Several forms of misty light hovered over the slope, shedding their gentle luminescence on a scene of such beauty she stood among the trees rooted with wonder. Though her rescuer had denied he was an angel, surely heaven was here. From what other place could the creatures that inhabited this place have come? Though few of them had wings, all were in some way miraculous. A dozen or more that better resembled birds than men-beaked and shiny-eyed-stood communing beneath one of the spheres of light. Another clan, this at first glance dressed in scarlet silks, descended the slope with much ostentation, only to suddenly draw their brilliance into their bodies and hang in the air like skinned snakes.
Yet another group had torsos like fans that opened lavishly, exposing vast, pulsing hearts. Not every member of this assembly was so strange. Some were near enough men and women but for a color that passed through their skin, or a tail they trailed behind. Others were so tenuous that they were nearly phantoms, their passage leaving no mark upon the snow, while others still-these surely the cousins of her savior-seemed almost too solid in this place of spirit, brooding in the shadows of their wings, reluctant, it seemed, to even keep company with their fellows.
As to the creature that had unwittingly led her here, he was limping his way through the congregation towards a place at the top of the slope where a tent the color of the darkening sky had been pitched. She was of course instantly curious as to what wonder it contained. Did she dare leave the cover of the trees and follow him to find out? Why not? she reasoned. She had nothing to lose. Even if she were able to find her way back down the mountain to the wagons, Whitney would be there, with his rifle and his righteousness. Better to go where the creature and her curiosity led.
And now, another astonishment. Though she took her way out from the trees and up through the hundred or so gathered here, none made a move to question her or block her way. A few heads were turned in her direction, it was true, a few whispers exchanged of which she was surely the subject. But that was all. Among such strangenesses, her size and sickliness were apparently taken to be a glamor of their own.
As she climbed the thought occurred to her that perhaps this was a dream: that she had swooned on her father's chest, and would wake soon with his body cold beneath her. There were simple proofs against such doubts, however. First she pinched her arm, then she poked her tongue in the bad tooth at the back of her mouth. Both hurt, more than a little. She wasn't dreaming. Had she maybe lost her mind then, and was inventing these wonders the way travelers in the desert invented wells and fruit trees? No, that made no sense either. If these were comforts she'd created, where were her mother and her father; where were the tables laden with cake and milk?
Extraordinary as all these visions were, they were real. The lights, the families, the shimmering tent; all as real as Whitney and the wagons and the dead in their graves.
Thinking of what she'd left behind, she paused for a moment and looked back down the mountain. Night was drawing on swiftly, and the forest had receded into a misty darkness. She could see no sign of the wagons, nor were there any fires burning below. Either the snow had buried them all, or-more likely@ey had moved on towards the mountain while the blizzard's fury subsided, assuming she was lost.
So she was. Orphaned and wandering among strangers, countless miles from the place where she was born, she was as lost as any soul could be. But she felt no sadness at that thought (a prick, perhaps, knowing her father lay in the dark below, but no more). Instead she felt a kind of joy. She was of a tribe of one here; and if she was ever asked what manner of magic she carried to this sacred place, she would sit these miraculous folk down and tell them about Everville, street by street, square by square, and they would be astonished. Nor would she be lost, when she'd told her tale, because Everville was her true home, and she was as safe in its heart as it was in hers.
FIVE
It wasn't difficult for Whitney to convince those waiting back at the wagons that they should give up the O'Connell girl as lost and move on. Darkness was falling and Sturgis had already returned from the forest with babbled tales of a terror that had brutally dispatched Pottruck. It was still here, Whitney warned, and though its conjurer was dead, the creature's appetite for blood and souls would only become stronger as the night deepened. Besides, the storm had abated a little. This was God's way of thanking them for their part in O'Connell's dispatch; they should not scorn it.
Nobody-not even Marsha Winthrop-put up any argument against their departure. Whitney had graphically described the girl's abduction. It was unlikely she had survived.
Even though the snowfall had given way to mist, and the moon when it rose was round and bright, progress was exhausting, and after an hour of travel-with the fringes of forest a safe distance behind them-they made camp for the remainder of the night.
