Forsaken

By Mindy Haig

Sixteen years ago a very powerful man died in a fiery car wreck, leaving a fortune to an eight-year-old boy whom no one had ever seen.
For Sammael, sixteen years hadn’t been long enough to recover.
He started over once again, in his hiding place along the banks of the Nile. He would have spent at least that many years as an asp in the hot sand. He would have let himself drift from conscious thought until he forgot the reason he'd had to leave that last life behind. He would have hidden himself while he made a new plan and come into this new life with some sort of ambition.
None of those things happened, because this time he'd asked Evangeline to stay.

Starting over was always difficult. Weakened by a loss greater than he’d imagined he could feel, he needed the comfort of the one being made to love him. So again and again he asked Evangeline to return to him knowing her love for him was so strong she could not refuse. But hiding in the desert was not the sort of life she deserved, and Sammael knew the time had come to become Brendan Mirek. The time had come to find a purpose out in the modern world. The time had come to make a new life, a simple life, in a place of comfort where he and Evangeline could blend in as Brendan and Phoebe.

But when his resolve to leave the desert found him starting over in London, this new life seemed to become synonymous with fire. Memories from ages ago twisted and contorted with those so recent they still burned. His new neighbor, Lilith, developed an obsessive interest. Her aggressive assault upon his weakened spirit caused Brendan to lose his memories. Freakish accidents and recurring dreams of loss and fire smothered him with guilt he cannot seem to assuage. He struggles to keep warm as his divine spirit is siphoned away. Until at last he is left wondering if his life is even worth fighting for.

Will a new friend with an age old memory, the eternal love of the other half of his soul and divine intervention be able to save Sammael or will this demon of fire drain him away until all love is lost from creation?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mindy Haig
• Release date: Jun 30, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311611475

Mindy Haig

I am a graduate of Rutgers University in New Brunswick New Jersey. I was born and raised in New Jersey so I am very much a city slicker. I moved to Florida to marry my sweetheart after college and marveled at how little there was to do and how much one had to drive to do it! But due to a job change and an abrupt move, we settled in Austin, Texas where the mottos is 'Keep Austin Weird' and I try my best to uphold it! I am the mother of 2 great kids and though writing has always been a pursuit I was interested in, being a Mommy got in the way for quite a few years. I decided I would give it a fair shake in 2009 and I haven't been able to quit since. I have 4 completed novels and I have 4 additional started novels plus 2 sequels all in various stages of gestation. I have a hard time stopping my ideas and when a seemingly great idea hits me - typically just as I am attempting to fall asleep - I am compelled to start an outline. My 2 great talents are: 1. My remarkable ablilty to remember names - which has served me well. 2. My ability to remember lyrics from every song I ever heard in the 70's and 80's - which has not helped me in the slightest. I have a quirky sense of humor and sometimes TV commercials crack me up. I like the notion of things being 'meant to be' or somehow touched by the unexplainable. I also like the effect music has on one's state of mind and the memories a song can recall.

Book preview

Breakwater Harbor Books

Presents:

FORSAKEN

By

Mindy Haig

Copyright © 2016 by Mindy Haig

Flame Cover Image Courtesy of Wikicommons. File:Chimney Fire 0001.jpg CC0 1.0 Universal Public Domain Dedication

Artwork by Delaney Haig

For more information please visit Breakwater Harbor Books at: http://breakwaterharborbooks.weebly.com/

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License Notes

This novel is fictional work. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the authors’ imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, or persons, living, dead, or otherwise is entirely coincidental.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS:

