Hallowed Ground

by David Niall Wilson

  The door opened and the sheriff entered. He stood still, letting his eyes grow accustomed to the dimmer interior light. Creed kept his eye on the bar, where Silas Boone had slid a full shot glass of rye in front of him. He didn't care much what Brady thought, and he'd just as soon not be tied to the visitors either. Best to wait and see how things rolled out.

  The Deacon wasn't a patient man, it seemed. He stepped away from the bar, where he'd ignored Silas' offer of a drink, and held out a hand to Sheriff Brady. To his credit, by Creed's way of thinking, Brady didn't take it right off. He met The Deacon's gaze steadily, and then, very slowly, he raised his hand and shook.

  "Welcome, neighbor," Brady said. His voice was laid back and slow, like everything else about him. Neighbor, not stranger. Brady spoke like that all the time. Creed perked up a bit. The man's voice was like the weaving, hypnotic head of a rattle snake when he brought it to bear, and just then, in those few words, it sounded deadly.

  "I thank you for the welcome," The Deacon replied smoothly. "It sounds as though my arrival might be more fortuitous than I'd imagined."

  "How's that?" Brady asked. "And, before we get too far into the howdy-dos, maybe you'd do me the honor of an introduction?"

  Creed turned slowly and pulled off his hat. He caught Brady's eye and waved the hat in a slow arc toward the strangers.

  "Sheriff Brady," he said, "Meet 'The Deacon.' Deacon, Sheriff Brady. Deacon here's got him a camp out past the gulch, tents and wagons far as the eye can see. I thought you might want to make his acquaintance."

  Brady stared at Creed for a moment – longer than he had to – and Creed wondered if he'd made a mistake stepping back into the mix. Then the sheriff turned back to The Deacon.

  "That right?" he asked. "You folks set up a camp?"

  The Deacon nodded. "We've been on the road a while now. There was a need for rest, and I felt the call. When that happens, I put down roots. I hope it won't be an imposition."

  "No one owns that land," Brady replied, rubbing at his jaw. "Still, we don't take much to strangers here in Rookwood. There's a scarcity of just about everything a man needs to survive. We're off the main supply trail, and we're pretty close with our socializing."

  Brady hesitated, then went on.

  "I guess what I'm sayin' is, you're welcome to rest out there, and you're welcome to visit the town while you're here, but don't assume too much, and don’t expect to be welcomed by folks with open arms. If I were you, I reckon I'd be looking to be back on the road soon. It's best for all concerned if you take my meaning?"

  "I understand," The Deacon replied. "And let me put your mind at ease, Sheriff. We've got everything we need in camp, and some to spare, if it comes down to it. We're a peaceful folk. One thing we are not is parasites. We keep to ourselves, and when we get the chance we spread the word of the Lord."

  "You're a preacher, then, and not just a deacon?" Brady asked.

  This caught the stranger by surprise. Just for a moment his eyes flashed and his jaw stiffened. Brady caught it. Creed caught it too. He'd turned with his back to the bar, watching the exchange. It passed like lightning.

  "You've had a death," The Deacon said, shifting topics smoothly. "Mr. Creed here tells me you've no man of God. I'd be honored to perform the ceremony. No one should go to meet the Maker without a proper burial."

  "We've gotten along well enough without God for some time now," Brady replied. "I reckon if Ma Kutter makes her way to the Pearly Gates, they're going to lock them and hide."

  The Deacon stood and waited in silence.

  Brady bit his lip, then nodded curtly. "Fine. If folks want to attend such a service, it's not my place to stand in their way. I won't have it here in town, though. The church is boarded up, and it's been that way for quite a spell. I don't want it collapsing on anyone's head. One death’s more than enough for a small town, wouldn’t you agree?"

  The Deacon nodded in return and touched the brim of his hat.

  "Our main tent is big enough for ourselves and as many of your townsfolk who care to join us. Do I have your permission to spread the word?"

  "Spread it all you want on the way out of town," Brady replied coolly. "I'll let the undertaker know to bring the casket out this evening. Word spreads fast in Rookwood – there won't be anyone who might want to attend who doesn't hear in time. I'll see to it myself."

