Gifts

Christmas is over, and now it's time to clean up the scattered pieces of gift wrap and bits of cardboard from boxes that once held toys. My house is still recovering from the holiday, but I've been taking some time to reflect. Over the last year, I realized that one of my biggest love languages is gifts. (If you haven't read Gary Chapman's classic, The Five Love Languages, you really should! They are: gifts, words of affirmation, quality time, physical touch, and acts of service.)

I love to give gifts, I think since I've become an adult, even more than getting them. With this knowledge, I really embraced my gift as a gift-giver for Christmas. Even my children who most profited from my talent will acknowledge that I went a bit overboard this year, but I had so much fun (and I'm a smart shopper, so I didn't really spend that much). When it comes to buying gifts, I spend the whole year doing reconnaissance. I pay attention to favorite colors, seasons, hobbies, etc. I use that knowledge to try and find just the perfect gift for each person. The pay-off, for me, is the joy on the recipient's face, sometimes when they received something they were desperately hoping for, sometimes when they received something they hadn't dared hope for, and sometimes when it was something they didn't even know they wanted and are immediately in love with.

The last twenty-four hours have been fun watching Jesse, Doogie, and Mia compete for TV time in order to play the video games I bought each of them. I can't tell you how full my heart is seeing them laugh and smile. It made me start thinking about God and the gifts He gives to us. I know that if I purchased a special gift for someone and they abused it or even worse, never used it at all, I would be hurt. I put time, thought, energy, and money into every gift I find, so if someone rejected my gift, I would be deeply hurt and would reconsider buying gifts for them in the future.

Now consider this about God. Luke 11:10-12 says: For everyone who asks, receives. Everyone who seeks, finds. And to everyone who knocks, the door will be opened. “You fathers—if your children ask^[a] for a fish, do you give them a snake instead? Or if they ask for an egg, do you give them a scorpion? Of course not!

God has given us more gifts than we can imagine, some we hoped for, some we only dreamed of, and some we never considered but wouldn't want to live without. But be honest for a moment: are there gifts He's given you that you didn't want? were afraid to use? didn't consider to be gifts? And as much as I love watching my family enjoy my gifts, I imagine God rejoicing when we use the many gifts He's given us.

I am just a woman, a God-fearing, Jesus-loving woman, but a sinful woman. I am completely imperfect, and yet I want to please those I love with special gifts. How much more does our Heavenly Father who is perfect, without sin, and created the universe give us? After all, He was willing to sacrifice His Son, Jesus Christ, for our sins just so that we could share an eternity with Him. 

That's really what Christmas is all about. We celebrate by exchanging gifts to honor the gift we all received in Jesus' birth: a Savior who would save us from ourselves. When I think about the gifts I received this year: perfume, a pashmina, journal and pens, wax melter, and more; I will count a Savior among that number. 

Left Alive to Die

It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!

You never know when I might play a wild card on you!

Today's Wild Card author is:

Susan Keen

and the book:

Left Alive to Die: The Story of Blue Angels Leader CAPT Harley Hall

Hannibal Books (August 15, 2011)

***Special thanks to Jennifer Nelson of Hannibal Books for sending me a review copy.***

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Susan Keen is a mother of two, teacher, reader, and world traveler. A native of Mississippi, she holds bachelor's and master's degrees from Mississippi College, Clinton, MS. She has written and published two cookbooks, was an interior designer, is a graduate of several French cooking schools, and is a gourmet cook. She and her husband, Jack Keen, M.D., live in Fort Worth and are active members of Travis Avenue Baptist Church.

SHORT BOOK DESCRIPTION:

The Vietnam War, though an uncomfortable part of America's conscience, is past history. Military personnel are home. Missing are found. Bodies are buried. Relations are normalized with Vietnam. Four decades later, we're over it. Right?

Not for Mary Lou Hall and her children, Heather and Harley Stephen. Their husband and dad, accomplished and decorated U.S. aviator Harley Hall, who unflinchingly signed on for last-gasp missions over Vietnam even in the war's waning seconds in 1973, disappeared after his shootdown—his whereabouts never pinpointed. For his loved ones and for all who still miss him urgently, the question lingers: where is Harley? how could he so utterly vanish? why did the U.S. not charge in and demand an accounting for this one who had such a brilliant future ahead as a military star? why was he left alive to die?

Susan Keen, whose physician husband once served alongside Harley as Hall commanded the celebrated Navy's Blue Angels flight-demonstration team, masterfully and heartwrenchingly profiles Harley, last American pilot shot down before the cease fire; chronicles jarring evidence indicating that Hall remained alive for years after his capture; and outlines our government's humiliating response to his wife's and others' pleas to garner attention for this compelling case.

No American can read Keen's shocking book without being moved to impassioned prayer for those such as Mary Lou who have no closure and whose lives forever are devastated by a war that many would like to believe never happened.

