2nd Cycle of the Harbinger Series Collection

by Carolyn McCray

  Parley shook his head, dismissing the odd notion. “But what does this spirit have to do with all the deaths? Have we sinned against your god somehow?”

  Another grunt, accompanied by a frown. “Your God is my God. I am Christian. Baptized in England, where I lived for many moons.”

  “But then…?”

  “The black spirit that hunts us does not do so from the spirit world. He has taken form.”

  Parley felt that this conversation was circumscribing a circle, over and over again. The more Tisquantum attempted to explain, the less Parley comprehended.

  “I am afraid that I do not understand,” he admitted.

  “The black spirit has taken form and walks among us,” the native explained. “He has taken human form.”

  Finally, Parley understood. Understood, but could not accept. Not here, not in this place, in and amongst those who called themselves Saints and had sacrificed so much for their beliefs. Whatever he might feel about their faith, this was beyond him to take in.

  But Tisquantum’s words would not leave his mind. According to him, they had a killer in their midst.

  And Parley could think of no counterargument with which to dissuade him.

  * * *

  “The Lord has seen your hearts, and has judged ye all as souls who are in need of chastising.”

  Remmie listened as her father preached the sermon. The tone was as harsh and as bleak as the bare branches of the trees outside the hastily erected wattle and daub building. Bringing her hands up to her face, Remmie blew on her chapped fingers, willing warmth to flow into them.

  “Ye are as Uzzah, who reached out his hand to steady the arc. Cut down by the power of God for his disobedience. Ye are as King Saul, who believed that to sacrifice was better than to obey the word of the Lord. He was supplanted by young David. And so will your God supplant ye all with a people in whom he can trust.”

  The Sabbath.

  A day of rest for the Lord’s people to come together to worship. The majority of the congregation was made up of the Saints, but present more and more amongst their ranks were families of the Strangers.

  Much as her father said otherwise, Remmie had seen goodness in these folk. They worshipped the Lord with few exceptions. Many of them did so from their own interpretation of the Bible, that was true, but were that not what the Saints did as well?

  “There is a darkness that has wormed its way into your spirits. A blackness of soul that ye must allow the light of Christ to penetrate. The deaths in our midst are signs of God’s displeasure with ye.”

  As for love of hearth and home, love of family and zeal for kindness, there were even a few amongst their own Saints that might learn a lesson or twain from these Strangers in their midst. From what Remmie could see, there were nothing to fear from these good people.

  And for those that eschewed the Sabbath day worship, it seemed that it would be far more of a persuasion to entreat those misled souls to come to Christ through love unfeigned. The brimstone that was her father’s stock in trade did little to coax the unrepentant to mend their ways. There were times in which Remmie herself would rather be out in the middle of God’s magnificent creation than stuck inside a hall of unfinished wood, listening to all of the sins that would bind her soul down to hell.

  She shook her head. Those thoughts were unworthy of a daughter of God. Even less so of a daughter of the pastor in question. She opened up her Book of Psalms in order to sing praises to God. That were her most favorite part of worship.

  Bending her head down to view the book, Remmie caught sight of someone looking in her direction. It were John Crackston. The man was staring directly at her, and when Remmie returned his gaze, rather than look away, he held the contact. His strange half smile remained on his face, but its effect was less kind and more gruesome. Like a scar obtained in some terrible accident.

  She turned away, troubled by the judgmental thoughts coursing through her mind on this holy day. It were not meant for a daughter of God to harbor such things in her heart.

  As the hymn began, there was a disturbance at the rear of the log building in which they held their services. Remmie turned to look and almost fell out of her seat on the rough-hewn split log bench they were using.

  There, standing in the entryway of the log chapel, were two men. One, Parley Gardiner, she knew as one of the Strangers. The other was an Indian.

  What were an Indian doing here in their place of worship? For a moment, Remmie felt a thrill of fear jolt through her body. The natives had finally decided to attack the colony, and they had chosen to do it on the Lord’s Day. Her father’s dire pronouncements regarding the filthy savages were coming to pass right before her eyes.

  As if conjured from her mind, a voice rang out. “What blasphemy is this?” It were Remmie’s father, Pastor Job Wilkes, speaking out from the front of the congregation. “Parley, thou art of thyself less than what can be called a disciple of Christ. But now thou hast brought this heathen into our place of worship?”

  The words were an echo of the fears that Remmie held in her heart. But then she looked more closely. This man held himself with dignity. His presence was similar to Samoset, who had come to them two days ago, but there was something unique about this native.

  First, he was dressed more fully than Samoset had been. In spite of the frigid temperatures, Samoset had been bare-chested and bare-legged in a way that had made Remmie uncomfortable to look upon him. The Lord had not intended for his children to cavort naked. When Adam and Eve were forced from the Garden of Eden, he made a garment for them to clothe their nakedness.

  But this man wore a buckskin jacket and leggings.

  In contrast to what seemed a deep sadness in his eyes, the Indian’s demeanor was calm and kind. This in spite of the harsh tone her father had taken. Any other man might have bristled at the energy with which the words had been spoken, even if the words were in a language not understood by him.

