Hallowed Ground

Chapter Twenty-Four

The Deacon sat at his desk reading. The light of his lantern flickered gently, and shadows played across the walls. Colleen sat on her bed, soothing the child. In another place and another time it might have been an idyllic slice of domesticity, but not here, not now. Certain things set it apart, little details. Anyone watching, though they might at first be taken in, would not be long in catching the chips and smears in the paint of normalcy.

The book was bound in leather with gold gilt print on the spine. From a distance it looked like a Bible. It was not. The Deacon ran his finger over the words, first along the lines as though reading them by touch and then down the length of the page, skimming. He was not sure what he was looking for, but it was there, hidden in the words, and he was obsessed with finding it. What he planned was unprecedented. That could mean he was a genius for conceiving such a bold plan, or, more worryingly, a fool for missing the reason why those others before him had decided against it. The Deacon did not believe he was anybody’s fool.

The book was hand-lettered. It had been pieced together from older scrolls and then translated from the original Greek by an alchemist named Bell more than a hundred years before. The language was archaic and all the more cryptic for it, but the text was also incredibly detailed. The Deacon had read the book from cover to cover more than once, and he’d learned a lot – both from Bell’s knowledge, and, tellingly, from his oversights.

This time he was reading in search of more obscure references. He was looking for any indication of a particular ritual, performed in a particular manner. He was looking for horrible failure, ultimate damnation – he’d been through every volume in his library in the span of two days. There was nothing. He thought of Longman’s Tarot cards. More precisely, he thought of "The Fool," stepping off a cliff into an unknown void with a mongrel dog snapping at his pants.

Every time Colleen rocked closer to him, the pouch strung around his neck twitched. It wasn’t regular enough to be rhythmic. It distracted him, and more than once he turned to snap at her, but each time he bit back the words.

He didn’t want the baby to wake. After a while he closed the book, sat, and stared. The child was resting quietly, nestled against Colleen’s breast. His form was nearly perfect. He – it -- had a symmetrical body, all the proper limbs and digits, a pleasant face. It was possible to make the mistake of believing one's eyes were honest. And for that moment the Deacon might have been looking at a young mother and her child.

But the Deacon didn’t believe the lies of sight. He didn’t balk at the creature’s gaze, he met it eye to eye, truth for truth, and whatever it might be, whatever it might become, he knew it was no innocent child Colleen cradled to her teat. It was hard to reconcile what he knew with any sort of child. He had looked deeper into the darkness of its eyes. He had drawn it forth from its mother.

The Deacon’s life, to that point, had been a series of events beyond his control bound by long periods of time where he was in absolute control. The talisman he wore was as much a curse as it was a gift. He had come to believe it had its own agenda. From the moment he’d come to this realization he’d been making his own plans. It was one thing to be trapped in a sequence of events beyond your control but it was an entirely different thing to surrender to that fate willingly. He had no idea if his labors would bear fruit, but he knew on a level bone-deep that the child – the creature – across the floor from him had its part to play.

His fingers strayed to the pouch as though seeking comfort from its contents. The Talisman had been trusted to him by a woman. It seemed that no matter what direction fate drove his life, women were doing the pushing. He’d been traveling alone when he came upon the camp of a traveling evangelist. The Deacon had seen the wagon from a distance, all lit up by the cheery fire that burned in front of it. He had walked through rain and shadows to warm himself on that blaze.

He tried to concentrate on the book in front of him, but his mind wandered back across the months to that long ago night.

‡‡‡

When The Deacon saw the fire through the trees, his first thought was to flee. His second was to barter. His need for food won out and he walked toward the light. Drawing nearer he saw that they were few in number, and his intentions shifted. He was armed, and they didn’t know he was there. It was as simple as that. He reckoned on taking the wagon, the food, water, and because it had been so long, any woman they had that was worth scratching that itch with. The other’s he’d either kill or leave stranded out here to let the heat do his dirty work. As so often happens when one has a plan, things changed.