Product Details:

List Price: $14.95
Paperback: 192 pages
Publisher: Hannibal Books (August 15, 2011)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1613150105
ISBN-13: 978-1613150108

AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:

“Eject! Eject!”

CDR Harley Hall, handsome former commander of the Blue Angels, the U.S. Navy Flight Demonstration Team, walked across the flight deck of the gigantic carrier USS Enterprise and over to his F-4 Phantom. The time was around noon, January 27, 1973. Hall, the Executive Officer of VF-143, was preparing to fly his last mission over Vietnam before the ceasefire. On the flight deck he saw LCDR Ernie Christensen and waved. Christensen wandered over near Hall’s aircraft.
“Boss, I guess this is it; neither of us will ever get our MiG!” Christensen, who had been a pilot on Hall’s Blue Angels Team, reverted to the familiar term of respect for his former commander.1 Christensen, the Operations Officer of Harley’s sister squadron VF-142, had flown Blue Angels No. 4 on Hall’s 1970 team but in 1971 returned to combat on the Enterprise.

“Yes, looks like we missed our chance,” Hall answered. The MiG, the supersonic jet-fighter aircraft developed by the Mikoyan-Gurevich Design Bureau for the USSR and flown by the enemy during the Vietnam War, posed serious threats for American aircraft and ground troops. American crews that successfully shot down a MiG had a red star painted on the fuselage of their aircraft—one red star for each MiG. These pilots were highly revered.
Hall and Christensen talked for a few seconds more. Christensen headed back to his plane. That afternoon a quiet and growing elation of the “last real” combat mission over Vietnam underscored actions and thought. If one had been bold enough to stick his head up and look around for hope, he almost could see the end of this high-risk life—that of being a naval fighter pilot stationed on a carrier flying missions over Vietnam.
Hall climbed into his F-4 and joined his Radar Intercept Officer (RIO), LCDR Al Kientzler, who sat behind him. Kientzler was replacing Hall’s regular RIO, LCDR Gary Hughes, who was Squadron Duty Officer (SDO) that day. Hall strapped in, scanned his instruments, and completed his pre-flight check.
Streaking off the deck of the USS Enterprise, the powerful General Electric J79 engines threw rocket-like plumes behind as the catapult in two-and-a-half seconds hurled the big Mc-Donnell Douglas jet 300 feet through the sky at 165 mph and pinned Hall and Kientzler against the backs of their seats. For about two seconds Hall’s vision, affected by the G-forces, saw a blur rather than the buttons and dials of the instrument panel. “Catapult shots feel like being shot from a cannon!” he commented over the loud engines.2

Hall’s plane, still in afterburner, continued climbing to top speed and correct altitude to hook up with the overhead tanker and take on fuel. Over his left shoulder Hall saw his wingman, LT Terry Heath, with his RIO, LT Phil Boughton, also flying an F-4. “Taproom 113 to 114. Let’s go get ’em!” Hall said over the flight frequency designated for the two-aircraft formation.

“Let’s do it!” Heath, Taproom 114, answered.

After checking in with Hillsborough (the U.S. Air Force controller working northern South Vietnam) they were assigned to the Forward Air Controller (FAC) Covey 115 and directed to their target area. They reached their target at the Cua Viet River just south of the Demilitarized Zone. Then Covey 115 assigned them their mission—enemy trucks moving south from the Demilitarized Zone (DMZ). On this last day of war, communist

Vietnamese troops rushed south to occupy as much land in non-communist South Vietnam as possible, while United States bombers did everything they could to stop the aggressive Viet Cong troops. Heath made his bomb run to the north, while Hall went one mile south to work a different group of trucks. Finding his target quickly Hall called in to his FAC and released his bombs.

Climbing out after his last bomb run Hall heard the dull thud of bullets or shrapnel hitting his plane. Instantly his master caution light flashed red; this indicated serious danger.

“Taproom 113 to 114. Mayday! Mayday! I’m hit!” Hall reported calmly.
“Mayday! This is Taproom 113! I’m hit! Lost PC-1 and utilities, heading feet wet!” Hall repeated.

Hall’s warning light continued flashing red. His jet became a flying boulder with no maneuverability. With the tail section hit and hydraulics lost, this meant no flight control, with all hope of flying the aircraft gone. Somehow though, through sheer guts, Herculean and adrenalin-fueled body strength, and technical skill, Hall managed the jet into an almost-level position and turned east.

“Give us your position! Give us a flare—anything to tell us where you are!” Heath’s backseater RIO Boughton called. Heath spotted Hall’s plane two or three miles to the southeast, about 4,000 feet below. Hall’s plane blazed fire from the tail section but remained flying and aloft.
“Taproom 113, I’ve got you! You’re on fire!” Heath shouted over the radio. “Get feet wet!”

