Bloodstone (36 page)

“Jesus wept!” she whispered.

Outside the cave there were more of the beasts. “Kids,” she called, “I want you to climb that chimney at the back. I want you to do it
now
.”

Still holding the branch, she backed into the cave. A creature sprang at her, but she calmly shot it in the chest. Another ran from the right; a shot came from the back of the cave, shearing half the beast’s head away. Zerah glanced back to see that Oz had her rifle in his hands and was standing his ground.

Pride flared in her then, but her voice was sharp and commanding. “Get up that goddamn chimney!” she ordered.

The beasts were advancing cautiously. With only three shells left, Zerah knew she could not hold them all, nor would she have time to turn and climb out of their reach. “Are you climbing?” she called, not daring to glance back.

“Yes, Frey,” she heard Oz shout, his voice echoing from within the chimney.

“Good boy.”

Suddenly the buckskin bolted past her, scattering the beasts as it made a dash for the freedom of the forest. In that moment Zerah turned and sprinted for the chimney. Slamming the pistol into her holster, she grabbed a thin ledge of rock and levered herself up, her boots scrabbling on the stone. Swiftly she climbed until she could see Oz just above her, helping Esther. It was narrow in the chimney, but there was just enough room for the children to squeeze up onto a wider ledge below the cliff top.

Pain flashed through her foot. Zerah screamed and felt herself being dragged down. Oz pushed the rifle over the edge, barrel down, and fired. Zerah dragged out her pistol and put two shots into the Wolver below. It fell, its talons tearing off Zerah’s boot. Oz grabbed her, and with the boy’s help she eased her skinny body through the gap. Blood was seeping from a wound in her ankle, and a six-inch talon was embedded in her calf. Zerah prized it loose. “You are brave kids,” she said. “By God, I’m proud of you!”

From the pocket of her coat Zerah took a folding knife and opened the blade. “If you’d be so good as to give me your shirt, Oz, I’ll make some bandages and try to stop this bleeding.”

“Yes, Frey,” he said, pulling off his coat and shirt. As she worked, she told the boy to count the shells left in the rifle. It did not take long: there were two.

“I still have the little gun you gave me,” said Oz.

She shook her head. “That’ll do you no good against these creatures. Still, the noise might frighten ’em, eh?” The boy forced a smile and nodded. Zerah bandaged her ankle and then
delved into the pocket of her coat, producing a strip of dried beef. “It’s not much of a breakfast,” she said, “but it will have to do.”

“I’m not hungry,” said Esther. “Are we going to die?”

“You listen to me, child,” said Zerah. “We’re alive, and I aim for us to stay that way. Now, let’s climb out of here.”

“Is that wise, Frey?” asked Oz. “They can’t get us here.”

“That’s true, boy. But I don’t think that strip of beef is going to hold us for the rest of our lives, do you? Now, we can’t be more than six, maybe seven miles from Pilgrim’s Valley. We’ll be safe there. I’ll go first; you follow.”

Zerah forced herself to her feet and climbed toward the patch of blue some twenty feet above her.

Shannow climbed the stairs to the second level and found the redheaded youngster kneeling by a window, staring out over the yard. “What are they doing now?” he asked the boy.

Wallace put down his rifle and stood. “Just sitting. Can’t understand it, Meneer. One minute they’re tearing up everything in sight, the next they’re lying like hounds in the moonlight.”

“They fed,” explained Shannow. “The question is, How long before their hunger brings them against us? You be ready now.”

“This is a strong-built house, Meneer, but the windows and doors ain’t gonna hold ’em, I can tell you that. Back in town they was ripping them apart like they was paper. And they can jump, too, by God! I saw one spring maybe fifteen feet up onto the side of a building.”

“They can jump,” agreed Shannow, “and they can die, too.”

Wallace grinned. “They can at that.” As Shannow turned to move away, the boy reached out and took hold of his arm. “You saved my life. I didn’t even know that thing was close. I won’t forget it.”

