Ashes of the Earth (19 page)

Hadrian
scanned the horizon in confusion, then froze. Although the boat was
nearly out of sight, with no wind the smoke of its steam engine
etched a long track in the dawn sky. The vessel wasn't heading to the
fishing grounds, it was going west. Following a prohibited course
toward the exile camps.

Hadrian
arrived out
of
breath on the balcony outside of Jonah's library workshop, panting
from the run down the hill. He quickly swung the telescope toward the
shoreline. The boat now was a speck on the horizon but its trail of
smoke still plainly visible. He straightened, studying the harbor,
watching as the morning breeze filled the sails of two of the old
sailing skipjacks and pushed them northward. He bent back to the
scope, lining it up with each of Jonah's railing marks in turn. In
the clearing above, Dax's red shirt was visible as the boy stood
staring out over the rafts of waterfowl.

Hadrian
swung the lens back to the middle mark, bringing into view two men on
the roof of the main fishery building with smaller telescopes in
their hands. They could have been watching the skipjacks, could have
been watching for signs of fish. As he watched they swung their
lenses toward the smaller wharf closer to the center of town. Jonah's
third mark took him back to the ragged spar at the border of the
exile lands. The three cloths still hung like flags from the tree.
Yellow, red, yellow. He straightened, puzzled, trying to recall the
colors he had seen before. Red, blue, red. They'd changed.

He
watched the plume of smoke until it finally dissipated, then focused
on the fishery again. The two men were climbing down through a roof
hatch. They hadn't been watching the sailboats or fish. They had been
waiting for the steamer, and its smoke, to disappear. He studied the
waterfront again. They had been watching the steamer but had also
been keeping an eye on the boatshed where the police launch was kept.
As he watched them disappear into the building, he recalled
Buchanan's criticism of Jori Waller for overcounting the steamboats
in the harbor. The governor's words had been gnawing at him. Then, as
he looked out over the water, he recalled other, similar words
appearing in Jonah's journal from the week before. Striving to
capture the splendor of the day Jonah had described ten steamboats in
the harbor. But Hadrian knew, and Jonah knew, that one had sunk. Only
nine existed. Five were in the harbor now but that meant nothing
since they often stayed out overnight, especially this late in the
season when they were trying to fill their holds before the ice set
in.

He
stared absently at Jonah's marks on the railing. How the old
scientist had delighted in riddles! His fingers wrapped around the
cool stone in his pocket and he pulled it out, gazing at the
intricate patterns in the agate. He would never understand the
killings until he understood the mysterious patterns of Jonah's life.
He looked back at the signal flags on the exiles' tree. There had
been one signal when Jonah was killed. There had been a new signal
now, when someone had stolen Nelly and Shenker out of prison.

As
the sun's early rays reached the balcony, he basked for a moment in
their warmth to the sounds of the town coming to life. And a sudden
smell of onions. He spun about to see a tall blond man leaning
against the doorframe, a half-eaten onion in his hand. He nodded at
Hadrian as he took another bite. It was Bjorn, the stone-faced
bodyguard.

The
Norger policeman spoke while still chewing. "He says you are to
come with me. Now." When he straightened he filled the entire
doorway. With a helmet on his head and a battle ax in his hand he
would have made a perfect Viking.

They
drove in a covered buggy that waited behind the library, the big
Norger cracking a whip over the heads of the team as they sped out of
town onto the southern road. His escort ignored Hadrian's questions,
speaking only to the horses, expertly weaving the team around farm
wagons, the wheels clattering loudly as they raced over a covered
bridge. They were nearly five miles from town when he pulled the team
to a stop beside another, empty buggy, tethered at the base of a
steep wooded hill.

Before
he stepped onto the path Bjorn turned to face Hadrian. "Was it
over quickly? Did he suffer?" Even after all the years, there
was a hint of an accent in his voice.

For
a moment Hadrian gazed in confusion. "Jansen? No. It was
probably over before he realized what had happened.
I'm
sorry. Was he—?"

"My
cousin," Bjorn replied without emotion.

When
they reached the top, Hadrian saw Jori Waller first, seated on a
rock, her face drained of color. She offered no greeting, only a look
of apology. Lucas Buchanan stood twenty feet away beside a large log.
A terrified boy with a bow and quiver of arrows sat against a nearby
tree.

"He
and his older brother were hunting when they found this,"
Buchanan explained in a tight voice. "The brother galloped to
town, straight to my office. Sergeant Waller was there speaking to me
about Officer Jansen's unfortunate demise."

Hadrian
saw now the skeletal legs draped across the log behind Buchanan, a
femur exposed through rotting trousers. He forced himself to step
forward and examine the corpse. Part of the skull gleamed white
through the rotting flesh of the man's face. Clumps of brown hair
flecked with grey had fallen from the scalp. His eyes were gone and
mildew clung to his clothes. A vine curled around one leg.

"His
hands were tied around the log," Buchanan continued. The
corpse's arms were stretched along either side, disappearing
underneath. "As if he were left here to die."

"As
if he were tortured," Hadrian corrected. "Who is he?"

"God
knows. A hunter. A farmer with a feud with a neighbor."

A
dead man without a face. A scout stabbed and left to drown in sewage.
His closest friend tortured and hanged. Hadrian's fear was slowly
replaced with a cold anger. "That day we found Hastings, who did
you and Kenton speak with about it?"

Buchanan
looked up from the grisly scene. "No one, you fool," he
muttered.

"Someone
knew about it. It was why Jonah died that night."

