by Robert T. Bakker. Her name is Raptor Red, and she is a female Raptor dinosaur. Painting a rich and colorful picture of a lush prehistoric world, leading paleontologist Robert T. Bakker tells his story from within Raptor Red's extraordinary mind, dramatizing his revolutionary. Raptor Red is a American novel by paleontologist Robert T. Bakker. The book is a third-person account of dinosaurs during the Cretaceous Period, told. Raptor El Rojo es una novela americana de escrita por el paleontólogo Robert T. Bakker. . Una pelea estalla entre el raptor varón y la hermana de Red .

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As we ourself tell the rich families who hospitably open their doors to us when we travel, 'Whatever you give to another, you are sending on before you into heaven.

As is well known, the rich always have the most sins to atone for, and we ourself are ever ready to give our best prayers toward the palliation of the sins of a rich and liberal patron. Needless to add, it is far more profitable than our tithing of the common folk.

I was even inclined once to view askance my own abbot, whom I otherwise loved and respected, when he dictated to me a letter to be sent to a recent graduate of the Condatus seminary, where he had once taught. That young man having just been ordained a priest, Dom Clement was moved to give him some advice on how best to address his congregation: However, nothing should be made too clear; therefore, stir the milk and meat into a gravy.

If the laity ever were able to comprehend the Word of God unaided, if they ever were able to pray without an intermediary, what need then of the priest's benediction?

Of his authority? Of the priesthood itself? Our valley was a spacious and a pleasant place, and I managed to steal some free time from my duties and my studies, to enjoy the natural beauties of the Ring of Balsam. I may very well have learned as much of value from the wide outdoors as I did from the teachers and scrolls and codices indoors at the abbey. I ought to describe the Balsan Hrinkhen for the benefit of those who have never been there.

The valley is about four Roman miles long and wide, encircled by a vertical rock cliff, shaped like a giant horse's rimshoe and fluted like a hanging drapery, that rises from and encloses the valley. The wall is highestat least thirty times a man's heightat the front-end arc of the rimshoe.

Along the curved sides of the shoe, the cliff wall gradually diminishes in heightor it appears to; actually, the enclosed ground within gradually risesuntil, at the open end of the rimshoe, the valley land merges into the land above and surrounding it: The only road out of the Balsan Hrinkhen goes up through that open end of the rimshoe. On reaching the uplands, the road forks, going northeast to Vesontio and southwest to Lugdunum on the great river Rhodanus.

There are many lesser rivers traversing that plateau, and many villages, even the occasional small town, between Vesontio and Lugdunum. There was also a village down inside the Ring of Balsam, but it covered no more area than did the buildings of either of the two abbeys. It consisted only of the wattle-and-daub, straw-thatched cottages of the local folk who farmed St.

Damian's lands or their ownplus the workshops of artisans: The village had none of the amenities of civilization, not even a market square, because there was no downloading or selling of provender or anything else. Whatever necessities were not produced by the local folk themselves had to be carted in from one of the bigger communities up on the Iupa. Our valley's water supply was not an ordinary river, like those on the plateau, but a stream that issued rather mysteriously from our cliff wall, and no man could divine the whereabouts of its source.

High up in the cliff, at what I have called "the front-end arc of the rimshoe," there was a vast, deep, dark cavern, and the water poured out of there. From the cavern's mossy and lichened lip, the stream ran down a series of terraces, making a pool at. Finally, after rambling hither and yon for a considerable distance from the foot of the cliff through the declivity of the valley there, the stream became a broad, deep, placid pond, and on the far side of that was where the village had grown up.

The best part of the stream, though, was that where it leapt from the cavern's rock ledge and came sparkling and laughing down the random, staggered rock terraces. Around the crystalline pools on all the terraces were banks of soil, brought as silt from wherever in the earth's bowels the stream originated. Since those plots of ground were too small and hard of access for any farmer to bother tilling, they had been let to grow wildflowers, sweet grasses, fragrant herbs and blossoming shrubs.

Thus that whole area, during the clement months of the year, was an enchanting place to bathe, to play or just to loll and dream. Many a time I ventured inside the cavern whence the water came, and I may have gone farther in there than any of the timorous and incurious local folk ever have done.

I always chose a time when the sunlight penetrated as far in as it ever didwhich was never very far; we of the Balsan Hrinkhen were accustomed to the sun's always "setting early" behind our western clifftops. Even when I made my entry at exactly the right time, when the green mosses on the cavern's lip and the green vines dangling from its upper arch were all set glowing golden by the sun, that glow did not light my way for more than twenty paces inside.

