by Dana Fredsti
Joseph had given the Church’s apostles all the secret knowledge of church rituals, Brigham declared. They alone had the keys to the kingdom, all the signs and the tokens to give to the gatekeepers of Heaven to allow them in. He warned them nothing less than their salvation and celestial glory hung in the balance.
Rockwell nodded his head. It was perfectly obvious to him, if not everyone in the room, how the vote would go. The Saints would vote in the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles to act as the new First Presidency—which meant that the de facto leader of the Church was now the president of the Quorum, Brigham Young.
Suddenly Rockwell needed to get some air. He slipped out of the Great Hall, hoping Young didn’t notice him go—the man never forgave any sign of disrespect. In an uncharacteristically contemplative mood, Rockwell exited the temple and headed out toward the bluffs overlooking the lowlands and the local bend of the muddy river.
Rockwell would gladly have taken—or given—a bullet for Joseph’s sake. Now Brigham Young was to be his new prophet and leader. Rockwell deliberated what he was prepared to do for his new prophet.
So be it. The man was a contemptible bastard, but if anyone could save the Church, it was him. Rockwell turned and gazed back at the still-unfinished temple. If they were forced to move yet again, it might never be completed.
Abruptly the church spire wavered, undulating like a desert mirage. He frowned. No, not just the spire. The whole building seemed to be twisting, then even the ground itself. The very air suddenly danced with will-o’-the-wisps and shooting stars. Rockwell backed away in horror, fearing he had lost his senses.
Then some raw, divine miracle manifested. With a sizzling rush, a geyser of angel-fire burst up from the earth before him, reaching up to Heaven itself like Jacob’s Ladder. He threw himself to the ground, as Moses had before the burning bush. The upward torrent was too bright to gaze upon, its fury unbearable. Clapping his hands over his ears, he felt the hair on his head and arms rising. Even his beard stretched out, electrified.
And then, just as it seemed the whirlwind would consume him, together with the world, it disappeared, snuffed out like a candle. He remained on his hands and knees, shaking uncontrollably. When he finally stumbled up to his shaky feet, he shaded his eyes and stared out across the rocky bluff.
The temple was gone.
The city of Nauvoo was gone.
Nothing remained of either but barren wilderness. The meaning was clear. All the Saints had been lifted up to Heaven—but not him. He was forsaken.
He fell to his knees again, wailing.
* * *
“Old Port! Wake up, man!”
Rockwell jerked awake, rousing himself from the messy oaken tabletop, and Shanks yanked his hand back from his boss’s sleeve. Rockwell glared at Shanks and Feeds-the-Crows, then saw that the fear in their eyes was not on his account.
The music had stopped, a hush fallen over the raucous crowd. He turned and looked across the tavern at the squad of Cahokian guards taking up the doorway. The spectacled royal secretary stood front and center, regarding them.
“You have a serious problem. Come with us.”
Leaving behind their half-finished dinners and celebratory tankards of potent local corn whiskey on the table, Rockwell and his men stepped out into the night. To their surprise, the Cahokian soldiers did not escort them back to the palace, taking them instead south through town to the gate of the outer city and the docks beyond. This late, the dark and deserted waterfront felt sinister.
Looks to be a fine place to get bushwhacked and dumped in the river, Rockwell thought. “What kind of hogshit jiggery-pokery are you playing at?” he demanded, refusing to show any fear. “Is that it—we’re being deported? Where’s our goddamned money?”
The royal secretary peered at him like an unimpressed schoolmaster. “Payment comes after delivery,” the man said, sounding bored. “Your experts failed to provide their services. No merchandise, no payment.”
“The hell you say!”
“Not only that, but they have escaped the palace. They slipped out through a window in the night and climbed down to the ground. Presumably they have fled the city. The Sun Raven is most displeased.”
Well, hell, Rockwell thought. Out loud he said carefully, “I can surely see his predicament, but how’s that on us? We did our part.”
“No merchandise, no payment.”
“You pack of goddamned Lamanite Injun-givers!”
