Starship Troopers by Robert A. Heinlein

May 22, 2013 //
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Starship Troopers

Starship Troopers (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Starship Troopers is one of Heinlein’s greatest works and also one of his most controversial.  Some people see this book as an idealized love letter to the military.  It is in fact, required reading for many military academies and is a great representation of how soldiers view themselves and the world around them in philosophical terms.

Heinlein is the architect of social science fiction, he is considered to be the third wave of science fiction writers preceded by Stanley G. Weinbaum and E.E. Doc Smith as the revolutionaries in the field of the golden age of science fiction.

Many authors have written books inspired by Starship Troopers, including a previous review I did: The Forever War by Joe Haldeman http://excursionsintoimagination.wordpress.com/2013/02/20/the-forever-war-by-joe-haldeman/

The story centers on the career and view of a single soldier.  It begins on a routine attack of an enemy planet and then the book turns itself over to a memoir recollecting the training of the narrator, Juan.   The book lays down the philosophical foundations for a government in which the citizens must earn the right of citizenship through voluntary service.  No mention is made with regards to the civilian population or their rights and responsibilities as the book merely states this as a matter of fact after the failings of democracies and communist states in history.

This is the point on which most people criticize the book as an endorsement for fascism.  (Heinlein also wrote, Stranger in a Strange Land, which is considered to be the bible of the counterculture movement of the sixties in direct opposition to this line of thinking.)  It shows the talent of a great artist that can so eloquently defend many differing viewpoints and be embraced by both sides at the same time.  It is a rare feat which not many people have the ability to pull off.  To successfully see and understand opposing views and sum them up so effectively is indeed an amazing talent unheard of today.  A great documentary on him can be seen here: Prophets of Science Fiction Episode 7:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6C5qz8Wf1_w

Robert A. Heinlein

Robert A. Heinlein (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Heinlein’s words in defense of this criticism were “This is strictly local patriotism, but I want my race – the human race – to go on.”

There are many good philosophical points brought up in the book that should be looked at seriously.  In our country, the United States, which was Heinlein’s country as well, there is a lot of talk about rights, but very little talk about responsibility.  In Starship Troopers, citizenship is not mandatory, it is earned voluntarily.  No one can be refused in signing up, but it is only after the completion of service that you become a citizen and have all the rights associated with that, such as voting.  It is all a matter of voluntary choice.  Even after joining, you can resign at any time without penalty, but you forfeit any future rights you had hoped to gain.

It is an interesting idea that would add responsibility to citizenship, however the idea is incomplete in that it does not go into detail about what rights non-citizens have or don’t have.  As is depicted in the story, it does not seem to be anything more than voting and holding public office that is determined by military or public service.  Would a vote have more significance and meaning to a person who was invested in the society than someone who is just given the right simply by age?  It does seem a valid point, but one that could be easily exploited and manipulated to oppress people as well.

In the story, that is not the case.  Politics does not play into it at all from the view point of the soldier.  He fights because he is ordered to and his life and the life of those around him depend on it.  The ideals for which Juan risks his life are abstract moral ideal such as laying your body in harm’s way between the enemy and your family.  Most people would do this unquestionably in reality, but in the abstract it is not an easy sell.

One point he makes in the story is having a course taught in school called History and Moral Philosophy.  This is a great idea, since all morality is drawn from history and the lessons learned from falling flat on our collective faces.  It is one of the great failings of the educational system that philosophy is not taught until college, if even then.

Starship Troopers (film)

Starship Troopers (film) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

There are many good ideas and points like that made in this book, and no it has little or nothing to do with the movie.  That is another case of Hollywood completely missing the point.  There is not a great deal of action in the book just as in a soldier’s life; there is not much action, but a great deal of waiting.  The pace of the novel is fast, but Heinlein is able to convey the mind-numbing hours of mental solitude that is faced by soldiers, even in the future.

The novel, written in 1959 envisions many revolutionary ideas which we are beginning to see come out even now.  The visual visors that are activated by facial movements sound just like the new Google Glasses that they are coming out with.  The armor suits and prosthetic limbs mentioned in the book are closer to being a real thing than I imagine even he would have thought possible.

There will always be detractors to any work of art that is actually worthy of the name.  If the highest purpose of art is to inspire, then Heinlein has succeeded as few others have before him.  So I can only recommend that you throw the prejudiced views of the book aside and check it out for yourself.

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The Sentinel (The Shadows of Night Saga) Finale

May 21, 2013 //
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Durindana felt calmer now with the kiln in sight.  Her heartbeat had returned to normal, but the feeling of triumph was still with her.  She pushed the heavy door of her cabin open to find Avis by the hearth slowly tending to the steaming broth.  She had the orange head scarves wrapped around the top of her head and covering her eyes.  Part of her recovery had resulted in an enhanced sense of awareness which allowed her to transverse the area around the cottage with ease.  It was some sort of memory awareness which allowed her to feel the presence of things immediately around her.  She could feel if something was out of place just by entering the room.

Durindana treated it as though it were a special gift, trying to make the best out of the situation.  Avis could tell her when someone was at the door long before they were close enough to knock, or if something on the hearth was finished cooking as well as when the laundry was done boiling.  She saw it as making due with whatever she had left, the nights had always been long since the rise of the Black Wind, but without her sight, the night was now forever.

Avis rose from the hearth with a bowl of the broth for Durindana and placed it on the table.  Her face seemed worried after the sound of the explosion she had heard earlier.  She had dismissed it as a distant Hellstorm without much thought, but as time wore on, she began to fear something more sinister had happened in town.  She silently set the bowl across the table and sat down across from it.

“Did you succeed?”

She was fishing for a response, but she was well aware of Durindana’s escapades.  Living with her, she knew when she went out and despite being a practical recluse; she still had heard a few of the stories in the market about the adventures of The Sentinel.  The knives had been a dead giveaway, she had known Durindana and her father and was well aware of the blades she forged, but tonight there was something else, a strange scent filled the room, it was more than just the common smoke from the kiln, this one had sort of a sulfur smell to it as well, she could tell it was coming from Durindana.

“I finally used the Hellpowder in the field.  It worked better than I had hoped.  The blades are good for handling the small time Nightwraiths, but this one was an Earth Mover.  I don’t think I would have been able to take him with just a blade.  He was made of crystal.”

