The Four Gifts of the King Read online

  The Four Gifts of the King

  R. SCOTT RODIN

  NEW YORK

  LONDON • NASHVILLE • MELBOURNE • VANCOUVER

  The Four Gifts of the King

  © 2019 R. Scott Rodin

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Published in New York, New York, by Morgan James Publishing. Morgan James is a trademark of Morgan James, LLC. www.MorganJamesPublishing.com

  The Morgan James Speakers Group can bring authors to your live event. For more information or to book an event visit The Morgan James Speakers Group at www.TheMorganJamesSpeakersGroup.com.

  ISBN 9781683509325 paperback

  ISBN 9781683509332 eBook

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018930674

  Cover Design by:

  Megan Whitney

  [email protected]

  Interior Design by:

  Christopher Kirk

  www.GFSstudio.com

  Illustrations by:

  Douglas Whittle

  Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

  In an effort to support local communities, raise awareness and funds, Morgan James Publishing donates a percentage of all book sales for the life of each book to Habitat for Humanity Peninsula and Greater Williamsburg.

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  To Linda.

  All I am and all I have to give to others is but a vivid reflection of all you are to me.

  A Note from the Author

  Two-thousand miles away from the cold, grey winters of Spokane, Washington, a morning awaited us that we had anticipated for months. My wife, Linda, and I started one of our favorite walks from our little one-bedroom condo on Lawaii Beach up to the Spouting Horn, an icon on the south shore of the Hawaiian Island of Kauai. We soaked up the warmth of the morning sun as we walked along the path that led to the major tourist attraction in this area known as Poipu.

  This morning was filled with a sense of exhilaration that transcended the tingling of unfiltered sun on the pasty-white cheeks of two Spokanites venturing out in pursuit of much needed vitamin D. My excitement anticipated the moment every writer dreams of and dreads all at the same time.

  My dear wife knew that I had something on my mind that would cause me to explode if it were not shared, and so we chose our morning walk as the venue for the controlled detonation. We walked quietly for a while, past sweeping landscapes of green fields dotted by white-feathered cranes and outlined in iron-red clay dirt hillsides on one side and the crashing of waves along the rocky beaches on the other.

  Finally, I took a deep breath and slowly introduced her to a land that my mind had occupied for the preceding months. The characters were undeveloped, the story line was somewhat vague, and the most compelling parts of the plot were still months from being formed. Yet in this primitive state I introduced her to the land of my new friends; Adam, Anna, Merideth, Reed and Walter, and from there slowly on to Steward, Astrid, Elopia, Claire, Dunston and the Black Knight. Most all of the names were not yet even known to me, but Steward’s journey was taking form as I breathlessly shared with her the geography of the land of the King.

  By the time we returned to our room some two hours later, I had told her everything I knew about the story that was emerging in my mind. She was her usual encouraging self, and I was relieved to finally have a fellow traveler on this journey. I pulled out my laptop that morning and from our lanai overlooking the ocean with its humpback whales and daredevil surfers, I typed the hardest words in a writer’s vocabulary – ‘Chapter One.’ I wrote for nearly three hours, and looking back I acknowledge that few if any of the words I penned that morning remain in the pages that follow. But the journey was engaged!

  It is my humble and distinct privilege to invite you to join me in the land of Ascenders and Transmitters, of little kings and mighty warriors, of distortion and the quest for truth, of the dark and menacing Phaedra and the tragic and beautiful Claire. I invite you to walk with four people whose own journeys took them far away from a legacy that was almost lost, and to venture into a world created by a brokenhearted father who craved the return of his children to a life and faith that he so dearly desired for them. I invite you to Harvest and to Aiden Glenn, to Marikonia and Petitzaros. I invite you to laugh with Abner the Blacksmith and grieve with a young man named Steward from Aiden Glenn as he seeks to fulfill his destiny and learn the meaning of his name and the purpose of his life.

  This is a parable written to inspire a new appreciation for our call to be holistic, godly stewards in our King’s rich and abundant world. The journey is hard, the demands are many and the path is narrow and filled with danger. But the calling is sure and the rewards are without measure.

  I invite you to immerse yourself in the story and find in it your own calling, your own journey as a child of the King. And as you do, may you know his Deep Peace!

  Scott Rodin

  March 2018

  Prologue

  Mel Sidek waded his way through the relentless crowds lining Shanghai’s Nanjing Road. Neon signs glared and pulsated like electronic fireworks, and Mel closed his eyes, tugging at the neck of his shirt. The humidity was suffocating, but this was an important client meeting he didn’t want to miss. He maneuvered his way into the street through the stalled traffic, barely making it to the other side as a wave of dizziness forced him to grasp a light pole.

  Was he going to lose it right here in the street?

  He straightened and pushed forward.

  Thank heaven. The Ming Khan restaurant, at last. He stopped outside to catch his breath, looking through his reflection in one of its massive windows.

  Where would they be seated?

