Bloodstone

CHAPTER FOUR

The world does not need more charismatic men. It does not need more intellectual men. No, and it does not need more caring men. What it cries out for is more holy men.

The Wisdom of the Deacon Chapter II

Seth Wheeler pulled the blanket up tight around his ears and settled his head against his saddle. The night air was cold and it had been two years since he had slept out in the open. The blanket was thin; either that or I'm getting old, he thought. No, it's the damn blanket. Sitting up, Seth held the blanket close to him as he moved to the fire. It was burning low now, just a tiny flicker of flame above the coals. There were four sticks left, and these would normally have been left for the morning. Casting a nervous glance at his four sleeping comrades, he added the wood to the fire. It blazed instantly to life and Seth shivered as the warmth touched him. God, he'd almost forgotten just how good it felt to be warm.

There were no clouds in the night sky, and a ground frost was sprinkling the grass with specks of silvered white. The wind gusted, scattering ash across Seth's boots. He stared down at the sticks. Why did they have to burn so damned fast?

This high in the mountains there was little dead wood, and his men had gathered what there was close by.

Seth had two choices: return to his cold bed-roll, or gather more wood. Rising with a softly whispered curse, he stepped across one sleeping body and walked to the thin line of trees.

It had been a long ride in search of the killer. They had found his tracks soon enough, and followed him up into the mountains. But the pursuers had lost his trail twice after that and four fruitless days had followed. Then they'd picked up the wrong trail and come upon an old man and a mule. Strange old coot, thought Seth. Odd eyes, looked as if they could see right through you.

'We're hunting a man,' Seth had told him. 'We're Crusaders from Purity.'

'I know that,' the oldster had replied. 'Spent the night in a cave yonder with the man you're looking for.'

'Which way was he heading?'

'North. Into the wild lands.'

'We'll find him,' said Seth.

'Hope you don't, son. Strikes me you're good men. Shame to see such men die.'

'Is he a friend of yours, this man?' asked Seth. The old man shook his head.

'He only met me last night. But I'd say I like him. You best be careful, Crusader. Men like him don't offer second chances.' The old man had grinned at them and, without another word, had ridden off.

Short on food, and getting colder by the day, the Crusaders had finally found the killer's trail. Tomorrow they would have him.

Seth gathered an armful of sticks and a thick, broken branch and started back towards the fire.

Something cold touched the back of his neck, and an even colder voice spoke. 'You are making a mistake that will lead you to your death.'

The Crusader swallowed hard. His legs felt shaky and the gun-barrel felt icy against his skin. But Seth was no coward, and he gathered himself.

'You are a blasphemer and a killer,' he said.

'Take your men back to Purity,' said the cold voice. 'I do not wish to kill any of you. But if you are on my trail come daylight, none of you will ever see your families again. Had I so chosen, I could have walked into your camp tonight and slain you all. Now go.'

The gun-barrel withdrew. Seth blinked back the sweat that was dripping into his eyes. Strangely he did not feel cold at all. He took a step, then another. Then he dropped the wood, threw aside the blanket, drew his pistol and swivelled.

There was no one there.

For a minute or more he remained where he was. The cold came back into his bones. Sheathing the pistol, he gathered the fallen sticks and returned to the fire, banking it up until the flames were too hot to sit alongside. Returning to his bed-roll he thought of Elizabeth, and his sons Josh and Pad.

One of his men awoke with a cry. 'Hell's bells, Seth, you trying to set us all ablaze?' The edge of the man's blanket was smouldering and he beat at it with his palm.

The commotion woke the others.

'We're going home,' said Seth. 'We've no food and the wild lands are just beyond the ridge.'

'Are you all right, Seth?' asked Sam Drew, his lieutenant.

'Aye. But this man is too much for us, boys. Take my word on it. We'll send word to the Apostle Saul in Pilgrim's Valley. He can order out the Jerusalem Riders. Let them deal with him.'

'This isn't like you, Seth. What changed your mind?'

'It's a funny thing, Sam. A little while ago I was cold and hated it. Now it feels good. It tells me I'm alive.

I'd kind of like to stay that way.'

It was near midnight and the main street of Pilgrim's Valley was almost deserted as the five riders made their way to the house behind the Crusader compound. The first of the men, tall and broad-shouldered and wearing a full-length, double-shouldered topcoat, dismounted and turned to the others. 'Get 'em stabled, then get some rest,' he said.

Removing his wide-brimmed leather hat, he climbed the three steps to the porchway of the house and tapped on the front door. It was opened by a young woman in a long white gown. She curtseyed.

