October skies

Another swipe and Preston felt more of himself being eviscerated, landing with a wet splash on the ground between his legs. His mind dully registered that in one hand he held a gun, loaded and ready to fire. But that was irrelevant now; it was too late. He knew he was dying.

What mattered more to him right now, more than anything else, was trying to comprehend why this was happening to him, and what fate awaited him in the hereafter.

‘Have I not been good? Have I not-’

‘YOU’RE A BASTARD!’ The angel’s whispered voice had suddenly transformed into an all-too-human scream filled with anguish and hate.

Preston flinched. He rocked back drunkenly on his knees. The little world around them both, this small space of snow and bare branches, lit an amber hue by the flickering glow of his solitary oil lamp, was beginning to sway and spin. He felt light-headed.

That screaming voice certainly didn’t sound like an angel.

‘I HATE YOU!’ the skeletal creature screamed. ‘Your dark fucking evil soul is going to burn in hell! I want you to know that before I rip your heart out! You’re gonna burn and burn and burn for ever!’ it screamed with a shrill voice. For the first time in Preston’s fogged mind, confusion gave way to fear, and the first inkling of suspicion.

‘No!’ he whispered.

The world suddenly keeled over to one side. Preston felt cool snow pressed against one side of his hot face as he lay supine. He turned to see this creature of bones and spines step over him and then kneel down, one knee planted either side of his pelvis.

‘DO YOU UNDERSTAND NOW, WILLIAM?!’ it screamed again.

A spiny hand disappeared into his gaping belly, and Preston felt the pull and rupture of tender things tearing inside of him. He gasped, convulsed and vomited blood. His eyes were losing focus, beginning to cross and roll uncontrollably… and then close.

‘LOOK AT ME!’ the thing screamed angrily, leaning down towards him, its face so close that the ragged teeth at the bottom of the long skull rested on Preston’s bearded chin, hot gasps of fetid air billowing out into the space between them.

‘See what I am!’

Preston’s eyelids obediently fluttered open. He tried to focus on the bone-yellow face and the dark empty sockets inches away from him.

One hand of long spines came into view, covered in dark blood and shreds of tissue dangling from serrated edges, and Preston’s dying mind vaguely noticed the leather straps tied tautly around a gloved hand, securing the sharpened blades of bone to it. In an abstract moment he wondered why an angel would want to construct such a strange device.

‘I want you to see who I am,’ it snarled with a keening whine, ‘before those eyes of yours come out. I want you to see me!’

The hand grasped hold of the jagged teeth and pushed the long bone-face upwards. The skull — Preston’s dulled mind managed to comprehend — was just a facade, a mask. And beneath that mask, dimly lit by the flickering amber hues of his oil lamp, he saw a face contorted with rage, every bit as terrifying as he’d imagined an angel might look.

It was his face he saw… only younger.

Sam smiled. ‘You thought I was dead? Buried?’

Preston could only nod and gurgle in response.

Sam laughed at the pitiful, confused look on Preston’s face. ‘No, it wasn’t me. That was the angel’s idea.’

He’s so very clever.

The angel had so deftly taken charge when he most needed it; his mind fogged with anger and grief, he had been incapable of thinking clearly. His memory of it was vague now. Mr Hearst’s attack had been brutal and without warning. Momma had been slashed open once, twice and again; a deliberately barbaric attack to look like an Indian’s handiwork. And as Momma collapsed, Saul had turned towards Sam and Emily.

Sam’s memory was jumbled. He had killed Hearst in a rage, hacking and hacking at his open bowels as Emily stared in horror at him. He remembered a lone Indian arriving, and turning on the savage with Hearst’s blade… the Indian snatching Emily from him and running.

These things had been a confused web of half-memories, until Nephi came to him and helped him make sense of it all — advising him with a quiet whisper, like a much wiser older sibling, a father, a mentor.

The angel told him there was work to do, and that work was not the translation of sacred metal plates — not immediately, anyway. The task at hand was to punish those arrogant people who presumed they spoke for God, and the charlatan who was leading them.

The grave for Momma; the same grave for the dead Indian shot by Saul a week earlier and buried wearing Sam’s clothes; making an example of Hearst’s body… an example that let Preston know his secret was out. All of this, Sam knew, he’d not have been smart enough to conceive of by himself. The angel was so, so clever.

I’m glad you came to me.

You have a good soul.

His mind returned to the here and now, looking down at Preston’s flickering, confused face. The man’s lips were wet with blood and twitched, struggling to form what would prove to be his last word.

‘Why?’ he gasped.