Shannow smiled. “You settled that debt when you half carried me back. I was all finished. You’re a good man, Wallace. I’m proud to know you.” The two men shook hands, and Shannow walked back to the narrow hallway, checking the other two adjoining rooms on the upper floor. Both were
bedrooms, one decorated with lace curtains that were yellowed with age. Children’s drawings and sketches were still pinned to the walls, stick men in front of box houses with smoke curling from chimneys. In the corner, by the closed window, was a stuffed toy dog with floppy ears. Shannow remembered when little Mary carried it everywhere. The other room was Samuel’s. The walls were lined with shelves that carried many books, including a special gold-edged edition of
The New Elijah
. Shannow sighed. Another of Saul’s little vanities. When it had been published, Shannow had read the first chapter, outlining God’s call to the young Jerusalem Man, then had sent for Saul.

“What is this … garbage?”

“It’s not garbage, Deacon. Everything in that book is fact. We got most of it from primary sources, men who knew the Jerusalem Man, who heard his words. I would have thought you would have been pleased. He predicted your coming.”

“He did no such thing, Saul. And half the names in the first chapter never came within a hundred miles of Shannow. Several others have let their imaginations run riot.”

“But … how would you know that, Deacon?”

“I know. How is no concern of yours. How many have been printed?”

Saul smiled. “Forty thousand, Deacon. And they’ve sold so fast, we’re going for a second printing.”

“No, we are not! Let it go, Saul.”

Shannow lifted the book from the shelf and flipped it open. In the center was a black and white engraving showing a handsome man on a rearing black stallion, silver pistols in the rider’s hands, and a sleek black hat on his head. All around him were dead Hellborn. “At least they didn’t say I killed ten thousand with the jawbone of an ass,” whispered Shannow, tossing the book to the pine bed.

Carefully he opened the shutter and leaned out. Below him was Jeremiah’s wagon, the roof ripped apart. Several Wolvers were asleep within it; others were stretched out by the ruined barn.

What are you going to do, Shannow? he asked himself.

How do you plan to stop the Beast?

Fear touched him then, but he fought it down.

“What are you doing here?” asked Beth. “This is my son’s room.”

Shannow sat on the bed, remembering the times he had read to the boy. “I don’t need your hatred, Beth,” he said softly.

“I don’t hate you, Deacon. I despise you. There is a difference.”

Wearily he stood. “You ought to make up your mind, woman. You despise me because I gave no ground and saw my enemies slain; you despised your lover, Jon Cade, because he wouldn’t slay his enemies. What exactly do you require from the men in your life?”

“I don’t need to debate with you,” she said stonily.

“Really? Then why did you follow me here?”

“I don’t know. Wish I hadn’t.” But she made no move to leave. Instead she walked farther into the room and sat down on an old wicker chair by the window. “How come you knew about me and Jon? You have spies here?”

“No … no spies. I knew because I was here, Beth. I was here.”

“I never saw you.”

“You still don’t see me,” he said sadly, rising and walking past her. The pine steps creaked under his weight, and Dr. Meredith turned as Shannow approached.

“It’s terribly quiet,” said the younger man.

“It won’t stay that way, Doctor. You should ask if Frey McAdam has a spare weapon for you.”

“I am not very good with guns, Deacon. I never wanted to be, either.”

“That’s fine, Doctor, as long as there is someone else to do your hunting for you. However, you won’t need to be good. The targets will be close enough to rip off your face. Get a gun.”

“What does it take to make a man like you, Deacon?” asked Meredith, his face reddening.

“Pain, boy. Suffering, sorrow, and loss.” Shannow pointed at Jeremiah’s blanket-covered corpse. “Today you had a tiny
taste of it. By tomorrow you’ll know more. I don’t mind you judging me, boy. You couldn’t be harder on me than I am on myself. For now, though, I suggest we work together to survive.”

Meredith nodded. “I guess that is true,” he said. “You were starting to tell me about the gateways. Who made them and why?”

Shannow moved to the armchair and gazed down at the sleeping woman. Beth had found a small, beautifully carved crib and had placed the babe in it, beside the chair. “No one knows,” he said, keeping his voice soft. “A long time ago I met a man who claimed they were created in Atlantis twelve thousand years before the Second Fall. But they may be older. The old world was full of stories about gateways and old straight paths, dragon trails, and ley lines. There are few facts but scores of speculative theories.”

“How are they opened?”

Shannow moved silently away from the mother and child and stood by the door. “I couldn’t tell you. I knew a woman who was adept at such matters. But she remained behind on the day of the Fall and I guess was killed with the rest of the world. She once took me through to her home in a place called Arizona. Beautiful land. But how she did it …” He shrugged. “She had a piece of Sipstrassi, a Daniel Stone. There was a burst of violet light, and then we were there.”

