about an angel - chapter 1

As I said before, I was born in England. As soon as an angel comes into being, they must choose a name for themselves. To fit in as much as possible, things like employment, names, places to live, etc. are necessary. The place to live was easy. Before my first day was over, I had found it; an abandoned single story half-timber house with a fairly decent thatched roof. It was located in the woods of what is now part of London. I would not be bothered there. The house seemed relatively new, but there were no belongings in it. It was no surprise. Many were fleeing from a flu plague that was running through the country at that time. It was still not the time of the Black Plague, but it was still very common for an even minor sickness to rum rampant.1

Without a name, one cannot find a job, so that was my next order of business. But this was a tall order. A name will carry you from this world to the next and once I chose a name, I would have to keep it. To go about deciding on a name, I would have to hear some that were common for the time. I didn't want to stand out, but I also didn't want my name to sound fake. I headed to town that day, knowing I would already stand out as a stranger. In our good Lord's funny way of doing things, I was dressed in a simple white gown, which made me only easier to pick out. I did garner a few stares as I walked through the market, but as I listened to people talk, and rummages their thoughts, I managed to figure out a name both they and I liked. The name I finally chose was Bridget Knightson. I would tell people that I was the widow of a knight from Wales.2

For the next few years, I served as a shopkeep, selling vegetables, and sometimes giving them to those who couldn't afford them. I stayed as the shopkeep until people grew suspicious of me. You see, as we are immortal, angels do not age. I came to England as a woman appearing to be aged about twenty years. I came with long auburn hair and soft, misty-grey eyes. After about ten years in the village, women began their typical witchcraft chatter, and I was forced to leave. It went on this way for many years. Bridget Knightson would appear out of nowhere in a village somewhere in England, then dissapear around ten or fifteen years later, never having aged a day. Times were confusing and strange then. You could enter a village and no one ever followed up on your name or history as they do now. I relied on that, changing my name as I needed to for the whole of the time I lived in Europe.3

A dozen years shy of a hundred years old, I heard stories of a giant Scot who was sacking cities taken by English raiders, and I heard that York, one of the most powerful cities in northern England, had also been taken. Not long after that, I heard of his execution for treason. By then I was living in Scotland, near Edinburgh. For a little over two hundred more years, I stayed there, roaming until I had no more towns to roam to. Often, during the Black Plague of that time, I assumed others' identities, taking over their businesses and lives until I could do so no longer. Ireland was next, and I managed to stay there until I heard of a ship leaving for the New World. People said it was to be a great nation, free of our English King, George III.4

And so I escaped, taking the name Mary Chilton. A man and his wife were kind enough to take me aboard the Mayflower with them, letting me pose as a daughter they had been forced to leave behind. The journey to this New World was grueling for most of its passengers. For me, it was easier. I helped birth the only child born en route, Oceanus Hopkins, fed those who were too weak or tired to eat, and made fresh water by boiling the salt from the sea water and letting the steam collect on the pot lid and run into jars. People whispered about me, that I was up to something. I was the only passenger whi didn't get sick or weary of the journey. Of course, as soon as we landed, I had no choice but to put up with the rumors being spread about me. Eventually, before my lack of aging came into play, I had to leave. I lived in the forest for many years, tending to the hut I built, and defending myself from only the animals. Sometimes, I would venture into the village to see how many of the people I had known were left. It was this way for nearly a hundred years, until I heard that the last of them that knew me was gone. Morbid, I know, but I had no choice unless I wanted to be recognized. Once again, I was Bridget Knightson, a name I could not let go of or forget.5

And once again, I had to weave in and out of society for many years. As the nation now known as America grew larger and larger, I found this easier to do. More states, counties, cities, towns and villages for me to disappear into whenever people thought they had me figured out. I never got too attached to any one person, or group, for any great length of time. Even though I had spent hundreds of years alone, I didn't want to hurt anyone if they were to grow attached to me. I could let go fairly easily; I had done it many times. They, however, may not have had as simple a time as me.6

I watched on the sidelines of every American war fought in our great new nation. All the time, I moved. After the Gulf War, I settled in a town in Wisconsin called Eagle River. I was running a small book store called Book World, part of a chain of stores in that area. Reading, I had found, was a treasure and one of the great joys of living as a human. In this small part of the world, I seemed to have finanlly found my niche.7

It had become easier to handle the rumors of my inability to age. Plastic surgery and better health care made it easier for others to believe that I was not a witch or some kind of strange creature. I was still in Eagle River in the year 2001, and had even managed to make friends with some of the people I met there. I knew that eventually I would have to leave, but I had more years to spend there than I had in any of the other places I had been. I knew I would have to leave someday. I was actually beginning to want to get out by this time.8

That is, until Connor McRoy walked into my store one Thursday morning.9