Hallowed Ground

by David Niall Wilson

  The Deacon’s shadow made a final turn.

  "Archangel Gabriel, assist me in the resurrection of emotion, thought, and spirit. Hold my physical form away from the clutches of sin. Grant me the eternal hope necessary to sustain my strength during the doubts that plague your humble servant. Guide me in this time of transformation and acceleration. Energize me so that I may walk in purity and bring the sweet essence of harmony to the conflict that spins out upon the face of this Earth. Rise with us on the path of the Divine!"

  "What the hell?" Creed muttered to himself. The locket iced across his breastbone, driving its chill in deep, all the way into his heart. The ring of cold separating him from the camp had widened. He didn’t know how it had happened, only that it had. It tormented him beyond reason to hold his position. He gritted his teeth against the pain. His heart froze and his mind raged with the words he’d heard. He didn’t know what they meant, but they were not a normal prayer, nor a part of any tent-man revival he’d ever witnessed. No, this was wrong. More than wrong. Unnatural. The Deacon had set something vast in motion, something vast and dangerous.

  Creed could only hope that whatever prevented him from crossing into the camp would protect him when all hell broke loose. Finally the pain became too much. He stepped back a dozen paces and settled in again. The moon had ascended to her throne high overhead, and the air crackled with energy. The scent of the incense permeated the air – no, he amended that; the scent of innocence permeated the air, innocence that would burn bright, innocence that would burn furiously. God help them all, innocence that would burn out.

  In the big tent, The Deacon continued to speak.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The wards were set, and The Deacon turned to face the hungry eyes of his extended flock. He smiled at them. There was no warmth in the expression, but from where they sat they couldn’t tell the difference. A few even smiled back at him in blissful ignorance. For them it was the beginning of a Revival, just as he had promised. For others -particularly those of his flock who were more aware than the rest - it was different - more than it had ever been in the past. They leaned forward in their seats, lips parted, grins feral, like a pack of hungry dogs. They suspected, but they did not know. None of them knew. If they had, they’d have panicked as he raised the ritual walls and penned them in like cattle.

  The three sisters huddled in a corner, the shadows and the black folds of their dresses melding into one so that from where the Deacon stood they appeared as a single three-headed beast, a hydra or one of the dogs guarding the passage to the underworld. They whispered as they watched everything at once. Did they know his intentions? Light from the oil lamps glittered in their eyes. Occasionally their heads dipped toward one another, and words passed between them. As much as he loathed ignorance, the Deacon had neither time nor inclination to discover what those words might be. It was too late for divination. He grinned fiercely.

  Longman sat on a stool that was almost as tall as he was. He had positioned himself to the back of the tent, near the door. He perched on his seat cross legged and expressionless. He paid no attention to what happened around him, but it was obvious he was concentrating all the same. Again, the Deacon shook it off. Whatever the little man was thinking about painting on his wagon next, even if it was Old Papa Death himself, it no longer mattered.

  The Deacon hadn’t brought the book with him to the tent. He’d planned to because he had originally believed he needed to read the incantation, but the words had burned themselves into his mind the first time he set eyes on them. He didn’t need to see them inked on paper. He didn’t need to see them ever again. They were alive within him. All he had to do was open his mouth and they would rise.

  He felt the circle close around them. He hadn’t been sure he would, but like the invocation, the entire ritual was alive in his mind and coursing through his veins, attuned to him. His flesh quickened. He felt the thrill bone deep. He’d caught the scent of incense on the wind, and the pure, unadulterated satisfaction when the first ward woke. It was like building a prison brick by brick until they were all walled in, alive but with the air running out gasp by gasp, and no one but himself aware of the danger.

  The faithful didn't notice, but why should they? They were meat and bone; they were neither divine nor daemonic. There was no good reason for them to so much as sense a prickle on the nape of their necks. The world would continue to spin around the sun, as it always had. That was all they cared about. The Deacon knew what was to come would be tricky. There were words that needed to be spoken. There was a pattern that could not be broken. He needed to weave the incantation into something they would understand, or, failing that into something that would fool them into believing that they should understand and keep them in their seats until he'd finished.

