“Yes. Why?”
“It is the city I am seeking. And if Noah’s Ark is on a mountain near here, Jerusalem cannot be far away.”
“Are you mocking me, Shannow?”
“No. I seek the Holy City.”
Karitas held his hands out to the fire, staring thoughtfully into the flames. All men needed a dream, he knew, Shannow more than most.
“What will you do when you find it?”
“I will ask questions and receive answers.”
“And then what?”
“I shall die happy, Karitas.”
“You’re a good man, Shannow. I hope you make it.”
“You doubt I will?”
“Not at all. If Jerusalem exists, you will find it. And if it doesn’t, you’ll never know, for you’ll look until you die. That’s how it should be. I feel that way about heaven; it’s far more important that heaven should exist than that I should ever see it.”
“In my dream they would not let me enter. They told me to come back when the wolf sits down with the lamb and the lion eats grass as the cattle do.”
“Get some sleep, Jon. Dream of it again. I went there once, you know. To Jerusalem. Long before the Fall.”
“Was it beautiful?”
Karitas remembered the chokingly narrow streets in the old quarter, the stink of bazaars … the tourist areas, the tall hotels, the pickpockets, and the car bombs.
“Yes,” he said. “It was beautiful. Good night, Jon.”
Karitas sat in his long cabin, his mood heavy and dark. He knew that Shannow would never believe the truth, but then, why should he? Even in his own age of technological miracles there had still been those who believed that the earth was flat or that man had been made by a benevolent bearded immortal out of a lump of clay. At least Shannow had a solid fact to back his theory of Armageddon. The world had come close to death.
There had been a lot of speculation in the last years about the possibility of a nuclear holocaust. But next to no one had considered nature herself dwarfing the might of the superpowers. What was it that scientist had told him five years after the Fall?
The Chandler theory? Karitas had a note somewhere from the days when he had studiously kept a diary. The old man moved into the back room and began to rummage through oak chests covered in beaver pelts. Underneath a rust-dark and brittle copy of the London Times he found the faded blue jackets of his diary collection, and below those the scraps of paper he had used for close to forty years. Useless, he thought, remembering the day when his last pencil had grown too small to sharpen. He pushed aside the scraps and searched through his diaries, coming at last to an entry for May 16. It was six years after the Fall. Strange how the memory faded after only a few centuries, he told himself with a grin. He read the entry and leaned back, remembering old Webster and his moth-eaten wig.
It was the ice at the poles, Webster had told him, increasing at the rate of 95,000 tons a day, slowly changing the shape of the earth from spheroid to ovoid. This made the spin unstable. Then came the day when mighty Jupiter and all the other major planets drew into a deadly line to exert their gravitational pull on the earth, along with that of the sun. The earth—already wobbling on its axis—toppled, bringing tidal waves and death and a new ice age for much of the hemisphere.
Armageddon? God the father moving from homilies to homicide?
Perhaps. But somehow Karitas preferred the wondrous anarchy of nature.
That night Jon Shannow dreamed of war. Strange riders wearing horned helms bore down on a village of tents. They carried swords and pistols, and as they stormed into the village in their hundreds, the noise of gunfire was deafening. The people of the tents fought back with bow and lance but were overpowered, the men brutally slain. Young women were dragged out onto the plain and repeatedly raped, and their throats were cut by saw-toothed daggers. Then they were hoisted into the air by their feet, and their blood ran into jugs that were passed around among the riders, who drank and laughed, their faces stained red.
Shannow awoke in a cold sweat, his left hand twitching as if to curl around the butt of his pistol. The dream had sickened him, and he cursed his mind for summoning such a vision. He prayed then, giving thanks for life and for love and asking that the Lord of Hosts watch over Donna Taybard until Shannow could reach her.
The night was dark, and snow swirled around the village. Shannow rose and wrapped himself in a blanket. Moving to the hearth, he raked the coals until a tiny flame appeared, then added timber and fresh wood and blew the fire to life.
