For Hobbes was not a very happy hamster. Hegel and Hobbes had known each other for a long time, and it seemed Hegel was always trying to cheer up Hobbes. Once in a while he would succeed and bring a smile to Hobbes’ face, perhaps with a riddle or clever rhyme. But mostly Hobbes just walked about pouting.

Just as Hegel the hedgehog was thinking these things about his friend, there came a scratching sound at the garden gate. Only one creature in the garden made such a noise. He opened the gate, and, sure enough, there stood Hobbes, wearing a sad face and looking like nothing on earth could make him smile.

“Hello, Hobbes,” said Hegel. “Isn’t it a wonderful day?!”

“No, not at all. It’s a very grim day,” replied Hobbes. “I could hardly bring myself to get out of bed.”

“Why, Hobbes,” said Hegel. “You cannot really believe such a thing.”

“Of course I can,” Hobbes said. “Why should today be different from any other day?”

“But Hobbes, just have a look at the sky. It’s blue as can be.”

Hegel took Hobbes by the arm, taking care not to poke his friend with his stiff hairs. For everyone knows that hamsters are soft and fluffy, but hedgehogs are covered with stiff and pointy hairs. Sticking his friend with sharp hairs was not going to make Hobbes feel better.

As the two friends walked up the garden path toward Hegel’s house, there came a tiny voice from the ground below.

“Take care, you brutes,” the voice said, so low they could barely hear it. “You almost stepped on my wagon of seeds.”

“Who said that?” asked Hegel.

“Who indeed?” said Hobbes.

“Me indeed,” came the tiny voice from down by their feet.

There were something like 900,000 new books published in the U.S. last year, about two thirds of which were self published, and about 99% of which were published by authors few readers have ever heard of. The implications of these disturbing statistics should be self-evident. Despite the relative ease nowadays of making our publications available for purchase on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and other book sites, making potential readers aware of our work and getting them to buy it are different challenges entirely.

It’s a frustrating thing indeed to work for a year or more writing a book and bringing it to market, only to see your sales rank on Amazon creep gradually into the millions. It is also a sobering experience to see a single book sale suddenly improve your ranking from the millions down to a hundred thousand or so, the implication of which is that there are literally millions of books for sale on Amazon that no one buys—ever.

Bottom line is that, absent the funds to hire your own publicist, the onus is on the writer to beat the bushes and conjure up his/her own audience, whether it’s through effective exploitation of social media, regular blogging, reaching out to radio stations and print review sites, or simply selling copies out of the trunk of your car (something Stephen King actually did for a few years). Once you’ve gotten those first few easy copies into the hands of your family members and close friends, the rest is good old-fashioned hard work, made all the more so by the millions of new competing publications that hit the market each year.

In fairness, I can, of course, only comment on what this particular writer wants, though in so doing, I am prepared to also make a bold leap and assert that it’s what every writer wants; put quite simply—readers. I cannot believe for a moment that there is a writer out there content to jot down his innermost thoughts and beliefs—whether as informally as a humble blog post, or as structured and demanding a format as a novel—with the expectation of then locking it away in a drawer someplace, never to see the light of day. We want—I want—others to see it.

And yes, we also aspire—most of us anyway—to gain a reputation. Whatever our chosen genre or style, we all look with a measure of longing at Stephen King, J. K. Rowling, Dan Brown, Philip Roth, and say, there but for the twists and turns of fate, go I. We all dream of big contracts, worldwide book tours, Pulitzer and Nobel prizes. But, in the end, it’s not really about fame, or awards, or money. It’s about that other human being sitting with your book in their lap, debating with their friend about what you really meant by this or that passage.

I am as yet far enough down on the writing food chain that I haven’t encountered a complete stranger at an airport or restaurant carrying a copy of one of my books. But I expect that when that day comes, I will feel something I’ve never yet felt. There may even come a day in a distant future when I’m sitting in a restaurant and someone with a book in their hand will walk uncertainly up to me and say, “Aren’t you…”

Click play below to listen to the Sistina Audio book sample, narrated by Ryan Metzger.

