The Last Pilgrims (2 page)

Jonathan handed the sealed letter to the
post rider, knowing that it could take anywhere from a few weeks to
several months to travel from Central Texas to the King of the
South States—that is, if it ever got there at all. It was a typical
Texas summer morning, and it had never really cooled down overnight
so that the heat was on them early as they stood under a sky as
blue and as immense as any artist could have ever conjured.

Communications had degraded significantly in
the 20 years following the collapse, and although many people, even
Jonathan, clearly remembered the days of instant messaging and
cellular text service, those short-lived aberrations in the pattern
and method of communicating had long since come to an inauspicious
end. Post riders were, considering all of the dangers and obstacles
they faced, remarkably effective and efficient at delivering
important communications over long distances, especially when
traveling east—away from the dangers of Aztlan. This was no Pony
Express; nonetheless, he was hopeful that, at some point in the
future, the King of the South States might be reading his
letter.

One beneficial result of the collapse was
that it had balanced out the slow nature of long-distance
communications… everything else moved slower too. Armies took weeks
to travel distances they used to cover in just hours or days, or
sometimes even in minutes. Without automated transport,
helicopters, airplanes, and tanks, the world had once again become
a much bigger place.

He and several Vallensian friends had hiked
out to meet the post rider down south of the Bethany Pass just off
the Old Comanche road, about a quarter-mile south of Bethany. The
summer hadn’t been a particularly wet one, but the buffalo
grass—where it grew—was still green, waving softly in the warm
morning breezes.

Rumors of war were rampant—even more so than
normal—so he had decided to meet the rider out on the road in order
to keep all speculation, concern, and gossip in Bethany to a
minimum. Even as he handed the letter over to the rider, he hoped
he was doing the right thing for his people. For a pacifist, a plea
for help and defense from a foreign King may not be over the line,
but it certainly was tiptoeing near to it.

“
May the Lord keep you well
and safe on your journey,” he said, holding the reins for the post
rider as he mounted his horse.

There was no time for a reply because, just
as the last words slipped from his mouth, an arrow sliced the air
between them, burying itself in the gnarled bark of an ancient oak
tree behind them. Jonathan reflexively, almost instinctively,
reached up and pulled the rider by the collar from his horse and
down to the ground. They both began to crawl towards a small,
brush-covered hillock just off the road, in the hope that it might
afford them some protection.

The men of Jonathan’s party swarmed around
noisily, shouting to one another as each tried to identify the
direction from which the arrow had come. Several of the men came
and surrounded Jonathan and the post rider, creating a protective
wall around them.

After a few moments, they began to make
their way slowly over the hill back towards the pass and in the
direction of Bethany. Almost immediately, and before they were able
to react or even run, eight mounted men who seemed to appear out of
nowhere surrounded them. All were dressed in the garb of freemen
militia, heavily armed with what once would have been called
‘primitive’ weapons.

These were warriors, and young, and only two
could have even been born before the collapse. With the exception
of the two
oldlings
, these men had experienced none of the
comforting and corrupting influences of the pre-crash world. Stern
of face and confident, they were evidently born to battle. Several
of the freemen had longbows in addition to the swords and knives
they all carried.

Jonathan stood upright and examined the
faces of the men, looking for some clue as to their intentions,
when the familiarity of one of them struck him.
Phillip
. As
sure as anything in the world could be, he recognized his old
friend, who now looked back at him and smiled stiffly. “I suppose
that arrow was a gift from you, old friend?” Jonathan asked.

“
It was not ours,” Phillip
responded stiffly. “If it had been, you’d be dead. I reckon it was
fired by an assassin… here to kill you. He most likely snuck
between our lines overnight.” Phillip looked Jonathan in the eye,
and the faintest hint of sorrow entered into his voice. “I
apologize for our failure, Jonathan.”

The two men looked around in uncomfortable
silence for a few seconds, before Jonathan looked back at Phillip
and replied. “I accept that it wasn’t your arrow, Phillip. However,
I do not believe that I was its intended target either. From its
trajectory and direction, I would say that it was aimed at the post
rider.”

