Bloodstone

CHAPTER EIGHT

Two wise men and a fool were walking in the forest when a ravening lion leapt out at them. The first wise man estimated the size of the charging lion as some eight feet from nose to the tip of its tail. The second wise man noted that the beast was favouring its left front leg, indicating that it was lame and thus had, through hunger, been forced to become a man-eater. As the beast reared the fool shot it. But then he didn't know any better.

The Wisdom of the Deacon Chapter XIV

Shannow awoke early and looked for his clothes. They were gone, but in their place he found a pair of black trousers of heavy twill and a thick woollen cream-coloured shirt. His own boots were beside them.

Dressing swiftly, he swung his guns around his hips and walked through to the main room. Amaziga was not there, but the machine was switched on, the calm, handsome face of the red-headed Lucas pictured on the screen.

'Good morning,' said the face. 'Amaziga has driven into town to fetch some supplies. She should be back within the hour. There is coffee, should you desire it, or some cereal.' Shannow glanced suspiciously at the coffee-maker and decided to wait.

'Would you care to listen to music?' asked Lucas. 'I have over four thousand melodies on hand.'

'No, thank you.' Shannow sat down in a wide leather chair. 'It is cold in here,' he said.

‘I’ll adjust the A.C.,' said Lucas. The soft whirring ceased and within moments the room began to feel warmer. 'Are you comfortable with me here?' asked Lucas. 'I cari remove this visual and leave the screen blank if you prefer. It does not matter to me. Amaziga created it, and finds it comforting, but I can understand how disconcerting it might be to a man from another time.'

'Yes,' agreed Shannow, 'it is disconcerting. Are you a ghost?'

'An interesting question. The man from whom my memory and thought patterns were duplicated is now dead. I am therefore a copy — if you like — of his innermost being, and one which can be seen, though not touched. I would think my credentials as a ghost would be quite considerable. But since we co-existed, he and I, I am therefore more like a cerebral twin.'

Shannow smiled. 'If you want me to understand you, Lucas, you'll have to speak more slowly. Tell me, are you content?'

'Contentment is a word I can describe, but that does not necessarily mean that I understand it. I have no sense of discontent. The memories of Lucas the man contain many examples of his discontent, but they do not touch me as I summon them. I think that Amaziga would be better equipped to answer such questions. It was she who created me. I believe she chose to limit the input, eliminating unnecessary emotional concepts. Love, hate, testosteronal drives, fears, jealousies, pride, anger — these things are neither helpful nor useful in a machine. You understand?'

'I believe that I do,' Shannow told him. 'Tell me of the Bloodstone and the world we are to enter.'

'What would you wish to know?'

'Start at the beginning. I usually find I can follow stories better that way.'

'The beginning? Very well. In your own world you fought the Guardian leader Sarento many years ago, destroying him in the catacombs beneath the mountains which held the broken ship. In the world to which Amaziga will take you there was no Jon Shannow. Sarento ruled. But then he was struck down with a crippling and terminal illness. Having corrupted the Sipstrassi boulder, creating a giant Bloodstone, he could no longer rely on its-lowers to heal him. He searched everywhere for a pure Stone that could take away the cancer. Time was against him and in desperation he turned to the Bloodstone; it could not heal, but it could reshape. He drew its power into himself, merging with the Stone, if you will. The energy flowed through his veins, changing him. His skin turned red, streaked with black veins. His power grew.

The cancer shrivelled and died. There was no going back, the change was irrevocable. He could no longer take in food and drink; all that could feed him was contained in blood: the life force of living creatures. He hungered for it. Lusted for it. The Guardians saw what he had become and turned against him, but he destroyed them, for he was now a living Bloodstone with immense power. With the Guardians slain or fled, he needed to feed and journeyed to the lands of the Hellborn. You know their beliefs, Mr Shannow. They worship the Devil. What better Devil could they find? He strode into Babylon and took the throne from Abaddon. And he fed. How he fed! Are you a student of ancient history, Mr Shannow?'

'No.'

'But you know your Bible?'

'Indeed I do.'

