Bloodstone

CHAPTER THREE

In a small section of the garden a tiny weed spoke to the blooms that grew there. 'Why,' he asked, 'does the gardener seek to kill me? Do I not have a right to life? Are my leaves not green, as yours are? Is it too much to ask that I be allowed to grow and see the sun?' The blooms pondered on this, and decided to ask the gardener to spare the weed. He did so. Day by day the weed grew, stronger and stronger, taller and taller, its leaves covering the other plants, its roots spreading. One by one the flowers died, until only a rose was left. It gazed up at the enormous weed and asked: 'Why do you seek to kill me? Do I not have a right to life? Are my leaves not green, as yours? Is it too much to ask that I be allowed to grow and see the sun?'

'Yes, it is too much to ask,' said the weed.

The Wisdom of the Deacon Chapter VII

They had buried Clara and her daughter by the time Shannow returned to the wagons. Jeremiah was in bed in his wagon, his chest bandaged, his face grey with sorrow and pain. Shannow climbed in to sit beside the old man. 'You killed him?' asked Jeremiah.

‘I did. I would have had it otherwise, but he fired upon me.'

‘That will not end it, Mr Shannow. Though I do not blame you. You did not inspire the evil. But you must go.'

'They will come again and you will need me.'

'No. I spoke to the men you captured before I let them go. Crane was the instigator.' Jeremiah sighed.

'There will always be men like Crane. Thankfully there will also always be men like Meredith, and men like you. It is a balance, Mr Shannow. God's balance, if you will.'

Shannow nodded. 'Evil will always thrive if men do not oppose it.'

'Evil thrives anyway. Greed, desire, jealousy. We all carry the seeds of evil. Some are stronger than others and can resist it, but men like Crane will feed the seed.' Jeremiah leaned back against his pillow, his eyes resting on Shannow's lean face. 'You are not evil, my boy. Go with God!'

'I am sorry, old man,' said Shannow, rising.

Back in the open he saw Isis coming towards him, carrying a bundle. 'I gathered some ammunition from the dead, and there is a little food here,' she said. He thanked her and turned away. 'Wait!' She handed him a small pouch. 'There are twelve Bartas here. You will need money.'

Jeremiah heard the creak of saddle leather as Shannow mounted, then the steady clopping of hooves as he headed away from the wagons. The pain from his wound was strong, but the old man flowed with it.

He felt sick, and weaker than sin.

Isis brought him a herbal tisane, which settled his stomach. 'I am happier with him gone,' she said, 'though I liked him.'

They sat in companionable silence for a while, then Meredith joined them. 'Riders coming,' he said. 'Look like Crusaders.'

'Make them welcome, and bring the leader here,' said Jeremiah. Within minutes a tall, round-shouldered man with a long, dour face climbed into the wagon. 'Welcome to my home,' said Jeremiah. The man nodded, removed his wide-brimmed grey hat and sat alongside the bed.

‘I’m Captain Seth Wheeler,' said the newcomer. 'I understand you have a man with you who calls himself Jon Shannow?'

'Will you not ask, sir, why there are fresh-dug graves outside, and why I am lying here with a bullet in my chest?'

'I know why,' muttered Wheeler, looking away. 'But that was not my doing, Meneer. Nor do I condone it. But there have been deaths on both sides, and the man who instigated them is among the dead.'

'Then why hunt Jon Shannow?'

'He is a blasphemer and a heretic. The Jerusalem Man — of blessed memory — left this earth twenty years ago, taken up by God like Elijah before him in a chariot of fire.'

'If God can lift him, which of course he can,' said Jeremiah carefully, 'then he can also bring him back.'

‘I’ll not argue that point with you, Meneer. What I will say is this, if the good Lord did choose to bring back the Jerusalem Man, I don't think he'd arrive with singed hair and a patched coat. However, enough of this — which direction did he take?'

'I cannot help you sir. I was in my wagon when he rode away. You will have to ask one of my people.'

Wheeler rose and moved to the door, then he turned. 'I have already said that I do not condone what happened here,' he said softly. 'But know this, Mover, I share Crane's view about the likes of you. You are a stain upon God's land. As the Deacon says, There is no place for the scavenger among us.. Only those who build the cities of the Lord are welcome. Be gone from the lands of Purity by tomorrow night.'

