Bloodstone (5 page)

Meredith sighed, his head dropping forward, a sandy lock of hair falling across his brow.

Isis pushed it back. “You are a gentle man,” she told him.

“A powerless man,” he said sadly. “I know the name of your condition, as I know the names of the drugs that could overcome it. Hydrocortisone and fludrocortisone. I even know the amounts to be taken. What I do not know is how these steroids were constructed or from what.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she assured him. “The sky is beautiful, and I am alive. Let’s talk about something else. I want to ask you about our … guest.”

Meredith’s face darkened. “What about him? He is no farmer, that is for sure.”

“I know that,” she said. “But why has his memory failed?”

Meredith shrugged. “The blow to the head is the most likely cause, but there are many reasons for amnesia, Isis. To tell you more I would need to know the exact cause of the injury and the events leading up to it.”

She nodded and considered telling him all she had learned. “First,” she said, “tell me about the Jerusalem Man.”

He laughed, the sound harsh, his face hardening. “I thank
God that I never met him. He was a butchering savage who achieved some measure of fame vastly greater than he deserved. And this only because we are ruled by another merciless savage who reveres violence. Jon Shannow was a killer. Putting aside the ludicrous quasi-religious texts that are now being published, he was a wandering man who was drawn to violence as a fly is drawn to ox droppings. He built nothing, wrote nothing, sired nothing. He was like a wind blowing across a desert.”

“He fought the Hellborn,” said Isis, “and destroyed the power of the Guardians.”

“Exactly,” said Meredith sharply. “He
fought
and
destroyed.
And now he is seen as some kind of savior, a dark angel sent by God. I wonder sometimes if we will ever be free of men like Shannow.”

“You perceive him as evil, then?”

Meredith stood and added several sticks to the dying fire, then returned to his seat opposite Isis. “That is a difficult question to answer. From all I know of the man he was not a murderer; he never killed for gain. He fought and slew men he believed to be ungodly or wicked. But the point I would make, Isis, is that
he
decided who was wicked and
he
dispensed what he regarded as justice. In any civilized society such behavior should be deemed abhorrent. It sets a precedent, you see, for other men to follow his line of argument and kill any who disagree. Once we revere a man like Shannow, we merely open the door to any other killer who wishes to follow his example. Men like the Deacon, for instance. When the Hellborn rose against us, he destroyed not only their army but their cities. He visited upon them a terrible destruction. And why? Because
he
decided they were an evil people. Thousands of ordinary Hellborn farmers and artisans were put to death. It was genocide, an entire race destroyed. That is the legacy of men like Jon Shannow. So tell me, what has this to do with our guest, as you call him?”

“I don’t know,” she lied. “He claims to be Shannow, so I wondered if it would have a bearing on his … What did you call it?”

“Amnesia.”

“Yes, his amnesia. You asked about the event that led to his being wounded.” Isis hesitated, preparing her story. “He watched his friends being murdered, horribly murdered, some shot down, others burned alive. His … home … was set ablaze. He escaped and took up weapons he had put aside many years before. He was once a warrior but had decided this was wrong. But in his pain he tracked the killers and fought them, killing them all. Does that help?”

Meredith sat back and let out a long breath. “Poor man,” he said. “I fear I have misjudged him. I saw the guns and assumed him to be a brigand or a hired man. Yes, indeed it helps, Isis. The mind can be very delicate. I trust your talent, and taking everything you have told me as true, it means our guest went to war against not only a vile enemy but his own convictions. His mind has reeled from the enormity of anguish and loss and closed itself against the memories. It is called protective amnesia.”

“Would it be wise for me to explain it to him?” she asked.

“Under no circumstances,” he told her. “That is what is meant by protective. To tell him now could cause a complete disintegration. Let it come back slowly, in its own time. What is fascinating, however, is his choice of new identity. Why Jon Shannow? What was his occupation?”

“He was a preacher,” she said.

“That probably explains it,” said Meredith. “A man of peace forced to become something he loathed. What better identity to choose than a man who purported to be religious but was actually a battle-hardened killer? Look after him, Isis. He will need that special care only you can supply.”

“Everyone is wrong and you’re right; is that what you’re saying, Mother?” The young man’s face was flushed with anger as he rose from the dinner table and strode to the window, pushing it open and staring out over the tilled fields.

