1

She soared and dipped high over his head, an explosion of light from one wing tip to the other. He could make out her head: It was a bend in the arc punctuated by a curved beak and the bright points of her eyes. Will stood in a field, watching her sport in the dark sky above him. Bursts of light shot from the place where her body met the atmosphere: She seemed to be breaking a barrier as she flew. Delighted, he stretched his arms toward her and laughed.

She pivoted suddenly and pulled in her wings. Plummeting, she dove straight at him. Talons appeared. Her beak opened and she released a wild cry. Will dropped his hands to his sides. He wanted to run, but couldn’t move. Her claws entered his eyes. He screamed as the talons tore their way to his heart. The eagle’s eyes turned into those of the old Indian shaman. His face filled Will’s mind as the claws dug deeper.

He was wandering among dozens of totems, craning his neck to see their tops. Carvings of whales, dolphins, wolves, and creatures that he couldn’t recognize covered the massive poles. He carefully laid his hands on their ancient wood, the way he might have touched objects on an altar. Dark green, black, red, and white. Their colors were grayed with age, but their power remained undimmed. A shudder rippled across his
shoulders.

Then he was inside the Lodge. He and the shaman were to do a sweat ceremony together at the retreat. The Lodge that would house their sweat was a magnificent log structure soaring high over his head and extending hundreds of feet. The totem poles guarded its entrance. The structure’s beams and walls were covered with painted carvings. The shaman’s warriors prepared for the sweat, piling logs in a fire pit below an opening in the ceiling.

Will and the old man sat by the fire, discussing politics and philosophy. The sweat was like being in the sauna at his club in San Francisco: a good place to unwind and talk about what mattered. Attendants came and went, bringing whatever they needed––ice water, clean towels. He and Grandfather discussed the problems of the people they served, getting to know each other and bonding.

He felt himself rise above that scene so that he was both in it and above it, watching. Manipulating. A smile lit his face as he prepared to do what he did best. After a sufficient interval, maybe twenty minutes, he told the old man about the mine. He––or his corporation, Numenon––had optioned the land just outside the reservation for the mine.

Its mineral riches were barely conceivable. The feds required him to get the tribe’s permission to mine the land, even though it was off the reservation. The shaman’s approval was the only way to get the tribe to go along.

Will knew exactly how to sell the old man on the deal.

He had figured an angle that anyone would go for: cut the Indians in for a share. Of the profits from the completed project––the new nanotechnology computer chips–-not just the ore. That was major cash flow. They’d make more in a year than all the Indians in the country did with their casinos. What they could do to improve their economic position with that wealth was staggering. He’d point out the benefits of the mine… and the few problems.

But problems existed to be solved. They’d figure out a way to make the tailings look better. Flatten them out; maybe make a monument, a pyramid or something. Plant some trees. The Indians would forget the fact that the mine had destroyed their ancient burial grounds the minute the checks started rolling in.

He’d make them rich. No one could resist that. Will had pondered various percentages to give them. He’d start with half a percent, but he’d go all the way to five if he had to. He could throw in some Numenon
stock, put the whole tribe on the corporate health plan. The feds couldn’t give them anything like that. Maybe he’d set up an employment training program. He’d even toss in management training. His trainers would whip them into shape pronto.

The shaman listened gravely, puffing on a pipe. He understood the benefits of the deal and wanted to go for it, but was a worthy opponent. He bargained all the way up to a 5 percent share before agreeing.

Will pulled out a contract. He’d be out of the sweat lodge and heading home in no time.
The old man leaned over to sign. Just before his pen touched paper, he looked at Will. Something shot from his eye. Will flew over backward, tumbling through space.

He was riding the eagle. Light burst from her head and wings as they flew. The world was as dark before, but different, as different as a clear stream of water was from a polluted river. Will gagged as they flew through toxic vapors and clung to the eagle. He could feel the strength in her body as she flew. She fought her way across the turgid gloom. Will began to feel dizzy and nauseous. Something terrible lay ahead. The night was permeated with… Will gasped as he realized it: the stalker. The evil that had hounded him all his life waited for them.

And he was riding against it, at last. Will felt no fear; he began to shout, urging the eagle to fly faster. When he shouted, a roar arose from behind him. He turned and saw an army of warriors covering the horizon, filling the sky. The warriors were mounted on eagles and horses and elephants, all manner of creatures.

