The Last Pilgrims (3 page)

Phillip nodded to the assembled Vallenses
and greeted them individually as he made his way through the
gathered throng to where Jonathan had risen from his seat. Phillip
and the Vallensian pastor embraced as old friends ought, and
Jonathan clasped Phillip’s arm and back as he guided his guest into
a seat of honor at the head of a long trestle table carved
exquisitely by Vallensian hand out of the reddest Mesquite
wood.

“Welcome Phillip, and may God’s grace, mercy
and protection be upon you and your people,” Jonathan intoned,
almost sadly.

“And upon you all,” Phillip replied. “It was
not our plan to disturb you today, or to interfere with your
business in any way. However, it seems that the attack on the post
rider—if that is indeed what it was—has altered our plans.”

“It was God’s will.” Jonathan stated
plainly, and all of the Vallenses nodded their agreement.

“Then it seems that God has also willed that
you face your attacker, because my men caught up with the Aztlani
assassin. He had not fled very far. He was captured as he stopped
to rest by Mud Creek and was taken into custody.” Phillip dropped
his head and fiddled with his hat, which he had removed upon
entering the pub. “If this had been merely an assassination attempt
upon your person, Jonathan, we would have already dealt with him
according to our own justice. He’d be dead, and we’d be gone. But
it seems that an attack on a simple post rider, when the leader of
the Vallensian people is only steps away, requires that we spend
some time questioning the man.” Phillip glanced around the room
before adding, almost as an afterthought, “He surrendered
peacefully enough.”

“Where is he?” Jonathan asked.

“My men are holding him just outside of the
village. We wanted your permission to bring him in, since he is
bound and in our custody.”

“If he is not armed, will you untie him and
bring him here?”

“No, brother,” Phillip replied seriously,
“we will allow you to
assist us
in questioning him, but only
if he remains bound. If you don’t agree, we will take our leave and
deal with him in our own way.”

Jonathan looked up into the dark oaken
rafters before closing his eyes in thought. After a pause, he
nodded to Phillip. “Given that you leave me no choice, I request
that you bring him,” Jonathan sighed, shaking his head, “with the
understanding that the man may not be killed or harmed while he is
on our soil.” The Vallensian men whispered among themselves, some
indicating disagreement, while others nodded solemnly.

Phillip nodded to one of his men who was
standing outside the open window watching the proceedings. The man
signaled to an unseen compatriot and, moments later, the assassin
appeared at the door of the pub, in the very effective control of
three of Phillip’s armed soldiers.

A rush of activity ensued. Tables were
moved, chairs were stacked along the walls to provide the observers
a better view, and an area for questioning was cleared near the
center of the pub. David Wall provided a chair for the Aztlani
prisoner, and, for the longest time, there was silence, as the men
in the room quietly debated how to conduct the proceedings. After
much shuffling and whispering, Jonathan rose and approached the
bound man.

“I am Jonathan Wall, Pastor to the
Vallenses. We welcome you, in these unhappy circumstances, to our
village. We pray that no harm comes to you here.” Jonathan paused
to collect his thoughts. “We would like to know of your mission,
and of your intentions. We would like to know why you have attacked
us, as we are a peaceful people, and why your government seeks to
do us evil when we strive only towards good.” Jonathan paused again
before continuing, “But let me tell you a bit about the situation
you face, so you do not try to deceive us.” Jonathan approached the
prisoner and crouched down before him, “We have not bound you.
These soldiers are not with us. They are not part of us. They don’t
care for your life or your soul. It is most probable that, barring
some divine intervention, you
will
die today. If you lie to
me, we will all know it, and your fate will be sealed by your own
hand. Know also that it will be an act of suicide, which we do not
believe God forgives. If, however, you are killed today by these
men, against our will and your own, after you have dealt honestly
with us and have provided us with the answers we seek,” Jonathan
paused a moment for effect, looking over to Phillip then back to
the assassin, “your death will be a murder, and will be on the head
of another. I desire to help you, not hurt you, regardless of your
aims or intentions.”

