Although what they’d encountered along the trail made a trip to Africa seem like a walk to Grandmother’s house.
After rejoining the wagon train following his experience with the hut— the bag of bones
—he and the rest of the travelers had spent a blissful two days enjoying the water, shade and plentiful game of the woods beyond the plain. He’d told everyone what had happened—some of it. He’d left out the compression of time, that strange shift from night to morning. And he hadn’t said a single word about his odd conviction that there was wealth to be had in California. That knowledge he kept to himself. But he’d told them everything else about the doorless, windowless room and the human bones in the bag and in the walls. A few had not believed him, but of those who did, a goodly number came up with reasons for what he’d seen and experienced, telling him that what seemed so bizarre and unreal probably had a perfectly natural explanation.
Then they came across the burial ground.
It was a graveyard unlike any they had ever seen, not least for the fact that the graves had been big enough to accommodate giants. How could they know this, since there were no headstones and the burial plots had been exposed to the elements for so long that they had lost all shape or definition? Because one of the graves had been opened. The huge hole gaped before them like a foundation that had been dug for an unbuilt house, and footprints led away from the pit through the muddy soil, monstrous footprints that were not only four times the size of an ordinary man’s but resembled those of neither animal nor human.
They had hurried away from that place, but questions remained in all of their heads, questions some of them posed at night when the campfires were low and the women and children had gone to sleep: Where had the giants come from, since there appeared to be no city or sign of encampment anywhere near the graveyard? And where had they gone? And how had the one giant come back to life and emerged from the grave?
‘‘ ‘There were giants in those days,’ ’’ Morgan James said, quoting the Bible as if that explained everything.
Of course, it explained nothing, and they pushed their animals to the limit, trying to get as far from the graveyard as quickly as possible.
Then there’d been the Garden of Skulls.
It was what Marshall called it, though he’d never said so aloud. They’d discovered it shortly after passing through the burnt remnants of an Indian village. Choctaw, Uriah Caldwell had announced sagely, but none of them knew if that was true or not. What they did know was that the village had been decimated, the structures torched, even the surrounding fields set afire.
Beyond, past a stand of oak trees, they’d found the skulls.
It was a cold, gloomy day, but even if it had been hot and sunny with a bright cloudless sky, Marshall would have found the sight before them chilling. Skulls, hundreds of them, more than could have possibly belonged to residents of the Indian village, were arranged in various permutations within a walled area the size of a farmer’s vegetable garden. Not all of them, he saw immediately, were human. Some were animal, some were . . . something else. Acting as a base for six baby skulls that had been fused together into a circle was a flat skeletal head as big as an elephant’s with slitted eye sockets and sharp fangs longer than Marshall’s fingers. Farther down was one with no discernible mouth and a single oversized eye.
All of the skulls were joined with other skulls to make shapes that reminded him of flowers or plants. It was what made him think of a garden, but the fact remained that they had not grown here. They had been taken from skeletons and brought to this place and manipulated into these unnatural configurations.
But by whom?
Or what?
Once more, they had fled, and there was no talk now about logical reasons or natural explanations. He and several other men, Uriah included, were willing to concede that there were things beyond their ken, that here in this new land they were encountering phenomena no civilized man had ever seen. But the religious among them took this to mean that God Himself was intervening on their journey, performing miracles, scourging the land of evil, and for the rest of the trip they had prayed and proselytized to the point where Alf Thomas raised his hands to the sky and yelled, ‘‘God, if you’re up there, strike these assholes mute so I don’t have to listen to their fucking voices anymore! Do . . . it . . . right . . . now!’’ When nothing happened, he turned to Emily Smith and her group of fanatics and said, ‘‘See? Either God is dead or He doesn’t exist. Now shut the hell up!’’
But of course they didn’t.
Marshall had remained apart from all this, as he’d remained apart since the beginning of the journey. He, too, experienced hunger, fatigue, frustration and fear, but what saw him through was the confidence that there were riches in California, gold for the taking, that strange certainty that had come to him after his abbreviated night in the hut. In his mind, he remembered the flowers he had seen that morning, the rainbow of blossoms that had covered everything as far as the eye could see, and he knew that no matter what hardships they might encounter on the trail, he would make it through to California.
There’d been one other incident, an encounter so strange and inexplicable that even now he didn’t know what to think of it. The wagon train had been traveling for well over a week, seeing nothing untoward, and for the first time in quite a spell, they were relaxed and at ease, the tension that had been pulling them apart nearly dissipated. They had crossed the Great Divide, and this milestone had buoyed their spirits, made them all more congenial, more willing to overlook their differences.
Then they’d passed through the Dark Woods.
They had seen this section of ground a day before from a ridge atop a low mountain pass. It had appeared burned and scarred, brown earth showing through while all around it the land remained green and fertile. Yet, coming upon the location, they discovered a savage overgrown forest, a spot of ground far more fecund than any they had yet encountered and with foliage the likes of which none of them had ever seen. There’d been bushes with tiny multicolored leaves that had grown naturally into the shapes of animals and people, grasses with gold stalks that did not bend in the breeze that blew through constantly and with edges that looked as sharp as razors. The trees, most of them, were taller than seemed possible, and their leaves and branches cut off the sky, shielding out the sun and creating a world of darkness below. A few others grew spindly and short, stunted and deformed, no doubt by the lack of light.