The dream had been so real, so brutally real.
Shannow’s head ached, and he wandered to the window, where, in a pottery jug, the coca leaves given him by Curopet now were. As ever, they dealt with the pain. He pushed open the window and leaned out, watching the snow. He could still see the riders, their curious helms adorned with curved horns of polished black and their breastplates embossed with a goat’s head. He shivered and shut the window.
“Where are you tonight, Donna, my love?” he whispered.
Con Griffin had been many things in his life, but no one had ever taken him for a fool. Yet the riders with the horned helms and the casually arrogant manner obviously thought him as green as the grass of the valley.
The convoy, having survived three Carn attacks and a heart-stopping moment when an avalanche had narrowly missed a wagon on the high trail, had come at last to a green valley flanked by great mountains whose snow-covered peaks reached up into the clouds.
At a full meeting the wagoners had voted to put their roots into the soil of the valley, and Con Griffin had ridden with Madden and Burke to stake out plots for all the families. With the land allocated and the first timber felled, the wagoners had woken on a chilly autumn day to find three strange riders approaching the settlement. Each wore a curious helm embossed in black and sporting goats’ horns, and by their sides hung pistols the like of which Griffin had never seen.
Griffin strode to meet them while Madden sat on a nearby wagon, his long rifle cradled across his arm. Jimmy Burke knelt beside a felled log, idly polishing a double-barreled flintlock.
“Good morning to you,” said Griffin. The leader of the trio, a young man with dark eyes, forced a smile that was at best wintry.
“You are settling here?”
“Why not? It is virgin land.”
The man nodded. “We are seeking a rider named Shannow.”
“He is dead,” said Griffin.
“He is alive,” stated the man with a certainty Griffin could not ignore.
“If he is, then I am surprised. He was attacked by a cannibal tribe to the south and never rejoined his wagon.”
“How many of you are there?” asked the rider.
“Enough,” said Griffin.
“Yes,” agreed the man. “We will be on our way. We are just passing through these lands.”
The riders turned their horses and galloped toward the east.
Madden joined Griffin.
“I didn’t like the look of them,” volunteered Madden. “You think we are in for trouble?”
“Could be,” admitted Griffin.
“They set my flesh crawling,” said Burke, coming up to join them. “They reminded me of the cannibals, ’cepting they had proper teeth.”
“What do you advise, Griff?” asked Madden.
“If they are brigands, they’ll be back.”
“What did they talk about?” inquired Burke.
“They were asking about a man named Shannow.”
“Who’s he?” asked Madden.
“He’s the Jerusalem Man,” said Griffin, avoiding a direct lie. He had told none of his wagoners Jon Taybard’s true name.
“In that case,” said Burke, “they’d better hope they don’t find him. He’s not a man to mess with, by God! He’s the one that shot up the brigands in Allion. And he gave Daniel Cade his limp—shot him in the knee.”
“Don’t mention Shannow to the others,” said Griffin.
&nb
sp; Madden caught Griffin’s expression, and his eyes narrowed. There was something here that remained unsaid, but he trusted Griffin and did not press the point.
That night, just after midnight, fifty riders thundered down on the settlement, riding at full gallop across the eastern pasture. The front line hit the trip wire in the long grass, and the horses screamed as their legs were cut out from under them. Men pitched through the air. The second rank of riders dragged on their reins, stopping short of the wire. Shots exploded from twenty rifles, ripping into the raiders; twenty men went down, plus several horses. A second volley from fifteen pistols scythed through the milling riders, and the survivors galloped away. Several men who had been thrown from their mounts set off at a run. Individual riflemen picked them off in the bright moonlight.
As silence descended, Con Griffin reloaded his pistols and walked out into the pasture. Twenty-nine corpses lay on the grass, and eleven horses were dead or dying. Madden and the other wagoners joined him, collecting pistols from the fallen; they were revolvers and cartridge-fed.
