Fate of the Sisters: A Novel of Good and Evil

By Debra Ann Ristau

About the Book
In this compelling novel, aging sisters dredge up the mystery of an old curse to prove they were rescued by Angels. This book was written for anyone with doubts or disbelief in the power of prayer or the existence of God. The author uses actual ancestors and loved ones as role models for the Angels she believes are real. Historical events and facts are based on actual records and research, but literary license was incorporated to turn once living humans into modern-day Angels.
Are they real? What about Demons? In this book of good versus evil, the sisters work to prove the existence of Angels while Demons try to stop them. Who will win this battle for souls? Do ancestors play a role in the choices made by future generations? In this current age of racial, sexual, political, and religious conflict and tension, are we really all so different? Or is something else pulling our strings?

About the Author
Debra Ann Ristau is a historian who believes nonfiction be truthful and fiction should inspire, intrigue, and entertain. She hopes Fate of the Sisters does all three. After decades of writing nonfiction, she is thrilled to offer this book as the first of an exciting series that features Warrior Guardian Angels protecting us from evil. To learn more, visit debraannristau.com.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dorrance Publishing Company
• Release date: Jul 24, 2023
• ISBN: 9798888126028

Book preview

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The contents of this work, including, but not limited to, the accuracy of events, people, and places depicted; opinions expressed; permission to use previously published materials included; and any advice given or actions advocated are solely the responsibility of the author, who assumes all liability for said work and indemnifies the publisher against any claims stemming from publication of the work.

All Rights Reserved

Copyright © 2023 by Debra Ann Ristau

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted, downloaded, distributed, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, including photocopying and recording, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without permission in writing from the publisher.

Dorrance Publishing Co

585 Alpha Drive

Pittsburgh, PA 15238

Visit our website at www.dorrancebookstore.com

ISBN: 979-8-88812-102-3

eISBN: 979-8-88812-602-8

Dedicated to

Joyce Renebome, our dear mother who gave us wings,

but always provided a net.

Preface

Before the American Revolution

1606 — King James I of England, issued two charters:

The London Company Charter

The Plymouth Company Charter

These charters claimed land for England and set up trade to return a profit. The London Company created settlements from North Carolina to New York. The Plymouth Company claimed land from Virginia to Maine. They were privately funded ventures, and The London Company successfully established a colony in Jamestown, Virginia. The Plymouth Company did not fulfill its charter, but the region was called New England by Captain John Smith of Jamestown. New England was sanctioned in 1620, along with the arrival of the Mayflower.

In 1629 — The Massachusetts Bay Colony was established with 400 settlers.

By 1640 — Nearly 20,000 settlers had arrived from England.

Between 1636 - 1700 — Towns were created throughout the region by settlers seeking to escape the Church of England or an old way of life. They mostly separated into individual communities for Baptists, Puritans, Quakers, and Jews.

From 1686 - 1689 — King James II became concerned with colonists creating their own government. He decreed a union of the Colonies and forced the removal of most elected leaders. The Connecticut Colony refused to deliver their charter and King James II sent an armed contingent to seize it. This overt aggression against the colonists planted the seeds of rebellion.

Meanwhile, Count Louis de Buade de Frontenac of France began a second term as the Governor of Quebec, in the land known as New France. Under Frontenac’s leadership, the Canadian militia made a pact with Native Americans and planned attacks on several English settlements. It is said that while Count Frontenac is remembered as a man with a turbulent nature, he also had a kind heart. He was called resourceful and decisive. Surely, he convinced the Abenaki people of his gracious leadership and the evil ways of the English.

The English families in search of freedom to worship as they chose, were squeezed on all sides, as were the Abenaki’s.

Fate of the

Sisters

New England  ~  October, 1667 ~ Haverhill, Massachusetts

The night was black as pitch. Fading embers in the grate did little to ease the terror felt by little Hannah Emerson. Something was wrong. She sensed it with every fiber in her bones. But what? The night was not unlike a hundred others she’d shared with her family. Yet a sense of dread permeated her young heart. Her baby sister, Elizabeth, the toddler with raven hair and a cherubic face, had finally given in and closed her eyes, but try as she might, restful sleep eluded Hannah. She stayed quiet in bed, large eyes staring into the dark, straining to see what was not there to be seen.

