Hallowed Ground (9 page)

The smile that was not a smile left his face, but his voice remained calm and his tone even.

"In good time, I will tell you," he said. "Not because you demand it, so we are clear, but because it serves my purpose.
 
That is to say I will share these things with you because
you
will serve my purpose.
 
It is all a circle you see…life, death…all a grand pattern.
 
A wheel through time.
 
A cycle.
 
What begins ends, what ends, well; let us just say that what ends almost never does, that such decisions of absolutes are arbitrary.
 
Does the summer end at an appointed hour or merely fade into winter only to begin again?
 
Do you think you can tell the moment when summer is past?
 
The precise second?
 
Is there even such a thing?
 
We are privileged to observe, but rarely get the opportunity to make a real difference.
 
We do not bring the scythe down on summer.
 
For you, that's about to change.
 
Welcome to the game."

Her anger dropped to a dull throb.
 
She found that it gave her strength, though she was far from well.

"Is there food?" she asked.

"There is," he said.
 
"I was about to break my morning bread.
 
I wasn't sure you'd awaken in time, but here you are.
 
Shall we eat then?" He inclined his head, as though by agreeing to breakfast together made her complicit to whatever ritual he was about.

Balthazar made several trips to and from the rear of his wagon.
 
Mariah sat and watched him furtively from out of the corner of her eye.
 
She was starving, but she didn't want to show weakness.
 
She had no desire to see that empty, icy smile shift in her direction, wrapping more threads of debt and guilt around her.

Her memory continued clear.
 
She remembered wind.
 
She remembered a tall man in a dark suit – a different man, not Samuel Balthazar.
 
She remembered his voice, and the crying of a baby.
 
She remembered the jolting, rocking motion of a wagon and the death-cold bed of stone.
 
She locked onto the memory of that one, mournful cry.
 
She fed her anger to that memory, trying to rebuild the face of the man who'd taken her child – the man who'd left her for dead.
 
When Balthazar laid his hand on her shoulder and shook gently, she started violently and nearly toppled over again in shock.

"If you are going to share this bacon," he said, his voice surprisingly soft, "you are going to have to join me on this plane.
 
Those others," he waved his hand dismissively, "those voices and faces in your head, they'll be there whenever you feel the need to return for them.
 
The eggs and bacon, fresh biscuits, and coffee will not."

He gripped her by her arm, fingers digging in.
 
It was sudden, and she had no time to think.
 
He lifted, and she rose.
 
Her legs felt soft – it was as though she had no bones.
 
She ached, and the pain helped her focus.
 
Balthazar helped her balance.

"Allow me?" he said, though it was anything but a question.

She didn't answer, he was already moving.
 
He led her to a folding wooden chair beside the fire.
 
Another chair sat across a wooden crate set out at as table.
 
None of it seemed real.
 
The fire had burned down low, but on the makeshift table two tin plates were heaped with hot food.
 
Flames snapped and crackled.
 
The moment the scent of the food reached her, her mouth watered.
 
Hunger hit her so hard and so fast she swooned into the chair.
 
She tried to reach for the biscuit, but too soon.
 
Vertigo rose through her and toppled her sideways.
 
Only Balthazar prevented her pitching face first into the fire.

"Slowly," he said again.
 
"The food will be here as long as you need it, and there is more.
 
You have to have the patience to build your strength.
 
Anger will carry you – but only so far.
 
That is to say, anger is best saved for the moments of greatest need.
 
I assure you, they will come, and your anger will be glorious but for now…" he nodded at the food.

Mariah nodded weakly.
 
She reached out again, very slowly, and wrapped her thin fingers around the biscuit.
 
It was surprisingly hard to grip.
 
She trembled.
 
She waited until her fingers dug through the surface into the soft bread beneath to draw it back.
 
She brought it to her lips and tugged a bite free.
 
Chewing was harder than she'd thought it would be, but she got that first bite down, and the second was easier.
 
By the time the biscuit was gone, she had the strength to lift the coffee and wash it down.
 
She expected the strong, bitter brew they'd shared back at her camp, but this was something different.
 
It had a rich flavor, and it was smooth, even against her raw throat.
 
It had been sitting on the crate long enough to cool, so it didn't burn as she sipped it greedily down.
 
Mariah closed her eyes for just a moment, fighting the sudden swell of tears that she felt at that tiny moment of pleasure.
 
It was unexpected.
 
She was emotionally fragile in ways she'd never been.

"From the mountains," Balthazar said.
 
"There are few things in life as wonderful as good coffee and, between you and me, few things as detestable as bad coffee.
 
I am old and have grown into most particular tastes."

Mariah nodded again.
 
She wasn't ready to test her voice again.
 
Instead, she put the cup back on the crate and carefully picked up the plate and fork.
 
If the food could match the coffee she would be in heaven, but surely bacon was bacon and eggs were eggs, and no matter how succulent or juicy it would have to disappoint?

She ate carefully, but steadily, savoring each mouthful.

The food was every bit as wonderful as the coffee.
 
It might have been eggs and bacon, and eggs and bacon might always be just the same, but somehow this was more.
 
