“And what are the odds that they are coming?”
“On a long enough timeline? One-hundred percent!” Piggy adopted a feigned serious look. “I’ll leave you with this, Brother David,” he said, raising one hand dramatically:
“To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, To the last syllable of recorded time; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, And then is heard no more. It is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing.” Breathing deeply and melodramatically, he winked at David, “that’s Macbeth, in case you were curious.”
David watched as Piggy and the militia soldier they called Longbow rode back towards camp. In what seemed like only moments, he was alone.
Chapter 14 - Jonathan
Jonathan had never seen Bethany as busy as it was this day, except maybe on the day before the battle, when the town was the single escape route northward in front of the Aztlani advance.
On this day, the general din from horses, wagons, cattle and people gave the small town the feeling of a mid-19th century boomtown. Oxen laden with bags filled with wheat jostled against mules pulling wagons full of watermelons and cantaloupes.
All of the stores and shops were busy, even Grayson the Smithy’s blacksmith shop. Grayson had returned to work at the shop and the story of his removal from close fellowship in the Vallensian Church was as popular as were the tales of his heroics at the Pass. He was still their friend and their neighbor, and was treated as such; but tension was almost palpable in the whole community. Grayson and David Wall had been the first to step away from the Vallensians’ long-held pacifistic views, but now there were others considering it. Jonathan hoped the trickle would not become a flood.
The endless clear, blue days—the signature of summer in Central Texas—paraded onward, and the squirrels still ran in and out of the park by the Livery. Vultures circled lazily in the distant sky, as if nothing of importance had ever happened there.
He was amazed at how quickly things had returned to some semblance of normalcy, even with the solemn news from the east that nearly 2,000 of the Vallenses had been killed by the Aztlani army they had hoped to escape. Driven by their fear, they kept moving eastward, hoping that they would be safe… and now they were dead.
And he hadn’t stopped them. In fact, he hadn’t even considered that Aztlan might attack from the east. No one really had.
For Jonathan, there was no normal. Not anymore. He felt the pain and personal responsibility for each one of those deaths, just as if they had happened right here in Bethany.
Some of those who died had been his friends, his neighbors, his countrymen, and his parishioners. Even though most of the dead had been those who lived out on the frontier to the west and south of Bethany, he still felt the weight of their deaths as one would feel the weight of stones in an avalanche. The dead Vallenses won’t even receive a proper Christian burial, he thought, the Aztlani commanders had seen to that. He had heard that the peaceful and plain farmers had been stacked into huge funeral pyres and burned as heretics by the officers of the Inquisition of New Rome who were always present among large Aztlani armies.
In the Public House, there were the usual sights and sounds of Vallensian activity. Bartering and trading went on, and there was talk of harvest and of planting for the fall crop. Still, the discussion inevitably turned to war and with the implications of the Aztlani army remaining out to the east. Everyone who came in and out of the Pub greeted him, and a few stopped for a chat; still, most were busily trying to get their business done, not knowing when they might have to flee again.
Jonathan had come to Bethany to meet with David, but had just learned that his son was away on a training mission, and that Phillip himself was to meet him within the hour.
He sipped on a cold glass of nopal fruit juice sweetened with honey. The pinkish purple liquid was not only delicious, it was alive with beneficial compounds and enzymes.
The Wall family had stumbled onto the drink when they first moved to Central Texas, but soon thereafter, they learned that the juice derived from the ripe fruit of the optunia cactus had been harvested for jellies and jams for centuries. The Comanche had used the fruit as a medicine to reduce inflammation and as an ingredient in countless other natural remedies. It turned out that the ubiquitous cactus fruit was both healthy and delicious, and had thus become one of the most popular and readily available beverages among the Vallenses. Some of the oldlings called the drink Cactus Cola.
Almost everyone made wine from the nopal fruit, especially when grapes were not available. Some enterprising folks even made a pretty strong hard liquor, sold at the Public House and the General Store.
His wife Elizabeth had been a big proponent of the cactus juice as an overall health booster, and had prescribed the drink for everything—from headaches to sore ankles and knees to back aches. Between naturally bottle-fermented beer, and nopal juice, pretty much every infirmity was treated with some kind of beverage. The exception, of course, was garlic that, in the Wall household, was another cure-all for everything, especially any affliction or bacterial or viral infection.
Compared to how things were before the collapse, the Vallenses were extremely healthy and vibrant people, and most folks attributed this vibrancy to the Vallensian diet, rich with lacto-fermented foods, such as pickled vegetables and beans, sauerkraut, chutneys, sausages, and cheeses. Elizabeth had focused intently on learning historic long-term food preservation techniques that by-passed the old standards of pressure canning and other methods that killed all of the good living organisms and enzymes in the food.
Elizabeth had been dead now for thirteen years. She had died from blunt trauma suffered after being thrown from a horse only a year after Ruth was born. Before she died, in her weakness and pain, she had joked that falling from a horse was one of the few catastrophes in life that could not be fixed with garlic or cactus juice. Jonathan could not drink the juice now without thinking about her—which to him was not a bad thing.