Shannow rode towards the high country, angling north. The horse was a bay gelding and strong, but it was tired after the exertions of the night and breathing heavily. Shannow dismounted and led the horse into the trees, seeking a cave or a sheltered spot in the lee of the wind. He was cold, and his spirits were low.

The loss of memory was an irritation, but this he could bear. Something else was nagging at him from deep within the now shuttered recesses of his mind. He had killed men tonight, but that was nothing new for the Jerusalem Man. I did not seek the battle, he told himself. They rode out in search of blood, and they found it. And it was their own. Such is the price of violence. Yet the killings hung heavily upon him.

Shannow stumbled, his strength deserting him. His wounds were too recent for this kind of climb, he knew, but he pushed on. The trees were thicker now and he saw a cleft in the rock-face to his left. It will have to do, he thought. Taking a deep breath, he walked on. As he neared the cleft he saw the flickering reflection of a fire on the rock-face, just inside the cleft.

'Hello, the camp!' he called. It was not wise in the wilderness to walk uninvited into a campsite. With the fear of brigands everywhere, a sudden appearance could lead to a volley of shots from frightened travellers.

'Come on in,' came a voice, which echoed eerily up through the cleft. Shannow pushed his coat back over the butt of his right-hand pistol and, leading the horse with his left hand, approached the cleft. It was narrow only at the entrance, and widened into a pear-shaped cave within. An old man with a waist-length white beard was sitting before the fire, above which a hunk of meat had been spitted. At the back of the cave a mule had been hobbled. Shannow led his horse to the rear and looped the reins over the beast's head, trailing them to the ground. Then he joined the white-bearded man.

'Welcome to my fire,' said the man, his voice deep. He extended his hand. 'You can call me Jake.'

'Jon Shannow.'

'You're welcome, Mr Shannow. I kept looking at this meat and thinking, there's too much here for you, Jake. Now the Lord has supplied me with a dinner guest. Come far?'

Shannow shook his head. A great weariness settled on him and he leaned back against a rock and stretched out his legs. Jake filled a mug with a steaming brew and passed it to him. 'Here, drink this, boy.

It's a great reviver and there's a ton of sugar in it.'

Shannow sipped the brew. It was rich and bitter-sweet. 'My thanks, Jake. This is good. Tell me, do I know you?'

'Could be, son, the world's a mighty small place. I've been here and there: Allion, Rivervale, Pilgrim's Valley, the Plague Lands. You name it, I've seen it.'

'Rivervale. . yes, I seem to remember. .' He saw a beautiful woman and a young boy. The memory faded like a dream upon wakening, but a name slipped through the shutters. 'Donna!' he said.

'You all right, boy?'

'Do you know me, Jake?'

'I've seen you. It's a fearsome name you carry. You sure it's yours?'

'I'm sure.'

'You seem a mite young — if you don't mind me saying so. What are you. . thirty-five. . six?'

'I think I'll sleep now,' said Shannow, stretching himself out beside the fire.

His dreams were fractured and anxious. He was wounded and the Lion-man Shir-ran was tending to him. A creature with scaled skin ran into the cave, a jagged knife held in its hand. Shannow's guns thundered and the creature fell back, becoming a child with open, horrified eyes. 'Oh God, no! Not again!' cried Shannow.

His eyes opened and he saw Jake was kneeling beside him. 'Wake up, boy. It's just a dream.' Shannow groaned and pushed himself to a sitting position. The fire had died dawn, and the old man handed him a plate on which strips of cold roast meat had been carved. 'Eat a little. You'll feel better.'

Shannow took the plate and began to eat. Jake took a pot from the dying fire and filled a tin mug. Then he added sticks to the coals. New flames flickered as Shannow shivered.

'It will soon warm up.' Jake rose and walked to the rear of the cave, returning with a blanket which he wrapped around Shannow's shoulders.

'You were in that gun-battle last night,' he said. ‘I can smell the powder on your coat. Was it a good fight?'

'Are there any good fights?' responded Shannow.

'It's a good fight when evil perishes,' said Jake.

'Evil does not usually die alone,' said Shannow. 'They killed a young woman and her daughter.'

'Sad times,' agreed Jake.

The meat was good and Shannow felt his strength returning. Unbuckling his gun-belt he laid it alongside him, then stretched his tired muscles. Jake was right. The heat from the fire was beginning to reflect back from the walls.

