Wandering

by Angela Koeller

  Chapter One

  Could it be that one such as I could walk this path and not feel the pains of hate and destruction? At the time, I suppose that was true. I could not feel pain. I could not speak. I could not even laugh or cry. I was locked inside myself and there was little I could do about it. By now, I am sure, you have gotten lost in my words, your mind saying, “Back up stranger, for I do not even know your name.” All in good time, my friend.

  In the beginning there was darkness and her pain. Movement was restricted but I did not care and moved as I wished, though the very surface around me punished my body. The beginning of the end gave me light and hope but it was all a lie. My destiny, it seemed, had been decided long before my birth and a happy ending was to become a foreign concept to me, though only God and the Devil knew the truth of it. Others look at my existence and tell me that it could have been worse but I just turn my gaze upon them and they quickly swallow their words. To many, my life itself was a game, played amongst the immortals as they took turns trying to manipulate my fate, for it would be too late when they realized that I was far from being a toy. I never had a real father or mother; a story was told of an angel and demon that fell in love and their child was passed to anyone who would take her. Love was never an option because I was their cursed child. Half evil and half angelic was not a good mix, or so I was told. At my birth I was banished from both Heaven and Hell because I could not serve either. Everlasting life was a useless thing when no one would have anything to do with me. I knew little of this at the time and was only told the rest after my destiny had been revealed; for good or evil, no one knew my purpose nor did anyone care to discover it for fear of being banished as I was. Thus my life began.

  Death came with his scythe and named me, for none challenged his authority on the matter. I was given the name Amara, which meant eternal and it was accurate. He could not suffer more than he had already, which is why he dealt with me on that occasion. In at least one way Death was similar to me; he could never die but he also could never truly live. As the first to acknowledge me as a living creature, he is the one who passed me to the first mortal that tried to raise me. His choices were limited because few would take one such as me. She had been blind since birth and was alone in the world. It was she who taught me of kindness and love. Even now I hear a soft voice in my head, singing quietly and telling me stories about her life or how she thought I would live once I grew up. To her, I was perfect and could do no wrong. I was her angel and she was my mother and that was the way it would always be. My innocence led me to believe that was the complete truth until the day my world fell apart.

  The sun had just risen and I was fetching water for the morning meal. Birds flew all around me, trilling their songs of joy and hope, the sky above me was a passive blue, and warm sunlight danced on my skin. A light breeze brushed hair from my face as I walked toward the well. I heard footsteps and turned to greet their owner. Screaming, a young man ran the short distance to the house where he found my mother and spoke in quick, urgent tones to her. He pointed to me, said something else, and made the sign of the cross. My mother gazed emptily at him until he subsided and noticed she could not see. Confusion filled me as I watched them and I could not understand what made the man so upset. Frustrated and terrified, the man disappeared back the way he had come. Once we were back in the house, she stood me in front of her, and ‘looked’ at me. Starting at the top of my head, one hand looking at each side, she first felt the nub on the left side of my head that would be a full-grown horn someday, and the cool heat on my right side from half of a halo. My hair was two different colors with distinctive textures as well; on the demon half there was the darkest black with a dry-to-the-touch feeling and on the angel half was brilliant blonde hair that was as soft as the finest silk. Her hands moved to my face, touching skin that had the same qualities as my locks. What she could not tell were the colors. The left side was a deep tan and on the right it was almost as white as alabaster. All who have seen me have feared my eyes more than any other part; one as deep blue as the ocean on a calm day but the other as bright red as the fires of Hell. Her hands traveled to my shoulders and then to my back, where she felt the wings that have always been there. I had yet to fly with them but one was black as a raven’s wings and one as white as a swan’s. Then, in a sudden movement, my mother, who was crying from her clouded eyes, was hugging me tightly. It was then she told me that we could not stay as we were forever. We were bonded heart to heart but if we stayed together physically one of us would break and she could not let this happen. There was only one way to save us; I would have to go away and someone else would care for me. Staring at her blankly, I wondered what she could possibly mean, she was my mother and she would always take care of me. Releasing me, she went in the kitchen and came back with a knife. Leading me to the garden, she asked me to find the nightshade flower that grew there. I led her toward it and we knelt when I indicated we had reached it. Taking my hand, she steadied the knife in the one that was not holding mine. Before I could stop her, she had made a light cut in both mine and her own palm. Serenely, she told me to hold them over the nightshade as glistening blood dripped on to the flower of death. Behind us, a step was heard but neither of us turned as I was gazing at my mother while she looked blankly at the source of her pain. No pain flowed through me because if I could feel it, the pain of my halves would have driven me to insanity.

