Intermusings
Page 34
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The Deacon stood far above the camp at the tip of an outcropping, facing the town of Rookwood. Too many trees and obstacles stood between his perch and town for him to catch any glimmer of firelight, but he knew they were there. He felt them.
As he stood, he tugged a rawhide thong that hung about his neck until a long, thin pouch came free of his shirt collar. He held it in his hands, but he didn't glance down at it. The soft, supple leather rippled between his fingers, as though something inside sought a weakness. The Deacon raised his gaze to the moon and gripped the pouch more tightly. His hand shook, and glimmers of light leaked between his fingers, though he took no notice. The pouch had begun to glow, and trails of wispy vapor slid out, wound about him, and constricted.
Miles away he sensed their heartbeats. He heard murmured whispers. He felt the heat of their couplings and the pain of their illness. He sensed the life around him, and hungered for it. It gnawed at him and teased the corners of his sanity. The trembling in his hand spread until he stood, weak and shaking. He staggered half a step forward, and only caught himself at the brink of the cliff. Below, his followers scurried like busy ants, constructing their nests and erecting the great tent. Another step and he'd have planted himself in their center like a dark, rotten seed.
He stuffed the pouch back into his shirt, and shuddered as it touched his flesh. For a moment, a sickening greenish light seeped out near his chin, and then faded. He stepped back from the edge of the rock, and turned away. Without a backward glance, he began the arduous climb back down from the rocks. The tremor had left his hands, and his steps were strong and even, but his face was even paler than usual, and his expression was strained.
He reached the bottom, passed by Sanchez without a word or a glance, and disappeared into his tent. Sanchez waited a while longer, until the lantern flickered to life inside, and then slipped into the shadows to find a small corner to stake off as his own. It was late, and the morning would come far too soon.
Near The Deacon's tent, all eyes were averted. None took notice of the strange shadows dancing across the back-lit canvas, or questioned why - at times, there seemed to be more than one.
It had begun.