'What are you doing in the wilderness, Jake?'

'I like the solitude — generally speaking. And it is a good place to talk to God, don't you think? It's clean and open, and the wind carries your words to the Heavens. I take it you were with the Movers.'

'Yes. Good people.'

That's as maybe, son, but they don't plant and. they don't build,' said Jake.

'Neither does the sparrow,' responded Shannow.

'A nice Biblical reference, Mr Shannow, and I do enjoy a debate. But you are wrong. The sparrow eats many seeds, then he flies away. Not all the seeds are digested and he drops them in other places. All the great forests of the world were probably started by birds' droppings.'

Shannow smiled. 'Perhaps the Wanderers are like the birds. Perhaps they spread the seeds of knowledge.'

‘That would make them really dangerous,' said Jake, his eyes glinting in the firelight. There's all kinds of knowledge, Mr Shannow. Knew a man once who could identify every poisonous plant there was.

Wanted to write a book on it. That's dangerous knowledge — you agree?'

'People reading the book would be able to tell what plants not to eat,' said Shannow.

'Aye, and people wishing to learn of poisons would know what plants to feed their enemies.'

'Did he write the book?'

'No. He died in the Unity War. Left a widow and five children. Did you fight in the War?'

'No. At least I don't think so.'

Jake looked at him closely.

'You having trouble remembering things?'

'Some things,' said Shannow.

'Like what?'

'Like the last twenty years.'

'I saw the head wound. Happens sometimes. So, what will you do?'

‘I’ll wait. The Lord will show me my past when he's good and ready.'

'Anything I can do?'

‘Tell me about the Deacon, and his War.'

The old man chuckled. That's a tall order, boy, for one night around the fire.' Leaning back, he stretched out his legs. 'Getting too old to enjoy sleeping on rock,' he said. 'Well then, where do we start? The Deacon.' He sniffed loudly and thought for a moment. 'If you are who you claim to be, Mr Shannow, then it was you who brought the Deacon into this world. He and his brethren were in a plane that took to the skies on the Day of Armageddon. It was then trapped, held by the power that also snared the Sword of God. You released them when you sent the Sword into the past to destroy Atlantis.'

** As told in The Last Guardian.

Shannow closed his eyes. The memory was hazy, but he could see the Sword hovering in the sky, the Gateway of Time opening. And something else. . the face of a beautiful black woman. No name would come to him, but he heard her voice: "It is a missile, Shannow. A terrible weapon of death and destruction.' Try as he would, Shannow could not pluck any more from his past. 'Go on,' he told Jake.

The Deacon and his men landed near Rivervale. It was like the Second Coming. Nobody in this world knew about the decay and corruption that plagued the old cities, killers walking the streets, lust and depravity everywhere. The world, he said, was godless. The sins of Sodom and Gomorrah were multiplied a hundredfold in that old world. Before long the Deacon was a revered figure. His power grew. He said the new world must never be allowed to make the mistakes of the old; that the Bible contained the seeds of man's future prosperity. There were those who argued against him, saying that his plans were an affront to their views of personal freedom and liberty. That led to the Great War, and the Second Hellborn War. But the Deacon won both. Now he rules in Unity, and there is talk that he plans to build the new Jersualem.' Jake lapsed into silence, and added more fuel to the fire. 'Ain't much else I can tell you, boy.'

'And the Jerusalem Man?' asked Shannow.

Jake grinned. 'Well, you, if indeed that is you, were John the Baptist reborn, or maybe Elijah, or both.

You were the herald to announce the new coming of God's word to the world. Until, that is, you were taken by God in a fiery chariot to a new world that needed your talents. You still remember nothing?'

'Nothing about a fiery chariot,' said Shannow grimly. 'All I know is who I am. How I came to be here, or where I have been for the last twenty years, is a mystery to me. But I sense I was living under another name, and I did not use my pistols. Maybe I was a farmer. I don't know. I will find out, Jake. Fragments keep coming back to me. One day they will form a whole.'

'Have you told anybody who you are?'

Shannow nodded. 'I killed a man in the settlement of Purity. I told them then.'

They'll come hunting you. You are a holy figure now, a legend. It'll be said that you've taken the Jerusalem Man's name in vain. Personally I think they'd be wise to leave you alone. But that's not the way it will be. In fact there could even be a terrible irony in all this.'

