Hallowed Ground

Chapter Nineteen

The Deacon strode to the front of the tent, turned, cracked his knuckles and rested his hands on the podium. The pews were filled with the faithful. No seat was ever empty when The Deacon called them. That was his gift: when he spoke the children of the flesh wanted to hear and the aged souls wanted to listen. There were regular services, of course. There were times for worship, and for prayer. There were times for devotion, but this was different. He had called them, but this was a gathering of his travelling community. There would be no prayers. It was a rare occurrence, and when it happened, it was never good.

Outside, the wind whipped rain against the sides of the tent, drumming like a tombstone chorus on the canvas walls. The roar of rainfall through the gulch was as loud as a white water river. The tent’s guide ropes sang in the grip of the wind, like the bowing of the strings on some gigantic instrument. The Deacon listened to the storm. The poles creaked and groaned desperately. For a moment, as the wood’s protests grew even more strained, it seemed as though it would wrench the great pole from the ground and cast them all into darkness. It did not. In the distance, thunder rumbled. Lightning flashed far above, and one of the trees on the ridge was reduced to ash. The fragrance of ozone laced the air. It was the smell of miracles, the Deacon thought to himself, smiling.

"I want to thank you all for coming on such short notice," The Deacon said. "I know you have your own work to complete, and of course your own lives to live. I appreciate that, I surely do, but there is a darkness sweeping down on us like a rushing tide. There is a shadow in the desert, larger and darker than any crow, and it has set the sights of its dark guns on our small haven here, and on our faith." He knew how to talk to a crowd, how to play them. He knew who to look for and how to read the signs of trouble as well as any tracker.

"I have watched over you as my own children," he said. "I have cared for you and fed you. I have guided you from sinner to sinner and soul to soul, sometimes drawing others into our fold, other times bidding our brethren adieu.

"I have served you. I have removed the darkness from men and from women, from children and from ancients. I have set you free, one soul at a time. I have healed the sick, cured the lame, but it is not enough! Now I must do more! Now I must save a multitude! But I cannot do it alone, my friends! We must save a multitude for the time of salvation is upon us! There must be a revival."

A murmur of voices circled the tent. The Deacon stood for a moment, gauging their reaction to his words. Their whispers blended with the wind and slashing, pelting drops of rain. He listened, but he could make no sense of the weather’s voice.

"It has been a very long time since our last revival," he said. "Many of us could use a renewal of faith. Others have so much now that they can give back – so many lessons have been learned. The time has come to share our blessings. The darkness that is upon us will swallow the town of Rookwood as surely as I stand before you. They are unprotected and awash in sin. This is our calling! This is why you came to me! It is the day we always knew was coming. We are ready!"

"Amen."

The voice rose from the rear of the tent. The Deacon didn’t look up, but he smiled. Longman was short of stature, but he had the lungs of a giant. The Deacon wondered what the little man would paint on his wagon for a revival. He wondered if the deluge had washed away the image of the hanged man, or changed it. He wondered again if it had been inverted, or if the inversion of the artist changed it. The card itself called for either new beginnings, or for the spirit to be tied to the earthly – the mundane. They would know soon enough.

He was interrupted by another voice.

"Shall we run up the flags?" One of the faithful called. His single eye stared out from beneath the brim of a faded cap. Beside him, a short, stocky man with a humped back leaned on a cane. His teeth were a cemetery of crooked stones grown over with mildew, and his hair, long and scraggly, hung over his shoulders like dead seaweed.

"We shall indeed," The Deacon said, inclining his head. "Will you do the honors, Cy?"

The big man nodded.

"Andy, will you assist?"

The short, gnomish man nodded as well. The two bowed, turned, and disappeared through the door of the tent to set about their task.

The Deacon stared after them. Wind gripped the door of the tent and nearly tore it from Andy’s hand. It billowed like a sail. Cy passed behind his friend, his one eye raised to the sky, staring into a knife-slash of lightning. He didn’t flinch.

"I will need a deposition to go into town," The Deacon said. "We must move among them and spread the word. They need to know the danger that descends upon their souls. We must speak to them of the darkness."

"We must promise them wine and song," a cracked voice called out. The tent grew silent. The Deacon turned. Lottie grinned back at him.

"The will not come for their souls alone," Attie cackled. "They will come because not coming leaves them empty."

"Their souls could be saved any day, any night," Lottie added.

"They will come," Attie added. "They are empty."

"Soul cages," Lottie intoned.

"Yes…"Attie finished.

"Indeed," The Deacon said. "Would you three ladies lead the group into town? I would go myself, but I have preparations to make."

"We will go," Lottie said.

"We will bring them," Attie nodded.

Chessie sat, silent as the grave. She did not meet The Deacon’s gaze, nor anyone else’s. Her sisters sat very close on either side of her, giving the illusion that they were joined at the hip.

"Take as many of the faithful as you need," the Deacon said, "so long as you leave me enough to prepare the tent. I have other tasks to assign, other preparations to begin."

He might have glanced to the heavens at that moment, but he did not. He might have called them to prayer, or read to them from The Bible. They would pray with him. If he asked it, they would pray for him. They would recite their lines and close their eyes at the right moments just as he had taught them.

"Three days," he said. "I will allow three days to prepare. On the night of the third day, as our Lord and Savior, our spirits will rise. We will roll the stones from the tombs of our hearts and open them to the good people of Rookwood.

"As the sisters say, there will be song. We will raise a glorious noise and drive the darkness from our doorstep. There will be wine. There will be a healing such as we have never seen. We will drive the darkness into the desert where it will wither, hungry for the souls we deny it."

"Amen!"

This time it was a chorus – a cacophony of sound. They spoke with one voice, and they rose in one motion, streaming from the tent like ants from the top of a very deep, very dark hole. The Deacon watched them go. He neither smiled, nor frowned.

As they opened the tent to the darkness, the wind roared with the voice of an angry demon. Flickering candle and lantern light glittered in the wet puddles and mud beyond. Lightning flashed, and he saw his people scatter out through the camp. He waited until the last of them were gone before he snuffed out the lights. He doused them one by one, picking up the last of the lanterns by the wire handle.

