Shannow closed his eyes. The memory was hazy, but he could see the sword hovering in the sky, the gateway of time opening. And something else … the face of a beautiful black woman. No name would come to him, but he heard her voice: “It is a missile, Shannow. A terrible weapon of death and destruction.” Try as he would, Shannow could not pluck any more from his past. “Go on,” he told Jake.
“The Deacon and his men landed near Rivervale. It was like the Second Coming. Nobody in this world knew about the decay and corruption that plagued the old cities, killers walking the streets, lust and depravity everywhere. The world, he said, was godless. The sins of Sodom and Gomorrah were multiplied a hundredfold in that old world. Before long the Deacon was a revered figure. His power grew. He said that the new world must never be allowed to make the mistakes of the old, that the Bible contained the seeds of man’s future prosperity. There were those who argued against him, saying that his plans were an affront to their views of personal freedom and liberty. That led to the Great War and the Second Hellborn War. But the Deacon won both. Now he rules in Unity, and there is talk that he plans to build the New Jerusalem.” Jake lapsed into silence and added more fuel to the fire. “Ain’t much else I can tell you, boy.”
“And the Jerusalem Man?” asked Shannow.
Jake grinned. “Well, you, if indeed that is you, were John the Baptist reborn, or maybe Elijah, or both. You were the herald to announce the new coming of God’s word to the world. Until, that is, you were taken by God in a fiery chariot to a new world that needed your talents. You still remember nothing?”
“Nothing about a fiery chariot,” said Shannow grimly. “All I know is who I am. How I came to be here or where I have been for the last twenty years is a mystery to me. But I sense I was living under another name, and I did not use my pistols. Maybe I was a farmer. I don’t know. I will find out, Jake. Fragments keep coming back to me. One day they will form a whole.”
“Have you told anybody who you are?”
Shannow nodded. “I killed a man in the settlement of Purity. I told them then.”
“They’ll come hunting you. You are a holy figure now, a legend. It’ll be said that you’ve taken the Jerusalem Man’s name in vain. Personally I think they’d be wise to leave you alone. But that’s not the way it will be. In fact there could even be a terrible irony in all this.”
“In what way?”
“The Deacon has a group of men close to him. One of them—Saul—has formed a group of riders called the Jerusalem Riders. They travel the land as judges and law bringers. They are skilled with weapons and chosen from the very best—or perhaps it is the worst—of the Crusaders. Deadly men, Mr. Shannow. Perhaps they will be sent after you.” Jake chuckled and shook his head.
“You seem to find the situation amusing,” said Shannow. “Is it because you do not believe me?”
“On the contrary, it is amusing simply because I do believe you.”
Nestor Garrity took careful aim. The pistol bucked in his hand, and the rock he had set atop the boulder shivered as the bullet sliced the air above it. The sound echoed in the still mountain air, and a hawk, surprised by the sudden noise, took off from a tree to Nestor’s left. Sheepishly Nestor looked around, but there was no one close, and he took aim again. This time he smashed fragments of stone from the boulder, low and to the right of the rock. He cursed softly, then angrily loosed the final four shots.
The rock was untouched. Nestor sat down, broke open the pistol, and fed six more shells into the chambers. It had cost him eighteen Bartas, almost a month’s wages at the logging camp, and Mr. Bartholomew had assured him it was a fine, straight shooting piece created by the old Hellborn factory near Babylon.
“Is it as good as the Hellborn used to make?” Nestor had asked him.
The old man shrugged. “I guess,” he said.
Nestor felt like taking it back and demanding the return of his money.
Sheathing the pistol, he opened the pack of sandwiches he had purchased from Mrs. Broome and took out his Bible. Then he heard the horse approaching and turned to see a rider coming over the crest of the hill. He was a tall, handsome man, dark hair streaked with silver, and he was wearing a black coat and a brocaded red waistcoat. At his hip was a nickel-plated pistol in a polished leather scabbard.
