Heroes of the Fallen

by David J. West

  Before the handful of men could do anything, Samson was up with Rezon squeezed inside his arms like a rag doll, a knife at his throat.

  “You going to tell me where she is now?” He clicked for his horse to return.

  “She’s not here. She left the caravan in Manti after she saw something she didn’t like,” sputtered Rezon, his face turning red.

  “That’s not what I asked.” Samson squeezed all the tighter in his brutal bear-hug grip. “Where is she?”

  “She joined Gazelem’s caravan. Didn’t she?” Rezon looked to his men. Several nodded. “They are southbound for Desolation.”

  “Why not tell me that in the first place?” growled Samson.

  “You looked like you might wish her harm.”

  Samson pushed Rezon away and sheathed his knife. He glared at the men as he mounted his horse.

  “Do you wish her harm?” asked Rezon.

  Samson lit one of his rolled tobac cigars. “No, I don’t wish her harm. I came to keep her out of trouble.”

  Rezon asked, “Who are you anyway? What is she to you?”

  “I’m her father’s bodyguard.”

  “Your name is Samson?” asked one of the men.

  Samson blew a cloud of smoke out his nostrils and grunted in the affirmative. He then wheeled his horse about to look directly at Rezon. “I find out you lied to me, I’ll be back and cut you into a thousand pieces.” Kicking his horse’s flanks, Samson trotted back toward Manti.

  “That man there is a devil if I ever saw one,” said the spear man. “Samson is the bodyguard of Onandagus.”

  “Onandagus? The chief judge and governor?” spit Rezon.

  “The very same.” He spit on the ground.

  “So, Bethia is the chief judge’s daughter? Get Isahias up, is he alright?” asked Rezon pointing at the fallen archer.

  “He’s out cold, probably has broken ribs from that horse kick,” said the spear man, as he jostled the fallen man and struggled to lift him.

  “Get him into the wagon, and let’s get moving again. Bethia better be with Gazelem or I am going to need a lot more men,” said Rezon. He felt his throat where Samson’s knife had pricked him.

  Open Your Eyes

  “You got to open your eyes Bethia, there is a lot more to life than some fancy-lad,” said Gazelem. He cracked the whip on his oxen to get them moving down the south-bound road.

  “I gave him my heart. I put it right in front of him and he scorned me,” said Bethia, letting her hand brush through the green leaves of a low hanging branch. The leaves were cool and fragrant, reminding Bethia of her mother’s orchard.

  “He didn’t scorn you, since he never accepted you in that way. He asked me to warn you, and I tried, but you wouldn’t listen,” said Gazelem. He played with his long curling mustache as he spoke.

  “I was so sure that it was right,” she whined.

  “How do you know that? Warm feeling in your gut, or was it what you wanted to happen? I can promise you it wasn’t in the stars. I’ve known Rezon a long time, and the stars were never right on that boy. You’re a spiritual girl, did you pray about it?”

  “I didn’t, because I think I was afraid of the answer,” she said.

  “Well, you’re with us now. Enjoy the caravan lifestyle. There’s still a wide world out there and lots of time for you to get things figured out.”

  Bethia looked back at the long winding train of wagons, men, and beasts. “You have more guards than Rezon did,” she said to change the subject.

  “Bigger caravan. Most of what we’re carrying is wine, some furs from the north, and a load of copper ingots I bought cheap from a merchant up in Antum a month ago. I forgot I had them and now with the price of ore the way it is, I am guessing that by the time we get to Desolation and Teancum I will make a very healthy profit.” Gazelem looked at Bethia sitting on the bench next to him. “Besides there’s a lot more robbers than there used to be. I can’t take any chances.”

  “My father says the robbers are bolder now than ever.”

  “Yes, they surely are. When I was a lad they were only rumored to exist. Back then they struck at caravans like this only out in the wilder lands. Now even in the city you might be held up if they think they can get away with it. A lot has changed this last generation,” said Gazelem. “Life is more dangerous now.”