Hall needed to maneuver the plane over the water to eject so a rescue team more easily could find them. The dense jungles of the area in which Hall and his wingman were working made them vulnerable to being captured by waiting enemy ground troops. The vegetation of the jungles also prohibited clear sighting by airborne rescue operations. Landing in water also meant enemy ground troops could not capture them as easily. Thus, feet wet gave Hall and Kientzler more advantages than feet dry.
“We’re trying, Terry!” Hall replied calmly.

But by the second the jet became heavier and continued to fall.

“Al, eject! Eject!” Hall told his backseater.

Al Kientzler yanked the face curtain, an action which set in motion the ejection sequence. This instantly fired the canopy away and ejected Kientzler through the sky. Three-fourths of a second later the rocket under Hall’s seat fired. Both flyers shot clear of the plane and over water.
Heath watched as Hall and Kientzler ejected. Their plane suddenly did a roll, went into a spin, and pitched vertically— straight down to the ground.
Strong winds blew the downed crewmen away from the water; Hall’s parachute was higher than that of Kientzler’s. Unfortunately both men were blown west back over land to feet dry. Feet dry put them into a critical situation, since they were trying to stay over water to be rescued.
“Mayday!” Boughton called over the universal guard frequency. “Attack and radio, two F-4 crewmen are in the air!”

“Roger, I’ve got them,” FAC Nail 89, who along with LCDR Christensen’s division of aircraft had watched the ejection and crash, answered. He immediately called people to help with the rescue. Hall’s plane had gone down in the target area of Christensen, whose Dakota section of F4-J aircraft was working against VC headquarters area south of the Cua Viet River. During their runs moments earlier they had received SA- 7 and 37 fire. A USSR-made portable, shoulder-fired, low-altitude, surface-to-air missile, the SA-7 Grail presented threats to low-flying aircraft. Antiaircraft Artillery 37-millimeter guns posed additional threats. Christensen, who had just finished his final bombing run when he saw Hall’s F-4 pass in front of him, immediately sent the remainder of his division into high holding and remained at 5,000 feet of altitude for support.
Within moments another SA-7 raced through the air. It fired straight at Heath and Boughton and went just under their plane’s nose.

“Wow! That was real close!” Boughton said.

Heath descended to 3,000 feet, near the spot in which Hall and Kientzler hung from their parachutes. Heath could see that the two men looked OK, with no arms or legs missing. They still hung in normal positions from their parachutes.
“Taproom 114 Bravo, how do you read?” Kientzler called. However, trying over and over, he raised no response. Heath continued to descend to 1,000 feet, at which he saw the two chutes land about a half-mile apart. Kientzler landed first. Heath saw Hall, as soon as he landed, instantly get up and run. His parachute drifted off in the opposite direction from that of Kientzler’s. Kientzler was hit in the thigh; a bullet tore through his leg and passed out the other side. This left him semiconscious and unable to run. Heath and Boughton saw that Hall and Kientzler’s landing area was barren sand and dirt with few trees on an island in the Cua Viet River at the point the river empties into the Gulf of Tonkin. Visible from the air and unfortunately too visible from the ground, the two men had few chances of hiding. The area was covered with North Vietnamese troops. Heath and Boughton knew for certain Hall did get up and run; therefore, he was alive, but they weren’t sure about Kientzler.
“SA-7! SA-7!” FAC Covey 115 shouted on guard; this alerted Taproom 114.
“Break right! Break right,” Boughton ordered. As the backseater, part of his duties were to scan the sky forward and aft, right and left, above and below for possible enemy aircraft or missiles.

Heath quickly turned the plane right. The F-4 barely missed the SA-7 missile as it shot past their canopy. “Well, that was the second SA-7, just like they are plenty cheap!” Boughton replied.

Meanwhile Hillsborough, monitoring the guard frequency and in control of multiple aircraft ready to be assigned to bombing missions, began to vector aircraft into a holding area above the search and rescue (SAR) position. Each reported ordnance on board and time available before fuel exhaustion.
Since the shootdown was in his target area, Nail 89 was assigned SAR On-Scene Commander. “Roger, I’m on-scene commander,” FAC Nail 89 answered.
Almost immediately Nail 89 radioed Covey 115, “We can’t see them moving. I’m going down for a low pass to get a better fix on the situation. Cover me high; I’ll be low. Stack all the other planes on top. Keep ordnance [bombs] overhead. Give me a report of any SA-7s.”

“Watch your six! Been SA-7 fire here,” Covey 115 warned.

“Rog, 115,” Nail 89 acknowledged the warning.

“SA-7! SA-7!” Covey 115 shouted on guard.

Directly overhead of Nail 89, his FAC, Christensen, on guard frequency with Covey 115 saw an SA-7 lift and knock the tail off SA-7 Nail 89’s plane—an OV-10, a two-seater spotter aircraft. End over end the plane began to tumble.

