B. James Wilson's Blog, page 4

The Practician

And, for my next trick….

“The Practician,” a novel in which the main character struggles with his childhood memories of the “family business” and with an esoteric “gift” he has inherited from his mother. Rick Townsend wants no part of either one. Instead, he has worked hard to become a world renowned treasure salvor. So renowned, in fact, that he finds himself named in an international lawsuit, filed by the government of Spain to recover certain treasures Rick has salvaged from centuries old wrecks along the Florida coast.[image error]

When Rick is contracted to recover the most famous treasure of all time, the Holy Grail, he believes it is because of his established fame. In the course of his research, however, he will learn that he has been hired more for the “genetic gift” he disdains, than for his knowledge and experience. As a result, over the course of this year I will be deeply researching Rick’s powerful, transcendental gift of Angelic Magic.

Suppressed and persecuted by the church, the forms of “Angelic Magic” have none the less been preserved in the symbols and beliefs of Esoteric Christianity, Gnosticism, Hermeticism, Alchemy, Medieval Magick, Cabbala, the Tarot, the Grail Mythos and Arthurian Legends, Freemasonry, Rosicrucianism and certain forms of traditional Witchcraft.

“You shall produce Aeons, Worlds and Heavens, to the end that the Spirits of the Intellectual Spheres may come and abide with you: you shall become Gods and you shall see God in yourselves; He will dwell in your Aeon.” A quote from the Bruce Codex.

So begins the final draft of “The Practician.”

My Dad

[image error]My dad never spoke much about the war, that is, The Big One, WWII, so I didn’t really learn about his heroics until long after he died. My Dad deserves every medal he ever received, and maybe more, I don’t really know because they’re all gone now and I don’t remember but one. The collection of them used to reside in an old, dilapidated cedar chest that rotted away in the utility room of our house in Indian Harbour Beach. Those things never got the respect they deserved and, sadly, neither did my Dad.

He flew fifty two missions, that’s right, fifty two combat missions in a B-24, “Flying Fortress.” They just call it a fortress, truthfully, when the shrapnel and bullets started flying, it was more an aluminum can than a fortress. My Dad was Group Navigator for the *15th Bomber Group of the 8th Army Air Corps. They gave him a Distinguished Flying Cross for[image error] his service. I remember seeing it, tarnished and faded in that old cedar chest. Those who have flown for the U.S. military know that you are only required to fly 25 combat missions before you can request to be transferred off combat duty. My father was a Group Leader though, and dedicated to the men of his squadron.

Most people today have no idea what it was like for the men and women who served in combat during that war, or, more correctly, during any shooting war. Thank God most people have not, and hopefully never will, experience the overwhelming terror of being put in a position of having to kill, or be killed. It changes you deep inside. It leaves scars that will never heal.

My Dad is gone now, along with all his medals and memorabilia. I wish I could honor him today, but I don’t even know where he’s buried. He deserves a place in Arlington. If you have a loved one, or a friend who’s a vet, honor them today, make them proud of the medals they’ve earned. Honor their service and honor the flag they sacrificed for. It’s the very least we can do for those who put their lives on hold, and on the line to defend our freedom and our constitution.

 

*(I believe this information is correct, I’m checking. I’ll post a correction if it turns out I’m wrong.)

Happy Halloween

[image error]It’s been an interesting month, or two, on the road. There’s not much connectivity in Five Islands Maine, nor at our retreat on Big Pine Mountain, in North Carolina, so not much got done during our travels. When we were in Sugar Hill, where we have good internet, the schedule was far too busy for me to be able to focus on any of the current WIP. Home now, however, it’s time to settle into a routine and get back to work.

I had hoped that today I would be able to publish a Halloween story on this page, a tribute to our trip to Maine, and one of its more famous, authors, Steven King. The story, entitled, “Hogback Road,” is not complete at this point, however, due to travel and schedules, so it will be a few more days before I can publish it complete. Since today is Halloween, and this is a Halloween story, I thought I would put up an excerpt from the first draft, just to tide things over until it’s finished, so here’s the opening scene, I hope it will whet your appetite.

“Keith groaned when he saw the check-engine light come on. The trip had been a long one, smooth and enjoyable until now. He and Carol had promised themselves a trip to Maine years before and, finally, they had done it. They were on their way home now, traveling through West Virginia on Interstate 81. It was Halloween and they would be home in another day, if the car didn’t breakdown on them. Carol heard the audible alarm. She asked, “What’s that?”

