Hallowed Ground

by David Niall Wilson

  Shaking his head, he lowered the barrel of his shotgun for the second time that night and closed Creed's door behind him. He headed for the bar. He needed a stiff drink. There was going to be a lot off whiskey drank that night. He aimed to get a shot or two down his throat first before the bottle ran dry.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The Deacon sat at his desk, drumming his fingers on the leather surface. He was impatient. He leaned back in the chair and put his hands together to make shadow-birds on the wagon’s canvas wall. The birds transformed into the gnarled silhouette of a hag’s face and again into rabbit ears. He sighed. He heard the creak of a wagon. Sanchez finally returned with the four large earthenware bowls he'd been sent for. Colleen sat on the hard sleeping boards that had been laid out at the rear of the wagon. The child rested quietly against her shoulder. She rocked him gently, glaring at Sanchez over the Deacon's shoulder. There was no love lost between the two, the Deacon knew. Under normal circumstances he would not have tolerated the kind of petty bickering and sniping the two traded, but the world around him was anything but normal now.

  "You have done well," the Deacon said. "The boy is with you?"

  Sanchez nodded. The Deacon couldn’t see the dirty-haired ruffian. He didn’t need to; he smelled him. The boy had a unique fragrance. He skulked in the shadows. It was where he was most comfortable. Out of sight, out of mind. If Sanchez whistled, he would come, grudgingly, but with The Deacon so close, he would stay hidden for as long as possible. It was his way. The boy didn’t exactly fear being seen; but he went out of his way to avoid the Deacon whenever possible.

  The sun had vacated its high noon throne and slipped down the western skyline. There were hours left before darkness, but the heat was slightly less stifling. The Deacon brushed dust from his long, dark coat and stepped down from the wagon. He cast a lingering backward glance over his shoulder, and met Colleen's gaze.

  "Keep him safe, girl," he said, pulling a short thread from his pocket. He stretched it taut between his fingers. "Think of it like this, you are this string, bound to me and bound to the boy," he pulled the thread, twisting it until it snapped. "If anything happens to the baby, I will snap you. Understood?"

  He turned his back on her and started out for the edge of camp without another word. Sanchez followed with the bowls. The boy flitted from shadow to shadow, always just an inch out of sight. He carried a spade in one hand. With the other he brushed his long, greasy mop of hair out of his eyes.

  The Deacon stopped, shielded his eyes, and stared off in the direction the sun's fall. He pulled a small round wooden case from the pocket of his jacket and rested it on his palm. Carefully, he lifted off the lid. Inside, a fragile sliver of magnetized steel quivered atop a pin. It pointed arrow-straight to the north. He turned it in his hand to get a fix on due west, and then followed the cardinal with his line of sight. He grunted and snapped the lid closed.

  The Deacon struck out beyond the edge of camp, walking until he found a spot between the scattered scrub and the half-buried boulders. After a second glance at his compass, he nodded with slow satisfaction and turned, holding his hand out.

  "Give me the spade, boy," he said. He knew the boy was there. The reek had followed with him from the camp.

  All skin and bone, the urchin darted out of the shadows. He offered the spade handle first, and scuttled away again the moment the Deacon laid his hand on the wooden grip.

  The Deacon glanced up again. He thought for a moment he saw something – a dark shape – flit across the sun. Holding the spade he turned, three times in a circle, but there was nothing to see in the sky.

  The Deacon slammed the spade into the earth and began to dig. He worked quickly, hammering the blade in and working it deeper and deeper as he dug a circular trench a few inches deep. He was sweating by the time he'd finished. His shirt clung to his back. Dark wet stains showed through beneath his armpits. He wiped his brow and turned to Sanchez.

  "Leave one of the bowls here," he said, nodding at where he meant. "When we have the other three spots marked, come back and bury them flush to the earth. The detail’s important; they must be flush. Not a little low, not with the lip sticking out above ground. You understand?"

  "Yes," Sanchez assured him. "We'll have it done before nightfall."

