Fiction, Reviews

Witch Wood by John Buchan

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Witch Wood by John Buchan, cover

Witch Wood, the story of a new minister in a rural parish of Scotland, is said to be author John Buchan’s favorite and his most critically praised. Buchan (1875-1940) wrote a number of novels and may be most remembered now for his 1915 spy novel, The Thirty-Nine Steps.

Witch Wood, published in 1927, is the moving account Rev. David Sempill’s arrival in Woodilee Village, Scotland, on August 15, 1644. We is warmly received and eager to minister to his flock in every duty required of him. Soon he learns of the nearby forest, named Melanudrigill or “The Black Wood” out of fear of spirits living within it. Sempill rebukes the idea as pagan superstition, but eventually discovers a weathered stone table in the midst of a forest clearing. What is written on it is “I. O. M.” — Jovi Optimo Maximo, Roman markings for an altar.

This and other signs tell him members of his own congregation practice the occult in secret. Sempill won’t simply dismiss an issue like that, but no one in his presbytery is willing to believe him. Some accuse him of imagining it. Arguments against him sound too familar.

He worries about his flock. “The profession of religion was not the same thing as godliness, and he was coming to doubt whether the insistence upon minute conformities of outward conduct and the hair-splitting doctrines were not devices of Satan to entangle souls.”

To his immediate superior, who does not believe a pious elder of the church could be involved in this and would prefer to keep the kirk united against the world, Sempill asks, “In the name of God, whose purity is a flame of fire, would you let gross wickedness go unchecked because it may knock a splinter off the Kirk? I tell you it were better that the Kirk should be broken to dust and trampled underfoot than that it should be made a cloak for sin.”

An epilogue in my edition reveals the source of the story; it’s an interpretation of real events during the war between Covenanters and Scottish Royalists. Without revealing more of the story, I want to tell you I worried at a few points that the heroes would not succeed and everything would come crashing down on their heads. I guess that’s a sign Buchan had me gripped.

Definitely a book for the scotophile. The most difficult part for me was that thirty percent of the text is the Scottish dialect of Woodilee folk.

“There’s ill news frae up the water, Mr. Sempill. . . . Marion puir body, has been ill wi’ a wastin’ the past twalmonth, and now it seems she’s near her release.”

“Me! I ken nocht. Me and my man aye keepit clear o’ the Wud. . . . Woodilee has aye been keened for a queer bit, lappit in the muckle Wud, but the guilty are come by an ill end.”

I’ve gotten more used to it, but with whole conversations written in this style, I felt I couldn’t keep up without a dictionary.

Fiction, Reviews

‘But the Doctor Died,’ by Craig Rice

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It’s a strange and somewhat disquieting experience for me to discover a classic mystery series from the Fifties of which I’d never heard. This is the John J. Malone series, written by “Craig Rice,” which turns out to be a nom de plume for Georgiana Ann Randolph Craig, a troubled and alcoholic writer who kept much of her life private. I thought as I read this book that it had the feel of a book written by a woman, because of the nature of the women’s conversations. I didn’t think a man could easily write that kind of dialogue.

However, I am informed, by an Amazon reviewer and by the author’s Wikipedia page, that this is almost certainly a ghostwritten book. So a guy might have written it anyway. And wouldn’t my male chauvinist face be red if that’s true?

In any case, the book is But the Doctor Died, the final book-length work in the series. I picked it up because I got a deal on the Kindle Version. John J. Malone is a Chicago lawyer, on the seedy side of the profession. He’s scrappy and aggressive and has his own code of conduct, which doesn’t always coincide with the laws on the books. In this story, John is defending a small-time criminal, but the cops have got him locked up somewhere he can’t locate. Then a poor mother comes to him to ask him to defend her son, who is completely innocent (actually he’s a bum, but a client’s a client).

Then he sees his friend Helene Justus, wife of Jake Justus, night club owner, on the street. He’s fond of them both, but secretly in love with Helene. She is walking along the sidewalk in a haze, carrying a bag of confetti, and doesn’t seem to recognize him. He will soon learn that she’s gone to work for a top-secret government agency, where suspicious things are happening.

