October Skies (33 page)

‘Julian?’

‘Yeah?’

‘It gets better.’

Better or . . . weirder?

Rose didn’t like the fact that the story was beginning to get to her.

‘How so?’

‘I’m almost certain one of the Preston party emerged from the hills,’ she said.

‘What?’

‘I’ve been following up on some of the Blue Valley folklore. There’s an account of a survivor who emerged the spring after Lambert’s diary entries, emaciated, at death’s door, and quite out of his mind by the sound of it. ’

‘Who?’

‘Well, that’s the mystery. It was a man. They called him the Rag Man. He never gave a name. They nursed him back onto his feet and he left Blue Valley early April 1857. Then I picked up his trail in a town called Fort Casey, about forty miles north-west, where he attracted some attention. He entered the town and a curious reporter tried to collar him for an interview.’

She read the article to Julian.

‘That’s really quite weird,’ he said.

‘Isn’t it?’

‘But how can we be sure it’s someone from the Preston party?’

‘We can’t. But Blue Valley, Pelorsky’s Farm, was well off the beaten track for emigrants. The only people back then that they encountered were trappers and traders and occasional Indians. It’s too big a coincidence that a starving white man emerged from the mountains a few months after those people got caught by the snow, don’t you think?’

‘Hmm.’

‘And that article was dated mid-April. So it would fit the timescale of someone making forty miles westward on foot.’

‘You know, having a mysterious survivor emerge from the mountains and into enigmatic obscurity would really add a lot to our story.’

‘It certainly would,’ she replied.

‘Whoever it was.’

‘Yeah.’

‘If that person survived . . . what if that man had children?’

‘It would be one helluva coup to track down a descendant and interview him or her.’

‘Yes,’ said Julian. ‘Look, we’ve got quite a few names from Lambert’s journal: Keats, Weyland, Preston, Bowen, Larkin, Zimmerman, Stolz, Stolheim . . . to name just a few. It would be worth a shot, if you’re up for it, to comb through the archived press of the time, like you did in Fort Casey.’

‘That’ll be like looking for a needle in a haystack.’

‘Maybe. But we could filter this down a bit. If this Rag Man was headed north-west, there were only a few destinations for him back then, weren’t there? I mean, you had Portland, Astoria and Fort Vancouver. None of those settlements would have been that big back then, perhaps only a few thousand. If we ran all the names mentioned in Lambert’s journal through their local press archives, their parish records, we might get a hit.’

‘True.’

‘And I’ll help you with this, as soon as I join you out there. Meantime, I’m going to follow Preston’s trail. I mentioned to you there’s a guy out there on the internet who’s set up a page on Preston?’

‘Yeah, I saw your mail.’

‘There’s an email address on his page. I’m going to see if we can squeeze him for some detail.’

‘Be careful, Jules,’ Rose blurted.

‘Uh?’

‘Well, you know, don’t sound too interested. Who knows? It might be another journalist who’s on the same story.’

Julian chuckled. ‘I’ll be sure to sound extremely casual about everything.’

Then the conversation came to an unexpected halt. This time Rose stepped in. ‘So when are you coming back?’

‘I booked a flight back on Friday. We should arrange with Grace to have another visit up to the site. See what other bits and pieces we can dig up.’

‘She won’t like it if I say it like that.’

‘Well, obviously we’re not going to run a JCB across the place - just a little trowel work, that’s all. Actually, having read most of the journal, I think I understand the layout of that clearing. I think it’d be a cinch, for example, to locate Preston’s shelter.’

‘Yes?’

‘And’ - Julian let slip a nervous chuckle - ‘who knows what crazy stuff we’ll find if we do, hmm?’

Rose shuddered. ‘Spooky stuff.’

‘Oh, that’s for sure.’

 

He listened to the howling wind outside, knowing that it was bringing with it many inches of snow that would be covering the entrance to the shelter. But it was a warm shelter, so much better than the hastily erected lean-tos down the hillside in the clearing. A good place from which to do work.

Yes.

A good place to become something more. He looked around at the tools hanging from lumber nail hooks; sharp tools, unused for many decades. On the floor beneath them nestled an ancient-looking flintlock weapon, from another time, perhaps even a previous century - no good to anyone now. The tools, however, he could use.

You are strong.

The voice inside him made him shiver with delight.

I hope so.

He looked down at the canvas sack of bones; daring to pull open the threaded mouth of the bag, he glimpsed the small cluster of dark-coloured, almost black bones inside.

You came to me.

Yes. I chose you. The other was wicked.

Preston.

You are a good man.

I try so hard to be.

He resumed his work with the sharp tools - the dry brittle scrape of metal on dry bone. Rasp . . . rasp . . . rasp.

You will help me?

I will.

We can help each other, can’t we?

Yes.