She sat down across from Avis and stared at the broth before her.  She did not have much of an appetite, despite all the effort she had put in today.

“You will bring them all down upon us.  They will not allow the Legend of the Sentinel to build up anymore.  The wizard himself may come down upon us now.”

Durindana was taken aback.  She had not been aware that Avis knew about everything she had been working at the past few months.  She had stated it all so calmly, like it was simply a common fact that the Nightwraiths were in some way destined to destroy her.  Durindana longed desperately to look into the remains of her eyes and reignite the spark of hope.

“They have come.  The Sentinel dies tonight.”

Durindana spun around quickly at the sound of the knock on the door.  She had not yet removed her armor and instinctively drew a blade from the scabbard.  The heavy door was pushed inward and she saw the smoldering body of the crystal being standing before her.

“Avis, get out of here now!”

She did not move from her seat, but just sat there waiting for an end to it all.

“Stay where you are Lady Avis.  I did not come here to fight.  Your friend here has already tried to kill me once today without reason.  I came here seeking justice, not slaughter.”

“And what could you and your wizard possibly know of justice?  You are beasts of the worst order, just savages feasting on the carcass of humanity.  I will see you abominations dead before I draw my final breath.”

Durindana lunged forward with her blade drawn.  From the tattered remnants of his smoldering cloths Kynon hand fell upon the ebony vampire blade and drew it in front of him.  Silently and effortlessly it glided through the air in front of him pairing her thrusts and swipes as though it were acting of its own accord.

She fell back breathing heavily, impressed by the swordsmanship of her foe.  His blade was jet black with a red blood groove bored into the center of the double edged blade.  It looked almost like it was the work of her father.

He saw her staring at the blade and tilted the bolster towards her, her eyes grew wide at the sight of the phoenix stamped into it.  Her eyes drew narrow and a second blade seemed to appear in her other hand as she charged again with a scream of rage.

Avis bowed her head at the table her chest heaving slightly from the convulsions of crying.  She was no longer capable of tears, but still her heart ached as she went through the motions of mournful resignation.

“You have taken everything from me, you have butchered the one I love and now you come to slay me with my father’s blade!  There is no hell fitting enough for you!”

Kynon’s blade met blow after blow, but slowly she was gaining the edge by sheer ferocity.  He still had yet to take any offensive move, merely fending off one blow after another.

After several minutes she had gained back most of the ground and forced him towards the door, but her strength was failing her.  She drew back breathing heavily while the beast in front of her did not breath at all.

“I will fight you all the way to Jena and strangle you with the entrails of your wizard.”

Her words came haltingly between hard breaths.

“You have proven to me that you are indeed The Sentinel, you are the one I seek.”

He threw his blade in ground between them.  The tip of the blade sunk into the floor.  He made no effort to retrieve it.  Without thinking one of the blades flew from her hand straight towards his eye.  With deadly accuracy it found its mark only to ricochet off and clattered to the floor harmlessly.

“Are we through now?”

Kynon stood there without making any motion at all, just staring at the crouching form of Durindana.  Her chest was heaving up and down with exertion.   She leapt from her stance and flung herself across the room towards him.  Reaching down as she leapt, she pulled his blade from the ground and landed in front of him with the tip raised to his throat.

“This is the vampire blade.  It gets stronger every time it tastes blood.  I wonder how much blood it had drank in the thirty years since my father finished forging this blade.   I think it might even be able to cut into you.”

Kynon did not even flinch.  Since the second time he had bathed it the waters of Minerva, he wasn’t even sure he could die, since he neither ate, drank or breathed, it was always a question he wondered about.  If he was no longer alive, he could not die.

“I am Kynon, the Nightcrawler.  I am a disciple of Urania and Eros, I do not bow before the wizard of Jena, and I have come from The Western Complex to bring peace and order to the empire of The Rhine Complex.”

“You’re just another abomination of God.  You have come to rule over those who are weaker than you.  Better the devil you know than the one you don’t.  I will never bow to any man or God.”

With a slight flick of her palm the tip of the edge flipped across Kynon’s cheek, scratching into his crystal skin.  He did not feel anything, but was aware that it had cut him.  He smiled.

“So the beast slayer has become the beast.  If you cannot strive to serve something greater than yourself, than you will never accomplish anything at all.  You simply become that which you despise the most by making your fear a reality.  Your little acts of terrorism simply feed the fire of fear in the Night People.  You cannot stand against the wizard of Jena and his legions of Nightwraiths, the only thing you can do is act out in desperation until the other shoe drops and he finally deems you worthy enough to destroy.”  He paused before adding.  “That is you and everyone around you.”

Durindana drew the blade back as her eyes narrowed in cold rage once again.

“Stop!”

The word came out as a sob.  Durindana turned and saw that Avis had risen from the table.

“If you would kill in cold blood, even those who never raised a hand against you, then you are not the women I love; you will have become just another Nightwraith.”

Her voice was more assured now, the sobbing convulsions had stopped.

“You saved me Durindana, by being better than anyone else in the world.  Your strength is in your love and compassion, not your blades.  You wanted the Sentinel to stand as a beacon of hope, but to me you already were.  Do not let the myth of the Sentinel eclipse you.”

Kynon began to glow increasingly brighter; Durindana covered her eyes as the light refracted off of the facets of his body.  She realized the sword was out of her hand and she stood once again with Avis across from Kynon.  The blade was once again resting in his scabbard.

“I was doubtful when I came here of finding one who was worthy to stand beside me, and yet now I stand here before two.  The light of reason shines brightly in both of you.  Like forging a blade, perfection is achieved by controlling the intensity of the heat with an equal amount of water, only thorough the careful administering of both forces can the strength of the steel be realized.”

Avis reached out and embraced Durindana.  She could feel her pulse racing beneath her touch.  She kissed her silently and whispered to her.

“The legend of the Sentinel is dead, but the legend of Durindana has only begun.”

 

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The Sentinel (The Shadows of Night Saga) Part 3

May 20, 2013 //
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The wind had picked up.  She could feel it pressing against her as she slid from one shadow to the next.  If she took much longer a storm might come in and she would lose her chance, not to mention Avis would be waiting for her to return.  Yet another reason to hurry.

