Culture Matters

Since that day when 3000 American’s lost their lives – a totality of souls that outstripped our losses at Pearl Harbor – there’s been a moral struggle in the conscious of America. As early as October of 2001, I predicted (and wrote) that Americans would quickly forget the barbarity of that day. Even so, I’ve been saddened and surprised at the mental gymnastics American’s have come up with to excuse our enemy.

America is a nation of tolerance. We forgive almost any transgression - as long as the perpetrator asks forgiveness. Politicians, rock stars, Hollywood actors – they can get away with almost anything as long as they say they’re sorry.

Where did we get this idea? Why are we so forgiving?

It’s because of our culture – our Western culture – and a morality that began with a carpenter.

Now believe it or not, this carpenter changed the way everyone – even atheists – thinks. For He is the first person in history to teach that everyone should love everyone we meet - regardless of race, creed, or gender. He said we are all “Sons of God” and that “there is neither Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, male nor female, for you are all one”.

Two thousand years ago this was a revolutionary thought. Unlike the Good Samaritan, the morality of the day would have left the victim on the side of the road. Slavery was commonplace, and even talking to the “woman at the well” was considered beneath the dignity of a Jewish man. Yet the carpenter made of point of doing so, permanently engendering a philosophy of equality of the races and the sexes.

And, of course, He told us to forgive. Now, nearly all Americans think this way - even atheists and people of other religions. Western culture practically invented tolerance.

But our tolerance has led to is an unfortunate sympathy – even acceptance – of people who want to kill us. Humanism – kidnapped under the guise of “political correctness” – has made American’s believe that our culture and belief system is no better than any other.

This, of course, is a lie. Western culture abolished slavery and gave women the right to vote. It is generous to the poor and accepting of other religions. It embraces diversity and promotes liberty.

Compare those ideas to those of the terrorists we fight. They openly claim that women have no rights – they shouldn’t vote, own property, or even show their face in public. Men are taught to beat their wives and rape their captives. Their holy book claims that women “lack common sense” and that “the evidence of two women is equal to one man” because “their minds are deficient.” The bulk of souls in hell are women, and children have no higher purpose than to strap a bomb to themselves.

Their prophet was a general. He raised vast armies, conquered huge swaths of land, burned libraries, and killed those who did not convert.

Let me say that again. Their most holy man – the example from which they base their entire morality – ordered his followers to kill anyone who refused to convert. He wrote that they should “fight the Pagans wherever you find them…lie in wait for them in every stratagem of war.” “For those who do not submit…their punishment is execution or crucifixion.”

Compare those words to the carpenter’s - who said we should love your enemy, give to the poor, and do good to those who spitefully use you. There’s simply no comparison.

But American’s don’t like to draw distinctions - and they don’t like to judge. They desperately search for the good - even to the point of sympathizing with killers.

Our naivety has got to stop. Our culture of tolerance is under attack by people who are brutally intolerant. Our freedom is under assault by those who would enslave us. Women’s rights are being shattered by men who think that a woman’s only value is to reproduce.

Our nation should always be based on acceptance and liberty. But when our very culture is under attack, we must denounce that attack for what it is - and stop those who would enslave us.

People who won’t defend their freedom will surly lose it.

Dave Belton
Buckhead

To the editor:

“911, Three Hundred Years Ago”

Once upon a time - about a thousand years ago - Christian leaders found it expedient to tell their followers to wage war in the name of God. Because you and I are members of that same faith, we have no business drawing distinctions between ourselves and any other faith.

No. That is liberal guilt. It has blinded our reason and neutered our resolve.

Contrary to popular opinion, the Crusades were not a religious attack upon poor, peaceful Muslims. Quite the contrary: they were a desperate military attempt to solve a military problem. The Christians in the East, located in what historians now call the Byzantine Empire, had been under relentless assault by Islamic aggressors for literally hundreds of years. After the disastrous Battle of Manzikert, the Christians were officially losing. The Byzantine emperor, Alexius, asked the Pope in Rome for help. Christian Europe, seeing their Christian brothers on the brink of extinction, responded.

Keep in mind these jihadists had already conquered the Holy Lands, all of northern Africa, all of the Middle East, modern day Turkey, Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan, and much of India. They also overran Portugal, Spain, and parts of Italy. Even more disturbing, they conquered three of the five centers of Christianity: Jerusalem, Antioch, and Alexandria. And they were besieging the fourth – Constantinople. Most of these ravaged areas were formally Roman and Christian.

In short, Western Culture was under assault by radical Islam.

Sound familiar?

Perhaps the most striking part of this story is that few of us would guess that these four cities were once the epicenters of the early Christian Church. Few Americans know that the Christians in the East were exterminated during the Middle Ages.

How did that happen?

Islamic jihad.

These same Muslims nearly conquered France – the most powerful country in Europe – when they were narrowly defeated at the Battle of Tours. You may not know it, but this was probably the most important battle in history.

Even more alarming to the West was when Rome – the last center of Christianity – was sacked by Muslim raiders. Half of Christendom had been lost. The Vatican was looted. Western Europe was on its heels. Is it any wonder they fought back?

Now, I’m not defending the tactics employed during the Crusades. Nowadays, everyone (except the terrorists we fight) agrees that religious wars are a very bad thing. We don’t wage wars over religion anymore: it was a mistake – we’ve moved on – about a thousand years ago.

And that’s the point. The entire world has given up on this medieval idea – everyone except the jihadists who are stuck in their feudalistic past.

In fact, Islam is the only current religion that encourages violence. And like Communism, it is the only religion whose stated goal is to convert the rest of the world.

But even that is beside the point. Western culture - the very core of our ideas - began with a peaceful carpenter. He raised no armies. He killed no one. He told his followers that, “he who lives by the sword, dies by the sword.”

Compare those words to the prophet’s - who personally beheaded over 500 captives in a single outing. There’s simply no comparison.

Of course no religion is perfect. Of course horrible deeds have been done in the name of God. Religions are full of people, and people are far from perfect.

But the founder of one religion was a peaceful pauper, while the other was a warring general. If you can’t see the moral difference in these two approaches, then I am very sorry for you.

Some might think I’m drudging up useless history. No one cares about that ancient stuff.

Americans don’t care – I’ll grant you that. But consider this…

The high-water mark of Islamic expansion occurred in 1683. A vast, overwhelming Muslim army was about to accomplish something they’d been trying to do for centuries – conquer the jewel of classical Europe – Vienna.

The invaders had pushed further than they’d ever had into central Europe. They had bombed a part of the wall and were ready to storm the Austrian capital. But a Polish king, John Sobieski, came to the rescue of his Christian neighbor, smashing the intruders in a daring cavalry charge. The ignoble defeat of the Muslim army – just when they were on the verge of a glorious success – was a source of disappointment for centuries to come.

The date? September the 11th.

Yeah, 911.

You might not care about this ancient stuff. Unfortunately, Osama Bin Laden does.

To the editor:

Life got harder.

I’m not sure when it happened – probably around the time I was flying helicopters over the Pyramids on the Nile or airplanes into Sarajevo. Sometime around then - after the Wall fell down - the challenge for America changed from the epic confrontation of the Cold War to the subtle struggle of Globalization.

Globalization is a funny word. It summons many different connotations – both good and bad. Whether or not you’re a fan of Globalization, however, one thing is abundantly clear: our children will have to be much smarter than you and I. India and China – even folks in Latin America – these people want we have and are aggressively competing for this planet’s dwindling resources.

Well, that was a pretty “pie-in-the-sky” sort of statement – and it wasn’t even very clever. Turn on your television to any business program and they’ll tell you the same. But what does that really mean to you?

It means that the days of cruising through High School and getting a good, stable job are over. It means that your children will have to compete for things you and I took for granted.

Now please don’t paint me as an Isolationist. I’m not saying America’s finest days are over, and I’m not saying we can’t compete.

What I am saying is that your children MUST compete – they’ll have to fight for the same financial and economic security that you and I enjoy.

And for those who have made their fortune and will soon be retiring – please remember that these are the same workers who’ll be fueling our economy, funding your social security, and keeping the stock markets alive and vibrant. Those who think they needn’t worry about a well-educated work force need to think again.

Which leads me to my salient point. Believe it or not, your children – from the wee little ones in the Primary School to those oh, so unflappable teens – are scoring better than they’ve ever had before. The reason they’ve done so - in my opinion - is because Morgan County teachers have “raised the bar” on their own expectations and increased the rigor of our schools.

Now, rigor isn’t a funny word. It reminds me of sweat and toil, and that Marine Corps Gunny Sergeant who, in less than flowering terms, informed me what a maggot I was for not climbing up that wall as fast as he wanted. Rigor means more difficult, more engaged. It means harder.

All our schools have increased their rigor – and they’re all showing positive results. But perhaps the most visible change has been at the High School with their new IB (International Baccalaureate) program.

