October Skies (8 page)

He led them over to the communal fire. There was a moment of awkwardness as the children sized each other up, aware that Emily and Sam were from the other camp. Five minutes later, names had been politely exchanged and Emily was chatting with one of the McIntyre children, Anne-Marie, a girl a year older than Emily, who was eagerly showing and sharing her small collection of dolls.

Sam stayed close by Ben’s side, fascinated by the dark skins of Mr Hussein and his family and Weyland’s Negro girl, and the quiet studied form of Broken Wing. On the other hand, the young lad was wary of Keats, spitting, cursing and swapping dirty stories with Mr Bowen and Mr Weyland.

Ben noticed Sam also discreetly watching over Emily across the flames, smiling at her giggles of pleasure, clearly proud of his little sister and how her ever-cheerful demeanour instantly charmed the other children and Mrs Bowen and Mrs McIntyre.

He cares for her more like a father than a brother.

It made sense. There was no father and Sam was now of an age where he was becoming the man of their small family. But there was a wonderful tenderness he had noticed between them over the last few weeks. They were certainly much closer to each other than they were to that cold, hard-faced mother of theirs.

‘Sam, would you like a little coffee?’

He nodded. Ben poured and passed him a mug that he held tightly in both hands, savouring both the warmth and the aroma.

‘Do you have any other family, Sam? Uncles, aunts, grand-parents, left back east?’

‘The community is our family,’ he replied. ‘We aren’t allowed any family beyond that.’

‘Aren’t allowed?’

‘Outside of our church.’ Sam cast a glance across at the larger cluster of wagons across the way. ‘Outside of his ministry. But they’re not our real family. There’s only us,’ he said, looking back at Emily. ‘I don’t like it over there,’ he continued. ‘We’re all alone, never supposed to talk to anyone else. Sometimes it feels like we’re the only people in the world.’

Ben nodded. ‘It was a bit like that for me too when I was a kid. I was an only child, and my parents were always busy with other things. That’s why I like books. Can you read, Sam?’

‘Of course, but we’re only allowed to read two.’

‘I’ll presume the Bible is one of them.’ Ben sipped his coffee. ‘And what’s the other?’

Sam shook his head. ‘No, not that, not the Bible! Preston says it’s full of mistakes and has been corrupted by the Jews and the Popes. We read the Doctrine and Covenants, and the Book of New Instruction.’

Ben looked puzzled. ‘Never heard of those.’

‘The Doctrine and Covenants and the Book of New Instruction are the only texts we’re allowed to read any more. We’re not even allowed to read the Book of Mormon.’

‘Eh? But you’re Mormons, surely . . .’

‘No,’ Sam replied quietly. ‘Not any more. Preston won’t have us call ourselves that now.’

‘Why?’

‘He believes the faith has gone wrong, been taken over by greedy men. He says that’s what always happens with faith - over and over. That it’s men who take God’s message and change it to what they want to hear.’

Ben shrugged. ‘I think maybe he’s right.’

Sam glanced at the distant glow coming from the other campfire. ‘Maybe. But it meant we had to leave Iowa and come out here.’

‘Why?’

‘The church, other Mormons, wouldn’t allow Preston to preach the faith. And we had to go because he wanted to—’ Sam hesitated a moment, a confused anxiety spreading across his face.

‘What is it, Sam?’ asked Ben.

‘I shouldn’t say. I’ll get in trouble.’

‘Then don’t. I wouldn’t want that.’

Sam was silent for a while before quietly turning to Ben. ‘He wants to write a new Book of Mormon.’

‘Really? Won’t there be a lot of people upset by that? Angry?’

Sam was silent, his eyes wide. ‘It’s our secret.’

‘Because it’ll anger other Mormons?’

Sam nodded. ‘That’s why he’s taking us all to the west.’

‘Away from the Mormon church?’

Sam nodded again and then reached out, grabbing Ben’s arm. Ben noticed the boy’s hand was trembling. ‘I . . . I told you something I shouldn’t have. You mustn’t tell anyone, please.’