  And then the Indian spoke, and Remmie’s surprise increased.

  “I am no heathen, but a Christian baptized with water as was Christ.”

  A murmur ran through the Saints, like the sound of water lapping onto the shore of a lake. The ripple began from the two men and spread outward, reaching the entire group.

  Remmie watched the two men. There was something similar about them that was only evident as they stood together. A sense of calm observance, of an ability to see things hidden. The strange quality of respect mingled with a lack of understanding that she had always felt for Richard… no, Parley… Gardiner expanded to include this self-possessed native at his side.

  Her father’s voice jolted her out of her newfound awareness. She looked at her father, and could see that he was warring with himself on some issue, his face working as it seemed to attempt an embrace of two discordant ideas at once. Hope and fear, perhaps?

  She saw the moment that one of those ideas appeared to be rejected.

  “That is impossible. You are a savage.”

  The native ignored Remmie’s father, focusing instead upon the rest of the congregation. “My name is Squanto, and I lived with your people for many moons. I traveled across the great waters with John Smith to your homeland, and came back to find my people all dead and gone.”

  He seemed to sink into himself for a moment, his body and face emanating a pain that was more vast than Remmie felt she could comprehend. A pain that she had only contemplated when she thought of the Savior and His infinite sacrifice.

  Then Squanto straightened up.

  “I would live with you. I would help you. If you will allow it.”

  Something about the softness in his gaze, the pain that was so evident there, spoke to Remmie. She found herself on her feet without being sure of how it had happened.

  But when she glanced to both sides, she saw that she was not the only one. The entire congregation had stood as one, and was now surging forward to welcome this dark-skinned man into their society. It was an outpouring of empathy tha
t was miraculous to behold. Surely this was a Godly moment she was witnessing.

  But when she turned back to share the experience with her father, she saw something quite different in his countenance. Where all around him was acceptance and love, in his eyes was something darker, quickly seen and then just as quickly hidden.

  He looked at her and smiled, but the expression did not reach his eyes. There she saw only a growing focus. The focus of a cat as it stalked a mouse.

  Remmie turned away, stilling within herself a sudden chill.

  * * *

  Parley moved away from the grouping of Saints outside the meetinghouse. He felt the need to gain some distance, from which to observe the interaction of these good men and women with this fascinating man, Tisquantum.

  He had feared that the native’s reception at their hands would be cold. But something about the man’s innate simplicity and direct honesty seemed to have won them over.

  As he walked a bit apart, his head down in thought, he almost ran into a woman who had also separated herself from the crowd. He lifted his head to apologize for his lack of attention and found himself face to face with the Pastor’s daughter.

  Remembrance.

  Recalling himself, Parley extended his hand. “My apologies, Mistress Wilkes. I did not watch my way.”

  She smiled, and Parley felt his heart surge and stutter within his chest. What was it that so afflicted him? The woman were not unattractive, that were sooth. But not such as to cause his distress.

  “’Twere nothing, Goodman Gardiner,” she said, the timbre of her voice creating an even deeper response in Parley. “I too was much distracted.” She took his hand, and there was a shock that travelled through his fingers.

  Looking to her, he could see that she appeared troubled. After an extended moment, in which their hands remained connected, she suddenly removed her hand from his and wiped it against her dress. Parley cursed himself for overstepping the bounds of common courtesy.

  Yet there seemed to be no withdrawing on her part. She stayed her place, with no indication that she wished to move away. Her expression was one of inquiry, not of disgust or disdain.

  Her eyes were large and luminous, a dark blue color that appeared almost violet. Framed by her dark hair, they shone with an inner joy of which Parley found himself envious. There was aught in her eyes that seemed to view the world with wonder.

  She cleared her throat. “Your pardon,” she said, using the formal you that was appropriate for unmarried men and women to take with one another. “But may I ask you a question?”

  Parley found himself irrationally bothered by her formality. There was a desire in his heart to hear from her the familial thou. What were it that troubled him so?

  “It appears to me, Mistress Wilkes, that you already have,” he responded with a smile.

  “Indeed,” she said, appearing flustered. “It is just… I have much wondered…” She stopped, straightened her shoulders and looked him straight in the eye. “Why do you not attend Sabbath services?”

  For a moment, Parley had no response. It seemed that his mouth hung slack, like one who was suffering from damage to the brain. A gulf appeared to be appearing between himself and this lovely creature before him, and he could think of no way to narrow the gap.

  “I… have trouble in the company of men and women,” he answered, in as truthful a fashion as he could manage under the circumstances. “I am by nature a solitary man, and find other ways to worship.”

  Which was true, after a fashion. His views on God were unclear at best, but his acknowledgment of some divine hand in the creating of the intricacies of the human body was sure. His work as a physician brought him closer to that awareness.

  And his other reason for his tenuous relationship with God was too painful for him to think on. He turned his attention back to this lovely woman as she spoke again.

  “I would… I beg pardon… we would greatly love to have you join us in our devotions, Goodman Gardiner.” For the first time, she dropped her gaze, staring at the ground before her. It might have been the imaginings of his heart, but it seemed to Parley as if a slow flush were creeping up her neck and face.

