. If Sol's supposition about the accident were correct, no one would come to claim this animal. They were all dead. Still, where had the dog been since the accident?

He removed the dog's damaged collar. A metal name-plate affixed

to the leather read Eric. Yes, Eric. He liked the name. He repeated it softly as he cleansed the dog's wounds. “Ach, tomorrow ve get you a collar und leash. Den ve valk at night by der railroad. Der Meadows is a goot place und der valk vill do us good, yah.”

Unexpectedly, the dog poked his snout into Sol's arm-pit and sniffed. Sol felt reassured by the animal's confidence. He knew that the Doberman did this to gain the scent of a friend. When the dog licked his hand, he knew he was gaining its confidence. He rubbed until the blood gave way to the dirt beneath and finally the dog was clean.

Sol always closed the store at seven. There was little point staying open beyond that. Tired from the long day, he settled into the small bunk and lay there looking at the grease on the ceiling. His hand drifted down and found the dog lying next to him, and gently, Sol stroked the bristly hair until he drifted into sleep.

The old man's slumber was never restful for the dream was always the same. He is hiding in a dark corner, near the fencing. The Nazi patrol is searching for him. Suddenly, a light flashes on him. He is discovered. They butt him with their rifles. Then the dogs are loosed. They savagely attack. One is tearing at his throat as he desperately struggles to protect the soft skin. In a blinding panic, he awakens. He is saturated with perspiration. The room is dark and quiet. No Nazi troopers. No attacking shepherds. Just an ominous din.

Sol remembers when he was a trustee in the camp. He ladled soup to the prisoners, soup that was watery and contained little nutrient. It was not the bountiful soup the kitchen trustees ate. Nor was the quantity the same. He saw the faces of his friends, pleading eyes, pleading for a drop more of soup, a larger hunk of bread. But he could give them nothing more than the command instructed him to give. So each night he saw their faces. Faces that remained only for a time and then were gone. Some lasted longer than others. None lasted forever. One awoke with the uncommon knowledge that he might be awakening to his very last day.

To have a friend now, one that could not be taken away, overjoyed the old man, whose heart was heavily burdened with guilt. All Sol had wanted to do was help his friends, help his wife. Life decreed that he do neither. He focused on the dog because the dog was his final hope.

“I jus' vant to help. In camp I try to help mein friends, der prisoners. I am only an inmate dere. I cannot help. All doz lonely faces. Dey haunt me. Und now I haf a friend. I help you und you help me.”

Sol bought Eric a bright orange collar to accent his short, black coat. He did not trust the smaller retractable leashes so he purchased one heavy enough to control a full-grown horse. That would give Eric twenty feet to roam. When the dog was better trained, Sol would release him at the meadowlands.

After closing, they emerged from the store for their evening walk. Sol locked the front door and turned to face the deserted streets. Newark, after working hours, loomed ominous and silent as if a huge cloth descended over the town and smothered all signs of life. The smell of burning rubber and sea wind blended together in a strange friendship. To the east lay the metropolis itself, stone buildings blotting out the sky, empty and forlorn now that people were gone. People worked in Newark, but most of them did not live there. It was no longer a city of mixed origins and social strata but a ghost town that sprang to life only with the daylight.

The store Sol owned was harbored in a huge, old apartment complex, twenty-four dwellings massed one upon the other and enveloped in a dark hallway that led to every apartment except Sol's store. Other buildings appeared much the same, drab and dingy, smothered with smut and pollution. To the south lay the industrial businesses, chemical factories such as Dooner-Smith, the East District fire station, Sherwin-Williams paint factory, Wilson pallets, then small, dark, faceless residences with stone stoops and lightless windows from behind which furtive shadows peered out into the empty streets.

To the west lay the highway out of Newark, heading toward Port Newark. A few blocks from Sol's store, the road swept sharply right, crossed the entrance to a highway ramp, then curved to the left. It was in the vicinity of the ramp that Sol walked in the evenings. He made the sharp right turn along with the road, crossed the street to the ramp. Directly before him was an elevated roadway that rose up over the swamps and meadows. Beneath the highway, to his right, was abandoned land. It was useless land. Made so by the highway that passed over it and by heavy rains and flooding that made it mostly swamp, but the area directly beneath the highway was kept clear and firm by the road department. But that was important only because it was where Sol walked, down near the roadway where the meadow began and sank into the tall, covering grass and mushy wet grounds. Occasionally young people ventured into the swamp roads to make love. Occasionally someone walked into the swamp never to retreat. But Sol found it quiet and comforting. He carried a heavy walking stick with a brass lion's head, so he felt well protected.

And it was only three blocks from the store, not far enough to drive. Even if he had done so there was no safe place to park. Drunks often swept wide on the curve, missed the ramp entrance, steered right and skidded into the marshy swamps where Sol walked. Two months before a pedestrian had been killed right at the crosswalk. It was where the accident of Eric's former owners occurred as well. People complained, but the city did nothing. What could it do? Drunks are drunks and drunks drive. So Sol kept his vehicle safely tucked in front of his store.

He pointed Eric in the direction of the open lands and, for the first time in a very long time, he felt proud. Proud to have the magnificent animal next to him. Secure for the first time that he had a friend. Eric maintained a steady pace beside the old man, stopping to stare into the dark alleys that lined the path to the highway. When they arrived, Eric studied the configuration of the land, eyed the tall grass and weeds that formed a small lake to the right, noted pockets of water scattered between islands of grass and debris. Unlike his human counterpart, Eric could sense and could smell. He tested the air and on it came the smell of rats, raccoons, possums, snakes, coyotes, even other dogs. They scurried in the grass like vermin fading before the light.