Whitney sang hymns as he lit the fire, raising his unmelodious voice to the glory of God, praising Him for leading them from Hell's dominion.
"The Lord has us in his hands," Whitney told the company between verses.
"Our journey is almost done."
At his suggestion, Everett Immendorf's widow, Ninnie, was charged to make a stew, its ingredients culled from the last of everyone's supply of vittles.
"It will be the last supper we will take along this dark road," Whitney said, "for tomorrow God will bring us into our promised land."
The stew was little more than gruel, but it warmed them as they sat huddled about the fire. Drinking it, they dared talk quietly of deliverance. And it was in the midst of this talk they had proof that Whitney had been right. As the flames began to die down, there came a sound from beyond the throw of the light: that of someone politely clearing their throat.
Sturgis-who had not stopped trembling since his return-was first to his feet, his gun drawn.
"No need of that," came a floating voice. "I'm here as a friend." Whitney rose to his feet. "Then show yourself, friend," he said.
The stranger did as he was invited, and sauntered into view. He was shorter than any man around the fire, but he carried himself with the easy gait of one who was seldom, if ever, crossed. The high collar of his fur coat was turned up, and he smiled out from its luxury as though the faces before him were those of well-fed friends, and he was coming to join them at a feast. Apart from the snow on his boots, there was no sign that he had exerted himself to reach this spot. Every detail was in place and bespoke a man of cultivation: waxed mustache, clipped beard, calf-skin gloves, silver-tipped cane.
There was not one among the group around the fire unmoved by his presence. Sheldon Sturgis felt a deep shame for his cowardice, certain that this man had never shit his pants in his life. Alvin Goodbue's stomach rebelled at, the powerful perfume the man wore, and he summarily ffimw up his portion of gruel. Its cook, Ninnie Immendorf, didn't even notice. She was too busy feeling thankful for her widowhood.
"Where'd you come from?" Marsha wanted to know.
"Up the pass," the stranger replied.
"Where's your wagon?" The man was amused by this. "I came on foot," he said. "It's no more than a mile or two down into the valley."
There were murmurs of joy and disbelief around the fire. "We're saved!" Cynthia Fisher sobbed. "Oh Lord in Heaven, we're saved!"
"You were right" Goodhue said to Whitney, "we were in God's hands tonight."
Whitney caught the twitch of a smile on the stranger's face. "This is indeed welcome news," he said. "May we know who you are?"
"No secret there," the man replied. "My name's Owen Buddenbaum. I came to meet with some friends of mine, but I don't see them among your company. I hope no harm has befallen them."
"We've lost a lot of good people," Sturgis said. "Who're you looking for?"
"Harmon O'Connell and his daughter," Buddenbaum replied. "Were they not with you?"
The smiles around the fire died. There were several seconds of uneasy silence, then Goodhue simply said: "They're dead."
Buddenbaum teased the glove off his left hand as he spoke, his voice betraying nothing. "Is that so?" he said.
"Yes it's so," Sturgis replied. "O'Connell-got lost on the mountain."
"And the child?"
"She went after him. It's like he says, they're both dead." Buddenbaum's bare hand went up to his mouth, and he nibbled on the nail of his thumb. There was at least one ring on every finger. On the middle digit, three. "I'm surprised-" he said.
:'At what?" Whitney replied.
'At God-fearing men and women leaving an innocent child to freeze to death," Buddenbaum replied. He shrugged. "Well, we do what we must do." He pulled his glove back on. "I'll take my leave of you."
"Wait," said Ninnie, "won't you have something to eat? We ain't got much, but-"
"Thank you, no."
"I got a little coffee tucked away," Sheldon said. "We could brew a cup."
:'You're very kind," Buddenbaum said. 'So stay," said Sheldon.
"Another time perhaps," Buddenbaurn replied. He scanned the group as he spoke. "I'm sure our paths will cross in the future," he said. "We go our many ways but the roads lead back and back, don't they? And of course we follow them. We have no choice."
"You could ride back down with us," Sheldon said.
"I'm not going back," came the reply. "I'm going up the mountain."
"You're out of you're mind," Marsha said with her customary plainness.