Believe it or not, one third of the students at MCHS are taking college-level courses. That is an amazing feat, and something we should be very proud of.

But college-level means more work – it means more rigor – it means harder.

Harder is not a beloved word in today’s lexicon. With today’s cornucopia of cool technology - GPS direction finders, ipods, cell phones, satellite radio and the internet - it’s obvious we desperately want things to be easier - not harder.

But harder is a vital necessity in the education of today’s teens – at least if they want to prosper in a world of Globalization.

That’s why I like the philosophy of our IB teachers. They talk of challenging students with ever increasing difficulty - all while offering a “scaffolding” or “bridge” of support. In other words, the teachers are personally invested in every teen. If a teen starts to slip under the weight of the more rigorous work, the teacher can “catch” them with the underlying support that only a local high school can provide.

This “scaffolding of support” will not be present at college. Anyone who has been to the halls of higher learning knows that no one is going to hold your hand – no one cares whether you graduate or not. In fact, nation-wide, only one fourth of students who start college ever graduate from anywhere! That is a sobering and daunting fact.

That’s why I’m so supportive of the AP and IB programs we have at MCHS: because they allow our teens to challenge themselves in an environment where teachers are there to actually support them.

But there’s not much point offering college-level courses to students who will only do high school level work. Our school system has done an amazing job offering high-level courses that you and I could have only dreamed about when we were teens. But teachers can’t make kids study – they can’t make them work hard. That is a job for us parents, and of course, for the students themselves.

Parents – do your kids a favor and convince them study. Encourage them to “raise the bar” on their own expectations - and work even harder to achieve them.

Dave Belton
Buckhead, GA

In the Wake of 911 - America in Danger       

September, 2001 
 

In the wake of the horrific tragedy visited upon our country the nation is strong and our country is united. The president rightly said that we will conduct a years-long effort to root out terrorism. Our people are united in this common cause. Yet a few weeks after 911, and I am already hearing the pains of guilty conscious. Violence begets violence. The only way to peace is to lay down our arms. 

History disagrees. It is full of large, wealthy nations who were destroyed by poor, fanatical ones.  

The Babylonian Empire at one time was the most enlightened culture in the world. They created the first set of laws in the Coe of Hammurabi, and the Hanging Gardens of Babylon was one of the Wonders of the World. Yet it was conquered in one night – one night – by the upstart Persians (present day Iran).  

In time, the Persians became a mighty empire themselves, extending all the way from India to Turkey. Yet they were crushed by Alexander the Great - a man who came from the extremely poor shepherd region of Macedonia. In a few short years the enlightened Greek Empire was overrun by a little town on the Tiber, and the Roman Empire (probably the greatest in the world) was destroyed by a bunch of barbarians with names like Attila the Hun.  

The Chinese built the Great Wall of China to keep out the Mongols. They came anyway. Genghis Khan conquered the world’s largest empire, smashing the sophisticated and peaceful Chinese. Yet the Mongols were merely nomads – they were so primitive they literally lived on their horses. Then the Mongols destroyed India. The conquest was so savage that in Delhi they murdered over 100,000 women and children in three days – three days! 

In recent times, a defeated and humiliated Germany rose from the ashes of “The War to End All Wars” to conquer most of Europe. “Pax Britannica” was a term used in the early 20th century to describe the power, wealth and influence of the British Empire. Yet in WWII they were nearly exterminated by a nation they’d just defeated in WWI. 

It would be pleasant to think we can all just get along. We can talk just about it – come to some sort of understanding. The brotherhood of man – etcetera, etcetera… 

History proves otherwise.  

When the bombing stars, innocent people will surly die. Then the media will step in and pander to our emotions. Many now-resolute hearts will falter and question our war against terrorism. But the simple, ageless truth is that nations who do not destroy their enemies are themselves destroyed.  

A jackal enters your house and murders your daughter. He promises to do it again and rejoices at your loss. What man does not go out and kill that jackal before it murders his son? 

A thousand years ago, Constantinople was the most powerful, wealthiest, learned city in the world. It was the capital of the vestiges of the Roman Empire. It stood as a bulwark against Islamic invaders for centuries. It was the religious center of the first Christian nation. Yet many of you have probably never heard its name. That’s because the nomadic Ottoman Turks who destroyed and pillaged Constantinople renamed it Istanbul.  

Not many Christians live in Constantinople anymore. 

Freedom is not free. 

The Definition of a Liberal     August 2004 

Mark Twain once wrote that if you were young and a conservative you were hard-hearted. If you were old and a liberal you were a fool. His bitter satire brought him much fame and prestige – and food for thought in a new and scary world. 

A recent letter asked the question, “What is a conservative?” Then it proceeded to lambaste said conservatives with a variety of odious names. Unfortunately, that’s what’s wrong with today’s liberals – they don’t know who they are or what they are opposing. Not knowing, they resort to name-calling to support their ever-narrowing agenda. 

Let me help.  

Webster says conservatism is “a philosophy based upon the tradition of social stability: stressing established institutions, preferring gradual development to abrupt change.”  

Conservatives stick to what works. Don’t reinvent the wheel. If it’s not broke, don’t fix it. The longest, greatest empires such as Egypt (4000 years) and Rome (2000 years) were conservative. 

The problem with conservatism, of course, is entropy: the truth that all things constantly change. The ancient Greeks understood this, saying that a table is not truly a table but an assortment of wood that is slowly disintegrating into dust. Change happens – you can’t stop it. 

Webster calls liberalism a “philosophy based upon a belief in progress, the essential goodness of man and the protection of individual rights.”  

Liberals like change. There’s always a better way – let’s find it.  

Unfortunately, every great country that has embraced liberalism quickly eroded into a pale shadow of its former self. Sorry - those are the facts. Greece, the first democracy, after destroying the mighty Persian Empire, quickly disintegrated into a myriad of different parts. Spain, France, and Great Britain were all “super-powers” of their day until their liberal factions turned them into socialist states. The Roman Empire rotted from within. “Bread and Circuses” actually started as a welfare program to appease the growing masses. 

Liberals don’t like to talk about mighty empires. They think of themselves not so much as citizens of America but as citizens of the world.  

Unfortunately, India and China thought this way until the Mongols raped and pillaged millions of their people.  

So who is right? Should we be liberal or conservative? I think most clear-thinking Americans know that somewhere down the middle is a good place to be.  

Hence, the modern Democrat’s problem.  

Modern Democrats have abandoned the center. There are a lot of great Democrats out there who are every bit as good or better than Republicans. But you cannot deny that they are the party who supports partial-birth abortion, same-sex marriage, the war on Judeo-Christian values, and the promulgation of the welfare state. It is they who unconsciously abet our enemies by denigrating the War on Terror. No Democratic president has ever been so cruelly disparaged in a time of war. 

It’s alarming how the Democrats have changed! Remember, the first American liberal and the founder of the Democratic Party, Thomas Jefferson, supported states rights, limited the federal government and was very fiscal conservative. That is why Senator Phil Graham (R-Tex) said after the Republicans won the House of Representatives that, “Reconstruction is finally over.” Because up until that time, it was the Democrats who were the conservatives.  

Who changed the Democratic Party? FDR and his colossal “New Deal.” By spending lots and lots of money to get people working, he inadvertently changed the Democrats from the fiscally conservative party to that of “Big Government.” 

Was FDR right? Perhaps for his time. But we are no longer in the Great Depression. Ronald Reagan effectively refuted the merits of big government. He then embraced the “old fashioned” policies of family values and personal morality that Democrats so eagerly discarded. Now, for the first time in a century, the Republicans control the White House, the Senate, and the House of Representatives.  

And what is the Democrat’s response? Call the president names and flee farther to the left. 

Of course we should respect liberal ideas. The American Revolution was a liberal idea. Freeing the slaves (a Republican initiative) was a liberal idea. Giving women the right to vote (yep, Republicans again) was a liberal idea.  

But in time of war - when our lives and freedoms are threatened by zealots who want to destroy us - it is incumbent to embrace the strengths that conservatism provides: patriotism, sacrifice, and unity above self. Otherwise, like other liberal nations before us, we will rot from within - succumbing to the pressures of our gathering enemies.  

Americans everywhere vowed they would never forget 9/11.  

Three years later and we have already forgotten.

Morgan County High School’s

Marriage – the Foundation of Our Civilization

Sep, 2004

The birth of our country was a liberal idea. We revolted from England in order “to form a more perfect union.” The freeing of the slaves was a liberal idea, brought about by the Republican Party. The civil rights movement was a liberal idea. These were positive events.

The difference between those liberals and today’s liberals is the constant attempts to erode the very foundations of our civilization. Every child has heard the song, “The wise man builds his house upon the rock.” Yet today’s liberals feel they can unearth that rock without toppling that fabled abode.