From all of history, they rose to fight the Evil One.

Before him, he could see nothing but darkness, feel nothing but malevolence. He heard the sound of leather wings flapping close by. Too late, he saw the shadow of a dark wing and its claw, the outline of a toothed beak. The teeth snapped.

Will was falling, dropping through space. The monster dropped faster, gaining on him. It would catch him…

Something touched his arm. He struck at it.

“Will. Will. Wake up.” He struggled to awaken. Betty. It was Betty, his secretary
for so many years. His friend. He opened his eyes, confused.

Betty’s blue eyes looked into his. “Will. You were dreaming. I couldn’t wake
you.”

He sat up in his command chair, coming into himself. He was in the Ashley III.

His motor home. He could see Mark Kenna, the driver, peering out the windshield. He’d agreed to attend a Native American spiritual retreat; the others were accompanying him. They’d been traveling for hours, lost in the desert.

“Are we there, Mark?”

“Yes, sir. The Mogollon Bowl is right up ahead.”

Will nodded, still not totally awake. What had happened? They had left the Bay Area at one a.m. Flew to Tucson and then traveled by motor home. They got lost. Images darted through his mind. Something had happened, but he couldn’t remember properly. Something attacked him. He fought. Pain and then darkness. The memories were flashes, disappearing as fast as they came.

He bent forward, peering at the melee in front of the Ashley through the windshield. The desert looked just as it had since the sun rose on the caravan that morning: dusty, dirty, full of cacti and rocks, undoubtedly teeming with scorpions and snakes. But this was worse––look at those people.

At the entrance to the Bowl, their fellow retreat attendees surrounded them. The mélange of vehicles looked like a traffic jam from the 1970s. Not a single car was new; none were even from the 1990s. The junkers flowed over the incline ahead of them with camping stuff sticking out the windows and trunks. Other vehicles drove out of the Bowl, empty.

Will shook his head to clear it. The Mogollon Bowl they’d worked so hard to reach was just over that knoll. Betty gave a presentation as they drove. She said it was a supernatural site. The Bowl caused strange psychological changes. Will could feel them: His mind operated oddly, blurring the edge between what was real and what he wanted.

And bringing those bizarre dreams.

“We’re almost there,” he said, smiling broadly. He was the man who mastered every challenge. “It’s been a long trip, but it will be worth it. You’ll see.”

They pulled over the bank and got their first glimpse of their destination. Mark stopped the vehicle abruptly. Will jumped up and grabbed the back of the driver’s chair, eyes widening and jaw going slack.

“What is it, Will?” Betty asked. She and moved forward, straining for a look at the place where they would spend the next week.

“Oh, my God,” she said.

The others in the vehicle were speechless

By winning a Nautilus Silver Award with her book, Numenon,  author Sandy Nathan joins the ranks of  Deepak Chopra, M.D., Barbara Kingsolver, Thich Nnat Hanh, Jean Houston, PhD., Eckhart Tolle, and His Holiness the Dalai Lama. All are Nautilus Award winners. “Joining the company of these people moves me to tears,” says Sandy.

The Nautilus Awards are dedicated to “changing the world one book at a time.” The Nautilus Award was established to find and reward distinguished literary contributions to spiritual growth, conscious living, high-level wellness, green values, responsible leadership and positive social change as well as to the worlds of art, creativity and inspirational reading for children, teens and young adults.

Books are judged in a three-tier system using a carefully prepared list of notable characteristics. The judging process is laborious and long, carried out by three teams of highly qualified reviewers. Each book is evaluated by at least two judges. Silver winners are selected from each category by the readers in Team #2, and these winning titles are then passed along to the third team where the Gold winners are chosen.

As a Silver Award Winner, Numenon will pass to the highest level of judging for the Nautilus Awards, the Gold Award level. If Numenon wins at this level, it will be featured at the Book Expo America and win many other honors.

“As wonderful as it would be to win the Gold Award, what thrills me is what the Nautilus Awards are about,” says Sandy. “My writing and life are directed toward making this planet a better place. I feel like I’ve found a spiritual home with the Nautilus contest and the people behind it.”