That night, before he could step free of the shadows, a hand dropped onto his shoulder from behind. He’d heard no one approach, and he barely bit back a scream. Before he could draw another breath and cry out, a second hand covered his mouth. He smelled Jasmine. It was such a feminine scent he knew his attacker had to be a woman, but that didn’t make a damned bit of difference. He wriggled and twisted, kicked and threw his elbow back at her, but she held him. Grunting, he threw all of his weight into trying to break free, but her grip only tightened.

"Wait," she whispered in his ear. She was so close her breath prickled his skin. "I can help you. If you kill them, you will get the wagon, and a few days head start. But that is not where things will end. Look beyond tomorrow to next week, the week after. Someone will find out. They always do. Someone will stumble across the bones even if they’ve been picked clean by vultures. And then what? It might be a wild world out here, but that doesn’t mean they ignore murder."

"Who are you?" he asked.

The grip on his shoulder released and he turned hesitantly, not sure what he expected. Standing very close behind him was the most strikingly beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Her hair and eyes were black as obsidian. She was tall and slender, dressed in a long flowing gown that clung to her curves and should have looked odd and out of place, but looked, instead, as natural as the shadows – and darker.

"Who are you?" The Deacon repeated. The question was the same but the need to know driving it couldn’t have been more different.

"I am whoever you need me to be. I have had many names, and none of them are important. You do not need to know. Take this."

She held out her hand. He had no idea why he took what she offered, why he hadn’t at least tried to pull his gun and get the better of her. Or more disturbingly, why it never occurred to him. She spoke, and he acted.

She gave him a long, slender leather pouch. It was strung on a leather tie. He stared down at it. It was utterly unremarkable. It wasn’t heavy, so there were no coins in it, but it wasn’t empty either. He weighed it in his hand and felt something move inside it. He lurched back from the unexpected motion and flung his arm out, trying to cast the thing aside but his fingers were tangled in the leather tie.

"You would spurn my gift?" she laughed. It was a warm rich sound and all the more chilling for it. "Too late. Too late many things. Wear it. Take it to the preacher’s wagon and hold it to his heart. Speak any holy words that come to mind. One day, you will get the opportunity to thank me."

"For what?" he said.

The only answer was laughter and a sudden, impossible rush of wind. He held his hands before his face and fell to his knees. A huge dark form rose through the trees and the stormy clouds above with a banshee scream.

The Deacon felt his legs buckle and barely avoided voiding his bladder. He stared upward after the shadow. The rain pelted his face. He shook his head and staggered to his feet. In his hand, the small leather bundle squirmed. He stared at it, and tried again to untangle his fingers. He could not do it. He shrugged, slid the thong over his neck, and tucked the charm up under the soaked collar of his shirt. Something – a feeling deep in his bones – told him it was the right thing to do.

The wagon wasn’t far away, but the walk from the trees seemed to last an eternity. He saw the fire, like a beacon, drawing him on. There would be warmth near the flame. There would be food. He would kill for a decent mug of coffee. He chuckled to himself at the thought. He had intended to kill them all, coffee or not, but now his certainty was gone. A peculiar sensation had taken root at the base of his spine. Though he’d intended to kill them, he knew he would not.

When he was within a few yards of the wagon, he called out: "Hello!"

At first nothing happened. He wondered if whoever – whatever – he’d met in the trees might have swept in and spirited them away, or more probably frightened them into flight.

"Hello!" he called again.

The cover on the back of the wagon rustled and a slender wrist poked out, drawing it aside. A moment later a woman stuck her head out the hole. She was thin with a scarecrow’s unkempt straw-blonde hair and deep-set haunted eyes that said in a single glance she’d seen all the suffering the world had to show. Not quite all, he thought, scratching at his neck with a dirty finger. She glared at him as though reading his mind.

"Who are you?" she asked. "What do you want?"

The Deacon heard the tremble in her voice and smiled. His strength was returning, and with it, his resolve.