“What will they come up with next?” asked Burke, thrusting a revolver into his belt.
“Look at this,” said Griffin, staring down at the corpses. “They are all dressed alike, like an army in the old books. There’s something very wrong here.” He turned to Madden. “Mount up and follow them. Don’t show yourself. And take no chances. I need to know where they are from and how many there are.”
Donna Taybard moved alongside Griffin, slipping her arm through his.
“Who are they, Con?”
“I don’t know. But they frighten me.”
“You think they will be back tonight?”
“No. But if they do come, Jacob will let us know.”
“Come home, then. Eric will want to hear all about it; he’ll be so proud of you.”
Griffin pulled her close and kissed her lightly on the brow. He wanted so desperately not to tell her about Shannow, wanted her to go on believing he was dead. They had become close after Shannow’s disappearance, and he had made a special fuss over Eric, which meant he was often invited to eat at the Taybard wagon. One night he had proposed to Donna, expecting a refusal and prepared to wait for her to change her mind. Instead she had accepted, kissed him, and thanked him for his courtesy.
Few men could have been happier than Con Griffin at that moment. For days afterward he had walked with her in the evenings, holding hands in the moonlight, until finally Donna herself had precipitated the move he had longed for. They had walked to a shallow stream, and she had turned to him and put her hands on his shoulders.
“I am not a fifteen-year-old maiden,” she had said, loosening her dress.
And they had made love on the grass beside the water.
Since then Con Griffin had slept in Donna’s wagon, much to the disgust of old Burke, who did not hold with such flippant behavior. Eric had adjusted well to his new father and seemed relaxed in Griffin’s company. For his part Griffin taught him to rope and to track and to name the trees and say which of them grew near water. And they talked man to man, which pleased Eric greatly.
“What should I call you?” asked Eric.
“Call me Griff.”
“I cannot call you Father. Not yet.”
“It would be nice if you could, but I will not worry about it.”
“Will you make my mother happy?”
“I hope so. I will try very hard.”
“My father couldn’t.”
“It happens sometimes.”
“And I won’t be cruel to you, Griff.”
“Cruel?”
“I was very cruel to Mr. Shannow. And he saved my life. I wish I hadn’t been; he told me he was very lonely and he wanted to be my friend.”
That conversation was in Griffin’s mind now as he stood with Donna. He walked her away from the corpses to the canvas-covered wagon beside their home plot.
“Donna, there is something … The riders …”
“What? Come on, this is not like you.”
“Shannow is alive.”
“No!”
“I believe that he is. Use your talent—try to see him.”
“No, he’s dead. I don’t want to see him with maggots in his eyes.”
“Please, Donna. Otherwise I’ll never be able to rest, wondering if the Jerusalem Man is hunting me.”
Her head sank down, and she closed her eyes. Immediately she saw Shannow, limping through a village. Beside him was an old man, balding, who was smiling and chatting with him.
Donna opened her eyes. “Yes,” she whispered. “He is alive. Oh, Con!”
“I will … of course, release you … from …”
“Don’t say it. Don’t ever say it! I’m pregnant, Con, and I love you.”
“But you and he …”
“He saved me and Eric. And he was very lonely. I didn’t love him. But I never would have done this to him, truly I wouldn’t.”
“I know.” He took her in his arms.
“There’s something else, Con. All the people with Jon are to die.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I am not sure that I do. But they are all doomed. I saw skulls floating above all of them and dark shadows in the distance with horned helmets like those riders there.”
“Today’s drama has affected your talent,” he assured her. “The important thing is that Jon Shannow is alive. And when he comes here, he will be looking for you.”
“Con, he will never understand. I think he is a little insane.”
“I shall be ready.”