Our founding fathers were liberal for their time. Yet almost all of them were devout Christians of one form or another. Their concept of “separation of Church and State” was designed to keep the State from interfering in the Church – not the other way around. Remember this country was founded by religious pilgrims fled here to avoid persecution of their church from the State.

Today, the left wants to take the words, “under God” out of the Pledge of Allegiance. They harass the Boy Scouts for (gasp) respecting religious belief. They forbid nativity scenes and demand we say “Seasons Greetings” instead of “Merry Christmas.”

If you think the left has not turned away from Judeo-Christian values, take a look at American Catholics. Before Ronald Reagan, Catholics voted over 90% Democratic. Now, most Catholics are Republicans. And you can thank the Catholic Cubans in Miami for electing Geoarge Bush as they were solidly behind Clinton in both of his elections. Yet liberal issues like partial-birth abortion and traditional family values (remember Elian Gonzalez?) drove these Democratic voters to the Republican’s corner.

Some decry that Republicans are no better than Democrats. Of course they aren’t. Both parties are made of people and people are prone to weakness. But there is no denying that Republicans defend family values while the people attacking those values are solidly democratic. 

Take the gay marriage issue. “They’re not bothering me - why not let them marry?” Because marriage is the bedrock by which our civilization is formed. It is an institution older than recorded history.

“Then – why not just redefine the word ‘marriage’? Why can’t we do that?” This idea is even more insidious than the first. George Orwell, in his classic 1984, brilliantly described what happens when you change the meaning of a word. C. S. Lewis does an equally good job in the forward of Mere Christianity. Both authors – wildly separated by faith and ideology – successfully argued that when you change the meaning of a word you change the meaning that that word once embodied. Ergo, when you change the meaning of the word “marriage”, you change what marriage is. You change what it is to be married.

“Family” is an institution that is designed to protect the female of the species. Developed over literally millenniums of time, it provides the mother with a stable environment to successfully raise her child. It is an idea that has tested over eons of time, credited by both liberals and conservatives as being the very foundation of our civilization.

And you want to change all that?

Wilson’s Ideal of a “shining city upon a hill” is Lost Among Modern-day Democrats

Oct 2004           

Liberty is no longer the focus of liberals. That’s why they’re so severely off-footed on the War on Terror. Do you think FDR - Father of the modern-day Democratic Party - would have acted with any less vigor after an attack upon this country? How about JFK? We nearly had a civilization-ending nuclear-showdown over the installation of a few missiles. America lost over 400,000 people in World War II. Yet no one decries Kennedy or Roosevelt as warmongers.

By liberating Iraq and Afghanistan, millions of women now enjoy civil rights such as universal suffrage, education, and the right to drive and work. These are solid, liberal ideas. You would think the liberals would applaud Bush as a freedom fighter for bringing democracy to the Middle East. Instead, because of partisan politics and their weak-kneed far-left constituencies, Democrats complain about the War on Terror, tacitly helping the terrorists with their rabid negativity.

Which brings me to my main point. Up until the early 1900’s America’s foreign policy was that of our nation’s father, George Washington. Disliking the “balance of power” politics which dominated old Europe, he correctly concluded that America would do better to avoid such costly military adventures.

In 1914 because of an assassination of a meaningless crown prince, Europe embroiled itself in the “war to end all wars.” America, happily un-involved, looked on in vague interest - fervently glad to be an ocean away. During the next three years, Europe wasted an entire generation of young men upon the muddy fields of Flanders and France.

Yet in 1917 a Democratic president convinced his Republican-majority Senate to enter that same, odious war.

Why?

Woodrow Wilson was our most liberal president. Profoundly idealistic, he was the very first president to call America a “shinning city upon the hill.” He believed that “a steadfast concert for peace can never be maintained except by a partnership of democratic nations.” Because no democracy had ever attacked another democracy, he concluded that the more democracies there were around the world, the more peaceful the world would be. In asking congress to go to war, he stated, “The world must be safe for democracy. Its peace must be planted upon the tested foundations of political liberty.”

The bizarre truth is George Bush is promoting Wilsonian-liberalism when he liberated Iraq. The rape and torture chambers are gone. The million people who were murdered by Saddam’s regime have been avenged. Iraqi women work and vote, little girls attend school, all while enjoying civil liberties they could only dream about a decade ago.

Wilson would have applauded such a noble venture. He said about our involvement in World War One that, “We are glad to fight for the ultimate peace of the world and for the liberation of the German people.”

The champion of liberalism was “glad” to fight for democracy even as America suffered 200,000 casualties. Yet today’s liberal decry the liberation of Iraq.

Please read that again. “Liberals decry liberation.” Isn’t that an odd sentence? Shouldn’t it make one pause?

If Bill Clinton had invaded Iraq, the Dems would be signing his praises. Yet because a Republican began the war, they demand a withdrawal in Iraq – a move that would be sure to plunge that country into a repressive, religious bloodbath. All the gains for women’s rights would have been lost. Yet they beg the President Bush to engage in Darfur. Now, in my opinion we should something about Rwanda where nearly a million people were slaughtered in the late 1990’s. But it is the height of hypocrisy to say we should help Darfur or Rwanda, yet criticize our efforts in Iraq.

Democracy is hard – no doubt about it. But if it takes root in Iraq, that country will become a beacon a hope, spreading freedom throughout a troubled region. But the sad fact is that liberty is no longer the focus of liberals.

Americans everywhere vowed they would never forget 911. Three years later, and we have already forgotten.

Abraham Lincoln and the War on Terror

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Reading last month’s letters was disappointing and ultimately, very sad.

I’m reminded of Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address. Everyone knows the, “Four score and seven years ago,” part, but few can recall the next and most important sentence:

Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation, so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure.

This wasn’t a rhetorical question from a confident leader - ready to answer with a quirky sound bite. It was heart-wrenching query from an embattled president. It was an admission of doubt from a beleaguered man who sent hundreds of thousands to their deaths in what was, at the time, a losing effort to preserve a fledging democracy.

Why did he do it? Did Lincoln own a crystal ball? Did he know that if he sacrificed 700,000 lives that the United States would someday become a superpower? Of course not. America in 1863 was a weak, unstable, backwater nation. 

He did it because we were, “a new nation, conceived in Liberty, dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.” That was all Lincoln needed to know. Democracy was worth the cost, so that the “government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.”

We are staring in the maw of a dangerous enemy - an enemy that hates us not for what we’ve done, but for who we are. Only some people don’t believe that. Some talk of “globalization” and the inherent peacefulness of the human race, blithely wishing we could all just get along. Or they point fingers at those who defend democracy, resorting to name-calling and political pandering to further their narrow aims.

Don’t get me wrong. Like most people, I’m gravely disappointed by recent events. Like every conflict, ours has been fraught with mistakes. And it would be simply marvelous if everyone on the planet lived in peace and harmony. But eons of history proves we can’t. The world is full of people who will kill and steal what others have. Ditto for nations. If the 20th Century proved anything, it proved the human race is even more bloodthirsty than we’ve ever been before. To think otherwise is foolish.

Was Lincoln wrong? Is it right to fight for democracy? Or should we wallow in self-incrimination and doubt, crucifying the shepherd who (at least) tries to defend his flock?

The wolves are watching.

- Dave Belton

(web administrator’s note: Dave is an aspiring writer. To learn more about Dave, please look into his fictional work, the "Pallas" series.)

THE PALLAS SERIES

“Let the gods fight the gods,” her father tells her, “it is not for you to wage the wars of heaven.” For how can a mere mortal hope to battle omnipotent beings? 

Believe it or not, Dave has written three novels. Beginning with The Gods Among Us, the Pallas series primarily deals with the sanctity of life. Blending mythology with space opera, it’s a surprising mixture of the nobility of The Chronicles of Narnia and the warnings of Brave New World. 

Dave is looking for a publisher who will represent these books. Click on the right to read more about Pallas. 
 

Promo 

“I am powerful – because I can read!”

Pallas doesn’t believe in the gods except to peevishly blame them for drowning her mother. But she’s forced to shelve her moody cynicism when she rescues a talking cat named Othello. A god wants her dead - the cat is happy to oblige - until he realizes who she is…

Styling her as a child of Atlantis, Othello convinces everyone she’s a mythic princess. But how can an ignorant peasant possibly pull off this impossible charade? By learning the forbidden art of reading. 
 

Summary 

      The Gods Among Us tells the story of a peasant who lives in a world dominated by mythological gods. Only the “gods” aren’t gods at all, but a group of stranded astronauts who create a utopia by populating their virgin world with a race of clones.  