  Sanchez lurked outside, waiting for his cue. The Deacon had drilled it in to him. So much depended upon timing, and worse, upon others. He hated being at the mercy of fools. Still, he was fairly certain he could trust that when the right moment in the ritual had been reached, Sanchez would bring Colleen and the child in. It was like a finely orchestrated dance, so many pieces in motion all at the same time, if one failed they all failed. And he was in the middle, controlling everything. There was at least one detail of the ritual he intended to change. He was fairly certain that despite their exceptional sight, the sisters did not know. With Longman it was more difficult to judge, but again, the Deacon thought he had kept this one last thing a secret.

  The only thing he was sure and certain of was that the talisman in the pouch around his neck was unaware of his thoughts. He’d have known in an instant. The book and the ritual had a vice-like hold on him, but he only needed to twist its purpose for the span of a single word, and he was strong. Fools were forever underestimating him. It was like playing out a game of smoke and mirrors within his mind. He prayed for the strength to see the ritual through to its end. If he concentrated, played his part, and performed as expected right up to that telling moment, that single word buried within all of the others, he could pull it off. His life, possibly his eternal soul, depended on it.

  He raised his hands again and smiled at the gathered folk of Rookwood, and those of his own flock.

  "Thank you all for coming, one and all. Thank you for having the faith in the word, for having the love in your hearts and the spirit to unite and be one," he smiled his winning smile and spread his arms wide to encompass the entire congregation. "There is no better time than the present to do the work of the Lord. There is no endeavor more important than the salvation of the eternal soul. We have come together to raise our voices in praise, to bind our hearts in prayer, and to bring the blessings of the almighty down to bless this gathering.

  "This tent is nothing more than canvas supported on wooden bones. This land is dry and forgotten, and yet, it was created by His hand, and is as blessed as any delta, field, mountain or riverbank. The power and soul of the Creator flows through the sand and stone, and it stretches up to touch us, each and every one.

  "When we gather in his name and join in prayer, the ground beneath us is hallowed. What we share and think and believe is sacred. We leave behind our mortal shells and become something one step closer to the divine. Will you join me? Will you rise and bow your heads and pray with me?"

  A few nodded, almost shyly. A few more clapped here hands. One voice called hallelujah. The Deacon’s smile broadened.

  As though there had been some silent communication between them, McGraw began to play again. It wasn’t any hymn that The Deacon knew - not exactly - but one born of many melodies, as though a myriad of holy songs had been woven into one tight pattern. Patterns within patterns all coming together in a great weave, the Deacon thought. It took a moment of listening to realize that the composition could only have been written for McGraw; with his missing fingers, there were no missing notes. The melody flowed and skipped over what might have been and became something unique. The Deacon was fond of saying every man had his ow
n song…McGraw had apparently chosen this moment in time to share his. It would have been difficult, if not impossible, for a pianist with a full complement of fingers to match it.

  "Will you rise?" The Deacon intoned. He didn’t need to ask…he knew they would rise. They always rose. He held up his hands, palms turned out to face them.

  Those gathered - all but Longman and the sisters - stood slowly. Some joined hands, others stood separate, like islands of faith. Every last man and woman dipped their heads, eyes lowered to the dirt-floor and closed tightly.

  "Lord," The Deacon said, "we offer ourselves freely to you. We offer our lives, and our hearts, our words and deeds. Offer us, in return, your blessing and your power, your protection and your love."

  He hesitated. His followers joined their voices and cried.

  "Amen!"

  They were his now, their purpose and their existence. In one word they had surrendered themselves to him. The Deacon lifted his head and cried out: "And now I will call to the powers of Heaven, and of Earth. I will speak the names of those with the power to change our hearts and our minds, our health and our destiny. I will call out for the power to help, and to heal. Are you with me?"