Durindana lightly sifted through the powder in the glass jar and deposited it carefully in a thin track along the outer edges of the petrol station.  She could see the glint of the crystal inside and knew that it was still in the building.  It was impossible to tell if it was moving or not in the gloom of the abandoned building, the openings in the old garage cast cavernous shadows over the interior in the overcast evening sky.  Even in the middle of the day, the muted red glow of the sky would not penetrate the rear of the structure.

She thought again of returning to Avis.  It was difficult to have her worry about her all the time especially when she was doing it for her to begin with.  It was when the Nightwraiths had come into town bizarre and recklessly looted and destroyed the entire town square that Avis had fallen victim and Durindana had swore an oath of vengeance against the Nightwraiths.

Avis was one of her few friends and she was almost lost to the raid that night,  many nights after that, she had screamed out in frustration and anger for the gods to take her and more than once Durindana had pulled her from the edge of oblivion as she tried to hurl herself into the sea.  It was months of constant vigils tending to her every need that fed the need for vengeance in her now.  It wasn’t just the loss of her sight, but the physical violations that were forced upon her that set her to screaming and calling out for the peace of oblivion.  With the powers of a god or not, they were nothing more than beasts now and she would slaughter them as such.

She finished outlining the perimeter with the Hellstorm Powder and retraced her steps heading back the way she had come.   Durindana paced off a safe distance between the petrol station and herself, it was time for the confrontation.  She picked up three stones and proceeded to throw them one after another.  The first ricocheted off the roof harmlessly the other two found their mark through the bay door openings.  She couldn’t see if she had hit the thing, but she definitely got its attention.

The sounds of stirring came from within and she saw the glint of its crystal body shift in the failing light.  She drew one of the daggers from the sheath on her shoulder slowly, feeling the weight of the blade in her hand and subconsciously adjusting her body to launch its necessary flight.

Along the side she had left the can of powder sitting on corroded metal body of some long ago abandoned vehicle, she hoped it still contained enough metal to ignite a spark, but even the striking of the knife should be enough to finish the job.

The large body of the figure began to emerge from the shadows of the building.   Its crystal eyes fell upon the movement of Durindana as her arm swung forward.  An echo landed in his ears.

“When you join your wizard in hell, you can tell him you met the same fate, by the blade of The Sentinel.”

The blade flew wide and struck something off to the side.  The figure turned toward it and saw a spark jump.

Durindana was thrown back from the percussion of the blast.  Even at the distance she had paced out the violence of the explosion had knocked her down.  She scrambled to her feet and made off into the shadows.  She did not even look back, the myth of the sentinel needed to be greater than she was.  She needed to keep the mystery alive for the Night People.  If they knew who she was, it would diminish the legend that she had worked hard to create.  Tonight would add greatly to the tales told in the village.  It might even be enough to inspire them to fight back themselves.

                She fled back to the forge with a flight of speed that surprised even her.  Her heart was drumming in her chest, but it was with a feeling of exhilaration that fueled her ascent.  She stood up upon the hill and finally chanced to look back at her handiwork.  The pillar of smoke was still funneling into the sky and mixing with the inky blackness of the night.  Laughing out loud with fear and hope she turned once more and made for home.  The legend of The Sentinel was assured now.

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The Sentinel (The Shadows of Night Saga) Part 2

May 19, 2013 //
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The oily silt that covered everything in the world gave Durindana perfect purchase as she clung to and slid smoothly amidst the darting shadows of the night.  In the half light of the overcast sky the silhouettes of the Rhine Complex cast a moving, looming shadow over her village.  She had mastered the art of dancing between the shifting masses of darkness to envelop her movements from any observer.

Even in the darkness she could see the glint of the Nightwraith as it boldly strode through the streets of the village.  It had grown careless in its confidence, never suspecting that the night held shadows even darker than its sinister heart.

She paused to observe its movements and try to ascertain its abilities in case she wasn’t successful in killing it with a single blow.  From the facets gleaming in the night air, she supposed he was an earth mover.  This was dangerous, since her knives might have no way of penetrating his armor of crystal.  She was outclassed in power, but not in spirit, if she couldn’t stab it, she could cleave it.

She circled around to try to find any advantage from varying perspectives.  This thing was obviously a powerful Nightwraith, their command structure was based purely on the power level of the individual, not any ability to lead, and so taking this one out would send a message to the rest of them that the people here would be slaves no more.

She tailed the thing until it found shelter in burnt out shell of an old petrol station.  The wheels in her brain began turning as she formulated a plan of attack.  She would need to retrieve elements from the forge before moving in.

With a practiced ease of grace Durindana slipped through the depilated remains of the village and made her way back to the forge.  Years of isolation in her youth had allowed her to placate her mind with a careful study of the natural world around her.

She had wondered about the acid rains and the Hellstorms and carefully examined the fine silt which covered the surface of the planet.  In her studies she found the combination of corrosive elements in the silts were sulfur and potassium nitrates with the charcoal from the burnt remains of the forge’s fire she was able to produce what she called “Hellstorm Powder.”  This formula allowed her to create a controlled explosion anywhere she desired.

Nightwraiths were legendary for their overconfidence and arrogance when they roamed around their kingdoms.  They just marched in and took whatever they fancied.  The only conflict or resistance came from other Nightwraiths who might covet the same prize.

Her father had made fine weapons and helped to create and organize the underground resistance, but they were no match for the inherent powers of the Nightwraiths.  They had organized several ambush attacks and even succeeded in massacring a few, but that would just draw the Nightwraiths out in force and they would descend on the area and kill everyone in sight.   The decimation was total and complete, if a town or village resisted in any way, it was a death knell for everyone within a ten mile radius.

The Night People began to refuse to organize and participate in the resistance, they could not justify sentencing their fellow man to a painful and fruitless death, even in the name of freedom.  The wizard of Jena ruled over the kingdom with the merciless iron hand of tyranny, and it was believed that he could look into his crystal caves and see the whole of his kingdom in the billions of facets reflected back at him.

The thing she had spotted earlier could be one of his crystal sentries sent out to destroy her before she even really began.   Durindana had been careful, she had diminished his forces by five so far, carefully taking them out from a distance and hiding the bodies, but if the wizard of Jena could in fact see everything in his kingdom, then she had no hope of escaping the fate of her crimes.  She would be responsible for bringing death to the entire village.