      Pallas is an athletic young peasant with pretty gray eyes. An impish loner who constantly gets into fights, she carries two demoralizing scars; the drowning of her mother and the rumors that her father was once a thief. Skeptical and confused, she doesn’t believe in the gods except to peevishly blame them for killing her mother. But her moody cynicism is challenged when she rescues a talking cat named Othello.  

      An arrogant fluff-ball with evil emerald eyes, Othello dismisses his rescuer as a mindless waif. For he is the “pet” of Mulciber; the handsome fire god. He also knows how to read, a discipline prohibited to the clones. But his most cherished secret is that he is actually a spy for the clandestine Sixth Column, an organization bent on overthrowing the gods. 

      Beyond his prowess at sarcasm, however, the pampered pet can’t survive by himself. Discerning his dilemma, the uneducated yet intelligent Pallas agrees to feed him only if he teaches her how to read. He reluctantly agrees, puzzled that a clone could be so clever. Soon, they are captured by a feudalistic leader who intends to hand her over to Mulciber. Using her power of literacy Pallas escapes, culminating in a triumphant ride upon a dolphin. 

      This forms the turning point of the first book. Pallas has no idea why she’s being pursued. But Othello deduces a startling trick of luck: she’s the lost granddaughter of Poseida, goddess of the sea. Taking a desperate gamble he abandons his mission of espionage to shepherd Pallas instead. But because he doesn’t trust her, he doesn’t reveal his plans until book three. Stylizing her as a mythic princess come from the sea, he places her in the watchful care of Lord Catagen who is loyal to Poseida and the water gods. Two mischievous princesses, Casey and Lucy, become Pallas’ fast friends; while their domineering older sister, Elena, becomes a jealous rival.  

      All Pallas wants to do is return to her father. This, the cat cannot allow, for he is busy hatching a complicated scheme to place her on the throne of the water gods. He lies to Pallas, convincing her that her father will be killed by Mulciber if she ever goes back home. Not wanting to doom her father as well as her mother she reluctantly obeys, forced to cling to her intolerable mentor to pull off this impossible charade. 

   The pauper lives as a princess, enjoying her friendship with Casey and Lucy. She even cements a bond with Elena when she saves her from an abusive prince. But Pallas has no idea how dangerous her life has become. Mulciber the fire god, who is busy forming an alliance against the water gods to become the dominant deity, is enraged by the prophecy. He nearly captures her but she cleverly escapes, again by her prowess at reading. Perplexed that she was able to elude a god, she reluctantly concludes that the prophecy might be true. Caught in an emotional crossroads, she’s forced to ally herself with those who drowned her mother, Poseida and the gods of the sea. 

      Things become much more complicated when the Catagens visit the capital city. Unable to navigate her way through the politics of feudalistic society, Pallas relies on Elena like never before. Suddenly, the cat (whom she now realizes is a spy) is plotting to kidnap her. Things couldn’t possibly get worse when she learns a wonderful, yet tragic secret: her mother is still alive - a tortured prisoner of Mulciber. She eventually confronts Othello, making him confess that her mother (Teresa) is the secret founder of the Sixth Column. Asserting her growing independence she refuses his orders to abandon her adopted family, sacrificing herself to rescue the Catagens. The book ends with a clash between immortals and a shocking surprise, when she’s taken to live with her godly kin. 

      Pallas and the City of God begins with her triumphant entry to Atlantis where she finally meets her grandmother, the goddess Poseida. But Pallas learns a horrible truth - it was Poseida who betrayed Teresa (her troublesome daughter) to Mulciber. Regretting her terrible choice and hoping for a second chance at motherhood, Poseida placates her guilt by doting on her newly-discovered granddaughter. But Pallas becomes disenchanted with heaven when she discovers how the gods create people only to destroy them. When Pallas learns that Elena has been captured, she steals a hovercraft and rescues her. This brings condemnation from the other gods who put her on trial. Far from being angry, Poseida is impressed by her pluck, deciding to name her the next queen of the sea. But just when Othello’s King-maker politics is finally going to come to fruition, she rejects her divine legacy, fleeing back to her mortal father.  

      This is Pallas’ defining moment. Unlike the gods who see nothing wrong with treating human beings like cattle, Pallas is unable to salve her guilt. Thus, the ignorant peasant learns the truth that they never comprehend - that when people pretend to be gods, they cannot help but become monsters.  

      In the next few books, Pallas journeys to a distant continent to find Teresa. There, she falls in love with a boy who she later discovers is already betrothed. The heart-churning relationship lasts for three books, ending in the boy’s tragic death. She also learns about the One True God, though she is still a skeptic.  

   In book six, a friend sacrifices her life to rescue Pallas’ mother. But unlike the idyllic woman Pallas remembers from her early childhood, Teresa is vengeful and bitter just like Pallas’ grandmother. Unwittingly repeating the mother-daughter battles of Poseida and Teresa, Pallas quarrels with her mother, jealous of the attention she gives to Othello and her cherished Sixth Column. Eventually reconciling their differences, they inspire the mortals to fight for their freedom, orchestrate a climatic battle against the gods, and free the clones from slavery. 

(web administrator's note: the following is a selection from some of Dave's creative writings)

THE GODS AMONG US 

by  

D. C. Belton 
 
 
 
   
“The Past is Prologue.”

William Shakespeare                     circa 1600: Earth Standard 
 
 

BOOK ONE 
 

PEASANT 
 
 
   
 
 
 

PROLOGUE: A Dozen Disciples 
 

  “There we are!” she laughed aloud, tossing the rat into the cage. Gnashing his vicious teeth, he brawled against his motley fellows. “Twelve of you! A dozen Disciples of Poseida.”

      “Awesome!” clamored her best and only friend. The two were prowling the sewers, intent upon another devious prank. “This’ll be loads better than when we burned the monthly tithe. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Pallas knowingly replied.

      “But - you sure you want to get Poseida again? I mean - we did her last time. Why not Vulcana, or Terra, or…”

      “You know why.”

      “I know, but - I just thought - maybe just this once, you know,” she giggled, “don’t want the other Gods to feel left out - they might get jealous, and…”

      “No! It has to be Poseida.”

      Cindy sighed. “Fine. Don’t have to bite my head off. Why do you have to make everything so - personal?”

      Pallas bit her lip. “Sorry,” she said - in a whisper quite different from the defiance she knew just a moment ago. “I - I don’t know why.”

      Cindy shaped her face into a naughty grin. “Come on. We gotta hurry if we want to interrupt that Festival!”

      “You are soooo bad.” That’s what I love about her. Pallas absolutely adored her father, but Cindy was the only one who could tease her from her moody grief.

      They journeyed through the bowels of the tiny village, hauling their treasure through the smelly maze. They dropped the cage when they were beneath the temple, bathing their captives in a river of filth.

      “Wanna make sure they’re good and smelly.”

      “As smelly as your boyfriend, Rufus?” Cindy wickedly replied. 

      “Rufus? Don’t make me sick.”

      “Don’t be so picky – he’s the best you’ll ever find…”

      Pallas guffawed, savoring Cindy’s jibes. But she didn’t want to jaw about boys when perched upon the pinnacle of her notorious career. “Leads right to the Holy Urn!” she gestured up to a drain. Marked by a sliver of light, it was graced with a chorus of sad and somber music. “You know, where they bless the Water - in the very middle of the sanctuary.”

      “Excellent! But - how are we gonna get ‘em up there?” The ceiling was quite high. “There’s no way we’re gonna lift this thing over our heads.”

      “Way ahead of ya, sister.” Producing a fistful of rope, she strung it from a pair of pulleys that were hanging from the rafters.

      “Wow. That was smart.”

      “Thanks. Rigged the pulleys yesterday - been planning this for weeks.” They hoisted up the cage until it was firmly against the drain.

      “Old mullet-head’s gonna freak…”

      “Let’s hope he spills the water…”

      “Ready?” Cindy asked, poised to release the rats.

      “Not yet! Wait for the blessing.”

      “Oh, yeah,” she sniggered, listening to the solemn proceedings. The music died a grateful death, replaced by the voice of a wizened cleric.

      “We ask you Mighty Poseida, Queen of the Unquenchable Sea, to bless this holy Water...”

      “Unquenchable Sea,” spat Pallas, “that is sooooo stupid.”

      “Shhhh!” chortled her blissful friend.

      “We pour this life-giving Water, into this, your Holy Urn. Give us the gift of your sacred bounty, that we might sanctify your beloved Disciples…”

      “I’ve got your beloved Disciples,” she leered, nodding to her friend. Cindy squealed with delight as she opened the tiny door. The twelve pilgrims scurried up the drain.

      “Come, then, and drink of the Cup which She alone can give. Drink, drink, ye Disciples of Poseida…”

      “Eeeek!!!” someone cried.

      “Holy Poseida!”

  “Save the Urn!”

  “Don’t let it fall!”

  But the priceless Urn crashed upon the floor, sending its holy contents down the dingy pipe. Cindy was soaked by the sacred cascade.