The following day Shannow rose early, refreshed despite his troubled night. He pulled on his woolen shirt and a thick pullover knitted for him by Curopet. Then he added his ankle-length leather coat and a pair of woolen gloves. He belted on his guns and hefted his saddle over his right shoulder before making his way across the village to the makeshift paddock where the gelding stood. There he rubbed down the horse and saddled him.
The day was bright and clear as Shannow rode from the sleeping village. He steered the horse high into the hills to the north, picking his trail with care on the slippery ground. After an hour he found a different route and returned to the village, where he fed the gelding and removed his saddle. He was cold through and bone-weary. By the time he dumped his saddle back in the hut, he was ready to drop. Shrugging out of his coat, he picked up the ball of hide and squeezed it two hundred times. Then, tossing it aside, he stood. His hand dropped to his pistol and flashed up, the gun leaping to his hand, cocked and ready. He smiled; not as fast as he had been but fast enough. The rest would follow.
Curopet tapped at his door, and he ushered her in. She had brought a wooden bowl of heated oats and goat’s milk. He thanked her, and she bowed.
“I thought you had left us,” she said softly, her eyes staring at the floor.
“Not yet, lady. But soon I must.”
“To go to your wife?”
“Yes.”
She smiled and left him, and he finished his breakfast and waited for Karitas. The old man was not long in arriving, his sheepskin jerkin covered in snow.
Karitas grinned and moved to the fire. “Did you see anything on your ride?”
“Four or five deer to the northeast and some beautiful country.”
“And how do you feel?”
“Tired and yet strong.”
“Good. I think you are almost mended, Jon Shannow. I heard someone cry out in the night—I thought it was you.”
“It could have been,” said Shannow, moving to sit beside the fire. “I had a bad dream. I saw men attacking a tent village … they were vile.”
“They had horned helms?” asked Karitas, staring intently at Shannow’s face.
“Yes. How could you know?”
“I had the same dream. It is the land, Jon. As I told you, it grants rare powers. That was no dream; you saw the Hellborn in action.”
“Thank the Lord they are not near here!”
“Ye
s. My little village would be slain. We could not fight them, not even with the Ark weapons.”
“One pistol,” said Shannow, “would not keep away a small brigand band.”
“There is more than one pistol in the Ark, Jon. I will show you in the spring.”
“The Hellborn have many riders. There must have been two to three hundred in the attack on the village.”
“Would that they had only three hundred. What we saw was one raiding column, and there are more than twenty such. The sexual excesses among the Hellborn mean a plethora of babes, and their tribe grows fast. It was always so throughout history: the migration of nations. Overpopulation causes people to move into the lands of their neighbors, bringing war and death. The Hellborn are moving, and one day they will be here.”
“I find it hard to believe that the Lord of Hosts can permit such a people,” said Shannow.
“Read your Bible, Jon. Study the Assyrians, the Babylonians, the Egyptians, and the Greeks. Even the Romans. And what of the Philistines, the Moabites, and the Edomites? Without evil there is no counterpoint to goodness.”
“Too deep for me, Karitas. I am a simple man.”
“I wish that I was,” Karitas said with feeling.
For much of the day Shannow chopped firewood, using a long ax with a six-pound head. His back ached, but by dusk he was satisfied that his strength was returning with speed.
That night he dreamed once more of the Hellborn. This time they raided the Carns, and the slaughter was terrible to behold, the blue-and-yellow-streaked savages caught in a murderous cross fire. Hundreds died, and only a few escaped into the snow-covered woods.
At midnight Shannow was awakened by a light tapping at his door. He opened it and saw Curopet standing in the moonlight, a blanket around her slender form.
Shannow stepped aside to allow her in and pushed shut the door. She ran to the fire and added kindling to the coals.
“What is it, Curopet?”
“I am going to die,” she whispered.
Her face was strained, and she was close to tears as Shannow moved to kneel beside her in the firelight.
“Everyone dies,” said Shannow, at a loss.
“Then you have seen it, too, Thundermaker?”
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