Wilson David Niall

Hallowed Ground

HALLOWED GROUND

By Steven Savile & David Niall Wilson

Copyright 2010 by  Steven Savile & David Niall Wilson

OTHER CROSSROAD TITLES BY DAVID NIALL WILSON:

NOVELS:

Ancient Eyes

Deep Blue

Sins of the Flash

The Orffyreus Wheel

Darkness Falling

The Mote in Andrea's Eye

On the Third Day

The Second Veil

Heart of a Dragon

Stargate Atlantis – SGA-15 – Brimstone (With Patricia Lee Macomber)

Vintage Soul

NOVELLAS:

Roll Them Bones

The Preacher's Marsh

The Not Quite Right Reverend Cletus J. Diggs & The Currently Accepted Habits of Nature

'Scuse Me, While I Kiss the Sky

COLLECTIONS:

The Fall of the House of Escher & Other Illusions

Defining Moments

A Taste of Blood & Roses

Spinning Webs & Telling Lies

The Whirling Man& Other Tales of Pain, Blood, and Madness

Joined at the Muse

UNABRIDGED AUDIOBOOKS:

Roll Them Bones / Deep Blue / The Orffyreus Wheel / The Not Quite Right Reverend Cletus J. Diggs & The Currently Accepted Habits of Nature / Heart of a Dragon / On the Third Day / This is My Blood

OTHER CROSSROAD TITLES BY STEVEN SAVILE:

NOVELS:

Laughing Boy's Shadow

The Last Angel

The Sufferer's Song

UNABRIDGED AUDIOBOOKS:

The Forgetting Wood – Narrated by Ian Stuart

CHAPTER ONE

They came in the night with their creak-wheeled wagons and patchwork tents, rolling down through the gulch and up the other side to pitch camp.  In Rookwood, they called it 'Dead man's Gulch,' and in Rookwood, names were important.  If you walked too far through that God-forsaken, dust-drowned ditch, you were bound to drag your boots through bones.  If you felt something sharp dig into your heel, it could be a tooth taking a last bite of something hot and living.  The Deacon stood in silent shadows watching their progress, occasionally glancing up into the pale, inadequate light of the waning moon.

He was a tall man, gaunt and pale.  His suit was dark, and despite the fact they traveled through the desert, he wore a long, sweeping coat even darker than the suit.  His hair was long, trailing down his back, dancing when the wind caressed it and dangling over the collar of his coat like thick moss.  His eyes were chips of gray ice, emotionless and cold.

The scouts had come to him two days back.  They'd found a location that suited his needs, not too close to the town, sheltered, with water nearby.  It was surrounded on two sides by rocky crags and bordered at its back by the gulch.  The Deacon timed their arrival to occur at night.  He preferred the moonlight.  Those with cause to ride out of town far enough – hunters and trappers – could watch the sunset over barren, forgotten ground. When it rose again, curious eyes would see tents glistening in the sun.  There was no breeze, had been no breeze for days, so the canvas wouldn't flap in the wind.  It would look like a mirage to any who drew near enough to see it, and that suited The Deacon just fine.

His wagon was the first to cross the gulch, and as the horses dragged it up the long, dusty incline he fell into step with the front wheels and swung up beside the driver. Sanchez held the reigns lightly, but his knuckles went suddenly tight with tension as The Deacon settled into the seat.  Sanchez was an older man.  He’d come up as a boy from Mexico, and had traveled many long roads.

"Not much farther," he said.  His gaze remained locked on the road ahead, and the tone of his voice was carefully neutral.

The Deacon was silent.  Behind them, the other wagons struggled to follow.  Some were pulled by horses, others by mules, and still others couldn't manage the crossing without their passengers crawling out like rats from sinking ships to push and pull.  They might as well not have existed, for all the attention The Deacon spared them.

They entered the camp area and circled once.  Sanchez made no move to stop; he waited. Eventually, on the second circuit of that open space, The Deacon grunted, and they rolled to a halt.  From where they sat the moon was just visible between two rocky crags.  It cast a beam of silver light that fell across the wagon, slicing it in half.

"Here," The Deacon said.

Sanchez hopped down and disappeared toward the rear of the wagon.  The Deacon sat still as a wooden Indian and watched the first of the following wagons enter the clearing.  They crawled in like vermin. They squabbled briefly over location.  Two big, burly roustabouts swaggered into the center – a large, vacant expanse – and began barking orders.

The main tent would hide them from one another.  The wagons and tents would provide alleys to hide in and shadows for his flock to call their own.  The main tent gave the camp it's heart.

The Deacon slid down from the wagon's seat and strode to the middle of the clearing.  Among the wagons and tents, conversation stilled.  Motion ceased.  They watched as he stopped dead center and turned slowly.  He missed nothing.  He placed each one of them, etched their locations into his mind.  Then he closed his eyes, rolled his head back so his face was to the sky, and glanced up into the pale face of the moon.

He raised his arms.

Maybe it was the sudden motion.  Maybe it was one of those coincidental moments in time where two concurrent events blend to a single image.  The Deacon's long dark cloak flapped around him like a shroud, or full, dark wings.

From the trees lining the gulch, the crooked, drooping shrubs and the craggy outcroppings of rock, a black cloud rose.  They screamed to the night, spilling into the sky like a dark tide.  At first they resembled a vast flock of bats -- or something worse.  Only after they spread and draped the sky was their true nature revealed.

"Rooks," a man breathed.

The Deacon opened his eyes and watched as the birds dispersed and dove, winding out of the sky like small tornadoes of shadow and returning to their roosts – or to different ones.  Further away from the camp. Further from the center.

He knew they were not rooks.  They were crows.  The old country had been alive with rooks, but this land…the carrion feeders here were larger, and darker.  Still, the significance was not lost on him.

"And the rooks shall rise," The Deacon intoned, his voice carrying across the clearing and into the night.  "They shall rise and announce the coming of death.  They shall carry the souls of the faithful home."

He knelt in the dust and pressed the tip of his finger into the dirt.  He circled that finger slowly, drawing a pattern.  The clearing might as well have been empty.  There was no sound.  The wind whirled around him and lifted the collar of his long coat to ripple across the brim of his hat.

As he worked, he spoke in very low tones, words too soft to be understood.  Though the earth was hard and dry, his finger dug through the  parched soil.  As it passed, it left a series of symbols in an odd, symmetrical sequence.  No one breathed; as if afraid the sound would reach the rooks and bid them to return.  None was ready at that moment to be called to glory.

The Deacon rose.  He turned once more, and as he spun he whispered to the wind in each quarter in its turn.  He stepped away from the center, and when he'd reached the corner of his wagon, the two roustabouts returned to the clearing and took his place.  They stepped up to the point where The Deacon had drawn in the dirt, and their four strong arms drove a sharp, rounded stake into the ground.  It was as big around as the base of a small tree, and even their combined strength could only barely embed it in the earth.  A third man stepped forward with a large wooden mallet.  The two big men knelt, and the third man drove the stake home.  He swung the mallet between the  two without regard to the proximity of their heads or hands.  His aim was perfect.  Four hard shots and the base stabilized.  It would hold the center post of the main tent.

Sanchez knelt in the shadows beside the wagon and watched as The Deacon passed and began to climb the side of the ridge, winding up and away from the encampment without a backward glance.  When the tall  man was out of sight, Sanchez rose.  His own belongings were heaped beneath a small tree a few yards away.  There wasn't much, a canvas bag and a bundled lean-to he could erect in a few moments, or take down just as quickly.

He moved to the back of The Deacon’s wagon and screwed two tall metal supports down until they rested on the ground and held the rear upright.  He did the same at the front.  He placed a mason jar half full of whiskey on the wagon rail and watched as the liquid straightened into as flat a line as he could get it.  He locked the supports in place and unhitched the horses.  He knew he'd have to groom them and feed them, but it had to wait.  When The Deacon came back off that cliff, he'd expect his quarters to be ready, and Sanchez had no intention of disappointing his master.

He whistled once sharply, and a slender, dirty boy materialized out of the milling workers erecting the big tent and finalizing the rest of the camp.  Without speaking, the two of them hurried to the back end of the wagon.  When the tarps that covered the bed were unbound, they grabbed handles at the rear and slid wooden slats out until they locked.  At the end of this, they dropped a set of folding stairs to the ground, then unscrewed and locked the rear supports, effectively doubling the wagon's length.  A series of pulleys and ropes allowed them to quickly pull the tarps up and over the top – not patchy or rotted canvas, like so many of the other tents, but white and thick, catching the moonlight and reflecting it back at the sky.

Once the tarps were in place, the boy disappeared back into the shadows, and Sanchez mounted the stairs.  He hated these moments more than any others.  The space within the tent had taken on the aspect of The Deacon himself.  He flipped the cot down from the side of the wagon, and the heavy wooden desk on the opposite side.  There was a small fold out table at the very front, right up against the wagon's bed.  Sanchez lowered it into place, and glanced around.  Everything had remained in place during the trip.  He was particularly happy to see that the books had not tipped from their shelves.  On several occasions he'd had to straighten them and return them to their places, and he'd found the touch of the leather  repulsive.  He studiously avoided reading the titles burned into their spines.

He unrolled The Deacon's bedroll onto the cot and took a final glance around to be certain he'd forgotten nothing, and then stepped back down to the dusty earth.  He let the flap of the tent fall into place behind him, and moved to the shadows, seating himself cross-legged beside his bags.  He would find a place to erect his own camp only after The Deacon had returned and settled in.  He risked a glance up at the cliff, but saw only shadows.  He settled against the gnarled base of a tree and closed his eyes – but he did not sleep.

‡‡‡

The Deacon stood far above the camp at the tip of an outcropping, facing the town of Rookwood.  Too many trees and obstacles stood between his perch and town for him to catch any glimmer of firelight, but he knew they were there.  He felt them.

As he stood, he tugged a rawhide thong that hung about his neck until a long, thin pouch came free of his shirt collar.  He held it in his hands, but he didn't glance down at it.  The soft, supple leather rippled between his fingers, as though something inside sought a weakness.  The Deacon raised his gaze to the moon and gripped the pouch more tightly.  His hand shook, and glimmers of light leaked between his fingers, though he took no notice.  The pouch had begun to glow, and trails of wispy vapor slid out, wound about him, and constricted.

Miles away he sensed their heartbeats.  He heard murmured whispers.  He felt the heat of their couplings and the pain of their illness.  He sensed the life around him, and hungered for it.  It gnawed at him and teased the corners of his sanity.  The trembling in his hand spread until he stood, weak and shaking.  He staggered half a step forward, and only caught himself at the brink of the cliff. Below, his followers scurried like busy ants, constructing their nests and erecting the great tent.  Another step and he'd have planted himself in their center like a dark, rotten seed.

He stuffed the pouch back into his shirt, and shuddered as it touched his flesh.  For a moment, a sickening greenish light seeped out near his chin, and then faded.  He stepped back from the edge of the rock, and turned away.  Without a backward glance, he began the arduous climb back down from the rocks.  The tremor had left his hands, and his steps were strong and even, but his face was even paler than usual, and his expression was strained.

He reached the bottom, passed by Sanchez without a word or a glance, and disappeared into his tent.  Sanchez waited a while longer, until the lantern flickered to life inside, and then slipped into the shadows to find a small corner to stake off as his own.  It was late, and the morning would come far too soon.

Near The Deacon's tent, all eyes were averted.  None took notice of the strange shadows dancing across the back-lit canvas, or questioned why - at times, there seemed to be more than one.

It had begun.

Chapter Two

Provender Creed picked at the scraggly whiskers that had grown in since dawn.  He was tired; every one of his thirty-six years weighed heavily on his narrow shoulders.  He hadn’t slept in three days.  Sleep, as he was fond of saying, was for honest men.

He hawked and spat a wad of tobacco juice over the balcony railing.

The moon sat fat and low in the bruise-purple sky, turning the rooftops of Rookwood silver with its lambent glow.  The noise McGraw called music floated out to him from the saloon at his back and filled in the lulls in the hubbub.  The melody was warped and pock-marked.  It wasn’t that the notes were wrong, but rather that some were missing.  No surprise, really. McGraw only had eight fingers, but he claimed he felt them all.  The ghost fingers made no sound, though if you watched the man's hands on the keys you'd swear you could see all ten digits smack ivory.

Creed leaned on the rail and watched Mae and Colleen saunter down Main Street, arm in arm.  The two moved together with a subtle, rhythmic gait that gave the impression they might be joined at the hip.  The pair of them were easy on the eye, and even easier on the purse at a dollar a poke.  As they approached, he smelled their cheap perfume.  The sickeningly sweet reek stuck in his craw, but it was better than the alternative, horse manure, men, and sweat.  Mae and Colleen worked for Silas Boone, and he kept a cheap house, preferring lots of custom over bored girls and empty rooms. 'Keep the boys coming back and the girls on their backs' was his motto.  As a philosophy, it wasn't as spiritual as it was practical.  Still, it served.

The hint of a coming chill was in the air.  Creed felt it creep up the back of his neck. The air stirred, and a shadow dropped beside his on the ground, but Creed didn't turn.  He heard something, a voice calling from what seemed a long distance, and shook his head to clear the cobwebs.  He turned his attention from the whores to the man who now stood beside him.

"What?" he said.

"I said it’s a bad business, Creed," Silas Boone said again.

"What is?"

"Have you been listening to a word I’ve said?"

Provender Creed shook his head.  "Can’t say as I have," he said.  A movement in the bruised sky caught his eye.  It was too far away to focus on at first, but as the murder of crows spread out across the shadowy clouds, he found himself trying to count them like that silly nursery rhyme.  After sorrow and joy, girls, boys, gold and secrets the trader was lost and there were still hundreds of birds taking wing to fill the sky.  They wheeled and screamed, and followed a long, sweeping arc toward town.

"What the hell?" Creed muttered, as the first bird settled on the shingle of Ed Harmon’s shack.  The bird pecked away at the roof for a full minute before it turned to preening its feathers.  In that minute more birds settled.  One roosted on Rufus Cruller's hotel, another on Felix Ruckley’s supply store, one on the roof of the Sheriff’s Office, one on the print shop and another on the foreman’s hut along toward the road to the mine.

While Creed watched black feathered birds settled on each of the tar-paper roofs of the shanties down by Slaughter Alley.  What he marked as peculiar about their behavior was that not once did two birds settle on the same roof.  Within minutes the carrion eaters rested on the rooftops of every building in Rookwood, one bird to each.

The last of the murder came to rest on the balcony rail less than a yard from where Creed stood.  It regarded him with jaundiced eyes.

"Can’t say as I like the look of this," Silas mumbled, shifting from foot to foot uncomfortably.  The fool still had breadcrumbs in his beard.

"Perhaps they’ve come for us," Creed said. "They do say that the crows reap the souls of the living and carry them back to the land of the dead.  Maybe that’s what this is.  Maybe the birds have come to carry us all away," he reached out quickly and caught the crow's soft body in his hands.  With a quick, deadly twist he wrung its neck.

He looked up at Silas, tossed the crow aside, and laughed.

"Or maybe not.  Now, what were you saying about bad business?"

Silas wasn't listening.  He was standing very still, staring past the rail and down the street.  Creed followed the direction of Silas Boone’s gaze.  The tavern keeper had locked onto the small black form nested on his own roof.

"I could kill that one as well, if it would help you concentrate?"

Silas shook his head. "No, no.  What was I saying?  Bad business.  Yes.  Messengers rode through town this morning.  They said they’d witnessed some mighty peculiar goings on out toward Scar Crag."

"How so?"

"They came across a trapper's enclave, only there was no sign of the trappers.  Neither hide nor hair of them to be found.  The camp appeared to be abandoned, and they left everything behind.  They didn't stop to investigate, but they kept their eyes open.  No sign of anyone on or around the road."

"You thinking Indians?  Coyotes?"

"I ain’t thinking a thing," Silas Boone said. "That the camp was empty was just one strange thing, and it wasn't the strangest."

"No?"

"No."

"Then what was?"

Silas Boone told him.

Chapter Three

Ma Kutter heard scratching on the roof.

It was a small insistent sound, like rats picking away at the shingles.

"Get away!" she shouted, pushing herself out of her chair.  The fire was warm, the light from the oil lamp low, casting shadows across the gable.  She grunted.  Her back ached when she straightened up.  It was always worse at night.  Her joints froze as the burden of dragging her old bag of bones around wore them down.  She sank back into the chair, exhausted from even that small exertion.

Such were the joys of age.  She was getting shorter by the year and sprouting ugly grey whiskers from her chin like a crone in stories told to frighten children.  There had been a time when she'd turned heads, but all that remained was a shriveled up hag barely able to stand for a minute or more without someone to lean on.

A hock of wild pig boiled on the fire.  The water hissed and sizzled as it spilled over the brim of the tin pan.

The scratching on the roof grew steadily louder.

Without it she might have heard the other sounds, the slight susurrus and the death rattle as the viper slid from the darkness to coil slowly around the leg of her chair. Ma Kutter felt its scaled skin brush her ankle but by then it was already too late.  She barely felt the pin-prick of the snake’s fangs sinking into her soft fatty flesh.  It was the sudden flush of warmth as the venom entered her blood that gave it away.  By then she was already dead.

As she slumped in her chair, her hands clutching weakly at the arms, the scratching on the roof stopped.  The serpent wound its way past her, out through a crack in the door and into the shadows beyond.

Chapter Four

Creed was up before the sun.  His head had the empty, hollow ache of lingering whiskey, and his belly crawled with hot, thick coffee.  It ate at his gut like acid, but his eyes were focused and bright.  He wasn't sure what he expected to find, but he saddled his horse and rode out of Rookwood just as the red-orange fingers of dawn stretched over the horizon.  A blood red sun slid sluggishly from behind the ends of the Earth, and he squinted into it, using one hand to shade his eyes from the glare.

The crows were gone.  They could call them rooks all they wanted, but the damned things were crows, and in any case, neither crows nor rooks fly at night.  Not unless they're spooked. Something, or someone was out there, and Creed was thinking about the trappers Silas had mentioned the night before.  He was also thinking about the story the crusty old barman had tacked on at the end.  The Messengers had said they saw something flying over the trees -- something too big to be a bird -- something dark.  Creed didn't have much patience for ghost stories, but he scanned the treetops all the same.

He wanted to find that camp.  Wouldn't hurt to be first on the scene and give it a look before every tramp in town got out and rifled through it.  Also wouldn't hurt to be in and gone before the Sheriff caught wind.  Creed had no particular feud with "Moonshine" Brady, but he avoided the man when possible.  Besides the fact they were often on opposite sides of the law, there was something about Moonshine that gave him the creeps.

The Sheriff stood six and a half feet if he was an inch.  He did nothing without careful thought and consideration, but once he made up his mind, he was fast as lightning.  There was something in Rookwood that stuck the right word to a thing, and Moonshine, the way it made a man see things others didn't see, and move slower than normal – was a perfect name for the Sheriff. It would be better to be back in Rookwood before Brady found the camp.

Creed topped the first rise outside town and stopped.  He knew the trapper's camp should be off to the north, but something else had caught his eye.  Something had glinted over by Dead Man's Gulch.  Even as he thought about riding on toward the camp, Creed turned his mount and headed toward the gulch.  The camp wasn't going anywhere, and he still had time before anyone else was likely to show.

As he turned, the silence was shattered by the loud, mournful peeling of a bell.  Creed glanced over his shoulder toward town.  It was the bell at the old chapel.  There hadn't been a preacher in Rookwood for more than a year.  They rang the bell for weddings, and deaths.  No one in town was engaged.

Creed frowned, tossed a moment's thought at the question of who had passed, and then turned away.  He kicked the horse’s flanks and took off at a trot.  Whoever it was would still be dead when he got back.  Of that much, he was certain.

Chapter Five

Creed rode down into the valley of shadows that led toward the gulch.  The land he crossed was cracked and withered, much like his skin.  The wind blew hard along the gullies, whipping up sand and scrub.  There were no miracles in this place, least of all miracles of life.  Dust and bones, sand and souls; that was the way of it.  How much blood had soaked into the earth over the decade since the first wagons rolled out West?  Enough that a man could stab the crust and it would bubble back up viscous and red?  Creed rode the familiar trail lost in thought and watching the shadows.  Even in that sun-baked hell, there were shadows.

The ground before him rippled with heat haze.  The bullying wind stirred tumbleweeds into constant motion.  The effect was disconcerting, and Creed closed his eyes now and again to break its spell.

He pulled the brim of his hat down, shading his eyes from the rising sun and the stinging sand carried by the breeze.  Whatever it was he'd seen glinting in the sun from the ridge was nearly in sight, but his eyes were dust-blind, and despite the early hour, they stung with sweat.

As he rode closer things took on substance and form: canvas, like distant rolling hills.  The land beyond Dead Man’s Gulch had been transformed into a city of tents and wagons.  In the center, one huge patched structure rose toward the sun, and affixed to the top-most point on the center pole stood a rough-hewn cross of dark wood.

Creed stopped his horse and pulled out his canteen.  He rinsed his mouth and spat into the brush, then took a longer drink.

"I'll be damned," he muttered.

He stowed the canteen and spurred his horse into a trot, not slowing until he'd reached the edge of the camp.  He continued at a walk, stirring a cloud of dust into the unfamiliar hive of activity.  The first thing that hit him was the smell; the reek of sweat and bodies too long estranged from water and soap.  It clung to the canvas as much as to the laborers working around the tents.  There was no breeze; scent didn't carry in the gulch under normal circumstances, but once you were caught in it it clung to the skin and stuck in the nostrils.

Disinterested heads turned his way as he rode past.  He'd expected to cause something of a stir, but it was as though each forgot him before he'd even left their field of vision.  He'd never seen a place so deserving of the word grim.

He drew up beside a squat, thickly muscled man driving stakes into the hard ground.  No blood bubbled back out of the wounds in the earth. Creed smiled wryly to himself at the thought.  The man glanced up and met his gaze but not his smile.

"What's going on here?" Creed asked.

"The Deacon’s arrived," the man replied, as if that explained everything.

Maybe it did.

The country was full of charlatans and snake oil peddlers offering universal cure-alls and spiritual guidance for a pocketful of silver.  Whatever your ailment, someone was out there looking to profit from it.  Provender Creed eyed the man intently, expecting him to say more.  Instead, the hammer rose and fell again, driving the peg all the way home.  The man didn't glance up again.  Creed watched him a moment longer.  The stranger favored his left side.  A closer look showed that the arm on that side was withered, the hand shrunken like a bird’s claw.

Creed rode on without a word.

After a few moments he began to wonder if he'd actually come up on a circus freak show.  He saw a pretty young girl sitting outside a ratty tent, wringing murky water from her wet laundry.  Close beside her an equally pretty twin scrubbed away with lye.  The girls looked up and smiled at him.  It took Creed the silence between heartbeats to realize  what was wrong with this image of domestic bliss: they weren't sitting close beside one another at all.  They were co-joined at hip and ribs, and only had three arms between them. It did not make their smiles any less beautiful.  Creed tipped his hat slowly, and turned away.

A young boy with a twisted gait shuffled across his path, dragging a clubbed foot.

"Boy," he called down, "which tent belongs to the Deacon?"

The boy glanced up at him with a half-toothed grin and pointed toward the rocky outcropping at the rear of the camp.  Creed saw a wagon with a canvas extension that looked cleaner than the rest of the camp.  It was set out in back of the great cross-topped tent in the center.

He nodded his thanks.  He was about to say something, then fell silent.  It wasn't a boy's face staring up at him, as he'd thought.  It was a midget.  The small twisted figure turned and shuffled off into the camp.

