The Messenger
T. Davis Bunn
© 1995 by T. Davis Bunn
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
www.bethanyhouse.com
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.
www.bakerpublishinggroup.com
Ebook edition created 2012
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
ISBN 978-1-4412-7085-6
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
Cover illustrations by Andrea Jorgenson.
Inside illustrations by Lorraine Major.
To Bill and Cathy Delay
Disciples of Prayer,
Teachers of Rightful Living,
Friends.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter One
About the Author
Other Books by Author
Back Cover
And now at last this Good News has been plainly announced to all of us. It was preached to us in the power of the same heaven-sent Holy Spirit who spoke to them; and it is all so strange and wonderful that even the angels in heaven would give a great deal to know more . . .”
1 Peter 1:12, TLB
One
“My goodness, dear, do come sit down. You’re making me nervous just watching you.”
“Oh yes, sorry, of course.” The young woman in the crisp starched uniform settled down with the fluttering motions of a nervous robin. “I’m just so excited.”
The older woman smiled. “First time, is it?”
“Yes, yes, very first.” She cast quick glances about the transition hall, seeing everything and nothing. “I’ve been dreaming about this chance, but I never thought it would come so soon. I’m only halfway through my training.”
“Well, it certainly is nice to see someone so eager. There’s altogether too much grimness in the departure lounges these days, if you ask me.”
“Why is that?”
“Never you mind,” the older woman replied gently. “Do you have your assignment?”
“Oh yes, and my sachet of blessings.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Right here around my neck.” She released her top button and pulled on the thin gold chain. “See?”
“How remarkable,” the old woman murmured.
“And my pass is in my pocket.”
“Your—what did you say?”
She dug deep into her uniform, came up with a slender card that shimmered like a sheet of burnished silver. Her face dominated by solemn eyes, she said, “They told me that I can’t be too careful with this.”
The older woman leaned her head down, her eyes closed in quiet repose. There was a sense of gathering stillness before the dark face rose once more. She said quietly, as to herself, “What a vital message for both of them.”
“Excuse me,” the young woman said, her tone touched by reverence. “Were you praying?”
The older woman’s smile shone brilliant against the cast of her dark skin. “You had difficulty with the lessons on prayer, did you?”
She gave a shy nod. “I tried to learn everything, truly I did.”
“But it seems confusing, since the Father has always been with us. I do understand,” the older woman finished for her. “And yet here in this way station the first glimmer of how important this lesson truly is begins to show forth.” She gave the young woman’s hand a soft pat. “Just be sure you remember the lessons they gave you. Otherwise our home here can seem awfully distant at times.”
The pretty forehead creased in worry. “But how is that possible, since He is everywhere and always?”
“Never you mind.” The older woman said again with a reassuring smile and changed the subject. “Where are you going?”
“Philadelphia.” She said the name slowly, as if the sounds were alien to her mouth. “That’s a city.”
“Indeed it is. And where will you be serving?”
“Someplace called a hospital,” she said, and named the date.
“Oh yes. A good starting point,” the old woman assured her. “I am traveling to a hospital as well, and at the same period.”
Eyes widened even further. “You are? Oh, that’s wonderful. Perhaps we could meet and you could show me what—”
“I would love to, my dear,” the older woman said gently. “But unfortunately there is more than one hospital.”
“Oh,” the young lady said, crestfallen. “I didn’t know that.”
“I am sure you will do just fine.” The old woman patted her hand. “What service are you called to perform?”
“People have been praying for aid to a woman in need.”
“Oh yes. That is a happy occasion, being sent to answer a prayer. Well, stand up and turn around, let me look you over. Can’t be too careful. Why, I once almost traveled to twentieth-century Egypt dressed in a Parisian frock from the gay nineties. Imagine what a fuss that would have caused.”
The young lady looked helplessly confused. “I don’t think I understand anything you just said. And I’ve already forgotten what a century is.”
“Oh, dear, listen to me prattle on, and here it is your first journey. Don’t worry, dear. Some things can only be learned through experience.”
“Oh, please tell me. I’m so anxious to get it right, but it’s all so strange, you know.”
“My, how refreshing you are to be with,” the old woman exclaimed. “Sit back down, dear. You look just fine.” When the young woman was settled, her new acquaintance went on, “I know it is strange, my dear. But you see, where we are going there is a thing called time.”
“Yes, they told us about that. I’m afraid I didn’t understand it very well.”
“No one does, dear. Not until they’ve experienced for themselves, and even then it remains quite confusing. In any case, a century is a measurement of time.”
The young lady brightened. “I learned about measures. Feet, inches, miles. A century is how many miles?”
The old woman smiled fondly. “You do my heart good, child. I had almost forgotten what my own first trip down was like.”
“What do you mean, down?”
“You will find that out soon enough.” The old woman’s smile took on a forced quality. “Home can appear quite distant, I’m afraid. But take it in stages, that’s the proper way.”