Beth McAdam took a deep breath, struggling for calm. “I am right, Samuel. And I don’t care what
everyone
says. What is being done is no less than evil.”

Samuel McAdam rounded on her. “Evil, is it? Evil to do the work of God? You have a strange idea of what constitutes evil. How can you argue against the word of the Lord?”

Now it was Beth who became angry, her pale blue eyes narrowing. “You call murder the work of God? The Wolvers have never harmed anyone. And they didn’t ask to be the way they are. God alone knows what caused them to be, but they have souls, Samuel. They are gentle, and they are kind.”

“They are an abomination,” shouted Samuel. “And as the Book says, ‘
Neither shalt thou bring an abomination into thine house, lest thou be a cursed thing like it.
’ ”

“There is only one abomination in this house, Samuel. And I bore it. Get out! Go back to your murdering friends. And tell them from me that if they ride onto my lands for one of their Wolver hunts, I’ll meet them with death and fire.”

The young man’s jaw dropped. “Have you taken leave of your senses? These are our neighbors you’re talking of killing.”

Beth walked to the far wall and lifted down the long-barreled Hellborn rifle. Then she looked at her son, seeing not the tall, wide-shouldered man he had become but the small boy who once had feared the dark and wept when thunder sounded. She sighed. He was a handsome man now, his fair hair close-cropped, his chin strong. But like the child he once had been he was still easily led, a natural follower.

“You tell them, Samuel, exactly what I said. And if there are any who doubt my word, you put them right. The first man to hunt down my friends dies.”

“You’ve been seduced by the Devil,” he said, then swung away and strode through the door.

As Beth heard his horse galloping away into the night, a small form moved from the kitchen and stood behind her. Beth turned and forced a smile. Reaching out, she stroked the soft fur of the creature’s shoulder.

“I am sorry you heard that, Pakia.” Beth sighed. “He has always been malleable, like clay in the hands of the potter. I
blame myself for that. I was too hard on him, never let him win. Now he is like a reed that bends with every breeze.”

The little Wolver tilted her head to one side. Her face was almost human yet fur-covered and elongated, her eyes wide and oval, the color of mixed gold, tawny with red flecks. “When will the Preacher come back?” she asked, her long tongue slurring the words.

“I don’t know, Pakia. Maybe never. He tried so hard to be a Christian, suffering all the taunts and the jeers.” Beth moved to the table and sat down. Now it was the slender Pakia who laid her long fingers on the woman’s shoulder. Beth reached up and covered the soft, warm hand. “I loved him, you know, when he was a real man. But I swear to God, you can’t love a saint.” She shook her head. “Wherever he is, he must be hurting. Twenty years of his life gone to dust and ashes.”

“It was not a waste,” said Pakia, “and it is not dust and ashes. He gave us pride and showed us the reality of God’s love. That is no small gift, Beth.”

“Maybe so,” Beth said, without conviction. “Now you must tell your people to head deep into the mountains. I fear there will be terrible violence before the month is out. There’s talk of more hunts.”

“God will protect us,” said Pakia.

“Trust in God but keep your gun loaded,” Beth said softly.

“We do not have guns,” said Pakia.

“It’s a quote, little one. It just means that … sometimes God requires us to look after ourselves.”

“Why do they hate us? Did not the Deacon say we were all God’s children?”

It was a simple question, and Beth had no answer to it. Laying the gun on the table, she sat down and stared at the Wolver. No more than five feet tall, she was humanoid in shape, but her back was bent, her hands long and triple-jointed, ending in dark talons. Silver-gray fur covered her frame.

“I can’t tell you why, Pakia, and I don’t know why the Deacon changed his mind. The Unifiers now say you are abominations. I think they just mean different. But in my experience men don’t need too much of an excuse for hate. It
just comes natural to them. You’d better go now. And don’t come back for a time. I’ll come into the mountains with some supplies in a little while, when things have cooled down a mite.”

“I wish the Preacher was here,” said Pakia.

“Amen to that. But I’d sooner have the man he once was.”

Nestor counted the last of the notes and slipped them into a paper packet, which he sealed and added to the pile. One hundred forty-six lumbermen and seven haulers were to be paid that day, and the Barta notes had arrived only late the previous night from Unity. Nestor glanced up at the armed guards outside the open doorway. “I’ve finished,” he called.