‡‡‡

Creed dismounted outside the revival tent.  He figured it was better to check out The Deacon's place of business than to just bust in on the man in his 'home'.

A single black feather lay in the dirt at his feet.  Creed bent down to pick it up and slipped it into his pocket.  It was a curious thing to do; he knew that even as he did it but something felt right about claiming the crow’s feather for his own.  Boone’s superstitions were wearing off on him.  He chuckled at that and pushed back the tent flaps.

Strategically placed oil lamps lit the interior.  Four lines of two dozen wooden benches formed an arc around the central stage.  There was little in the way of ostentation about the set up, no painted banners or racks of medicinal compounds lined up to be purchased.  There was an upright piano off to one side and a central podium.  The sides of the stage were curtained off with thick drapes, the cloth backdrop adorned with a single simple cross dyed into it.

He heard the bustle of movement behind the curtain.

"Hello?" Creed walked down the central aisle toward the stage.  Shadow shapes flickered and danced along the cloth walls, matching pace with him.  For a moment the shadows seemed to form the silhouette of a vast black winged bird, then the light guttered and the illusion was broken.  Creed shivered, as though someone had walked across his grave.

"Hello back there!" he called again. "I’m looking for the Deacon?"

"And you've found him."

The voice was soft and sibilant.  It was so close to his ear that he thought he felt the touch of hot, moist air on his skin.  Creed flinched, and then stiffened to mask his shock.  He reached up to tilt back the brim of his hat as he turned.

"How can I help you?"

The man Creed faced was tall and gaunt.  His suit was black and too heavy for the heat.  His white shirt was buttoned to the neck, and he wore a plain black bow tie that drooped beneath his collar like a dark, wilted flower.  His hair was long and dark, brushed back over his collar.  His eyes glittered like chips of grey glass.

"I'm not sure you can," Creed answered slowly. "I dropped in out of curiosity."

"About the state of your soul?" The Deacon asked.

"About whether or not you've been in to see the sheriff about a permit to pitch camp here," Creed replied.  "You can’t just set up on any bit of land that strikes your fancy. That’s not how we do things in Rookwood.  There’s order.  Structure.  It’s how we survive.  If you’d come into town the mayor and the sheriff could have apportioned you and your people a pitch and worked out a fair rent for the land."

"Ah, so it's about the money then?"

Creed turned instinctively as another midget scurried out from behind the curtain. "Give us a moment, Longman," the Deacon said.  The midget nodded and scuttled off.  It was all Creed could do not to chuckle at the irony of the name.

"It ain't up to me to say one way or the other what you do," he said.  "I'm just tellin' you what they're likely to say in town."

"How can I make amends for this rather inauspicious beginning to our – friendship?"

"Suppose you start by telling me why you're here?  If I knew that, I'd know what to tell you."

"Blunt and to the point; I admire clarity in a man," the Deacon said. "We travel, reaching out to communities in need of the Lord’s Word, and the Lord’s Touch." The Deacon's hand moved instinctively, as though to form the cruciform across his chest, but lingered in the center, over his heart.

"Tell me, I heard the tolling of a bell?  It is a sound to place a chill in the heart for it seldom augers good when it is rung in the middle of the morning.  This is no hour for a service."

"We have no services.  Our preacher passed on over a year back."

"There is no one to spread the Word?  To tend to the spiritual well being of the flock?  That is a tragedy in its own right.  And yet, still the bell tolled.  Has someone passed on?"

"So it would seem." Creed replied. "I rode out early this morning; if they found someone dead, it happened since then."

"Tragic," The Deacon said, lowering his eyes and shaking his head.  Creed couldn't tell if he'd lowered that gaze in deference to a higher power, or to hide his expression.

"I think it must be a sign," The Deacon continued, raising his gaze to meet Creed's once more.  "Last night, the rooks arose, and I should have seen it then.  Someone has been taken on to the next world.  There must be a service.  God's word must be heard."

"We’ve survived just fine without a preacher," Creed said flatly.

"It was not chance that found me at your door, Provender Creed," the Deacon said, laying a hand on the younger man’s shoulder.  "It was divine provenance."

It wasn’t until they were halfway back to town that Creed realized he had not told the man his name.

Chapter Six

The church had been closed since the death of Goodman James, the stunted barrel of a preacher who'd tended the spiritual needs of Rookwood for decades.  James had fallen to the croup a year back, and after that, attendance on Sunday fell to nothing.  Services had been sketchy, at best, and James' propensity toward drunkenness and cursing often failed to convince his 'flock' that he had their eternal well-being in mind.  His sermons turned far too often to the collection plate, and his messages were aimed directly at those who he found particularly sinful, while ignoring those who dropped by the rectory with a bottle, or a fresh pie.  The red vines on his ruddy cheeks declared his preference for all to see.

No one had taken up residence in either rectory or church.  They were afraid, at first, that they'd catch whatever the preacher died of.  After that, they were afraid whoever moved in would be expected to preach.  For whatever reason, the only time the doors of the church were open and the floors swept was for a funeral.

When Creed rode back into town, The Deacon and two of his followers trailing slowly behind, he headed straight for Boone's.  As they passed a young barefoot boy in clothing so ragged it looked ready to rot off his flesh, Creed called out to him.

"Go fetch Sheriff Brady. Tell him to meet us over at the saloon."

The boy stared past Creed at the strangers.  He seemed rooted in place, and it wasn't until Creed dug his heels into his horse’s sides and charged that the youth reacted.  He leaped up onto the wooden boardwalk, took a last glance at The Deacon, then turned and raced off down the street.  Creed led the way to Boone's, dismounted, and tied off his horse.

The Deacon remained in the saddle a few moments longer.  He raised his eyes to the heavens, and Creed was sure he saw the man sniffing, like some kind of animal on a scent.  When The Deacon lowered his gaze, it settled on Ma Kutter's place, and he frowned.  Creed followed that gaze, but he saw nothing.  Ma's door was wide open, but that wasn't strange during the day.  No one in Rookwood bothered to lock their doors, other than Boone and the sheriff.  None of them had anything worth stealing – at least not worth stealing and dying over.

The Deacon dismounted and stood beside Creed.  Folks had started to gather up and down the street, staring.  They didn't get much traffic through Rookwood, and they weren't fond of strangers.  There was only so much of anything to be had – if someone new came along, they were likely to want a share.  Creed turned and entered the saloon, and The Deacon followed, his two companions falling in behind him like a couple of puppies.  The two hadn't said a word since they'd left The Deacon's camp, and it grated on Creed's nerves.

It didn't take long for the Sherriff to show.  Very little happened in Rookwood that Brady wasn’t elbow deep and muddy in.  He probably knew Creed was bringing in strangers before they crested the ridge.  Moonshine never hurried.  He didn't think fast, talk fast, or act fast.  In fact, the only time Creed had seen the man challenge a snail was with his gun.  In that one thing Brady was gifted.  He could make lightning look like molasses if the moment called for it.  It was a mighty fine skill for a lawman to have, for sure.

The door opened and the sheriff entered.  He stood still, letting his eyes grow accustomed to the dimmer interior light.  Creed kept his eye on the bar, where Silas Boone had slid a full shot glass of rye in front of him.  He didn't care much what Brady thought, and he'd just as soon not be tied to the visitors either.  Best to wait and see how things rolled out.

The Deacon wasn't a patient man, it seemed.  He stepped away from the bar, where he'd ignored Silas' offer of a drink, and held out a hand to Sheriff Brady.  To his credit, by Creed's way of thinking, Brady didn't take it right off.  He met The Deacon's gaze steadily, and then, very slowly, he raised his hand and shook.

"Welcome, neighbor," Brady said.  His voice was laid back and slow, like everything else about him.  Neighbor, not stranger.  Brady spoke like that all the time.  Creed perked up a bit.  The man's voice was like the weaving, hypnotic head of a rattle snake when he brought it to bear, and just then, in those few words, it sounded deadly.

"I thank you for the welcome," The Deacon replied smoothly.  "It sounds as though my arrival might be more fortuitous than I'd imagined."

"How's that?" Brady asked.  "And, before we get too far into the howdy-dos, maybe you'd do me the honor of an introduction?"

Creed turned slowly and pulled off his hat.  He caught Brady's eye and waved the hat in a slow arc toward the strangers.

"Sheriff Brady," he said, "Meet 'The Deacon.'  Deacon, Sheriff Brady.  Deacon here's got him a camp out past the gulch, tents and wagons far as the eye can see.  I thought you might want to make his acquaintance."

Brady stared at Creed for a moment – longer than he had to – and Creed wondered if he'd made a mistake stepping back into the mix.  Then the sheriff turned back to The Deacon.

"That right?" he asked. "You folks set up a camp?"

The Deacon nodded.  "We've been on the road a while now.  There was a need for rest, and I felt the call.  When that happens, I put down roots.  I hope it won't be an imposition."

"No one owns that land," Brady replied, rubbing at his jaw.  "Still, we don't take much to strangers here in Rookwood.  There's a scarcity of just about everything a man needs to survive.  We're off the main supply trail, and we're pretty close with our socializing."

Brady hesitated, then went on.

"I guess what I'm sayin' is, you're welcome to rest out there, and you're welcome to visit the town while you're here, but don't assume too much, and don’t expect to be welcomed by folks with open arms.  If I were you, I reckon I'd be looking to be back on the road soon.  It's best for all concerned if you take my meaning?"

"I understand," The Deacon replied. "And let me put your mind at ease, Sheriff.  We've got everything we need in camp, and some to spare, if it comes down to it.  We're a peaceful folk.  One thing we are not is parasites.  We keep to ourselves, and when we get the chance we spread the word of the Lord."

"You're a preacher, then, and not just a deacon?" Brady asked.

This caught the stranger by surprise.  Just for a moment his eyes flashed and his jaw stiffened.  Brady caught it.  Creed caught it too.  He'd turned with his back to the bar, watching the exchange.  It passed like lightning.

"You've had a death," The Deacon said, shifting topics smoothly.  "Mr. Creed here tells me you've no man of God.  I'd be honored to perform the ceremony.  No one should go to meet the Maker without a proper burial."

"We've gotten along well enough without God for some time now," Brady replied.  "I reckon if Ma Kutter makes her way to the Pearly Gates, they're going to lock them and hide."

The Deacon stood and waited in silence.

Brady bit his lip, then nodded curtly.  "Fine.  If folks want to attend such a service, it's not my place to stand in their way.  I won't have it here in town, though.  The church is boarded up, and it's been that way for quite a spell.  I don't want it collapsing on anyone's head.  One death’s more than enough for a small town, wouldn’t you agree?"

The Deacon nodded in return and touched the brim of his hat.

"Our main tent is big enough for ourselves and as many of your townsfolk who care to join us.  Do I have your permission to spread the word?"

"Spread it all you want on the way out of town," Brady replied coolly. "I'll let the undertaker know to bring the casket out this evening.  Word spreads fast in Rookwood – there won't be anyone who might want to attend who doesn't hear in time. I'll see to it myself."

"Then I'll be heading back to camp," The Deacon replied, "and I'll consider us well met."

Brady didn't nod this time.  He stood and gazed at the strangers a moment longer, then turned and pushed back through the swinging doors of the saloon without a word.

Creed turned back to the bar and made a show of nursing his drink.  He had no intention of riding back out to The Deacon's camp.  He had other things on his mind, one of which was still the trapper’s camp he'd set out to find earlier.  With Brady distracted, and the rest of the town concentrating on The Deacon and this funeral, it might be a perfect chance to get out and actually take a look-see.  He heard the door swing open and shut as The Deacon and his men left the bar.

Chapter Seven

The wagon rolled slowly out from town, pulled by a pair of dusty gray mares.  John Bender, blacksmith, undertaker, and general handyman, held the reins loosely in his calloused hands.  Bender was tall and well-muscled with the wiry strength of the constant worker.  His forearms were like ham-hocks, powerful from years working the hammer and tongs of the forge.  He was a practical man; he built his coffins from the same wood with which he repaired doors and built tables.  He usually wore a pair of threadbare dungarees so dark they might have been died black, and a blue work shirt, but this night was special.

John Bender had buried thirteen people since the last funeral was held in Rookwood – an unlucky number if ever there was one.  Those bodies had found their way into the soil with no more than a handful of mourners, and only John himself to say grace.  This funeral marked the first he’d attended in his Sunday best.  His suit was as dark as the night sky.  He wore a top hat that added to his already eerie height.  A purple ribbon was wrapped around the brim of the hat and trailed down over his broad shoulders.  He drove the cart slowly, not wanting to upset the coffin in the back, and because he didn't want to pull away from mourners walking alongside.

Most of Rookwood had turned out for the event.  While it was sure to be a dreary affair filled with proclamations to a Lord they seldom paid more than quick lip service to, it was also the only thing to provoke even mild interest from the people of Rookwood in a month of Sundays.

Colleen and Mae, dressed in uncharacteristically austere gowns, walked beside the horses.  The townsfolk fell in behind, shuffling along on the anvil of the sun.  Silas was there, and at the rear, riding slowly with his hat pulled low over his eyes, rode Sheriff Brady.  Provender Creed was nowhere to be seen, but that was hardly a surprise.  Creed was a lone wolf, happier out away from people, and hardly the most religious man in town.  Bender chuckled, rather inappropriately given the circumstances, but the notion of Creed crossing the threshold of a church was about as likely as Ma Kutter rising and taking her leave.

It took a long time to reach the camp, and even though they'd started in the early afternoon, the moon was rising above The Deacon's tents by the time they came into sight.  Torches had been lined up to create a luminous trail into the camp, and Bender steered the wagon down the center aisle.  There was something unnerving about that last, short part of the ride; it felt holy, like a ritual passage or crossing over, but that wasn’t it.  Curious faces watched him every slow foot of the way.  He tried to dismiss the mild discomfort, putting it down to the scrutiny of strangers and the business they were about, but that wasn’t it either.  Bender pulled the cart up just to the right of the door to the main tent.  The others filed past him and into the shadowed interior, finding seats where they could, making quiet, whispered introductions to the Deacon's flock.

Four strapping men stepped from the tent to stand behind the wagon.  Bender introduced himself, but they didn't speak.  He held out his hand in greeting.  One of the men held his out as well, and they shook.  It was a reluctant gesture at best.  Bender wanted to ask questions.  He wanted to know his part in the ceremony, to find out what was expected, but when the second man held out the mutilated, gnarled thing that had been his hand, and the third turned to show his profile, which lacked one ear and included a pronounced cleft in his left cheek the questions slipped from John’s mind.  The effect was like witnessing the two sides of a coin.  One was a face Bender could recognize, and the other?  He didn't look at the fourth pall bearer.  He helped them slide the coffin to the rear of the car, and walked in quietly behind them as they bore it in silence to the rear of the tent, and The Deacon's altar.

He refused to look left or right, fearful of what other deformities might mar The Deacon’s flock.  Bender was a simple man who cherished his simple life.  This place was far from simple.  There was something about it that caused his flesh to creep and finally he was beginning to understand what that ‘something’ was: it was unnatural.  Everything about the procession through the tent city, the morbid fascination of the onlookers and the ruination of The Deacon’s people was wrong.  Ungodly.

John Bender took a seat in the rear of the tent and contemplated the repercussions of taking his cart, and his horses, and riding back to town alone.

Chapter Eight

The Deacon stood alone behind a grubby screen at the rear of the tent.  The dust of the road clung to the fine gauze and shielded him effectively from those congregated.  He was an intensely private man, at ease only in his own company.  Among others his life became part of the carnival so he cherished these moments of solitude.  Life out on that stage was almost surreal, trapped in the lights, everyone so desperately wanting to share his gift.  There was an intense greed and selfishness about it all, but as far as they were concerned, he was doing the Lord’s work and they people looked to him to do what they could not – to save them.

The Deacon smiled and closed his eyes to savor the nearness of his flock and the love he felt out there, stronger even than the grief.  He allowed no one near him prior to services.  Not that any of his people would have dared, but it wasn’t only his own out there today.  The tent was swollen with the mourners of Rookwood, so to prevent the curious from disturbing him, he had stationed Sanchez and the boy just beyond the screen.

The urge to pull the pouch from beneath his dark cloak and hold it was powerful.  It sensed what was to come.  Where he felt love, it felt the breath and tasted the blood that suffused the tent.  He didn't dare to touch it, so he closed his eyes and withdrew his thoughts, emptying his mind.

"And thus do the faithful preserve the vessel," he said softly. "Thus shall His will be done on earth as it is in heaven."

The rustling and shuffling of feet and clothing slowly stilled.  There was a low murmur of voices, but after several moments even that died away, deadened by the oppressing weight of the air.  When even the dust had settled, The Deacon strode to the edge of the screen, took a deep breath, and stepped into the open.

A simply crafted coffin rested on a makeshift trestle before the altar.  The trestle had been created from crates and planks and draped with a moth-eaten blanket.  The holes in the cloth wouldn’t have been visible to the congregation.  Like so much else it was down to the eye seeing what it wanted to see.

The casket was open.

The Deacon walked to the altar and stared out at those gathered.  The tent was full – as full as he'd ever seen it, truth be told.  He knew they hadn't come to hear the word of God.  These people had no particular faith that could help them reach everlasting peace.  They weren’t here to be saved.  They were here because it wasn't Rookwood.  It wasn't another dead night in a dying town, drowning them in ennui and drying out their souls.  It was different.  It would give them conversation and dreams to carry them through another month, or year, until the next.  It wasn't their fault that they'd stumbled into the spider's web.  And another truth be told, he doubted very much that they would have walked away, even if they had suspected the danger they were in.

"Let us pray," he said, and every head bowed.  That was the power of the word.  He led them through the service.  His voice was deep, offering comfort and condolence as it carried through the tent and into the night.  A large, ornate Bible lay open on the altar, but he paid little attention to it.  The scripture rolled off his lips, and if some of it seemed a little off, or if the words didn't quite sound the same as they had the last time the congregation heard them, who would argue?

He spoke of Heaven, and of Hell.  He talked of rich men threading themselves through needles, and the great seal of Solomon.  He told them that they lived every day in the valley of the shadow of death, but they need fear no evil, for God would comfort them.  He was their strength.

Somewhere in those words, they lost themselves.  Somewhere, the He the Deacon spoke of changed from an all seeing, benevolent creator to the man standing before them, another facet of the illusion his words wove.  A collection plate was passed, and disappeared.  The service for Ma Kutter drew to a close, and the casket was closed, but that was only the beginning.

The Deacon loomed over them, and his voice carried them like twigs in a roaring flood.  He called out to them to revive their faith.  He called out to them to trust him with their souls.  He called out to the hurt, and the broken, the sick and the weak.  He called them to him, and slowly, as if mesmerized by his words and the odd, swaying motion of his tall, lean form, they came.

He walked among them and heard their stories.  He prayed with Mae over the loss of her mother at an early age.  He laid his hands on Silas Boone's shoulders and chanted something very low – impossible to make out, while staring the man dead in the eye.  He touched his palm to Silas' forehead and the man keeled over backward, barely having his fall broken by the Deacon's men.  They’d seen the same thing so many times they'd known to be ready, and they caught him before he could strike the dirt of the floor.  Silas suffered from a rotted tooth that had pained him nearly every day of his adult life.  When he woke, he turned and spit, and that tooth hit the floor in small puddle of blood.

The night wore away, and The Deacon drew on their energy.  The congregation became weary, but he waxed stronger with every passing moment.  Then he called for a hymn, and his people began to sing.  It started low and deep, then rose slowly through the octaves.  The men and women of Rookwood did not know the words, but they sang as well, hesitantly at first, and then with full throats and pounding hearts.  The song drew them in.  The rhythm caught their bodies and set them in motion.  It became a joyous chorus as they sang hallelujah.

They hardly noticed when one of their number shuffled forward.  It was Colleen.  She swayed, sinuous as a serpent, caught in the embrace of the music.  She walked down the center aisle of the tent and stopped before The Deacon.  He walked forward, but he didn't touch her, rather, he side-stepped left and circled her slowly.  He held his hands up, palms toward the girl, and continued to sing.  She stood very still.

"Do you feel it?" The Deacon cried out, breaking the notes of the song like glass against stone, sending it in all directions in bits and echoes, notes and chords.  The silence that followed was so thick and heavy it felt as though they'd been submerged in molasses.

"Do you feel how it runs through her?" The Deacon called out.  "It is dark – it is evil. I feel it.  It is so black I can see it through her skin and swimming in her soul.  I can TASTE it. Brethren, and I cannot abide it.  It must be cast out.  She must be freed."

"Amen." The word was spoken by a dozen mouths, all The Deacon's people, and all in a single breath.

"She must be HEALED." The Deacon shouted.

"Amen," again, and this time from every pair of lips in the tent.

"She walks in darkness," He said, his voice steadying out, and growing stronger. "But my footsteps are washed in the light.  She lives in shadows, but I can lift her up.  I can bring her to salvation.  I can heal her.  I WILL heal her.  Together we will make it so."

"Amen."

The Deacon took Colleen's hands in his and lifted them so that they pressed against his chest.  There was a pulse of light at that touch, but Colleen's body shielded it from the room.  At some point during the ceremony someone had lit braziers of incense, and suddenly the smoke, which had drifted close to the floor, whirled and rose, surrounding the altar and dimming the light.

Those who sat in the rear of the tent would later swear they saw The Deacon wrestling with a great serpent.  It writhed and flailed about, but he held it tightly, all the while his powerful voice cutting through the mist and smoke and shadows.  Others saw a brilliant, greenish light pulsing between The Deacon and a shadowy shape they could not make out but that they were certain was not Colleen.  Most remembered very little beyond the hymn, and the smoke.

There was a scream.  It pierced the night and drained all other sound from the world, stilling the horses, and the birds.  The air was stifling and motionless.  Darkness hung like a shroud over the world.  Then the words of the hymn began again, slowly and steadily, in The Deacon's voice.  He walked from the cloud of smoke and blackness down the center aisle of the tent and into the night.  He held Colleen's still form in his arms.

No one moved to block his way.  Their voices, choked and dry, fought to join the song.  They rose and stumbled out after him, leaving the tent to the dust and the breeze.  The Deacon carried Colleen around the corner of his wagon and to the rear of his tent.  They stood in the dying night, with the hint of dawn brushing the skyline until he was out of sight.  They turned, and they saw the empty tent behind them.  They saw that The Deacon's folk had drifted off to their own shadows.

Slowly, half aware and half dazed by what they'd experienced, they turned and climbed into their wagons.  Those who'd ridden in from town found their horses, and those who'd walked climbed into the back of John Bender's wagon with the coffin.  It was sealed, and though there was the vague sensation that it was wrong to do so, they huddled in beside it until the wagon groaned from their weight, and without a word, Bender slapped the reins and sent his team plodding homeward.

‡‡‡

As the dust from their passing settled, a lone form staggered out of the gulch.  She was tall and thin.  She wore a man's clothing, worn and dark with the dust of the road. Her hair was matted and had gathered brambles and thorns.  Her face was streaked with tears and lined with pain.

She made her way into the circle of tents and dropped to her knees, staring at the huge cross topping the central tent.  No one saw her enter.  The only light in the camp came from the rear of The Deacon's tent, which was lit so brightly with candles it seemed to be on fire.  Her gaze was drawn to that light, and like a moth to flame, she staggered to her feet and started forward.