Phillip’s eyes widened and he grinned almost
imperceptibly. Turning to the man on his right he whispered a
command and the man nodded obediently and rode off to the south.
“Ten of my men are out there, already searching for the shooter. I
issued my orders as soon as I knew that you were unharmed. We will
make sure that they keep him alive when he is captured. We’ll need
to talk to him. If he has been sent to kill a post rider, there
might be more that we need to know.”

Phillip rode over to the oak tree and pulled
the arrow from it. He examined it for a moment, and then rode back
to the company. “This is an Aztlani arrow. The wood used to make it
is unlike any found around here, and the fletching is helical,
rather than straight. I’ve pulled plenty of these from the bodies
of friends. I have no doubt about its origin.”

Jonathan gestured to the post rider, and
with a slight nod, the rider galloped eastward carrying the letter
to the King of the South States.

“It seems as if no time at all has passed
since I saw you last, Phillip,” he said, after a brief pause, “but
we both know that it has.”

Phillip looked up from examining the arrow.
“Yes, It has.”

“It’s good to see you alive and well after
all these years. Of course, we had heard word that you were out
there… fighting. But,” Jonathan rubbed his beard, “it is hard to
know anything for sure these days.” He looked his old friend in the
eye. “Whether you believe it or not, I am happy to finally see you.
It’s been way too long. Let’s go into Bethany and get something to
drink. It’s hot and...” he smiled at Phillip affectionately, “...I
feel as if I have seen a ghost.”

He knew that the “ghost” line was a
throw-off one, since
The Ghost
was what people already
called Phillip, but Jonathan, indeed, felt as if he were in the
presence of a ghost. Or a myth. Or maybe a legend. Still, there was
no mistaking his old friend. Phillip was only a few years younger
than him, but the militia leader was a hard, leathery man, muscled
and firm—a man of war and of action. His eyes were piercing, blue,
and deep.

Phillip beckoned to his men, and they
responded instantly, moving in an immediate, well-coordinated
response. “We have some business to attend to here first. We’ve had
a mission failure, and there will need to be… an inquiry. Please go
on back to Bethany. I know where to find you, and I’ll be along in
good time.” Without another word, Phillip turned and rode back over
the hill, followed by his entourage. In seconds, they were
gone.

Jonathan and his men made it back to the
village in good time. Although somewhat shaken by the turn of
events, he really was glad to see Phillip. Phillip had once been
his closest friend, and for many years since then, Jonathan had
heard the stories, the legends of
The Ghost
and of Phillip’s
War against Aztlan. For some time now—maybe since the
collapse—Phillip and his Ghost militia had been patrolling a buffer
zone around the community of Vallenses, and, more particularly,
around Jonathan. While the two men had not spoken in decades, it
was widely speculated that the militia had some vested interest in
protecting the Vallenses and their leader. This new situation—the
two leaders actually meeting together—if it became widely known in
Aztlan, could cause troubles for Jonathan and his people.

The village that the Vallenses called
Bethany was still a small one, but it had grown significantly in
the last 10 years. Very few people lived in the town proper, but
several stores and small shops lined the main street and many of
those who worked in the shops lived in small homes of adobe or
stone construction in the town. For anyone with knowledge of
history, Bethany looked as a small village in England or France
might have looked only a few hundred years ago... with some Old
American West exceptions. There was the blacksmith shop that flew
the banner of Grayson the Smithy, and a General Store not unlike
many that dotted the West during the first European expansion into
those lands. The town of Bethany now had a Cooper, a Wheelwright, a
Thatcher, a Cobbler, a Brewer, and a small grist mill powered by
mules and human muscle and sweat.

Bethany was neat and ordered, like the homes
and lands of all of the Vallenses, and it may have been most
notable for what it lacked. Owing to what had happened to the world
over the last few decades, there were no ‘poor’, no beggars, no
thieves, and no highwaymen in the town. Some attributed this fact
to the presence in Central Texas of the militias, but it could not
be denied that everything seemed to have a meaning and purpose, and
the town gave off an essence of safety and security, of peace and
of contentment.