The Deacon stepped out into the night. There was a light burning in his wagon, and he smiled. Colleen was awake. He breathed in deep, trying to taste her on the air. He exhaled. The child was awake. It took no magic to know it. He could hear the infant mewling. He wondered if Colleen was in the mood for a story?

‡‡‡

When Mariah finally woke, the wagon had long since lurched to a stop. It was dark, and her head felt as though it was stuffed with cotton, but when she pressed her palms to the wooden floor, she found she could sit up without much effort. Her body ached. It wasn’t a localized pain; it pulsed through her, every vein and every muscle. She felt her heartbeat, strong and insistent, but each beat burned like fire.

She was hungry. She rose shakily to her knees and crawled to the rear door of the wagon. She reached up to test it and see if she was locked inside. As she did so there was a rasping sound. The doors swung wide and Balthazar stood in the open doorway gazing at her with a mocking grin.

Behind and beyond him, lighting raked the sky. There was no accompanying rumble of thunder. There was no moon, and the stars had been doused by the storm. She heard the wind and the rain, but where she knelt, staring up into Balthazar’s dark, unyielding gaze, she felt no mist or breeze. She saw the rain, but it stopped somewhere short of the wagon leaving their camp dry. She heard the wind, but not a lock of her hair lifted from her shoulders, and Balthazar’s long coat hung around his legs, unruffled.

"I wondered if you would sleep your life away," Balthazar said. "There is bacon, and eggs. A tin of coffee is brewing. Hungry?"

"Yes," she said. She tried to rise, but dropped back to her knees. She gritted her teeth and levered herself to her feet. She had to brace herself on the wall, but Mariah managed to walk shakily to the rear of the wagon. Balthazar held out his hand. He provided no support as she stepped down, but her legs didn’t buckle under her.

"Much better," he said.

She grinned fiercely, despite the wave of nausea that rushed through her. She hated that his approval mattered, but for some reason it did, and it was suddenly important to her that something mattered. If he wasn’t lying to her, then her child waited for her somewhere in that storm.

Balthazar led her around the corner of the wagon. She tried not to think about what kept the rain at bay. She saw that the chairs sat before the fire once more. She stared out into the darkness. There were hills surrounding them, and a few gnarled, twisted trees were in sight.

"Where are we?" she asked.

"Not where we seem to be," was his cryptic answer. "We have little time, I’m afraid. We are going to need to speed your recovery, and your training."

"My training?" she frowned.

"Sit," Balthazar commanded. "Eat, and listen. I am not in the habit of saying things twice where once will do. There are a great many powers in motion, and my patience, which is rarely tested, wears thin."

Mariah took her seat by the fire. She had no idea what the man was talking about, but she’d caught the scent of freshly cooked bacon, and the amazing coffee he’d offered her the last time they'd talked. She reached for her plate and began eating without a word. Balthazar didn't sit. He paced beside the fire. Now and then he gazed out over the storm-swept desert, as though he expected to see something important out there beyond the curtain of rain.

When Mariah had finished, she washed the salty bacon down with coffee and set the plate aside. Balthazar turned. It was eerie how he sensed – or knew – the exact moment she’d finished, as though attuned to her. She thought about the moment she’d reached for the door to the back of the wagon and shivered.

"You had better get used to stranger things than that," Balthazar said, snatching the thought from her mind.

"I don’t understand," she said.

Balthazar turned to stare out into the storm. "There are things you need to know, and others that you need to learn, and only some few things that you need to understand. If you want to see your child again, there is work to be done. So, Mariah, are you ready to work?"

"What must I do?"

"First, I need you to remember," Balthazar said.

Mariah’s shivered. She had no idea why. It was though ravens had walked over her grave. "Remember what?" she asked.

"Everything," Balthazar said simply. "You must remember the journey that brought you to me. You must remember what came before. First, you must remember your name."

"My name is Mariah."

"Yes," he said with a smile. "That is the name they have given you. Names are easily given, but trust me it was not always your name. I believe that men and women deserve one name for each of their lives. In this life, you are Mariah. In your last life you were not."

"You aren’t making any sense," she said.

"It does, if you think about it, but that is by the by, nothing needs to make sense," Balthazar replied.

He turned back to face her, and she saw he was smiling again. There was no more warmth in his expression than before, but she saw a spark of – something.

"Tell me, what is your earliest memory?" he asked.

It was a simple enough question. Mariah turned her thoughts inward. She frowned.

"There were tents," she said at last. I was alone in one, and there were men – strange men – in the others. I remember thinking that they walked oddly. Their eyes were…cold."

She almost said like yours but bit the words back.

"They wouldn’t talk to me. They brought me food three times a day. One of them was always by the fire. I don’t think we were always in the same place . . ."

"What makes you think that?"

"The trees were different, but…" She fell silent. Then started again, haltingly. "I know we moved from campsite to campsite… but I don’t remember a wagon, or horses. Near the end I couldn’t have ridden – I was so heavy – but…"

"You traveled," Balthazar finished. "You remember nothing before that? Tell me, who is the father of this child of yours? If that is too difficult, tell me where you were born. If you cannot find the place, tell me the names of your parents. Tell me something that didn’t happen yesterday or last week or last month. Go back and tell me about kicking up leaves as a little girl and making angels in the mud."

Mariah felt an icy claw of doubt grip her heart. She had thought of none of these things since waking. Her mind had been full with the singular thought: her child. And then, as the needs of hunger had become overpowering, she had thought about food.

"I escaped them," she said at last, ignoring his questions. "I remember lying on my bedroll in that tent and thinking I would go crazy if I stayed another minute. Something was wrong with the child, and they wouldn’t talk to me.

"It was late afternoon. They mostly came out of their tents at night. One of them was watching the fire," she closed her eyes, remembering. "I walked past him. He didn’t look up until I had passed. I kept walking, right to the edge of the camp. I remember thinking that it was strange that the camp seemed to have an edge. There was a point where you were inside…and another where you were not.

"I stood right at that edge, as I’d done I don’t know how many times before. I felt his eyes on my back, but pretended I didn’t know he was watching. I don’t know how I knew when he turned away," she shrugged. "I just knew."

