Bloodstone (21 page)

The Jerusalem Man stepped back into his room and lay down.

There was truth in the harsh words he had heard. From somewhere deep in his memory he remembered Josiah Broome saying:
“I dread to think of people who look up to men like Jon Shannow. What do they give to the world? Nothing, I tell you.”

His guns were hanging over the back of a chair. The weapons of Thundermaker.

What peace have they ever brought? he wondered. What good have you ever done?

It was not a question he could answer, and he fell into an uneasy sleep.

“Lie back and rest,” the voice told him, but Josiah Broome could not obey it. His shoulder ached abominably, and he felt a painful throbbing in the fingers of his left hand. Nausea swept over him in waves, and tears squeezed through his closed eyelids, flowing to his thin cheeks. Opening his eyes, he saw an old man with a long white beard.

“I’ve been shot,” he said. “They shot me!” Even as he spoke, he realized how stupid it must sound. Of course the man knew he had been shot. Broome could feel the bandage around his chest and up over his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” said Broome, weeping and not knowing what he was apologizing for. The pain flared in his wound, and he groaned.

“The bullet glanced up from a rib,” said the old man softly, “then broke your collarbone before digging deep to rest under your shoulder blade. It’s nasty but not fatal.” Broome felt the man’s warm hand on his brow. “Now rest like I told you. We’ll talk in the morning.”

Broome took a deep breath. “Why did they do it?” he asked. “I have no enemies.”

“If that’s true,” said the old man, his voice dry, “then at least one of your friends doesn’t like you too much.”

The humor was lost on Josiah Broome, and he drifted into a nervous and disturbed sleep punctuated by appalling nightmares. He was being chased across a burning desert by riders with eyes of fire. They kept shooting at him, every bullet smashing into his frail body. But he did not die, and the pain was terrible. He awoke with a start, and fresh agony bloomed in the wound. Broome cried out, and instantly the old man was beside him. “Best you sit up, Son,” he said. “Here, I’ll give you a hand.” The old man was stronger than he looked, and Broome was hoisted to a sitting position, his back against the cave wall. There was a small fire, and meat was cooking in a black iron pot. “How did I get here?” asked Broome.

“You fell off a buggy, Son. You were lucky—the wheel just missed you.”

“Who are you?”

“You can call me Jake.”

Broome stared hard at the man. There was something familiar about him, but he could not find the connection. “I am Josiah Broome. Tell me, do I know you, Jake?”

“You do now, Josiah Broome.” Jake moved to the cook fire and stirred the broth with a long wooden spoon. “Coming along nicely,” he said.

Broome gave a weak smile. “You look like one of the prophets,” he said. “Moses. I had a book once, and there was a picture of Moses parting the Red Sea. You look just like him.”

“Well, I ain’t Moses,” said Jake. As he shrugged off his coat, Broome saw the butts of two pistols scabbarded at the old man’s hips. Jake glanced up. “Did you recognize any of the men?”

“I think so … but I’d hate to be right.”

“Jerusalem Riders?”

Broome was surprised. “How did you know?”

“They followed you and found the buggy. Then they back-tracked. I listened to them talking. They were mad fit to bust, I can tell you.”

“They didn’t … see you?”

“Nobody sees me unless I want them to,” Jake told him. “It’s a talent I have. Also, you’ll be relieved to hear that I know a little about healing. Where were you heading?”

“Heading?”

“Last night, in the buggy?”

“Oh, that was Daniel Cade’s vehicle. He … Oh, dear God …”

“What is it?”

Broome sighed. “He was killed last night. He saved me by shooting the … the assassin. But there were others. They rushed the house and killed him.”

Jake nodded. “Daniel would have taken at least two of them with him. Tough man.” He chuckled. “No one ever wants to leave this life, Son, but old Daniel, given a choice, would have plumped for a fight against the ungodly.”

“You knew him?”

“Back in the old days,” said Jake. “Not a man to cross.”

“He was a brigand and a killer,” Broome said sternly. “Worthless scum. But he saw the light.”

Jake laughed, the sound rich and merry. “Indeed he did, Meneer Broome. A regular Damascus road miracle.”

“Are you mocking him?” Broome asked, as Jake spooned the broth into a wooden bowl and passed it to the wounded man.

“I don’t mock, Son. But I don’t judge, either. Not anymore. That’s for the young. Now eat your broth. It’ll help replace some of that lost fluid.”

“I must get word to Else,” said Broome. “She’ll be worried.”

“She certainly will,” agreed Jake. “From what I heard of the riders’ conversations, she thinks you killed the Prophet.”

“What?”

“That’s the word, Son. He was found dead in your house, and when the Jerusalem Riders went to find out what the shooting was about, you shot two of them dead. You’re a dangerous man.”

