October Skies (53 page)

We’re safe from them now.

Mrs Zimmerman stirred and shuddered with the cold. ‘Thank goodness,’ she muttered, her trembling lips almost blue.

Ben turned to look down inside the poncho at Emily, nestled between them, her head resting on Mrs Zimmerman’s ample chest. Her small frame shivered in an inadequate cotton dress, her breath rattled and chattered, the occasional unintelligible murmur stealing past her lips. Her eyes were closed. She was sleeping.

‘The Devil came to our c-camp last night,’ said Mrs Zimmerman. ‘He came into our camp and turned people - people I’ve known for years - into demons.’

Ben shook his head. ‘It was fear that did that.’ He turned to look at her - a stocky, ruddy-faced woman of middle years, her skin chapped and sore with the cold. ‘That’s all. Fear of the unknown. ’

Ben looked out from the nook they’d found between two spurs of rock. The snow covered rocky, uneven ground that sloped downhill towards a tree-filled gulch. Beyond that, an uninterrupted carpet of woodland shrouded the way they had come during the night. From one small valley, they had stumbled into the next.

They were sheltered here from the sporadic gusts of ice-cold wind. That was good for now.

‘It was Preston,’ he whispered.

‘Preston?’

He nodded. ‘I saw his handiwork. He crafted some disguise out of animal bones and skulls. He wore this disguise and I’m almost certain it was he who killed Vander, Hearst, Sam and his mother.’

‘No.’

The voice came from inside the poncho.

Emily spoke.

‘Dear Lord . . . Emily?’ gasped Mrs Zimmerman. She pushed aside the woollen cover and looked down at the girl’s pale face, stroking her hair aside. ‘Emily?’ She turned to Ben. ‘God be praised, I thought she would never speak again.’

He hunched over to look closely at her. ‘Emily,’ he said. ‘It’s Benjamin here.’

The girl’s eyes remained closed and her breathing even. She seemed to be still asleep.

‘Emily? Can you hear me?’

Beneath her parchment-thin skin, her eyes moved back and forth, following the progress of some horrendous scene being played out again. Her dry lips twitched and parted. ‘Angel . . . an angel,’ she muttered sleepily.

‘Emily? It’s Ben. Can you hear me?’

‘. . . killing Momma . . . Sam . . . he’s killing Momma!’

Her voice faded into a sleepy nonsensical drone, and then she was silent.

‘She’s coming back to us,’ Mrs Zimmerman said, a tear trickling down a crimson-blotched cheek. ‘Thank the Lord,’ she cried quietly. ‘She’s finding her way home.’

‘I’ll thank the Lord, Mrs Zimmerman, when we make it down from these mountains and find our way home.’

‘We will, won’t we?’ she asked.

He managed a confident nod. ‘Of course we will.’

 

Later on, the sky broke up into a mixed chequerboard of heavy clouds and fleeting strips of blue sky that mercifully permitted the respite of the sun’s warming rays through every now and then. They made some faltering progress westward and through a treacherous rocky pass that led down into a much broader valley. Ben wondered if this was the pass Keats had been taking them towards, the pass he’d assured them was his self-discovered shortcut through the peaks - the shortcut he hoped would one day bear his name.

Keats Pass.

The snow-covered hillside sloped gently down through a continuing canopy of firs towards the distant glinting ribbon of a river that snaked gracefully along the valley floor.

Ben felt his heart lift at the sight of it. The river pointed their way out of the mountains, flowing downhill and westward, hopefully leading them towards somebody else; a trapper’s cabin, the winter stop-over of an Indian tribe, the moored resting place of a river-raft, piled high with beaver pelts . . . perhaps even the crudely constructed homestead of a hardy family of settlers. The river was going to lead them eventually to someone.

By midday they had shambled their way down to a flat shingle bank overlooking the surging flow of fresh water, and Ben, confident they had travelled further than they were likely to be pursued, dug away a space in the snow and set about building a fire around which the three of them now gratefully huddled.

