Hallowed Ground (7 page)

He reached down and tore away the cloth from Mariah's breast with an urgency approaching anger.
 
He laid the pouch against her bare skin and pressed his hands flat to her ribcage, riding gently with the rise and fall of her shallow breath.

The girl made a vague gurgling noise as her eyelids fluttered open.
 
Her eyes rolled up into her head, leaving milky white orbs staring blindly to Heaven.
 
The Deacon licked his lip and forced himself to wait a heartbeat, then another, before he touched a finger to her throat.
 
The pulse was there, but little more than a weak flutter.

He closed his eyes and focused on the flow of the blood beneath his fingertips, the rhythm of it.
 
Slowly, he let himself sink into that trickle of life.
 
He fed his strength into her through that contact and felt the sharp draw on his vitality that he knew so well.
 
It was not magic; not in the tribal or shamanic sense, it was God – or some other power equally compelling - moving through him, channelled through his flesh into the dying girl's blood to make it stronger.
 
That is the story he told, that the creator used him for repairs that he was only roadway for a higher power to walk.
 
Sometimes, alone at night and staring into the heavens, he even believed it.
 
He concentrated, and the outpouring of energy slowed, stilled, and then reversed.
 
The Deacon closed his eyes, relishing the heat as it flowed back into him.

The laying on of hands drew almost as much from him as it gave to those in need of his talents.
 
It was two sides to the silver coin that paid the Boatman, a blessing and a curse and all of those other truisms connected so virulently to the Lord to exemplify that He both gave and took away when divine whimsy struck.
 
It never passed without leaving its mark, and it was an intricate dance.

"Not yet, child, not yet," he murmured as the warmth spread out from his fingers, supplementing her pulse and passing the blood flowing to her brain.

He savoured her heart beat as it echoed within him, racing at first but then slowing to match his.
 
She showed no sign of waking.
 
Sometimes The Deacon liked to watch the fear and understanding spread across the face of a penitent as he performed a harrowing, but this time he sensed everything was different, and he was glad for the lack of distraction.
 
He pulled the rest of her dress away from her shoulders and down to bare the glorious mound of her belly.
 
He slid his hands down to rest on either side of her stomach, feeling the outline of the child beneath the protective sack of the mother's flesh.

There was no life there.

The Deacon closed his eyes.

"Give me a sign, Lord.
 
Guide my hand so that it might serve your will."

As though in response, the winds around the tent gusted, churning the dust from the surface of the hard baked dirt into devils that blew along the pathways forming the wretched canvas settlement.

"Is this your will? Is this as you would have it?" He raised his hands and thrust them into the air above his head.
 
The winds answered, the dry crack of thunder rumbled over the distant hills.
 
The Deacon grew very still.
 
His head cocked to the side, as if he discerned words in that dull roar.
 
His voice shifted when next he spoke, dropping a full octave and becoming thick with gravel.
 
"Then so it shall be done."

There was no rain.

The wind rose and tore at the flaps of the tents surrounding them.
 
Guide ropes thrummed like plucked guitar string and tugged against the stakes anchoring them to the earth.
 
The taut canvas walls beat a wretched cacophony to rival the wing beats of the hundreds upon hundreds of black winged birds that had descended upon the town the night before.
 
The Deacon's hair whirled about him wildly.
 
His jacket threatened to tear back and blow free of his shoulders.
 
Still the noise rose, accentuated by the scratch and scrap of claws on the canvas of the tent roofs.

The crows had returned to carry the shriven soul away into the night.
 
The Deacon thought for a moment that he could distinguish voices in their calls and in the cry of the wind and the snap of the heavy canvas where it tore free of its restraining guide ropes.
 
Was that what the Lord sounded like, a voice too huge to be heard?

Savoring the taste of them on his lips, The Deacon recited the words of the harrowing, his fingernails bloody as they dug into Mariah's pale skin, clawing in deeper and still deeper as though they might somehow pare away the souls of mother and child from their corrupt flesh.

‡‡‡

Creed hunkered lower, trying to see through the battering wind and the churning dust devils.
 
He pressed his hat down low over his face, using the wide brim to shield him from the worst of the elements.
 
There was no respite.

He didn't know for sure what he was witnessing until The Deacon stood.
 
He cradled something in his arms, something small and very pale.
 
The darkness drained away the
colors
, but for some reason Creed saw blue.
 
The Deacon spoke softly, words of solace perhaps, a prayer for the lost soul, some last rite for a stillborn child?
 
The sound flew with the wind

Before Creed could stand, shadows broke free of the darkness obscuring The Deacon and his burden.
 
Several of The Deacon's misfits shuffled into view, surrounding him.
 
Their deformities both repulsed and fascinated Creed; it was as though corruption itself had tainted their flesh and bones, or some deep, integral part of them had been stolen and carted away.

They knelt beside the woman.
 
They lifted her, shuffling, shambling pall bearers without a coffin to separate them from their load.
 
She hung limp in their arms.
 
Creed knew instinctively that they did not intend to help her.
 
Something in the way they pulled back from The Deacon, and the child, told him the mother's part in this morbid drama was played out.

The group turned away from The Deacon without a sound.
 
They manhandled the woman, carrying her unceremoniously toward where Creed hid.
 
He remained very still, sure that if he moved, they would hear, and not certain they wouldn't catch his scent.
 
Something in the way they'd entered the clearing without being summoned gave the impression of acute awareness.
 