'God's greetings, brother,' she said. 'Would you be Jacob Moon?'

'Aye. Where is the Apostle?'

'Would you follow me, sir?'

The dark-haired woman moved along the hallway, then opened a door on the right. Moon stepped past her and into the study beyond where the Apostle Saul was sitting in a wide leather chair, reading a large, gold-edged Bible. Putting it aside, he rose and smiled at the woman. 'That will be all, Ruth.

You may go.' Ruth curtseyed once more and pulled shut the door. 'God's greetings, Jacob.'

'A pox on this religious bullshit,' said Moon. 'It's bad enough having to mouth it when people are around.

Damned if I'll take it in private!'

Saul chuckled. 'You are too impatient, Jacob. It is a bad failing in a man who seeks to rule.'

'I don't want to rule,' said the tall man. 'I just want to be rich. The old fool is dead — just like you ordered.'

Saul's smile faded and his eyes took on a dangerous glint. ‘I chose you because you have talent. But understand this, Jacob, if you become a danger to me I will have you cut down. And nothing is more dangerous than a loose tongue.'

The tall man seemed unfazed by the threat. Tossing his hat to the floor, he removed his topcoat and draped it over the back of a chair. Unbuckling his gun-belt, he sat down and stretched out his legs. 'You have a drink here? It was a thirsty ride.'

Saul poured a glass of red wine and handed it to the man. Moon downed it in a single swallow, holding out the glass for a refill. Tell me of it!' Saul demanded.

Moon shrugged. 'It was as you said. He rode alone to his cabin in the mountains and I waited the twenty days, watching him all the time. Then a rider came from Unity. He saw the old man, then rode away. The following morning I shot the old man through the back of the head. Buried the body in the foothills. No one will find it.'

'You're sure it was him?'

'I guess it might have been the angel Gabriel,' sneered Moon. 'Course it was him. You can rest easy, Saul, the Deacon is dead. Question is: Who do you need dead now?'

Saul returned to his seat. 'No one today, Jacob. But there will be trouble, I'm sure of that. There is some fine land to the west, with good suggestions of silver — perhaps gold. The man who owns it is called Ishmael Kovac. There is also a farm which I believe has significant oil deposits; that is owned by a woman named Beth McAdam. Both will be refused the Oath; then we shall acquire the land legally.'

'Then why call us down here? Sounds like it's all sewn up.'

Saul sipped his wine. Then, There is a complication, Jacob.'

There usually is.'

The burning of the church. There was a Preacher who survived. He hunted down five of my men and killed them. Yesterday I had a long talk with a local man who knows the Preacher — has known him for twenty years.'

'Cut to the chase, Saul. I don't need the gift wrapping.'

'I think you do. The Preacher came here twenty years ago, just after the Blessed Coming of our sainted Deacon. He was a young man, maybe twenty. But this local man told me an interesting story. He said the Preacher was in fact much older, and that he'd regained his youth through a Daniel Stone in a tower.'

'Sounds like he's either drunk or an idiot,' said Moon, draining his wine and reaching for the bottle.

'He's neither. And I know the Daniel Stone was in that tower, because the Deacon and I went there fifteen years ago. We saw what was left of it, its power gone. It was huge, Jacob, big enough to hold planes and ships in stasis for hundreds of years. Now the man who took the last of its power, in order to become young again, was Jon Shannow.'

Moon froze. 'You've got to be joking!'

'Not at all, Jacob. The Jerusalem Man. The one and only. The new Elijah.'

'And you think this Preacher was Jon Shannow? Why the Hell would he stay in this lousy backwater if he was the Jerusalem Man? He could have been rich beyond his dreams.'

'I don't know his reasons, but I believe it to be the truth. He rode out and slew our comrades, and now he is somewhere out there.' Saul waved his hand towards the window.

Moon glanced up. 'Jesus, man, but couldn't he put the fox in the hen-house? He could finish the myth of the Deacon right enough, prove him to be a pompous old windbag and a liar to boot.'

'I don't think so,' said Saul. The Jerusalem Man is too much a part of myth now. People would expect to see the halo. No, that is only one part of the problem. Firstly, we don't want the Deacon discredited

— since I am his heir. And I want the kingdom united behind me as it is behind him. But secondly, Beth McAdam was once the man's mistress. There could well be residual good feeling between them. When she is dispossessed, or killed, I don't want the likes of Jon Shannow hunting me.'

'What about this man who knows the truth?'