  "Then I'll be heading back to camp," The Deacon replied, "and I'll consider us well met."

  Brady didn't nod this time. He stood and gazed at the strangers a moment longer, then turned and pushed back through the swinging doors of the saloon without a word.

  Creed turned back to the bar and made a show of nursing his drink. He had no intention of riding back out to The Deacon's camp. He had other things on his mind, one of which was still the trapper’s camp he'd set out to find earlier. With Brady distracted, and the rest of the town concentrating on The Deacon and this funeral, it might be a perfect chance to get out and actually take a look-see. He heard the door swing open and shut as The Deacon and his men left the bar.

  Chapter Seven

  The wagon rolled slowly out from town, pulled by a pair of dusty gray mares. John Bender, blacksmith, undertaker, and general handyman, held the reins loosely in his calloused hands. Bender was tall and well-muscled with the wiry strength of the constant worker. His forearms were like ham-hocks, powerful from years working the hammer and tongs of the forge. He was a practical man; he built his coffins from the same wood with which he repaired doors and built tables. He usually wore a pair of threadbare dungarees so dark they might have been died black, and a blue work shirt, but this night was special.

  John Bender had buried thirteen people since the last funeral was held in Rookwood – an unlucky number if ever there was one. Those bodies had found their way into the soil with no more than a handful of mourners, and only John himself to say grace. This funeral marked the first he’d attended in his Sunday best. His suit was as dark as the night sky. He wore a top hat that added to his already eerie height. A purple ribbon was wrapped around the brim of the hat and trailed down over his broad shoulders. He drove the cart slowly, not wanting to upset the coffin in the back, and because he didn't want to pull away from mourners walking alongside.

  Most of Rookwood had turned out for the event. While it was sure to be a dreary affair filled with proclamations to a Lord they seldom paid more than quick lip service to, it was also the only thing to provoke even mild interest from the people of Rookwood in a month of Sundays.

  Colleen and Mae, dressed in uncharacteristically austere gowns, walked beside the horses. The townsfolk fell in behind, shuffling along on the anvil of the sun. Silas was there, and at the rear, riding slowly with his hat pulled low over his eyes, rode Sheriff Brady. Provender Creed was nowhere to be seen, but that was hardly a surprise. Creed was a lone wolf, happier out away from people, and hardly the most religious man in town. Bender chuckled, rather inappropriately given the circumstances, but the notion of Creed crossing the threshold of a church was about as likely as Ma Kutter rising and taking her leave.

  It took a long time to reach the camp, and even though they'd started in the early afternoon, the moon was rising above The Deacon's tents by the time they came into sight. Torches had been lined up to create a luminous trail into the camp, and Bender steered the wagon down the center aisle. There was something unnerving about that last, short part of the ride; it felt holy, like a ritual passage or crossing over, but that wasn’t it. Curious faces watched him every slow foot of the way. He tried to dismiss the mild discomfort, putting it down to the scrutiny of strangers and the business they were about, but that wasn’t it either. Bender pulled the cart up just to the right of the door to the main tent. The others filed past him and into the shadowed interior, finding seats where they could, making quiet, whispered introductions to the Deacon's flock.

  Four strapping men stepped from the tent to stand behind the wagon. Bender introduced himself, but they didn't speak.
He held out his hand in greeting. One of the men held his out as well, and they shook. It was a reluctant gesture at best. Bender wanted to ask questions. He wanted to know his part in the ceremony, to find out what was expected, but when the second man held out the mutilated, gnarled thing that had been his hand, and the third turned to show his profile, which lacked one ear and included a pronounced cleft in his left cheek the questions slipped from John’s mind. The effect was like witnessing the two sides of a coin. One was a face Bender could recognize, and the other? He didn't look at the fourth pall bearer. He helped them slide the coffin to the rear of the car, and walked in quietly behind them as they bore it in silence to the rear of the tent, and The Deacon's altar.

