“Just say the word, Saul,” shouted Bard. “I’ll cut him down to size.”
“Yes,” agreed Shannow. “Do say the word, Mr. Fletcher.”
“Don’t, for God’s sake!” shouted Miles. “You’ve never seen him.”
Fletcher was far from being a foolish man, and he heard the terror in Miles’ voice. He swallowed hard and then moved to his horse, mounting swiftly.
“Too many innocent people could suffer here,” he said, “but there will be another day.”
“I hope so,” Shannow told him, and the riders galloped from the yard.
The crowd remained, and Shannow ran his eyes over them. Gone was the open friendliness, replaced by fear bordering on hostility. Only young Janus approached him.
“Thank you, Mr. Shannow. I hope you will not suffer for your kindness.”
“If I do, I will not suffer alone, Stefan,” he said, and walked back into the house.
The last wagon left just before dusk, and Donna found Shannow sitting in the comfort chair.
“You shouldn’t have done that for me,” she said, “but I am grateful.”
Eric came in behind her. “What did you mean about Father’s grave?” he asked.
“I’m sorry, Eric, but it’s true. Fletcher had him killed. I’m sorry.”
“It’s a lie,” he shouted, tears falling freely. “You hated him! And I hate you!” He turned and fled from the house.
“Eric! Eric!” she called, and then began to weep.
Shannow went to her and held her close until the tears and the sobbing eased. He could find no words to comfort her, and Jerusalem seemed so far away.
Shannow sat at the pine dinner table, watching Donna Taybard kneeling at the woodstove as she raked out the ash with even, thoughtless strokes. She was a beautiful woman, and he could see why Fletcher desired her. Her face was strong and finely boned, her mouth full and made for laughter. It was a face of character, of strength in adversity.
“This talent,” he said, “of seeing faraway things—how did you come by it?”
“I don’t know. My father thought it was the stone, but I’m not sure.”
“The stone?”
“The Prester called it the Daniel Stone. It was from the Plague Lands, and when held in the hand it glowed like sunlight behind ice. And it was warm. I played with it often as a child.”
“Why should he think the stone caused your talents?”
She brushed ash from her hands and sat back. “Do you believe in magic, Mr. Shannow?”
“No.”
“Then you would not understand the stone. When my father held it, the sick would be healed. Wounds would close within seconds, with no scar. It was one of the reasons he became Prester.”
“Why was it called the Daniel Stone?”
“I don’t know. But one day it refused to glow, and that was an end to it. It is still in my father’s old house, where Fletcher now lives. Ash Burry tells me that Fletcher is always toying with it; but it will never work again. The Prester told me its power had departed forever.”
“But now you have powers.”
“Not of healing, or prophecy, or any real magic. But I can see those close to me even when they are far away.”
For a while they sat in silence. Donna added kindling to the stove and lit a fire. Once the blaze was roaring, she closed the iron door and turned to Shannow.
“May I ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
“Why did you risk your life with all those men?”
“It was not a great risk, lady. There was only one man.”
“I do not understand.”
“Where there is a group, there is a leader. Nullify him and the rest count for nothing. Fletcher was not prepared to die.”
“But you were?”
“All things die, Donna. And I was pleased to repay your hospitality. Perhaps Fletcher will reconsider his plans for you. I hope so.”
“But you doubt it.”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever had a wife, Mr. Shannow?”
“It is getting late,” he said, standing. “Eric should be home. Shall I look for him?”
“I am sorry. Did I offend you?”
“No, lady. My discomfort is my own and no fault of yours. Can you see the boy?”
She closed her eyes. “Oh, God,” she said. “They have taken him!”
“Who?”
“Bard and some others.”
“Where are they?”
“They are traveling northwest, toward the settlement. They have hurt him, and his face is bleeding.”
Gently he pulled her to her feet, then took her hands in his.
“I will find him and bring him home. Rely on it.”