The rider drew up a little way from the youth and dismounted. “You’d be Nestor Garrity?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Clem Steiner. Mrs. McAdam suggested I speak to you.”
“In connection with what, sir?”
“The Preacher. She has asked me to find him.”
“I fear he’s dead, Mr. Steiner. I looked mighty hard. I seen blood and wolf tracks.”
Steiner grinned. “You don’t know the man as well as I do, Nestor. His kind don’t die so easy.” Nestor saw Steiner switch his gaze to the bullet-scarred boulder. “Been practicing?”
“Yes, sir, but I fear I am not skilled with the pistol. Safest place in these mountains is that rock yonder.”
In one smooth motion Steiner’s gun seemed to leap to his hand. At the first shot the rock leapt several feet into the air, and the second saw it smashed to powder. Steiner spun the pistol back into its scabbard. “Forgive me, Nestor; I never could resist showing off. It’s a bad vice. Now, about the Preacher, were there any other tracks close by?”
Nestor was stunned by the display and fought to gather his thoughts. “No, sir. Not of a man afoot, anyway.”
“Any tracks at all?”
“No … well, yes. There was wheel marks to the east. Big ones. I think they were Wanderers. The tracks were recent, though, sharp-edged.”
“Which way were they heading?” Steiner asked.
“East.”
“Any towns out there?”
“There’s a new settlement called Purity. It’s run by Padlock Wheeler. He used to be one of the Deacon’s generals. I ain’t … haven’t been there.”
Steiner walked to the boulder, selected another small rock, and placed it on the top. Strolling back to Nestor, he said, “Let’s see how you shoot.”
Nestor took a long, deep breath and wished he had the nerve to refuse. Drawing the pistol, he eased back the hammer and sighted along the barrel.
“Hold it,” said Steiner. “You’re tilting your head and sighting with your left eye.”
“The right is not as strong,” Nestor admitted.
“Put the gun away.” Nestor eased the hammer forward and holstered the pistol. “All right, now point your finger at my saddle.”
“What?”
“Just point at my saddle. Do it!” Nestor reddened, but he lifted his right hand and pointed. “Now point at the tree on your right. Good.”
“I never had much trouble pointing, Mr. Steiner. It’s the shooting that lets me down.”
Steiner chuckled. “No, Nestor. It’s the lack of pointing that lets you down. Now, this time draw the pistol, cock it, and point it at the rock. Don’t aim. Just point and fire.”
Nestor knew what would happen and wished with all his heart that he had chosen to stay home that day. Obediently he drew the long-barreled pistol and pointed at the rock, firing almost instantly, desperate to get the embarrassing moment over and done with.
The rock exploded.
“Wow!” shouted Nestor. “By damn, I did it!”
“Yes,” agreed Steiner. “That’s one rock that will never threaten innocent folks again.”
Steiner moved to his horse, and Nestor realized the man was about to leave. “Wait!” he called. “Will you join me in some lunch? I got sandwiches and some honey biscuits. It ain’t much, but you’re welcome.”
As they ate, Nestor talked of his ambition to become a Crusader and maybe even a Jerusalem Rider one day. Steiner listened politely, no hint of mockery in his expression. Nestor talked for longer than he ever had to one person at one time and eventually stumbled to a halt. “Gee, I’m sorry, Mr. Steiner. I think I near bored you to death. It’s just, nobody e
ver listened so good before.”
“I like ambition, Son; it’s a good thing. A man wants something bad enough and he’ll generally get it if he works at it and he’s unlucky enough.”
“Unlucky?” queried Nestor.
Steiner nodded. “In most cases the dream is better than the reality. Pity the man who fulfills all his dreams, Nestor.”
“Did you do that, sir?”
“Certainly did.” Steiner’s face looked suddenly solemn, and Nestor switched the subject.
“You ever been a Crusader, Mr. Steiner?” he asked. “I never seen anybody shoot that good.”
“No, not a Crusader.”
“Not … a brigand?”
Steiner laughed aloud. “I could have been, Son, but I wasn’t. I was lucky. I had me a curious ambition, though. I wanted to be the man who killed the Jerusalem Man.”