“What will you be doing?”
“Oh, I’ve quite a task ahead of me. I’m going to a hospital in Washington—that’s a city south of Philadelphia. It is called the Saint Mark Hospice for the Dying, a place for the critically ill. There is a splendid young girl who is to be called home in a rather difficult way. She is what they call an orphan and will be needing someone to remind her what love is. I’m to be there until she departs, perhaps as long as a week.”
“A week?”
“Dear me, there I go again. A week is another measurement of time.”
“Oh, I remember now. Three hundred and sixty-five weeks make a century, except in leap month.”
The woman reached over and squeezed the young lady’s hand. “You’ll do just fine, dear. Now you must promise to come look me up when we’re back. My name for the moment is Miss Simpkins.”
“I am Ariel,” the young lady replied, then jumped when th
e gong sounded. “Oh, that’s the signal.”
“Go in peace, dear,” Miss Simpkins said, rising to her feet. “And no matter what happens or what you see, remember whom you serve. Draw near to His presence, and draw His presence near to you, in prayer.”
****
Manny was the best in the business, ask anybody. Slick as an eel, fast as a speeding bullet. Nights on the prowl, he wore a black cape emblazoned with his own form of the superhero’s symbol, a fist holding a lightning bolt. Whenever anybody mentioned that the emblem was used by some military unit, Manny always got hot, claimed they stole it from him.
Manny liked to copy tricks he saw on television, practice them until they were smooth, then play at casual when the nightspot crowds egged him on between music sets. It was his trademark, his way of making a name in the night world he relished. That and the rumors that swirled and followed him about. His latest trick was to juggle a bowling ball, a sharpened kitchen knife, and an apple. As he juggled, he ate the apple. That really wowed them. Yeah, Manny had great hands. Ask anybody.
He could probably have made pretty good money as a performer. But that wasn’t Manny’s gig. He lived for the forbidden high, the ecstasy of danger, the thrill of tightrope tricks nobody but Manny ever saw.
Manny was a pickpocket. A master. A pro.
That day, however, he really wasn’t intent on working. He’d had some rich pickings the past few days. He was loitering outside the diner where he always had breakfast on slow days, across the street from the hospital’s emergency room entrance. He was trading jibes with the paramedics, adrenaline junkies to a man. Then the pigeon appeared.
That was how he always thought of them. Pigeons. Birds too stupid to get out of the way, cluttering up the streets, clutching at the crumbs of life. And this one was a trip. Dressed in a candy striper’s uniform so starched she crackled with each step. Staring wide-eyed up at the hospital like she’d never seen one before in her life. Jumping three feet off the sidewalk when an ambulance did a four-wheel skid around the corner. Gasping when one of the grifters shuffled over and tried to sell her a pair of cheapo sunglasses. Spinning about and smiling shyly at the paramedics when they called out an invitation for her to come over, have a coffee, listen to the story of their lives.
Manny pushed himself off the wall. He popped his head so that his shades fell forward and down over his eyes, then sauntered over. Broad daylight, in front of maybe a dozen guys, cops popping in and out of the ER entrance all the time. Definitely one for the books.
She gasped again when he slid up on silent feet, took hold of her elbow, said, “You don’t watch it, they’re gonna be working on you instead of with you. Know what I mean?”
“I . . . oh yes, this is the hospital?” She gave him a smile too sweet for somebody who could ever know the law of the streets. “I must go there.”
“You foreign, right? Yeah, shoulda known, that hair and the accent. Your first day in the fast lane?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t think I—”
“Hey, no sweat. C’mon, lemme show you the ropes.” The grip on her elbow shifted to his other hand, so that he was walking with half his body a scarce millimeter off of hers, urging her forward, protecting his own slick motions from the view of those standing behind making jealous catcalls as Manny made his move. Not understanding that somebody like Manny had no use for the pigeons of this earth, other than to take and run.
Pocket. It all had to be in her pocket. She wasn’t even carrying a purse.
He gave an almost imperceptible forward urge, and she stumbled on the curb. Like he had choreographed the whole deal, yeah, put him in charge of one of those Broadway losers, watch the money roll in. Quick as a flash, he steadied her with one hand, rubbed his chest against her shoulder blade, felt her stiffen at his uncomfortable closeness, the motion lifting her arms away from her sides, and he slid his free hand into her pocket.
Bummer. Nothing but a single card. Manny palmed the prize, switched to her other side. “Yeah, see, the Blades, they got the two blocks behind you, rule this world after dark. Goonies start the hospital’s other side. Your workplace is sort of a no-man’s-land, on account of half the guys are probably in there any given night. You know, gotta have a place to rest up and sharpen their knives.”
He hustled her over a rough spot in the pavement, caught her with the tight-grip routine. “Watch it there. Street’s like a battle zone, you know?” Another dip in the other pocket, second bummer of the day, nothing.