But I would grope my way through the thickening gloom for as far as I could, to delay lighting and expending my torch. I always brought at least one along: Such a torch burns as long as a candle, and much more brightly. If the stream of water ever had been broad enough to cover the cavern floor from wall to wall, it was not so in my time.

There was ample walking room on either side. Of course, the rock underfoot was exceedingly slippery, from splashings of the stream and drizzlings from the domed roof.

But fortunately my boots, the one pair I owned, were made of the untanned skin of a cow's legs, with the hairy side out. The hoofs had been removed, but the cow's dewclaws had been left on either side of each boot's heel, so they gripped excellently even on the cavern's treacherous flooring.

I never did get all the way to the stream's source, even on the time or two when I brought a whole bundle of hemlock torches. But I did go far in other directions. I early discovered that the tunnel through which the water ran, and which emerged as the cavern opening in the cliffside, was only one of many interconnected tunnels. At first I was hesitant to delve into any of the side tunnels, fearing that some skohl might have been hiding in them ever since the days of the Old Religionor even some monster that a Christian could rightly be wary of, such as an evil demon or a lustful succuba.

Even if none of those lurked hereabout, I feared that the tunnels might go on branching and I should get lost in them. But after a while, when I had become less uncomfortable underground, I did begin exploring those side tunnels, and eventually explored all that I could find, even when they were such small holes that I had to proceed on hands and knees, or sometimes wriggling on my belly.

I never encountered any inhabitants more fearsome than pale, eyeless lizards and a lot of bats hanging upside down from the tunnels' roofs, which woke only to rustle and squeak and spatter me with droppings. The tunnels did often branch, and the branchings branched again, but I was always able to retrace my route by the soot trail my torch left on the roof rocks.

If I cannot claim that I discovered the stream's source, I can say that I found more marvelous things, and I wonder if anyone else has ever set eyes on them. The tunnels not only divided and intermeshed like the Labyrinth of olden time, they often opened out into underground rooms far bigger than the cliffside cavern, so vast that my torchlight was too feeble to reach their roofs.

And those immense rooms were wondrously furnished: From the ceilings depended great hangings that variously resembled icicles and draperies, but were also made of that melted-looking rock. On one particularly exquisite tracery of melted-then-congealed rock, I wrote with the smoke of my torch the initial of my name: For all the mysterious and extraordinary things I found underground, however, the one most mysterious and extraordinary I found outside, on one of the familiar ledges of the cascades.

It was only an ordinary rock, beside one of the cascade pools, a sharp-edged rock that resembled a giant-sized ax blade stood on end.

Like the other rocks roundabout, it was mossy all overor almost all over. What I noticed about it was that it had a V-shaped notch in its thin edge, as if it really had been used by an axman and he had carelessly struck it against something hard that had nicked its edge. But the rock was not an ax, and never had been. The groove appeared to have been gouged as if by an ironsmith's file, a good file that had not quickly dulled, for the notch was about as broad and deep as my little finger.

It was also bare of moss, and the inner surfaces of it were sleekly polished, as vellum is polished by a moleskin. I could not imagine how the notch had been cut or by whom or for what reason. It was some while before I found out, and realized how truly wonderful that simple thing was, and how much more wonderful the reason for it.

But of that I will tell in due course. For now, I will continue describing the Balsan Hrinkhen. As I have mentioned, there were sheep and cow pastures inside the valleynot so extensive, of course, as those up on the Iupa. Around the village there were neat kitchen gardens and, farther out, small fields of various crops, orchards of various fruits, vineyards, hop fields, even olive groves, for the Ring of Balsam's cliff-protected situation allowed those trees to flourish this far north of their native Mediterranean lands.

And among all the cultivated fields were others left fallow for a season and let to grow wild. In the gardens and orchards and pastures and fields, there were always men, women and children hard at work. A newcomer watching the work going on in the Ring of Balsam would have been hard put to tell which of the adult humans were peasants and which were the brothers of St. Damian, for all wore the same drab robes of burlap, with cowls to pull over their heads for protection from sun or rain.

The dress of every man and woman in holy ordersfrom monk or nun on up to exalted bishopwas deliberately intended to be no more rich than the lowliest peasant's garb. When working afield, the monks and the peasants not only looked alike, they all worked equally silently, except for a few shepherds and goatherds who might be tweedling on reed pipes. I am convinced that the pagan god Pan invented his pipes for the same reason that all herders play them: The monks would speak or at least nod to me when.