Durindana made her way past the kiln and to the small storage shed she used for making the powder.  She kept it well away from the house or the kiln since it was so volatile in nature.  Any sort of friction could set off a static spark and ignite the Hellstorm Powder with devastating effects, only by carefully blending the components and adding enough charcoal base could she even make it stable enough to be carried.

                She still bore the scar on her upper right shoulder to remind her of the delicacy of the mixture.  One day she would perfect the formula and with this force harnessed, she would be able to take out all the legions of the Nightwraiths by herself.  She would no longer need to endanger people’s lives in order to crusade against the injustices of the world.  It would be the deciding factor in freeing the world of God’s abominations.

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The Sentinel (The Shadows of Night Saga)

May 18, 2013 //
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Durindana slowly drew the edge of the blade across the whetstone in the practiced tradition she had learned from her father.  He was a forge, a maker of metal goods, his specialty had been the hand forged blades coveted by warriors throughout the kingdom for their strength and ornamentation.  These small blades had been a gift that he gave her from the time she was a child up until the final days before his passing.

He taught her how to temper the iron to burn away the impurities in the ore and produce a stronger and lighter blade.  Each blade had to be burned and hammered relentlessly.  It took weeks of hammering and working the ore over and over, folding the ore onto itself and pounding it out again and again in hypnotic rhythm.

The small intricate pattern he stamped into the bolster of each of his blades was the emblem of the phoenix.  He said that it was the extension of his life and through it he would live on.  She always kept those words close to her as she practiced his art.  The merciless hours and insufferable heat of the furnace was her connection to him.  The craftsmanship she practiced on her blades was done with the same fluid motion she had watched him work his craft with for countless hours in his kiln.

A mere touch to the razors edge could draw blood.  She had custom made the leather lined sheaths which held the blades.  It had taken a long time make the armada of blades she now carried.  They were all double edged daggers with serrated edges along the upper half of the blade culminating in a hooked heel and a seamless one piece tang.  The entire blade was of a single construction, no rivets or finished handles.  They were perfectly balanced and carefully honed to maintain their symmetry.  Each contained a thin groove extending from tang to tip, slightly inlaid to allow for the thickness of the blade.  This was the blood groove; it allowed her to retrieve the blades from the bodies easily with no wasted effort, this was her own innovation drawn from her experience with the Nightwraiths.

When the edge met with her satisfaction she wiped it clean of filings and slid it smoothly into the custom fit sheath.  The sheaths were then sown with fine metal wire to belts which she could strap on to her body and armor.  Even the armor plates she wore held razor sharp edges, when completely clad in her mail she was a living blade, one of the most feared denizens of the unknowable night.  Over her left hand she wore a gauntlet on which were welded four razor sharp blades for hand to hand combat.

She was a living weapon and the villages only defense against the Nightwraiths.  She would patrol the perimeter of the Rhine Complex for any indication of their presence.  They ruled all of Europe and were immune to the attacks of the Night People, by a power they had somehow stolen from the gods.  She had finally seen enough when one of their bands had roamed into the Complex and torched the entire bizarre in a merciless act of wanton destruction.

The Nightwraiths killed from boredom and malice, never contemplating the consequences of their actions.  They did not care about the people or even give a second thought to killing them, to them the Night People were nothing but slave’s not even truly alive just beasts to be slaughtered at their will, but she would force them to take notice of them now.  She had already picked off several of the Nightwraiths who had trespassed on her village.  She operated in stealth, applying the art of guerilla warfare that had heard about from her father as he demonstrated the best application for his creations.  The sword of stealth rang louder in the annals of history then the most resounding blades of the battlefield.

                Durindana slid the last blade home into its sheath.  Over fifty blades comprised her armor when fully loaded.  Sixty pounds of added weight sat upon her frame.  It was still too much for movement out in the field, she had an additional set of light armor which she regularly donned for patrol, but in it, she was far less armed and protected.  If she ever came upon a group of Nightwraiths, she would be hopelessly overwhelmed, but the need was there, she was last line of defense in the world for any semblance of justice.  Without her, there was only the resignation of hopelessness; she had to find a better way.

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The Golden Ring of White Marsh Church (Finale)

May 13, 2013 //
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English: Old White Marsh Episcopal Church Orig...

English: Old White Marsh Episcopal Church Original structure built before 1690. Early 18th century rector was the Reverend Daniel Maynadier. A later provincial rector (1764–1768), the Reverend Thomas Bacon, compiled “Bacon’s Laws,” authoritative compendium of Colonial Statutes. Thomas John Claggett, first Episcopal Bishop of Maryland officiated here in 1793; Robert Morris, Sr., father of Revolutionary financier is buried here. Church burned in 1892, was partially restored in 1977. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

 

Insert 8/6/64:

The events of that night were too hasty for me to transcribe in the field.  Upon reflection, it was indeed the most bizarre occurrence I have ever been witness too.  The time was between 1:15 AM and 2:00 AM as we did not stay longer than that.  How long the ritual continued I cannot say, but our observance of it ended after we lost Mary.

Charles was the first to head off and investigate the light in the woods.  Myself and Mary were to remain as the rear guard.  Charles drew his revolver and headed off.  As he disappeared into the darkness of the woods, occasionally illuminated to us by his shadowy form passing between us and the fire, we observed another strange occurrence.  From around the altar of the church rose a sphere of blue light that illuminated the small area around it in the black night.                  Surrounding the altar were several figures robbed from head to toe in black.  Hoods were draped over their faces and Mary rose from our hiding place and ran towards the group calling out for “Daniel!”  The group turned towards her and the sphere of light rose higher over the altar.

I heard Charles cry out my name as the fire in the woods spread towards the church at a rapid pace.  He was sprinting towards me from across the field.  Mary was now in the circle of robed individuals and the sphere had descended upon them.  The fire raced across the field and enclosed the group.  The blue light faded as the flames rose.  There were no screams from the group inside and Charles arrived exhausted at my side.  All of this time I had been calling out to Mary, but she disappeared into the flames.  We raced towards the fire to try to help, but the heat from the flames was too much and soon overcame us.  I heard what sounded like the name “Hannah!” screamed out of the blaze which had now encompassed the entire church.  I screamed for Charles and we raced back towards the car to call the fire department and police.

