Jack Yeovil - Route 666

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Dark Future

Route 666

Jack Yeovil

PROLOGUE: THE BOOK OF JOSEPH

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UtahTerritory, 1854

"Elder Shatner, look," said Brother Carey, pointing to the high country, "thou canst see a horseman,

alone."

Hendrik Shatner turned casually in the saddle. In the light of the coming dawn, the lines of the ancient

and rugged table rocks were becoming visible. Young Carey saw true. A rider was picking a careful

way, silhouetted against red-threaded sky.

Hendrik shivered with sudden insight. If he stopped and dismounted, he could draw a clear rifle bead

before the horseman was out of sight. It would not be a certain kill at this range, but he had made more

difficult shots.

His rifle hung from his saddle-horn in its soft leather sheath. Store-bought in the East, it had been his

companion for a good few years.

In the desert stillness, the report of the shot would carry for miles, probably as far asNew Canaan . He

could not risk alerting the Gentiles. Still, his gut-twinge told him this bloody business would go better

without the unknown stranger drifting through. He wished he had availed himself of the skills of the

Brethren's Paiute allies and learned how to bring down a hawk with a silent arrow.

"Is't one of the Indians?" Brother Carey asked.

Hendrik shook his head. The horseman sat on a saddle and wore a hat His gaze was fixed on his rocky

path. To him, the deep crack of the canyon would be a river of dark. The raiding party were

bottom-crawling creatures of the shadow. Hendrik tried to believe the stranger was unaware of them.

"A Gentile," Carey spat.

"Most like, Brother."

Carey had been raised in the Brethren of Joseph. His parents, early converts, had died on the Path, run

out of one town after another, pestered Westward. The young man had gathered up an unhealthy store of

vengeance. He was not alone among the Brethren. Each man of this party had made his blood sacrifices.

"We'll see them Gentiles off, Elder," Carey said.

"That's the general idea."

The rider up in the high country would be some ragged mountain man, drifting West, never settling.

Hendrik might have gone that route himself at one time or another, before his brother put on the mirrored

spectacles and saw the future laid out like a map. The horseman would not be one of the Gentiles who

had fixed on the played-out mining town ofSpanish Fork . The pioneers had planted their grain and

renamed the placeNew Canaan .

The grain shouldn't have taken, but neither should the crops planted at the Josephite settlement. The

Lord made the desert flower for the Brethren of Joseph; now Gentiles picked around the edges of the

territory, crowding the outcasts. Of course, it seemed passing strange that the Lord should have placed

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that deep-water well for Gentiles to find rather than the elect. Hendrik recalled that a similar situation had

obtained in Old Canaan before Joshua rode up with his trumpets.

In the dawn quiet, Hendrik heard tiny sounds: hooves on sand and the occasional rock outcrop, the

muted rattle of harnesses, the squeak of saddles, the breath of horses.

This was a necessary action. The Brethren had left too many settlements behind, been driven off good

land by soldiers and bandits. Here, in deserts no one but an Indian could want, the Path of Joseph

petered out. This was where theShiningCity must rise to the glory of the Lord. It was either that or a

communal grave.

"We'll send 'em runnin' back for the States," Carey vowed, vehemently trying to convince himself. "This

be theLandofJoseph . Our land."

"And theirs," Hendrik indicated.

The Paiute rode silently. Hendrik had expected the party to separate into its constituent elements but

everyone was mixed in. The Indians were blanketed huddles on scrawny mounts, interspersed with

Josephites in broad-brimmed black hats and long, peg-fastened black coats. A sprinkling of Chiricahua

was in with the Paiute, wanderers well off their usual trails.

The Brethren of Joseph were at peace with the Indian, if not with theUnited States . Among the elect

was the Ute, who had been at the side of Brother Joseph from the first. He was taken, even by Indians,

as one of their number, if rarely welcomed as a red brother.