It was not at all surprising to him to see Prince Gareth come into the Pub. He had figured that the Aztlani Prince would want to speak to him once it was known that he was in town for the day. Gareth approached him with a friendly smile, and asked if he could join him.
“I’ve come for some of the remedy,” Gareth said rubbing the mostly healed knife wound he had suffered at the hand of the spy Ronald Getz.
“This is the place to get it,” Jonathan answered, “though the beer here is nowhere near as good as the stuff we make at the ranch.”
“I concur completely,” the Prince replied as Nick Brewer brought over his mug of beer.
Gareth bowed his head and paused for a moment, “Please allow me to express my sincere and heartfelt condolences for the needless and senseless murder of so many of your people at the hands of my own.”
“You had nothing to do with it. I know that, and so do all of the Vallenses; but I do appreciate your condolences.”
“I know that you desperately desire to be free of any more discussion on the matter, but I would be doing myself—and all of the good Aztlani people that also live under tyranny—a disservice if I did not encourage you to revenge this dreadful wrong by helping the Ghost militia to destroy the Aztlani army.”
Jonathan smiled at the Prince, but then closed his eyes and shook his head. “Revenge is a motive that is forbidden to my people, Gareth.”
“You can call it justice if you prefer.”
“Justice is also in the hands of God,” he said softly, “rather than mine.”
“I do not mean to add to your burdens, Jonathan, but please bear with me as I do my duty, even if you feel that my effort would be futile.”
“I understand, Prince, and I sympathize. It is not as if I do not understand the carnal and temporal motivations that drive men to war. In fact… right now, I t
hink that I am in touch with them like no one else could be.”
“All carnal and temporal motivations are not, by default, sinful, as you surely know,” Gareth interjected. “Fear motivates us to avoid danger, hunger motivates us to eat; and we drink to alleviate thirst.”
“Still, a hunger for anger and a thirst for revenge ultimately drive men to steal and kill. Listen, Prince, I am not judging you, Phillip, David or the militia. I understand that people need to obey their conscience. I just cannot fathom why I am constantly being pressured to disregard mine. Am I the only one who is to ignore his conscience?"
“Unhappily, Jonathan, your conscience is currently nothing but a stumbling stone to your people, many of whom would like to fight, but still follow and obey you without question.”
“I would hope that they are following their convictions and the voice of wisdom embodied in our sincerely held position on non-violence.”
“Ideally, yes—we would all hope that—but in reality, I do not believe that this is the case. If you gave the word, the Vallenses, and other similar groups throughout Texas, could field an army of 10,000 men—enough to put an end to Aztlani tyranny for good.”
“True, but that would create fear, trepidation and jealousy in other Kingdoms across North America and maybe even around the world. Or worse yet, we would become the masters and civil magistrates and become tyrants ourselves.”
“It doesn’t have to be that way.”
“Unless the hearts of men have changed, then it does.”
The Prince sat back in his chair and gazed out of the window as horse-drawn buggies navigated around carts parked on the street in front of the Pub. “I have to believe that you are wrong, and that righteousness can rule as easily as malevolence and tyranny.”
“History says otherwise, Prince.”
The two men looked at one another for a moment, before Gareth drained his beer and set the mug down firmly on the table. “You do understand that I had to ask?” He stood up and shook Jonathan’s hand with a firm and friendly grip.
“Let me leave you, Pastor Wall, with a bit of a prophecy.” The Aztlani Prince stood up and reached into his pocket. He withdrew two hand-cut iron nails—payment for the beer (one of the many acceptable forms of ‘money’ used in Bethany)—which he dropped on the table. “The Vallenses will fight… eventually. Whether you or I are here to see the day, I cannot say. Still, the Vallenses will fight, or… or they will cease to exist as a people.”
“Perhaps,” Jonathan replied, thoughtfully, “if God wills it; but if He does erase us from the earth as a people, He will lift up the torch of the apostolic faith in some other place… or He might just return and end all the speculation.”
Gareth nodded briefly, thanked him for the conversation, and left to join another table of Vallensian farmers who were engrossed in an argument about which was the best method of storing wheat.
After sitting and pondering for a while, Jonathan paid for his own beverage with a small spool of hand-spun thread that Ana had made and headed out of the Public House towards the Cobbler’s shop.
As he walked the short distance to Mr. Byler’s shop, he watched the people loading and unloading supplies. He was grateful that Bethany had been spared the fate of San Angelo. He felt no real conflict within himself and that surprised him, but he knew that God had often, from unlikely sources, raised up a defense for His people. It troubled him that David and Grayson had been that source, but he could not question what he felt God had done in preserving Bethany. He supposed that surrounding the Vallenses with the militia couldn’t be much different from his own hope that the King of the South States would send aid.
He thought about the letter he had sent via the post-rider. Maybe his message would be read and heeded by that distant King, or maybe help was already coming. Whatever its source, he hoped that help was on the way.
