The Ghostwriter's Words

Sammy: Saints, Martyrs, and an Angel's Wings

Sara spoke softly, barely loud enough to be heard over the roar of the falls. "I do have a few more surprises. But I'm not sure where to start."

"In the beginning," Sammy joked, "Or just tell me about your wings." His reaction, when he'd seen them, which had only been in the light of the moon, was to suck in a sharp involuntary breath. He hadn't been aware of them until then and had forgotten Ghillie man's words until she'd turned her back to wade into the water to wash away the mud they'd rolled through. They'd made love multiple times and ways, but they'd always been facing one another.

Sara's wings were stunning, breathtaking, and spectacular. And such superlatives felt far from adequate. Sammy had seen thousands and thousands of tattoos over the centuries, but nothing like the wings on Sara's back. They were truly a work of art. He couldn't wait for full daylight when he'd be able to observe the rainbow of vivid colors he suspected they contained and for her to tell him their story.

"Okay, In the beginning, I was born..." was her response, with a smile he sensed was there, without her looking over her shoulder to show it.

"Smartass," Sammy laughed, forgetting Sara's wings a moment, even as he stroked his fingers across the smooth, warm, damp flesh they covered. He was so happy to have Sara home, in his arms again, at his favorite place in the world, where he'd first seen her or become aware of her since she'd been there at the estate nearly daily her entire life. But she hadn't yet been Sara, his Sara, only an anonymous, shy, skinny little girl that Sammy vaguely recalled accompanying her mother to work. Who it now seemed impossible to believe had grown into the amazing woman he pulled close again, the best birthday gift ever, either for the ages or the aged.

Sammy's memories of Sara's mother were no clearer than those he had of Sara as a child. Sara's mother was a woman he'd regretted many times, not taking more time to know when he could have. But she'd known him well enough to end his loneliness and much of the pain of his soul. As well as save her daughter from a life that would have been incomparably less than what she'd come to have. Likely one incomparably shorter as well, even in the context of a normal human lifetime, in which case that may have been a blessing. Sara's fate, all but certainly, would have been to die far too young, as had her mother, from violence at the hands of a brutal man. In defying her husband, Sara's mother ultimately sacrificed her own life to save her daughter. And Sammy, although Sammy recognized that he had been far from her primary concern, perhaps not a concern at all. Still, he could only be grateful.

Sammy wasn't religious, and neither The Faith nor The Truth merited being called religions, but another saint should be acknowledged somehow. He made a mental note to request The Truth to make that happen for him, mainly for Sara. And as was generally the case with such thoughts, having and sharing them with those few members of The Truth with whom he was most familiar was instantaneous and as quickly answered with an enthusiastic and unanimous affirmative. Of course. Anything he wanted, forever. He was the Descendant. If he decided someone was a saint, who should question that? And anything for Sara, of course.

Sammy smiled, mission accomplished, and told the barely remembered woman, who'd once cleaned his house, cooked his food, filled his empty decanters, then earned his eternal gratitude by sending her daughter to fill the emptiness of his life: "Thank you."

"You're most welcome," Sara replied, giggling. "It's your birthday."

"Thank you so very much, as well," Sammy responded, his thoughts returning to her wings, about to ask her again to tell their story.

"Then who were you talking to?" Sara asked.

"Your mother," Sammy told her.

"You're thinking about my mother while we should probably go back for another quick dip to wash the sex from your face?"

Yes, even on his birthday, Sammy wanted to be certain Sara came first and last. He reminded her, "I wouldn't have sex on my face or you in my life if it wasn't for your mother. What was her name? I must have known it once. But I was so lost back then that I may never have thought to ask."

Tears suddenly glistened in Sara's eyes, which Sammy could see even in the moonlight. "Grace," she whispered, her voice hoarse. "Yes, I thank her all the time. Her name was Grace."

"She was a saint," Sammy replied and shared that she would soon officially be named a Saint by The Truth.

"And a martyr, unfortunately," Sara added sadly.