Hallowed Ground

Chapter Seventeen

The Deacon sat in a leather chair built into the framework of his wagon. On the table at his side was a cut glass tumbler half full of golden brown whiskey. On his lap he held a book. It was a very old book, bound in leather with age-yellowed pages. A dark ribbon bookmark dangled off the end of the spine, where it had been bound in when the pages were sewn.

On the floor, Colleen slept, the child nestled against her tightly, wrapped in rough blankets with a rolled jacket for a pillow. From time to time The Deacon glanced down at them. His smile was grim – the upward turn of his lip unfamiliar and alien after so long.

He had carefully wrapped the leather pouch in dark silk. The silk had been embroidered with symbols and words in a pattern he'd purchased from a toothless old witch several months back. When he wrapped it, it slept, but not for long. Every time he did it, he wondered if it would be his last. If he waited too long, or it sensed his intent, he doubted the pain would stop at burning his flesh.

He hadn't touched the book on his lap since the last time he'd wrapped the talisman, but he knew it was time. He read quickly. The book had come from the pastor of a church back east. The man had been old, and his mind wandered. The book had been his responsibility for half a century, and none had stepped forward to take his place. He had come to The Deacon in the hope he might be healed – that the ravages of age could be wiped from his emaciated frame to leave him healthy enough to carry on.

The book held power, and the power was dangerous. The man had feared for his soul – feared deeply enough he was willing to remain behind when his own call to glory was at hand if it meant fulfilling his duty. The Deacon had lent a conciliatory shoulder. He'd gone through the motions of the healing, but kept the old man as far from the talisman as possible. After the ceremony failed, it was only a matter of days.

On his deathbed, the priest confessed his mission to The Deacon. He passed on a wooden box, carefully locked. Inside, the book was bound in similar silk to the strip that now bound the talisman. That first night, when the old man had died and The Deacon made off with his prize, was almost the last night.

The book was alive to the touch. The Talisman had sensed its presence and searched his flesh. It leapt against the material of his jacket, stretching out toward the musty tome as though they were opposite poles of a magnet. It had taken all his strength to fold the cloth back over the book and slam the box shut.

Study, bribes, payments he could ill afford, and great risk had brought him to the old woman and the dark silk. He remembered her eyes – the coarse, leathery feel of her skin as she stroked his cheek – and the deep, hollow tones of her laughter. Even now the thought of her price ran through his blood like ice water.

But the book – that book – was worth the pain. It was worth the corruption. It was worth any price. What he'd waited for was the proper time to use it – the right reason to risk … everything. The page he'd opened it to held a ritual, penned in even, symmetrical letters. He read it, and then read it again, though the words burned into his mind on the first pass. He started to go over it a third time – felt a twitch within the black silk, and slammed the covers closed. He wrapped the book and closed it in its box, then knelt on the floor, reached up under the frame of his chair, and slid it onto its hidden shelf.

He unwrapped the talisman quickly and rested it against the thundering beat of his heart. It pulsed, warmed, and then settled. With a sigh, he dropped back into the leather seat, downed the whiskey, and slumped against the wall. He was tired, but the day was upon him. It was going to be a long one.