The whole thing gets pretty complicated. Incredibly complicated. I found the plot wholly impossible to follow. But I understand that’s how these books are – light, improbable hard-boiled stuff.

I should probably read a book by the actual author before I judge her work. I may just do that. Even in this form, I found the characters intriguing.

Fiction, Reviews

‘Pictures to Die For,’ by Stuart Doughty

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If James Bond had been an art theft investigator instead of a spy, he’d probably be something like John Kite. I couldn’t help imagining him with Roger Moore’s appearance and voice.

His real name is not John Kite. He discovered, after growing up in luxury, that his parents were part of organized crime. So he broke all ties with them, assumed a new identity, and devoted himself to fighting art crime.

In Pictures to Die For, Book 3 in the series, John is babysitting the transport of a ridiculously valuable painting by a very hot, recently deceased artist, in Florida. But the armored car carrying the painting is struck by a rocket-propelled grenade and vaporized. Why would anyone want to destroy such a valuable object?

Witnesses report a mysterious man and woman making inquiries at John’s motel just before the crime. He will need to try to trace them and talk to them.

Then suddenly he’s contacted by Rochelle, his former partner, now married to an English lord. She says her husband has disappeared, and she’d like John to look for him. John still cherishes feelings for Rochelle, so he’ll try to help her with her problem too. His journey will take him to Brussels, and at last back to the US for a cinematic final showdown with a criminal mastermind.

If this plot sounds like it belongs in a Hollywood thriller, that’s because it does. Indeed, the author, Stuart Doughty, spent his career in the film industry, and obviously learned the formula. Do not look for realism in this book. John Kite is as indestructible and unbelievable as Jason Bourne or Rambo.

However, I was surprised by the quality of the writing. Author Doughty knows what he’s doing with words. And that bought a lot of goodwill from this reader.

I will consider reading more John Kite books. There’s nothing substantial here, but it’s enjoyable entertainment, suitable for popcorn.

Religion, Uncategorized

‘The Mansions of the Lord’

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I always post “The Mansions of the Lord” on Memorial Day, because no other song I know expresses it like that one does. It doesn’t work theologically, but even I have to just go with my heart sometimes.

As I wrote in The Year of the Warrior, playing fast and loose with theology in my own right:

“It’s strange to die this way, and me a Christian. If I were heathen yet, I’d know that Odin would welcome me to Valhalla. What welcome has Christ for a warrior, Father?”

I had no quick answer, and Moling must have seen my trouble, because he asked what the boy had said. I told him.

“Tell him I’ve had a dream about Heaven,” said Moling. “The teachers tell us that the Beloved lives outside Time itself. He goes back and forth in it when He wills. And when we go to be with Him, we too will be outside Time.

“It seemed to me in my dream that at the last day the Beloved called together all the great warriors who had been brave and merciful, and who had trusted in His mercy, and He mustered them into a mighty army, and He said to them, ‘Go forth for Me now, My bonny fighters, and range through Time, and wherever there is cruelty and wickedness that makes the weak to suffer, and faithful to doubt My goodness, wherever the children are slain or violated, wherever the women are raped or beaten, wherever the old are threatened and robbed, then take your shining swords and fight that cruelty and wickedness, and protect my poor and weak ones, and do not lay down your weapons or take your rest until all such evil is crushed and defeated, and the right stands victorious in every place and every time. We will not empty Hell even with this, for men love Hell, but I made a sweet song at the beginning, My sons, and though men have sung it foul we will make it sweet again forever.’”

I said these words to Halvard in Norse, and he died smiling.

Music

Sunday Singing: I Know that My Redeemer Lives

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This hymn comes to us from the Englishman Samuel Medley (1738-99), set to a tune by Englishman John Hatton (1710-93).

1 I know that my Redeemer lives!
What comfort this sweet sentence gives!
He lives, he lives, who once was dead;
he lives, my everliving head!

2 He lives triumphant from the grave;
he lives eternally to save;
he lives all-glorious in the sky;
he lives exalted there on high.

3 He lives to grant me rich supply;
he lives to guide me with his eye;
he lives to comfort me when faint;
he lives to hear my soul’s complaint.