'Then you will recall the tales of Molech, the god fed by souls upon the fire. Citizens of cities where Molech was worshipped would carry their first-born children to furnaces and hurl them alive into the searing depths. All for Molech. The Hellborn do that for Sarento. Though there are no flames. The children are slaughtered and, at first, Sarento would bathe in the blood of victims. Every citizen carried a small Bloodstone — a demon-seed. These are corrupted Sipstrassi Stones, the pure power long used up.

They are fed with blood and thereby acquire a different kind of power. They can no longer heal wounds, or create food. Instead they give great strength and speed to their bearers, while feeding the baser human instincts. An angry man, in possession of a Bloodstone becomes furious and psychopathic. Honest desire becomes lustful need. They are foul creations. Yet with them Sarento can control the people, swelling their lusts and desires, reducing their capacity for compassion and love. He rules a nation founded on hatred and selfishness. Do as thou wilt is the whole of the law. But his need for blood grows daily. Hence the War, where his legions sweep across the land. And before them go the Devourers. He has mutated the Wolvers, making them larger, more ferocious, huge beasts that move with great speed and kill without pity. He no longer needs to bathe in blood, Mr Shannow. Every time a Devourer feeds it swells a Bloodstone embedded in its skull. This transmits power to Sarento, the ultimate Bloodstone.

'Samuel Archer is — at the point you will enter the story — one of the few rebels still alive. But he and his people are trapped in the high country, surrounded. Soon the Devourers will stalk them.'

Shannow stood and stretched his back. 'Last night you and Amaziga spoke of probabilities. Would you explain them to me — in a way that I might understand?'

'I hardly think so, yet I will try. It is a question of mathematics. There are doorways we can use to cross what has been believed to be the thresholds of time. But it is not really time we cross. There are millions of worlds. An infinite number. In the world of the Bloodstone no one yet knows of the Gateways. By opening one, therefore, we increase the mathematical possibilities that our actions will alert the Bloodstone to their existence. You follow?'

'So far.'

'So then, by rescuing Sam Archer we risk the Bloodstone finding other worlds. And that would be a disaster of colossal proportions. Do you know anything about humming-birds, Mr Shannow?'

'They're small,' said the Jerusalem Man.

'Yes,' agreed the machine. They are small, and their metabolism works at an astonishing rate. The smallest weighs less than a tenth of an ounce. They have the highest energy output per body weight of any warm-blooded animal — and to survive they must consume half their body weight in nectar every day.

Sixty meals a day, Mr Shannow, just to survive. The need for a plentiful supply of food makes them extraordinarily aggressive in defending their areas. The Bloodstone is identical. It needs to feed, it lives to feed. Every second of its existence, it suffers enormous pangs of hunger. And it is insatiable, Mr ShSnnow. Insatiable and ultimately unstoppable. Any world it finds it will ultimately devour.'

'You do not think that saving Sam is a risk worth taking,' observed Shannow.

'No, I do not. And neither do you. Amaziga points out that Sarento is a man with high intelligence, and that intelligence is now boosted by corrupted Sipstrassi power. She maintains, perhaps rightly, that he will discover the Gateways regardless of any action on our part. Therefore she is adamant that the quest will continue. But I fear she is guided by emotion, and not by reason. Why are you helping her?'

'She would go without me. It may be arrogance on my part, but I believe she will have a better chance of success with me. When do we set out?'

'As soon as Amaziga returns. Are your pistols fully loaded?'

'Yes.'

'Good. I fear they will need to be.'

The roar of angry lions came from outside and Shannow moved from the chair, his right-hand pistol pointing towards the door. 'It is only Amaziga,' said Lucas, but the Jerusalem Man was already moving out on to the porch. There he saw the bright-red four-wheeled carriage swing from the dirt track to draw up outside the house in a trail of dust and noise. The noise subsided, then died.

Amaziga pushed open a side door and stepped out. 'Help me with these boxes, Shannow!' she called, moving to the rear of the vehicle and opening another door. This one swung out and up, and Shannow watched her lean inside. Roistering the pistol, he walked towards her. A strange and unpleasant smell came from the vehicle, acrid and poisonous. It made his nostrils itch.