It was five miles to Port Newark. A break in the overgrowth provided a passable path so one could walk. Even on a humid, summer's eve the sea breeze wafted across the grasslands and the path beneath the ramp that led to Newark Bay. But no one ever walked there, and Sol never walked very far. He wanted just enough exercise to keep him fit. He did not venture beyond safe boundaries. With Eric, he walked a bit further than usual, happy for the dog's company. At first Sol did not release Eric when they reached the outer edge of the city. He let the leash out to its end, then summoned the dog, rewarding him with a treat each time he returned. In time he'd let Eric run free, but only when certain he'd return.

So they walked in the evenings, listening to the wind whoosh through the cattails and wild reeds. They halted when something slithered into the high grass and disappeared. Sol was not afraid of rats. He'd seen too many. Seen too often when rats were the only food for desperate men. They had no weapons so they stoned them, lifting rocks in feeble and trembling hands to cripple them. He recalled men fighting over dead rats, watching them torn apart. It repulsed him now to think that he had been reduced to eating rats, to fighting with fellow prisoners for a piece of leg, stomach, anything that would keep him from cramping. And he'd seen guards turning their dogs on living beings just for the sport of watching them ripped apart.

But that was before he became a trustee. After his assignment, he enjoyed more scraps from the kitchen. Often they had whole potatoes and even some meat. The Germans were not inclined to mistreat the trustees as they didn't care to do the work themselves. So he enjoyed the benefits of his work while other men starved and died. But it troubled him deeply for Sol wanted only to help. Yet, the same guards who granted him privileges turned on him when he attempted sharing small favors with other prisoners.

Why had men done this to other men? He often thought of the Merchant of Venice: the Quality of Mercy is not strained. And yet it was. There was no mercy. Men died upon whim. Upon quotas. Men too weak to live had to die. It was ordained. But he always wondered why. And the dream was always the same, men in black, in brown, in gray --- boys, hovering over fallen men, whopping them with truncheons, lashing them with whips and leaving them dead in the streets.

But Eric knew none of this, and would not have cared if he had. He had his own history. He was the largest of his litter, big-boned and brawny, too large for show, and thus he'd been given to a local family on condition that he not be credited to the breeder. In terms of dogs, Eric was a misfit. He did not even have registration papers. He was massive. His thick, long legs made him appear much taller than he was, and he had the rapier, sleek lines of a greyhound. For the most part, he was quiet except when he rumbled that low, threatening growl that displayed a pearly row of jagged teeth.

And Sol was proud of his new friend. He sensed in Eric a power he had never possessed. Certainly not while Nazis swept Jew after Jew out of homes and hiding places, crammed them into trucks and trains and delivered them to waiting deaths. Sometimes in the dream he saw their faces, haunted, frightened, questioning. He saw their bodies shoved with bulldozers into waiting pits while the gas showers pumped more death into humanity. But now he was safe in America, safe with a fine friend.

When they returned from their evening walks, Sol made himself a cup of tea and read the Newark Evening News while Eric laid alongside him. He shared a few cookies with the dog and rested his hand on the animal's back, stroking lightly until, being an old man, he tired and drifted to sleep. Somehow, with the dog lying next to him, he slept more peacefully, but it was never completely restful. Sometimes, in the darkness, he woke suddenly and let his hand search for the dog. Finding him still beside him, Sol patted Eric gratefully and slipped again into slumber.

Sometimes, he remained awake long enough to read the newspaper to Eric, telling him about the day's events. Other times he told him how the German government promised a better way of life. Changes were so subtle. First, the designation of all persons of non-German origin and Jews to be marked with a star so they could be identified. Then, the registration of guns and soon after, the confiscation of all weapons for the safety of the state. Without them, the Jews were helpless when Germans arrested them. How much resistance would they have given? Sol didn't know. He had always been a peaceful man. He knew that Jews fought in Warsaw. He heard some survived too. Others were driven into open fields where they were machine-gunned. He had wanted to help his fellow prisoners. Yet, he was helpless. It was the way of war. People die.

In this new land, this America, there were places where a man could still carry a weapon, but not in New Jersey. In his state, a man could only carry a walking stick or a cane, something with which to defend himself. He could not carry a gun. And so, Eric was doubly reassuring to the old man.

Eric knew none of this though. He only knew that when he settled near the old man he felt a strange surge of security, a sense that he was home. He pushed his snout under the old man's hand, stained with liver spots and stiff with age, and he was content. Occasionally wind rattled the front door and Eric went to investigate, his feet tapping rhythmically on the linoleum floor. The sound reminded Sol of German officers tapping windows with their riding crops as they inspected the darkened rows of barracks. And then they would decide who might live and who might die. In the end, most would die unless they were able to work. Sol was assigned to work as a cook and then to ladle food to the inmates.

The old man rubbed Eric's head until sleep overcame him and when the hand went limp and did not respond to Eric's urging the dog took his evening turn around the store, drank a little water and settled into sleep beside his friend. Thus man and dog bonded as friends rather than as those owned or possessed. The dog vigorously protected the old man as friends might do. People who came into the store feared Eric and gave Sol deference. If they approached him too closely or ventured too near the cash register, Eric warned them away. Otherwise, he sat obediently in his station, watching, waiting.

Winter slipped into spring and then spring into the long days of light and warm evenings. The sea wind rippled through the high grass of the meadows. Sol and Eric walked there each night to enjoy the freedom and the quiet. Crickets chirruping in the darkness. Katydids buzzing like chain saws in the far swamps. Often the sea wind smelled of salt air and brought to Sol's recollection the smell of wave and wind as he waited to enter the Promised Land of Israel. But it did not remind Eric of anything in particular because he scented the wind but also the stench of decaying vegetation and dead animals. The wind kept the insects from annoying attacks on man and beast, and thus they welcomed the freshness of its glow upon them.

As they strolled along the high grass, the old man spoke, more to himself than to Eric.