Keith answered with a pained expression, “The check-engine light.”

“What’s wrong?” Carol wanted to know, immediately.

There was no obvious indication. Keith glanced at the gages, noting that the engine was running smoothly, the temperature was good and there were no other lights on the panel. “I don’t know,” he said, frustrated. “It’s probably a sensor going out, or, I remember once the CD player set a code in the computer, so there’s no telling what this could be.” Carol stared out through the windshield, an uneasy feeling building inside, in spite of Keith’s assurances.

In the distance, beyond the windshield, lightening flashed, illuminating a sky filled with towering cumulous storm clouds. Carol knew that a waning moon was hidden out there somewhere, behind the thick, dark clouds. She hoped with all her heart that Keith might be right, that the check-engine light was something as simple as the failed CD player.”

[image error]Happy Halloween.

Kolossi Castle

[image error]Cyprus is an interesting place, a place with a very long and well documented history. If the rocks of a place could speak, I believe that the walls of the ruined castle in the tiny village of Kolossi would have an amazing tale to tell us.  The castle itself was originally built as a crusader stronghold during the fourth crusade, in the 13th century. It has a long and illustrious history in and of itself, beginning as a Templar Grand Commandry. Afterward, in 1291, following the fall of Acre, the castle was occupied by the knights of The Order of St. John of Jerusalem. It was taken from them by the Templars in 1303, but returned to their keeping following the Templar purge in 1313.

Perhaps the most illuminating moment for the Castle and indeed for the small village of Kolossi, was the marriage of Richard the Lionheart to the Berengaria of Navarre, in nearby Limassol, in May of 1191. At their wedding, Richard drank of the local wine called by the Greek poet Hesiod in 800 BC, “Greek Mana.” The same wine, now called, Commandaria, has been produced on the hillsides of Kolossi for millennia, but what interests more than any of this is the name of the place. Kolossi means, the place of the giants. I can’t help but wonder what anti-diluvian history prompted that name.

I’m deep into chapter 42 of my latest novel, “The Practician.” In this great, grail mythology, I describe Kolossi thus:

“For most of the residents of Limassol, and for those who’d spent their lives on the isle of Cyprus, the ancient fortress keep and surrounding ruin of the castle in the small village of Kolossi was just another of the island’s many, ancient ruins. Most islanders held only a vague awareness of its existence, and not more than a handful were aware of its crusader past, being separate and distinct from the better known and more ancient Roman heritage of say, Kurion, nearby. It was the obscurity of the place that worked well for Phillipe, that along with Kolossi’s remoteness from the affairs of The Order in Malta, or Groupe Aube, in France. In addition to that, however, the castle had a long Templar history of occult activity; not that he believed any of that still resonated within its crumbling walls, he hoped so, that, and the surrounding ancient history of the place is why he chose Kolossi.”

I believe that, most often, the trees and stones of a place do remember, and sometimes, when history is silent, “the very stones will cry out.”

More on Inspiration

[image error]In his MFA writing classes at FSU, professor, and Pulitzer Prize winning author, Robert Olen Butler, demonstrates the use of an old picture postcard as the inspiration to prompt a short story about the often shocking suddenness of death. The same form of inspiration can be found all around us every day. I have found it true that literally everyone has an interesting story to tell, if they can just find an ear to listen. It’s been proven to me over and over again in demonstrations such as Alex Chadwick’s “Interviews, 50 cents.“

In Cornell University’s “Freedom on The Move” digital database of fugitive slave ads from North America, each one of the historical advertisements, offering rewards for the capture and return of runaway slaves, contains the inspiration for a story of heroic resistance against an overwhelming evil of that time. Unfortunately, that database didn’t exist when I was researching the slave trade for my novel, “Triangle: A Memoir of Black Caesar.“

For me, the inspiration for the novel came first from a story, an aural tradition really, that was told to me as a child, by an elderly black man named Lancelot Jones. At the time I was convinced that he was a descendant of the main character, Henry (Black) Caesar. Afterward I was further inspired by my research into a slave ship called the Carlisle, which wrecked in a storm off the coast of Florida. Taking note that the best stories often lay between the lines of history, it was the Carlisle research that inspired the following scene in the book:

 

“When it was almost dawn the watch, aloft, spotted white water less than a quarter league west of the Carlisle’s position. “REEF!” He cried into the gale, but his warning was sucked away in the howling wind. By the time he was able to scramble down the ratlines to the main deck it was too late, the Carlisle went hard aground. The jagged reef punched through her hull, tearing out a large section of the port side, below the water line. The ship went over in the shallow water of the reef, sinking in minutes, as the churning waves pushed her harder aground, pounding her to pieces.

