Bloodstone

If you have the time!

It had been weeks since the last paralysing chest pain, the dull ache in his right bicep and the pins and needles in his fingertips. He should have used the Stone then, but he hadn't. Against the power that was coming, even this pure and perfect fragment of Sipstrassi might not be enough.

The night was cool. Josiah Broome was sleeping more peacefully now as Jake walked silently back into the cave and added fuel to the dying fire. Broome's face was wet with perspiration, and streaked with the grey lines of pain and shock.

You're a good man, Broome, thought Jake. The world deserves more like you, with your hatred of violence and your faith in the ultimate nobility of Man. Returning to his sentry post, Jake felt the sorrow growing. Glancing up at the velvet sky, he gave a rueful smile. 'What do you see in us, Lord?' he asked.

'We build nothing and smother everything. We kill and we torture. For every man like Broome there are hundreds of Jacob Moons, scores of Sauls.' He shook his head. 'Poor Saul,' he whispered. Treat him gently when you see him, Lord, for he was once a man of prayer and goodness.'

Was he?

Jake remembered the balding, stooped little man who had organised the church's finances, arranging fetes and gatherings, fund-raisings and parties. There were thorns in his flesh even then, but he controlled them.

Nature helped him there, for he was short and ugly. Not now! I should have seen it, thought Jake, when he used the Stone to make himself golden and handsome. I should have stopped it then. But he hadn't. In fact he had been pleased that Saul Wilkins had, at last, found a form that brought him happiness.

But the joy had been so transient, and Saul had gone searching for the bodily pleasures his life, his ugliness and his faith had denied him for so long.

'I can't hate him, Lord,' said Jake. 'It's just not in me. And I'm to blame for putting the power in his hands. I tried to make a holy world — and I failed.' Jake stopped talking to himself and listened. The night breeze was low, whispering through the leaves of the near by trees. Closing his eyes, he drew in a long slow breath through his nostrils. There was the scent of grass — and something else.

'Come out, little Pakia,' he said, 'for I know you are there.' 'How do you know me?' came a small voice from the undergrowth.

'I am old, and I know many things. Come out and sit with me.'

The little Wolver emerged and shuffled nervously forward, squatting down some ten feet from the old man. Her fur shone silver in the moonlight and her dark eyes scanned the weather-beaten face and the white beard. There are men with guns in the woods. They found the trail of your mule. They will be here at first light.'

‘I know,' he said softly. 'It was good of you to seek me out.' 'Beth asked me to find Meneer Broome. I smell blood.' 'He is inside. . sleeping. I will bring him to Beth. Go and tell her.'

‘I know your scent,' she said, 'but I have no knowing of you.' 'But you know you can trust me, little one.

Is that not so?' The Wolver nodded. ‘I can read your heart. It is not gentle, but you do not lie.'

Jake smiled. 'Sadly you are right. I am not a gentle man. When you have seen Beth, I want you to go to your people. Tell them to move away from here with all haste. There is an evil coming that will tear through the land like a burning fire. The Wolvers must be far away.'

'Our Holy One has told us this,' said Pakia. The Beast is coming from beyond the Wall. The Spiller of Blood, the Feaster of Souls. But we cannot desert our friend Beth.'

'Sometimes,' said Jake sadly, 'the best thing we can do is to desert our friends. The Beast has many powers, Pakia. But the worst of them is to change that which is good into that which is evil. Tell your holy man that the beast can turn a heart to darkness, and cause a friend to rip out the throat of his brother. He can do this. And he is coming soon.'

'Who shall I say has spoken these words?' asked Pakia.

'You tell him they are the words of the Deacon.'

* * *

Clem Steiner was worried about the youngster. Nestor had said little since they rode from Purity, and had seemed unconcerned at the prospect of pursuit. Twice Clem had swung off the trail, studying the moonlit land, but there was no sign that they were being followed. Nestor rode with his head down, obviously lost in thought, and Clem did not try to pierce the silence until they were camped in a natural hollow with a small fire burning. Nestor sat with his back against a thick pine, his knees drawn up.

'It wasn't your fault, boy,' said Clem, misunderstanding the youngster's anguish. 'He came looking for us.'

Nestor nodded, but did not speak and Clem sighed. 'Speak to me, son. There's nothing to be gained by brooding.'

Nestor looked up. 'Didn't you ever believe in anything, Meneer Steiner?'

'I believe in the inevitability of death.'

'Yeah,' said Nestor, looking away. Clem cursed inwardly.

'Just tell me, Nestor. I never was much at guessing.'

'What's to tell? It's all just horse-shit.' Nestor laughed. 'I believed it all, you know. Jesus, what a fool!

The Deacon was sent by God, the Jerusalem Man was a prophet like in the Book.

We were God's chosen people! I've lived my life chasing a lie. Don't that beat all?' Nestor took up his blanket and spread it on the ground.

Clem stayed silent for a moment, gathering his thoughts, before he spoke. 'If you need to hear something sage, Nestor, you're camped out with the wrong man. I'm too old to even remember what it was like to be young. When I was your age, I just wanted to be known as the greatest shootist in the known world. I didn't give a cuss about God or history. Never thought about anything much — except maybe getting a little faster. So I can't advise you. But that doesn't mean that I don't know you're wrong. You can't change the world, son. There'll always be serpents. All you can do is to live your own life in the way you feel is right.'

'And what about the truth?' asked Nestor, his eyes angry.

The truth? What the Hell is the truth? We're born, we live and we die. Everything else is just shades of opinion.'

Nestor shook his head. 'You don't understand, do you? I guess your kind never will.'

The words stung Clem, but he tried to bite back his anger. 'Maybe you'd like to tell me what my kind is, boy?'

'Yeah, I'll do that. All your dreams have always been selfish. The fastest shootist. To make a name for yourself by killing the Jerusalem Man. To own land and be rich. So why would you care if the Deacon proves to be a fraud, or if hundreds of kids like me are lied to. It doesn't mean anything to you, does it?

You just act like all the rest. You lied to me. You didn't tell me the Preacher was Shannow — not until you had to.'

'Put not your faith in princes, Nestor,' said Clem, all too aware of the bitter truth in the boy's words.

'What's that supposed to mean?'

Clem sighed. There was an old man used to work for Edric Scayse. He read old books all the time -

some of them just fragments. He told me the line. And it's true, but we do it all the time. Some leader rises up and we swear to God that he's the best man since Jesus walked on water. It ain't so. Because he's human, and he makes mistakes, and we can't forgive that. I don't know the Deacon, but a lot of what he's done has been for the good. And maybe he truly believed Shannow was John the Baptist.

Seems to me a lot of would-be holy men gets led astray. It's got to be hard. You look up at the sky and you say, Lord, shall I go left or shall I go right? Then you see a bird flying left and you take it as a sign.

The Deacon and his people were held in time for three hundred years. The Jerusalem Man released them. Maybe God did send him, I don't know. But then, Nestor, the sum of all I don't know could cover these mountains. But you're right about me. I won't deny it — I can't deny it. But what I'm saying is that the truth — 'whatever the Hell it is — doesn't exist outside of a man. It exists in his heart. Jon Shannow never lied. He never claimed to be anything other than what he was. He fought all his life to defend the Light.