October skies

‘So, did anyone ever see these scrolls?’

‘There were written testimonies by his first followers that they had seen the scrolls first-hand, albeit briefly. But Smith was always careful to guard them closely, allowing his early followers to see them only for a moment, and from afar.’

‘So, these scrolls — where are they now?’

‘No one knows. Smith claimed that when he’d finished transcribing the symbols on them, the angel returned and he handed them back, and they, and the angel, all vanished.’

‘Convenient.’

‘Well, there were rumours that he buried the scrolls back where he found them beneath a hill on his family’s farm, rumours that they and some of the other relics were stolen from him, possibly by a follower, or someone out to discredit him. But they never did resurface, so it makes sense that he just folded that into his story — that the scrolls were returned to God, the angel returned whence it came… and voila, we have the origins of the Book of Mormon.’ Julian sipped some of his wine. ‘Well? What do you think?’

Sean nodded. ‘It’s wacky.’

‘And here’s the thing, Sean. There’s thirteen million people in the States who are Mormon, who actually believe in this stuff as an article of faith.’

‘So this Preston bloke was a Mormon, then?’

Julian shook his head. ‘Once, perhaps. The church went through a schism after Joseph Smith was killed, something of a power struggle. I suppose it’s not unlike the Shi’a-Sunni split over who should rightfully succeed Mohammed. The Latter Day Saints splintered into several groups with different ministers claiming authority. Brigham Young was the name of the guy who wrested control of the mainstream Mormon faith. But amongst all this unrest and confusion, Preston emerged, and won over a small flock of devout followers. He must have had something — a compelling manner, a unique message — enough that the mainstream Mormons turned angrily on him, and he and his congregation had to quickly leave Iowa for the west. That’s how the poor buggers ended up in the Sierra Nevadas.’

‘Did any of these Preston people survive?’

‘Well, here’s the thing. There’s no knowledge of it. I mean, literally nothing. Nada. No one at the time noticed they’d vanished. So I can only guess they all died up there, because there were no newspaper articles, no eye-witness accounts.’

‘Perhaps it wasn’t newsworthy. I’d imagine quite a few of those wagon trains came unstuck, went missing somewhere across America.’

‘Not really. I mean every group lost some people to sickness or malnutrition, but the only other group that actually went missing was the Donner Party. That event happened a few years earlier, about a hundred miles further south of where we found Preston’s party. But you see, the Donner Party made news back then, simply because there were a few survivors who could talk about it. I mean, it became a story written about in every paper of the time all over the States.’

‘Donner Party… I’ve heard of that. There was cannibalism, right?’

Julian nodded. ‘That’s probably one of the main reasons it became such a huge story. But it probably would never have been a story at all if there’d been no one who survived. Now, this Preston party… absolutely nothing, not a single thing about it. So that’s what makes me think absolutely no one walked out.’

Except that one… very odd web page, Julian reminded himself. Someone else knows about it.

Sean nodded, his pasta forgotten for now. ‘So any ideas how it all ended?’

‘I’m working on it. I’m still trying to make sense of this journal. They may have just starved, might have been attacked by Indians… I mean, there’s a mention of an encounter with Indians called Paiute. Or who knows, it might have ended up as some bizarre cult suicide thing — you know, another Jonestown.’

Sean’s eyes widened. ‘That would be quite a horrendous tale.’

Julian nodded. ‘I’m heading back out there at the end of the week. We have a small window of time to scoop what we can, then this site has to be called in. At which point, I’d imagine various American heritage agencies will boot us off.’

Sean smiled cautiously, chewing on his food in thought.

Julian reached for his wine and sipped. ‘What we have here is an interesting relationship between a charismatic cult leader and his ultimately doomed followers. It’s a strong angle to play on. The danger a religion can pose when it’s twisted, radicalised. That’s a very relevant theme to discuss these days, isn’t it?’

Sean hummed in agreement. He pulled out a pad and began scribbling some thoughts, whilst Julian finished his dinner in silence.

‘And you’ve read through all of this journal?’

‘It’s quite a thing to translate.’

‘Why, is it written in code or something?’

‘No, just a combination of things. The handwriting’s hard work and gets a little more wobbly on each successive page. The ink fades towards the end, which makes me think the author was watering it down to make it last. It gets almost illegible in places.’

‘Was the author… do you think this Lambert started losing it?’