The police and fire departments of the Oxford Township both hold records bearing out the story as I have transcribed it here.  When we returned to the site of the church, the walls were blackened and the field was scorched of vegetation, several of the tombstones bore the marks of flame and ash.  The altar of the church was blacked with soot, but the brickwork was unharmed.  They found the bodies of two human remains intertwined in each other’s arms resting upon it, burnt beyond recognition.  The marker memorializing Michael and Hannah Maynadier was ripped from the ground and the two tombs lay open and empty.

The police took our statements but held me and Charles for several hours while they verified our identities and the identity of Mary as well.  I believe it was only our personal standing within the community which spared us being blamed for the damage done.

The hole in the woods contained the remains of two more human skeletons several hundred years old and hastily buried.  On one of the remains was a single gold band with a broken setting for a stone.

The conclusions one could draw from this are obvious, but not based in fact.  The bones were exhumed and the remains of all four of the bodies underwent autopsy analysis.   I suggested carbon dating and forensic study, but being as they were human remains, the idea did not sit well with the authorities.  The older bones were relocated to another graveyard and laid to rest in unknown graves, Mary and her boyfriend, who was never identified, were given proper burials and rest in Rock Creek Cemetery in Washington DC.  With some strings I pulled with the Smithsonian Institute I was able to procure the ring, which is now housed in the archives of the American History Museum under the filing of early American colonial jewelry circa 1700.

Much of the account I have given here can be verified by my companion Charles, but I can give no logical explanation for the events as they have occurred, nor can I explain why my involvement in this matter was even necessary or where these robed individuals went or how they were involved in the matter.

The blue light is beyond my explanation, but the fire department of Oxford did enlighten us as to the cause of the rapid blaze.  Apparently traces of Butane were found in the soil where the fire scorched the earth.  The blaze traveled the path from the woods to the church that was deliberately set.

Further examination of the area made by me several weeks after the events turned up several more clues.  The Smithsonian paid for the graves to be refilled and the memorial marker to be replaced.  The altar and tombs were cleaned with a power washer and have returned to their natural state of decay.  Upon my examination of the altar, I discovered a diamond stone of twenty six carats.   With further study, I found that it fit into the broken setting of the ring.

The coincidences of these events force one to make assumptions that an untrained mind would conclude as fact.  All I can say for sure is that two individuals perished here, one of which was a noted colleague, and the remains of two graves were violated and several other vandalized by a deliberately set fire.  Several perpetrators of these crimes have gone unpunished and have presumably left the area and are still at large.  The blue light could very well have been manufactured by the vandals, who once the fire lost control left without retrieving the jewelry which may have been the point of their macabre grave robbing but this too is just speculation.

The police report states that the group of parapsychologists must have found some information relating to the theft of the bodies of Michael and Hannah Maynadier and the reburial of them in the woods.  Once they uncovered the bodies and the fabled ring, they plotted to steal it and at the same time justify their “scientific” study.  I was enlisted to act as a credible witness and they set about creating this elaborate ruse.  The fire they set quickly got out of control and the plot fell apart.  The ring was recovered and two of the group perished in the attempt to steal the ring.  Mary’s name now carries a dark official stain upon her memory, but apart from the three unidentified men still at large the case was closed from their standpoint.

 

There are still many unanswered questions in this matter and perhaps further study and time will illuminate this matter in the future.  I will now leave this case in the more capable hands of the future in the hope that one day this matter will be resolved and Dr. Mary Calvert – Randolph will be cleared of any wrongdoing.

 

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The Golden Ring of White Marsh Church (Part 3)

May 12, 2013 //
1
English: Old White Marsh Episcopal Church Orig...

English: Old White Marsh Episcopal Church Original structure built before 1690. Early 18th century rector was the Reverend Daniel Maynadier. A later provincial rector (1764–1768), the Reverend Thomas Bacon, compiled “Bacon’s Laws,” authoritative compendium of Colonial Statutes. Thomas John Claggett, first Episcopal Bishop of Maryland officiated here in 1793; Robert Morris, Sr., father of Revolutionary financier is buried here. Church burned in 1892, was partially restored in 1977. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

 

August 4, 1964: 11:09 AM

My companions and I arrived at the turnoff of Route 50 and were immediately drawn to the contrast of the yellow police tape surrounding the small section of the church.  Upon closer inspection we noticed that the upper right side of the plaque had been pried upward by what appeared to be a crowbar noted from the chip in the stone corresponding to the missing screw in the corner.  Other than that the vandalism was unnoticeable and hardly the case reported by the Baltimore Sun as “ghoulish vandalism.”

We proceeded to photograph and explore the area for any sign of further vandalism or any sign of the missing parapsychologists.  There was no activity in the area and it is a rather pleasant day after the sweltering heat of the city yesterday.  A steady breeze seems to flow across this area, perhaps a crosswind from the Choptank River.

 

August 4, 1964: 1: 09 PM

I have sent Charles into town for provisions and spoke with Mary about the possibility of setting up a stakeout for tonight.  The idea of sitting around a graveyard through the night did not sit well with me and I am concerned it might be too much for her constitution as well, but she further revealed to me that one of the members of the missing party was her boyfriend and she was insistent on finding out what happened and where he was.

 

August 4, 1964: 3:34:

I spent the last two hours wandering around the cemetery looking at the old tombstones and noting the antiquity of the place as much as I could.  Many of the stones were so old that time had erased any remnant of the memorials inscription.

There is very little to do here and the lack of evidence of any crime seems to make this endeavor fruitless.  I am hoping to call it quits after tonight.  I don’t see any point in looking for people here.  This is clearly a matter for the police.

Along the side of the church there are some more recent tombs.  The cemetery is still in use by the local people, or the few that remain in the area.  There are a few family plots; I have noticed which may still be active for a few generations.

 

August 4, 1964: 5:43 PM

There is still plenty of light out and the three of us have made a thorough investigation of the area.  Apart from a few graves of historical note, there is no sign of anything out of the ordinary.  I suggest Mary go into town and try to reach her fellow parapsychologists by phone, maybe they have checked in since the last time she attempted to contact the group.  There was no sign of struggle or any kind of indication of an attack.  The only thing that appeared out of the ordinary was the attempt to pry the plaque from the masonry.

