The Redemption of Preacher Emmanuel Jennings

2019

THE REDEMPTION OF PREACHER EMMANUEL JENNINGS

By: WinDoMWRITER

CHAPTER  1  CONCRETE AND IRON

Chapter  2  PENNIES FROM HEAVEN

Chapter  3  LOST IN THE WILDERNESS

Chapter  4  KING OF THE VALLEY

Chapter  5  TRIAL OF THE DAMNED

Chapter  6  BINGO’S REVENGE

Chapter  7  DRIVEN TO THE EDGE

Chapter  8  THE SIXTH COMMANDMENT

Chapter  9  THE FLOWING WATERS OF REDEMPTION

Chapter  10  FOLLOWING THE SIGNS

Chapter  11  THE FINAL CHAPTER (((((THE EAGLE SOARS)))))

AUTHORS NOTES: LETTER TO THE READER 

XXXXX ANY USE OR DUPLICATION OF THIS COPYWRITED MATERIAL WITHOUT THE WRITTEN PERMISSION OF – WDMWRITER – IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED.  XXXXX

THE REDEMPTION OF PREACHER EMMANUEL JENNINGS

By: WinDoMWRITER

IT WAS YOU, exclaimed the old man. He wasn’t one of God’s creatures in need of assistance, just the lowest of animals. Instantly recognizing the son of Satan, a constant barrage of scripture spewed out of the preacher’s mouth. 

Do not be deceived: God cannot be mocked. A man reaps what he sows. The one who sows to please his sinful nature will reap destruction. For by your words you will be acquitted and by your words you will be condemned. *

Once used to carve initials into a tree, a razor sharp knife was about to become an instrument of hate and not love. Tempted by the taste of revenge, the old man’s eyes only saw the justification of striking out.  

His targets weakened body was no match against someone consumed by anger and vengeance. The pain in the man’s already throbbing knee paled in comparison to the blade now stuck in his stomach. Driven hard and deep, each new intrusion radiated from his depths.

After repeated thrusts of the instrument of death, he moved closer and closer to the fires of hell. At the same time, each brought his avenger nearer to his own demise. No longer able to fight off the assault, his legs buckled. His mortally wounded body fell to the ground.

His cries of agony were drowned out by words of retribution. The look in his eyes showed signs the end was near. As ruby red blood poured from multiple wounds mixed with the dirt beneath him.

As the old man slowly regained his sanity, he could only stand there in disbelief. His body began to violently shake, when the depths of despair suddenly engulfed him. Overcome with shame and desolation, he raised his hands to the heavens, and let out one long, loud scream. 

Filled with a sudden fear of abandonment, he turned and began to walk toward the steeple in the distance. The pace of his step turned to a panic-stricken run as devastation and sorrow overwhelmed his entire being. A pounding heart and expanding lungs mercilessly showered him with distressing pain.

The burden of what he had done became heavier and heavier. The load he was now forced to carry felt like the weight of the cross his savior once bore. Weak and feeling faint, the victor of vengeance tumbled to the ground. It didn’t come from the intoxicating poison of the bottle, but the drunkenness of bereavement.

With his beloved St. Mary’s within sight he struggled to regain his footing. A few yards further the unbearable heartache from the loss of God’s love brought him down to the dirt for a second time.

When he reached the church, he pushed opened the solid wooden doors of the chapel. As he did, a sudden, sharp pain brought him to his knees for the third time.

He drew on the last ounce of strength to reach the holy altar as he crawled, the last fourteen steps to the elevated platform. With bowed head, and raised arms; he stood behind the ornate table for the last time. A truly remorseful man begged his God for forgiveness, and a chance at redemption.

"O’ Lord who saves me, day and night I cry out before you. May my prayers come before you; turn your ears to my cry. For my soul is full of trouble and my life draws near an end.

I am set apart with the dead, like the slain who lie in the grave whom you remember no more, who are cut off from your care. Your wrath lies heavily upon me; you have overwhelmed me with all your waves.

You have taken from me my closest friends and have made me repulsive to them. I am confined and cannot escape; my eyes are dim with grief." *

When he raised his head, he saw the open-blade knife staining the holy cloth on the table of the Lord. Horrified by the sight of the devil’s tool in front of him, he picked up the dagger of death, and heaved it from its spot.

As if it too were looking to be cleansed, it landed in the baptismal font, and dropped to the depths of the pool. While it fell to the bottom, another sharp, shooting jolt struck his heart. Pulling his hand to his chest, his grief-stricken organ began to fail. Under the always-shining cross of his savior, he collapsed to the floor, and expired.

ANOTHER PLACE AND TIME. . .

CHAPTER 1

CONCRETE AND IRON

THE COLOR ON THE WALLS of confinement was the shade of a seaman’s brush. The dimly lit corridor was void of adornments, except for a circular clock. Its long narrow arms behind its own cage not only added to the hour, it marked another day of captivity.

A man sits on a metal-framed bunk. His eyes fixated on a single object. The framed photo of a young girl rested on a small, concrete ledge in his cell.

Taken years ago, it showed her sitting atop a horse. She had short blonde hair, a radiant smile, and eyes that sparkled like stars. He was imprisoned for avenging her honor and the family name, yet without hesitation or remorse, he would do what he did again.

Rotting away in this hell hole close to twenty-five years now, the fires of freedom were extinguished long ago. He often wished his sentence would have been metered out like the early days of the Wyoming territory. At least a hangman’s noose was swift and final.