The secretary remained unfazed. “It is strange that you three do not see the pot of trouble you stew in.”
Shanks bristled visibly. Outgunned as they were, he and Feeds-the-Crows had their hands on the hilts of their knives, eyes peeled for any false move from the soldiers.
“Still,” the secretary continued, “the Sun Raven offers you one more chance to redeem yourselves.”
“And what would that be?” Rockwell raised a suspicious eyebrow.
“Here it comes now.”
A peculiar mechanical sound came across the water as a long, low barge pulled up to the docks. The old wooden vessel had no sails, smokestacks, or paddlewheel, but some sort of engine chugged along, propelling it at a surprising speed. The only cargo was covered by a canopy of tawny-brown tarpaulin.
He was surprised to see a negro captain at the bow, dressed in as smart a navy uniform as he’d ever seen, a double-breasted blue frock coat with gold piping and buttons. The officer stepped off nimbly and touched his cap in greeting, though he didn’t bother doffing it or shaking hands.
“I am Captain Kha-Hotep,” he said. “I’ll be in charge of this mission, on the direct orders of the Sun Raven himself.”
Rockwell scowled. “See here, Captain Coon! Since when does a white feller take orders from some jumped-up darkie in a fancy suit?”
“Am I mistaken?” The captain flashed his teeth in a panther’s smile. “So sorry, I was under the impression you wanted to get back into his good graces and be paid handsomely, instead of being creatively executed over the next few days and nights.”
The big man blinked. “Well, now,” he said after a moment of silent reflection. “Orrin Porter Rockwell, at your service, Captain. My associates, Mr. Shanks and Mr. Feeds-the-Crows, and I are a-chompin’ at the bit to hear more about our exciting excursion. Sir.”
The captain’s smile warmed by a degree, and he waved his hand with a flourish.
“Welcome aboard, Gentlemen. Let’s be off.”
* * *
As the barge chugged away downriver, the captain explained their mission.
“Most likely, we won’t encounter anyone else on the far shore, but should we, I am just another wasteland bounty hunter, like you. We are tracking our quarry, and Cahokia knows nothing of this. We do not want to provoke a war with the Landing. Understood?”
The three bounty hunters nodded.
“Good. There’s a particular spot in the woods near the haunted ruins. As I understand, it’s south of where you first picked them up, and I think I can locate it without trouble. We need to stop them before they get there. If we succeed, we’ll be back in the city by morning, and you three will be rich men.”
Shanks nodded, pleased at the prospect, but Rockwell frowned.
“What makes you so sure that’s where they’re headed?”
“That’s where they’re headed,” the captain replied calmly.
“If you say so. How much of a head start they got on us?”
“We suspect they left the palace shortly after nightfall.”
Feeds-the-Crows shook his head. “No good,” the Pawnee said. “They’ll beat us there.”
“He’s right.” Shanks scowled. “There’s no chance we’ll catch up to them in time by now.”
“No, we will be waiting for them,” Kha-Hotep stated.
“How do you figure?” Rockwell looked at him skeptically.
“We’ll go ashore just as soon as we’ve gone a mile or so past the Great Arch, far enough from the Landing that no one should spot us, m
uch less think we’ve declared war. From there, we should reach the ruins in about twenty minutes. We will catch them, and we will take the fugitives alive. The Sun Raven made that very clear, and I am here to make certain his instructions are followed to the letter.”
“Twenty minutes!” Shanks snorted. “In a pig’s eye! There’d have to be some bloody fast horses waiting for us!”
Kha-Hotep walked over to the tent and pulled open the canvas flap. “We have one hundred and fifty of them.” Inside the tent sat the strangest coach Rockwell had ever seen—four-wheeled and open-topped, its long blocky metal body housing strange machinery as complicated as one of the whiskey stills in Laclede’s Landing.
It had two rows of fine cushioned leather seats for a pilot and crew, some sort of pint-sized ship’s wheel, and a pane of window glass mounted across the front—though what that would protect them from, Rockwell thought, God only knew. A busy team tended to the vehicle, poking its metal innards with long rods, adjusting valves, pouring tin canisters of coal oil, and funneling water from nearby water barrels.