Click below to listen to the January 6th, 2015 interview on the Artist First Worldwide Radio Network, hosted by Tony Kay.

Click below to listen to the January 26th, 2015 MyNDTALK interview, hosted by Dr. Pamela Brewer.

Click below to listen to the February 3rd, 2015 interview on Nuestra Palabra, KPFT/90/1 FM, hosted by Tony Diaz and Liana Lopez.

Click below to listen to the February 5th, 2015 interview on Living Arts, KPFT/90/1 FM, hosted by Michael Woodson.

Click below to listen to the May 21st, 2015 interview on AM Ocala Live, WOCA, AM 1370, hosted by Larry Whitler and Robin MacBlane.

Prologue

And they found the stone rolled away from the sepulcher. And
they entered in, and found not the body of the Lord Jesus.
Luke 24:2-3

April 3 – 33 CE

Nicodemus looks away as Joseph grunts and puts all his weight into the bar, drawing the heavy iron nail from out of the black oak, freeing Jesus’ limp left hand from the cross. The task is excruciating, physically and emotionally, and there is no respite from the unforgiving afternoon heat. They are two men, observed only by a pair of centurions, but working alone, and with the crudest of tools: a heavy winch to lift the massive cross from its support hole and lower it gently to the ground, and a stout iron bar to grip the heads of the six-inch-long spikes and draw them screeching from the timber. The man upon the cross appears barely human—beaten, scourged, pierced, and crucifified almost to the point of unrecognizability. Neither Joseph nor Nicodemus attempts to hide his emotions as the final nail is removed and the broken body rolls to one side and onto the dusty ground.

Joseph extends a hand toward Jesus’ bloody head, meaning to dislodge the ring of thorns placed there by the Romans. The spines are enormous, each nearly the length of a finger, and Joseph winces as he tears his thumb on one of the savage tips. “Take care, my friend,” Nicodemus whispers. His face, like Joseph’s, is dusty, tracked with sweat and tears. Joseph rises, bringing his torn thumb momentarily to his lips, and steps toward his donkey, reaching into the saddlebag for a piece of heavy cloth to protect his hands while he pulls the deeply-embedded crown from Jesus’ head.

“Lift . . . here.” Joseph grasps the feet while Nicodemus places his hands beneath Jesus’ inner arms. Together they lift, marveling at the lightness of the body, the torment of his treatment by the Romans having taken its final toll on his already frail constitution. It is several miles back to Joseph’s estate at Arimathea, and they have brought an extra donkey on which is mounted a wooden bier. They wrap the body with heavy linen shrouds, place it delicately onto the bier, and lash it securely in place.

“It is fitting that he go to his rest in this manner,” Nicodemus observes, bending to retrieve the spikes and thorned ring. He drops the four nails into his saddlebag and inserts the crown as well, though with some difficulty. “He arrived in Jerusalem on a donkey. Now he departs that way.” They exchange sad smiles.

“And what of the cross?” Nicodemus asks, watching suspiciously as the centurions laugh together in the distance.

“Arrangements have been made,” Joseph replies. “My servants will come later this afternoon with retrieve it.”

Joseph draws a small paper from his tunic pocket—his receipt for the body. It contains a couple lines of text, a signature, and Joseph’s family seal. He walks toward the centurions who do not stop their banter until he is within a step of them. He holds out the paper without expression.

“I believe this concludes our business,” he says, as one of the guards takes the paper from his hand.

“And you will return for the timber?” the centurion asks. “If not, my wife can use it to build us a new chicken coop.” He looks to his companion and smiles broadly.

“My servants will come for it shortly,” Joseph replies. He turns without further comment and walks back to where Nicodemus sits astride his donkey. As Joseph climbs upon his, he turns to face his friend.

“Surely now no one can displace these animals,” he glances indignantly over his shoulder as the centurions begin to walk away, still laughing and talking loudly. “He was our greatest hope.”