She left, but should return with Charles within the hour.  I still don’t understand why she was so insistent upon me investigating this place, I am familiar with Mid Atlantic colonial history, but I am by no means the expert on local folklore or myth, in fact, one would go so far to say as I was the last person you would want to investigate such matters.  And furthermore, I have no experience in dealing with a missing person’s case.

 

August 4, 1964: 8:32 PM:

I noted a movement by the border of trees across the field.  Charles went to investigate, but found nothing.  It may have been a deer or some wild animal skirting the brush for smaller animals to feed on.  Night has just set in fully and we are stationed on the side of the road in our car in case anyone should show up.

I told Charles we should have made more of an effort to conceal ourselves, but he simply stated “What are we concealing ourselves from?”  He would rather have a clear avenue of escape then hideaway and engage in espionage.  If someone or something did attack Mary’s friends, he wanted to be sure that we could run if we had to.  Mary’s friends may have engaged in stealth observation and we made a decision to come back tomorrow and search the wooded area for any signs of occupation or equipment.

 

August 5, 1964: 7:56 AM:

After a restless night in Oxford, we have returned to the Church and have begun plotting out our investigation of the wooded area around the cemetery.  Charles and I would split up and search the area in a standard search pattern.  Mary would remain in the cemetery following along the outside border in order to maintain bearings and communication.

Charles and I both had a package of colored plastic tape to mark blazes along our trail.  This would act as a guide in case we got lost, or it would act as a path in case we are in need of rescue.

 

August 5, 1964: 12:03 PM:

We have searched out the immediate area surrounding the cemetery and found nothing out of the ordinary. The only thing of significance we found was a hole that had been recently dug about eighty yards into the woods.  The hole was empty but it did show that something did occur out here recently.  This fact will be filed with the police when we make a missing persons claim.  We vote to go to Oxford for lunch and return, at Mary’s insistence, in the evening and see through our nocturnal stakeout.

 

 

August 5, 1964: 8:36 PM:

Night has officially fallen.  The sun sets late this time of year.  I have confided in Charlie that I have a suspicion that Mary is not telling us everything.  There seems to be a strong lack of evidence to support her concern in this matter.  The resolution of her boyfriend’s disappearance would better be served if she contacted the police.  Trained dogs and investigators could uncover clues which we might overlook.

 

Insert: 12/09/72

(Dr. Mary Calvert – Randolph is a woman of strong standing within the community.  She is one of the first female members of the Cosmos Club .  She holds a Masters degree in Agriculture and was the Chief Administrator for the Beltsville Agricultural Research Center, developing new farming and harvesting techniques as well as developing more resilient forms of produce and livestock.  She is by no means a typical damsel in distress and not someone I would ever have supposed to fall into the lot of the superstitious.)

 

At some convincing I get Charles to park the car at a distance and we walked towards the cemetery so as not to give away our presence.  I have an uneasy feeling commonly associated with placing myself in proximity to a graveyard at night.  Psychologically we shield ourselves from the self knowledge of mortality, but when we surround ourselves with memorials of the departed and couple that with the remote local and a possibility of threat, we have no choice but to surrender to a sense of foreboding.  This feeling is often misunderstood and used as evidence in the annals of Parapsychology.

August 5, 1964: 10:37 PM:

The feeling of uneasiness has abated as we have become more accustomed to our surroundings.  A sense of familiarity has come over us and Charles is even making jokes to pass the time.  Mary still seems a little guarded and anxious.

 

August 5, 1964: 11:46 PM:

Nothing really to report.  We are waiting for the midnight hour to strike, which is supposed to be when the supernatural is at its strongest.  I suppose that will be when we see if anything is going to happen.

 

August 6, 1964:  1:02 AM:

We noticed a light in the woods off where we saw the hole before.  Charles has gone to investigate.  It looks like a torch or campfire has been lit in that area.

 

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The Golden Ring of White Marsh Church (Part 2)

May 11, 2013 //
2
English: Old White Marsh Episcopal Church Orig...

English: Old White Marsh Episcopal Church Original structure built before 1690. Early 18th century rector was the Reverend Daniel Maynadier. A later provincial rector (1764–1768), the Reverend Thomas Bacon, compiled “Bacon’s Laws,” authoritative compendium of Colonial Statutes. Thomas John Claggett, first Episcopal Bishop of Maryland officiated here in 1793; Robert Morris, Sr., father of Revolutionary financier is buried here. Church burned in 1892, was partially restored in 1977. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

 

The facts regarding the church were not difficult to find.  The library of the club had extensive volumes on local history and historical geography.  I was easily able to discover the particulars of the location.  38° 41.789′ N, 76° 3.62′ W is the exact location of the remains of the church that was constructed in 1690 on the sight of a wooden church structure that was built in the 1670’s.  It was originally called St. Peter’s Parish but this name was later appropriated by another church to the north in the mid eighteen hundreds.  The church fell into disrepair as the congregation splintered away into newer churches in the surrounding areas and the nearby town of Dover literally was abandoned.  In 1892 a brush fire finished the church as a functional house of worship, but the grounds surrounding it were maintained and still used as an active gravesite even today.  All that remains of the building is the front wall with doorway and the altar.  There has been a recent effort made by the Parish of the Holy Trinity Church in Oxford and the Maryland Historical Society to set up funds to restore and maintain the site as both a historical marker and a working cemetery.

 

The site is historically known as the resting place of Robert Morris Sr. who was the father of the financier and signer of the Declaration of Independence: Robert Morris Jr.  The most famous rector of the church was Thomas Bacon who penned the work entitled, “Laws of Maryland at Large,” which were referred to as “Bacon’s Laws” and served as the guide to colonial legislation in Maryland for decades during colonial times.

There is little mention of Hannah Maynadier, which was is not uncommon in that era, but it is believed that she was the daughter of the rectory keeper and it is commonly believed that Daniel Maynadier was one of the Huguenots who sought refuge in America and this is even stamped on the marker memorializing him and his wife.  There is no documentation regarding Hannah’s birth or death, although it does seem strange considering she was buried twice.  Below are the field notes from our first day on site.

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The Golden Ring of White Marsh Church – The Paranormal Files of Dr. Stanley Tyler Ewell

May 10, 2013 //
3
English: Old White Marsh Episcopal Church Orig...

