Back to New Canaan.

Joshua Graham's eyes were closed, and he was asleep.  Or dead.  He didn't move, and his lips, now blackened, were silently parted as the back of his dark head lay against the sand.  Nearby, less-than-ocean waves lapped patiently, as though certain he would wake up soon and not cause them to use any real force.  But he didn't stir, and only the loose bandages flapped in the cool morning wind as he lay on his back, facing heaven.

Then, a crow called, and then another.  And Joshua Graham started suddenly.  Crows? Crows? Crows didn't exist in the Mojave.  He remembered the GECK.  New Jerusalem, Salt Lake City.  His eyes popped open and he spasmed, recalling that he'd collapsed here earlier.  Maybe even days earlier.  The crows drifted overhead, unconcerned with the rotten piece of carrion below them, and the Mormon tried to sit up, cried out from the intense pain it caused, and then flopped defeatedly back to the sandy ground.  

The grey sky held only the crows for a moment, as they caw'ed again, perhaps humorously, and then another dark, strange figure popped into sight, causing Graham to jerk in fear again.  In a moment, despite his great pain and lack of strength, the pistol was pointed right at the dark head in front of him.

She smiled, almost like a schoolyard bully.  

"Figures you'd crash here.  Some habits don't change."  Now the woman shoved the gun out of her own face, and squatted over Graham, eyeing him closely.  Astonishinly, his first instinct was to turn away in despair.  Everyone ran, or screamed, or just fired their weapon, these days.  He knew this would be no different.

Instead she just stared at him, and then said in mock-seriousness, "You don't look so well."

"I'm a monster," he choked, still pressing his face toward the sand, trying and failing to roll onto his side.  Firmly, her own petite hand found its way to his shoulder strap, and she pushed down, forcing Graham to look at her.  Now in a serious, non-mock tone, she admonished, "I've seen worse.  That's right, even worse.  And for the record, Joshua...this is not you at your worst."

Barely alive, the newly-Burned Man stared at the woman.  He was speechless.  She smiled a quirky smile at him, and then rose to her feet, dusting her hands on her long black dress.  "Time to get you inside.  Got a lot of bandaging to do--"

"No."

"Oh, so you're doing just fine on your own?"

"I have traveled from--"

"And you think I didn't scour that canyon for you the moment I heard about it? Or lead that Spanish-speaking old man to find you?  They call me a witch for all the wrong reasons..." now she shook her head sadly.  "Don't even give me credit.  I figured you'd never make it past here without making yourself seen, though, so I came back.  Didn't expect you'd pick my front yard for your dramatic fainting spell."

"How long have I..."

"About six or seven hours.  I've just been getting you a bed made, first aid prepared.  Had to bargain with a few raiders over some stimpaks.  Assholes."  

"I cannot let you--"

"You're in no position to argue.  Shut up and get up."


____________________________________________


"Please, turn off the lamps."

"I told you, this isn't anywhere near your worst, Joshua," she argued, thumbing through the thick book that apparently captivated her attention as she sat, legs propped up, by the oil lamp.  Nearby, sitting up and feeling rested for the first time in months, Graham held his own book in his hands.  

"Besides, how will you ever read about God's great mercy in the dark?"

Astonishingly, showing a hint of his deadened Malpais Legate side, Graham flung his book across the room, where it crashed into a china cabinet, causing a cascade of glass to crash to the floor.  The Salt Witch grunted, and now Graham's face fell to his hands. Though her face turned back to her book, the woman's eyes traveled carefully over to the corner where he pressed his face even further into his hands, shaking his head as he did so and heaving a very ragged sigh.  

"I don't know what I was thinking.  I don't...I can't go back."  

He was speaking of New Canaan, his home, the capital of the LDS church.  It was his only option left, his first home after the atrocity known as the Legion had become his everything.  Graham knew nowhere else to do, had prayed about it ceaselessly, and with barely any life in his body, made the long trek north and east to Utah.  And apparently, he'd had help.  

She unfolded her legs and crossed the room to sit beside him.  All hints of humor gone, she countered, "Yes you can."

"I deserve to die.  They know that."

"You're going back, and I'm going with you."

Now he lifted his face from his hands, revealing very white-blue, glossy, tear-filled eyes, and he said in an astonished voice, "You'll go with me? To New Canaan?"

She shrugged.  "They're my people too.  They know me."