“Vhat I belief is dat ve all going to be togedder in der next life. Yah, I belief dat. You und me und Ida, Ve all going to meet. Und ve can help people because ve vill be spirits und spirits can do anyting, yah.”

But the dog only sniffed the ground, marked his territory and kept near to the old man. Although the old man allowed Eric to run loose, he experienced a tinge of fear when the dog did not immediately return when called. And when the animal returned, Sol felt a confidence and command he had never before enjoyed.

But fate has a way of intervening and changing things, and so it was that on a breezy July night, when the moon illuminated the earth, Eric did not venture far from Sol. Instead Eric paused frequently, peering into the darkness at the swamp's edge, alerting at every slight sound. His staring unnerved Sol. Then the old man spoke to him as much to quiet his own nerves as that of his dog. “Ach Sol, you're gedding old. Und Eric, you seeing tings vot isn't dere. Vot is, mein friend? Dere is nothing dere except der rats. Ve see dem every night. Ve hear dem. Rats. Cum now, Eric. Ve valk a little more und den ve go home.” And Sol was happy to turn around.

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Hungry Souls: What the Bible Says About Food Disorder

Book Title: Hungry Souls: What the Bible Says About

Eating Disorder

Author: Catherine S. Boyle

Chapter One

In the Beginning

Man does not live by bread alone but on every word that comes from the mouth of the Lord.¹ Deuteronomy 8:3 (NIV)

It starts innocently enough: you want to lose a few pounds before beach week. You diet and exercise, work and sweat, and soon you've accomplished your goal. But then you sneak a donut when no one is looking, and the next day your scale shows a bigger number than the day before. You panic: the man who likes you so much better now that you're thinner will see that extra pound! He won't want you with your added padding! You must eliminate that pound of flesh!

And so you starve and exercise and work and sweat some more. The pound goes away, then another and another. Suddenly, you can't get away from the thoughts of losing weight, of the number on the scale, of the worthiness that will come when you are the smallest of all. Yet even as you shrink, your burdens grow. You now know that on top of all your struggles, you are a complete failure if you cannot conquer the hideous beast that is your body. You know the condemning words in your heart are true, that you are utterly worthless if you are fat.

Where did this all-consuming inner loathing come from? How did it arise so suddenly, from nowhere? How can you go from normal person one day to a slave to your destructive thoughts the next? You can't get away from the imprisonment, yet strangely, the prison grows more comfortable the longer you're inside.

Scenarios like this are true; this happened to me. My struggle with eating disorder arose just as suddenly, pulled me down as quickly; it was as if I stumbled into a black hole.

While it seems to happen overnight, the truth is that eating disorders are years in the making, and generally years in the breaking.

Seven times the Bible says, “The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom” (NIV).² The Bible, God's own Words, is the authority on how we find God, how we learn the truth about real love and how we recognize evil. Fear, or reverence for God and His Words leads to knowledge and relationship with Him and understanding about the struggles we face. Truth is the truth, no matter what era we live in, no matter our problems. Therefore, the Bible must have some things to say about the destructive things that people do to themselves.

A few questions naturally arise: Does the Bible really yield any insights into the mysteries of eating disorders, and how to resolve them? Are eating disorders an age-old problem, or are they relatively new? Are eating disorders sin, circumstance or disease--or a combination of all three? Most who have suffered with eating disorder will acknowledge that the problem is with the whole person--mind, body and spirit--not merely a refusal of appetites. One of the reasons for this book is the enormous lack of information about the intricate interweaving of eating disorders and the underlying spirit. Our three-in-one selves (mind, body and spirit) cannot be divorced or compartmentalized from each other. Each affects the other.

There are many references to food and sin in the Bible; there is no leap of faith required when it comes to understanding God's position on misuse of food. While the words 'eating disorder', 'anorexia' and 'bulimia' are not found in the Bible, the Bible extensively addresses depression, anger, rage, jealously, insecurity, fear, sexual deviancy and immorality, and eating disorder is tangled up in of all of these.

By examining the characteristics of eating disorder--what an anorexic thinks, feels, and fears--and applying what the Bible says about such thoughts, emotions and behaviors, this book will clearly demonstrate that God's Word has much to tell the world about the epidemic of eating disorder. By applying the principles of the Bible, this book will plainly show the spiritual roots, physical manifestations, and emotional struggles that make up eating disorder. Additionally, current research about eating disorder and associated behaviors, as well as physical, psychiatric and neurological characteristics of anorexia and bulimia will all be examined to provide thorough understanding about this heartbreaking sickness.

One thing worth mentioning is that eating disorder--a condition where a person strives to lose weight in a way that becomes compulsive--is really the mirror image of obesity. Most of the principles detailed in this book apply to overeating as well. However, the express purpose of this book is to focus on the traditional view of eating disorder, that is, anorexia and bulimia.

In the Great Commission Jesus commanded that disciples must be made and that the disciples must be taught. Implicit in Matthew 28:20's command to 'teach' is that the teachers will know what they are talking about!³ I know what I am talking about when it comes to the thoughts, behaviors and obsessions of a person with eating disorder. I endured anorexia first and later bulimia. But this book is much more than just another diary of heartbreak. This book has resulted from insights born from experience, observations of and conversations with other women with eating disorder and extensive research.

The ultimate purpose of this book is to apply biblical truth to the monster that is eating disorder, to provide understanding, knowledge and insight, and to set the eating disorder captives free.

Eating disorder is a paradox, an upside down way of living. A paradox can be aptly described as '…a truth standing on its head…to get our attention.'¹ Much of

what the Bible says is blessed and good is the opposite of life with an eating disorder, so the negative of the Biblical position is the reality of anorexia and bulimia. God loves a good paradox, and eating disorder is a study in the bizarre: the right gone so wrong and the lovely turned so foul.