English: Old White Marsh Episcopal Church Original structure built before 1690. Early 18th century rector was the Reverend Daniel Maynadier. A later provincial rector (1764–1768), the Reverend Thomas Bacon, compiled “Bacon’s Laws,” authoritative compendium of Colonial Statutes. Thomas John Claggett, first Episcopal Bishop of Maryland officiated here in 1793; Robert Morris, Sr., father of Revolutionary financier is buried here. Church burned in 1892, was partially restored in 1977. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

 

There is an innate desire within the human psyche to rationalize the unknown.  We are programmed to discover and uncover the truth of the world around us.  The rationality of our psychological status as human beings forces us to uncover and even fabricate meaning into a universe which may in fact not have any.  We create mythologies and religions to justify society and personal behavior.   We believe things we know without a doubt cannot be true and fight to the death to hold on to our illusions.  Even science and reason cannot penetrate the invincible fog of faith.  People need to believe in something.  Even the most deranged inmates of the madhouses hold this to be self evident.  We accept on faith contradictory statements and philosophies in order to expedite our justification for living.  For with the shadows of self awareness comes the knowledge that we live only at the expense of others.  Life feeds on death.  It cannot survive without it.

These thoughts came to me as I write up and document this unresolved case in the hopes that future generations will be able to shine the light of reason onto these events.  I leave this as a testament to the fumbling research of man limited by the science of the day to uncover the truth of the events described.  Several times I have been called in to investigate similar “supernatural” events and each time I have come to an inconclusive resolution.  I do not seek to assign a cause or a hypothesis to events that I cannot, with certainty, explain.  Therefore, I leave this as an open ended case in the hopes that someone at another date can conclude this project and explain the linear cause and effect.

This is the Case of The Golden Ring of White Marsh Church.

 

 

I suppose at some point in my life I had heard about or stumbled upon the story of Hannah Martin.  It seemed a little too familiar to me as we sat in the garden of the Cosmos Club overlooking the market place of DuPont Circle in Washington DC; my companion was relating the story to me in the hopes of eliciting my assistance in looking into the matter of the recent desecration of a grave which took place in Talbot County in Maryland.  The act of vandalism was not the first time this particular grave had been disturbed.  There was an old tale of local folklore which spoke of a great treasure of wealth that was buried with the deceased, and this most recent crime was the forth known time this particular necropolis had been violated.

The story went that Hannah Martin was a sick women who succumbed to a long illness and had stipulated that she be buried with a valuable ring which she treasured in life.  At the funeral, two men are believed to have noticed the ring and plotted to retrieve it from the corpse later.  They dug up the grave that night and attempted to remove the ring from the finger of the women, but it would not come off.  They then attempted to cut off her finger to retrieve the ring.  At this point the women sits bolt upright in the coffin and starts screaming.  She was apparently not dead, but rather in a coma.  The act of cutting off her finger woke her from this cationic state and the thieves were so startled that they ran off into the night.  The women then returned to her home and either was cared for by her husband or the husband died upon seeing his deceased wife return.  Some versions of the story speak of alternate ending in which she was nursed back to health and had several children, while others say she and her husband both died from the shock of her resurrection.

The tale has seen many revisions over the years as the popularity of macabre ghost stories has furnished further retellings and blurred the lines of fact, if in truth there is any fact, regarding this tale.  The further complication to this tale is that in December of 1915 the graves were violated and the remains and any valuables were taken from the site and never recovered, so the recent violations were nothing more than a desecration of a memorial to the late Daniel and Hannah Maynadier.

I reminded my companion of this fact in her insistence of my involvement in the case.  There was really no crime other then vandalism committed and as far as some connection with folklore, it was better left to the likes of Poe and Lovecraft, then to a professor of archeology.  I had no interest in further disturbing the memory of the deceased to investigate what could be nothing more than a fraternity prank.

It was then that my companion let me in on the conspiracy which surrounded the recent events.  It would seem that the identity of the “ghouls”, as the paper was calling them, was not entirely unknown.  The actions were in fact committed not by some nocturnal grave robber, but rather by a group of individuals dedicated to discovering the truth behind supernatural phenomenon.  These ghost hunters had been on a stakeout of the cemetery for several weeks in reference to reports of a phantasmal apparition around the marker for the Maynadier memorial.  There were six people in the party and now none of them had been heard from in several days.

So now we were discussing a true mystery.  The police had not been involved since it would cast an unfavorable light on the group as well as a budding discipline of science which already had to deal with discrimination for the subject matter they choose to investigate.  The world of science looked down upon these groups and a public example of this magnitude could cast the entire profession of paranormal investigation into the public eye and they would be seen as grave robbers and ghouls, who seek to exploit the fears and ignorance of the masses with cheap charlatan tricks and the improvable promise of life after death.  They already had a legacy of deceit and fraud to overcome and did not want to add to the annals of public scrutiny this latest caper without at least knowing what happened.

I must admit that I was taken aback by my companion’s admission to being a member of this discipline which, I must confess as well, I looked down upon as charlatanism masquerading as science in an effort to deceive and exploit unexplored avenues of genuine scientific inquiry.

We were interrupted by the waitress bringing us a pitcher of iced tea.  The sweltering heat of the Mid Atlantic region in the summertime weighed down upon me no less than the gravity of the revelation laid before me.  After her departure we discussed at length that this was no longer a matter for an archeological professor, but rather the police as it involved missing persons and criminal activity, but with a persuasiveness and sense of desperation known only to the fairer sex, my companion implored me to investigate.  Reluctantly I agreed on the condition that I bring along one of my colleagues who was a security guard for the Smithsonian Institute and moonlighted as a body guard and private detective.

 

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The Order of Minerva (The Shadows of Night Saga)

May 9, 2013 //
3

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“It was a long time ago, long before the rise of The Complex.  It was the time of the revelation of Protagoras, when the Master Race first began to realize its rightful place in the world.  It was a time of great beauty and triumph as well as chaos from the competing philosophies which divided the world.  It was a time of conflict and achievement on a scale unprecedented in history. 

            As we arose from the Dark Ages, these were uncertain times in the world and the balance of heart and mind could often shift overnight.  The Master Race spurred forth innovations in every field, but they advanced forward with no ultimate goal in mind.  Blindly they charged into the future without hesitancy or fear, only to come crashing back as the realization of consequences rolled over them. 

