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 fr
om 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.
Phillip nodded to the assembled Vallenses and greeted them individually as he made his way through the gathered throng to where Jonathan had risen from his seat. Phillip and the Vallensian pastor embraced as old friends ought, and Jonathan clasped Phillip’s arm and back as he guided his guest into a seat of honor at the head of a long trestle table carved exquisitely by Vallensian hand out of the reddest Mesquite wood.
“Welcome Phillip, and may God’s grace, mercy and protection be upon you and your people,” Jonathan intoned, almost sadly.
“And upon you all,” Phillip replied. “It was not our plan to disturb you today, or to interfere with your business in any way. However, it seems that the attack on the post rider—if that is indeed what it was—has altered our plans.”
“It was God’s will.” Jonathan stated plainly, and all of the Vallenses nodded their agreement.
“Then it seems that God has also willed that you face your attacker, because my men caught up with the Aztlani assassin. He had not fled very far. He was captured as he stopped to rest by Mud Creek and was taken into custody.” Phillip dropped his head and fiddled with his hat, which he had removed upon entering the pub. “If this had been merely an assassination attempt upon your person, Jonathan, we would have already dealt with him according to our own justice. He’d be dead, and we’d be gone. But it seems that an attack on a simple post rider, when the leader of the Vallensian people is only steps away, requires that we spend some time questioning the man.” Phillip glanced around the room before adding, almost as an afterthought, “He surrendered peacefully enough.”
“Where is he?” Jonathan asked.
“My men are holding him just outside of the village. We wanted your permission to bring him in, since he is bound and in our custody.”
“If he is not armed, will you untie him and bring him here?”
“No, brother,” Phillip replied seriously, “we will allow you to assist us in questioning him, but only if he remains bound. If you don’t agree, we will take our leave and deal with him in our own way.”
Jonathan looked up into the dark oaken rafters before closing his eyes in thought. After a pause, he nodded to Phillip. “Given that you leave me no choice, I request that you bring him,” Jonathan sighed, shaking his head, “with the understanding that the man may not be killed or harmed while he is on our soil.” The Vallensian men whispered among themselves, some indicating disagreement, while others nodded solemnly.
Phillip nodded to one of his men who was standing outside the open window watching the proceedings. The man signaled to an unseen compatriot and, moments later, the assassin appeared at the door of the pub, in the very effective control of three of Phillip’s armed soldiers.
A rush of activity ensued. Tables were moved, chairs were stacked along the walls to provide the observers a better view, and an area for questioning was cleared near the center of the pub. David Wall provided a chair for the Aztlani prisoner, and, for the longest time, there was silence, as the men in the room quietly debated how to conduct the proceedings. After much shuffling and whispering, Jonathan rose and approached the bound man.
“I am Jonathan Wall, Pastor to the Vallenses. We welcome you, in these unhappy circumstances, to our village. We pray that no harm comes to you here.” Jonathan paused to collect his thoughts. “We would like to know of your mission, and of your intentions. We would like to know why you have attacked us, as we are a peaceful people, and why your government seeks to do us evil when we strive only towards good.” Jonathan paused again before continuing, “But let me tell you a bit about the situation you face, so you do not try to deceive us.” Jonathan approached the prisoner and crouched down before him, “We have not bound you. These soldiers are not with us. They are not part of us. They don’t care for your life or your soul. It is most probable that, barring some divine intervention, you will die today. If you lie to me, we will all know it, and your fate will be sealed by your own hand. Know also that it will be an act of suicide, which we do not believe God forgives. If, however, you are killed today by these men, against our will and your own,
after you have dealt honestly with us and have provided us with the answers we seek,” Jonathan paused a moment for effect, looking over to Phillip then back to the assassin, “your death will be a murder, and will be on the head of another. I desire to help you, not hurt you, regardless of your aims or intentions.”
With that, Jonathan stood up and began to pace back and forth before the prisoner. “Here is where I am confused, so perhaps you can help me… First, you are a single assassin, and clearly very capable. You infiltrated many miles behind the military lines of very able and wary militiamen. You are obviously skilled and trusted by those who sent you. Yet, your shot missed the target as if by intent. It was evidently not blocked or deflected in any way. My fourteen-year-old daughter could have made that shot, and successfully too. I cannot fathom how an assassin could have missed that shot.” Jonathan stopped for a minute, and then scratched his head. “Second. Given that you were able to sneak through the lines of the freemen militia, it is incomprehensible that you would not use the same precautions on your return journey. Instead, you took your sweet time, and were captured out in the open, resting by a creek. That makes it seem, at least to me, that you wanted to get caught. Why?”
The men in the pub began to whisper to each other excitedly. Obviously, these were the factors that most of them—even the men who had been there during the attack—had not considered. Jonathan continued…
“Third. Your arrow was obviously that of Aztlani military. It was readily identifiable. If your intention was to kill either the post rider, or me, by using an Aztlani arrow, you would have openly announced the belligerent intentions of New Rome to deal murderously with us. Such a foolish action could prompt many neutral people, and even some among ourselves, to join the likes of Phillip in their fight against the Aztlani army.” Jonathan looked around the room, silently indicating that he recognized that many of them privately hoped to join the battle against Aztlan. “Your actions betray you, my friend, and they make me wonder what your true intentions are. Come now! Intentionally missed shot? Using an Aztlani arrow? Then you just saunter on down to the creek and wait there to be captured? Tell us! What’s your game?”
The Last Pilgrims Page 2