The
governor glanced pointedly at Waller and Bjorn, his eyes filling with
warning. "It was a state secret," he snapped, then gestured
Bjorn toward the body. "Release the hands."

The
Norger opened a pocketknife and reached under the log, then backed
away as the arm stretched out. The fingers had been chewed on by
small animals, but one finger was entirely gone, neatly severed above
the knuckle.

Hadrian
studied the hair and the structure of what was left of the face, then
knelt to examine the remaining clothing. It was all fine wool and
linen, with a trace of embroidery on the pocket of the shirt. He
looked up at the governor. "Like you said, he was having health
problems."

"What
are you talking about?"

"It
wasn't any finger that was severed. It was the ring finger, because
it bore a signet ring, the seal of the guild. What did you call him?
Your most important political ally? The most powerful businessman in
the colony? I'd say the Dutchman has been exercising his power from
the grave for the past six months."

What
little color was left in the governor's face drained away. "You
can't know it's Van Wyck."

"Look
at the shape of the face, the hair, the fine clothes. What's left of
his expensive shoes." Hadrian bent and reached into the pocket
of the dead man's shirt, pulling out and unfolding a slip of paper.
He read it, then extended it to Buchanan. "A bill of sale for a
new horse, made out to Van Wyck. This is the road he would have taken
to his farm in the south."

A
twig broke behind him. Sergeant Waller was approaching. She was
forcing herself to look at the evidence.

"Who
would dare torture him?" The governor's voice had gone hoarse.
He had been invoking the Dutchman as a political ally on the Council,
using his vote, reading his statements into the record, for months.
"There's no sign of a death blow. It must have been an accident.
He was being pressed for something and he had a heart attack."

Hadrian
leaned over the body, studying the ruined torso, noting now the long
striations in the remaining flesh. "They cut deep into his belly
before he died."

"To
what end?" Buchanan glanced with worry into the shadows of the
forest.

Hadrian
paced around the log, studying the surrounding ground, seeing now
that Bjorn was staring at a large hole fifteen feet up an old maple.
The shape was familiar, as were the scratch marks below the hole. "It
would have been in early spring," he said. "The marten that
used that hole had young. The slices were to ensure there was an
irresistible scent of blood."

"I
don't understand," Waller said behind him.

"They
have four, even six babies. After the first few weeks the pups are
ravenous for fresh meat." He turned to face her. "Van Wyck
was tied here to be finished by a frenzy of tree jackals feeding on
his belly."

Something
like a sob escaped the sergeant's throat. Buchanan retreated behind
Bjorn.

Hadrian
touched the sergeant's shoulder and pushed her away from the grisly
sight. "Why not just kill him?" she asked.

"He
was being punished, I wager," Hadrian said. "Made an
example of. There were probably others here, brought to watch."

"But
who?" Buchanan asked. "Who would engage in such butchery?"

Hadrian
fixed him with a cold gaze. "The ones who have been working with
you to control the Council."

The
ending of
the
world had been hard on the devout. For most their faith had not only
been broken, it had been shattered, not simply forgotten but rather
the butt of bitter jokes and jibes. In the early years survivors had
turned their backs on their religious upbringings, losing themselves
in the ordeal of staying alive and the abject pain of their losses.

As
Hadrian watched the compact figure in brown homespun working in the
garden of his little white chapel, he realized the man might well be
the only one left in all the world able to perform a religious
ceremony that would have been recognized in the century before. Yet
Father William had not even tried to replicate or invoke the old
institutions. He had sought to honor spirituality, not the traditions
of earlier centuries, adapting to the new realities of the colony and
the cultural markers of its citizens. There was no liturgy as such in
his services, there was debate on "the slings and arrows of
outrageous fortune." There were no sermons, there were
soliloquies involving skulls. In a colony where it was more likely in
most households to find a volume of the old poet bard than a Bible,
it was no surprise that William's flock called themselves Shakespeare
Christians. They were as likely to solemnly quote a verse of MacBeth
as a passage from Ecclesiastes.

While
on Sundays William played the priest to his congregation, on other
days he was the solitary monk, roaming the forested ridge above the
chapel, meditating, and tending the little shrine overlooking the
lake. When Hadrian arrived he was dividing flower bulbs dug up from
his chapel garden. The monk nodded silently as Hadrian dropped to his
knees and began helping with the chore. Hadrian knew better than to
raise the first word with William, who had been known to take a vow
of silence that would span the entire week between worship services.
It was far from the first time Hadrian had joined him in his chores.
Months earlier William had dragged him, in a drunken stupor, out of a
gutter and put him to work plaiting beehives, had encouraged
Hadrian's frequent return to divert him from another alcoholic binge.

When
they finished with the bulbs, William produced two stiff brushes and
handed one to his visitor, who began cleaning a marble cherub mounted
on a whitewashed fence post. Such little stone figures adorned nearly
every post, and the window sills inside the chapel, all donated by
salvagers. Hadrian and William knew the weathered figures had been
gleaned from ruined cemeteries but never spoke of it.

"The
Lord is my shepherd," the monk murmured as he began cleaning a
limestone lamb. Part of William's ritual was a quick invocation over
each before he worked on it. "He that sheds his blood with me,
be he ever so vile this day shall gentle his condition," he
recited when he reached a small statue of a Christian warrior.

After
several minutes he finally looked up. "One of the Buchanan girls
came to me yesterday—the older one, Sarah, clutching one of
those magazine ads. Came to me here," he added.