The revelator, p.15
The Revelator, page 15
VI. And they found many husks of great animals, some frozen in the midst of decay. And within these animals were discovered many birds and creatures of plunder, their mouths stuffed full of meat. And many dead creatures, birds and bison and coyotes, populated the snow, gazing outward with expressions fixed and doomed.
And they erected tents and fires, if the winds and snows allowed, or they slouched against the wagons, covered over with skins, waking buried and impossibly warm and stifled. And they recollected your sayings, your visions, your teachings, your humor, your kindnesses, and they wept until the president said, “He sleeps no more in the dust, for I have seen our Preacher on the mountain, overfilled with life, for there everything stands shining.” And none noticed your son left the camp during these speeches. Gone until the light of camps seemed frail and distant.
VII. Through this time your son remained with Samuel and Samuel’s lone wife. He had not taken a second wife, and he never would. Now nights Samuel’s wife spoke only in whispers and Samuel spoke to her in rough, abrupt commands, in loud voices, while writing out the language he truly meant to express: “I do not trust the president.” And his wife nodded: “I know.” Now they burned the paper and obliterated the ash. Your son, smiling before them in the firelight, said, “It will work out. You will see, Papa and Mother.”
And when a wild dog, snarling and emaciated and wild eyed, ventured from the dark, Samuel raised his rifle but your son said no. And the dog smelled your son’s palm and the dog sat with immaculate posture as your son scratched behind its ears. “You will see,” said your son. “We have nothing to fear.”
VIII. And when your son fell feverish Samuel’s wife wiped his brow and covered him in furs as he rode in the back of their wagon. There your son, pale and barely bearded, something like a man and yet a child always to the citizens of your church, lay chattering and unable to move, his lips cracked and bloody. And carrion birds observed from wagon tops, and many wolves slunk in the outer dark, their yellow eyes fixed upon your son. Many priests too gathered about your son, praying to the Almighty for deliverance. And Samuel and Samuel’s wife stood always with your son. And Samuel placed hands upon the boy. And when he touched the dead icy skin he jerked away. And he wept, and when he tried to stop he could not. Now his wife held him, and so it was she who went to the president, asking him to lay hands upon your son. He refused. “I am no prophet. I am no healer,” he said. “His father was a healer.” And a cry went up until finally the president relented. And now your son’s lids opened. “I know you are a liar,” the boy said. “I am to lead this church.” And only the president heard your son. And then the boy fell silent and his lids closed. And the president announced to all, “It is a tragedy, but our Prophet’s son has gone home to his fathers.” And Samuel’s wife said, “I heard my son speak!” And the president said, “Only the rustling of the wind, I assure you.”
And many fell to weeping. And birds beat their wings with fury, blackening the sky with their flight, and the wolves and coyotes cried in chorus like deranged trumpets. And no man would take up arms against these animals, no matter the president’s commands, for some said your hand guided the beasts, while others said, “The citizens of the forest did ever favor that child.” So they carried your son into the nearby forest, as it began to snow, laying him beneath the shelter of pines, the flakes ever descending and covering. And before the president departed, your son opened his eyes. “He will know what you have done,” the boy gasped. And his eyes blazed: “I have seen Him, crimson in the fire of the light, and He will come for you, gnashing.” And the president soothed, “Sleep now. This is all a dream.” And so the president left.
And the flakes that fell upon your son melted. And the birds and dogs that came to pick at his body sniffed and backed away. From a distance they moaned and whimpered. And like strange planets in orbit, they circled him, fixed by some relation unknown to all, although the theories have been many.
IX. And when Samuel and his wife now woke in the night, they believed the creature had come, breathing brimstone, for they had dreamed the monster’s howl, echoing with the voice of your son, and a piercing light, the beauty and the horror of the creature. And while all else slept, Samuel and his wife went to your son’s body, his figure surrounded by every manner of beast. All animals in mutual silence gazed unto your son’s uncovered body. His body was unmoving, and his body did not breathe, and when they spoke to the body the body did not speak back, but Samuel and his wife gathered your son, loose and heavy, in their arms anyway. At their wagon they covered him with blankets and skins. And they told no one—not the president, and not any of the priests or the many wives. And so they journeyed with the body of your boy, bundled and at rest. And none questioned why so many birds trailed in the heavens, and none wondered why so many wild dogs kept pace along the distance.
X. And when a shape of darkness passed overhead the president insisted, “It is His mighty creature watching over us.” And he said, “You see how it favors me?” And none would deny this insight.
XI. And they continued. And those families who would wait until the spring months to flee would pass over the skeletons and ragged clothing and rotting wheels and oxen ribs and thinly dug graves of those who passed before. And they would cross themselves. And they would weep. And they would say the name of the Almighty. And they would say your name.
And they continued no matter how many died on the trail. And they continued no matter the apparent aimlessness of their journey. No matter if the structure of a ridge seemed familiar, and no matter if a pile of skulls seemed to mark the grave of priests, none mutinied and none turned back. And no matter how far they traveled the black mountain remained on the horizon.