  The Ming Khan was more crowded than usual for a Thursday evening. Waitresses in colorful saris sped platters overloaded with steaming food to the one hundred or so patrons seated at ornate, hand-carved mahogany booths. Chinese lanterns, papier mâché dragon heads, and replicas of samurai swords made the Ming Khan one of Mel’s favorites, and he always brought visiting colleagues here to taste authentic Chinese cooking while in Shanghai.

  He searched the interior. There, at a far booth, Brian and Art sat waiting for him. Mel watched them through the constant parade of servers moving around them with choreographed precision. Phil was probably on his way. He was always late for these things. Mel turned and started for the front door—

  The sidewalk spun around him. Sweat dripped over an eyebrow.

  What was going on? Not even the Shanghai humidity produced this kind of sweat.

  Mel grasped for the side of the building. He looked up just in time to see Phil approaching the restaurant door.

  Phil grinned at him. “Hey, Mel. I’m glad you’re late. It won’t make me look so…” He frowned. “Hey, are you all right? You look terrible.”

  Mel wanted to answer, but everything was swirling. Phil’s words sounded like he was shouting them from a mile away. A searing spike shot through his left side, into his neck, and down his shoulder. He grimaced as his knees gave way.

  Phil caught him and eased him to the sidewalk. “Mel, hey, buddy, easy now. Think you just fainted. It’s this crazy heat. Sit here and catch your breath. I’ll go get the guys. A
re you okay?”

  The pain eased, and Mel managed a nod. The heat. It had to be the heat.

  “Okay then, just stay here, and we’ll be right out.”

  Mel managed not to groan as Phil propped him up against the restaurant wall then disappeared inside.

  Mel lifted a hand to wipe some of the streaming sweat from his face, but the searing pain returned. He clutched at his chest…he couldn’t breathe…

  Not now, not tonight, please, dear God.

  He slumped down and lay flat on the sidewalk, hoping to ease the pain. People scurried around him, and a few stopped to stare.

  Air…he needed air…he fought to drag it into his lungs, but in his spirit he knew.

  This was his time.

  Images flooded his mind. The people he would leave behind. The work at the law firm left undone. And then, another face….

  Sam Roberts.

  I have to make sure, have to be sure before—

  Someone grasped his wrist. An elderly Chinese gentleman had knelt beside him and seemed to be checking his pulse. The man felt Mel’s chest and looked into his eyes. There was a sense of peace about him that calmed Mel.

  “Mel!”

  It was Phil. Mel turned his head and saw his three companions bolt out of the restaurant.

  “He’s over here!” Phil pushed his way through the crowd that had gathered. The three men fell to their knees beside Mel.

  Phil cradled Mel’s head in his arms. “Mel, Mel, can you hear me?”

  Brian closed in beside him. “Did someone call an ambulance?”

  “Yeah,” Phil replied, “but this is Shanghai. Who knows how long it will take.”

  The Chinese man looked up at Mel’s friends and bowed then spoke to them in broken English. “Your friend will not see the end of day. Say to him what you must. Now!”

  Mel grabbed Art’s shirt and pulled him down. “Art, you know….” It was so hard to force the words out. “You know…what must be done…for Sam.”

  Art looked at Brian, and they nodded. Art leaned close. “It will be done, Mel. Just as you wanted. On my word—”

  “—and mine!” Brian echoed.

  Mel managed a slight smile. So this was where he would die, outside the Ming Khan restaurant, surrounded by his three closest friends.

  In one week they would bury him in a meadow near his home in Salem, Oregon.

  chapter

  One

  Walter Graffenberger guided his silver 1999 Cadillac along a narrow, two-lane ribbon of road that cut through the heart of the Palouse, the expansive wheat country in southeastern Washington. Under his command the land yacht sailed across the rolling terrain and endless curves. He knew every feature of this two-hour drive. He made it a couple of times each month, commuting from his law office in Spokane to his weekend retreat in his hometown.

  Walter’s hands rested on the wheel. His eyes scanned the terrain, moving between the road ahead and the endless landscape of rolling hills, which alternated between the white patches of snow covering shady hillsides, the light green of emerging winter wheat, and the chocolate brown of overturned earth ready to accept the spring planting.

  Despite the scenic beauty rolling past him, his mind was lost in the numbness of grief and anxiety. He played over in his mind the challenge that awaited him, and his spirit struggled.

  An enormous responsibility now lay on his shoulders.

  As the road neared the edge of a long plateau, he passed a sign that read, “Harvest 3 Miles.” Drawing a deep breath, he sat up, focusing on the drive as the road crested the brink of a shelf of land then made a wide, sweeping curve. Next came the descent into the deep crevasse that exposed a ribbon of river shimmering from the last rays of a fading winter sun. In the distance Walter could see the silos—steady sentries on the outskirts of his destination.

  He slowed his Cadillac to a stop at the flashing red lights of a railroad crossing. As the freight cars rolled past, his mind was forced back to a frost-covered night and the horrific scene of policemen, flares, fire trucks, and flashing ambulance lights—and the sight of that Toyota Corolla on its roof, crumpled almost beyond recognition. He could still hear the cries of anguished onlookers who recognized the vehicle and assumed the worst.

  They were proven right.