The Bible is layered with truth; the lessons are not merely superficial. Actual events that forever changed ancient civilizations have important spiritual lessons for us today. While the famines spoken of thousands of years before Christ were physical, the application for our time is at a minimum a spiritual one. And like our ancestors of old, the issues that we struggle with today end up as our legacy, a spiritual lesson for those to come.

It is easy to read the Bible in a cursory way, never really thinking about the people whose lives are etched into history. But their stories, their struggles, were not romantic. Their agonies were often tersely recorded, worthy of mention because of their brutal power. Yet we read over them as if they were nothing. God brought forth the Bible from lands where paper and ink and the ability to read were the ultimate luxuries. We must not gloss over even one word.

God loves us so that He gave us His recorded Word as a model of instruction and insight for problems we encounter even today. Over 3000 years ago the words of Ecclesiastes 1:9b were penned, “…there is nothing new under the sun,”⁴ and that applies even to eating disorder. God's Word provides examples of every type of spiritually debilitating condition, even eating disorder, so that this and future generations will not be doomed to repeat unlearned history.

Food's First Entanglement with Man and Sin

In the beginning of the beginning, food was a component of the first and second piece of information that God gave to man. God created man in Genesis 1:27.⁵ In Genesis 1:28, God commanded mankind to be 'fruitful', that is, to sustain life, to be creative, to bear new life.⁶ Then immediately afterwards, in Genesis 1:29, God informed man of His plan to sustain our physical lives: food.⁷ God gave all plants and trees which yielded seeds to be food for people.

Seeds contain life, and so from the very first week of the earth, the concept was begun that food is meant to contain and sustain life. Life comes from God and life comes from the food He gives us. Without God there is no spiritual, and eventually no physical life; without food there is no physical life.

The first recorded stress-point over food happened almost as soon as people were created. In Genesis 2:17, Adam was commanded by God not to eat from the tree of knowledge of good and evil.⁸ Free-will just hates being told what it cannot do! And perhaps Eve accepted this command less willingly than Adam, because it was given directly to Adam, not to her.

That stress-point quickly led to the first crisis over food. In Genesis 3:3, Eve responds to Satan's question that she and Adam are not to eat or touch the tree of the knowledge of good and evil.⁹ She embellished (translation: lied) about what they were to do with the fruit from the tree of knowledge of good and evil. Perhaps understanding that the tree would produce knowledge gave spiritual ground to the question of whether or not the food on the tree itself was good or evil. The truth is that food is neither good nor bad. It is a tool God gave to sustain life. Food itself has no quality of sin or conscience or choice, that it could be good or evil.

In Genesis 3:3, Eve's only real issue was a misunderstanding. She saw a non-existent lack in her life that she thought food could fix. Eve had everything she needed. She was perfect, just the way God made her. But she mistakenly thought that she was not perfect.

Genesis 1:27 and Genesis 2:20-23 say that very last creature God made, arguably His crowning achievement, is woman.¹⁰ God said all His other accomplishments were good, but on that last day of creation, after He finished making woman, He said His creation was 'very good' (Genesis 1:31).¹¹ Women should take holy pride in the fact that God regards womanly beauty as very good, the ultimate finishing touch for the world He created.

But Eve thought wrongly about herself and about food, and what food could do for her or to her. Eve fixated her attention on food, instead of what God told her about herself, instead of what God created her for, and instead of God Himself.

The tree of the knowledge of good and evil was unusual, not only because it was solitary, not only because of its location in the middle of the Garden of Eden, but also because it bore no seed. God said specifically in Genesis 1:29 that every living thing (not just people) could eat any seed-bearing plant. The picture of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil bearing no seed is indicative that just because we understand the difference between right and wrong, good and evil, there is no life in merely understanding the difference. The life comes in choosing what is fruitful, choosing to obey God.

As we struggle with the Life-Giver (God), so we also struggle with the way He has chosen to sustain us (food). It is a great mystery and no coincidence that the fruit appealed so greatly to Eve, not Adam. The result of Eve's sin in our time is that women have far greater struggles with food than do men. It is also a great irony--and no accident--that women are typically the food gatherers and shoppers and preparers in their homes. Women touch food and shape it, fashion it, refine it and combine it. Food is much more a part of the average woman's life than the average man's life.

Thus, it is no surprise that women are susceptible to believing many unhealthy, inaccurate things about food. While we may not actually articulate that certain foods or diets will make us wise, or like God, what we often desire is a perfect body. There is not a great leap from desiring bodily perfection to being perfect, or being God-like in a self-serving, narcissistic way.

Eve was perfect, because she had perfect relationship with God and she was created without being marred by sin. Unlike us, Eve had to deliberately accept into herself this willful desire to be perfect (to be like God); that desire came from Satan. Her choice resulted in all flesh struggling with this desire for perfection. The drive for perfection is relentlessly unsatisfying because perfection is unattainable apart from relationship with God. We are wired to seek and want perfection, but there is only one way we can attain it. Colossians 1:28 declares that followers of Christ are to “…proclaim him, admonishing and teaching everyone with all wisdom, so that we may present everyone perfect in Christ” (NIV).¹² The only way to true perfection is to become like Christ. The way that Christ displayed perfection was to so align His will so with God's that His will became identical to God's will. The only way we can become perfect is by taking into ourselves godly teaching, pushing our will down and holding God's will up. In so doing we will be made excellent and Christ-like.

Food's Tangled Web is Woven

The web of deceit began with Satan's rhetorical question in Genesis 3:1: “Indeed, has God said, 'You shall not eat from any tree of the garden'?”¹³ Man's first temptation involved food. While Satan did not lie in Genesis 3:1, his intent was clearly to deceive. In Genesis 3:4-5 Satan put Eve to a test: he challenged what God had said, effectively asking Eve to choose whether to be her own master or follow the Master.¹⁴ He challenged God's truthfulness to Adam and Eve, and implied that having additional information would be worth the disobedience.