The Ute had scouted this path and now rode near the head of the party. Even in the twilight, he wore his

peculiar mirrored spectacles. It was hard for most to imagine his eyes, though suggestive glimpses

troubled Hendrik's nights. The Ute had the coat and hat of a Josephite but his face was burned the colour

of blood. Josephites abjured adornment, but the Ute wore a necklace of knuckle-bones.

"Gentiles whipped my pa, back inKentucky ," Carey said, steeling himself. "Tied him to a wagon wheel,

opened his back to the bone, left him to die. And Gentiles hanged Elder Joseph. Thou knowest that

better'n anyone."

Joseph Shatner, founder of the Brethren of Joseph, had indeed been hanged. Hendrik had heard the

verdict handed down against his brother, had tried to raise his voice amid the hurrahs of the crowd. The

charge was sorcery, a capital crime in certain backward counties of the State ofMassachusetts . The law

had lain unused among the statutes since the Salem Witch Trials.

"It has to stop somewhere," Carey continued. "The whippings, the hangings, the bullets in the back.

We've found the place where we ought to be, and we must take our stand."

Hendrik had heard this speech before, in the war withMexico and in the campaign against the Seminoles.

Before fighting, each man convinced himself the cause was just, that he was doing the right thing. Trouble

was, the Mexicans and the Seminoles must feel the same way, or else why would they bear arms.

A shaft of early light angled down into the canyon. The horseman was gone. Hendrik saw round black

hats ahead, bobbing like mushrooms in a pot of water. There were about twenty Josephites, with maybe

ten Indians mixed in. It was a fair-sized war party.

"Any rate," Carey said, "we're going to see them Gentiles off."

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"Like I said, that's the general idea."

Boston, 1843

Hendrik Shatner counted himself unfortunate to be in the company of not one but two madmen.

"The only irrefutable argument in support of the soul's immortality," the poet announced, "or, rather, the

only conclusive proof of man's alternate dissolution and rejuvenescence ad infinitum is to be found in

analogies deduced from the modern established theory of nebular cosmogeny."

The air of Samuel's Tavern was thick with bad whiskey and worse talk. If one took into consideration

the storm-clouds of tobacco smoke gathering under the low ceiling, the aromatic powders upon the faces

of every woman present, and the natural odour of the male clientele, the atmosphere was hardly

calculated to soothe the nostrils.

Hendrik was at least accustomed to the eccentricities of his brother, Joseph. This Eddy, Richmond-bred

but currently out ofPhiladelphia , was some new species of lunatic. Hendrik was afraid Joseph and the

poet would lock horns in a contest of drink-sotted feeble-wits which would outlast the night and

conclude only with the both of them in their graves.

As debate thundered, Molly O'Doul, whom Hendrik knew to be a not infrequent paramour of Joseph's,

pouted and wriggled by his side, failing to distract him. If matters continued, Hendrik would feel obliged

to relieve his brother of this particular burden of the flesh.

Hendrik abused his throat with another swallow. It raised stinging tears in his eyes. He had spent too

much time in the crowded East; he should head for the open West again, soon. He had not been

toCalifornia since the territory was ceded byMexico . There were stories of cities of gold.

He shook whiskey fire from his brain and returned his attentions to the vagaries of the conversation.

Eddy declaimed against the current state of American letters, not a topic of any particular interest to

Hendrik, with occasional footnotes as to the essential nature of the universe. The poet and essayist had

come toBoston , which he insisted upon calling "Frogpondium", to attend the deathbed of the Pioneer, a

monthly magazine that had published his scribblings and then had the indecency to expire before paying

him for his efforts. Eddy was aghast to discover that the periodical, published in this very town, had lived

its brief life without extending its fame, and thereby his own, to Samuel's Tavern.

"Have you not read my tale, 'The Tell-Tale Heart'? My poem, 'Lenore'? My celebrated essay 'Notes

Upon English Verse'? The Pioneer took them at ten dollars apiece, but monies have not, I regret to say,

been forthcoming. The demise of the periodical is a most severe blow to the good cause, the cause of

Pure Taste."

Hendrik was given to understand that Eddy, a self-declared genius, had not much prospered from his

literary efforts. Like Joseph, he could talk up a blue streak but was only minimally able to transform his

energies into remuneration.

