Hallowed Ground (20 page)

"Indeed, indeed," Longman said.
 
"That would be odd indeed, and I can understand why it would confuse you, but no.
 
We have a purpose here, a grand purpose.
 
A mission, you might call it.
 
We bring word from The Deacon."

"Do tell," Silas said.
 
"And what does the holy man have in store for us this time?
 
We're plumb out of corpses, for the moment."

Longman glanced up at the barman and chuckled.

"Much better than a funeral, I hope," he said.
 
"There's going to be a revival."

Creed looked at the sorry houses up and down the street, then back at the dwarf.
 
"I think he's about ten years too late for Rookwood."

Silas chuckled, and the dwarf joined in, but just at that moment the one armed man wandered over.
 
In his hand he held a small stack of hand-lettered flyers.
 
He held them out, and Longman took one from the pile.

"Thank you Rupert," he said.
 
"I'll explain it to these gentlemen.
 
You go on down the street, see who you can find.
 
Make sure you leave one with Mr. Bender.
 
The Deacon was particularly appreciative of all his help at the funeral services."

"Yes sir, Mr. Longman," the one-armed man replied.
 
He tipped his hat to Creed and Silas and started slowly off down the road.
 
The three men watched him go.
 
When he was a dozen paces away Longman turned back to Creed.

"He's a good man," the dwarf said.
 
"Works hard.
 
When The Deacon took him in, he was half dead.
 
Kids in his home town threw rocks at him.
 
One hit him in the head.
 
They thought he'd die, but they didn't count on the
healin
'."

"You believe that?" Creed asked.
 
He was hard pressed to keep the edge of cynicism out of his voice.

"My friend, I saw it," Longman replied.
 
There was no guile in the smaller man's face, and his smile had gone, leaving his face flat and serious.

"Seems like a lot of folks The Deacon has healed have…new problems," Silas cut in.

"Everything comes with a price," Longman replied.
 
"Rupert lives a good life.
 
He works hard, eats three squares and has a place to sleep at night.
 
No one in The Deacon's flock throws stones at him.
 
I'd say that's a better life, wouldn't you?"

"Who are the ladies?" Creed asked, changing the subject.

Longman turned back to the wagon.

"The sisters?" he asked.
 
"That would be Lottie, Attie, and Chessie.
 
They've been with The Deacon as long as I can remember. I guess you'd say they're…spiritual advisors."

"Well, they don't look especially spiritual," Silas said.
 
"But I guess they're one day closer to death than the rest of us."

Creed glanced up at him.

"Unless you carry on watering down your whiskey.
 
Then there's no accounting for what might happen."

Longman cackled.
 
He laid a hand on Creed's arm.
 
"They've been watching you since we arrived," the little man said.
 
"The sisters, I mean.
 
You go talk to them, keep them company a while, you might learn something important."

"What would that be," Creed asked.

The dwarf glanced at down at the street, and Creed followed his gaze.
 
In the dirt, just beyond the rail, a black feather lay, coated in dust.
 
He didn't need to pick it up, or to look more closely.
 
He knew that feather.

"What do you know?" he asked.

Longman shook his head. "Me?
 
Nothing.
 
I don't know things.
 
I get vague notions, time and again.
 
I paint.
 
The sisters?
 
They know.
 
There's a difference."

Creed pushed off the rail, leaned down to pluck the feather from the street, pocketed it and turned away without another word.

"Where you going, Creed?" Silas asked.

"Talk to Longman, Silas," Creed said without looking back.
 
"My guess is he's going to want you to spread the word about the revival.
 
I'm going to see if I can entertain the ladies for a few minutes."

Creed stepped off the walk into the street and started toward the wagon.
 
The old women watched him every step of the way.
 
Two of them, the ones on the left and right, started talking to each other immediately.
 
The third didn't say a word.
 
She just stared straight at him, or, as Silas had said, through him.
 
Her expression never wavered.

"Morning," Creed said.

He stopped short of the wagon and tipped the brim of his hat.

"He's polite," Lottie said.

"And young," Attie added.

"Name's Creed," he said.
 
"Provender Creed.
 
And it's been a long time since anyone called me young.
 
The little man over there says you might want to tell me something?"

"Longman sent him," Lottie cackled.

"What's that in his pocket?" Attie asked.

The middle sister stared.
 
Creed took the feather out of his pocket and twirled it between thumb and forefinger in the sunlight.
 
It was dusty from the road, but it still gleamed and sparkled with that oily sheen that had left his fingers sticky.
 
Creed stepped closer and held it out.
 
Very slowly, as if waking from the depths of a deep sleep, Chessie reached out and plucked the feather from his hand.

She drew her arm back, and Creed stepped back as well.

"It's big," Lottie observed.

"And black," Attie agreed.
 
"Crow."

"Pardon me, ma'am," Creed cut in, "but there's never been a crow born big enough to carry that around."

"Her crows are big," Lottie explained.

"Like men," Attie added.