“I can’t get out! I can’t get out!” Nail 89 Bravo screamed into the radio.
Seconds before impact, both Nail 89 A, Lt. Mark Peterson, in the front seat, and Capt. George W. Morris, Nail 89 B in the back seat, managed to escape the aircraft. Because they were at less than 500-feet altitude, they landed almost immediately. Overhead, Christensen watched.
Peterson and Morris hit the ground. Nail 89 yelled on his PRC survival radio, “This is Nail 89 Bravo. Looks like I’m going to be captured! Yeah, I’m going to be captured! Out!” Immediately his transmission continued, “Oh, my God! I’m getting hit! I’m getting hit! Oh, my God!”
Heath and Boughton were farther away and couldn’t hear the radio transmission, because they weren’t on the same radio frequency. But they did see Nail 89’s plane impact. In total amazement Heath and Boughton saw Nail 89 pilots eject from their plane, their parachutes sailing above the ball of fire, but the two crew members drew heavy fire from the ground as they landed. Heath saw about 30 Viet Cong soldiers in the area looking for downed pilots and firing at Peterson and Morris as they parachuted to the ground. Nail 89’s plane crashed south of the Cua Viet River, near the site on which Hall and Kientzler’s parachutes landed, but not on the island. Heath and Boughton continued circling. They searched for Hall and Kientzler and the downed FAC pilots and broadcast the landing site to Covey 115. AAA and SA-7 missile fire was intense and incessant. Although flying too low to the ground was suicide, they kept looking.
Shortly after the first shootdown, USS Enterprise officers in the Carrier Intelligence Center (CVIC) listened as Heath and other crews scrambled to find the downed pilots. An A-6, an E-2, and six A-1E Skyraiders (Sandys) arrived; they hoped that from the downed pilots they would hear a beeper or radio or see a flare. Several times Heath and Boughton, with the Sandys, went through the clouds. They dodged AAA and SA-7 fire and pointed out the site on which Hall and Kientzler landed but saw no sign of the downed pilots. Heavily burdened in heart, Heath and Boughton returned to the USS Enterprise.

Recently Christensen commented, “Returning to the carrier was horrible after the terrible combat day—having seen and heard what occurred and realizing there was nothing I could do to influence their survival. I had released my ordnance and didn’t have an absolute spot on the survivors. Watching people walk around in their clean, starched khakis—people who had nothing more on their minds than what the movie of the evening was going to be or when the next big mail call would take place—was surreal.”
Officers on the USS Enterprise later debriefed Heath that South Vietnamese Bright Light Soldiers, trained by the U.S. to rescue downed pilots, reported finding Nail 89 pilots Morris and Peterson tied to a tree and decapitated. The officers received no word about Hall or Kientzler.

What happened to Hall? Herein lies the story of Harley Hall, husband and father, U.S. Navy pilot, Blue Angels Commander, Prisoner of War.
1 & 2Christensen and Heath furnished much of the material for chapter 1. This includes tapes of flights and debriefings.

Left Alive to Die by Susan Keen is the story of Harley H. Hall, an American pilot who was shot down in the hours before the cease fire in Vietnam. His fellow pilots saw him safely parachute down and run into the woods, but what happened to him then is a mystery that has haunted his wife, Mary Lou for nearly forty years. Keen, a personal friend of the Halls, tells the story of their romance, life together, and then Mary Lou's struggle to carry on after  the love of  her life disappeared. The drama of the story comes from the government's refusal to follow up on intelligence about Hall's whereabouts, indeed the actual suppression of evidence that Hall and other POWs lived in Vietnam long after the war. The tragedy of this story is that the same country that Hall would have proudly died for turned its back on him. Hall, and the other POWs were not just Americans, but American heroes who gladly fought to protect the very same freedoms that they were then denied by our government's refusal to acknowledge them and bring them home. Senator Kerry and others put profit above soldier's lives. This story should outrage any American who reads it. It should also give them a twinge of fear at wondering just how far this government will go to bury its secrets and who will be collateral damage. I wish that this book had been written by a major author like Stephen Ambrose or Walter Isaacson so that it could receive the kind of attention it deserves. 

F.A.I.R.I.E.S.: Baptism by Fire

It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!

You never know when I might play a wild card on you!

Today's Wild Card author & illustrator is:

M. C. Pearson

and the book:

F.A.I.R.I.E.S.: Baptism by Fire

FIRST Wild Card Press (December 5, 2011)

***Special thanks to M. C. Pearson of FIRST Wild Card Press for sending me a review copy.***

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

M. C. Pearson graduated from San Jose State University with a B. A. in art, served as a multi-media illustrator in the United States Army, earning the rank of sergeant, and spent four years as a house parent for at-risk youth. Now married over 20 years, she homeschools her two children, volunteers with her church youth group, and runs a book review blog alliance (FIRST Wild Card Tours) while writing and drawing. F.A.I.R.I.E.S.: Baptism by Fire is her first novel.

Visit the author's website.