“My friend,” Nicodemus says, “I believe he remains our greatest hope. And if I know you as I think I do, then you believe this as well.”

Joseph is a good and pious man, though he does not display his piety in public ways, lest he incur the wrath of the Jewish elders and business associates on whom his livelihood depends. However, in recent months, his silent support for Jesus had been an increasing source of internal conflict. He closely followed the travels, teachings, and rapid rise to fame of the man who garnered the unwanted focus of the Roman government in Judea, and who seemed so utterly unconcerned over the consequences he might incur for having the temerity to offer hope and inspiration to the masses. Joseph is a believer, a man who now waits, along with a rapidly growing number of followers, for the inevitable return of the kingdom of heaven on earth. A braver man would have shared in spreading Jesus’ message and taken on some of that risk—a man without a family to feed and a business to run.

Joseph is also well-to-do. When first he heard of the impending crucifixion, he immediately beseeched Judean governor Pontius Pilate for possession of Jesus’ body following the execution. Pilate had found this a strange request. It seemed that Joseph, a well-regarded member of the Sanhedrin, but of no known religious proclivity, was in effect taking Jesus into his own family—curiously magnanimous gesture toward such a controversial figure. Joseph had not been a known associate of Jesus throughout the months of sermons and miracles that had captured so much attention, and which ultimately led to his prosecution and condemnation. Still, Joseph had asked fervently that he be allowed to care for the body and to inter it in a family sepulcher on his estate, and Pilate had seen no special reason to deny the request.

Joseph had gone to the courtyard on that fateful day; he witnessed the mock trial and the chants of the crowd to free the insurgent and murderer Barabbas. He walked the path that Jesus walked, watched him struggle with the ponderous oaken cross, and, despite repeated attempts to force himself to look away, had watched as the hours passed that it took for Jesus to finally expire, suspended there in the searing sun. He thought again of these things as they rode solemnly back to his estate, where he had arranged fine linen strips, myrrh, and aloes in preparation for the entombment of the body.

In the preceding months, Joseph had excavated from a hillside near his home a sepulcher intended to serve as the final resting place for members of his family. It required the work of many men, and when completed, extended more than thirty feet into the heart of the hill. It is here that Jesus is laid to rest later that afternoon. The mouth of the cave, nearly seven feet across, is covered by an enormous round stone that traverses a track in the ground before the opening. It has been constructed with multiple uses in mind, since several members of Joseph’s family will ultimately be interred here. The massive stone requires a pair of harnessed oxen to roll it over or back from the opening, and it is nearly sundown on Friday evening when, with a final round of prayers,
the door is sealed and Jesus’ body laid to rest.

The two men, exhausted and perspiring from their labors, are then met, through a prior quiet arrangement, by three of Jesus’ Apostles: James and John, the sons of Zebedee; and Philip. The five drink wine, dine on bread and lamb, and discuss the events the of day, as well as those leading up to the execution. Following lengthy draught from his wine cup, Joseph broaches the topic that has been weighing on his mind since word of the trial first began circulating.

“The prophets have said—indeed, Jesus himself told us—that on Sunday morning he will rise from this sepulcher and walk again among us. Do you believe such a thing?”

His question is directed to no one in particular, but John, the younger son of Zebedee, takes up the response.

“How can it not be believed? Have we not seen countless other miraculous occurrences take place at his hand? Did not Lazarus himself walk again to his family? It is the fulfillment of his journey.”

“But that was in life, my friend,” Nicodemus replies. “Can a man, even one so great as our master, truly be expected to conquer his own death?”

James sits at the far end of the long table, gazing upward, addressing no one and everyone. “Everything depends on fulfillment of the prophecy.” The others look in surprise at the quiet utterance. “If it does not come to pass, then what has this all meant? For what have we sacrificed our livelihoods, our families?”

“There are more than a few,” Nicodemus intones, “who have a vested interest in the failure of the prophecy. There are economic interests, political consequences, men who will do whatever is required to see that Jesus’ work comes to nothing. And many of these men know where we have placed his body. They may take steps to actively thwart the prophecy rather than rely on chance to ensure their continuing power.”

