Loved by the Angel of Death

Diogo had suspected for some time that he was dead. Little things tipped him off, like the way he never got tired, no matter how far he walked to carry food and water to the lepers. Then, there was the night his candle went out. Unaware, he continued writing until the early hours of morning with nothing but starlight to illuminate his page.

"Your excellence. I hesitate to address you on this topic again, for each time I do, you raise the same objections. However, the truth is the truth. My heart tells me so, and I trust its message. If I have failed to convince you by my arguments, then the fault must lie with me. I will try again. How can we love the spirit if we do not love the flesh? Every human vessel contains a soul. Do we cast off the mother after she gives birth to her child? No, we feed her, clothe her, praise her, so that she can, in turn, nurture her infant. So must the Church feed, clothe and praise its children so that they can nurture their immortal souls..."

How many times had he sent variations of this letter? Still, the Church sent Bibles when antibiotics were needed, hymnals when the people wasted away from hunger. Absolution was granted to the men who came at night, armed with machetes, while those who lay bleeding were told "The meek will inherit the earth."

He signed his name and sealed the envelope. Outside, a rooster announced the dawn. As he leaned forward to snuff out his candle, he found the wick cold. How long had he been writing in the dark?

When it was fully light. he went to the village store to post the letter. As he was leaving, Graciella shouted from across the street "Brother Diogo! Look out! Your feet!"

Diogo glanced down. His feet were bare, but this was not unusual. Only soldiers and the rich wore shoes in the summer.

"Glass!" Graciella exclaimed. "On the ground."

Diogo looked more closely. Bits of brown glass gleamed in the early morning light. Someone had broken a bottle on the street outside the store, and he had walked over the fragments. There were splinters sticking out of the heel of his left foot. Strange that he could not feel them.

He limped to the watering trough, where he sat while Graciella carefully extracted the glass. "One, two, three---dear God!" She crossed herself.

"What is it?" He turned his foot up. "I don't see anything."

"Your wounds!" she gasped. "There were three wounds which healed before my eyes." She clapped her hands together and began to pray. "It's a miracle.'

"Nonsense!" he replied. "My feet are so tough razor blades couldn't penetrate my thick hide."

Secretly. Diogo agreed with Graciella, although he suspected that she was wrong about the nature of the miracle.As a test, he went one week without eating or drinking. The only time he felt hungry was when his sister tried to force food on him. When he was alone, his stomach felt perfectly content, as if he had just eaten a meal that was satisfying but not too rich. He never felt thirsty, even though the air was hot and dry as an oven.

So it was true. His body still walked and talked, his heart still beat, and his mind still thought, but he had ceased to live. When did the change occur? Difficult to say. There was the bullet wound to his thigh. A sniper. Blood had gushed from his groin, a red fountain that drenched the faces of those in the front rows of the make shift chapel. So much blood. Could a man lose that much blood and live?

Before that, there was the fever that filled his marrow with liquid fire. Sweat poured from his pores like rain. Did it happen then? Or did death creep up on him silently? His father and uncle both succumbed to bad hearts. Diogo used to have chest pains, too, like a vise squeezing his ribs, cutting off his breath. When was the last time he felt that pain? When was the last time he felt any type of pain? He could not recall.

The possibility that he might be dead did not frighten him, but he was puzzled. Why did he walk the earth? He had no regrets, no anger. He loved his people, and as long as he was here, he would continue to help them, but if he was called to the next world, he would go willingly.

It was a mystery, but so was life.

Along with thirst and hunger, he had lost the need for sleep. At night, he walked through the jungle. He had always felt at home here, among the trees which teemed with life--birds, orchids, snakes, moneys. Recently, he had begun to hear sounds he had never noticed before. For instance, he could make out the heart beats of tiny creatures such as mice and hummingbirds. The panther which prowled on padded feet no longer moved silently. Diogo could hear each blade of grass bend. The trees spoke to each other. Sometimes they even talked to him, though their message was beyond the language of mere words.

One night, the men with machetes returned. He sensed the vibrations of the motor of their jeep when they were still miles away from the village.There was plenty of time for him to head back. He rounded up the women and children, who fled into the jungle. The men who remained wanted to arm themselves. They were still arguing with Diogo about this when the intruders arrived.

The jeep came to a sudden, squealing halt in front of the makeshift chapel. Six men dressed in black wearing bandanas over their lower faces leapt from the vehicle. Five were armed with machetes. The sixth carried a can of gasoline and a torch

The armed men moved as one towards the village men. And as one, they stopped when Diogo stepped forward from the crowd.