  “Maybe you just remember things that way,” suggested Bethia.

  “Maybe. I know my grandfather didn’t have guards for his caravan, but my father did. Something has changed us as a people. Listen to me going off like that preaching blowhard Onandagus.”

  “I have heard him preach many times. He is not that bad.”

  “I suppose. How did you hear him so much?”

  “I’ve lived in Zarahemla all my life. It was unavoidable. But I choose my own destiny now.”

  “Of course, and why not? We’ll be in the city of Antiparah in a few hours and I expect you to sell for me as well as you did for Rezon. You have quite a future before you, Bethia, mistress of the caravans, queen of wine kegs, princess of perfumes.” He laughed as he whipped the oxen.

  She had wanted to get away from Zarahemla, but was this what she wanted? It was different before, when she thought she would be with Rezon.

  Gazelem noticed her frowning. “Here now, I was only having a little joke. No need for that look upon your face. It will all work out. There are more men than Rezon in the world.” He watched, waiting for her to look at him. “Like me.” He howled with laughter and pulled on his mustache. “Come on, I’m a handsome fellow.”

  “You’re not funny,” she said, wondering why she had ever left home.

  “Yes I am. You have no sense of humor,” he retorted.

  “Wake me when we get to Antiparah.” She crawled into the back of the wagon.

  “Alright,” responded Gazelem, “duchess of dregs.”

  “That’s enough!” she snapped.

  He chuckled and tugged at his mustache.

  Antiparah wasn’t as big as Manti, and theirs was the only caravan in the city square. Although it was late in the day, they set up their wagons and booths. Some came around to buy their goods, but it was a slow evening.

  “We’ll be busy tomorrow. Don’t worry,” Gazelem told Bethia.

  “I’m not worried. I know how the markets go. Thank you for taking me in and for retrieving my things from Keturah’s wagon. I didn’t want to go back there,” she said.

  “Think nothing of it. Your temporary misfortune is my gain,” he replied before leaving to see to the others.

  Bethia prepared her bedding inside the wagon and ate a bit of amaranth and strawberries. Never before had life been this haphazard and unstructured. She could hear her mother’s voice chastising her for sleeping in a wagon in a city square.

  Traveling on a day later, they came to a wide river.

  “Where are we?” she asked Gazelem.

  “This is the Hermounts River, one of the biggest after the Sidon. We’ll take the ferry and then make our way toward Desolation,” he answered, pointing at a crossing with wide flat boats.

  It took the better part of the day for the entire caravan to cross the river, considering that they had more than twenty wagons, fifty horses, and two elephants. While Bethia waited for the others to come across, she hiked up a long grassy hillside.

  From the top she could see a wide rolling prairie covered with bison. Mile upon mile, the huge grazing animals bellowed and moved like they were part of the landscape itself. She had never seen such a vision. The sight was truly magnificent.

  Looking off to her left, Bethia saw almost a dozen strange men coming toward her, calling out in a foreign tongue. They were dressed in animal skins and carried bows over their shoulders. Their straight hair was as dark and long as hers. They smiled at her, and she turned to run back down the hill. Gazelem came up beside her, looking pleased and twirling his long mustache.

  He raised his hand in greeting to the strange men, and they returned the g
esture.

  “Who are they? Lamanites?” she asked.

  “No, they are Lemuelites, sons of old Nephi and Laman’s brother Lemuel, nomads of the plains. They knew we would be crossing the river soon, and they want to trade for some basic supplies. They are friendly, even if they look fearsome.”

  The men smiled and spoke with familiarity in a fluid language that Bethia could not begin to understand.

  Gazelem introduced them to Bethia. “This is Yeasues, a chief. He keeps telling me that he will be king over all the Lemuelites someday. I just laugh and tell him that’s fine as long as he only trades with me.”

  Yeasues was short and lean, no taller than Bethia but still thick with muscle beneath his open bearskin shirt. He had a determined, hard face. He nodded to Bethia and said something briefly to her while pointing with his turtle-shell baton.