  "Yes," those gathered intoned. The tent sang with the power of that one word.

  The Deacon raised his voice still more, becoming thunderous as he repeated, "Are you with me?"

  "Yes!" they screamed as one.

  So he began.

  "O Vsyr, Salaul, Silitor, Demor, Zanno, Syrtroy, Risbel, Cutroy, Lytay, Onor, Moloy, Pumotor, Tami, Oor and Ym, warrior spirits of our Lord, whose role it is to bear arms and to strengthen human senses wherever you wish I conjure and exort and invoke you by the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit, called the Holy Trinity, and by the creator of Heaven and Earth and of all things visible and invisible, and by Him who formed man of the mud of the Earth, and by the annunciation of our Lord Jesus Christ, and by his nativity, and by his death and passion, and by his resurrection and by his ascension."

  ‡‡‡

  Brady, who’d taken a position as close to the back and the exit as possible, glanced up.

  "What in hell?" he muttered. His skin prickled. Burned. He started to turn, but found that his legs were oddly weak. He glared directly at the Deacon and shook his head. He felt as though he’d been glued in place, and though he knew the Deacon was speaking, the words spilled over and around him without any sort of clarity. They were a jumble of sounds and syllables that swelled to fill his mind but made no earthly sense.

  "Likewise I conjure all you aforesaid demons," though the word twisted in Brady’s mind, sounding more and more like ‘angels’ as he tried to focus on it, "spirits, by the gracious and most merciful and undefiled and incorrupt Virgin Mary, the mother of our Lord Jesus Christ, who underwent death for us miserable sinners and recalled us to the heavenly fatherland.

  "Likewise, I conjure you by all the holy men and women of God, and by all the apostles, martyrs, confessors, virgins and widows, and by these most precious and ineffable names of the Creator of all, by which you all are bound, and which arouse fear in all things in Heaven, on Earth, and in Hell, to wit Aa, Ely, Sother, Adonay, Cel, Sabaoth, Messyas, Alazabra and Osian, Likewise I conjure and exort you by the virtue and power of all your princes, kings, lords, and superiors, and by your virtue and capacity and power, and by your dwelling place of which this circle is the form, and by all the figures present within it."

  There was more, but those gathered never raised their eyes. They swayed in time with the majestic timbre of the Deacon’s voice. They murmured Amens and Hallelujahs into the few silent moments and crossed themselves. Energy crackled in the air, and it swept away their thoughts.

  Brady struggled against it, fighting with every ounce of life in his bones. He managed a single stumbling step toward the aisle, as though he might either turn on the Deacon and confront him, or flee through the flaps of the tent and on into the night, but in the end, he failed to do either. The words surged and swelled, the rhythms blazed through his body, and he began to sway in time with them as his thoughts slipped off to some other place and time.

  He didn’t have the breath left in him for a final curse.

  Chapter Thirty

  The wagon came to a halt, the flatbed creaking heavily on its rear axle. Mariah, for the first time, sat up front beside Balthazar. She scanned the moonlit plain that rolled out around them. There were no signs of life, save for an odd glow in the distance. No insects, no animals, no birds. The only sounds she heard were made by the wind shivering through scrub brush. Just when she thought they were truly and utterly alone the mournful cry of an owl broke the silence. She felt rather than saw Balthazar flinch.

  "What?"

  "It’s nothing," he said, brushing her off with grunt. "Damn bird startled me."

  It wasn’t a bird that plucked at his nerves. They both knew that. On any other night the old man was so precise, so particular. Misnaming the owl caused something – some sense – inside her to prickle. She turned to look at him properly, struggling to believe something could startle him. He had witnessed tentacles reaching up out of the dirt to drag a man down; he had taken her back to her own coffin. There was no way a simple barn owl could affect the man, not like that.