SHORT BOOK DESCRIPTION:

Unwittingly chosen to join an army of fairies, who fight for the Light of the One, a teenaged girl learns about spiritual warfare as she attends a military academy with fantastical beings.

FROM THE BACK COVER:

Here lies a most precious treasure,

Awaiting one Chosen to deliver.

Seek out the red cousins in the East,

For on this your greed mustn't feast.

The wealth of a species now in your hands,

Do with it as the light demands.

Give them your gift to unite,

For it is the darkness we all must fight.

EDITORIAL REVIEWS:

"Imagination runs wild in F.A.I.R.I.E.S. Pearson brings young readers through a looking glass and into a world bursting with adventure, heroism, and fascinating creatures. Readers will be inspired to be true to the One and left with anticipation of more to come."

--Jill Williamson, award-winning author of

By Darkness Hid, and other books

"Sprinkled with delightful illustrations, and brimming with a full bestiary of magical creatures, F.A.I.R.I.E.S. is a fun, clever romp through the alternate landscape of the most magical world of all, our own. Read, and take up the call: 'Defend and Emancipate!'"

-- D. Barkley Briggs, author of

The Book of Names, and other books

"F.A.I.R.I.E.S. will appeal to readers who love the interplay of fantasy and reality. A rich cast of eccentric characters and exotic settings make this a fun addition to the folklore of the battle between good and evil."

--Mike Hamel, author of

YA fantasy series: MATTERHORN THE BRAVE

"F.A.I.R.I.E.S. is one of those rare gems I want to tell everyone about. It's highly imaginative, packed with adventure, and full of hope. A must read for kids and for kids at heart. Even better than Narnia! I was thinking about Pearson's wonderfully memorable characters for days."

--C.J. Darlington, author of

Thicker than Blood

"Ms. Pearson's extravagant and imaginative F.A.I.R.I.E. kingdom will surely delight the young and the young-at-heart in this tale of good and evil, light vs. darkness. The fantasy-loving reader will not be disappointed!"

--Linore Rose Burkard, award winning author of

Before the Season Ends, and other books

Product Details:

List Price: $17.99
Paperback: 482 pages
Publisher: FIRST Wild Card Press (December 5, 2011)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0615530222
ISBN-13: 978-0615530222

AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:

Four thousand seasons shall pass while our swords grow rusty.

Where once one chose to divide, another shall be chosen to unite.

One changed the past, the other shall change the future.

One must emancipate the other to allow the light its dominion.

The realm, now torn, allows the shadow to abide, as humanity lies blind to its peril.

The bond of friendship must endure, for the army of shadows awaits another tear.

Dust off your swords.

Unite the realm.

Destroy the strongholds.

Foretelling of Didasko Gnome Digdeep

†

PART ONE

MANY ARE CALLED

BUT

FEW ARE CHOSEN

†

CHAPTER ONE

Off and Running

t was an accident!” Mellie yelled, not caring who heard or stared. Tears streaked her face as she fled down the Santa Cruz coastline, away from her family.

You don’t need them, a voice hissed in her ear, Escape. Run away.

Scorching sand burned at her feet and bitterness ate at her heart. Mellie pumped her legs as fast as they would go. Her feet pounded with the rhythm of her emotions, beating a tempo with the crashing waves. Run-a-way. Run-a-way. Run-a-way. Adrenaline pulsed through her veins, quickening her step.

Why did I have to be the youngest? Only 12 years old. Never smart enough. Never athletic enough. I just wish they loved me.

Once, just once, she wanted to do something that would make her sisters see that she wasn’t the stupid, awkward, ugly, little baby sister.

As she ran, she wiped away some tears with the palm of her hand. Her fingers settled on her large nose, a gift from her dad’s Hungarian ancestry.

Chelsea got the ski-slope shaped nose. I had to get Half-Dome. It just isn’t fair.

Her hand dropped to her side and she pinched at her stomach. It still had some of its baby fat.

Ugh, why are my sisters so perfect? What happened to me?

Pushing her short bangs from her forehead in disgust, she mumbled, “Maybe I’ll find treasure. I’ll be the rich one, and then they’ll have to accept me.” But she knew better. California didn’t hold any more undiscovered treasures.

The sand, hot and coarse, cut at her feet. I wish I had remembered my shoes. She wore only a black, one-piece swimsuit and a San Jose Sharks sweatshirt tied tightly around her waist.

Breathing rapidly, she began to tire. She slowed her pace to a walk and looked back across the beach. The sand was so hot that waves of heat rose from it and blurred her view. A lone seagull screeched overhead.

Her sisters were nowhere in sight.

Man, I thought for sure that Chelsea was going to chase me down and kill me.

She had to admit that it was a little gratifying to see the sand fly from her foot, covering Chelsea’s sub-sandwich and freshly oiled stomach. Grinning slightly, the tears stopped flowing. She rubbed her eyes.

