by Alex Scarrow
‘Hmm,’ growled Keats, ‘reckon the bear came down ’cause he could smell food cookin’.’
The group sat in silence for a while, listening to the light wind teasing the trees. All of Keats’s party were huddled around the fire; Bowen and his family, McIntyre, Hussein and their families, Weyland and his Negro girl, Keats, Broken Wing and Ben - eighteen people, hugging woollen blankets around themselves and gazing into the comforting, flickering light of the fire.
‘Hey, Benjamin,’ muttered McIntyre, nodding, ‘looks like your wayward friends have come to join us again.’
Ben turned round to see Sam leading Emily by the hand towards them. They approached furtively, Sam looking back over his shoulder, past the huddled oxen towards the distant campfire glow coming from the other end.
‘Benjamin,’ Sam whispered hoarsely. ‘Can we sit with your group awhile?’
Ben waved them over. ‘Here, squeeze in.’ He smiled.
Emily shuffled in close beside Ben. Sam found some space on his other side. They held their hands up to the warmth of the fire, savouring it.
‘Momma’s sitting with Preston,’ said Sam quietly.
‘Yes, I left her with him earlier. Oh . . .’ Ben reached round and pulled something out of his leather satchel. ‘Here you are, Emily. Would you like to play with the doll?’
Her face lit up and she grasped it. ‘Thank you, Benjamin.’ She cast her eyes around the gathered group and, spotting McIntyre’s daughter, Anne-Marie, offered a shy wave to her across the fire.
Keats tapped the bowl of his pipe onto the snow at his feet. ‘Reckon we wanna keep a little more watchful at night, people. Though it ain’t likely we’ll see another bear any time soon, better we be ready for it if we do. Night watch should always have ’least two guns good to shoot from now on.’
‘That seems a sensible precaution,’ added Weyland. ‘And perhaps, ladies and gentlemen, we should consider doubling up on the watch?’
A discussion stirred to life over the matter - whether there were enough men to sustain that kind of rota indefinitely. There were several varying opinions chorused at the same time.
Ben settled back, uninterested in the exchange. ‘You all right there, Sam?’
The young lad nodded and smiled. ‘Yes. Emily and I like coming over here. Emily likes those children,’ Sam replied, nodding at McIntyre’s daughters.
‘What about the other children in your group?’
He shook his head. ‘Stolz’s won’t really play with anyone else. The others don’t really play at all. Poor Em only has me.’
‘I’m sorry not to have seen much of you these last few days.’
‘Momma says you’ve done a wonderful job caring for him.’
Ben hunched his shoulders. ‘I do what I can, which I’m afraid isn’t much. I’m sorry there was nothing more I could do for Mr Lock.’
Sam nodded, gazing at the crackling sparks from the fire lifting up into the ink-black sky. ‘I wish I were like you, Benjamin,’ he said presently.
‘Like me? Good grief, why?’
‘You got education. You know things like medicine and science.’
Ben pulled a face. ‘I don’t know enough. If I’d stayed on a few more years, I could have become a senior doctor. But instead, I’m just a travelling journeyman doctor, hoping one day that I’ll do better as a writer.’ Ben tossed a loose cone into the fire. ‘I wish I was a little more like Mr Preston.’
Sam looked up at him sharply, the good-natured smile wiped from his face. ‘Why?’
‘It takes courage to do what he did. He stood before that bear to save Mr Lock.’ Ben turned to Sam. ‘And me? Well, I was too damned frightened even to move.’
Sam shook his head. ‘It wasn’t courage.’
‘It was an incredibly brave thing to do.’
Sam didn’t reply for a long while, his gaze long and without focus.
‘I’m glad you’re not like Preston,’ he said eventually. ‘Or those others.’
Anne-Marie McIntyre came around the campfire and sat next to Emily. After a faltering, self-conscious start both girls were soon chattering together and passing the doll between them. Ben sat back, watching Sam. The boy seemed at ease, content, watching over his sister - her eternal guardian. He admired the young man’s relentless devotion to her.
Later on, Sam turned to him quietly and asked an awkward question.
