Authors: David Gemmell
Shannow awoke soon after dawn and sat listening to the sounds of morning. He was thirsty and moved to the pump-room for a mug of water. Behind the door was an oval mirror framed in golden pine and he stood staring at his reflection. The eyes were deep-set and dark blue, the face triangular above a square jaw. As he had feared, his hair was showing grey, though his beard was still dark on the cheeks with a silver fork at the chin.
He finished his drink and moved outside to the porch and his saddlebags. Having found his razor and stropped it for several minutes, he returned to the mirror and cut away his beard. Donna Taybard found him there and watched in mild amusement as he tried to trim his long hair.
’Sit out on the porch, Mr Shannow. I am expecting some friends today, and I think I should make you look presentable.’
With long-handled scissors and a bone comb she worked expertly at the tangled mess, complimenting him on the absence of lice.
’I move too fast for them, and I swim when I can.’
’Is that short enough for you?’ she asked, stepping back to admire her handiwork. He ran his hand through his hair and grinned - almost boyishly, she thought.
’That will suffice, Fray Taybard. . . Donna. Thank you. You said you were expecting friends?’
’Yes, some neighbours are coming over to celebrate Harvest. It was arranged before Tomas . . . disappeared, but I told them to come anyway. I’m hoping they will be able to help me with the Committee - but I doubt they will … all have their own problems. You are welcome to stay. There will be a barbecue, and I have made some cakes.’
’Thank you, I will.’
’But, Mr Shannow, please do not wear your guns. This is still, in the main, a peaceful community.’
’As you wish. Is Eric still sleeping?’
’No, he is in the long meadow gathering wood for the fire. And then he must milk the cows.’
’Do you have any trouble with wolves or lions?’
’No, the Committee shot the last lion during the winter and the wolves have moved to the high country. They sometimes forage in winter, but they are not a great problem.’
’Life here seems . . . settled,’ he said, rising and brushing the hair from his shirt.
’It has been - it certainly was when my father was Prester. But now there is Fletcher; we will not call him Prester, and I know that does not sit well with him.’
’You said last night that your husband was dead. Is that a fear or a reality?’
She stood in the doorway, her hand on the frame. ‘I have a talent, Mr Shannow, for seeing faraway things. I had it as child and it has not deserted me. As we speak, I can see Eric in the far meadow. He has stopped gathering wood and has climbed a tall pine; he is pretending to be a great hunter. Yes, Mr Shannow, my husband is dead. He was killed by Fletcher and there were three with him: the big man, Bard, and two others whose names I do not know. Tomas’s body lies in an arroyo, hastily buried.’
’Fletcher desires your lands?’
’And me. He is a man used to obtaining his desires.’
’Perhaps he will be good for you.’
Her eyes blazed. ‘You think I will suffer myself to be taken by my husband’s killer?’
Shannow shrugged. The world is a hard place, Donna. I have seen settlements where women are not allowed to pair-bond with a single man, where they are communal property. And it is not strange in other areas for men to kill for what they want. What a man can take and hold, he owns.’
’Not in Rivervale, sir,’ she told him. ‘Not yet, at least.’
’Good luck, Donna. I hope you find a man willing to stand against this Fletcher. If not I hope he is, as I said, good for you.’
She moved back into the house without a word.
Some time later the boy Eric came into view, towing a small hand-cart loaded with dead wood. He was a slim boy, his hair so fair it seemed white. His face was set and serious, his eyes sad and knowing.
He walked past Shannow without speaking and the man wandered to the paddock where the steeldust gelding trotted to him, nuzzling his hand. There was grass in the pen, but Shannow would have liked to give him grain. The beast could run for miles without effort, but fed on grain he could run for ever. Five years ago Shannow had won 2, 000 Barta coins in three races, but the gelding was too old now for such ventures. Shannow returned to his saddlebags and removed the oilskin gun-pouch.
Pulling the left-hand pistol from its scabbard, he tapped out the barrel pin and released the cylinder, placing it carefully on the porch beside him. Then he ran an oiled cloth through the barrel and cleaned dust from the trigger mechanism. The pistol was nine inches long and weighed several pounds, but Shannow had long since ceased to notice the weight. He checked the cylinder for dust and then slipped it back into place, pressing home the wedge bar and replacing the weapon in its scabbard. The right-hand pistol was two inches shorter and brass-mounted with butt plates of polished ivory, unlike the dark apple-wood of the longer weapon. Despite the difference in barrel length it was this weapon that fired true, the other kicking to the left and unreliable at anything but close quarters. Shannow cleaned the pistol lovingly and looked up to see Eric watching him closely, his eyes fixed on the gun.
’Will you shoot it?’ asked the boy.
’There is nothing to shoot at,’ said Shannow.
’Does it make a loud noise?’
’Yes - and the smoke smells like the Devil, Have you never heard a gun fire?’
’Once when the Prester shot a lion - but I was only five. Mr Fletcher has a pistol, and several of the Committee have long rifles; they are more powerful now than any war-maker.’
’You like Mr Fletcher, Eric?’
’He has always been nice to me. He’s a great man; he’s the Prester now.’
’Then why is your mother afraid of him and his Committee?’
’Oh, that’s just women,’ said Eric. ‘Mr Fletcher and my father had an argument and Mr Fletcher said the carpenter should live in Rivervale where the work was needed. The Committee voted on it. Mr Fletcher wanted to buy the farm but Father said no, I don’t know why. It would be nice to live in Rivervale where all the people are. And Mr Fletcher really likes mother; he told me that, he said she was a fine lady. I like him.’
’Did . . . does your father like him?’
’Father doesn’t like anybody. He likes me sometimes, when I do my chores well or when I help him without dropping anything.’
’Is he the only carpenter in Rivervale?’