And after the areas of snows came piñon buckled with cones and the blue and purple bursting of wild flowers. And when natives came to trade the president swapped pots and pans for comely squaws, joking to his closest advisors, “There’s nothing these heathen girls won’t do.” And as the squaws became ever more numerous the president said, “I think I’ll see how many I can have at one time.” His many squaws gathered into his tent, the noises and motions of their crowded play, the giggling and the president’s hee-hawing laughter, while the other wives looked at one another in silence.
And they passed by rock formations illustrated with the pictographs of forgotten peoples. And they passed by the husks of many dead bison. And they passed by carrion birds hunched on rocks and swirling overhead. And some said they saw the shadows of natives on the sandstone hillsides, and some said these were mirages or apparitions. And some said the creature walked amongst them for the hoofprints stamped in the mud and the brimstone breeze that always blew. And now they traveled always under the throbbing of the sun, and the heat pressed deeply into their brains.
And when they came to a valley laden with flowers and mountains everywhere on the horizon, the president motioned for the pilgrims to stop. And now he went into the prairie, and at the edge of the grasses he found a body of water, and he fell to his knees. Geese took flight at his presence, and now his voice was heard dimly on the wind, speaking in a voice of rapture. Finally he returned, his knees heavy with fresh mud and his hair entirely white. “We will call this place Deseret,” he said, “for we have found our land of plenty.”
XII. And all knew His hand had prepared for their arrival, for here they found houses constructed of wood and brick, and doors of wood, and windows of glass. And here they found streets of brick and stone. And here they found buildings for shops. And they found buildings for restaurants and hotels and tithing houses. And when counted there were enough houses for all the families, and houses enough for many of the families of those yet to come.
And within these houses they found no rugs, or furniture, or books, or shelves, or food, or artwork, or portraits. They found only the absence of life, and they found the fulfillment of life that is the dust, everywhere fallen and covering. And when they asked whom these houses belonged to the president said, “They belong to us,” and when they asked, “Whom did these houses belong to?” then the president said, “They belonged to the original peoples,” and when none believed these houses were a millennia old the president shrugged his shoulders and said, “But it is so.”
And all called this land Deseret, which means not “paradise” but “honeybee.” And all recognized this land from your book, although none could recall the page numbers where the land was in this way described.
XIII. And the president moved his wives and possessions into the largest house on the highest hill. This house, hued in blackness, as if the pillars were carved from obsidian and the windows smote with soot. And this house seemed to vibrate with heat. And who did not see the creature, vast and dripping pitch, perched upon the roof? And who did not know this swollen monster, filling the rooms with its corpulence? And who did not see the president conversing with this beast, the flicker of its horrid tail, the pulsing of its reddened eyes? And what man would not call it just and true that his president lived within the largest home and was ever in conversation with the most terrible creature of God?
XIV. And all moved their families and possessions into these ancient houses. And so too did Samuel and his wife. And they moved your son into their home and on a table they laid him, covered with blankets and furs, while the ceiling sighed under the burden of squirrels and birds. There your son lay, not breathing or moving or bulging with gas or decaying. And when they pulled aside the blanket he seemed as always. And when they whispered to him there came no reply. And when they read to him from your book they knew only the absence of his prayer. And in the stillness of his hands, his breast, they knew the love of their daughter. They knew the way the world had been long before any had known of this land. They knew that love once blossomed is doomed to fall into the absence of sound and life. They knew only the voice of their weeping, the agony of their sobs. They knew when they kissed his brow nevermore would the young man beneath kiss them back. And when they clasped his hands they knew only the absence of give in them. And when they brushed his brow they knew only the coldness beneath.
XV. Soon after the establishment of Deseret, five native men with red-painted faces and buzzard feather plumes led two ragged native boys into what was called the town square. The boys were bleeding and bruised and bound at the wrists, and the native leader indicated they were the sole survivors of a rival tribe he had slaughtered. Now they were his gift unto your people as a “token of friendship.” A cry went up amongst the pilgrims, for a man’s life is no gift unto another man. And so now the chief drew a red line across the throat of the taller of the two boys, no peep from him as his head dropped, and his knees, and his body through his knees. And the women shrieked and the men reached for their pistols and Samuel cried from the throng, “I will take the child.” So this solution was agreed upon, but the boy pulled away when Samuel reached for him. And the boy struggled against the rope, gritting his teeth until blood speckled his lips. His eyes bulged and his tendons stood out and his shoulders sagged and his eyes teared, and he continued, the red raw of his hands, and the sobs choking his throat. When finally they reached Samuel’s house, the child fled into the depths, his silent native scamper. They found him in none of the closets, or about the yard, or in any of the bedrooms, or beneath any of the beds, and finally they found the smudged imprints of his feet. Soon they found the boy cowering on his haunches beneath the table your son lay upon.
