Alex Scarrow - October skies

Ben saw Keats push through to join the other Paiute, forcing their way forward. Their ferocious struggle had opened a gap in the loose tangle of people, standing warily back from their flickering blades. He called out for the others to follow him, but his voice was lost amidst the cacophony.

Bowen, McIntyre and their families had coalesced into one tight pack, fighting tooth and nail, back to back, doing their best to fend off the lashing blows of a taunting, goading circle of men and women and some of the older children.

Ben spotted Hussein and his extended family in an identical predicament, a few dozen yards away. He watched as Stolheim, one of the elders, aimed a pistol and knocked Hussein’s eldest son, Omar, down with a point-blank shot in the chest. Hussein screamed with grief and swung the butt of his musket, catching the old man squarely on the chin. As he dropped to his knees, dazed, Hussein’s meek and shy wife stepped forward and stove his head in with a mallet.

More of Preston’s folk joined the churning mass of people. The swirling limbs, the dancing flames, the sporadic flicker of muzzle flash made the scene look like some bizarre occult square dance.

And Preston amidst it all, screaming encouragement, goading his people on. But no disguise. Not that it mattered. Perhaps Preston realised it was no longer necessary to play the avenging angel; his people were ready to do whatever he asked of them now.

They’re all going to die.

Then a thought occurred to Ben — a promise that he felt like he’d made a lifetime ago; a promise to Sam. He looked away from the fighting, towards the far end of the clearing, and there he picked out the mound of the Dreytons’ shelter.

Emily.

This is God’s will?

He felt the angel stir in a quiet corner of his mind as he watched from the edge of the clearing. Bloodied women wrenched out the hair of other bloodied women; children punctured each other over and over with sharpened sticks, the snow darkening with sodden patches of freshly spilled blood.

No. It is Preston’s will.

The fight was beginning to wane now. There were as many people squirming in pain on the ground as left standing and locked in the ugly struggle. Cries of anger, grief, pain and fear filled the night.

They kill in God’s name, like trained dogs.

He ignored the angel for the moment, scanning the bodies, the squirming wounded, those still standing, recognising the faces, but no longer knowing them.

Curious… what people will do in His name.

He nodded, holding on firmly to the tree branch and looking down at the scene.

Yes.

A child squatted on the chest of a dead man, screaming and slashing repeatedly at the face with a hunting knife, leaving just a bloody chaotic pattern of fleshy ribbons.

There is hate in them all.

Yes.

Not like you. I see only good in you.

I hope so.

These could never have been the chosen people.

Why?

They are sick with a sin. It is a poison in them. It is in everything they do.

He was unsure what the angel meant.

You know the name of the sin. You have had to live amongst it, breathe it all of your life.

He nodded silently, beginning to understand.

It is this sin that defines these people.

Is it pride?

He sensed the angel approving his answer.

For believing themselves chosen… they are guilty of pride.

He nodded. Nephi was right.

You were always different from them.

I was?

That’s why I let you take me away from him.

Preston.

His mind jumped to a certain matter, pending.

Preston! You promised me him.

Yes. This you deserve.

His eyes picked the man out, loading a rifle as he urged his people onwards. Three of the savages remained alive along with the guide, Keats. They now decided the fight was up, turned, and fled for the trees. They passed right below the branch he was crouched upon; any one of them would have seen him if they’d chanced to look up.

Preston called out to several of his people nearby. ‘Don’t let them escape! They must all be purged from here!’ he screamed, leading the pursuit into the trees, followed by half a dozen men.

He is yours to do with as you wish.

Thank you.

1 November, 1856

Ben stepped lightly between the shelters, afraid that Preston might have thought to station one or two of his people as guards. But it seemed no one had been left behind, and he wondered whether he would find Emily left unsupervised, lost in her trance, unaware of the slaughter going on outside.

He made his way to the snow-buried hump of the Dreytons’ shelter, and squatted beside the low entrance, listening for the sound of anyone else inside. It was difficult to tell against the appalling sounds coming across the clearing. The hysterical cries of fighting had gone and now he could hear voices dotted around, voices that were starting to wail mournfully in the growing stillness.

He suspected the fervour Preston had whipped up prior to the fighting was at the point of being exhausted now. It occurred to him that Preston may well have induced such mania amongst them with the help of the medicine. Watered down and shared in a broth, Ben suspected its effect might have been enough to excite a certain tingling sense of euphoria amongst them. Preston’s powerful exhortation would have done the rest.

He wondered if some of them might start drifting back towards the camp, perhaps to pray. He decided there was no more time to waste on caution and pushed his way through the canvas flap.

Inside he heard a gasp, and by the weak light of a candle saw the wide-eyed, tear-stained face of Mrs Zimmerman, beside Emily. Her lips trembled with grief as much as surprise at his sudden intrusion.

She looked at him, panting heavily, the red rims of her eyes sore with grief.

‘Preston… he… he’s turned us all into m-murderers,’ she whispered between sobs.

Ben shook his head. He spoke softly ‘No, not all of you, Mrs Zimmerman.’

She sniffed and wiped her nose. ‘This place has… has become evil. I can feel the Devil out there.’

‘It has.’ Ben looked down at Emily. ‘I’ve come to take her away.’

She nodded. ‘Yes… yes, she must go with you. She can’t stay here.’

He squeezed up inside the shelter and gathered the girl in his arms. Emily murmured something drowsily and her eyes darted anxiously around for a moment before lapsing back into a vacant, torpid stare. Mrs Zimmerman reached out and stroked the girl once more.

‘Please, promise me you’ll keep her safe,’ she cried, fresh tears streaming down her cheeks. ‘She’s all I live for now. I have no one.. family…’

‘Then come with me,’ said Ben. ‘Help me with her.’

She stared at him uncertainly. ‘Where will you take her?’

‘I have no idea. All I know is we have to get away from here. You should come. Emily needs you.’

They could hear wailing outside, tormented grief and rage… tinged with madness. Her eyes met his uncertainly.

‘I’ve seen depictions of hell,’ said Ben, ‘painted by asylum inmates and great painters alike, and they are what I’ve seen outside.’

A distant piercing scream echoed from the woods.

‘If you stay here, Mrs Zimmerman, Preston’s madness will kill you and all the others. One way or another you will all die. He’s lost his mind.’ He placed a hand on her arm. ‘And I’ll need your help with her.’ Ben’s eyes met hers. ‘There’s nothing for you here, not any more.’

She looked around, still uncertain, biting her lip, agonising for the briefest moment. Then she nodded. ‘I’ll come.’

‘We must go now.’

Ben shuffled clumsily on his knees with the girl in his arms towards the entrance. He pushed the flap aside with his head and peered out. The fire in the middle was now beginning to dwindle and the circular barricade had collapsed in on itself, leaving a ring of glowing, sparking embers and languid flames. He could see silhouettes of people moving amongst the bodies. He hoped it was comfort being offered to those wounded or dying, but he suspected raw grief and rage was driving some to exact a cruel revenge on those not yet dead.