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"I have expectations of securing, through my contacts with the family of President Tyler, a government

post, a sinecure in theUnited States ' Customs House. This position will finance my literary endeavours,

freeing me from the pestilential need of providing for myself and my dependants. Until that welcome time,

so close as to be within a breath's grasp, I'm afraid I shall have to trouble you to settle a greater portion

of the worthy Samuel's bill."

Despite Eddy's penury, the goodfellows drank steadily for two hours. Hendrik could almost no longer

feel the lump of Mexican shot that had lodged in his leg as he galloped away from San Antone. Usually,

he took that as a sign that his evening's liquoring was over and that he should transfer his affections to

beer. In the current circumstances, he called for another shot. Ernie, the pot-man, was ready with an

unstoppered bottle and exchanged a sympathetic look with Hendrik. Evidently, he was more than familiar

with the windy likes of Joseph and Eddy.

At Molly's summoning, a cluster of drab girls gathered around, loitering like coyotes just beyond the

firelight. Hendrik was not yet far enough along the whiskey turnpike to discern the attractions of these

painted specimens, but he knew well enough that before the bottle was emptied he would make out some

startling and hitherto unperceived beauty among the unpromising herd.

Joseph, eyes bright, had taken a shine to Eddy, whom the brothers had come upon when the tavern was

a deal less populated than now. Alone and muttering, he had been scattering spittle over the pages of the

book he was reading. He was going through a poem by Longfellow, underscoring phrases stolen from

other sources, and his first outburst had been a bilious attack on monied plagiarists. Now the

conversational topic had shifted, Eddy was arguing mysterious matters with Joseph.

"Our perceptions must perforce be inexact," Eddy said, taking some new tack. "A veil hangs before all

things and we cannot push it aside. My belief is that devices can be constructed, poetical devices or

physical, which would enable us to see clear through this fog as a telescope penetrates the night skies."

"Aye, there's truth to be seen," Joseph said, taking another gulp of liquid fire. "The Lord's Truth."

Hendrik knew the preaching fever was almost on his brother. It was Joseph's habit to pursue the

pleasures of the bottle, generously sharing them with fellows like this poet, until entirely in his cups. Then

Joseph would be possessed of a deep revulsion for his sinful ways and would feel compelled to get up on

a table and rail against the generality of mankind. His usual topics were those faults that ran strongest in

his own character ndash drink and dissipation.

"If we could but shake the casts from our eyes," Eddy continued, "what wonders would not be disclosed

to our revivified sight? We could remake the world on ideal lines."

"Changes are coming, Eddy. The Lord's changes."

While Hendrik had knocked around the territories for most of his adult life, Joseph had stayed in the

States. His travels had all been interior, and wayward.

If he had been more given to speechifying, Hendrik would have silenced Joseph and Eddy, criticising

them for drawing conclusions about the nature of the universe from observations made exclusively in the

taverns, chapels and gaudy houses ofMassachusetts . A man had no right to an opinion of the world until

he had seen the unpeopled desert stretching to the Western horizon, waded through Florida swamps

forever expecting a Seminole blade in his throat, outraced the soldiers of Mexico while comrades fell at

the Alamo, passed a year in the wilderness without seeing another human soul, held in his hands a

treasure in dust that would shame the courts of Europe, losing said fortune along a punishing trail yet

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counting himself wealthy indeed to come down from the mountains still breathing.

"This world does not please its maker, Eddy," Joseph said. "It is populated by foul harlots and men of

low character."

Molly's comrades were not offended. Joseph always knew girls inBoston taverns. Originally, he had set

out to preach to fallen women but at some point, early in his career as a reformer, he had undertaken to

fall along with them. He had passed more than a few nights in jail cells on account of his association with

soiled doves.

Eddy ignored the painted child who was cosying up to him, though when the polite coughs with which

she endeavoured to secure his attention turned into racking spasms that spotted her kerchief with blood,

he began to show singular excitement.