Many a man turned in to an aging relic of who they were. His own hair had thinned, and white stubble covered his unshaven face. A once youthful face now looked worn and aged; the muscular body of a hard working ranch hand had long since faded away. 

This place was filled with men from every walk of life. They came from small towns, the mean streets of the city, and everywhere in between. Collectively, inhabitants of these confines broke every law of man and most of God’s. Found guilty by the justice system, the time had come to pay their debts to a society that demanded payment.

Regardless of the path that led them here, they all had one thing in common. Everyone in this place searched for a way to cope inside this man-made purgatory. In their own way, each man tried to find an escape from the world he now found himself in.

A simple mark etched on a cell wall was a reminder of one more day survived. To others, each X became a countdown to the day they would finally be free.

There were those who found release in the corners, and shadows of a fantasyland. Readily available, a pill or a needle would sedate their senses. To the addicted, it was better to be high on an artificial crutch, than to walk among the reality of the confined.

Some inmates pledged a new allegiance to a merciful God. They gathered around the teachings of the Lord, like they had a direct line to the Almighty himself. Perhaps, he could forgive them for the wrongs man could not.

Bingo long ago rejected the notion that some holy deity was in charge of one’s fate. Even years of constant harping by his Bible-toting grandfather landed on deaf ears. He had no use for unproven passages then, and even less now 

The guards in this place marked their territory like dogs taking a crap. A deranged group of misfits, do-gooders, and deviants – if not for a twist of fate, they could have easily found themselves on the other side of these bars. The meanest of the bunch was a man they called Boot Camp Bill. His nightstick had cracked many a skull and busted plenty of ribs.

He ran his ward like the drill sergeant he must have once been. To him the inmates were nothing more than another band of conscripts for him to abuse. They were no longer treated like men, only two-legged animals who occupied a cell.

His whistle could often be heard echoing through the cellblock. Its high-pitched whine usually signaled some poor bastard was about to find himself in solitary confinement. If there was a hell on earth, this man was the gatekeeper.

Half-hearted attempts by the state to rehabilitate prisoners were given up long ago. Instead, it turned to the doctrine of deterrence and force to control the nonconformists among the prison population. Flogging had been outlawed at the turn of the century, so the powers that be created an even more sadistic style of punishment.

Bingo learned first-hand about Bill, shortly after his arrival. The-then youthful inmate defied the head jailer’s commands, and paid the price for doing so. The unexpected blunt end of a billy alongside his head knocked his defiance across the room, and introduced him to the top dog in this pound.

Still dazed by Boot Camps demonstration of deterrence, Bingo was being led to the end of a dark, disserted corridor. The place was known by all as the Hole.

As if escaping from itself, the odor of stale and stagnant air rushed out from behind the now open heavy metal door. Pushed inside, he quickly learned the place had its own dank and disgusting smell of sweat and urine.

The cells in this dark, cramped underground vault weren’t much larger than a closet. Its height was such a man of average stature couldn’t stand fully erect. An old, thin mattress covered in fleas and feces covered a portion of the floor. 

Located in the inner sanctum of the prison compound, the only true purpose of this place was to beat down a man’s resistance. Those forced to endure inside these concrete coffins believed they were constructed to confine the physical body. This basement bastion was also intended to create a state of mental submission.

For inmates who required more restraint, heavy metal cuffs were shackled around their ankles. The other end of the chain was bolted to the wall. To a man of color, it must have been the ultimate reminder of his ancestry. No matter one’s race; this box was made to enslave its occupant. 

When the door slammed shut behind him, Bingo found himself in a world of pitch-black darkness. Large enough for a meal tray and nothing more, only a few strands of light pierced through a narrow slit. As his eyes acclimated to the dark, images on the walls joined him in his isolation.

Put there by men who came before him, the cement blocks were filled with artistic etchings and demons. Created by the lost and cursed, the illusions of serpents and figurines cast a spell upon your conscious mind.

At times, the rays shining through the crack gave the impression the simple stick figures and elaborate drawings were alive. Each image jumped from the wall, into your unsuspecting brain. Once inside, they churned the thoughts and emotions of their captive audience of one.

After a few days, the physical discomfort began to take its toll. From the excruciating pain of a body’s cramping muscles, to the constant bite of the cuff around your leg, its sadistic power only grew worse.

The only sign of other human existence were the screams of distressed men with their wails of want. Peering out from behind iron doors the true suffering came from the pain of isolation.

The temperature inside these vaults, baked you like an oven during the day, and chilled you with its cold at night. Such a combination of heat, cold, darkness and delusion, could easily be the breaking point of any human being.

Bingo feared no man in this jungle of juveniles and junkies, but even the toughest men behind these walls coward at the thought of days spent behind those closed doors. A steer only takes so many pokes of a cattle prod to change its attitude and direction, and after several stays in isolation, Bingo changed his.

Those serving their remaining years in prison were a fraternity of men convicted of the most heinous of crimes. Time spent in prison moved slower than tree sap and a life sentence lasted an eternity.

Few inmates messed with a man who lost his freedom for the rest of his natural born life. All the muscle, or macho they might possess, was no match against someone who had nothing more to lose. 

When new meat was introduced to the cellblock, the lifers anted up smokes or candy bars as currency. They wagered whether or not the virgin inmates would make it to the end of their sentence. This entire place was not unlike the lives free men lived in a world where the strong devours