From the shadows, kneeling beside his horse, Creed watched.  He'd trailed her from half a mile beyond the empty trapper's camp.  He'd been ready to call out to her, to try and calm her and get her to ride with him back to town when the scream silenced the world.  The girl had turned toward that sound, not away from it, and she'd started walking again.  Creed had followed.  He would have caught her, too, but as he saw the wagons and horses line up and leave the camp, the crows took flight once more.  The suddenness of it stole his breath, and had him reaching for his gun, and by the time they'd wheeled into the sky and disappeared into the distance, the girl had made it to the gates of The Deacon's camp and inside.

Now there was nothing left but to watch.

Chapter Nine

She crawled out of the night like a creature from hell, seeking salvation.

There were no saviours in The Deacon’s city of canvas and prayer.

She knelt, flakes of hard rock cutting savagely into her knee.  There was so much pain in her thin body she barely felt the bite of the stone.  The tears in her eyes robbed the clutter of tents of any defined shape or form.  The light she'd seen flickered above her like hot flames, and colors bled into one another as her grip on the world slipped away.  The world had descended into the primal, leaving her to fight for her life on instinct alone, her mind too numb from the pain for coherent thought.  Cramps tore at her stomach in waves.  She cradled her belly and whimpered into the darkness that rose up to swallow her.  For one single beat of her fracturing heart, she gazed up at the sky and saw that it fill with a thousand points of silver light, and then a million and a billion as the pain exploded white-hot across her eyes.  Then everything dipped to black.

She lost her balance, unable to stay up on her knees.  She slumped and curled in a foetal position, instinctively trying to protect her unborn child from the agony devouring her flesh.  There was no protection.  No relief.  There was nothing she could do as another stab of pain tore up through her womb and into her heart.

Somewhere deep inside, a sound echoed.  She latched onto it, clung to it like a branch held over quicksand.  It came again, louder, and she fought to make it out.  The pain threatened again and she bit her lip hard, willing it away.  She needed to hear that sound, to hear any sound, to see or feel something beyond the pain.

She turned her face to the sky again, but there were no stars.  Instead she saw a face, a man's face.  He smiled down at her gently.

"Something's wrong." She said.  "It hurts..God, it hurts..."

The words choked out of her, so drenched in tears and misery they were barely coherent.  She spoke to the man, but whispered to the world. They were simple, heartbreaking words; the desperate plea of mother who felt the impending loss of a child she'd never even seen.

"Hush girl."

The man's voice soothed her.  He knelt beside her and rested a hand on her distended belly.  He kept his voice low, a gentle barrier against the pain raging through her.  She surrendered to that voice, grateful she was no longer alone.

When she opened her eyes, he asked, "How far along are you?"

She tried to think.  Voices swirled through her thoughts, breaking them apart before she could pin them with her tongue and spit them out.  She concentrated.

"I don't know." She said. "I..."

She couldn't get beyond that thought.  She had seen childbirth.  She knew the risks.  If her child came like this, it would die – she would die.

"Help me, please." She clutched the stranger’s hand.  It was firm and strong, and just for a moment that touch steadied her.  He didn’t pull away as her cracked and broken fingernails dug into his wrist.  She fixed her gaze on his lips – he was saying something but she could not hear the words.  A prayer?  An invocation?  Her fevered mind imagined he might be beseeching the heavens or calling down an angel to guide her soul to the next world.  She tried to shake the thoughts free, but they lingered.  His voice was not only soothing – it was mesmerizing.

She felt blood and water between her legs and she knew it was too late.  She was as good as dead.  She didn't scream.  The finality of the moment slid into her like a long, sharp blade of ice.  She closed her eyes.  The last sight she saw was the rough wooden cross, high atop the biggest tent.  That image strobed in her mind, and she felt the tickle of her heartbeat.  It was funny, after everything that had happened to her, that two lengths of wood should evoke such a sense of hope.  But just as there were two spars to the cross there were two underlying sensations; the first was the hope, the second weighing down so heavily on her she could barely breathe, was futility.

Fresh cramps tore through her and she drew her legs up tight to her stomach even as the man hushed her again.

"What’s your name, child?"

"Mariah."

In a gesture of curious tenderness the man wiped a finger across her cheek, his warmth absorbing the tears that stained her face.  She felt a tiny flicker of heat swell beneath his touch and spread slowly through her skin into the bones beneath.  He stroked her gently, his hand moving from her cheek down her neck and between her breasts to her distended belly, and lower.  There was nothing sexual in the connection despite the fact that she found her body responding to the warmth, her back arching even as he knees drew up tighter to her stomach.

"A pretty name," the man soothed, keeping his voice calm.  "Around here they call me The Deacon.  Believe me when I say that it was God’s will that you found me, child." He let his hand linger above the birth canal.  "Of all the people you could have run to, He guided you to me.  That in itself is a miracle."

"Something's wrong," she said.  She felt stupid and helpless, repeating the words over and over.  "You have to make it stop."

An agony of tears stained her face.  "Something’s wrong," she barely got the words out the second time.  "I can feel it."

"Have faith, Mariah," The Deacon whispered.  Her eyes flared open as she felt the heat of his touch sink deeper beneath the skin as though being absorbed by the dying child in her womb.  It had to be the pain, making her crazy.  She needed that pain to stop, but she knew that it wasn't going to happen.  Not while she lived.  Not while she bled.

He withdrew his hand and raised it to his lips, as though to taste the heat of her pain and the life of her child on his chapped lips, and then stood.

"Don’t leave me," she pleaded, reaching up until another wave of hurt caused her to double up again.  He didn’t seem to hear her.  Between the tears the world blurred, all the colors swirled into a chiaroscuro wash of unrelenting pain.  It looked to Mariah as though he reached inside his chest and pulled something – his heart? – out.  She shook her head.  For a full minute the world refused to focus, and then she saw his fingers fumbling with the drawstrings of a small pouch.

Chapter Ten

The Deacon loosened the rawhide thong that cinched the leather pouch.  He felt the girl’s pain empathically, its hooks rooted deep down in the nerves beneath his flesh.  He turned his head away and hawked up a wad of blood and phlegm.  This was new and not altogether pleasant.  He wiped beads of perspiration from his pocked brow, frowning as his concentration slipped.  For a moment longer than he could bear, he allowed too much of her pain through.  He had never felt the suffering of another quite so acutely.  He gritted his teeth against it, driving the devils of agony out of his mind.

They refused to leave him.

He pressed his fingers to his temple, aware of the bitter irony that he could not do for himself what he could so easily do for others.

He was weak from the earlier healing, but he had opened himself up to greater hurts than this before and borne them with ease.  Another lance of pain flashed behind his eyes, this time so sharp it caused his vision to fail.  He did not panic or cry out but rather clutched the leather pouch, drawing strength from it.

"Hush now, Mariah," he said, not to the wretched girl leaking her life into the ground at his feet, but to the pain itself.  It pulsed like an infected canker deep inside him.  Her child was dying.  He had looked inside her and felt the life force failing.  That was his gift; the ability to reach inside another with his senses and to understand the state of things.  In the girl, Mariah, everything felt wrong.  To mend her, he needed to be able to fight it, restoring a balance to the blood and bone, marrow and fat.  But there was always a price owed for such a gift, like now, knowing that the child was choking to death on the cord that bound it to its mother.  It was hard to believe in goodness when what gave life so mercilessly took it away from the most innocent of children.  A holy man would have shuddered, but The Deacon served his own Lord, and this was his way.

His vision was clear on one thing.  For either to survive The Deacon had to bring the babe out into the light.

He could not simply cut the child from her belly though, not if he wanted her to live.  Not if he wanted to give the illusion to his followers that he had tried to save them both.  Save the mother?  Save the child?  Save both or damn them?

The Deacon clasped the pouch tighter, as though seeking wisdom from the relic within.  It responded to his touch with a brief surge of intense, fiery heat.  Aloud, in case any might be near enough to witness what was happening, he concentrated his thoughts into questions, offering them as prayer.

"Can I save both?  Do I have the strength to oppose your will and keep both mother and child in this mortal realm?  Do I have the right?" Then, almost as an afterthought, the question, "Or are they both to leave us now?  Have you led them to my door to be harvested, Lord?"

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.

Chapter Eleven

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.

The flint sparked, and the kindling caught.  He leaned in close and blew gently, fanning the flames to life.  The dead wood caught almost instantly, and in moments he had a healthy, crackling blaze.  He stared into the flames as if they called to him, watching them lick and tease their way up the wood.  Then, with a gentle shake of his head, he set aside the tinderbox, stood, and turned to the girl.

"So," he said softly, "you have come to me after all."

He stepped closer and leaned down, lifting her in an easy, graceful motion.  She dangled over his arms, limp and lifeless.  The moonlight on her skin shone pale silver, giving the illusion he held a wraith, or a body formed of clouds.  He carried her to the blanket he'd laid out before the fire and lowered her onto it gently.  He brushed back her hair and studied her face.

His expression was curious – almost amused.

"Such a pretty thing," he said. "Beneath the scars and the dirt."

He returned to the rear of his wagon and came back with a second blanket.  This one he laid across her naked, ruined flesh, ignoring the dirt and the blood.  Her body had not yet begun to stiffen with rigor, and her lips were opened gently.  In that second, she almost looked peaceful.

"It seems a shame," he whispered, kneeling at her side, "to wake you to this world when you are so close to that other, but there is work to be done."

He leaned down, placed his palm on her cheek gently, and kissed her.  He breathed and mist curled from the points where their lips touched.  A long, rattling shudder shivered through her thin frame and her back arched off the blanket.  She drew in his breath in a gasp that echoed across the desert and through the hills.  The crows, still roosting nearby, burst into flight, curving back toward the gulch, and The Deacon, toward the town and those near to death.

As he glanced up and watched them go, he held Mariah's shivering, shaking body in his arms.

"Go," he said. "There is nothing for you here."

As if they heard him, the crows banked toward Rookwood and disappeared into the dying night.

Chapter Twelve

She woke to a pink haze.  Her head throbbed, and every muscle, bone, and inch of her skin burned, itched, and ached.  Her throat was raw and parched.  Those first movements refused to come, and for a long moment she was certain she was paralyzed.  Something crackled nearby.  Her thoughts cleared and she realized it was a fire.

As sensation and feeling crept back, the pain flared.  Her arms and legs tingled from lying in the same position far too long.  Every breath tore like sand through her throat.  She tried to speak.  She was only after a single word, but it was far out of reach.  She gasped, trying to force a sound through her lips.  She spat dry air.

Someone moved.

She heard a voice, but the sound echoed and warped – she couldn't concentrate on the words – if they were words.  Was this delirium?  Was it the fever of death?  A hand slid smoothly under the back of her head and lifted her slightly, and the rim of a tin cup pressed to her lips.  A trickle of water dribbled into her mouth and down her throat.  She tried to savour it but she couldn’t.  She couldn’t swallow and instead started to choke.  The cup was pulled away.  She hacked up a lungful of something thick and syrupy and the stranger wiped her lips almost tenderly.  The act of coughing the water from her windpipe brought back another breath of vitality.  When he returned the cup to her lips she was able to swallow properly.  Even so, she was only allowed a few short gulps.

"Not too fast," the voice said.  This time the words were clear, though it still sounded as they were being voiced under water – or perhaps it was her who was trapped at the bottom of a deep well, an infernal pit where it was so hot it leeched the moisture from skin and bone.  Mariah closed her eyes. "It would be a shame if you drowned in the desert; after all you've been through."

Memory sliced through her like a railroad spike to the heart.

"My baby," she croaked.  She struggled to press the air from her lungs and scream.

Her body gained strength from the flood of images, and she arched up off the blanket.  She nearly slid from the grasp of whoever held her, but she barely noticed.  Mariah's mind returned to the pain.  The aches and agonies coalesced and made sense.  She felt empty and drained, as light as a sliver of sloughed skin.  Empty.

The man laid his hand on her forehead and spoke softly.  Where he touched her, a chip of ice melted through the heat of the pain and the withering storm of emotion.  A chill spread from that single point, back through her mind and down finally into her heart.  The pain was not diminished, but compressed and walled off.  It rode in her breast.  Her muscles relaxed, and she sank back onto the blanket, her head again resting in his hand.

She turned her gaze on him then, a tall, dark man silhouetted against a backdrop of morning sunlight.  He was angular and thin, and she risked a small shake of her head in an attempt to smooth and round him.  For the span of a heartbeat, his form wavered.  The lines spread out and widened, his eyes deepened.  Mariah turned away, and saw the wagon.

Glittering with reflected sunlight, the wooden side was a marvel of color and gaudy decoration.  The central focus was a large shuttered window.  The outside of the shutters were emblazoned with huge colourful letters.  At first it was too bright for her to make out the words.  When her eyes focused, she read slowly.  Her reading had been confined to the books of The Bible, but her father had insisted that she learn.

"Dr. Samuel Balthazar's Travelling Show

Magic, Mystery, Cures & Tinctures

Charms for every ailment"

The words were surrounded by curling designs that wrapped around one another and became serpents, or . . . or dragons.  There were beakers and bottles with arcane labels painted across their fronts.  There was a unicorn, and what looked to Mariah to be a mountain lion with wings.  She didn’t know what it was called.

The man laid her gently back onto the blanket and stood.  He towered over her, and where his shadow crossed her the icy chill left by his touch intensified.  Mariah shivered.

He followed the direction of her gaze and smiled.  It was not an unkind smile, but neither was it the most beneficent of smiles.  It failed to reach his eyes, she realised, but had no had reason to believe her eyes with so much mugginess in her mind.

"That is me," he said, waving his arm in a flourish toward the wagon.  "Samuel Balthazar, at your service."

Mariah tried to concentrate.

"My baby?" she asked.  "Is he…dead?"

"You were alone when I found you," Balthazar said.  "The boy taken, but – and I have a sense for such things – I do not believe he is dead, though I have little doubt whoever left you here either believed that you were, or intended that you should be.  It is fortunate – nay – fortuitous that I happened along when I did.  One might believe fate lifted you and dropped you in my path."

Mariah tried to sit up.  She pressed her palms flat onto the blanket and pushed with what small strength had returned to her.  She thought he might lean down and help her, take her arm or shoulder and lift, but he did not.  The peculiar man of angles stood where he was and watched.

Her first attempt failed.  She barely got her shoulders off the ground before she fell back.  The impact drove what little wind she had from her lungs, and she lay there, gasping, as he gazed down at her.

"You will have to be stronger than that," he said.  The tone of his voice was matter of fact, but as she lay helpless, gazing up into his eyes, she saw that it wasn’t just that the smile didn't reach his eyes, but rather that no emotion did.  They were empty.  His lips curled, broadening that dead smile.  His eyes stared through her into the earth.

She fastened onto his gaze and felt the ice shiver through her again.  The cold flared where he had touched her forehead, and she concentrated on it.  Mariah pressed her hands to the blanket again, closed her eyes, and pushed herself upright.  She struggled, nearly fell a second time, and then with a grunt of pain, sat up straight.

The minute she was upright, he knelt at her side once more, suddenly solicitous.  He braced her back with his arm and handed her the water again.

"Drink slowly," he said. "If you swallow too quickly your stomach will convulse and you will choke again.  There is time.  There is always time."

She heard his words, and forced herself to drink slowly, needing all of her strength and concentration to remain upright.  She didn't know why it seemed important.  In the back of her mind, his voice echoed.

He'd said, "You'll have to be stronger than that."

Mariah handed the tin cup back to him, turned her face up to meet his gaze once again, and asked, "Why?"

She thought she might catch him off guard.  She thought he'd ask her what she meant, but he held her gaze, and that false smile of his widened.  A flicker of something crossed behind the black pupils of his eyes.

"You'll need to be strong," he said, as though it was the most natural thing in the world, "because there is work to do and there are truths to be told.  I have not been entirely honest with you, young Mariah.  While I have suggested it was fortune and chance that brought me to you, I have, ah, obfuscated.  That is to say -- I lied.  I knew you would be here.  How could I know, you might ask?  I'll save you the breath of asking.  I called you here."

That he knew her name didn’t surprise her.  "My baby…" She said.  She needed to ask if he'd known about her child, to know if his calling had been the reason for her early labor.  And then another thought wriggled into her mind – did he know what had happened to the others from the camp?  Did he know why they hadn't followed her?

"Your child's fate was sealed before I called," he said. "That is not on my hands, but those of another.  Believe me; I would have called you with child, or without.  I need you – have needed you for a long time.  As I have said, there is work to be done.  It was my work, but now…now I think it will be our work.  That is to say it will be personal, and that will make it all the sweeter."

He did not say to her that he was sorry or offer his regrets or condolences.  "What work?" She nearly toppled from the effort of raising her voice.  "What work?" she said again. "I have lost my child.  I have lost all of those who care whether I live, or die."

"All is rather absolute, don’t you think?  All suggests none are left that might care a jot or even an iota. Now I might take that personally, Mariah," he said. "I believe I've just brought you back from the very brink of that dark place – more than a few would consider that to be an act of caring."

"You don't care." She said.  It came out like a rasp, but she couldn't help herself.  Anger boiled up inside her and she couldn't repress it.  "You don't care if I live or die.  You didn't care about my child.  You tell me what you want.  Tell me where my baby boy is.  If you care, tell me that."

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. . .

Chapter Thirteen

Benjamin stood over Elizabeth's coffin and stared out through the stained glass windows far above into the dying rays of the sun.  He was alone in the church.  The funeral was scheduled for the morning, early, before dawn’s first light.  It was hot near Saguaro on the best day – it would be an unpleasant ceremony if they allowed the sun to rise before they laid her to rest.

In the cool of the evening, the scent of the cut lilies and the wreaths and garlands of flowers stacked around the coffin permeated the air.  A light breeze blew in the front door on its way through the rectory in back.  In the morning, the pews would be full, and Amazing Grace would shake the rafters.  Benjamin didn't plan to be there to hear it.

He had propped open the coffin so he could see her face.  One last look.  She was so still and quiet he could have believed she was carved of porcelain if he hadn't held her warm, supple body in his arms days before.  She was smiling.  Her expression spoke eloquently of serenity and peace.  But how could she be at peace?  How could there be any serenity now?  There was no calm; there was only violence and its ghosts.  The rest, the tranquility, the notion of peace, they were all lies, and above all else in the world, Benjamin despised lies.

A whisper of cotton broke the silence.  Benjamin didn't look up from her lips.  He knew what he would see, and he wasn't ready.  What, not who, he thought, tracing a finger across her cold cheek.  Soft footsteps padded across the wooden church floor.  The lilies and wildflowers gave way to a darker scent.  Moments later, a pair of very pale hands rested on the rim of the coffin.  He still didn't look away from Elizabeth's face, he didn’t need to.

"You are sure that this will work?" Benjamin asked without turning.

"If you doubted," a soft, husky voice replied, "you would not be standing here, waiting.  You would not take the chance of letting someone see us alone."

Benjamin said nothing.  He had nothing to say.

"You have the money?" she asked.

Now he looked up.

"I have your money, witch.  See that you earn it." There was no aggression in his voice, only a deep well of hurt, despite the harshness of his words.

The woman he knew as Jeanne Dubois gazed up at him with deep, unblinking brown eyes.  He met her gaze, but found it unyielding as granite.  After a few moments he looked away.

She turned, and started toward the front door of the church without another word.  Benjamin gently lowered the lid of Elizabeth's coffin, rested his hand on the wooden surface for just a moment, and then followed the witch into the deepening twilight.  As they stepped into the churchyard, he looked up and down the deserted road.  There was no one moving at that hour, nor was there likely to be, but he still looked.  And he listened, because what he could not see he might well hear.  Sounds had a peculiar way of travelling in the dark.

Jeanne Dubois was not the kind of woman a respectable man should be seen alone with.  The shame of it would be that much worse with his fiancé only two days dead and still not in the ground.  The church rested up against the outer edge of Mission Ridge, one side overlooking the sloping valley that held the town, the other cresting a deep, narrow gorge.  Jeanne turned away from the town and crossed the church yard toward the slope and the cliff beyond.  Her feet crunched on the gravel, adding an earthy tone to her passage.

The rear of the church was a graveyard.  Ancient, canted stone crosses and rough-hewn monuments sprouted like broken teeth.  The graves were well tended, even those that had toppled or had their stones broken.  Some bore fresh flowers.  Jeanne walked through them without glancing right, or left.  Benjamin was forced to hurry his steps to keep up.  He did not dare look at the blooms in case they had withered at her nearness.  He chided himself for being a fool – but he still did not look.

The climb down to the gorge was rough.  Vines gripped at his ankles and branches whipped back across his face as he pushed through them.  He cursed and stumbled forward.  The ground loosened underfoot and he fell hard on his hip.  He cried out and reached for a dangling branch.  Just for a second he had it, felt its reassuring solidity and strength and then he his fingers slipped and it was gone.  He panicked; pin-wheeled his arms, and tilted out over the brink.

Strong fingers clamped over his wrist and spun him back hard.  He hit the ground.  The breath wheezed from his lungs, bright splashes of light igniting before and behind his eyes.  He groped wildly with his free hand, found the stump of a scrub pine and clung to it tightly.  She never loosened her hold on his wrist.

"Get up," Jeanne Dubois said.  "There isn't much time."

She was right; the night was gathering about them.  The moon hung like a traitor in the sky, casting its silver like a smattering of coins across the land.

When he had his bearings, she let go.  He rolled to his knees, pulled himself upright and followed her more carefully, taking every handhold the slope offered and keeping his gaze focused on the ground at his feet.  The moon showed him the way.  To his right, he heard the rushing water of the river, pounding its way through the gorge.  Ahead the slippery, dangerous trail they followed disappeared into the side of a heavy forest.

‡‡‡

Benjamin had been in the forest, but only on horseback, and only then by the light of day.  It was a different place at night.  His mind whirled with the stories he'd heard ever since he was a boy, stories of Indians, demons, bears and spirits.  As a man, he'd simply avoided the place, the boy’s fears still deeply rooted in his soul.  His work as a banker called for little or no travel, and lessons learned young were by far the hardest to shake.

The woman was another thing altogether.  It had been several months since word of her presence filtered through to the town.  She lived in the forest.  She never entered the town by day - most had never seen her enter at all.  Certain of the older women in the town believed she could heal and went to her for infusions and herbal remedies.

"It is all here in the trees," she told them.  "Everything you need, given freely by nature." Others believed she was a demon sent to tempt their souls, and would brook no contact with the 'hag of the trees'.  A few of the men claimed to have spent time with her, swapping coin for a different kind of devotion, but there was no evidence to support the claims, and the men themselves were wont to lie on a number of subjects if they thought it made them look somehow more than they were.

When Elizabeth took ill, Benjamin had wanted to approach the witch immediately.  In truth he would have done anything to save his fiancé, but when it came to Jeanne Dubois, Elizabeth's father, mayor of the town and a righteous man, forbade it.  Righteous, in his parlance, meant superstitious.  Jeanne Dubois might as well have had horns.

Benjamin had stayed with Elizabeth.  He'd refused to leave her bedside and had listened to every word the doctor spat out of his foul old incompetent mouth.  All the while, he'd sat and held Elizabeth's hand as he watched her slowly die.  It was a bitter thing, to think that there might be something he could do, and yet be helpless to do it, so instead of praying he found himself saying her name, Jeanne Dubious, over and over barely above a breath, as though she might somehow hear him, the words carried by the intensity of his need, and come to him.  She did not.  Elizabeth was beautiful to the end, but in those last moments, so weak.  So helpless.

