Hallowed Ground (33 page)

The faithful didn't notice, but why should they?
 
They were meat and bone; they were neither divine nor daemonic.
 
There was no good reason for them to so much as sense a prickle on the nape of their necks.
 
The world would continue to spin around the sun, as it always had.
 
That was all they cared about.
 
The Deacon knew what was to come would be tricky.  There were words that needed to be spoken.  There was a pattern that could not be broken.  He needed to weave the incantation into something they would understand, or, failing that into something that would fool them into believing that they
should
understand and keep them in their seats until he'd finished.

Sanchez lurked outside, waiting for his cue.
 
The Deacon had drilled it in to him.
 
So much depended upon timing, and worse, upon others.
 
He hated being at the mercy of fools.
 
Still, he was fairly certain he could trust that when the right moment in the ritual had been reached, Sanchez would bring Colleen and the child in.  It was like a finely orchestrated dance, so many pieces in motion all at the same time, if one failed they all failed.
 
And he was in the middle, controlling everything.
 
There was at least one detail of the ritual he intended to change.  He was fairly certain that despite their exceptional sight, the sisters did not know.
 
With Longman it was more difficult to judge, but again, the Deacon thought he had kept this one last thing a secret.

The only thing he was sure and certain of was that the talisman in the pouch around his neck was unaware of his thoughts.  He'd have known in an instant.
 
The book and the ritual had a vice-like hold on him, but he only needed to twist its purpose for the span of a single word, and he was strong.
 
Fools were forever underestimating him.
 
It was like playing out a game of smoke and mirrors within his mind.
 
He prayed for the strength to see the ritual through to its end.
 
If he concentrated, played his part, and performed as expected right up to that telling moment, that single word buried within all of the others, he could pull it off.  His life, possibly his eternal soul, depended on it.

He raised his hands again and smiled at the gathered folk of Rookwood, and those of his own flock.

"Thank you all for coming, one and all.
 
Thank you for having the faith in the word, for having the love in your hearts and the spirit to unite and be one," he smiled his winning smile and spread his arms wide to encompass the entire congregation.
 
"There is no better time than the present to do the work of the Lord.  There is no endeavor more important than the salvation of the eternal soul.  We have come together to raise our voices in praise, to bind our hearts in prayer, and to bring the blessings of the almighty down to bless this gathering.

"This tent is nothing more than canvas supported on wooden bones.  This land is dry and forgotten, and yet, it was created by His hand, and is as blessed as any delta, field, mountain or riverbank.  The power and soul of the Creator flows through the sand and stone, and it stretches up to touch us, each and every one.

"When we gather in his name and join in prayer, the ground beneath us is hallowed.  What we share and think and believe is sacred.  We leave behind our mortal shells and become something one step closer to the divine.  Will you join me?  Will you rise and bow your heads and pray with me?"

A few nodded, almost shyly.
 
A few more clapped here hands.
 
One voice called hallelujah.
 
The Deacon's smile broadened.

As though there had been some silent communication between them, McGraw began to play again.  It wasn't any hymn that The Deacon knew - not exactly - but one born of many melodies, as though a myriad of holy songs had been woven into one tight pattern.
 
Patterns within patterns all coming together in a great weave, the Deacon thought.
 
It took a moment of listening to realize that the composition could only have been written for McGraw; with his missing fingers, there were no missing notes.  The melody flowed and skipped over what might have been and became something unique.  The Deacon was fond of saying every man had his own song…McGraw had apparently chosen this moment in time to share his.  It would have been difficult, if not impossible, for a pianist with a full complement of fingers to match it.

"Will you rise?" The Deacon intoned.  He didn't need to ask…he knew they would rise.  They always rose.
 
He held up his hands, palms turned out to face them.

Those gathered - all but Longman and the sisters - stood slowly.  Some joined hands, others stood separate, like islands of faith.
 
Every last man and woman dipped their heads, eyes lowered to the dirt-floor and closed tightly.

"Lord," The Deacon said, "we offer ourselves freely to you.  We offer our lives, and our hearts, our words and deeds.  Offer us, in return, your blessing and your power, your protection and your love."

He hesitated.  His followers joined their voices and cried.

"Amen!"

They were his now, their purpose and their existence.
 
In one word they had surrendered themselves to him.
 
The Deacon lifted his head and cried out: "And now I will call to the powers of Heaven, and of Earth.  I will speak the names of those with the power to change our hearts and our minds, our health and our destiny.  I will call out for the power to help, and to heal.
 
Are you with me?"

"Yes," those gathered intoned.
 
The tent sang with the power of that one word.

The Deacon raised his voice still more, becoming thunderous as he repeated, "Are you with me?"

"Yes!" they screamed as one.

So he began.

"O
Vsyr
,
Salaul
,
Silitor
,
Demor
,
Zanno
,
Syrtroy
,
Risbel
,
Cutroy
,
Lytay
,
Onor
,
Moloy
,
Pumotor
, Tami,
Oor
and
Ym
, warrior spirits of  our Lord, whose role it is to bear arms and to strengthen human senses wherever you wish I conjure and
exort
and invoke you by the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit, called the Holy Trinity, and by the creator of Heaven and Earth and of all things visible and invisible, and by Him who formed man of the mud of the Earth, and by the annunciation of our Lord Jesus Christ, and by his nativity, and by his death and passion, and by his resurrection and by his ascension."