"To answer your first question, I’m a traveler," he said, "to answer your second, nothing more than a warm spot by the fire. I wouldn’t say no to food if you have it…and it has been a lifetime since I tasted coffee?" He looked up at the sky, hoping it would help her make up her mind to trust him. People fell for little innocent gestures. "It’s cold and wet."

She chewed hard at her lower lip as she mulled over the rain and the bedraggled man who’d shown up uninvited on her doorstep. "We don’t have much," the woman said. "But what we have you’re welcome to share."

The canvas fell closed. A moment later she climbed slowly out. The woman was too thin, but her bones still gave her flattering curves. The Deacon liked a woman with curves, but a bit of meat on the bones was a must for lust. She was maybe thirty years of age. He stepped closer. An awning stretched nearly to the campfire. The fire was walled in with a small circle of stones to keep out the worst of the wind and the rain. It was a neat, tidy camp. He sniffed the air. A pall hung over the place. He smelled it all the more potently in every intake of breath.

"Seat yourself," the woman said, pointing to an almost dry stone near one of the wagon’s wheels, "I’ll get you what I can. There’s coffee. It ain’t fresh, but it’s strong. That counts for plenty in my book."

"I appreciate it," The Deacon said. He dropped onto the stone and stretched his long legs. His muscles ached. It wasn’t exactly warm where he sat, but it was considerably less cold than it had been out in the rain, and it was still plenty better than the trees. He massaged his forearms to get the blood flowing again, and rubbed at his cheeks, feeling the heat against his hands. Slowly he felt his wits returning.

"I don’t mean to be rude, but seems to me there’s something … amiss," he said.

The woman turned.

"We travel with Pastor Ochse," she said. "He’s an evangelist…a man of God. He fell ill two nights ago. Nothing we’ve been able to do has helped."

Her voice broke then. The Deacon watched her – the world, it seemed, was presenting him with an opportunity he’d be a fool to pass up. Even as he thought this the small pouch grew suddenly hot against his chest and he had to stifle a cry of shock and pain. He winced and scratched at it. He knew all that rooting around with his fingers made it look as though he had fleas. It didn’t matter. His skin burned. As he bit back the pain, words sprang to his lips: "Perhaps I can help," he said. "I have something of…a gift…for these things."

"Healing?" she said, turning to stare at him. "Oh praise the Lord for his mercy! You’re a healer?"

The Deacon rose.

"Take me to him," he said, sounding much calmer than he felt.

The woman brought her hand to her mouth and gasped.

"He said you would come," she said. "He said the Lord would provide and that he would be spared. We thought he was fevered. We believed…"

"Take me to him," The Deacon repeated. It didn’t feel like a charade anymore. He pressed his hand to his chest. The woman stared at him. She believed in him.

The woman turned away from the fire. She disappeared into the wagon quickly, and a moment later, the canvas was pulled back fully. Inside the Deacon saw three wretched figures huddled up against the inner wall. There was an old, gray-bearded man with wild, bulging eyes. He had the body of a brawler who’d been beaten one time too many. There was a boy, fifteen at best, bum-fluff just starting to sprout from his cheeks, and another woman, older than the first and heavier. They watched him warily as he swung up into the wagon.

Against the other side of the wagon a narrow cot had been raised. The Deacon saw that a man lay across it. Blankets were pulled up to his chin. He was pale and jaundiced. A stench clung to him. Rot. The lamplight shone off glistening beads of sweat that peppered his skin.

The Deacon knelt beside the man. He didn’t want to touch him. Instead, he studied the tortured, fevered face looking for any sign of fight behind the eyes. He’d seen men in similar condition too many times. None of them had survived. The pouch burned against his skin with steady heat. He knew he wouldn’t be able to control his voice much longer, or to bite back the scream as it continued to lacerate his chest.