I strolled among them. The peasant men and women seemed never to see me, or anything else except the task immediately under their noses; their gaze was as vacant as that of their cows. They were not being either aloof or unfriendly; it was merely their normal torpor.

One day I came upon an elderly man and woman forking sheep dung into the ground under their olive trees, and I asked why their neat and tidy rows of trees were interrupted by a tremendous circular gap in the middle of the grove. The old man merely grunted and went on with his labor, but the old woman paused to say, "Look you, boy, at what is growing in that gap. Olives dislike oak trees. They will not bear if they are planted close to an oak.

It does not seem to mind. Ever since a loving man and wife of the olden timeof the Old Religiononce asked the old gods please to let them die at the same moment. The compassionate old gods made that happen, and more than that. When the aged couple died, they were reborn as an oak and a linden, lovingly growing side by side.

And so those two trees have ever afterward lovingly continued to do. But even the peasants did not labor during every minute of every day.

In the evenings, the menfolk would often forgather to play at dice, and to get quite drunk on wine or ale at the same time. As they tossed the three little dotted cubes of bone, they raucously invoked the help of Jupiter, Halja, Nerthus, Dus, Venus and other demons.

Of course, they could not call on any Christian saints to intercede in an activity that involved wagers. But the game of dice was evidently older than Christianity, for the highest possible castthree sixeswas known as "the Venus throw. Every summer they indulged in a riotously jolly celebration of the pagan Feast of Isis and Osiris, with much eating, drinking, dancing and apparently other enjoyments, for a spate of children always got born nine months afterward.

Also, while it was usual for a newborn peasant baby to be christened or a peasant couple to be married or a dead peasant to be buried according to the Christian sacraments, the peasants performed for all of those persons an additional kind of blessing. Over the infant or the bride or the grave, a village elder would swing in circles a hammer crudely made of a stone bound by thongs to a stout stick. I recognized that object, from my readings in the Old Language, to be a replica of the hammer of the Old Religion's god Thor.

Sometimes, on a wall of the house where the child had been born, or of that where the new bride would live, or in the loose earth covering the new grave, would be scrawled a signthe gammadion cross of four equal, angular, crooked arms; what some call the "cramped" crossintended to represent Thor's hammer being swung in a circle.

Of the wild creatures that lived or visited there, only the venomous adder was to be always avoided, or quickly killed if possible. Even the mischievous redheaded woodpecker was not dangerous in the daytime. I often followed one's flutterings from tree to tree, because it was said that that bird could lead a person to a hidden treasure, though none ever revealed any such thing to me. But I took care never to stretch out for a nap when a woodpecker was about, for it also had the reputation of boring a hole in a sleeping person's head and inserting maggots therein, so the person would wake up insane.

Of the other birds, the white storks that arrived every spring were sometimes almost unbearably noisy, talking among themselves by clattering their bills, so they sounded like mobs of people dancing in wooden shoes. But their presence was welcome, because they were known to bring good luck to any house on the roof of which they chose to nest. Once, while ambling about, I encountered a full-grown wolf, and another time a fox. But I did not have to flee from either, for on each occasion the beast was feebly staggering, and a farmer came hastening with a mattock to bludgeon the animal to death and skin it for its pelt.

Ordinarily, those predators entered the Ring of Balsam only by night, and prowled only the end of it farthest from any human habitation. But the local folk put out bits of raw meat into which they had put a quantity of powdered bugloss herb, and that was what made the wolves and foxes blind and addled, to totter helplessly about in broad daylight.

The peasant who slew the wolf told me, while he was skinning it, "If ever you come upon a lynx fuddled by bugloss, boy, do not kill it. The lynx looks like a large cat, but it is really the offspring of a mating between a wolf and a fox, and therefore it is magical. Nurse it to health, give it sweet wine to drink, then catch its urine in tiny bottles.

Bury those bottles for fifteen days and you will find that they contain bright red lynx-stones. Gems as beautiful and as valuable as carbuncles. But I did have another encounter with a predatorand this one not fuddledwhen I climbed a tree one afternoon.

Like any boy, I liked to climb trees, and some of them, such as beeches and maples, having many limbs set near the ground, are easy to get into.

Others, such as the stone pine, are like pillars, with their branches only high up, but I had devised a way of scaling those, too. I would undo the waist rope from my smock, knot a loop into either end, stick my feet in the loops and put them astraddle the tree trunk while I embraced it with my arms. The taut rope's friction against the bark enabled me to kick my way upward almost as easily as if I had been climbing ladder rungs. Well, that was what I was doing that afternoon: I had often marveled at the queer snakelike way in which the wrynecks waggle their heads, but I had never seen a chick of that bird, and I was curious to know what it looked like.

