Hallowed Ground (32 page)

He tied his horse to a small tree with a break-away knot and slipped closer.
 
He moved low and fast, constantly alert, checking over his shoulder, to the left, and to the right.
 
He didn't want to risk being spotted from the camp, but he wanted a good view of what was happening.
 
He'd seen Brady coming in at the last, and suddenly the distance between himself and the Deacon's big tent seemed a lot farther than it had by the light of day.
 
The strange scent of incense carried to him on the breeze.
 
Even as thin as it was the aroma was intoxicating.
 
He shook his head and tried to clear the slight fog it caused, but it didn't make a lick of difference.

He kept to the shadows and moved quickly toward the perimeter, scuffing his feet as he ran.
 
He slowed up, dropped to a crouch, and scanned the camp.
 
The Deacon's odd little crew came and went about their business.
 
None of them looked his way.
 
They were all, every last one of them, wrong in some way, damaged, broken.
 
Had the Deacon gathered them to him out of the goodness of his heart or did he simply attract misfits and freaks?
 
Creed licked his dry lips.
 
There wasn't an ounce of moisture in his mouth.
 
He looked up at the sky and the rising moon, and then started running again.

Twenty feet closer to the camp he slowed again, and as he lifted his foot to cross a fallen log, a searing pain tore through his chest, cold and so sharp it bit like fire.
 
He gasped in pain and stumbled back.
 
Creed clutched at his chest with his hands.
 
It took him a moment to realize it was the locket, and that as he backed away from the log, the pain ceased as suddenly as it had begun.
 

Creed stood hunched over in the shadows, hands on knees, gasping for breath.
 
Wincing, he straightened up.
 
He clutched the locket through his shirt and felt the smooth curve of it in the palm of his hand.
 
There was no hint of cold, no trace of pain.
 
Very slowly, he moved toward the log again.
 
Tentatively, he reached out, holding his hand above it.
 
He felt the locket grow suddenly icy.
 
He backed away.

"What in the Sam Hill . .?"

He took the chain and tried to lift the locket over his head.
 
It slipped through his fingers before he could work it up over his chin, and it fell back beneath his shirt collar.
 
He grabbed it again, and again, but each time it slipped through his fingers, or tangled in them, and somehow ended up settling against his skin as though it had taken root and become a part of him.

Creed turned to the camp again.
 
The music had shifted.
 
He heard a deep, baritone filling the night with the strains of "The Old Rugged Cross."
 
He edged closer until he was just short of the log, and hunkered down to watch.
 
He didn't know what the locket was warning him against, but he knew, on some deep, primal level, that it
was
a warning.
 
There was no doubt in his mind.
 
There had been no malice in the pain.
 
He would have felt it.
 
It had subsided the moment he stepped away from the camp, its purpose served.

Provender Creed licked his lips.

His skin prickled.
 
He looked back over his shoulder, expecting to see a dark winged shadow there.
 
He was alone.
 
It didn't matter.
 
Suddenly the incense, the crow men and everything else that had happened over the last few days took on darker and more sinister overtones.
 
He glanced up into the trees, but there was no sign of birds.
 
He swept his gaze along the perimeter of the camp, but nothing moved.
 
Every living thing for miles was inside that tent – except for a lone cowboy named Provender Creed.
 

He shivered.
 
Days ago he would have said it meant someone had walked over his grave.
 
Here, now, he was sure of it.

In the camp, the last strains of "The Old Rugged Cross" faded away.
 
For a long moment, the silence was broken only by the canvas flapping in the breeze.
 
He watched the dancing shadows playing across the backlit surface of the tent, straining to see if he could make anything out of them.
 
He thought he could see where the altar stood, and where pews stretched to the right and left but beyond that it was impossible.

A tall dark blotch moved toward the center of the tent, the shadow image of The Deacon, hands upraised to the heavens in a sustained supplication.
 
Creed knew it was the man's shadow from the way he moved.
 
It was something Creed noticed.
 
The way a man carried himself was the kind of thing he tucked away without thinking about it.
 
If you studied how a man walked, it could tell you a lot about him, enough to keep you alive if it came right down to it and Creed had a knack for surviving.
 
The Deacon moved like a man so sure of himself he'd walk into the pits of Hell and have the balls to tell the Devil to turn down the heat.
 
The thing about men like that, men so blinkered by their own holy importance, was that more often than not they underestimated their enemies.

A few minutes after stepping to the center of the tent, the Deacon raised his voice, coming close to reaching the volume of the entire gathering when they belted out their hymns.

Creed listened, for what good it did. The words made no sense.
 
He'd attended church services as a boy, and before the old preacher had died, he'd stopped in from time to time to pay his respects to him and Him up there.
 
He wasn't exactly God-fearing, but he was hardly a stranger to the Word.
 
What he heard now sounded almost like it could have been from the Old Testament, the thunder and lightning vengeful God stuff, it was damned loud, for sure.
 
He listened as the strange words rose.
 
He felt them deep in his bones, resonating with his meat and the belly of the earth beneath his feet.
 
He felt an icy tingle from the locket.

"Michael, Sword of the Maker, Wrathful Warrior, Archangel, defend us in this our battle.
 
Be our shield against the wicked snares of Satan and his cursed minions.
 
May God rebuke him, we humbly pray.
 
And you, Prince of the heavenly host, by the power of God, thrust into Hell the Fallen Son of Light and the other evil spirits who prowl the world for the ruin of souls.
 
Protect those who need you more now than ever.
 
Be our armor and our sword.
 
Amen."

There was a momentary silence, and Creed saw that The Deacon, who'd been facing down the centre aisle, away from the altar, east, turned.
 
It was impossible to read from his shadow whether he faced north or south.

"
Uriel
, Guardian of the Garden, Watcher in the Wilderness, Archangel, carry our praise of Glory to God in the Highest High.
 
Praise him for his deeds, for everything that is good and wonderful.
 
Holy Archangel Uriel, protect and look after the rains and the rivers and deliver us from the mighty rush of floods.
 
Give us of your water to drink, for life springs up from it and so long we sup at it we are eternal, and as you bless us we have no fear."

Again, The Deacon turned.

"Archangel Raphael heal and align my body, mind and soul, I beseech thee.
 
Make my flesh a vehicle for the healing of others. Channel thy gift through my bones that I might reach out and raise them all, the sick and weary, the wounded and the dead.
 
Grant me focus and give me the strength of Creation.
 
Help me to dedicate myself to the path of ascension for Earth and self.
 
Help me to pierce the heart of the world and draw forth that vital spirit that is needed to heal separation and fear."

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.

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.