Mellie looked in the direction of her sisters. “You guys can never take a joke.” Flipping her golden hair, she turned her head back toward her chosen path. She no longer smiled as she stomped her feet in the cold surf, remembering the hateful words that had been said.

“Oh, waa waa, you stupid cry baby! Go tell mommy! Maybe she’ll feel sorry for her ugly, fat baby. Why don’t you grow up? We don’t want you near us. Can’t you understand English? You are so dumb. Look at her mouth open. Oh wait, here she goes…come on, baby…cry!”

Mellie knew she couldn’t go back. They would only ridicule and torment her further. Her mom would never believe it was Chelsea’s fault. No, the evidence was on Chelsea’s side. Who was the one with the sand all over her oily, coconut-smelling body? Who was the one who had a sandwich full of sand? Mellie walked on.

After her temper finally cooled, it occurred to her that she had never walked so far alone.

How far have I gone?

A shadow passed over her, and she looked up. Nothing was there. A cool breeze from the ocean created a stark contrast to the scalding sand. She shivered but kept walking, lost in her loneliness.

Not until she stubbed her toe on a large broken clamshell did she look at the beach. A chill snaked up her back. Nothing appeared familiar. The sounds of the surf were still there, yet something was decidedly different. She felt dizzy. Looking around, she could not quite pinpoint the change. Then it struck her.

No people.

Where did everybody go?

Even though she could see no one, Mellie could swear that she felt eyes staring at her.

She looked inland across the sand, saw movement near some eucalyptus trees, but decided that the wind must have caused it.

Trees? So close to the beach?

Something shook the trees again, causing goosebumps to stand out on Mellie’s arms. Alarmed, she checked the skyline. The sun was close to setting. She hoped that the police weren’t out looking for her.

Suddenly cold, she pulled at the arms of the sweatshirt still tied around her waist. It fell to the sand. Bending to pick it up, she once again saw a blur of movement, except this time it came from a rocky outcrop by the waves. She shook the sand out of the sweatshirt and hurriedly tugged it over her head.

“Okay, I’m seeing things.” Mellie yanked at her hair, pulling it out of the sweatshirt. She stared at the sinister rocks. “Hel-lo?” Her voice cracked as she spoke louder. “Is someone the-ere? Hello?” No answer. The shadowy rocks seemed to quiver with excitement, beckoning her closer.

Hmm…probably just a seagull.

Even if it was a bird, she did not want to see it.

There’s no way I’m going over there.

The wind picked up and blew her hair into her eyes. The sand spun with the wind.

Yes, definitely time to move. I need to find a road.

She turned back toward the sweet smelling, oddly placed trees.

Mellie arrived at the base of the first, colossal eucalyptus tree. Without warning, one of the branches fell in front of her, then seemed to get up from the ground and pose its bottom stems in a military-like stance.

Mellie screamed and jumped back. “Branches don’t stand.”

“They do if they are walking sticks.” The eucalyptus branch chuckled, stretching to its full height, considerably taller than Mellie’s meager five feet.
She gasped, grabbed the branch, and threw it like a javelin, as hard as she could.

As she took off running, she heard a bark and halted. Turning, she saw a golden retriever bounding toward her with the stick in his mouth. The dog dropped it at her feet. She watched the dog run into the grove of trees and disappear before she fearfully turned back to the possessed stick.

It had already gained its footing again and stood over her. Mellie was too frightened to move this time.

A face emerged from the skinny twig and took on the characteristics of a male human, but none like Mellie had ever seen. He had hair made up in rolls as if it were a powdered, green-silver wig, the same color as the leaves that grew all around his skinny body. His face was long and his forehead high. The twiggy man smiled and said in a distinctly British, albeit breezy, accent, “Do not worry, you are safe.”

Mellie couldn’t answer.

“Ahh…I love new recruits. They are so easily addled.”

Feeling more confused than threatened, Mellie found her voice. “What? What do you mean, new recruits?” She rubbed her eyes, shaking her head. “Okay, I’m talking to a stick now. Yes, I have lost it. I have gone totally mental.”

“Oh, I say, am I to understand that I am the first to be revealed to you?” With round, leathery leaves, the branch resembled a toddler toy with rings stacked on one another.

She dropped open her mouth and nodded.

“Well, let me do this properly, then. Ahem. Mortal, made of clay, you have been Chosen to join the Fantastical, Aerial, International, Reasonably Inconspicuous, Emancipation Squads.”

“What? What are you? You look like a stick…but you can talk.”

“Yes, child,” the stick replied with a sigh. “But, I think we are quite past that by now. Have you not heard me? You have been Chosen.”

Mellie opened her mouth wider, closed it, frowned, and opened it once more. “Chosen? For what?”

“You did wish to be different? To change who you were? ’Twas an especially strong desire, yes?” The branch crossed its arms and tapped its twiggy foot.

“Umm…”

“Dear me, this is highly unusual. You made a choice to run away from a miserable life and asked to be set free? Correct?”