“I have a request,” says Sandy Nathan. “I would appreciate your prayers, blessings, good wishes, positive thoughts, or whatever fits your personal beliefs for Numenon as it winds its way through the Nautilus judging process and the judging of the other contests in which it’s entered. It’s entered in five contests this year. If you could cast a positive vibe in Numenon’s direction, I’d be very grateful.”

Please consult the Nautilus Book Awards web site for more information.

1

She soared and dipped high over his head, an explosion of light from one wing tip to the other. He could make out her head: It was a bend in the arc punctuated by a curved beak and the bright points of her eyes. Will stood in a field, watching her sport in the dark sky above him. Bursts of light shot from the place where her body met the atmosphere: She seemed to be breaking a barrier as she flew. Delighted, he stretched his arms toward her and laughed.

She pivoted suddenly and pulled in her wings. Plummeting, she dove straight at him. Talons appeared. Her beak opened and she released a wild cry. Will dropped his hands to his sides. He wanted to run, but couldn’t move. Her claws entered his eyes. He screamed as the talons tore their way to his heart. The eagle’s eyes turned into those of the old Indian shaman. His face filled Will’s mind as the claws dug deeper.

He was wandering among dozens of totems, craning his neck to see their tops. Carvings of whales, dolphins, wolves, and creatures that he couldn’t recognize covered the massive poles. He carefully laid his hands on their ancient wood, the way he might have touched objects on an altar. Dark green, black, red, and white. Their colors were grayed with age, but their power remained undimmed. A shudder rippled across his
shoulders.

Then he was inside the Lodge. He and the shaman were to do a sweat ceremony together at the retreat. The Lodge that would house their sweat was a magnificent log structure soaring high over his head and extending hundreds of feet. The totem poles guarded its entrance. The structure’s beams and walls were covered with painted carvings. The shaman’s warriors prepared for the sweat, piling logs in a fire pit below an opening in the ceiling.

Will and the old man sat by the fire, discussing politics and philosophy. The sweat was like being in the sauna at his club in San Francisco: a good place to unwind and talk about what mattered. Attendants came and went, bringing whatever they needed––ice water, clean towels. He and Grandfather discussed the problems of the people they served, getting to know each other and bonding.

He felt himself rise above that scene so that he was both in it and above it, watching. Manipulating. A smile lit his face as he prepared to do what he did best. After a sufficient interval, maybe twenty minutes, he told the old man about the mine. He––or his corporation, Numenon––had optioned the land just outside the reservation for the mine.

Its mineral riches were barely conceivable. The feds required him to get the tribe’s permission to mine the land, even though it was off the reservation. The shaman’s approval was the only way to get the tribe to go along.

Will knew exactly how to sell the old man on the deal.

He had figured an angle that anyone would go for: cut the Indians in for a share. Of the profits from the completed project––the new nanotechnology computer chips–-not just the ore. That was major cash flow. They’d make more in a year than all the Indians in the country did with their casinos. What they could do to improve their economic position with that wealth was staggering. He’d point out the benefits of the mine… and the few problems.

But problems existed to be solved. They’d figure out a way to make the tailings look better. Flatten them out; maybe make a monument, a pyramid or something. Plant some trees. The Indians would forget the fact that the mine had destroyed their ancient burial grounds the minute the checks started rolling in.

He’d make them rich. No one could resist that. Will had pondered various percentages to give them. He’d start with half a percent, but he’d go all the way to five if he had to. He could throw in some Numenon
stock, put the whole tribe on the corporate health plan. The feds couldn’t give them anything like that. Maybe he’d set up an employment training program. He’d even toss in management training. His trainers would whip them into shape pronto.

The shaman listened gravely, puffing on a pipe. He understood the benefits of the deal and wanted to go for it, but was a worthy opponent. He bargained all the way up to a 5 percent share before agreeing.

Will pulled out a contract. He’d be out of the sweat lodge and heading home in no time.
The old man leaned over to sign. Just before his pen touched paper, he looked at Will. Something shot from his eye. Will flew over backward, tumbling through space.