Outside of the Cobbler shop, he ran into Mr. Byler, who was securing a large load of pelts to the bench of a Vallensian wagon. When the cobbler was done, the two men retired into the shade provided by the overhang in front of the shop to exchange usual pleasantries and affectionate greetings.
“I was wondering if you might have a need for several large Longhorn hides that Ana is working on?” he asked the cobbler.
“Of course. Of course. There are so many people wanting to have new boots before…” Mr. Byler’s voice trailed off.
“I understand,” Jonathan replied. “Since you mention it—and without any desire to add to your burdens—I also need another pair of heavy boots for Ruth. She goes through them so fast, you know. But, whatever value you place on the hides—up and above the price of the boots—I’d like you to keep on account for the Johnsons. I’ve taken some sheep from them in trade.”
He paused for a moment, the reality and weight of the issue impeding on his thoughts. “You know,” he said, “with Jack gone, they can’t keep as many sheep. Things will be tough for them for a time. We’re helping out as much as we are able.”
“This is a sad, sad business, Jonathan. I had hoped, at one time, that we were past all of this. But I don’t suppose we’ll ever be beyond persecution and suffering.”
The two men stood in silence for a while, before Jonathan finally spoke. “We’d also like to have you up for supper soon. I know you are so busy, but Betsy and Ana would love to see you, and they don’t get to town as often as they’d like.”
“I’m afraid that, with current events being what they are, I might be living up there before long, but that all depends on what happens with the Aztlani army, doesn’t it?”
“It does.”
“Tell Ruthie that I’ll have her boots for her in a week, and, Lord willing, I’ll bring them to her myself.”
Jonathan smiled, and shook Mr. Byler’s hand. “I’ll tell her, Mr. Byler. We’d all love to see you, and we look forward to it.”
As the two men parted, Jonathan saw Phillip approaching, and went out to meet him. The two old friends shook hands before Jonathan pulled Phillip towards him and embraced him.
“I hope things are well Brother Phillip, and that your news is not too dire. It’s been a rough week.”
“That it has, Jonathan.”
They walked eastward without any particular destination in mind, but before long, they found themselves at the end of the main street where it met the Bethany road as it turned towards the Pass. The rocks and boulders blocking the pass were still there and, from the street, Jonathan could see at least a half dozen of the Ghost militia guards manning their posts up on the twin mesas.
Phillip stopped walking and looked him in the eye before looking away again towards the Pass. “Our troubles are likely to come from the east this time, and I would be surprised if they weren’t focused more up north… up at your ranch, rather than at Bethany.”
“I figured that that would be the case.”
“We haven’t seen any movement yet. Whatever the Aztlanis are doing, it hasn’t involved any kind of lightning attack westward, which is what we originally expected.”
“Do you have any guess as to the size of their force?”
“Our scouts have estimated it at around 1,000 men, but there could be more. We’ve sent scouts northward and southward too to make sure that we weren’t being enveloped. My guess is that they will attempt an assault en force on the Vallenses encamped near your ranch, and I’d be surprised if we had another week to prepare.”
Jonathan looked at Phillip, “We’ve got to evacuate the people again; only this time we need to know for certain that we aren’t sending them directly into the path of the enemy.”
Phillip nodded respectfully, “We anticipated that you would want to move your people north and westward toward Vallensia, and already have outriders patrolling that entire area. Based on our intelligence, we think that we have a good idea of which way they will come. We’re going to plan an ambush between the old city of Penateka and the Lake Penateka dam. There is a throttle point there at the dam that we can use to
our advantage. We already have men guarding that critical point.”
“Will they make it through? I mean, you can’t have enough men to take them on face to face, right?”
“We never fight that way. Traditional frontal assaults are not part of our repertoire. This time, we will use their own guns against them, and we’ll have a few other tricks up our sleeve. They will make it through the choke point, but hopefully, we can thin them down enough so that only a few hundred are still around to make the assault on your ranch. If we can do that, we feel like we can win.”
“So there will be a defense of the ranch?”
“Yes, sir, there will.”
Jonathan exhaled deeply, rubbing his beard. “I will need to leave with the people going towards Vallensia. I won’t send them off into the unknown alone again.”
“I figured as much.”
“Well… then you’ll need to come up for a visit, Phillip. There are things I’ll need to show you. A few years ago, we were having some serious problems with the wild pigs getting in and destroying our fields and crops. We tried everything to get rid of them, albeit with little success. So… in order to get ahead of the problem we installed some… structures… that might interest you near most of the corners of our property.”
Phillip smiled, “Oh, really?”
“Basically, they are like what you call ‘pill boxes’—reinforced defensive enclosures—from which we could shoot the invasive herds of pigs without being seen or attacked.”
Phillip tried to hold it in, but finally gave up and began laughing uncontrollably, and it took a minute for him to stop. When he finally pulled himself together, his eyes were red, and he was still giggling a bit when he put his hand on Jonathan’s shoulder.
“Brother Jonathan,” he said, before breaking into more giggling. “We’ve known about your ‘structures’ for some time, and we’ve already made plans for their use.”
The Last Pilgrims Page 16