Amaziga was pulling a large box towards her and Shannow leaned in to help. 'Be careful. It's heavy,' she said. Shannow lifted it and turned towards the house, happy to be clear of the fumes from the vehicle.

Once inside, he laid the box on the table and waited for the black woman.

The voice of Lucas sounded: 'It may interest you to know, Mr Shannow, that your reflexes are five point seven per cent higher than normal.'

'What?'

'The speed at which you drew the pistol shows that you are faster than the average man,' explained Lucas.

Amaziga entered and heaved a second box alongside the first. 'There's one more,' she told Shannow, who left reluctantly to fetch it. This was lighter and, with no room on the table-top, he set it down alongside the table.

'Did you sleep well?' she asked him. He nodded. She was wearing a soft, long-sleeved shirt with no collar. It was dark blue and a portrait of a leaping black man had been painted on the chest.

'Is that Sam?' he asked.

Amaziga laughed, the sound good-humoured. 'No, it's a basketball player. A sportsman in this world.'

She laughed again. ‘I’ll explain it later,' she said, 'But now let's unpack the shopping.' Glancing at a dial on her wrist, she turned to Lucas. 'Six and a half hours, yes?'

'An adequate approximation,' responded the machine.

Amaziga pulled a small folding knife from her pocket and opened the blade. Swiftly she ran it along the top of the first box, then placed it on the table. Opening the flaps, she lifted clear a squat black weapon, shaped, to Shannow's eyes at least, like the letter T. More weapons followed, two automatic pistols and twelve clips of ammunition. Discarding the empty box she opened the second, drawing from it a short rifle with a pistol grip and two barrels. This is for you, Shannow,' she said. 'I think you'll like it.' Shannow didn't, but he said nothing as she laid boxes of shells alongside the gun.

Leaving her to unpack the other box, he walked to the door and stared out over the landscape. The sun was high, the temperature soaring. Heat shimmers were rising from the front of the vehicle. To the left he saw a movement from within a giant cactus. Narrowing his eyes he stared at the hole in the central stem.

A tiny buff-coloured owl appeared, launched into the air and flew in a tight circle around the cactus, before disappearing back into the hole. Shannow guessed the bird to be around six inches in height, with a wingspan of around fourteen inches. He had never seen an owl so small.

Amaziga moved out alongside him, handing Shannow the ligly rifle with the pistol grip. 'It's a shotgun, and it takes six shells,' she said. 'It is operated by a pump under the barrels. Try it out on that cactus.'

'There's a nest there,' said Shannow.

'I don't see a nest.'

'A small owl, in that hole. Let's move further out.' Shannow strode away. The desert sun was riding high now, the temperature searing. Some way to the right he saw what could have been a small lake, but was more likely to be a mirage. He pointed it out to Amaziga.

There's nothing there,' she said. 'During the last century scores of settlers died here, taking their tired oxen down into the valley, expecting water. It's a harsh country.'

'It is one of the greenest deserts I've seen,' observed Shannow.

'Most of the plants here can live for up to-five years without rainfall. Now, how about that saguaro? See any nests?'

Shannow ignored the sarcasm and hefted the weapon, aiming from the hip at a small barrel cactus close by. He pulled the trigger and the cactus exploded; the sound of the shot hung in the air for several seconds. 'It's grotesque,' said the Jersualem Man. 'It would tear a man's arm off.'

'I would have thought you would have loved that,' put in Amaziga.

'You have never understood me, woman, and you never will.'

The words were not spoken with anger, but Amaziga reacted as if struck. ‘I understand you well enough!' she stormed. 'And I'll not debate my thoughts with the likes of you.' Swinging, she aimed her own squat weapon at a saguaro and pulled the trigger. A thunderous wall of sound erupted from the gun, and Shannow was peppered with bright brass shell-cases. The saguaro leaned drunkenly to one side, its thick body showing gaping holes half-way up the central stem, then it fell to the desert floor.

Shannow turned and headed back for the house. He heard Amaziga ram another clip home, and a second burst followed the first. Inside, he dropped the shotgun to the table.