"Whose crows?" Creed asked.
 
"What are you talking about?"

"She comes," Chessie said softly. "She is the darkness.
 
She is the night."

As she spoke, she twirled the feather deftly in her long, bony fingers.
 
"The owl woman comes, and her soldiers.
 
You have something she wants," the prophecy spilled from her lips.
 
"They are coming for it.
 
They are coming for you, Provender Creed."

Chessie fell silent.

The sisters turned in unison to stare at her. "She never speaks," Lottie said, eyes wide and frightened.

"Not without casting the bones," Attie added.
 
She plucked the feather from her sister's hand and cast it aside as though it burned.
 
Creed reached out and snatched it from the air, pocketing it in a single fluid motion.

"What did she mean?" he pressed.
 
"Who is the owl woman?"

"You must watch yourself," Lottie said.
 
"She is dark.
 
She is beautiful.
 
She is the night.
 
She will suck you dry and leave you like that feather of yours."

"Like the feather?" he asked.

"Dead," Attie said, helpfully.
 
"Quite dead."

Creed stared at them.
 
The middle sister, Chessie, showed no sign she knew he was there.
 
He turned back, looking in the direction of the Saloon.
 
Silas and Longman were nowhere to be seen.

"You'll excuse me, ladies?" he said, and tipped his hat one more time as he turned away.

"Polite," he heard Lottie say behind his back.

"And young," Attie added.
 
"So young to be a feather."

Their cackling voices followed him down the street, into the bar, and up the stairs to his room.
 
He lay back on his cot and tipped his hat down over his eyes, and still their laughter echoed through his mind.
 
Despite that, he drifted off to sleep.

He dreamed of men that were not men at all, but huge hulking crows.
 
Against the backdrop of a silver moon, he dreamed of a great owl who was a woman.
 
And as he slept, the feather rested against his chest, while the locket cooled his fevered skin.

Longman and his associates left their flyers about the town.
 
People began to talk.
 
The wagon rolled out of Rookwood and across the plain, taking the sisters with it.

Even when they were back with the Deacon at his tent city he was sure he could hear their laughter and Chessie's promise: "She is the night, and the night is black, and black is death, and death is cold," a lost voice whispered in his mind.

Provender Creed shivered as somewhere a crow as large as a man settled on his grave.

‡‡‡

Mariah came around slowly.
 
Her head was muggy, her thoughts slow.
 
She was surprised that she'd slept.
 
In fact it didn't feel as though she'd slept at all.
 
There was nothing refreshing about the lethargy that had stolen into her body.
 
She opened her eyes.
 
Balthazar stood over her.
 
He leaned too close before she could turn away, bringing his lips to within an inch of her ear.
 
She felt his stale breath tickle her cheek as he whispered a single word:

"Remember."

And then he was gone.

She lay for a moment longer, and then sat up slowly. She had been resting on something soft and cool.
 
The fragrance of fresh flowers filled the air.
 
It was dark, but a single shaft of sunlight cut through a window far above her, spearing down into the blackness.
 
She bumped up against something hard, and tried to turn.
 
In that moment, her vision cleared.
 
Her breath caught in her throat.
 
She swallowed three times, trying to force the air out of her lungs but all that came out of her mouth was a choked, gurgle.

She was in a church.
 
She knew the church.
 
She had been there before but she had no idea when or where it had been.
 
She scrambled up and back and cracked her neck painfully into the end of the coffin that held her.
 
She cried out again, and this time she managed to scream.
 
She gripped the side and hauled herself up.
 
The shift of balance as she struggled caused the casket to tip.
 
She spilled out over the edge and fell with it.
 
Her hip caught the corner of the altar and she rolled, sprawling across the smooth wooden floor.

Pain lanced through her like fire.
 
She forced herself to her feet.
 
Nothing made sense.
 
She turned about and then again, staring at her surroundings in confusion.
 
Balthazar was nowhere to be seen.
 
The heavy double doors of the church were closed.
 
She was alone.

Piles of lilies and sentimental offerings lay all around the coffin.
 
Her coffin.
 
No, she refused to think of it like that.
 
Something had happened, something that made no sense and left her senses reeling, but it wasn't her coffin.
 
It couldn't be.
 
She swallowed a heavy breath and took an unsteady step toward the altar.
 
She knew she should get out, that she should run, but something about the echoing darkness of the empty building called to her.
 
Something about the arrangements of flowers, and the sentimental offerings itched at her mind in a way she refused to believe.
 
She managed two more steps down the aisle then looked up at the stained glass window.
 
She knew the design in the glass.
 
She reached out, and clutched at the back of one of the pews to steady herself.
 
The seats behind the altar, where the choir sat during services, were every bit as familiar as the window.

She wore only a thin white gown.
 
Her bare feet were cold on the polished plank floor.
 
She picked up a card from the corner of the altar.
 
It had a fresh pressed flower against it, the seeds and petals crushed flat.
 
She opened it.