Alex Scarrow - October skies

Grace looked up at the ceiling of the store, trawling for some long-forgotten fireside tales from her youth.

‘What about Blue Valley?’ Rose asked. ‘There’ll be some sort of local archives in the town, right?’

She shrugged. ‘I s’pose. There’s a one-sheet free local newspaper that runs only during the holiday season. You know the deal: a few local-issue stories, some local flavour for the visitors, and a bunch of adverts. An old boy runs that pretty much on his own. Blue Valley Bugle, it’s called.’

Rose sipped her coffee again. ‘Do you know who?’

‘Yeah, Aaron Pohenz. He owns one of the motels in town. Valley Lodge. Know it?’

She nodded. It was a little further down the street from hers. Looked a lot nicer, too.

‘He’s got a printing press in the basement, does it all from there. You could start with him. I’m sure if he can’t give you any more details, least he can do is point you in the right direction.’

Rose made a note of the name, and then finished up the treacle-sweet brew in her mug. ‘Thanks, Grace, you’ve been a great help,’ she said and turned to go.

‘Hey, Rose.’

Rose turned back.

‘You told him yet?’

‘Told who… what?’

The old woman smiled knowingly. ‘How you feel.’

Rose felt her cheeks colour. ‘I… you’re talking about Jules?’

Grace nodded. ‘You know, it’s pretty obvious, even to an old stick like me.’

Oh shit, am I really that obvious?

‘Tell him,’ she said. ‘There was a man I once let go without sayin’ a thing. Long time ago. Hell, he probably would’ve said no. On the other hand’ — she looked out of the store window at the wooded peaks — ‘might have said yes.’

Rose felt her cheeks flush. ‘Oh, you’re mistaken, Grace. There’s nothing between me and Jules; we’re work-mates is all. Seriously, that’s all. He’s not my type — too old.’

Grace studied her and then shrugged. ‘Oops, I’m sorry. I thought I detected a little chemistry there.’

Rose managed a smile. ‘Nope, no chemistry.’

She bid farewell and closed the door behind her, heading back across the deserted camp site towards the road leading back into town. A fresh breeze played with her hair and sent a chill down her neck as she cast a glance around at the empty cabins and the sail dinghies lined up on trailers parked a few yards away from the lake’s edge. Their nylon halyards clattered against the masts with a rhythmic tapping.

13 October, 1856

James Lock lived for three days. I was surprised he lasted that long — the wounding to his head was so severe. The bite crushed the right-hand side of his face and skull, destroying an eye in the process. It would have been merciful for him and his family if the bear had bitten down that much harder and finished the poor man then and there.

Preston, however, appears more promising. There were a series of deep lacerations around his waist, requiring that I sew them closed. My fear is that fever will set in. I cleansed the wounds as best I could with alcohol, and checked that the claws had not proceeded any deeper than opening his skin and had not damaged his organs. It does appear that he was lucky not to have suffered a greater injury. Nonetheless, only time will tell whether the wounds were properly cleaned.

I have been tending to Preston within their church. It is perhaps a tribute to how much I am trusted, or more likely, how much they value him, that I’m allowed in there. These people of Preston’s seem completely lost without him, unable to make the simplest decisions. He seems to be their compass in many ways. Without him they are directionless and frightened. Each time I approach their temple there is always a gathering of people outside the entrance eagerly enquiring as to his condition.

Despite my earlier reservations about the man, I have to admit to admiring his strength and courage standing between his people and the bear armed with nothing more than a stick, whilst I recall myself trembling with fear and rooted to the ground. I envy a man who can stand firm in the face of terror and not yield.

Sitting in their church, I feel I have a clearer understanding about how the affairs of these people are run. Preston has a council, a Quorum of Elders, amongst whom decisions are made. Senior amongst them are two men: Eric Vander and Saul Hearst. It seems whilst Preston remains incapacitated, these two have assumed responsibility for running things on their side of the camp.

Neither man, however, seems to command the same kind of respect and reverence that is freely given to Preston.

Ben leaned over and felt his forehead.

‘Fever?’ asked Dorothy Dreyton.

‘A slight one,’ he replied. Preston’s face felt hot and damp with sweat. He was in a restless sleep, stirring and murmuring.

‘Will he live, Mr Lambert?’

‘He’s strong, I’ll say that for him. A very strong and fit man.’

‘But?’

Ben offered her a tired smile. ‘But, there is infection in his wounds. His body will fight it as best it can.’

Mrs Dreyton’s face crumpled with poorly contained grief. ‘We would be lost without him. I… would be lost without him.’

She stroked one of his hands affectionately. ‘He’s our saviour, in so many ways.’

Ben studied her genuine fondness for him. Absolute devotion. He suspected she would happily surrender her life in a heartbeat, if it would guarantee saving his. And by the look of concern etched on the faces of those gathered outside in a night and day vigil, so would any number of them.

‘How has he saved you?’

She looked at him with an expression halfway between hostility and bemusement. ‘How? From following the wrong path, a path that would have led us to darkness and desolation. Like so many others of our church.’

‘Mormons?’

She nodded. ‘We departed from that faith, as we departed Council Bluffs. The message from God was corrupted by greedy men, who even now are fighting for control of the Mormon faith.’ She looked at Preston, lying still and breathing deeply. ‘William warned us that the faith was all wrong. That it would eventually turn on itself. God told him directly.’

He looked at her.

‘Oh, yes. William talks with God. He does so… through Nephi.’

‘Nephi? Who’s that?’

Dorothy closed her mouth. But her eyes momentarily darted to a metal chest lying beyond Preston’s cot.

‘He talks with God directly,’ she said again. ‘There are no other holy men who can honestly say that.’

‘But doesn’t every preacher say that?’

‘Only William does for real,’ she replied with a whisper. ‘Actually hears His voice. I would surrender everything just to hear what he hears.’ She stroked his face. ‘He’s so special.’

They sat in silence for a while, listening to the mournful gusting wind play with the flap of material over the entrance.

‘Why has Preston led you out west?’

She sighed. ‘We couldn’t stay in Council Bluffs. We had to leave everything behind. A storm is coming.’

‘A storm?’

She looked at him and gently smiled. ‘Perhaps being with us, there’ll be mercy for you. You’ll be safe.’

Ben shook his head. ‘I’m not sure I understand.’

‘A judgement is coming. A judgement on this wicked world. William says it will soon be upon us, and the earth will be swept clean so that God might start over.’

‘God will destroy everything?’

‘Only the people. His creatures need no cleansing.’

‘Everyone?’

She nodded sadly. ‘I grieve for the many people with good hearts who will die. But it’s necessary. William was told this, and that we must make ready for it. There is work for him to do,’ Dorothy whispered, glancing once more at the metal chest. ‘Please, Mr Lambert