Below decks, the misery was beyond words. The heavy seas made everyone sick with motion and terror. The dark hold was filled with the proof of it, sloshing back and forth through the bilges as the Carlisle churned northward. When the end came it was sudden, an earsplitting crunch as the ship came to a violent stop. The timbers on her port side splintered apart and the sea gushed through the opening in a torrent.

Henri instinctively held his breath and fought against his restraints, blind in the turbulent darkness, but a moment later the sea miraculously withdrew so that he was able to take a breath. He pulled with all his might on the chains that bound his shackles and, to his surprise, something broke loose. He felt the chains go slack enough that he was able to pull himself out of the pallet he lay on. When he was standing upright in the tilted hold, another surge of sea water covered him. Again, holding his breath, he remembered seeing one of the crewmen hang a set of keys on the masthead at the gangway just forward of where he stood.

The ship lay on her side while, all around arms and legs were flailing in the surging seawater. He could hear the sound of people screaming underwater as they gave their lives up to the sea, but he continued to hold his own breath, grabbing hold of the mast, that lay nearly horizontal, and feeling around in the dark. At his last moment of breath, Henri’s fingers touched the metal ring holding the keys to his survival. By good fortune, at that same moment he lost his breath, the sea again withdrew, leaving him coughing and sputtering, along with dozens of other captives who remained alive, though unseen, in the engulfing darkness of the Carlisle’s hold.”

 

Stories lie all around us, in a dress made of plantation grown cotton, or an antique dresser, crafted in England, of hardwoods from her former colonies, or a pipe that was used to smoke tobacco that was grown, harvested, cured and bailed by the hands of African born slaves. They’re not all stories about slaves. There are all kinds of stories from all kinds of places, about real lives in real circumstances. They’re everywhere, you only need imagine what lies between the lines.

The Inspiration for Triangle

[image error]When I was a young teenager, I was fortunate to have lived in Miami, Florida where I had access to a boat and the pristine waters of Biscayne Bay. I had many adventures there, some worthy of tall tales, but none more worthy than the one told me by Sir Lancelot Jones. At that time, Lancelot Jones was a famed fishing guide and the world’s leading expert on finding and catching the illusive Bone Fish, much lionized by leading sports fishermen. He was guide to many celebrities of his time, Richard Nixon and Charles (Bebe) Rabozo among them. Though independently wealthy, well connected, highly educated and intelligent, Lancelot and his older brother, King Arthur Jones lived simple lives, close to the Earth, with a love for all the values that are common to that station. Most of all they loved Biscayne Bay and the barrier islands that dot its eastern perimeter, especially Rhodes Key, Porgey Key, Elliot Key and the narrow cut between them known as Caesar’s Creek, where they grew up and lived out their lives.

I met Lancelot one summer afternoon while camping on Elliot Key. I knew of him through my father who had hired him as a Bone Fish guide in the past, for the entertainment of business clients. My friends and I had taken my boat out to Elliot Key, to dive for lobster when Lancelot pulled up along side. The moment he spoke I knew who he was. My mother, who had met him before, told me of his education and his perfect English diction. We conversed pleasantly for several minutes before, he espied our ice-chest, he asked, “Have you got a cold Coke?”

I nodded that I did and opened the ice-chest to offer one. He reached in, pulled one out of the ice, thanked me and went on his way. That night, as I sat by our fire, on the windward side of the island, he appeared suddenly, standing next to me, in the dark. I was startled, having not seen or heard him approach. He apologized politely, sat down next to the fire and asked, “Have you got another one, Coke?”

I said that I did and pointed to the ice-chest near him on his side of the fire. We talked for a long time that night about him and his life on Caesar’s Creek. During the conversation I interrupted him at hearing a strange sound that had troubled me earlier, a whispering sound that came from the dense tangle of jungle surrounding our camp. But it was barely audible over the sound of the wind off the ocean and the water rushing over the reef.