‘When we leave these mountains, would you take Em and me with you?’
‘What? I couldn’t do that, Sam. I’m . . . your mother would—’
‘Momma will never leave Preston,’ muttered Sam, ‘not ever.’
Ben felt an overpowering sympathy for them both, destined to be locked into the isolated, small world that Preston was promising his people in God’s great wilderness, as they patiently awaited an end that would never come.
‘Sam, I couldn’t take Emily from her mother. You . . . you’re seventeen?’
‘And a half.’
‘Then you’re old enough to find your own way, Sam. But Emily is still just a small child - your mother’s child.’
Sam nodded sullenly. ‘I know.’
Ben placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘Come the spring, when the snow melts, who knows how your mother will feel? Hmm? Perhaps she’ll see things differently.’
Ben sincerely doubted that. But it was all he could think to say at that moment.
CHAPTER 26
Monday
Blue Valley, California
Aaron Pohenz looked at Rose quizzically for a moment then smiled. ‘Oh yes, Grace called and told me to expect a visit from you. You’re the English lady who’s making a movie?’
‘A documentary about local folklore, that’s right.’
He waved his hand. ‘Come on in.’
She stepped inside the motel. It smelled strongly of varnish and she wrinkled her nose.
‘Whilst it’s quiet season and I’m closed up I thought I’d work on the wooden banister up to the rooms. Needed tidying up,’ he offered by way of an explanation.
Rose looked around the entrance hall. It looked homey; old sepia portraits hung on the wall alongside a few hunting trophies, and a cheerful rug was spread across a wooden slat floor. In the corner, beside an open doorway that led into what looked like the kitchen, was a rocking chair made from a rich, dark wood.
‘It’s lovely,’ she said.
He batted the compliment away with a hand. ‘It’s what the summer season guests expect; a slice of traditional.’
She nodded. ‘You’ve got that all right.’
He gestured for her to follow and led her through the open door into the kitchen. The slice of traditional motif had spread into there as well. Pine cupboards lined the edge of the square room and in the middle, a large, sturdy, pockmarked and stained oak dining table surrounded by half a dozen breakfast stools beckoned them to sit down.
‘Take a seat,’ he said and then went over to the counter and poured a couple of cups of coffee from a cafetiere. He sat down opposite her and slid a cup across the table.
‘Thanks.’
‘So,’ he said, ‘I’m not real sure what it is you’re after. Grace mentioned something about the old wives’ tales that get told round here?’
She nodded. ‘Yes. That’s what brought us here originally . . . the number of spooky tales, UFO sightings, the Bigfoot sightings that seem to be floating around the area.’ She took a sip of the coffee. It was black and strong as hell - just how she liked it. ‘I’ll be honest, there’s a quirky internet site called DarkEye that deals with all things strange and Fortean; they listed this region as one of the most sighting-rich areas of America. So’ - she hunched her shoulders apologetically - ‘that’s really what brought us here.’
The old man’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘Hmm . . . see, I trust Grace. She’s a rock in this community. Not that she was born here, mind. But she’s been living here long enough that we look at her as a valley girl. If Grace said you’re all right, I guess that’
s good with me too. But,’ he said, raising a finger, ‘we’ve had a few news and TV people come here from time to time, especially when someone starts up with a new ghost story. They come up, film a little, interview one or two people and then go away. When it comes on the TV, they make us look like a bunch of simple-minded idiots.’
Rose shuffled awkwardly on the stool. That was exactly the sort of crap she and Julian had originally come here to make.
‘You get a lot of news people?’ she asked.
‘No, once every couple of years, when one of ’em stories crops up, is all. Ain’t all bad I suppose, though. Brings us a little extra motel business.’
She looked around the kitchen and noticed a corkboard with hooks in, and about a dozen sets of keys dangling from them.
‘You run this motel by yourself?’
‘No, my sister comes up from Fort Casey during holiday season and helps out. Rest of the year, when it’s closed . . . it’s just me here, rattling around like a pea in a tin can.’
‘Grace said you run a town newspaper of sorts as well.’