  “Look!” she laughed. “It’s a shower from heaven!”

      But Pallas ignored her giddy friend, mulling over her meaningless triumph. She relished the torment of the anguished worshipers, mourning the loss of their stricken relic.

  “Take that, Poseida, you stupid old sow.” 
 
 
 
 

Chapter One 

The Raft 
 

Lo, a girl-child hath been given unto us

Alone, among the fishes of the Sea

for she shall bring forth a wondrous Age,

and loose the seals of the Catastrophe… 

            - from “Lay of the Deluge”

                        Proteus V 

The lonely peasant hurried down the street, trapped by the wealth she was clothed in.

“How did a blacksmith afford that dress?” said an old woman.

      “Colors are expensive,” said her jealous friend.

      “And it’s dyed in purple,” carped a cleric. “Wearing purple is a deliberate affront to the Gods.”

      “Not to mention Lord Joculo.”

  Pallas fled from the angry whispers, ruing her many-colored dress. A birthday gift from her doting father, it was made from a fabulous fabric no one had ever seen before.

  Yesterday she was ecstatic with her shimmering prize. Today it seemed to imprison her.

  “Are you for real?” Cindy asked. “I am so jealous.”

      “Don’t be,” she bitterly complained. Everyone liked the dress before. They said so anyways, even the pretty girls who normally never spoke to her. Their rare praise had given her an odd sense of pleasure. For an entire day, people pretended to like her…

      Today was different. Now the dress was pretentious and crass.

  “Nice dress,” crowed Derrick IX.

      She turned to him and scowled.

  Pallas didn’t like Derrick. The son of a butcher, the pudgy boy was always quick to taunt her. A butcher in the poor village of Kelly Tree was considered a man of some wealth. Derrick seemed to want everyone to know just how some-what wealthy he was.

      “Your father steal that too?”

      In one blow, he was crouching with pain; in another, he was writhing on the ground.

      A crowd of jaded peasants gathered around, hoping to be entertained by a spectacle of violence. But Pallas bullied her way through the eager throng – fleeing to the solace of the deserted shore.

      Cindy followed. “Nice one. Plan on beating up every guy in town?”

      “He deserved it.”

      “He deserves to marry a shrew, have snot-nosed children and die a short and miserable life. But punching him in the nose…”

      “Maybe I broke it…it’d be an improvement.”

      Cindy huffed. “How are you going to find a husband if you keep getting into fights?”

      “I - I don’t know.” Maybe I don’t want a husband. “I hate this place.”

      “Get used to it, girlfriend, ‘cause you ain’t never gonna leave…” But suddenly she stopped, placing a hand over her heart…

  The handsome young men casually sauntered by, the tallest wearing a look of disdain.

  “Did you see that?!” she simpered. “Did you see the ‘DG’ he just gave me?” 
 “DG?” Pallas asked, having no idea what she meant.

      “Definite Glance,” she giggled.

      “He’s a sissy,” Pallas said, annoyed. She didn’t think much of Charles after he lost the wrestling match in the Games last year.

      “You’re just saying that because he didn’t notice you.”

      Pallas didn’t answer. But he did notice me - all too well. He actually invited her to the Festival of the Catch. Pallas, of course, refused. She had no use for guys, and no patience for a jerk like Charles.

      “So,” Cindy scowled, “anyone asked you to the Festival?”

      “No,” she lied. She didn’t like to lie, and she wasn’t good at it. But - she didn’t want to alienate her only friend over a stupid boy. “How ‘bout you?”

      “Only that nervous Tommy-brat.”

      Pallas sighed. Cindy used to be a rebel with a crazy zest for fun: impish and irreverent, sassy and bold. Now her friend thought of nothing but boys - martyring her spirit in a quest for popularity. Squashing herself into a tired cookie-cutter pattern, she’d buried her passion alongside her soul.

  Bewildered, Pallas mourned the slow death of her only friend. Yet she refused to join her crowded path to stale mediocrity. Pallas was too smart to let anyone mold her into something she wasn’t.

      “So,” Cindy asked, “whatcha do last night?”

      “Oh, you know. Father and I went walking.”

      “Again?”

      “Yeah. It was great. We talked about a paradox.”

      “A what?”

      “Well - he said something funny. If all the rivers run into the sea, why isn’t it full?” It was a quote from King Solomon, an ancient philosopher from a nameless, distant world.

      “Why isn’t what full?”

      “The sea.”

      “How should I know?”

      “That’s what I said. So he told me that water from the ocean actually floats into the sky.”

      Cindy snorted.

      “Yeah. Then the water collects into clouds,” she said, pointing towards the Three Titans, the towering volcanoes that dominated her tiny world. Fluffy white cotton decorated their jagged features like a wedding gown on a giantess of stone. “When the clouds get too full, it rains, there in the mountains. The rain becomes the streams and then the streams become the rivers which run into the sea.”

      “That’s ridiculous.”

      “No, it’s not. How else could water fall from the sky?”

      “Who knows? Who cares?”

  Pallas cared. Her father played a trick on her - he taught her how to think.

  Pallas’ teachers didn’t want her to think. They all admitted she was very bright; yet they scolded anyways, telling her to concentrate on useful things. Churning butter, planting corn, sewing garments: these were the lessons a girl needed to become a wife.

      But her father wanted more for his precious, only child. “Humans differ from the animals only by a little. And most people throw that away…” It was a doctrine taught by ancient Taoists – or, so he had said. Pallas marveled at his imagination, wondering where he came up such wild and dangerous tales.

      “What did you do last night?” Pallas asked.

  “Washed my hair.” 

*** 

      When Pallas was sad she went to the shore. Somehow, the roar of the ocean made her feel closer to her long dead mother…

      Don’t even think about that!

  A sand crab darted out its tiny black hole. It ran a few yards before freezing like a miniature statue. A year ago she’d have had fun chasing the illusive creature. Today, however, the crustacean was quite safe.

      Why? she thought as she strolled through the surf. Why did she have to die? Of all the souls the gods deigned to claim, of all the lives they chose to steal, why did you take my mother?

  She peered at the rolling, infinite sea. The breakers raged in glory in their monstrous march to the beach. Pallas felt a voyeur amongst these wet companions, lonely amongst the ripples that curled around her feet. She wondered at the power of their mindless devotion – jealous of the master to whom the waves obeyed.

  And though she didn’t believe in the gods - she cursed one of them anyways.

  “I hate you!” she spat at the gentle waves. “Poseida - queen of the stupid sea! Why did you take her? Why did you take my mother?”

      A tender breeze whistled in her ear, answering in a penitent reply. But she was far too angry to listen. Instead, she watched the sand crab make its escape, scampering down another hole.

      “I wish I could hide,” she griped, envious of the witless creature, “escape from all my troubles…”

      But the ghostly crab ignored her, safe within its powdery cocoon.

      The sacred beach was long and wide, stretching as far as the eye could see. Pallas gazed along the turquoise horizon, bounded by an endless ribbon of sugar-white sand. The sea-foam was a careful seamstress, cutting an exquisite border of delicate lace. It reminded her of a burial shroud as she cried a tear of grief.

      For it was on this beach that she lost her mother.

      The solitary tear fell into the sea, joining its compatriots in the vastness of the deep. She sullenly turned to leave - when she saw the strangest thing she’d ever seen. Far away was a small orange boat. Only it didn’t have sails - and one end was bulbous and round - like a bizarre, orange-colored egg. It sported a tiny flag and a flickering light.

      Pallas snorted. That’s dumb. Why would anyone make an egg-shaped boat? She cocked her head and bit her lip, peevishly angry at the silly thing. Maybe Poseida laid an egg, she sniped, a big, fat, ugly…

      But soon her ridicule turned to wonder. For the more she stared, the more alien the boat became.

      A younger Pallas would have been delighted. But the moody teen was merely irked. Deciding to let it drift out of her life, she turned to walk away.

  Yet the surf had a magic of its own, baiting her inquisitive spirit. All at once, without really knowing why, she decided to swim out and fetch it.

      Doubt dampened her enthusiasm as she hid her colored dress.

  “It’s really far,” she said aloud, “farther than I’ve swam before…”

  But the enchantment of the flashing tempted her - luring her naked body to plunge into waves.

      She changed strokes often, pacing herself for the grueling swim. She was nearly halfway when she realized the boat was heading toward the mouth of the mighty river. The current will force it back out to sea! With renewed effort, she took larger, aggressive strokes. She felt the cold of the mountain river dragging her – not towards the shore – but the perils of the restless deep.

  She turned around and gasped. Her village seemed miles away.

  Yet the mysterious egg beckoned her, rolling on the cresting waves.

      “Curiosity killed the cat,” she quoted her father, indulging in a self-deprecating smile. “Maybe…” she flipped onto her back, “…maybe this time he was right.”