Adam and Eve were certainly more innocent before choosing to eat the forbidden fruit, but that did not excuse their disobedience. Knowing that they were innocent, and no match for the wiles of Satan, God wisely gave Adam and Eve only one true choice.

It is unclear how much time lapsed before Eve was tempted by Satan, but the wording of Genesis 3 makes it clear that Satan had set his sights on Eve. Satan picked his time and place carefully, with malice aforethought. Satan deliberately approached Eve instead of Adam. Perhaps Satan rightly understood that Eve's beauty could be ruined by her disobedience.

Genesis 3:6-7 describes Eve's thought process.¹⁵ It is interesting to note that before any sin is committed, the sinner goes through each of these steps to rationalize his or her behavior. Though God said it was not good for her, Eve saw that the food was edible and could satisfy her perceived need. Eve saw that the fruit was beautiful. Eve saw that the fruit could make her wise. Eve just did not see that the fruit of the fruit was death. Eve did not think through to the point of

understanding that the knowledge of good and evil would in itself yield nothing. Only following God's commands would make her life truly wise and beautiful.

And so Eve ate the fruit, and then Adam. What an incredible disappointment it must have been to see the physical world with fallen eyes for the first time. Before their sin, they had purity in heart. They saw God, the beauty of His creation, the beauty in each other. Their sin took their focus off God and on to lesser things.

I wonder what happened to Eve physically as she committed that first sin. Did her heart pound, knowing she was deliberately disobeying the God who had made her? Did she clutch her chest in fright, to still its pounding, to keep it inside her chest? Or was she more cavalier, disdaining the very words of the Father who cared for her? This side of Heaven, no one will ever know.

Because their hearts were no longer pure, they could not behold the complete radiance of God's glory. Never again would they, or any of their offspring, fellowship with God so freely. Never again would they relate to God without a physical and spiritual barrier between them. Never again would they feel the contentment and peace from the absence of sin or impediment in their relationship with God or each other.

Adam and Eve's natural response was to hide from God. “…And the man and his wife hid themselves from the presence of the Lord God among the trees of the garden” (Genesis 3:8).¹⁶ Ever since this act, mankind has tried to hide sin from God. As Adam and Eve hid within the garden, we mask our sins by keeping ourselves among real fruit. Whether the fruit is good words or kindness or philanthropy, all these things can only mimic the relationship with God that makes our lives truly fruitful.

God immediately dealt with Adam and Eve's sins. He dealt with the one that had caused them to sin (Genesis 3:14-15), then He told the woman, who had sinned deliberately, what the consequences of her choice would be.¹⁷ God specified pain in childbirth as a consequence to Eve's sin, but He also said something intriguing. In Genesis 3:16b, God said to Eve “…your desire will be for your husband, and he will rule over you” (NIV).¹⁸ Eve's sin with food led to her desire for her husband. The word 'desire', used in Genesis 3:16b, is only used three times in the Old Testament. The Hebrew word used here for desire is 'T'shuwqah', which literally means a yearning, a stretching out after.² It is an overpowering urge, with needy undertones.

Food and sexual desire and children, the fruit of sex; food and desire for an honorable marriage; the fruit of food on our hips and thighs will forever be entangled with our relationship with men. What food does to our bodies is inescapably interwoven with who women are, how women see and use their bodies, particularly in a sexual way, and how women relate to men.

Ramifications of the First Conflict with Food

What is the natural progression of the conflict intertwined with food? As with all sin, the consequences of sin with food do not appear immediately. But God specifically spelled out what would happen: sin with food would lead to death. Along sin's path to death, women face consequences in their relationships, both with God and with men. Eve's desires were misplaced, and so modern desires are easily misplaced. Whether we settle for the false security that money or romance provides or how food (or the lack thereof) changes our appearance, we all desire fool's gold.

The first sin paved the way for all other sins with food. There is an undeniable compounding effect of sin; no sin is ever alone for long. And so it was from the very first sin: Eve lied and committed an act of rebellion and enticed her husband to join in her disobedience.

One obvious consequence of the first sin was that an animal had to be sacrificed to make clothing for Adam and Eve. “The Lord God made garments of skin for Adam and his wife, and clothed them” (Genesis 3:21).¹⁹ Man also began to regularly kill to provide food for himself.

Meat and leather goods became staples of man's life, and living creatures had to die so man could survive. Health issues arose with the preservation and preparation of meat, issues which do not exist with fruits and grains. For the first time, rot and spoiling were realities.

Another less obvious consequence of the first sin was that Satan used food as a mechanism for Eve to break faith with God. And Satan continues to entice women to sin with food to break relationship with God. Eating disorder is therefore primarily an issue for those who have some manner of claim to the true God.

Yet in all the terrible, immediate consequences of the first sin with food, even then God painted a picture of Christ and His future sacrificial death. As animals shed blood to cover Adam and Eve and preserve their lives, so a vision of Christ was cast, His blood covering our sins so our spirits can live. During the wanderings in the desert some 2600 years later, God commanded that man not eat the blood of animals, because the blood contains the life. Animal blood was ordained to cover man's sins and restore man's spiritual life, and foreshadowed that Christ's blood would be the only way for mankind to receive real life.²⁰

Eve thought wrongly that the path she chose was parallel to the path of God, that it was an equally righteous way. She could not have been more wrong. Divergence from the path of God, if not corrected, will always lead to an end far from God. Like two lines apparently parallel but slightly 'off', so we will be if we allow small sins into our lives. On the surface the sins may appear insignificant (the little white lie), but often pack enormous repercussions. Perhaps this is one

reason why God hates all sin so passionately, because He knows the terrible ends to which small sins lead.

In this present age, the results of the first sin with food are both visible and hidden. Visible misuse of food can reveal itself as obesity, a barrier for intimacy. Forsaking food leads to starvation, which can also be used as a barricade against intimate relationships.