“But no one would believe that. I have stood against violence all my life.”

“You’d be amazed what people will believe. Now finish the broth.”

“I’ll go back,” Broome said suddenly. “I’ll see the Apostle Saul. He knows me. He has the gift of discernment; he’ll listen.”

Jake shook his head. “You’re not a fast learner, are you, Broome?”

The man called Jake sat quietly at the mouth of the cave as the wounded man groaned in his sleep. He was tired, but this was no time to enjoy the bliss of a dark, dreamless sleep. The killers were still out there, and a greater evil was waiting to seep into this tortured world. Jake felt a great sadness flow over him, and rubbing his eyes, he stood and stretched his weary legs. A little to the left, on a stretch of open ground, the mule raised her head and glanced at him. An owl swooped overhead, banking and turning, seeking its rodent prey. Jake took a deep breath of the mountain air, then sat again, stretching out his long legs.

His mind wandered back over the long, long years, but his eyes remained alert, scanning the tree line for signs of movement. It was unlikely that the killers were closing in; they would be camped somewhere, waiting to follow the tracks in the morning. Jake drew one of his pistols and idly spun the chamber. How long since you fired it? he wondered. Thirty-eight years? Forty?

Returning the pistol to its scabbard, he dipped a hand into the wide pocket of his sheepskin coat and drew out a small golden stone. With its power he could be young again. Flexing his knee, he felt the arthritic pain flare up. Use the stone, you old fool, he told himself.

But he did not. The time was coming when the power would be needed, and it would need to serve a far greater purpose than repairing an age-eroded joint.

Could I have stopped the evil? he thought. Probably, if only I’d known how.

But I didn’t, and I don’t. All I can do is fight it when it arrives.

If you have the time!

It had been weeks since the last paralyzing chest pain, the dull ache in his right bicep, and the pins and needles in his fingertips. He should have used the stone then, but he had not. Against the power that was coming, even this pure and perfect fragment of Sipstrassi might not be enough.

The night was cool. Josiah Broome was sleeping more peacefully as Jake walked silently back into the cave and added fuel to the dying fire. Broome’s face was wet with perspiration and streaked with the gray lines of pain and shock.

You’re a good man, Broome, thought Jake. The world deserves more like you, with your hatred of violence and your faith in the ultimate nobility of man. Returning to his sentry post, Jake felt the sorrow growing. Glancing up at the velvet sky, he gave a rueful smile. “What do you see in us, Lord?” he asked aloud. “We build nothing and smother everything. We kill and we torture. For every man like Broome there are hundreds of Jacob Moons, scores of Sauls.” He shook his head. “Poor Saul,” he whispered. “Treat him gently when you see him, Lord, for he was once a man of prayer and goodness.”

Was he?

Jake remembered the balding, stooped little man who had organized the church’s finances, arranging fetes and gatherings, fund-raisers and parties. There were thorns in his flesh even then, but he controlled them. Nature helped him there, for he was short and ugly. Not now! I should have seen it, thought Jake, when he used the stone to make himself golden and handsome. I should have stopped it then. But he had not. In fact he had been pleased that Saul Wilkins had at last found a form that brought him happiness.

But the joy had been so transient, and Saul had gone searching for the bodily pleasures his life, his ugliness, and his faith had denied him for so long.

“I can’t hate him, Lord,” said Jake. “It’s just not in me. And I’m to blame for putting the power in his hands. I tried to make a holy world, and I failed.” Jake stopped talking to himself and listened. The night breeze was low, whispering through the leaves of the nearby trees. Closing his eyes, he drew in a long slow breath through his nostrils. There was the scent of grass—and something else.

“Come out, little Pakia,” he said, “for I know you are there.”

“How do you know me?” came a small voice from the undergrowth.

“I am old, and I know many things. Come out and sit with me.”

The little Wolver emerged and shuffled nervously forward, squatting down some ten feet from the old man. Her fur shone silver in the moonlight, and her dark eyes scanned the weather-beaten face and the white beard. “There are men with guns in the woods. They found the trail of your mule. They will be here at first light.”

“I know,” he said softly. “It was good of you to seek me out.”

“Beth asked me to find Meneer Broome. I smell blood.”

“He is inside … sleeping. I will bring him to Beth. Go and tell her.”

“I know your scent,” she said, “but I have no knowing of you.”

“But you know you can trust me, little one. Is that not so?”

The Wolver nodded. “I can read your heart. It is not gentle, but you do not lie.”

Jake smiled. “Sadly, you are right. I am not a gentle man. When you have seen Beth, I want you to go to your people. Tell them to move away from here with all haste. There is an evil coming that will tear through the land like a burning fire. The Wolvers must be far away.”