'In what way?'

'The Deacon has a group of men close to him. One of them — Saul — has formed a group of riders called the Jerusalem Riders. They travel the land as judges and law-bringers. They are skilled with weapons and chosen from the very best — or perhaps it is the worst — of the Crusaders. Deadly men, Mr Shannow.

Perhaps they will be sent after you.' Jake chuckled and shook his head.

'You seem to find the situation amusing,' said Shannow. 'Is it because you do not believe me?'

'On the contrary, it is amusing simply because I do believe you.'

Nestor Garrity took careful aim. The pistol bucked in his hand, and the rock he had set atop the boulder shivered as the bullet sliced the air above it. The sound echoed in the still mountain air and a hawk, surprised by the sudden noise, took off from a tree to Nestor's left. Sheepishly Nestor looked around.

But there was no one close and he took aim again. This time he smashed fragments of stone from the boulder, low and to the right of the rock. He cursed softly, then angrily loosed the final four shots.

The rock was untouched. Nestor sat down, broke open the pistol and fed six more shells into the chambers. It had cost him eighteen Bartas, almost a month's wages at the logging camp, and Mr Bartholomew had assured him it was a fine, straight shooting-piece, created by the old Hell born factory near Babylon.

'Is it as good as the Hellborn used to make?' Nestor had asked him.

The old man shrugged. ‘I guess,' he said.

Nestor felt like taking it back and demanding the return of his money.

Sheathing the pistol, he opened the pack of sandwiches he had purchased from Mrs Broome and took out his Bible. Then he heard the horse approaching and turned to see a rider coming over the crest of the hill. He was a tall, handsome man, dark hair streaked with silver, and he was wearing a black coat and a brocaded red waistcoat. At his hip was a nickel-plated pistol in a polished leather scabbard.

The rider drew up a little way from the youth and dismounted. 'You'd be Nestor Garrity?' he asked.

'Yes, sir.'

'Clem Steiner. Mrs McAdam suggested I speak to you.'

'In connection with what, sir?'

'The Preacher. She has asked me to find him.'

'I fear he's dead, Mr Steiner. I looked mighty hard. I seen blood and wolf tracks.'

Steiner grinned. 'You don't know the man as well as I do, Nestor. His kind don't die so easy.' Nestor saw Steiner switch his gaze to the bullet-scarred boulder. 'Been practising?'

'Yes, sir. But I fear I am not skilled with the pistol. Safest place in these mountains is that rock yonder.'

In one smooth motion Steiner's gun seemed to leap to his hand. At the first shot the rock leapt several feet into the air, the second saw it smashed to powder. Steiner spun the pistol back into its scabbard.

'Forgive me, Nestor, I never could resist showing off. It's a bad vice. Now about the Preacher, were there any other tracks close by?'

Nestor was stunned by the display and fought to gather his thoughts. 'No, sir. Not of a man afoot, anyway.'

'Any tracks at all?'

'No. . well, yes. There was wheel marks to the east. Big ones. I think they were Wanderers. The tracks were recent though, sharp-edged.'

'Which way were they heading?' Steiner asked.

'East.'

'Any towns out there?'

'There's a new settlement called Purity. It's run by Padlock Wheeler. He used to be one of the Deacon's generals. I ain't. . haven't been there.'

Steiner walked to the boulder, selected another small rock and placed it on the top. Strolling back to Nestor, he said. 'Let's see how you shoot.'

Nestor took a long, deep breath, and wished he had the nerve to refuse. Drawing the pistol, he eased back the hammer and sighted along the barrel. 'Hold it,' said Steiner. 'You're tilting your head and sighting with your left eye.'

'The right is not as strong,' admitted Nestor.

'Put the gun away.' Nestor eased the hammer forward and bolstered the pistol. 'All right, now point your finger at my saddle.'

'What?'

'Just point at my saddle. Do it!' Nestor reddened, but he lifted his right hand and pointed. 'Now point at the tree on your right. Good.'

'I never had much trouble pointing, Mr Steiner. It's the shooting that lets me down.'

Steiner chuckled. 'No, Nestor. It's the lack of pointing that lets you down. Now this time draw the pistol, cock it and point it at the rock. Don't aim. Just point and fire.'