But the inner results are worse. The outward manifestations of overeating and starvation have common roots in the heart: the desire that life would be different, less chaotic, more secure, more controlled. Deep is the desire to be in control of my own life. No one can be forced to eat--or forced to stop eating.

The diet pitches bombarding airwaves and magazines challenge listeners and readers to look this way, eat this food, turn your body into something new so you can be cool, in control, master of your universe. These promises and pitches all sound frighteningly similar to the first suggestion of Satan, 'You won't die, you will be like God. So just EAT it' (MSG).²¹

So how and where does this monster called eating disorder begin in the lives of young women? Since struggles with food started with Eve, is eating disorder unavoidable? Is it hard-wired into our DNA like hair color or dimples? Can it be stopped? Are women doomed to repeat this cycle of sin and sickness with every new generation? Can those with eating disorders truly change, and set aside their obsessions?

Like most serious issues in our lives, eating disorders do not just arise overnight. Isaiah 47:15 states that there are some issues in life that Satan has “…labored with and trafficked with since childhood” (NIV).²² The roots of this problem go very deep, to the earliest days and relationships of our lives. Before they can even tie their shoes, little girls are predisposed towards beauty enhancers, stories of princesses and castles and ornaments with which to adorn their bodies. Couple this natural propensity with the marketing of computer-altered, un-Biblical images of beauty targeted to ever-younger consumers, and the recipe for eating disorder is already cooking before little girls get to kindergarten. Eating disorders start in the hearts of young girls looking for beauty in themselves. Eating disorders start with what we see and hear, they start with what we take into our minds.

Books can be purchased at

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and www.newlookpress.com . (New Look Press takes the purchaser directly to the shopping cart).

In the Arms of the Enemy by Patricia A. Guthrie

Chapter 1

It was a great day to catch a killer.

Jonathan Adam Blakely pulled into the long gravel driveway of the McGregor Ranch. The rumbling of the distant thunder was getting closer and toward the west, the sky looked black. As one gust of wind kicked up its swirling heels and died, another took its place. These were welcome respites in the sweltering heat, but even these blasts of air were too heavy with moisture.

Adam didn’t care. Another crack of thunder turned his world into a film noir atmosphere, accentuating his morbid mood.

He rolled down the window to watch a riding lesson in the arena and almost suffocated with a blast from the stifling heat. The hay, horses and pine needles from the bordering forest preserve scented the sauna. Reminders of the stables of home.

The riders tried to control their horses with one hand as they wiped sand out of their eyes with the other. Several of them were looking up at the massive oncoming wall cloud and leaving the arena. All looked soaked from the steamy humidity.

A redhead passed him on a bay horse, her face shining with beads of

perspiration. She caught his eye and looked like she was going to stop, when her horse swerved at the sound of thunder. The woman regained control and kept on going.

Adam kept his eyes peeled on the arena, trying to spot his quarry. He’d never met a murderess face to face, and he doubted she’d wear a sign around her neck stating ‘killer.’

I don’t give a damn anymore about anything except finding Maggie McGregor.

He’d do anything to bring to justice the woman who’d destroyed his father. And since his FBI friends couldn’t or wouldn’t help, he’d decided to concoct a new identity--Adam Grant, playboy entrepreneur.

He was determined to see what this she-devil might look like.

A woman was standing in the center of the arena, circled by a few riders. Her brash voice screamed at her students to get their animals into the barn before the storm hit.

A strong gust sent a garbage can flying across the arena, and one of her riders lost control. The thoroughbred sidestepped and bucked. The frightened teenager lost her balance and pitched over the horse’s side, landing on her rear. She still held the reins.

How had she managed that? Adam got out of his Chevy Silverado and leaned against the rail to watch.

The redhead rode up and jumped off her horse.

He couldn’t hear the conversation, but the mini-drama interested him. The girl was crying, apparently frightened, and her horse snorted and pawed the ground, looking anxious to be back in the barn.

The woman gave the girl a hug, and the girl’s face lit up, sending a pleasant sensation through Adam. He wondered who the woman was.

The riding instructor walked up to them frowning and shaking her head. She said something, and the redhead held her hands in a surrender posture, mounted and trotted back to the gate.

Adam shoved his thoughts aside as a black anvil thundercloud blotted out the sun. The wind died down and the sky shifted to resemble an ugly

bruise he’d sported once after a fight in high school.

From inside his horse trailer, he heard his horse’s impatient pawing on the floor boards.

He drove down the driveway and parked his rig close to the large sliding barn door. An older man, leather-skinned, bronzed by the wind and sun, crouched while fiddling with something on the side of a tractor. When Adam approached, the man handed him a screwdriver, and asked for his help.

“See this? You just screw that sucker in until it’s tight. I’ll be holdin’ the piece on--like this.”

Amused, Adam did what he was told, crouching down beside him.

“Yes, yes. That’s right. Good.”

He stood up and appraised Adam. “Thanks. You our summer help? Bit old for a high school lad, I think.”

Adam grinned and handed the old man his screwdriver. “No, I’m Adam Grant.”

“Sorry. I was expecting a boy who wanted a summer job and didn’t show up yesterday. I don’t know what made me expect him today. I’m Cullum McGregor.” He brushed himself off on bib overalls and shook hands.

A firm grip. A self-assured, kindly, tough old man who’d give a kid a summer job. Not the kind of man who’d raise a daughter to kill horses.

“I’ll be glad to help, if you need a hand.” Adam remembered his role. He gave the man a shy shrug. “I haven’t been around working farms much. I’m a city boy.”

“Mr. Grant. . . .”

“Adam.”

“What’s a city boy like you doin’ here? Little out of your element, aren’t you, son?”

Adam smiled. “Renting an apartment and boarding my horse.”

“Ah yes. You’d be the one renting the apartment.”

