Bloodstone

The woman sighed. ‘I too have been dreaming more of late. I saw a great wolf, walking upright. Its hands held hollow talons, and I watched as it sank them into a man, saw the blood drawn out of him. The Beast and the Wolf are linked, aren't they?' He nodded, but did not answer. 'And you know far more than you are telling me.'

'Has anyone else dreamed of wolves?' he asked, ignoring the comment.

'Alice has seen visions of them, Deacon,' said Frey Masters. 'She says she saw a crimson light bathing a camp of Wolvers. The little creatures began to writhe and scream; then they changed, becoming beasts like those in my dream.'

'I need to know when,' said the Deacon. 'And where.' From his pocket he took a small golden Stone, which he twirled against his fingertips.

'You should use the power on yourself,' said the woman sternly. 'You know that your heart is failing.'

'I've lived too long anyway. No, I'll save its power for the Beast. This is the last of them, you know. My little hoard. Soon the world will have to forget magic and concentrate once more on science and discovery.' His expression changed. 'If it survives.'

'It'll survive, Deacon,' she said. 'God must be stronger than any demon.'

'If He wants it to survive. We humans have hardly made the earth a garden now, have we?'

She shook her head and gave a weary smile. 'Yet there are still good people, even though we know that the path of evil offers many rewards. Don't give in to despair, Deacon. If the Beast comes, there will be those who will battle against it. Another Jerusalem Man, perhaps. Or a Daniel Cade.'

'Come the moment, come the man,' said the Deacon, with a dry chuckle.

Frey Masters rose. 'I'll go back to my Dreamers. What would you have me tell them?'

'Get them to memorise landscapes, seasons. When it conies, I need to be there to fight it. And I will need help.' Standing, he held out his hand and she shook it briefly. 'You have said nothing of your own dreams, Frey.'

'My powers have faded over the years. But, yes, I have seen the Beast. I fear you will not be strong enough to withstand it.'

He shrugged. 'I have fought many battles in my life. I'm still here.'

'But you're old now. We are old. Strength fails, Deacon. All things pass away. . even legends.'

He sighed. 'You have done a wonderful job here,' he said. 'All these fragments of a lost civilisation. I would like to think that after I am dead men and women will come here and learn from the best of what the old ones left us.'

'Don't change the subject,' she admonished him.

'You want me to spare the man who killed his wife and her lover?'

'Of course — and you are still changing the subject.'

'Why should I spare him?'

'Because I ask it, Deacon,' she said, simply.

'I see. No moral arguments, no scriptural examples, no appeal to my better nature?'

She shook her head, and he smiled. 'Very well, he will live.'

'You're a strange man, Deacon. And you are still avoiding the point. Once you could have stood against the Beast. Not any longer.'

He grinned and winked at her. 'I may just surprise you yet,' he said.

‘I’ll grant you that. You are a surprising man.'

* * *

Shannow dreamed of the sea, the groaning of the ship's timbers almost human, the waves like moving mountains, beating against the hull. He awoke, and saw the lantern above his bed gently swaying on its hook. For a moment the dream and the reality seemed to blend. Then he realised he was in the cabin of a prairie wagon and he remembered the man. . Jeremiah?. . ancient and white-bearded, with but a single, long tooth in his upper mouth. Shannow took a deep, slow breath, and the pounding pain in his temples eased slightly. With a groan he sat up. His left forearm and his shoulder were bandaged, and he could feel the tightness of the burnt skin beneath.

A fire? He searched his memory, but could find nothing. It doesn't matter, he told himself; the memory will come back. What is important is that I know who I am.

Jon Shannow. The Jerusalem Man.

And yet. . Even as the thought struck him he felt uneasy, as if the name was. . what? Wrong? No. His guns were hanging from the headboard of the bed. Reaching out, he drew a pistol. It felt both familiar and yet strange in his hand. Flicking the release he broke open the pistol. Two shells had been fired.

Instantly, momentarily, he saw a man fall back from his horse, his throat erupting in a crimson spray. Then the memory vanished.

A fight with brigands? Yes, that must have been it, he thought. There was a small hand mirror on a shelf to his right. He took it down and examined the wound in his temple. The bruising was yellowing now, fading fast, and the groove in his skull was covered by a thick scab. His hair had been trimmed close to his head, but he could still see where the fire had scorched the scalp.

Fire.

Another flash of memory! Planks ablaze, and Shannow hurling his body at the timbers time and again until they gave. A man beyond with pistol raised. The shot, hitting his head like a hammer. Then that vision also faded.

He had been in a church. Why? Listening to a sermon perhaps.

Easing himself from the bed, he saw that his clothes were folded neatly on a chair by a small window, the burned coat having been cleaned and patched with black cloth. As he dressed he looked around the cabin of the wagon. The bed was narrow, but well made of polished pine, and there were two pine chairs and a small table by the window. The walls were painted green, there were elaborate carvings around the window in the shape of vine leaves, and a strange motif had been carved above the door- two overlapping triangles making a star. A bookshelf sat upon two brackets above the bed.

Buckling his gun scabbards to his hips Shannow scanned the books. There was a Bible, of course, and several fictions, but at the end was a tall, thin volume with dry, yellowed pages. Shannow pulled it clear and carried it to the window. The sun was setting and he could just make out the title in faded gold leaf.

The Chronicle of Western Costume by John Peacock. With great care he turned the pages. Greek, Roman, Byzantine, Tudor, Stuart, Cromwellian. . Every page showed men and women dressed in different clothing, and each page carried dates. It was fascinating. Until the coming of the planes many men had believed that only three hundred years had passed since the death of Christ. But the men and women travelling in those great ships of the sky had changed all that, consigning the previous theories to the dust of history. Shannow paused. How do I know that? He replaced the book, then moved to the rear of the cabin, opening the door and climbing unsteadily down the three steps to the ground.

A young woman with short blonde hair was walking towards him carrying a dish of stew. 'You should still be in bed,' she admonished him. In truth he felt weak and breathless, and sat back on the wagon steps, accepting the stew.

Thank you, lady.' She was extraordinarily pretty, her eyes blue-green, her skin pale tan.

'Is your memory returning, Mr Shannow?'

'No,' he said, then began to eat.

'It will in time,' she assured him. The outside of the wagon was painted in shades of green and red, and from where he sat Shannow could see ten other wagons similarly decorated.

'Where are you all going?' he asked.

'Where we like,' said the girl. 'My name is Isis.' She held out her hand and Shannow took it. Her handshake was firm and strong.

'You are a good cook, Isis. The stew is very fine.'

Ignoring the compliment, she sat down beside him. 'Doctor Meredith thinks you may have a cracked skull. Do you remember nothing at all?'

'Nothing I wish to talk about,' he said. 'Tell me about you.'

'There is little to tell,' she told him. 'We are what you see, Wanderers. We follow the sun and the wind. In Summer we dance, in Winter we freeze. It is a good way to be.'