“He is right,” responds Joseph. “There are men who will not take that chance. Even if they believe the prophecy to be false, they cannot allow for the slightest threat.”

“They will come,” John says, stating the conclusion that all of the men have arrived at more or less simultaneously. “And what can we do to stop them from this heresy?”

“There is nothing we can do,” Joseph replies. “We cannot fight centurions if they are committed to taking our Lord’s body. And they know the prophecy as well as we. If they are going to act—and they must act—they will do so before the appointed time. They will do so tomorrow.”

“And we are powerless to stop them,” John adds. “They will take him away, and perhaps even kill us as well.”

A silence pervades the room, after an interminable minute Joseph rises from his seat and places his hands upon the heavy table.

“The body must moved,” he says resolutely. “It must be moved and it must be done tonight—before the politicians have the time or opportunity to agree their course.”

“But what of the prophecy?” protests John. “What of the resurrection?”

“Yes,” agrees James, “and where else can we place him?”

Nicodemus raises his right hand and pauses thoughtfully before addressing the first part of John’s question.

“If, as we all believe, the prophecy is true—that our Lord will indeed rise on the third day—then the location is of no consequence. If he will rise, he will rise, and whence he rises will not concern him in the least. Our responsibility is to our master, most especially now in the hour of his greatest need and weakest state.”

“Joseph,” asks John, “do you know of such a place? Is there somewhere he can be made safe, if only for a few days?”

“Yes, my friends, I do know of such a place.”

And so it comes to pass that, by working through the remainder of the night, and with the assistance of two irritated oxen who had thought their night’s work complete, the body of Jesus is, with great care and reverence, lifted from the family sepulcher and taken more than three leagues away to a well-hidden cave in the forest along the northern border of Joseph’s vast estate. It isn’t a tomb in any real sense of the word. It isn’t even a proper cave—more of a deep crevice at the edge of a ridge. There are two major advantages, though, to the location. First, and most important, no one knows of this place, save for Joseph and a
handful of his domestic servants. Second, it is set high enough in the wall of the ridge to preclude any chance of rain collecting inside. Also to their advantage is the large broad stand of cypress trees that grows just before the opening—a natural camouflage that will dissuade discovery by any but the most well informed of searchers. There is, however, no feasible way of securing the entrance against possible predators or accidental visitors. Thus, Joseph directs one of his most trusted servants to stand watch over the makeshift tomb relieved later on Saturday morning. Of course, if something spectacular should take place, the servant will immediately bring news of any such blessed event.

Rather than risk a life unnecessarily, no one is allowed to stand guard over the family sepulcher lest the Romans or other unscrupulous visitors might harm
them upon visiting the tomb. They leave the massive round stone pulled back and the sepulcher empty, presuming that any visitors, nefarious or otherwise, will assume that the prophesied resurrection has already occurred. As a measure of further insurance, Joseph directs another of his servants to hide in the woods
within sight of the family sepulcher, watching to see if it attracts any unwanted visitors. None appear until late on Saturday night, and then not the centurions that Joseph and the others have expected. Rather, the visitor, difficult to discern in the shadows of the night, appears to be a lone young man—a spy perhaps, or simply someone curious—who tentatively approaches the massive opening, looks around furtively, and then steps inside. Moments later, still watched from a prudent distance by Joseph’s servant, the man exits the tomb and departs stealthily down the path from which he has come. Whether he passes the word of the sepulcher’s vacancy, or the men’s suspicions are ultimately unfounded, no one else appears at the tomb for the remainder of the night.

Having successfully relocated Jesus’ body deep into the north woods, Joseph and the four others reconvene again in his kitchen to discuss and agree upon what they ought to do next.

“Suppose our Lord rises on Sunday morning as he foretold?” James says. “What will he think of us, of our faithlessness?”

“My friend,” Nicodemus replies, placing a calming hand on the man’s shoulder, “it is not faithlessness we have demonstrated this night, but respect for the prophecy and commitment to its completion. If our Lord rises, as we have agreed, the spot from which he rises will matter neither to him nor to any of those he gave his life to redeem.”