He reached into his shirt and gripped the talisman, trying to pull it away. His efforts only pressed the leather tighter against his skin. He wanted to scream but behind the agony he heard something else. He suddenly felt the weight of the woman’s hand on his shoulder once more, the dark woman from the trees. He heard her voice in his mind. He tried to hold on to it, laying his hand flat against his heart despite the searing pain.

Speak any holy words that come to mind.

He reached down and pulled back the blankets. As he worked, he spoke softly. Now and again he tossed out the few lines of scripture he knew and most of those he garbled. He unbuttoned Pastor Ochse’s shirt with trembling fingers and then, with a quick almost desperate motion, he drew out the talisman. This time, as if sensing his intent, it came away from his flesh easily. He held it in his the palm of his hand and was shocked to find that it was cool. No trace of the heat that had so tormented him remained. He touched his chest and felt the blistered skin beneath his fingers. He didn’t try to understand what was happening.

The Deacon leaned close and pressed the leather to the Pastor’s chest, not knowing what to expect.

The man’s eyes snapped open. He coughed, and a black cloud of … something … a wisp… smoke… ash?… curled from his mouth. The Deacon barely ducked back in time to avoid it as it lashed through the air in front of his face. The Pastor’s fevered body arched up off the sweat-stained sheets of the cot. The Deacon pressed him back down. He began to call out the words of The Lord’s Prayer, words he’d memorized as a boy and not spoken in years, in a deep, powerful voice.

"Our Father," he cried, "Who art in Heaven."

He never finished. The cloud of darkness bled through the canvas walls. At first it held that curious smoky quality but as his lips shaped around the word ‘Heaven’ it coalesced into something blacker and thicker until it looked like jags of black lightning tearing out through the canvas and into the night on the other side. There was a rush of wind, and the flaps of the wagon’s sides slapped out and back so hard it cracked like thunder. The Deacon reeled up and back, the talisman suddenly alive and squirming in his hand. In that moment he sensed it – it wasn’t just alive, it wasn’t just hungry; it was malevolent.

He caught himself with one hand on the wall of the wagon and tucked the pouch back into his shirt. It was cool and still, the magic burned out. No one was looking at him. The woman he’d first met had rushed past him to kneel at the pastor’s side.

Then The Deacon realized his first perception was wrong. One person was looking at him. The Pastor was awake, and staring up through blurred, reddened eyes. The corners of those eyes sparkled with tears. When he broke the silence his voice was pitifully weak: "Praise the lord."

The man shivered, his hands curled like claws around the sweat stained blanket. He looked like hell, but it was obvious his fever had broken. The Deacon watched a moment longer, and then he stumbled to the back of the wagon and half-climbed, half fell to the ground beyond. The earth was mucky and moist, and it soaked through the knees of his jeans, but he ignored it. He felt a surge of something inexplicable, a burst of energy and vitality that defied explanation. Inside, he roared. The pouch throbbed and pulsed against his blistered chest and he gasped for breath.

And then, as suddenly as it had come, it passed. Whatever it was he’d felt drained from him in the time it took for him to lick his bone-dry lips. He rose to his knees, panting for breath and soaked in mud. He lost track of everything beyond the rise and fall of his chest and the ragged sound of his breathing. The next thing he knew, hands dropped gently onto his shoulders. He glanced up. The two women stood, one on either side of him. They lifted him to his feet seemingly effortlessly.

And he stood there, shivering and cold as they stared at him.

"He’s healed," the first woman he’d met spoke quickly. "I don’t know what you did. . . I don’t . . . You healed my husband," she said, shaking her head. "He’s sitting up. He’s asked for food. I never thought I’d hear his voice again. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to thank you. You saved his life."

"I am glad," The Deacon replied, not certain what he should say – what the woman wanted him to say. "The Lord is pleased."

"He sent you," the older woman told him with utter conviction. Her voice broke as she sniffed back the tears. "We were going to be stranded here, alone, but He sent you. He provided."

The Deacon ordered his thoughts. "Such is His way," he said, lowering his head slightly.

"Come back inside," the first woman said. "My name is Grace. What we have is yours. You will not sleep in this weather while we have walls surrounding us."

