By
J.T. Lewis & K.R. Jordan
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by means mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording or otherwise without prior permission from the publisher. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or in part, mechanically or electronically, constitutes a copyright violation.
This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this novel are fictitious and are products of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual events, or locales or persons, living or dead are entirely coincidental.
Copyright © May 2013 J.T. Lewis and K.R. Jordan
Cover art © May 2013 by J.T. Lewis
Interior formatting by Alexia Purdy
All rights reserved.
Published by Lyrical Lit. Publishing
Mythos
The workings of heaven are shrouded in mystery and myth, leaving us to only theorize as to what awaits us when we pass.
Generally speaking, we like to think that we all fall into two distinct groups: those that live a good life and go to heaven, and those that don’t and are destined for another realm.
There are those among us however, that are special cases.
These are good people that have committed a horrendous crime, such as murder.
What makes their cases special however, is the fact that by committing these egregious acts, one could argue that they have made the world a better place.
The premise of The Miel Chronicles is that there is a heavenly court that is forced to consider these special cases, holding in their collective hands the fate of the souls that come before them.
Three archangels make up the Court of Souls, but only one among them recognizes that these souls cannot be judged on just the outward facts.
He alone will take it upon himself to dig into the sordid details surrounding the crimes in question. But he is a busy entity, and unable to traverse the world in search of evidence.
Miel, a lowly angel that can walk among us, travels the world in his stead. Tasked as an investigator by the archangel, her job is to gather facts. But more than that, she must capture the emotions that led to the act in question, as well as any evidence of repentance.
It is this recording of emotions in the Journal of Souls that will ultimately clear, or convict the soul.
These are the journeys of Miel, the Keeper of the journal.
“I don’t like it Miel,” Rashnu stated as he stood behind his desk looking out on heaven with his hands clasped behind his back.
“Murder in and of itself is a hard enough thing to get by the judges, but taking part of the body? On a good day that’s a tough sell, and we’ve had bloody few of them as of late.”
Miel slouched in the chair in front of the desk, waiting impatiently for Rashnu to finish his usual fretting about a case.
Rashnu was one of three Archangels, judges who passed judgment on the souls of humans after death. The other two of the Court of Souls were Mithra and Sraosha, both strict interpreters of the rules governing entrance into heaven.
Rashnu was different.
Feeling the love that God had for His chosen people, Rashnu went above and beyond his charter as one of the judges. Tireless in his mission, he would root out cases of extreme sin, hoping to find some sort of forgiveness for the soul before the time of judgment.
That’s where Miel came in. A lowly class of Angel herself, she had been assigned to Rashnu to do his bidding on Earth. It was her job to collect any evidence that may help Rashnu argue for the salvation of the soul in question.
“It seems justified to me,” Miel stated her unasked-for opinion flatly. Rashnu’s constant worrying was wearing on her patience. “But that’s just my opinion. Look, I haven’t even done the investigation yet. Give me some time to find the facts before you wear a hole in the carpet with your anxiety.”
Talking back to an Archangel like this would get most angels into a lot of trouble, but their relationship had been forged over many centuries. Rashnu merely ignored her willful attitude for the most part, her results more than making up for her transgressions.
Truth be known, he found it refreshing on most days. He had grown weary of some of the strict regulations imposed on the order, unlike the rest of the judges in the court.
“You are right as usual Miel,” he said as he turned back and took a seat at his desk. “Please carry on with your investigation. But I warn you, I will need concrete evidence of her feelings related to this incident. And I mean her innermost emotions…regret, sorrow, repentance…the works!”
“You’ll have it if it is there to be gotten,” Miel stated as she stood up from the chair. She hoped that she could return with a smile on her face, as she loved the feeling of a smile. It was something she had secretly acquired from the human world that she spent so much time in. She knew of only two other angels that had learned how to do it, but it could only be done in private, as it was against the rules for angels to smile.
With the graveness of the mission ahead weighing heavily on her at the moment, she slung her messenger bag over her shoulder and left Rashnu’s chambers. She knew that it may take a miracle to make her case on this soul…the soul of Yolanda.
***
The woman walked slowly into town, drawing the attention of everyone in the street. Pushing back her wide-brimmed hat, she let it slide down her long blonde hair until it reached the chin strap around her neck. Although she had the weathered look of long travel, she was nonetheless very beautiful, drawing all eyes toward her as she passed.
Her long straight hair, bleached almost white by the elements flowed gently behind her, riding a breeze those around her couldn’t feel. The pale blue eyes scanning her surroundings intently seemed paled from a millennia of sunrises.
Although wearing dusty jeans and hiking boots, no one would remember her clothing as the day passed, nor the face of the angel that had graced their little village this day.
Except one.
Carlos Montoya remembered.