There were, however, no horses.
“What the hell’s that contraption supposed to be?” Rockwell asked.
“It’s Lacledean,” Kha-Hotep said with pride. “They call it a Scott-Newcomb steam car. It’s a horseless carriage.”
45
It was dark and the stars were still out when Hypatia roused Nellie from deep sleep.
“It’s too early…” she grumbled, but Hypatia quickly shushed her and pointed silently to the entrance of Isonash’s house.
Someone was there.
Both women froze. No villager would dare enter another’s home without waiting to be invited, let alone try to sneak inside. An unthinkable violation, yet a wedge of moonlight appeared as the figure in the doorway pulled back the fur screen, then slipped inside. A shape approached them, a darker shadow in the gloom, keeping its footsteps careful and quiet.
Nellie tensed, readying herself to attack or flee—she wasn’t sure which. The figure crouched down, reaching for her. Sitting up, Nellie snatched the intruder’s wrist, drawing her other hand back to strike—but then recognized the intruder’s tattooed face.
It was Imekanu, Harukor’s young wife. She didn’t cry out, holding a finger to her lips to urge their silence.
“Imekanu?” Hypatia whispered. “What’s wrong?”
“Shhhhh… Yaytupare,” she cautioned them. “Paye’an.” They had picked up enough of the language to know that she wanted them to come with her, and immediately.
* * *
As Imekanu led the two women out of the kotan, her heart beat so hard it hurt her chest. She had never done anything rebellious, and it terrified her to think of what would happen to her if anyone saw her, let alone suspected what she was about to do.
Fear sent a shudder through her.
She had packed a small knapsack and tied it around her forehead. Passing through the village gate, she paused to pull a small whisk broom from it and quickly brushed away their footprints before leading them back around the village fence.
Imekanu pointed out patches of snow on the ground, cautioning the two women from stepping on them. They seemed to understand, and the three continued to circle around the back of the village until they came to the rocky patch in the river, crossing it where the stones made a bridge in the ice, and where no tracks would show on the opposite side.
It was slow going through the forest, but she hadn’t dared bring a torch. They crept along carefully until she found enough of a break in the timber to let them see by moonlight. She thanked the gods the two puzzled women trusted her enough to keep their silence, and continued to follow her lead.
As they drew closer to her goal, Imekanu’s doubts increased. She had been second-guessing herself ever since the men had decided what to do with Ne-hee and Hi’e-Pay-Shah. They were convinced the two women were kamuy to be returned to the land of the gods.
Imekanu didn’t pretend to know what they were—animals in human guise, water spirits, forest spirits, shamanesses, sorcerers, so many possibilities. Perhaps they were from the land of the gods, but her ihuminu, her psychic sense, told her that no matter how strange they seemed, or where they came from, they were women like herself, with good hearts.
She took a deep breath, steeling herself. There was no certainty that her plan would work. Still, she had to try. If she did nothing, the two were doomed. There was only one place she could go for even a chance of help, and they were nearly there.
* * *
The pre-dawn twilight felt somehow clearer than the full light of day, Hypatia thought, and the cerulean tone of the star-frosted sky gave everything a hint of magic as the women hiked higher up the slope. When they reached a small mountain tabletop jutting out from the trees, Imekanu finally stopped.
“It’s a completely different shard,” Nellie exclaimed. “Everything’s so wild here, I’d quite forgotten that there must be several of them around.” Imekanu raised a finger to her lips, and Nellie held her tongue.
The flat ground they stood upon was smooth stone. Years ago it must have been part of a much wider terrace, but the Event had left only a small scrap behind. It formed a courtyard of sorts for the entrance to a large cave. Imekanu was clearly afraid of the cavern, grabbing Nellie and Hypatia each by an arm to hold them back. She spoke quietly but firmly in her own tongue, apparently urging them to not go any closer.
