Brin walked slowly, careful to press his arms into the heavy, newly-filled pouch resting against his stomach. It would do no good to allow a jangle of coins. It would do no good to drop the pouch and spill coins across the road. If that happened and some peasants reached for their own pouches to make certain their own coins were safe…
Pickpockets were sometimes hung without trial. Brin knew that.
Each time he and Marcel played this game, Brin fought the sour fear in his stomach. All it would take was a single mistake and…
A hand grabbed Brin’s shoulder.
“Come with me,” came the low voice.
Brin spun around to see a man wearing a hooded cloak. Shadows cast his entire face into darkness.
“Let go of my shoulder,” Brin said. The sourness in his stomach grew heavier. “I have no business with you.”
“I think you do,” the hooded figure said. “Or shall I raise a public outcry and be declared a hero for catching the lad who boldly robbed the crowd?”
Chapter Three
Brin hesitated. He quickly decided he could outrun this man. And if not outrun, at least dodge him. More than once Brin had darted away from pursuers, his life depending on his fleetness and agility.
Yet if the man cried for help and the entire town gave chase, could Brin escape? The streets ahead were narrow and crooked, a double-edged sword. As easily as these streets gave him opportunity to spin and twist away, they could also run him into a dead-end alley. This town, as with all towns, was strange to Brin.
The hand upon his shoulder dropped away.
“Run, if you think it will help you,” the hooded man whispered. “But I will find you later as effortlessly as I found you now.”
Stragglers passed them by, uncaring of the conversation of strangers.
“What is it you seek?” Brin asked.
The man in the cloak laughed. “I could just as well ask that of you. What is it you seek?”
Brin clutched his arms tighter to himself, feeling the edges of the stolen coins against his belly. He wanted to use this conversation to give him time to allow his wits to find a way of escape. “What would any man seek but wealth and ease of living?”
The hooded man laughed again. “You answer my question with a question. Any man might seek wealth and ease of living, but you have not declared that as your own dream. Are you any man? Is wealth and ease of living what you seek?”
“And you,” Brin said, “also answered my question with a question. What is it you seek?”
“Well spoken,” the man said. “I can see your father in you. I want to help you. Now answer my question. What do you seek? What do you dream of?”
My father in me? Brin felt as if his heart had been prodded with a hot iron. This man knew my father?
“My dreams,” Brin said, keeping his face still despite the swirling questions inside him, “are my own matters. Not to be shared with a stranger who does not even show his own face.”
“I will answer, then, at the proper time,” he said. “Perhaps tonight, when we meet at the north bridge along the stream, when the town bells ring midnight.”
“How do I know this is not some sort of trap?” Raised as a gypsy, Brin had been taught to keep eternal suspicion.
“If it is harm I want to bring on you,” the man said, “all I need do is call and you will be taken away for stealing from the pockets of the townspeople.”
The man shrugged, which moved the hood slightly. Brin saw, or thought he saw, a reddish-blond beard.
“Besides,” the stranger said, dropping his shrug, “what could you, a poor gypsy boy, have of value to steal? Tonight, you shall see that it is an offer of help that I bring.”
“Why are you so certain I will appear?” Brin asked, although already he knew he would go as asked. If this man knew my father…
“Your curiosity will drive you to it. You wonder how it is I knew you picked the pockets of these townspeople. You wonder why I do not call for your arrest. You wonder about your father. And you wonder what it is that I will offer as help.”
“Perhaps,” Brin said coolly.
“As you say.” The hooded man’s voice was low. And amused. “Until then, ponder my question. What is it you seek?”
Angel Blog
Brin didn’t know it, of course, but he had never really been in danger from the hooded man – or from the crowd – with me nearby. And the hooded man wasn’t another angel, in case you’re wondering.
Had the hooded man tried to harm Brin, I would have stopped him. Now don’t ask me how I knew that was what our holy Father wanted me to do. It’s impossible to explain. The closest you would understand is a form of instinct, but even that is a bad explanation. All I can tell you is that at that moment, I knew Brin was to be protected in the crowd - even though I can’t tell you why he was supposed to be protected. Not even angels know what is in the mind of our holy Father.
As for protecting him, angels have many different methods. You’d never suspect most of them as belonging to an angel. Gust of wind, maybe. A tree falling across a road to keep a driver from the next corner where a bridge is out. A barking dog that causes you to take a different path. That sort of thing.
If you want to read some classic examples, go the Bible. I wish I could tell you I was one of the angels in the lions’ den with Daniel, but others were sent that time. Believe me, we all heard plenty about it from those angels later. You know, like sometimes when your friend gets back from a really fun vacation and goes on and on about all the details.
Anyway, there was a lot I could do to protect Brin. But there were some things I couldn’t do, and here’s where you should probably learn more about what angels can and can’t do.