Ben shook his head. ‘Sam, it’s okay. I won’t.’

‘If they found out I t-told anyone . . .’

‘They?’

‘The Elders. Preston, Mr Vander, Mr Hearst, Mr Zimmerman, my momma, Mr—’

‘Sam, I promise, I won’t tell anyone.’

‘You swear?’

Ben rested a hand on his. ‘I promise. Listen, I’m not that much of a Christian, Sam. I’m not that much of a believer in anything, to tell you the truth. If someone wants to mess around with a religious text, then that’s their business.’

Ben felt a tug on his sleeve and turned to see Emily standing beside him. She showed him a wooden-peg doll. ‘It’s Anne-Marie’s, ’ she explained, pointing across the fire at McIntyre’s daughter. ‘She said I could keep her for the journey. Do you like her, Benjamin?’

He took it off her and looked it over with an appreciative frown. ‘She’s lovely. Do you have many dolls in your wagon, Emily?’

Emily shook her head. ‘Not really.’

‘None,’ said Sam. ‘Momma doesn’t approve of the dresses they wear. Says they look like dirty ladies.’

‘Can I keep her, Sam?’

Sam looked down sadly at his sister. ‘Sorry, Em . . . if Momma sees it in the wagon, she’ll know we’ve been over.’

Emily nodded sadly, and turned to take it back.

‘I can look after her,’ said Ben. ‘I could keep her in my saddle bag. When we stop over for noon break, I could pull her out and let you play with her for a short while. Your mother needn’t know.’

Emily swung a small arm around his neck and planted a kiss on his cheek. ‘Thank you very much.’

At that moment, they heard the collective murmur of prayers coming through the still night.

‘Prayer meeting will be finishing up soon,’ said Sam. ‘We should go back now.’

Emily reluctantly passed Ben the doll.

‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘I’ll keep her safe. You can play with her tomorrow.’

Sam smiled gratefully at him. ‘And thank you for the coffee, Benjamin.’ He grabbed his sister’s hand and they set off a few steps towards the other wagons before he stopped and turned. ‘Can I bring Emily over again?’

‘If you like. As long as you both don’t end up getting in trouble.’

Sam nodded, and then they were gone.

Ben finished his coffee as he watched them go, quickly fading into the darkness, soon no more than a flickering silhouette against the distant glow of the other campfire. He bid goodnight to those still gathered around theirs for warmth, and headed back to where his two ponies were tethered and his bedroll lay. He unscrewed the lid of his inkpot and dipped his pen carefully in.

 

The people we are travelling with - I know nothing about the tenets of their faith. It seems so strict and very much apart from the churches I know. The women folk of Preston’s curious style of Mormonism appear obliged to be bound head to foot in modest clothing, with only their faces revealed. The men are all compelled to wear beards, clipped from their mouths, but left untrimmed beneath their chin, long enough to hide a fist within.

And what a hold he appears to have on them. That he can throw away the Bible and their Mormon book and start over . . . and they will take whatever he decides to write, as gospel?

 

He looked up from his journal, across at the dark outlines of the Preston party’s wagons.

 

I find that disturbing.

 

Rose studied a scanned page from the journal on her laptop. ‘It’s so weird.’

Julian looked up from the diner’s very short, single-sided menu. ‘What?’

‘He just seems so . . . I don’t know, so . . . it’s like this journal was written yesterday.’

‘Because it’s not all “yea” and “forsooth” and “verily”?’

Rose nodded. ‘I suppose so, yeah.’

‘Diaries and journals are informal. They’re usually the most intimate of historical records. No one writes a diary thinking it’s going to be read by anyone else, let alone some historian from the future. It’s personal, and a much closer and more reliable record of a person’s life than any census or public document.