'What did she shoot?' asked the machine.

'A tall cactus.'

'A saguaro,' the machine told him. 'How many arms did it have?'

Two.'

'It takes around eighty years before a saguaro grows an arm. And less than a second to destroy it.'

'Is that regret?' Shannow asked.

'It is an observation,' answered the machine. The bird you saw is called an Elf Owl; they are quite common here. The desert is home to many interesting birds. The man, Lucas, used to spend many long hours studying them. His favourite was the Gilded Flicker. It probably made the nest hole the Elf Owl now inhabits.'

Shannow said nothing, but his eyes strayed to the shotgun. It was an obscene weapon.

'You will need it,' said Lucas.

'You read minds?'

'Of course. My clairvoyant abilities are what caused Amaziga to create me. The Devourers are powerful creatures. Only a shot to the heart with a powerful rifle or pistol will stop them. The skulls are thick and will resist your weapons. What are they, thirty-eights?'

'Yes.'

'Amaziga has purchased two forty-fours. Smith and Wesson, double-action. They are in the box on the floor.' Shannow knelt by it and opened the flaps. The guns were long-barrelled and finished in metallic blue, the butts white and smooth. Lifting them clear, he hefted them for weight and balance. 'Each weighs just under two and a half pounds,' Lucas told him. The barrels are seven inches long. There are three boxes of shells on the table.'

Shannow loaded the weapons and stepped out into the sunlight to see Amaziga walking back towards the house. There was a small sack hanging on a fence post some thirty feet from the Jerusalem Man.

Moving to it, she pulled out four empty cans which she stood on the fence rail, around two feet apart.

Stepping aside, she called to Shannow to try out the pistols.

His right arm came up. The pistol thundered and a can disappeared. The left arm rose, but this time his shot missed. 'lAjt them close together,' he ordered Amaziga. She did so and he fired again. The can on the left flew from the rail. 'More cans,' he called. Reloading the pistols, he waited as she set out another six.

This time he fired swiftly, left and right. All the targets were smashed from the fence.

'What do you think of them?' asked Amaziga, approaching him.

'Fine weapons. This one pulls a fraction to the left. But they'll do.'

The salesman assured me they would stop a charging rhino… a very large animal,' she added, seeing his look of puzzlement.

He tried to drop the pistols into his scabbards, but they were too bulky. 'Don't worry about that,'

Amaziga told him. 'I picked up a set of holsters for you at Rawhide.' She chuckled, but Shannow could not see the reason for humour.

Back inside the house she unwrapped a brown parcel, handing Shannow a black, hand-tooled gun-belt with two scabbards. The leather was thick, and of high quality, the buckle highly-polished brass. There were loops all around it, filled with shells. 'It is very handsome,' he said, swinging it around his hips. 'Yes, very handsome. My thanks to you, lady.'

She nodded. They do suit you, Shannow. Now I must leave you again. We'll be back at dusk. Lucas will brief you.'

'We'll be back?' queried Shannow.

'Yes, I'm going to meet Gareth. He'll be coming with us.'

Without another word she left the house. Shannow watched her move to the circle of broken stones.

There was no bright light; she merely faded, and disappeared from sight.

Inside once more, Shannow gazed at the calm, tranquil face on the screen. 'What did she mean, brief me?'

'I shall show you the route you will travel, and the landmarks you must memorise. Sit down, Mr Shannow, and observe.'

The screen flickered, and Shannow found himself staring out over a range of mountains, thickly covered with pine.

Jacob Moon watched as the painted wagons moved slowly out of sight, the tall, slender blonde woman riding the last of them. He hawked and spat. On another day he would have extracted a price for freeing the sandy-haired young man. . Meredith? And the price would have been the woman, Isis. Mostly Jacob Moon liked his women fat, but there was something about this girl that excited him. And he knew what it was. Innocence, and a fragile softness. He wondered if she was consumptive, for her skin was unnaturally pale and she had, he noticed, difficulty climbing to the wagon. Turning away, he focused on more important matters.

