October skies

Vander didn’t immediately respond and Ben allowed himself to hope the short Dutchman was considering that seriously.

‘She’s witnessed the face of God’s rage, Lambert. You think anyone can come back from seeing that? Her mind is completely gone.’

Ben shook his head. ‘She’s in shock.’

Vander stepped forward, his knife held in front of him. ‘I see the Devil in you, Lambert. You should leave now, before someone guts you like a pig.’

‘It’s Preston, isn’t it?’ Ben blurted.

‘What?’

‘It’s Preston who killed them. He did it to convince you all that-’

Vander reached out and grabbed him angrily. ‘God’s rage will be visited on you next,’ he spat, ‘if you say that again. And if not God’s, then mine.’

He pushed Ben away. ‘Back to your side… and keep your sick poison over there. You have Indian boys to befriend now.’

‘Vander, listen to me. This will end in all of us dying, unless Emily talks to us and tells us what she saw. I think Preston has gone insane.’

The man reached out with frightening speed, grabbed the gathered layers of clothing around Ben’s neck and pulled him forward. He could feel the tip of Vander’s knife pressed into one ear.

‘I could push this in and kill you, just like that.’

Ben felt his bladder loosen. A warm trickle that quickly cooled.

‘I could cut the tongue from your mouth, Lambert. But…’ He smiled. ‘I’d much rather watch you starve with the others.’

He pushed Ben away.

‘The storm is coming and it’ll wash you away like so much shit.’

Ben took a step back.

‘Go!’ Vander hissed.

Ben turned and headed back to his side of the camp, wondering if Vander would run along and tell Preston of this incursion. He could imagine Preston marching over in the morning, accompanied by an armed guard, to make some punitive example of him. There would undoubtedly be a stand-off once more. He wondered if it would go beyond that and turn into a bloody massacre.

He cursed his bad luck at being discovered by Vander, and wondered if he’d made things worse by attempting to sneak across under the cover of night and the gusting wind.

There’ll be consequences tomorrow.

Ben decided he was going to sleep with his gun loaded and right beside him tonight, if he slept at all.

Vander waited outside the shelter until he was sure the Englishman had gone. Then he stooped down, pushed the fluttering canvas flap aside and entered the muted warmth of Emily’s shelter.

Mrs Zimmerman stirred. ‘What was that? I heard whispers outside.’

‘It was nothing,’ he said, pulling the flap down and weighting the bottom of it with a log. He knelt down beside the huddled form of the girl. ‘You can go now. I’ll mind her.’

She looked at him. ‘Emily has not eaten again today. I keep trying her with broth.’

Vander shook his head. ‘She is already dead. Her body just hasn’t learned of that yet.’ He shuffled to one side to allow Mrs Zimmerman to squeeze past. ‘Go on and be with your husband tonight. I’ll watch over her.’

She nodded obediently and manoeuvred passed him. Then she stopped, an expression of concern on her face. ‘You’re not planning to-?’

‘Planning to what?’

Mrs Zimmerman swallowed nervously. ‘She’ll be all right come morning? Won’t she?’

‘That’s up to the Lord now, isn’t it?’

She studied him uncertainly.

‘Go now,’ he said, ‘she will be fine.’

She nodded and then, after affectionately stroking Emily’s still face one last time, she left the shelter, securing the flap behind her.

Vander sat perfectly still for a while, listening to the sound of the moaning wind, waiting to be sure Mrs Zimmerman had gone. He looked at the sleeping girl. Awake, her small oval face was just as expressionless, those eyes of hers locked into an unmoving gaze that never broke or wandered.

‘Well, Emily? What did those eyes of yours see? Hmm? Enough that tongues may start wagging.’

Her breathing remained regular and quiet.

There’s no longer a human soul there, he decided, looking down at her pallid skin and along the length of her huddled form, covered by several thick blankets.

You’re just an empty shell now, aren’t you, Emily? Something that looks like a little girl, but no longer is.

A guilty, tickling urge stirred inside him, an urge he had promised himself not to allow out again. A promise he had also made to Preston, some years back — not to play with the children in that way any more.

He lay down beside her so that his face was only inches away from hers. He could feel her short breath on his cheeks at regular intervals.

‘Emily Dreyton?’ he whispered.

Her sleep remained deep and undisturbed.

‘Uncle Eric is here,’ he said softly.

There’s no harm in this. Just once more, before I smother her.

Preston knew about the particular… interest… he had in the children; both Eric and the late Saul Hearst shared different preferences of that same interest. Preston knew what went on, on rare occasions, and disapproved. It wasn’t spoken of, provided they both kept their playing with the children discreet and out of his sight.