Alex Scarrow - October skies

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.

His eyes picked out nothing. And then he heard the crack of a branch; its brittle snap echoed through the mist. Beyond the edge of the clearing, in amongst the trees, something was moving.

‘Do you see anything?’ he whispered.

Hussein shook his head. ‘Not see nothing now.’

He wished Keats was standing alongside them, charmless and vulgar with his revolting snorting and spitting, but unflinchingly steady with his gun. Even the rancid smell of his cheap tobacco seemed vaguely reassuring.

He heard more movement, further along to their right.

‘Did you hear that?’

Hussein nodded silently.

Something’s moving out there. Circling the camp.

He brought his gun up again, shouldering the butt and continuing to search for a ghostly outline of movement beyond its long barrel. Directly, he could pick out nothing, but then his peripheral vision detected the faintest flicker of movement to the right. He swung his aim in that direction, and for the briefest moment thought he saw the faint silhouette of some tall, lumbering, tusked or horned creature moving slowly between the trees.

Then it was gone.

‘Oh my God, did you see it?’ he hissed through clenched teeth.

‘See nothing.’

‘I thought I saw…’

Thought you saw what, exactly?

‘Damn… I don’t know what I saw.’

There was another crack of a branch, louder and closer — much closer, perhaps only a dozen yards away. Hussein grunted some foreign curse under his breath and his aim swung round towards where the noise had come from.

‘Is near,’ he said.

Then Ben caught an outline again, a darker smudge of grey that was moving directly towards them. His eyes struggled to discern the shape, but it very quickly became distinct. It looked vaguely crucifix-like — a short vertical and a longer horizontal cross bar that drooped and flapped as if broken in several places.

Ben lined his aim up on the thing and gently applied pressure to the trigger. With a clack the hammer came down. The percussion cap ignited, sending a puff of acrid blue smoke and a shower of sparks towards his face. A mere fraction of a second later, the weapon boomed deafeningly, punching his shoulder hard as it kicked upwards, obscuring his target with a thick pall of powder smoke.

As the smoke cleared and the shot echoed off the trees around the camp, he realised Keats was standing right next to him holding the end of his barrel up and to one side.

‘What?’

The old man called out a sharp challenge in the harsh, percussive language Ben now recognised as Ute. There was no immediate reply. As the last tendrils of smoke from his gun drifted up and out of sight, he noticed that the dark cross-shaped smudge remained before him.

It stood perfectly still now.

He noticed another dark smudge to the right of it, and another.

Keats called out again. And this time, after a moment’s hesitation, a reply echoed back, a young man’s voice with the brittle sound of fear in it. There was another, much longer reply from someone further away. Keats listened with his head cocked, and then replied.

He turned to Hussein and Ben. ‘Lower your guns. Them Indians we met last week? They’re comin’ in.’