"What would you give to have her back?"  The question had come when he was at his lowest.  He remembered the words, spoken so softly, so teasingly.  The woman had leaned over his shoulder as he wept, drunk and alone, on the porch of his home.  He hadn't seen or heard her, but she was there.  He cried out, and she laughed, mocking his tears and his pain.  Then, again, she asked her question.

And he gave his answer:

"Anything.  Everything.  I want her back.  I want it to be last month, before she got sick.  I want the future that should have been ours.  I want, I want, I want, but I can’t have any of it."

"Perhaps," she'd said, "it is not too late.  There are ways, for those willing to tread a dark path."

"What do you mean . . ?" he asked.

He didn't really need to be told what she meant, but he didn't want to believe her; to do so was terrifying.  To believe she had command over life and death was as obscene as it was unnatural.  There were limits in his world, things that he believed he understood, and that needed to be true.  The veil between this world and the next could not simply be torn asunder without consequences.  The dead did not return to the land of the living – they moved on to a blessed afterlife, or perpetual torment.  That was how the mechanisms of his faith worked.  Elizabeth was in a better place, free of the suffering that had killed her.

"There are ways," she said again, as though that explained everything he wanted to ask.

"But the price is high.  Higher than most are prepared to pay.  Would you truly give anything to buy her back?"

"Of course," he said.

"Then meet me in the old church grounds when the sunlight dies."  She left him then, alone with a sudden and stupid hope that he might get his second chance at love.  He knew he should have stayed at home.  She was either a witch, corrupt to her withered heart, or more realistically judging by her words, a common liar.  Perhaps, he thought, she had arranged an ambush in some secluded place and planned to make off with his riches.  He laughed at that.  His trousers were threadbare and his pockets filled with lint.  If she wanted riches he was not the man for her schemes.  She'd set her price, and he had it with him, but it wasn’t about money.  It never was.  She wanted something else, something that she knew he could offer.  The question was, what would he get in return?  Visions?  Hallucinations?  A dream of one last night with Elizabeth, banished with the sun?  Or worse, nothing?  Ridicule?  Her question should have been how desperate was he, not what did he want.

He thought about her strength as she caught and held him from tumbling into the gorge, and he shivered.  Had her hand been cold?

The twilight gave way to deeper darkness as they passed the first line of trees and disappeared into their shadows.

Benjamin picked up his pace slightly.  His heart raced, beating hard against the ridge of bone in his chest.  Every shadow seemed to his rattled mind to have eyes of its own.  Twice he thought – imagined – he saw something, just out of sight, skittering away.  The sounds of small animals and the susurrus of the breeze teasing the leaves overhead were magnified by the empty, vacant silence.  His footsteps echoed loudly – the woman moved as though she were another of the shadows.  Insubstantial, like a ghost, her passing made no sound.

That absence of sound placed a chill in his heart.

Ahead, the trees thinned, and a patch of brighter moonlight beckoned with its dabble of silver coins on the ground.  Jeanne Dubois entered the clearing, and as he stepped from the trees, Benjamin saw that in the center of that open space, two trails crossed.  He turned and glanced back the way they'd come, but could make out no landmarks.  He tried to retrace his journey from the church in his mind, but could only place vague details, and found that he'd lost all sense of direction.  The roads could lead to – or from – anywhere.

The wind, which had been nothing more than a soft breeze, stirred, gathering force and whipped the trailing branches of the trees violently.  The temperature dropped.  It wasn't a gradual chill.  The snap and crackle of frost coated the bark, glittering white.  That whiteness spread from the trailing tips of the branches, along the length of the thick limbs and chased down to the boles of the trees, transmogrifying the forest.  It spread deep into the roots, freezing the earth beneath his feet.

Benjamin felt a snap of energy, an instant of bone-deep fear that simultaneously froze him in place and screamed at him to run and not look back.  Don’t look back. Don’t ever look back....  In the center, where the roads crossed, the witch waited.  She smiled and held out her hand.  It was the first time he'd seen her smile, and it was beautiful, but the beauty was a thing of surfaces, there was no depth to it.  He did not want to touch her because he knew then that she would feel every bit as cold as his dead Elizabeth.

He took a step, staggered, regained his balance and met her in the center of the road.  If possible, the temperature dropped a few degrees further.

"Do you remember?" Jeanne asked.  "Do you remember the words, Benjamin Jamieson?"

He didn't trust his dried, parched lips to form his answer.  He nodded.

She raised her arm and gestured for him to approach.  In that instant, he almost found the strength to run.  He met her gaze, ignoring the wind and the cold and raised one foot from the road beneath him.  He actually began to turn, but in the end, he couldn’t do it, not when a part of him believed this madness might truly be a chance for his Elizabeth to return to him.  Instead, he stepped forward.  In only a second, he stood so near to her that her breath, frosting in the frigid air, dampened his cheeks and her eyes became all that he could see.

The wind rose again, sending branches and leaves scurrying up and down the trails in all directions.  The rime of frost coating the earth cracked brittle beneath their feet.  Benjamin dared not move.  Tiny crystals of ice swirled as the breeze agitated them, lifting up from the dirt as they twisted and gyrated, coming together like a small tornado localized around the clearing.  Jeanne's hair, flecked white now, writhed like the reptilian locks of Gorgon Medusa, and her cold smile widened.

"State your name," she cried.  The words caught on the wind and whirled about them so they seemed to come at Benjamin from every direction at once, embittered with the wrath of the mad wind.

"Benjamin Jamieson," he said, the words whipped away from his tongue.  His throat was so dry it felt like he'd swallowed sand, but his words were clear.  By some trick of the wind he heard them as if from a great distance.

"State your desire," Jeanne whispered - cried - screamed - laughed.  She did all of these things, or maybe none of them.  Her voice shifted from that of human to the elemental whispering of the wind itself, her words so forceful they were a scourge upon his soul.

"Elizabeth Stark's life; bring her back to me." he said softly.

The leaves rustled, accepting his demand.

"State your offer," Jeanne Dubois said.  She reached out a long slender finger and poked her fingernail beneath his chin, lifting his eyes.  He was momentarily disoriented because she lifted his gaze to hers, but surely he was the taller?  Surely…

"Anything," he whispered.

Jeanne Dubois laughed again, the sound harsh and derisive.  "Anything from the sweet boy," she said as she raised her hands above her head and turned her face to the moonlit sky.  The silver light fused with the gilt frosting of the ice and the mad tangle of her hair.  In that moment it went beyond beauty; she was radiant.  She spoke a single word.  Benjamin heard it, heard the rhythms of it, the curl of the sounds through the howl of the wind, but he could not decipher it.  It was no mortal phrasing – at least none he had ever heard before that moment.

The wind wailed and swirled, the rustling of the leaves constant now.  Everywhere around him the forest was alive, but it was a brutal life, one of unleashed fury.  The storm grew, its anger fermenting.  Weaker branches rotten through with woodworm and riddled with disease snapped and broke, snatched away by the powerful gusts.  The howling of the wind reached a crescendo in a clap of thunder so loud he was not merely deafened, but the impact of the sound drove the air from his lungs and he buckled, falling to his knees.  Benjamin closed his eyes and screamed, but that sound, like all of the others, was swallowed.

And then – it was silent.  Not just quiet, silent; the entire world devoid of sound.

Very slowly, Benjamin drew his hands away from his eyes.  Jeanne stood nearby, a look of absolute fascination splashed across her ethereal beauty.  Benjamin looked up and saw that they were no longer alone.  A man had joined them - at least, it seemed to be a man.  The silence surrounding them was so complete it felt as though they'd been sucked into some other world…some other place, and that it was they who had joined the man, not the other way around.

The newcomer was tall and slender, uncomfortably so in both measures.  He dressed like an undertaker or a puritanical man of God: dark hair, dark waxed moustache, and a dark suit, precise, neatly tailored, the cut of the cloth following his form perfectly.  His shirt was starched so white it appeared to glow from beneath his jacket.  Benjamin’s gaze shifted to a silver watch fob that dangled on a short chain from the man’s the breast pocket, and then down to the rolled parchment he held in his bony hand.

"Benjamin Jamieson," the man said.  "Greetings and well met on this, ah, shall we call it an auspicious night?  A night above all nights, I believe." He did not offer his hand, and the smile that split his too-handsome face, all sharp angles and shadows in the moonlight, held no hint of mirth or humor.  "I hear you are looking to strike a bargain, to make a deal, to seal a compact?"

"I . . . I . . ." Benjamin stammered.  He looked to Jeanne for guidance and he was struck not only by how beautiful she was here, in her element, but by the obviously familial similarity between her and the man she had summoned.

"Indeed, you…you.  That is how most people who come seeking my help think.  It is all about them.  So tell me again, Benjamin Jamieson, what do you want, and what are you prepared to give me to make it happen?  There must be consideration on both sides of a bargain, reward and risk, for it to be good and true."

"Elizabeth," Benjamin said, barely managing the one word.

The stranger inclined his head thoughtfully and ran a long bony finger along the ridge of his nose, intimating some sort of implicit understanding was passing between the two of them.  Benjamin did not understand what it meant – no that was a lie, the worst sort, one told to himself.  He couldn’t pretend he didn’t know what he had gotten himself into.  He had come with the witch to a deserted crossroads in the heart of the forest, two roads crossing in a wood, roads that went nowhere and everywhere because they were pathways of the living and pathways of the dead, not roads at all.  In this place where they crossed, where mortality was formed, she had summoned the man trapped beneath the cross.  He didn’t for a moment imagine that the creature that had caused the sudden freeze was divine or benevolent.  There were no wings, no halo, nothing remotely angelic.  Indeed, it was altogether too human to be anything other than the worst aspects of mankind, greed, corruption, lust, avarice, wrath and all the things that showed just how far man had fallen from their Lord.  If this creature of the crossroads wanted to deal it had its own reason, its own needs, and it was unlikely they would benefit any save it.

"Elizabeth," the stranger repeated, savouring the flavor of the name on his forked tongue.  Benjamin shivered at the sibilance, the second syllable becoming saaaah as the man stretched it out.  "And you would give anything to have her back, is that not so?"

"Anything," Benjamin repeated, knowing that his version of anything and the man’s were markedly different.  Still, when it came down to it, he would give anything to have Elizabeth back.  Anything.  And that was a terrifying notion.

"Then it would seem that we are in a good place to begin our bargaining, wouldn’t you say?" He did not wait for Benjamin to answer; instead he rubbed his hands together briskly and stepped forward.  For a moment, Benjamin thought the man was about to clap him on the shoulder like some long lost friend re-acquainted.  He didn’t.  Instead he tapped the side of the rolled parchment against his chin, the sharp angles of his face twisting as he feigned deep thought.  "Now," he said after a moment’s musing, "what say we talk through the fine details?  Strike that bargain and both leave here all the happier for our trade?"

Benjamin nodded.  He had an inkling what was to come.  He was no fool.  "Name your price," he said, with a confidence he did not feel.

"Ah, a man after my own heart.  Chase cut to, arrow driven into the heart of the matter.  Wonderful.  Quite wonderful.  This is how a bargain should be struck, a deal between men who know their goal and are prepared to go the distance to achieve it.  My price is always the same, boy.  I am nothing if not predictable.  A life for a life.  You want your beloved Elizabeth returned to this life, some poor soul must take her place in that other place.  And when I say some other, the only soul you have the right to trade is your own, so I name my price."

"And for that you will give me Elizabeth back?" Benjamin pressed.  He couldn’t believe the business he was about, the trade in souls was as far from his ken as was imaginable.

"She will be returned to this life," the man said.

"No, no, not good enough," Benjamin said, sensing the trap inherent in the Devil’s words.  "She must be whole, complete.  She must be living and breathing, and most importantly herself, not some rot addled thing risen out of the ground.  She has to be right.  You have to bring her back to me."

"As is only proper.  It would make a poor bargain to trade your immortal soul for a husk of a woman, would it not?  You can trust me when I say she shall be exactly as she was."

"No," Benjamin said quickly.

"Ah, you are getting into the spirit of the dickering.  Good, good."

"You are trying to hide the fact that you are lying to me."

"You do me wrong, young Benjamin.  The one thing I won’t do is lie to you.  I shall be as good as my word.  That is to say precisely as good as my word.  That is the art of the compact.  Both should leave, shaking hands on the deal, and be aware of precisely what they have traded, what they have promised and what they shall receive in return."

"You say what I think I want to hear.  That is how it works, isn’t it?  If you return her to me exactly as she was then given time the same sickness will take her.  I am no fool."

The devil smiled knowingly and shook his head sharply.  "Ah, you see through the riddle of the game.  I can see I will need to be alert when it comes to treating with you, Benjamin Jamieson.  Indeed, she shall return to this life, healed and whole.  I cannot say fairer than that, can I?  Would you agree that I have met all of your demands?  I have acquiesced to your desires and promised to sunder the veil between this world and the next so that Elizabeth, your one true love, can walk this world again, hale and hearty.  And in return I want your soul.  That is my price.  I have been forthright with you in respect to my desires, have not tried to fool you with tricksy words or leave you befuddled and wishing you had a law man to decipher the confounding balderdash.  Your immortal soul.  That is my price.  It is not so much weighed against all that you want from me, is it?  The doors between worlds don't open easily.  Have we a bargain, Benjamin, or have you wasted my time?"

Benjamin nodded. "Yes.  Yes we do."

"Good," the devil said, flourishing the roll of parchment he clutched in his left hand.  "There are formalities that must be adhered to, you understand, an inking of the agreement so that we are not faced with buyer’s remorse or some other distressing squabble down the line.  Eternity is every bit as long as it sounds, and when you change your mind and seek to recant your trade I would have it in writing, bound in blood, so to speak, to prove that there is no wiggle room.  So, please, read, absorb, ask any questions you might have, but most of all, sign here."

Before Benjamin could voice agreement, or dissent, there was an awful screech.  The air above them exploded with sound, and a huge, decrepit looking raven dropped through the trees.  Benjamin tried to flinch, but he was too slow.  The bird landed on the stranger's shoulder with a solid thump.  Without hesitation, the man reached up, grabbed a long black feather, and plucked it.  The bird cried out and shuffled back and forth on its perch, but made no move to go.

"This will serve," the man said, and with a flourish he drew a shining blade from the pocket of his jacket.  He barely flicked his wrist, but when he folded his knife and returned it whence it came, he held a perfectly trimmed quill.  The man winked.

Benjamin's throat was so dry it burned.  His eyes watered, and all his strength had left him.  The stranger held out the pen with a flourish, and without thinking, Benjamin plucked it from the man's hand.

It was hot to the touch, and he would have dropped it, except he no longer had control of his hand.  He gripped the quill so tightly he was sure it would snap, but it was flexible and strong, shivering in his grip.

"There is no ink," he said softly.

The moment the words left his lips, he regretted them.  His memory of the past hour was vague, but something floated to the surface.  Something the man had said.

"Signed in blood."

Jeanne stepped close.  Benjamin turned at her approach, but too late to catch her intent.  She lashed out with one long nail and it bit into the flesh of his wrist.  Blood welled instantly.  She gripped his forearm and scraped the nail across the cut, cupping several fat droplets on her fingertip and bringing them to her lips.

She did not release her grip on his wrist.

"The quill," she said.  "Dip the quill, Benjamin."

The moment passed so slowly that the touch of the quill in the fresh cut on his wrist had passed, and the quill had pressed to the parchment before his gaze registered motion.  By the time the long swirls of his signature were etched onto the page, penned in brilliant crimson and fading to corroded, rust brown, his mouth opened.  As he completed the S and lifted the pen…he managed a whisper, just a tiny breath of sound that wheezed through dry lips and died short of sound.

"No," he said.

"Oh, I'm afraid it's much too late for that," the stranger chuckled.  "Signed and sealed, you see.  Very legal, very proper, and very final.  You'll find it quite binding, in and out of court.  I believe we have a deal, Benjamin."

Benjamin licked his lips.  He needed to moisten them so he could speak.  Something felt very wrong.  He couldn't move his feet, and his balance was failing.  The only thing keeping him upright was the iron hold of the witch, Jeanne Dubois, on his wrist.  The same grip that had saved him from tumbling into the abyss earlier that night, only tighter.

He tried again to move.  This time it was more than sluggishness.  Something held him in place.  He glanced down and cried out.  The earth beneath him had crumbled.  Pale, dead hands groped at his ankles and his calves.  He struggled harder, but they held him easily, clawing their way up as if he was their ladder to the surface.  A moment later, he realized with shock that they weren't climbing out…they were dragging him down.

"Wait!" he cried.  "Wait! We have a deal."

The stranger stood watching, a slow smile curling his lip.

"I do believe you are correct, Benjamin," he said.  "Have you forgotten your half so soon?"

"Elizabeth," Benjamin screamed.  He fought with every ounce of his strength, but he could no more free his legs than he could tear his wrists from Jeanne Dubois' grip.  She watched him, fascinated by his terror.  He thought she licked her lips.  He knew she smiled.

"Oh, never fear," the stranger chuckled.  "Your Elizabeth is pulling the air back into her lungs at this very moment.  Soon she'll be fully away, crawling out from under those flowers and heading into town.  A bargain is a bargain, and I'm a man of my word."

"My legs," Benjamin groaned.  The claw like fingers gripping his ankles and calves dug in, nails biting bone deep, and the groan rose to a scream.

"I wouldn't worry overmuch about the legs," the dark man said.  He leaned in conspiratorially, keeping his voice low.  "You don't really need them anymore.  I mean, in one form or another, I suppose, but once we've moved on…"

"Moved on?  What are you talking about?"  Benjamin tried to focus, but the pain was excruciating.  Despite the cold he was drenched in sweat.

"Of course moved on.  Crossed the river, descended to the dark place, whatever you like to call it.  You didn't think I was going to change my mind."

"You promised to bring Elizabeth back to me – I offered my soul."

"Son," the man's eyes darkened, and all traces of false humor left his features.  "You should really learn to pay attention.  Our bargain was her life for your soul.  I don't recall telling you I was going to wait for payment.  I'm not really in the business of happy endings…a banker like yourself should understand.  Payment on delivery."

At that moment something burst through the soil at his feet.  The hand, if it was a hand, was large enough to wrap around both his legs at once.  The fingers curled tightly, crushing his knees together, and there was a sickening crunch as his bones gave way.  With the last dying strength remaining to him, he stretched out his free hand and clutched at the witch's wrist.  He held her, as she held him.  He dug in his fingers.

"I paid you," he said.

She met his gaze.  She turned, still smiling, and nodded to the stranger.

"The poor boy has a point," she said.

"And what, pray tell, would that be?" the man asked.  "I'm afraid that if there's a point, I missed it."

"Well," Jeanne Dubois said, her voice a husky whisper, "I had a business deal with Benjamin that preceded yours, and I'm afraid I may have been more generous.  I may have said she would come back…to him."

"That is unfortunate," the stranger said, nodding gravely.  "I don't suppose you signed an agreement?  A contract?  A legal document binding to and beyond the grave?"

He held out the contract and unrolled it with a flourish.

"Such as this," he said.  "The way businessmen do business – the mark of a gentleman."

"Well," Jeanne said, as if considering the man's words, "I see what you mean.  I have no such scrap of dead tree to bind my bargain in blood.  I come from an earlier time, a time of honor.  In that day, a man – or woman – spoke their truth, and they stood behind it.  The words were enough to bind.  I thought you'd remember."

The stranger looked at Jeanne Dubois as if seeing her for the first time.  After a moment, his empty smile returned, and he bowed.

Something yanked Benjamin downward with incredible force.  He clung to the witch's wrist, unable to scream.  He was buried to his waist in the packed dirt of the road and sinking.  She held him fast.

"It has been a long time," the dark man said.

"It will be a long time again, I think," Jeanne replied.  She did not smile.

In that instant, everything shifted.  Jeanne yanked back on Benjamin's arm, and there was a wet, tearing sound.  In that same instant, fast as a snake, she snatched at the contract in the dark stranger's hand.  He moved – and he was fast – but she owned the grace and speed of moonlight.

He stepped into shadows.  The raven took flight in a screaming cacophony of flapping wings and screeching, raucous caws.  The contract tore.  It was not a clean tear. It started at the edge of the page and ripped a jagged line at an angle downward, splitting the signature cleanly.

Benjamin saw none of this.  He stared down at where his torso had once joined his legs. Bone and gristle, flesh and dripping blood trailed away toward the yawning hole where his legs had disappeared.  He tried to scream but sucked blood and air into disassociated lungs.

Jeanne's image flickered, shifted, and again there was a sickening wrench as she drove her legs, now talons, into the soil and kicked into flight.  Bright, silvery wings spread out to either side.  She whirled in that instant, latched onto Benjamin's ruined form and soared.  Within seconds she cleared the tops of the nearest trees and was gone.

The dark stranger stood at the crossroads, staring after her.  The ground had drawn in and sealed itself.  He stood still as a statue, and then, from deep inside his thin, powerful frame, laughter burst forth.  It didn't start slowly and build, but rolled out like thunder.  The frost, which had momentarily warmed and begun to melt, became a sheet of solid, crystal ice that coated ground and trees.  The sound of his laughter cracked it, and everything near him shattered, falling away as so much frigid dust.

Carefully, he rolled the torn contract.  He leaned and shot his hand into the earth with no more effort than that of a child sticking his hand into a snow drift.  He pulled free a long, slender tube, and slid the document inside.  When it was sealed, he tucked it under his jacket, turned, and walked away down one of the crossed trails.  As he reached the edge of the shadows of the first great trees, he began to fade from sight.  A few paces more, and he had disappeared completely.  Only the dusting of frost, and a fallen quill, carved from a raven's feather, marked his passing.

‡‡‡

As if waking from a dream, Mariah became aware of the fire, still crackling in front of her.  The day had passed.  The shadow of the wagon had grown long and engulfed them, only to disappear as it neared the blaze.  Balthazar sat beside her, hands steepled and an odd, contemplative expression masking his angular features.  He'd fallen silent.  Or…she shook her head, confused.  Had he even spoken?

"That can't be all," she said.  She found her throat dry again.  Was it possible they'd sat there through the afternoon, and the early evening?  Could it be night?  She reached out and picked up her drink.  It was still cold.

"No story is ever truly over," Balthazar said.  He sat up straighter, unfolded his hands, and turned to gaze at her.

"Lives and stories are circular.  Everything is a pattern.  You are correct in guessing that this one is unfinished."

He held up the torn document again.  Mariah's mouth dropped open as comprehension drowned coherent thought.  The bottom third of the document was missing.  It was torn directly through the signature.  What remained, as well as she could make it out, was the name Benjamin.

Balthazar offered no further comment.  He rolled the document, tucked it back into its tube, and stood.

"The night is upon us," he said.  "You'll need to eat, and then, it will be time for rest.  Battles are seldom won by the weak.  There are things you need to know before we can proceed – and things you need to remember.  I will … watch over you.  There is a bed in the back of the wagon.  It's not luxurious, by any means, but I believe you'll find it clean and comfortable."

"Who are you," she asked him again.

He stared at her, not a hint of emotion in evidence, and shook his head.  "Everything you need to know, you already hold here," he patted his head, "or here," he touched his hand to his heart.  "Don't ask me questions you'd rather not hear the answer to out loud…that is my advice to you.  Eat, sleep, get your strength back, and be patient.  All things come in their time."

Mariah opened her mouth, and then closed it.  She stared off across the dancing flames of the fire, and Balthazar turned to his wagon.  In the shadows at the perimeter of the camp, shapes materialized, flickered, and disappeared.  They were tall, slender shapes.  Mariah thought she recognized them, but their forms were insubstantial, and every time she tried too hard to concentrate on features, or a face, they blew apart in the wind and left her grasping at memories.

