The shot that exploded through the darkened forest sent Ishmael leaping from sleep. The fire had died and he found himself surrounded by blackness, the only light the low, red coals of the dying fire glowing like Satan’s heart. He scrambled to Walt and began to shake the old man’s body in an effort to rouse him. A second shot cracked the night and Ishmael heard a sound like the rising of countless birds from sleep to panicked flight.

"It’s this way!" he shouted as he bolted into the darkness.

Ishmael saw a wide knoll covered in green grass and lighted from above by moon and starshine. The thick night that surrounded him in the pasture did not seem to reign here. A softer darkness covered the knoll, a darkness of rest and safety rather than of fear and threat.
“This is where the angels came.” said the old man. “Damndest thing I ever saw.”

“ ‘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?”