Chapter Ten
19 April 1767
Plentiful, Richlan
Mystria
What on earth is he doing? Owen slid forward to the loft railing, standing beside Nathaniel, as Rathfield strode up the center aisle. The others joined them at the railing, equally curious. Given Rathfield’s arrogance, Owen did not anticipate a happy ending to this bit of theatre.
While Rathfield had attended church services in Temperance with Owen and his family, on the trail he’d not seemed particularly religious. He’d not discussed the Good Book with Makepeace, nor paid much attention when Makepeace offered a lesson. At least once he’d heard Rathfield refer to a village Shepherd as a simpleton—a sobriquet commonly used by Norillians to ridicule Virtuans for the way they had simplified worship ceremonies.
Rathfield replaced Shepherd Faith at the pulpit and lowered his eyes. His lips moved, but Owen couldn’t make out any words. Then the man rested his hands on the lectern and glanced up briefly. “I asked Shepherd Faith to allow me to speak with you. Though I am very far from home, here I feel at home. Your simple settlement, clearly created with love and devotion for each other and Our Lord, feels like home. Not my home specifically, you understand, but a place where I am welcome. I feel welcome because we share something very dear: our faith. And I wanted to share with you part of my journey in faith.”
Again he looked down, drawing in a mighty breath as if setting himself in the traces to drag an incredible burden along. “I am a simple soldier in service to our Queen. It has been my honor to serve her. Prior to being sent here to you, I fought for her in Tharyngia, against the godless Laureates. You’ve likely never heard of the Battle of Rondeville which, not even two years ago, ended the long war we’d fought with our ancestral enemies. Some people have even referred to me as the hero of Rondeville—but you should know, Friends, that the true hero was Our Lord.
“Duke Deathridge had positioned his men around the town of Rondeville such that the slaughter the coming day would be frightful. Imagine an ocean of blood and fire just sweeping through this valley. It would have been a terrible, terrible thing. Victory was assured, but Duke Deathridge did not want to take any chances in case the Ryngians had somehow set a trap. He sent me to infiltrate their position. It was my pleasure to serve my Queen and Our Lord on so dangerous a mission.”
Rathfield sighed. “I was proud. I admit to that sin, and Our Lord saw fit in his wisdom to chasten me for my pride. I was discovered and brought before Laureate-General Philippe de Toron, the Tharyngian commander. The man had me clapped in chains, then beaten and tortured so I would reveal what I knew of our plans. I said nothing. Did not modesty prevent it, I would show you my scars. The one on the right side of my face is the first among many I received that night. And when they saw I would not be broken, they threw me into the wine cellar beneath their headquarters. They promised they would return after they crushed our army, and would execute me along with any other survivors.
“So there I was, locked in a dungeon. The only light came from the full moon, just as it comes tonight, through these narrow windows. And I knelt in the moonlight and prayed, Friends, prayed fervently. I begged forgiveness for my sin of pride and rededicated my life to the service of Our Lord. I told Him that if it was His will for me to die there, I would go happily. But if He had another mission for me, He should show me a sign and I would do whatever He required of me.”
Rathfield allowed himself the ghost of a smile. “And, yes, Friends, I thought that even my prayer might be prideful. Contemplation of the consequences worried me, but Our Lord did have another mission for me. I shant go into the sordid details. Suffice it to say I emerged from the dungeon as Our Lord’s avenging angel. I stalked through the tavern that morning and killed every man I could find—including the Laureate-General. By the time I escaped, the battle had commenced, but in slaying de Toron I had struck the head from the serpent. He never got to spring his trap. Our men were saved and the atheists were sent to Perdition.”
He hung his head for a moment as if exhausted, then looked up, his blue eyes bright. “I did not share my story so that you would know who I am. I am but a sinner who is unworthy of Our Lord’s favor. I merely wished to show you that though we come from distant places, though the role Our Lord asks of us can be anything and different, we are the same. Our hearts beat by His Grace, to be full of His Grace. Though you may find yourself here, thinking you are at the edge of the world, remember that He has placed you here so that no matter how far a man has traveled, he will forever be reminded that Our Lord blesses his life daily.”
Owen leaned heavily on the railing. He wanted, very much, to believe Rathfield was a fraud. In Restraint, Makepeace had similarly given his testimony about the bear who attacked him and the Lord healing him. That had shifted attitudes toward them. He wanted to assume that Rathfield, having studied Makepeace’s performance, sought to duplicate it here.