CHAPTER 1: SEPTEMBER 17, 2012

CHAPTER 2: SEPTEMBER 18, 2012

CHAPTER 3: OCTOBER 8, 2012

CHAPTER 4: OCTOBER 9, 2012

CHAPTER 5: OCTOBER 29, 2012

CHAPTER 6: OCTOBER 30, 2012

CHAPTER 7: NOVEMBER 1, 2012

CHAPTER 8: NOVEMBER 5, 2012

CHAPTER 9: NOVEMBER 6, 2012

CHAPTER 10: NOVEMBER 6 - 7, 2012

CHAPTER 11: NOVEMBER 9, 2012

CHAPTER 12: NOVEMBER 10, 2012

CHAPTER 13: NOVEMBER 12, 2012

CHAPTER 14: NOVEMBER 14, 2012

CHAPTER 15: NOVEMBER 15, 2012

CHAPTER 16: NOVEMBER 16, 2012

CHAPTER 17: NOVEMBER 17 - 18, 2012

CHAPTER 18: NOVEMBER 20, 2012

CHAPTER 19: NOVEMBER 30, 2012

CHAPTER 20: DECEMBER 6, 2012

CHAPTER 21: DECEMBER 7 - 8, 2012

CHAPTER 22: DECEMBER 20 - 29, 2012

CHAPTER 23: DECEMBER 30, 2012

CHAPTER 24: JANUARY 3, 2013

CHAPTER 25: JANUARY 7, 2013

CHAPTER 26: JANUARY 18, 2013

CHAPTER 27: JANUARY 26, 2013

CHAPTER 28: JANUARY 31, 2013

CHAPTER 29: FEBRUARY 2, 2013

CHAPTER 30: FEBRUARY 4, 2013

CHAPTER 31: FEBRUARY 7, 2013

CHAPTER 32: FEBRUARY 2013

CHAPTER 33: FEBRUARY 11, 2013

CHAPTER 34: FEBRUARY 13, 2013

CHAPTER 35: FEBRUARY 13, 2013

CHAPTER 36: FEBRUARY 13, 2013

CHAPTER 37: FEBRUARY 14, 2013

AFTERWARD:

Connect with me:

CHAPTER 1: SEPTEMBER 17, 2012

It always took a while to erase the last life.

The memories, the connections and the habits were difficult to break.

Especially the habits, Brendan thought, as he walked the dusty streets of Karima on the far outskirts of Khartoum, in Northern Sudan. He swept his hair away from his eyes and glanced warily around. The market was crowded. He walked quickly, stopping to buy only fresh coffee and bread. The sun shone fiercely overhead, just past its apex, as he looked west and south toward Jebel Barkal and the Temple of Amun. He still saw the temple as it had been, not the ruin as it had become, but the memory was raw even all these ages later. He dropped his chin and followed the road as it wound along the river and out of the village. Snippets of time from ages ago mingled with a past still too recent and too raw to acknowledge.

A hot wind whipped the sand into his face and tangled his long, dark hair as he walked the familiar road. He was home and yet still a stranger. Always a stranger, he told himself as he continued alone past the place where once he was cursed to die a thousand deaths.

And die he did, more times than he cared to remember, but only in name.

The name, of course, was the hardest thing to let go.

The difficulty was not because he’d liked the name he’d lived with last time. It had actually been somewhat of an angry choice, made amid a previous life rife with the power struggles, treachery and death that only a world at war could produce. It had been a life that left another bitter scar. A life that was empty of Glory, wherein he strove only for the ending of the world of men. Once again, heaven withheld its judgment and vile humanity continued. Another incarnation had to be meticulously, though angrily planned.

But decisions made as war raged fierce and cruel, lead to choices reflecting the time and the atmosphere. A man who vanished at the close of World War II as completely as if he’d never existed, started over once again, in this very place. And though he’d hidden himself in the desert sand for the better part of two decades, his spirit still felt the call of domination and conquest. He came back into the world with a name that meant warlike, and attacked fiercely but quietly with checkbook and an uncanny ability to bend men to his will.

The world of men is fluid, unpredictable.

As that last life took shape, he came to realize the name had been a rather poor choice, particularly the first name. It was too foreign, too uncommon to be obscure in an age when more damage could be done with a whisper and a fountain pen than a megaphone and a soapbox. While like most things, names tended to ebb and flow in popularity with the time and the place, Arrio was not a name that was easily forgotten. It was difficult to master the puppets when they knew who was controlling the strings. Power in this new age, required discretion. Discretion needed anonymity. Anonymity could only be had with a certain level of commonality.

Names.

What was a name anyway? A label. A reflection of the times. Old Norse names had gone the way of their mythology and Roman names had been modernized to where you just didn’t hear the old forms any longer. Biblical names, however, seemed to linger on forever and that burned him. Mankind didn’t uphold the laws of The Father, but they stubbornly refused to forget him.