  The Deacon grinned. It was a predatory grin. "Perfect. Tomorrow there will be another job that needs doing, but this one must be complete before you start. It comes down to trust, Sanchez. I am putting my trust in you. My faith. There is so much to plan, so much that I must oversee, and so much that I must do. I cannot worry myself with all the little details. I'm counting on you."

  "It will be done," Sanchez repeated.

  "Precisely as I’ve instructed?"

  "Precisely."

  "Good."

  The Deacon turned and started on an almost leisurely stroll around the perimeter of the camp. Using the compass carefully to check and recheck himself, he marked three more circles in the earth at the North, South, and East edges of the camp. He stood and watched as Sanchez placed the bowls in the center of each circle.

  "Pack it in there good," he said watching Sanchez tamp down he soil with the flat of the spade. "And mark them so we know exactly where they are. When the time comes, there won't be any room for mistakes. Everything has to be just so."

  Sanchez trod down the last of the dirt around the bowl with his boot and turned back toward where they'd left the first bowl waiting.

  The Deacon watched him go. The boy went with him, scuttling along like a spider. As they drifted out of sight, the Deacon saw Sanchez hand over the spade. He hoped the old man would supervise carefully. Just because there was no time for him to double-check every detail didn't keep them from niggling away in the back of his mind.

  He had more stops to make, and more favors to call in. It was going to be a long night, and a longer day to follow. There was very little time to make the revival a reality, and if he was being honest with himself, there were few even among the most faithful that he could trust with anything more than the barest details of his plan. They would follow him to the ends of the earth; he didn’t doubt that for a moment, but this time he was going to demand more of them than he had any right to. This time, if they knew what was in his heart – and darker, in his mind – he might drive them all away. He couldn't afford for that to happen. When all was said and done, assuming all went as planned and he survived, there would be more work to be done. He wasn’t a fool, he knew he couldn't do it all on his own. Once the wheels were in motion there would be nothing any of them could do but to ride out the storm to its natural end. He had to make sure they stayed with him until then.

  He made his way past Longman's wagon toward the Sisters’ tent. By day, it looked fragile. The taut leather lent it the aspect of a cicada's shed skin; thin, brittle, almost transparent and ready to blow away in the slightest breeze. He knew better – everyone in the camp knew better – but at least during the hours of sunlight it didn't take any great courage to get down on your knees and bank a campfire up. There was something dark and powerful about that tent. Whatever its exterior resembled at any given moment, the sensation was one of depth and otherworldliness, as if the flaps of the tent led into another place and time entirely.

  Longman had been busy again, working his magic. Beside the hanged man, he'd painted an almost comical looking skeleton that was a jumble of mildewed bones. The boney apparition held a scythe over its head and its feet were awash in a flood of black and gold etched symbols and what the Deacon took to be arcane markings. There were also hands and faces beneath the skeleton's feet, but in the background, almost obscured, was a rising sun.

  The Deacon never questioned the little man's art, or his inspiration, but there were times when he couldn’t help but wonder. Longman smiled far too often. There was always mirth and merriment in his eyes. Hell, he laughed out loud when there was nothing remotely humorous in a situation. He was different. And because of that, he bore watching.


  There was no sign of Longman at that moment, so the Deacon stepped on past and stood just outside the ring of the sister's fire.

  "Lottie," he called out, waiting for an answer. "Attie?"

  At first there was no response. Perhaps they were sleeping? He thought to himself. They could just as easily have taken it upon themselves to wander off in search of some sort of root or herb or insect or God knew what to grind and pulp into one of their tinctures. He rarely saw any of them by day. When they had rolled out of camp on the wagon with Longman the day before, it had been . . . unexpected. They didn't seem to mind the sunlight, but he still thought of them as nightwalkers. The dark was their natural element.

  Eventually gnarled, liver-spotted fingers curled around tent flap and pulled it aside. Lottie peered out at him, face screwed up against the lowering sun. "Eh? Who is it?"

  "You know who it is," The Deacon said. "I need your help."