'Well, he is another matter. At the moment he is useful to me, but he has promised to stand Oath for Beth McAdam in ten days. The night before the Oath Taking you will kill him.'

'Has he got a pretty wife?'

Saul laughed aloud. 'Pretty? Else Broome? She looks like an overweight sow that's been squeezed into a dress.'

'Fat, eh? I like 'em fat,' said Jacob Moon.

Dr Meredith found the old stranger irritating beyond belief. Jeremiah, on the other hand, seemed amused, but then everyone knew that Jeremiah loved a good debate. Even Isis listened spellbound.

'How can you argue against the development of reason, or science?' pressed the doctor.

'Easily,' answered Jake. 'Centuries ago a man in Ancient Greece came up with the theory that all matter, however huge, from a planet down to a rock, is made up of tiny component parts. The tiniest of these he called atoms, which is Greek for uncuttable. Man being what he is, he just had to cut the uncuttable. And look where we are! Man is a hunting, killing animal. A predator. Every advance he makes is ultimately linked to destruction, either physical or moral.'

'What of medicine?' Dr Meredith persisted. The world before the Fall made magnificent advances in the controlling of disease.'

'Yes, they did,' agreed Jake, 'and they moved into genetic engineering, in order that animal parts could be used for transplant into humans. Hence the Wolvers and the other poor mutated creatures who stalk this planet. Hence the awful build-up of chemical weapons, bacteria and plague germs that were dumped into what was the Atlantic and have now poisoned vast areas of our present land.'

Jake stood and moved to the water barrel, filling his tin mug. 'You can pin it all on one example,' he said.

'Christ told people to love one another and to do good to them that hates you. He said all men were brothers and that we should love our neighbours as ourselves. Within a few hundred years men were arguing about what this meant. Then they went to war over it, and slaughtered one another in order to prove that their version of love thy neighbour was the best system.'

Jeremiah laughed aloud. 'Ah, Jake,' he said, 'you surely do have a way with words. You and the Deacon have a lot in common.'

'Yep,' said Jake. 'Him in his ivory tower and me on my mule. We know how the world works, the Deacon and me.'

'The Deacon is evil,' said Meredith. 'Plain and simple.'

Jake shook his head. 'Nothing in this God-forsaken world is plain and simple, boy. Except death. That's the only sure thing you can guarantee: we're all going to die. Apart from that it's just a sea of complexity.

But I would disagree with you about the Deacon. He's just a man who likes to see firm lines drawn. I was in Unity when he was Chief Magistrate; he made some good calls, to my mind.'

'Ah, yes,' sneered Meredith. 'Like public murder. Dragging a man through the streets to be executed in front of his family.'

'You're twisting it just a mite,' said Jake. 'You're talking about the villain meeting his punishment at the scene of his crime. I don't think that is too bad; it lets folk see that justice is done.'

'That's not justice,' stormed Meredith. That's barbarity!'

'These are barbarous times, doctor. But you could argue that it comes down to values. What value do we place on a life? The Deacon says that back in his time a killer could be walking the streets within a couple of years, sometimes less. Even mass killers could be released at some time. So the value they put on a human life was two years. Life was awful cheap in those days. At least with the Deacon a killer knows he will get just what his victim got. No more, no less.'

'And what if the court is wrong?' asked Meredith. 'What if an innocent man is found guilty?'

'What about it?' replied Jake. 'It's sad, sure enough, but then mistakes happen, don't they? It doesn't mean the system is wrong. A doctor once told a man I knew he was getting too fat and needed to exercise. He went on a diet and dropped dead. What are we supposed to do? Encourage everybody to get fat just in case there's another lard-belly with a weak heart?'

‘That's an outrageous view!'

Jake grinned, and Jeremiah stepped in. 'What about forgiveness, Jake? Didn't Christ talk about that too?'

'Well, you can forgive a man — and still hang him.'

‘This is too much!' hissed Dr Meredith, rising from the fireside and stalking back to his wagon.

'Do you see everything so simply, Jake?' asked Isis. 'Is it all black and white for you? Truly?'

The old man gazed at her and his smile faded. 'Nothing is simple, Isis, no matter how hard we try to make it so. I wish it was. Young Doctor Meredith is not wrong. Life is the greatest gift, and every man and woman has infinite possibilities for good or evil. Sometimes for both.' The night breeze strengthened, fanning the flames of the fire. Jake shivered and pulled his old sheepskin coat more tightly around his shoulders. 'But I suppose the question is really one of focus. For a society to succeed it must have strong rules to protect the weak and yet inspire the strong. You agree?'