With that, Jonathan stood up and began to
pace back and forth before the prisoner. “Here is where I am
confused, so perhaps you can help me… First, you are a single
assassin, and clearly very capable. You infiltrated many miles
behind the military lines of very able and wary militiamen. You are
obviously skilled and trusted by those who sent you. Yet, your shot
missed the target as if by intent. It was evidently not blocked or
deflected in any way. My fourteen-year-old daughter could have made
that shot, and successfully too. I cannot fathom how an assassin
could have missed that shot.” Jonathan stopped for a minute, and
then scratched his head. “Second. Given that you were able to sneak
through the lines of the freemen militia, it is incomprehensible
that you would not use the same precautions on your return journey.
Instead, you took your sweet time, and were captured out in the
open, resting by a creek. That makes it seem, at least to me, that
you wanted to get caught. Why?”

The men in the pub began to whisper to each
other excitedly. Obviously, these were the factors that most of
them—even the men who had been there during the attack—had not
considered. Jonathan continued…

“Third. Your arrow was obviously that of
Aztlani military. It was readily identifiable. If your intention
was to kill either the post rider, or me, by using an Aztlani
arrow, you would have openly announced the belligerent intentions
of New Rome to deal murderously with us. Such a foolish action
could prompt many neutral people, and even some among ourselves, to
join the likes of Phillip in their fight against the Aztlani army.”
Jonathan looked around the room, silently indicating that he
recognized that many of them privately hoped to join the battle
against Aztlan. “Your actions betray you, my friend, and they make
me wonder what your true intentions are. Come now! Intentionally
missed shot? Using an Aztlani arrow? Then you just saunter on down
to the creek and wait there to be captured? Tell us! What’s your
game?”

“He is a spy, sent here to infiltrate us!”
David exclaimed, pulling on the sleeve of his father.

“Let’s ask him. If he is as smart as he
appears to be, he will not lie to us, given the implications I
outlined for him,” Jonathan retorted calmly. “Are you a spy, sir?
Are you here to infiltrate our peaceful people? What did you hope
to learn?”

The assassin was clearly nervous, but not to
the extent that would be expected under the circumstances. It
seemed to Jonathan that all of his actions had led their captive to
this moment. He knew what he was doing. He was a short man, but
athletic and strong. His black curly hair was in stark and ironic
contrast to the very short, almost military hairstyle of the
pacifistic Vallensian men. All of the men, both militia and
Vallensian, wore beards. The time when men spent hours grooming and
shaving their faces and bodies had long passed. He was young,
probably a
middling
like David, who was born five years
before the collapse; and the Assassin had obviously been trained in
military tactics, probably in some Aztlani school. His voice was
steady as he addressed Jonathan. “I am not a spy, but I have been
trained as an assassin. I did miss on purpose, and I did use the
Aztlani arrow intentionally to signal that purpose to you, sir. My
target, at least by orders given to me by my superiors in El Paso,
was the post rider and not yourself. The Duke, and the King for
that matter, would never assassinate you, Mr. Wall, at least not
based on the current situation. You are as safe against Aztlani
violence as any man could be. The Duke ordered that the post rider
be killed, and preferably in your presence. Your letter was never
to reach the King of the South States.”

The fact that the Duke, over 500 miles away
in El Paso, knew of his letter disturbed him not a little, but it
was not time to go on a mole hunt.

“You were to kill the post rider, but it is
evident that you missed on purpose.” Jonathan asked.

“I did”

“Why is that?”

“To warn you, sir,” the assassin replied,
his eyes staring intently at the Vallensian leader.

“To warn me of what?”

“Of war, sir.”

As the word slipped out of his mouth, a
blood-curdling scream froze everyone in the room. The tension had
been so thick that it had the men—Vallensian and non-Vallensian
alike—hanging on every word. The scream came from the throat of one
of the Vallensian men, a farmer, and seemed to paralyze all who
were present, including Phillip’s guards, which seemed to be its
intent. As the man moved forward, he brought forth a dagger that
had been hidden in his belt, covered by his Vallensian vest. In a
split second, he struck the bound assassin.