She turned her face up to meet Balthazar’s gaze. "I don’t even know who they were!" she said.

"It isn’t important," Balthazar replied.

She turned away. He was wrong. It was important to her, but she kept that to herself. She didn’t need to tell him. He could reach into her head and pluck the damned thought out. He almost certainly knew the story she was telling – and probably better than she ever would.

"The baby kicked. It hurt, and I knew it wasn’t normal. I mean I’d felt him moving before, but this was different. Before, it had always made me smile. Alone in that tent, I knew – at least – that he was with me. I don’t even know how I knew it was a boy.

"But then he kicked and it hurt. I staggered, and that step was like walking through – I don’t know – a wall of ice? It was cold. I felt it shatter – and that doesn’t make any sense, but the baby kicked again and I fell forward. I was in agony. I heard a scream behind me, but it wasn’t like any scream I’d ever heard. It was high-pitched, shrill, and incredibly loud. I crawled forward, away from the sound – and away from the camp. When I finally looked back I saw the tents, and the fire. None of the men who had watched me were in sight.

"I had things in that tent. I had a pack, and a bedroll. I turned to go back for my belongings, but the baby kicked again, and I screamed. The pain was like having a knife dragged through my belly. I didn’t know what to do. It hurt and I didn’t know how to make it stop.

"When I crawled away from the camp again – the pain eased. It still hurt, but the further I went, the easier it was to move, and eventually I didn’t have to crawl. I was able to walk."

Mariah fell silent again. The next part of her memory was so hazy she wasn’t certain she trusted it to words.

"I walked for a very long time," she said, looking at Balthazar to see if he would help her focus the memories into something coherent. He met her gaze and nodded for her to continue. "I remember that I almost fell into a gulch. It was dry and rocky. I slid partway down, tore my pants. I was afraid for the baby. When I climbed up the other side, I saw firelight. I saw a fire. I heard something, but I wasn’t sure what. I was so hungry, and so very, very tired. I remember thinking that if I could just make it to those voices, to that fire, that I might find help."

Balthazar listened in silence. His gaze was invasive. It penetrated her in ways she hadn’t known possible. It felt as though her life drained into his hungry eyes. It wasn’t merely parasitic. As her life slipped away she found herself able to grasp more of the tendrils of her past, as though one had been weighing down the other, and now she was free to remember at least a little more.

"By the time I saw the wagons, and the tents, I could barely walk," she said at last. She rubbed a hand down her jaw, pressing in her cheeks as she grasped the memory. "One tall tent stood in the center of a clearing. I remember! Lights were flickering inside it, and I saw shadows swaying back and forth. People! I heard a voice, and I wanted very badly to know what it was saying – and who it was."

"Of course you did," Balthazar soothed.

"Something happened. The doors of the tent opened, and people spilled out into the night. I tried to call out to them, but before I could scream…."

"The baby kicked again," Balthazar said, taking up her words as she let them drop away.

She gazed at him evenly for a long moment, and then nodded.

"I fell to my knees. I remember that I started to crawl, but I was too far away. I heard horses in the distance. The creak of a wagon, as well. I heard footsteps, but now I think about it there weren’t many voices. I was so tired…I crawled on my hands and knees, and the pain eased a little, but the closer I got to the tent, the quieter the night became, until I thought I had found my way to one more fire with men who didn’t speak – a fire that would never keep me warm. I felt eyes on my back. I remember that. I remember how frightened I was that that they must have followed me after all, that they were going to carry me away, back to the woods and the trees and that cold fire pit. I was so frightened that they would kill my baby," she shook her head, fingers reaching into her dirty hair to massage her scalp as she teased the memories out.

"I managed to get to my feet and stagger into the camp. I tried to reach the tent, but I was too weak. I fell to my knees, and the rocks cut me. I cried out then, I’m sure of it. Whatever had gone wrong had worsened. It felt as though I was being torn apart from the inside. There was no one to help, no one to see, but I couldn’t go on. I lay there and…"

"Yes?" Balthazar asked softly.

"I don’t’ know," she said softly. "The next thing I remember was waking and finding you staring down at me. My baby…"

"As I have said," Balthazar cut across her, "your child is alive, for the moment. I do not have the time it would take to explain to you how that is possible, so you are going to have to trust me. You said that you left things behind in that tent. Do you remember what they were?"

It took her a moment to understand that he was talking about the strange camp from which she’d escaped. Her mind was full of the vision of the larger tent, the droning, powerful voice she’d heard rising over the wind, and the overwhelming memory of pain.

She shook her head. "Is it important? I had a pack," she said. "I don’t remember why I carried it," she tried to remember. She wanted to please him. "There was a book inside. No, not a book, my book. I kept a journal. And a dress – I have no idea whose it was, or where it came from. There was more but I don’t remember what. I carried it because it was all that I had."

"You never read the journal?" Balthazar asked.

"No," she said. She felt as though she’d bitterly disappointed him with that one word.

He frowned and dragged the large, ornate pocket watch out by its chain. He flipped open the fob and grunted at whatever he read inside. He snapped it shut abruptly.

"Well, my dear, I shall tell you a final story," he said. "When I am done, you will understand much more than you do now, though not everything. It will have to be enough."

She started to ask him to tell her about her child. Before she got the words out of her mouth, the fire, which had died away to nothing, flared. It rippled out from the center of the ring of stones, spiraling in ever widening circles until it formed a pillar of flame. The pillar rose straight into the air, its sides smooth, but rippling with licking red flames.

Balthazar stepped around the stones to where Mariah sat, bowed at the waist in a darkly comic flourish, and offered her his hand.

"I thought you were going to tell me a story," she said, taking his hand tentatively.

"Oh, I am going to do better than that," Balthazar laughed. "Words take far too long to tell stories, and when they do, you never can tell how much of what is said will sink in, can you? Sometimes you need to see a story unfold."

"But…"

Balthazar winked at her then. It was the first sign of genuine merriment she’d seen from him. He took her hand firmly, turned, and stepped directly into the roaring pillar of flame.

Mariah screamed as Balthazar pulled her in after him.

