An Angel Unawares
Be not forgetful to entertain strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.
Hebrews 13:2
Chapter 1
The snowflakes grew in size as the afternoon wore on. By evening the snow was nearing a foot in depth and Mingo wasn't able to make as rapid a progress as he wished. He decided it would be best to find shelter rather than try and make the Boone's cabin, though he knew that Israel would be disappointed. Along a rock face he found a niche about eight feet in height and only five feet in width. Though not as ideal as a cave would be, it was too near dark to take a chance on finding one. Mingo spent the few minutes of daylight left gathering as many evergreen boughs as he could. With them he constructed a roof by wedging them into the niche where it narrowed about half way up, making a snug little triangular shelter.
Quickly he gathered an armload of firewood before it became too dark to see anything. He tapped the snow off the wood and ducked into the little shelter. With the cleft rock against his back he looked out onto the pristine white wilderness. The dark grayish-blue of the evening forest was etched with silver. It was so quiet that he could hear the soft clicking of the snowflakes as they fell against one another.
Smiling to himself at the winter wonders, he built a small fire toward the opening to his shelter. Indian-like he used as little fuel as possible, the flames dancing only a few inches above the seasoned wood. He leaned back against the limestone and chewed a piece of jerky, allowing his mind to wander through the forest to the Boone cabin.
Israel probably had his face pressed to an open crack in the door as he looked toward Chota. The family was expecting him today, wanting him to share in their Christmas celebration. As the years passed Mingo was growing better able to accept carols and traditions from his English past. The distance in time was easing the sharp pain that the season brought. New memories with the Boones were overlaying the old memories and Mingo was finding some peace with the celebrations that he had not found in his father's presence.
The years of sermons had made little headway into his heart, but now and then a passage or story struck a chord within him and stayed tucked down inside his heart. The Christmas story was one of those. Protective by nature, the thought of a laboring mother being turned aside to birth her child in a stable always brought forth feelings of outrage.
Sitting in his little rock shelter miles from anyone, Mingo allowed his mind to ponder the wonder of the story. As he sat silently he heard the sound of muffled wings as an owl swooped from one of the nearby trees. The falling snow continued to mask distant sounds.
Completely lost in thought, he did not know he had company until the old man was illuminated by his little fire. Startled, Mingo sat upright and grasped his knife, the reflex automatic. The stooped little man did not move but Mingo could see his eyes brightly reflecting the fire's light.
Recovering, Mingo gestured for the slight figure to enter his niche. Nodding in reply, the old man slipped silently to the space just to Mingo's left. The cold snowy scent that rose from the man's jacket permeated the small area, blending naturally with the fragrant pine boughs above. The two strangers looked at each other for several seconds, then Mingo slipped his knife back into its sheath.
"Welcome. I didn't expect to see anyone else out in this snowstorm. Please forgive my reaction."
"No offense taken, young man. It's always wise to be cautious. Man is not by nature a harmless creature."
Mingo sat pondering the old man's strange reply. Complete silence reigned in the little rocky refuge. After several minutes Mingo pulled out his tin cup. He scooted forward and filled it with snow, then placed it beside the fire to heat.
"You must be cold. I don't have any tea with me but we can at least have some hot water. I wasn't expecting to be out more than a few hours. The storm was stronger than I anticipated."
"Don't apologize. You're very thoughtful, youngster. I would like a hot drink." The man smiled, his strong white teeth gleaming in the firelight. Up close Mingo noticed that the man was strong and vigorous. He was not nearly as old as Mingo had first thought. He had no pack, and that discovery began to trouble Mingo's mind. What was an old man doing in the Kentucky wilderness on a cold snowy day without a pack? He had no weapon either. Keeping his eyes carefully diverted, Mingo stared into the fire, thinking.
The man's age was even more of a puzzle. His hair was white, but his face was unlined and his hands were strong. There was no sign of injury or wear in the joints as was common in old age. Through the thin cloth coat Mingo could see muscled arms. A feeling of unease began to grow in Mingo's mind. He leaned closer to the fire, stretched out his hands, and hoped that his action would be seen as non-threatening.
"You're trying to understand what I'm doing out here, and if I'm meaning you harm. Be at ease. I am just what I seem, an old man who's wandered too far from shelter on a snowy night." The old man's voice was low and musical, pleasing to the ear.
Mingo turned his head so quickly that his hair swung forward, nearly catching fire before he grabbed it out of the way. His dark eyes bored into the other man's for several seconds, the surprise plain in their expression.
The other man laughed softly. "I have the same effect on everyone. I know that I don't look my age. And I walk so quietly that people often think I've just appeared out of the air. But I assure you, son, I'm as solid as you are. Take my arm."
Mingo did as the old man demanded. The arm was solid. Mingo could feel the strong bone and firm muscle. He nodded and dropped his hand. The old man scooted closer to the little fire and held his hands over the flames.
"Would you like me to put more wood on the fire? I always build a small fire when I'm alone. My friends in Boonesborough frequently tease me about it. It's the Indian way."
"I'm fine, son. I know it's the Indian way to use as little as possible of the earth's bounty. You're a Cherokee, aren't you? I recognize the beadwork design on you coat and boots. You speak English very, very well. Better than the colonists in the area."
Mingo smiled and explained his education. He did not divulge any information about his father or the years spent in the darkness of London. In the silence that followed the two could hear a soft winter breeze beginning to slip through the trees. Mingo turned to his guest and extended his right hand.
"Please forgive my faulty manners. My name is Mingo, and I am pleased to meet you."
The old man smiled and took Mingo's strong hand. "I'm equally pleased to meet you. My name is Michael."
"How appropriate. I was just thinking of the nativity story from Luke. I'm to spend Christmas with my friends in Boonesborough. That's why I'm out in this storm."
"Oh? Tell me about them."
Mingo spent the next half hour regaling Michael with stories about the citizens of Boonesborough. Michael listened without interrupting, his eyes never leaving Mingo's firelit face. When he finished Mingo leaned over, grasped the cup of hot water, and extended it to his guest. Michael took a small sip, then handed the cup back to Mingo. Mingo likewise took a swallow and set the cup back near the fire. Another small stick stimulated the flames and the rocky slit glowed with warmth.
The winter breeze spun the fluffy snow before the little niche. Mingo and Michael watched, then Mingo leaned back and yawned. He apologized, but Michael returned the gesture.
"I suggest that we lean back and sleep until morning. I think there's enough wood to keep us warm until then." Mingo stifled another yawn as Michael nodded. Then both men leaned back against the rocks with their legs stretched on both sides of the little fire. The winter breeze played with the falling snow and the two men drifted into sleep.