"You'll freeze up there."
"I have my coat and gloves," Buddenbaum replied, "And if a little child can survive the cold, I surely can."
"How many times-?" Goodhue began, but Whitney, who had taken a seat on the far side of the fire from Buddenbaum, and was studying the man through the smoke, hushed him.
"If he wants to go, let him," he said.
"Quite so," Buddenbaum replied. "Well-goodnight."
As he turned from the fire, however, Ninnie blurted out: "Trumpets."
Buddenbaurn looked back. "I beg your pardon?"
"We heard trumpets, up on the mountain@' She looked to her fellow travelers for support, but none offered a word. "At least, I did," she went on hesitantly, "I heard-"
"Trumpets."
"Yes.
"Strange. "Yes." She had lost all confidence in her story now. "Of course, it could have been... I don't know@' "Thunder," said Whitney.
"Thunder that sounds like trumpets? Well, there's a thing. I'll listen out for it." He directed a little smile at Ninnie. "I'm much obliged," he said, with such courtesy she thought she'd swoon. Then, without a further word, he turned his back upon the assembly and strode out of the firelight, and the darkness swallowed him whole.
All those gathered around the fire that night would survive the rest of the journey, and all in their fashion prosper. It was a brave time in the West, and in the years to come they would build and profit and procreate heroically, putting behind them the harm they'd suffered getting there. they would not speak of the dead, despite the promises they'd made. they would not seek out the bones of those ill-buried and see them laid to rest with better care. they would not mourn. they would not regret.
But they would remember. And of the incidents they'd conjure in the privacy of their parlors, this night, and the man who'd come visiting, would prove the most enduring.
Every time Sheldon Sturgis brewed a pot of coffee, he would think of Buddenbaum, and recall his shame. Every time Ninnie Immendorf had a suitor come knocking (and several did, for wives were hard to come by in those years, and Ninnie could cook a mean stew) she would go to the door praying it would not be Franklin or Charlie or Burk but Buddenbaum. Buddenbaum.
And every time the Reverend Whitney mounted his pulpit, and spoke to his parishioners about the workings of the Devil in the world, he would bring the man with the cane to mind, and his voice would fill with feeling and the congregation would shudder in their pews. It was as though the preacher had seen the Evil One face to face, people would say as they filed out, for he spoke not of a monster with the horns of a goat, but of a man fallen on hard times, stripped of his horses and his retinue, and wandering the world in search of children that had strayed from the fold.
Six By the time Maeve reached the top of the slope she had lost sight of her savior, and as there were no lights around the tent, it was hard to make out much about those who lingered in its vicinity. Part of her hoped not to encounter him, given that she'd cheated on her promise and followed him into the midst of this ceremony, but another part, the part nourished by his honey-blood, was willing to risk his are if she could know him better. Surely he wouldn't hurt her, she told herself, however angry he was. What was done was done. She'd seen the secrets.
All except for what lay inside the tent, of course, and she would soon put that to rights. There was a door a few yards from where she stood, but it was sealed, so she headed around to the side of the tent, where there was nobody to see, and pulled the fabric up out of the snow so that she could shimmy underneath.
Inside there was a silence so deep she almost feared to draw breath, and a darkness so profound it seemed to press against her face, like the hands of a blind man reading her flesh. She let it do so, fearing that she'd be removed if she rejected it, and after a few moments of scrutiny its touch became lighter, almost playful, and she felt the darkness coaxing her up from the ground and away from the wall. She was obliged to trust to it, but that was no great hardship. There was no peril here, of that she was certain, and as if in reward for her faith the darkness began to flower before her, bloom upon bloom opening as she approached. The darkness grew no lighter, but as she walked her eyes understood its subtleties better; saw forms and figures that she'd been blind to before. She was one of hundreds here, she realized, members of the families she'd seen in the snow outside, lucky or worthy enough to come into this sacred place. There were tears of bliss on some of their faces; smiles and reverence on others. A few even looked her way as she was led through the throng, but most were watching some sight the black blossoms had not yet shown her. Eager to know what wonder this was, she focused her attentions upon the mysterious air.