“That would be me. Where should I put my horse?”

Cullum McGregor opened his mouth, but shut it again as he looked at the sky. “Nasty bit of weather. Wouldn’t surprise me if that one spawns a tornado.”

The sky looked like God’s fury ready to unleash itself upon an unsuspecting mankind for their manifold sins.

“Come on, Adam. Let me show you your stall.”

Adam followed Cullum into the barn and down the aisle where curious heads poked noses over stall doors. He stopped at an empty space with ankle-deep bedding.

“This’ll be your horse’s stall,” Cullum said.

Adam nodded and peered inside. “What’s that on the ground?” he asked. And, before the old man could answer Adam asked, “And what’s that for?” Adam pointed to the grated window on the stall door.

Cullum’s eyes narrowed at him, before he grinned. “Haven’t been around horses much, have you?”

Adam shook his head.

“Well son, let’s start with where we keep ‘em. The horse is kept in a stall--it’s like their bedroom. The shavin’s their blankets and that grate on the door keeps their teeth from nibblin’ on passersby.” Cullum slid the stall door open and switched on the light, as Adam kicked through the sawdust.

Good quality bedding. Looking at the peeling paint on the walls, he thought the old man’s priority lay with the comfort of his animals and not appearances.

A loud clap of thunder crashed overhead. The stall light flickered. He heard whinnying and looked outside the stall. Soaked riders led their panicky horses down the aisle. Someone yelled something from outside, but the unleashed combination of wind and rain was so loud, he could hardly hear anything.

“Close the barn door,” someone yelled.

The redhead he’d seen in the arena led her bay down the aisle pointing to the outside. “There’s a horse still out back. And...” she said, looking at Adam, “There’s a horse in a trailer outside.”

“Um…” Adam said, desperate to get Bluebird inside, but not allowing himself to blow his cover. “Could someone help?” Adam shook his head, trying not to grimace at his pretended stupidity.

“My daughter can help you,” Cullum said. Adam looked around for the instructor, but didn’t see her.

“Where is she?”

“Here,” the woman replied, reaching out her hand for the formal handshake with one hand and holding onto her reins with the other.

“My daughter, Maggie,” Cullum said. “Maggie, this is our new boarder, Adam Grant.”

“Hi.”

Adam took her hand and stared at the woman who had the largest aquamarine eyes and most luscious copper hair he’d ever seen in a--murderess. This was Maggie McGregor?

~

Maggie had left her fiancé, Ricky Lane, with bitter feelings a little over a month ago. When she’d learned about his murder and the death of Black Autumn, all life seemed to leave her. She’d been going around half zombie-like, with a sense she’d never recover. Now, her only joy was her father’s sense of humor and her old horse, Playboy.

She hadn’t felt compelled to introduce herself to another boarder in her father’s barn, but the fact that the stupid idiot had left a horse in the trailer when a storm was about to hit, forced her to speak to him.

There was something about the newest addition to the McGregor barn. Something about the ruggedly handsome face that was vaguely familiar. No. She’d never met him before but….

She wasn’t sure why she did an on-the-spot comparison. Adam was taller than Ricky, but not by much. He didn’t have the classical movie star looks of Ricky. Adam had an earthy, sensual quality about him. Ricky had been fair and blond. Adam was sun-bronzed, and his dark and tousled hair made her want to comb it with her fingers.

Something else about him drew her attention--not physical, but

emotional. Ricky had been a confident, self-important man, who was hard and cold when he didn’t get his way. This man looked lost, like a tragic figure in a Greek play.

“He’ll be needing help getting his trailer into the barn,” Cullum said. “Mags, me dear, you put Playboy away, and go fetch the horse in the back. Adam, can you back up that trailer?”

“I’ve never tried,” Adam replied.

“Oh great, just great,” Maggie muttered.

“Oh, by the way Maggie, he’ll be rentin’ the little apartment. You’ll need to get it ready.”

“He’ll be what?” Maggie, who’d started to move Playboy away, stopped and turned, her face registering surprise and annoyance.

“I’ll be renting….”

“We need to get your horse out of there,” she said, “before the storm blows it into the next county.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Adam turned and followed Cullum out of the stall.

How had this man managed to drive the trailer here in the first place? She made a mental note to shoot that question at him later.

She’d thought he’d looked like a tragic figure. She changed her mind. Now, as she looked at him, maybe he was the one about to inflict a tragedy on someone else. It wasn’t so much his humorless smile, but the dark eyes--flat, hard and distant. She felt an intrusion entering into her life, and she didn’t like it.

~

Most of the boarders had already left, but the few that remained were sliding open the barn doors so Cullum could back in Adam’s rig. He just made it. The men slid the door shut as a sheet of wind and rain followed them, and a few seconds later the roof started crackling with pings, clicks and finally shuddering to ‘bams.’ It sounded like someone was taking a hammer and trying to make scrap metal. They yelled their goodbyes and ran through the adjacent smaller door, banging it shut as they left.

Maggie turned the news reports up on the radio, and then started down

the aisle toward the back pasture.

“The National Weather Service has issued a tornado warning for northern Porter County in Indiana extending into Michigan. Take immediate cover.” A beep sounded, and the message repeated. “The towns of.…” Maggie strained to hear, but a close crack of thunder blocked out the names.

A terrified shriek came from the back pasture. Filled with dread, she moved into a dead run toward the back door. A terrified gray Arabian was rearing, bucking up and down, and racing around in circles. Maggie tried to grab the halter of the traumatized animal, but missed, and slipped to the ground. His front feet came down inches from her head, and he reared again. The wind kept her immobile, as hail pelted her face, and steel-shod hooves hovered above her.

Suddenly, the hooves swerved and came down on her other side. Now, Cullum was holding onto the horse, calming him, backing him away, and leading him into the barn. Maggie scrambled to rise, hindered by sheets of violent wind and rain. Adam grabbed her around the waist and helped her to her feet. The wind blew them back into the barn.