“Listen.” I repeated, holding my breath. He hadn’t heard it the first time. Then it came again. He cocked an ear and I asked, “There. What is that?”

“It’s the ghosts.” He answered without hesitation or smile. “The ghosts of the children.”

I was young and fairly gullible at the time. I would have believed anything an adult told me.

“What ghosts, what children?” I could feel the hairs raising at the back of my neck. I wanted to turn and look, but he didn’t look and I didn’t want to appear, well, gullible. Too late I guess.

Lancelot went on to tell me the story of Caesar’s Creek, the legend of Caesar’s Rock and how the creek got its name. His version was the story of a great and powerful pirate called Black Caesar, a man who was legend in his own right, who was discredited in history and cheated of the fame he deserved because of his race.

Lancelot told me of the children of Caesar’s maroon community who had lived on Elliot Key before it had a name and who died in the great storm of 1715. He spoke of vast treasure hoarded by an escaped slave named Henri Caesar, a giant black man who sailed in command of his own sloop in partnership with the infamous, Blackbeard and his fleet. His story went on into the wee hours of the morning and, when finished, Lancelot Jones excused himself politely and left our camp. I never saw Lancelot again after that, but I never forgot that night, or the story he told me with such passion.

Years later, when I thought I would like to become a novelist, my first attempt was an interpretation of Lancelot’s story of Black Caesar. It was what I refer to as the first novel I never finished. I worked hard on it for more than a year, but it just kept going and going till I put it aside realizing that I didn’t know how the story ended.

I won’t say how many years have passed since then, but as I began to research my character more thoroughly I found a history so vague and variant that Lancelot’s legend of Black Caesar seemed more probable than the official, historical record. For that reason, I have adapted his premise and written a novel based on the character he described to me that night so long ago.

This novel is the story of a great and powerful pirate in his own right. Though he was African and swept up in the slave trade as a boy, he never adopted the role of a victim. Black Caesar was not born a slave and he was determined not to die as one. The story revolves around the life he shared with Edward Drummond, later known as Blackbeard, and Collin Aldworth, a boy from a well to do family in England, sent by his father on a “journey of education”, aboard a slave ship called “Arthur”.

The life these three young men share in the “Golden Age of Piracy” is a story of great, personal struggle in the crucible of a changing world. Caught together in a battle between the imperial forces of European expansion and the lawless freedom of a new frontier, their varied pasts shape a relationship between them in, what the powerful joint stock monopolies of Europe call, “the triangle trade”. The sailors who ply that trade, the African slaves caught up in it, and those who seek an end to the business of slavery, all refer to it as “The Devil’s Triangle”. The bond forged in that place will shape the men that they become in an epic saga, “Triangle: A Memoir of Black” Caesar”.

Prologue

[image error]You don’t know me, or, more importantly, for your sake, I don’t know you. I think it works better for you that way. Although I may not appear to you altogether, a sympathetic character, in this age of disbelief, it has not always been so. People today have become… too skeptical, a condition provoked by rationalism and scientific knowledge, or what passes for it in this era, this so-called age of information. Oh, please, don’t misunderstand, there is no doubt that knowledge has increased, along with the anxiety of it. We, that is myself and the other members of The Five, have seen to that, but only in exchange for the precious commodity of discernment, an exchange mankind has been more than willing to make in their foolish rush to become, “like God, knowing both good and evil.” But neither the wisdom of discernment, or knowledge itself, hold any value when compared to the treasure of understanding. Now, there is a thing to be desired, “understanding”. It is a gem that has been lost to men since before the Dark Ages and its loss has made men more like slaves than gods. You see, before the collapse of the Roman Empire, most men understood that other worlds existed, worlds beyond human sight or perception.

In ancient days and for millennia before, as far back as Tubal-Cain, magic, and sorcery were very real, not mere illusion, or slight-of-hand, as today. In the distant past, men accomplished amazing feats of sorcery in concert with Dominions and Powers, entities, like myself, from a world beyond your making, a world beyond your sight, your science, or your ability to imagine; a world I refer to as “reality,” while, for me, your world exists only as a shadow of my own. I speak of a time, for example, when Moses transformed Aaron’s staff into a snake. That was no illusion, it was reality, a reality that goes beyond your comprehension, a reality reproduced by Pharaoh’s magicians. Their feat was not mere illusion, but, like Moses, they actually changed their wooden staffs into living snakes by a power unimagined in your narrow-minded world today. But not all is lost. A remnant remains, and, if you are willing to take a little time, I will tell you a story of magic and quest. Unlike those common to the day, this story is true, and within the history that it reveals, lies the seed of understanding, understanding that might just open your eyes and allow you to see beyond this present, dark shadow, into the real world, for therein lies the entire purpose for your existence.