Almost instantaneously, the sword of Phillip
the Ghost flew from its sheath, the finely honed blade slicing
soundlessly through the neck of the farmer Ronald Getz. Getz fell
to the floor, bleeding profusely from the gaping wound in his
throat. He bled out in seconds.

Jonathan, who had barely had time to flinch,
stared at the still twitching Vallensian farmer whose blood soaked
into the plank floor. His glance then followed slowly upward until
it settled on the Aztlani assassin. The farmer’s dagger had missed
its mark and the hilt of the knife stuck out of the man’s shoulder.
He was clearly in pain, and appeared shocked, gasping for air, as
Vallensian men and Phillip’s soldiers alike rushed to him.

The eyes of Jonathan the Pastor and Phillip
the warrior met as blood dripped from the tip of the sword of the
Ghost.

Gareth stirred in his
large Vallensian bed. It was an unattractive but comfortable one,
consisting of a hand-stuffed mattress of rough woven cotton, amply
filled with goose down, and possibly cotton, wool, or whatever else
was soft and near at hand. The bed frame was made of tall, gnarled,
hand-hewn mesquite posts, serviceably fitted together with oaken
pegs. The bed stood quite high off the ground to take advantage of
any cool breeze that might flow in through the windows. Handmade
mosquito netting hung over the posts at the head of the bed, ready
to be draped over all four posts at night, when the windows were
all opened to let in the June night air. The mattress rested on
ropes drawn very tightly through holes drilled through the frame.
Overall, it was a nice bed, Gareth thought.

The heat was constant, but
bearable. Jonathan Wall had designed his house to remain as cool as
possible throughout the summer. This part of the house was built
mostly below ground level, with only 3 or 4 feet extending above
the ground where windows brought in breezes and carried out the
heat. In portions of the house—according to Wally the
cook—underground “pipes” hundreds of feet long brought in cool air,
just like air-conditioning, only without any electrical power. Even
in blistering heat, the Wall house remained quite comfortable.
Still, for the 25-year-old Gareth, raised at nearly 7,000 feet in
the mountains of Aztlan, terms like ‘hot’ and ‘cool’ were certainly
relative.

Outside the window, the
ground fell sharply and he could see that the fields on the other
side of the drive were ripe for harvest. He watched as the wind
made waves in the golden wheat that flowed on for several thousand
yards before crashing uneventfully into a pecan orchard. The sky
was as blue as any he had ever seen, even in the clear air of the
mountains, and unspotted by any clouds whatsoever.

A sharp pain shot through
his body as he tried to twist his torso so he could get a better
look out of the window. The wound to his shoulder was healing
slowly, but he knew that it would take time before the pain
subsided. The injury had been severe, but non-lethal. The infection
that set in after only a day in custody was what had nearly killed
him.

Jonathan and his family
attacked Gareth’s infection very aggressively, using dozens of
anti-bacterial and anti-viral herbal remedies, including large
doses of fresh, spicy garlic, ginger, goldenseal, echinacea, sage,
peppermint, thyme, cayenne, and aloe.

The most effective cure,
though, to his delight, was copious amounts of beer brewed
according to the most ancient traditions. Wally informed him that
beer, when brewed naturally—according to the recipes used by the
ancient Nubians, Hebrews, and Egyptians—created
tetracycline
in the human
body
—
a powerful
broad-spectrum antibiotic. This fact was discovered in the last
decade of the 20th century when archeologists and scientists
detected tetracycline in the bones of mummies dating back 3,000
years, and concluded after much investigation that the tetracycline
was a byproduct of natural beer production. Subsequently, many
historians and scientists concluded that naturally fermented beer
was likely responsible for halting many of the plagues that
devastated Europe during and after the Middle Ages.

It seems that when
Europeans stopped drinking the infected water from filthy rivers,
which were infested with deadly bacteria, and started drinking
naturally fermented beer, the plagues were stayed and the
populations of Europe stopped decreasing. Even babies and children
were given beer instead of water and their mortality rates
plummeted. In this way, beer had likely saved the world. As for
Gareth—he was mainly just glad that beer had saved
him
. Jonathan had
promised him that after he had recuperated sufficiently, if it were
possible, he would show him how beer was brewed at the Wall’s
ranch.