            In this time the coven was formed.  It was a secret order charged with the task of maintaining the balance between heart and mind and calling upon the Great Goddess Minerva to restore the equilibrium of soul and spirit.  We are the Goddess cult, feared by the established orders of their time.  We worked in secret, with initiated groups to establish ourselves into positions within the world’s power structure to be able to manipulate the course of history and bring about the necessary changes to return the world to its natural life sustaining state. 

            We could undermine regimes and topple governments in moments; we studied the Books of Ideaty and could weave the madness of the dreaded Book of Lies. Our power was the ability to coerce and manipulate understated influence on the popular opinions of the world through deliberate misstatement and the blight of unrelated accusation.  With these tools, we could defame and overcome any disorder to the natural cycles of life.

            It was simply a matter of appealing to the deficiency within the world.  If the technology progressed too quickly, then a campaign was launched appealing to the nostalgia of the past, and if the world began regressing into the primitive, then a show of hope was engineered in the promise of tomorrow’s technological achievement.  

            In this fashion the world was kept in balance for hundreds of years.  From the birth of the  Renaissance forward the coven rose to the challenge, the order of Minerva maintained the social and environmental equilibrium of the planet until the rise of the industrial age.”

Xenophon sat bound to the chair surrounded by the robed figures on all sides.  The story they spoke seemed to emanate from a different speaker randomly, but there was no fluctuation in tone or voice.  It was as if one mind and voice spoke through them all.  Blue hoods shrouded the faces of the figures so she could not tell if any of the people she knew were among the group.  Over the last year she had spent her time studying the Books of Ideaty and had been introduced to several of the members of the order.  But in this underground room, it was too dark and closed in to make any definite identification of those surrounding her.

This was the initiation she had been warned about as she progressed in her studies.  Marpessa had been her advisor and guide through the study of the order and was the one who sired her for a place in the order.  She looked around frantically trying to determine if she was among those gathered.

“Then the time of the machines came into the world.  As the pace of progress increased unchecked, no more were the mechanizations of power reliant on the manipulation of manpower, but rather on the new slavery of technology, despite our efforts to contain the digital precision of unbridled advancement, the world sped into a spindrift which destroyed any semblance of equilibrium. 

            Our mortal powers were not enough to challenge the unblinking eyes and sleepless minds of the engines of technology.  Once many of the consequences are set in motion, they cannot be quelled even by the best of intensions.  Our order failed in its mission and even the blessing of Minerva herself couldn’t contain the devastation that followed. 

            You have studied well the history of the madness of the Master Race.  You know well the fate of the world driven to madness by its own success.  The world outside is testament to the will of man over the will of the Gods.  Are you prepared to become one of the Psyche?  Are you prepared to live in perfect love and perfect trust?  Are you ready to receive the blessing of Minerva?”

Xenophon saw the blade extend from the sleeve of the hooded figure next to her.  On the other side she saw another blade extend towards her.  She struggled with the bonds around her arm with held her to the chair.  Panic was beginning to show and terror found a home within her heart.

The two robed figures closed in on either side of her and the blades slid up the sleeves of her white tunic slitting it as they raised the blades closer to her neck.  The garment fell off of her as she now sat topless before the procession.  The two robed figures traced their blades along her chest each bringing the tip of the blade to align with her nipples.

Xenophon stifled a whimper of protest as one of the hooded figures in front of her stepped forward carrying a large skin filled with liquid.  He figure tipped the skin over her and water began to pour over her body.  A quiet chant had begun to fill her head resonating from all around her.

Pain began shooting through her as she screamed out, breaking the quiet cadence of the chant.  The two blades positioned at her chest plunged into her as the stream of water continued to pour over her.  The knives were withdrawn and the water washed away the blood as quickly as it flowed out of her.  Her screams were silent now, but no less intense, it was merely a lack of strength that caused her voice to fail her.

Her head fell forward as the life drained out of her.  The blade on her right had pierced her heart.  Xenophon could feel the tingling sensation as the feeling of life left her body limb by limb and was replaced by the cold numbness of death beginning to wash over her.

In the final moment before the light of consciousness was completely extinguished, Xenophon felt the muscle on her leg spasm and the flow of blood from her chest began to pulse outward again.  She threw her head back in a silent scream as the last of the water washed over her.  The wounds on her chest closed and a new sensation of power began to pulse through her.  There was resurgence of strength that she had only felt before on her best days in life.  In her mind she began to hear the chant once again, only now it was coming from inside her brain.  The pulse of power gave a rhythm to the chant that was absent before; this was the music of the spheres that she had read about before.  It was the lyrical music that is the voice of Minerva herself.

Xenophon bowed her head forward and allowed the music to completely possess her mind.  It settled down to a distant whisper that hung in the back of her mind like a quiet ringing in her ears.  It now had possession of her completely.  She felt the bonds around her arms loosen and then fall away.  She rose from the chair and the tunic fell off completely, leaving her completely naked before the hooded figures.

She opened her eyes and saw the figure before her raise a silken blue robe out before her.  Xenophon turned and allowed it to be slipped on over her.  She bowed her head as the hood was raised up and over her.  She now looked out at the world through the vial of Minerva.  By shutting out her senses from the world the music began to grow in intensity within her.  Her concentration was now focused solely on the communion with the Goddess.  The other hooded figures formed a circle around her and raised their hands.

            “Minerva has chosen thee and called thee to her.  You are now the Psyche and you will now know of perfect love and perfect trust.  Our order is to restore the balance and bring once more the light of love and reason to the world.  We are as one, we act as one and we love one another as one.  Our bond is the blessing of the waters of Minerva and only by death can we be reborn.  You are the Psyche of the order of Minerva, Xenophon is no more.”

Her hands rose with the others and a blue light radiated from the circle around them.  All things became clear in her mind now.  She was now Psyche, one and yet many, she was an agent of the balance, the chosen one.

In a flash the blue light was gone and each of the figures awoke from the trance.  Xenophon found herself standing among the hooded figures that now began unveiling themselves.  They were all the teachers who had stood by her and guided her through her studies.  All seven of them smiled at one another and welcomed her into the coven.

 

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