They stopped within a few feet of him, pulled back the tarp from one of the wagons and dumped the limp and bloody body into the flatbed.

Still Creed didn't move.

He crouched, transfixed by the macabre theatre of it all, staring slack-jawed as The Deacon raised the child to his lips and kissed its death palled forehead.
 
The child writhed, then squirmed in his grasp.
 
Creed's stomach lurched.
 
The newborn coughed wetly, and then a moment later cried, announcing itself to the world with tears of grief and shock and horror.
 
There was no life or joy in that cry.
 
It was the voice of ultimate suffering.

As The Deacon turned, Creed saw the hideous deformity that marred the child in his arms.
 
That child had no place on God's green earth.
 
All he could think, seeing it squirming in The Deacon's arms, was that it was dead.
 
No, not merely dead, soulless.

And yet it screamed.

The sudden lurch of the wagon startled him from his reverie.
 
It rolled forward, and Creed drew back involuntarily.
 
He watched, knowing that he should follow, that he should see what became of the girl, if only to be certain she received a burial, and wasn't dumped in the cold of the desert to feed the vultures.
 
He knew it was the right thing to do, but he turned away.

He watched as The Deacon carried his burden to the back of his wagon, silhouetted against the canvas walls of his tent, beyond which candle flames still danced.
 
Those candles should have toppled in the wind.
 
That wagon should have gone up in flame. Now the wind died to a whisper, and The Deacon vanished through the entrance at the back of his home, joining the dancing shadows within.

Creed turned, stumbled once, then caught his balance and ran.
 
He'd left his horse in the gulch.
 
He dropped over the rim and slid down the shale and gravel, digging the heel of his boot through stone and bones.
 
His breath was ragged, and his heart raced.
 
He thought he still heard The Deacon murmuring to the death-child in his arms.

He hit the far side of the gulch at a dangerous gallop, shot through the trees and off toward Rookwood, riding as if the devil's breath warmed his back.
 
The night air was cold, and the sky was a deep mottled gray, peppered with the soaring wings of crows.

The Deacon's people left Mariah's still body on a rough bed of stone.
 
They drove far enough into the desert that it was unlikely she'd be found by anyone out of Rookwood - at least not while what was left of her was recognizable.
 
The vultures would not be long in discovering her, once the sun rose, and even as the wagon's wheels creaked off toward camp, coyotes caught the scent.
 
They were cautious, tricky hunters, and they would move in slowly, but once they found her, she wouldn't last long.
 
The bones would be picked clean within a week's time.
 
Insects and the sun would do the rest.

The group had been almost gentle in laying her out.
 
All the roughness they'd exhibited in the vicinity of The Deacon had slipped away.
 
They were a sad lot, life-worn and broken. They sensed a kindred spirit in the thin, broken frame - and maybe something else.

When the wagon's mournful voice had faded, she lay alone.
 
Though it was cold, she didn't shiver.
 
If a shard of silver had been held to her lips, the faintest mist might have clouded it.
 
Nothing could have lived within that ruined frame, and yet the crows remained perched atop the trees and stone outcroppings, watching patiently.

The silence gave way to a slow, rhythmic thump, the creak of leather, and the soft clink of glass on glass.
 
It began as a distant murmur and grew louder with each passing moment.
 
The moon was high and bright.
 
A tall, ornate wagon rolled into sight on the horizon and made its way cautiously across the rough desert floor.

The wagon stopped beside the stones where Mariah's ruined body had been laid out for the scavengers.
 
The driver sat still for a while, as if he heard something in the wind, or saw messages in the stars.
 
He glanced down at Mariah, and a flash of white betrayed a crooked smile.

He was tall and slender.
 
His hair and moustache were dark and well groomed.
 
His suit was darker still in sharp contrast to the white of his shirt.
 
A silver watch fob dangled from his breast pocket, and he wore a worn but elegant silk hat.
 
On his hip the pearl handled grip of a well-oiled revolver peeked out from beneath his jacket.
 
He rode easily, and the matched team of black horses pulled the wagon intuitively, barely requiring a touch of the reins to shift, or to stop.

The man cocked his hat back on his head and rubbed his chin, then climbed gracefully down from the wagon.
 
He walked around to the rear of the wagon, fished a skeleton key out of his pocket, and inserted it into a large padlock.
 
The tumblers spun smoothly.

He clambered up inside, rummaged about a little, and came out with a small bag, a folded blanket, and his tinderbox.
 
He unfolded the blanket and laid it out on the ground closer to his wagon.
 
He gathered a handful
 
of stones and placed them in a circle.
 
To the left of where he stood, a small stand of shrubs shot up at unruly angles.
 
He laid his hand on one thick branch.
 
The sparse leaves grew limp, curled in on themselves, and fell away from the branch.
 
The wood lightened in color, then grew pale. Moments later, with a flick of his wrist, he broke the small tree free of the ground.
 
He snapped the trunk into shorter logs and carried them to his stone circle, carefully laying a fire.

He sat cross-legged on the ground, just beyond the ring of stones surrounding the sticks, and reached for his tinderbox.
 
He withdrew a small handful of dried sage and slivers of wood, and his flint.
 
He tucked the tinder in beneath his carefully stacked branches, and began tapping the flint, waiting patiently for it to spark.
 
As he worked, he cast a glance at the pale, still figure lying a few feet away on the stone.