The Wisdom of the Deacon
Chapter XIV
SHANNOW AWOKE EARLY and looked for his clothes. They were gone, but in their place he found a pair of black trousers of heavy twill and a thick woolen cream-colored shirt. His own boots were beside them. Dressing swiftly, he swung his guns around his hips and walked through to the main room. Amaziga was not there, but the machine had been switched on, with the calm, handsome face of the redheaded Lucas pictured on the screen.
“Good morning,” said the face. “Amaziga has driven into town to fetch some supplies. She should be back within the hour. There is coffee, should you desire it, or some cereal.” Shannow glanced suspiciously at the coffee maker and decided to wait.
“Would you care to listen to music?” asked Lucas. “I have over four thousand melodies on hand.”
“No, thank you.” Shannow sat down in a wide leather chair. “It is cold in here,” he said.
“I’ll adjust the AC,” said Lucas. The soft whirring ceased, and within moments the room began to feel warmer. “Are you comfortable with me here?” asked Lucas. “I can remove this visual and leave the screen blank if you prefer. It does not matter to me. Amaziga created it and finds it comforting, but I can understand how disconcerting it might be to a man from another time.”
“Yes,” agreed Shannow, “it is disconcerting. Are you a ghost?”
“An interesting question. The man from whom my memory and thought patterns were duplicated is now dead. I am therefore a copy, if you like, of his innermost being and one which can be seen though not touched. I would think my credentials as a ghost would be quite considerable. But since we coexisted, he and I, I am therefore more like a cerebral twin.”
Shannow smiled. “If you want me to understand you, Lucas, you’ll have to speak more slowly. Tell me, are you content?”
“Contentment is a word I can describe, but that does not necessarily mean that I understand it. I have no sense of discontent. The memories of Lucas the man contain many examples of his discontent, but they do not touch me as I summon them. I think that Amaziga would be better equipped to answer such questions. It was she who created me. I believe she chose to limit the input, eliminating unnecessary emotional concepts. Love, hate, testosteronal drives, fears, jealousies, pride, anger—these things are neither helpful nor useful in a machine. You understand?”
“I believe that I do,” Shannow told him. “Tell me of the Bloodstone and the world we are to enter.”
“What would you wish to know?”
“Start at the beginning. I usually find I can follow stories better that way.”
“The beginning? Very well. In your own world you fought the Guardian leader Sarento many years ago, destroying him in the catacombs beneath the mountains which held the broken ship. In the world to which Amaziga will take you there was no Jon Shannow. Sarento ruled, but then he was struck down with a crippling and terminal illness. Having corrupted the Sipstrassi boulder, creating a giant Bloodstone, he could no longer rely on its powers to heal him. He searched everywhere for a pure stone that could take away the cancer. Time was against him, and in desperation he turned to the Bloodstone; it could not heal, but it could reshape. He drew its power into himself, merging with the stone, if you will. The energy flowed through his veins, changing him. His skin turned red, streaked with black veins. His power grew. The cancer shriveled and died. There was no going back; the change was irrevocable. He could no longer take in food and drink; all that could feed him was contained in blood: the life force of living creatures. He hungered for it, lusted for it. The Guardians saw what he had become and turned against him, but he destroyed them, for he was now a living Bloodstone with immense power. With the Guardians slain or fled, he needed to feed and journeyed to the lands of the Hellborn. You know their beliefs, Mr. Shannow. They worship the Devil. What better Devil could they find? He strode into Babylon and took the throne from Abaddon. And he fed. How he fed! Are you a student of ancient history, Mr. Shannow?”
“No.”
“But you know your Bible?”
“Indeed I do.”