Emily stared wide-eyed at the flickering flames dancing around the crackling wood, the thick smoke of pine needles and moist bark slowly catching. She was humming a tune to herself, a hymn.

‘Little by little, she’s coming back to us.’ Mrs Zimmerman smiled.

Ben nodded. For now, though, his mind was on the gnawing tightness in his belly. There was food to be had amongst the trees, he was sure, if only he knew how to find it, catch it and kill it.

‘I have to eat,’ he said, rocking gently to take his mind off the discomfort. ‘Preston denied our people any of the oxen after we took in those Indians. We’ve been living off packing oats and whatever they could forage for us.’

Mrs Zimmerman shook her head, ashamed. ‘I’m so sorry.’ ‘He was trying to make us leave.’ He looked at her. ‘We should have.’

The kindness of a fleeting blue sky had deserted them once more as a seamless grey blanket of cloud rolled over. They had the fire though, and enough firewood.

‘At least we won’t freeze tonight, eh?’ he said cheerfully. ‘It’ll be better than last night was for us.’

Mrs Zimmerman was about to reply when they heard the rustle of movement amongst the trees. Their eyes met.

‘You hear that?’

She nodded and Ben jumped to his feet. They heard it again. It was not the gentle rustle and dart of a startled animal they’d heard, but the steadily approaching noise of careless feet.

‘Oh please, no,’ he muttered under his breath.

There was no hiding out here on this snow-dusted frozen bank of shingle and silt. They were trapped. He looked down at the fire, and up at the twisting column of smoke, curling languidly up into the sky.

Stupid. We led Preston right to us.

Mrs Zimmerman came to the same conclusion. ‘Please!’ she called out, ‘William Preston, it’s Ellie Zimmerman here! Please don’t hurt us!’

The noise was increasing, picking up pace.

‘Mr Lambert’s been very kind, caring for us!’ she called out again. ‘He’s been very kind. Please, don’t hurt him!’

They heard the crack of a branch snapping, and briar roughly trampled beneath hasty feet - almost certainly the sound of more than one person moving through the trees towards them.

Ben pulled a branch from the fire, one end smouldering and smoking, and held it before him. Then he caught sight of some movement; a man . . . two men . . . weaving their way through coarse undergrowth in the darkness beneath the trees, stooping beneath the low, heavy branches of a squat fir tree, emerging, blinking, into the daylight.

‘Oh God . . .’ Ben whispered.

 

Shepherd reached into the metal chest and placed his hand gently on the faded cotton sack, feeling the hard metal plates through the perished material. The dents and grooves on their surface reminded him of braille. His fingers tingled as he felt the subtle contours of ornate curls.

This is the language of angels.

He puffed out a cloud of air and felt momentarily dizzy from the exhilaration of it all.

‘You okay, Mr Shepherd?’

Shepherd looked up to see the sturdy outline of Carl squatting beside the shallow ditch.

‘I’m fine, Carl.’

‘This is what you came for?’

Shepherd nodded.

Carl looked over his shoulder at the tents in the distance. ‘I should warn you, the others are stirring now. It’s gone seven.’

Shepherd’s mind was elsewhere. ‘Thank you,’ he answered absent-mindedly, as his fingers gently grasped hold of the threadbare cotton. He delicately lifted the bag out of the chest, warily holding one hand beneath it in case the frail bag ripped and dropped its precious contents.

‘Could you open that for me?’ he said, nodding towards a reinforced aluminium travel case on the ground beside him. Carl flipped the latches on the side and opened it, revealing a layer of black cushioning foam. Shepherd gently rested the tattered cotton sack inside.

‘Can I see?’ asked Carl, studying the bag with a puzzled expression on his face.

Shepherd nodded as he carefully opened the bag to reveal a glimpse of the tablets. They were each roughly the size of a sheet of foolscap - copper sheets, green with corrosion and richly textured with rows of indented glyphs.