Brendan shook his head, willing the old thoughts away.

He’d left that last life behind sixteen years ago when a very powerful man died in a fiery car wreck, leaving a fortune to an eight-year-old boy whom no one had ever seen. But sixteen years hadn’t been long enough to recover. He would have spent at least that much time as an asp in the hot sand. He would have let himself drift from conscious thought until he forgot the reason he'd had to leave that life behind.

He'd been a fool; he knew that well.

He could not be a fool again; he needed to recover himself.

He should have hidden himself while he made a new plan and come into this new life with some sort of ambition.

But that hadn’t happened, because this time he'd asked Evangeline to stay.

He knew she only agreed because the last ending had been so traumatic for him. She, of all the Angels, was least equipped to endure the cruel, mortal world. She was the embodiment of love and goodness, but she struggled to survive in the world of wickedness and greed simply because she loved him. His price for comfort was guilt he could not assuage. If he could have hidden his weaknesses better she could have remained in the heavens where she belonged. But he was struggling to recover himself, and though he knew he should not have asked her to stay, he needed her.

And she came.

She struggled to maintain herself where even in the constant desert heat, she could not stay warm for more than a few weeks at a time. The greed and hate, the suspicions and jealousy, the vices of the world of men drained her spirit. And the thing she needed to survive was the one thing he was incapable of giving. Every time she had to go, he knew he should let her be, leave her to where she was whole and vital. He wanted those things for her. But his soul was tired and damaged from a loss that was greater than he’d ever imagined; a loss rivaled only by his loss of paradise, and his need for Evangeline's love was greater than he could ever say in words.

So again and again he asked her to return to him knowing her love for him was so strong she could not refuse.

He shaded his eyes and glanced up again at the multi-colored sky as he approached his door. The sun was lowering, casting its red-orange fire upon the land. In his head he cursed his father again.

Forsaken.

One grave mistake of Heaven abandoned, cast from his home, left to wander the world of mortals for no greater crime than being made damaged. His weakened spirit cried out, but to no avail. Justice was not for the likes of him.

So, he waited.

She’d said she’d be back and he was waiting.

Time was a commodity that never seemed to be in short supply. Sixteen years had passed since he’d taken on his new name and his new life, but no grand ambitions had gripped him. He had assets awaiting him, but he hadn’t claimed them yet. He lived quietly. He avoided the eyes of the people in this place and he waited.

He was always waiting.

CHAPTER 2: SEPTEMBER 18, 2012

Peter Moreland Spence neatly stacked his papers as he finished updating his client portfolios. He checked his watch. The workday had ended in a mass exodus a little more than an hour ago. The offices were empty but for the cleaning crew and one straggler still wrangling with the copy machine. The sky was already dark. He knew he should head home, but the desire to be gone from that place and never return was overwhelming. He was trapped, a prisoner to some spell that could not be broken.

He punched a few keys on his computer and let his eyes review the daily market numbers.

Numbers.

Even in an uncertain world, where financial devastation could happen in the blink of an eye, the numbers made sense. He made a few notes on stocks that had performed above or below his expectations. He mentally reviewed his own net worth. He picked fitfully at a hangnail on his right index finger until the skin tore and the blood welled in a deep red bead beside his fingernail. Blood still flowed in his veins; life reluctantly continued. But it was a life of pain, a life of suffering.

He deserved the pain.

He’d been a fool and let a life of plenty, a life of love and family slip away…

No. He just couldn’t think about it now. Not again. He wrapped a tissue around the wound, slipped his stack of papers into a neat folder and dropped them into their place in his filing cabinet. He shut down his computer, locked his office door and headed out into the damp mist of the night.

Peter walked slowly even in the inclement weather. Oxford Street was crawling with traffic. The tube train must have just pulled in as well, as the crowd at the crosswalk was swollen with the late commuters and their rainbow of umbrellas.