At ten, Hannah was the oldest of five. The sixth was on the way in the next room. Her father had gone to get the midwife. Normally, she’d have been there for several days already, but this time was different. This new baby was ahead of schedule her mother had said. Another mouth to feed. Another little one to look after, thought Hannah. Another baby to keep me awake when I’m already so tired at the end of every day. She listened in the dark, waiting for her mother to begin the cries of childbirth.

Dear God, her voice a soft whisper in the dark. Please don’t let me have babies.  

Hannah had just fallen to the edge of consciousness when her sister Elizabeth began to wail and her mother cried from the next room. Eyes wide, there would be no more sleep tonight.

Here, in this hardscrabble settlement thirty miles north of Boston, more than a hundred years before the Declaration of Independence was forged, colonists were hardened like steel to the harsh realities of life in the New World.  

Outside, three dark shadows celebrated victory as they left the house, crossed the dirt road and drifted into the darkness.

Excellent, Mara! You knew the exact moment to strike! Abaddon congratulated the Demon of Damned Souls.  

Our Master will be pleased, said Chax, his voice deep as he tipped his huge head back and the flailing red ribbons of his tongue pierced the air. He roared with laughter as they drifted into the starless night. Into the void. Into nothing.

 ~ Part 1 ~

My name was Hannah Emerson Duston. I’m just Hannah now. I’ve been a Guardian for more than three hundred years. The job is not always easy, but, like all Guardian Angels, I love it. I’ve kept watch over hundreds of souls. Our numbers continue to multiply and sometimes I’m tasked with training new recruits. Just so you know, we’re all different with unique talents and abilities. I’m one of God’s warriors.

Not all angels experienced life on earth. Some never live in human form at all. The oldest guardian I’ve met lived in the region around Ethiopia, nearly three million years ago. He still protects the children of his children. Time doesn’t exist in Heaven as it does on earth.

As mankind evolves, so do we. We’re always adapting to the changing environment. I am energy without physical substance, but often seen looking much as I did when I was the mother of nine children in colonial New England. Of course, I now have this magnificent sword hanging at my side and these awesome wings, too.

Guardians are sent as ordered by God. From one generation to the next, we keep watch over our babies and others, guiding them through life. Sometimes we fail. Humans make choices. Our greatest enemies are sent by Satan. The demons can thwart our efforts and destroy good people, casting their souls into Hell, for eternity.

As for me, some would say I had the misfortune of birth during a wretched era. My life was full of hardship and horror. I was born the oldest of fifteen children. Six of my siblings died either at birth or within the first year of life. My promise, as a child of ten, to never have children of my own, was long forgotten by the time I was twenty and married Thomas Duston in 1677.  

It’s true that my life as a colonist in rural New England was physically and emotionally difficult. But the era of my birth and events of my life turned me toward God, not away from Him. Without God’s mercy and love, I would be burning in Hell to this day and beyond. As surely as I can attest to the existence of Heaven, I assure you there is the existence of Hell. I’ve seen it. Smelled it. Felt the horror of those souls forever condemned to it.

One

Arcanum, Ohio  ~  2013

Roy Barrett planned to take it easy over this hot weekend in July. On Monday morning, he’d start harvesting that field north of Hogpath Road. He pulled his truck to the loading dock to get the grain he’d ordered for his small herd of cattle. Roy liked raising a handful of steers each year to ensure quality meat for his family. He’d get the grain, drop it off at the barn and head home to his bride of sixty-five years. Roy smiled as he thought of Wilhelmina. Supper would be ready and she’d greet him with a kiss. Together they’d made a good living raising crops and four wonderful daughters on their four hundred acres of prime Ohio farmland.    

There you go, Roy. The truck’s loaded.  

Thanks, said Roy, waving through the open window as he put the truck in gear and turned onto the street leading out of town. He neared the large red barn and slowed to turn left off the two-lane road. As he made the turn, Roy’s mind wandered across the many years the old barn had taken care of his family. Built by his granddad, along with help from neighbors and members of the church at a barn raising in the 1920’s, the sturdy structure remained solid. Maintenance along the way is just part of taking care of things meant to last, he mused to himself.

If these old walls could talk, Roy thought aloud, pulling up to the double doors.

He turned off the motor, climbed out of the truck and dropped the tailgate.

Reaching for the first fifty-pound sack, that nagging pain he’d had for the last few days erupted into a searing shot of white-hot fire. Whoa! he cried, grabbing his side.