  "I see lights," she said, pointing. It was a poor attempt to shift his attention. Still, he answered her:

  "They’ll be brighter soon, I expect. There’s something of a shindig in progress."

  Mariah waited for him to explain. She didn’t ask questions. She had learned to be patient. If he intended to tell her, he would tell her, but in his own time. She could ask all the questions she wanted, he might just as well answer with a riddle, a question of his own, or spin some other story that meant nothing to her and left her all the more confused, and with more questions. Then again he might say nothing and let silence fester between them. There was no way of knowing how he would respond. So she waited the silence out.

  "I have been expecting this particular party for a long, long time," Balthazar said. "You might say it’s the final move in an elaborate game of checkers. Have you ever played?"

  He turned to her, and she shook her head.

  "It’s a simple but fascinating game," he said, leaning across conspiratorially. "I’ve never lost."

  Mariah turned and stared out over the plains. The lights had brightened, and if she concentrated, she thought she could hear voices. There weren’t any coherent words. The harder she tried to pick out actual shapes and sounds the more sure she was that there were none to hear, only tones, rising and falling in an eerie cadence.

  There was something wrong with the lights, she realized.

  A campfire’s light would have flickered, throwing both light and shadow across the sky. It wouldn’t be so bright, and you’d see it dance. She knew that. A town was different. The light came from a number of sources and coalesced into a single canopy overhead. This wasn’t like that either. The closer they came, the more it resembled a ray of light – a cylinder shooting straight up from the desert floor all the way into the high banks of cloud.

  Balthazar inclined his head slowly, like a dog listening to the cry of a distant animal. As Mariah watched, he licked his dry lips and seemed to mouth several words. He saw her looking at him and smiled.

  "It sounds as though things are going well," he told her. "Perhaps one might venture so far as to say very well. With a little luck, and I am always lucky, my dear, our work may prove a little easier than I originally expected."

  He slapped the reins to the horses’ backs, and the wagon lurched forward again. Mariah stared at the light intently as it grew brighter and more intense. She didn’t say a word. It wasn’t that she was listening to Balthazar, or even the curious ululating tones that weren’t quite voices, she was simply lost to the light. Every now and then she thought she saw something more defined, a shadowed shape whirling within that luminous ray. And occasionally, as those shadows writhed and twisted, they looked almost hum
an.

  She couldn’t tell if they were trying to get out, or if they were scrabbling desperately to find their way in.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Creed crouched in the small clearing, keeping himself just out of sight of the Deacon’s camp. Tension had his skin crawling. He cracked his fingers. He chewed at his lip. It wasn’t just that something was wrong – everything was wrong. He felt it like a frisson in the air itself. He hid there for as long as he could bear, then pushed to his feet and started to prowl, circling like a wildcat. He was almost sure there wouldn’t be a weakness in the barrier, but he’d been wrong before. Supposing there was a flaw; he wouldn’t find it by sitting back on his haunches and waiting. He reached out occasionally, to test its resistance. As the darkness deepened he thought he saw an actual wall shimmer between his fingertips and the tents. Again and again he tested it, causing the charge to flicker in and out of focus beneath his touch. If he strayed too near, the locket grew icy, freezing into his chest, and the pain drove him back.

  He moved slowly and carefully around the perimeter of the camp, always looking and listening. He didn’t know who or what else he might be out there, but one thing struck him as pretty much sure, no barrier – whatever it might be – had ever been erected just to keep the likes of Provender Creed out of a camp. So, thinking through it, Creed was fairly damned certain something else was out there in the darkness with him.

  He paced the perimeter.

  A little more than a quarter of the way around the circuit, he saw something. A flickering light. It was a fire, and not a small campfire. This one was big enough to be a pyre. It had been lit back a ways from the weird icy wall, in among the scrub of trees. The blaze sent shadows dancing over the skeletal limbs, in turn sending more shadows dancing across the dirt. Creed crouched and slipped closer, moving as quietly as possible.