The Messenger by Mindy Haig
Breakwater Harbor Books
Presents:
The Messenger
Sammael's Lost Memory
By
Mindy Haig
Copyright © 2013 by Mindy Haig
Cover Art by Delaney Haig
Angel image is Public Domain {PD-old}
All Rights Reserved
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
PREFACE: SUDAN, JULY 27, 1962
CHAPTER 1: ALBANY, GEORGIA – JULY 10, 1962
CHAPTER 2: ALBANY, GEORGIA – JULY 11, 1962
CHAPTER 3: ALBANY, GEORGIA – JULY 12, 1962
CHAPTER 4: ALBANY, GEORGIA/ATLANTA, GEORGIA – JULY 13, 1962
CHAPTER 5: ALBANY, GEORGIA – JULY 19 - 21, 1962
CHAPTER 6: ALBANY, GEORGIA – JULY 23 - 24, 1962
AFTERWARD: SUDAN, JULY 27, 1962
AUTHOR INFORMATION:
THE MESSENGER
PREFACE: SUDAN, JULY 27, 1962
I flew a very long way.
The trip was a number of nights and I’d expended even the strength I’d stolen in my rage and grief. I longed for the solitude of this place I came to for shelter between my false lives and the time to forget.
I considered remaining a raven for a while longer, there was far less conscious thought, far less pain, in that form. There was mainly instinct. I might have even enjoyed the escape from my self-loathing had exhaustion not been a greater priority.
I approached my door under the dense black cover of a moonless night where I took my loathsome earthly form and entered, but immediately I knew I was not alone.
“Why are you here?” I asked the darkness.
“She asked me to check on you. She did not think you would want to tell her about it.”
“I had hoped she did not see this time.” I sighed.
Raphael laughed. “Evangeline sees all when it comes to you, Brother. Do you wish to tell me what happened?”
“No. My anger is too deep. I came to rest and to hide again until it is time to take on my next guise.”
“You know my strength, perhaps I can help you.”
“I ask for nothing.” I answered sharply, turning away.
“I know. Yet I would give what I have freely,” he answered gently, which only inflamed my bitterness.
“Do you not see, Raphael?” I said angrily, spinning back to him. “I would wish more than anything to destroy the bond between you and our father, make you bitter as I am. I wish his ending and the destruction of all things. I wish nothing but hate upon all creation.” I said venomously.
“What happened?”
“He destroyed that which I wished to save. He took redemption from me with no mercy even as I tried to help his messenger. I wish with every ounce of the spirit within me to annihilate him.”
“That is not your wish, Sammael. I know you. You are an Angel, the last son of the Glory of the Father. You wish to return to him, to our home. You wish to return to Evangeline,” he reprimanded. But then he looked at me appraisingly. “You are the taker of souls, and yet you do not take them indiscriminately, nor even consistently. I should think if you felt nothing but hate you would be much more devious and perhaps more vicious. I suspect someone touched you this time. You made a connection,” he said laying his hand upon me.
I did not answer him.
“Sammael, I remember what it was like. I am sure my brief experience was far different from all you have done and seen, but I remember what it was like to care for someone. Come, tell me what has befallen you,” Raphael whispered as his warmth spread though my overtaxed body and my will to hold on to my pain drained away leaving me exposed and riddled with guilt.
But my desolate soul spilled its tale to him:
CHAPTER 1: ALBANY, GEORGIA – JULY 10, 1962
“Who are you?” A woman’s voice asked close to my ear as I stood watching the good Reverend deliver his message with the passion and fervor of an Easter Sunday sermon. “Are you from the government? Are you aiming to shut him down, end his speech? You’ll likely cause a riot, you know. Tempers are hard to control here.”
Thunderous applause punctuated every sentence the man spoke at his podium. The crowd was thick with bodies. Men dressed in their Sunday best, women in church dresses and hats showed their respect as though listening to words directly from the mouth of the Father.
“No answer? Not even acknowledgement that you’re being spoken to? I thought the white schools insisted on better manners than that. Maybe you think speaking to woman of mixed racial heritage is beneath you?” she said with a sharp sting in her words.
I looked at her then. The disapproval in her voice caught my attention, though up until that moment it hadn’t actually registered that she was speaking to me. “I beg your pardon, Madame. I meant no offense. I was simply listening to his message and I hadn’t realized your commentary was meant for my ears.”
She glared at me for a moment but then laughed genuinely as my words rang true to her.
“You might have tapped my shoulder or perhaps stepped into my line of vision if you wanted my consideration.” I said with a raised eyebrow and a hint of jest.