As her arm was dragged through the fire, the heat of the flames seared her flesh. She felt it catch her clothing, and her hair. All breath left her, driven out by the unbearable heat. The world whirled and she felt herself losing her balance, her mind and body spiraling downward. She remembered the path the flame had taken from the center of the stone circle. There was a roar of sound, voices? The screaming ate through her thoughts as the flames ate through her flesh. She passed into darkness choking on the heat.

The stone circle beside the wagon held a charred, cold remnant of fire. Black soot whirled in the memory of a vortex. In the distance, the storm raged. A flash of lightning shot down toward the wagon and fell short, rippling along an invisible dome to strike impotently at the earth.

This time it was followed by a crack of thunder.

‡‡‡

The wagon rolled into town. The two mules pulling it were old. One appeared to be blind in one eye, and the driver – a dwarf – steered carefully around the ruts in what passed for the road and the muddy holes left by the night’s storm. The sun had risen bright and hot. Steamy shimmers rose from the puddles as mud dried and cracked.

Provender Creed and Silas Boone stood at the hitching rail outside the saloon and watched its slow progress. Neither made a move to step into the street and greet the newcomers. It wouldn’t be long before Brady showed up, and first words were always his privilege. Best to watch from the shadows and see which way the wind blew, Creed thought.

He hawked and spat a wad of chewing tobacco into the mud. Despite the storm that had savaged them the night before, the wind didn’t blow at all. On the contrary, the air was stagnant and dead. Flies had gathered where the moisture lingered. They buzzed in fat clumps. There was a stench of decay in the air that was uncommon in Rookwood. It wormed its way beneath Creed’s skin. He had no liking for the smell, nor the sight of the dwarf riding his wagon down the muddy street.

The wagon stopped by the abandoned church. The dwarf dropped to the ground, waddled around the side of the wagon, and hitched the horses to the post. On the seat beside him, three old women sat huddled so close together they appeared to be a three-headed beast. Creed couldn’t quite make out their faces from where he sat, but he knew they were watching him, and that sensation crawled over his skin like maggots on a dead wolf.

"What you reckon they want?" Silas asked.

Creed saw the barman studying the rear of the wagon and knew his only concern was that Colleen might be with them. Several passengers dropped to the ground behind the wagon, but none of them was Silas’ whore. There was a tall, one armed man, a young, dirty looking boy in clothing a size too small that looked as though it hadn’t been washed once since it fit perfectly, a woman with dirty brown hair who limped oddly as she walked, as if something might be wrong in her hip, the dwarf, and the three old women. They were a motley crew of misfits, for sure.

Most of them carried small bundles. The dwarf carried nothing. The sisters did not immediately clamber down from their seats in the wagon. They sat on the bench, staring up and down the street. At least two of them did, Creed amended. The third sat between then, staring straight ahead. At him.

"Damn," Silas muttered. "Feels like the hag’s starin’ right through me."

Creed glanced up at the man, and then turned his attention to the dwarf, who was drawing nearer with each labored step. The little man moved with an odd, rolling gait. One of his stunted legs was slightly shorter than the other, pitching him awkwardly to the side and taking three inches off his height. He couldn’t have been more than four foot boot heel to hat brim. He was smiling, and despite the oddity of the little man’s appearance, and the glare from the three crones on the wagon seat, Creed grudgingly returned that smile.

"Morning, sirs," the stranger crowed. "And a fine morning it is, I might add. No rain, no storms, the sun in the sky and the Good Lord watching over us."

"If you say so," Creed said, tipping the brim of his hat.

The little man’s smile didn’t dip, and he never missed a beat. He hopped up onto the walkway and held his hand out to Creed.

"Name’s Longman," he said. "I don’t believe I saw you at the funeral, but you know, I miss things from time to time. Anything above here," he held his hand a foot over his head, around the level of Creed’s chest, "starts to lose focus."

Silas chuckled.

"Longman?" he asked.

"Indeed," Longman replied, lowering his voice so it sounded conspiratorial. "I believe that God watches over me, and I’ll tell you a secret. I’ll tell you why I believe. It’s because of my name. Some folks would say it’s a cruel joke. Others would say – and I tell you, I fall into the second group – that it’s proof that God has a sense of humor. I could have been born to a family named Short, or Tallwood, and it would be the same, but Longman seems to fit me just fine. I’ve always been contrary, you see…so why stop at the name?"

Creed turned, squatted so he could meet the shorter man’s gaze levelly, and took the offered hand.

"Provender Creed," he said. "You mind tellin’ us, Mr. Longman, why you and your folks have come into town today? Seems a mighty long ways to ride just to take some air."

"Indeed, indeed," Longman said. "That would be odd indeed, and I can understand why it would confuse you, but no. We have a purpose here, a grand purpose. A mission, you might call it. We bring word from The Deacon."

"Do tell," Silas said. "And what does the holy man have in store for us this time? We’re plumb out of corpses, for the moment."

Longman glanced up at the barman and chuckled.

"Much better than a funeral, I hope," he said. "There’s going to be a revival."

Creed looked at the sorry houses up and down the street, then back at the dwarf. "I think he’s about ten years too late for Rookwood."

Silas chuckled, and the dwarf joined in, but just at that moment the one armed man wandered over. In his hand he held a small stack of hand-lettered flyers. He held them out, and Longman took one from the pile.

"Thank you Rupert," he said. "I’ll explain it to these gentlemen. You go on down the street, see who you can find. Make sure you leave one with Mr. Bender. The Deacon was particularly appreciative of all his help at the funeral services."

"Yes sir, Mr. Longman," the one-armed man replied. He tipped his hat to Creed and Silas and started slowly off down the road. The three men watched him go. When he was a dozen paces away Longman turned back to Creed.

"He’s a good man," the dwarf said. "Works hard. When The Deacon took him in, he was half dead. Kids in his home town threw rocks at him. One hit him in the head. They thought he’d die, but they didn’t count on the healin’."

"You believe that?" Creed asked. He was hard pressed to keep the edge of cynicism out of his voice.

"My friend, I saw it," Longman replied. There was no guile in the smaller man’s face, and his smile had gone, leaving his face flat and serious.