However, a large glutton had also decided to investigate that nest, and had incautiously come out of its burrow before nightfall, and had got up the tree before me. We came face to face, away above the ground, and the animal snarled and bared its teeth at me. I had never heard of a glutton's attacking a human, but in our situation this one might forget its scruples. So I immediately abandoned my. I stood on the ground, and the glutton and I glowered at one another.

I wanted to kill the thingfor one reason, it had a fine brown fur side-banded with yellow-white; for another, it was probably the thief that had so often stolen moles from my noose-traps before I could get to them. But I had no kind of weapon with me, and the animal would make its escape the minute I went to fetch one. Then I had an idea. I took off my smock and high hose and stuffed them with the dead brush lying under the tree. I propped that limp simulacrum of myself against the trunk, sneaked out of the glutton's sight and then ran as fast as I could, stark naked, to the abbey.

Numerous monks and peasants working afield goggled as I flashed past them, and Brother Vitalis was sweeping the dorter when I lunged in there. He gave a cry of scandalized astonishment, dropped his broom and went running himselfprobably to tell the abbot that little Thorn had eaten of bugloss and gone demented.

I got from under my pallet the leather sling I had made myself, and yanked on my other smock, and raced back the way I had come. Sure enough, the glutton was still up the tree and still glaring down at the mock me. I had to try four or five timesI was no David with my slingbut a stone finally hit the animal, and hard enough to topple it from its branch. It came flailing down, and thumped on the ground, and I already had a thick piece of tree limb handy to brain it with.

The glutton weighed almost as much as I did, but I managed to drag it to the abbey, where Brother Polycarp helped me skin it, and Brother Ignatius, our sempster, helped me sew the fur into a cowl for my winter blanket-surcoat.

There was one wild creature that no one disliked or feared or wanted for its skin or tried to kill. It was a small brown eagle that nested not in trees but on high ledges of our cliffsides. The Ring of Balsam had other raptorial birdshawks and vulturesbut those were despised, the hawks because they habitually raided the poultry flocks, the vultures merely because they were so ugly and such foul feeders. The little eagle was treasured, because its chief prey was reptiles, including the one snake in all this continent that has a poisonous bite: Either the eagle was adroit enough to avoid the adder's fangs or it was impervious to the venom, for I frequently saw the bird and the serpent in a thrashing, flapping struggle, and it was always the eagle that emerged victorious.

The largest adder is not very big or heavy, but I have also seen one of those eagles fight and vanquish a ladder snake that was as long as I was tall and must have weighed six times as much as the bird. Since the slain serpent was far too heavy to be carried entire, the eagle then proceeded with its beak and talons to tear the cadaver into manageable pieces and fly those one by one to its high nest. From then on, out of admiration, I called the eagle the juika-bloth, meaning in the Old Language "I fight for blood.

That was not to be my only association with the bird. During my very last year at St. Damian's, the juika-bloth solved for me the mystery of that deep and polished groove in that rock beside one of the cascade pools.

At twilight one day, I chanced to bathe in that particular pool, and then lay floating lazily on the surface. The water being no longer agitated, and I making no noise, a juika-bloth came fluttering down from the cliff above the cavern, and made straight for that rock. It put its hooked beak into the rock's groove and busily worked the beak back and forth, sideways, up and downsharpening it, as a warrior might whet his sword. How many, many generations of those eagles must have done the same, and over how many, many centuries, to have worn that notch so deep in solid rock!

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I stayed quiet and watched the juika-bloth until it was satisfied that its weapon was formidably ready for its next opponent, and then it flew up and away again.

What I did, on the following day, I would now regard as unforgivable. But I was then still only a child, and unthinking that a bird might value its freedom from mastery as much as a child does.

I went again to the cascades, a little earlier in the afternoon, carrying my winter surcoat and a stout, lidded basket. At the rock, I smeared into the groove some birdlime made from the inner bark of a holly, which must be the stickiest substance there is. But that would hold a strong juika-bloth no longer than a moment. So next I carefully laid out at the foot of the rock a loop of rawhideI had made a larger version of the noose-trap I used in mole burrowsand disguised that with scattered leaves.

Then, taking with me the far end of the long rawhide, I crept deep under a nearby shrub, lay quiet and waited. At twilight again, an eagle came. Whether it was the same one I could not tell, but it did the same thing: Then it made an angry noise and began backflapping its wingsmuch as I moved my arms when swimming on my backwhile it pushed with its widespread talons against the imprisoning rock. But I suddenly stood erect, and in the same instant pulled the rawhide loop up and around the bird's hinder body, just above its tail, and yanked the noose tight.

