Hallowed Ground (26 page)

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."

She fought to sort the chaotic jumble of thoughts that scattered through her mind, trying to find the questions that needed answering the most.
 
She closed her eyes and suddenly felt the flames licking at her flesh, the blood and marrow boiling.
 
She opened her eyes quickly.

"My baby?" she said.

"Time was not what it seemed." Balthazar continued, ignoring her.
 
"That is your truth, Mariah.
 
The subjective nature of time.
 
Quit trying to count days in your head, they won't fit and you'll go mad, and mad you are of no use to me."
 
He glanced over her shoulder and nodded curtly.
 
"Your breakfast is burning, girl."

Mariah spun around, reaching out too quickly.
 
She caught the handle and sent the skillet tumbling.
 
She spilled the bacon grease, burning her hand.
 
She flinched as her skin pinked and puckered, but she did not release her hold.
 
The food had not tipped out of the pan.
 
Wincing, she managed to get the eggs and bacon onto her plate.

Balthazar stood and sipped his coffee, watching her.
 
He didn't move to help her, or offer her salve for her wound.
 
She wolfed down her food; once she'd had the first bite, she couldn't help herself.
 
She was ravenous.
 
Balthazar's words haunted her: time passing differently in different places.
 
Part of her wanted to rise up and scream that it made no sense, but then another part had her glancing back at the wagon.
 
How long had she slept?
 
How far had they come?
 
Was it possible they'd been together more than the few days she remembered?

She scraped the last of the food from her plate, mopping up the thick grease with her fingers, and then set it aside on the table.
 
She licked off the grease.
 
She filled the mug from the pot by the fire.
 
It was piping hot, and scalded her tongue, but she took another deep swallow to wash down the food.
 
She used the pain to focus her mind.

"You said
She
," she shook her head. "Who did you mean? Who is
She
? I remember the tents, but…"

"The owl woman," Balthazar replied.
 
He turned away from her, toward the fire.
 
She couldn't tell if he was fascinated by the dancing flames and burning coals, or if there was something more – was he trying to hide his gaze?
 
What didn't he want her to see?

"Her name is Lilith," he continued.
 
"At least, that's the name she was first given.
 
She has gone by many over the years.
 
She took you, just as she stole something that was mine.
 
She has been stealing from me since the beginning of the road you call time."

"Who is Lilith?"

Balthazar snorted.
 
"I suppose that there is no reason I would expect you should know who she is.
 
It isn't as though you would have read about her in the butchered book you call The Bible, but your prophets knew her name.
 
Your savior knew her, too, though of course there's no mention of it in the gospels his followers penned all those years later.
 
Elijah knew her, and Adam."

Mariah frowned, not following him.

"Lilith was the first woman," Balthazar said.

"No.
 
That was Eve.
 
Adam's wife was Eve," Mariah said softly.

Balthazar chuckled softly.

"Tell me, have you ever heard that old adage, Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned?
 
Of course you have.
 
Well, that first woman scorned was Lilith, and she has been working on her fury for an age."

"You aren't making any sense," Mariah said.

"You don't need to understand," Balthazar said.
 
"You need to listen.
 
Months ago, in the normal span of time, a man came to me with a proposition.
 
He offered me his soul so that the woman he loved, the woman he'd planned to marry, could return from the dead.
 
I honored that bargain.
 
That is the kind of man I am. I keep my word, girl."

"Benjamin," Mariah said, understanding, at least in part.
 
"You mean Benjamin.
 
Benjamin came to you . . . for me."

Balthazar shrugged.

"The name is not important.
 
It never is.
 
Names are ephemeral.
 
What is important is that there is a debt unpaid.
 
Lilith stole a portion of our agreement and with it a portion of the flesh.
 
Then she stole you, as well.
 
There must be a reckoning.
 
Debts left unpaid fester.
 
I have waited a very long time to remind her of that, and you, my girl, will help me."

The fire rose suddenly, as though inflamed by his anger.
 
Mariah stepped back as Balthazar stepped forward.
 
He plunged his arms into the fire.
 
Mariah stared, not sure whether she should be horrified, or intrigued.
 
The flames didn't touch his skin.
 
He withdrew a bundle from conflagration and tossed it into the dirt at her feet.
 
He turned away.
 