‘That’s really the word of God?’ he asked.

‘You sound disappointed.’

‘I guess I expected the word of God to look more . . .’

‘Important?’

Carl nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘That’s why I know this is genuine, Carl. The Lord speaks with the quietest whisper, not a shrill cry. If this were a shimmering golden tablet, I would be sceptical.’

The man considered that. ‘I guess you’re right.’

Shepherd turned back to the dark metal chest in the ground. Carefully he reached in and pulled out another tattered canvas sack. From within came the soft clink of fragile bones.

‘What’s that?’

‘The remains of an angel, Carl.’

The man looked at him. ‘An . . . an angel?’

Shepherd smiled. ‘That’s right, a real angel, one of God’s own. These tablets are written in a language that you or I would never understand - the language of angels.’ Shepherd gently placed the sack alongside the other in the case. ‘This angel is called Nephi, and when I’m ready to transcribe these tablets, he’ll appear to me in the flesh and read to me so that I can write it down.’

Carl’s eyes widened. ‘My God, Mr Shepherd,’ he whispered, ‘this . . . this is for real, isn’t it?’

Shepherd placed a reassuring hand on his arm. ‘Oh yes, Carl, this is the real deal.’

He closed the lid of the travel case.

Carl glanced back at the tents, leaned forward slightly and whispered. ‘Mr Shepherd, they’re up now.’

Shepherd stretched up to look out of the shallow ditch he’d excavated. He could see Cooke ambling casually towards them across the clearing, yawning out a cloud of breath as he made his way over, and the park ranger, Grace, heading into the trees to forage for some firewood.

You have it now.

Yes.

They are no longer needed.

The voice in his head was just a little louder than earlier, a little more insistent, as if it had emerged from a dark corner at the back of his mind and moved a step or two towards the front. Shepherd hesitated. There was something implied in what it had whispered.

Would that be necessary?

The voice was quiet for a moment.

I have what we both want now. There’s no need for anyone else to die.

Do not be weak.

It’s not weakness. It’s common sense. We don’t need any more bodies, not with what lies ahead for us. You understand the importance of my campaign? The potential to be President . . . how that can help us spread the new word of God?

There was no reply. Shepherd sensed it stirring, distracted with thought. Perhaps he could argue it round. Is this what God wants? For us to start work on his message with blood freshly on our hands?

Shepherd sensed the simmering heat of anger, disapproval somewhere amongst the dark recesses of his mind.

I wonder, have I chosen wisely?

Yes, you have.

Then do as I say.

Carl was watching him. ‘Mr Shepherd? You okay?’

Shepherd looked up at him, his eyes barely registering the man. He stood up slowly, feeling an ache in his back from having crouched for too long, and watched as Cooke covered the last few yards towards them with a look of growing curiosity on his face.

‘Morning,’ Julian called out, approaching the edge of the ditch. ‘You’ve started already? We’ve not even had breakfast.’

Shepherd offered him a tired smile. ‘Yes . . . yes, I wanted to . . . uh, make a start.’

Julian looked down into the dark trench and spotted the open metal chest. His eyes instantly widened. He looked around at the faint outline of a much larger shelter than the others and instantly realised that this was the ‘temple’ Lambert had frequently mentioned in his journal.

‘Shit!’ He looked at Shepherd. ‘Is that Preston’s . . . ?’

‘Yes,’ he replied evenly, ‘I believe it is. Preston’s belongings. ’

Julian shook his head. ‘How the hell did you find it so easily?’

‘I prayed,’ Shepherd shrugged and offered a hazy smile, ‘and the Lord showed me the way.’

Julian grinned. ‘Well, however you managed it, this is fantastic. You know, having read through Lambert’s journal last week, and reading about this’ - he pointed to the ditch, the nubs of dark rotten wood poking through the soil and moss - ‘. . . and here it is!’

‘Yes.’ Shepherd replied dully.