Though Oxford was the shortest route to his home, Peter didn’t like to walk along side the vehicular traffic. The cars sped along, their tires callously spewing the dirty

street moisture on the weary pedestrians. He crossed and headed to Eastcastle. There was a nice Tavern just a few blocks away; perhaps a strong scotch would combat the bitter dampness, he thought, as he picked up his pace. He could see the grand spires of All Saints Church one block further and instead of heading to the tavern, he went the extra block, entered the courtyard and stood looking at the great wooden doors and the elaborate façade of this house of God. He’d spoken to the Vicar once. It was a few years past, during the season of Lent. His soul was crying for redemption and he went to give his confession. He begged for help. He begged for release from his private hell. But the Vicar responded with a sympathetic shake of his head, and a look that implied the Peter had clearly lost his wits. He was given nothing but a sentence of penitent prayer, which went unheard.

Peter dropped his eyes and continued on his way. The walk was less than a mile. It would be late when he arrived.

Lilith would have many questions.

He did not want to make Lilith angry.

* * *

Cole Henry stood replacing the prayer candles in the pricket stand beneath the statue of Saint John the Baptist. Many candles were expended; it was a week flooded with grief for many in the area. He set the pristine new votives into their red, blue and amber cups, and said a prayer over the melted remains he removed. He thought about the people who regularly came to this spot to light the candles. Mrs. Lanza lit the same candle in its blue holder every week for her little boy who passed on from leukemia. Mr. Gates lit three candles, always in a triangle for his wife and his parents. The Neumann sisters each lit a candle for their father who died in tower one. And Mrs. Bingham, who lit her candle for Saint John because she loved the statue. There were so many people with stories to tell. There were so many different reasons to pray, and yet so few came.

He stood looking at the statue for a long moment.

It couldn’t have been easy for you to recruit followers, there was so much turmoil in your time of the world’s history. What did you say to them? What was it like to walk your path in life along side Jesus? Did you have private conversations? Did he laugh? Was he somber and virtuous even as a child? Did you ever envy him? he asked the statue quietly. There are so many things I would ask you. You witnessed the greatest miracles in history. I wish I had the words to bring people back to God.

He heard voices coming in his direction.

Cole bowed his head and made the sign of the cross, then he picked up the box of spent candles and began to move away.

Brother Henry, we’d like a word with you please.

Cole glanced in the direction of the voice and stopped in his tracks. Father deSalvo was coming toward him and Monsignor Poletti was at his side. Father deSalvo was a small, soft-spoken man of middle years. His faith was strong, but his manner was pleasant. He was easy to talk to because he understood human frailty and he recognized that sometimes even the best intentions had consequences that caused suffering. He understood that the world was not just black and white, good and evil. He understood that every person had a bit of each. But he did not tear his people down in their moments of weakness and guilt, he gave them reasons why the Lord still valued them and asked them to pray and find that value within themselves. He’d taught Cole many things about Penance, but the greatest lesson Cole learned was that while anyone can listen, it was sometimes very difficult to hear the message.

Monsignor Poletti, on the other hand was brazen. He was like the sword of Christianity. His doctrines were firm, strict. His Gospels would strike fear into the hearts of the listeners. He made Heaven seem out of reach. He was a generous man. He was pious and good hearted, but he spoke with a conviction that was usually stronger than the masses could handle.

Cole knelt before the two men. How may I be of service? he asked.

The Monsignor smiled at him. It is a casual conversation that I wish, Brother Henry. I have heard many good things. Come let us all sit for lunch and discuss your future.

They retired to the rectory.

Monsignor Poletti sat easily at the head of the long dining table. Father deSalvo sat casually at his right hand, enjoying hot soup and crusty bread. Cole sat nervously in the chair to the left. His stomach filled with worry even as he tried to enjoy his meal. But the suspense did not last long.

In this room, we are men of a common purpose. Let’s put aside the formalities and speak candidly, the Monsignor started.

Cole, we have been discussing your ordination, Father deSalvo started outright. You have only your paper to complete. Have you given any thought to your topic yet?

Cole dropped his eyes from them. I have been thinking about it, Father. More than thinking, really. I’ve been praying for some light on this, he sighed. I often wonder what words John the Baptist used to draw people to his flock. He knew something better, something sacred was coming, and that he was just a holding place for the believers, but he still drew them in. How do I reach out to them? I am just a vessel, but I have no story that celebrates the Glory of God. I have no words of inspiration.

Perhaps you over think this, Cole. There is Glory all around us. There are miracles that happen every day. Listen to the people, find your inspiration in their words, Father deSalvo told him.