Continue reading Sunday Singing: I Know that My Redeemer Lives →
Blogs, Socials, Religion, Uncategorized

The Christian Air We Breathe, a Memorial Day Story, and Blogroll Links

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I love discussions that delve into how the whole world has changed under the influence of Christianity. Speaking to unbelievers, Glen Scrivener writes, “You already hold particularly ‘Christian-ish’ views, and the fact that you think of these values as natural, obvious, or universal shows how profoundly the Christian revolution has shaped you.”

Scrivener has a new book, The Air We Breathe, in which he discusses how all manner of modern ideals have Christian origins, and when debating Christian speakers, atheists and other non-Christians will assume Christian positions on their way to undermining Christian principles. Black Lives Matter couldn’t exist as a popular American concept brought up in many arguments over human dignity without the foundation of God’s created image so many assume today (despite explicitly rejecting it, as some do). It’s marvelous.

Movies: The state of cinema today (via Prufrock)
“We are in the present losing more movies from the past faster than ever before. It seems like we aren’t, but the mere disappearance of physical media is already having corporations curating what we watch, faster for us,” Guillermo Del Toro said.

A Memorial Day Story: Elliot Ritzema heard from his grandpa via the marginal notes in Citizen Soldiers. “When Ambrose wrote, ‘The Ninth Tactical Air Force had a dozen airstrips in Normandy by this time,’ my grandpa added, We were one of these airstrips, 36th Fighter Group, 32nd Service Group.”

The Hobbit in Bears: Is this is a case of life imitating art?

Photo: Big Ole, Alexandria, Minnesota, 2001. John Margolies Roadside America photograph archive (1972-2008), Library of Congress, Prints and Photographs Division.

Goofing

The mark of Merlin

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Today started out kind of gray, but it gradually grew brighter and warmer. Right now it’s just about a perfect spring evening.

Got an amusing letter, from a friend. I’d give his name, but maybe one shouldn’t throw names around on the internet. Though one feels one ought to cite one’s sources.

Anyway, the letter came as a surprise. It was a one-page, photocopied missive, telling about what he’s been reading, and about being on vacation in Oregon. He said he found himself near the town of Merlin, Oregon. And he had a bunch of USPS dragon stamps.

He couldn’t resist sending a letter with a dragon stamp and the postmark, “MERLIN.”

Fiction, Reviews

‘Cannon’s Mouth,’ by W. Glenn Duncan

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Number 5 in W. Glenn Duncan’s amusing Rafferty series is Cannon’s Mouth. Hard-boiled detection on the lighter side of the scale (though plenty of dark stuff happens).

Rafferty, as you may recall, is a Dallas private eye. He’s surveilling a delivery man suspected of pilferage on a hot Dallas day, when he steps into a little park to spy from the shade. A small, pudgy man comes up to him and starts talking as if he knows him. Talks about murdering his business partner, who is ruining the business. Rafferty is so hot and impatient that he barely pays attention to the man. But afterwards he does his civic duty by alerting his friends on the police force, providing all the details he can remember. They’re not much impressed.

Until the named target shows up dead, the night before the “contract” had specified. Worse than that, Rafferty is the one who finds the body. Now he needs to do some quick dancing with suspicious cops, including the leader of a drug task force who’s taken an unexplained interest in the proceedings.

Even when he’s released, Rafferty’s problems aren’t over. Somebody is calling him to demand the money they “earned.” And they’re not above throwing a bomb or two to show they’re serious.

Cannon’s Mouth leans a little too heavily on coincidence in its plotting to please me. And, as always, Rafferty isn’t as funny as he thinks he is. Still, the book was likeable and diverting, and I can recommend it as light reading – the kind of book you’d enjoy taking to the beach this summer. Plus, it’s a couple decades old, so it doesn’t preach at you.

Uncategorized

“Next time…”

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Photo credit: Noah Silliman @noahsilliman. Unsplash license

I meant for this to be a more cheerful post. I’ve been feeling pretty good of late, and wanted to talk about it, once I’d caught up with book reviews. Today I’m caught up, but…

I’ve noticed I’ve been feeling unusually cheerful for some time now. I won’t say happy because, as I see it, real happiness involves good relationships. And I don’t really have much in that department, nor am I likely to.

