The Last Guardian (15 page)

Then he launched into a powerful sermon about the sins of the many and the joys of the few. He had them then, as his powerful voice rolled over them. He talked of greed and cruelty, the mindless pursuit of wealth and the loss of joy it created.

“For what does it profit a man if he gain the world and yet lose his soul? What is wealth without love? Three hundred years ago the Lord brought Armageddon to the world of sin, toppling the earth, destroying Babylon the Great. For in those days evil had spread across the earth like a deadly plague, and the Lord washed away their sins
even as Isaiah had prophesied. The sun rose in the west, the seas tipped from their bowls, and not one stone was left upon another. But what did we learn, brethren? Did we come to love one another? Did we turn to the Almighty? No. We threw our noses into the mud, and we scrabbled for gold and silver. We lusted and we fought, we hated and slew.

“And why? Why?” he roared. “Because we are men. Sinful, lustful men. But not today, brethren. We stand here in God’s sunshine, and we know peace. We know love. And tomorrow I will build me a church on this meadow, where the love and peace of today will be sanctified, where it will be planted like a seed. And those of you who wish to see God’s love remain in this community will come to me here, bringing wood and hammers and nails and saws, and we will build a church of love. And now let us pray.”

The crowd knelt, and he blessed them. He allowed the silence to grow for more than a minute, then announced, “Up, my brethren. The fatted calf is waiting; the fun and the joy are here for all. Up and be happy. Up and laugh!”

People surged away to the tents and stalls, the children racing down the hill to the swing boards and the mud around the stream. The Parson walked down into the throng, accepting a jug of water from a woman selling cakes. He drank deeply.

“That was well spoken,” said a voice, and the Parson turned to see a tall man with silver-streaked shoulder-length hair and a graying beard. The man was wearing a flat-brimmed hat and a black coat, and two pistols hung from scabbards at his hips.

“Thank you, Brother. Did you feel moved to repent?”

“You make me think deeply. That, I hope, is a beginning.”

“Indeed it is. Do you have a farm here?”

“No, I am a traveling man. Good luck with your church.” He moved away into the crowd.

“That was the Jerusalem Man,” said the woman selling cakes. “He killed a man yesterday. They say he’s come to destroy the wicked.”

“Vengeance is mine, says the Lord. But let us not talk of violence and death, Sister. Cut me a slice of your cake.”

14

S
HANNOW
WATCHED
THE
pistol-shooting contest with interest. The competitors, twenty-two of them, lined up facing open ground and loosed shots at targets thirty paces away. Gradually the field was whittled down to three men, one of them Clem Steiner. Each was obliged to fire at plates that were hurled in the air by children standing to the right of the range. Steiner won the competition and collected his prize of a hundred Bartas from Edric Scayse. As the crowd was beginning to disperse, Scayse’s voice rang out.

“We have with us today a legendary figure, possibly one of the greatest pistol shots on the continent. Ladies and gentlemen—Jon Shannow, the Jerusalem Man!” A ripple of applause ran through the spectators, and Shannow stood silently, crushing the anger welling up in him. “Come forward, Meneer Shannow,” called Scayse, and Shannow stepped up to the line. “The winner of our competition, Clement Steiner, feels that his prize cannot be truly won unless he defeats the finest competitors. Therefore, he has returned his prize until he has matched skills with the Jerusalem Man.”

The crowd roared its approval. “Do you accept the challenge, Jon Shannow?”

Shannow nodded and removed his coat and hat, laying them on the wooden rail that bordered the range. He drew his guns and checked his loads. Steiner stepped alongside him.

“Now they’ll see some real shooting,” said the young man, grinning. He drew his pistol. “Would you like to go first?” he asked. Shannow shook his head. “Okay. Throw, boy!” Steiner called, and a large clay plate sailed into the air. The crack of the pistol shot was followed by the shattering of the plate at the apex of its flight.

Shannow then cocked his pistol and nodded to the boy. Another plate flew up and disintegrated as Shannow fired. Plate after plate was blown to pieces until finally the Jerusalem Man called a halt.

“This could go on all day, boy,” he said. “Try two.” Steiner’s eyes narrowed.

Another boy was sent to join the first, and two plates were hurled high. Steiner hit the first, but the second fell to the ground, shattering on impact.

Shannow took his place, and both plates were exploded. “Four!” he called, and the crowd stood stock-still as two more boys joined the throwers. Shannow cocked both pistols and took a deep breath. Then he nodded to the boys, and as the plates soared into the air, his guns swept up. The shots rolled out like thunder, smashing three of the spinning plates before they had reached the top of their flight. The fourth was falling like a stone when the bullet smashed through it. The applause was thunderous as Shannow bowed to the crowd, reloaded his pistols, and sheathed them. He put on his coat and hat and collected the prize from Scayse.

The man smiled. “You did not enjoy that, Mr. Shannow. I am sorry. But the people will not forget it.”

“The coin will come in useful,” said Shannow. He turned to Steiner. “I think it would be right for us to share this prize,” he suggested. “For you had to work much harder for it.”

“Keep it!” snapped Steiner. “You won it. But it doesn’t make you a better man. We’ve still to decide that.”

“There is nothing to decide, Meneer Steiner. I can hit
more plates, but you can draw and shoot accurately with far greater speed.”

“You know what I mean, Shannow. I’m talking about man to man.”

“Do not even think about it,” advised the Jerusalem Man.