At that very moment, Hannah put a hand on his shoulder and waited. She didn’t like it when they hurt like this. Roy doubled over against the tailgate. Leaning there, he tried to remember where he’d put that cell phone Willie had insisted he keep handy. For emergencies, she’d said.  He guessed this was an emergency. His guts were burning. This wasn’t an ache from too much lunch. Whatever was happening, Roy knew it was serious enough to find the phone.  

Hanging on to the back of the truck, he remembered tossing it in the glove-box.  

Oh, brother. And with a grunt added, you can do this, Roy.

The passenger door to the Ford 250 seemed a mile away.

He inched along, holding onto the side of the pickup bed and reached the handle as another stab of pain radiated through his body. Please, Lord God. Please help me, he prayed.  

Just then, he caught the sound of a vehicle and glanced up to see a familiar white GMC with the rusted door panel.  Thank you, Lord, he whispered.

Doug saw Roy’s truck by the barn and pulled over to ask him about an upcoming Farm Bureau meeting. Neither man liked to use the telephone when a face-to-face chat was possible. Doug got out of his truck and was walking toward Roy, when he realized something was very wrong. Roy hadn’t moved a muscle. He just stood there, sort of bent over, holding onto the side of the truck staring at Doug, his eyes pleading for help. Doug Taylor rushed to Roy’s side and eased him to the ground.  

What’s going on, Roy? You don’t look so good. Okay then, just sit here. Lean against the tire. I got you. Don’t try to talk.

Pulling a phone from his shirt pocket, Doug called 911, provided the details, and sat on the ground trying to keep Roy from passing out.

Doug, I need a favor, Roy’s voice was barely a whisper as he spoke to his lifelong friend and neighbor. You’re no spring chicken either, but could you unload that grain and put it in the barn? Call Willie? I’m not doing so good, Doug. Roy grabbed his middle with both hands, his face in tortured pain.  

Stop fretting. I’ll take care of everything. The medics are coming. We’ll figure this out. Get you to the hospital and you’ll be home in no time. Probably sleeping in your own bed tonight.

The wail of a siren pierced the quiet country air. Roy thought of his family. Lord, I’m not ready, he whispered.

Strong arms took hold of him. Someone helped him lay down. People talking. Voices, but he couldn’t make out the words. What are they saying? He tried to talk, but the words would not come. He opened his eyes. Or did he? He saw tubes and machines and bright lights and faces he didn’t recognize. It was easier to keep them closed.

Hannah never left Roy’s side. She sat next to him in the ambulance and stayed with him at Wayne Hospital. Everything went according to plan. She didn’t make the rules. She only followed them.  

Hannah watched as the heart of the old farmer made one final, feeble attempt to keep pumping. The Darke County Coroner would confirm the cause of death as acute renal and respiratory failure. His untreated diverticulitis had become a hotbed of infection. His kidneys failed and breathing stopped. Roy Barrett thought he had time. He thought he had several years with his family, farming, and more of Willie’s good cooking. He didn’t.    

Hannah smiled and took Roy’s hand. Our Father has called you by name, she said softly. It’s time.  

Although she didn’t like to admit it, Hannah had had favorite protégés over the years. Some are simply nicer than others. She thought Roy might fit in that last category. You’ll make a good Guardian, she whispered.  

Hannah was only sent to bring in those who would eventually earn the title of Guardian. The designation was not for every soul admitted to Heaven. There are hundreds of Angel designations. They come in all shapes and sizes, with quite a dazzling array of religious beliefs and backgrounds. It’s not the religion, it’s the faith, that matters.

Laughing to herself, she remembered being ten years old and swearing she’d never have children. It was the night her sister, Baby Abigail, was born and had died.  

Hannah’s memory was sharp and clear. Who would have thought I’d give birth to thirteen beautiful babies over twenty years? She thought of the four who had died in infancy. Their little balls of energy danced around her now with kisses and hugs whenever she got the least bit melancholy. The brightest light of all always came from her precious Martha.  

It had been more than three hundred years. Hannah still loved watching the babies of her babies as they were born, lived, and died. Roy was one of those babies. She had watched over him for eighty-four years of his life on earth.  