He would have been happy to think ill of Rathfield, but the man’s voice had rung with sincerity. The story’s details seemed largely consistent with versions he’d heard before. Catherine had regaled him with several retellings. And Rathfield’s humility came through so strongly that Owen found himself disarmed by it. The man might be arrogance personified on the trail—and had been so in Wisdom and Contentment—but here he shrank back.
Hodge and Makepeace descended to join the congregation in thanking Rathfield and resetting the main floor. Owen, shaking his head, looked at Nathaniel. “What do you think?”
The lean man shifted his shoulders. “Seems as like he tells a good story. I reckon if he did what he said he did, it would be easy for men to call him a hero.”
“Little doubt of that. I seem to recall that troops found him half dead in de Toron’s headquarters. They expected him to die and someone even sent a dispatch back to the main army reporting his death. His wife took the shock badly and never recovered. I believe my wife said she died several months later—and hinted she may have taken her own life.”
Nathaniel leaned his hip against the rail. “That so.”
“If you choose to believe gossip.” Owen smiled. “So do you believe what you just heard?”
“When exactly did this here battle take place?”
“16-17 July, 1765.”
Nathaniel frowned. “Well, I reckon things must have unfolded pretty much as he said, what with other folks being around to save him after, but I do believe I’ll puzzle about one thing for a mite.”
“Yes?”
“He amembers praying in a puddle of moonlight, which makes a powerful image, specially on a night like this.” Nathaniel shook his head. “Fact is, however, mid-July two years ago, weren’t no moon in the sky that night.”
The call to supper precluded Owen thinking too much about Nathaniel’s revelation. He couldn’t be certain if the people of Plentiful regularly set such a wonderful table, did it in honor of their visit, or simply in recompense for the venison. Shepherd Faith had said fare might be meager, but Owen found it generous by most any standard—and he’d eaten often at Prince Vlad’s table. Even Count von Metternin praised the meal, comparing it to the best he’d ever eaten on the Continent.
Venison stew formed the central portion of the meal, with some potatoes and beans added in. The Virtuans hadn’t used any spices in the stew. Not only would they be expensive and difficult to obtain, but they might prove to excite the blood more than was good for a healthy spiritual life. Maple sugar sweetened the baked beans. Honey had been whipped into butter and then spread on bread and biscuits, which were proof enough to Owen that there was a God and that Heaven would be a place of many delights. Pickled beans and cucumbers rounded things out, and apple pies finished them off.
All of the travelers restrained themselves. They lingered over their food, knowing it would be a long while before they’d likely enjoy such a meal. Makepeace commented about stopping back through as they returned, and Owen was willing to grant the wisdom of that idea.
Over supper they got a chance to speak with Shepherd Faith about other settlements in the area. He had nothing bad to say about the people of Wisdom, but said he didn’t know much about any other settlements. “Trappers come through and talk. There are valleys in the mountains, so there may be smaller settlements from elsewhere.”
Makepeace leaned forward. “Going on four-five year ago, I heard tell of a man was leading a flock out here. Was going to establish the City of God. Said he’d had a revelation.”
Faith’s face closed down. “The Simonites. We don’t hold with the True Oriental Church of the Lord.”
Owen’s eyes narrowed. “What do you know of them? Do they call their settlement Postsylvania?”
“They are heretics. They claim that when Our Lord gave his apostle Peter the new name Simon, it was a clue to a mystery in the Good Book. They say he is one in the same with the sorcerer Simon Magus. They claim that magick is not the gift of God, but the gift of becoming God. They point to the Books of Acts and how the Apostles were able to perform the same miracles as Our Lord, and how many magicks are able to imitate the miracles. They claim that great magick and glory awaits them across the mountains. Whether or not they call their holdings Postsylvania, I do not know, but I will tell you this: the men and women that have come this way looking for them have been anything but virtuous.”
“You think they are out there?”
“Not think, Captain, know.” Shepherd Faith sighed. “We are simple people. We pray for the Lord’s Blessing every day. We also pray for His Justice, and for Him to smite His enemies. We can feel it, Captain, the blight upon the earth. It is out there. Beware if you seek it, and linger not long. Our Lord will rain down cleansing fire and you, most assuredly, do not wish to be consumed.”
The people of Plentiful spent the Sabbath in quiet contemplation of all things Godly and glorious. Owen and the others kept to themselves and spent much of the time sleeping. The journey inland had been tiring, and moving into the mountains would make the trip more difficult. Not wishing to upset their hosts by resuming their work on Sunday seemed a good excuse to recover.