“Then you will recall the tales of Molech, the god fed by souls upon the fire. Citizens of cities where Molech was worshiped would carry their firstborn children to furnaces and hurl them alive into the searing depths. All for Molech. The Hellborn do that for Sarento, though there are no flames. The children are slaughtered, and at first Sarento would bathe in the blood of victims. Every citizen carried a small Bloodstone—a demonseed. These are corrupted Sipstrassi Stones, the pure power long used up. They are fed with blood and thereby acquire a different kind of power. They can no longer heal wounds or create food. Instead they give great strength and speed to their bearers while feeding the baser human instincts. An angry man in possession of a Bloodstone becomes furious and psychopathic. Honest desire becomes lustful need. They are foul creations. Yet with them Sarento can control the people, swelling their lusts and desires, reducing their capacity for compassion and love. He rules a nation founded on hatred and selfishness. Do as thou wilt is the whole of the law. But his need for blood grows daily. Hence the war, where his legions sweep across the land. And before them go the Devourers. He has mutated the Wolvers, making them larger, more ferocious, huge beasts that move with great speed and kill without pity. He no longer needs to bathe in blood, Mr. Shannow. Every time a Devourer feeds, it swells a Bloodstone embedded in its skull. This transmits power to Sarento, the ultimate Bloodstone.
“Samuel Archer is—at the point where you will enter the story—one of the few rebels still alive. But he and his people are trapped in the high country, surrounded. Soon the Devourers will stalk them.”
Shannow stood and stretched his back. “Last night you and Amaziga spoke of probabilities. Would you explain them to me in a way that I might understand?”
“I hardly think so, yet I will try. It is a question of mathematics. There are doorways we can use to cross what has been believed to be the thresholds of time. But it is not really time we cross. There are millions of worlds. An infinite number. In the world of the Bloodstone no one yet knows of the gateways. By opening one, therefore, we increase the mathematical possibilities that our actions will alert the Bloodstone to their existence. You follow?”
“So far.”
“So then, by rescuing Sam Archer, we risk the Bloodstone finding other worlds. And that would be a disaster of colossal proportions. Do you know anything about hummingbirds, Mr. Shannow?”
“They’re small,” said the Jerusalem Man.
“Yes,” agreed the machine. “They are small, and their metabolism works at an astonishing rate. The smallest weighs less than a tenth of an ounce. They have the highest energy output per body weight of any warm-blooded animal, and to survive they must consume half their body weight in nectar every day. Sixty meals a day, Mr. Shannow, just to survive. The need for a plentiful supply of food makes them extraordinarily aggressive in defending their areas. The Bloodstone is identical. It needs to feed; it lives to feed. Every second of its existence it suffers enormous pangs of hunger. And it is insatiable, Mr. Shannow. Insatiable and ultimately unstoppable. Any world it finds it will ultimately devour.”
“You do not think that saving Sam is a risk worth taking,” observed Shannow.
“No, I do not. And neither do you. Amaziga points out that Sarento is a man with high intelligence and that intelligence is now boosted by corrupted Sipstrassi power. She maintains, perhaps rightly, that he will discover the gateways regardless of any action on our part. Therefore, she is adamant that the quest will continue. But I fear she is guided by emotion, not by reason. Why are you helping her?”
“She would go without me. It may be arrogance on my part, but I believe she will have a better chance of success with me. When do we set out?”
“As soon as Amaziga returns. Are your pistols fully loaded?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I fear they will need to be.”
The roar of angry lions cam
e from outside, and Shannow moved from the chair, his right-hand pistol pointing toward the door. “It is only Amaziga,” said Lucas, but the Jerusalem Man was already moving out onto the porch. There he saw the bright-red four-wheeled carriage swing from the dirt track to draw up outside the house in a trail of dust and noise. The noise subsided, then died.
Amaziga pushed open a side door and stepped out. “Help me with these boxes, Shannow!” she called, moving to the rear of the vehicle and opening another door. This one swung out and up, and Shannow watched her lean inside. Holstering the pistol, he walked toward her. A strange and unpleasant smell came from the vehicle, acrid and poisonous. It made his nostrils itch.
Amaziga was pulling a large box toward her, and Shannow leaned in to help. “Be careful. It’s heavy,” she said. Shannow lifted it and turned toward the house, happy to be clear of the fumes from the vehicle. Once inside, he laid the box on the table and waited for the black woman.