  “What did he say?” she asked.

  “He wants to know if you are for sale,” said Gazelem.

  She stepped back, shocked.

  “I’m just fooling around,” he laughed. “He said hello. The Lemuelites are not the barbaric brutes you have heard about back in the city. They are good people and more honest than most Nephites.” Gazelem spoke again to the Lemuelites and led them down the hill to the caravan.

  They spent the afternoon looking over the goods and trading both fresh bison meat and gold nuggets for numerous articles of the caravan, but they were especially pleased to buy kegs of wine. Bethia found them to be enjoyable company despite their language differences. An older shaman told her a fanciful story about the sun-god for whom Yeasues was named.

  Bethia was sad to say goodbye to Yeasues and the Lemuelites. As they were about to depart, Yeasues handed her a turquoise necklace and spoke a few words to her. It was heartfelt, she sensed, whatever it was.

  “What did he say?” she asked.

  “He said if you ever want to leave the caravan, you have a place in his lodge,” laughed Gazelem.

  “What did he really say?”

  “That’s what he really said. He said he could tell you are a strong spirit and he likes that. Spirit of the bear, he called you.”

  “What does he call you?”

  Gazelem laughed. “He says I have the spirit of the weasel.”

  As they continued their journey south, the caravan folk remained aloof and unfriendly, which furthered her loneliness as the days wore on. She missed Keturah.

  One night, everyone gathered about a small bonfire that cast orange lights upon their faces and hands. A few strummed upon stringed instruments and one thumped upon a skin-drum.

  A man extended Bethia a wineskin. It smelt stale and sour, but she put it to her lips and drank. It overflowed and ran down her chin.

  As the music and fire lit up the night, Bethia danced. Her head felt numb to the loneliness until it washed away completely. She thought she had never had so much fun in her life. They joined hands and danced in a great circle around the fire until she retched and fell over, to everyone’s amusement.

  She sat. Her head was spinning, and the voices made little sense. Trying to get up, she couldn’t walk or even crawl. Some of her new friends tried to pick her up, and she felt them tugging at her arms and legs as if unable to move her.

  “What is this? Let her go!” demanded a familiar voice.

  Bethia felt herself swept up in strong arms, cradled like a child in a colossal embrace.

  “Hello Samson,” she slurred. “Are you gonna take me home to father?” All went dark.

  The morning light brought the worst headache Bethia had ever felt. A horrible taste stained her mouth and burned just a little. She lay inside her wagon, while Samson sat on the buckboard a few feet away.

  “You been there all night?” she asked.

  He grunted in the affirmative and handed her a water skin.

  “You came here for me? You wanted to be sure I was alright?”

  “Yea, and now we ought to be heading back,” he said. “You have had your little adventure, but your mother is worried sick about you. You need to come back.”

  “What about Father?”

  “He misses you, too. I must tell them about you. I don’t want to hear your mother crying anymore, and I don’t like lying to your father,” said Samson.

  “Tell them, but I am not going back. I have a new life here, new friends.”

  “I saw your new friends, bunch of idiots laughing at you drunk.”

  “You drink, you smoke, you do all kinds of things Father says is bad.”

  “I got my reasons,” he countered. “Besides, I’m older. What business is it of yours what I do?”

  “Why should I go back with you? I have a life here now.”

  “Look, I can’t lie to your father anymore. We need to go back.”

  “No, I am not ready, I’m not done. Tell them I am alright, but I am staying. Your guilt is your own matter.” Bethia held her head as the ache flared again.

  “That’s how it’s gotta be, huh? I help you and you hang me out to dry?”

  Casting her eyes down, she said, “I’m sorry, you did help me. What if I write a letter to my mother, telling her it’s all my choice and to please accept my choice?”

  “Maybe,” muttered Samson. “But I need to know that you’re going to be alright. Last night gave me no confidence.”

  “You and my parents have to let me go. I have to find my own way.”