They were men, but not men.  At times, great black wings spread out behind them, like those of huge dark-eyed ravens, or crows.  Their faces were pale and draped in shadow, and if she watched long enough, and one turned, it seemed she could make out the long, sharp beak.  They ringed the camp as though standing guard, and though she knew she should be frightened by such a thing, what she was was curious – and frustrated.  Something itched at the back of her mind and tugged at her temper.  She knew these – things – but she could not draw the memory to the surface.

At some point the scent of searing meat told her Balthazar was cooking again, and as hard as she tried to ignore him and concentrate on those others, her body betrayed her. She was ravenous. Her mouth prickled with it, and she licked her lips. Her stomach screamed to be filled, and she felt weak again.

The shadows melted into the night.  When Balthazar handed her a plate, a slab of meat and some sort of vegetable he'd fried in the grease, she wolfed the food, unheeding of his warning to take things slowly.  The plate was empty in moments, and she glanced up.  Her first instinct was to ask for more, but then she suddenly realized she was no longer hungry.

Balthazar took her plate and stepped back.

"The bed is in back," he said again.  Then he turned away.

Mariah was exhausted.  She lifted herself from the chair, where she'd sat all that day, and her legs nearly betrayed her.  She steadied herself on the arm of her chair, took a deep breath, and tottered to the wagon.  She worked her way down the side, using it for balance.  She wondered if Balthazar was watching.  She thought he wasn't, but she didn't waste the strength to turn and check.

After what seemed like hours, she reached the rear of the wagon.  There was a single step, and it was nearly at her waist level.  Above the dark interior of the wagon waited.  She laid her cheek against the side of the rear panel of the wagon.  It was too far – too high.  She felt as if she might fall, or just lean there, letting the wagon support her weight as she drifted off into oblivion.

From very far off, she heard a sound.  It was very faint, and she thought maybe it came from behind her, but then it shifted.  It came from the wagon…from the shadows.  It was the voice of a child, a newborn, crying.  It was the voice of regret, the voice of loneliness and pain.  She gripped the wagon so tightly her fingers grew white from the strain and lifted her leg so that her knee found the first step.  She saw this would not work, that the next step – the floor of the wagon – was too high, and with a groan of pain, she lifted her leg again and brought her foot up to the step, bending at the waist.  The crying redoubled, and she cried out.

With a lunge that spent every bit of her remaining strength, she clawed her way up and over the lip of the wagon's rear door, spilling onto the floor.  There was almost no light, but it was enough.  Ahead, to her left, was a rough mattress, covered with dark blankets.  She crawled to it, scraping her knees and her hands on the rough plank floor, dragged herself onto the bedding, and closed her eyes.  The crying faded slowly, as if moving away from her.  She dropped into fitful dreams, chasing the sound and yearning for her child.

Balthazar stood at the rear of the wagon, watched her just for a moment, silhouetted in the moonlight, and then gently closed the wagon door, cutting off the night.

Chapter Fourteen

Colleen Daisy Tranter woke in darkness.

There were things that needed to be done, things, she was sure, that needed to be said, but she wasn’t in a mood for doing or saying.  She lay in the darkness and tried to get her bearings.  When she'd first come under the influence of Silas Boone, she'd been young, and pretty, a girl of only eight years.  She'd also been afraid of the dark.  Nothing about Silas Boone, or the life he'd given her, had provided a reason to let go of that fear.  Some fears were worth holding onto.  It didn’t matter that she was twenty-three, not eight, or that the years had stolen her beauty.  She hadn’t felt pretty for a long time.  The darkness had become a constant companion, fuelled by her imagination and full of horrors just beyond her sight.

She lay still, listening and remembering; the world moved around her but she was removed from it.  The sounds of the darkness were far from comforting.  Still, she listened to the unfamiliar grunting and sighing of the Deacon’s flock as they moved about their labors.  There were those more comfortable working, and living, by night.  They worked to the sound of the lonely caws of the crows, a melancholy song if ever there was one, and to the distant ghosts of music and laughter far away on the other side of Rookwood.  She heard all of this, and she listened, but she captivated by the voices of the Deacon’s freaks.

It wasn’t just the darkness, or the strange dislocated sensation she'd felt since awakening that frightened her now.  It was where she was and the knowledge of who she was with.  Her thoughts returned to The Deacon . . . she felt the ghost of his touch on her breast.  It was the least sexual of contacts she had ever experienced.  And yet . . . and yet it had gone deeper than physical contact.  He had had been inside of her, reached into her soul.  That was the only way she could think of it.  He had reached into her soul and he had healed it, somehow.  She didn’t understand, but on some instinctive level she knew understanding wasn't necessary.

What was important was that she had answered the holy man’s call.  She remembered the incense and the smoke, and some of the words, the Deacon telling the congregation that she walked in the darkness – how right that had sounded to her - and most of all, the overwhelming power of his voice.  She'd felt a physical need to approach him, as though some part of her soul needed to be with him.  That was the one undeniable truth.  She had gone to him because she had to – something deep inside her had compelled her.

But she hadn’t been ill; the Doc had checked her out a dozen times in the last year as part of the service he offered Boone.  She’d been given a clean bill of health every time, maybe accompanied by some unguent for the stinging in her private parts, and a stiff brandy to purge any lingering bacteria.  The worst she'd had was a dose of the clap, hardly life threatening.

The memory of The Deacon's hand on her breast lingered.  She recalled that tiny flare of light shared between the two of them as he touched her – how she'd stepped into that touch.

And out of the light, the serpent.

Had she been dying inside, slowly?  Was that it?  Had there been some sort of cancer eating away at her while she was oblivious to it?  She didn't know what the serpent had been, but she felt its absence, and marvelled.

‡‡‡

Before long, the freaks found her.

It was as though thinking about The Deacon drew them to her.

There were three of them, sisters of grief, mourning and lament.  Suffering was etched into each of their faces, the lines of their lives ground in hard.  Their stories were inked in pain, and scored into their skin.

"The Deacon wants you," the tallest of the three said, "and he is not a man that likes to be kept waiting."

"Patience is not his virtue," the shortest echoed.

The middle one said nothing.

Colleen pushed herself up out of the blankets and tried to stand, but her legs were weak and they buckled beneath her.  She would have sunk back down onto the bed but the sisters didn't let her.  They swooped in, withered little arms slipping out from beneath the black folds of their mourning dresses to grasp her at elbow and thigh.  Then with strength that belied their brittle bones, they hauled her up to her feet.

The chill of the night air hit her like a physical slap, stinging her back to awareness.

"Best not to keep him waiting," the tallest said, steering her by the elbow.

She followed, dragging her feet.  She felt nauseous.  Her head spun.  She looked down at her feet as they swam in and out of focus.

"Head up, girl," the shortest sister told her, and with a bony finger under the chin lifted it. "And smile, he saved your life.  Be thankful."

Still the middle sister said nothing.  She walked, stern faced and forbidding, two steps behind, pushing Colleen forward every couple of steps when she faltered.  The Deacon’s camp was a hive of concentrated activity, his misfits laboring with crates and baskets and hauling on guide ropes as they erected another canvas construction.  It wasn’t a pavilion, though it was similar in size to the Deacon’s private tent.  The sisters steered her through a line of wagons and lean-tos

At one a curious-looking dwarf in colourful patchwork of pants splashed paint over the side of a wagon.  He might have been painting a rainbow or hiding a world away in the spiral of colors and she would never have been able to tell.  Colleen stopped and smiled, earning another firm shove in the back.  The dwarf inclined his head and assayed a paint-dripping bow.  It brought a smile to her lips.

She tried to keep it in place.  She really did.

As the tent flaps were drawn back and she stumbled into the Deacon’s private pavilion, she did her best to summon the same smile she used on the johns to lure them between her legs.  That half-smile died on her lips.  There was no lust in the man’s eyes as he looked up from nursing the baby in his arms.

"Ah, Colleen, I see the good sisters found you," the Deacon said, without rising.  He put his finger between the child’s lips so that it might suckle.  "Come in, join me.  Sisters, you have done me a kindness but you are not needed now, the night is yours, go, play, have fun."

The notion of the three women being capable of fun was almost absurd.  Colleen stifled an impolite chuckle.

She sat on the edge of the mattress, not quite beside him.  There was something unnerving about the draw the man exerted.  It went beyond the sexual.  She had felt lust before.  She knew what it meant to want to open herself to a man.  It wasn’t like this.  She wanted him inside her, yes, but not there, not like that.  She struggled to put words on the thought.  It was an almost spiritual yearning.  It felt as though some part of her resided in him and called out to her to make it whole.

"How are you, my dear?"

How was she?  It was a simple question but she couldn’t answer it.  Not honestly.

"Well." She said.  It was the best of lies, but then she always had been a good liar.  He seemed to know she was lying.  He smiled indulgently.

"It takes a little time, but you will feel whole again, I promise.  The sickness is gone. Not merely the sickness of the flesh, but the taint that gripped your soul.  You felt it, didn’t you?  You felt all of that vileness purged from your being.  Every touch from every grubby man desperate to drive into you, to own you, you felt the filth of each disgusting wretch drawn out of you.  And now you are clean, Colleen Daisy Tranter.  So, tell me; what will you do next?  Have you thought about it?"

She shook her head slightly.

The Deacon nodded as though that were perfectly understandable under the circumstances.  "You are more than welcome here.  Family is more than blood in our world.  I feel a certain responsibility for each of my flock, those I have healed, and those yet to feel the generosity of my touch.  You don’t have to go back to being what you were.  That doesn’t have to be the beginning and end of your story."

Had that been a deliberately sexual reference?  She felt something inside her quicken at the thought, imagining the warmth of his hands on her.  Again, she was drawn to him.  She shuffled closer along the mattress and felt it shift beneath her weight.  The echo of his touch brought a surge of heat, pumped through every vein and artery, and she remembered.  It still wasn’t sexual.

She watched him toy with the pendant that hung around his neck.  It was a curious thing.  He saw her watching and smiled.  She licked the dry edges of her lips.  She had bitten them raw without realising it.

"It is my gift," he said, "nothing more.  I was put here on this earth to heal; it is what I do.  That is an aspect of my story.  But it is neither the beginning nor the end.  Indeed, no story truly begins, nor for that matter, ends.  You might have been reborn in the revival tent, but you were there before, you walked into the hall, you rutted for money, ate, drank, slept and lived.  You did all of that before I touched you, so can your story begin there?  I think not.  What about the moment when you came kicking and screaming out of the womb?  Or does it begin on the day your father planted his seed between your mothers willing – or unwilling - thighs?  Who is to say it doesn’t begin before, when they first met?  For that matter, does it end when you die, or will your legacy live on?  Will your life touch others?  All of these things are for you to decide, and depend very much on how you chose to live your life.  That, dear girl, is down to you and only you.  In all of these possibilities there are no beginnings and no ends, not truly.  We are linked now, you and I, our stories intertwined in this moment.  You can feel it, can’t you?"

Colleen nodded.  She could.

She had been aware of it from the moment she opened her eyes to the darkness.  They shared a bond now that went beyond those few minutes up on his stage.  "You healed me," she said.

"You answered the call, my dear.  That is different.  Do you remember what I told the congregation?"

"I walked in shadows."

"Yes, precisely that.  Do you know the significance of shadows?  The art of shadowmancy?  No, of course you do not, and neither should you.  No god-fearing girl ought to open herself up to life on the fringes of the dark.  That is where evil lurks, in the shadows.  You are not evil, are you, child?"

Colleen shook her head.

"I would know if you were." he said.

She watched him as he toyed subconsciously with the trinket that hung around his neck.  The Deacon followed the direction of her eyes and stopped, suddenly self conscious.  It was the first time she had seen him as anything other than sure, arrogant even.  "How do you feel?" he asked.

She started to tell him but as she opened her mouth she realised that she didn’t know, not when it came to putting words to it.

"I see," he said, a slow almost lazy smile creeping across his face all the way up to his eyes.  "So, Colleen Daisy Tranter, tell me, would you like to join us?"

Part of her translated the question to: wouldn’t you like to belong somewhere?  Wouldn’t you like to fit in?  Wouldn’t you like to be a part of something?  And, almost as though he had put the thought there for her, wouldn’t you like to be loved instead of used?

"I think so," she said.  What did she have waiting for her back in Rookwood?  A life on her back?  She couldn’t imagine anything as simple and pure as love.

Almost as though it sensed her sadness, the child in the Deacon’s arms stirred and let out a mewling cry.  He hushed it tenderly.  And that made it all the more painful for her to watch because she didn’t see love when she looked down at them; she saw what she couldn’t have.  It was as simple and sad as that.

Boone had had her sterilized when she first bled – there was no sentiment in it, he had told her.  She still remembered all too vividly the hateful look on his face as he explained: "It is business, child.  No one will pay to lie with a pregnant sow." She hadn’t thought about that conversation in years, not consciously at least.  She had dreamed it over and again while the consequences of it haunted the darkness when she could not sleep; there would be no children for Colleen.  But she hadn’t thought about it.

"Then stay here, child.  Stay as long as you like – as long as you need.  Think about it.  There is a home here - a purpose."

"I don’t know . . ."

"If you could have any one thing out of this life, what would it be?"

"I don’t know," she said again.

"Imagine, for a moment, that you could have anything.  What would you choose?"

"I can’t have that one thing," Colleen said, "and to pretend otherwise is just a cruel game.

"Then imagine I have it in my power to give it to you, child.  I have the gift of the Lord flowing through my veins, nothing is beyond me, so what would you have me give you?"

"Nothing.  I don’t want anything," she lied.

‡‡‡

She awoke to the darkness for the second time that night.

This time she was not alone.

It took her a moment to realise what it was that had woken her – the wet phlegmy sound of a baby crying.

Colleen rolled over on the uncomfortable mattress.  Beside her, wrapped in a bundle of rags lay the baby the Deacon had been comforting.

The old man stood silhouetted in the doorway.  "What you were too frightened to ask for," he said, and left her, only this time she was not alone.  He had offered her anything, and she had asked for nothing, yet in her heart of hearts Colleen Daisy Tranter yearned for that one thing she could never have – and with this boon the Deacon had bought her soul.

She had a child of her own to care for.

Chapter Fifteen

The three sisters stood together in the dust, waiting.  When The Deacon climbed down from the wagon, he saw them, and nodded.  They regarded him without expression, as was their way.

"Let's get on with it, shall we?" he said.

They turned then, and started away from him.  Their movements were eerily synchronized, as if joined by some thread or binding that could not be seen, but that they were unable to resist.  The Deacon waited until they were a few yards ahead of him, and then followed more slowly.  Few of his flock commanded his respect.  Most of them were sad, pathetic things, unable to exist outside the tiny world he'd created for them.  The sisters had come to him as they were, and they were a strange lot.

The sisters’ tent stood just off to the right at the rear of the great tent.  It was old – the fabric stretched taut over its poles and frame like the wings of a great bat.  The Deacon had touched that fabric once.  The memory was so vivid he felt his gorge rise at the thought of it.  It had felt alive, and when the wind lifted and teased at it, flapping it against the posts, it seemed to breathe.

The sisters stopped short of the tent, and The Deacon, though he feared nothing, expelled a breath he hadn't consciously meant to hold in.  Their fire smouldered in a ring of stones.  There were larger stones circling the fire…three on one side, and only one on the other.

The sisters parted, rounded the fire, and crossed between and behind one another in an oddly intricate pattern before seating themselves.  The Deacon hesitated only a moment, and then took the solitary stone for his own.

"What would you know?"  The tallest sister asked.  Her name was Lottie, and she was always first to speak.  If she spoke, her sister Attie, the shorter sister would respond.  He had never heard it otherwise, not in a greeting, or an exclamation.  The third sister, Chessie, never spoke.  She never smiled.  Hers was the most expressionless face The Deacon had ever encountered, perfectly framed by her more animated companions.

"There is something in the wind," he said.  "Something has raked its claws through the crows and set them to flight.  Darkness is on the land, and if that darkness should be headed my way, I want to know.  For all our sakes," he added, "I want to know."

Lottie cackled at this.  Attie glanced over at her, and grinned.  Chessie stared straight ahead into the fire.  The Deacon noticed that she now held a leather bag in her lap.  The bag had not been there when she sat down.  It was too large to have been carried with her.  Sweat trickled down The Deacon's neck and stained his dusty collar.

"He's worried about darkness," Lottie said.

"It's dark here," Attie added.  "Darker than here, then, very dark"

Chessie was silent, but her skeletal fingers worked the ties on the bag, and the knot released with a soft hiss of leather.  She tugged the top of the bag open, but she did not glance inside.

The Deacon fingered the leather pouch at his neck.  He frowned.  He knew they mocked him, but he needed their knowledge.  He had the vague sensation that, though he ruled his small kingdom, and the power that kept it whole was his alone, these three stood outside that circle.  They made the hairs on his arms and the nape of his neck stand and dance in the chill breeze, and their laughter cut through him like blades of ice, but they had never steered him wrong.  Each and every time they'd answered his call, their words had rung true, and the world had followed their pattern.

"Tell me," he said.

Chessie upturned the bag.

Bones fell in a sun-bleached rain.  Small skulls, fingers and legs, teeth and ribs. They tumbled and scattered at Chessie's feet, but still she stared straight ahead.  The others bobbed and cackled, but they did not glance down.  The bones settled into a pattern – but The Deacon refused to look at it, waiting for their words to give the moment substance.  When all was quiet, and the fire settled, Lottie and Attie fell silent, and Chessie began to speak.

"She died," Chessie said. "She died, rose, and nearly died again.  She comes.  The crows know her – the crows guide her.  She follows the sound of a crying child.  She follows the drag of un-kept promises on her heart.

"She is his, and she stands alone.  Hers is vengeance, and hunger.  Hers is the blade and the stake. Hers is the gun..."

As Chessie spoke, she grew agitated.  She had been sitting very still, staring into the distance with a placid, emotionless mask.  As the words flowed from her lips, her features contorted.  Her expression was that of someone captivated by something a great distance away.  She frowned.  Sweat beaded on her withered brow and rolled down her cheeks.  She pulled her feet up onto the stone and clutched her knees tightly, then she began to rock up and back, and side to side.  The Deacon feared she'd topple from her perch, but he did not interrupt.

"She will bind the contract," Chessie said.  "She will find what has been lost and it shall be free.  Her blood is flame.  She comes."

Chessie's head turned slowly, almost as if controlled by some unseen forced.  Her gaze locked onto The Deacon's.  The temperature in the small clearing dropped so far, and so fast that her breath emerged as a blast of misty fog.  Her final words dropped from that mist in icy chunks that drove into The Deacon's heart.

"She comes for you."

A sudden wind whipped through the camp and caught the sister's tent.  The already taut material made a whip-crack that nearly stopped The Deacon's heart.  He closed his eyes, then blinked, then focused.

"No more to see – no more to tell," Lottie said.  All the mirth and cackle had drained from her voice.

"No more.  She comes," Attie added.

Her voice sounded brittle – old and worn.  She sounded drained.

"Who is she?" the Deacon asked.  "Who is coming, and why?"

"It is late," Lottie said.  "Our sister is tired – very tired.  We must let her sleep."

"There is not much left of the night," Attie offered.

The Deacon opened his mouth as if to protest, then clamped it shut.  The three made almost no sense on a normal day – after this he was as likely to get a real answer from them as he was to walk in on The Last Supper and take the seat of honor.

The fire, which had burned so brightly only moments before, was no more than a pit of spent coals.  Wisps of smoke rose up and around the three women, obscuring them from view.

The Deacon glanced down at their feet.  He searched the ground, but found no sign of the bones.  The dirt in front of Chessie's stone was bare and undisturbed. He glanced up.  The bag rested in the old hag's lap.  The drawstrings were tied, and it bulged – as if the bones had not only been returned to it, but augmented in some way – as if there were more bones, or those that there were had grown larger.

He rose, turned, and strode away from the fire.  He did not look back, but as he stepped away, he heard – and felt – the flames rising.  Whisper-thin voices floated in the air and tickled at his senses, but he could not make out their words.

He rounded a large wooden wagon and stopped short.

The dwarf hung suspended in the air, his head to the earth and his feet to the air.  In his hand, he held a paint brush.  The Deacon stepped forward and saw that the tiny man's legs were tied to ropes and bound over the top of the wagon.  A wire framework dangled over the roof the wagon, and the ropes were threaded through it, giving the tiny man a foot or so of clearance from his work.

The Deacon said nothing, but turned to the wagon.  On the side, the image of a man had been painted.  The man was upright, but the dwarf who painted him hung upside down.  The man's leg was bent, toe to the ground and the sole of his shoe pressed against the opposite ankle.  His hands were clasped behind his back, and he stood with his head dead-center on a wooden beam suspended between two tree trunks.  The Hanged Man.

The Deacon concentrated and the words came to him.  Release.  It was Odin's card, the man hanged by his ankle, surrendering himself for knowledge.  Then he frowned.  The man should have been suspended by his ankle, and yet, here he was depicted upright.  It was a symbol of blockage.  Of being trapped in something or mired in the world.

But the dwarf was upside down, painting the card … letting go of it?  Was the card an upside down depiction of the right side up image?  The Deacon glanced down.  On a small table against the wall of the wagon sat a Tarot deck.  Leaning against the wagon was a single card.  The Hanged Man.  Reversed.  The image spun and The Deacon stepped back.  A wave of vertigo swept through him.  He tried to concentrate.  He tried to think, turning his mind to the dwarf's perspective, to the card being painted on the wagon, and could not pin it down.

He glanced to the dwarf, who spun halfway around and met his gaze.  The little man winked, then spun lazily back to his work.  The Deacon started forward, not sure if he meant to question the artist, or yank him off his damned scaffold and stomp his misshapen little body into the dust.

At that moment, a cry rose.  It was plaintive, keening voice of a child.  A very young child.  The Deacon turned toward the sound. When he looked back, the dwarf was gone…and The Hanged Man met his gaze, unperturbed.

Over the ridge, the glow of the rising sun filtered up to the clouds as Wednesday faded.  The Deacon turned and strode off toward his tent, and his bed.  There was little time for rest, and he sensed he was going to need his wits and his strength for the trials to come.  The crying of the child had ceased.  When he reached the rear of his wagon he heard Colleen softly singing.  The words were indistinct, but the tune was soothing, and he smiled.  Then he stepped up into the wagon, and closed the door behind him.

Chapter Sixteen

Even though the clearing where the trappers had camped was still deserted, Creed hunkered down and watched if for a while before getting too close.  He hadn't grown as old as he had by taking chances.  He was as brave as the next man, braver than most, but something was wrong with that camp site – wrong enough that a woman had staggered out of it to die among strangers, and wrong enough that whoever she'd been travelling with had vanished.

Creed scouted the camp.  He checked the trails in and out, and no matter how carefully he looked, he found no sign of anyone passing.  Not in, and not out.  The camp was there – there was no way around that.  There were footprints near the stone-circled fire and the tents, and not all of the belonged to the girl.  Only hers led out from the camp.

So he waited, and he watched.  If he made a mistake, he somehow thought the next person to wander in and study the place might find another set of prints near the fire – and nothing else but wind and dust.  He wasn't an ambitious man, but he had plans that included other times and places than this one.  He intended to reach those times and places intact.

