has traveled, he will forever be reminded that Our Lord blesses his life daily.”
Owen leaned heavily on the railing. He wanted, very much, to believe Rathfield was a fraud. In Restraint, Makepeace had similarly given his testimony about the bear who attacked him and the Lord healing him. That had shifted attitudes toward them. He wanted to assume that Rathfield, having studied Makepeace’s performance, sought to duplicate it here.
He would have been happy to think ill of Rathfield, but the man’s voice had rung with sincerity. The story’s details seemed largely consistent with versions he’d heard before. Catherine had regaled him with several retellings. And Rathfield’s humility came through so strongly that Owen found himself disarmed by it. The man might be arrogance personified on the trail-and had been so in Wisdom and Contentment-but here he shrank back.
Hodge and Makepeace descended to join the congregation in thanking Rathfield and resetting the main floor. Owen, shaking his head, looked at Nathaniel. “What do you think?”
The lean man shifted his shoulders. “Seems as like he tells a good story. I reckon if he did what he said he did, it would be easy for men to call him a hero.”
“Little doubt of that. I seem to recall that troops found him half dead in de Toron’s headquarters. They expected him to die and someone even sent a dispatch back to the main army reporting his death. His wife took the shock badly and never recovered. I believe my wife said she died several months later-and hinted she may have taken her own life.”
Nathaniel leaned his hip against the rail. “That so.”
“If you choose to believe gossip.” Owen smiled. “So do you believe what you just heard?”
“When exactly did this here battle take place?”
“16–17 July, 1765.”
Nathaniel frowned. “Well, I reckon things must have unfolded pretty much as he said, what with other folks being around to save him after, but I do believe I’ll puzzle about one thing for a mite.”
“Yes?”
“He amembers praying in a puddle of moonlight, which makes a powerful image, specially on a night like this.” Nathaniel shook his head. “Fact is, however, mid-July two years ago, weren’t no moon in the sky that night.”
The call to supper precluded Owen thinking too much about Nathaniel’s revelation. He couldn’t be certain if the people of Plentiful regularly set such a wonderful table, did it in honor of their visit, or simply in recompense for the venison. Shepherd Faith had said fare might be meager, but Owen found it generous by most any standard-and he’d eaten often at Prince Vlad’s table. Even Count von Metternin praised the meal, comparing it to the best he’d ever eaten on the Continent.
Venison stew formed the central portion of the meal, with some potatoes and beans added in. The Virtuans hadn’t used any spices in the stew. Not only would they be expensive and difficult to obtain, but they might prove to excite the blood more than was good for a healthy spiritual life. Maple sugar sweetened the baked beans. Honey had been whipped into butter and then spread on bread and biscuits, which were proof enough to Owen that there was a God and that Heaven would be a place of many delights. Pickled beans and cucumbers rounded things out, and apple pies finished them off.
All of the travelers restrained themselves. They lingered over their food, knowing it would be a long while before they’d likely enjoy such a meal. Makepeace commented about stopping back through as they returned, and Owen was willing to grant the wisdom of that idea.
Over supper they got a chance to speak with Shepherd Faith about other settlements in the area. He had nothing bad to say about the people of Wisdom, but said he didn’t know much about any other settlements. “Trappers come through and talk. There are valleys in the mountains, so there may be smaller settlements from elsewhere.”
Makepeace leaned forward. “Going on four-five year ago, I heard tell of a man was leading a flock out here. Was going to establish the City of God. Said he’d had a revelation.”
Faith’s face closed down. “The Simonites. We don’t hold with the True Oriental Church of the Lord.”
Owen’s eyes narrowed. “What do you know of them? Do they call their settlement Postsylvania?”
“They are heretics. They claim that when Our Lord gave his apostle Peter the new name Simon, it was a clue to a mystery in the Good Book. They say he is one in the same with the sorcerer Simon Magus. They claim that magick is not the gift of God, but the gift of becoming God. They point to the Books of Acts and how the Apostles were able to perform the same miracles as Our Lord, and how many magicks are able to imitate the miracles. They claim that great magick and glory awaits them across the mountains. Whether or not they call their holdings Postsylvania, I do not know, but I will tell you this: the men and women that have come this way looking for them have been anything but virtuous.”
“You think they are out there?”
“Not think, Captain, know.” Shepherd Faith sighed. “We are simple people. We pray for the Lord’s Blessing every day. We also pray for His Justice, and for Him to smite His enemies. We can feel it, Captain, the blight upon the earth. It is out there. Beware if you seek it, and linger not long. Our Lord will rain down cleansing fire and you, most assuredly, do not wish to be consumed.”
The people of Plentiful spent the Sabbath in quiet contemplation of all things Godly and glorious. Owen and the others kept to themselves and spent much of the time sleeping. The journey inland had been tiring, and moving into the mountains would make the trip more difficult. Not wishing to upset their hosts by resuming their work on Sunday seemed a good excuse to recover.
On Monday morning they packed up their gear and prepared to leave. Nathaniel chopped more wood, Count von Metternin managed to repair a broken spinning wheel, and Hodge put a keen edge on every scythe in the loft. The residents prepared small packages of dried sausage, cheese, and bread to take with them. Rathfield bade them keep the deerskin and Owen gave Shepherd Faith’s wife a small packet of needles from Temperance-a gift which was very well received.
Its reception brought a smile to Owen’s face. Bethany Frost had suggested it and Owen availed himself of her wisdom. Bethany had nursed Owen back to health after his escape from Anvil Lake, and had done a splendid job of editing his book. Because of Catherine’s jealousy, Owen usually refrained from meeting with Bethany outside of group affairs, but she’d managed to get him alone in Temperance before the expedition departed.
He thanked her for the gift of the needles. “What can I do for you in return?”
The beautiful young woman had smiled warmly, then averted her eyes downward. “In return, you will return and let me read your journal of the expedition. Just like last time.”
He had agreed and faithfully recorded most details of the trip. He thought about including Nathaniel’s comment concerning Rathfield’s story, but held off. He was certain Nathaniel was right and knew Prince Vlad could confirm it, but perhaps Rathfield had been mistaken. Perhaps he added that detail for effect given where we were. Owen still couldn’t shake the impression of sincerity.
The land determined their course to the west. Because the Snake River came out of the mountains through a high gorge, they left it and followed a smaller tributary, angling to the southwest to reach the mountains through a series of forested hills. As they entered the foothills they saw no obvious pass to the west, so began the trip up toward the ridgeline a day out of Plentiful.
Kamiskwa, who was in the lead, called for them to stop on a promontory overlooking a small teardrop-shaped lake. Owen studied it, looking for any signs of dwarf mastodons living amid the underbrush and evergreens. Ahead, to the southwest, clouds still shrouded the highest peaks.
The Altashee crouched and pressed his left palm to the ground. “This is an evil place.”
Rathfield frowned. “What are you talking about?”
“Can’t you feel it?”
Rathfield folded his arms across his chest, but Owen went to a knee and touched the ground. He wasn’t sure what he was feeling. He wasn’t sure he’d ever paid attention to what the ground felt like, but there did seem to be something odd. His fingers tingled the way they did when thawing out after a long winter walk. “It is different, Colonel.”
“Are you having me on?”
Nathaniel tipped his floppy-brimmed hat back. “I don’t reckon they are. Been stories told of these mountains. Shedashee have ’em. There’s things what lurk where folks might not want them lurking.”