  Samson thought for a long moment. “I’ll let you stay, but you must write a letter home every week. You can afford it now that you’re working. If we don’t have a letter from you every week, I am coming to get you.”

  “I promise,” she said, leaning forward to hug him.

  “It’s alright. You be more careful and tell your new friends I’m sorry. I thought something else was going on when I first rode up. I’ll get going as soon as you write your letter.”

  Bethia wrote a long letter to her mother and a short one to her father. She handed them to Samson who blew on the wet ink and, once dry, placed them in his saddle bags.

  “Take care,” she said as he mounted his horse.

  “You too,” said Samson. He rode out of the city square.

  Once he was gone, several of the caravan folk came out. Bethia realized they had been curiously absent.

  “He’s gone,” said one, and then the others appeared.

  “Bethia, you need to let us know that such a man looks after you,” said Gazelem with an odd firmness.

  “Why? What are you talking about?” she asked, surprised, as she climbed out of the wagon.

  “He thought we were up to no good with you last night and made us pay dearly for it,” snapped Gazelem. He had a splinted arm and a black eye. Many of the caravan men had splints or bruises, one had a bandaged head, and another was on crutches.

  “I’m sorry. Do you want me to leave?”

  “No, but please don’t ever drink with us again.”

  Tower of Strength

  “Fire! Fire! Judgment hall is on fire!” screamed a frantic man.

  This news took a while to register with young Captain Gidgiddonah. The gathering mob pressed upon him, throwing stones or worse, and he could not lose concentration for even a moment. He and his brothers in arms continued holding the line as Onandagus had charged them.

  Earlier that afternoon, when Governor Onandagus had announced the coming war, many fellow judges and members of the Council of Fifty had gone to the streets calling for his resignation. They wished to appoint a king who would have the ultimate power to make law and order to protect the people.

  Fools or villains, thought Gidgiddonah, to trade freedom for security. As Mormon the Elder had pointed out, no matter how much these king men called for reform and change, they had not said who would be king.

  Mormon spoke to the guardsmen in the shield wall beside him. “It stinks of Gadiantons. They hope to get Onandagus to step down, and then they’ll spring a monster on us. It would doom us as a nation to be subject to such a king. Stand t
all and true. I am with you against these scoundrels.”

  “It is futile to stand here and take this unjust abuse,” said a guardsman on Gidgiddonah’s right.

  Gidgiddonah ignored him. Complaining did not change anything. Although he had just met Mormon earlier this afternoon, he knew this was a man to respect, unlike Commander Lehonti.

  Lehonti was an older, vainglorious man who had wanted to retreat at the first sight of the gathering mob. Onandagus had told him he was relieved permanently and could retreat to his own home and there display his quality. “Mormon, you are now in charge of all the guardsmen,” Onandagus had declared.

  “No rest for the wicked.” Mormon the Elder laughed as he donned his thick winged helmet and dared the king men to move him.

  As the darkness grew, the mob became bolder. Their slings increased the speed and accuracy of their rocks. The guardsmen warded off the projectiles with their copper shields.

  “Enough of this,” said Mormon. He pulled a stout club and waded out into the fray, knocking heads and hands. The guardsmen joined their new headstrong commander.

  Captain Gidgiddonah said, “Yea, now there is a true man. He leads from the front.”

  Surrounded by more than twenty king men, Mormon bashed some amount of sense into their thick skulls.

  “Judgment hall is on fire!” shouted Gilhi, a young, new guardsman. “What do we do?”

  Mormon turned, scowling at the hall, eyes blazing as he muttered, “Treacherous dogs must have had a man inside. Gidgiddonah, can you handle the rest of these good citizens?”

  “I will do my best.”

  “That’s all I ask.”

  Taking every third man with him, Mormon the Elder rushed inside the gates as those who remained tightened the gap, protecting the grounds from the king men. The mob gained courage and surged forward at Mormon’s departure. The guardsmen were hard pressed to keep them at bay. Cudgels struck skulls and fresh blood flowed freely on the Avenue of the Eagle.