You see, I was there, in the darkness, when it all began, and even before. I was there before the great flood, and before your kind came to be upon the earth, for I am not a temporal being, like you. Over the millennia that I have lived, I have been called many names, but my true name, my given name is Suffugiel. I am a foundational member of The Five, a leader of the Great Rebellion. It is I who have been entrusted with the story of this great quest that I will relate to you. It is my assignment and sole responsibility to seek out and apprehend that power of old, the “Quod Magicae,” the “i-dee-force,” that has, for so long, eluded us.

It remains to this day but hidden. I was there, watching from within the storm, on the day that Joseph carried out his secret mission. I saw him violate the temple. I saw him enter the Holy Place and then the Holy of Holies; I watched him sprinkle the blood. It was I who confused his mind that day. I caused his hesitation, his rationalism. I used Mary of Magda to convince him to violate his commission and keep the remaining portion, to seal it in a perfume ampule, to carry it with him when he fled. I have been manipulating events surrounding that ampule ever since, enjoying a great game of pursuit and intrigue, biding my time through the centuries, as I maneuvered many hosts, through many ages in order to arrive at this particular time and place, but now the time has come for revelation.

It is time for The Son of Perdition to take his place on the world stage and bring this farce to an end. It is time to draw the whole of it into the dark penumbra of reality. Time to blend this poison into the invisible singularity of the master’s purpose; to use its power as the instrument of our final victory over The Light. So it is, for this purpose that I continue to manipulate events in the current age, even on this very day, but enough about me, it is time to introduce the latest cast of players, time for them to take their place on my stage of marionettes. Time for them to play their parts as I manipulate the strings that orchestrate each movement and every thought.

Do You Believe in Magic?

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1965 was a big year for me, a year in which some of the more memorable moments were accompanied by The Lovin’ Spoonful’s hit song, “Do You Believe in Magic.” The strains of that song followed me out the doors of high school, into the Navy and around the world, eventually to Viet Nam. Fortunately, after two deployments, I made it home alive and in one piece. This year, however, “Magic,” takes on a whole new meaning for me, as I research the subject for my newest novel, “The Practician.”

In this new story,  magic will play a major role, as it has throughout our history on Earth. The Patrician will be the first novel in a grail-mythology quartet. The title and the theme are a reference to the main character, Rick Townsend’s past, and his “gift” that will profoundly alter the future for us all. So, as I research the subject of magic and its history, I thought I would post about the things I’m learning from time to time, here, on my author blog, but returning to the question, “Do you believe in magic,” I wonder what your answer might be?

The question holds great interest for me, as a student of the Bible, because the Bible is a book whose subject is almost entirely about the supernatural and yet, the church, who claims the Bible, has, more or less, convinced Christianity that “magic” is nothing more than superstitious mumbo-jumbo. Is it? Maybe. Certainly, through my childhood and up to more recent times, magic, for me, was illusion and slight-of-hand, more trickery and ingenious engineering than supernatural power. In the distant past, however, this was not the case, and lately, I have seen things that I cannot explain, things I am forced to attribute to the supernatural. I confess that what I’ve seen was on video, it could have been manipulated, but I don’t think that it was, because I know from my studies of scripture and from my research in extra-biblical sources, that real magic, that is, “transcendental magic,” truly did and likely does still exist.