"Seems like a lot of folks The Deacon has healed have…new problems," Silas cut in.

"Everything comes with a price," Longman replied. "Rupert lives a good life. He works hard, eats three squares and has a place to sleep at night. No one in The Deacon’s flock throws stones at him. I’d say that’s a better life, wouldn’t you?"

"Who are the ladies?" Creed asked, changing the subject.

Longman turned back to the wagon.

"The sisters?" he asked. "That would be Lottie, Attie, and Chessie. They’ve been with The Deacon as long as I can remember. I guess you’d say they’re…spiritual advisors."

"Well, they don’t look especially spiritual," Silas said. "But I guess they’re one day closer to death than the rest of us."

Creed glanced up at him.

"Unless you carry on watering down your whiskey. Then there’s no accounting for what might happen."

Longman cackled. He laid a hand on Creed’s arm. "They’ve been watching you since we arrived," the little man said. "The sisters, I mean. You go talk to them, keep them company a while, you might learn something important."

"What would that be," Creed asked.

The dwarf glanced at down at the street, and Creed followed his gaze. In the dirt, just beyond the rail, a black feather lay, coated in dust. He didn’t need to pick it up, or to look more closely. He knew that feather.

"What do you know?" he asked.

Longman shook his head. "Me? Nothing. I don’t know things. I get vague notions, time and again. I paint. The sisters? They know. There’s a difference."

Creed pushed off the rail, leaned down to pluck the feather from the street, pocketed it and turned away without another word.

"Where you going, Creed?" Silas asked.

"Talk to Longman, Silas," Creed said without looking back. "My guess is he’s going to want you to spread the word about the revival. I’m going to see if I can entertain the ladies for a few minutes."

Creed stepped off the walk into the street and started toward the wagon. The old women watched him every step of the way. Two of them, the ones on the left and right, started talking to each other immediately. The third didn’t say a word. She just stared straight at him, or, as Silas had said, through him. Her expression never wavered.

"Morning," Creed said.

He stopped short of the wagon and tipped the brim of his hat.

"He’s polite," Lottie said.

"And young," Attie added.

"Name’s Creed," he said. "Provender Creed. And it’s been a long time since anyone called me young. The little man over there says you might want to tell me something?"

"Longman sent him," Lottie cackled.

"What’s that in his pocket?" Attie asked.

The middle sister stared. Creed took the feather out of his pocket and twirled it between thumb and forefinger in the sunlight. It was dusty from the road, but it still gleamed and sparkled with that oily sheen that had left his fingers sticky. Creed stepped closer and held it out. Very slowly, as if waking from the depths of a deep sleep, Chessie reached out and plucked the feather from his hand.

She drew her arm back, and Creed stepped back as well.

"It’s big," Lottie observed.

"And black," Attie agreed. "Crow."

"Pardon me, ma’am," Creed cut in, "but there’s never been a crow born big enough to carry that around."

"Her crows are big," Lottie explained.

"Like men," Attie added.

"Whose crows?" Creed asked. "What are you talking about?"

"She comes," Chessie said softly. "She is the darkness. She is the night."

As she spoke, she twirled the feather deftly in her long, bony fingers. "The owl woman comes, and her soldiers. You have something she wants," the prophecy spilled from her lips. "They are coming for it. They are coming for you, Provender Creed."

Chessie fell silent.

The sisters turned in unison to stare at her. "She never speaks," Lottie said, eyes wide and frightened.

"Not without casting the bones," Attie added. She plucked the feather from her sister’s hand and cast it aside as though it burned. Creed reached out and snatched it from the air, pocketing it in a single fluid motion.

"What did she mean?" he pressed. "Who is the owl woman?"

"You must watch yourself," Lottie said. "She is dark. She is beautiful. She is the night. She will suck you dry and leave you like that feather of yours."

"Like the feather?" he asked.

"Dead," Attie said, helpfully. "Quite dead."

Creed stared at them. The middle sister, Chessie, showed no sign she knew he was there. He turned back, looking in the direction of the Saloon. Silas and Longman were nowhere to be seen.

"You’ll excuse me, ladies?" he said, and tipped his hat one more time as he turned away.

"Polite," he heard Lottie say behind his back.

"And young," Attie added. "So young to be a feather."

Their cackling voices followed him down the street, into the bar, and up the stairs to his room. He lay back on his cot and tipped his hat down over his eyes, and still their laughter echoed through his mind. Despite that, he drifted off to sleep.

He dreamed of men that were not men at all, but huge hulking crows. Against the backdrop of a silver moon, he dreamed of a great owl who was a woman. And as he slept, the feather rested against his chest, while the locket cooled his fevered skin.

Longman and his associates left their flyers about the town. People began to talk. The wagon rolled out of Rookwood and across the plain, taking the sisters with it.

Even when they were back with the Deacon at his tent city he was sure he could hear their laughter and Chessie’s promise: "She is the night, and the night is black, and black is death, and death is cold," a lost voice whispered in his mind.

Provender Creed shivered as somewhere a crow as large as a man settled on his grave.

‡‡‡

Mariah came around slowly. Her head was muggy, her thoughts slow. She was surprised that she’d slept. In fact it didn’t feel as though she’d slept at all. There was nothing refreshing about the lethargy that had stolen into her body. She opened her eyes. Balthazar stood over her. He leaned too close before she could turn away, bringing his lips to within an inch of her ear. She felt his stale breath tickle her cheek as he whispered a single word:

"Remember."

And then he was gone.

She lay for a moment longer, and then sat up slowly. She had been resting on something soft and cool. The fragrance of fresh flowers filled the air. It was dark, but a single shaft of sunlight cut through a window far above her, spearing down into the blackness. She bumped up against something hard, and tried to turn. In that moment, her vision cleared. Her breath caught in her throat. She swallowed three times, trying to force the air out of her lungs but all that came out of her mouth was a choked, gurgle.