He nodded. ‘That’s right. Hardly a newspaper, though, sometimes just a page, sometimes maybe I get five or six sides with some local stories, a bit of history and a bunch of adverts for local businesses. The paper’s free and the ads don’t barely pay for the print.’
‘It’s a labour of love, then?’
He smiled, showing several gold teeth. ‘Could say that. Used to be a bigger paper, but then, it used to be a bigger town. I sort of inherited it . . . the paper, that is.’
‘Grace suggested you had some sort of archive and a lot of local historical knowledge.’
Aaron nodded dismissively. ‘I guess you could describe me as an amateur historian.’
‘I’m after some details about a thing that might have happened back in 1856. I know this’ll sound silly, but Grace mentioned Blue Valley has its very own boogieman. She called him the Rag Man.’
Aaron smiled. ‘Ah yes, that ol’ chestnut. Yes, just about all the local stories use him in some way or another.’
‘Could there be a grain of truth to the Rag Man? I mean, was he once based on a real person?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Aaron said. ‘Yes, it was, once upon a time, a very real person. He was a man that emerged from the mountains, nothing more than skin and bones, who was nursed back to health in Blue Valley. He then took himself off, never to be seen again.’
Rose smiled. ‘That sounds promising.’
‘Of course, back then this town wasn’t called Blue Valley. It was referred to as Pelorsky’s Farm, after Jacob Pelorsky who had built up a trade store here - trading for beaver pelts with the trappers and the Paiute and Shoshone.’
Rose scribbled the settlement name down and then sipped her coffee.
‘There’s a bit more to that particular tale.’
‘Really?’
‘This man emerged from those woods on the point of death, see. Somehow he managed to hang on and survive. As they fed him and tended to him, he recovered his strength, but he didn’t immediately take himself off. He stayed on for about half a year; a very troubled period of time that was too.’
‘Troubled?’
Aaron nodded, swilling a mouthful of his rich, aromatic coffee. ‘The man seemed to bring all sorts of bad karma with him. He was very disturbed by something. The family that took him in described him waking them all up repeatedly at night with his screaming. Anyway, apart from being a very mentally disturbed individual, there was a growing feeling amongst the small community around Pelorsky Farm that he was in some way cursed.’
‘Cursed?’
‘I use the term cursed in preference to the term possessed. I think, thanks to that movie, the term comes with a lot of unnecessary baggage.’
‘Which movie?’
Aaron shook his head. ‘I’m guessing, looking at you, you’re probably way too young to remember it. Horrible movie. Horrible. Gave me nightmares.’
She looked at him, pen poised.
He sighed. ‘The Exorcist.’
Rose knew of it; she’d seen the film once years ago and thought very little of it. The flying goo and the spinning heads had amused her and her fellow room mates, certainly not frightened them.
‘So, they thought this man had some sort of devil possessing him?’
‘Well, like I say, I’d rather use the term cursed, it’s less provocative,’ he said, sipping his drink before continuing. ‘So . . . they thought this man was cursed in some way. There were those who thought it was some kind of Indian thing, thinking the man had trespassed on burial grounds or something. Anyway, the point is, whilst he was with them, bad things happened.’
‘Bad things?’
‘Bad things,’ he echoed with no elaboration. ‘Then it finally came to a head when a child went missing. The next morning the man was gone. Never saw him again.’
‘That’s pretty creepy,’ she whispered.
Aaron nodded. ‘The man was evil; well that’s what they thought - that he had evil in him. And just maybe he picked it up in those mountains.’
‘What do you think?’
Aaron finished his coffee with several quick gulps as he pondered an answer. ‘I’m not a churchgoer, you understand? Nor am I some dumb sap who’ll believe any old conspiracy or ghost story doing the rounds. I think Ouija boards are a load of crap. I think mediums and spiritual healers and their type are a bunch of crooks. Okay? I’m telling you this just so’s we can be clear that I’m not some sort of whacked-out small-town hokey. Are we clear?’
Rose nodded.
‘But, I think there is stuff out there that we don’t have the tools to measure and explain and quantify.’ He looked at her with grey, keen and intelligent eyes. ‘And, yes . . . I think maybe there’s something out there in those woods that can do something to a man. Change him somehow.’