“Well, I, ah…yeah. I guess so. What did you say about recruit for some squad?”

“Humph. I see that I was not understood. Yes? Let me elucidate. The Fantastical, Aerial, International, Reasonably Inconspicuous, Emancipation Squads , or shall I say F.A.I.R.I.E.S.? have accepted you into their organization. You asked. You were answered.” The branch attempted a smile, but looked impatient instead.

“Fairies? I don’t believe in fairies.” Mellie winced, half expecting him to fall down and writhe in pain until she clapped her hands.

“Quite right. You are not supposed to. If humans truly believed we existed, we would never get anything accomplished.”

Mellie laughed and looked around for a hidden camera, thinking this must be a joke. “Right. Ah…heh…okay, bud, brilliant costume,” she said, imitating the branch’s accent. “Where’s the zipper?” She reached toward him and touched a soft leaf.

The branch slapped her hand away and stamped its foot with a loud cracking noise. “I beg your pardon. I have not been a bud for over 800 springs!” He paced, his leaves crumpling, mumbling to himself about humans and why, in the One’s name, did he listen to that confounded gnome who told him that he needed to stand gate duty. With his rank!

“I’m sorry I upset you. Please, I’m very confused. I’m lost, and I just want to go home.” Mellie bit her lip.

The branch stopped mid-pace. “Home? Earlier, did you not wish for a new life? And riches? I know you wished for treasure, hmm?”

“How do you know that?” Mellie furrowed her brow. “Have you been reading my mind?”

The twig man didn’t answer her questions, asking his own instead. “Ahh, so, you admit this, yes?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Yes, but…well, this really isn’t what I had in mind.”

The branch threw up its twiggy fingers. “Oh, well, of course you did not have this in mind. After all, we are reasonably inconspicuous, especially to humans. How could you have this in mind? However, is it not superior of the One to think that this is what you would have chosen had you known about us? Anyway, ’tis irrevocable now. So, if you would just follow me, we shall get you signed in and enrolled for training.”

The branch marched off between the trunks of two large eucalyptus trees.

Mellie slid uncontrollably after the walking stick. She planted her feet firmly, refusing to budge, but she slid after him anyway. Grasping at branches of nearby trees, she panted heavily as she struggled to resist following the branch. Some kind of invisible tie connected her to him. He seemed to pull her along with his every step.

Mellie thought about her sisters and how mad they were at her. I’m dead meat if they find me. Mellie quickly gave up her battle and ran after the eucalyptus branch, barely keeping up with his stride.

†

The sand changed to coarse dirt, with pebbles and sticks. More and more trees filled Mellie’s vision. Bushes scraped against her bare legs and slapped her face as she moved deeper inside a forest of eucalyptus and redwood trees. She winced in pain as a razor-sharp rock sliced her foot. Stopping to nurse it, she wished once again for her forgotten shoes.

“Excuse me, sir?” Mellie looked around. She could not see the branch anywhere.

“Do not call me ‘sir’, I work for a living.” The branch peeked out from around one of the gigantic trees. “And please, try to keep up. We need to reach the gateway.”

Mellie limped up to him. “Sorry, sir…I mean…umm, what should I call you then?”

“Oh, well, we did skip that. Did we not? Yes, all right, an introduction then.” The branch man seemed to enjoy formal etiquette for he gave an elaborate wave and bowed. “My name is Regnans, family of Myrtaceae, born member of the F.A.I.R.I.E.S., Britannia Wing, rank of Master Nymph Dryad.”

“Nice to meet you, Reg…Reg?” Mellie chewed on the inside of her mouth. Never good at remembering names, she knew she would offend him with her lack of manners.

Sure enough, the dryad raised an eyebrow and pursed his lips. “Regnans.” He gave a hurt sniff, then drolly sneered. “If you find that a difficult name, you should meet the rest of my family, all seven-hundred thirty-four of them.”

“Sorry, I just…well, it is a lot to remember. It’s a nice name, though. My name is Maryellen Goodwin of Bret Harte Middle School, San Jose, California. But everyone calls me Mellie.” She stuck out her hand, intending to shake. Regnans stared at her.

“That is a strange curtsy. However, I guess ’twill do. We must get moving now. The shadows abound, you know.” Regnans made an about face and marched off faster than before.

Another hour passed, and still they strode along the forest floor. Mellie’s feet were now cut, blistered, and bleeding. She kept up as best she could with Regnans’s long stride. Whenever she tried to stop, he would pull her on with that invisible force of his.

Stupid, pompous, magical Star Wars freak.

She whimpered as she limped. Darkness and mist now covered the woods. As she was about to plead for a break, Regnans stopped. Except for her heavy gulps of air, all seemed quiet.

Regnans stiffened even more than usual. Nothing on him moved, apart from his eyes, which darted around quickly.