She was in a church. She knew the church. She had been there before but she had no idea when or where it had been. She scrambled up and back and cracked her neck painfully into the end of the coffin that held her. She cried out again, and this time she managed to scream. She gripped the side and hauled herself up. The shift of balance as she struggled caused the casket to tip. She spilled out over the edge and fell with it. Her hip caught the corner of the altar and she rolled, sprawling across the smooth wooden floor.

Pain lanced through her like fire. She forced herself to her feet. Nothing made sense. She turned about and then again, staring at her surroundings in confusion. Balthazar was nowhere to be seen. The heavy double doors of the church were closed. She was alone.

Piles of lilies and sentimental offerings lay all around the coffin. Her coffin. No, she refused to think of it like that. Something had happened, something that made no sense and left her senses reeling, but it wasn’t her coffin. It couldn’t be. She swallowed a heavy breath and took an unsteady step toward the altar. She knew she should get out, that she should run, but something about the echoing darkness of the empty building called to her. Something about the arrangements of flowers, and the sentimental offerings itched at her mind in a way she refused to believe. She managed two more steps down the aisle then looked up at the stained glass window. She knew the design in the glass. She reached out, and clutched at the back of one of the pews to steady herself. The seats behind the altar, where the choir sat during services, were every bit as familiar as the window.

She wore only a thin white gown. Her bare feet were cold on the polished plank floor. She picked up a card from the corner of the altar. It had a fresh pressed flower against it, the seeds and petals crushed flat. She opened it.

"My Dearest Elizabeth, I pray with all my heart that Our Father grants you peace until we can be together once more, Benjamin."

She lurched away from the altar, staggered and stumbled painfully into the railing. The card fluttered to the floor like a dying moth. Memories like ghosts flashed through her mind. She tangled her fingers in her hair, gripped tightly and yanked fiercely at it. She screamed and screamed and screamed and still they would not stop.

Her childhood – her father – Benjamin.

She stumbled forward and dropped to her knees before the altar as though in prayer. Beside the altar she saw a battered old leather pack. She knew it as she knew everything in this life. She had no idea how she knew, but it was Benjamin’s. She remembered lying in the grass, the warm sun on her face. Where were they? A picnic? And then she remembered his voice, and behind it, his smile.

Mariah took the pack by its strap. Her hand trembled as she lifted it, and not just from the deathly chill that suffused the church. She remembered the last time she’d seen the pack. Benjamin had left it beside her bed because she had been too sick to go out with him. Sweet as always, he’d said it didn’t matter. He sat with her and brought her tea and told her that he would leave the pack beside her bed.

"When you are well again we’ll have our picnic. I won’t need it before then, and it will give you something to look forward to. Until then, let it be a reminder of me."

She set the pack in her lap and loosened the leather ties binding the flap. When Benjamin had left it in her room there had been a bottle of dark red wine, a tablecloth he’d intended to spread over the grass, a book of poetry he’d bought from a man who’d come in from the east, all tucked away inside. They had shared the poetry, a verse at a time. After each new verse, he tucked the book back inside the pack with the promise that the next one was for the future.

She rifled through the pack. There was no bottle now. She pulled out a blue silk dress, a gasp of recognition slipping past her lips. It was the dress she’d worn the night he proposed. It slipped through her fingers. Something dropped to the floor, hitting the wood with a clink of metal.

She saw the locket on the floor and tears streamed from her eyes. They ran down her cheeks, wetting the cotton gown she wore. It was white, like the lilies. She pulled at it with her fingers. She knew what it was, there was only one thing it could be given the coffin and the altar and the offerings: a shroud.

There was a book in the pack, and she lifted it out, expecting the volume of poetry. It wasn’t, but she knew it well enough. It was her journal, bound with a ribbon. The end was frayed from all the times she’d teased it open and tied it closed. She started to unfasten the knot, and then thought better of it. She tucked it back into the pack, rolled the dress around the locket, and stuffed it all back inside. She tied the flap, shouldered the pack and rose.

As she did, the church door opened, and a man stepped through. At first he didn’t notice her. It was obvious he expected to be alone. He was humming a mournful little tune. He wore a dark suit and a tall hat, and his name came to Mariah’s lips unbidden.

"Reverend Criscione?" she said softly.

He spun as if slapped across the back of the head and backed up against the door. His hands came up instinctively, as though to ward off more unseen blows. Mariah took a step toward him. She held out her hand, but stopped when she saw the white terror blazed onto his face.

"Father in Heaven," the preacher rambled, tripping over every syllable before he got it out of his mouth.

He crossed himself and reached behind his back for the door handle. He fumbled the latch, tried again, and then turned, slamming the flat of his hand against the wood in blind panic. He gripped the door and yanked it wide open. Daylight streamed into the chapel.

"Please," Mariah called after him. "Don’t leave me. I need help…"

But he wasn’t listening. There was no help to be had in this room, no salvation for her lost soul. Reverend Criscione disappeared into the light beyond the door, and Mariah didn’t know what else to do but follow. Her legs were weak. She stumbled twice before she reached the door and had to clutch it to stop herself from falling. She called out to him again, but her pleading fell away, unheard. As she stepped out of the church she saw his back disappearing down the main street into town.

"Reverend, wait!" she screamed. "It’s me. Don’t you recognize me? It’s Mariah…it’s," she frowned and shook her head. No, it wasn’t. "It’s Elizabeth – Elizabeth Tanner."

Her words echoed from the buildings, but no one heard because it seemed there was no one to hear. She started toward town, clutching the pack’s straps tightly. She had to find her father. He would know what to do. She had to make him see. It had all been a mistake, a horrible mistake. She had been ill – very ill – but she wasn’t dead. They’d got it wrong. She wasn’t dead.

Sunlight hurt her eyes. She walked with one hand up to shield them as she neared the edge of town. She had to squint to see more than blurred outlines and darker shadows. She heard voices. She sobbed with relief and stumbled forward. She thought she recognized the reverend, but it didn’t matter. Whoever it was, they would understand. They would help her. She had so many friends in the town; she had grown up here with them, they all knew her and loved her. Everyone did, and not only because of who her father was. If she could only find Benjamin, she could make it all right. They would find the wine, and the poetry book. They would go to the meadow and lie in the long grass and everything would be good. Everything would be as it was supposed to be.