Nestor’s mouth dropped open. “That’s a terrible thing to say.”
“It is now. But back then he was just a man with a big, big name. I was working for Edric Scayse, and he warned me to change that ambition. I said, ‘There’s no way he can beat me, Mr. Scayse.’ You know what he said? He told me, ‘He wouldn’t beat you, Clem, he’d kill you.’ He was right. They broke the mold when they made Shannow. Deadliest man I ever knew.”
“You knew him? Lord, you’re a lucky man, Mr. Steiner.”
“Luck certainly has played a part in my life,” said Steiner. “Now I’d best be on my way.”
“You’re going to look for the Preacher?”
“I’ll find him, Son,” said Clem, easing himself to his feet. In that moment Nestor knew what he wanted to do, knew it with a certainty he had never before experienced.
“Could I come with you, Mr. Steiner? I mean, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“You’ve got a job here, boy, and a settled life. This could take some time.”
“I don’t care. Since my folks died I’ve been working for my uncle. But I think I could learn more from you, Mr. Steiner, than I ever could from him. And I’m sick of counting out Barta coin and docking wages for lost hours. I’m tired of counting timber and writing out orders. Will you let me ride with you?”
“I’ll be riding into town to buy supplies, Nestor. You’ll need a blanket roll and a heavy coat. A rifle would be handy.”
“Yes, sir,” said Nestor happily. “I’ve got a rifle. I’ll get the other gear from Mr. Broome.”
“How old are you, Son?”
“Seventeen, sir.”
Clem Steiner smiled. “I can just remember what it was like to be seventeen. Let’s go.”
Josiah Broome pushed out his bare feet toward the hearth, trying to concentrate on the warmth of the flames while ignoring the constant stream of words coming from the kitchen. It was not easy: Else Broome was not a woman to be ignored. Broome stared into the fire, his thoughts gloomy. He had helped build Pilgrim’s Valley back in the old days and then had been one of the leaders when the town had been rebuilt after the invasion from Atlantis. Josiah Broome had survived the assault by the scaled lizard warriors known as Daggers and had tried in his own small way to make Pilgrim’s Valley a decent place for the families that settled there.
He abhorred men of violence, the hard-drinking, brawling warriors who had once peopled this land. And he loathed men like Jon Shannow, whose idea of justice was to slaughter any who crossed their path. Now, in these enlightened days, Jon Shannow was considered a saint, a holy man of God. Else’s voice droned on, and he noticed a lilt at the end of the sentence. “I am sorry, my dear, I didn’t catch that,” he said.
Else Broome eased her vast bulk through the doorway. “I asked if you agreed that we should invite the Apostle Saul to the barbecue.”
“Yes, dear. Whatever you think best.”
“I was only saying to the widow Scayse the other day …”
The words rolled on as she retreated to the kitchen, and Broome blanked them from his mind.
Jon Shannow, the saint.
The Preacher had laughed at it. Broome remembered their last evening together in the small vestry behind the church.
“It is not important, Josiah,” said Jon Cade. “What I used to be is irrelevant now. What is important is that God’s word should not be corrupted. The Book speaks of love as well as judgment. And I’ll not be persuaded that the Wolvers are denied that love.”
“I don’t disagree with you, Preacher. In fact, of all men I hold you in the highest regard. You turned your back on the ways of violence and have shown great courage during these last years. You are an inspiration to me. But the people of Pilgrim’s Valley are being seduced by the Deacon’s new teachings. And I fear for you and the church. Could you not minister to the Wolvers outside town? Would that not allow the anger to die down?”
“I expect that it would,” agreed Cade. “But to do so would be like admitting to the ignorant and the prejudiced that they have a right to deny my congregation a service within my church. I cannot allow that. Why is it so hard for them to see the truth? The Wolvers did not seek to be the way they are; even the Deacon admits to that. And there is no more evil in them than in any race.”