The voice of Lucas sounded: “It may interest you to know, Mr. Shannow, that your reflexes are five point seven percent higher than normal.”
“What?”
“The speed at which you drew the pistol shows that you are faster than the average man,” explained Lucas.
Amaziga entered and heaved a second box alongside the first. “There’s one more,” she told Shannow, who left reluctantly to fetch it. This was lighter, and with no room on the tabletop, he set it down alongside the table.
“Did you sleep well?” she asked him. He nodded. She was wearing a soft long-sleeved shirt with no collar. It was dark blue, and a portrait of a leaping black man had been painted on the chest.
“Is that Sam?” he asked.
Amaziga laughed, the sound good-humored. “No, it’s a basketball player. A sportsman in this world.” She laughed again. “I’ll explain it later,” she said. “But now let’s unpack the shopping.” Glancing at a dial on her wrist, she turned to Lucas. “Six and a half hours, yes?”
“An adequate approximation,” responded the machine.
Amaziga pulled a small folding knife from her pocket and opened the blade. Swiftly she ran it along the top of the first box, then placed it on the table. Opening the flaps, she lifted clear a squat black weapon shaped, to Shannow’s eyes at least, like the letter T. More weapons followed: two automatic pistols and twelve clips of ammunition. Discarding the empty box, she opened the second, drawing from it a short rifle with a pistol grip and two barrels. “This is for you, Shannow,” she said. “I think you’ll like it.” Shannow did not, but he said nothing as she laid boxes of shells alongside the gun.
Leaving her to unpack the other box, he walked to the door and stared out over the landscape. The sun was high, the temperature soaring. Heat shimmers were rising from the front of the vehicle. To the left he saw a movement from within a giant cactus. Narrowing his eyes, he stared at the hole in the central stem. A tiny buff-colored owl appeared, launched into the air, and flew in a tight circle around the cactus before disappearing back into the hole. Shannow guessed the bird to be around six inches in height with a wingspan of around fourteen inches. He had never seen an owl so small.
Amaziga moved out alongside him, handing Shannow the ugly rifle with the pistol grip. “It’s a shotgun, and it takes six shells,” she said. “It is operated by a pump under the barrels. Try it out on that cactus.”
“There’s a nest there,” said Shannow.
“I don’t see a nest.”
“A small owl in that hole. Let’s move farther out.” Shannow strode away. The desert sun was riding high, the temperature searing. Some way to the right he saw what could have been a small lake but was more likely to be a mirage. He pointed it out to Amaziga.
“There’s nothing there,” she said. “During the last century scores of settlers died here, taking their tired oxen down into the valley, expecting water. It’s a harsh country.”
“It is one of the greenest deserts I’ve seen,” observed Shannow.
“Most of the plants here can live for up to five years without rainfall. Now, how about that saguaro? See any nests?”
Shannow ignored the sarcasm and hefted the weapon, aiming from the hip at a small barrel cactus close by. He pulled the trigger, and the cactus exploded; the sound of the shot hung in the air for several seconds. “It’s grotesque,” said the Jerusalem Man. “It would tear a man’s arm off.”
“I would have thought you would have loved that,” put in Amaziga.
“You have never understood me, woman, and you never will.”
The words were not spoken with anger, but Amaziga reacted as if struck. “I understand you well enough!” she stormed. “And I’ll not debate my thoughts with the likes of you.” Swinging, she aimed her own squat weapon at a saguaro and pulled the trigger. A thunderous wall of sound erupted from the gun, and Shannow was peppered with bright brass shell cases. The saguaro leaned drunkenly to one side, its thick body showing gaping holes halfway up the central stem, then fell to the desert floor.
Shannow turned and headed back to the house. He heard Amaziga ram another clip home, and a second burst followed the first. Inside, he dropped the shotgun to the table.
“What did she shoot?” asked the machine.
“A tall cactus.”
“A saguaro,” the machine told him. “How many arms did it have?”
“Two.”
“It takes around eighty years before a saguaro grows an arm. And less than a second to destroy it.”