Dillon's body lay in the undertaker's parlour, and the Jerusalem Man rode free somewhere in the mountains. The trackers had followed him, but lost the trail in the desert. Shannow and a companion had ridden their horses into a circle of stones — and vanished. Moon shivered.

Could the man be an angel? Could the whole sorry Bible fairy tale be fact? No. He couldn't believe that.

If God existed, then why does he not strike me down? Christ alive, I've killed enough people! He was quick enough to strike down Jenny, and she never harmed anyone.

It's all random, he thought. A game of chance.

The strong survive, the weak die.

Bullshit! We all die some day.

The town was unnaturally quiet today. Yesterday's shooting had astonished them. True, Dillon had been a feared man, but more than that he had been full of life. A loud, powerful, bull of a man radiating strength and certainty. Yet in the space of a few heartbeats he had been cut down by a stranger who had stood in the street and named their sins.

Jacob Moon had arrived in Domango three hours after the killing, when the hunters were just returning.

Then a rider had come in from the Hankin farm. Two more men dead. The Jerusalem Man? Probably, thought Moon.

Still, sooner or later he would have Shannow in his sights. Then that problem would be over.

Moon smiled, and recalled the woman. With Dillon's blood still staining the street, she had walked into the Crusader office and approached him. 'I understand, sir, that you are a Jerusalem Rider.' Moon had nodded, his hooded eyes raking the slender lines of her body. 'My name is Isis. I have come to you for justice, sir. Our doctor, Meredith, has been wrongly imprisoned. Would you release him?'

Moon had leaned back in his chair and thrown a glance at the stocky Crusader standing by the gun-rack.

The man cleared his throat. They're Movers,' he said. They come in beggin'.'

That is not true,' said Isis. 'Dr Meredith merely erected a sign saying that he was a doctor, and inviting people to visit him.'

'We already got a doctor,' snapped the Crusader.

'Let him go,' said Moon. The Crusader stood silent for a moment, then lifted a ring of keys from a hook by the gun-rack and moved back through to the rear of the building.

'I thank you, sir,' said Isis. 'You are a good man.'

Moon had smiled then, but he said nothing. He glanced up as the Crusader brought out Meredith — a tall young man with sandy hair and a weak face. Moon wondered if he was the girl's lover, and idly pictured them coupling. They knew Dillon's killer,' said the Crusader. That's a fact.'

Moon turned his stare to the woman. 'He was wounded,' she said. 'We found him near to death and nursed him. Then, later, when we were attacked he fought off the raiders.' Moon nodded, but remained silent. Then he killed the Oath Taker from Purity. After that he rode away. I don't know where.'

'Did he say his name?' asked Moon.

'Yes. He said he was Jon Shannow. Our leader Jeremiah thinks the wound to his head has confused him.

He has no memory, you see. He cannot remember who shot him, or why. Jeremiah believes he has taken refuge in the identity of the Jerusalem Man.'

The sandy-haired young man stepped alongside Isis, putting his arm around her shoulder. The action annoyed Moon, but he remained silent. The mind is very complex,' said Meredith. 'It is likely that his memories of childhood included many stories about Shannow. Now that he is an amnesiac, the mind is trying to piece together those memories. Hence his belief that he is the fabled Jerusalem Man.'

'So,' said Moon softly, 'he does not remember where he is from?'

'No,' said Isis. 'He struck me as a lonely man. Will you treathim with understanding when you find him?'

'You can rely on that,' promised Jacob Moon.

Shannow watched the screen, noting landmarks and listening as Lucas talked of the lands of the Bloodstone. Mostly the terrain was unfamiliar to Shannow, but occasionally he would see, in the distance, the shape of a mountain that seemed to strike a chord in his memory.

'You must remember, Mr Shannow, that this is a world gone mad. Those disciples who follow the Bloodstone receive great gifts, but for the vast majority the future is only to die to serve his hunger. We will not have long to find Samuel Archer. The jeep will get us within range within a day. We will have, then, perhaps another twenty-four hours to save him.'

'Jeep?' queried Shannow.

