Rachel Starr Thomson

The Land of Darkness is the third fairy tale in C.S. Lakin’s Gates of Heaven series, this time following the quest of a twelve-year-old girl named Jadiel and her unlikely companion, a woodworking apprentice who is obsessed with finding a legendary bridge.

Driven out by her evil stepmother to find the eternal-youth-giving leaves of a tree, Jadiel has only thirty days to come home victorious, or her stepmother will kill the one she loves most—her father. Young and innocent, Jadiel nearly ends her journey in disaster only days after she sets out, but she is rescued by Callen, an impetuous young man with good aim and little patience. Callen is seeking a bridge he has only seen in ancient drawings. As he and Jadiel work together to decode the strange writing on the drawings, they discover that the bridge is made from the same tree Jadiel is seeking. To find the tree, all they need to do is find the bridge.

The only problem is that the bridge doesn’t exist. Or it’s invisible. Or it lies in a terrible, cursed land shrouded in darkness. The more they learn about the bridge and the tree, the more Jadiel and Callen find that their quest is not so much to discover a place as it is to discover the truth shrouded in rumours and lies.

In Lakin’s usual fairy-tale style, this story brings together parables of Christ with talking toads and wicked witches; allegorical elements with echoes of Snow White. And readers of the whole series will be rewarded as various characters from The Wolf of Tebron and The Map Across Time appear here—the first time the stories have really started to cross over.

Perhaps because one of the protagonists is only twelve, this one read more like a children’s story than the first two. That said, some of its best elements are also its scariest—a ghostly plain, a ruined city, and an escaped, ancient evil stood out as highlights.

Of the three books, The Land of Darkness is also the most clearly and directly a Christian allegory, although it isn’t preachy and has the ability to raise questions, not just answer them. Although it isn’t my personal favourite of the series so far, it was an enjoyable read. Recommended. (And I always point this out–but C.S. Lakin’s covers, done by artist Gary Lippincott, are amazing. This is the best so far.)

So, I really spaced on the last CSFF Tour–totally forgot to write/post a third entry. This had nothing to do with the quality of the book and everything to do with me being in the midst of traveling.

We were featuring D. Barkley Briggs’s Corus the Champion, which was a really great read. My one qualm about it was feeling like so many elements of the plot were too familiar. Anyway, Dean very graciously responded to my review, and I thought I’d post his response here because it really does touch on a major issue genre writers face:

Rachel, thank you for your thoughtful review. I appreciate the insights, and also the frustration of feeling the familiarity of a sub-genre’s distinctives. As far as I can tell, that’s the double-edged sword: color too much inside the lines, and people may feel overexposed to the story (i.e. that it is derivative of other works), but color outside the lines, and people who wanted an epic fantasy may feel cheated, i.e. “If I wanted steampunk, I would buy steampunk!” Personally, I wrote what I like to read: epic fantasy, and tried to do it in a way that raises the bar for the quality of what the Christian market could expect from such a title. As you briefly and graciously referenced me in the company of Tolkien, Lewis, Alexander, Cooper and Kay (swapping McKillip or LeGuin for Lawhead), I’m quite pleased. Thank you!

Let me say, first off, that Dean absolutely HAS raised the bar. He deserves those comparisons, and the genre distinctions he’s referring to–including many familiar motifs, background myths, and even plot points–will no doubt make their first encounters with many young readers in his books. Those young readers couldn’t ask for a better introduction, in my opinion. And the quality of writing, plus serious depth in the themes and characters, make these books original as well–I don’t want to give the false impression that they’re completely derivative.

(Mind you, I say all this based on Corus alone. I ordered Book of Names from Amazon, but it arrived with a tragically bent-double cover. I’m sending it back but will pick up the rest of the series when I get a chance.)

All of this makes me wonder anew, however: how restrictive are the boundaries of genre, really? As a reader, do you go after books in a certain genre looking for something familiar, or for something distinctive? Have you had an experience like Dean describes, where an author coloured too much outside the lines and you felt cheated? Does it bother you to run across familiar things in different novels, or do you actually want that?

I’m curious, so please do share your opinions if you have them.

One other thought on this: when you read inside a certain genre all the time, that genre tends to shape your imagination. Maybe that’s why fantasy-style stories come so naturally to me, and “real-world” stories don’t. The first book I ever tried to write was a fantasy that ripped off Lloyd Alexander and Terry Brooks in equal measure, and even now I find “derivative” scenes and ideas in my stories a lot. They just seem to be part of the way I think. Maybe that’s a reason to read outside of your genre?

