Black Noon (9 page)

The next day Keyes, as he had promised Lorna, suggested to Caleb and Joseph that they pay a visit to Sam Hawkins and see what progress he was making in the repair of the Conestoga.

They readily agreed and proceeded to accompany him to the stable.

On the way they passed William Bryant's grocery-hardware store where young Ethan was brooming the boardwalk.

“Good day, Mr. Keyes, Mr. Hobbs, Joseph,” the lad greeted, then rested his chin on the slanting broomstick.

“Good day,” Keyes responded, “are you sure you're up to such hard work?”

“The boy's a one-man work machine,” Bryant grinned as he stepped out of the doorway, “next thing you know I'll have to make him a full-fledged partner. I'll have to get a new sign made ‘William Bryant and Son' . . . after he finishes school.”

“You couldn't do any better,” Caleb smiled.

“How are you doing in school, Ethan?” Keyes asked.

“I can do my sums, sir, and read and write as good as anybody . . . except for Maggie Blythe. She's real smart.”

“Don't neglect to read from the Book, boy,” Joseph said, “‘give thy heart to know wisdom.'”

“Yes, sir, I do that every night before bedtime.”

“Time well spent,” Joseph added, as the three men proceeded toward the blacksmith's.

“I've put everything else aside,” Hawkins said as he pointed to Keyes's wagon, “except what absolutely has to be done and am concentrating on the Conestoga. Coming right along . . . that axle's quite a challenge, but I'll get her done and done right.”

“Very good, Mr. Hawkins . . . how long do you think . . . ?”

“Sooner than later, Reverend.”

“I'm much obliged . . . and so is Lorna.”

“How's she doing?”

“Better every day it seems . . . Well, we'll leave you to your work.”

“Fine,” Hawkins pointed to the fire pit. “I have to strike while the iron's hot,” he smiled.

On the way back to the Hobbses' house, Caleb managed to light his pipe as they walked along.

“Caleb,” Keyes said, “there's something else I'd like to ask you about.”

“Certainly, Reverend, but can it wait until we reach the shade of our porch and relax a bit?”

“Of course.”

As the two men sat on chairs and Joseph rocked in his chair in the shade of the porch, Caleb relit his pipe and turned to Keyes.

“Before you ask about whatever is on your mind, there's something I'd like to say to you . . . it'll just take a minute or two, if you don't mind?”

“Please, go ahead.”

“Well, this morning Deliverance, in her own way, told me about what happened to you and her at her Secret Garden.”

“Told you . . . what?” Keyes seemed more than a little apprehensive.

“About the snake and her runaway pinto. How you rode to her rescue and saved her from . . .”

“Oh, that,” Keyes smiled with relief. “I'm sure she exaggerated a bit. Deliverance is an excellent rider. She would've been all right. As I said, she's an extraordinary young lady . . .”

The extraordinary young lady stood at the doorway of the porch carrying a tray with a pitcher of lemonade and several empty glasses.

“And now she's come to our rescue,” Keyes said. “I could use a little . . . libation.”

“So could we all,” Caleb agreed.

Deliverance poured, then took a seat near Keyes.

“Now, m'boy, what was it you wanted to ask?”

“Well, sir, you said that after you got here you dismantled your wagons and used them to help build the village.”

“That's correct.”

“You also said that your people don't believe in weapons . . .”

“That's also correct.”

“But what I wondered was . . . how could you make that long, perilous journey through what must have been hostile territory without guns and rifles to protect yourselves?”

Caleb, Joseph, and Deliverance looked at each other for just a moment, then Caleb spoke.

“A very pertinent question . . . part of a long story . . . but I'll tell you as briefly as possible . . . if you care to hear.”

“I certainly do . . . and take your time, sir.”

“You've heard of Brigham Young and his Mormon followers who were persecuted and decided to come west, then founded a place for themselves. Well, we, too, had been persecuted and decided to follow their example—with all our worldly possessions—except for guns, which we had none of.

“But we had determination . . . and faith in finding a place of our own. So we began our journey, and somehow without incident, until we reached the great desert.

“Desolate landscape, and an unforgiving furnace during the day—and at night a devil wind thrashing our faces—like you—we lost track of time and place—and with little food left and empty canteens, we lost more—members of our congregation, including my wife, Deliverance's mother. We buried them with crosses to mark the desert's doing.