"There she is!" a voice cried, cutting across the lie she was telling herself.

"Dear God!" another cried.

"It’s true!"

"She’s come back . . . from the dead," a fourth cut in. This voice sounded drunk – and frightened.

Reverend Criscione stepped forward. He held two silver candlesticks, one in each hand, and had them braced in the shape of the cross. His eyes blazed with righteous fury, and though he did not step forward between his two companions, his voice boomed out loud and strong.

"Get thee gone, foul creature of Satan! Return to the grave from whence you came!"

"Reverend?" Elizabeth said softly, confused.

He took a step forward and brandished his makeshift crucifix. "Begone, foul spirit! Leave us, or be destroyed!"

Elizabeth took a step back and the three advanced, gaining confidence as she faltered. She started to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. Tears streamed from her eyes.

"She weeps like the virgin!" one of them cried.

"It’s a lie! A trick of Satan! Kill her!" another barked, and that sparked a roar of approval from the others.

He fumbled at his belt, and Elizabeth realized he was going for a weapon. She turned and ran, fleeing back toward the church. Sharp chips of stone dug into her bare feet, but she didn’t slow, and she didn't look back. She heard more voices now, others shouting to her pursuers. They fell away behind her, and she knew they were gathering.

She hesitated. If enough of them joined the group, she thought desperately, maybe someone would listen. Maybe someone could see the truth. She snorted bitterly. If the group laid hands on her she was as good as dead – again. They wouldn’t listen. They would be rabid, hungry for the kill. She laid her hand against her heart and felt it beating strongly. She was alive. She was no demon, no matter what they thought. She was the same girl she had always been. Surely she could make them see that?

These people had loved her . . .

She stopped running and turned. The mob slowed, coming cautiously toward her down the dusty street. Someone had brought out a torch despite the fact that it wasn’t dark – and she realized they meant to burn her. The flames flickered over his head, dancing in the breeze. They all spoke at once. Reverend Criscione called out to her, quoting lines of scripture. She had never found him particularly comforting, and now – with torch’s flame dancing off his sweat-coated face – he looked and sounded terrifying.

"Please!" she begged them to understand. "It’s me! I’m alive! I don’t know what’s happened, but you must believe me. Please! Find my father! Find Benjamin – they will tell you. They will show you. I…"

A stone whizzed through the air, landing a couple of feet from her. She followed its trajectory, shocked, watching it bounce away harmlessly. Another landed closer. The third wasn’t harmless; it struck her on the thigh.

She screamed in pain. A fourth stone flew straight at her face and she raised her arms to block it, turning her face.

"Do you think they’d be so quick to stone their risen Messiah?" Balthazar’s mirthless voice echoed inside her head. She spun around looking for him. He would help her. He would stop this! He wasn’t there.

The air exploded with sound. A screech of rage blasted the silence. A dark form dropped from the blazing sky like a black bolt of lightning. It struck the fourth stone from the air inches from Elizabeth’s face, and then soared upward with a powerful sweep of wings, screeching.

"A demon!" Reverend Criscione cried, pointing. "You saw it! A demon! She called a demon to protect her!"

"It looked like an owl to me…" another chimed in.

Elizabeth didn’t wait. She turned and fled. Blinded with tears she bit back on the pain and ran without a sound as the road tortured her feet. She ran as she’d never run in her life, back to the church, and beyond. She stumbled through the lichgate into the graveyard, running between the stones, and tripped, slamming her knee painfully into a gravestone. She lurched away from it and stopped dead in her tracks. Another step and she’d have tumbled into an open, empty grave. She didn’t need to look down. She knew what it was. She knew who it was for.

There was a wooden plank hammered into the earth to mark the plot. Scrawled across it in dingy whitewash barely visible in the sun, her name shimmered back at her. She sobbed and pushed herself away, moving through the graves more carefully. Behind her, she heard them coming, their voices drawing nearer. Without looking back, she ran on. Her breath came in deep, heaving gasps, but she didn’t stop. She knew there was a narrow path beyond the graveyard, and that it curled down the side of the hill to the gulch. She looked up. The sun was still high in the sky. Night was maybe an hour away. If she reached it there would be places to hide. They might not follow her across. Not in the dark. All she had to do was wait for the night.

She found the trail and started down. It was more overgrown than she remembered. She moved as quickly she could, wriggling between the trailing branches and trying not to cry out as limbs slapped at her and roots cut into her feet.

The voices seemed more distant now, disembodied, as though she were gaining ground. She forced herself on, stumbling down and down the narrow track.

Something cried out above her. She spun and stared up through the trees, trying to see what had made the sound, but could make out nothing through the thatch of branches overhead. As she turned back to the trail, the strap of Benjamin’s pack snagged on the stub of a branch. She tried to yank it free, but the branch refused to surrender its prize. She pulled hard again, so hard she lost her balance and started to fall. She waved her arms wildly, trying to find her balance, and the pack tore free. She stumbled back, almost made it upright, and then lost her footing completely and plunged over the edge of the gorge.

She heard the inhuman scream of a great bird, and her mind went blank.

On the cliff above, Reverend Criscione and the others watched as a great dark shape rose, silhouetted against the failing sun, and then – without warning – disappeared.

The ground beneath her back was cold and hard. Stones dug into her side. Her head spun. Somewhere inside she lost herself, who she was. Her eyes were gummed shut with the grit of dust and sleep. She rubbed at them with her knuckles and opened them.

She screamed.

A man stood over her, a strange man with coal black, furtive eyes that glared at her with such inhuman intensity it stole her breath and stilled her scream. His nose was oddly narrow, his eyes set close to the prominent ridge. A dark tangle of hair sprouted from his head in a wild tumble, glossy and blue-black. He wore a hat, and a long dark coat that fluttered up and created strange shadows around him. It wasn’t like any coat she’d ever seen.

Elizabeth tried to back away. The cotton gown hung off her in tatters. Somehow the ragged clothing made her feel more naked than if she'd been wearing nothing. She tried to wrap it around herself, but the man leaned down and, with one powerful yank, stripped the remnant from her body. It fell about her feet in tatters. He stared at her. His glare was hideous and uncomfortable but there was no lust in it. Still, she tried to cover herself.