The weathered old man slowly looked up from the shaded veranda upon hearing the quiet commotion on the street, the memory of her last visit some sixty years before springing to his mind.
The smile on his lips is the first he has experienced in a year, the cancer ravaging his body leaving him devoid of anything to celebrate.
She had not changed a bit!
Carlos had been blessed with the ability to see and recognize an angel. He had seen a few in his life, the blonde woman entering the village had been his first.
Carlos had the feeling she would also be his last.
As before, she was entering the village in a determined silence, scanning for something invisible to those around her.
On that day long ago, six year old Carlos could tell she had traveled far. Striding by him on her determined quest, the boy held out a ladle.
“Have some water señorita,” he had stated simply, the woman halting her progress to stare at the boy.
Hesitating but a moment, she turned toward the boy, lifting the proffered ladle and taking in the cool liquid.
“Thank you Carlos,” the boy heard as she handed the dipper back to the him, although she had not spoken. “You have a great heart for one so young; it will serve you well in the future if you listen to what it has to say.”
With that, she had placed her hand gently upon his head, a cooling energy entering his soul as he momentarily shuddered. As the boy that was Carlos stood transfixed, the beautiful woman turned again and continued on her way.
That day had changed the young boy. He had lived a good life, always letting his hea
rt lead him when it counted. It had blessed him with his beautiful wife, many offspring, and steady work
He had lost some of his faith as of late however, the constant pain of the cancer engulfing his thoughts. He now spent his days trying to doze through the pain, praying for an end to his suffering.
He felt energized at this moment though, the sight of the woman bringing his heart to life once again.
“Have some water señorita.” Carlos croaked out, the words sounding like a garbled whisper.
It had been enough.
The woman stopped in midstride, glancing his way. A small smile tugged at her lips as she turned and made her way to the veranda.
“Hello Carlos,” he heard.
“It has been many years señorita, I have dreamed of you often. It seems that I have grown old in that time I’m afraid, I am surprised that you recognize this tired old man before you.”
“Your soul is the same old friend, only slightly dimmed from age and your pain.”
Reaching into her messenger bag, she pulled out a canteen, pulling the cork out of it and offering it to Carlos.
“It is my turn to offer you a drink my friend.”
Taking the offered canteen into his shaky hands, Carlos let the cool liquid glide down his throat. He immediately felt a lessoning of the pain as the coolness spread throughout his body, the rejuvenating effect seeming to be that of a miracle.
“Your water seems a step above what I had offered you long ago señorita,” Carlos exclaimed, his voice having returned.
Kneeling before him, she gave him a true smile.
“Something given with the heart will always refresh, the soul takes what it needs from the offering. Your gift to me long ago also gave me something I needed.”
Placing her hand gently on his head, Carlos inhaled a quick breath as he leaned back into his chair with a huge smile.
“It is indeed beautiful old friend,” he said in awe, “and I see many of my family beckoning me to come!”
“Go with them Carlos, you are my friend and you will suffer no more.”
As his breathing slowed, he heard the name enter his thoughts that had eluded him for sixty years. With his last breath, the name escaped his lips for the only time in his long life.
Miel.
***
Closing her eyes for a moment in prayer, Miel then rose to her feet to continue her mission. The messenger bag slung over her shoulder tapped her hip as she walked while the old army fatigue jacket blew open as she increased her pace.
Although it had been worth every second of her time to see to Carlos, the stop had eaten away precious seconds needed to find and connect with her subject. She had no control over the timing of such things, and if she missed the connection…
Finally seeming to sense something, Miel stopped and looked to her left. Heading then toward a small building beside a cantina, she gingerly placed her hand on the stucco wall, closing her eyes as she tried to make a connection to something inside.
Satisfied that she has found her objective, she quickly took a seat beside a nearby table. Extracting a very old looking leather-bound book from her bag, she quickly opens it to a blank page. Setting it on the table in front of her, she seems to stare at the page as if waiting for something to happen.
A plump, middle-aged woman made her way indifferently to the table, asking Miel what she wants prepared.
Annoyed at the interruption, Miel continues to concentrate on the book while communicating to the woman that “you have other customers to happily attend to.”
Smiling, the waitress turns and joyfully makes her way to her other tables, enjoying her work and the interaction with the others of her village.
Miel is concentrating on making the connection, worried that she may now be too late to gather the much needed evidence.
Finally, almost imperceptively at first, the writing starts to appear on the page. Relaxing a little, Miel is relieved that she is not too late.
The words start filling the page as an image slowly appears behind the writing. Miel watches as if she is looking up from the writers own page watching the woman pen the words that may change her eternity…watching Yolanda.
***
1935 Noviembre 13
Last night, I killed a monster… and became a monster.
I didn't even know exactly what I was going to do until the future stared back at me with its multitude of eyes. After that, I quickly gathered the items I would need and set out on my journey.