The vehicle outside. It can travel at around sixty miles per hour over difficult terrain. And no Devourer or horseman will catch it.'

Shannow said nothing for a moment. Then: 'You can see many places and many people.'

'Yes, I have extensive files,' agreed Lucas.

Then show me Jon Shannow.'

'Amaziga does not wish you to see your past, Mr Shannow.'

The lady's wishes are not at issue. I am asking you to show me.'

'What would you like to see?'

'I know who I was twenty years ago, when I fought the Lizard-men and sent the Sword of God through to destroy Atlantis. But what happened then? How did I use those years? And why am I still relatively young?'

'Wait for a moment,' said Lucas. 'I will assemble the information.' Shannow immediately felt a sensation he had long forgotten and it surprised him. His stomach trembled and he could feel his heart beating wildly. In that moment nameless terrors seemed to be clawing at him from deep within his mind, and he realised with a sickening certainty that he did not want to know. His mouth was dry and he found himself breathing too quickly, becoming dizzy. The desire rose in him to stop the I machine, to command it to silence. 'I will not be a coward,' he whispered. Gripping the arms of the chair, he sat rigid as the screen flickered and he saw himself on a tower of rock, the Sword of God blazing across the sky. The man on the rock slumped down, his black and silver beard darkening. That,' came Lucas's voice, 'is the moment when you regained youth. The last fractions of Sipstrassi power seeping through the tower, regenerating ageing tissue.' The scene shifted to Pilgrim's Valley and Shannow watched as the preacher Jon Cade gave his first sermon, listened to the words and the message of hope and peace. Beth McAdam was sitting in the front row, her eyes upon the speaker, the light of love shining in them.

Sadness engulfed the Jerusalem Man… the sadness of love, the grief of bereavement. His love for Beth came roaring from his subconscious to rip at his heart. Forcing himself to stare at the screen he watched the passing of the years, saw himself struck down by Shem Jackson and felt again the numbing shame that came from having the strength to walk away. He heard once more the man's scornful laughter behind him.

At the last he saw the burning of the church and the murder of the Wolvers. 'Enough,' he said softly. 'I want to see no more.'

'You remember it?' asked the machine.

'I remember it.'

'You are a man of extremes, Mr Shannow, and great inner strength. You cannot walk the middle ground and you have never learned how to compromise. You became a preacher, and you preached of love and understanding — at its best a gentle doctrine. You could not be a man of violence and preach such a doctrine, therefore you put aside your guns and lived it, using the same iron control that you enjoyed as a brigand-slayer.'

'But it was a fraud,' said Shannow. 'I was living a lie.'

'I doubt that. You gave it everything you could — even to losing the woman you loved. That is a commitment beyond most men. Even iron, however, can be ripped apart. When the raiders burned the church the iron gave way. You pursued them and slew them. The mind is a very sensitive creature, Mr Shannow. To all intents and purposes, you had betrayed everything you had stood for during those twenty years. So the mind, in self-protection, threw the memories of those years into a box and held it from your view. The question is, now that the box has been opened, who are you? Are you Jon Cade, preacher and man of God, or are you Jon Shannow, fearless killer?'

Shannow ignored the question and rose. Thank you, Lucas. You have been of great service to me.'

'It was my pleasure, Mr Shannow.'

Outside the light was beginning to fade, the desert heat abating. Shannow wandered to the paddock and climbed to the fence, watching the four horses cropping grass. They were standing in two pairs, nose to tail, protecting each other's faces from the swarms of flies that surrounded them.

He drew one of the long, blue-barrelled pistols.

The question is, now that the box has been opened, who are you? Are you Jon Cade, preacher and man of God, or are you Jon Shannow, fearless killer!’

As Nestor Garrity and Clem Steiner were riding towards Purity, and Jon Shannow stood alone on the streets of Domango, the Apostle Saul urged his tired mount towards the ruined city.

Saul was seething with suppressed fury. Word had reached him yesterday that the Deacon had survived Moon's attack, that the man killed had been Geoffrey, the Deacon's secretary. The council in Unity was in turmoil. The Deacon was missing.

Missing! My God, thought Saul, what if he knows it was me?