Cole, perhaps you need to broaden your experiences, Monsignor Poletti started seriously. You’ve done very good work here, but a change of scenery could give you a whole new perspective.

Are you suggesting a pilgrimage or missionary work?

Those are valuable experiences, but I was thinking more in terms of a foreign exchange. It’s a common practice for students to experience another culture, to broaden their worldview.

I have not heard of such opportunities for students in our field, Most Reverend Father, Cole answered humbly. The fear in the pit of his stomach seemed to be growing uncontrollably. He had an overwhelming fear of flying. He’d never been west of Pittsburgh and he’d never had to learn a foreign language save certain prayers in Latin.

Cole, pretend for a few moments we are a family, Monsignor Poletti said with a laugh. In this room you may call me Anthony.

And you know you may call me Paul, Father deSalvo added.

The level of discomfort did not lessen with the relaxation of the titular address.

I feel there is a great purpose in your life, Cole. You have a knack for working with people. I think part of that is Paul’s influence, but it is more than just a learned behavior. You know, the people need many things. They need men like Paul to understand that even the most faithful have moments of weakness. They need men like me to be firm and set them back on the path to Heaven. It is a difficult task, Cole. I feel what I preach. I feel the strength and power of the words and yet, I too want the comfort that Paul has to give. You have something else. I can’t quite put my finger on it just yet. I am not sure it has come to its full development yet, but when it does, there will be something great, something glorious. I feel inside me that broadening your world will help bring this power of yours to its fruitfulness.

Thank you, he said quietly. What would you have me do?

There is a Church in London, Paul began. I know the Vicar quite well, I met him when I was in College. He went on to his curacy and I went on to Seminary, but we have kept in touch these many years. I was even given an honorary role in his wedding, Paul smiled. He would welcome you as a student Pastor.

London, Cole said aloud. The disquiet within him eased a bit. The language, at least would be manageable. Yes, London was not so frightening as most of the thoughts that had been in his head.

Cole, this is a good opportunity for you. I have given this my approval. Anthony stated firmly.

As you wish, Cole nodded. I will be grateful for the opportunity. When do you think you would have me go? he asked.

Paul reached across the table and patted the younger man's hand. I believe it will take four weeks to get you a passport. I would like to see you there by the Feast of All Saints. You'll be well adjusted by the time the holidays come.

* * *

"Dominic, are you alright?"

"Yes, Darling, why do you ask?"

"Your hands are like ice," she said as she took his hand between her own. She rubbed it for a moment then raised her hands to her lips and breathed her warmth into her cupped hands where her spirit danced between his fingers and he could practically feel the Glory of The Father right there in his grasp.

"Why did you do that?" he asked softly.

Eyes filled with the comfort of paradise looked into his and she shrugged just a little. You were cold.

Brendan awoke with a start. He clenched his shaking hands into tight fists. Accursed memory, he said glancing skyward. Your cruelty knows no limits, does it? he shouted to no one, expecting no reply. But the dream was still so vivid and the memory still so raw. He’d found peace with a mortal woman. She had the greatest part of the soul of Eden, a soul so strong he was drawn to it like a flame. A soul so strong he could have lost himself to it. A soul so strong it could have taken paradise from him forever. But that soul pulsed in the body of a woman so beautiful he still could not erase her image from his mind. She touched him and he felt comfort. She laughed and he felt joy. She made love to him and he considered leaving her soul intact and spending a lifetime in her arms. He knew comfort and joy were not meant for him. He knew he was discord. He knew there would come a day when the need to take her soul would overcome all else. And he pursued the Glory within her only to have it stolen away by the one who stole away his Father’s attention, the one who cost him his home.

The loss was devastating.

He could spread his wings and fly away but he could not escape the memory of her brown eyes or the smooth canvas of her skin. He could not escape the knowledge that his Father would mend the rent soul of Eden but not show mercy unto him.

He could not comfort himself with the knowledge that paradise was still within his grasp.

There was too much pain.

She was a lifetime ago, he told himself. You are not that man. You must forget her, he hissed through clenched teeth as the first rays of the sun stole through his window teasing him with their warmth. But even sixteen years later, forgetting was not that easy. There were others who’d been nearly as hard to get over; some he simply refused to let himself remember. He denied his feelings. He denied the memories. But he could not deny the guilt that had he not been drawn to those places the outcomes might have been different.