'Of course,' said Isis.

'Ah, but now the complications begin. In nature the weak perish, the strong survive. So then, if we protect the weak they will flourish, growing like weeds within the society, needing more and more protection, until finally the weak so outnumber the strong that — in a democracy — they rule, and make laws encouraging even more weakness. That society will sicken and die, slowly falling apart as it sows the seeds of its own destruction.'

'How do you define weakness, Jake?' asked Jeremiah. 'Do you mean the sick, or the lame?'

Jake laughed. 'As I said, this is where the complications begin. There are those who are weak in body, but strong in mind and heart. There are those who have the physical strength of lions, but who inside are cowardly and weak. Ultimately a society will judge its people on their ability to supply that society with what it needs to grow and be successful.'

'Ah!' said Jeremiah. 'But that brings us to the old, who have already worked for the society, but can do so no longer. They become weak and therefore, by your arguments, useless. You are arguing against yourself, old man. You would have no place in a strong society.'

'Not so,' said Jake. 'For if I have earned from my labours, and amassed some savings, then I will use my money to buy food and clothing, which continues to help the society. For I will pay the tailor for my coat, enabling him to earn money. I still contribute.'

'But what if you have amassed no savings?' asked Isis.

‘Then, by my own definitions, I would be a fool — and therefore useless.'

'It is a harsh image you paint, Jake,' said Jeremiah.

'The world is a harsh place. But believe me, my friends, it is a lot less harsh than the one that the Deacon left behind. As I said, it all becomes a sea of complexity. Out here, however, under God's stars you can still find simplicity. You Wanderers understand that. You hunt deer and wild sheep in order to eat, and you journey into towns in order to work for Barta coin to support the life-style you have chosen. If there are no deer you will starve. Simple. And if there was one among you who refused to hunt, or was incapable of hunting or working, you would cast him out.'

‘That's not true!' said Isis. 'We would support him.'

'For how long?' Jake asked. 'And what if there was not one, but three, or five, or twenty-five? You can only survive for as long as you work together. A society is no different, child.'

'But aren't you missing something, Jake, in all your equations?' insisted Isis. 'Man is, I will agree, a hunting, killing animal. But he is also capable of love, of compassion, of selflessness. A society must surely incorporate these values.'

'You're a wise woman, Isis,' Jake told her, 'but your point also leaves out a number of Man's vices — like the propensity for evil. Some men — and women — are just plain malicious. They wouldn't understand compassion or selflessness. They'd kill you for the price of a meal, or just because they felt like it. When it comes down to basics a society can only prosper as long as everyone in it is willing to work for its benefit. The word weak is a cover-all — maybe parasites would be a better description. But then I don't have all the answers. Neither does the Deacon.'

‘Tell me, Jake,' said Isis, 'even if I accept all the points you have made so far, what about the slaughter of the Hellborn? Men, women and children were butchered by the Deacon's army. In their thousands. Were they all weak, Jake? Were the babies they murdered evil?'

Jake shook his head, and the smile faded from his face. 'No, girl, they weren't evil. The Deacon was wrong, in my view. But, in his defence, it was at the end of a terrible War and passions were running high. Two armies converged on Babylon. .' He faded into silence, gazing into the fire.

'You were there?' whispered Jeremiah.

'I was there. I didn't go in when the city walls fell. I could hear, though. The screams! The Deacon heard them too. He ran from his tent, scrambling over the walls and the bodies of the dead defenders. There was no stopping the slaughter. When the dawn came the Deacon stumbled through the city, eyes red from weeping. And not a man in the Army of God failed to feel shame. But the war was over, right enough. And the Hellborn would never invade again.'

Jeremiah leaned forward, placing his hand on Jake's shoulder. 'I think that you, too, carry scars from that day.'

Jake nodded. The kind that never heal,' he said sadly.

Shannow rode down the hillside and into the valley. There were ploughed fields here, and trees planted in lines as windbreaks. To his right, about a half-mile distant, was a farmhouse, timber-built with a slate roof. There was a paddock beyond the two-storey house, and a barn beyond that. The setting was peaceful. Twisting in his saddle, Shannow glanced back. The mountains loomed high behind him, and there was no sign of pursuit.

The horse was tired and walked with a listless gait. 'Not much further, boy,' said the rider.

Shannow rode up to the paddock and dismounted. The door of the house opened and an elderly woman strode out into the yard. Tall and gaunt, her iron-hair tied in a tight bun, she marched out to face the rider with a long rifle cradled in her arms, her right hand on the action, her finger resting on the trigger.