But Manny was nothing if not cool. Already he was working on who might buy a hospital ID. “There you go, pretty lady, all safe and sound, look, ready to go in there and save the world, am I right?”
“No, just one elderly lady,” she said. “Only the true Lord can save us all.”
“Hey, that’s a good one. I gotta remember that.” He released his grip, patted her arm. “You just watch it out here. The street’s not nice to sweet little blond foreign girlies, you hear what I’m saying? Stay cool now.”
Manny did his best strut around the corner, head cocked back, arms slack and body swinging, loose and limber and ready to bolt if she checked and realized he had dipped her pocket.
Not a peep.
Then the impossible happened. As he approached the far corner and safety, Manny broke one of his cardinal rules. He turned and looked back.
The foreign candy striper was still standing on the curb, watching him. At that moment, a sudden shaft of light split the cloudy gloom and landed upon her white-gold hair. For a moment, a bright arc shimmered over her head. She smiled and waved in his direction. Her smile was as pure as the light.
Manny then broke a second rule. He stopped. It was not a conscious act. His legs simply ceased to carry him forward. He stood there staring back and felt a hollow yearning blossom in the center of his chest. He lifted a feeble hand, drawn upward almost against his will, pulled by the same power that also pressed him to turn around, go back, confess his deed, give back the card. For a brief instant he was held there, feeling as though the light that shimmered about her reached out, farther and farther, enveloping him as well, offering a sense of devastatingly simple peace so powerful it shattered his world.
In a panic, Manny broke free and forced his shaky legs to carry him around the corner and away.
****
Manny ran for a time, not really seeing where he was going, too fractured internally to care. His streetwise front was cracked open, the lies of his life lying exposed. The air was suddenly so stifling that each breath threatened to puncture his lungs from within. He stopped and leaned against a wall, his chest heaving, and struggled to put his world back together again.
He found himself growing angry, battling against the invisible, twisting the memory of what happened to suit his own self-image, using rage as the glue to repair this upside-down perspective.
It was her looks. Yeah, had to be. Crazy that he’d let some wide-eyed pigeon get to him like that. Nuts. The street was gonna chew her up and spit her out. Serve her right, too. Shoulda stayed in the old country and sung to her cows or whatever it was that wide-eyed foreign pigeons did for fun. Manny pushed himself erect, pulled his collar straight, slicked back his hair, willed his hands to stop shaking. No question, he was headed for the hot spots tonight. He needed to get his head straight, talk the stuff with some chickies who knew the score. Yeah, a major need.
The card. It was only then that he remembered he still had her card. He reached in his pocket, realized that he had already broken the third cardinal rule that day by not heading straight to his friendly neighborhood fence. One of the reasons Manny had never been caught was that he never held on to the goods for an instant longer than was necessary.
He pulled out the card, widened his eyes at the sight of his own reflection in the polished surface. He had never seen anything like it. Looked like it was made of sterling silver, only it was too light, weighed almost nothing. Felt like he was holding air. Manny turned it over, searched for markings,
found none. Then he remembered an overheard conversation about some new cards in the making, smart cards they were called, couldn’t be used by anybody but the owner, took a second ID or fingerprint to activate. Yeah, that was it. He’d heard they were already being used overseas. Manny snorted his disgust. All shook up over a pigeon, and the only thing scored was a worthless card. He’d been taken good.
He was about to dump it when he passed a bank-in-the-box. He hesitated, then decided, why not? Might as well go for broke, give it a shot. He waited until the street was relatively clear, stepped forward, raised the card, scanned the street once more, then slid it into the slot.
There were none of the normal whirring, clattering sounds. Manny stiffened as a humming grew, his internal ears already hearing the sirens and the whooping alarm and the police whistles. Then the humming broke into a clarion trumpeting so loud and powerful and crystal clear that it froze him solid. There was no alarm to the sound, only power. It did not frighten. It beckoned. Manny stood in wide-eyed wonder and watched as the machine’s edges began to shimmer. The shimmering grew brighter and brighter and brighter until he could no longer see the machine itself, nor the street, nor anything except that incredible silver-white light that reached out now, farther and farther, drawing him into the tunnel of brightness that had suddenly appeared where the machine had been. Pulling him in and sweeping him along, faster and faster and faster.
****
“Excuse me,” she said hesitantly, leaning over the grimy counter.
“Yeah, what is it?” The balding, overweight officer was too busy with his pile of papers and wad of gum to look up.
“I was told that you could help me.”
A fleshy head lifted to fasten her with a stony gaze. A flicker of interest over the white-blond hair, the fresh face, the uniform, then dismissal. “So what’s the problem?”
“I was,” she stumbled over the word the woman who directed her to the desk had used, “pickpocketed.”
“Hang on.” He reached to one side, plucked a sheet from one of perhaps a dozen tall piles. “You a foreigner?”
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