“Almost sounds to me, Captain, that you’re leaning toward thinking there ain’t no God.”
“I probably would think that, save for something you touched upon earlier. Loving or cruel, capricious or calculating, God being in Heaven means there is a reason for everything.” Owen sighed. “I might not understand it, but knowing there is a reason is a lot more comforting than believing there isn’t. And if God does exist, maybe, just maybe, the next prayer He answers will be mine.”
Nathaniel leaped over a marshy stretch of trail. “I reckon this, Owen. Iffen God’s going to be answer any prayers, like as not they’ll be from someone like you.”
“How do you figure that?”
“My hunch is this: iffen you was dying and in a powerful lot of pain, you wouldn’t be praying for comfort for yourself, but for your daughter and wife. I reckon most of the others miss that. The Good Lord, if the tales be true, done sacrificed Hisself for others. Praying for yourself kinda mocks all that, don’t it?”
“I imagine there are Scriptural scholars who would debate that point, but I agree.” Owen laughed. “And I do pray for Miranda, every night.”
Nathaniel noticed that Owen hadn’t said he prayed for his wife, and that didn’t surprise him. Nathaniel found her as welcome as a case of carbuncles. The woman seemed to be mean for the sake of being mean, and took a special dislike to anything or anyone that inspired her husband to remain in Mystria. He’d just as soon see the backside of her on a ship sailing toward dawn, but it wasn’t his place to say anything in that regard, so he held his tongue.
The party topped the last rise about two hours before the sun would set. The settlement appeared normal, with people going about their normal tasks. It wasn’t until they started down toward the meeting house that Nathaniel noted that the herders hadn’t come to greet them but, instead, followed them at greater than gunshot range.
Rathfield appeared not to notice. “When we reach the town, you’ll have to give the order, Steward, to get everyone out. They should pack food. We will have ample water.”
“You worry too much, Colonel.” The Steward, as if revived by having returned home, smiled. “God will provide for us. Not a mouth shall go hungry on our way.”
People gathered on the trail into Happy Valley, men in front, women behind, two dozen of the former and all of their wives. One stepped forward. “Ezekiel Fire, you are welcome to rejoin the community. The Steward awaits you in the Temple.”
Fire stopped a pace beyond the party. “Deacon Stone, I am the Steward.”
“No, Ezekiel. God came to us in a vision, all of us. He said you had been tested and tempted and corrupted by these men.” Stone opened his arms, turning his hands palm up to the sky. The others aped his posture and raised their faces to the heavens. “Salvation is still open to you, Ezekiel. So the Steward has said.”
Nathaniel stepped up. “I don’t reckon I need to be asking who this new Steward is, do I? Where is he? The meeting house, what you’s calling the Temple now?”
Stone stared at Nathaniel. “You are not welcome here. If you step into the precincts of Happy Valley, you will not be spared.”
Nathaniel leveled his rifle at the man’s gut. “I’m a mite more worried about your safety than mine right at the moment, Deacon Stone. Now, you gonna take me to Rufus Branch, or am I going to be asking your widows for directions?”
“Put up your gun, Nathaniel.” The men and women of Happy Valley parted down the middle as if a human curtain. “You can’t harm them, but the reverse is not true.”
Nathaniel recognized the voice more by the venom in it than the tone or timbre. A man came forward, but had it not been for the voice, he never would have known the figure to be Rufus Branch. While the man had retained his height, he had become skeletally thin. Color had leeched from his hair and it had fallen out in patches, as if he had the mange. His eyes had become larger and much darker. He clutched a golden tablet to his chest.
“We will not deny you entry, Nathaniel. It is all part of the plan.” Rufus caressed the tablet. “You are meant to be here, so I am told. We shall put you on trial for heresy, and then we will watch you die.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
16 May 1767 Happy Valley Postsylvania, Mystria
Ian Rathfield shouldered his way past Owen and got between the mob and Ezekiel Fire. “I think this has gone far enough.”
Rufus Branch hissed at him in sibilant tones that sent a shiver down Owen’s spine. “You have no authority here.”
“In the name of the Queen, and the sovereign and Almighty God who put her on the throne, I am the authority here.” Rathfield stood tall, thrusting a finger at Branch. “You’ll answer to my authority immediately.”
Branch’s right hand snaked out, grabbing Ian’s wrist. “I answer to no man.”
Rathfield made to tug his wrist free, but couldn’t. Back when Branch had been thickly muscled, Owen would have allowed it possible that Rathfield might not break his grip. But he’s wasted away, in just days, how can he…? Branch twisted his hand ever so slightly, and the larger man went to his knees. They locked gazes, then Rathfield shuddered and sagged. When Branch released him, he curled up on the ground, hugging himself with quaking arms.
Branch laughed. “Such a sinner are you, Colonel. You shall burn for a long time.”
Fire crouched, reaching a hand toward Rathfield, but looked up at his former charge. “Rufus, this is not like you. What has happened?”
Branch pulled back and smiled easily. “The tablets held the secret. Tell him. Tell them.”
Stone nodded. “It’s true, all has been revealed. God has granted us the gifts denied us when we left the garden. It is as you preached, Ezekiel.” The man raised a finger and wrote on the air. Golden sigils hung there, twinkling as if made of stardust, then slowly vanished. Owen could make nothing of them, but he’d seen them before, on the walls of the outpost.
As the sigils drained away, a plant sprouted beneath them. It looked for all intents to be a sunflower, with a blossom eight inches across. It grew to waist height in less than a minute’s time, and the flower opened. The blossom appeared very much like cauliflower, but golden-brown on the surface. It smelled for all the world of cinnamon.
“You see, as it was said in the Good Book: Manna, given to us through this Godly gift. These tablets that the Steward has translated were put here for us, so we can lead people to God.”
Fire, instead of rising, went down to his other knee. He clasped his hands in prayer. “Father Almighty, please forgive these Your children…”
“Silence! Blasphemy will not be tolerated.” Branch thrust a finger at Fire. “Clap him in irons and hitch him to the Post of Shame.”
Two men stepped forward, pulled on leather gloves, and dragged Fire toward the center of the green. A stout post had been sunk into the middle of it, and a pair of manacles bound to it by a short length of chain. Fire neither struggled nor protested his treatment. Once secured, he went to his knees again, and the short chains raised his arms to an obviously uncomfortable height.
Owen and Nathaniel exchanged glances. If they attacked now and managed to kill Branch, they still would have three dozen adults to deal with. Not only would the expedition end right there, but whatever had transformed the people of Happy Valley would be free to continue working.
Nathaniel raised his rifle’s muzzle to the sky. “You serious ’bout that trial, Rufus?”
Branch scratched over his ear and a clump of hair came away. He looked at it for a moment, puzzled, as if he didn’t know what it was. Then he cast it aside and stroked the tablet again. “Yes. A trial. Exactly. I will summon those who will judge you. If you run, Fire will die.”