We can’t create. That’s something only our Father can do. Let me just say, if you could have been there at the beginning, the very beginning, you would be the biggest believer in the universe. Yes, that beginning. Of time. Of the universe. Not that I was there. But the great thing about the spiritual world is that time and space don’t form a prison for us like they do for you. (Believe me, you’ll find out someday. On the other side. By then, you’ll be glad you trusted in our Father.)
As I was saying, since time and space don’t bind us, we angels have a good idea of what it was like at the beginning of creation. “Spectacular” doesn’t give it justice. It’s beyond comprehension. Then again, if you television watchers got off the couch and walked through the woods and took a close look at our Father’s handiwork every once in a while, you might get an inkling of how incredible it was.
What else can’t angels do?
Angels can’t change substances. Again, only our Father can do that. So don’t come to me and ask for that lump of lead to be changed into gold. I’m not a fairy godmother. And yes, I’ve had that request before.
Angels can’t alter the laws of nature. Again, only our Father can.
Same thing goes for miracles. Angels can’t perform them. Only our Father can.
And here’s something that might surprise you. Angels can’t see into your heart. (After centuries and centuries of experience with you humans, however, we can make some pretty good guesses.) Some of you wise guys might be saying, hey, no problem, any good doctor can get a good view of the human heart. But that’s not the heart I’m talking about - and you know it.
Angels can’t change your hearts either. Remember that thing called “choice”?
Anyway, that’s a lot of what we can’t do.
It’s good to keep all that in mind because the fallen angels can’t do any of it either. Fallen angels. That would be Satan and his gang. They can’t do any of our Father’s special stuff either. No creating, no changing of substances, no altering the laws of nature. No searching or changing the hearts of people.
Why’s that important to remember?
Too many humans worry about demons because they believe demons have special power. Not so. Good thing, because I have plenty of stories about their bad intentions and ho
w we’d been sent in by our Father to protect you against them. Nasty bunch, those guys. Of course, they’ve known for a long time that when they picked sides, they picked a loser – Satan himself. For eternity. That would make anyone bitter.
I know, I know. What about Brin?
He meets a hooded stranger. The hooded stranger seems to know a lot about him. The hooded stranger throws out the bait: I’ll tell you about your father.
No surprise that Brin is about to take that bait like a skinny trout dying from starvation.
Hey, I was as curious as Brin about his father and his whole mysterious childhood. (Did I forget to mention the strange ring he wears on a leather strap around his neck, the only thing his parents had left him? I think I did! Well, now you know.) In other words, I sure hoped Brin was going to decide to meet the stranger on the bridge that night.
I also had a good idea I was finally about to find out why I’d be sent to watch over him. I’d been with him for years already, and now it seemed very likely that this was the point in his life where I would really be needed, the point in his life that he and I would both learn what path our Father hoped he would take.
Only if he made the right choice. . .
Chapter Four
Gypsies were never welcome near towns. To return to camp, Brin had to walk a mile into the countryside with the heat of the sun on his back. As he arrived at the gypsy camp, he noted with surprise that he did not remember a single step of his journey through the fields and over stone fences.
The stranger knew my father!
Brin barely noticed the familiar setting in front of him. Although the countryside changed week by week as they moved from place to place, the gypsies always set their tents up in the same manner - an inner circle and an outer circle. Everything looked the same - wagons that carried their belongings from town to town, wooden posts driven into the ground to tie goats, mules hobbled and grazing in a grassy area beyond the camp, iron pots hanging over the grey, dead ashes made by the nightly fires.
The stranger had known my father!
Unconsciously, Brin let his fingers play lightly with a small ring hanging from a leather strap around his neck. His father had given it to his gypsy princess mother in his dying moments. She, in turn, had left it for Brin. It was the only possession that linked Brin to his long-dead parents.
The stranger had known my father!
How many nights had Brin fallen asleep wondering the simplest things about his father? Where had he come from? Where had he been going? What kind of man had he been?
Not one of the elder gypsies ever spoke of Brin‘s father or mother, and Brin had learned very young not to ask. His questions were answered with dark looks at best and with blows to the head at worst.
Brin had decided his father must have been handsome and dashing, perhaps even rich. How else could an outsider have stolen the heart of a gypsy woman?
Brin had decided their love must have been of the power and strength to match any heroic song. Why else had his mother chosen his father over her own people? Why else had his father risked his life to take her away? Growing up, Brin had seen how fiercely the gypsy men protected their women from outsiders, even to the point of execution. How much more they would have fought to keep a gypsy princess among the clan, he figured.
The stranger had known my father!
Brin was so deep in thought and hope that he failed to hear footsteps behind him. His first warning of trouble was the stinging whack of a branch rod against his back.
“Lazy idler!” came the screech.
Brin spun around. His first reaction was anger at himself for stupidly allowing this to happen.
His attacker was the old great-grandmother of the clan. She was tiny and always a long black dress, her toothless face little more than a lump of puckered flesh. During the day, she wandered the camp, muttering curses at imagined enemies. At night, she squatted in a hunch over a tiny fire, rocking back and forth on her heels as she sang tuneless songs.