Nestor knew what would happen and wished with all his heart that he had chosen to stay home today.

Obediently he drew the long-barrelled pistol and pointed at the rock, firing almost instantly, desperate to get the embarrassing moment over and done with.

The rock exploded.

'Wow!' shouted Nestor. 'By damn I did it!'

'Yes,' agreed Steiner. That's one rock that will never threaten innocent folks again.'

Steiner moved to his horse and Nestor realised the man was about to leave. 'Wait!' he called. 'Will you join me in some lunch? I got sandwiches and some honey biscuits. It ain't much, but you're welcome.'

As they ate Nestor talked of his ambition to become a Crusader, and maybe even a Jerusalem Rider one day. Steiner listened politely, no hint of mockery in his expression. Nestor talked for longer than he ever had to one person at one time, and eventually stumbled to a halt. 'Gee, I'm sorry, Mr Steiner. I think I near bored you to death. It's just, nobody ever listened so good before.'

'I like ambition, son, it's a good thing. A man wants something bad enough, and he'll generally get it if he works at it, and he's unlucky enough.'

'Unlucky?' queried Nestor.

Steiner nodded. 'In most cases the dream is better than the reality. Pity the man who fulfils all his dreams, Nestor.'

'Did you do that, sir?'

'Certainly did.' Steiner's face looked suddenly solemn and Nestor switched the subject.

'You ever been a Crusader, Mr Steiner?' he asked. 'I never seen anybody shoot that good.'

'No, not a Crusader.'

'Not… a brigand?'

Steiner laughed aloud. 'I could have been, son, but I wasn't. I was lucky. I had me a curious ambition, though. I wanted to be the man who killed the Jerusalem Man.'

Nestor's mouth dropped open. That's a terrible thing to say.'

'It is now. But back then he was just a man with a big, big name. I was working for Edric Scayse and he warned me to change that ambition. I said, "There's no way he can beat me, Mr Scayse." You know what he said? He told me, "He wouldn't beat you, Clem, he'd kill you." He was right. They broke the mould when they made Shannow. Deadliest man I ever knew.'

'You knew him? Lord, you're a lucky man, Mr Steiner.'

'Luck certainly has played a part in my life,' said Steiner. 'Now I'd best be on my way.'

'You're going to look for the Preacher?'

‘I’ll find him, son,' said Clem, easing himself to his feet. In that moment Nestor knew what he wanted to do; knew it with a certainty he had never before experienced.

'Could I come with you, Mr Steiner? I mean, if you wouldn't mind.'

'You've got a job here, boy, and a settled life. This could take some time.'

'I don't care. Since my folks died I've been working for my uncle. But I think I could learn more from you, Mr Steiner, than ever I could from him. And I'm sick of counting out Barta coin, and docking wages for lost hours. I'm tired of counting timber and writing out orders. Will you let me ride with you?'

‘I’ll be riding into town to buy supplies, Nestor. You'll need a blanket roll and a heavy coat. A rifle would be handy.'

'Yes, sir,' said Nestor happily. 'I've got a rifle. I'll get the other gear from Mr Broome.'

'How old are you, son?'

'Seventeen, sir.'

Clem Steiner smiled. 'I can just remember what it was like to be seventeen. Let's go.'

Josiah Broome pushed out his bare feet towards the hearth, trying to concentrate on the warmth of the flames, while ignoring the constant stream of words coming from the kitchen. It was not easy: Else Broome was not a woman to be ignored. Broome stared into the fire, his thoughts gloomy. He had helped build Pilgrim's Valley back in the old days, and then had been one of the leaders when the town was rebuilt after the invasion from Atlantis. Josiah Broome had survived the assault by the scaled Lizard warriors, known as Daggers, and had tried in his own small way to make Pilgrim's Valley a decent place for the families that settled there.

He abhorred men of violence, the hard-drinking, brawling warriors who once peopled this land. And he loathed men like Jon Shannow, whose idea of justice was to slaughter any who crossed their path. Now, in these enlightened days, Jon Shannow was considered a saint, a holy man of God. Else's voice droned on, and he noticed a lilt at the end of the sentence. 'I am sorry, my dear, I didn't catch that,' he said.

Else Broome eased her vast bulk through the doorway. 'I asked if you agreed that we should invite the Apostle Saul to the barbecue?'