Shannow left the house and saddled the gelding, heading him north at a canter. He avoided skylining himself on the crests of the hills, but still he rode with uncustomary speed. He had neglected to ask Donna how many men rode with Bard, but then, the information was immaterial. Two or twenty, the plan would be the same.
He emerged from the trees above the raiding party and sat back in the saddle. There were five men, including Bard; of Fletcher there was no sign. Eric’s unconscious body was draped across Bard’s saddle. Shannow breathed deeply, trying to stem the red rage swelling within, his hands trembling with the effort. As always he failed, and his vision swam. His mouth was dry, and the Bible text flowed into his mind:
“And David said unto Saul, Thy servant kept his father’s sheep and there came a lion and a bear, and took a lamb out of the flock.”
Shannow rode down the hill and reined in ahead of the riders. They spread across the trail; two of them, Miles and Pope, were carrying crossbows cocked and ready. Shannow’s hands swept up, and smoke and flame thundered from the right-hand pistol. Pope flew from the saddle. The left-hand pistol fired a fraction of a second later, and Miles pitched to the ground, the lower half of his face blown away.
“Step down, Bard,” said Shannow, both pistols leveled at the giant’s face. Slowly the man dismounted. “On your knees and on your belly.” The giant obeyed. “Now eat grass like the mule you are.”
Bard’s head shot up. “The hell—”
The left-hand pistol bucked in Shannow’s hand, and Bard’s right ear disappeared in a bloody spray. The big man screamed and ducked his head to the ground, tearing at the grass with his teeth. The other two men sat motionless, their hands well away from their weapons.
Shannow watched them closely, then transferred his gaze to the two corpses.
Then he spoke: “And I went out after him, and smote him, and delivered it out of his mouth: and when he rose against me I caught him by the beard and slew him.”
The two riders glanced at one another and said nothing. The Jerusalem Man was known to be insane, and neither of them had any wish to join their comrades, living or dead, on the grass.
Shannow edged his horse toward them, and they avoided his eyes, for his face was set and his fury touched them.
“You will put your friends on their horses, and you will take them to a place of burial. You will not, at any time, cross my path, for I will cut you down like deadwood from the Tree of Life. Go collect your dead.”
He swung his horse, offering them his back, but neither man considered attacking him. They dismounted swiftly and bundled the corpses across the saddles of the horses standing quietly by. Shannow rode alongside Bard, whose mouth was green and who was vomiting on the grass.
“Stand and face me, man of Gath.”
Bard struggled to his feet and met Shannow’s gaze. A cold dread settled on him as he saw the eyes and the fanatic gleam. He lowered his head and froze as he heard the click of a pistol hammer. His eyes flickered up, and he saw with relief that Shannow had uncocked the weapons and returned them to their scabbards.
“My anger is gone, Bard. You may live today.”
The giant was close enough to pluck Shannow from the saddle and tear him apart bare-handed, but he could not, eve
n though he recognized the opportunity. His shoulders sagged. Shannow nodded knowingly, and shame burned in Bard’s heart.
Eric groaned and stirred on Bard’s horse nearby.
And Shannow lifted him from the saddle and took him home.
Donna Taybard sat with Eric for over an hour. The boy had been shaken by his ordeal. He had awakened to see Jon Shannow and two corpses, and the smell of death was in the air. The giant Bard had been shaking with fear, and Shannow had seemed an infinitely more menacing figure than Eric could have imagined. He had ridden home behind Shannow, his hands resting on the gun hilts as they jutted from their scabbards. All the way home Eric could see the two bodies, one with half a face missing, the other lying facedown with a huge ragged hole in his back where shards of bone had torn through his shirt.
Now he lay in bed, the aftershock making him sleepy. His mother stroked his brow and whispered soothing, loving words.
“Why did they kill Father?”
“I don’t know, Eric,” lied Donna. “They are evil men.”
“Mr. Fletcher always seemed so nice.”
“I know. Sleep now; I’ll be just outside.”
“Mother!”
“Yes, Eric?”