“I don’t know what the Deacon thinks. But I have read the words of his Apostle Saul, and he claims they are not of God and are therefore of the Devil. A pure land, he says, needs pure people.”
Cade nodded. “I don’t disagree with that, and there is much good in what the Deacon has said in the past. I respect the man. He came from a world gone mad, depravity and lust, corruption and disease of the body and the spirit. And he seeks to make this world a better place. But no one knows better than I the dangers of living by iron rules.”
“Come, come, my friend, are you not still living by those rules? This is but a building. If God—if there is a God—does care about the Wolvers, he will care about them in the mountains just as well as here. I fear there will be violence.”
“Then we shall turn the other cheek, Josiah. A soft answer turneth away wrath. Have you seen Beth lately?”
“She came into the store with Bull Kovac and two of her riders. She looked well, Jon. It’s a shame the two of you couldn’t make a go of it. You were so well suited.”
Cade smiled ruefully. “She was in love with the Jerusalem Man, not with the Preacher. It was hard for her, especially when the brigands raided and I did nothing to stop them. She told me I was no longer a man.”
“That must have hurt.”
Cade nodded. “I’ve known worse pain, Josiah. A long time ago I killed a child. I was being attacked; there were armed men all around me. I killed four of them, then heard a noise behind me, and I swung and fired. It was a boy, out playing. He haunts me still. What might he have been? A surgeon? A minister? A loving father and husband? But yes, losing Beth was a deep blow.”
“You must have been tempted to take up your pistols during the raid.”
“Not once. I sometimes dream that I am riding again, pistols by my side. Then I wake in a cold sweat.” Cade stood and moved to a chest at the far end of the room. Flipping it open, he lifted clear a gun belt. “The weapons of Thundermaker.” Broome stood and walked across to stand beside the Preacher.
“They look as they always did.”
“Aye. Sometimes at night I sit here and clean them. It helps remind me of what once I was. And what, God willing, I will never become again.”
“You’re not listening to a word I say,” said Else Broome, stalking back into the living room.
“What’s that, my love?”
“What is the matter with you? I was asking if you would stand Oath for that McAdam woman.”
“Of course. Beth is an old friend.”
“Pah! She’s a troublemaker, and we’d all be better off if she were sent from the valley.”
“In which way does she cause trouble, my dear?”
“Are you soft in the head?” she stormed. “She shot at men hunting Wolvers. She speaks against the Deacon, and even her own son says she’s been seduced by Satan. The woman
is a disgrace.”
“She’s a good Christian woman, Else. Just like you.”
“I take that as an insult,” Else Broome snapped, her multiple chins quivering. “You have a store to run, and I don’t think people will take it kindly if you are seen to support a woman of her kind. You’ll lose business to Ezra Feard, you’ll see. And I don’t see why it should be you who gives Oath for her. Let her find someone else who doesn’t mind being a laughingstock.”
Broome turned his attention back to the fire.
“And another thing …” began Else Broome.
But her husband was not listening. He was thinking of five dead raiders on the road and the tortured spirit of the man who had killed them.
4
The world does not need more charismatic men. It does not need more intellectual men. No, and it does not need more caring men. What it cries out for is more holy men.
The Wisdom of the Deacon
Chapter II
SETH WHEELER PULLED the blanket up tight around his ears and settled his head against his saddle. The night air was cold, and it had been two years since he had slept out in the open. The blanket was thin. Either that or I’m getting old, he thought. No, it’s the damn blanket. Sitting up, Seth held the blanket close to him as he moved to the fire. It was burning low, just a tiny flicker of flame above the coals. There were four sticks left, and they normally would have been left for the morning. Casting a nervous glance at his four sleeping comrades, he added the wood to the fire. It blazed instantly to life, and Seth shivered as the warmth touched him. God, he had almost forgotten just how good it felt to be warm.
There were no clouds in the night sky, and a ground frost was sprinkling the grass with specks of silvered white. The wind gusted, scattering ash across Seth’s boots. He stared down at the sticks. Why did they have to burn so damned fast?