      The current dragged her prize away, farther and farther from her wearied reach. Completely exhausted she stopped altogether, trying hard to think.

  “Maybe a fisherman will pick me up,” she said, turning hopefully toward the east.

  But the sun was a fiery red, drowning itself in the lilac sea.

      “Stupid!” All the fishermen were back in the harbor. “No one sails at night. No one except the Commodore of the Three...”

      That’s when she saw it - a mammoth, towering fin - slicing towards her from beneath the troubled waves…

      Shark!

  The dorsal fin climbed higher and higher, the predator was a mere dozen yards away. Panic rippled through her entire body - yet she refused to let it overwhelm her. Stay completely still - and the shark might pass.

      But the shark did not pass. It gaped its maw ravenously open, promising an evil end to her short and miserable life.

      Pallas whispered a prayer to Poseida - hoping she’d forget about the rats - when suddenly a maelstrom erupted out of the sea! Massive jaws snapped at empty air as the brute leapt up and out of the angry brine. 

      The water crashed and thrashed about her, giants swirling with hideous intent. Another monster surfaced beneath her. She screamed as she clung to the fiend. I’d rather be on its back, than in its mouth! Only its hide wasn’t slimy and scaly, but soft and warm and smooth...

      “A dolphin!”

  Too stunned to be happy, too jubilant to be afraid, she grasped her charger with frightened legs. Water boiled around her knees as she marveled at the impossible event, why, it’s nothing short of a miracle!

      Remembering her fear, she glanced back at the horrible man-eater. To her astonishment, a dozen dolphins were driving it away. She faced forward again and found herself headed for the strange, egg-like boat. 

      Except it wasn’t a boat, and it wasn’t an egg.

  It’s a raft, made of some sort – some sort of – cloth?

      She squinted her eyes at the garish color. At least - I think it’s a raft. The craft was short and stubby with impossibly rounded sides. Its ugly exterior looked more like a hide than a hull. It had no keel, or sail - just a little red flag. The sorcerer responsible for the spellbinding flashes was a small rectangular mirror.

      The dolphins raced ahead of her steed, jumping playfully in the windborne air. Pallas laughed aloud, absolutely thrilled, when her gallant champion plunged beneath the waves.

      She choked on a mouthful of water and brine, petulantly scowling at her rescuing hero. “Thanks a lot,” she snapped, “can’t you give a girl a warning?”

      The dolphin nodded her head and cackled aloud, oblivious to the teenager’s ingratitude.

  Wiping the sting of the salt from her eyes she found she was floating next to the raft. A short ladder was sewn into its supple side. Pallas grabbed a rung, hauling herself out of the water. She couldn’t believe it, but the whole raft, the ladder, even the roof was made from the same unworldly cloth. There were no openings - only the strange, alien material.

  She pressed her hand against the knobby fabric, hoping to find a door. Fascinated, she traced her finger along a thin black line. Shaped like a crescent moon, it was made of hundreds of interlocking teeth.

      “Maybe this will open it,” she said as she pulled the clasp. It made a “zzzz” noise, revealing the insides of the mystic craft.

      “Whoa,” she mused, aghast yet impressed. She stood there, amazed – gawking with wonder – when a wave tossed her unexpectedly forward. Uttering a shriek of surprise, she tumbled inside.

      She bounced upon a soft, cushioned floor. She felt that someone was watching her, instantly filled with dread. Splayed upon all fours she looked fearfully around – for that same vile villain that would suddenly gobble her up. But the only other occupant was a beautiful white cat. Starved and weak, he raised his head to greet her.

      “Poor kitty,” she soothed. Panic melted into pity as she reached to pet the creature. “How long have you been here, all alone?”

      “Thirteen days!” he tersely replied.

Chapter Two 

The Naming of Cats 
 

Poseida was of course immediately informed. For nothing escaped Her purview within the vast Realm of Water. Yet it is said She was greatly disturbed by the dolphin’s extraordinary rescue. For they recognized the dramatic significance of the cursed child - while She did not.  

            - from “Compendium, Chronicles of the Pentathanon Gods”

                              Ovid XII 

      Pallas couldn’t believe her ears. Of all the bizarre things that had happened, this surprised her the most.

      “You can talk?”

      “Well, of course I can talk,” said the cat, offended. “And aren’t you a mess? And you’re wet. Do you mind dripping somewhere else?”

      “Uh, sorry,” she nervously replied. Resting herself on her knees, she scooted a foot or two back.

  “Quite a comedic performance, I dare say. Falling in like an imbecile, limbs absolutely everywhere, splayed upon your belly like a drooling dog. Haven’t you ever learned how to land on your feet?”

  “Uh, no.”

  “Hmmph,” smirked the cat. “Oh, that they were wise – that they would consider their end.” He raised his brow with obvious conceit, as if gloating over a private joke. “Listen, I’ve been afloat nearly a fortnight, and I haven’t had a thing to eat.” He nodded toward a bag. “Be a good dear and open a can of tuna.”

  “A can?”

  “Jupiter’s Moons, you are going to be difficult. What completely amazes me is that your species has survived at all.” He alighted upon his paws and cantered to the bag, nuzzling it with his eager face.

      Gawking at the cat, she nervously crawled toward the bag. On its sides were hundreds of unrecognizable symbols. Like the door to the raft, the bag had a line of interlocking teeth. She pulled the tag, revealing a cornucopia of things she’d never seen before. She picked up a small black box, marveling at its sleek construction.

  “What’s this?” 
 “Well, its not tuna, I can tell you. Yes, and did I mention I haven’t eaten in thirteen days? Though man can not live by bread alone, we cats like to have something in our bellies.”

  “Oh, sorry,” she apologized. “Poor kitty, we’ll get something for you.”

  “My name isn’t Kitty,” he mocked with disdain, pointing his paw at a metal cylinder. “Here, that’s it.”

  Pallas examined the cylinder, with the same awesome wonder she had for the box. “It’s so perfect and round,” she muttered, “my father could never make something like this.”

  “Well, he didn’t have to, now did he?”

  “Why would anyone put food in something so - so beautiful?”

  “Just open it.” 

  “How?” she asked, feeling stupid.

  “My, but you’re clever. See the little key? Put it in the hole. That’s it. Now, turn it round and round...”

  The lid tore off like magic, leaving a jagged perimeter. The can was filled with tuna in musty smelling oil.

  “I’ll take that,” said the cat, “you can get your own.”

  But Pallas was too enchanted to think about eating. Instead, she pulled out every single piece of gear. Some things she recognized: a long knife, four short paddles, and a small mirror. But most things she had no idea about. “What’s your name?”

  The cat didn’t answer, devouring his tuna. Pallas picked up a tiny orange case. One end had a thin, glass-like cover. On the opposite end was a black protrusion. She pressed it.

  The case erupted in a blinding light! Pallas dropped it with a frightened squeal. But the light kept flashing, panicking her.

  “Turn it off,” drawled the cat. “You’ll run the batteries down.”

  “I – I – I don’t know how!”

  “Jupiter’s Moons, you are dense. The same way you turned it on.”

  “What’s ‘ON?’”

  Pacing to the flashing light, he pointed at the black button. “Here, press this.”

  Pallas did what she was told. The flashing stopped, much to her relief.

  “That’s OFF,” he sarcastically explained. “Now, press it again.” The flashing light returned as if by magic. “That’s ON. ON and OFF. Now turn it off, and leave it off.”

  “OK.” She nervously replied. She didn’t think he liked her.

  The peasant looked around her, bewildered by strangeness. She felt encased in a monstrous cocoon, bathed in a dull, orange light. The source of the light was attached to the ceiling, fixed upon the curve of the egg-shaped bulge. Like the blinking case, it was encased with a thin transparent shell. But how could light come from such a thing? There was no fire in the case; indeed the shell was only slightly warm. It’s as if the gods took a piece of the sun and put it in this sheath. Yet it wasn’t like the sun, for the sun was bright and yellow while the light was sober and orange.

  In fact, everything was orange; an alien glow that surprised and annoyed her. She rubbed her hand against the buoyant floor. Why, it isn’t cloth at all! It had a rough, leathery feel, like the hide of the dolphin…

  “The dolphins!” she cried, bolting out the crescent door. To her surprise the entire pod was swimming dutifully along.

  It was now quite dark, the two moons hanging low over the pencil-thin horizon. Selene was full, while Selena was just a sliver of a crescent. The clerics warned that if both moons were ever full at the same time, a catastrophe would occur that would bring about the end of the world. Pallas, of course, didn’t believe such nonsense.

  But - why are the dolphins following me? According to the clerics, dolphins were minions of Poseida. Yeah, like I believe that…

  Yet there they were, flanking her like an honor guard, causing her moody cynicism to quake.