The tent flaps fluttered in the breeze.  Creed thought of ghost towns he'd seen.  There was a feel to a dead place, the sense of total abandonment, coupled with the uneasy sensation that no matter how long the former residents had been gone, if you touched or took something you'd feel the weight of their gaze at the nape of your neck.  You'd hear their voices whispering to you softly, just out of range of your hearing.  In the periphery of your vision, shadows would move, but when you turned, no one was there – but you'd still want to run.

So he waited until he figured it had reached the point of balance between time to do something and time to leave, stood slowly, and walked up to the fire.  A tin coffee pot sat on a flat piece of stone.  It was blackened and ruined.  Forgotten.  Creed poked at it with the toe of his boot and it crumbled.

He turned and surveyed the tents.  There were three of them – one smaller than the other two.  He figured that for the woman's tent.  He started there.  Somehow it was easier to go through her things.  At least he'd seen her when she was alive.

The tent flap was open.  He ducked inside and scanned the interior.  A bedroll was spread on the ground.  It was rumpled.  Like the coffee pot, it had been abandoned, and forgotten.  There was a black leather pack against one wall of the tent.  Creed bent down and picked it up.  It was heavy.  He started to unfasten the clasps, then glanced around, and stopped.  Whatever was inside, it could wait until he was safely out of this place and far away.  He slung it over one shoulder.  The rest of the tent was bare, so he stepped back into the clearing.

The other two tents were closed, their flaps carefully tied shut with rawhide straps.  Dust blew against their canvas sides.  Creed stepped up to the first tent.  He pulled his knife and slashed the rawhide strap.  He tore the flap aside and stepped inside, holding the blade out like a shield.

There was nothing inside.  It wasn't like the smaller tent, which looked lived in, but abandoned in a hurry.  It was absolutely empty.  There were no boot prints in the dusty floor of the interior, though there were odd scratches, like hieroglyphics carved with something sharp.

Creed glanced up.  The tent's roof was slashed.  He should have seen it from outside, but he'd concentrated on the ground, and the fire. He saw the trees clearly through the ruined canvas, and he stared up through the leafy branches at the blue sky beyond.  A sliver of icy fear drove into his spine, and he spun.  He pushed his way back out so roughly he nearly dragged the tent's stakes from the hard ground.  The clearing was as empty as before.

Steeling his nerves he stepped up to the second of the larger tents, slashed the rawhide straps as he had on the first, and pulled back the flap.  This time he didn't step in.  There was no need.  It was as bare as the first.  The canvas roof was shredded, flapping outward like the tendrils of some freakish vine.  Creed let the flap drop back into place and turned away.

A wind had kicked up, and he lifted his gaze to the sky.  Rain was an oddity in Rookwood, but not impossibility, and when it came, it was swift and dangerous.  Flood waters were common.  The town rested on a low rise, and the camp where The Deacon and his tents rested should be protected, at least for a while, by the gulch, but if it stormed, this campsite wasn't the place to ride it out.

The sky, which had been clear and blue, darkened to a dusty, slate gray.  Clouds scudded across that surface, and the dry, twisted trees shifted and creaked.  Something fluttered in the breeze, spinning and shifting through the air to land in the dust at his feet.  Creed bent and snatched it before the wind could carry it out of reach.

It was a large, black feather.  He started to release it in the breeze, and then stopped.  For no earthly reason he could fathom, he tucked it into the pocket of his jacket.  Then, without another glance at the camp, he took off at a run.  He unbound his horse's reins from the tree where he'd left it, swung up into the saddle, and took off at a fast trot, ducking in and out of the trees and headed for Rookwood.

Just before he reached the tree line, a flash of lightning lit the sky.  His horse shied, and as he fought it for control, something big and dark launched from the trees to his right.  Huge wings beat the air and he heard an unearthly cry that nearly unseated him.  His horse fought his control, wheeled in a circle and turned his back to the sound.

He spun the animal back with a grunt and stared upward as the largest owl he'd ever seen took flight.  It glittered silver in a second flash of lightning, and was gone, soaring into the clouds before the thunder followed the flash.

"Jesus wept," Creed said.  He turned away from the trees and spurred his horse forward.  It was an hour to Rookwood, and the first heavy, wet splashes of rain dropped around him and slapped him in the face.  The sky was as black as death, and his mind was filled with the sound of beating wings.

Chapter Seventeen

The Deacon sat in a leather chair built into the framework of his wagon.  On the table at his side was a cut glass tumbler half full of golden brown whiskey.  On his lap he held a book.  It was a very old book, bound in leather with age-yellowed pages.  A dark ribbon bookmark dangled off the end of the spine, where it had been bound in when the pages were sewn.

On the floor, Colleen slept, the child nestled against her tightly, wrapped in rough blankets with a rolled jacket for a pillow.  From time to time The Deacon glanced down at them.  His smile was grim – the upward turn of his lip unfamiliar and alien after so long.

He had carefully wrapped the leather pouch in dark silk.  The silk had been embroidered with symbols and words in a pattern he'd purchased from a toothless old witch several months back.  When he wrapped it, it slept, but not for long.  Every time he did it, he wondered if it would be his last.  If he waited too long, or it sensed his intent, he doubted the pain would stop at burning his flesh.

He hadn't touched the book on his lap since the last time he'd wrapped the talisman, but he knew it was time.  He read quickly.  The book had come from the pastor of a church back east.  The man had been old, and his mind wandered.  The book had been his responsibility for half a century, and none had stepped forward to take his place.  He had come to The Deacon in the hope he might be healed – that the ravages of age could be wiped from his emaciated frame to leave him healthy enough to carry on.

The book held power, and the power was dangerous.  The man had feared for his soul – feared deeply enough he was willing to remain behind when his own call to glory was at hand if it meant fulfilling his duty.  The Deacon had lent a conciliatory shoulder.  He'd gone through the motions of the healing, but kept the old man as far from the talisman as possible.  After the ceremony failed, it was only a matter of days.

On his deathbed, the priest confessed his mission to The Deacon.  He passed on a wooden box, carefully locked.  Inside, the book was bound in similar silk to the strip that now bound the talisman.  That first night, when the old man had died and The Deacon made off with his prize, was almost the last night.

The book was alive to the touch.  The Talisman had sensed its presence and searched his flesh.  It leapt against the material of his jacket, stretching out toward the musty tome as though they were opposite poles of a magnet.  It had taken all his strength to fold the cloth back over the book and slam the box shut.

Study, bribes, payments he could ill afford, and great risk had brought him to the old woman and the dark silk.  He remembered her eyes – the coarse, leathery feel of her skin as she stroked his cheek – and the deep, hollow tones of her laughter.  Even now the thought of her price ran through his blood like ice water.

But the book – that book – was worth the pain.  It was worth the corruption.  It was worth any price.  What he'd waited for was the proper time to use it – the right reason to risk … everything.  The page he'd opened it to held a ritual, penned in even, symmetrical letters.  He read it, and then read it again, though the words burned into his mind on the first pass.  He started to go over it a third time – felt a twitch within the black silk, and slammed the covers closed.  He wrapped the book and closed it in its box, then knelt on the floor, reached up under the frame of his chair, and slid it onto its hidden shelf.

He unwrapped the talisman quickly and rested it against the thundering beat of his heart.  It pulsed, warmed, and then settled.  With a sigh, he dropped back into the leather seat, downed the whiskey, and slumped against the wall.  He was tired, but the day was upon him.  It was going to be a long one.

Chapter Eighteen

Creed's rooms were dank and drafty.  The tattered rags he had nailed up to serve as makeshift curtains dangled crookedly across the windows.  Rain pelted the cracked panes of glass in uneven, fitful rhythms.  It sounded like handfuls of grave dirt being thrown at the windows.  The room was sparsely furnished with a cot that held his bedroll, a table with one leg propped by a block of wood, and two straight backed chairs.  Creed had his oil lamp on the table, which he'd pulled up close to the fire.  Beside the lamp’s brass base he'd placed the black feather, and emptied out the contents of the woman's pack.

There was also a dingy bottle half full of rot-gut bourbon.  A tumbler with three fingers of the amber poison sat next to the bottle, but Creed ignored it, for the moment.  There wasn't much in the old pack.  The leather was worn, and the straps wouldn't have lasted very many more journeys without snapping.  Wherever she'd carried it from, the road had not been an easy one.  There were six treasures inside; a journal, bound with a red ribbon; a small bottle of ink and a quill pen; a purse with a few coins in it; a compact that opened on a tiny mirror; and a soft, silk dress rolled up carefully so that it would fit in the small bag.

Creed reached for the bourbon, took a sip, and tried not to think about the empty tents with their torn canvas, the winged – thing – he'd seen in the trees – or the image of The Deacon rising over the woman's thin, wasted body with that mewling, crying creature clutched tightly in his hands.  Not thinking about it was impossible, though.

He took a longer drink, set the glass on the table and reached for the journal.  The knot in the ribbon was not too tight.  He tugged it free gently, not sure why he was being so careful with a dead woman's belongings.

"What’s your story then?" He said, almost reverentially.

Provender Creed was one of the few men in Rookwood who could read.  He'd been raised on The Bible, and before coming west, he'd worked a spell at a newspaper back east.  There were a few books in town, and he'd borrowed and read each one in its turn.  Then he'd read them all again.

Holding a new, unknown book would have been magic enough in its own right.  Holding the last record of this mystery woman transformed the dreary hotel room to another place altogether.  He was afraid to turn the first page.  If there was nothing inside, or only a few hastily scribbled notes – the moment would be ruined.  As long as he held the unopened book in his hand, it was a tiny universe of potential.  The fire popped.  Creed shook his head, as if rattling the cobwebs loose, and opened the journal.

He thumbed through the first few pages.  Each was crammed full from margin to margin with spidery, elegant script.  The letters were small enough that more than once he had to squint to make them out, but the lines were even – almost eerily precise.  Creed flipped to the last page.  The final entry was dated six months in the past. Whatever the purpose of this journal had been, either she'd given it up when the pages ran out, or she'd carried it for some other reason.  Creed turned back a couple of pages and began to read.

"17 May

I have never felt so ill.  My hand shakes as I write this, but I feel that if I fail to record my hours and days, I may blow away, forgotten by this world and the next.  Benjamin is with me every moment possible, but when he is here I see my own face through his eyes, and it frightens me.

Father will not come near.  He says that he fears I have been inhabited by an evil spirit, but I know the truth, and I do not blame him.  He fears the consumption.  He believes that I will pass my sickness to him, and that he – too – will wither and die.  I do not want others to suffer, but I am glad for Benjamin's company.

He listens to my dreams, and holds my hand.  He does not shy away from me, though I am certain I must have the pallor of death himself to my cheeks.  He is warm where I grow so cold.  He has promised to stay with me forever, and though I know it is a promise no man can keep, it is also a promise that only true love would attempt.  Forever is not so long now, I fear.

Sometimes I wish that God would take me and bring and end to his suffering, as well as my own.  I believe he has a destiny, and I do not want to anchor him against it.

28 May

I am much weaker.  Benjamin still comes to me and comforts me, but he has grown distracted.  There is a shadow on his face, and across his heart, and I fear that it is more than my illness that troubles him.  He won't worry me, and so he tells me nothing except how beautiful I am, which is a lie and not even a sweet one now.  I feel so tired deep down in my bones and he still talks of how we will soon be together in the big white house by the church.  I do not know how he can lie to himself so convincingly, but I love him for it.

Our wedding was to take place in less than a week's time, and though my father would be angered to hear it, I have spent several days and nights in that house already.  Benjamin often speaks of children.  I burn to tell him what I know but fear that he would do something rash.  Each time I draw a breath I'm afraid that it will be my last, and it is difficult now to keep my eyes from closing.  I believe that soon I will sleep and never wake.

I will take my secret to the grave."

Here, the journal fell silent for nearly a week.  A single entry was centered near the middle of the next page, written in a different hand.

"These are the words of one loved beyond life.  May she rest in peace – Benjamin Jamieson."

Creed stared at the book.  Something about that last inscription slid through him like the steel of a cold blade.  He reached for his drink.  His hand brushed the silk dress and it unrolled slightly.  As it did, he saw a silver chain poking out from one of the folds. Drink forgotten, he laid the journal aside and reached for the dress, unrolling it so that it fell open across his lap.

There was a seventh treasure: in the center, nestled into the deep blue material, lay an ornate locket.  He picked it up, turned it over in his fingers a couple of times, and then flicked the release with his thumb.  It opened to reveal two tiny, exquisitely detailed portraits, one on either side.  On the left was a young man, well dressed and very proper.  Even on such a small scale it was obvious the artist had captured a glint of humor in the eyes.  Across from this, on the right, Creed met the painted gaze of the woman from the camp.  She was dressed in lacey finery.  Her hair was intricately bound up with ringlets dangling over her ears and a single loose curl in the center of her brow.  Creed was not certain how he knew this tiny face belonged to his mystery woman, but he had not a shred of doubt.

His fingers trembled.  In the center of the locket there was a third oval, solid silver, that the two sides folded over, and inside that, judging by the portraits, a lock of the man’s hair.  Inscribed on the surface was "B.J. & E.T Forever"

He thought back to the Journal.  If this had belonged to Elizabeth, then that put a name to his mystery woman beyond doubt.  But where was this Benjamin of hers?  There had been no sign of him at the trappers’ camp.  And that begged the question: why did the entries in the journal end six months in the past?  And why was the final entry an epitaph?

Almost without thinking, Creed snapped the locket closed and slipped the chain up and over his head . He pulled his collar out and slid the cool silver pendant down beneath his shirt, where it nestled against his chest.  He rolled the dress up carefully and tucked it back into the pack, and then tied the ribbon back around the journal, being as careful as possible to match the original knot.  It was almost superstitious precaution, but it was a dead woman's journal and anything less seemed somehow wrong.

When the remaining treasures had been returned to the pack he took another long drink of bourbon.  The black feather still lay on the table.  He studied it.  When he'd first picked it up, he'd assumed it belonged to the owl he'd heard, but looking at it now it was obviously no owl feather.  It was deep black, like a raven, or a crow, but too large to have come from either one.  He reached out and ran his finger over it, then recoiled.

Rather than the soft, silky sensation he'd expected, his finger came away sticky, as though it had been coated in some sort of oil.  He still had the crow's feather he'd found outside The Deacon's tent.  It had no such taint.

Wind whipped bullets of rain into his window in a sudden loud crash of sound.  Creed jumped back, nearly toppling the table and its contents.  The feather fluttered to the floor.  He watched it, but made no move to pick it up.

Something heavy thumped into the wall outside.  He thought it was probably one of the loose, half-rotted shutters, but it didn't change the queasy sensation of dread that spread from his racing heart out through his limbs.  He rose, tucked the pack underneath his bedroll where anyone breaking in would not immediately catch sight of it, and headed for the door.

Before he stepped into the hall he straightened his gun belt and let his hand rest on the butt of his pistol.  He stood very still and listened, though he wasn't sure if he was listening for sounds in the hall, or outside his window.  He sensed the feather on the floor behind him, but did not turn to look.  He was almost superstitiously afraid that if he did, it wouldn't be there.

The hallway was empty.  On a stormy night only the regulars would make their way to the saloon.  Silas would be in a foul mood with sales down, and Mae had been in a state since Colleen up and moved in with The Deacon out at his camp.

The only one that seemed unaffected by the change was McGraw.  The old man pounded out what might have served as a jaunty melody to an empty room, earning his one beer an hour with gusto and competing with the slashing, windblown rain for attention.  The rain and wind even served to fill in some of the ghost notes.  Creed thought about McGraw's maimed hands.

He'd never given it much thought, but now he wondered what had happened. After seeing all the freaks in The Deacon's entourage, he'd grown particularly sensitive to missing body parts.  The missing notes in the melody, a thing that he'd long grown accustomed to, were jarring.  Listening to it now, the eight-finger boogie sounded more like an off-key dirge.

Silas stood behind the bar, half-heartedly polishing a dusty glass with a dirty rag.  Mae sat on a stool across from him, one leg crossed over the other in a way that hiked her skirt up so most of her thigh showed.  She was all business as she glanced up hopefully at the sound of his footsteps, but scowled and turned back to the bar when she saw Creed.

Creed ignored her.  He stepped to the end of the bar and leaned on the counter.  A moment later, Silas wandered down to him.

"Give me bourbon, Silas," he said.

"You took a bottle up two hours ago," Silas observed.

Creed glanced up at the bartender for the first time.  "I said give me a bourbon, I didn’t ask when was the last time I had a drink," he said.  He stared at Silas, and whatever devils lingered in his gaze were enough to turn the other man away, fast.

A moment later the glass Silas was polishing thumped onto the bar, and a big splash of whiskey washed away the dust.

Creed took the glass, turned away without a backward glance, and stepped out the front door.  He stood beneath the awning of the porch, staring out across the rain-swept streets and the roofs of buildings toward Dead Man's Gulch.  Rain worked its way in to sting his face now and again.  He had to straighten his hat to keep it from taking flight.  The cold silver of the locket rested like a shard of ice against his heart.

Chapter Nineteen

The Deacon strode to the front of the tent, turned, cracked his knuckles and rested his hands on the podium.  The pews were filled with the faithful.  No seat was ever empty when The Deacon called them.  That was his gift: when he spoke the children of the flesh wanted to hear and the aged souls wanted to listen.  There were regular services, of course.  There were times for worship, and for prayer.  There were times for devotion, but this was different.  He had called them, but this was a gathering of his travelling community.  There would be no prayers.  It was a rare occurrence, and when it happened, it was never good.

Outside, the wind whipped rain against the sides of the tent, drumming like a tombstone chorus on the canvas walls.  The roar of rainfall through the gulch was as loud as a white water river.  The tent’s guide ropes sang in the grip of the wind, like the bowing of the strings on some gigantic instrument.  The Deacon listened to the storm.  The poles creaked and groaned desperately.  For a moment, as the wood’s protests grew even more strained, it seemed as though it would wrench the great pole from the ground and cast them all into darkness.  It did not.  In the distance, thunder rumbled.  Lightning flashed far above, and one of the trees on the ridge was reduced to ash.  The fragrance of ozone laced the air.  It was the smell of miracles, the Deacon thought to himself, smiling.

"I want to thank you all for coming on such short notice," The Deacon said.  "I know you have your own work to complete, and of course your own lives to live.  I appreciate that, I surely do, but there is a darkness sweeping down on us like a rushing tide.  There is a shadow in the desert, larger and darker than any crow, and it has set the sights of its dark guns on our small haven here, and on our faith."  He knew how to talk to a crowd, how to play them.  He knew who to look for and how to read the signs of trouble as well as any tracker.

"I have watched over you as my own children," he said.  "I have cared for you and fed you.  I have guided you from sinner to sinner and soul to soul, sometimes drawing others into our fold, other times bidding our brethren adieu.

"I have served you.  I have removed the darkness from men and from women, from children and from ancients.  I have set you free, one soul at a time.  I have healed the sick, cured the lame, but it is not enough!  Now I must do more!  Now I must save a multitude!  But I cannot do it alone, my friends!  We must save a multitude for the time of salvation is upon us!  There must be a revival."

A murmur of voices circled the tent.  The Deacon stood for a moment, gauging their reaction to his words.  Their whispers blended with the wind and slashing, pelting drops of rain.  He listened, but he could make no sense of the weather’s voice.

"It has been a very long time since our last revival," he said.  "Many of us could use a renewal of faith.  Others have so much now that they can give back – so many lessons have been learned.  The time has come to share our blessings.  The darkness that is upon us will swallow the town of Rookwood as surely as I stand before you.  They are unprotected and awash in sin.  This is our calling!  This is why you came to me!  It is the day we always knew was coming.  We are ready!"

"Amen."

The voice rose from the rear of the tent.  The Deacon didn’t look up, but he smiled.  Longman was short of stature, but he had the lungs of a giant.  The Deacon wondered what the little man would paint on his wagon for a revival.  He wondered if the deluge had washed away the image of the hanged man, or changed it.  He wondered again if it had been inverted, or if the inversion of the artist changed it.  The card itself called for either new beginnings, or for the spirit to be tied to the earthly – the mundane.  They would know soon enough.

He was interrupted by another voice.

"Shall we run up the flags?"  One of the faithful called.  His single eye stared out from beneath the brim of a faded cap.  Beside him, a short, stocky man with a humped back leaned on a cane.  His teeth were a cemetery of crooked stones grown over with mildew, and his hair, long and scraggly, hung over his shoulders like dead seaweed.

"We shall indeed," The Deacon said, inclining his head.  "Will you do the honors, Cy?"

The big man nodded.

"Andy, will you assist?"

The short, gnomish man nodded as well.  The two bowed, turned, and disappeared through the door of the tent to set about their task.

The Deacon stared after them.  Wind gripped the door of the tent and nearly tore it from Andy’s hand.  It billowed like a sail.  Cy passed behind his friend, his one eye raised to the sky, staring into a knife-slash of lightning.  He didn’t flinch.

"I will need a deposition to go into town," The Deacon said.  "We must move among them and spread the word.  They need to know the danger that descends upon their souls.  We must speak to them of the darkness."

"We must promise them wine and song," a cracked voice called out.  The tent grew silent.  The Deacon turned.  Lottie grinned back at him.

"The will not come for their souls alone," Attie cackled.  "They will come because not coming leaves them empty."

"Their souls could be saved any day, any night," Lottie added.

"They will come," Attie added.  "They are empty."

"Soul cages," Lottie intoned.

"Yes…"Attie finished.

"Indeed," The Deacon said.  "Would you three ladies lead the group into town?  I would go myself, but I have preparations to make."

"We will go," Lottie said.

"We will bring them," Attie nodded.

Chessie sat, silent as the grave.  She did not meet The Deacon’s gaze, nor anyone else’s.  Her sisters sat very close on either side of her, giving the illusion that they were joined at the hip.

"Take as many of the faithful as you need," the Deacon said, "so long as you leave me enough to prepare the tent.  I have other tasks to assign, other preparations to begin."

He might have glanced to the heavens at that moment, but he did not.  He might have called them to prayer, or read to them from The Bible.  They would pray with him.  If he asked it, they would pray for him.  They would recite their lines and close their eyes at the right moments just as he had taught them.

"Three days," he said. "I will allow three days to prepare.  On the night of the third day, as our Lord and Savior, our spirits will rise.  We will roll the stones from the tombs of our hearts and open them to the good people of Rookwood.

"As the sisters say, there will be song.  We will raise a glorious noise and drive the darkness from our doorstep.  There will be wine.  There will be a healing such as we have never seen.  We will drive the darkness into the desert where it will wither, hungry for the souls we deny it."

"Amen!"

This time it was a chorus – a cacophony of sound.  They spoke with one voice, and they rose in one motion, streaming from the tent like ants from the top of a very deep, very dark hole.  The Deacon watched them go.  He neither smiled, nor frowned.

As they opened the tent to the darkness, the wind roared with the voice of an angry demon.  Flickering candle and lantern light glittered in the wet puddles and mud beyond.  Lightning flashed, and he saw his people scatter out through the camp.  He waited until the last of them were gone before he snuffed out the lights.  He doused them one by one, picking up the last of the lanterns by the wire handle.

The Deacon stepped out into the night.  There was a light burning in his wagon, and he smiled.  Colleen was awake.  He breathed in deep, trying to taste her on the air.  He exhaled.  The child was awake.  It took no magic to know it.  He could hear the infant mewling.  He wondered if Colleen was in the mood for a story?

‡‡‡

When Mariah finally woke, the wagon had long since lurched to a stop.  It was dark, and her head felt as though it was stuffed with cotton, but when she pressed her palms to the wooden floor, she found she could sit up without much effort.  Her body ached.  It wasn’t a localized pain; it pulsed through her, every vein and every muscle.  She felt her heartbeat, strong and insistent, but each beat burned like fire.