The wagon train had moved through slowly, warily, following a trail that seemed made for the passing of travelers but that Marshall could have sworn had not been in existence only moments previously. They’d been quiet, even the most talkative among them, even the children, and the animals had been subdued as well, as though sensing something amiss. At one point, he thought he’d seen something through the leaves, a squat dark figure darting away from them from bush to bush, and the shape of the figure had gnawed at his brain because he was sure he had seen it somewhere before.
Far more troubling were the whispers, sibilant sounds that came from nowhere and everywhere, that he couldn’t understand but that seemed to be speaking directly to him.
Fortunately, the forest was small, lasting only a league, and once through it they again found themselves amid the ordinary greenery of the surrounding countryside, ensconced among plants they recognized with a bright sun in a clear blue sky above. All was right again.
It was then someone noticed that Emily Smith and her family were gone.
Uriah made everyone stop, and he rode quickly up and back the length of the caravan, counting wagons, looking for Emily and her husband. But it was true. They had not emerged from the forest. No one could quite understand how that was possible. Their wagon had been neither first nor last. It had been in the middle of the procession, but neither the Turners in front of them nor Jed Clayton behind claimed to have seen a thing.
Almost as one, they turned back to look at the wall of peculiar trees that marked the
boundary of that mysterious place, and though no one said a thing, Marshall could tell that none of them were eager to retrace their steps and look for the Smiths. But it had to be done, and as much as he hated the woman, Marshall volunteered along with a few other single men and Uriah to undertake the search.
The woods seemed neither as dark nor as eerie as they had before. The noises were gone, as were any glimpses of hidden figures in the foliage. Unfortunately, Emily Smith and her husband were gone, too. They traversed the length of the woods along the same trail they’d traveled, then covered the opposite direction, crosswise, but to no avail. The Smiths, their wagon, their horses and their cow had completely disappeared.
They searched what felt like every square foot of the forest, and after several hours of this, the eight of them emerged from the western end of the strange wood and met up with the rest of the wagon train. None of them had any idea what to do next. They all felt guilty about leaving the Smiths behind, but they had done all they could to find the couple, and no one wanted to remain nearby with the coming of night. The decision was Uriah’s to make, however, and the wagon master said they had to press on. Emily and her husband had food and supplies, and they could always catch up to the train.
If they were still alive.
‘‘God will take care of them,’’ Morgan James announced. ‘‘God will provide.’’
No one responded to that.
It was midafternoon, and the Dark Woods were no longer in sight by the time night fell, but the wagon train pressed on, not stopping before sunset as they usually did, not making camp for the evening until it was nearly midnight and the moon was high overhead.
It was Marshall and George who christened them the Dark Woods, and the name stuck, catching on even with the religious faction. Any agreement ended there, though, and for the remainder of the journey the travelers remained segregated and increasingly hostile to one another, Tyler Hamilton even going so far as to suggest that the ‘‘heathens’’ among them were responsible for the Smiths’ disappearance. Rancorous confrontations had replaced normal conversation, and though no gun or knife fights had broken out, there’d been occasional fisticuffs, and Marshall thought that it was probably only a matter of time before conflicts escalated into violence.
So they parted ways after happening upon the well-worn tracks of the Mormon Trail and connecting with another wagon train a few miles up the route. The religious contingent headed west on the California Trail, claiming God would protect them from the winter, though they had been warned by fellow seekers that Donner Pass was inaccessible. The remainder headed northwest along the Oregon Trail, stopping for a few days of rest at Fort Hall before moving on.
Marshall felt as though a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders, and the truth was that they seemed to make much better time unencumbered by the dead weight that was Morgan James and the other zealots. They reached Oregon just before the change of seasons, and he wintered there, working where and when he could, living in a one-room cabin with George Johnson and an ever-shifting group of hard-drinking not-so-hard-working men who were biding their time until the cold weather ended.
In the spring, he headed south on his own. As much as he appreciated traveling with others and the security it offered should they encounter Indians, he felt much happier by himself. He didn’t have to try and get along with anyone; he didn’t have to worry about offending other people. He could be who he was and go where he wanted without having to compromise.
He still had his horses, and he’d amassed a small grubstake over the winter that, added to what he already had, allowed him a little extra bit of freedom. He had no plan, really. He supposed he would make his way to Sacramento or San Francisco, one of the towns, and talk to people, try to get the lay of the land before deciding where to go from there. George had given him a rough map, copied from a friend who’d copied it from someone else’s hand-drawn directions, and though he had no idea whether it was accurate, it was all he had to go on. He figured it wasn’t any worse than following the sun—his original plan—so he made his way over streams, through valleys, across deserts until he found himself in an area that . . . spoke to him.