She hated the Mormon settlement, had willingly left it at 18 to go live among thugs, gangsters, and raiders, breaking the young Missionary's heart in the process, and as far as he'd ever heard, she never returned.  Now Graham stared, wanting to say ten things and none of them the right thing, and she added mysteriously, "Besides, they're expecting you."




____________________________________________________




Graham was finally walking with his old gait as he exited the Ogden train and stepped into the lush settlement of New Canaan.  Despite the bandages, and his dimmed faith in his kinsmen's welcoming attitude, he again walked with his tall lope, the cleaned-up and almost normal-looking Salt Witch at his side.  She still wore black, but it was simpler in cut, and her wild windswept hair was brushed and down as she'd worn it all the years ago when she lived in New Canaan.  With better company than raiders and thieves, she'd finally scrubbed the Salt Palace's soot from her face and her olive skin was revealed in all its beauty.  On the ride, she constantly winked and made encouraging faces at Graham, who was glum and silent.

The decidedly odd pair entered the city together, and almost instantly the shouts rang through old Ogden: "Joshua's back!"  "He's really here!"

The pair halted on the dusty ground as the crowd began to form, many people hesitantly hugging the returned missionary, who winced awkwardly.  Many shouted praises to God, still others took off their hats and wrung their hands happily.  One of the bishops, Brian, moved forward and extended his hand eagerly.  He had been one of Graham's advisors in younger years, and the leader who appointed Graham's mission what seemed like centuries ago.

He heartily shook the bandaged hand, squeezing it as a father would.  "I can't tell you....how wonderful it is to see you.  We prayed and prayed all those years ago Joshua.  We thought you were lost to us."

"Well, wasn't he?" piped up the smarmy woman to Graham's left, but the bishop, an easygoing man, chuckled.  He now stared openly at the wounds, at the bandages.  "Estelle--" The Salt Witch--"told us of your extensive wounds, but I never imagined the accident would be so...."

"...Accident?" Graham growled, but Estelle interrupted, "He's got a long road of healing to walk down, bishop, but he'll do fine."

"With our help, he most certainly will," the bishop nodded, and then he patted Graham's hand a final time.  "Please...wait here.  We've got something for you.  When we heard you were on your way back.....Boys! Open up the shed, will you? Now, Joshua, don't you move."


The Bishop sped away after the farmhands who were headed toward a nearby building, and the people backed away, clearly anticipating whatever gift the missionary was about to receive.  Graham was stunned.  It was customary for the Mormons to pamper, to love and adore, their returned missionaries, but.....

He rounded on Estelle, and in his rough whisper, "Accident?"

"It's better they hear the truth from you," she said firmly, as though she expected an argument.

Now Graham did stare, in shock, at the rosy-cheeked woman who looked years younger without the soot covering her features.  she was waving to apparently, some old friends, and he muttered more to himself than her, "You didn't tell them. About the Legion.  They....don't know."

"They love you.  Now you're here." She elbowed him, signaling the return of the bishop, who looked cheerier than he had in years.  Behind him, the larger of the farmhands held something covered in a burlap cloth.  

"We all know that New Jerusalem was destroyed years ago," Brian began sadly, "and several of our recovery teams set out to see what we could scavenge...mostly from the downtown areas, where our early settling forefathers first tamed this land.  We hardly ever run across these kind of artifacts...but...."

The farmhand, a young Mormon named Jeremiah, stepped forward and the bishop continued, "When we heard about your unfortunate accident, and knew how you'd return to us...."  

He withdrew the cloth, and for the third time in a row, Joshua Graham was stunned to a point that seemed nearly supernatural for him.  His jaw ticked wordlessly, his eyes glistened at the sight in front of him.  He held out his hands slowly, and the heavy stone was passed to him.  

A golden face stared back at him, chipped on the edges and painstakingly cleaned.  It was a larger-than-life statue, the only intact remnants a heavenly, chisled face who once blew a trumpet facing East.  Despite the deep cracks and ridges where soot and ash settled in, the angel's face was finished in a bright gold.  Pure gold.  

"Moroni."  Graham could barely speak.

"From the Salt Lake Temple." Estelle added proudly.

The Bishop spoke.

"Look not on his countenance, or on the height of his stature, for the Lord seeth not as man seeth; for man looketh on the outward appearance, but the Lord looketh on the heart."