them and assume that everything they can see is now theirs: the deer, the trees, the mountains. You come along and kill the deer, and they see it as theft.”
“That, too,” agreed Jeremiah. “But you do not share that view, Mr. Shannow?”
“I never put down roots.”
“You are a curious man, sir. You are knowledgeable, courteous,and yet you have the look of the warrior. I can see it in you. I think you are a … deadly man, Mr. Shannow.”
Shannow nodded slowly, and his deep blue eyes held Jeremiah’s gaze. “You have nothing to fear from me, old man. I am not a warmaker. I do not steal, and I do not lie.”
“Did you fight in the war, Mr. Shannow?”
“I do not believe that I did.”
“Most men of your age fought in the Unifying War.”
“Tell me of it.”
Before the old man could begin, Isis came running into view. “Riders!” she said. “And they’re armed.”
Jeremiah rose and walked between the wagons. Isis moved alongside him, and several of the other women and children gathered around. Dr. Meredith, his arms full of firewood, stood nervously beside a pregnant woman and her two young daughters. Jeremiah shaded his eyes against the setting sun and counted the horsemen. There were fifteen, and all carried rifles. In the lead was a slender young man with shoulder-length white hair. The riders cantered up to the wagons and then drew rein. The white-haired man leaned forward onto the pommel of his saddle.
“Who are you?” he asked, his voice edged with contempt.
“I am Jeremiah, sir. These are my people.”
The man looked at the painted wagons and said something in a low voice to the rider on his right. “Are you people of the Book?” asked White-hair, switching his gaze back to Jeremiah.
“Of course,” the old man answered.
“You have Oath papers?” The man’s voice was soft, almost sibilant.
“We have never been asked to give oaths, sir. We are Wanderers and are rarely in towns long enough to be questioned about our faith.”
“I am questioning it,” the man said. “And I do not like your tone, Mover. I am Aaron Crane, the Oath Taker for the settlement of Purity. Do you know why I was given this office?” Jeremiah shook his head. “Because I have the gift of discernment. I can smell a pagan at fifty paces. And there is no placein God’s land for such people. They are a stain upon the earth, a cancer upon the flesh of the planet, and an abomination in the eyes of God. Recite for me now Psalm 22.”
Jeremiah took a deep breath. “I am not a scholar, sir. My Bible is in my wagon—I shall fetch it.”
“You are a pagan,” screamed Crane, “and your wagon shall burn!” Swinging in his saddle, he gestured to the riders. “Make torches from their campfires. Burn the wagons.” The men dismounted and started forward, Crane leading them.
Jeremiah stepped into their path. “Please, sir, do not do …” A rider grabbed the old man, hurling him aside. Jeremiah fell heavily but struggled to his feet as Isis ran at the man who had struck him, lashing out with her fist. The rider parried the blow easily and pushed her away.
And Jeremiah watched in helpless despair as the men converged on the fire.
Aaron Crane was exultant as he strode toward the fire. This was the work he had been born for, making the land holy and fit for the people of the Book. These Movers were trash of the worst kind, with no understanding of the demands of the Lord. The men were lazy and shiftless, the women no better than common whores. He glanced at the blond woman who had struck at Leach. Her clothes were threadbare, and her breasts jutted against the woolen shirt she wore. Worse than a whore, he decided, feeling his anger rise. He pictured the wagon aflame, the pagans pleading for mercy. But there should be no mercy for such as these, he resolved. Let them plead before the throne of the Almighty. Yes, they would die, he decided. Not the children, of course; he was not a savage.
Leach made the
“That, too,” agreed Jeremiah. “But you do not share that view, Mr. Shannow?”
“I never put down roots.”
“You are a curious man, sir. You are knowledgeable, courteous,and yet you have the look of the warrior. I can see it in you. I think you are a … deadly man, Mr. Shannow.”
Shannow nodded slowly, and his deep blue eyes held Jeremiah’s gaze. “You have nothing to fear from me, old man. I am not a warmaker. I do not steal, and I do not lie.”
“Did you fight in the war, Mr. Shannow?”
“I do not believe that I did.”
“Most men of your age fought in the Unifying War.”
“Tell me of it.”
Before the old man could begin, Isis came running into view. “Riders!” she said. “And they’re armed.”
Jeremiah rose and walked between the wagons. Isis moved alongside him, and several of the other women and children gathered around. Dr. Meredith, his arms full of firewood, stood nervously beside a pregnant woman and her two young daughters. Jeremiah shaded his eyes against the setting sun and counted the horsemen. There were fifteen, and all carried rifles. In the lead was a slender young man with shoulder-length white hair. The riders cantered up to the wagons and then drew rein. The white-haired man leaned forward onto the pommel of his saddle.
“Who are you?” he asked, his voice edged with contempt.
“I am Jeremiah, sir. These are my people.”
The man looked at the painted wagons and said something in a low voice to the rider on his right. “Are you people of the Book?” asked White-hair, switching his gaze back to Jeremiah.
“Of course,” the old man answered.
“You have Oath papers?” The man’s voice was soft, almost sibilant.
“We have never been asked to give oaths, sir. We are Wanderers and are rarely in towns long enough to be questioned about our faith.”
“I am questioning it,” the man said. “And I do not like your tone, Mover. I am Aaron Crane, the Oath Taker for the settlement of Purity. Do you know why I was given this office?” Jeremiah shook his head. “Because I have the gift of discernment. I can smell a pagan at fifty paces. And there is no placein God’s land for such people. They are a stain upon the earth, a cancer upon the flesh of the planet, and an abomination in the eyes of God. Recite for me now Psalm 22.”
Jeremiah took a deep breath. “I am not a scholar, sir. My Bible is in my wagon—I shall fetch it.”
“You are a pagan,” screamed Crane, “and your wagon shall burn!” Swinging in his saddle, he gestured to the riders. “Make torches from their campfires. Burn the wagons.” The men dismounted and started forward, Crane leading them.
Jeremiah stepped into their path. “Please, sir, do not do …” A rider grabbed the old man, hurling him aside. Jeremiah fell heavily but struggled to his feet as Isis ran at the man who had struck him, lashing out with her fist. The rider parried the blow easily and pushed her away.
And Jeremiah watched in helpless despair as the men converged on the fire.
Aaron Crane was exultant as he strode toward the fire. This was the work he had been born for, making the land holy and fit for the people of the Book. These Movers were trash of the worst kind, with no understanding of the demands of the Lord. The men were lazy and shiftless, the women no better than common whores. He glanced at the blond woman who had struck at Leach. Her clothes were threadbare, and her breasts jutted against the woolen shirt she wore. Worse than a whore, he decided, feeling his anger rise. He pictured the wagon aflame, the pagans pleading for mercy. But there should be no mercy for such as these, he resolved. Let them plead before the throne of the Almighty. Yes, they would die, he decided. Not the children, of course; he was not a savage.
Leach made the
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