“But are we not interfering with the fulfillment of the prophecy?” objects James.

“Or could it be that we and our actions are indeed a part of those prophecies?” Nicodemus responds. “Nowhere is written the place from which our Lord will rise, nor the manner in which he will do so. Nowhere does it say with whose assistance this wondrous event will take place. Only that he will rise up and ascend bodily into heaven. If there is some small part we are called upon to play in bringing this to pass, then I say so be it!”

“But, my friends,” says Joseph, rising from his seat, “should we not also consider what our course will be if Sunday comes and there is no sign of the resurrection? What then shall we do?”

The exhausted men debate long into the early hours of Saturday morning—whether to leave things to their natural course or to take steps to actively bring about the Lord’s prophecies themselves. In the end, they agree that advancing Jesus’ work on earth is what matters more than anything else—this is so whether he rises or not. They agree, as well, that should Jesus not rise and ascend into heaven, the body they have so carefully prepared and protected must be preserved at all cost, against any who would abscond with or otherwise desecrate it. Finally they agree that, one way or another, there is going to be a resurrection on Sunday morning.

“Sistina is a terrific book. If you like well-crafted mysteries with unanticipated twists and turns, you will love this deft, imaginative novel. Disquieting events immediately following the crucifixion trigger a plot that toggles mostly between Michelangelo’s Rome and modern Italy. Other than saying people die, things are stolen, and philosophies are shaken, I’ll add nothing—I hate spoilers—except that as a bonus you will learn a lot of fascinating church history and may be able to paint a fresco when you are finished. Don’t miss this book.” — Michael Lieberman, author of Never Surrender—Never Retreat and The Lobsterman’s Daughter

“Brian Kenneth Swain sets forth a tantalizing conspiracy plot that has preserved a cornerstone of Christianity, and then bonded it with the history of Michelangelo’s Sistine masterworks and Vatican intrigue of the cloak-and-dagger variety.” — Chance Maree, author of Dark Matter Tiding

Excerpt from The Curious Habits of Man

There can be no greater marketing triumph than the creation and promoting of bottled water … Never mind that something like seventy percent of all bottled water comes directly and unapologetically, without being changed in any way, from municipal systems (i.e., tap water), or that bottled water is almost certainly less healthy than tap water by virtue of residing for months in plastic bottles, potentially absorbing all manner of petrochemicals that leach fro them plastic, or that while the safety and quality of municipal water is closely regulated, there are no analogous regulations at all for bottled water. All these realities notwithstanding, people the world over have, in less than a decade, voluntarily begun handing over as much as two dollars a bottle for something that is available for free in unlimited quantities. There is no plausible explanation for such a fantastic turn of events save for marketing. By tying notions of your personal image and self-worth to the brand on a bottle of water you carry around, marketers have succeeded in convincing people not only that they cannot do without the bottled product, but that there is actually something wrong with drinking the free variety.

John Hagee – Gorenberg, pg. 177

The purpose of an introductory essay is, primarily, to establish context for the work that follows. To a lesser degree, it is, if candidly written, a means of obtaining insight into the mind of the writer, specifically why he undertook the story in the first place, and what personal characteristics inform his research and writing. That said, let’s dispatch the latter objective first, as it is the easier of the two.

My gut reaction is to state here, for the record, that I am atheist. It’s what the Sam Harris’s and Christopher Hitchens’s of the world would regard as the only truly honest and forthright approach. Still, there is a definitional problem with all of this that gives me a bit of pause. At worst, I would regard myself as agnostic and absolutely non-religious (despite having been raised in a Baptist household). At the risk of arguing semantics or splitting hairs, and at the risk of oversimplifying what is, to some, a complex philosophical discussion, the difficulty I have with these two popular labels is that there is an inherent arrogance in the word atheist, in that the word suggests certain knowledge as to the absence of any higher power. That could, one day, turn out to be a fraught position to have adopted, regardless of one’s level of scientific comfort. Agnosticism, on the other hand, conveys the idea that one neither knows nor particularly gives a damn about the existence, or lack thereof, of a god. It’s a bit of a weasel word for those who aren’t sufficiently compelled by their own belief system to simply refuse outright to believe. It’s a hedge, when you get right down to it. For an interesting thought experiment, try sometime imagining what you would say if you are, in fact, a non-believer yet one day in a distant future you, nevertheless, find yourself standing before God explaining what exactly you did or didn’t choose to believe while you were alive on earth.