The Barlow brothers are not the first to cross between Earth and Karac Tor, two of the Creator’s Nine Worlds. But the crossing has positioned the boys, each of whom possesses a significant gift, to influence the future of the Hidden Lands. Hadyn, who has discovered the power in names; Ewan, whose music weaves magic and defines his soul; Gabe, Wingtalker, who speaks with birds; and Garrett, Windbringer, whose gift is not so much what he knows as who.

In Corus the Champion, the second book of the Legends of Karac Tor by D. Barkley Briggs, the brothers follow separate quests, accompanied by warriors, monks, and legendary figures of long, long ago. As Hadyn, the oldest Barlow boy, tries to deliver his message of impending war to the five lords of Karac Tor, dodging assassins and braving the intricacies of politics, Gabe, Garrett, and Ewan join the search for two legendary figures who lie at the center of two worlds: Corus, the Champion, long thought dead; and the Sleeping King—a figure of immense mystery with a strange connection to Earth.

But neither of the missing figures will be found without sacrifice. It is Ewan, whose gifts of song and sight connect him most intimately to the mysteries of Karac Tor, who must pay the greatest price.

The story of this series is becoming a legend in itself in Christian fantasy circles: the first installment, The Book of Names, was originally published by NavPress, who dropped their fiction line only weeks before Corus the Champion went to print. After several years, the series was picked up by AMG/Living Ink, whose Christian fantasy list gets more impressive every year. The series has been well worth the wait for readers. Briggs’s writing is sharp and descriptive, almost stylistically poetic, and the story is fully engaging.

Nor is this a story just for children or young adults: like all really good fiction aimed at this age group, the story is timeless. Its explorations of spirituality and truth, lived out by the White, Gray, and Black Abbeys; its tackling of beauty, selfishness, and sacrifice through the haunting world of the Fey; and its heart-wrenching and honest look at despair and forgiveness in the story of Corus the Champion are all themes that will resonate with adult readers—in ways that we can bring back into our own world with us.

Initially, I found the story hard to get into—not because the opening isn’t exciting, but because of the overwhelming sense that I’d seen this before. So much of the plot has been done before, by C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien and Susan Cooper and Lloyd Alexander, with a little Stephen Lawhead and Guy Gavriel Kay thrown in. Much of the blame for this lies in source material: Briggs is drawing on the same Arthurian, Norse, and Celtic (chiefly Welsh) mythology that underlies many of those groundbreaking fantasy books, and there can only be so many variations.

But Briggs is a good writer, deserving of a place among the aforementioned names: young readers who are encountering the source material for the first time in his work will not share my frustration. Rather, they’ll discover a world of wonder that is beautifully wrought. He does the sources proud, and that is no small thing.

At the end of the book, I found myself facing that same frustration again, as the Orcs—er, Cauldron-Born—er, Goths—march on Helm’s Deep. Or rather, Röckval. But I forgave him, because the story had done what great fantasy ought to do: it had ignited my passion to see the Great Story beneath the apparent mundanity of my own life and to seek for myself the power of truth.

For the Five Tenets of the White Abbey ring true here as in Karac Tor:

Light is truth,
Truth is knowledge,
Knowledge is hope,
Hope is vision,
Vision is Light.

And it will light our world as surely as it lights the world of Karac Tor.

Highly recommended for readers of all ages.

The first and third books in the series, The Book of Names and The Song of Unmaking, are also available from Living Ink.

(Disclaimer: I received a copy of this book for review from the publisher.)

In The Bone House, Book 2 of the Bright Empires series, the race to recover the fabled Skin Map — once tattooed on the torso of the greatest traveler the multiverse has ever known, and rumoured to contain the greatest secret of all — is still on. Kit and Giles have escaped from the disease-ridden tomb to which the Burley Men confined them, and the good guys are beginning to gain the upper hand. (Mostly thanks to Wilhelmina Klug, whose experiences in 17th-century Prague have transformed her from stressed-out Londoner to time-ranging adventurer, equipped with raging confidence and above-average intelligence.)

But their attempts to find the map and keep it out of the hands of Archelaus Burleigh, the Black Earl, will send them careening into worlds and times they never dreamt of — and at cross-purposes with other ley travelers whose existence they know nothing about.

