Thomas Sniegoski - A Hundred Words for Hate

“You know the old saying about how Eskimos have a hundred different words for snow?” Jon asked Remy.

Remy nodded, having heard something like it before.

“Well, they say that the Daughters of Eve have a hundred words for hate . . . all directed at the Sons of Adam.”

A large woman, her gray hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, appeared at the screen door. “Lydia, get your ass in here.” She, opened the creaking door just enough for the child to scoot inside. “What the hell do you want?” she asked, turning her angry gaze on Jon and Remy.

The woman’s not-so-pleasant disposition went from bad to worse as she continued to stare at Jon.

“I was hoping you could help us,” he said as politely as he could.

“You’ve got a lot of balls coming here,” the woman snarled. “We’ve killed people like you for less than trespassing around these parts.”

“Please,” Jon said. “We don’t want any trouble, we just . . .”

A shotgun muzzle slid out from behind the screen door, aimed at Jon’s chest.

“We don’t like your kind in this parish,” she warned. “So if you don’t want to end up at the bottom of the swamp I suggest you take your sorry asses and get . . .”

Remy stepped in front of Jon.

“We don’t mean to cause you any problem, ma’am,” he said. At first he thought he might get shot, but gradually her expression began to soften, and she lowered her weapon.

“What the hell is one’a you doing with the likes of him?” she asked, disgusted by the idea of anyone—never mind an angel—being seen with a Son of Adam.

Jon bravely stepped out from behind Remy.

“Haven’t you felt it?” he asked her.

“Felt what?” she barked, the shotgun starting to rise again.

“You know what I mean,” Jon said. “We’ve all been feeling it . . . all of us who are of the blood.”

“I don’t know what you’re—”

“I see it in my dreams,” Jon interrupted. “A place so beautiful that I wake up with my face soaked with tears. It was supposed to be our home . . . where the first of us were to live with our families, and our family’s families . . . forever.”

Remy could see the woman’s eyes grow glassy with emotion. “But then there was the sin,” she mumbled.

Jon moved closer to the steps. “But what if there’s a chance that sin could be forgiven?” he proposed eagerly. “That all the hate we have for one another . . . all the guilt, could be made to go away?”

Tears were running down the woman’s leathery face as she stared at him from the doorway of the mobile home. “Why haven’t I shot you yet?” she asked, wiping away the tears with her free hand.

“Because you can sense that what I’m saying is true,” Jon replied. “That there’s a chance they can finally be forgiven.”

“What do you want from me?” she asked.

“There’s a house on stilts,” Jon said, gazing past the mobile home. “Out there in the swamp. I need to speak to the woman who lives there.”

The woman’s expression turned to one of surprise.

“What do you need her for? She’s crazy.”

“Aren’t we all?” Jon said with a soft smile, and the woman smiled as well, the urge to kill him no longer a priority.

Fernita’s poor old eyes blurred as she tried to focus on the latest row of foreign scribbles that adorned the wall of her living room, behind the sofa.

Remy’s friend was with her, trying to get her to stop, but he just didn’t understand. Wiping the markings away . . . it was like washing a window covered in thick dirt, and finally being able to see what was on the other side.

Some of the memories were horrible, yes, that was true, but others . . .

Others were special beyond words.

Louisiana: 1932

She didn’t know why the man with thinning black hair caught her eye the way he had, but there was just something about him.

Eliza had seen him out there in the audience every night for the last week, listening as she sang. Maybe it was the way he watched her, as if he could feel what she did as she sang her favorite songs.

The songs made her feel whole. Complete.

And it had been a very long time since she had felt complete.

No one knew how long she’d been hanging around this sad old world. She knew that she didn’t look to be any older than her mid-twenties, but looks were deceiving.

She was much, much older than that.

Her grandmother once told her it had something to do with their bloodline, that they were one of the first, and it made them age slower.

All Eliza knew was that she had experienced a lot of things in her life—war, slavery, freedom, of a sort—but nothing made her happier than singing her songs.

Her family hadn’t approved of her singing in clubs. They kept telling her that her voice was a gift from the Lord, and she should use it only on special occasions. But Eliza couldn’t understand that. Why would the Almighty have given her this gift if she wasn’t allowed to share it with everybody?

That was the question that made her leave her family, setting out for Louisiana in the middle of the night. That was why she was here, sharing her songs with everyone. But tonight, for some reason, she didn’t really didn’t care about everyone. Tonight she wanted to share her songs with only this man.

What is it about him?

She’d seen him talking to Melvin, but her boss didn’t seem to know who the stranger was. Just some guy coming to hear her sing, he’d guessed.

Still, she wanted to know, and decided she’d get what she needed from the horse itself.

He seemed surprised that she was even talking to him, and now as she stood before him, hand out, waiting for him to reply, she wasn’t sure if he was just rude or touched.

“I’m Pearly Gates,” he said finally, taking her hand in his.

The moment was special beyond words.

The moment that Eliza Swan fell in love.

Zophiel flew just above the sea of clouds, a shark swimming the ocean waters following the scent of blood.

One moment it was strong, taunting him with its proximity, and the next it was gone, driving him to the brink of madness.

But he did not stop searching; this was what he had come to this world to find.

What he had sworn to destroy.

It was there again, wafting in the atmosphere. He took the scent into his being. This time it was strong, and growing stronger.

His powerful wings, sheathed in the armor of God, beat the air with increasing fury, his speed intensifying as he followed the trail. The smell of it had become even more intense, his preternatural senses aroused to the brink of overload.

Zophiel was so close.

But he mustn’t become careless, for he had been this close before. . . .

The memory bubbled up from the morass of his subconscious, reminding him of his folly.

Zophiel had no recollection of how long he had been in the world of God’s man, or why, until he’d sensed the power.

It called, teasing him with its poisonous taint. He did not know why he hated it so, only that he had to destroy it.

Circling the land from above, the Cherubim found the source of his rage, and descended upon it with the combined shriek of his three faces.

He landed in a crouch before the fragile wooden structure, the scent of his prey driving him forward. A sentry and its faithful four-legged beast attempted to bar his way, the human firing a noisy weapon that spit fire and flecks of metal, but to little avail.

The Cherubim briefly admired the bravery of the human and his animal before turning the fires of Heaven upon their fragile forms, wiping away any evidence that they’d ever existed.