"I'm the one you want," he said mildly. "Leave the others in peace, and I will surrender to you."

The leader of the assassins squinted over his mask. "Are you the Jew who pretends to be a priest?"

"I am Diogo."

"It's him. The Jew." The masked men surrounded him. In the darkness, their black garb made them resemble crows. A murder of crows. Diogo chuckled softly at the thought.

"What are you laughing for, Jew?" the leader demanded.

"You are about to kill a dead man."

They threw him into the small chapel and nailed the door shut. The single glass window was smashed. Gasoline poured through the crack. The smell filled Diogo's nostrils, but his thoughts remained clear. He knelt before the altar. As the flaming torch was tossed into the building, setting the gasoline soaked timbers on fire, he began to pray.

Billowing smoke filled the room, but not his lungs. His vision was clear. In the dark cloud, he made out two figures, a man and a woman. They were both clothed in black, the woman in a hooded cloak, the man in armor. Both had pale complexions and auburn hair.

The woman spoke first "You are dead."

"I know," Diogo replied.

"Why don't you cross over?" the man asked. He frowned at the fire which was now blazing in the interior of the chapel. It licked his shins, but he seemed oblivious to the heat. "You're dead. Even if you stay here, you can't get revenge on the men who did this. Or the ones who shot you."

"So it was the sniper? I wondered. I don't want revenge. I don't want anything."

"Then why are you still here?"

Diogo shrugged his shoulders. "You tell me. You're from heaven. Why has God left me down here?"

The woman answered "No one left you here. Your time came. You died, but your soul didn't pass over." She moved forward, into the heart of the inferno which raged around him. She placed her hand against his cheek. Her palm was cool as marble. "May I?"

Without being told, he knew that she wanted to search his soul. He had nothing to hide. "Go ahead."

She closed her eyes. Her expression changed, ever so slightly. In the old days, before his death, he might not have noticed. "You are a holy man," she said finally.

"I am a man," he corrected.

She shook her head. "To your people, you are a holy man. It happens from time to time. A holy man dies, but his soul doesn't pass over, because his people need him too much. Their combined need is strong enough to keep his body animated, after a fashion. Instead of air, the body breathes hope. Instead of food, it feeds on dreams. The spirit thinks that its flesh is still alive, and so it remains here, in the world of the living."

The man in black armor was still frowning. His impatience and anger made him seem more human than the woman. "Is he a ghost or isn't he?"

"Not a ghost," she replied. Was she his sister? The resemblance was striking. "A saint. As long as the people outside think he's alive, he will live." Her next remarks were addressed to Diogo. "If you wish, you can leave this chapel. The door has almost burned away. The fire won't harm you, not permanently. Your people want you to survive. When you emerge from the fire, they will heal your scorched flesh and call it God's doing."

Scorched flesh. Automatically, Diogo glanced down. She was correct. His body was on fire, though he felt only pleasantly warm.

"What if I choose to stay inside?"

"If the door falls away, and you don't appear, hope will give way to grief. They'll call you a martyr, and then your flesh will finally start to decay."

Diogo considered this. "You mean it's my decision?"

The young man in armor tugged at his sister's sleeve. "We're supposed to bring him back to Haven."

"We were sent to bring a ghost back to Haven," she answered. "This man isn't a ghost."

"What is he?"

Diogo listened attentively. He, too wanted to learn the answer to this question.

"He is whatever he wants to be."

Her response disappointed him, though only for a moment. It was becoming clear. If he returned to his people, they would call his survival miraculous, and their faith in God would be strengthened. Having witnessed one miracle, they would begin to pray for more. Rather than taking their fate into their own hands, they would look to the Father and His Son for their physical salvation, never realizing that the power was their own.

"I don't like this half life," Diogo said finally. He watched his left arm melt away with calm detachment. "It is time for me to move on." As he said these words, his body crumpled, and his soul rose. The Angel enveloped him in her cloak. The roaring of the fire faded, and he seemed to hear the gentle beating of wings as he was carried away...

Copyright © 1999 by McCamy Taylor Bio:McCamy writes speculative fiction with elements of science fiction, fantasy, and horror. Her long fiction can be read on her web site at http://www.nationwide.net/~taylorjh. E-mail: taylorjh@nationwide.net

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