I have never found Stephen Lawhead to be an author who inspires the breathless turning of pages; his plots tend to unfold slowly, and the incredibly well-researched and authentically depicted settings of his books invite readers to soak themselves — when they do, the experience is usually rewarding. But in this case, the setting is not a culture or time period; it’s an idea: of the universe as multiverse, navigable by invisible lines that jump time, space, and dimension; and inhabited not so much by people as by immortal souls.

In my view, this is both a strength and a weakness. The whole concept of the multiverse and of ley travel is fascinating, definitely worth steeping yourself in. But at the same time, the idea isn’t always easy to grasp (just ask the characters); and the sheer breadth of this story makes it hard to steep yourself in any particular atmosphere or even get close to any particular character. I found myself getting blissfully lost in one place or one character’s story but then having little motivation to pick up the book again once I’d put it down. The nonlinear nature of the plot (which is totally appropriate for the setting of ley travel) also tended to work against any real tension or suspense. Add to that the omniscient voice, and we get the sense that we are watching a story unfold that is somehow predestined, that has already happened. The combined effect is to invite detachment from the story while encouraging engagement with an idea.

If my review of The Skin Map (Book 1 of the Bright Empires series) was ambiguous, it was because I found it hard to express my feelings about a story that wasn’t over yet — one, in fact, in which the major themes and plot thrust were only beginning to emerge. The Skin Map laid ground, and I was interested to find out how The Bone House would build on it.

And now? The Bone House was more interesting, more exciting, than The Skin Map; more thought-provoking as well. But I still find it hard to review. The story and its themes are still emerging. Like Kit, the chief protagonist, I find myself observing this story, going along with its flow, being interested in its people and places, and yet still not really having a clue what is going on.

Becky Miller of the CSFF, in her review, wrote, “Instead of picking at the story to find something to fault, I’d rather give my thoughts on what might be coming or what it all might mean. The Bright Empires series is, in part, a mystery, after all. And part of the fun of mysteries is to try to make educated guesses, then see how close you came to the way things actually are, story wise. ” I prefer to keep out of the guessing game for now. This is an intriguing series, puzzling in many ways, frustrating in others, always pointing to an enlightenment that lies just ahead — in the next world, across the next ley line, and (hopefully), in the next book.

(A note to readers: Do not even try to read this book without reading The Skin Map first. I’ve seen some incredibly unfair reviews by readers who did just that — in no way is this book a standalone. And a disclaimer: A copy of The Bone House was provided to me by the publisher.)

On the Edge of the Dark Sea of Darkness is a whimsical adventure tale, funny, scary, inhabited by Fangs of Dang, crazy sock men, and genuine recipes for maggotloaf. North! Or Be Eaten, Book 2 of The Wingfeather Saga, is the classic journey story: a book of creatures, encounters, fascinating locales, and of course, coming of age.

But it’s in The Monster in the Hollows that this series steps up and takes its place as a true fantasy epic — still quirky, still definitely located in the world of Aerwiar and not in Middle Earth, but firmly rooted in epic soil. The Monster in the Hollows is a bigger, sadder, older, and more beautiful part of The Wingfeather Saga than we’ve seen before.

(Warning: series spoilers ahead.)

The story begins, as all good sagas do, where the previous book left off: with the Wingfeather family sailing across the Dark Sea of Darkness in search of refuge in the Green Hollows, homeland of Nia Igiby Wingfeather and the last place in all of Aerwiar that is still free. But what begins as a warm welcome for Nia and her children quickly turns sour when the transformation of Kalmar is revealed: the Hollows are still free because its people have vigilantly driven every Fang from their land, and they are not keen to welcome one into their bosom now.

A startling sacrifice from Nia convinces the Hollowsfolk to accept all of her children — but no sacrifice can buy their trust. Janner, Kalmar, and Leeli settle into their new home and school, caught between the delight of being children again, with a home far from Fangs and from fear, and the knowledge that they are outsiders here. Janner struggles to love and protect his brother even as he resents him for estranging them.

But something strange is happening in the Green Hollows. A monster lurks in the shadows, a voice calls to Janner out of eerie visions, and Kalmar, it seems, has a secret . . .

