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.
CHAPTER 47
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.
His eyes drifted onto a copy of USA Today.
On the cover was the image of a face he vaguely recognised. He reached across the coffee table and picked up the magazine. Then he managed to place him: it was the American businessman who had recently thrown his hat in for the presidential election. It was an item on the news show he’d caught during the flight back home; an outsider many were calling a fool because he was campaigning so early and was bound to peak and wilt before the final showdown in about eighteen months’ time.
He recalled the man was some kind of a religious figure… Shepherd, that was it, that was his name; a lay preacher of some kind with a lot of money to burn, and a lot of friendly, mostly religious, sponsors gathering around his campaign. Skimming through the article inside, he discovered Shepherd owned a regional media network in Utah, and ran a string of small spiritual colleges that, in the eyes of the journalist, were vaguely reminiscent of the Islamic madrasas in northern Pakistan.
The door to the office swung open to reveal Dr Griffith’s wide frame. He had put on even more weight since the last time Julian had seen him. At a glance he guessed he must weigh sixteen or seventeen stone.
A lot of good living.
‘Julian!’ his rich voice boomed as he thrust out a hand towards him. ‘Fantastic to see you again.’
Julian reached for his hand. ‘Good to see you too, Tom. Things are looking good, eh?’
‘Very good. I should be writing more and doing less television, really. I’m becoming like those media tramps I despise.’
Julian grinned. ‘Or ex-media tramps in my case.’
Tom grinned. ‘You were never a tramp, Jules. Come on in,’ he said, gesturing to the study beyond. He turned