“All is safe, we may proceed.” He held up a twiggy finger to his woody mouth. “Please do not speak, and try not to breathe so abominably loud.”

Mellie nodded with a disgusted frown. Sweat dripped from her bangs. She tried to calm her breathing, even though her vision blurred, and her legs wobbled. Her blisters had popped by now and oozed wetness.

Regnans moved again, yet this time he took slow, deliberate steps, all the while scanning his surroundings. He walked up to a massive redwood tree and stroked its bark.

A breeze stirred up, rattling the leaves, sounding almost like spoken words. Mellie thought herself crazy again. However, the longer she stood there, the more she sensed that it really was the tree’s language, as if she had never listened to trees properly before. It said, “If you love, you will say the one true love that leads the way.”

Regnans whispered in a leaf rustling voice, “Ah-gaw-pay.”

A loud grumbling sound, as if someone awakened after a long sleep, shook the grove. The redwood tree opened two eyes, each the size of Mellie’s head, and blinked. A great fissure erupted below the eyes in the shape of a crescent, and redish-brown wooden teeth emerged. A long, knobby branch pushed its way out above the mouth and inhaled deeply.

The tree chuckled. Instead of the whispering leaves, a low, rumbling utterance of human speech came from the redwood tree. “Regnans? What brings you to my neck of the woods?” He blinked again. “And who is this? A new recruit? A human? A Chosen?”

Mellie knew she looked silly, standing there with her mouth in an ‘O’ shape, but she couldn’t move. This was simply impossible. There is no such thing as fairies!

“Yes, yes. Please open the gate, we must not dawdle here…they may be watching.” Regnans looked agitated.

A deep laugh resounded from the redwood. “Oh, Regnans. There are none who watch here.”

Regnans mumbled something about hamadryads and their pride, then proclaimed in a slightly louder voice to the tree, “We must be sober, be vigilant, because the shadow walks about like a roaring lion, seeking whom it may devour.”

The hamadryad looked chagrined. “You speak true, dryad. Forgive me for acting like an arrogant seedling.” He glanced at Mellie, and with a lowered voice asked, “And what is your name, little human?”

Mellie managed to squeak out, “Mellie Goodwin.”

“Ah, ’tis always nice to have a Good Wind.” The hamadryad laughed heartily.

“Sorry to interrupt this lovely tete-a-tete,” Regnans said, “but would you please open the gate? I left Westside completely unguarded.”

An annoyed creak came from the base of the redwood, followed by a sigh. “Yes, Regnans. Agape you said, and agape it is. Go with the light, my friends.” The large, joyous eyes closed, and the hamadryad whispered in his leaf rustling voice, “Until we meet again, Good Wind.” His face disappeared, and his roots lifted and pulled apart, exposing a tunnel within his trunk.

Regnans grabbed Mellie’s hand with his rough, wooden one, and pulled her inside the opening. The tree closed itself abruptly and left them in total darkness.

Regnans cleared his throat and said, “Let there be light.”

A burst of dazzling brightness sparkled from the tunnel’s wall. Mellie glanced around and noticed a long, winding stairwell leading down into the ground.

“Shall we, then?” Not waiting for a reply, Regnans started down the steps.

Available at Amazon.com and Barnes & Noble.com.

F.A.I.R.I.E.S. : Baptism by Fire by M.C. Pearson is the first book in a series about Mellie Goodwin and her life as a Fantastical, Aerial, International, Reasonably Inconspicuous, Emancipation Squads, aka a F.A.I.R.I.E.! Mellie is running away down the beach from a fight with her older sisters, and in her hurt and sadness she wishes for a life of importance, with riches and status, a life that matters. Her wish is granted in an unusual way when she soon encounters a strange man who looks like a tree twig and speaks with a British accent who informs her that she is the Chosen and must follow him. While she's at first hesitant and startled to find a world populated with beings completely unfamiliar, Mellie quickly throws herself into life learning to be a F.A.I.R.I.E. devoted to serving the One. She makes friends with a motley group including an elf, a limionade, a yeti, and an oceanide, but several people jealous of her status as the Chosen spread rumors about her and try to sabotage her success. Mellie's growth as a person and lessons about this new life are put to the test when attacks by I.M.P.S threaten the forces of Light, and she is the only one who can put an end to a thousand-year-old schism. I was a bit unsure at first at the idea of fairies in our modern world, especially keeping it in line with Christianity, but Pearson has a light touch at writing that kept me sucked in to this impossible yet thrilling world. The characters are fascinating; each one could carry their own book, and the story has an epic overarching theme that Pearson seems to have plans for many more books in the series. Her sketches give readers an idea of how to imagine these fantastical creatures that can, at time, be difficult to visualize otherwise. For readers who love Narnia or Harry Potter, this is a terrifically compelling story with a deeper message of faith and friendship. My hat is off to Pearson for making this concept not just work, but fly. I can't wait to read the next book in the series!