  "Who has come?" Attie called from inside.

  "Come back tonight," Lottie told him.

  "Chessie rests," Attie added. "She is tired."

  "This will only take a moment," The Deacon said quickly. "I need incense – a lot of it. I've installed braziers at the four compass points – they will burn during the revival. I need enough to keep them going during the…ceremonies."

  Lottie cocked her head to one side and studied him with those mawkish eyes of hers. He felt his skin crawl, as though her bony fingers walked slowly down the ladder of his spine. He fought the urge to shiver.

  "It’s a revival," Lottie said. "Braziers for a revival, he says."

  "With incense," Attie added. "Never been to a revival with the wards set. Have you, sisters?"

  "Keeping something in?" Lottie wondered aloud…

  "Or maybe out?" Attie asked.

  "Don’t know," Lottie said. "In. Out. In Out. Ward it all about. Chessie knows…but she rests."

  "Tired." Attie agreed.

  "Do you have the incense or don’t you?" The Deacon cut across them before his temper could get the better of him.

  "We have it," Lottie soothed.

  "Yes, of course," Attie said. "Who else would have it?"

  "Enough?" the Deacon asked.

  "Enough? Depends how long you want it to burn," Lottie replied.

  "Depends on what you want in, or out," Attie added.

  "When the time comes, will you have it ready for me?" The Deacon asked. "The braziers are in place, and Sanchez knows the locations. I have … much to do. Can I count on you for this, Sisters?"

  "Whatever it is," Lottie said, "We don’t want it in…"

  "Or out," Attie added.

  "We’ll be ready." They said this last together, and it rang oddly, like a broken chord that hung in the air.

  "Thank you," The Deacon said.

  "Don’t thank us," Lottie told him as he turned away.

  He strode back past Longman’s wagon, looking again at the skeletal feet and their painted symbols. He had seen at least one of them before, in the book, but he could not for the life of him place the invocation it was a part of. He shook his head and moved on. It would come to him. He had one more stop to make – one final task to hand out. Sanchez would see to it, but he needed to be sure he arranged the details.

  Very suddenly, every moment in his long, intricate life balanced on a very tenuous fulcrum of luck and timing. What had been his own little universe, well controlled and tightly pinned beneath his thumb had become this fragile thing. He’d always known he was working toward an end, but he’d assumed that end to be far in the future. It was not. The future was now. Here. Rookwood.

  The leather pouch suddenly seared the flesh of his chest, right over his heart. He clutched it and pulled it away from his skin before it could brand him. It was cool in his hand, but his chest still burned. He thought about the book, and then, suddenly terrified, he blanked that thought from his mind. Instead, he turned his mind to snakes.

  ‡‡‡

  Cy and Andy shared a battered tent on the westernmost edge of the camp. The Deacon strode up to the door and called for them. He had to force his voice to remain steady.

  "Cy, you in there? Andy?"

  He heard a shuffle of feet, and then Andy stuck his head through the tent flap. He saw The Deacon and scrambled out, scraping his knees he bowed so low.

  "No time for that," The Deacon said. "There’s work to be done. I need the two of you to do something for me."

  Andy waited in silence. A moment later the tent flap was brushed aside again, and Cy came out to join his friend. The man’s one eye watched The Deacon reverently. Neither man spoke.

  "Remember back in Crooked Fork?"

  "Aye, that’s where we had the snakes," Andy said.

  "Exactly right," The Deacon said. "I believe we are going to need them again."

  "But we let them go," Cy said. He looked confused, and with the single eye the expression was bizarre.

  "I know that Cy," The Deacon said patiently. "I need the two of you to go and charm some more out of the sand for me. The desert is crawling with them – I need you to bring me a particular sort, ones with diamonds on their backs. Can you do that for me? As many as you can get your hands on. You have a day and a half. Take them to Longman first – for preparation."

  "He gonna milk ‘em again?" Andy asked, dusting his hands off on the thighs of his grubby pants.

  "Of course," the Deacon said. "We wouldn’t want anyone getting hurt – at least not too badly."