Jonathan and his men entered the public
house, which offered all that its name implied, and a little bit
more. It was a pub, but it also was the primary meeting place and
conference center in Bethany. Jonathan glanced at the oaken walls,
decorated with postings and notices—advertisements or requests for
anything from barter labor, to ratting dogs, to cattle. The pub was
constructed of thick old post oaks, drawn up by oxen from along the
Colorado River and hauled north where they were hewn and placed by
hand. The structure was one of the few buildings in Bethany made
entirely of wood.

The Elders and the men of the town who were
present in the pub gathered around and Jonathan related what had
happened south of the pass. He had started the day wanting to keep
the business with the letter and the post-rider as a closely held
secret, but he knew that after the attack—with Phillip coming into
Bethany—there was no way secrecy was possible. The men listened
with fascination and not without some trepidation. “The
Ghost
is coming here?” they whispered to one another, in
childlike awe. Jonathan was amused.

“Phillip is a friend and not a phantom. He
will have information we need, and we can hardly be inhospitable to
him and his men. However, meeting with him could be… problematic…
if word of it gets to the Duke or the King,” he explained. “We’ll
have to accept the risks, and probably much more than that. We are
neither at war with Aztlan, nor in alliance with the militia. We
speak freely to both sides, and the King will just have to accept
that.”

“The King will accept no such thing.” It was
David, his 25-year-old son, who interjected. “Aztlan is not in the
business of
understanding
our situation,” he said, with
respect, but not without a hint of sarcasm. “You give them too much
credit, Father. Aztlan wants us destroyed and out of their way.
They will use any pretext for war against us, as you well know, and
meeting with the leader of the resistance will be interpreted by
them as an act of war. Not that I oppose it, because I don’t, but
you know it is true.”

“Agreed,” Jonathan replied, looking his son
in the eye. “But our actions are not dictated by New Rome or El
Paso. We do not answer to commanders of freeman base camps hidden
on the Colorado, or in the desert, or up on Guadalupe Peak. Our
actions are dictated by what is right and good—what is
honorable.”

David smiled, “I’m glad to hear you say
that, Father. Then let us join forces with Phillip, have war with
Aztlan, and be done with it!” Restrained laughter filled the room,
as Elders and laymen alike watched the son jovially jab his
father.

Although pacifism was the official position
of the Vallenses, and had been from the beginning, not everyone was
in agreement with it—at least not in the present situation. David,
the pastor’s own son, was among those who, though non-violent by
nature and up-bringing, believed that the time had come, and was
now long past, for armed resistance, or, at the very least, active
material support of the freemen militias.

The light-hearted dispute among the men in
the pub devolved into a more general discussion of current events,
Aztlan’s belligerence and genocidal intentions, and the state of
the world as they knew it. Eventually, the conversation drifted
back to Phillip and his Ghost militia, and to the speculation as to
his reasons for actively defending Bethany and protecting
Jonathan.

After an hour or so, Phillip and several of
his men rode up to the public house. Jonathan watched through the
large, open, glassless windows as Phillip’s men silently took up
defensive positions throughout the village. Everyone assumed that a
larger force of militia were out there, posted outside of the town,
primarily to the west and south.

When Phillip entered the pub, a palpable
silence settled on the room. Jonathan heard only the occasional
whisper as Vallensian men examined Phillip the Ghost and looked
around at one another in awe—resulting from both fear and simple
curiosity.

There was not a man present who hadn’t heard
of Phillip and his exploits at the helm of his tiny army. Some of
the Elders looked suspiciously at the militia leader. They vividly
recalled the events and aftermath of the Winter Massacre, the names
and frozen faces of the dead imprinted in their memory forever. A
few admired Phillip, and secretly (or in some cases, not so
secretly) hoped that the Vallenses would decide to help the freemen
in their war against Aztlani tyranny and aggression. It was a room
divided by passions, policy, and principles.