  He refused to look left or right, fearful of what other deformities might mar The Deacon’s flock. Bender was a simple man who cherished his simple life. This place was far from simple. There was something about it that caused his flesh to creep and finally he was beginning to understand what that ‘something’ was: it was unnatural. Everything about the procession through the tent city, the morbid fascination of the onlookers and the ruination of The Deacon’s people was wrong. Ungodly.

  John Bender took a seat in the rear of the tent and contemplated the repercussions of taking his cart, and his horses, and riding back to town alone.

  Chapter Eight

  The Deacon stood alone behind a grubby screen at the rear of the tent. The dust of the road clung to the fine gauze and shielded him effectively from those congregated. He was an intensely private man, at ease only in his own company. Among others his life became part of the carnival so he cherished these moments of solitude. Life out on that stage was almost surreal, trapped in the lights, everyone so desperately wanting to share his gift. There was an intense greed and selfishness about it all, but as far as they were concerned, he was doing the Lord’s work and they people looked to him to do what they could not – to save them.

  The Deacon smiled and closed his eyes to savor the nearness of his flock and the love he felt out there, stronger even than the grief. He allowed no one near him prior to services. Not that any of his people would have dared, but it wasn’t only his own out there today. The tent was swollen with the mourners of Rookwood, so to prevent the curious from disturbing him, he had stationed Sanchez and the boy just beyond the screen.

  The urge to pull the pouch from beneath his dark cloak and hold it was powerful. It sensed what was to come. Where he felt love, it felt the breath and tasted the blood that suffused the tent. He didn't dare to touch it, so he closed his eyes and withdrew his thoughts, emptying his mind.

  "And thus do the faithful preserve the vessel," he said softly. "Thus shall His will be done on earth as it is in heaven."

  The rustling and shuffling of feet and clothing slowly stilled. There was a low murmur of voices, but after several moments even that died away, deadened by the oppressing weight of the air. When even the dust had settled, The Deacon strode to the edge of the screen, took a deep breath, and stepped into the open.

  A simply crafted coffin rested on a makeshift trestle before the altar. The trestle had been created from crates and planks and draped with a moth-eaten blanket. The holes in the cloth wouldn’t have been visible to the congregation. Like so much else it was down to the eye seeing what it wanted to see.

  The casket was open.

  The Deacon walked to the altar and stared out at those gathered. The tent was full – as full as he'd ever seen it, truth be told. He knew they hadn't come to hear the word of God. These people had no particular faith that could help them reach everlasting peace. They weren’t here to be saved. They were here because it wasn't Rookwood. It wasn't another dead night in a dying town, drowning them in ennui and drying out their souls. It was different. It would give them conversation and dreams to carry them through another month, or year, until the next. It wasn't their fault that they'd stumbled into the spider's web. And another truth be told, he doubted very much that they would have walked away, even if they had suspected the danger they were in.

  "Let us pray," he said, and every head bowed. That was the power of the word. He led them through the service. His voice was deep, offering comfort and condolence as it carried through the tent and into the night. A large, ornate Bible lay open on the altar, but he paid little attention to it. The scripture rolled off his lips, and if some of it seemed a little off, or if the words didn't quite sound the same as they had the last time the congregation heard them, who would argue?

  He spoke of Heaven, and of Hell. He talked of rich men threading themselves through needles, and the great seal of Solomon. He told them that they lived every day in the valley of the shadow of death, but they need fear no evil, for God would comfort them. He was their strength.

  Somewhere in those words, they lost themselves. Somewhere, the He the Deacon spoke of changed from an all seeing, benevolent creator to the man standing before them, another facet of the illusion his words wove. A collection plate was passed, and disappeared. The service for Ma Kutter drew to a close, and the casket was closed, but that was only the beginning.

  The Deacon loomed over them, and his voice carried them like twigs in a roaring flood. He called out to them to revive their faith. He called out to them to trust him with their souls. He called out to the hurt, and the broken, the sick and the weak. He called them to him, and slowly, as if mesmerized by his words and the odd, swaying motion of his tall, lean form, they came.

