“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
There was a wolf who slew the lambs, the goats, and the geese. One day a holy man went to see the wolf and said to him: “My son, you are a wicked beast and a long way from God.” The wolf thought about this for a while and realized that the man was right. He asked how he could come nearer to heaven. The holy man told him to change his ways and pray. The wolf did so and became known for his purity and the sweetness of his prayers. One summer the wolf was walking by the riverside, when a goose mocked him. The wolf turned and leapt, killing the goose with one bite from his terrible jaws. A sheep standing close by said: “Why did you kill it?”
The wolf replied: “Geese should not cackle at a holy wolf.”
The Wisdom of the Deacon
Chapter XI
SHANNOW 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 t
he 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.
Back in his own quarters he stood before the long oval mirror, surveying his square-chinned, handsome face and the flowing golden hair that hung to his broad shoulders. A far cry from the balding, slight, stoop-shouldered Saul Wilkins who had landed with the Deacon twenty years before. But then, Saul had almost forgotten that man. Now he stared hard at the tiny lines around the eyes, the almost imperceptible web marks of aging on his cheeks and throat. Gazing down at the coin-sized stone, he saw there were only four slender lines of gold in the black. The day before there had been five.
The sisters had not been worth it, he thought. Under the influence of the Daniel Stone they had obeyed his every desire, performing acts that would have shamed them to their souls if they could have remembered them. Inspiring their debauchery and then removing the memory had cost him a fifth of his power. Now, in the dawn light, it seemed a waste.
“Curse you, Deacon!” he hissed. Anger rose in him. The old fool knew where the Daniel Stones lay. Indeed, he had a score of them hidden in his palace in Unity. But did he use them for himself? No. What kind of an idiot could hold such power and not keep his body young and vibrant? It was unfair and unjust. Where would he have been without me? thought Saul. Who formed the Jerusalem Riders and led the final charge up Fairfax Hill? Me! Who organized the books and the laws? Me! Who created the great legend of the Deacon and made his dreams reality? Me. Always me. And what does he give me? One tiny stone.
From his window he could see the blackened earth where the church had stood, and the sight eased his anger.
“Fetch me the Preacher from Pilgrim’s Valley,” the Deacon had said.
“Why?”
“He’s a very special man, Saul. The Wolvers respect him.”
“They’re just beasts. Mutated creatures!”
“They have human genes. And they are not a threat. I have prayed long and hard about them, Saul, and every time I pray, I see the Pillars of Fire. I believe the Wolvers could live in the lands beyond them. I believe that is where God intends them to be.”
“And you will empower this preacher to lead them?”
“Yes. You and I are the only ones left now, Saul. I think this young man has a talent for leadership.”
“What does that mean, Deacon? I am your heir; you know that.”
The Deacon had shaken his head. “I love you, Saul, like a son, but you are not the man to lead a people. You follow the devices and desires of your heart. Look at you! Where is Saul Wilkins now? Where is the little man who loved God? You have used the stone on yourself.”
“And why not? With them we can be immortal, Deacon. Why should we not live forever, rule forever?”
“We are not gods, Saul. And I am tired. Fetch me the Preacher.”
Saul looked at the charred wood and the singed earth. Did the Deacon know that the anonymous Bible mouther was the Jerusalem Man? Saul doubted it. The one man on this new earth who could destroy the myth of the Deacon.
Well, that myth will only grow now that you are dead, you old bastard!
Saul would have liked to have seen the killing, the moment when the bullet smashed home. I wonder, he thought, what last thought went through your mind, Deacon? Was it a prayer? If it was, you finished it in person. How long, he wondered, before the Church realizes that its blessed Deacon will not be returning? Another ten days? Twenty?
Then they will send for me, for I am the last of the men from beyond the gates of time.
The first three Apostles had died long before the Unity Wars, killed by the radiation and pestilential chemicals that filled the air of this new world. Then the Deacon had found the stones and given the eight survivors one each to strengthen their bodies against the poisons in the atmosphere. One each! Saul found his anger rising again but fought it down. He had used his quite swiftly, making himself not just strong but also handsome. And why not? He had lived for forty-three years with an ugly face and a short, twisted frame. Did he not deserve a new life? Was he not one of the chosen?
Then the war had started. He and Alan had been given command of two sections of the Jerusalem Riders. Fairfax Hill had been the turning point. But Alan had died, shot to pieces as he had neared the summit. Saul
had been the first to find the dying man.
“Help me!” Alan had whispered. Two of the shots had shattered his spine, cutting through his belt and separating it from his body. His stone was in a leather pouch; Saul had pulled it clear. It was almost totally gold, with only the thinnest of black strands. To heal Alan probably would have exhausted it. Indeed, the wounds were probably too great for his life to be saved. Saul had pocketed the stone and walked away. When he had returned an hour later, Alan was dead.
One month later Saul had met Jacob Moon, an old, grizzled former brigand. The man was a killer, and Saul had seen instantly the value of such a man. In giving him back his youth, he made an ally that would take him all the way to power.
Moon had killed the others one by one. And Saul had gathered the Stones of Power. Most were almost dry of magic.
Then only the Deacon was left …
Saul dressed and moved down to the ground floor. Moon was sitting at the breakfast table, finishing a meal of bacon and eggs.
“You had a good night, Brother Saul,” Moon said with a sly grin. “Such noise!”
“What news of the Preacher, Jacob?”
Moon shrugged. “Be patient. I have men scouring the wild lands for news. I’ve also sent Witchell to Domango. We’ll find him.”
“He’s a dangerous man.”
“He doesn’t even know he’s being hunted. That will make him careless.”
Saul poured a mug of fresh milk and was sipping it when he heard the sound of a walking horse in the yard outside. Going to the window, he saw a tall, square-bearded, broad-shouldered man in a long black coat dismount and walk toward the house. Moving to the door, Saul opened it.
“God’s greetings, Brother,” he said.
The man nodded. “God’s greetings to you, Brother, and a blessing upon this fine house. I am Padlock Wheeler from Purity. Would you be the Apostle Saul?”
“Come in, Brother,” said Saul, stepping aside. He remembered Wheeler as the Deacon’s favorite general, a hard-riding martinet who drove his men to the edge of exhaustion and beyond. They followed him because he asked for nothing from them that he did not give himself. After the war, Saul recalled, Wheeler had returned to his own land and become a preacher. The man looked older, and two white streaks made a bright fork in his beard on either side of his chin. Wheeler removed his flat-crowned hat and stepped into the dining room.
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