A mosquito stung Saul's right leg and angrily he slapped it, the sound causing the horse to shy. He swore.

The heat was unbearable, and stinking horse sweat had seeped through his trousers. His back ached from hours in the saddle and the ancient city seemed no closer. He swore again.

The Deacon was alive! Josiah Broome was alive! Jon Shannow was alive! It was all coming to nothing; all the years of careful planning unravelling before his eyes.

I've always been cursed, he thought, remembering his childhood in Chicago, the taunts he had taken from his fellow schoolchildren over his lack of size and his weasel features, the mockery from girls who would not be seen dead with a 'runt like you'. And always in his work there were others who would succeed, moving past him on the promotional ladder, men and women with far less talent. Always it was Saul Wilkins who was overlooked. Little Saul.

It wasn't as if he didn't play the game. He sucked up to those above him, laughed at their jokes, supported their endeavours and worked hard to be as good as anyone. Yet never did he gain the recognition he craved.

Now it was happening again, this time to the tall, handsome, golden-haired Apostle Saul. Overlooked by the Deacon he had, for the first time in his life, planned for the great gamble. And he was failing.

As he had always failed. .

No, not always, he thought. There was the golden time at the Tabernacle, when he had first found God.

Laid off from his job in the north, Saul had moved to Florida. One Thursday afternoon late in February, he had been driving along 1–4 West and had pulled in for a coffee at a fast-food outlet. There was a trailer parked there, and several young people were handing out leaflets. A girl offered one to Saul. It was an invitation to a Bible picnic being held near Kissimmee the following Sunday. The girl's smile had been radiant, and she called him 'brother'.

That Sunday Saul had attended the picnic with some three hundred other people. He had enjoyed himself, and the sermon from the fat preacher had touched a chord in him, with its emphasis on the meek and the lowly. God's love was very special for them.

Short of friends, his lay-off money holding out, Saul had joined the small church. It was the happiest time of his life — especially after the Deacon arrived and appointed him as full-time church treasurer. Jason had been set for the role, had coveted it — and he was tall and handsome. Saul was convinced that yet again he would be overlooked. But no. The Deacon had called him in and calmly offered him the post. Jason, bitter and vengeful, had quit the church.

Good days. Great days, Saul realised.

Then came the fateful flight and the end of the world he knew. Even then there were joys ahead, the gifts of the Sipstrassi, a handsome body, endless women.

I had it all, thought Saul. But the Sipstrassi was running out, the Deacon was getting older, and soon it would all end. Without the Sipstrassi I would be little Saul Wilkins again, bald and bent, peering at the world through watery eyes. Who would take me seriously? What would I do?

The answer was simple. Become rich in this new world. Take control like the hard, ruthless men of the old world. Control land and resources, oil, silver, gold. And all the while search for Sipstrassi.

The Deacon had found his hoard soon after arriving. He had ridden off into the wild lands and returned with a bag of Stones.

Oh God, thought Saul, there must have been thirty of them! He had asked him where he found them.

'On my travels,' the Deacon answered, with a smile.

Then last year a man came to Unity who claimed to know the Deacon. He had been ushered into Saul's office. He was an old prospector, who said he had met the Deacon during his wanderings in the land beyond the Wall. 'Whereabouts?' Saul had asked.

'Near Pilgrim's Valley — you know,' said the man, 'where the Lord guided your flying-machine to land.'

Somewhere near here the Deacon had discovered the Stones of power.

There must be more! Please God let there be more!

With enough Sipstrassi he could still gain power. Just five Stones! Three. Dear God, help me to find them!

He was close enough now to see the towering columns of stone that marked the southern gate of the Atlantean city. One was taller than the other, reaching almost sixty feet. Once there had been a lintel stone between them, but it had fallen to the paved area below, shattering into fragments.

For several moments Saul forgot his mission, as he gazed over the miles and miles of what had once been a magnificent city. There were statues in marble, mostly toppled and broken, but some remaining still on their plinths, stone eyes staring at this latest intruder to observe their silent grief. Many of the buildings were still standing, seemingly untouched by the thousands of years on the ocean floor. Saul rode on, his horse's hooves clattering on the paved streets, the sound echoing eerily.