Joseph was able to keep up a flow of chatter, though he had a constantly replenished glass in one hand

and the substantial bosom of Molly O'Doul in the other. For some reason which Hendrik thought best to

leave behind Eddy's universal veil, Molly was providing coin enough to settle the party's bill.

Suddenly, Joseph slammed down his glass, sloshing liquor on the scarred bar, and cast Molly roughly

aside. He leaped up from the stool upon which his backside had been perched, tearing his hat from his

head and hammering his breast with both fists. His remaining fringe of hair, wet with whiskey-sweat,

stood out in tufts from his scalp.

"The Lord is upon me," Joseph shouted, "and I must speak His Truth!"

The hat skimmed, forgotten, through the air and crumpled against the wall. With an agility that always

surprised Hendrik, Joseph leaped upon the bar and strutted like a performer upon a stage. Eddy's large,

watery eyes goggled and his tiny mouth fell open. At this, even the poet's prodigious flow of talk ran dry.

The coughing child ndash Kitty or Katie or somesuch ndash looked down as if expecting a thorough

chastising.

The regulars at Samuel's had seen this before. Ernie was ready with his cloth to wipe any drink that was

spilled by Joseph's boots, and with his leaded shillelagh to silence any unwise customer who might

complain at such wastage. A few of the girls clapped; nothing so endeared Joseph to women as his ability

to convince them the fires of hell were nipping at their petticoats.

Joseph sucked in a lungful of smoky air and Hendrik assumed the draught would be good for a full hour

of sermon. Afterwards, Eddy might feel obliged to counter with a recital of one of his poems. As free

shows went, it was one of the more expensive. Listening to rot gave a man considerable thirst.

"Sisters, brothers..." Joseph began.

His flow died and his mouth stilled. His eyes fixed upon a face in the crowd and words became ashes on

his tongue. His cheeks and forehead flushed an angry crimson.

Hendrik turned to discern the object of his brother's gaze. The lump in his leg shifted sharply and he

gritted his teeth at the pain.

He could still hear the crack of that rifle-shot. Then, he had thanked the Lord, for if the ball had missed

his leg and penetrated his horse's ribs, Santa Anna's men would have brought him down and his pains

would have been at an end. Now, he cursed the tiny scrap of dull, unreachable metal.

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Standing alone, near the back of the room, was a man in nondescript clothes. His face might be carved

of wood: cheekbones knife-edged, mouth a thin line. His eyes were concealed behind extraordinary

spectacles, black wooden frames with silvered mirrors for lenses. Whatever Joseph saw in those mirrors,

smote him to unique silence.

III

UtahTerritory, 1854

The sky was the colour of flame, scattering bloody light on wind-carved mountains and deep-etched

rifts. When the canyon widened briefly to admit the light, their shadows lay before them, spindle-legged

and scrawny, dark against reddish dust and rocks.

The party made its way through a narrow fissure which cut deep into the rock. A primordial blow,

struck by the hand of God, had cracked the land in two. Another shift might restore the unity, and crush

them all like paste between hard faces.

Hendrik had learned that everything was alive.

Brother Carey's horse paced evenly. The young Josephite's long rifle jogged against his back as he bent

his body either way to avoid overhangs. Hendrik carefully kept to the centre of the path. The walls of the

passage were rough. A scrape against an outcrop could take off clothes and skin.

At the head of the column, the Ute whistled like a night-bird. The sound cut the quiet like a dagger's

edge. Beside the Ute, Brother Clegg, who had once been a soldier, held up his hand and whirled it in a

signal.

Step by step, the party emerged from the passage and fanned out as if drilled. Their horses stood in the

shadow of the mountain, at the top of a gentle slope. Below wasNew Canaan .

The community was a collection of rough dwellings and fragile, irrigated squares of wheat. There was

little timber around; most homes were assembled from old stones, roughly fitted together likecairns .

Still-smouldering hearths allowed smoke to trickle from chimneys into the sky. The party had little time.

These sod-busters would rise with the sun.

Hendrik dismounted. His leg thrilled with pain as he came down on the hard ground, but he did not cry

out.