  The polite horn of the car behind him brought him back to the present as the last train car cleared the intersection and the barrier rose. He drove ahead and turned onto Main Street, glad to shed the memory. At least for now.

  As he eased his car through Harvest, Walter managed a smile. Anyone who came through this little city would find it hard to remember the next day. It was one of the hundreds of small towns in the western United States that seemed disconnected from the rest of the world.

  He was several hours early, so he pulled into Jerry’s Big Stop and cruised up to a waiting gas pump. He worked his credit card through the slider, and as he poked the silver gas nozzle into the side of his car he sensed someone was watching him. A set of eyes peered at him from inside the dirty station windows. Then the doors swung open, and a gray-bearded man in a wheelchair propelled himself toward Walter.

  “Is that you, Mr. Graffenberger? Hey, it’s great to have you back in Harvest.” As the man wheeled closer, his countenance changed. “I guess you’re here for the funeral. I’m so sorry, Mr. Graffenberger. I mean, we all are. The whole town is pretty torn up by it.”

  “Thanks, Jerry. It’s a tough day for all of us.” Walter put his hand on Jerry’s shoulder then looked out across the busy intersection and down Main Street. “Still, it’s good to be back here. It’s been almost a month, way too long. Any big news to share?”

  “Naw, not really. Oh, Mayor Stallings may not run again on account of Harvest Drugs needing to move locations—dry rot in the ceiling beams, I think. Let’s see, you heard about the fire at the fairgrounds?”

  “Just a quick blurb in the Spokane paper. Tell me about it.” Walter didn’t much care about the fire, but he always looked forward to seeing Jerry and hearing all the latest Harvest news. He remembered when Jerry left for Iraq as a naive young kid fresh off the 3rd Street baseball diamond. He was also there when Jerry returned.

  Without his legs.

  Walter watched as Jerry rubbed his thighs to fight the pain that never left him. “How’s business? Are you keeping your head above water?”

  “Oh, yes, absolutely. I work hard, ya know. Gas prices are tough, but lots of people still rolling through town. Mr. Graffenberger, I can’t thank you enough—”

  Walter waved him off. “No need, Jerry. I’m glad you’re doing well. You’re important to this town, you know.”

  Walter had drawn up the papers that helped the young man buy the gas station on the north edge of town. Jerry had become sort of the official greeter for visitors to the area, almost all of whom were in desperate need of gas and a bathroom by the time they arrived.

  Jerry talked on about life in Harvest, and Walter got caught up on the latest gossip, a welcome diversion from the main theme of the day. As Walter got ready to drive away, Jerry shouted after him.

  “Be sure to stop by the Mill Stone. They have a new shipment of garden and lawn stuff—spring can’t be long now.”

  Walter drove on for a few blocks, passing clothing and shoe stores, insurance and realtor offices, and the small travel agency that did great business each year right after the grain harvest.

  Walter loved this place…and these people. The residents of Harvest were heartland people with strong values and a love for small-town life.

  He needed time to escape his growing anxiety so he parked halfway down Main Street. He was happy to lose himself as he strolled along the rows of shops and businesses. And to breathe deep. The smell…that might be what Walter missed the most. Wheat land had its own sweet aroma. Main Street boasted no fewer than five farm implement outlets selling everything from combine parts to full-size threshers and repairing every imaginable piece of farming equipment. New Holland, John Dee
re, and CASE were the leading retailers here. The town’s economy flourished or floundered on the Chicago Board of Trade’s announcements of wheat futures and the unpredictable Northwest weather patterns.

  Walter watched as the electronic marquee at the bank scrolled the latest wheat futures prices, just as it did every hour of every day. No wonder they held parades to celebrate the wheat harvest. How simple life was here. So many things causing controversy in so many other places seemed to be accepted in Harvest without any question. The three bars in town closed on Sunday, as did the car dealerships and most all shops. The local schools had Easter pageants, the Fourth of July parade was opened with a prayer, and the town put up a Nativity scene each year on the courthouse lawn without a protest. Amazing.

  He walked on for several blocks and then paused in front of the windows of Harvest’s only jewelry store. He liked to survey the modest collection of diamond rings sparkling under the garish array of lighting. As his eyes moved up the display, he caught his reflection.

  He started…then frowned.

  While the image bore all the features of a successful country lawyer—thinning white hair cut short and combed back from his face, round spectacles, starched white shirt, gold cufflinks, and tailored suit—the features were lost in a somber grayness. Grief inhabited every wrinkle and crease in his sixty-three-year-old face. He had to look away.

  Come on, Walter. You need to be strong today.

  “Walter, hey, welcome back to Harvest!”

  Walter turned at Carter Blake’s booming voice. A broad-shouldered man in his fifties, smothered in a gray parka and fur hat, came toward him, accompanied by a smiling Cathy Blake, who stepped ahead of Carter and gave Walter a hug.

  “Walter, it’s so good to have you here.”

  “Hi, Cathy, hey, Carter. How are you folks?”

  Carter slapped him on the shoulder and laughed. “Cold. Do you have time to grab a cup of coffee? The funeral is a couple of hours off.” The three found a quiet table at the Combine Café next to the Mill Stone.