Something in the cave’s high doorway seemed deliberately constructed, albeit with great cyclopean stonework. How old was it? Perhaps it was a shrine to Imekanu’s people.
Setting down her knapsack, Imekanu removed stacks of millet cakes neatly bound up with long grasses, a leather flask, and bundles of dried salmon. She laid them all out in a line, and last of all, pulled out two of the short knives favored by the women of the village.
“Taan uk,” she said, offering each of them one of the iron blades. Nellie and Hypatia stared at them in their meticulously hand-carved wooden sheaths. They knew how valuable they were.
“Taan uk,” Imekanu said again, more emphatically.
Accepting the blades, the two watched quietly as Imekanu knelt down and began to perform a short ritual. First, she removed her headdress and hung it neatly over her left arm. She brushed back her long hair, then placed her hand over her mouth, and ran a finger along her left arm from hand to shoulder, then across her upper lip, ending by smoothing her hair behind her ears again. Then she folded her hands in her lap and facing the cavernous entrance, began a prayer or invocation in a firm voice.
“Irankarapte na, Atuy-Siwnin Wenkamuy kirorkor…”
* * *
“I greet you, O mighty Sea-Blue Demon,
“Please forgive our trespass and accept my gifts.
“I bring you good food and drink. Please accept them.
“I also bring you these two women to be your wives.
“Please be good to them and protect them from all harm, and in return they will bear you many children and bring joy to your life. For this we thank you.”
Imekanu ended her plea, wanting to say more, hoping against hope her words were enough to save her friends—and afraid she had already stayed too long. She needed to return quickly, before she was missed. She would tell her husband she rose early to forage for the feast.
She looked up at the two women, standing there watching her with uncertain and anxious eyes. If only she could tell Ne-hee and Hi’e-Pay-Shah exactly what was happening…
But there was nothing to be done about that, and no more time to spare.
Rising, she quickly hugged each woman tightly and then backed away from them. As they started to follow, she held up a hand and told them no. She pointed back down to the kotan, and to them again, speaking to them in words she hoped they understood.
“No. Never.” Her own eyes were stinging with tears now. She had to go. She pointed to the cave, speaking to them like toddlers. “Go. Go on inside.”
She turned before they c
ould see her crying, and ran off down the valley.
* * *
Nellie and Hypatia stared in shock as Imekanu bolted away into the trees.
“Whatever was that all about?” Nellie wondered. “She seems so very distraught. Is she cross with us? Do you think she’s alright?”
Hypatia shook her head. “Something is very wrong, but I cannot say what or why.”
“So… are we just to wait here until she comes back?”
“I would think so. She seemed most emphatic about that.”
“But today’s the big festival—surely we have to be there for that!”
Hypatia cradled her chin in her hand, thinking it over. “You’re right,” she finally said. “Then again, she was so secretive about everything. Perhaps this is part of the festival. Otherwise, why would she bring us all the way up here?”
As if in answer to their question, something stirred in the cavern. The pavement shook repeatedly like a beaten drum, and a huge shape emerged.
“Oh my lord,” Nellie said faintly.
The demon was bigger than they’d realized, standing over twice their height, nearly as tall as the fir trees. The club he carried over his shoulder was iron-bound and spiked, bigger than a grown man and thick as a pine. His fur wrap, a rough tiger-skin toga. His skin was the deep blue of a midwinter sky, and his shaggy black mane and long horns would have put a buffalo to shame.
His bright eagle’s eyes, each as big as a shot put, gleamed at them with cold-burning anger and ravenous hunger. When he spoke, the rumbling stone-timbre of his voice resonated deep in their bones.
“Nante oishī o yatsu,” he said, eagerly staring not at the food or drink, but at them. Their translation implants recognized his words.
Such delicious morsels.
46
Except for the stars, dancing fireflies, and a sliver of moon, the three fugitives had no light to navigate by. Still, Blake and Cam jogged at a good clip across the open prairie, with Harcourt struggling to keep pace. They were within sight of the dark shape that marked the woods of the ruined city.