She wanted to believe that there was nothing more miraculous about the meal than the fact that it was the first she had eaten since she'd considered herself dead, but it didn't feel true.

"When you've finished," Balthazar said, "I'll pour you another cup of coffee.
 
There are things we need to talk about, a story you need to hear.
 
It's a good story, as stories go.
 
One might even go so far as to suggest it could be fascinating for the right listener.
 
For some it might be a little difficult to believe, but … well … after what you've been through, I suspect you will have no trouble with that."

"Why?" she asked.
 
She found that her voice, though still wretchedly weak, had returned.

"Why do you want to tell me a story?
 
Why do you want to feed me?
 
Why do you even want me at all?" and then, almost as an afterthought, "Who are you?"

"All in good time, girl," Balthazar said, smoothing down the ruffles of his crisp linen shirt.
 
It was a prim, fastidious gesture that spoke volumes about the man.
 
"All in good time," he repeated.

Her eyes flashed, that barely suppressed anger bringing with it a little more of her strength.
 
"What makes you think I want to hear your story?"

Balthazar grew very still.
 
His face was a pale mask in the morning sun.
 
His skin glistened like white porcelain, and for just that precise instant, that solitary moment in time, it looked as though it might shatter.
 
Mariah saw the fragility clearly, the spectral mask of the skin cracking and splintering over Samuel Balthazar's face.
 
In her mind's eye it burst into a thousand tiny white shards, spraying her with sharp, biting splinters.
 
And then as readily as it had come, the illusion went and it was just the two of them sat across the fire.

The flames flared suddenly.
 
Two of the stones set into the dirt that ringed the fire-pit rolled out of place, forward and to the side, making a funnel for the fire to rush out through.
 
The flames curled off to either side, rushing faster and faster, and rising, always rising, tongues of red licked up into the sky.

Within the long silence between heartbeats the wagon was surrounded by cavorting flames.
 
Balthazar rose and strode forward, seemingly oblivious to the battering heat and scorching flame, and stepped directly into the center of the broken campfire circle.
 
Mariah tried to cry out, but the air was hot and acrid and she clamped her mouth shut, biting her lip painfully, tasting blood and something else.

Balthazar turned back to face her.
 
The flames gathered around him as though his to command.
 
They did not touch him.
 
He cast his arms wide and the jacket he wore, a jacket that seemed suddenly far too heavy and warm for the desert, ignited.
 
It burst into flames.
 
The raging fire spread, shrouding him, enveloping him.
 
It hung in the air behind him like fiery wings, and he laughed.

The laughter rolled over Mariah like pounding thunder.
 
It buffeted her with such heat she felt her skin drying and shrivelling over her bones.
 
Still Balthazar laughed.
 
She closed her eyes and tried again to scream, but now, when she needed her anger there was only fear and no sound would come.
 
The laughter blew her words, and her breath back down her throat.

Then he fell silent.
 
He reached down into the burning coals at his feet.
 
His hand slipped beneath the surface and returned with a long glowing tube gripped tightly.
 
Balthazar unscrewed the end of that tube with a deft flick of his wrist.
 
He upended it and dropped something into his hands.
 
Another flick of his wrist, and a scroll unfurled.
 
The paper was bright, and the letters seemed to have been penned in flame.
 
Mariah tried to read, but it was impossible.
 
If she kept her eyes open, they felt as though they would melt on the anvil of his fire.

She closed them as tightly as she could, but it didn't matter.
 
The images burned through her eyelids and into her brain.
 
Her head shook from side to side, and she raised her hands to her eyes.
 
Tears spilled out and steamed through her fingers.

And then it was gone.
 
A warm wind brushed across her skin, turning chill as it touched her.
 
She heard a crow's cry in the distance.
 
She didn't want to see, but she opened her eyes.
 
The stones were all in place, the fire in the pit smouldering low.
 
She turned slowly, not trusting her eyes.

Balthazar sat in the chair across the old crate from her.
 
In his hands he held a scroll. He turned and showed it to her.
 
The script was beautiful and archaic, each flowing line of letters carefully inscribed.
 
Balthazar unrolled it to the end.
 
There was a large fragment torn from the bottom right corner, splitting the signature and ruining the perfect symmetry of the document.

Mariah reached for her coffee.
 
In its place, a tall, clear glass stood.
 
The glass was filled with water so cold that condensation peppered the surface.
 
She gripped it in one shaking hand, and then brought her other hand to steady it as she raised it to her lips and gulped it down.
 
There was no gentle sipping, no careful swallowing, she inhaled it and almost gagged on the icy water.
 
What she couldn't drink dribbled down her chin.

"It is a long story," Balthazar said.
 
"It is a story of betrayal and loss, of love and death.
 
In a way, it could so easily be your story, couldn't it, Mariah?
 
Love lost, great treachery, the spectre of death; none of these things are strangers to you, are they?"

She met his gaze, and though the spark of defiance was not dead, it was – for the moment at least – cowed.

"Tell me," she said, knowing that she didn't want to hear it and knowing that she didn't have any choice but to.

With a wink, Balthazar began. . .