The Deacon had told him that there was an ancient King of Atlantis, named Pendarric. It was he who had brought about the doom of his people, the earth toppling, drowning the empire under a tidal wave of colossal proportion.

Saul rode his tired mount up a long hill, towards a multi-turreted palace. The horse was breathing heavily now, its flanks white with foaming sweat. At the top he dismounted, and tethered the poor creature in the sunshine. The horse stood with head hung low. Ignoring the beast's discomfort, Saul strode into the palace. The floor was covered in thick dry dust that had once been silt. Close to the windows, where the wind had blown away the dust Saul could see evidence of an elaborate mosaic on the floor, deep blues and reds in shifting patterns. There was no furniture here, nor any sign of wood. That had long since been destroyed — probably adding to the dust. But there were statues, of warriors in breastplate and helm, reminding Saul of pictures he had seen of Greek soldiers during the battle for Troy.

He walked on through many doorways until he came to a vast, round hall, at the centre of which stood a circle of beautifully crafted rectangular stones, standing vertically. The dust was everywhere, and as he walked it rose up around him, drying his throat and causing him to cough.

Slowly he searched the hall, but found nothing save the golden hilt of a ceremonial dagger, which he dropped into the pocket of his coat. Returning to the horse, he took a drink from his canteen. From here he could see even more powerfully the vastness of this ancient city. Ruins as far as the eye could see, stretching in all directions.

Despair touched him. Even if the Stones are here, how will I find them?

Then an idea came to him. It was brilliant in its simplicity and, did he but know it, Saul Wilkins had arrived at a conclusion that had evaded thousands of brilliant men in the past. He licked his lips, and fought to control his rising excitement.

Sipstrassi power could do anything! Could it not therefore be used like a magnet, calling upon other Stones, drawing them to it or, at the very least, guiding him to where they lay hidden?

Saul delved into his pocket, pulling clear the Stone. Only three threads of gold remained now. Would they be enough? And where to try his theory?

The Stones were too powerful to have been owned by many people in the city. Only the rich would have had access- and the man who owned this palace must have been rich indeed.

The circular hall was at the very centre of the building. That is where to begin, thought Saul. Hurrying back through the empty palace, he made his way to the centre of the circle of stones. Here he paused.

How to use the power? Think, man!

Clenching the Stone tightly in his fist, he pictured a full golden Stone and willed it to come to him. Nothing happened. The Stone in his fist did not grow warm, as was usual when power was drawn from it. What he could not know was that there was no Sipstrassi left in this ancient ruin. He tightened his grip. A small, sharp fragment of the Stone bit into his palm. Saul swore and opened his fingers. A tiny bead of blood swelled there, touching the Stone. The bright yellow threads darkened, turning red-gold in the dim light.

But now the Stone was warm. Saul tried again. Holding up his fist, he willed the Stone to seek out its fellows. And the new Bloodstone obeyed, sending its power through the gateway of the circle.

Violet light filled the air around him. Saul was exultant: it was working! The light was blinding and when it cleared he saw a strange scene. Some thirty yards away a powerful man was sitting on a huge golden throne, staring directly at Saul. The man's skin was deep red and seemed to be decorated with thin black lines. Saul glanced over his shoulder. Behind him everything was as it should be, the stone circle and the dust-covered hall. But ahead was this curious man.

'Who are you?' asked the tattooed man, his voice rich and deep.

'SaulWilkins.'

'Saul. . Wilkins,'echoed the man.'Let me read your mind, Saul Wilkins.' Saul felt a curious warmth creep into his head, flowing through him. When it finally receded he felt lost and alone. 'I don't need you, Saul Wilkins,' said the tattooed man. 'I need Jacob Moon.'

A shape reared up before Saul, obscuring his view. He had a fraction of a second to register sleek grey fur, blood-red eyes, and yellow-stained fangs in a gaping maw. There was no time to scream. Talons ripped into his chest, and the terrible mouth opened before him, the fangs closing on his face.