Hallowed Ground (17 page)

His fingers trembled.
 
In the center of the locket there was a third oval, solid silver, that the two sides folded over, and inside that, judging by the portraits, a lock of the man's hair.
 
Inscribed on the surface was "B.J. & E.T Forever"

He thought back to the Journal.
 
If this had belonged to Elizabeth, then that put a name to his mystery woman beyond doubt.
 
But where was this Benjamin of hers?
 
There had been no sign of him at the trappers' camp.
 
And that begged the question: why did the entries in the journal end six months in the past?
 
And why was the final entry an epitaph?

Almost without thinking, Creed snapped the locket closed and slipped the chain up and over his head . He pulled his collar out and slid the cool silver pendant down beneath his shirt, where it nestled against his chest.
 
He rolled the dress up carefully and tucked it back into the pack, and then tied the ribbon back around the journal, being as careful as possible to match the original knot.
 
It was almost superstitious precaution, but it was a dead woman's journal and anything less seemed somehow wrong.

When the remaining treasures had been returned to the pack he took another long drink of bourbon.
 
The black feather still lay on the table.
 
He studied it.
 
When he'd first picked it up, he'd assumed it belonged to the owl he'd heard, but looking at it now it was obviously no owl feather.
 
It was deep black, like a raven, or a crow, but too large to have come from either one.
 
He reached out and ran his finger over it, then recoiled.

Rather than the soft, silky sensation he'd expected, his finger came away sticky, as though it had been coated in some sort of oil.
 
He still had the crow's feather he'd found outside The Deacon's tent.
 
It had no such taint.

Wind whipped bullets of rain into his window in a sudden loud crash of sound.
 
Creed jumped back, nearly toppling the table and its contents.
 
The feather fluttered to the floor.
 
He watched it, but made no move to pick it up.

Something heavy thumped into the wall outside.
 
He thought it was probably one of the loose, half-rotted shutters, but it didn't change the queasy sensation of dread that spread from his racing heart out through his limbs.
 
He rose, tucked the pack underneath his bedroll where anyone breaking in would not immediately catch sight of it, and headed for the door.

Before he stepped into the hall he straightened his gun belt and let his hand rest on the butt of his pistol.
 
He stood very still and listened, though he wasn't sure if he was listening for sounds in the hall, or outside his window.
 
He sensed the feather on the floor behind him, but did not turn to look.
 
He was almost superstitiously afraid that if he did, it wouldn't be there.

The hallway was empty.
 
On a stormy night only the regulars would make their way to the saloon.
 
Silas would be in a foul mood with sales down, and Mae had been in a state since Colleen up and moved in with The Deacon out at his camp.

The only one that seemed unaffected by the change was McGraw.
 
The old man pounded out what might have served as a jaunty melody to an empty room, earning his one beer an hour with gusto and competing with the slashing, windblown rain for attention.
 
The rain and wind even served to fill in some of the ghost notes.
 
Creed thought about McGraw's maimed hands.

He'd never given it much thought, but now he wondered what had happened. After seeing all the freaks in The Deacon's entourage, he'd grown particularly sensitive to missing body parts.
 
The missing notes in the melody, a thing that he'd long grown accustomed to, were jarring.
 
Listening to it now, the eight-finger boogie sounded more like an off-key dirge.

Silas stood behind the bar, half-heartedly polishing a dusty glass with a dirty rag.
 
Mae sat on a stool across from him, one leg crossed over the other in a way that hiked her skirt up so most of her thigh showed.
 
She was all business as she glanced up hopefully at the sound of his footsteps, but scowled and turned back to the bar when she saw Creed.

Creed ignored her.
 
He stepped to the end of the bar and leaned on the counter.
 
A moment later, Silas wandered down to him.

"Give me bourbon, Silas," he said.

"You took a bottle up two hours ago," Silas observed.

Creed glanced up at the bartender for the first time.
 
"I said give me a bourbon, I didn't ask when was the last time I had a drink," he said.
 
He stared at Silas, and whatever devils lingered in his gaze were enough to turn the other man away, fast.

A moment later the glass Silas was polishing thumped onto the bar, and a big splash of whiskey washed away the dust.

Creed took the glass, turned away without a backward glance, and stepped out the front door.
 
He stood beneath the awning of the porch, staring out across the rain-swept streets and the roofs of buildings toward Dead Man's Gulch.
 
Rain worked its way in to sting his face now and again.
 
He had to straighten his hat to keep it from taking flight.
 
The cold silver of the locket rested like a shard of ice against his heart.

The Deacon strode to the front of the tent, turned, cracked his knuckles and rested his hands on the podium.
 
The pews were filled with the faithful.
 
No seat was ever empty when The Deacon called them.
 
That was his gift: when he spoke the children of the flesh wanted to hear and the aged souls wanted to listen.
 
There were regular services, of course.
 
There were times for worship, and for prayer.
 
There were times for devotion, but this was different.
 
He had called them, but this was a gathering of his travelling community.
 
There would be no prayers.
 
It was a rare occurrence, and when it happened, it was never good.

Outside, the wind whipped rain against the sides of the tent, drumming like a tombstone chorus on the canvas walls.
 