  He felt a responding heat rise within himself, and he wrung his hands together in his discomfort and uncertainty. His assertion that he was not at his ease in the presence of others was naught but the purest truth.

  “I will consider it, Mistress. If for no other reason but that you have requested it of me.”

  “Please,” she said, lifting her eyes to his once more. “You must call me Remembrance.” She stopped for a moment and swallowed, staring back at the ground. “For we are all brothers and sisters before God, are we not?”

  A war sprang up within Parley. He felt a thrill go through him at this confidence shared. But he had no desire to think of this woman as a sister. His disgust for himself rose up within his throat, like food that sat unpleasantly in the gut. There was no hope in her for such as him. He forced himself to respond.

  “I thank you, Remembrance. And you must call me Parley.”

  “I will,” she said, giving him a short bob of a curtsy. Once more, her cheeks had colored red. She nodded to him and rushed back into the company of the congregation.

  Parley watched her leave, determined to at least attempt Sabbath observances from here on out. There was much to admire in this young woman. And if she set such store by her worship, then it must be of some worth.

  That were the only reason. None other.

  But as he turned to leave, he found himself looking back over his shoulder, trying to catch another glimpse of the young woman. It was ridiculous, he knew, but he could not seem to help himself.

  And when he caught her looking directly at him, the only explanation he could find was that she found him fascinating in the way one would find a new species of frog. He stumbled over a root in the ground, almost tumbling to the ground. When he glanced back at Remembrance, she had covered up her mouth, but her eyes were laughing.

  He sighed. At least his attendance at the services would provide some amusement.

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  CHILD’S PLAY – A prequel short story to Amber Alert

  CHAPTER 1

  Star jasmine, dew and gasoline. If there was an odor that embodied Southern California in the pre-dawn hours, that was the one that it had to be.

  Early mornings. There was a push-pull to them that drew Cameron Holdon. Sitting out on the stairs of the apartment complex she managed, she breathed in the lack of perpetual voices. Their lack was a tight place in her chest that was both welcome and a bit panicky. Even being just this far from her girls made her feel like an irresponsible mother.

  This was an hour Cam never would have seen back in her youth, and not much more even up to about seven years ago. She was a night owl by natural preference, but years of being a mom to her triplets had successfully trained her to be an early riser in a way having Ryan never had.

  It was the day after tomorrow. The anniversary.

  Her mind veered away from a closer examination of that thought. Better to look out on the landscape before her as it brightened in tiny increments.

  Soon enough she would be called back inside. Soon enough the world would intrude. The world of carpools, second grade, dance class, soccer practice and Brownie troops.

  Right now, she could be at peace with the city.

  San Diego contained the best of what So Cal had to offer—ethnic restaurants, pleasant weather and beaches—without some of the nastier things found a couple of hours to the north in Los Angeles. Earthquakes, fire season and rampant crime. She almost pitied those who had to live their lives up in Hollyweird. Traffic? Sure, there was traffic here and then some. But the rest of it was almost perfect.

  Great reasons to stay, and there were even moments that she could convince herself that there was no other compelling force keeping her rooted. Nothing or no one that made leaving an impossibility.

  It wa
s fall, and there was a bite to the air. Cam’s favorite time of year. If she turned her head just so, she could almost pretend she saw her own breath. That was the one downside of living here. No real winter, no snow, no white Christmases.

  Meh. Small price to pay for the paradise that was San Diego.

  She sighed and pushed herself upright, turning to face the apartment complex. Not nearly so paradisiacal when you viewed it from this angle. Being a single mom wasn’t easy here in one of the most expensive cities in the US.

  As she trotted down the hall, she heard a fight break out in 12C. Again. Those two were either busy knocking boots or breaking dishes. Didn’t seem to be much in between for them. At least there weren’t any kids in the picture. Yet.

  Cam neared the door to her own apartment and stood outside for a moment, gathering her internal forces. A tiny metal strip proclaimed Manager for anyone who cared to tilt their head sideways. One of the nails used to attach the strip to the door had fallen out, and no one had ever pushed to get it fixed.

  The managing gig was a good one. The landlords of the property lived in Hawaii, almost never came stateside, and still thought that the manager of an apartment complex should get free housing and a small salary.

  It was the only thing that kept Cam’s family afloat these days. There sure wasn’t much coming from her ex. Take a night security guard’s pay and subtract an alcohol addiction and what did you get? Not a whole hell of a lot.

  She winced, regretting her own vitriol. Robert did what he could. But what he could do just didn’t amount to much these days. He had been a fine specimen of masculine virility and pride, back before…

  In those days, it had been her that had worried night and day that her police officer husband would up and leave. She’d been a bit of a mess. Her college days of partying had turned into mommy’s morning cup of coffee laced with vodka.

  No longer. Clean and sober for seven years. It was like she and her ex had traded places. Well, except for the whole penis thing. Yikes. Peeing standing up was not an equal trade off for being saddled with a dangling appendage that made you buckle over double when the wind blew too hard.