‡‡‡

Brady, who'd taken a position as close to the back and the exit as possible, glanced up.

"What in hell?" he muttered.
 
His skin prickled.
 
Burned.  He started to turn, but found that his legs were oddly weak.  He glared directly at the Deacon and shook his head.  He felt as though he'd been glued in place, and though he knew the Deacon was speaking, the words spilled over and around him without any sort of clarity.
 
They were a jumble of sounds and syllables that swelled to fill his mind but made no earthly sense.

"Likewise I conjure all you aforesaid demons," though the word twisted in Brady's mind, sounding more and more like ‘angels' as he tried to focus on it, "spirits, by the gracious and most merciful and undefiled and incorrupt Virgin Mary, the mother of our Lord Jesus Christ, who underwent death for us miserable sinners and recalled us to the heavenly fatherland.

"Likewise, I conjure you by all the holy men and women of God, and by all the apostles, martyrs, confessors, virgins and widows, and by these most precious and ineffable names of the Creator of all, by which you all are bound, and which arouse fear in all things in Heaven, on Earth, and in Hell, to wit
Aa
, Ely,
Sother
,
Adonay
,
Cel
,
Sabaoth
,
Messyas
,
Alazabra
and
Osian
, Likewise I conjure and
exort
you by the virtue and power of all your princes, kings, lords, and superiors, and by your virtue and capacity and power, and by your dwelling place of which this circle is the form, and by all the figures present within it."

There was more, but those gathered never raised their eyes.  They swayed in time with the majestic timbre of the Deacon's voice.
 
They murmured
Amens
and Hallelujahs into the few silent moments and crossed themselves.  Energy crackled in the air, and it swept away their thoughts.

Brady struggled against it, fighting with every ounce of life in his bones.  He managed a single stumbling step toward the aisle, as though he might either turn on the Deacon and confront him, or flee through the flaps of the tent and on into the night, but in the end, he failed to do either.  The words surged and swelled, the rhythms blazed through his body, and he began to sway in time with them as his thoughts slipped off to some other place and time.

He didn't have the breath left in him for a final curse.

The wagon came to a halt, the flatbed creaking heavily on its rear axle.
 
Mariah, for the first time, sat up front beside Balthazar.
 
She scanned the moonlit plain that rolled out around them.
 
There were no signs of life, save for an odd glow in the distance.
 
No insects, no animals, no birds.
 
The only sounds she heard were made by the wind shivering through scrub brush.
 
Just when she thought they were truly and utterly alone the mournful cry of an owl broke the silence.
 
She felt rather than saw Balthazar flinch.

"What?"

"It's nothing," he said, brushing her off with grunt.
 
"Damn bird startled me."

It wasn't a bird that plucked at his nerves.
 
They both knew that.
 
On any other night the old man was so precise, so particular.
 
Misnaming the owl caused something – some sense – inside her to prickle.
 
She turned to look at him properly, struggling to believe something could startle him.
 
He had witnessed tentacles reaching up out of the dirt to drag a man down; he had taken her back to her own coffin.
 
There was no way a simple barn owl could affect the man, not like that.

"I see lights," she said, pointing.
 
It was a poor attempt to shift his attention.
 
Still, he answered her:

"They'll be brighter soon, I expect.
 
There's something of a shindig in progress."

Mariah waited for him to explain.
 
She didn't ask questions.
 
She had learned to be patient.
 
If he intended to tell her, he would tell her, but in his own time.
 
She could ask all the questions she wanted, he might just as well answer with a riddle, a question of his own, or spin some other story that meant nothing to her and left her all the more confused, and with more questions.
 
Then again he might say nothing and let silence fester between them.
 
There was no way of knowing how he would respond.
 
So she waited the silence out.

"I have been expecting this particular party for a long, long time," Balthazar said.
 
"You might say it's the final move in an elaborate game of checkers.
 
Have you ever played?"

He turned to her, and she shook her head.

"It's a simple but fascinating game," he said, leaning across conspiratorially.
 
"I've never lost."

Mariah turned and stared out over the plains.
 
The lights had brightened, and if she concentrated, she thought she could hear voices.
 
There weren't any coherent words. The harder she tried to pick out actual shapes and sounds the more sure she was that there were none to hear, only tones, rising and falling in an eerie cadence.
 

There was something wrong with the lights, she realized.

A campfire's light would have flickered, throwing both light and shadow across the sky.
 
It wouldn't be so bright, and you'd see it dance.
 
She knew that.
 
A town was different.
 
The light came from a number of sources and coalesced into a single canopy overhead.
 
This wasn't like that either.
 
The closer they came, the more it resembled a ray of light – a cylinder shooting straight up from the desert floor all the way into the high banks of cloud.

Balthazar inclined his head slowly, like a dog listening to the cry of a distant animal.
 
As Mariah watched, he licked his dry lips and seemed to mouth several words.
 
He saw her looking at him and smiled.