  They saved my life – I can’t deny it. Almost like – a miracle.

  “Why did you save me?” she said to the rescuers who gracefully cut through the salty brine. “Who sent you? Was it - was it Poseida?”

  But the only answers she received were her own confusing thoughts. Come on, she reasoned, just because a bunch of animals saved me from a shark - and are following me in this really weird raft - that doesn’t mean…

  But how could she explain the light, or the can?

  Or that cat?

  “But Poseida isn’t real!” she shouted. “And even she was - why did she drown my mother?” For even if she’d had been rescued a hundred times - by a thousand gallant dolphins - this mythical godhead, whoever she may be, could never repay that heinous act…

  “Because I hate you!” she riled at the queen of the sea. “I hate you and I always will!”

  She was peevishly angry at her emotional display, and even a little ashamed. Wonder what that cat would think? For a bitter moment she didn’t care. But her soon bitterness turned to sadness and her sadness into grief, wishing – wishing…

  Yet even if she couldn’t forgive the waves - the ones that had drowned her mother - she at least paid homage to her brave rescuers. For they had saved her from that horrible maw. So she spoke to her saviors, not as a rider who speaks to her steed - but as a simple, grateful peasant…

  “I don’t know how to thank you. I don’t even know if you can understand me. But – I want you to know – how absolutely beautiful you are.” Indeed, watching the dolphins play in the light of the lazy moons, she knew it was the loveliest thing she’d ever seen.

  To her surprise, one of the pups swam close enough to touch her. Pallas couldn’t help but grin.

  “Can you talk too?” she said as she stroked her head.

  The happy pup cackled with bursting delight, tossing her head with an adorable grin. Instantly, an older dolphin chirped a high-pitched squeal. Admonished, the younger whistled a wistful reply, before slipping beneath the waves.

  Did I imagine it?

  For the next half hour Pallas called to the dolphins, begging them to speak. But her guardians were as silent as monks, making her wonder if she was going crazy.

  Finally, she climbed back into the raft to find the cat fast asleep. As much as she wanted to wake him - ask him all sorts of questions, she didn’t want to make him any angrier than he already was. Besides, she was dead tired after her grueling swim.

  Instead, she thought about her father. What will he think when I don’t come home? I should start paddling to shore this very minute.

  But exhaustion hit her like a sudden wave. She laid her head down, just for a minute - just a minute - to rest, just for a minute...

  She fell asleep to the rocking waves, drifting further and further away... 

  *** 

  Pallas was alone on the solemn beach, thinking about her mother. She thought of the goddess that had taken her from her when four huge dolphins rose beneath the surf. Harnessed with silver too delicate to be believed, they pulled an elaborate chariot crafted from a single, enormous shell. Surrounding the chariot was a score of mermen, with rugged good-looks that gave her heart a lurch.

  But if the mermen were handsome, the driver was absolutely gorgeous. The sea breeze tossed her stunning hair as if destined to this holy purpose. The woman had a proud, beautiful face with dreamy eyes of green. She opened her mouth to speak…

  “Meooooooow!”

  She woke with a violent jolt. Her young, strong heart pounded against her chest as she cowered at the alien surroundings.

  “I’m hungry!”

  The air was hot, pungent with the smell of fish. The guilty culprit was the empty can.

  “Yes, and you should throw that out, as you’ve made quite a mess. How untidy you creatures are! But first, open another can of fish.”

  Pallas picked up another cylinder. The cat frowned in disgust.

  “Not that one! I hate corned beef.”

  “How do you tell the difference?” The cylinder looked exactly like the others.

  “Look on the side. Can’t you read?”

  “What’s - read?”

  It wasn’t a stupid question.

  She’d learned in school how to add and subtract; how to mend nets and plant seeds. She’d learned how to tithe. This was important, as it was the mortal’s duty to provide for the gods. But no one on her world could read. No one but the gods.

  “I can’t believe it!” he loudly complained. “I’m a pet, and I know how to read!” But then he chuckled, sporting an evil smile. “Aaahhh - but I forget. Sub-standard breeding. Of course. I can’t expect much from a creature of your exceedingly limited intelligence…”

  Pallas felt angry and confused. Is he insulting me? His words were so unfamiliar she couldn’t even tell.

  Rummaging through the bag, the cat found a cylinder more to his liking. A sneer commanded her to open it. Pallas quickly picked it up, staring at the markings on its side.

  “I’m waiting!”

  She nervously put the key in the hole – when she came upon a thought – a thought that changed her forever.

  “Wait a minute.” She furrowed her brow. “I saved your life last night, didn’t I?”

  He squinted emerald eyes, annoyed.

  “You’ve had all this food, and - and you couldn’t open any of it. You were surrounded by food, and yet you were hungry,” she added, stumbling on the paradox of their strange first meeting. “You would have starved to death if I hadn’t come along.”

  “And your point is?”

  “Well, you owe me. As a matter of fact, you need me. There’s no telling how long it’ll take to get to shore. And even when we do, I bet you don’t know how to hunt or fend for yourself. Even if I can’t - read - I can do a lot of things you can’t.” Pallas was proud of herself for getting that out. She normally didn’t think that clearly this early in the morning.

  The cat tilted his head, scrutinizing her as if surveying a famous painting. The peasant watched in silent dread. Maybe I offended him - maybe I made him mad. Part of her wanted to gush out an apology. But the street-fighter held her ground.

  “Excellent, most excellent!” purred the cat. “Yes, I do believe there’s a brain inside that over-sized head of yours. One can’t be sure with drones, you know. Your species does have its geniuses of course, but you also have your...” But the cat didn’t want to say.

  “Well, I’m not a genius. But I’m not an air-head either. And I’m not going to be bossed around by anyone, not even a cat.”

  This drew a chuckle from the smarmy cat. “Behold, the tongue is a little member, but yet it boasteth many great things…”

  Pallas scowled in reply.

  “You have been of some use,” he admitted, churlishly rolling his eyes, “I can hardly deny it. And I’m rather fond of people who feed me…” With this, he twittered his feathery tail. “Very well,” he said to great effect, “my name is…Othello.”

  “I’m Pallas, daughter of Gerard VII.” She thought to shake his paw, but - didn’t know if that was proper when being introduced to a cat.

  “Pallas?” He leered with envy. “Quite an interesting name. Not one of the standard names, I dare say.”

  “No.”

  Long ago, the gods decreed that children should be named after their parents. Thus her father, Gerard VII, was the seventh generation of Gerards. But Pallas’ parents bucked this tradition, much to the cleric’s displeasure. For they warned them such sacrilege was sure to incur the wrath of the jealous gods. Inwardly, Pallas thought the clerics were right. Though she adored her name - loved its individuality - deep down, she knew it had killed her mother.

  “Quite right,” he studied her with inquisitive eyes, “very interesting indeed.”

  “What’s so interesting about a name?” she brandished, defensive and cross. For though she was certain her name had doomed her mother, she had fistfights with anyone who drew the same conclusion.

  “Dear girl,” he said, twitching his whiskers with arrogant satisfaction, “your name is written in heaven. It’s the vessel by which creatures know you. A creature grows into his name, becomes his name. Cats have three different names, of course, and all the important gods have at least two.” He paused again, studying her with a look of curiosity. “But you, my dear, have a very interesting name - very interesting indeed.”

  “Thanks,” she sulked, deciding to change the subject. Her name wasn’t something she liked to talk about. Opening the correct cylinder, she set it before the cat. “You call this a can?”

  “Precisely,” he said with his mouth full. “It says fish on the side. F-I-S-H.”

  Pallas examined the markings, which she supposed must say F-I-S-H. “Can you teach me how to read?”

  “Why?”

  She picked a strange item out of the bag. Millions of the same markings were plastered over its many leaves. “I want to know what these say. I want to know how to use these things.”

  Othello interrupted his ravenous meal, giving her that same “pictures at an exhibition” look. “How shall a young woman cleanse her way? By taking heed according to thy word. My, my, but you are a clever girl. Yes, of course, that is a survival manual, and it does indeed tell you how to use everything in that bag. How did you know?”

  Pallas shrugged her shoulders, glad the cat was no longer insulting her - though still uncomfortable with his probing stare. “I dunno. It just makes sense.”

  “The gods don’t teach mortals to read, do they? Do you know why?”

  Pallas tried a blind guess. “They don’t want us to know what they know?”

  His snake-like pupils exploded with surprise. Pallas was sure he didn’t expect that answer. Now he changed the subject. “How far are we from shore?”

  Pallas cursed aloud as she scrambled out the crescent door. The sea breeze cooled her glistening brow, welcome relief from the sweltering raft. The dolphins were still surrounding the raft, but there was no land in sight. She cursed herself again. I knew the river would be strong, but had no idea it would push us out this far.

  “Well?”