“Ah, yes,” said Meredith, “the stones. I’ve heard of them but never seen one. A hospital in Unity used them to cure cancer and the like. Astonishing.”

“Amen to that,” said Shannow. “They can make an old man young, or heal the sick, or create food from molecules in the air. It is my belief that Moses used them to part the Red Sea, but I cannot prove it.”

“God had no hand in it, then?” asked Meredith with a smile.

“I don’t try to second-guess God, young man. If He created the Sipstrassi in the first place, then they are still miracles. If He gave one to Moses, you could still say that God’s power parted the waves. However, this is not the time for biblical
debate. The stones make imagination reality. That’s all I know.”

“Be nice to have one or two at this moment,” said Meredith. “With one thought we could kill all the wolves.”

“Sipstrassi cannot kill,” Shannow told him.

Meredith laughed. “That’s your problem, Deacon. You lack the very imagination you say the stones need.”

“What do you mean?”

Meredith stood. “Take this chair. It is of wood. Surely a stone could transform it into a bow and arrows. Then you could shoot something and kill it. Sipstrassi would have killed it, albeit once removed. And these gateways you speak of, well, perhaps there is no technique. Perhaps the woman you knew was not adept at all, merely imaginative.”

Shannow thought about it. “You think she merely
wished
herself home?”

“Quite possibly. However, it is all academic now.”

“Yes,” agreed Shannow absently. “Thank you, Doctor.”

“It is a pleasure, Deacon.” Meredith moved to the window and leaned down to peer through the gap in the shutters. “Oh, God!” he said suddenly. “Oh, my dear God!”

Isis floated back to consciousness on a warm sea of dreams, memories of childhood on the farm near Unity: her dog, Misha, unsuccessfully chasing rabbits across the meadow, barking furiously in his excitement. His enjoyment was so total that when Isis gently merged with his feelings, tears of joy flowed from her eyes. Misha knew a happiness no human except Isis could ever share. He was a mongrel, and his heritage could be seen in every line of his huge body. His head was wolflike, with wide tawny eyes. But his ears were long and floppy, his chest powerful. According to Isis’s father, Misha was quite possibly the worst guard dog ever born; when strangers approached, he would rush up to them with tail wagging and wait to be petted.

Isis loved him.

She had been almost grown when he had died. Isis had been walking by the stream when the bear had erupted out of the
thicket. Isis had stood her ground and mentally reached out to the beast, using all her powers to calm its rage. She was failing, for the pain within it was colossal. The young girl had even had time to note the cancerous growth that was sending flames of agony through the bear’s belly even as it bore down on her.

Misha had charged the bear, leaping to fasten his powerful jaws on the furred throat. The bear had been surprised by the ferocity of the attack but had recovered swiftly, turning on the hound and lashing out with its talons.

A shot had rung out, then another and another. The bear had staggered and tried to lumber back into the thicket. A fourth shot had made it slump to the ground, and Isis’s father had run up, dropping his rifle and throwing his arms around his daughter. “My God, I thought you were going to die,” he had said, hugging her to him.

Misha had whimpered then. Isis had torn herself loose from her father’s embrace and thrown herself down alongside the dying hound, stroking its head, trying to draw away its pain. Misha’s tail had wagged weakly even as he died.

Isis had wept, but her father had drawn her upright. “He did his job, girl. And he did it well,” he said gently.

“I know,” Isis had answered. “Misha knew it, too. He was happy as he died.”

The sadness was still with her as she opened her eyes in the wagon. She blinked and found herself staring at the stars. Half the roof was missing, and she could see great tears in the wooden canopy. Her right side was warm, and she reached out, her hand touching fur. “Oh, Misha,” she said, “you mustn’t get on the bed. Daddy will scold me.”

A low rumbling growl sounded, but Isis drifted off to sleep again, the terrible strength-sapping power of her illness draining her of energy. A weight came down over her chest, her eyes opened, and she saw a huge face above hers, a long lolling tongue and sharp fangs. Her hand was still touching the fur, and she could feel the warmth of flesh beneath it. “I can’t stroke you,” she whispered. “I’m too tired.”