On Monday morning they packed up their gear and prepared to leave. Nathaniel chopped more wood, Count von Metternin managed to repair a broken spinning wheel, and Hodge put a keen edge on every scythe in the loft. The residents prepared small packages of dried sausage, cheese, and bread to take with them. Rathfield bade them keep the deerskin and Owen gave Shepherd Faith’s wife a small packet of needles from Temperance—a gift which was very well received.
Its reception brought a smile to Owen’s face. Bethany Frost had suggested it and Owen availed himself of her wisdom. Bethany had nursed Owen back to health after his escape from Anvil Lake, and had done a splendid job of editing his book. Because of Catherine’s jealousy, Owen usually refrained from meeting with Bethany outside of group affairs, but she’d managed to get him alone in Temperance before the expedition departed.
He thanked her for the gift of the needles. “What can I do for you in return?”
The beautiful young woman had smiled warmly, then averted her eyes downward. “In return, you will return and let me read your journal of the expedition. Just like last time.”
He had agreed and faithfully recorded most details of the trip. He thought about including Nathaniel’s comment concerning Rathfield’s story, but held off. He was certain Nathaniel was right and knew Prince Vlad could confirm it, but perhaps Rathfield had been mistaken. Perhaps he added that detail for effect given where we were. Owen still couldn’t shake the impression of sincerity.
The land determined their course to the west. Because the Snake River came out of the mountains through a high gorge, they left it and followed a smaller tributary, angling to the southwest to reach the mountains through a series of forested hills. As they entered the foothills they saw no obvious pass to the west, so began the trip up toward the ridgeline a day out of Plentiful.
Kamiskwa, who was in the lead, called for them to stop on a promontory overlooking a small teardrop-shaped lake. Owen studied it, looking for any signs of dwarf mastodons living amid the underbrush and evergreens. Ahead, to the southwest, clouds still shrouded the highest peaks.
The Altashee crouched and pressed his left palm to the ground. “This is an evil place.”
Rathfield frowned. “What are you talking about?”
“Can’t you feel it?”
Rathfield folded his arms across his chest, but Owen went to a knee and touched the ground. He wasn’t sure what he was feeling. He wasn’t sure he’d ever paid attention to what the ground felt like, but there did seem to be something odd. His fingers tingled the way they did when thawing out after a long winter walk. “It is different, Colonel.”
“Are you having me on?”
Nathaniel tipped his floppy-brimmed hat back. “I don’t reckon they are. Been stories told of these mountains. Shedashee have ’em. There’s things what lurk where folks might not want them lurking.”
“So, because of some faery stories told to frighten children, we’re going to stop?”
“This ain’t the onliest way through here, Colonel.” Nathaniel pointed off south. “Backtrack a day, cross the Snake, head on in that way.”
“We already lost a day in Plentiful, Woods. I see no reason we shouldn’t just continue on through.”
Count von Metternin shrugged off his pack. “In the four years I’ve been here, Colonel, I have learned that time sacrificed in the name of safety is seldom wasted—unless there is some urgency to your mission of which I am not privy.”
“With all due respect, my lord, there are aspects of this journey which are known only to those who gave me the assignment.”
Then it began, a rumble which shook them much as thunder close by would—made all the more remarkable because only the barest wisp of clouds existed from horizon to horizon. The vibrations pounded through Owen’s chest and, as they continued, he realized they had nothing to do with thunder. The vibrations were coming up through the ground, causing the earth to shift and trees to sway as if caught in a gale.
His guts knotted and he got down on all fours. A ripple ran through the lake below, starting at the broad end and racing northeast toward the narrows. As the rising wave approached the promontory it picked up speed. Water withdrew from the near shore, curling into a fluid wall. The wave crested, splashing up over the narrow beach and into the wood. The water just kept going, picking up deadfall logs and bashing them against other trees. Taller trees, with their roots already shaken, succumbed to the flood and fell. A second and third wave hit the shore, neither going as far as the first, but when the water calmed itself again, what had once been beach lay beneath twenty feet of water, and what had been a teardrop now better resembled an egg.
Kamiskwa rose and offered a hand to help Rathfield up off the ground. “As I said, it is an evil place.” He pointed toward the tallest peaks, two of which, Owen was willing to swear, stood further apart than they had. “The evil is concentrated up there. A wise man would run.”
Rathfield dusted himself off. “I have my orders.”
Nathaniel shook his head. “Follow ’em and you’ll likely have more scars, too.”
The Norillian lifted his chin. “Are you brave enough a man to follow me, Woods?”
“Iffen you ever do see the far side of those mountains, it ain’t because I been following.” The scout shrugged. “I reckon I can stand a couple more scars. So long as I live to tell the tale, I ain’t got call to complain.”