Then I leapt, flinging my sheepskin over the eagle. The next few minutes are only a blur in my memory, and they must have been a blur in reality, for the juikabloth was only tethered, not bound. It had its wings, beak and talons free to fight withwhich it didmuch tattering my coat and tearing some bloody bits out of my desperately grappling arms. Tufts of wool and down wafted all about us. But at last I had the bird fast inside the coat and, holding the bundle tight with both arms, I scrambled to where I had left the basket, dumped the eagle into it and latched down the lid.

I kept that birdand kept it secret, because, in that time and place, a person would have been considered lunatic to maintain a creature that did not in some way earn its keep. I housed my eagle in a large unused coop in the pigeon loft, where no one ever went but me, and I fed it on frogs and lizards and mice and such things that I could catch or trap.

Back then, I had never even heard of "falconry," so I certainly knew nothing about that sport and art, unless I had inherited from my Goth forebears some instinct for it. And well I may have done, because, all by myself, I succeeded in taming and training my eagle.

I began by clipping enough of the bird's wing feathers to prevent its flying any better than a chicken does, and whenever I first took it afield, I had it on a tether.

With trial and errorand maybe instinctI learned that the eagle could be kept quietly sitting on my shoulder if its eyes were covered, so I made a little leather hood for it. I caught and killed a harmless garden snake, and used that for a lure. By doling out rewards of morsels of meat, I taught my eagle to pounce upon that lure when I shouted, "Slit! So one day, in an empty field, I threw my snake lure as far from me as I could. Then, with a small prayer, I slipped the eagle's tether and let it fly free, and immediately cried, "Slit!

It evidently had decided to look on me as its companion and protector and provider. The eagle obediently swooped down upon the dead snake and gleefully tore at it and tossed it about, until I called, "Juika-bloth! That admirable eagle continued to stay with me, and to serve me in ways of which I will tell later.

I will only mention here that it and I had something in common. During all the time we were companions, the eagle of course had no opportunity to mate with another, so I never knew whether my juika-bloth was male or female. Damian's when I was smugly congratulating myself on having got educated far beyond my years, there were of course many, many things that I had yet to learneven about the Christian religion, though I had been all my life immersed in it.

Of two things in particular I was then as ignorant as any unquestioning peasant. One was that Christianity was not so catholically universal as the Catholic Church would have liked its believers to believe. The other was that Christianity was not the solid, indivisible, unyielding edifice that all its priests pronounced it to be. None of my instructors ever divulged those truths to me, if they ever acknowledged such unpalatable facts in their own minds.

Raptor Red by Robert T. Bakker

However, since I never did conquer the curiosity that my tutors so much deplored, I continued to wonder about things and to scrutinize them, instead of merely accepting them, as I was expected to do. Of all the things and occurrences pertaining to our religion that gave me cause for wondering or doubt, I remember most vividly one wintertime Sunday's mass.

Dom Clement, besides being abbot of our monastery, was parish priest to our whole valley, and our abbey's chapel served as the sole church of the valley's inhabitants.

It was merely a large room, plank-floored, with no furnishings except the ambo reading-table at the front, and with no decorations whatever. Naturally, the congregation was separated by sex and status to stand in appointed places. Our resident monks, and I, stood to one side of the ambo, together with any visiting clerics and any distinguished lay Christian guests.

The local peasant men stood in a body on the right of the room, the peasant women on the left. And off in one corner were segregated any sinners under sentence of penance.

Not until everyone else was in place did Dom Clement enter, wearing over his brown burlap robe the pure-white, priestly linen stola. The congregation saluted him with the "Alleluia! He read it loudly and slowly, in the Old Language, but not from the Bible. He read it from a parchment scroll that had been written out in the Gothic script, and written large, so that the scroll was considerable in length.

Also, it had been illuminated by our scriptorium limners with pictures illustrating various things mentioned in the lection. Those pictures were.

That was done so that, as Dom Clement read, and let the free end of the scroll unroll down the front of the ambo, the pictures were right side up in the view of the congregation.

Almost all of the local people except the penitents came close to the ambo politely taking turns, not crowdingto examine the illustrations. Since no peasant owned a Bible, or could read one, and since many of them were too ox-witted even to comprehend a priest's reading of it aloud, those pictures enabled the peasants to get at least a dim idea of what was being told to them.

