October skies

CHAPTER 46

24 October, 1856

Why do you not speak to me?

Preston stirred uneasily on his cot, not quite asleep, but not awake.

Why? Everything I’ve done, I have done for you.

But neither God, nor his emissary, the angel, spoke.

He felt hot and restless beneath the layers of blankets over him, kicking them back in his restless half-sleep.

The angel would only come to those he trusted… those God trusted. A truth he knew. The words of God were so precious, so very fragile, so easily taken and corrupted by those with ambition, by those self-appointed to speak on His behalf. The Bible, written by a succession of men with selfish agendas — greedy men, arrogant men. The Book of Mormon written by Joseph Smith, a man who hungered to escape anonymity, to author his very own religion from nothing. The Torah, the Qu’ran… an endless procession of pretenders.

I’m not like these men. I don’t do this for myself. I do this for you, God. So that finally it is YOUR words that people will hear, not mine. Nor any other man’s.

The silence was deafening.

Something was wrong. That was why Nephi was not coming to him, to translate the language of angels to one that his humble human mind could comprehend. Something was keeping Nephi away.

Perhaps Vander was right. Perhaps it was the Devil keeping him away. There was evil all around them. The dirty-faced savages out amongst the trees; the others in the camp; amongst them a Catholic family, a Muslim family, a Negro with skin scorched by sin, Keats — profane, ugly, crude — and his Indian partner.

And Lambert, of course, an atheist who tried to insinuate his way into Dorothy’s family like a snake, whispering dirty lies to both Samuel and Emily.

His thoughts, disjointed and fleeting as they were, were abruptly halted by a powerful, certain knowledge that he was not alone in his temple. He thought he heard the whisper of movement beside his cot, something that stirred inside his metal chest. The soft squeak of unoiled hinges opening, the gentle clink of fragile bones.

‘Is that you?’ he muttered breathlessly in the dark. ‘Have you come?’

William.

The voice, a quiet whisper, materialised in the pitch-black emptiness just above his cot.

‘Nephi?’

Yes.

An overpowering, euphoric surge of relief pulsed through Preston. He felt dizzy and lightheaded. ‘Oh, thank the Lord… thank the Lord! I was afraid that I’d done something wrong.’ Preston sat up. ‘Are we to start God’s work this night? To translate his message from the scrolls?’

He sensed movement in the dark, the brush of something passing by.

No.

The answer confused him momentarily. ‘Then what are we to do first?’ he asked.

I am leaving you, William.

The words hung in the air before him, incomprehensible for a moment. Words he never expected to hear. ‘Leaving? But… but why?’

There was no reply.

‘Why?’

Preston felt another gentle draught of movement coming from the pitch-black space in front of him, and heard the soft tinkle of the bones in their canvas sack.

You disappoint me.

‘How? How do I… what have I done wrong?’ Preston cried.

The angel left the question unanswered.

‘What have I done wrong?’ Preston cried again, his voice raised, his sweat-damp cheeks moistened further with tears. He felt a sudden cold blast of air from outside, chilling his damp body.

‘No!’ he screamed. ‘No! PLEASE NO!’

He jerked on the cot, suddenly fully awake and trembling like a mongrel left outside on a frozen night. But he was lying down, not sitting up as he thought he had been, and covered once more with his blankets, cold and damp with his sweat.

Was I dreaming?

Preston realised that he must have been. But it had felt so real, so dreadfully, painfully real. He felt his heart pounding in his chest and a wave of relief wash over him. Just a dream, then — a nightmare, in fact. The angel hadn’t spoken to him after all. With that realisation there was disappointment, but it was more than compensated by the relief that he’d not been judged and found wanting.

He reached for some matches, struck one and lit the wick of the oil lamp that sat on a small wooden crate beside his cot. It caught, flickered and glowed softly, pushing the darkness back through the wind-teased flap and out into the cold night.

He turned in his cot, the wooden frame creaking with the weight of his body, to see the metal chest sitting wide open.

‘Oh… n-no… no,’ he whispered.