  What my mother had done was called Death, the only immortal that had tarried in my affairs, so she could speak with him. Tearfully, she explained that she could no longer keep me safe from mortal eyes and that the next step of my life was to begin early. Speaking not only to Death, but to me as well, she said she loved me more than my real mother ever would and that she hoped to see me again in the afterlife. Death told her that he would return for me on my twelfth birthday and take me to my new home but my mother was to cope until then. He reminded her that I could not die completely, feel pain, or even speak. Incriminating myself was not an option and the villager that saw me before would not recognize me if I was shrouded in cloths or hidden in the house, unless he saw my eyes. Gently, he led me to the creek that ran through our garden and together we looked at our reflections. Then he explained that my appearance appalled mortals but my eyes horrified them; none knew very much about Heaven or Hell but my vision held both. Mortals feared what they did not understand and no being alive or dead could truly explain the reason that I was the way that I had always been. Theoretically, my two halves should have cancelled each other out and then I never would have existed. I nodded, for I comprehended the idea but one thing still confused me. Silently, because for me there was no other option, I pointed first to my mother and then to him. Death sighed softly and in quiet tones told me the tale of my parents that most children heard in their cradles. In their creation of a love child they had denied themselves their own existence. Standing together for their Judgment they had been given a choice, their free will or their child’s life. He then compared me to himself in the fact that we could both just exist, for there was no other option; we had to live for those who tried to drive us away. Duty and destiny were strong calls that we could not ignore.

  Suddenly, he was gone as if he had never come. I sat among the fragrant flowers thinking of all I had learned while my mother continued to cry a small distance from me. She was still my mother, for I had known no other, and I loved her even though we were not blood related. Wait, I thought to myself, perhaps we are. In her calling of Death our blood had mingled, forever binding us. Content in that thought, I rose, kissed my mother on the head, and led her back to our house. Our lives were changed, that could not be denied, but we continued to live in the pattern we had for years. I could never tell her I loved her, but I would not leave her until she knew. This I promised myself.

  Life went on. We cared for our garden and were wary of the sound of strange footsteps. If we heard a
ny, I was to run to the house and my mother was to act as if she never knew me. My birthday was fast approaching but we both ignored its coming. Never had I thought I would really be separated from my loving mother and she soon regretted her summoning of Death. Though our imminent parting saddened me, I could not bring myself to regret what she had done, for if she had not, we would not be blood-bound. Sometimes, when I went out for a while, I would come back and find her crying. When I touched her shoulder, she flinched, but would not tell me the reason for her tears, though I always knew. All I had ever known had changed and it was a bittersweet concept. I knew more of my true origin but I did not like the price I had to pay for that knowledge. Never had I disillusioned myself about my birth. In my heart I had always known that the loving person in my life was not my real mother. One such as I could not be born to a mere mortal and I knew nothing of the pain my mother experienced as she cared for me. As I look back on it now, I knew very little.

  On my twelfth birthday, Death came for me as he had promised. He told me that to truly live, one must experience a great many things. Things I could not experience or learn from being where I was. I gazed at his hooded face, wishing I could cry. My mother had brushed her honey-blonde hair and put on her nicest linen dress to see me off; I clung to her. Internally I declared I would not leave even if Death tried to force me. Few would defy such a powerful being but I did not care because I loved her. Since I did not seek this change that was being thrust upon me, I could see no reason to even act willing about it. Stroking my hair, my mother and I listened as Death told us of my new home.

  My caretaker was going to be an older man. He lived in a large house and was taking me as an apprentice. Wary of my origin, he had hesitated but would take me regardless. All who knew him admitted that he was a powerful wizard and many feared him, though he was also known as a gentle and kind man. At a pause in his narrative, Death asked that I go somewhere else for a time and because of my general distaste for him in that moment, I stormed away. Only two people know what happened in my absence, neither of which would divulge the information. Upon my return, my mother’s countenance was calm and confident, yet her hands shook when she reached for my face. They molded to my skin as she desperately tried to memorize every inch of my face, every smooth and patchy bit of it. I did not mind. We would have stayed like that forever, had we been allowed to. A bird was startled into flight near us and my mother came back to herself. She held me at arm’s length and stared at me with empty eyes. Her lips moved, though no sound emerged. There was a sudden flash and her vision was blue, not white, for a few moments. I received one more surprise after all of this occurred. Quietly my mother asked me for a long feather from each of my wings. More out of love than a desire to comply, I spread my wings and reached to pull out black and white pinions. Clutching the feathers in her hand, she touched my angel face, turned, and walked quickly back to the house. Hurt by this, I turned to Death, seeking answers he did not have. Taking two pieces of string from my pocket, tied one tightly around my demon hair, and the other around my angel hair. I wandered through the garden and found the knife my mother had dropped so long ago. Carefully, I cut about a thumb’s length above each string. Without thought, I flicked my wings open and flew after my mother. Though at the time I did not seek to find her, my heart wished I would. Once I reached the house, I went to my mother’s room and placed the hair on her pillow. After that, I turned around and left. A being cannot live on love alone, for their heart will always be stuck in the ever continuing cycle of finding love, being loved and losing love. My heart broke that day as I flew to Death’s embrace, knowing everything had to change, that I did not want it to, and things would never be as they were before.

  Please look forward to Ms. Koeller’s upcoming works:

  Half

  Tempest in the Tower