This night has branded itself into my psyche, cauterizing my humanity…
The mournful call of the Nightjar accompanied the symphony of stars sprinkled across the night sky. It was midnight and the raucous behavior of the three bandidos had dwindled down to one lone drunken song of heartbreak.
Glowing shadows of red and orange from the campfire covered the unconscious and semi-conscious forms of the men. Their heartbeats slow and regular, secure in their illusion of safety; blanketed in their self-importance.
Bile threatened to rise up out of me as I made my way silently toward the camp. I'd hidden until the bandidos were all sleeping, biding my time.
Even then, indecision warred within me.
Avenge the murders of my husband and children and thereby plunge into the life of a sociopath with no way out; or walk away. But how could I live, otherwise? Walking away would brand me a murderer as surely as if I had pulled the trigger myself. The fact was that… I had no choice.
Miel watched as a tear rolled down the woman’s face, the pain in her eyes projecting the suffering of her soul. The anguish was enough to tug at the heart…even that of an angel.
Two weeks ago my family and I had given up our comfortable life in Sesenta, Mexico when communist Lazaro Huerta was voted in as Presidente. It was well known that he’d purchased his way into the presidency and that the country would soon be thrown into revolution.
We’d paid the money, and we’d made our own way to the border of Mexico and the United States, but then our contact had double crossed us! Robbing us, he then gave the order that we should die.
Miraculously, I had survived.
The leader of the bandidos was El Jefe, he gave the order to have us killed.
He would have been my ideal target.
Unfortunately, he was not present in the camp. Neither was Blaz, one of the worst of the vermin! Nausea and shivers involuntarily spread across my body at the thought of the psychopathic bandido that continued to visit my dreams.
But Ramon was there.
He was the one that had kicked my precious Benito into the frenzied currents of the Guadalupe River. A whispered whine of pure misery escaped my soul at that moment, filling the pristine desert with a haunting wail.
After a few moments, the Nightjars resumed their cacophony of calls. They had stopped their singing as the misery of my cry filled the night.
Calming myself with a slow deep breath, I walked silently yet confidently into the camp. I knew I would be unable to fight all three bandidos simultaneously; I would deal with Ramon alone.
Easily avoiding the first bandido who lay sitting up against his saddle, I smiled at the sight of the second one, who was face down at the first one’s feet. A smile of cold satisfaction crossed my face at the telltale signs of their complete drunkenness.
Just outside the glow of the fire lay Ramon.
The sour smell of sweat and urine permeated the air around the tall slender man. The scent of him made me nauseous…and I hated him all the more for it. Kneeling at his side, I took a long slow look at his chest, making sure his breathing remained slow and regular in sleep.
I pulled out the small leather medicine bag I'd carried protected on my wrist, opening it gently. By this time my night vision had returned, clearing out the blindness the fire had induced.
Keeping Ramon in my peripheral vision, I cupped my free hand at the opening of the bag. After a few shakes, a black spider tickled its way onto
my hand. Slightly longer than my fingertip, a crimson hourglass stain stretched across its abdomen. Setting down the leather pouch, I slowly moved the spider toward Ramon’s neck.
The spider gingerly stepped onto the scruffiness of Ramon’s neck, hesitating as if to stare at the grimy patch covering one of his eyes. Did it hesitate because it was confused by the smells seeping out of the drunkard’s mouth? Can it sense that the man would soon be dead?
In those few seconds, I pulled out the hollowed-out half-shell of a pecan and cupped it over the tiny spider.
I knew the Black Widow spider was rarely deadly, but its venom, many times more poisonous than that of a rattler, causes temporary paralysis in small doses. Each time the spider bit into Ramon, he twitched but did not awaken. After seven or eight twitches I removed the pecan, allowing the spider to scamper to freedom.
My grandmother had used the venom in her practice as a native curandera, or healer. I had witnessed my grandmother’s healings many times.
Unlike my grandmother, my plan would not heal this man, but send him instead to his own hell!
This thought brought out a tirade of guilt inside me that I had trouble shaking off.
Guilty tears in my eyes, I nonetheless removed Ramon’s knife from its scabbard, the sharp edge nicking my thumb in the process.
The sight of the blood stopped me cold. The vision of my beloved husband Jaime’s blood-soaked brain tissue shooting out of the back of his head filled my ears with a silent scream.
Resolve returned quickly however, and I leaned in close to Ramon.
“Al diablo te mando. May the devil give you what you deserve!” I whispered into his ear. I felt the panic in my veins, and knew that my eyes were now wide with craziness.
Settling the knife edge against his throat, his voice startled me when he began to speak, his eyes still closed.
“My brothers had to die, era mejor. It was better that I do it. They did not deserve father’s money. I did!” The loud grunt of his voice filled the night, but did not awaken the others.
Yolanda (The Miel Chronicles) Page 1