'Yes, dear. Whatever you think best.'

'I was only saying to the Widow Scayse the other day. .' The words rolled on as she retreated to the kitchen and Broome blanked them from his mind.

Jon Shannow, the saint.

The Preacher had laughed at it. Broome remembered their last evening together in the small vestry behind the church.

'It is not important, Josiah,' said Jon Cade. 'What I used to be is irrelevant now. What is important is that God's word should not be corrupted. The Book speaks of love as well as judgement. And I'll not be persuaded that the Wolvers are denied that love.'

‘I don't disagree with you, Preacher. In fact of all men I hold you in the highest regard. You turned your back on the ways of violence, and have shown great courage during these last years. You are an inspiration to me. But the people of Pilgrim's Valley are being seduced by the Deacon's new teachings.

And I fear for you, and the church. Could you not minister to the Wolvers outside town? Would that not allow the anger to die down?'

'I expect that it would,' agreed Cade. 'But to do so would be like admitting to the ignorant and the prejudiced that they have a right to deny my congregation a service within my church. I cannot allow that.

Why is it so hard for them to see the truth? The Wolvers did not seek to be the way they are, even the Deacon admits to that. And there is no more evil in them than in any race.'

'I don't know what the Deacon thinks. But I have read the words of his Apostle Saul, and he claims they are not of God, and are therefore of the Devil. A pure land, he says, needs pure people.'

Cade nodded. 'I don't disagree with that, and there is much good in what the Deacon has said in the past.

I respect the man. He came from a world gone mad, depravity and lust, corruption and disease of the body and the spirit. And he seeks to make this' world a better place. But no one knows better than I the dangers of living by iron rules.'

'Come, come, my friend, are you not still living by those rules? This is but a building. If God — if there is a God — does care about the Wolvers, he will care about them in the mountains just as well as here. I fear there will be violence.'

'Then we. shall turn the other cheek, Josiah. A soft answer turneth away wrath. Have you seen Beth lately?'

'She came in to the store with Bull Kovac and two of her riders. She looked well, Jon. It's a shame the two of you couldn 't make a go of it — you were so well suited.'

Cade smiled ruefully. 'She was in love with the Jerusalem Man, not with the Preacher. It was hard for her-especially when the brigands raided, and I did nothing to stop them. She told me I was no longer a man.'

'That must have hurt.'

Cade nodded. 'I've known worse pain, Josiah. A long time ago I killed a child. I was being attacked, there were armed men all around me. I killed four of them, then heard a noise behind me and I swung and fired. It was a boy, outplaying. He haunts me still. What might he have been? A surgeon? A minister?

A loving father and husband? But, yes, losing Beth was a deep blow.'

'You must have been tempted to take up your pistols during the raid.'

'Not once. I sometimes dream that I am riding again, pistols by my side. Then I wake in a cold sweat.'

Cade stood and moved to a chest at the far end of the room. Flipping it open, he lifted clear a gun-belt.

'The weapons of the Thundermaker.' Broome stood and walked across to stand beside the Preacher.

'They look as they always did.'

'Aye. Sometimes at night I sit here and clean them. It helps to remind me of what once I was. And what, God willing, I will never become again.'

'You're not listening to a word I say,' said Else Broome, stalking back into the living-room.

'What's that, my love?'

'What is the matter with you? I was asking if you would stand Oath for that McAdam woman.'

'Of course. Beth is an old friend.'

'Pah! She's a trouble-maker, and we'd all be better off if she were sent from the Valley.'

'In which way does she cause trouble, my dear?'

'Are you soft in the head?' she stormed. 'She shot at men hunting Wolvers. She speaks against the Deacon, and even her own son says she's been seduced by Satan. The woman is a disgrace.'

'She's a good Christian woman, Else. Just like you.'

'I take that as an insult,' snapped Else Broome, her multiple chins quivering. 'You have a store to run, and I don't think people will take it kindly if you are seen to support a woman of her kind. You'll lose business to Ezra Feard, you'll see. And I don't see why it should be you who gives Oath for her. Let her find someone else who doesn't mind being a laughing-stock.'

Broome turned his attention back to the fire.

'And another thing. .' began Else Broome.

But her husband was not listening. He was thinking of five dead raiders on the road, and the tortured spirit of the man who had killed them.