He resumed his work, shards of bone gathering on the dry earth floor at his feet - his work at becoming.

 

It has been some days since the split. I am losing track of how many days now. I think I might be wrong on today’s date, but how would I know?

We are like two tribes now, warily regarding each other across a rapidly diminishing island of ox meat. The others will no longer take Keats’s supervision on the sharing of the meat. They help themselves too readily to what’s there, and even I can see that this store of food will be exhausted long before the snow clears.

Keats and Broken Wing have attempted to forage for additional food, but there is little that one can feed on during the winter.

What we fear now is that the others will decide not to share the oxen any longer. That surely is a matter of certainty.

 

Ben shuddered with the cold seeping relentlessly through his poncho, seeping into and tightening his fingers so that it made holding his pen difficult.

 

We are posting our own guards now, as much to keep an eye on the others as to keep an eye on the woods. I share the early watch this morning with Mr Hussein.

He studied the stocky brown-skinned man standing next to him and staring out into the featureless misty grey before them. Ben found him to be an interesting man, from an exotic world far away. Through the still, early hours of the morning they had talked in quiet whispers, as long a conversation as Ben had yet had with the man. Hussein told him how he and his family had travelled here from Persia to discover for themselves this new world. They had come, he said, because several years ago, Hussein had read a book about the war with the British and had read a translation of the Declaration of Independence in Arabic. The words had proven so powerful and so moving to him that he resolved, then and there, to sell his businesses and home, gather his family and come to this faraway place that promised freedom and tolerance for all, regardless of creed or colour.

Ben was curious about Hussein’s faith. It was a religion of which he knew precious little. Hussein had shown him a small, beautifully decorated book, his Qu’ran, and told him of the articles of faith, the pillars of Islam. Listening to the man describe his faith, it occurred to him how practical it sounded compared with the doom and gloom of sermons he’d heard from so many school chapels that harked back to a medieval past of bloodshed and brimstone; depictions of hell and demons and raging fires stoked to sear the souls of those not worthy enough of God’s dominion.

By contrast, Mr Hussein’s description of his faith sounded refreshingly forgiving, peaceful, tolerant. Perhaps the thing he was most taken aback by was the profound elevation of women as almost sacred, to be protected and revered.

Ben closed his journal and tucked it away into his satchel. ‘Tell me, do you believe the Devil is out there?’ he asked quietly.

Hussein’s eyes remained on the wall of mist as he considered the question. ‘My book, tell of many evil. The most evil is Shaitan. But I believe is much more evil, is more haram in hearts of men,’ he replied, talking quietly. He turned to look at Ben. ‘And you?’

Ben looked out at the mist, managing only to detect the faint outlines of the tree tops surrounding them. ‘I don’t believe in such things, Mr Hussein.’ The image of Hearst’s gutted, suspended body flickered across his mind. ‘But yes, I think I believe an almost limitless evil can dwell in the hearts of men.’

‘You are think, is man did those thing? Kill woman and boy?’

He shrugged, unwilling to speak aloud the tangle of suspicions and thoughts in his head. Preston truly frightened him. There was a chilling ruthlessness in the man’s eyes on his last visit. And yet he struggled to imagine the same man, who’d been prepared to place himself between his people and the bear, being able to kill his own so brutally.

His own son, Sam, and Dorothy, his lover.

None of it made sense to him.

‘I honestly don’t know,’ he replied and looked at him. ‘I can’t believe in a Devil. I just don’t. But perhaps the evil we carry in our hearts, if it’s strong, if there’s enough of it, can take some sort of physical form?’ Ben shrugged. It sounded unconvincing even as he gave words to the thought. ‘It’s just an idea.’

Hussein’s eyes narrowed as he briefly struggled to make sense of what he’d said. ‘I see.’ He nodded after a few moments, considering the idea. ‘Shaitan is the haram of heart of man - evil in our heart?’

Ben nodded. ‘Perhaps.’

Hussein’s eyes suddenly widened. Ben thought that the man had a further thought on the subject, but then Hussein swiftly raised his gun and pointed.

‘Look!’ he said, a finger jabbing out of the camp towards the blank and pale wall of freezing mist before them.

Ben turned to look at where he was pointing and saw absolutely nothing. ‘What is it?’

‘I see . . . moving.’

Ben scooped up his musket, placed the weather-worn butt against his shoulder, slipped a percussion cap in place and cocked it. Then he continued to study the formless mist in the direction the man was pointing.

‘Are you sure?’ he whispered.

‘Yes.’

They watched and waited in silence. The only sounds Ben could hear were the thumping of his heart and the fluttering rustle of his breath. The mist was a deadening blanket wrapped around the woods, killing every natural sound beneath its weight. He only hoped the freezing moisture in the air hadn’t percolated down the barrel and dampened the compacted charge of powder inside.