Grace. It was a fitting name; the gift that separated the angels from the filth of mankind. The Deacon followed them back inside. After so long alone the woman had something of the divine about her, he thought, watching the sway of her backside as she climbed back up into the wagon. He followed her in. The Pastor was sitting on the bed, naked to the waist. The old man and the boy hovered over him, staring down as though they were sure the miracle was about to be snatched away from them at any moment – it was obvious in their eyes that they didn’t trust it. . . and with good reason.

The old woman screamed, and Grace fainted.

The Deacon caught her in his arms, though his own legs had lost most of their strength.

Protruding from the Pastor’s side, twin dead eyes gazing up at them, a face pressed outward from the ribcage. The features were misshapen and stretched. Where the mouth should have been, the skin rippled.

Pastor Ochse glanced up at the Deacon. Instead of an expression of horror, he wore a beatific smile.

"It’s a sign," he said softly. "I was dying, but now I am healed. You brought the healing, and now there is…this. It is a reminder, that I might not lose my faith, or take this life for granted. You have given me life, and a new cross to bear – proudly."

The Deacon swallowed down the bile that rose in his throat, and managed the barest of nods.

"You have a great gift," Ochse said. "A great and wonderful power. I will follow you. We will all follow you. Such a gift must be shared. That is God’s will. That is your purpose."

Again, The Deacon nodded. He laid Grace gently beside her husband. Without a word, he leaned out, retrieved his bag, and carried it to the bar end of the wagon, where he set it down on the floor. He dropped then, utterly drained and unable to support his own weight. He laid his head on the pack. He slipped into a deep, dreamless sleep. The others watched wordlessly.

That was the first.

‡‡‡

The Deacon sensed the presence of that dark woman, that spirit, again. He felt the weight of the talisman as he never had before. He felt things coming to an end, things outside of his ken. There was an aura of imminence; the air was charged with potential about to be fulfilled, and that fulfillment chilled The Deacon to the bone. He felt the weight of fate hanging over him. Twice in the last hour he had glanced over his shoulder, sure she was there, looking at him. He harbored no illusions. Whatever she was, she had no interest in his future or in his desires. More likely he’d be a casualty, tossed aside and forgotten, and that just wasn’t how he saw the story playing out.

He turned back to his desk. On one corner sat a jar. Longman had delivered it that morning. It contained all the venom collected from Cy and Andy’s haul of serpents. Normally when they performed a serpent handling ceremony, the venom was used to create anti-venin. The Deacon was a man of many talents, and the snake-bite cure was worth good coin at nine out of ten stops along the road, but this time it was different.

He hadn’t told Longman, but he sensed that the little man knew more than he let on. He sensed, in actuality, that Longman was more than he let on. As with the sisters, and Cy, and a few of the others, he had come to believe that they joined his troupe for some greater purpose he had no part in. The notion set a shiver running through his soul. They followed him. They took his orders, and they worked his revivals, but they weren’t like the others.

Most of his flock had come to him for healing. Most of them had given to him – or to the talisman – at times there was little difference between the two of them – some part of themselves. They were bound to him and served out of warped and broken gratitude. Within the circle, another circle had grown steadily. They had their own ways and their own ripples of influence. The children gathered at Longman’s wagon to watch him paint. Everyone in the camp went to the sisters and sat rapt at their fire, watching the falling bones and listening to their cryptic foretellings.

There were others. Cy had a knack for dropping scripture into any situation that actually changed things. He saw more with a single eye than most saw with two, and yet he was slow to speak and slower to act. His time was not the time of the world, it was somehow distant and removed.

They gathered, and The Deacon observed. They did nothing to impede his efforts, and more often than not, they served just as the others did. The talisman drew them. The signs compelled them. Soon, he would know why. Soon they would know that he was more than a pawn in their game – that, or finally, he would find out that he was a fool after all.

He returned to the book and continued to read as his lantern burned long into the night.