He dropped his face into his hands and wept.

A thousand lifetimes of regret and guilt hounded him while salvation, redemption were kept locked away, unattainable.

At last, he rose from his bed, went to the sink and splashed the cool water on his face. This is not good, Sammael. You are being ruled by your weaknesses, he told the reflection in the mirror. You must leave this place. You must find some sort of ambition out in the world. You must at least get to a place where you are not such an outsider, where Evangeline is not so conspicuous. Find your strength. You are not a man. You must be better than this. The face in the mirror solemnly nodded its agreement but had no answer and they stood locked in a face-off for a long moment.

He appeared to be much younger this time.

It was a necessity. He hadn’t kept himself out of the world long enough to be a comfortable age, though he felt the weight of all his long years. Always he had to plan for the next lifetime. There were papers to be filed, identities to be fabricated. There were belongings that needed safekeeping until he could claim them again. But this time he hadn’t planned on leaving his past so abruptly. Even though the building blocks of this new lifetime were in place, his new identity was still a child. He hid from the world in his home in the desert because he’d come into his life raw and unprepared.

Sixteen years had not been enough time to recover himself. Nor had it been enough time to mature to a comfortable age.

So he was young. And he felt the discomfort of this new incarnation.

To the residents of the village, he seemed to be in his twenties. His hair was long and dark. His dress was casual but not poor. He appeared to be a man with no expectations, a man who hadn’t chosen his path in life. He needed to appear to be of an age where that lack of direction would not be out of character. But the locals who had no time to tarry, whose lives depended on the blood and sweat of every single day, scorned him. So though this was the place he’d considered his home through all the ages of men, he still was not welcome. Maybe it was too much like home. Maybe the whispers and the head shaking were too much like old memories. Maybe that was just another reason he had to leave.

But today was the day she’d return.

While he eagerly awaited Evangeline, he still flagellated himself with guilt.

He stood at the window, his eyes cast to the sky; his golden irises mirroring a bright sun blurred by the heat radiating from the dry earth. He stopped himself from longing for the place he wished beyond all else he could return to and he mentally noted that Evangeline would return by the time the flaming disc in the sky reached its apex. There was nothing else to think about. When the bus came, she would be on it.

Brendan set the water on the stove to boil. He opened the fresh coffee beans and breathed in the aroma. The bread sat still wrapped in its heavy paper, untouched. He watched the dusty street outside his window. Two small children chased each other and laughed while their mother swept the front stoop and all the rest was quiet. Even this early in the day the temperature was creeping near one hundred and the waves of heat were visible rising off the pebbled streets. He ground the beans, set them in cheesecloth and prepared his brew. The steam carried the aroma through the room and he breathed deeply as the gurgle of the boiling water lulled him into an easy relaxation where just one thought remained.

She was coming back today.

When the bus came to Karima, she would be here. He hated that she had to ride like a common woman, but it was the only way. She could not just appear in the village; eyes were everywhere. She was so conspicuous and the villagers were always suspicious. Brendan poured the coffee into his mug, added precisely one teaspoon of sugar and sipped. Today Evangeline would stroke his cheek. Perhaps she would sing. She would call him ‘My Love’ and he would be warm. He closed his eyes and thought of what her crystalline eyes would look like when she smiled at him.

Again his guilt came flooding back.

If only he could love her, he would be able to find pleasure and joy in the one being that was made for him. But his father denied him the one thing that would make his exile bearable, the one thing that would allow her to stay.

And anger followed. His eyes blazed; his fists clenched.

The precious gift of Love.

What was love? Memories of the raw past filled him with grief and rage.

He shook his head hard, forcing the thoughts away.

The dregs of his coffee grew cold in his hand, the heat dissipating into the dry heat of the day. He set the pot back on the flame. The steam once again, bringing him back to his present. He poured a fresh cup and gazed out the window again. Waves of heat distorted the view, but still he watched as the day wore on. Until at last she seemed to appear like magic, growing clearer and clearer through the gauzy curtain of noonday sun. She wore a white tobe and hijab that could not manage to contain the platinum hair that seemed