When Dom Clement had finished reading the psalm, and then began to preach his homily on it, I was more surprised than impressed by his solemnly telling us: The name of the Ammonites comes from the pagan ram-demon Jupiter Ammon, hence they were a tribe of idolaters. The name of the Amalekites comes from the Latin word 'amare,' 'to love passionately,' hence they were guilty of the sin of lust He concluded in Latin: Next there came the Procession of the Oblation.

The monks acting as deacon and acolytes brought into the chapel the three bronze vesselseach covered with a fine white veil of the cobweb cloth called goose-summerthe chalice of the wine-and-water; the paten bearing the Fraction, those being bits of the Host arranged on the tray in the shape of a human body; and the tower-shaped pyx in which was reserved the rest of the consecrated bread.

After the Eucharistic Prayer, the body-shaped Fraction was dismembered and the fragments distributed to Dom Clement, his assistant celebrants, the other monks, myself and any properly baptized guests that the monastery may have been entertaining that Sunday.

Then Dom Clement did the Commixtio, dipping his bit of bread into the chalice, and pronounced the Benediction. The rest of the Host, from the pyx, was distributed to the congregation, each man receiving it in a bare hand, each woman in a hand covered with the dominical linen cloth she had brought with her. As each communicant swallowed the Host and was given a sip from the chalice, the others of the congregation chanted the Trecanum: You see, it was the custom of many among the congregation to swallow only a particle of the Host given them, then to take the remainder home and receive bits of it privately after their family prayers during the week.

And Dom Clement warned those communicants, every Sunday, against leaving that consecrated bread carelessly about their houses, where a rat or a mouse"or worse, some person not baptized in the Holy Catholic Church"might accidentally or atrociously eat of it. Then he dismissed the worshippers: Missa acta est. In pace. Although I had heard him utter that caution about the Host innumerable times, never before had I thought to wonder why there should be any but Catholic Christians among the local folk.

As I have told, I had for long been seeing the peasants do various things that seemed to me not quiteor not at allin accord with Christian custom and practice. I had also long ago noticed that there were a good many folk of the Balsan Hrinkhen who did not attend our church services even on high holy days.

Of course, in any community there are a few energumens, those "possessed by demons," which is to say insane, who are forbidden entry to a church. I had assumed that most of those who ignored our services were merely impious and lazy louts. But the very next day I learned that some were guilty of a waywardness far more to be reprehended. At the appointed hour, I took my wax tablets to Dom Clement's quarters, to sit down and do the exceptor work of transcribing his correspondence. As he usually did on Mondays, the abbot asked if I had any questions about what he had preached at the previous day's mass.

I replied that yes, I did, but I tried not to sound audacious or disrespectful as I said: Surely, Nonnus, those Old Testament peoples named themselves long before Romans occupied the Holy Land and brought to it their language and their pagan gods He had ceased to smile, but he spoke without anger.

Most of my congregation are simple folk.

Jennings, Gary - Raptor

To persuade such rustics to keep the faith, Mother Church allows her ministers occasionally to assist the cause of truth with the aid of pious artifice. That question might have been posed by a pervicacious pagan, not a good Christian who believes the Church's teachings. Of those teachings, one is this: If it ought to be, it will be. If it is, it ought to be. The superstitious belief in Mithras was doomed even before Christianity overwhelmed it. Mithraism could never have survived, because it excluded females from its worship.

To grow and thrive, a religion must appeal, above all, to those most easily led, those most amenable to paying tithes, those most susceptible and even gulliblemeaning women, of course. That warning you speak every Sundayabout the people taking care not to let the consecrated bread be eaten by a person not a Catholic Christian. Are you speaking of woefully. Or merely tepid Christians? They are Arians. Remember, during all my life I had been taught to hate and condemn the Arianism of the Goths.

And I had let myself learn well that hatred and contempt, not so much for the Goths themselves since I probably was one as for their odious religion. Now, suddenly, I was being informed that real, living, breathing Arians could be found within a few stadia of where Dom Clement and I were conversing.

He clearly realized my astonishment, for he continued: The Burgund people, like the Goths, are mostly of the Arian persuasion. From the brother kings, Gundiok in Lugdunum and Khilperic in Genava, down through their princelings and nobles and courtiers, to the majority of their subjects. I would estimate that about a quarter of the villagers and peasants here in our Ring of Balsam are Arians, and another quarter are still unregenerate pagans.

Those include even many of the people who raise crops or livestock on land belonging to St. Damian's, and who pay our abbey a share of their harvests. You let Arians work side by side with our Christian brothers? We exist only through the toleration of the surrounding Arians and pagans.