“The animals were spent and so were we—bone weary and dry—tongues thick with no sign of water—and desert sand caking our faces and bodies.

“But just before the desert could claim us, it appeared that another fate, just as final, would be our destiny.

“They rode in from all directions, yelping and firing flaming arrows and blazing rifles—first in a wide circle, then circling closer around our wagons.

“They seemed in no hurry, relishing their certain victory. We could see their painted faces and bodies racing against the bald sky.

“Many of us knelt to pray—our final but futile prayers. Others sought useless cover inside or beneath the wagons.

“All but one of us.

“Deliverance. Just a little girl, not yet seven, but she stood on a wagon seat in plain sight, her long flaxen hair glistening in the sun, her arms upraised toward the heavens, lips quivering, unable to speak but in supplication.

“The astonished eyes of the circling riders seemed riveted on the strange little figure—even more astonished at the sudden sound of what seemed to be gunfire from above.

“But not gunfire.

“Thunder.

“Repeating, relentless thunder.

“Then lightning.

“Bolts of crooked lightning, flashing down from the heavens—one bolt spearing into the ground amidst the startled riders—then rain. A torrent of rain poured from the melting sky.

“One of the riders who carried the coup stick of a chief pointed with it to the rain-burst sky, reared his frightened mount, and rode toward the distant mountains.

“The rest of them followed.

“Soaking wet, we rushed to fill our canteens and whatever buckets we could find.

“All but Deliverance, who still stood on the wagon bench and lowered her rain-splattered face.”

Everyone on the porch sat in silence as Caleb finished with his answer to Reverend Jonathon Keyes's question.

Then Keyes looked at Deliverance.

“Yes,” he said just above a whisper, “she is a remarkable young lady.”

“I'm really not sure, Jonathon . . .” Lorna responded to her husband's question.

“. . . there
are
times when I do feel somewhat better, even stronger and in better spirit, but then . . .”

“. . . Then what, Lorna?”

“It's as if we're out there on the desert again . . . The sun, or something . . . pressing against . . . or into my brain . . . sapping that strength . . . everything becomes hazy . . . I lose all sense of time and place . . . drained, as if my body were on some distant sphere . . . struggling to break out . . . struggling against I don't know what . . . and then, then it seems to pass . . . and I'm here with you again . . . Oh, Jonathon, sometimes I wonder if I'll ever be well again . . .”

“Of course you will . . . and I have some idea of how you feel. There was a time after . . .”

“Yellow Tavern?”

He nodded.

“It was a terrible wound,” she said. “I'll never forget General Custer's letter doing his best to ease my worry . . . when things looked so . . . dark.”

For hundreds of thousands of fighting men, Blue and Gray, the war was not yet over, but tens of thousands of them would fight no more.

In the aftermath of some battles it seemed that there was not enough land to bury them all, but buried they were.

They had come from streets of cities, from narrow sidewalks of villages, from fields and farms, rich and poor, from plantations and backwoods shacks, across the flowing waters of the Mississippi, the Missouri, the Red, the Ohio, and the Shenandoah, to heed the call of the Confederacy or the Union, the trumpets of triumph, or the dirge of defeat—and for the dead to hear no more.

But in the aftermath of those same battles, some of the men, thousands, lay in battlefield hospitals like the one at Yellow Tavern.

Lined with stretchers and beds of wounded, bleeding, and blinded, and some already near death, with not enough doctors to tend the bitter harvest of war, for some in victory, for others in defeat.

Murmurs, moans, and gasping outcries rang through the tented triage.

And a voice, calm but concerned.

“Doctor Clemmins, I know you and your staff have more than you can handle—with the wounded on both sides.”

“General, I've been with you since Culpeper where you were wounded . . .”

“And thanks to you, I . . .”

“Don't thank me, General. You have your duty, and I have mine.”

“And nobody's better at it. Tell me the truth, doctor, what are Keyes's chances?”

Before the doctor could answer, Reverend James Mason left a stretcher and came closer to the bedside holding his Bible and listened.

Doctor Clemmins paused, then answered.

“He has no chance, none at all, unless we operate. And very little, if, and when, we do.”

“You've
got
to operate.”

“And I'm going to, but you ought to know, if you want the truth . . .”

“Go ahead.”

