October Skies (29 page)

He was dressed in ill-fitting clothes that appeared borrowed from another, better-nourished man, and with not a single possession in his hands. The Pilgrim, whoever he was, is a face this scribe will never forget.

When I asked this mysterious traveller where he was headed, his reply, dear reader, was one enigmatic word. A word that perhaps sums up the single-minded, dogged spirit and willpower of these brave, hardy folk.

He said to me, ‘Oregon.’

He then shuffled away from me, little more than a crow-scare in tattered clothes and not a single thing to call his own. I soon lost sight of him amongst the busy throng of traders and overlanders that fill our main thoroughfare on any given day of the week . . .

 

‘Oh my God,’ Rose whispered. ‘I think I’ve found him.’

 

Preston turned to Vander. ‘You saw it?’

He nodded. ‘Yes I did, William.’

‘For all his dirty sins,’ he said, lowering his voice. Outside, Preston could hear the muted voices of his people. They were gathered around the men that had returned, hearing various versions of what had been discovered. Uneasy rumours would be spreading amongst them, the men scaring their wives, their wives terrifying their children.

He was relieved that only he and Eric from their party had gone inside and seen poor Saul’s body. To some degree, it was better that the awful things done to him were not common knowledge. As only he and Eric had seen, he could control what his people were allowed to know.

Preston clamped his lips tightly and swallowed. ‘Someone knows.’

Eric nodded, ashen faced. ‘My God! What if it’s not one of our people?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘What if we’re being punished?’ Eric’s voice trembled. ‘What if He’s angry with us, William?’

‘What we did was His will. It was all wrong, his Church, all wrong. Our founder took something sacred and made a mockery of it. Joseph Smith should never have been led to it. It was right that he was killed. That, Eric, that was God’s anger right there.’

‘But we took them. They were not given to us!’

‘No . . . if the Lord hadn’t wished for me to take them, I would not have them with me now.’ Preston turned and nodded at the metal chest. ‘They’re here with me because He wishes that to be so. And Joseph Smith is dead, beaten to death by a mob, his church split amongst greedy rivals. Again, that would not be so unless the Lord wished it.’

Vander looked unconvinced.

‘We are the light, Eric. The good. Be certain of that. If this was not what God wanted, we would have known about it a long time ago.’

‘Then who killed Saul?’

‘Someone who knows.’

‘But who, other than Dorothy?’

Preston sat down heavily, wincing from the sharp tug on his bound wounds. He cast his mind back to the night before last.

 

Dorothy comes to me, enraged and heartbroken.

‘You took me in when I had no one,’ she cries. ‘I abandoned my faith for you.’

‘Dorothy, listen to me—’

‘I gave you my heart, my soul . . . my body. I gave you my children.’

‘Please, listen to—’

‘We trusted you. We trusted your message from God. You told lies, William. You told us lies! You led us away from God. You’ve led us here to this forsaken place . . . me, my children, and all the others.’

‘Why are you saying these things to me, Dorothy?’

‘Because in your sleep, it came out. The truth. One night after the next, fever made you tell the truth. Fever pushed the truth out of you, as it pushed sour liquid from your wounds. You and Saul and Eric, the three of you . . . are evil!’

‘Whatever I must have said was feverish nonsense.’

Dorothy shakes her head. ‘No, I . . . I’ve suspected some of these things before. Even punished myself for letting the Devil put doubts in my head. But you . . . you are doing what you claim our founder did - taking the words of God and making them your own!’

‘Dorothy!’

‘Your words . . . not God’s!’

 

‘William?’

Preston looked up at Eric. ‘Yes?’

‘If she knew, because of what she heard you say in your sleep . . . then who else might she have told?’

Preston shook his head. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps the important question should be who else might have heard me.’

‘Only Saul, Dorothy and myself sat with you.’ Vander turned to look at him. ‘And that doctor, Lambert.’

Preston took a deep breath and nodded slowly. ‘Yes . . . yes, he was with me a few times.’

Vander’s eyes widened. ‘Do you think he might have done this?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘But he would not know of your work. Our Book.’

Preston considered that for a moment. He had seen Lambert become close to Dorothy’s children over the last few months, particularly Samuel. The lad might have shared with Lambert what their mission was. He might have explained the Book of New Instruction. He might even have shown him a copy. It was possible that Dorothy went to Lambert and told him everything she suspected. But he couldn’t imagine the man killing with such ferocity and anger. He couldn’t imagine Lambert carving those letters into Hearst’s skin with the tip of a knife.

Preston looked up at Vander. ‘I sent Saul to reason with Dorothy not to upset the others with her doubts.’

Vander nodded. ‘Maybe Saul went too far?’

Preston shook his head gravely. ‘Perhaps.’

‘Dorothy could have undone everything with her doubts and suspicions. He must have decided he had no choice.’

Preston sighed. ‘Might be that is so.’