She was hungry. She rose shakily to her knees and crawled to the rear door of the wagon.  She reached up to test it and see if she was locked inside.  As she did so there was a rasping sound.  The doors swung wide and Balthazar stood in the open doorway gazing at her with a mocking grin.

Behind and beyond him, lighting raked the sky.  There was no accompanying rumble of thunder.  There was no moon, and the stars had been doused by the storm.  She heard the wind and the rain, but where she knelt, staring up into Balthazar’s dark, unyielding gaze, she felt no mist or breeze.  She saw the rain, but it stopped somewhere short of the wagon leaving their camp dry.  She heard the wind, but not a lock of her hair lifted from her shoulders, and Balthazar’s long coat hung around his legs, unruffled.

"I wondered if you would sleep your life away," Balthazar said.  "There is bacon, and eggs.  A tin of coffee is brewing.  Hungry?"

"Yes," she said.  She tried to rise, but dropped back to her knees.  She gritted her teeth and levered herself to her feet.  She had to brace herself on the wall, but Mariah managed to walk shakily to the rear of the wagon.  Balthazar held out his hand.  He provided no support as she stepped down, but her legs didn’t buckle under her.

"Much better," he said.

She grinned fiercely, despite the wave of nausea that rushed through her.  She hated that his approval mattered, but for some reason it did, and it was suddenly important to her that something mattered.  If he wasn’t lying to her, then her child waited for her somewhere in that storm.

Balthazar led her around the corner of the wagon.  She tried not to think about what kept the rain at bay.  She saw that the chairs sat before the fire once more.  She stared out into the darkness.  There were hills surrounding them, and a few gnarled, twisted trees were in sight.

"Where are we?" she asked.

"Not where we seem to be," was his cryptic answer.  "We have little time, I’m afraid.  We are going to need to speed your recovery, and your training."

"My training?" she frowned.

"Sit," Balthazar commanded.  "Eat, and listen.  I am not in the habit of saying things twice where once will do.  There are a great many powers in motion, and my patience, which is rarely tested, wears thin."

Mariah took her seat by the fire.  She had no idea what the man was talking about, but she’d caught the scent of freshly cooked bacon, and the amazing coffee he’d offered her the last time they'd talked.  She reached for her plate and began eating without a word.  Balthazar didn't sit.  He paced beside the fire.  Now and then he gazed out over the storm-swept desert, as though he expected to see something important out there beyond the curtain of rain.

When Mariah had finished, she washed the salty bacon down with coffee and set the plate aside.  Balthazar turned.  It was eerie how he sensed – or knew – the exact moment she’d finished, as though attuned to her.  She thought about the moment she’d reached for the door to the back of the wagon and shivered.

"You had better get used to stranger things than that," Balthazar said, snatching the thought from her mind.

"I don’t understand," she said.

Balthazar turned to stare out into the storm.  "There are things you need to know, and others that you need to learn, and only some few things that you need to understand.  If you want to see your child again, there is work to be done.  So, Mariah, are you ready to work?"

"What must I do?"

"First, I need you to remember," Balthazar said.

Mariah’s shivered.  She had no idea why.  It was though ravens had walked over her grave.  "Remember what?" she asked.

"Everything," Balthazar said simply.  "You must remember the journey that brought you to me.  You must remember what came before.  First, you must remember your name."

"My name is Mariah."

"Yes," he said with a smile.  "That is the name they have given you.  Names are easily given, but trust me it was not always your name.  I believe that men and women deserve one name for each of their lives.  In this life, you are Mariah.  In your last life you were not."

"You aren’t making any sense," she said.

"It does, if you think about it, but that is by the by, nothing needs to make sense," Balthazar replied.

He turned back to face her, and she saw he was smiling again.  There was no more warmth in his expression than before, but she saw a spark of – something.

"Tell me, what is your earliest memory?" he asked.

It was a simple enough question.  Mariah turned her thoughts inward.  She frowned.

"There were tents," she said at last.  I was alone in one, and there were men – strange men – in the others.  I remember thinking that they walked oddly.  Their eyes were…cold."

She almost said like yours but bit the words back.

"They wouldn’t talk to me.  They brought me food three times a day.  One of them was always by the fire.  I don’t think we were always in the same place . . ."

"What makes you think that?"

"The trees were different, but…" She fell silent.  Then started again, haltingly.  "I know we moved from campsite to campsite… but I don’t remember a wagon, or horses.  Near the end I couldn’t have ridden – I was so heavy – but…"

"You traveled," Balthazar finished.  "You remember nothing before that?  Tell me, who is the father of this child of yours?  If that is too difficult, tell me where you were born.  If you cannot find the place, tell me the names of your parents.  Tell me something that didn’t happen yesterday or last week or last month.  Go back and tell me about kicking up leaves as a little girl and making angels in the mud."

Mariah felt an icy claw of doubt grip her heart.  She had thought of none of these things since waking.  Her mind had been full with the singular thought: her child.  And then, as the needs of hunger had become overpowering, she had thought about food.

"I escaped them," she said at last, ignoring his questions.  "I remember lying on my bedroll in that tent and thinking I would go crazy if I stayed another minute.  Something was wrong with the child, and they wouldn’t talk to me.

"It was late afternoon.  They mostly came out of their tents at night.  One of them was watching the fire," she closed her eyes, remembering.  "I walked past him.  He didn’t look up until I had passed.  I kept walking, right to the edge of the camp.  I remember thinking that it was strange that the camp seemed to have an edge.  There was a point where you were inside…and another where you were not.

"I stood right at that edge, as I’d done I don’t know how many times before.  I felt his eyes on my back, but pretended I didn’t know he was watching.  I don’t know how I knew when he turned away," she shrugged.  "I just knew."

She turned her face up to meet Balthazar’s gaze.  "I don’t even know who they were!" she said.

"It isn’t important," Balthazar replied.

She turned away.  He was wrong.  It was important to her, but she kept that to herself.  She didn’t need to tell him.  He could reach into her head and pluck the damned thought out.  He almost certainly knew the story she was telling – and probably better than she ever would.

"The baby kicked.  It hurt, and I knew it wasn’t normal.  I mean I’d felt him moving before, but this was different.  Before, it had always made me smile.  Alone in that tent, I knew – at least – that he was with me.  I don’t even know how I knew it was a boy.

"But then he kicked and it hurt.  I staggered, and that step was like walking through – I don’t know – a wall of ice?  It was cold.  I felt it shatter – and that doesn’t make any sense, but the baby kicked again and I fell forward.  I was in agony.  I heard a scream behind me, but it wasn’t like any scream I’d ever heard.  It was high-pitched, shrill, and incredibly loud.  I crawled forward, away from the sound – and away from the camp.  When I finally looked back I saw the tents, and the fire.  None of the men who had watched me were in sight.

"I had things in that tent.  I had a pack, and a bedroll.  I turned to go back for my belongings, but the baby kicked again, and I screamed.  The pain was like having a knife dragged through my belly.  I didn’t know what to do.  It hurt and I didn’t know how to make it stop.

"When I crawled away from the camp again – the pain eased.  It still hurt, but the further I went, the easier it was to move, and eventually I didn’t have to crawl.  I was able to walk."

Mariah fell silent again.  The next part of her memory was so hazy she wasn’t certain she trusted it to words.

"I walked for a very long time," she said, looking at Balthazar to see if he would help her focus the memories into something coherent.  He met her gaze and nodded for her to continue.  "I remember that I almost fell into a gulch.  It was dry and rocky. I slid partway down, tore my pants.  I was afraid for the baby.  When I climbed up the other side, I saw firelight.  I saw a fire.  I heard something, but I wasn’t sure what.  I was so hungry, and so very, very tired.  I remember thinking that if I could just make it to those voices, to that fire, that I might find help."

Balthazar listened in silence.  His gaze was invasive.  It penetrated her in ways she hadn’t known possible.  It felt as though her life drained into his hungry eyes.  It wasn’t merely parasitic.  As her life slipped away she found herself able to grasp more of the tendrils of her past, as though one had been weighing down the other, and now she was free to remember at least a little more.

"By the time I saw the wagons, and the tents, I could barely walk," she said at last.  She rubbed a hand down her jaw, pressing in her cheeks as she grasped the memory.  "One tall tent stood in the center of a clearing.  I remember!  Lights were flickering inside it, and I saw shadows swaying back and forth.  People!  I heard a voice, and I wanted very badly to know what it was saying – and who it was."

"Of course you did," Balthazar soothed.

"Something happened.  The doors of the tent opened, and people spilled out into the night.  I tried to call out to them, but before I could scream…."

"The baby kicked again," Balthazar said, taking up her words as she let them drop away.

She gazed at him evenly for a long moment, and then nodded.

"I fell to my knees.  I remember that I started to crawl, but I was too far away.  I heard horses in the distance.  The creak of a wagon, as well.  I heard footsteps, but now I think about it there weren’t many voices.  I was so tired…I crawled on my hands and knees, and the pain eased a little, but the closer I got to the tent, the quieter the night became, until I thought I had found my way to one more fire with men who didn’t speak – a fire that would never keep me warm.  I felt eyes on my back.  I remember that.  I remember how frightened I was that that they must have followed me after all, that they were going to carry me away, back to the woods and the trees and that cold fire pit.  I was so frightened that they would kill my baby," she shook her head, fingers reaching into her dirty hair to massage her scalp as she teased the memories out.

"I managed to get to my feet and stagger into the camp.  I tried to reach the tent, but I was too weak.  I fell to my knees, and the rocks cut me.  I cried out then, I’m sure of it.  Whatever had gone wrong had worsened.  It felt as though I was being torn apart from the inside.  There was no one to help, no one to see, but I couldn’t go on.  I lay there and…"

"Yes?" Balthazar asked softly.

"I don’t’ know," she said softly.  "The next thing I remember was waking and finding you staring down at me.  My baby…"

"As I have said," Balthazar cut across her, "your child is alive, for the moment.  I do not have the time it would take to explain to you how that is possible, so you are going to have to trust me.  You said that you left things behind in that tent.  Do you remember what they were?"

It took her a moment to understand that he was talking about the strange camp from which she’d escaped.  Her mind was full of the vision of the larger tent, the droning, powerful voice she’d heard rising over the wind, and the overwhelming memory of pain.

She shook her head. "Is it important?  I had a pack," she said.  "I don’t remember why I carried it," she tried to remember.  She wanted to please him.  "There was a book inside.  No, not a book, my book.  I kept a journal.  And a dress – I have no idea whose it was, or where it came from.  There was more but I don’t remember what.  I carried it because it was all that I had."

"You never read the journal?" Balthazar asked.

"No," she said.  She felt as though she’d bitterly disappointed him with that one word.

He frowned and dragged the large, ornate pocket watch out by its chain.  He flipped open the fob and grunted at whatever he read inside.  He snapped it shut abruptly.

"Well, my dear, I shall tell you a final story," he said.  "When I am done, you will understand much more than you do now, though not everything.  It will have to be enough."

She started to ask him to tell her about her child.  Before she got the words out of her mouth, the fire, which had died away to nothing, flared.  It rippled out from the center of the ring of stones, spiraling in ever widening circles until it formed a pillar of flame.  The pillar rose straight into the air, its sides smooth, but rippling with licking red flames.

Balthazar stepped around the stones to where Mariah sat, bowed at the waist in a darkly comic flourish, and offered her his hand.

"I thought you were going to tell me a story," she said, taking his hand tentatively.

"Oh, I am going to do better than that," Balthazar laughed. "Words take far too long to tell stories, and when they do, you never can tell how much of what is said will sink in, can you?  Sometimes you need to see a story unfold."

"But…"

Balthazar winked at her then.  It was the first sign of genuine merriment she’d seen from him.  He took her hand firmly, turned, and stepped directly into the roaring pillar of flame.

Mariah screamed as Balthazar pulled her in after him.

As her arm was dragged through the fire, the heat of the flames seared her flesh.  She felt it catch her clothing, and her hair.  All breath left her, driven out by the unbearable heat.  The world whirled and she felt herself losing her balance, her mind and body spiraling downward.  She remembered the path the flame had taken from the center of the stone circle.  There was a roar of sound, voices?  The screaming ate through her thoughts as the flames ate through her flesh.  She passed into darkness choking on the heat.

The stone circle beside the wagon held a charred, cold remnant of fire.  Black soot whirled in the memory of a vortex.  In the distance, the storm raged.  A flash of lightning shot down toward the wagon and fell short, rippling along an invisible dome to strike impotently at the earth.

This time it was followed by a crack of thunder.

‡‡‡

The wagon rolled into town.  The two mules pulling it were old.  One appeared to be blind in one eye, and the driver – a dwarf – steered carefully around the ruts in what passed for the road and the muddy holes left by the night’s storm.  The sun had risen bright and hot.  Steamy shimmers rose from the puddles as mud dried and cracked.

Provender Creed and Silas Boone stood at the hitching rail outside the saloon and watched its slow progress.  Neither made a move to step into the street and greet the newcomers.  It wouldn’t be long before Brady showed up, and first words were always his privilege.  Best to watch from the shadows and see which way the wind blew, Creed thought.

He hawked and spat a wad of chewing tobacco into the mud.  Despite the storm that had savaged them the night before, the wind didn’t blow at all.  On the contrary, the air was stagnant and dead.  Flies had gathered where the moisture lingered.  They buzzed in fat clumps.  There was a stench of decay in the air that was uncommon in Rookwood.  It wormed its way beneath Creed’s skin.  He had no liking for the smell, nor the sight of the dwarf riding his wagon down the muddy street.

The wagon stopped by the abandoned church.  The dwarf dropped to the ground, waddled around the side of the wagon, and hitched the horses to the post.  On the seat beside him, three old women sat huddled so close together they appeared to be a three-headed beast.  Creed couldn’t quite make out their faces from where he sat, but he knew they were watching him, and that sensation crawled over his skin like maggots on a dead wolf.

"What you reckon they want?" Silas asked.

Creed saw the barman studying the rear of the wagon and knew his only concern was that Colleen might be with them.  Several passengers dropped to the ground behind the wagon, but none of them was Silas’ whore.  There was a tall, one armed man, a young, dirty looking boy in clothing a size too small that looked as though it hadn’t been washed once since it fit perfectly, a woman with dirty brown hair who limped oddly as she walked, as if something might be wrong in her hip, the dwarf, and the three old women.  They were a motley crew of misfits, for sure.

Most of them carried small bundles.  The dwarf carried nothing.  The sisters did not immediately clamber down from their seats in the wagon.  They sat on the bench, staring up and down the street.  At least two of them did, Creed amended.  The third sat between then, staring straight ahead.  At him.

"Damn," Silas muttered.  "Feels like the hag’s starin’ right through me."

Creed glanced up at the man, and then turned his attention to the dwarf, who was drawing nearer with each labored step.  The little man moved with an odd, rolling gait. One of his stunted legs was slightly shorter than the other, pitching him awkwardly to the side and taking three inches off his height.  He couldn’t have been more than four foot boot heel to hat brim.  He was smiling, and despite the oddity of the little man’s appearance, and the glare from the three crones on the wagon seat, Creed grudgingly returned that smile.

"Morning, sirs," the stranger crowed.  "And a fine morning it is, I might add.  No rain, no storms, the sun in the sky and the Good Lord watching over us."

"If you say so," Creed said, tipping the brim of his hat.

The little man’s smile didn’t dip, and he never missed a beat.  He hopped up onto the walkway and held his hand out to Creed.

"Name’s Longman," he said.  "I don’t believe I saw you at the funeral, but you know, I miss things from time to time.  Anything above here," he held his hand a foot over his head, around the level of Creed’s chest, "starts to lose focus."

Silas chuckled.

"Longman?" he asked.

"Indeed," Longman replied, lowering his voice so it sounded conspiratorial.  "I believe that God watches over me, and I’ll tell you a secret.  I’ll tell you why I believe.  It’s because of my name.  Some folks would say it’s a cruel joke.  Others would say – and I tell you, I fall into the second group – that it’s proof that God has a sense of humor.  I could have been born to a family named Short, or Tallwood, and it would be the same, but Longman seems to fit me just fine.  I’ve always been contrary, you see…so why stop at the name?"

Creed turned, squatted so he could meet the shorter man’s gaze levelly, and took the offered hand.

"Provender Creed," he said.  "You mind tellin’ us, Mr. Longman, why you and your folks have come into town today?  Seems a mighty long ways to ride just to take some air."

"Indeed, indeed," Longman said.  "That would be odd indeed, and I can understand why it would confuse you, but no.  We have a purpose here, a grand purpose.  A mission, you might call it.  We bring word from The Deacon."

"Do tell," Silas said.  "And what does the holy man have in store for us this time?  We’re plumb out of corpses, for the moment."

Longman glanced up at the barman and chuckled.

"Much better than a funeral, I hope," he said.  "There’s going to be a revival."

Creed looked at the sorry houses up and down the street, then back at the dwarf.  "I think he’s about ten years too late for Rookwood."

Silas chuckled, and the dwarf joined in, but just at that moment the one armed man wandered over.  In his hand he held a small stack of hand-lettered flyers.  He held them out, and Longman took one from the pile.

"Thank you Rupert," he said.  "I’ll explain it to these gentlemen.  You go on down the street, see who you can find.  Make sure you leave one with Mr. Bender.  The Deacon was particularly appreciative of all his help at the funeral services."

"Yes sir, Mr. Longman," the one-armed man replied.  He tipped his hat to Creed and Silas and started slowly off down the road.  The three men watched him go.  When he was a dozen paces away Longman turned back to Creed.

"He’s a good man," the dwarf said.  "Works hard.  When The Deacon took him in, he was half dead.  Kids in his home town threw rocks at him.  One hit him in the head.  They thought he’d die, but they didn’t count on the healin’."

"You believe that?" Creed asked.  He was hard pressed to keep the edge of cynicism out of his voice.

"My friend, I saw it," Longman replied.  There was no guile in the smaller man’s face, and his smile had gone, leaving his face flat and serious.

"Seems like a lot of folks The Deacon has healed have…new problems," Silas cut in.

"Everything comes with a price," Longman replied.  "Rupert lives a good life.  He works hard, eats three squares and has a place to sleep at night.  No one in The Deacon’s flock throws stones at him.  I’d say that’s a better life, wouldn’t you?"

"Who are the ladies?" Creed asked, changing the subject.

Longman turned back to the wagon.

"The sisters?" he asked.  "That would be Lottie, Attie, and Chessie.  They’ve been with The Deacon as long as I can remember. I guess you’d say they’re…spiritual advisors."

"Well, they don’t look especially spiritual," Silas said.  "But I guess they’re one day closer to death than the rest of us."

Creed glanced up at him.

"Unless you carry on watering down your whiskey.  Then there’s no accounting for what might happen."

Longman cackled.  He laid a hand on Creed’s arm.  "They’ve been watching you since we arrived," the little man said.  "The sisters, I mean.  You go talk to them, keep them company a while, you might learn something important."

"What would that be," Creed asked.

The dwarf glanced at down at the street, and Creed followed his gaze.  In the dirt, just beyond the rail, a black feather lay, coated in dust.  He didn’t need to pick it up, or to look more closely.  He knew that feather.

"What do you know?" he asked.

Longman shook his head. "Me?  Nothing.  I don’t know things.  I get vague notions, time and again.  I paint.  The sisters?  They know.  There’s a difference."

Creed pushed off the rail, leaned down to pluck the feather from the street, pocketed it and turned away without another word.

"Where you going, Creed?" Silas asked.

"Talk to Longman, Silas," Creed said without looking back.  "My guess is he’s going to want you to spread the word about the revival.  I’m going to see if I can entertain the ladies for a few minutes."

Creed stepped off the walk into the street and started toward the wagon.  The old women watched him every step of the way.  Two of them, the ones on the left and right, started talking to each other immediately.  The third didn’t say a word.  She just stared straight at him, or, as Silas had said, through him.  Her expression never wavered.

"Morning," Creed said.

He stopped short of the wagon and tipped the brim of his hat.

"He’s polite," Lottie said.

"And young," Attie added.

"Name’s Creed," he said.  "Provender Creed.  And it’s been a long time since anyone called me young.  The little man over there says you might want to tell me something?"

"Longman sent him," Lottie cackled.

"What’s that in his pocket?" Attie asked.

The middle sister stared.  Creed took the feather out of his pocket and twirled it between thumb and forefinger in the sunlight.  It was dusty from the road, but it still gleamed and sparkled with that oily sheen that had left his fingers sticky.  Creed stepped closer and held it out.  Very slowly, as if waking from the depths of a deep sleep, Chessie reached out and plucked the feather from his hand.

She drew her arm back, and Creed stepped back as well.

"It’s big," Lottie observed.

"And black," Attie agreed.  "Crow."

"Pardon me, ma’am," Creed cut in, "but there’s never been a crow born big enough to carry that around."

"Her crows are big," Lottie explained.

"Like men," Attie added.

"Whose crows?" Creed asked.  "What are you talking about?"

"She comes," Chessie said softly. "She is the darkness.  She is the night."

As she spoke, she twirled the feather deftly in her long, bony fingers.  "The owl woman comes, and her soldiers.  You have something she wants," the prophecy spilled from her lips.  "They are coming for it.  They are coming for you, Provender Creed."

Chessie fell silent.

The sisters turned in unison to stare at her. "She never speaks," Lottie said, eyes wide and frightened.

"Not without casting the bones," Attie added.  She plucked the feather from her sister’s hand and cast it aside as though it burned.  Creed reached out and snatched it from the air, pocketing it in a single fluid motion.

"What did she mean?" he pressed.  "Who is the owl woman?"

"You must watch yourself," Lottie said.  "She is dark.  She is beautiful.  She is the night.  She will suck you dry and leave you like that feather of yours."

"Like the feather?" he asked.

"Dead," Attie said, helpfully.  "Quite dead."

Creed stared at them.  The middle sister, Chessie, showed no sign she knew he was there.  He turned back, looking in the direction of the Saloon.  Silas and Longman were nowhere to be seen.

"You’ll excuse me, ladies?" he said, and tipped his hat one more time as he turned away.

"Polite," he heard Lottie say behind his back.

"And young," Attie added.  "So young to be a feather."

Their cackling voices followed him down the street, into the bar, and up the stairs to his room.  He lay back on his cot and tipped his hat down over his eyes, and still their laughter echoed through his mind.  Despite that, he drifted off to sleep.

He dreamed of men that were not men at all, but huge hulking crows.  Against the backdrop of a silver moon, he dreamed of a great owl who was a woman.  And as he slept, the feather rested against his chest, while the locket cooled his fevered skin.

Longman and his associates left their flyers about the town.  People began to talk.  The wagon rolled out of Rookwood and across the plain, taking the sisters with it.

Even when they were back with the Deacon at his tent city he was sure he could hear their laughter and Chessie’s promise: "She is the night, and the night is black, and black is death, and death is cold," a lost voice whispered in his mind.

Provender Creed shivered as somewhere a crow as large as a man settled on his grave.

‡‡‡

Mariah came around slowly.  Her head was muggy, her thoughts slow.  She was surprised that she’d slept.  In fact it didn’t feel as though she’d slept at all.  There was nothing refreshing about the lethargy that had stolen into her body.  She opened her eyes.  Balthazar stood over her.  He leaned too close before she could turn away, bringing his lips to within an inch of her ear.  She felt his stale breath tickle her cheek as he whispered a single word:

"Remember."