The roar of rainfall through the gulch was as loud as a white water river.
 
The tent's guide ropes sang in the grip of the wind, like the bowing of the strings on some gigantic instrument.
 
The Deacon listened to the storm.
 
The poles creaked and groaned desperately.
 
For a moment, as the wood's protests grew even more strained, it seemed as though it would wrench the great pole from the ground and cast them all into darkness.
 
It did not.
 
In the distance, thunder rumbled.
 
Lightning flashed far above, and one of the trees on the ridge was reduced to ash.
 
The fragrance of ozone laced the air.
 
It was the smell of miracles, the Deacon thought to himself, smiling.

"I want to thank you all for coming on such short notice," The Deacon said.
 
"I know you have your own work to complete, and of course your own lives to live.
 
I appreciate that, I surely do, but there is a darkness sweeping down on us like a rushing tide.
 
There is a shadow in the desert, larger and darker than any crow, and it has set the sights of its dark guns on our small haven here, and on our faith."
 
He knew how to talk to a crowd, how to play them.
 
He knew who to look for and how to read the signs of trouble as well as any tracker.

"I have watched over you as my own children," he said.
 
"I have cared for you and fed you.
 
I have guided you from sinner to sinner and soul to soul, sometimes drawing others into our fold, other times bidding our brethren adieu.

"I have served you.
 
I have removed the darkness from men and from women, from children and from ancients.
 
I have set you free, one soul at a time.
 
I have healed the sick, cured the lame, but it is not enough!
 
Now I must do more!
 
Now I must save a multitude!
 
But I cannot do it alone, my friends!
 
We must save a multitude for the time of salvation is upon us!
 
There must be a revival."

A murmur of voices circled the tent.
 
The Deacon stood for a moment, gauging their reaction to his words.
 
Their whispers blended with the wind and slashing, pelting drops of rain.
 
He listened, but he could make no sense of the weather's voice.

"It has been a very long time since our last revival," he said.
 
"Many of us could use a renewal of faith.
 
Others have so much now that they can give back – so many lessons have been learned.
 
The time has come to share our blessings.
 
The darkness that is upon us will swallow the town of Rookwood as surely as I stand before you.
 
They are unprotected and awash in sin.
 
This is our calling!
 
This is why you came to me!
 
It is the day we always knew was coming.
 
We are ready!"

"Amen."

The voice rose from the rear of the tent.
 
The Deacon didn't look up, but he smiled.
 
Longman was short of stature, but he had the lungs of a giant.
 
The Deacon wondered what the little man would paint on his wagon for a revival.
 
He wondered if the deluge had washed away the image of the hanged man, or changed it.
 
He wondered again if it had been inverted, or if the inversion of the artist changed it.
 
The card itself called for either new beginnings, or for the spirit to be tied to the earthly – the mundane.
 
They would know soon enough.

He was interrupted by another voice.

"Shall we run up the flags?"
 
One of the faithful called.
 
His single eye stared out from beneath the brim of a faded cap.
 
Beside him, a short, stocky man with a humped back leaned on a cane.
 
His teeth were a cemetery of crooked stones grown over with mildew, and his hair, long and scraggly, hung over his shoulders like dead seaweed.

"We shall indeed," The Deacon said, inclining his head.
 
"Will you do the honors, Cy?"

The big man nodded.

"Andy, will you assist?"

The short, gnomish man nodded as well.
 
The two bowed, turned, and disappeared through the door of the tent to set about their task.

The Deacon stared after them.
 
Wind gripped the door of the tent and nearly tore it from Andy's hand.
 
It billowed like a sail.
 
Cy passed behind his friend, his one eye raised to the sky, staring into a knife-slash of lightning.
 
He didn't flinch.

"I will need a deposition to go into town," The Deacon said.
 
"We must move among them and spread the word.
 
They need to know the danger that descends upon their souls.
 
We must speak to them of the darkness."

"We must promise them wine and song," a cracked voice called out.
 
The tent grew silent.
 
The Deacon turned.
 
Lottie grinned back at him.

"The will not come for their souls alone," Attie cackled.
 
"They will come because not coming leaves them empty."

"Their souls could be saved any day, any night," Lottie added.

"They will come," Attie added.
 
"They are empty."

"Soul cages," Lottie intoned.

"Yes…"Attie finished.

"Indeed," The Deacon said.
 
"Would you three ladies lead the group into town?
 
I would go myself, but I have preparations to make."

"We will go," Lottie said.

"We will bring them," Attie nodded.

Chessie sat, silent as the grave.
 
She did not meet The Deacon's gaze, nor anyone else's.
 
Her sisters sat very close on either side of her, giving the illusion that they were joined at the hip.

"Take as many of the faithful as you need," the Deacon said, "so long as you leave me enough to prepare the tent.
 
I have other tasks to assign, other preparations to begin."

He might have glanced to the heavens at that moment, but he did not.
 
He might have called them to prayer, or read to them from The Bible.
 
They would pray with him.
 
If he asked it, they would pray
for
him.
 
They would recite their lines and close their eyes at the right moments just as he had taught them.