When I say, “transcendental magic,” I’m talking about magic beyond illusion. I’m talking about the kind of magic Pharos’ magicians used to change a rod into a snake when they desperately needed to duplicate Moses’ amazing feat. Of course, the feat was supernatural in both cases. The transmutation of a wooden rod to living serpent wasn’t accomplished by Moses, nor was it accomplished by Pharos’s magi, but it was accomplished by powers beyond their hands, powers beyond their world, powers that they called upon, from beyond time and space, as we know it. That’s the kind of magic I’m talking about. There was a time when it was common. Perhaps it was because people were more willing to believe in it than they are today. Perhaps what is required is a mind that is open to the possibility, a mind that doesn’t need to stuff everything into the boxes provided to us by modern science, or academia, or by the church. Perhaps believing is the key to true transcendental power and the sole requirement for it to be present in any age, I don’t know. I don’t practice magic, though the New Testament Bible tells me that I could and should. From that same source, I have come to understand the practice of calling upon powers beyond our world, and by it, I also understand that the power of real magic, transcendental power, lies beyond my hands and beyond our world of flesh and physical laws. Join me in the next adventure.

Cast Out

 

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The Oubliette, my latest novel, is a story of fallen angels. There can be no question from a Biblical perspective, that such creatures exist, or that they were cast out of Heaven for their participation in Lucifer’s rebellion. What should get and hold, everyone’s attention is that they were cast down to Earth, exiled here as prisoners to await their judgment at the end of days. The Bible warns us, “Woe to the inhabitants of the earth and the sea! For the devil has come down to you, having great wrath, because he knows that he has but a short time.”

That warning ought to bring shivers to your spine. Unfortunately, in the age of SciTech, the Devil has us just where he wants us, oblivious to his existence, and yet, exist he does. His influence in our world is ubiquitous yet invisible among us, though the evidence of it lies all around, in every direction. As Morpheus said to Neo in the motion picture classic, ‘The Matrix,’ referring to Satan’s influence in our lives:

Morpheus:  “The matrix is everywhere, it is all around us. Even now, in this very room. You can see it when you look out your window, or when you turn on your television. You can feel it when you go to work, when you go to church, when you pay your taxes. It is the world that has been pulled over your eyes to blind you from the truth.”

Neo: “What truth?”

Morpheus: “That you are a slave, Neo. Like everyone else you were born into bondage, born into a prison that you cannot smell, or taste, or touch; a prison for your mind.”

So it is for each and every one of us, born into bondage, and for that “short time” that he has, Satan and his minions have wreaked havoc among us. It continues to this day, but there is a Way for mankind, a deeper Truth, a way to be saved from the destruction to come.

“The Oubliette” is an exploration of the unseen world around us. Though Neo, along with most other people would choose the Blue Pill, “wake up in their beds and believe whatever they choose to,” I challenge you to be that rare individual. Choose the red pill and know the truth. You can find it where Mike Brennan did, in The Oubliette.

King Arthur Jones

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Arthur Jones is something of a celebrity in Green Turtle Cay and also in Marsh Harbor the largest town in the Abaco Islands. He is a native of the Bahamas, fiftyish, but young at heart; no one is sure of his real age and Arthur won’t say. His parents, both great fans of Arthurian tales, gave him the royal sounding name, King Arthur Jones.

Though he seldom uses his full name in public, it has come in handy for him in branding himself among the locals, first as a fishing guide, then as a chef; ultimately as a restaurateur in Marsh Harbor, but Arthur sold that business and retreated to the simpler life in Green Turtle Cay. Now he works for Rick Townsend, hunting and recovering treasure, and acting as captain, first mate, cook and chief bottle washer aboard Rick’s yacht, Mi Tesoro.

Mostly the job is boring, an aspect Arthur appreciates, but the boredom is broken by periods of interesting salvage, diving for treasure and, occasionally fighting off pirates and interlopers who come to challenge their legal claim. Over the years he and Rick have become close friends and partners in the business, an arrangement that works well for both men. Recently, however, following the recovery of a treasure worth more than a hundred million dollars, Arthur’s role has changed, making him more a companion, who’s job it is, to keep Rick on track and in balance. Having gained so much money turned out to be more a curse than a blessing, requiring Rick to become a manager and administrator of investments. He’s not adjusting well to his new role, becoming more reclusive and falling into long periods of heavy drinking from which Arthur had to pry him free.

Lately a new role has been added to Arthur’s task list. He finds himself an occasional body-guard, defending his friend’s life from those who seek to take it. These recent attacks have something to do with the new job Rick has taken on, the identification and recovery of an alleged treasure in Nova Scotia at a place they call ‘The Pit’, a job Arthur insisted Rick take on, just to get him back to work. The job sounded simple when first described, uncomplicated. How could he have known how deep this hole would go, or the labyrinth it would become? How could he have known the danger it would put his best friend in?