“You are rather liberal for a wealthy white man. Aren’t I already overstepping my boundaries just looking you in eyes and speaking my mind?”
This time I laughed. “A wealthy white man? Overstepping your boundaries? Is that what you think?” I asked. “Are we not in America, the Land of the Free, the Home of the Brave?”
“Freedom has different rules for different people here, Sir,” she replied poignantly. “I assume you are not American then?”
“No, I am not. This is only the first time I have ventured to this part of the world,” I said looking at her. The mixed racial heritage she spoke of was obvious. She had skin the color of fine parchment. Her hair was dark, but long and silky. There was a certain something about her mouth and the shape of her face that made her akin to those gathered to listen, but her eyes were the color of a shiny copper penny. She wore a modest but well cut dress, white kidskin gloves and a pill box hat. Clearly she was from a wealthy family herself and yet for all her refinement, there was a distinct awkwardness.
“You still haven’t told me who you are or what your purpose here is,” she started again. “You might be wise to be very wary. The Reverend preaches love and tolerance, but when he gets on about all men being equal, well some of the men feel the injustice of the world so deeply they can hardly hear the message for their anger at the white men,” she warned.
I thought about her questions for a moment as I listened to her warning. “I am Carlo Ambrosi.” The name just came out. It was a back up plan, not a name I’d ever intended to use, but I hadn’t planned to be out in the world again this
“Carlowe,” she repeated with her southern drawl. “And why are you here, Carlowe?”
That was difficult question to which I had no satisfactory answer. “I am not sure what my purpose here is of yet. I came to feel the strength of his spirit. I came to see if his words came from his soul,” I admitted as I reached out with my own spirit to feel this woman who spoke boldly to me but cowered in this crowd of her countrymen. And there within her, I felt something familiar, a rending that I had felt just once before. I stood still gazing at her wondering if she possessed that very soul but she spoke again.
“What do you see, Sir?” she asked as she shifted her feet nervously.
“I see a very lovely woman. I would very much like to know more about you but you haven’t even told me what I may call you.”
She pursed her lips as she considered. “What you may call me is directly tied to your intentions, Mr. Ambrosi.”
“How so?”
“If you intend to do mischief here, I have no interest whatsoever in giving you my name,” she quipped with a satisfied shake of her head.
Her wit was engaging. I began to laugh.
“Your eyes are a very pretty color when you laugh, Carlowe. How do you make them change like that?” she asked me as she took my chin in her hand and peered into my eyes curiously.
I was surprised how at ease she was just touching me when I was a total stranger to her. And to my amazement I found myself honestly answering all of her questions. “I do not consciously make them change. It is something like an affliction. The traitorous colors betray my thoughts as well as my intentions. I give you my word that I have not come to make trouble today.”
She narrowed her eyes just a little and watched mine intensely. “Are you a man of your word?”
“I will be today,” I answered with a smile.
And whatever she saw in the color of my eyes was enough of an answer. “Very well. My name is Delilah Emerson. If you are looking for an acquaintance to give you some background on this civil rights movement and the reverend’s message, you may call me Ms. Emerson. If you are looking for a friend who is an outsider as you are, you may call me Delilah. If you are looking for what most wealthy white men are looking for from young black women around here, don’t call me at all,” she answered frankly, crossing her arms over her chest.
“Might I call you for dinner?”
“No. I don’t know you well enough.”
“How might I get to know you if you will not even consider a private engagement?” I teased.
“You have a curious way about you, Sir. There are many questions I would like to ask you, Carlowe Ambrosi,” she said as she glanced past me and stiffened just slightly. “There is a fine Tea House over on Alabaster Street. I will be passing by that area at eleven in the morning. Perhaps if two acquaintances were to meet on the street, they might stop for tea and conversation.”
“I shall be pacing the block in anticipation.”
She looked at me closely again. “I think now you are telling me a lie, though your eyes have not betrayed you this time. Eleven in the morning. Be prompt. You should be wary now Carlowe, trouble is coming,” she said and she walked away from me.
Within moments, the police were raising a ruckus attempting to arrest the Reverend.
I left the scene undisturbed.
I was a well-dressed light skinned man; they had no issue with me.
* * *
Naturally, I was under prepared for such circumstances. I hadn’t considered lingering. I'd come to meet the reverend. I'd come to see if this was another futile effort like the one upon the Mount of Olives. I wanted to hear the message from the mouth of the man. And I wanted to see if I could feel my Father’s hand at work. I told myself, whatever the situation; I would not linger to see his plan come to its brutal ending like the last time. I did not want to know whom his sacrificial lamb was going to be or if he planned to make another martyr. I could have walked away from the woman, but she left so many tantalizing strings dangling that I was compelled to get some answers. So I checked myself in to a room for the evening and thought about all the things I wished to ask her.