Boston, 1843

The man in the mirrored glasses claimed to be of the Ute, but Hendrik knew he was no Plains Indian. He

might be a native of Araby or a Chinaman or an inhabitant of the moon, but he was not from the West.

He could just about pass, with his thin face and leather skin, but he had about him a quality not of

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theAmericas .

The back room at Samuel's Tavern was usually reserved for dice or cards. If extra payment were made,

one could conduct business with Molly or her sisters in the relative warmth and comfort of this place

rather than in the foul-smelling alley outside. The confined space was infernally hot. The only light came

from the stove, which cast glowing bars of red on faces and walls.

Fires burned in the Ute's spectacles.

The company was much reduced. Hendrik, Joseph, Eddy. And the Ute. Hendrik was in a fog as to how

this party had assembled, and what bargain had been struck between them.

Now, Eddy and Joseph leaned forwards, hellfire striping their attentive faces, each fixed upon the bogus

Indian as if held rapt by a speech. In fact, the Ute was silent.

The drink had burned out of Hendrik's brain, leaving behind a ruin of aches. Midnight was long past but

dawn was a way off.

From inside his jacket, the Ute produced a book. He laid it, open, on a table. The pages were covered

in neat symbols, cipher or foreign script. The ink must be silvered, for the writing caught firelight and

seemed to waver on the page.

"Words of fire," Joseph breathed. "The Truth is written in flame."

Eddy shook his head, denying something.

"Do not reject this revelation, brothers," Joseph said.

The Ute took off his fabulous spectacles and laid them on the book. His eyes were deeply shadowed,

lending his upper face the empty-socketed look of a skull.

Joseph reached out for the spectacles and picked them up. Hendrik wanted to tell his brother to throw

the damned things on the floor and stamp them into fragments.

The Ute turned to look directly at Hendrik. Minute sparks shone in his eyes.

Hendrik was pinned to his chair. The heat hung heavy on him.

Joseph set the spectacles on his face and adjusted them. He gasped in amazement. Tears emerged from

behind the reflecting circles and trickled down his cheeks.

"I see," he breathed, "I see... Truth."

He snatched up the book and turned pages, as if absorbing paragraphs of sense in a second. He hurried

on, nodding and laughing and sighing. Lenses flashed as his head bobbed.

"Lord," Joseph said, not profaning the name, but invoking, praying...

Hendrik did not know what was happening. The room was stifling, heat squeezing the head and

pinioning the limbs. Eddy was intent on Joseph, impatient for his turn.

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The Ute sat as still as a stone.

Joseph had been well up on his scriptures as a child, but possessed of a wild streak. He had run with the

barefoot and savage Irish. Their parents, respectably Dutch-speaking after generations in theNew World

, had expected to be shamed by him. But it was their first-born, abandoning law books for the West,

who had proved the greater disappointment. They were both dead now, buried in a cold and crowded

churchyard.

After minutes that stretched like hours, Joseph took the spectacles from his face and, hands not shaking,

laid them down. He was transformed. Hendrik saw a new calmness. His brother had won battles with

himself He beamed like a happy baby, but his smile was frightening.

The Ute's gaze swivelled, neck moving like a snake, and he looked to Eddy.

The poet swallowed and took the glasses. He put them on, looking not at the book but at its owner. For

a moment, he stared the Ute full in the face.

A scream began deep in Eddy's chest and exploded from his mouth with the force of a cannon-blast. In

the tiny room, it was as loud as thunder, as high as the wind.

Eddy stood, stool falling away, and staggered as if smitten. Hendrik was on his feet, arms out to catch

the poet. He met surprising resistance. The little man fought like a bobcat, screeching as if dying.

"What is it?" Hendrik asked, seeing his own face in the mirrors over Eddy's eyes. "What do you see?"

They fell against the stove and Hendrik felt searing pain in his hip. The poet broke loose and twisted

around, the skirts of his coat flying, upsetting the table. Hendrik smelled his own scorched clothes. The

Ute seemed mildly interested in the commotion. Joseph was still transported to the heavens. Words

scattered among Eddy's screams.