That was when she noticed.

She didn’t understand. It was wrong.

Horrified, she looked down and instead of seeing her bruised and bloodied feet, saw her belly. It was round and full. She clutched at it, trying to make sense out of what she saw. Elizabeth shook her head, working up a scream, but the man leaned in, tangled his fingers in her hair, and shook his head. She stifled the cry. Her eyes swam with the madness that threatened to take her.

She's fallen. Surely it couldn't have been more than a few moments since then? She'd lost her grip, slipped and fallen from the narrow cliff edge into the gulch. Images and memories warred for control of her mind. Mariah and Elizabeth grasped the frayed ends of her memories, each trying to weave a different picture and both falling short of their shared reality. She heard trailing wisps of Balthazar’s insidious whisper echoing through her brain, and the visions he’d shown her complicated what her mind told her had to be true. She had been pregnant, and her child had been taken. She had been Elizabeth. Her name was Mariah.

She had fallen but she hadn’t struck the ground – she had been snatched out of the air and borne up by something huge, and dark. She was pregnant. Her name was Elizabeth, and she had been dead. When Balthazar found her she’d been on that doorstep a second time. Was she alive at all? Was this hell?

She sat up, groaned at the sudden pressure this put on her swollen belly, and tried to rise. She didn't have the strength. She ached all over. A sharp pain on her forearm caught her attention. She glanced over and saw long, deep welts scored into her soft flesh, as though she'd been gripped too tightly in gigantic hands. Or talons? A wave of dizziness swept over her. She saw the ground falling away with sickening speed, felt the darkness swallow her and the wind suddenly lash against her face. Whatever had taken her had gripped her arms and its grip had not been gentle.

The flap of the tent opened and a second man entered. He was so absolutely physically identical to the first that she had to blink and shake her head to be sure she wasn't seeing double. The newcomer threw something at her and she raised her hands to catch it. She realized her mistake, and lowered them in confused misery. What struck her was a rolled bundle. The double men turned and left the tent. The flap dropped closed behind them. Elizabeth glanced down at what she held.

Draped across her impossibly swollen belly were pants and a threadbare shirt. She sat up quickly. Her head swum alarmingly as she fumbled with the roll of clothes. She struggled into them. The shirt was several sizes too large, but given the sudden swelling of her belly that was a good thing. She buttoned it quickly and squirmed on her backside, wriggling into the unfamiliar pants. Ladies did not wear pants, but she didn’t hesitate.

She had trouble finding a place for them to ride her hips that wouldn’t cause undue pressure. She reached for Benjamin’s pack and pulled it closer. Even the buttons on the pants seemed beyond her. She couldn’t think, or concentrate.

None of it was possible. She couldn’t button her pants because the pants and the tent could not exist. She was not pregnant. She believed she might be dead. She believed she might have fallen from the cliff, broken something that could not be repaired, and ended up lying in a heap at the bottom of the gorge spending her last moments of life trapped in a nightmare.

The tent she did not believe. The men with faces like predatory birds were not possible. The only thing that she could see that made any sense was the pack – but even that took her back to the events leading up to her fall. She’d woken up in a casket. She’d been stoned by the minister who had baptized her as a child.

She managed to fasten the pants and felt slightly better. She rolled to her knees, rested for a moment, and then brought one leg up. In a moment she had both feet beneath her. She stood on weak and trembling legs.

Beyond the tent, she heard the crackling of a small fire. She stumbled toward the sound. She reached out to pull back the tent flap, but before she touched it, she glanced back at the pack lying on the ground. She felt as though she should pick it up – that it was important to keep it with her. She half-turned, taking the first step to go back for it, but a sudden sharp twinge in her belly – the baby kicking? – stopped her. Wincing, she pulled back the tent flap and stepped into the clearing.

She didn’t find a campfire. The dark men in their eerie coats and peculiar hats were nowhere to be seen. Four feet from the front of the tent where she stood, a pillar of flame poured into the air. The flame had a soft phosphorescent glow; the light radiating from the heart of it was almost subdued. It pulsed and writhed in a harlot’s dance. She thought, more than once, that she saw a face pass over the surface, or hands clutch at the edges of the flame and then, as quickly as they surfaced, they were gone.

Elizabeth stepped out from the safety of the tent. Only a single step forward at first. But then she took another, and then another. As she walked, she felt her weight shifting, and suddenly there was an imbalance caused by her compensating for her pregnant belly that Elizabeth didn’t understand. She laid her hands on her stomach, panic flaring in her mind. All she could think was that something was wrong. Her belly was flat and smooth. Her baby was gone. Her hands were thin to the point of emaciation. The bones stuck out against sallow skin. She stumbled forward one more step, coming closer to the flickering flames. She felt the heat on her skin. She heard voices. They were screaming and crying out but she couldn’t understand them. She reached out a tentative hand, expecting the flame to burn. She wanted desperately to touch it, to purge herself.

A hand clawed out from the fire, raking the air. Before she could pull away strong fingers wrapped around her wrist and heaved her off her feet. She fell forward, screaming, face first into the flames. She felt her skin sear, shrivel and crack, and the liquid in her eyes and mouth boil, then parch as all the moisture was burned out of her. Her skin flaked and charred – and then the overwhelming agony, the screaming, the fire beneath her skin, was gone.

She blinked; tears stung her eyes. She sat in the chair beside the low softly crackling fire. The storm still raged in the distance, forks of lightning flashing across the sky. She trembled violently.

"Ah, I see you have returned to me," Balthazar said. He sounded almost amused. He rose, and reached for her hand. "Come," he said. "We have work to do."

She stood shakily, unable to pull her gaze from the dancing flames.

"God in heaven," she said softly. "What am I?"

"You are my blade," Balthazar replied. "The hotter the fire’s flame, the sharper the edge."

He led her past the campfire to the back of the wagon and helped her up the steps and inside.

This time as she lay on the hard wooden floor, she felt the wheels turn, and the steady bump of ground passing beneath them. She dropped into deep, cleansing sleep.

There were no dreams.