  “I can’t see the shore, so we’re at least a few miles out.”

  “That’s bad, isn’t it?”

  “Well, it’s bad, but it’s not terrible. The wind blows to the west, and we’re on the eastern shore. So eventually, it’ll blow us back…”

  But deep down, Pallas was quite worried. The village of Kelly Tree was a very isolated. No one ever left except for Lord Joculo. There were merchants who sailed from distant towns, but most folk never left their humble abodes. “Did you see the dolphins?” she asked, wishing to change the subject yet again.

  “Dolphins. They’re so cute! For the life of me, I can’t understand why everyone is so enraptured with the slimy beasts. Just a rabble of overgrown fish if you ask me.”

  Pallas thought it was funny that the cat would be jealous of a fish. She didn’t know that dolphins were mammals and not a fish, but neither did Othello. “But why are they following us? And why did they save me from that shark?”

  “Did they?” he said, obviously startled.

  With this, she recounted her miraculous rescue. Othello listened with wide-eyed interest - before dismissing it as some sort of fluke.

  “Haven’t the faintest idea.”

  But Pallas could always pick out a lie, and was sure about this one. But she didn’t press the issue. She didn’t want to make him angry again. “How did you get here?”

  “Well - it’s a rather confusing story - not at all what you’d expect.”

  She gave him with a doubtful expression.

  “The whole thing’s a bit hard to fathom, even for a cat. I seriously doubt that you, with you’re very limited intelligence and sub-standard breeding could even begin to understand.”

  “Try me.”

  “Very well,” he announced with great importance, “I am the pet of Mulciber’s daughter.”

  Her jaw dropped. “Mulciber the god?”

  “Mulciber - yes. I live with his daughter, deep within the bowels of Volcano.” Then with great fanfare he announced, “I will ransom thee from the power of hell. O sheol, I shall be your destruction.”

  Pallas scoffed. “I don’t believe you. You’re very clever, but you’ll have to do much better than that.”

  “Look around you, man-cub, and tell me what you see? Who made the raft, the cans, the compass?”

  Pallas didn’t know what to say. Her father was the best blacksmith in Kelly Tree. He could craft a knife as fine as the one in the bag, but could never make anything as perfectly round as one of these cans. As to the raft, she ran her hands against the knobby surface. A cloth that floats? She’d never seen anything like it.

  “We were in a hover-plane,” he said.

  “A hover-plane?”

  “We left Vulcana’s fortress inside the Three Titans and were flying to Aeolia when we were ambushed by Cypris. When I heard the order to evacuate, I rushed to the nearest escape pod, certain my mistress was right behind me. But as soon as I got in, the pod jettisoned of its own accord. The pod had a parachute, of course, so it floated to the surface of the ocean where it automatically inflated into this raft.”

  Pallas understood almost nothing of this story; which, she thought, the cat must have counted on. But one thing she did understand…

  “The gods fight each other?” I don’t remember any of the clerics mentioning that!

  “Well, yes. It’s really quite rare, but it does happen.”

  “But - I’ve always been taught the gods were immortal, infallible. How could one of them - crash into the sea?”

  “When the heavens war upon each other, who shall stand?”

  “But - surely Mulciber didn’t die?” Even though she didn’t believe in the gods, she had a hard time accepting one of them perished.

  “Mulciber’s daughter. And I’m sure she wasn’t hurt. She was probably rescued by Poseida and taken to Atlantis for ransom.”

  “Why didn’t she rescue you?”

  “Poseida never liked me,” he grumbled, pacing the bulbous floor. It was clear he was bothered by the queen’s neglect.

  “Well that’s just fine, because I don’t like Poseida either.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because - she killed my mother.”

  “Drowned, did she?”

  “I guess,” she sighed, allowing her sadness to swell. “They never - you know, found her body.”

  “Typical. What is shocking to me is how your entire species hasn’t become extinct, what with all the interesting ways you’ve found to murder yourselves…”

  Pallas furrowed her angry brow. “What does that mean?”

  “Never mind,” he glibly replied. “And just when did this - unfortunate event occur?”

  “Fifteen years ago.”

  “Fifteen? Are you quite sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure.”

  “On the beach, near the village of Kelly Tree?”

  “Yeah. Like, where else would she be?”

  “Indeed,” he mused. “That’s just - very sad.”

  But Pallas found no compassion in his emerald eyes, only a mask of distracted curiosity.

  “Tell me, dear child; tell me about your mother.”

  “Well, she was very smart,” Pallas said. “She seemed to be an expert at everything. She knew how to fish and weave and build houses and bridges. She even helped Lord Joculo design the sewers…”

  “Did she have gray eyes?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “Because,” he pondered, “gray eyes are a very recessive trait.”

  “What does that mean?” she said, annoyed. The blue-eyed girls use to tease her about her gray ones all the time.

  “It means that they aren’t very common. Most humans have dark eyes.”

  “Lots of my friends have blue eyes…”

  “Yes, well,” he chuckled, “they got a bit carried away with the blond-haired, blue-eyed children. But I assure you in a few generations the dominant genes will weed them down to more nominal levels.”

  “Who got carried away?”

  “The gods, of course.”

  “What about them?”

  But Othello only smiled. Not a pleasant smile that one might share with a friend, but a conniving, selfish smirk.

  “You said the raft - inflated?” Pallas said, steering the conversation away from her mother.

  “That’s right. Carbon dioxide cartridges fill the rubber with air, causing it to float.”

  “This rubber, it’s full of air?”

  “Precisely.”

  “What if a hole got punched in it?”

  “Well, let’s see.” With this he directed her to flip through the leaves of the survival manual. “According to this, the raft is self-sealing with any puncture less than three inches long; though I would not advise you trying it, as I do not like to swim.”

  “Can you take the air out?”

  “An interesting question, by Jove: one worthy of an answer. There appears to be two levers attached to the carbon dioxide cartridges that deflate the raft. Acts as an emergency propulsion device. They’re located on the outside, near the sea anchor.”

  “Anchor?!” She scrambled out the door. “No wonder we’re not getting any closer to the shore!”

  Othello followed, taking a moment to snarl at the dolphins. In answer, one of the dolphins launched a well-aimed splash. The soaked fur-ball shrieked with surprise before bolting inside the raft.

  Pallas laughed. Laughed so hard, she actually fell into the ocean. The water felt wonderful, so she swam a few strokes just for fun. The dolphins seemed quite intrigued, yet they kept their watchful distance.

  At the rear of the raft she found two cylinders and a rope attached to something dragging in the sea. Climbing back onto the raft, she pulled the anchor in. It was made of the same cloth-like rubber shaped like a cup. She secured the anchor to a loop before inspecting the deflation levers. One handle was just above the surface and another just below, both surrounded by more of the arcane markings. But these markings were bold and red, as if a warning not to touch them.

  Climbing back inside, she found Othello ferociously cleaning his fur.

  “Anything else you’d like to say about those overgrown fishes?” she chided.

  “If I never see another dolphin...”

  Pallas stifled a giggle.  

  Pallas spent the rest of the day going through the “magic” bag. Othello kept saying things like, “Don’t touch that,” or, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” After a great deal of begging he explained some of the objects, but refused to describe the others. In truth, he didn’t know what many of the objects were, but would never admit this to Pallas.

  Pallas studied the items, taking particular interest in the backpack. The manual had a picture showing where each piece of gear should be placed. Pallas was delighted. Even if she couldn’t read, she could follow these simple instructions. She put the backpack on. It was made of a stretchy material which hugged her body, built upon a feather-light frame. The manual described the frame as an AERO-FOIL, though the cat didn’t know what that meant.

  “The legs are cantilevered to your arms for greater pumping action,” he yawned.

  “What’s a cantilever?”

  “Does it have to be so inquisitive? Can’t it mind its betters and leave it at that?”

  Pallas wondered what he meant, naively continuing to pepper him with questions. But his mood was far too foul to be polite. “It’s not a backpack, oh ye of little knowledge and much less brain, it’s a survival harness. Now let me get some sleep.”

  “Fine,” she huffed.

  She took off the harness and climbed outside the muggy raft. The breeze played wonderfully upon her long blond hair as she tasted the tang of the salty air. What’s the name of the Sun god, she wondered, Helios, isn’t it? Othello’s tale made her curious about the gods, more curious than she’d ever been before. The beautiful sky and the rocking waves stirred her heart into a comforting reverie. She seemed to belong to the sea, as if she came from the sea, as if - that’s where her mother had gone…

  Stop it! she rued, cursing herself for being stupid. Mother is dead; drowned perhaps - but it doesn’t really matter. She’s dead, and no one can ever bring her back.

  A single tear misted in her eye. But before it could trickle down her cheek, it blew away with the summer wind. Pallas said good-bye to her friends, climbing back inside the raft.

  Othello was, of course, asleep.