He had lived a good life, but she would have her hands full. He was stubborn and would question everything. You’re about to learn that some of your life-long Church of the Brethren tenets are only part of the complex human puzzle, my friend. She smiled again, thinking back on those who have trouble when it comes to accepting the truth about Heaven. Catholic, Jewish, Muslim, Protestant, Lutheran, Episcopalian… at the last census, Simon Peter reported a whopping 4,200 religions on earth. Good people are simply good people. Some good people don’t even believe in God. Yes indeed, all shapes, sizes, colors, and creeds.  

Come on, Big Guy. It’s time to go.

She led Roy away from the organized chaos of the hospital. Someone yelled, Clear!

He tugged just once at Hannah’s hand, unsure, wanting to stay. He’d been a hardworking farmer who always did right by his family and faith. He did not want to leave.

It’s time, Roy, she said.

Roy felt himself become lighter than air. He felt sunshine and warmth. He opened his eyes to see a tall and strong woman holding his hand. She was not a young woman, but not nearly as old as Roy. Her ordinary face was weathered from long hours outdoors and her hazel-colored eyes were an odd mix of faded green and rusty brown. Those eyes looked alive with joy and her radiant smile showed even white teeth. The woman looked sturdy and strong. She had muscular forearms and a broad back. She carried herself like a soldier, he thought.  Her long brown hair was tied in the back, and she wore a long white robe.  

Roy’s eyes were drawn to the heavy black leather belt tied about her waist and the steel-tipped scabbard that hung down her left side. Although he could not see the long blade inside, he was mesmerized by the eleven-inch hilt and the dragon-claw cross-guard that rose above the scabbard.

Don’t be afraid, Roy, said Hannah. You’re one of the good ones. The good ones don’t need to be afraid.

Roy was no longer an old man struggling to breathe or unload a sack of grain. The journey wasn’t bad, but he found himself in a sea of confusion. He was full of questions and not sure where to find the answers. Angels were everywhere and they were all different. Some looked like people. Some had wings. Others were just little balls of light. He wondered if this was real or a dream. They looked real, but he sensed that if he were to reach out and try to touch one of these extraordinary creatures, his hand would meet nothing, but a ball of energy, like a hologram. Roy wasn’t sure he even knew what a hologram was. He wasn’t sure about anything.  

A tall man with sad eyes approached him in the white corridor. Come with me, Roy. Taking hold of Roy’s upper arm, he led him forward, and introduced himself. I’m Simon Peter. Do you have any questions before we get started?

Simon Peter? Roy stares at the man in front of him. He stammers out, Simon Peter as in Saint Peter? he asked.  

With a smile and a nod, Peter answers, Why yes, that’s me. He continued walking with Roy down the long corridor.

Where’s Hannah? asked Roy. And, if I can ask, who is Hannah? Roy had been perplexed by the woman who had made the journey with him to the gates of Heaven.  

Hannah is your Guardian. You will see her again later. She will tell you who she is, in due time. Simon Peter paused as he reached a set of ornate, large, white double doors.  

Roy wondered how this would all play out. He smiled and said to Saint Peter at his side, Wherever we’re going, I’m not afraid. I feel pert near like I’m home. It’s peaceful. I’m comfortable. But I don’t think I’m in Ohio anymore.

Passing through the door, there were reflective panels on both sides of an arched entrance. Roy caught a glimpse of himself and paused to stare at the face of a familiar stranger. He was no longer an old man of eighty-four years. He had no aches or pains. The reflection showed a twenty-eight-year-old Roy, in the prime of life. He remembered the era. He was a happily married man. He and Wilhelmina had a two-year-old daughter called Lucy. A new baby was on the way. His parents had given the couple a section of good farmland as a wedding gift. One-hundred and sixty acres provided a start for the young farmer. Roy purchased the adjacent 240 acres years later. Pops had also given them those three acres, with the big red barn. I expect you’ll let me use it now and again, said Pops. But it’s yours.  

Seeing himself in the panel, Roy was once again wearing the body of that twenty-eight-year-old virile man with a lifetime ahead of him. Only now, that lifetime was behind him. It was a good life. He smiled, remembering.

Where are we going? asked Roy. To meet Jesus, Gabriel and a few others. We do this every day when new souls arrive. Simon Peter pointed to a row of seats. Please have a seat, Roy. We call this, ‘Orientation.’  