Closing the account ledger, Nestor stood and straightened his back. The first of the guards, a round-shouldered former lumberjack named Leamis, stepped inside and leaned his rifle against the shack wall. Nestor placed the payment packets in a canvas sack and handed it to Leamis.

“A long night for you, yongen,” said the guard.

Nestor nodded. His eyes felt gritty, and he yearned for sleep. “The money was due yesterday morning,” he said wearily. “We thought there’d been a raid.”

“They went the long way, up through the Gap,” Leamis told him. “Thought they were being followed.”

“Were they?”

Leamis shrugged. “Who knows? But Laton Duke is said to be in these parts, and that don’t leave anyone feeling safe. Still, at least the money got here.”

Nestor moved to the doorway and pulled on his heavy topcoat. Outside the mountain air was chilly, and the wind was picking up. There were three wagons beyond the shack, carrying trace chains to haul the timber. The drivers were standing in a group chatting, waiting for their pay. Turning to Leamis, Nestor said his farewells and strolled to the paddock, where the company horses were held. Taking a bridle from the tack box, he warmed the bridle bar under his coat; pushing a chilled bridle into a horse’s warm mouth was a sure way to rile the beast. Choosing a buckskin gelding, he bridled and saddled
him and set off down the mountain, passing several more wagons carrying loggers and lumbermen to their day’s labor.

The sun was bright as Nestor turned off the mountain path and headed down toward Pilgrim’s Valley. Far to the north he could see the squat, ugly factory building where meat was canned for shipment to the growing cities, and a little to the east, beyond the peaks, smoke had already started to swirl up from the ironworks, a dark spiral, like a distant cyclone, staining the sky.

He rode on, past the broken sign with its fading letters, welcoming travelers to “Pi. gr .. s Val .. y, pop. 827.” More than three thousand people now dwelled in the valley, and the demand for lumber for new homes meant stripping the mountainsides bare.

A low rumbling sound caused him to rein in the buckskin, and he glanced up to see the twin-winged flying machine moving ponderously through the air. It was canvas-colored, with a heavy engine at the front and fixed wheels on the wings and tail. Nestor hated it, loathed the noise and the intrusion on his thoughts. As the machine came closer, the buckskin grew skittish. Nestor swiftly dismounted and took firm hold of the reins, stroking the gelding’s head and blowing gently into its nostrils. The gelding began to tremble, but then the machine was past them, the sound disappearing over the valley.

Nestor remounted and headed for home.

As he rode into town, Nestor tried not to look at the charred area where the little church had stood, but his eyes were drawn to it. The bodies had all been removed, and workmen were busy clearing away the last of the blackened timbers. Nestor rode on, leaving his mount with the company ostler at the livery stable and walking the last few hundred yards to his rooms above Josiah Broome’s general store.

The rooms were small, a square lounge leading through to a tiny, windowless bedroom. Nestor peeled off his clothes and sat by the lounge window, too tired to sleep. Idly he picked up the book he had been studying. The cover was of cheap board, the title stamped in red:
The New Elijah
by Erskine Wright. The Crusader tests would be hard, he knew, and there was so little
time to read. Rubbing his eyes, he leaned back, opened the book at the marked page, and read about the travels of the great saint.

He fell asleep in the chair and awoke some three hours later. Yawning, he stood and rubbed his eyes. He heard sounds of shouting from the street below and moved to the window. A number of riders had drawn up, and one of them was being helped from the saddle, blood seeping from a wound in his upper chest.

Dressing swiftly, Nestor ran down to the street in time to see Captain Leon Evans striding up to the group. The Crusader captain looked heroic in his gray shield-fronted shirt and wide-brimmed black hat. He wore two guns belted high at his waist, the gun butts reversed.

“The bitch shot him!” shouted Shem Jackson, his face ugly with rage. “What you going to do about it?”

Evans knelt by the wounded man. “Get him to Doctor Shivers. And be damn quick about it; otherwise he’ll bleed to death.” Several men lifted the groaning man and bore him along the sidewalk, past Broome’s store. Everyone began to speak at once, but Leon Evans raised his hands for silence. “Just one,” he said, pointing to Jackson. Nestor did not like the man, who was known for his surly manner when sober and his violent streak when drunk.