He was riding the eagle. Light burst from her head and wings as they flew. The world was as dark before, but different, as different as a clear stream of water was from a polluted river. Will gagged as they flew through toxic vapors and clung to the eagle. He could feel the strength in her body as she flew. She fought her way across the turgid gloom. Will began to feel dizzy and nauseous. Something terrible lay ahead. The night was permeated with… Will gasped as he realized it: the stalker. The evil that had hounded him all his life waited for them.

And he was riding against it, at last. Will felt no fear; he began to shout, urging the eagle to fly faster. When he shouted, a roar arose from behind him. He turned and saw an army of warriors covering the horizon, filling the sky. The warriors were mounted on eagles and horses and elephants, all manner of creatures.

From all of history, they rose to fight the Evil One.

Before him, he could see nothing but darkness, feel nothing but malevolence. He heard the sound of leather wings flapping close by. Too late, he saw the shadow of a dark wing and its claw, the outline of a toothed beak. The teeth snapped.

Will was falling, dropping through space. The monster dropped faster, gaining on him. It would catch him…

Something touched his arm. He struck at it.

“Will. Will. Wake up.” He struggled to awaken. Betty. It was Betty, his secretary
for so many years. His friend. He opened his eyes, confused.

Betty’s blue eyes looked into his. “Will. You were dreaming. I couldn’t wake
you.”

He sat up in his command chair, coming into himself. He was in the Ashley III.

His motor home. He could see Mark Kenna, the driver, peering out the windshield. He’d agreed to attend a Native American spiritual retreat; the others were accompanying him. They’d been traveling for hours, lost in the desert.

“Are we there, Mark?”

“Yes, sir. The Mogollon Bowl is right up ahead.”

Will nodded, still not totally awake. What had happened? They had left the Bay Area at one a.m. Flew to Tucson and then traveled by motor home. They got lost. Images darted through his mind. Something had happened, but he couldn’t remember properly. Something attacked him. He fought. Pain and then darkness. The memories were flashes, disappearing as fast as they came.

He bent forward, peering at the melee in front of the Ashley through the windshield. The desert looked just as it had since the sun rose on the caravan that morning: dusty, dirty, full of cacti and rocks, undoubtedly teeming with scorpions and snakes. But this was worse––look at those people.

At the entrance to the Bowl, their fellow retreat attendees surrounded them. The mélange of vehicles looked like a traffic jam from the 1970s. Not a single car was new; none were even from the 1990s. The junkers flowed over the incline ahead of them with camping stuff sticking out the windows and trunks. Other vehicles drove out of the Bowl, empty.

Will shook his head to clear it. The Mogollon Bowl they’d worked so hard to reach was just over that knoll. Betty gave a presentation as they drove. She said it was a supernatural site. The Bowl caused strange psychological changes. Will could feel them: His mind operated oddly, blurring the edge between what was real and what he wanted.

And bringing those bizarre dreams.

“We’re almost there,” he said, smiling broadly. He was the man who mastered every challenge. “It’s been a long trip, but it will be worth it. You’ll see.”

They pulled over the bank and got their first glimpse of their destination. Mark stopped the vehicle abruptly. Will jumped up and grabbed the back of the driver’s chair, eyes widening and jaw going slack.

“What is it, Will?” Betty asked. She and moved forward, straining for a look at the place where they would spend the next week.

“Oh, my God,” she said.

The others in the vehicle were speechless

The team from Numenon Inc reaches their destination, the fabled Mogollon Bowl. They’ve been attacked waylaid, deceived, and nearly killed. What else could happen?

Everything. The Meeting explodes as Grandfather’s prophecies come true. The shaman knows that Will Duane and his friends can make his vision of world peace a reality. Working together, his People and the most powerful corporation on earth can break down centuries if mistrust and treachery. The transformation can spread all over the glove.

The world where love is king can come to be.

Grandfather also knows that what they are doing at the Meeting is so important that al the forces of evil may arise to stop it.

And they do.

Which will prevail ––cooperation and harmony or unrelenting strive? Is peace on earth something we can achieve? Or will our darkest nightmares rule?

Get ready for the next episode from Sandy Nathan’s world of intrigue and mysticism.

Mogollon
(Bloodsong Series II)

Trade Paperback ISBN 13: 978-0-9762809-7-3
http://vilasapress.com
http://sandynathan.com

The Kindle version of Numenon: A Tale of Mysticism & Mystery is available and priced at an unbelievable 99 cents!

