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.
CHAPTER 73
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.
No one had drifted back towards the camp, just yet.
He scrambled to his feet with difficulty, encumbered by the dead weight of Emily, and loped across the space between shelters directly towards the nearest trees. Mrs Zimmerman followed, anxiously looking behind her at people she no longer recognised. She caught up with Ben kneeling down on the edge of the clearing, waiting for her.
‘We will freeze outside tonight,’ she whispered hoarsely.
‘We’ll keep moving tonight. That will save us from freezing. By daylight tomorrow we should be far enough away to consider our other needs and make a shelter.’
He wondered which way to head, having no idea where they were in the mountains or how far away, and in which direction, the nearest humble outpost of civilisation lay.
There might be other trappers out in these woods.
But he realised that coming across one was unlikely. They were going to have to find their own means of survival.
Mrs Zimmerman placed a hand on his arm. ‘Head west, Mr Lambert.. we should head west.’
She was right. He looked up at the clear night sky and made a rough calculation on where he recalled noticing the pale, milky sun rise and set these last few weeks.
‘West is that way, I think,’ he said, pointing across the clearing. ‘We’ll need to move quietly round the edge of the camp. Are you ready?’
She nodded.
‘Come on then,’ he whispered, scooping up Emily in his arms.
Keats struggled against the gradient of the gentle upward slope, winded and exhausted by the exertion of the
