Alex Scarrow - October skies

‘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.

24 October, 1856

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.’

24 October, 1856

Why do you not speak to me?

Preston stirred uneasily on his cot, not quite asleep, but not awake.

Why? Everything I’ve done, I have done for you.

But neither God, nor his emissary, the angel, spoke.

He felt hot and restless beneath the layers of blankets over him, kicking them back in his restless half-sleep.

The angel would only come to those he trusted… those God trusted. A truth he knew. The words of God were so precious, so very fragile, so easily taken and corrupted by those with ambition, by those self-appointed to speak on His behalf. The Bible, written by a succession of men with selfish agendas — greedy men, arrogant men. The Book of Mormon written by Joseph Smith, a man who hungered to escape anonymity, to author his very own religion from nothing. The Torah, the Qu’ran… an endless procession of pretenders.

I’m not like these men. I don’t do this for myself. I do this for you, God. So that finally it is YOUR words that people will hear, not mine. Nor any other man’s.

The silence was deafening.

Something was wrong. That was why Nephi was not coming to him, to translate the language of angels to one that his humble human mind could comprehend. Something was keeping Nephi away.

Perhaps Vander was right. Perhaps it was the Devil keeping him away. There was evil all around them. The dirty-faced savages out amongst the trees; the others in the camp; amongst them a Catholic family, a Muslim family, a Negro with skin scorched by sin, Keats — profane, ugly, crude — and his Indian partner.

And Lambert, of course, an atheist who tried to insinuate his way into Dorothy’s family like a snake, whispering dirty lies to both Samuel and Emily.

His thoughts, disjointed and fleeting as they were, were abruptly halted by a powerful, certain knowledge that he was not alone in his temple. He thought he heard the whisper of movement beside his cot, something that stirred inside his metal chest. The soft squeak of unoiled hinges opening, the gentle clink of fragile bones.

‘Is that you?’ he muttered breathlessly in the dark. ‘Have you come?’

William.

The voice, a quiet whisper, materialised in the pitch-black emptiness just above his cot.

‘Nephi?’

Yes.

An overpowering, euphoric surge of relief pulsed through Preston. He felt dizzy and lightheaded. ‘Oh, thank the Lord… thank the Lord! I was afraid that I’d done something wrong.’ Preston sat up. ‘Are we to start God’s work this night? To translate his message from the scrolls?’

He sensed movement in the dark, the brush of something passing by.

No.

The answer confused him momentarily. ‘Then what are we to do first?’ he asked.

I am leaving you, William.

The words hung in the air before him, incomprehensible for a moment. Words he never expected to hear. ‘Leaving? But… but why?’

There was no reply.

‘Why?’

Preston felt another gentle draught of movement coming from the pitch-black space in front of him, and heard the soft tinkle of the bones in their canvas sack.

You disappoint me.

‘How? How do I… what have I done wrong?’ Preston cried.

The angel left the question unanswered.

‘What have I done wrong?’ Preston cried again, his voice raised, his sweat-damp cheeks moistened further with tears. He felt a sudden cold blast of air from outside, chilling his damp body.

‘No!’ he screamed. ‘No! PLEASE NO!’

He jerked on the cot, suddenly fully awake and trembling like a mongrel left outside on a frozen night. But he was lying down, not sitting up as he thought he had been, and covered once more with his blankets, cold and damp with his sweat.

Was I dreaming?

Preston realised that he must have been. But it had felt so real, so dreadfully, painfully real. He felt his heart pounding in his chest and a wave of relief wash over him. Just a dream, then — a nightmare, in fact. The angel hadn’t spoken to him after all. With that realisation there was disappointment, but it was more than compensated by the relief that he’d not been judged and found wanting.

He reached for some matches, struck one and lit the wick of the oil lamp that sat on a small wooden crate beside his cot. It caught, flickered and glowed softly, pushing the darkness back through the wind-teased flap and out into the cold night.

He turned in his cot, the wooden frame creaking with the weight of his body, to see the metal chest sitting wide open.

‘Oh… n-no… no,’ he whispered.

Wednesday

Fulham, London

Julian sat in what he was beginning to think of as the ‘waiting room’. Dr Thomas Griffith’s offices in Fulham consisted of a couple of rooms: his office and another, larger room in which his personal assistant sat behind a desk facing a sofa and a coffee table. Last time Julian had worked with him, his office had been a small study in his home.

The book was obviously doing well.

The phone had been answered at least four times since he had arrived and he half-listened to one-sided conversations whilst flicking through the Media pullout in today’s Times. From what he could hear there was a steady traffic of public appearance requests.