“What's left of the shattered cartridge, from what I can determine, is extremely close to a nerve center in his brain. A very delicate and risky operation under the best of circumstances—which here, they are not. I'm doubtful that I can remove all of what's necessary for survival . . .”

“Yes you can, Doctor . . . and you will.”

“I'll do my best.”

“And so will I,” Reverend Mason said and held on to his Bible.

 

 

“Lorna, I have no recollection of anything that happened after I was hit and falling . . . falling it seemed into the sleep of death—only, occasionally I seemed to hear the sounds of voices—some familiar, Custer and Reverend Mason, other voices, strange and from where, I've never known. If there is a place between two worlds . . . that's where I was.”

“But thank God, Jonathon, you're here and we're together . . . even though, at times . . . you wake up remembering . . .”

“. . . Remembering those I killed, and those who tried to kill me.”

Keyes looked at the rifle across the room.

“. . . That's why I'll only use that rifle if . . .”

“Jonathon, don't even think about that. Things will be different in Saguaro. Saguaro will help you forget. Now you've got to get some sleep and think about better tomorrows.”

“It's strange, Lorna, I asked how you were feeling . . . and we ended up talking about me.”

“Well, I feel better after our talk, my dear, so let's both get some sleep.”

They did.

But Deliverance was not asleep. She was in the candlelit shed with her fingers working on the two wax images of Jonathon and Lorna as the cat purred softly.

It was deep into the bleakness of night where even the moon was mostly shrouded by a motionless cloud.

A Walpurgis night as the poet had written:

But this was another woodland, where only the yellow eyes of owls pierced the gloom, where a soft wind whispered through curled branches of leafless trees rising as if not of this earth, from another time and space, from some malevolent nether land, with untold secrets, veiled in an unholy sable-vested night.

A world within a world.

Deliverance's world.

Keyes lay as if in a drugged sleep.

Lorna awake, stared into nothingness, until—

Suddenly, she squeezed her eyes shut as her face became a basilisk of pain. Her hands flew to her temples trying to rub away the torment within.

She rose and did all she could to keep from crying out and waking Keyes.

She managed to walk to the open window and open it even more, breathed deeply, then noticed far off in the yard below . . . three or four indefinable figures holding large candles flickering through the darkness—her eyes drawn by whatever was unfolding below.

She seemed to be in a trancelike state. The pain was gone, superseded by something else—a call—a command—a hypnotic force—a summons to which she was compelled to respond.

The next thing she realized was that she was no longer in the bedroom but on the ground below, moving mesmerized as if led by some mystic force.

She paused and listened, at first to the faint, filtered sound of the night wind and then to something else . . . voices.

Young voices, chanting voices, voices as she'd never heard before, young voices delivering a strange incantation, with illusory words in an alien language, invading the darkness of the night and her brain.

Then again:

She took one, two, three steps toward those voices and saw in the distance . . .

Four figures varying in size . . . three to five feet tall . . . figures dressed in white robes and their faces covered by masks of animals . . . a wolf . . . an owl . . . a goat . . . a sheep.

Each of the four figures held a large lit candle before it . . . sending an eerie glow wavering upward toward the mask.

They stood close to something wrapped in an oilskin on the stump of a tree as they continued their chant.

Drawing Lorna toward the hypnotic ceremony, but as she moved forward, suddenly her foot landed on something other than the ground.

Something that quivered, jerked, and then screeched.

Lorna stumbled.

The cat screeched again, eyes burning at Lorna, then leaped and disappeared into the night.

Lorna's trance was broken.

She regained her balance.

The chanting had ceased.

Now fully conscious, Lorna turned toward whence it had come.

The figures had vanished. Only the oilcloth with whatever was wrapped inside remained on the stump.

She walked slowly toward it and stopped in front of the dead tree.

She mustered all her courage and commenced carefully to loosen the cloth . . . then looked down.

Her face shook.

Her hands trembled as she slowly continued to unwrap the oilcloth. She paused wondering if it were best not to find out, to leave whatever was enclosed to stay that way until daylight when there would be others to witness the contents. But no, some impulse drove her to do it now.

As she did a dead owl rolled off the stump at her feet.

She could bear no more.

Lorna screamed a soul-searing shriek and fainted into a labyrinthine tunnel of oblivion.