"The maelstrom at the heart of all," he babbled. "The colossal maelstrom, always sucking, devouring,

destroying! The void inside the night's maw, where darkness and decay and death hold illimitable

dominion over all..."

The poet threw himself against a door, his whole body shaking, and battered with his fists. He was

snivelling and sobbing, liquid tracks pouring down his face. The latch was displaced and the door swung

outwards into the alley.

"Tekeli-li," Eddy screamed, a birdlike jabber, "tekeli-li, tekeli-li, tekeli-li..."

A blast of icy air blew into the room, killing the flame in the stove. The heat was exhausted at once.

Hendrik's face stung with the sudden cold.

Eddy was a shadow in the doorway, struggling to free himself of invisible things he found in his hair and

clothes In his ululation, pain mixed with panic.

"Tekeli-li, tekeli-li, tekeli-li..."

The poet turned and ran, caroming off the wall opposite and tearing away into the night. The Ute bent

down and picked up the spectacles. Eddy had dropped them. Hendrik heard him in flight, a clattering of

boots on cobbles and an extended garble of terror.

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Hendrik stood in the alley with the Ute, struggling with his own panic. The poet's nonsense had in it

something of the screeches of the Seminoles, the howling of wolves, the drone of the Mexican degüello.

They were all the sounds of death. Moonlight fell all around. Hendrik looked to the stranger, who held

out his spectacles, offering them with a sly curve of a smile.

Eddy had fallen silent or was beyond earshot. Joseph was alone inside. Hendrik looked at the glasses,

so odd and innocent in the Ute's weathered hand.

The offer was still there.

UtahTerritory, 1854

Brother Carey stripped to the waist, arranging his neatly unpegged clothes in a parcel which he fastened

to his saddle. His skin was pink in the early light, unmarked. Hendrik's own chest and limbs were a map

of his campaigns, each engagement marked with a scar.

The Paiute waited patiently, holding aloft torches whose growing flames were barely visible in the early

morning light. The Ute laid out the pots of paint on an unrolled skin.

Carey finger-streaked his face blue and red, and drew designs on his chest, circling his nipples with

angry eyes, drawing a toothy mouth on his belly. He looked like no sort of Indian Hendrik had ever

faced.

Pretending to be savages was an American tradition, dating at least to the Boston Tea Party. The

pretence masked a deeper truth. Europe was used up; now,America was the battleground of Darkness

and Light. His brother had wrapped the whole thing around the Cross of Jesus, but Hendrik knew this

was an older conflict and that, in ways he would never understand, it was nearing its end.

Armageddon would be a city inAmerica . The foundations were already marked out with lines of blood.

The Ute squatted by the paints. Hendrik could see his own savage face reflected in twin miniature. He

was painted like death, face blackened, black outlined with red.

Today, the Brethren of Joseph and their allies, the people of the Paiute, would ride against the invader.

This was the Brethren's territory, no matter how the claim might be disputed. If the action meant war with

theUnited States of America , then the Josephites were prepared to take arms and protect themselves.

The Brethren had been provoked sorely. And the Gentiles had fired warning shots at the Indians.

Satisfied with his war paint, Hendrik returned to his horse. He fastened his belt around his waist. His

bowie knife hung heavy on one hip, his .36 Colt was holstered on the other. In a pouch that hung from

the back of his belt, his razor nestled.

In all the meetings, the Elders had agreed that the Gentiles were to be run off the land. A good fright

should accomplish that. There was no reason to harm them.

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DarkFuture Route666 JackYeovil PROLOGUE:THEBOOKOFJOSEPH GeneratedbyABCAmberLITConverter,http://www.processtext.com/abclit.htmlIUtahTerritory,1854"ElderShatner,look,"saidBrotherCarey,pointingtothehighcountry,"thoucanstseeahorseman,alone."HendrikShatnerturnedcasuallyinthesaddle.Inthelightofthecomingda...

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Jack Yeovil - Route 666

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