Bloodstone (13 page)

“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 defense, 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 plowed fields there 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-story 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 farther, 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 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 warmaker or 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 ax, 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 onto 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 labor 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.”

5

S
HANNOW STARED INTO
the oval mirror and wiped the last of the soap from his chin. He looked younger without the salt and pepper beard, but the sight of his clean-shaven face brought back no new memories. Disappointed, he stepped back, cleaned the razor, and returned it to its carved wooden box.

He was tired. The journey through the mountains had been long and hard, for the land was unfamiliar to him. Once convinced that the pursuit had ended, he had still to find a path through the peaks. He had tried many trails, but some of them had ended in box canyons or had led up to treacherous, narrow ridges where only bighorn sheep or mountain-bred mules
could walk with safety. City dwellers had no conception of the vastness of the wild lands, the endless mountains, ridges, and hills stretching into eternity and beyond. On his journey Shannow had come across the rotted remains of a wagon, still packed with furniture and the beginnings of a home. It was in a boxed canyon, low down at the foot of a steep slope. Close to it he found a skull and a broken section of a thighbone. These people, too, had tried to cross the peaks and had found only a lonely, unmarked grave beneath the sky.

Back in the main room Zerah Wheeler looked at him closely. “Ye’re not exactly a handsome lad,” she said, “but it’s a face that wouldn’t curdle milk, neither. Sit at the table and I’ll bring ye some lunch. Cold ham and fresh onions.”

While he waited, he looked around the room. Every piece of furniture was lovingly carved, giving the home a tranquil quality. There was a triangular corner cabinet, inset with leadedglass windows, containing beautifully painted and glazed tiny cups and saucers. Shannow walked to the cabinet and peered inside. Zerah saw him there as she returned with the food.

“Zeb found them on a ship in the desert. Beautiful, ain’t they?”

“Exquisite,” agreed Shannow.

“He liked beautiful things, did Zeb.”

“When did he die?”

“More than ten years ago now. We were sitting on the couch watching the sunset. It was summer, and we used to move the couch out onto the porch. He leaned back, put his arm around me, then rested his head on my shoulder. ‘Beautiful night,’ he said. Then he just died.” Zerah cleared her throat. “Best tuck into that ham, Jon. I don’t want to get all maudlin. Tell me about yourself.”

“There’s not a great deal to tell,” he said. “I was wounded, and some Wanderers found me. I know my name but precious little else. I can ride, and I can shoot, and I know my Bible. Apart from that …” He shrugged and cut into the ham.

“You might have a wife somewhere, and children,” she said. “Have you thought of that?”

“I don’t think so, Zerah.” But as she spoke, he saw in his
mind a brief glimpse of a blond woman and two children, a boy and a girl … Samuel? Mary? Yes, that felt right. But they were not his children. He knew that.

“So what do you remember about the wound?” she asked.

“There was a fire. I was … trapped. I got out.” He shook his head. “Gunshots. I remember riding up into the mountains. I think I found the men who caused the burning …”

Were they ashamed when they had committed the abomination?

“You killed them?”

“I believe so.” Finishing his meal, he made to rise.

“You sit there,” she said. “I’ve got some cakes in the oven. Long time since I made cakes, and they may not be so grand. But we’ll see.”

So many brief memories were lying in the dust of his mind, like pearls without a string to hold them together. Zerah returned with the cakes; they were soft and moist, filled with fruit preserve.

Shannow chuckled. “You were wrong, Zerah. They are grand.”

She smiled, then her expression became thoughtful. “If you’re of a mind to stay awhile, you’d be welcome,” she said. “The Lord knows I need help here.”

“That is most kind,” he said, seeing her loneliness, “but I must find out where I come from. I don’t think it will come back to me here. But if I may, I’d like to stay a few days more.”

“The stream that feeds my vegetable patch is silted up. That could be dug out,” she said, rising and clearing away the dishes.

“That would be my pleasure,” he told her.

As the dawn sun broke clear of the mountains, the Apostle Saul eased himself from the wide bed. One of the sisters stirred; the other remained deeply asleep. Saul rose and wrapped his robe about his shoulders. The golden stone lay on the bedside table. Gathering it up, he moved quickly from the room.