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Look at this sensibly, Thorn. The rulers of this kingdom are both Arians. Their administrators and soldiers and tax collectors are Arians, At Lugdunum, in addition to our bishop's Basilica of St. Justus, there is another, even loftier church, on the cathedra of which sits an Arian bishop.

Nor are they forever ready, as we are, either to convert or relentlessly to extirpate the unbelievers. It is only because the Arians are so lackadaisically lenient about others' beliefs that we Catholics can live and work and worship and proselytize here.

As recently as forty years ago, the Burgunds were merely pagans, the ignorant victims of superstition, revering all the teeming pantheon of pagan gods. They were converted by Arian missionaries from the Ostrogoth lands to the eastward. Never even speculate on the legitimacy of the Arians or their beliefs or anything else about them. The councils of our Church have declared them evil, and that is sufficient.

But one must not even do right if it is the devil who provokes one to do it. Let us now leave that ugly subject. Come, take up your tablet. When the abbot dismissed me, I went on to my next appointed activity of the day, my instruction in ethics by Brother Cosmas. Before he could commence one of his juiceless lectures, I asked him if it did not bother him that we were but a few Christians among a population mostly Arian. And he dealt me the second shock I endured that day.

The Arians? He was Arian? It was only later that Arian Christianity was damned as a heresy, and Catholicism decreed the only true Christianity. You appear to have been much affected by these disclosures.

The disputes between bishops were numerous and complex, but I will simplify them, for the purpose of this discussion, by saying that the two bishops who were eventually to be most influential and controversial were Arius and Athanasius. But Bishop Arius contended that the Son is only like the Father. Since Jesus was tempted as a man can be tempted, suffered as a man suffers, and died as a man must diehe could not be equal to the immutable Father who is beyond temptation and pain and death.

He had to have been created by the Father, as a man is. But he was no theologian to understand the vast gulf between the Arian and Athanasian creeds, so he convened a Church council at Nicaea to determine which was the true belief. Inferior to the Father. In effect, no more than a messenger of the Father. But if that were so, you see, then God might at any time send to earth another such redeemer.

If another messiah were even remotely possible, then Christ's priests would have no unique, unrepeatable, uncontestable truth to preach.

And so Arius's scandalous notion naturally horrified most of the Christian priesthood, because it would have abolished their very reason for being. So Constantine tended to lean toward Arianism throughout his reign. As a matter of fact, the Eastern Churchthe so-called Orthodox Churchstill inclines toward some of the Arian teachings. While we Western Christians rightly regard sin as vice, and its cure as discipline, the insipid Eastern Christians regard sin as ignorance, and its cure as education.

Happily, the sainted Bishop Ambrose had the foresight to weight that synod with other Athanasian bishops. Only two Arian bishops attended, and they were literally shouted down, vilified, anathematized and expelled from the Christian episcopate. Come to recalibrate inside our gates or discover what lies in the surrounding area. Our services and amenities are here to enhance and strengthen your sense of well-being. K'aayelii retreated to the area around Bear's Ears and his descendants still tell stories today with pride about how he and his people never surrendered.

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Michael Gruenwald! All events are held at Keys on Main South Main Street , beginning with a social at and a lecture at p. With them, however, they took all the problems they had created.

They emerged into a Blue World Ni hodootliizh , the home of blue-colored birds. These blue-colored beings included blue birds, blue jays, and blue herons. Attorneys general cast doubt on Utah land Trail Guide to Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument In the past, organizations who might otherwise support my view on the issues have automatically endorsed the Democratic candidate on the assumption that he has a better chance of winning.

I am still hoping that people and organizations that normally support Democrats will support me and will help me make a race of it. She started again. He glanced over her shoulder at the alien again. It was staring at them through the bars. Devlin suppressed a sigh. He'd pretty much been faced with shitty situations ever since the Gizzida ships had first appeared in the skies, almost two years ago. He'd been on an assignment in Sydney, the capital of the United Coalition of Countries.

During those first few, horrible days, the aliens had rained down on the Earth and decimated humanity. He nuzzled Taylor's dark hair again. In the sunlight, the dark-brown strands gleamed with red, but down here in the bowels of the alien facility, it looked almost black. They suspected the aliens weren't capable of reproduction, as their method of operation seemed to be to conquer other planets and put other species in their genesis tanks, which fused Gizzida DNA into the victims, turning them into raptors.