“Thanks, Adam.” They struggled to pull the door closed. “I slipped. The wind pinned me down.”

The thought that this man had the guts to take on the storm to rescue her registered for only about two seconds before she realized he was staring down at her. She felt heat rush to her face.

Her sopping tank top clung against her skin, and except for mud splotches, was almost transparent. She looked up just in time to see Adam avert his eyes. Momentarily, she crossed her arms over her chest, then decided, why bother? He’d already seen everything she had there anyway. I feel like a naked drowned rat.

Cullum appeared from around a corner and threw a flannel shirt at her. She struggled to get it on over her soaked skin. Water still poured off her hair onto her already wet face, and she tried brushing away the stream with her sleeve.

“Maggie, help Adam get his horse out of that trailer before that animal tears it apart.”

The hail came down harder, and the frantic pounding of hooves came from the trailer.

“Come on Adam. Let’s get him out of there.” She hurried down the aisle toward the front of the barn.

“Her,” Adam said as he trotted to catch up. “My horse is a girl.”

The rain slammed into one side of the barn. Then, after it changed directions, it assaulted the walls from the other side.

Damn Adam. This is no time for a lesson in horse terminology. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Let’s get her out of there.”

Maggie rushed toward the trailer, Adam close behind. Beginners she didn’t need, especially around nervous horses, in traumatizing storms.

“First time owner, I take it?” Maggie asked. Without waiting for his response, she asked, “You have a lead rope somewhere?”

So, you’ve bought yourself a horse and haven’t a clue what to do. Probably bought the trailer at the same time and had them load her for you. God help you, if you’d had an accident on the road. Dumb city boy.

“Yeah, sure. It’s in the front seat,” he said.

They reached for the lead rope at the same time, and his hand landed on top of hers. He released his grip just a little too quickly, and the nylon rope fell off the seat and onto the ground. Maggie sighed and rolled her eyes. She reached down to pick it up. Adam had the same idea, and they bumped heads.

“Sorry,” he said.

Oh boy! For a flash of a second, their eyes had locked and there had been something--she shrugged it off.

“Why don’t you stand over there?” She indicated away from the trailer. “Way over there. Like in the next county.”

The noise outside grew louder.

Maggie grabbed the rope and opened the side door.

“What’s your horse’s name?” she yelled.

“What?” he shouted back.

“Horse’s name.” Maggie had to scream to be heard.

“Bluebird.”

Adam still hadn’t moved when Maggie reached the rear of the trailer. She unsnapped the rope attached to the front manger and hooked on the nylon lead. Then, once again she motioned for Adam to move out of the way. He walked to the rear and stood by the back doors.

“No! She’s likely to run you over coming out of this trailer. Move back!” He did.

Bluebird came bounding backwards out of the trailer as Maggie grabbed the line. The mare reared as another onslaught of wind slammed into the side of the barn. She calmed the mare enough to get her inside the stall as Cullum came running down the aisle. He was out of breath, wild-eyed, his expression laced with fear and horror.

“Sirens went off! We’re in the path of a tornado!”

A loud crash of something smashed into the side of the barn. Cullum screamed, “Get into the office--now!”

Maggie could barely hear the wail of the sirens coming from the fire station through the continuing barrage of hail and an eerie lull in the wind. She’d always heard a tornado sounded like a freight train, but this sounded more like a screeching pig.

Adam grabbed her by the hand, following Cullum to the warm-up room and into the office, the safest part of the barn. After stumbling into the dark room over several pairs of legs, they sank onto the floor.

Maggie was trembling violently. She felt the tension in Adam’s body, but he didn’t make a sound. She wondered if he was even breathing. Maggie couldn’t make out who was in there, until she heard her father’s voice.

“Maggie!”

“Dad!”

“Thank God,” Cullum said, relief flooding through his tone.

The wind turned into a roar, and her eardrums felt as though they’d

burst. She buried her head into the warm chest at her side.

An orchestra of popping, sucking and crashing beneath the screeching roar triggered an icy fear twisting around her heart. The office seemed like it was coming off its very foundation, and she hung onto the closest thing handy for dear life.

The tornado left as quickly as it had come. The sound faded into the distance, and the room was deathly quiet except for the rapid sounds of breathing among the group huddled together. Suddenly, sunlight poured in through the arena windows filtering into the adjacent areas, as normal as any Sunday afternoon in the summer.

Maggie’s head spun, and she still trembled, but she was able to notice that the musky, sweat-scented, suffocating vice that held her was Adam, and she was in his arms.

He whispered, “Maggie, it’s okay. You can let go. It’s over.” His voice soothed as it might a nervous horse or a panicky child. He didn’t make a move, and she didn’t budge. That moment seemed like infinity. She was locked in an embrace with a man she didn’t like, but she didn’t want him to stop holding her.

When reality hit, embarrassment flooded her. She needed to get away from him gracefully, so she pulled away, bumping into the riding instructor, Francine Simmons, in the process.

“Hey,” Francine said, looking like she was about to bump her back. But when Adam looked at her, she appeared to change her mind and smiled. At least he was good for something.

Adam looked at Francine, switched his glance to Maggie and then back to Francine. For the first time, she thought she noticed a reaction in those dark brooding eyes. He didn’t like her.

~*~

For much more information about Patricia Guthrie and In the Arms of the Enemy -- visit her virtual book tour pages - http://inspiredauthor.com/promotion/Patricia+Guthrie

Patricia A. Guthrie
"In the Arms of the Enemy." (Light Sword Publishing)
Dedicated to those horses lost to man's inhumanity and greed
and to those humanitarians who's mission is to save and protect them.
www.paguthrie.blogspot.com,
www.patriciaanneguthrie.com