  "When should we start?" Andy asked.

  The Deacon made a show of looking up at the sky. "There’s plenty of light left today. See what you can find, then get back out first thing in the morning. Don’t let me down, boys."

  "We’ll find ‘em," Andy promised, grinning. "We’ll find a lot of ‘em."

  "You do that, and I’ll have something special for you both when it’s all over," the Deacon said. "How does that sound?"

  The two men gazed at him with such adoration that it made him uncomfortable. After a moment he broke eye contact and turned away.

  "Let me know when the first snakes are ready for Longman," he said. "I have to speak with him before he starts."

  "Yes sir," Andy said.

  The Deacon walked away. He made another mental notch on the tally he was using to keep track of all the necessities he had no control over. As he walked, more sweat peppered his brow, but he didn’t reach up to wipe it away this time. He kept his hand free, ready to snatch at the pouch if it flared up again, and his mind on the task at hand. The world was like a giant hourglass, and the grains of sand were falling far too quickly.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  When Elizabeth next woke, she still felt shaky, but much stronger. She was hungry, and her lips were cracked and blistered from thirst. The wagon had stopped again while she slept. Outside there was only the sound of the wind blowing through the dust and the devils churning up the desert. For a panicked moment, she was sure he had left her there to rot, alone and without food or water. She shook the cobwebs from her head and sat up.

  She hesitated with her hand a few inches from the door latch, sure that he would snatch it out from beneath her before she could open it as he’d done before. It was the kind of thing Balthazar seemed to enjoy, proving his control. She drew a deep breath, licked her lips, and grabbed the brass latch. She pushed it open on a glorious morning. All but the final, lingering signs of the storm had passed; the ground was bone dry and the cobalt sky stretched off to the mountains in the west. There was still the wind, but it was pleasant with the backdrop of sunlight. Mariah took the two steps down to the ground carefully, stretched the aches out of her back, and looked around.

  The campfire was laid out in exactly the same place it had been each and every time she’d seen it. For a single disorienting moment she wondered if they’d ever really moved at all. Balthazar sat in one of the chairs, his legs stretched out, feet crossed at the ankles, hat tipped forward over his eyes to shield them from the sun, and h
is hands steepled in his lap. He appeared lost in thought. She approached quietly. He did not look up.

  There was an empty plate next to her chair. The skillet rested on a rock beside the fire. It bubbled with bacon grease, but there was no bacon.

  "Wasn’t' sure when you'd wake," Balthazar said from beneath his hat, startling her. He sat up, tipped the hat back and smiled. "Bacon’s in the tin over there." He nodded toward a flat rock not far from the fire. "Eggs are beside it. Help yourself. Coffee’s in the pot."

  She had a thousand questions to ask, but the scent of the bacon grease was compelling. She knelt by the fire. Balthazar rose behind her, and she heard coffee pouring into one of the tin cups. Before long she had a couple of eggs and several long ragged rashers of bacon sizzling in the grease. She was certain that if it didn’t cook quickly she would eat it raw, she was that hungry.

  "What do you remember?" Balthazar asked.

  She turned and looked up at him.

  "About the dreams?" she asked.

  "There were no dreams, girl. Let me make that very clear. I will not tolerate denial or stupidity. You were there, and you remember. You were born Elizabeth Tanner. You died of consumption. That was your life. One of them, at least. You were born a second time without a name or a home, and then She found you and took you to the tents. Her followers are loyal, but not the brightest of souls. I called, and you escaped them. I gave you a new name, and shortly I will add to that – and give you a new purpose."

  The bacon forgotten, she turned and rose.

  "Died of consumption?" she missed most of what he said because those three words stuck in her head. "What do you mean…died?"

  "You have traveled more than miles," he said. "Time does not flow at the same rate in every place that it exists. In some it rushes like the rapids on a swollen river – in others it is stagnant. Turgid. You died less than a week ago, Mariah, but I assure you – you were gone for months. Do you really doubt me? You walked through the fire."