In The Monster in the Hollows, Andrew Peterson once again weaves a tale that rings as true when it’s exploring the firesides of home as it does when it’s delving into the exotic places and peoples of a beautifully rendered fantasy world. As ancient secrets are revealed, revolutions are fostered, and the forces of evil gather for attack, we find ourselves caring just as much — or perhaps more — about the love between brothers, the faith of a mother, and the success of children in school. The forces of good, after all, are not concentrated in some distant castle or far-off king, but in frail human vessels in need of family, forgiveness, and the power of hope.

As before, the story is primarily told through the eyes of twelve-year-old Janner, the oldest of the Igiby children and the Throne Warden of Anniera whether he likes it or not. Much of the saga’s attention hovers, with Janner, at the outer edge of childhood. But the more adult story which readers have been able to glimpse all along through Podo, Nia, and Artham comes into the foreground in a greater way in The Monster in the Hollows, as Nia especially takes on a more central role.

New characters are introduced — including the memorable Head Guildmadam of the Ban Rona school, Olumphia Groundwich — and subplots from previous books carried to their conclusions. (I found the further fate of Sara Cobbler to be particularly interesting, and particularly affecting.) The setting, Ban Rona of the Green Hollows, is likewise more adult: the fearsome toothy cows, bomnubbles, and snickbuzzards of Skree — terrifying as they could be — have faded into the background, replaced by the rotting, misshapen cloven of the Blackwood. Where Glipwood Township was as amusing as it was oppressed, Ban Rona is the stuff of legends. And this book, for the first time in the saga, is entirely devoid of footnotes.

All in all, The Monster in the Hollows is a wonderful read, both entertaining and deep, and an effective launching pad into the fourth and final book in the series. For that, we’ll have all just have to wait, content in the knowledge that it’s likely to be worth waiting for.

A boy who longs for freedom and adventure, who lives under an oppressive regime, who does not truly know who he is. A journey to strange lands full of strange creatures, one that is simultaneously a journey to discover the past and to shape the future. Beauty, tragedy, and wonder. Coming of age. Dragons, mysterious songs, fallen kings, and a nameless shadow across the sea.

The Wingfeather Saga is a story I have read a thousand times … and one I have never read before.

That is true in more ways than one. For one thing, I have never before read a kingly fantasy that was full of fearsome toothy cows, footnotes, hilariously dull quotations (in the words of one famous figure, “How awful”), and villains with names like “the Fangs of Dang,” and other things calculated to make readers howl with laughter even as they chuckle nervously over the prospect of actually encountering a toothy cow or a Fang of Dang. There is a great deal of whimsy and self-aware humor in this particular saga.

But it is also true in that Andrew Peterson (who is also a recording artist and the sketcher of his own “Creaturepedia,” making it clear why, in this fictional world, music, writing, and art are the only three subjects worth studying — sorry, scientists and mathematicians) has taken the old standbys of every great fantasy journey and made them new in all the ways that count. His prose is masterful, his characters are individuals, and his plotting will keep you turning pages even if so many of its themes feel warmly familiar.

As a child, I’m quite sure I would have loved this series. And in fact, being a grown-up hasn’t lessened my enjoyment any. These books are light reading (I do so much heavy reading that they’re a welcome break), but they are not “light” in the sense of inconsequential. On the Edge of the Dark Sea of Darkness kicks the story off as Janner, Tink, and Leeli Igiby run afoul of the Fangs of Dang and begin to discover that there is more to their world — and themselves — than they ever dreamt of. In North! Or Be Eaten, the Igibys head for the Ice Prairies to escape their enemies, but find that the darkness inside of themselves may prove to be just as dangerous.

The Monster in the Hollows is Book 3, and I’ll offer a full review tomorrow. In the meantime, I hope you’ll check out the rest of the series, or have a look around the tour (links in yesterday’s post) to see how other CSFFers are liking the third installment.

Origins matter. Few answers are more enlightening that those that tell us where something—or someone—came from. Origins give us insight into the shape of reality, answering not only the what but the why.

Even if you are a literalist* Bible reader (which I assume most of my readers are), you’ve no doubt heard people—maybe even other Christians—refer to the “Genesis myth,” regarding the Eden story as an attempt by ancient people to explain who we are by means of fiction. Even some traditionalist* Christian scholars see heavy symbolism in Genesis and question whether the Bible actually portrays Adam and Eve as real people rather than symbols—the archetypal “man” and “woman” who represent our tendency to sin and our separation from God but are not figures in real history.