Two

Mount Juliet, Tennessee  ~  August, 2015

Small town editor Elizabeth Miller took a final look at the computer screen, ensuring the last correction had been made, before clicking ‘send.’ Her monthly tabloid, The Mount Juliet Woman, was off to print. She’d have a few days reprieve before work piled up for the next issue.

Since starting this little enterprise less than two years ago, Elizabeth’s tabloid style newspaper had grown to include a circulation of twenty thousand copies. The forty-page freebie was distributed at local hair and nail salons, grocery stores, and other merchants who advertised with Elizabeth. She wasn’t getting rich, but the paper was a labor of love. Each edition featured articles about local women, the arts and entertainment around Nashville, and stories of interest to the growing community of Mount Juliet. The newsstands were emptied long before the next issue arrived. She was contemplating upping production to thirty thousand copies. Her paper was a hit.  

Out of the office at last, she planned to stop at Houston’s Meat and Produce Market on Mount Juliet Road to pick up veal shanks for osso buco, Miles’ favorite. She owed him that. Her culinary skills rival her editing talent, thanks to many years in the kitchen with a husband who appreciated good food and the care she took to plan and prepare it. Miles was a very good certified public accountant, a CPA who had never liked fast food. Where Liz could subsist on fast food from the drive-thru, Miles was all about fine dining and eating healthy. He loved that Liz had her own interests as well. He enjoyed her ability to put together a great meal in record time and that the two of them relished dining at favorite local restaurants, but he truly loved the gourmet meals she went out of her way and over the top to fix for him. She did it out of love because she knew it’s what he wanted, not because he demanded it of her. These two were a good fit of give and take in a marriage.

When not on deadline, Liz prepares meals that would make any four-star restaurant proud. A spectacular dinner once the paper is sent to press, is her way of thanking Miles for putting up with her other love, the paper.  

During what Miles called Hell Week, also known as the week before publication, he deals with a cantankerous wife who is nervous, sometimes rude, and often has a short fuse. On these nights he is quite happy with pizza, take out, or reservations at one of the many nearby restaurants. When did my sweet wife become the Bride of Frankenstein? he once asked. Elizabeth Miller does not always handle stress in a pleasant way. Just keep loving me and please let me know when I need to come back to earth, she begged.  

Liz likes shopping at Houston’s. It’s a mom-and-pop butcher shop and small market. The local community supports her paper, and she buys from local vendors in return.  

Her phone rang as she pulled into the parking lot. Seeing her sister Lee’s smiling face on the screen, she turned off the motor, sat back and answered, Hey, Sunshine. What’s up?

Hi, Sis, can you talk?

Not really. I’m heading into the market, it’s hotter than Hades out here and I need to get home to fix dinner. Can I call you in about an hour?  

Absolutely! I have some calls to make anyway. I’ve got a great idea for a book I think you should write. Details later! Love you!

What?! Love you, too. I’ll call you later.  

Elizabeth is a tidy woman of sixty-two, with grown children, a husband she adores, and a fun-loving attitude, as long as you don’t rock her apple-cart. Her short, sleek, salon-blond hair, wire-rimmed designer glasses, brand name leather handbag, and a penchant for fine wine, put her in the above average income and intelligence bracket, but she’s definitely not a One-Percenter.  

Her sister, Lee, is four years and a lifestyle younger than Liz. At fifty-eight, Lee can still pull off short shorts, tight tee-shirts, and the large hoop earrings she wears on weekends. Living in the suburbs of Washington, D.C., Lee works for a global software firm at the prestigious Reston Town Center near Dulles International. Her six-figure income is hard-earned as she works with clients throughout the country.

Vegetables prepped and veal shanks simmering, Elizabeth took a large Bordeaux wine glass off the shelf and poured a few ounces of the rich zinfandel she’d used in the osso buco. Wine in hand, she curled up in her favorite chair. She loved this spot with a view of the garden and Stones Creek nature preserve below. From this vantage point with a wall of windows in the sunroom, she could watch birds swoop and chatter and squirrels dart in and out of the trees. The occasional deer wandered through the yard and fireflies were like flying fairies on warm summer nights. Miles was out walking, getting the last of his five miles in before dinner.

She picked up the phone and called Lee, Hi, Sis. Good time?

Perfect, said Lee.

Now what’s this about a book?

Melanie Montgomery. Do you remember her?

Liz took a moment to adjust her thoughts from the present to more than forty years in the past.

Yes. Whatever happened to her? asked Liz.  

"Oh