Here’s a link to Numenon on the Amazon Kindle Store!

Am I crazy? Like a fox! When I last looked, Numenon was #8 in Religious Fiction (closing on The Shack), and #1 in Mysticism in two categories of Religion & Spirituality. JOIN THE STAMPEDE!

Buy the Kindle version of Numenon, and you can enter the world of Will Duane, the richest man on earth, and Grandfather, a great Native shaman, in less then a 60 seconds. Numenon won two national awards as an Advance Reading Copy. It’s entered in more contests. We’re waiting for results.

Here it is on my web site: Numenon on SandyNathan.com

Here it is as a print book on Amazon. Look at those Five Star Reviews.

Check out this video:

HI, EVERYONE! THE NUMENON VIDEO IS READY. TAKE A LOOK AND FALL INTO THE WORLD OF WILL DUANE AND THE SUPERSTARS OF NUMENON:

SANDY NATHAN National Award Winning Author

You’ve reached the web portal of Sandy Nathan’s Bloodsong Series. The books of the Bloodsong Series take you to the world of real power––the power that goes far beyond what the physical senses can grasp or comprehend.

They also pretty well cover the world of power you can attain, buy, or enjoy. The world of wealth and worldly attainment.

Think they don’t mix? Think again.

Each book stands by itself and has its own set of actors. Some of these move to the next book, and some are left behind––one way or another, alas. This is a thrilling, tough, edgy world only for those willing to face the ultimate in themselves, and the world outside.

THE BLOODSONG SERIES BLOG CONTAINS ALL THE LATEST INFO ON THE SERIES AND LET’S YOU SHARE YOUR THOUGHTS AND FEELINGS ABOUT IT.

NUMENON: A TALE OF MYSTICISM & MONEY IS THE FIRST BOOK IN THE SERIES.

Click on the book cover above to be transported to Sandy Nathan’s web site and all the info about the book.

WINNER OF TWO NATIONAL AWARDS!
As an Advance Reading Copy, NUMENON won:

* BEST BOOKS AWARD in VISIONARY FICTION, USA Book News
* INDIE EXCELLENCE AWARD in RELIGIOUS FICTION

Noumenon really does mean “the thing in itself.” It comes from Immanuel Kant’s Prologomena to any Future Metaphysic, recommended reading for anyone seriously studying metaphysics. That means the entire New Age and human potential movement.

What Kant did with his path-breaking and almost impossible to read treatise––you think letters from your grandma are hard to read––is permanently remove the possibility of knowing anything as it is in itself. All we can know is the phenomenon, reality filtered through our senses. All reality is is a series of nerve impressions interpreted by our brains as: “Chair!” “Dog!” “My hubby.”

We never know if chair, dog, and daddy exist. We never reach them.

And, there’s no way of ever doing it! It’s IMPOSSIBLE.

Right there, that takes out the metaphysics as most people talk about it before reading your tarot cards.

This is obvious to anyone keeping up with science and biology, isn’t it? The brain science guys know it, the biology of the self dudes. That’s what they’re writing about. All we know are our brain’s interpretations of electrical impulses.

It doesn’t mean that you can’t have religious experience or believe in God or anything, it means that at an essential level, you can’t say that anything, big or small, really exists. You have to infer it from what your nerve impulses say.

Do you think this is radical? Yeah. People have been killed for less. “Whadya mean, you can’t say God exists? Kill him!”

But here’s the crazy guy, Will Duane, who wanted to be a philosophy major and got stuck having to get an MBA, naming his corporation after the Noumenon, which no one can touch or experience. Also, he spelled the name wrong, making it Numenon, because he was in a hurry when they were incorporating.

Does Numenon the book exist? Sure does. In about 400 pages of prime paper, Numenon is realer than your bathtub. You can get into Numenon and get lost. I made sure of that when I told Will Duane’s story. Get lost and stay lost until it’s over. And come out pickled and wanting more.

I’m going to do my best to see that you get lost again. The sequel to Numenon, Mogollon (Mow-go-yone), is on the way. And is it mad and bad! This is where it all comes down.

On Will and his friends.

Meet me with Numenon, renew the acquaintance with Mogollon.

Sandy Nathan