’He was, but Mr Fletcher has a man working for him who says he’s a carpenter. Father laughs about him; he says the man thinks a dove joint is found on a pigeon’s leg!’
Shannow grinned. The boy looked younger when he smiled.
’Are you a war-maker, Mr Shannow? Truly?’
’No, Eric. As I told your mother, I am a man who loves peace.’
’But you have guns?’
’I travel through the wild lands, Eric; they are necessary.’
Two wagons crested the skyline. ‘That will be the Janus family and the McGravens,’ said Eric.
Shannow replaced his guns in their scabbards and moved into the house, hanging the weapons on the hook inside the door.
’Your guests have begun to arrive,’ he told Donna. The house smelt of fresh-baked bread and cakes. ‘Is there anything I can do?’
’Help Eric prepare the barbecue fires.’
All morning wagons arrived, until more than twenty formed several lines inside the pasture. With three barbecue fires burning and almost fifty people moving about, Shannow felt uncomfortable. He wandered to the barn for a little solitude and found two young people holding hands in the shadows.
’I am sorry to disturb you,’ he said, turning to leave.
’It’s all right,’ said the young man. ‘My name is Janus, Stefan Janus. This is Susan McGraven.’ Shannow shook hands with them and moved outside.
As he stood by the paddock, the steeldust gelding ran to him and Shannow stroked his neck. ‘Almost time to leave,’ he told the horse.
A woman’s voice rang out. ‘Susan! Where are you?’ The young girl ran from the barn.
’I'm coming,’ she answered. The young man joined Shannow; he was tall and fair-haired and his eyes were serious, his face intelligent.
’Are you staying in Rivervale?’
’No, I am a traveller.’
’A traveller who is uncomfortable with crowds,’ observed Janus.
’Even so.’
’You will find the crowd less hostile when the people are known to you. Come, I will introduce you to some friendly faces.’
He took Shannow into the throng, and there followed much shaking of hands and a bewildering series of names which Shannow could not absorb - but the lad was right, and he began to feel more comfortable.
’And what do you do, Mr Shannow?’ came the inevitable question, this time from a burly farmer named Evanson.
’Mr Shannow is searching for a city,’ said Donna Taybard, joining them. ‘He is a historian.’
’Oh,’ responded Evanson, his face portraying his lack of interest. ‘And how are you, Donna? Any sign of Tomas?’
’No. Is Anne with you?’
’I am afraid not. She stayed with Ash Burry; his wife is not well.’
Shannow slipped away, leaving them to their conversation. Children were playing near the paddock and he sat on the porch watching them. Everyone here seemed different from the people of the south; their faces were ruddy and healthy and they laughed often. Elsewhere, where Brigands rode, there was always a tension - a wariness in the eyes. Shannow felt apart from the people of Rivervale.
Towards the afternoon a group of riders came down the hill, six men riding directly towards the house. Shannow drifted back into the main room and watched them from a window. Donna Taybard saw them at the same time and wandered over, followed by a dozen or so of her neighbours.
The riders reined in and a tall man in a white woollen shirt stepped from the saddle. He was around thirty years old and his hair was black and close-cropped, his face dark and handsome.
’Good day, Donna.’
’And to you, Mr Fletcher.’
’I am glad to see you enjoying yourself. Any word from Tomas?’
’No. I am thinking of going to the arroyo where you left him and marking his grave.’
The man flushed deep red. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
’Go away, Saul. I do not want you here.’
People were gathering around the riders and a silence settled over the scene.
Fletcher licked his lips. ‘Donna, it is no longer safe to be so close to the edge of the wild lands. Daniel Cade has been sighted only eight miles south. You must come in to Rivervale.’
’This is my home and I will remain here,’ she said.
’I am sorry, but I must insist. The Committee has voted on this. You will be paid handsomely for your home and comfortable quarters have been set aside for you and Eric. Do not make this any more difficult. Your friends here have offered to help you with your furniture and belongings.’
As Donna’s eyes swept the group, Evanson looked away and many others were staring at the ground. Only Stefan Janus moved forward.
’Why should she go if she does not wish to?’ he said.
Saul Fletcher ignored him and moved closer to Donna.
’There is no sense in this, Donna. The Committee has the right to make laws to protect its people. You must leave -and you will leave. Now!’ Fletcher turned to a huge, barrel-chested figure on a large black gelding. ‘Bard, give Donna a hand with her belongings.’ As the big man moved to dismount, Jon Shannow stepped from the shadowed doorway and stood on the porch overlooking the crowd. Bard settled back in the saddle, and all eyes turned to Shannow and the guns he now wore. In turn he studied the men who had just arrived. He had seen men like these all his life - chancers, Brigands, war-makers. They all had that look - that stamp of cruelty, of callous arrogance.
’If Fray Taybard wishes to stay,’ said Shannow, ‘then that is the end of the argument.’
’And who are you, sir?’ asked Fletcher, his eyes on the pistols at Shannow’s side.
Shannow ignored him and turned to the riders, recognizing two of them.
’How are you, Miles?’ he called. ‘And you, Pope? You are a long way from Allion.’ The two men sat very still, saying nothing.
’I asked you who you were,’ said Fletcher, his hand resting on the walnut grip of a double-barrelled flintlock sheathed at his waist.
’He’s the Jerusalem Man,’ said Miles, and Fletcher froze.
’I have heard of you, sir. You are a killer and a war-maker. We will not suffer your kind in Rivervale.’
’No?’ said Shannow mildly. ‘My understanding is that you are no stranger to murder - and Miles and Pope were riding with Cade only a year ago.’
’That is a lie.’
’Whatever you say, Mr Fletcher. I have neither the time nor the inclination to argue with you. You may leave now.’
’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 now 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 the house.