'If ye're a brigand, be warned,' she said. ‘I’ll tolerate no ructions here. And I can neuter a gnat from fifty paces with this rifle.'

Shannow smiled. 'Though I may look less than holy, lady, I am not a war-maker, nor a brigand. But I would be grateful for some water, and to be allowed to rest my mount for a day. I'll chop wood, or attend to any chores you set me.'

Her eyes were bright, her face seamed with fine lines, her skin the texture of leather. She sniffed loudly, and did not return his smile. 'I'd turn no man away without a meal at least,' she said. 'Unsaddle the beast and come up to the house. But you can leave those pistols on the hook outside the front door. You'll have no use for them inside.' So saying, she turned and walked back to the house. Shannow unsaddled the horse and led him into the paddock.

The front door led into a long, rectangular room, elegantly furnished with carved wooden chairs, an elaborate folding table and a long horsehide-covered couch. Even the cupboards on the walls boasted flourishes in carved pine. As she had requested, Shannow hung up his guns and moved to a chair by the empty hearth. His neck and back were aching from the ride and he settled gratefully into the chair.

'I see you know how to make yourself at home,' she said, striding in from the kitchen and laying a tray on a small table before him. There was a hunk of bread and a slab of cheese laid on plates of fine china.

'You have a beautiful house, lady.'

'Aye, Zeb was a right handy man with wood and the like. And don't call me lady. My name is Wheeler.

Zerah Wheeler.'

‘The rising of the light,' said Shannow.

'What?'

'The woman who raised me was called Zerah. It means the rising of the light in one of the older tongues.

Hebrew, I think.'

Zerah sat down opposite him. 'I kind of like that,' she said. 'You heading on for Domango?'

'How far is it?' asked Shannow.

'About three days west — if the weather is kind, and it usually is this time of year.'

'I may.' Shannow bit into the bread, but he was almost too tired to eat.

Zerah offered him a mug of cool water. 'You been riding long?' she asked.

'Yes. All my life.' Leaning back in his chair, he closed his eyes.

'Don't you go falling asleep in here!' she said, harshly. 'You're covered in dust. You go on out to the barn.

There's a water-butt and you can wash the smell of travel and sweat from your body. If you're awake early enough, there'll be eggs and bacon. If not, it'll be stale bread. There's a fence out back you can mend in the morning, if you're of a mind to earn your food.'

Shannow pushed himself to his feet. 'My thanks to you, Zerah Wheeler. May God bless your house.'

'You got a name, young man?' she asked, as he reached the door and looped his gun-belt over his shoulder.

'Jon,' he said, and stepped out into the dusk.

The barn was warm, and he slept on a bed of straw. His dreams were many, but they ran together chaotically. He saw himself in a small church, and then on a ship, set on a mountain. Faces fled past his eyes, names danced in his mind.

He awoke with the dawn and washed in cold water. Locating a box of tools, he mended the broken fence, then replaced several tiles that had slipped from the slanting roof of the woodshed. The winter store was low, but there was a saw and an axe and he set about preparing logs for the fire. He had been working for an hour when Zerah called him for breakfast.

'I like a man who knows how to work,' she said, as he sat down at the table. 'I had three sons, and not one of them was lazy. How'd you get the wound to your head?'

'I was shot,' he told her, spooning fried eggs and bacon to his plate.

'Who by?'

'I don't know. I have no memory of it.'

'I expect you shot back,' she said. 'You don't look the kind of man to be set upon and not smite them hip and thigh.'

'Where are your sons?' countered Shannow.

'One died in the Unity War. Seth and Padlock are over in Purity. Seth's a Crusader now. It suits him, he's a man who likes order. You pass through there?'

'Yes.'

'You know, it's strange. I'm sure I've seen you someplace. Just can't put a finger on where.'

'If it comes to you I'd be glad to hear it,' said Shannow. Finishing the breakfast, he helped the old woman clear away the dishes and then returned to the wood-store. The labour was tiring, but his muscles felt good, and the mountain air was fresh in his lungs. Zerah came out just after noon, bringing a mug of a hot, sweet tisane.

'I've been thinking,' she said, 'and it wasn't you after all. There was a man back in Allion, where I grew up. He was a brigand-slayer named Shannow. You look a little like him. Not as tall or as big in the shoulders. But you've a similar shape to the face. You planning to keep that beard?'

'No. But I have no razor.'

'When you've finished what you're doing, come on over to the house. I still have Zeb's shaving blade.

You're welcome to it.'