“ ‘A gray discouraged sky overhead,'” the old man said, looking up through the trees. "’The short last daylight of December.’"
He led Ishmael along the twisting trail that ran among the dwellings. As they passed, women emerged from the gaping, black mouths of each, faces wet with tears, hands empty of children and raised towards heaven. The pathways of the village filled and Ishmael saw that there was not a man to be seen. He turned to the old man to ask him why, but his question had been anticipated.
“The men have gone to find the three. I expect they are going to kill them.”

“The three?”

“Yes. The travelers that came to visit Joe and his woman. The men think they were the ones who informed on the settlement. They were strangers here. Like you, like me, like Joe. But his woman is one of these. Name’s Maria. Pretty little thing.”

Ishmael turned to look at the crowd of wailing women.

“Which one is she?”

“Oh, she’s not here. She and Joe took the baby and lit out before the raid.”

“Why did the travelers come to see them.”

“I’ll take you to Shepherd’s Knoll. The answer is there.”

It seemed a holy pilgrimage, a quiet shuffling of feet and bleating of prayers. They wound their way through the settlement as more women fell in behind Ishmael while he followed the man and listened as the straw haired old wanderer sang to himself.

When they reached the edge of the settlement they entered the forest. Tremendous, majestic, winter dead trees rose like forsaken gods. The branches were as empty of birds as the settlement was bereft of children, as if the birds too had been taken away. The sun died and the light fled and for a time they walked in a darkness so thick that it seemed they were trapped within the bowels of a wolf. But the old man continued to sing softly to himself and Ishmael followed the song as much as he did the dim vision before him. Behind he could hear the coming of the women, the shuffling of their hundreds of calloused feet.

Finally, they emerged from the forest into what Ishmael took to be pasture land. The darkness relaxed its smothering embrace and became a wall of blackness rather than a thick ooze of pitch. The winter grass rustled against his ankles and Ishmael felt as if he could breathe again. He continued to follow the song that led them on.

Suddenly, Ishmael felt strong fingers seize him by the arm and he could make out just enough to see that the old man was pointing ahead.

“There!” the old man said, his voice excited for the first time that Ishmael had known him. “Shepherds’ Knoll! That’s where they came!”

“Who? The strangers?”

“No! The angels!”

The opening lines of this piece are a quotation. I will not say from whom as some of the fun is figuring out who the old man might be.

Also, as with most blogs, to read this piece in order, begin with the first entry of Ishmael's Journey"