Because I am a nonbeliever (he said, dodging completely the conundrum raised above), I am equally dismissive of all faiths, in the sense that I find them all terribly arbitrary and spectacularly unfounded as regards the things they require adherents to believe. Be it virgin births, horses riding into heaven, translation stones in the bottom of hats, or what have you, believers are asked to suspend disbelief and embrace the one (and only one, so far as I can tell) fundamental characteristic on which all faiths agree, i.e.,the need for faith.

My interest in things religious is, therefore, a dispassionate and strictly intellectual one. In particular, I am fascinated by the impact that religion has on the daily lives of the billions who profess to practice one. And, most fascinating of all, I am continually intrigued by the capacity for the religious to resort to violence toward their fellow man in order to protect and perpetuate their faith above all others. I said earlier that faith was the only thing that unites the religions of the world. That isn’t quite accurate, upon reflection. One other important characteristic shared by all the world’s religions is a fervent belief that your group is the only one to have gotten it right, and that all other religions (including, of course, the nonreligious) are nothing more than heretics to be a) ignored, b) converted, c) persecuted, or d) in extreme cases, killed.

Indeed, many millions throughout history have been killed, tortured, persecuted, and disowned of their possessions (sometimes all four) in the name of religion, either because of the one they practice, or because they choose to profess none. A very significant portion of this mayhem has taken place in and around the Middle East, and has occurred because of the generally fraught interactions of Christians, Jews, and Muslims. And if there is a “ground zero” for this conflict, it must surely be the Temple Mount in Jerusalem, which at thirty-seven acres, is easily the most conflict-ridden piece of real estate in the world. It is a place of special religious significance to all three groups, each monotheistic, and each adhering to a belief set that enfolds the Mount in some integral way.

A fundamental tenet of Judaism is that the end of time, from which this book’s title comes, cannot take place without first there occurring an elaborate series of events in and around the Mount, not least of which is the destruction of current structures and the erection of a Third Temple . There exist organizations whose sole purpose is the consummation of these events, the notion being that mankind can, if he undertakes the right actions, directly bring about—or at least accelerate—the end times so fervently desired by so many. Some of these organizations limit their activities to benign activities like fund raising or construction of elaborate temple models. Others have taken things a bit further and actually designed and created the garments specifically required for the ceremonies prophesied to follow construction of the temple. And still others have undertaken the breeding of perfect red heifers that are, as well, an integral part of these ceremonies. Finally, there exist less well publicized groups whose activities center around actively attempting to cause the destruction of the existing structures on the Temple Mount. Indeed, such destruction has come extremely close on numerous occasions through history, not only due to the assorted bombings that have been attempted, but by the much lauded Moshe Dayan himself immediately following the 1967 war, during which, for a short time before his rational side got the better of him, there sat bulldozers on the mount ready to begin razing the Dome. Indeed, for much of Dayan’s remaining life, he was chastised for missing what many regarded as the Jews’ best opportunity ever.

Days End is the story of three families, living very different lives in different parts of the world, but ultimately thrust together in ways that none fully understand and with consequences none can escape. All the forces described above converge, as the families converge, at a tragic crossroads. The story is, of course, fiction, but it is based on an entirely plausible sequence of motivations and actions. As events in the Levant continue their turbid journey, it will, in all likelihood, continue to be the Temple Mount that infuses the greatest passions, and results in the greatest tragedies.

Brian Kenneth Swain
Helotes, Texas