Those wide eyes sat in a creamy-skinned face that could have graced magazine covers. Would you be up for that? He was asking a lot, but this was the only way he could think to keep them alive. She frowned. Pretend to have sex, or die? That she could still find humor in this situation was pretty amazing. Devlin's hands clenched on her hips. That sexy noise went straight to his cock. She started moving against him, with a graceful shimmy of her lean, strong body.

He glanced over her shoulder, and saw that the two raptors who'd dragged them down here were watching them. Devlin let his head drop back against the wall. She leaned her arms back behind her, her hands gripping his knees. Her full breasts pushed against the thin fabric of her top.

His gaze zeroed in there, and he couldn't look away. He saw a thin silver chain resting against her chest, several small charms hanging from it. She moved faster, her body brushing over his again and again. He could smell her-healthy sweat and the musk of woman. God, this was supposed to be pretend, he shouldn't be turned on right now. He'd noticed that she was attractive, of course, long before they'd ever set out on this mission to uncover what was happening in these alien factories.

But he didn't allow himself to fraternize much. The Enclave was filled with human survivors trying to make the best of a bad situation. But his work on the intel team kept him busy, especially since his boss, Santha Kade, had fallen pregnant. Besides, Devlin had learned that while he was a very good spy, he was very bad at relationships. Hell, the last woman he'd let close had almost killed him.

He did better on his own. Devlin forced himself to study each charm on Taylor's necklace, and to not look at how her breasts pressed against the fabric of her top. Devlin's throat was too dry to answer her. They're watching. Small husky cries came from Taylor's throat. Damn, she was pretty convincing, and for a second, Devlin wondered what she really sounded like when she came.

She kept moving, and he knew his fingers had to be biting into her hips. Devlin fought to keep his unruly body in check, and forced his own groan out, loud enough for their audience to hear.

Taylor slumped forward, collapsing against him. Devlin had a clear view of the raptors. The newcomer didn't look happy. He strode toward the cell, the others following behind him. He was a little taller and a little slimmer, with the same red raptor eyes, but his somehow seemed very cold. The new raptor grunted and snarled at the other two, and one rushed forward to unlock the cell. Devlin's hands tightened on Taylor. The newcomer raised a clawed hand and slapped one of the guards on the back.

Then his red gaze turned to Devlin. This alien looked very angry. This didn't look good. Devlin tensed and felt Taylor do the same. There's a new raptor on the scene. Beneath her, she felt Devlin's body tense, coiled for action. She hated the raptors. With every ounce of her being. They'd come here and destroyed the Earth for no reason but their own selfish desires. God, she missed her squad right now.

Raptor Red

If Squad Nine was here, they would kick some raptor butt. But they weren't here. It was just her and Devlin. She lifted her gaze to his. Even in the gloomy confines of this shithole, she took a brief second to admire his face.

It was worth a look or two. Sharp cheekbones and full lips, and eyes so dark they looked black, but this close to him, she could see they were a deep, midnight blue. He had a face that inspired a woman to sin. Not to mention that mouth-watering British accent of his.

More than one woman at Blue Mountain Base, and now at their new home, the Enclave, had wondered how to melt the cool exterior of Devlin Gray. Suddenly, rough hands gripped her arms, claws biting into her skin. She was yanked off Devlin. The two raptor guards brushed past her and slammed Devlin against the wall. He struggled, but the raptors were both well over six-and-a-half feet, and carried a lot more muscle mass than humans.

The only way humans had a fighting chance against the aliens was with the high-tech armor the squad soldiers wore.If their extinction was really the result of their behavior, and not the consequence of a Catastrophe, or a disease, or a change in plant life, or any of the other broad-scale explanations that have been proposed, then it seems to me highly unlikely that they all changed their behavior at the same time, everywhere.

He was looking around the office, at the stacks of papers heaped untidily about, the maps on the walls with the colored pins stuck in them.

Be glad you're nowhere near him. The research was new, and the findings were surprising. There the abbess had a monk shut me in an outbuilding, that I should not hear what she said when she confronted the abbot.

There are multiple format available for you to choose Pdf, ePub, Doc. The Skyteam Monkey 50 Stand out from the rest. Once I had some grasp of the art of reading, I found in the abbey's scriptorium books less difficult and more interestingthe Biuhtjos jah Anabusteis of Gutam, which was a compilation of the "Laws and Customs of the Goths," and the Saggwasteis af Gut-Thiudam, which was a collection of many of the "Epic Songs of the Gothic Peoples"and numerous other works, both in Gothic and in Latin, relating to my ancestors and kinfolk, such as Ablabius's De Origine Actibusque Getarum, which was a history of the Goths from their earliest encounters with the Roman Empire.