‘Change him?’
He shrugged. ‘Turn a good man bad.’
She finished her coffee. ‘Tell me, Mr Pohenz, is there any record of this man’s name?’
‘Because it started as a verbal tale, no one really remembers if he did give a name. The Rag Man is the only name people remember. It’s kind of catchy,’ he said with a smile.
‘And would you know roughly what year that happened?’
He smiled. ‘I know exactly; it was the spring of 1857.’
CHAPTER 27
17 October, 1856
‘I heard it again!’ said Zimmerman. He lowered the bundle of kindling in his arms to the ground and reached for the rifle slung across his broad shoulders.
The group stopped dead in their tracks. Keats swung his long-barrelled Kentucky rifle down, gently half-cocking the hammer and readying a percussion cap. He turned to Zimmerman.
‘Same thing?’ he muttered under his breath.
The man nodded. ‘Whispering again. I’m sure I heard whispering ahead of us.’
Keats looked to the others. ‘Anyone else hear that this time?’
Bowen and the other Mormon, Hearst, shook their heads in silence.
‘I’m certain I heard someone whispering ahead,’ said Zimmerman again with a hushed voice. ‘There’s definitely somebody here, besides us.’
They remained frozen, listening to the subtle rustling of the snow-covered forest. Echoing from the far distance, they could hear a metal cooking skillet being banged and the steady rap, rap, rap of someone’s axe on wood, noises from their camp . . . but no sounds from close by, except for the rasping, fluttering sound of their breathing.
‘I ain’t hearing nothing,’ muttered Keats uneasily.
‘I believe he’s right,’ said Weyland, nodding at Zimmerman, ‘there is most definitely something or someone out there. It’s been following us for a while.’
Ten minutes earlier, Weyland had set them on edge by claiming he thought he’d seen a pair of eyes staring out at him from low down in the undergrowth.
Now Zimmerman.
‘You sure?’ asked Keats.
&nbs
p; The man pointed to the trees ahead of them. ‘I’m sure I heard it come from over there. Quiet talking . . . whispering.’
Keats swivelled his Kentucky towards where the man was pointing, squinting down the long barrel at the low-hanging, snow-covered branches ahead. The others fixed their attention on the same place. He looked beneath the trees, thick with ferns and bracken poking through the deep and lumpy carpet of snow. His eyes picked out nothing untoward, no movement at all.
And then he caught a flash of pale brown - the colour of cowhide; a colour out of place in this twin-hued world of white snow and dark green pine needles. He stared intently through the dark web of branches, his keen sight picking out another incongruous detail: a dark horizontal strip and two pale ovals within.
The ovals blinked.
Eyes!
‘I see it now,’ Keats whispered over his shoulder to them. ‘Nobody do nothin’,’ he hissed. ‘Remain . . . completely . . . still.’
He studied the eyes, staring out at them, perfectly motionless until they blinked again and then vanished. He looked from side to side, beneath the low branches, trying to find them again.
And then spotted another pair of eyes.
And another . . . and another.
‘Others . . . see ’em?’ hissed Keats quietly.
Zimmerman nodded.
‘Reckon I owe you a ’pology there, Zimmerman.’
Zimmerman swallowed nervously. ‘Uhh, don’t worry.’
The eyes glided smoothly behind the fir trees a dozen yards in front of them.
‘God preserve us,’ muttered Hearst, his voice trembling, ‘what devils are these?’ His hold on his rifle tightened.
‘We’re bein’ stalked,’ Keats said quietly.
‘They’re demons,’ whispered Hearst. ‘Satan has tracked us down out here.’
Keats’s eyes narrowed. ‘Ain’t demons, Hearst. It’s worse than that.’
All of a sudden one of the low-hanging branches was yanked to one side, dislodging a cascade of powder snow from the tree. Through the momentary blizzard something emerged, crouching low, coiled with enough energy to launch forward onto them at a moment’s notice: a dark face, painted still darker around wide unblinking eyes, and grasping in one hand a tamahakan, a war-club with a vicious-looking hooked blade, in the other a short bow.