“Is that regret?” Shannow asked.
“It is an observation,” answered the machine. “The bird you saw is called an elf owl; they are quite common here. The desert is home to many interesting birds. The man Lucas used to spend many long hours studying them. His favorite was the gilded flicker. It probably made the nest hole the elf owl now inhabits.”
Shannow said nothing, but his eyes strayed to the shotgun. It was an obscene weapon.
“You will need it,” said Lucas.
“You read minds?”
“Of course. My clairvoyant abilities are what caused Amaziga to create me. The Devourers are powerful creatures. Only a shot to the heart with a powerful rifle or pistol will stop them. The skulls are thick and will resist your weapons. What are they, thirty-eights?”
“Yes.”
“Amaziga has purchased two forty-fours, Smith and Wesson, double-action. They are in the box on the floor.” Shannow knelt by it and opened the flaps. The guns were long-barreled and finished in metallic blue, the butts white and smooth. Lifting them clear, he hefted them for weight and balance. “Each weighs just under two and a half pounds,” Lucas told him. “The barrels are seven inches long. There are three boxes of shells on the table.”
Shannow loaded the weapons and stepped out into the sunlight to see Amaziga walking back toward the house. There was a small sack hanging on a fence post some thirty feet from the Jerusalem Man. Moving to it, she pulled out four empty cans, which she stood on the fence rail around two feet apart. Stepping aside, she called to Shannow to try out the pistols.
His right arm came up. The pistol thundered, and a can disappeared. The left arm rose, but this time his shot missed. “Put them close together,” he ordered Amaziga. She did so, and he fired again. The can on the left flew from the rail. “More cans,” he called. Reloading the pistols, he waited as she set out another six.
This time he fired swiftly, left and right. All the targets were smashed from the fence.
“What do you think of them?” asked Amaziga, approaching him.
“Fine weapons. This one pulls a fraction to the left. But they’ll do.”
“The salesman assured me they would stop a charging rhino … a very large animal,” she added, seeing his look of puzzlement.
He tried to drop the pistols into his scabbards, but they were too bulky. “Don’t worry about that,” Amaziga told him. “I picked up a set of holsters for you at Rawhide.” She chuckled, but Shannow could not see the reason for humor.
Back
inside the house she unwrapped a brown parcel, handing Shannow a black hand-tooled gun belt with two scabbards. The leather was thick and of high quality, the buckle highly polished brass. There were loops all around it, filled with shells. “It is very handsome,” he said, swinging it around his hips. “Yes, very handsome. My thanks to you, lady.”
She nodded. “They do suit you, Shannow. Now I must leave you again. We’ll be back at dusk. Lucas will brief you.”
“We’ll be back?” queried Shannow.
“Yes, I’m going to meet Gareth. He’ll be coming with us.”
Without another word she left the house. Shannow watched her move to the circle of broken stones. There was no bright light; she merely faded and disappeared from sight.
Inside once more, Shannow gazed at the calm, tranquil face on the screen. “What did she mean, brief me?”
“I shall show you the route you will travel and the landmarks you must memorize. Sit down, Mr. Shannow, and observe.”
The screen flickered, and Shannow found himself staring out over a range of mountains thickly covered with pine.
Jacob Moon watched as the painted wagons moved slowly out of sight, the tall, slender blond woman riding the last of them. He hawked and spit. On another day he would have extracted a price for freeing the sandy-haired young man … Meredith? And the price would have been the woman Isis. Mostly Jacob Moon liked his women fat, but there was something about this girl that excited him. And he knew what it was: innocence and a fragile softness. He wondered if she was consumptive, for her skin was unnaturally pale and she had had, he noticed, difficulty climbing into the wagon. Turning away, he focused on more important matters.
Dillon’s body lay in the undertaker’s parlor, and the Jerusalem Man rode free somewhere in the mountains. The trackers had followed him but had lost the trail in the desert. Shannow and a companion had ridden their horses into a circle of stones and vanished. Moon shivered.