‘When I was a researcher for the BBC - Christ - ten years ago now,’ Julian continued, looking down the menu once more, ‘I went through loads of unearthed correspondence from Roman soldiers, dug out along Hadrian’s wall - amazing stuff that could’ve been written by squaddies serving in Iraq; lads asking their mums for extra pairs of underwear, for soap. The language that normal people use and the things that fill their everyday lives, what concerns them . . . none of that ever really changes. I love that about history.’

The waitress came over with her pad flipped open and ready to go. ‘What’ll you have?’

Julian puffed and bit on his lip for a moment before looking up at her with a hopeful smile. ‘I don’t suppose you got anything along the lines of a lasagne or a—’

She sighed. ‘Just what’s on the menu, sir.’

He nodded, suitably chastened. ‘Oh. Then, um . . . a Ranch Burger, please.’

Rose waited until she’d finished scribbling. ‘And I suppose I better have the caesar salad,’ she said.

‘Another drink with yer meals?’

Julian looked at Rose. ‘Another couple of beers?’

‘Why not? The last lot went down easily.’

Rose watched her go before looking back at her laptop, perched on the small table between them in their cosy corner booth. ‘We’ve got all the pages digitised now?’

Julian nodded. ‘I flicked through and scanned them last night. The Lambert journal is now tucked safely away, sealed, dry and covered. Grace would approve, I’m sure. And very soon it’ll make a nice exhibit for some local museum.’

‘That’s a relief. Knowing how clumsy you can be, Jules, I had visions of you spilling coffee all over it, or something.’

Julian grinned. ‘The ole girl would skin me alive.’

Rose nodded. ‘She would that.’

Julian looked around the bar, empty except for a couple of young men shooting pool on the far side, away from the booths. A TV behind the counter was on FOX News. They were covering the Reagan Presidential Library debate; six candidate hopefuls for the Republicans were slugging it out between them.

‘I think he sounds really sweet.’

‘Who?’

‘This bloke, Benjamin Lambert.’

‘Don’t tell me you’re falling for a dead guy?’

She smiled. ‘He comes across as tender, sensitive. I like that.’

Rose had come across very few men in her life thus far that she could genuinely describe as tender and sensitive. None that had seen past her falsely confident cheeriness, and sensed the insecurity inside. Not even Julian, who seemed to know her so well; not even he sensed she felt like an ugly duckling amongst the glamorous production assistants and floor managers and other media muppets that swanned around their world.

Rose knew Julian thought highly of her. Respected her talent, trusted her judgement. In fact she was certain most of the male professionals she interacted with on a regular basis were quietly impressed with her techie talk and media savviness, but beyond that saw nothing more than a plain-Jane struggling to stay in a size twelve.

‘I’m no glamorous Paris Hilton,’ she’d moaned once.

‘Sod that. You’re the most talented filmmaker I’ve ever worked with,’ Julian had replied sincerely.

Just what an ugly duckling needs to hear.

The waitress returned with their food and drinks, deftly dealing them out with a cheerless smile. ‘Enjoy your meal,’ she said in a flat tone, and was gone.

Rose speared a leaf of lettuce with her fork whilst looking at Julian’s plate. ‘God, I wish I could eat that sort of crap and stay whippet-thin like you.’

‘I’ve got a fast metabolism - nervous energy. Actually, I thought hitting my late thirties would slow me down a bit,’ he said and then swigged a mouthful of beer.

‘God. What were you like at my age?’

‘Twenty-five? Much the same, I suppose. Nature’s been kind so far. You wait till I hit my mid-forties, then I’ll age ten or fifteen years overnight.’ He picked up his Ranch Burger, which dripped melted cheese and bacon fat.

She shook her head and smiled wearily. ‘I guess I’ll stick to eating rabbit food, drinking decaf and drooling over my George Clooney screensaver.’ The only intimacy she shared these days was with things that came with an AC adaptor. Filming, editing, mixing. Filming, editing, mixing. And once in a blue moon she got lucky with a bloke wearing beer goggles. It always seemed to be a sound, lighting or camera guy, charmed more by her ability to talk kit than anything else.