Lost in time, gulls struggled to circle overhead in a gusty dark storm. Anchor wandered across an immense flat rock atop a black stone cliff. A precarious spot for the fragility of youth. Whipping wind froze her scant garments tight around her shivering skinny body. Mother Earth was rumbling. She prepared to crush Anchor’s youthful tenderness to untraceable bits. Roaring tons of water hit the cliff-side. The drenching impact soared into chilling air. Its arching destination of fury was obvious … supernatural Anchor.
Anchor looked into the watery death. And exclaimed her miraculous sentence, “You die first, Mother of Creation!” and the waters lost all primal force. Ashamed, water splattered like soft rain on the black slate rock, tears at Anchor’s feet. From that day forward, Anchor was a healer, a prodigy, a tribal shaman. Feared as a witch; a forlorn term that made her laughter timid. Clinking her ever-present powerful vials and potions stored in her pockets reassured her. Power was always loaded at her magic fingertips.
Mother Nature never chose Anchor. She was strange. Anchor survived Nature’s foolish attempt to obliterate her. Nature then became Anchor’s slave – or so people believed. The people erected a religious obelisk at the site of the ocean miracle. But within a year, the foundation eroded to a powdery crumble. Sabotaged by the salty sea. The entire monument toppled into the deepest depths.
Anchor dressed unadorned and lived alone in a cliff-side cave, a rock nest. She was an anchoress; a woman retired to a solitary life of religious seclusion. It was primitive and unsettling for people.
Most guess the tossing sea Anchor’s only rightful parent. They are wrong. That mock battle was a mere rivalry between the Ocean and Anchor. Her true mission had been long secluded. The enigma of Anchor was beyond even her exotic strangeness. Inklings, premonitions, dreams touched her. But Anchor’s destiny began when she was 17-years-old. Her fortune concealed. Now the season came. She wasn’t ready, but Shiloh awaited. A transformation required not only of the Golden City but of the very hearts of her people.
At the crossroads, a walled-up stone city harnesses a boiling, raging, hot storm. Outside, all appears quiet and content. Inside, dwells a harsh ordeal of gasping sorrow. This suffocating, dark city belongs to the corrupt. It is Shiloh; a barren and destructive place. Shiloh’s repression yields only unproductive confusion; spinning in circles and circles again.
Filth and dirt of the sordid quarantined in Shiloh. Here they caged all discarded dreams. But Shiloh’s wall of remorse soon cracks at its seams. Too much crude corruption to wallow in forever. Outside freedom awaits. A military society, the SCARAB military rescuers, will transform Shiloh. Breaking down its exterior brick walls. Shiloh’s walls are a prison. No longer a deceptive haven.
Like the ancient Egyptian scarab beetle, the SCARAB rebel militia destroys to create. Shatter the walls and grind it into the sand. There is no more enemy. Set yourself free.