“Bring her back,” the old woman wailed. She swung the branch at Brin. He jumped out of her reach easily. “She belongs with us!”
The crazy old woman believed it was Brin, and not his father, who had taken away her gypsy princess granddaughter. As often as she could, she would pounce on Brin and attack him with the same demands.
Brin never lost his temper at the old woman’s meanness. He felt sorry for her and her poor, confused mind.
“She belongs with me…” her voice trailed off pitifully.
What pain she must bear, Brin thought. She believes my mother is still alive. She’s looking for someone who is never going to return.
As she took another swing at him with the switch, Brin jumped away. He dug into the pouch of coins beneath his shirt and offered her one, choosing not to speak.
“Bribery!” she screeched. “You cannot buy her from us!”
She took the coin anyway, holding it in the sunlight to examine the silver. With her attention off him, Brin took slow, careful steps as he backed away from her. Rarely did he run from one of her attacks, although he could have left her and her tottering steps far behind. The few times he had escaped her that way, her wailing and screeching rose as if he were striking her. And with her bad eyesight, there was too good a chance she might fall and break her fragile bones if she chased him. Better to stay and take her abuse, Brin reasoned, so that she wouldn’t hurt herself.
Brin eased back further while she examined the coin. The best way to leave her was to distract her and then quickly sneak away to…
A large hand grabbed the back of Brin’s neck.
“So, you worthless dog, are you giving away my coins?”
Chapter Five
Brin didn’t have to turn around to know who held him. And this time he would suffer more punishment than a whack from a stick carried by an old woman.
“Give me the pouch,” his attacker demanded.
It was Marcel’s father — Antonio — a large man with red eyes and broken veins on his nose. Marcel’s father spent most of his nights drinking sour wine. During the day, he had a constant headache, and his temper reflected it.
Antonio cuffed Brin with his free hand. “Give me the pouch,” he repeated.
Brin was again angry at himself for getting caught. As he reached for the coins, though, he didn’t allow himself to whimper. He never did. Not around Marcel. Not around Antonio. Not around any of the gypsies. He had stopped crying long ago.
Antonio took the pouch with a surly grunt. He held the pouch between his teeth and, with both hands, shook Brin, listening for the jingle of any coins hidden in Brin’s clothes. Then he patted Brin to make the search complete. Antonio’s hand stopped at the ring around Brin’s neck for a moment, and then moved on. Everyone in the camp knew about Brin’s keepsake, so Antonio did not mistake it for a coin Brin might have tried to keep. The ring was the one thing no one ever tried to take from him. Gypsies were too superstitious to risk taking something as important as a piece of jewelry left behind by the dead.
When he was satisfied that Brin had not kept any coins, Antonio dropped the pouch from his teeth and caught it in his right hand. With his other hand, he cuffed Brin again and give him a kick to send him on his way.
“Mongrel,” Antonio said. “Any other gypsy would have plucked double from those stupid geese of townspeople.”
Antonio was lying. No gypsy had quicker or lighter hands than Brin, and many secretly envied him for his pickpocketing talent.
“You don’t even earn what we feed you,” Antonio continued. “You’re lucky we don’t leave you behind.”
Brin walked away with as much dignity as he could. He didn’t look back to see if Antonio was following to cuff him again, which happened more often than not.
“Get to the stream,” Antonio snarled. “The women need help washing clothes. If I see you idling around camp, you’ll get more of the back of my hand.”
Brin turned obediently toward the stream. When he was safely f
rom Antonio’s sight, he allowed himself a smile. Beneath his tongue was a coin that Antonio had been unable to find. Brin popped it out of his mouth and tucked it into his pocket. Later he would add it to the many he had collected and hidden, one by one, over the last years.
Knowing he had fooled Antonio was the only consolation Brin could take, however. The blows still stung, and they reminded him how much worse it could get if he disobeyed Antonio.
He did not expect to be treated any better at the stream. The women would mock him, as they always did, for his fair skin and the dishonor of being fathered by someone who wasn’t a gypsy.
And tonight he would get the few scraps left after all the gypsies had eaten their fill. He would be forced to eat alone in the shadows beyond the fire.
As he walked toward the stream, Brin remembered the stranger’s question.
What do you seek?
What do I seek? Brin asked himself.
He sighed as the answer came to him immediately.
A home.
Chapter Six
This night, as usual, Brin sat in the shadows beyond the campfires, waiting for the talk to die down and the gypsies to go to bed. He strained his ears to hear beyond their voices, counting the strikes of the bell that echoed from the town. When the bell struck eleven times, he began to feel restless. The stranger had said to meet him at midnight. He was tempted to bolt camp then, except there were occasions when the gypsy elders called him to answer Antonio’s drunken accusations of laziness. This night more than any other Brin did not want his absence noticed. So he forced himself to wait.
The crackling wood finally became dull embers, and the last of the gypsies shuffled into their tents. Brin quietly slipped away.
The Angel and the Ring Page 2