Did Adam and Eve Really Exist?: Who They Were and Why You Should Care (Crossway, 2011), by C. John Collins, examines this question from a scholarly perspective, applying scientific, literary, and cultural considerations to the reading of Scripture. Its answer to the question is a resounding yes, primarily because Collins posits that without Adam and Eve as real people standing “at the headwaters of humanity,” the storyline of Scripture—which has now swept us, in Christ, into its flow—makes no sense.

Collins also presents as a central premise the idea that the Adam and Eve story, taken as history, explains something about our state as human beings that cannot be explained any other way: namely, that we universally conceive of sin and death as “wrong” in some way, and that we all have a sense (almost a nostalgic one) that at some point in the past creation was truly good, and so were we. This theme particularly resonated with me; it’s one I’ve explored in my writing, both fiction and nonfiction, maybe more than any other.

Like many scholarly books, this slim and readable volume does not exist in a vacuum. It enters a conversation that has been going on among biblical scholars for some time. Although the author does identify himself as a traditionalist scholar, many of his conclusions and premises may be uncomfortable to readers of a more literalist bent. (He is not, for example, a “young-earth” creationist—and I would include myself in the “literalist” category!)

Yet, I found the book to be a valuable read, giving insight on the importance of the Bible’s storyline, on the necessity of reading historically and not just devotionally, and shedding light on what such a reading means to the gospel. A fault I see in literalist readers, including myself, is a tendency to just read the stories, accept them as true, and fail to think through their implications in our lives. This book does not allow us to do that.

I also enjoyed the appendices, particularly Appendix 1, “Ancient Near Eastern Texts and Genesis 1–11,” which compares Genesis to myths and legends from the ancient Near East (many of these discovered relatively recently). This is a fascinating look at the cultures and times that surrounded the writing of Genesis, helping us to see what is unique about the Bible and how God worked in ancient Hebrew culture.

For readers interested in the ongoing question of whether Adam and Eve really existed, this book may provide valuable and thought-provoking insight. For readers who consider the question settled—but who are willing to listen in on a scholarly debate—the book may likewise prove thought-provoking and valuable, even if in unexpected ways.

*There is no question that the Bible does at times use symbolism. Borrowing the terms from Collins, both “traditionalist” and “literalist” refer to Christians who believe that God inspired Scripture and that its authority must be trusted. However, literalist readers will shy away from interpreting symbolically any passages but those which are most obviously symbolic, while non-literalist traditionalists may feel more comfortable debating things like whether the first several chapters of Genesis are symbolic or not. To my mind (although I think the literalists are right, which is why I am one), both of these are acceptable Christian positions.

(Note: I was provided with a free review copy of this book from Crossway.)

Anita Mellott is a homeschooling mother and a regular columnist for Home School Enrichment, an excellent magazine which I’ve been copyediting for the last five or six years. Anita’s columns are always encouraging, authentic, and marked by devotion to the Lord first and foremost. When she contacted me about permission to include some of my homeschool grad experience in her upcoming book, I was excited to hear that she was making the leap from “columnist” to “author.”

Anita’s book, School Is Where the Home Is: 180 Devotions for Parents (Judson Press, 2011) is a devotional book specifically designed for homeschool parents, especially mothers. It’s written in the familiar devotional style with a line of Scripture, a short, personal story from Anita’s homeschooling experience that applies the Scripture, and a “digging deeper” follow-up question and Scripture.

The stories Anita tells deal with issues of teaching, character, parent-child and husband-wife relationships, and especially keeping Jesus Christ at the center of our homeschools, as well as the rest of our lives. The book is delivered with Anita’s trademark authenticity, encouraging tone, and smooth writing.

One thing I did pick up while reading the book is that the stories and lessons will be most applicable in families where homeschooling is on the formal side of the spectrum, with the mother or father actively involved in teaching, reviewing, and grading. For families like mine, where education was much more informal and student-led, there are fewer spot-on insights—but the overall principles of exalting the Lord, gaining our vision from him, and using homeschooling as in-home discipleship hold true for everyone.

Sascha Konig is a brilliant chemist, a Nazi, and a good man. That, at least, is what he tells himself. He is, after all, an educated, literate man, an artist, a man of faith. That he must sometimes obey unspeakable orders does not change that.

Ah, but, It is times such as these that we see inside a man by what he obeys or does not obey. That is but one of the lessons Konig must grapple with inside the Nachthaus, a notorious Nazi death and torture camp inside an old forest mine in Romania, where Sascha is brought to make the victim-devouring furnace burn hotter.