“Our holy one has told us this,” said Pakia. “The Beast is coming from beyond the Wall. The spiller of blood, the feaster of souls. But we cannot desert our friend Beth.”

“Sometimes,” said Jake sadly, “the best thing we can do is to desert our friends. The Beast has many powers, Pakia, but the worst of them is to change that which is good into that which is evil. Tell your holy man that the Beast can turn a heart to darkness and cause a friend to rip out the throat of his brother. He can do this. And he is coming soon.”

“Who shall I say has spoken these words?” asked Pakia.

“You tell him they are the words of the Deacon.”

Clem Steiner was worried about the youngster. Nestor had said little since they had ridden from Purity and had seemed unconcerned at the prospect of pursuit. Twice Clem had swung off the trail, studying the moonlit land, but there was no sign that they were being followed. Nestor rode with his head down, obviously lost in thought, and Clem did not try to pierce the silence until they were camped in a natural hollow with a small fire burning. Nestor sat with his back against a thick pine, his knees drawn up.

“It wasn’t your fault, boy,” said Clem, misunderstanding the youngster’s anguish. “He came looking for us.” Nestor nodded but did not speak, and Clem sighed. “Speak to me, Son. There’s nothing to be gained by brooding.”

Nestor looked up. “Didn’t you ever believe in anything, Meneer Steiner?”

“I believe in the inevitability of death.”

“Yeah,” said Nestor, looking away.

Clem cursed inwardly. “Just tell me, Nestor. I never was much at guessing.”

“What’s to tell? It’s all just horseshit.” Nestor laughed. “I believed it all, you know. Jesus, what a fool! The Deacon was sent by God; the Jerusalem Man was a prophet like in the Book. We were God’s chosen people! I’ve lived my life chasing a lie. Don’t that beat all?” Nestor took up his blanket and spread it on the ground.

Clem stayed silent for a moment, gathering his thoughts, before he spoke. “If you need to hear something sage, Nestor, you’re camped out with the wrong man. I’m too old to even remember what it was like to be young. When I was your age, I just wanted to be known as the greatest shootist in the known world. I didn’t give a cuss about God or history. Never thought about anything much except maybe getting a little faster. So I can’t advise you. But that doesn’t mean that I don’t know you’re wrong. You can’t change the world, Son. There’ll always be serpents. All you can do is to live your own life in the way you feel is right.”

“And what about the truth?” asked Nestor, his eyes angry.

“The truth? What the hell is the truth? We’re born, we live, and we die. Everything else is just shades of opinion.”

Nestor shook his head. “You don’t understand, do you? I guess your kind never will.”

The words stung Clem, but he tried to bite back his anger. “Maybe you’d like to tell me what my kind is, boy.”

“Yeah, I’ll do that. All your dreams have always been selfish. The fastest shootist. To make a name for yourself by killing the Jerusalem Man. To own land and be rich. So why would you care if the Deacon proves to be a fraud or if hundreds of kids like me are lied to? It doesn’t mean anything to you, does it? You just act like all the rest. You lied to me. You didn’t tell me the Preacher was Shannow—not until you had to.”

“Put not your faith in princes, Nestor,” said Clem, all too aware of the bitter truth in the boy’s words.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Clem sighed. “There was an old man used to work for Edric Scayse. He read old books all the time, some of them just fragments. He told me the line. And it’s true, but we do it all the time. Some leader rises up, and we swear to God that he’s the best man since Jesus walked on water. It ain’t so. Because he’s human, and he makes mistakes, and we can’t forgive that. I don’t know the Deacon, but a lot of what he’s done has been for the good. And maybe he truly believed Shannow was John the Baptist. Seems to me a lot of would-be holy men get led
astray. It’s got to be hard. You look up at the sky, and you say, ‘Lord, shall I go left or shall I go right?’ Then you see a bird flying left, and you take it as a sign. The Deacon and his people were held in time for three hundred years. The Jerusalem Man released them. Maybe God did send him; I don’t know. But then, Nestor, the sum of all I don’t know could cover these mountains. But you’re right about me. I won’t deny it—I can’t deny it. But what I’m saying is that the truth—whatever the hell it is—doesn’t exist outside of a man. It exists in his heart. Jon Shannow never lied. He never claimed to be anything other than what he was. He fought all his life to defend the light. He never took a backward step in the face of evil. It didn’t matter what men
said
was right. And there isn’t a man alive who could have dented his faith. Because he didn’t hand that faith over to men. It was his, his alone. You understand? And as for the truth, well … I once asked him about that. I said, ‘Supposing all that you believe in is just so much dust on the wind. Suppose it ain’t true. How would you feel?’ He just shrugged and smiled. You know what he said? ‘It wouldn’t matter a damn, because it ought to be.’ ”