“Mr. Shannow frightens me. I heard the men talking, and they said he was insane, that he has killed more men than the plague. They said that he pretends to be a Christ person but that all the real Christ people shun him.”
“But he brought you home, Eric, and we still have our house.”
“Don’t leave me alone, Mother.”
“You know that I won’t. Sleep now. Rest.”
Leaning forward, she kissed his cheeks, then lifted the coal-oil lamp and left the room. He was asleep before the latch dropped home.
Shannow sat in the comfort chair, staring at the ceiling. Donna placed the brass lamp on the table and moved to the stove, adding fresh wood to the blaze. As his head tipped forward and he caught her gaze, his eyes seemed unnaturally bright.
“Are you all right, Mr. Shannow?”
“Vanity of vanities, saith the preacher, vanity of vanities; all is vanity. What profit hath a man of all his labors which he taketh under the sun?” Shannow blinked and leaned back.
“I am sorry,” she said, placing her hand over his, “but I do not understand you.” He blinked once more and smiled wearily, but his eyes lost their glitter and he seemed mortally tired.
“No, it is I who am sorry, Donna Taybard. I have brought death to your house.”
“You gave me back my son.”
“But for how long, Donna? All my life I have been the rock in the pool. I make a splash, and the ripples rush out, but after that? The pool settles and is as it was. I cannot protect you or Eric from the Committee. I can make no difference to the evil of the world; indeed, sometimes I think I add to it.”
She held his hand tightly, forcing him to look at her.
“There is no evil in you, Mr. Shannow. Believe me. I know these things. When you first came, I was frightened, but I have come to know you. You are kind and considerate, and you have taken no advantage of my situation. In fact, the reverse is true; you have risked your life for Eric and me.”
“There is nothing to that,” he said. “My life is no great treasure; I do not value it. I have seen things in my life that would have cindered another man’s soul: cannibals, savages, slavery, and wanton murders. I have traveled far, Donna. And I am tired.
“Last summer I killed three men, and I vowed never to kill again. I have been hired to rid settlements of brigands and war-makers, and I have succeeded. But then the eyes of those who sought me turn on me, and I see the fear in their eyes, and they are glad to see me ride on. They do not say, ‘Thank you, Mr. Shannow, stay among us and farm.’ They do not say, ‘We are your friends, Mr. Shannow, and we will never forget you.’ Instead they hand me the Barta coins and ask when I will be leaving.
“And when I go, Donna, the brigands return and all is as it was. The pool settles; the ripples die.”
Donna stood and pulled him to his feet. “My poor Jon,” she whispered. “Come with me.” She led him to a room at the back of the house and in the darkness undressed him, removed her own clothes, and pulled back the blankets on a wide bed. He came to her hesitantly, and where she expected him to cover her with fierce passion, instead he stroked her skin with surprising gentleness. Her arm moved around his neck, pulling his face down until their lips touched. He groaned then, and the fierceness followed.
He was an inexpert and almost clumsy lover, not at all as skilled as Tomas the carpenter, yet Donna Taybard found a fulfillment with Shannow that transcended expertise, for he was giving everything of himself, holding nothing back—and at the end he wept, his tears flowing onto Donna’s face.
And she stroked his brow and whispered soothing, loving words—and realized they were the same words she had used to Eric an hour before. And Shannow slept, just as Eric slept.
Donna moved to the porch and washed the sweat from her body with a bucket of cool fresh water. Then she dressed and wandered to the pen, enjoying the freshness of the night.
People would think her a slut for taking a man so soon after her husband’s disappearance, but she had never felt less like a slut. Instead, she felt as if she had just come home from a long journey to find all her friends and family waiting with open arms. The Committee could offer no terror tonight. Everything was in harmony.
Shannow’s gelding wandered to her, thrusting his muzzle toward her hand. She stroked his face and neck and wished she could saddle and ride him out over the hills, wished he had wings to carry her high in the sky under the moon and over the clouds. Her father had told her wondrous stories of a winged horse from Elder legends and of a hero who rode him to slay demons.