‘Is it possible, William, that Lambert came upon them dead and found Saul there . . . ready to deal with Emily.’

‘And killed him in anger?’

Preston nodded. It was a possible scenario, but one he could only imagine if some greater presence was at work.

‘Eric,’ he said after a few moments, ‘it is quite possible that the Devil is acting through this man to get to us. To stop our work.’

Vander trembled with fear, or rage, or both. ‘The Devil is all around us, isn’t he? He’s in Lambert, the others in that group, the savages out there . . .’

‘Yes, that’s what I sense. We have in that chest what the Devil fears the most: God’s true message waiting to be heard for the first time. And we will make His words known, one way or another.’

‘We should kill Lambert.’

‘No. I’ll not have any more blood shed. I would never have sent Saul if I had known he was going to take a knife to them.’

‘Maybe that was God’s will?’

Preston sighed. ‘I don’t know. I need to rest, and pray. God will talk to me tonight. We shall discuss this further in the morning. ’

Vander nodded. ‘All right.’ He turned to go. ‘Will you take some broth, William? Mrs Lester is cooking some on the campfire. ’

‘I’m not hungry. I just need some rest for now.’

‘As you wish.’

Vander pushed aside the drape and stepped out, letting in the flickering glow of the nearby campfire. The cloth flapped back down, shutting out the light and leaving Preston in the gloom of a single guttering oil lamp.

He settled back on his cot and reached for the ceramic flask tucked behind it. He pulled the stopper out and sighed with relief. He could feel the onset of trembling, a cold sweat and light-headedness, but he knew these unfortunate symptoms would be washed away with this last dose of Lambert’s medicine.

He drank the bitter tonic.

I must ask Lambert for some more tomorrow.

 

‘She’s unchanged?’

‘Yes,’ whispered Mrs Zimmerman, ‘she’s as she was. Not spoken a word, nor moved at all.’

Ben knelt down beside her. She was curled into a foetal ball, her knees pulled up, her hands clasped together between them and her chin, her blue eyes lost, some place far away. There were still dark spots and smudges of dried blood in the creases of her skin that had resisted being sponged away. He wondered how many of those dark flakes of blood had come from her mother and Sam.

Her long blonde hair was still clotted and tangled, although the dress she had worn yesterday, stained appallingly with the Indian’s blood, had been replaced with another. Mrs Zimmerman had done her best to wash the dark spatters from her face, leaving it clean but ghostly white.

‘My husband told me you found the others?’

‘Yes.’ He looked at her, wondering how much her husband had told her - probably she knew of the graves, but nothing about Mr Hearst. Clearly Preston didn’t want the awful scene to be relayed to the others. It would spread a dangerous panic amongst them, and more than likely distrust and enmity would be misdirected at Broken Wing.

‘They were all dead,’ he replied.

‘Was it the savages, do you think?’

No, of course it wasn’t. Indians don’t bury the dead. Nor are they likely to read and write.

‘I don’t think so,’ he replied. But that left him considering two very unsettling alternatives. Either it was something he couldn’t accept . . . something beyond science, something that belonged to a time of darkness and ignorance - something supernatural.

Or?

Or it was somebody from the camp.

He recalled the words inscribed into Hearst’s pale flesh.

‘Mrs Zimmerman?’

She looked up at him; her hand stopped stroking Emily’s hair.

‘Will you be with her tonight?’

‘Yes. I’ll stay with Emily as long as she needs me,’ she replied. ‘My husband and I have no children to care for now . . . not any more.’

The trace of bitterness in her voice was almost fully concealed, but still detectable and unmistakable. He could hardly imagine the pain of losing an only child - something far beyond any other kind of loss. He wondered whether, beneath her carefully contained, tight-lipped grief, she silently blamed someone for losing her little girl.

Her husband? Preston? Perhaps even God?

‘I’ll bid you goodnight. I shall come back in the morning to look in on her.’

Mrs Zimmerman nodded.

Ben reached out and stroked Emily’s face. Her eyes stared blankly ahead of her.

‘Goodnight, Emily,’ he said quietly.

 

From up here, I can see them all.

The camp is quiet. The sky has opened up and unleashed a silent flurry of heavy snowflakes that cascade and land without a noise. Down below, the communal campfires have been left to burn out, and all of them are tucked into their shelters, except four of them in two huddled pairs.

The night watch.

I see you, though. I see you, William Preston, in your shelter. What are you thinking now? Are you afraid yet? You should be.

Long before the snow melts, they will all know about you, William Preston. They will know that you are a pretender, a false prophet, a charlatan, a liar, a thief . . . and a murderer. And when they discover this, they will turn on you . . . for leading them to this. They will turn on you, and burn you like a witch.

An idea suddenly occurs. An ingenious way to torment Preston before this happens.

‘I’m coming down there tonight.’ The voice is nothing but a whisper.

‘I’m coming to take something from you.’