"Dress," he said.

The bundle was actually fresh clothing.
 
There was a silken black shirt, black jeans faded out through the thighs, scuffed snakeskin boots, and a belt.
 
The belt held several knives in battered leather sheaths.
 
It was decorated with silver and set with turquoise stones.
 
A slender, almost fragile looking revolver hung in a holster.

"I don't know how to shoot."

"Who asked you to shoot?" Balthazar said.
 
"I thought I told you to dress?
 
I won't ask again.
 
If I have to turn around and dress you myself, I will."

She watched his back for a few moments longer, her face suddenly red with a mixture of anger, frustration, and fascination.
 
She changed into the new clothes.
 
The shirt felt cool and soothing against her skin.
 
The jeans fit snugly, but were supple and comfortable.
 
The boots wrapped around her calves like a protective second skin.
 
The belt hung loosely down over her hip.
 
And wearing them, she felt oddly – complete.

"Now," Balthazar said, slow smile spreading across his timeless face, "the devil makes work for idle hands and these hands have been idle too long."

Cy and Andy trudged into camp just as the sun began to set behind them.  Each carried a canvas sack over one shoulder and a peculiar stick with a noose attached to it in their free hand.  Those who saw them coming stepped aside, or moved further back into the shadows.  Everyone knew what was wriggling around in those sacks, and they were no more welcome among the Deacon's flock than they had been in the Garden of Eden.

The two men stopped at their tent long enough to drop off their spades, and then set off toward Longman's wagon.  There was no sign of the little man, but a low glow shone through the cracks along the wagon's siding, and the soft strains of a harmonica filled the air.

Andy climbed up the two steps at the back of the wagon and rapped his knuckles on the wooden surface three times, sharply.

"Longman?" he called out.

The haunting strains of the harmonica fell silent, and the door swung out, nearly knocking Andy from his perch.

Despite his own short stature, Andy towered over Longman.  He clung to the thin metal handrail and struggling to keep his balance.  Cy stepped up behind him and pushed him back upright.  He held both of the canvas bags, so he had to use one to catch his friend.  The bag rippled.
 
Andy recoiled from it with a shiver, nearly pitching backwards again.

"There you are," Longman said, grinning.  "I was beginning to think you'd gone and got yourself lost.
 
You know, like maybe they'd caught you instead of you
catchin
' them, if you know what I mean?"

"You're a funny bastard," Andy muttered, pointing at the sacks Cy held up.  "The Deacon said we was supposed to bring ‘em here."

"Come in, come in," Longman said.

He held the door as first Andy, and then Cy clambered inside, and then he closed it behind them.
 
A wooden crate had been set up in the center of the room, standing about four foot in height with a screened top.  Longman stepped around Cy and grabbed one side of the lid.

"Give me a hand, Andy, don't be shy.  The sooner we get ‘em in here, the sooner we can get busy and the sooner you can get gone."

Andy grabbed the lid and helped pry it off, all the while glancing at the bags Cy held suspiciously.  Andy didn't like snakes.
 
All the way deep down into his bones, couldn't abide them.
 
He had recurring nightmares about rattlers, particularly after one of these "gatherings" the Deacon sent them on.

Longman chuckled.  Cy stood impassively, gripping the tops of the bags tightly, but not particularly carefully.  He stepped forward and handed the first of the bags to Longman.
 
The dwarf took it deftly and upended it quickly over the crate.

Writhing, hissing snakes dropped from the bag, winding and twirling about one another.  The colorful diamond patterns on their backs glittered in the kerosene lamplight, and they rose and struck at the air as the darkness of the bags was replaced by the lambent glow inside Longman's wagon.  Andy stumbled back so quickly he nearly tripped over his own feet.

"Watch yer feet, big man," Longman cackled.  "One of them gets out, you don't want to be facing it on all fours."
 
He made a gesture with his fingers, mimicking a snake's fangs going in deep.

"Just get the damned things in the box," Andy snapped.

Longman laughed, a rumbling belly laugh, as he dropped the first bag and took the second from Cy.  He dumped the serpents in on top of the others.  There were more than a dozen of the sleek, powerful bodies twining around one another like knotted ropes.  Longman leaned in over the crate and watched, fascinated.  "Look at them. Glorious."