  He walked among them and heard their stories. He prayed with Mae over the loss of her mother at an early age. He laid his hands on Silas Boone's shoulders and chanted something very low – impossible to make out, while staring the man dead in the eye. He touched his palm to Silas' forehead and the man keeled over backward, barely having his fall broken by the Deacon's men. They’d seen the same thing so many times they'd known to be ready, and they caught him before he could strike the dirt of the floor. Silas suffered from a rotted tooth that had pained him nearly every day of his adult life. When he woke, he turned and spit, and that tooth hit the floor in small puddle of blood.

  The night wore away, and The Deacon drew on their energy. The congregation became weary, but he waxed stronger with every passing moment. Then he called for a hymn, and his people began to sing. It started low and deep, then rose slowly through the octaves. The men and women of Rookwood did not know the words, but they sang as well, hesitantly at first, and then with full throats and pounding hearts. The song drew them in. The rhythm caught their bodies and set them in motion. It became a joyous chorus as they sang hallelujah.

  They hardly noticed when one of their number shuffled forward. It was Colleen. She swayed, sinuous as a serpent, caught in the embrace of the music. She walked down the center aisle of the tent and stopped before The Deacon. He walked forward, but he didn't touch her, rather, he side-stepped left and circled her slowly. He held his hands up, palms toward the girl, and continued to sing. She stood very still.

  "Do you feel it?" The Deacon cried out, breaking the notes of the song like glass against stone, sending it in all directions in bits and echoes, notes and chords. The silence that followed was so thick and heavy it felt as though they'd been submerged in molasses.

  "Do you feel how it runs through her?" The Deacon called out. "It is dark – it is evil. I feel it. It is so black I can see it through her skin and swimming in her soul. I can TASTE it. Brethren, and I cannot abide it. It must be cast out. She must be freed."

  "Amen." The word was spoken by a dozen mouths, all The Deacon's people, and all in a single breath.

  "She must be HEALED." The Deacon shouted.

  "Amen," again, and this time from every pair of lips in the tent.

  "She walks in darkness," He said, his voice steadying out, and growing stronger. "But my footsteps are washed in the light. She lives in shadows, but I can lift her up. I can bring her to salvation. I can heal her. I WILL heal her. Together we will make it so."

  "Amen."

  The Deacon took C
olleen's hands in his and lifted them so that they pressed against his chest. There was a pulse of light at that touch, but Colleen's body shielded it from the room. At some point during the ceremony someone had lit braziers of incense, and suddenly the smoke, which had drifted close to the floor, whirled and rose, surrounding the altar and dimming the light.

  Those who sat in the rear of the tent would later swear they saw The Deacon wrestling with a great serpent. It writhed and flailed about, but he held it tightly, all the while his powerful voice cutting through the mist and smoke and shadows. Others saw a brilliant, greenish light pulsing between The Deacon and a shadowy shape they could not make out but that they were certain was not Colleen. Most remembered very little beyond the hymn, and the smoke.

  There was a scream. It pierced the night and drained all other sound from the world, stilling the horses, and the birds. The air was stifling and motionless. Darkness hung like a shroud over the world. Then the words of the hymn began again, slowly and steadily, in The Deacon's voice. He walked from the cloud of smoke and blackness down the center aisle of the tent and into the night. He held Colleen's still form in his arms.

  No one moved to block his way. Their voices, choked and dry, fought to join the song. They rose and stumbled out after him, leaving the tent to the dust and the breeze. The Deacon carried Colleen around the corner of his wagon and to the rear of his tent. They stood in the dying night, with the hint of dawn brushing the skyline until he was out of sight. They turned, and they saw the empty tent behind them. They saw that The Deacon's folk had drifted off to their own shadows.

  Slowly, half aware and half dazed by what they'd experienced, they turned and climbed into their wagons. Those who'd ridden in from town found their horses, and those who'd walked climbed into the back of John Bender's wagon with the coffin. It was sealed, and though there was the vague sensation that it was wrong to do so, they huddled in beside it until the wagon groaned from their weight, and without a word, Bender slapped the reins and sent his team plodding homeward.