There was no other way to put it, and the fact that these rugged foothills made him think of the mud hut and the endless plain and the explosion of flowers— though this region looked nothing like any of that— caused him to realize that this was where he’d been heading, this was where he’d been led.
Led by whom, though? God? He didn’t believe in that. He now conceded that there were powers and entities beyond his understanding, but there was no proof that these powers had created men—the way the Bible said—or that they even cared about men. There was no indication that these entities were good, either. For all he knew, it was only man’s mortal morality that stood in contrast to the evil of supernatural forces.
Riding the mare, leading the other horses and a pack mule behind, Marshall sauntered slowly through the shallow canyons of the foothills. Winter snow and rain had left the region green and lush, and between the outcroppings of rock and the occasional stands of trees grew oversized bushes with red branches, the likes of which he had never seen. This fertile land was so close to his initial conception of California that he found it hard to believe it was a real place. It was like heaven here, and he took off his hat and smiled into the warm dry sun, grateful to be alive.
It was early the next morning that he rode into an oak forest so beautiful it looked like a painting. He traveled along at a good clip, feeling unaccountably happy and energetic. He was still filled with the certainty that this area was his destination, this was where he belonged, and he left George’s secondhand map folded in his saddlebag, navigating on instinct.
He had stopped to water the horses at a small brook when he thought he saw movement through the trees. Quickly but quietly, he grabbed his rifle. The dried elk he’d brought with him from Oregon had run out over a week ago, and other than a rabbit he’d caught two days back and a puny trout he’d speared in a stream higher up, he’d had no meat whatsoever. He’d been living on berries and biscuits and booze, and the thought that he might be able to bring down a buck or even a boar made him salivate and caused his stomach to rumble.
He approached slowly, cautiously, careful not to step on any dried leaves or twigs, not wanting to frighten the animal off. There was definitely something moving in a clearing up ahead—more than one, if he wasn’t mistaken—and he could hear the muffled noises that the creatures were making.
Only . . .
Only the noises sounded like human voices.
Frowning, Marshall increased his pace, still moving quietly, until he reached the edge of the clearing. Ducking down behind a wall of brush, he peeked out through the leaves.
In the center of the meadow were two women, both completely naked and both kneeling in a patch of mud, posteriors up, each exposing her sex like an animal in heat. The one on the right, he saw now, was pissing, a yellow stream arcing behind her.
What was going on? The women obviously hadn’t seen him, and he remained hidden behind the branches and bushes, sickened yet fascinated. The pissing woman started shouting something that sounded like a poem or a rhyme, and the small hairs on his arms and the back of his neck prickled.
Witchcraft, he thought, and though he had never believed in such mumbo jumbo, he had seen too much on the trail to completely discount anything. In fact, such an explanation seemed to him to be the only logical one. There was something ritualistic about the women’s behavior, something that made him think they were appealing to a higher power or attempting to invoke unseen energies.
Now the other one was pissing, her stream shooting in a different direction. The first woman had placed her face in the mud, rubbing her cheeks in it, and Marshall grimaced in disgust as he realized how that dirt had probably gotten wet.
‘‘Jack be nimble!’’ the second woman chanted. ‘‘Jack be quick! Take me with your dirty prick!’’
He could hear her clearly, and there seemed to be desperation in her voice as well as determination. She was shouting to be heard, but by what or whom he could not guess. Involuntarily, he looked behind him, checking to make sure he was alone.
He was.
‘‘They’re not coming!’’ the first woman sobbed, bringing her head up.
‘‘It doesn’t happen every time,’’ the other woman said consolingly. She pressed her own cheeks into the mud, as though resolved to complete the ritual no matter what.
‘‘But I want a baby!’’
A baby? Puzzlement changed into complete confusion, and Marshall emerged from the bushes, determined to discover what exactly was going on. ‘‘Hey!’’ he called out.
The women, startled and panicked, took one look at him and ran away screaming, dashing muddy and barefoot over the rough ground into the trees on the other side of the clearing. They did not stop to pick up their clothes because there were no clothes to pick up. They had arrived here naked, they ran away naked, and he thought that this was probably their natural state of dress. They were both fair of skin, but Marshall wondered if perhaps they weren’t some new sort of savage indigenous to California. Not Indian or African but something new.
They’d spoken English, though.
There was no good explanation for what he had seen, nothing he could imagine that made any sense whatsoever. He considered following the women, but after all he’d experienced on the journey here, he thought that to do so might be dangerous. He was afraid of where they might lead him, and he quickly backtracked through the trees, retrieved his horses and deliberately set off in the opposite direction.
He hadn’t known what to expect when he’d left Missouri for California, but there was no way he could have predicted any of the events that had befallen him. Marshall felt better, though, for having come. His health had improved greatly, and even the hardships of the trail had not diminished the positive physical effects of leaving the bottom lands and heading west. He had a new lease on life, and if that meant occasional encounters with things he could not explain, then so be it.
The Vanishing Page 13