It does not take Konig long to learn that—Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin—the Nachthaus has been weighed and found wanting by some power greater than them all. The forest itself has launched a bloodthirsty siege against the gates of the mine, sending preternatural creatures in ferocious attack night after night. Messages—and people—come in, but cannot go out. The madman who runs the death camp is determined to prove himself victor over all, no matter what it should cost.

And Konig is himself haunted by the startling blue eyes of a Gypsy girl whose death he caused.

He was only following orders. But It is times such as these that we see inside a man by what he obeys or does not obey.

In the dark night of Nazi cruelty and nature’s fury, Sascha Konig must look inside of himself to discover the truth about his life, his world, and the path he must take. The Nachthaus puts most men to sleep, dulling them to the horrors of their lives, but for those who are awake, there are many messages.

Most of all: Deus et natua non faciunt frusta. Ex malo bonum: God and nature do not work together in vain. Out of evil, good.

Marc Schooley’s second novel with Marcher Lord Press, Konig’s Fire has much in common with its protagonist: it is intelligent, literate, and willing to examine the reality of human sin with open eyes. It’s highly imaginative—weird is an appropriate adjective—so don’t come looking for realistic historical fiction; this isn’t it. And be warned that this is a dark story, with elements verging on horror. Torture, monsters, and madmen all play into the plot. (And if you have a real problem with cockroaches, don’t read it.) But in all of that, it’s a story full of wisdom, one which not only exposes the darkness, but shows the way out. Ex malo bonum, after all.

If Konig’s Fire is a horror story, it is one with its gaze fixed on the truest horror of our existence: the reality of our own sin. But in that horror, the light of God unmistakably shines.

The Reverend Ian Clark, pastor of a small church in Stonetree, California, has been hiding his resignation letter in his desk drawer for days, working up the nerve to call it quits on his position, his faith, and his dreams. For good. Haunted by past tragedy and his own personal failures, Ian lives up to the nickname given him by Professor Benjamin Keen, a world-traveling anthropologist and pioneer in syncretistic spirituality: “The Wandering Soul.”

But Ian’s plans stall out when Ruby Case, a member of his congregation and unremarkable housewife, accidentally raises a young boy from the dead.

As rumours, tabloids, and pilgrims converge on Stonetree, Ian and Ruby become increasingly aware that something big is happening. The druid doll on the front lawn, the frightening vision of a petrified tree, the ghost in Ian’s office—all point to realities they can’t see but must, somehow, confront. And then there’s the other resurrection . . .

Stonetree has long been rumoured to be a cursed town. Just how true that is, none of them really imagined. Somehow, Ruby Case and Ian Clark have unleashed war—and they have no choice but to see it through.

Mike Duran’s debut novel, The Resurrection, is top-notch paranormal suspense, reminiscent of Frank Peretti’s early spiritual warfare novels, but with a flavour all its own. Its intelligent blend of culture and history with paranormal elements is immensely appealing. Duran writes with cinematic sensibility, creating locales and encounters that appeal as strongly to the senses as to the mind and imprint themselves in visual splendour. He paints coastal California in perfect, vivid detail: I can still see redwoods and smell eucalyptus in the fog.

The characters are three-dimensional and engaging. (I’d very much like to sit down with Ian Clark and talk about his spiritual journey—and a few other topics as well. He’s the sort of smart, curious academic with whom I always enjoy conversing.) Their spiritual struggles are real: their questions, doubts, fears, hopes, and triumphs reflect real faith in a messy world.

I am somewhat ambivalent about the book’s depiction of spiritual warfare. Thoroughly enjoyable as adventure, mystery, and story of personal faith, The Resurrection isn’t so easily transferred to our everyday spirituality as Peretti’s This Present Darkness was. Duran is a writer of speculative fiction, and he speculates freely–about all sorts of things in the spiritual realm. As I’ve said in an article over at Speculative Faith, I came away a little confused on a few points, and feeling that it wouldn’t be too hard to interpret God as just another deity vying for control of the planet, rather than as the King of Kings thundering His authority over every inch of it. This is reality, but it’s not; the lines are blurry. And I’m not sure how I feel about that.

Even so, this one stays on my bookshelf, and I’m looking forward to Duran’s next title. If you read The Resurrection, tell me your thoughts about the spiritual stuff. I would love to hear what you think.