Old John had kept the demons from Rivervale, and when the grateful people had wished to call him leader, he had opted instead for Prester, and no one knew its meaning, except John, and he only smiled knowingly when they asked him. Prester John had gathered the men into a tight military unit and established watch beacons on all high hills, and soon the brigands learned to avoid the lands of Rivervale. Outside, in the wild lands, among the wolves and lions, the new world endured a bloody birthing. But here there was peace.
But the Prester was only mortal, and though he had ruled for forty years, his strength failed him and his wisdom fled, for he allowed men like Fletcher and Bard and Enas to join the Committee.
Tomas had once told Donna that the Prester had died brokenhearted, for in his last days he opened his eyes and saw at last the stamp of the men who would soon replace him. It was even rumored that he had tried to oust Fletcher and that the young man had killed him in his own home. That would never be proved now, but not one of the landsmen would call him Prester, and Rivervale was sliding inexorably back to merge with the wild lands.
Fletcher had recruited many strangers to work his shallow coal mine, and some of them were brutal and versed in the ways of the outside. These Fletcher promoted, and one day—in late autumn the year before—the people of Rivervale awoke to a new understanding.
Able Jarrett, a small farmer, was hanged by Fletcher and four of his men for consorting with brigands. An old wanderer was hanged with him. At first farmers, ranchers, and landsmen got together to discuss ways of dealing with the Committee, but then Cleon Layner, a leading spokesman, was found beaten to death in an alley behind his home, and the meetings ended.
The forty-year mission of Prester John had been undone in less than three seasons.
Donna clapped her hands, and Shannow’s gelding ran across the pen. If Shannow felt he was merely a stone in the pool, what would John have felt before he died? she wondered.
She pictured Shannow’s gaunt bearded face and haunted eyes and compared him with her memories of Prester John. The old man had been tougher than Shannow, and that made him less deadly, but otherwise there was much about Shannow that John would have liked.
“I miss you, Prester,” she whispered
, remembering his stories of winged horses and heroes.
2
FOR SEVERAL DAYS the little farm received no visitors. The Committee undertook no revenge raid, and Shannow spent his days helping Donna and Eric gather the small corn harvest or picking fruit from the orchard in the west meadow. In the late afternoons he would ride the gelding over the hills and through the high woods bordering the farm to scan the distant skyline for signs of moving men.
At night Shannow would wait until Donna invited him to share her bed, and on each occasion he reacted as if to an unexpected gift.
On the fifth day a rider approached the farm in the hour after noon. Shielding her eyes against the sunlight, Donna recognized the ambling gait of Ash Burry’s mule even before identifying the portly saint.
“You will like him, Jon,” she told Shannow as the rider approached. “He is another who follows the old ways. There are several saints in Rivervale.” Shannow merely nodded and watched warily as the tall, overweight man dismounted. He had wavy dark hair and a friendly open face.
Burry opened his arms and hugged Donna warmly. “God’s greeting, Donna. Peace be upon your house.” His blue eyes flickered to Shannow, and he held out his hand. Shannow took it; the grip was not firm, and the man’s hands were soft.
“And greetings to you, Brother,” said Burry with only the trace of a smile.
“Let’s not stand in the sun,” suggested Donna. “Come inside. We have some apple juice cooling in the stone jug.”
Shannow remained outside for several minutes, scanning the hills, before joining them.
“There is still no sign of Tomas, I understand,” remarked Burry. “You must be very worried, Donna.”
“He is dead, Ash. Fletcher killed him.”
Burry looked away. “Hard words, Donna. I have heard of your accusation, and it is said to be unfounded. How can you be sure?”
“Trust me,” said Donna. “You have known me all my life, and I do not lie. I have a gift of always being able to see those close to me, wherever they are. I watched him die.”
“I know of your … gift. But once you saw the old Prester lying dead at the foot of a canyon—you remember? Yet he was alive.”