But as I lay at rest a memory took me.
The Beginning:
I could feel her before I ever saw her.
I could hear her voice before I even became aware.
It could only have been a moment from the time she came into being until I joined her, but she stood anxious and anguished as all of the Angels in Heaven sang her praise.
They stood in pairs singing their joy at the Glory of creation.
But she turned back to the Father. “I am alone,” she said softly.
“You are not alone, Daughter,” he answered stroking her cheek and in that moment I became came to be.
She looked at me and there bloomed upon her face an expression of pure joy and wonder. It was a look that was beyond happiness, it sang of completion.
That look was love.
I was not given the capacity to return that look.
But I did not know that then. I did not know I was an abomination.
The Father joined our hands. He named us and he bound us to each other for all of time.
She was given the name Evangeline. I can hardly think the name without her image filling my mind. She is and will always be the crowning jewel of the Kingdom of Heaven. She is the most beautiful creation ever brought into existence. She is the embodiment of all goodness. She is the closest thing to perfection that shall ever be. The others sang for joy and she glowed.
I was given the name Sammael.
There was complete silence for the briefest moment. I should have known in that instant that something was amiss. I looked like all the rest. I had no reason to think that my father created an aberration. I did not know I was made defective. I was given beauty to compliment Evangeline, but beauty is a deceptive gift. The other qualities he imbued within me were none that belonged in that place.
But I was innocent. I did not know the others could not question. I did not know they could not feel the sting of pride or the deep ache of guilt. Every question I posed, every puzzle I strove to decipher was met with blank stares or worse, sympathy and whispering. That disapproval, real or imagined pained me. I wanted only to be like all the rest but my questions could never be answered. My curiosity turned to anger. The whispers stung. Evangeline spent all her time trying to be a balm to my raw wounds, but her love was not enough because though I could see it upon her, I could neither feel it nor return it.
And then I found out why there was silence. Sammael. He named me his poison. He named me destruction. I could not understand why he would create such a creature as I was made to be.
Many times I went to my father and asked him why I was made different.
“You are what I have made you, Sammael” was always his only response.
That was not an explanation. It was a platitude. I begged him to fix me. I pleaded my dearest desire to be like the rest and know joy and peace. I implored my wish to feel love, to be able to love Evangeline as she loved me. Always he answered with his same heartless cliché and turned his back on me.
I could not understand how one who placed such value on this concept of love could deny me so callously and show my sorrow such contempt. Each refusal to answer fueled my hatred. I refused to obey him. I refused to acknowledge his creation. I stood rigid with pride.
Evangeline begged me to do his will, but I could not.
For that, I was banished.
CHAPTER 2: ALBANY, GEORGIA – JULY 11, 1962
Eleve
And suddenly, I could feel her.
She rounded the corner in a finely fitted summer dress, with modest heels and sunglasses. Her hair was conservatively styled with the long length of it tied loosely at the nape of her delicate neck, but pulled over her shoulder in a very feminine way.
“Why Mr. Ambrosi, how nice to make your acquaintance again,” Delilah started with a smile as she extended her white-gloved hand to me.
“Miss Emerson,” I started before I paused to kiss her hand. “The pleasure is all mine.”
“Not all yours, Carlowe!” she laughed. “Tea?”
“Would it be a faux pas to order coffee? I am not much of a tea drinker," I teased.
“Oh you!” she exclaimed as she tucked her arm into mine. “I can tell by your eyes that you are making fun. They have lovely sandwiches and I am sure you can have your coffee, but you might consider a cool drink on this warm day.”
“I defer to your wisdom, my lady. I am delighted to see you again, Delilah. Our conversation was far too short yesterday, there are so many things you said in passing that have piqued my curiosity.”
Delilah looked deep into my eyes and she smiled. “Honesty is a pretty color. Come inside, Carlowe, let’s have a nice lunch and perhaps I can satisfy that curiosity of yours,” she said very softly, close to my ear as she drew me along with her.
“I suppose you heard what happened after we parted ways yesterday,” she started as soon as we had been seated.
“Forgive me, I've heard nothing of the local news. I took your warning and left the street. I checked into a room for the evening, took some dinner and went to my rest."
“Why, the police came in force, as usual,” she said with a sad shake of her head as she removed her gloves and laid them delicately in her lap. “Blundering fools started hitting men who were doing nothing but standing listening. They called it an illegal assembly. Arrested the Reverend on some older charges, they did. He refused bail too, stubborn fool. Said he’d stay right where he were until some changes be made.”