There he remained, cowering, refusing to emerge for his food, and so Samuel’s wife slid the plate into the dark. And slowly the child emerged. And now he trailed Samuel’s wife as she performed her tasks. When Samuel was certain no outsider would hear he would call his wife the name she was born with, and so the child learned to mimic this sound. And the boy took slow to his bathing, refusing to enter the tub or even touch the heated water. And he bristled at the trimming of his locks, but he showed a good nature and spoke openly in his tongue when Samuel spoke to him. At night Samuel read to him, his fingers tracing the lines, and the boy’s eyes followed along. And when Samuel opened a dry goods shop near the town square now the boy followed at his side, cowering behind barrels of dried beans when customers entered, his black eyes peering. And when they were again alone Samuel opened his arms, saying one of his many names for the boy, and the child ran to him, and in the young boy’s heat, his scrawny embrace, Samuel remembered much of the pain come to pass. And when they returned home every manner of fowl and cat and squirrel blanketed the roof with fur and feathers and silent, watching eyes. And to these the boy pointed and Samuel said, “Yes, my lad. So many creatures come to see your brother.”
XVI. Soon by presidential commandment, Samuel and his native boy led the president and a delegation of a few into the wilderness depths unbroken by light and illuminated by the eyes of wolves alone. The boy was leashed by the president’s command, and so reluctantly he went, until they found the flickering of fires. There natives crouched before thatched lodges and buckskin tents. And here they existed in what they called “peace,” although they held no industry of their own but the raiding and pillaging of other peoples, and in this way they obtained horses, tin pots, knives, and rifles.
And the chief was a man of some width and girth, and to him the president made a gift of your book, and he lectured on how the natives and their savage ways fit into your philosophy, for indeed “when your savage nations have converted this world will then heave its final breath.”
And leather trunks and burlap sacks loaded with plates and pots and candles and utensils were lugged by pilgrim men, and placed at the chief’s feet while he gnawed roasted venison. The gloomy dark of his thatched ceiling, the stink of the meat and the fire smoke, and all the dim-lit faces surrounding, crouched on their animal hides and gazing outward at the president and his fellows. And the chief and his cabinet and his priests wore bird masks and the masks of jackals and the masks of monsters unknown. Now the chief spoke with his advisors, with his priests, and they praised the greatness and novelty of the gifts. That night many ducks and geese and antelope and deer and wild dogs were roasted over this fire, and all feasted on the meat and grease and roasted bones, until the faces of the president and his men were fat slick and smiling. In the next days the president led this chief into the chill waters of the nearest river, and there baptized the old pagan in the name of the Almighty.
And the president called the natives “delightful.” And he enjoyed patting the chief upon his head, and they talked often of the “Great Father to the east” neither trusted, the one they would “someday eliminate.”
XVII. And while the men fed, Samuel’s native boy indicated the mountains. And had they allowed him to lead them there, they would have followed ancient winding paths into the dripping mouths of caves, piled over with mossy boulders, while within lay the bodies of the pale-skinned Admiral and his many pale-skinned advisors, and the various men of his court. This man had come from the sea and subjugated much of the land to his indomitable will, and at the hour of his death he commanded all to share in his end. Had the president ordered those caves opened they would have found untold depths, and had they lit torches and gone into those corridors, had they ducked for the dripping of stalactites, had they ventured through the dank and poisonous oxygen, they would have found chambers upon chambers crowded with the bones of men, their golden armor and helmets, their swords and rifles, the rot of their plumes, boots, trousers. And before the counselors and supplicants of the Admiral, the bodies of his jesters, their bronzed bells, their leather motley, and the bodies of their wives, children in their arms, those who died first. And trailing the floors and the walls, the long browned scrawls of fingers clawed raw, ripping at the boulders and the floors, and then their own throats, and then the throats of the fellow nearest, and then chewing at the dead and decaying meat of the fellow nearest. And perhaps one man took a rock from the floor and hefted this into the bare skull of the man next to him, devouring in his last moments this fellow he had known long years and slept by and gone to war with, and then that man, fattened and full, would slowly continue forth into the inevitable. And within the farthest chambers they would have found upon some ancient table the golden-armored body of the Admiral himself, a man become mere grinning bone and dust. These men, who clamored for gold, who clamored for gods, come from lands unknown and forced by native torch and by native spear to their demise. And finally the president stooped to the jabbering boy, saying, “Yes, yes, we have known mountains in our time too.” And to Samuel the president said, “I have heard enough of his braying.”
XVIII. And the president married the chief’s youngest and comeliest daughter, she with the averted eyes and bashful finger to her pink lip. The president named her “Rose Blossom” and gave her the room closest to his chambers. Many nights now he went to her, lingering well beyond the dawn, her youthful hand resting in the tufts of his chest, what he called “the lion’s mane.”
XIX. So went the days of prosperity and grace. Now the president’s wives held many balls within their mansion. And the pilgrims wore the common clothing of their own manufacture in place of the outfits of former greatness, those tuxedos and silk gowns, lost in the course of their many nighttime rides, in trunks fallen and moth eaten and burned. And the earth ran thick and red with the blood of many calves and lambs and chickens and geese and deer and antelope, so the banquet tables could heap with flesh. And the president increased in girth until his belts no longer fit and his shirt buttons snapped, for each night he attended a new ball, or stopped at a pilgrim’s home, commanding “the slaughter of your best calf and lamb” and supping mightily upon these, doused always with the richest gravies.