It was almost midnight before Broome allowed Beth to leave the Jolly Pilgrim. The morning’s entertainment had spilled over into the evening, and Broome had wanted to stay open to cater to the late-night revelers. Beth was not concerned about the children, for Mary would have taken Samuel back to the wagon and prepared him some supper, but she was sorry to have missed an evening with them. They were growing so fast. She moved along the darkened sidewalk and down the three short steps to the street. A man stepped out in front of her from the shadows at the side of the building; two others joined him.

“Well, well,” he said, his face shadowed from the moonlight by the brim of his hat. “If it ain’t the whore who killed poor Thomas.”

“His stupidity killed him,” she said.

“Yeah? But you warned the Jerusalem Man, didn’t you? You went running to him. Are you his whore, bitch?”

Beth’s fist cracked against his chin, and he staggered; she followed that by crashing a second blow with her left that spun him from his feet. As he tried to rise, she lashed out with her foot, catching him under the chin. “Any other questions?” she asked. She walked on, but a man leapt at her, grabbing her arms; she struggled to turn and kick out, but another man grabbed her legs and she was hoisted from her feet.

They carried her toward the alley. “We’ll see what makes you so special,” grunted one of her attackers.

“I don’t think so,” said a man’s voice, and the attackers dropped Beth to the ground. She scrambled to
her feet and looked up to see that the Parson was standing in the street.

“You keep your puking nose out of this,” said one of the men, while the other drew a pistol.

“I do not like to see any among the brethren behaving in such a manner toward a lady,” said the Parson. “And I do not like guns pointed at me. It is not polite. Go on about your business.”

“You think I won’t kill you?” the gunman asked. “Just because you wear a black dress and spout on about God? You’re nothing, man. Nothing!”

“What I am is a man. And men do not behave as you do. Only the basest animals act in such a manner. You are filth! Vermin! You do not belong in the company of civilized people.”

“That’s it!” shouted the man, his pistol coming up and his thumb on the hammer. The Parson’s hand swept out from behind his cassock, and his gun roared. The man was hurled backward by the force of the shell as it hit his chest, then a second bullet smashed through his skull.

“Jesus Christ!” whispered the survivor.

“A little late for prayers,” the Parson told him. “Step forward and let me see your face.” The man stumbled toward him, and the Parson lifted his hand and removed the man’s hat, allowing the moonlight to illuminate his features.

“Tomorrow morning you will report to the meadow, where you will help me build my church. Is that not so, Brother?” The gun pushed up under the man’s chin.

“Whatever you say, Parson.”

“Good. Now see to the body. It is not fitting that it should lie there to be seen by children in the morning.”

The Parson moved to Beth. “How are you feeling, Sister?”

“I’ve had better days,” Beth told him.

“I shall walk you to your home.”

“That will not be necessary.”

“Indeed no. But it will be a pleasure.” He took her arm, and they walked off in the direction of the tent town.

“I thought your God looked unkindly on killing,” said Beth.

“Indeed he does, Sister. But the distinction he makes concerns murder. The Bible is full of killing and slaughter, and the Lord understands that among sinful men there will always be violence. There is an apt section in Ecclesiastes:
There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity. A time to be born and a time to die, a time to plant and a time to uproot, a time to kill and a time to heal
 … There is more, and it is very beautiful.”

“You speak well, Parson. But I’m glad you also shoot well.”

“I’ve had a lot of practice, Sister.”

“Call me Beth. I never had no brothers. Do you have a name?”

“Parson is fine. And I like the sound of Beth; it is a good name. Are you married?”

“I was. Sean died on the journey. But my children are with me. I expect they’re sleeping now—or they damn well better be.”

They made their way through the tents and wagons until they reached the McAdam campsite. The fire was low, and the children were asleep in their blankets beside the wheels. The oxen had been led to a second meadow, where they grazed with other cattle. Beth stoked up the fire.

“Will you join me for tea, Parson? I always drink a cup before sleeping.”

“Thank you,” he answered, sitting cross-legged by the fire. She boiled some water, added herbs and sugar, and poured the mixture into two pottery mugs.

“You come far?” she asked as they drank.

“Very far. I heard God calling me, and I answered. But what of you? Where are you bound?”

“I’ll be staying in the valley. I am going to lease some
land from Meneer Scayse—start a farm. I have some seed corn and other such.”

“Hard work for a woman alone.”

“I won’t be alone long, Parson. It’s not my way.”

“No, I can see that,” he answered without embarrassment. “By the way, where did such a charming young mother learn the rudiments of the left hook? It was a splendid blow with all your weight behind it.”

“My husband, Sean, was a fistfighter. He taught me that—and much more.”

“He was a lucky man, Beth.”

“He’s dead, Parson.”

“Many men live a long lifetime and never meet a woman like you. They, I think, are the unlucky ones. And now I must bid you good night.” He rose and bowed.

“You come again, Parson. You’re always welcome.”

“That is nice to know. I hope we will see you in our new church.”

“Only if you have songs. I like to sing.”

“We will have songs just for you,” he told her, and walked away into the shadows.

For a while Beth sat quietly by the dying fire. The Parson was a strong man and extraordinarily handsome with that fine red hair and easy smile. But there was something about him that disturbed her, and she thought about it, trying to pin down her unease. Physically she found him attractive, but there was about him a tightness, a tension that left her wary. Her thoughts strayed to Jon Shannow. Similar men, yet not so. Like thunder and lightning. Both were companion to inner storms. But Shannow was aware of his own dark side. She was not sure about the Parson.