But I’m used to being chronically depressed. It’s how I’ve always defined myself – I am a depressive person. Melancholic. I take pride in handling a chronic condition that some less fortunate folks don’t survive.

But – and it seems to go back to when I got booted from my job and started freelancing – I’ve been feeling pretty good for a while. To top if off, lately, in preparation for the Great Norway Trip, I’ve been seriously dieting. I’d dropped 15 pounds last time I checked. Also I’ve been exercising regularly at the gym. The other day I had to do some walking, and I found it was much easier than it had been some months ago. That’s a pleasant sensation, especially for an old man.

Yesterday was another good day. I had to take Mrs. Ingebretsen, my PT Cruiser, into the shop because the Check Engine light had come on. But they told me the problem wasn’t serious, and could easily be put off. On top of that, the light went off again today.

Even better, recently I’d been trying a new mental trick. It was based on an article I read in Reader’s Digest many, many years ago. I mean, before I graduated high school, I think.

The article, as I recall it (probably wrong), was written by a guy promoting an idea he’d gotten from a rabbi in his youth. The rabbi told him, when he had an embarrassing experience, not to beat himself up. Instead, say “Next time.” “Next time I’ll know to do it better.” “Next time I won’t make that same mistake.” Turning personal errors into learning experiences, rather than occasions for self-loathing.

For some reason, that article had stuck in my mind, even though I made no attempt whatever to put it into practice. But now I thought, what can it hurt to try? The next time a shameful memory popped up, I tried using the “next time” technique. And what do you know? It seemed to help. It’s early days in the experiment, but it looked good.

But that was before this morning. This morning I picked up my cell phone to check the usual suspects. I got a nice message from a nice person who’ll be hosting me in Norway. They’d bought me a ticket for something I’d enjoy doing. And I had to tell them I was already booked for that time slot. This was almost physically painful. I hate turning a kindness down. Kindness should be encouraged. There’s little enough of it in the world.

And then somebody commented on one of my posts on Facebook, and what they said really kicked me in a sensitive place. I don’t know if they meant it to hurt like that, but it did hurt. Still does.

And the day was rainy and gray and cold. And there’s that terrible news from Texas. I got nothing productive done, beyond my visit to the gym. Haven’t had a bad day like this for some time.

But tomorrow will be another chance at a day.

Next time, I’ll do it better. I hope.

Fiction, Reviews

‘Last Redemption,’ by Matt Coyle

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Her brown hair was slicked back into a bun above a face of sculpted symmetrical beauty. She wore a matching symmetrical smile that exuded all the warmth of a protractor.

I’d been following Matt Coyle’s Rick Cahill series of private eye novels, but somehow I’d missed the latest, Last Redemption, which came out in 2021. I missed a lot, as it turned out.

Rick Cahill is a San Diego PI, formerly a cop and a bartender. He struggles with guilt over past mistakes, and has been somewhat self-destructive in the past. But now his life has changed. He’s engaged to a woman he loves, Leah, and she’s pregnant. They plan to marry before the baby is born.

What he’s not telling Leah is that he’s been diagnosed with CRT, a brain damage condition common to pro football players. Repeated head traumas over the years are beginning to take their toll (I’ve always felt fictional private eyes get knocked out too often, without realistic effect). He occasionally suffers mental fugues, forgetting who he is and what he’s doing. And the doctor tells him his life expectancy is reduced. He’s going to tell Leah soon, but hasn’t made up his mind to it yet. Still, he’s changed his life. He’s not taking the hard-boiled jobs anymore. He’s doing security checks for companies. Simple office work, on his computer. Boring, but the income is good and he wants to be a family man now. To be around for them.

Then he hears from Moira, a fellow private eye who’s saved his life in the past. She’s worried about her son Luke, who’s a computer whiz. Luke had been working for a company that audits computer programs, and was checking out a medical technology startup that’s on the brink of a breakthrough in cancer treatment. But Luke has broken up with his girlfriend, who put a restraining order on him. And now he’s disappeared. And he’s suspected in a murder.

Well, how dangerous can this job be? Quick in, quick out, no hassle, right?

There will be hassle.

Last Redemption was well-written, gripping, and suspenseful. I enjoyed it immensely, and recommend it highly, along with the whole series. But this one was the best of the lot.