And then he was gone.

She lay for a moment longer, and then sat up slowly. She had been resting on something soft and cool.  The fragrance of fresh flowers filled the air.  It was dark, but a single shaft of sunlight cut through a window far above her, spearing down into the blackness.  She bumped up against something hard, and tried to turn.  In that moment, her vision cleared.  Her breath caught in her throat.  She swallowed three times, trying to force the air out of her lungs but all that came out of her mouth was a choked, gurgle.

She was in a church.  She knew the church.  She had been there before but she had no idea when or where it had been.  She scrambled up and back and cracked her neck painfully into the end of the coffin that held her.  She cried out again, and this time she managed to scream.  She gripped the side and hauled herself up.  The shift of balance as she struggled caused the casket to tip.  She spilled out over the edge and fell with it.  Her hip caught the corner of the altar and she rolled, sprawling across the smooth wooden floor.

Pain lanced through her like fire.  She forced herself to her feet.  Nothing made sense.  She turned about and then again, staring at her surroundings in confusion.  Balthazar was nowhere to be seen.  The heavy double doors of the church were closed.  She was alone.

Piles of lilies and sentimental offerings lay all around the coffin.  Her coffin.  No, she refused to think of it like that.  Something had happened, something that made no sense and left her senses reeling, but it wasn’t her coffin.  It couldn’t be.  She swallowed a heavy breath and took an unsteady step toward the altar.  She knew she should get out, that she should run, but something about the echoing darkness of the empty building called to her.  Something about the arrangements of flowers, and the sentimental offerings itched at her mind in a way she refused to believe.  She managed two more steps down the aisle then looked up at the stained glass window.  She knew the design in the glass.  She reached out, and clutched at the back of one of the pews to steady herself.  The seats behind the altar, where the choir sat during services, were every bit as familiar as the window.

She wore only a thin white gown.  Her bare feet were cold on the polished plank floor.  She picked up a card from the corner of the altar.  It had a fresh pressed flower against it, the seeds and petals crushed flat.  She opened it.

"My Dearest Elizabeth, I pray with all my heart that Our Father grants you peace until we can be together once more, Benjamin."

She lurched away from the altar, staggered and stumbled painfully into the railing.  The card fluttered to the floor like a dying moth.  Memories like ghosts flashed through her mind.  She tangled her fingers in her hair, gripped tightly and yanked fiercely at it.  She screamed and screamed and screamed and still they would not stop.

Her childhood – her father – Benjamin.

She stumbled forward and dropped to her knees before the altar as though in prayer.  Beside the altar she saw a battered old leather pack.  She knew it as she knew everything in this life.  She had no idea how she knew, but it was Benjamin’s.  She remembered lying in the grass, the warm sun on her face.  Where were they?  A picnic?  And then she remembered his voice, and behind it, his smile.

Mariah took the pack by its strap.  Her hand trembled as she lifted it, and not just from the deathly chill that suffused the church.  She remembered the last time she’d seen the pack.  Benjamin had left it beside her bed because she had been too sick to go out with him.  Sweet as always, he’d said it didn’t matter.  He sat with her and brought her tea and told her that he would leave the pack beside her bed.

"When you are well again we’ll have our picnic.  I won’t need it before then, and it will give you something to look forward to.  Until then, let it be a reminder of me."

She set the pack in her lap and loosened the leather ties binding the flap.  When Benjamin had left it in her room there had been a bottle of dark red wine, a tablecloth he’d intended to spread over the grass, a book of poetry he’d bought from a man who’d come in from the east, all tucked away inside.  They had shared the poetry, a verse at a time.  After each new verse, he tucked the book back inside the pack with the promise that the next one was for the future.

She rifled through the pack.  There was no bottle now.  She pulled out a blue silk dress, a gasp of recognition slipping past her lips.  It was the dress she’d worn the night he proposed.  It slipped through her fingers.  Something dropped to the floor, hitting the wood with a clink of metal.

She saw the locket on the floor and tears streamed from her eyes.  They ran down her cheeks, wetting the cotton gown she wore.  It was white, like the lilies.  She pulled at it with her fingers.  She knew what it was, there was only one thing it could be given the coffin and the altar and the offerings: a shroud.

There was a book in the pack, and she lifted it out, expecting the volume of poetry.  It wasn’t, but she knew it well enough.  It was her journal, bound with a ribbon.  The end was frayed from all the times she’d teased it open and tied it closed.  She started to unfasten the knot, and then thought better of it.  She tucked it back into the pack, rolled the dress around the locket, and stuffed it all back inside.  She tied the flap, shouldered the pack and rose.

As she did, the church door opened, and a man stepped through.  At first he didn’t notice her.  It was obvious he expected to be alone.  He was humming  a mournful little tune.  He wore a dark suit and a tall hat, and his name came to Mariah’s lips unbidden.

"Reverend Criscione?" she said softly.

He spun as if slapped across the back of the head and backed up against the door.  His hands came up instinctively, as though to ward off more unseen blows.  Mariah took a step toward him.  She held out her hand, but stopped when she saw the white terror blazed onto his face.

"Father in Heaven," the preacher rambled, tripping over every syllable before he got it out of his mouth.

He crossed himself and reached behind his back for the door handle.  He fumbled the latch, tried again, and then turned, slamming the flat of his hand against the wood in blind panic.  He gripped the door and yanked it wide open.  Daylight streamed into the chapel.

"Please," Mariah called after him.  "Don’t leave me.  I need help…"

But he wasn’t listening.  There was no help to be had in this room, no salvation for her lost soul.  Reverend Criscione disappeared into the light beyond the door, and Mariah didn’t know what else to do but follow.  Her legs were weak.  She stumbled twice before she reached the door and had to clutch it to stop herself from falling.  She called out to him again, but her pleading fell away, unheard.  As she stepped out of the church she saw his back disappearing down the main street into town.

"Reverend, wait!" she screamed.  "It’s me.  Don’t you recognize me?  It’s Mariah…it’s," she frowned and shook her head.  No, it wasn’t.  "It’s Elizabeth – Elizabeth Tanner."

Her words echoed from the buildings, but no one heard because it seemed there was no one to hear.  She started toward town, clutching the pack’s straps tightly.  She had to find her father.  He would know what to do.  She had to make him see.  It had all been a mistake, a horrible mistake.  She had been ill – very ill – but she wasn’t dead.  They’d got it wrong.  She wasn’t dead.

Sunlight hurt her eyes.  She walked with one hand up to shield them as she neared the edge of town.  She had to squint to see more than blurred outlines and darker shadows.  She heard voices.  She sobbed with relief and stumbled forward.  She thought she recognized the reverend, but it didn’t matter.  Whoever it was, they would understand.  They would help her.  She had so many friends in the town; she had grown up here with them, they all knew her and loved her.  Everyone did, and not only because of who her father was.  If she could only find Benjamin, she could make it all right.  They would find the wine, and the poetry book.  They would go to the meadow and lie in the long grass and everything would be good.  Everything would be as it was supposed to be.

"There she is!" a voice cried, cutting across the lie she was telling herself.

"Dear God!" another cried.

"It’s true!"

"She’s come back . . . from the dead," a fourth cut in.  This voice sounded drunk – and frightened.

Reverend Criscione stepped forward.  He held two silver candlesticks, one in each hand, and had them braced in the shape of the cross.  His eyes blazed with righteous fury, and though he did not step forward between his two companions, his voice boomed out loud and strong.

"Get thee gone, foul creature of Satan!  Return to the grave from whence you came!"

"Reverend?" Elizabeth said softly, confused.

He took a step forward and brandished his makeshift crucifix.  "Begone, foul spirit!  Leave us, or be destroyed!"

Elizabeth took a step back and the three advanced, gaining confidence as she faltered.  She started to speak, but the words wouldn’t come.  Tears streamed from her eyes.

"She weeps like the virgin!" one of them cried.

"It’s a lie!  A trick of Satan!  Kill her!" another barked, and that sparked a roar of approval from the others.

He fumbled at his belt, and Elizabeth realized he was going for a weapon.  She turned and ran, fleeing back toward the church.  Sharp chips of stone dug into her bare feet, but she didn’t slow, and she didn't look back.  She heard more voices now, others shouting to her pursuers.  They fell away behind her, and she knew they were gathering.

She hesitated.  If enough of them joined the group, she thought desperately, maybe someone would listen.  Maybe someone could see the truth.  She snorted bitterly.  If the group laid hands on her she was as good as dead – again.  They wouldn’t listen.  They would be rabid, hungry for the kill.  She laid her hand against her heart and felt it beating strongly.  She was alive.  She was no demon, no matter what they thought.  She was the same girl she had always been.  Surely she could make them see that?

These people had loved her . . .

She stopped running and turned.  The mob slowed, coming cautiously toward her down the dusty street.  Someone had brought out a torch despite the fact that it wasn’t dark – and she realized they meant to burn her.  The flames flickered over his head, dancing in the breeze.  They all spoke at once.  Reverend Criscione called out to her, quoting lines of scripture.  She had never found him particularly comforting, and now – with torch’s flame dancing off his sweat-coated face – he looked and sounded terrifying.

"Please!" she begged them to understand.  "It’s me!  I’m alive!  I don’t know what’s happened, but you must believe me.  Please!  Find my father!  Find Benjamin – they will tell you.  They will show you.  I…"

A stone whizzed through the air, landing a couple of feet from her.  She followed its trajectory, shocked, watching it bounce away harmlessly.  Another landed closer.  The third wasn’t harmless; it struck her on the thigh.

She screamed in pain.  A fourth stone flew straight at her face and she raised her arms to block it, turning her face.

"Do you think they’d be so quick to stone their risen Messiah?" Balthazar’s mirthless voice echoed inside her head.  She spun around looking for him.  He would help her.  He would stop this!  He wasn’t there.

The air exploded with sound.  A screech of rage blasted the silence.  A dark form dropped from the blazing sky like a black bolt of lightning.  It struck the fourth stone from the air inches from Elizabeth’s face, and then soared upward with a powerful sweep of wings, screeching.

"A demon!" Reverend Criscione cried, pointing.  "You saw it!  A demon!  She called a demon to protect her!"

"It looked like an owl to me…" another chimed in.

Elizabeth didn’t wait.  She turned and fled.  Blinded with tears she bit back on the pain and ran without a sound as the road tortured her feet.  She ran as she’d never run in her life, back to the church, and beyond.  She stumbled through the lichgate into the graveyard, running between the stones, and tripped, slamming her knee painfully into a gravestone.  She lurched away from it and stopped dead in her tracks.  Another step and she’d have tumbled into an open, empty grave.  She didn’t need to look down.  She knew what it was.  She knew who it was for.

There was a wooden plank hammered into the earth to mark the plot.  Scrawled across it in dingy whitewash barely visible in the sun, her name shimmered back at her.  She sobbed and pushed herself away, moving through the graves more carefully.  Behind her, she heard them coming, their voices drawing nearer.  Without looking back, she ran on.  Her breath came in deep, heaving gasps, but she didn’t stop.  She knew there was a narrow path beyond the graveyard, and that it curled down the side of the hill to the gulch.  She looked up.  The sun was still high in the sky.  Night was maybe an hour away.  If she reached it there would be places to hide.  They might not follow her across.  Not in the dark.  All she had to do was wait for the night.

She found the trail and started down.  It was more overgrown than she remembered.  She moved as quickly she could, wriggling between the trailing branches and trying not to cry out as limbs slapped at her and roots cut into her feet.

The voices seemed more distant now, disembodied, as though she were gaining ground.  She forced herself on, stumbling down and down the narrow track.

Something cried out above her.  She spun and stared up through the trees, trying to see what had made the sound, but could make out nothing through the thatch of branches overhead.  As she turned back to the trail, the strap of Benjamin’s pack snagged on the stub of a branch.  She tried to yank it free, but the branch refused to surrender its prize.  She pulled hard again, so hard she lost her balance and started to fall.  She waved her arms wildly, trying to find her balance, and the pack tore free.  She stumbled back, almost made it upright, and then lost her footing completely and plunged over the edge of the gorge.

She heard the inhuman scream of a great bird, and her mind went blank.

On the cliff above, Reverend Criscione and the others watched as a great dark shape rose, silhouetted against the failing sun, and then – without warning – disappeared.

The ground beneath her back was cold and hard.  Stones dug into her side.  Her head spun.  Somewhere inside she lost herself, who she was.  Her eyes were gummed shut with the grit of dust and sleep.  She rubbed at them with her knuckles and opened them.

She screamed.

A man stood over her, a strange man with coal black, furtive eyes that glared at her with such inhuman intensity it stole her breath and stilled her scream.  His nose was oddly narrow, his eyes set close to the prominent ridge.  A dark tangle of hair sprouted from his head in a wild tumble, glossy and blue-black.  He wore a hat, and a long dark coat that fluttered up and created strange shadows around him.  It wasn’t like any coat she’d ever seen.

Elizabeth tried to back away.  The cotton gown hung off her in tatters.  Somehow the ragged clothing made her feel more naked than if she'd been wearing nothing.  She tried to wrap it around herself, but the man leaned down and, with one powerful yank, stripped the remnant from her body.  It fell about her feet in tatters.  He stared at her.  His glare was hideous and uncomfortable but there was no lust in it.  Still, she tried to cover herself.

That was when she noticed.

She didn’t understand.  It was wrong.

Horrified, she looked down and instead of seeing her bruised and bloodied feet, saw her belly.  It was round and full.  She clutched at it, trying to make sense out of what she saw.  Elizabeth shook her head, working up a scream, but the man leaned in, tangled his fingers in her hair, and shook his head.  She stifled the cry.  Her eyes swam with the madness that threatened to take her.

She's fallen.  Surely it couldn't have been more than a few moments since then?  She'd lost her grip, slipped and fallen from the narrow cliff edge into the gulch.  Images and memories warred for control of her mind.  Mariah and Elizabeth grasped the frayed ends of her memories, each trying to weave a different picture and both falling short of their shared reality.  She heard trailing wisps of Balthazar’s insidious whisper echoing through her brain, and the visions he’d shown her complicated what her mind told her had to be true.  She had been pregnant, and her child had been taken.  She had been Elizabeth.  Her name was Mariah.

She had fallen but she hadn’t struck the ground – she had been snatched out of the air and borne up by something huge, and dark.  She was pregnant.  Her name was Elizabeth, and she had been dead.  When Balthazar found her she’d been on that doorstep a second time.  Was she alive at all?  Was this hell?

She sat up, groaned at the sudden pressure this put on her swollen belly, and tried to rise.  She didn't have the strength.  She ached all over.  A sharp pain on her forearm caught her attention.  She glanced over and saw long, deep welts scored into her soft flesh, as though she'd been gripped too tightly in gigantic hands.  Or talons?  A wave of dizziness swept over her.  She saw the ground falling away with sickening speed, felt the darkness swallow her and the wind suddenly lash against her face.  Whatever had taken her had gripped her arms and its grip had not been gentle.

The flap of the tent opened and a second man entered.  He was so absolutely physically identical to the first that she had to blink and shake her head to be sure she wasn't seeing double.  The newcomer threw something at her and she raised her hands to catch it.  She realized her mistake, and lowered them in confused misery.  What struck her was a rolled bundle.  The double men turned and left the tent.  The flap dropped closed behind them.  Elizabeth glanced down at what she held.

Draped across her impossibly swollen belly were pants and a threadbare shirt.  She sat up quickly.  Her head swum alarmingly as she fumbled with the roll of clothes.  She struggled into them.  The shirt was several sizes too large, but given the sudden swelling of her belly that was a good thing.  She buttoned it quickly and squirmed on her backside, wriggling into the unfamiliar pants.  Ladies did not wear pants, but she didn’t hesitate.

She had trouble finding a place for them to ride her hips that wouldn’t cause undue pressure.  She reached for Benjamin’s pack and pulled it closer.  Even the buttons on the pants seemed beyond her. She couldn’t think, or concentrate.

None of it was possible.  She couldn’t button her pants because the pants and the tent could not exist.  She was not pregnant.  She believed she might be dead.  She believed she might have fallen from the cliff, broken something that could not be repaired, and ended up lying in a heap at the bottom of the gorge spending her last moments of life trapped in a nightmare.

The tent she did not believe.  The men with faces like predatory birds were not possible.  The only thing that she could see that made any sense was the pack – but even that took her back to the events leading up to her fall.  She’d woken up in a casket.  She’d been stoned by the minister who had baptized her as a child.

She managed to fasten the pants and felt slightly better.  She rolled to her knees, rested for a moment, and then brought one leg up.  In a moment she had both feet beneath her.  She stood on weak and trembling legs.

Beyond the tent, she heard the crackling of a small fire.  She stumbled toward the sound.  She reached out to pull back the tent flap, but before she touched it, she glanced back at the pack lying on the ground.  She felt as though she should pick it up – that it was important to keep it with her.  She half-turned, taking the first step to go back for it, but a sudden sharp twinge in her belly – the baby kicking? – stopped her.  Wincing, she pulled back the tent flap and stepped into the clearing.

She didn’t find a campfire.  The dark men in their eerie coats and peculiar hats were nowhere to be seen.  Four feet from the front of the tent where she stood, a pillar of flame poured into the air.  The flame had a soft phosphorescent glow; the light radiating from the heart of it was almost subdued.  It pulsed and writhed in a harlot’s dance.  She thought, more than once, that she saw a face pass over the surface, or hands clutch at the edges of the flame and then, as quickly as they surfaced, they were gone.

Elizabeth stepped out from the safety of the tent.  Only a single step forward at first.  But then she took another, and then another.  As she walked, she felt her weight shifting, and suddenly there was an imbalance caused by her compensating for her pregnant belly that Elizabeth didn’t understand.  She laid her hands on her stomach, panic flaring in her mind.  All she could think was that something was wrong.  Her belly was flat and smooth.  Her baby was gone.  Her hands were thin to the point of emaciation.  The bones stuck out against sallow skin.  She stumbled forward one more step, coming closer to the flickering flames.  She felt the heat on her skin.  She heard voices.  They were screaming and crying out but she couldn’t understand them.  She reached out a tentative hand, expecting the flame to burn. She wanted desperately to touch it, to purge herself.

A hand clawed out from the fire, raking the air.  Before she could pull away strong fingers wrapped around her wrist and heaved her off her feet.  She fell forward, screaming, face first into the flames.  She felt her skin sear, shrivel and crack, and the liquid in her eyes and mouth boil, then parch as all the moisture was burned out of her.  Her skin flaked and charred – and then the overwhelming agony, the screaming, the fire beneath her skin, was gone.

She blinked; tears stung her eyes.  She sat in the chair beside the low softly crackling fire.  The storm still raged in the distance, forks of lightning flashing across the sky.  She trembled violently.

"Ah, I see you have returned to me," Balthazar said.  He sounded almost amused.  He rose, and reached for her hand.  "Come," he said.  "We have work to do."

She stood shakily, unable to pull her gaze from the dancing flames.

"God in heaven," she said softly.  "What am I?"

"You are my blade," Balthazar replied.  "The hotter the fire’s flame, the sharper the edge."

He led her past the campfire to the back of the wagon and helped her up the steps and inside.

This time as she lay on the hard wooden floor, she felt the wheels turn, and the steady bump of ground passing beneath them.  She dropped into deep, cleansing sleep.

There were no dreams.

Chapter Twenty

The moon had risen bright and nearly full.  The streets of Rookwood were empty.  Only the light from Silas' saloon, and the eerie, haunting strains of McGraw's piano offered any sign of life.  Most folks retired to their own places when the sun failed.  That was the story of Rookwood night after night.  A few – panhandlers, trappers and drunks – would inevitably make their way to the saloon for one of three things: the conversation, the bourbon, or the chance of Mae's attentions.  Money was scarce, conversation terse, and with Mae’s sociability dependent heavily on the almighty dollar, the holy trinity was a washout.  Silas spat and polished his pitchers in a perennial foul mood.

Since, The Deacon's folks had started spreading word of the coming revival, business had perked up noticeably.  Hell, it was positively booming.  When the three strangers entered town on foot, dark hats tipped over their eyes and darker coats floating behind them in the breeze, the whispers spread like wildfire.  By the time the three reached the saloon, a boy had been kicked out onto the dusty streets with the express orders to fetch Moonshine Brady.  He ran as though his life depended upon it.  Both of the saloon's windows filled with curious faces.

The strangers didn't enter the saloon.  They stood in the middle of the street and stared first one way and then the other, as though looking for something.  The tallest of the three tilted his head back and sniffed the air like a wolf trying to catch a scent.  He cocked his head to one side and gazed at the upper story of the saloon.  The other two turned, following the direction of his gaze.

Before the three could make their next move, whatever it would have been, Moonshine stepped into the street a block away.  His stance was relaxed, but his hand rested on the pearl-lacquered butt of his gun.  He flexed his fingers as he stared at the newcomers for moment, and then called out:

"Can I help you gentlemen with something?"

The strangers spun as one and regarded the sheriff with their dark opalescent eyes.  They didn't speak.  They neither advanced nor retreated.  The tallest of the three ignored Moonshine and turned back to the saloon, continuing his scrutiny of the windows on the second floor.

Brady's smile dropped a notch, and he closed his fingers around the grip of his six-shooter.

"I asked you boys a question," he said, starting forward.  "The way I see it, it’d be mighty polite if you was to answer.  You walked into my town, and that makes you my business; we don't get many visitors here.  It's my job to be sure when we do, they don't bring trouble.  So, I am gonna ask you this once, you wouldn't be bringing us any trouble, would you?"

The tall stranger turned and met Brady's gaze.  The lawman stopped dead in his tracks, and no matter the sudden urge he felt to turn and run, he didn't back down.  The two stared in silence for a long moment, and then the stranger spoke.  At least, it sounded as though he was trying to speak.  The word he uttered was coughed up from somewhere deep inside his craw.  It was guttural and deep.

"Crrreeeeeed." The end of the word rose slightly, as though it was a question.

"You lookin' for Provender Creed?" Brady asked.

"Creeeeeed." The stranger repeated.  This time he gave a curt nod.

"I ain't seen him since earlier today," Brady said slowly.  "You come back tomorrow when the sun's up, you'll likely find him right there in the saloon."

"Creeeeed." The man insisted.

He took a step toward Brady.

Brady's gun was in his hand and aimed directly at the center of the stranger's chest so quickly it seemed to have appeared by magic.  The stranger stood his ground and cocked his head to one side again.  More and more he was reminding Brady of some kind of animal – a bird?

"I told you," Brady said evenly, "to come back tomorrow.  I'm about to the point of tellin' you not to come back at all, if you get my meaning?"

Silas Boone stepped out onto the porch in front of the saloon then.  A short-barreled shotgun rested across his arm.  The light from the saloon's now open door sliced across the street.  All three strangers took a step back to avoid it.  Brady's frown deepened.

"Everything okay out here, Sheriff?" Silas asked.

"Seems these boys are looking for Creed," Stick said matter-of-factly.  The tension in his body betrayed his nerves.  "I told them they'd best come back by daylight.  That sound about right to you?"

Silas nodded.

"Just so long as they bring money for a drink," the barman said.

‡‡‡

Inside the saloon, Mae hurried toward the back and clattered up the steps to the second floor.  She'd heard what Moonshine had said.  Mae wasn't all that fond of Creed, but if those no-goods out there were looking for him, she figured it might be worth her while to let him know.  Something about the way they carried themselves and the almost preternatural silence that hung on them like a shroud set her skin to crawling.  Mae wasn’t usually a worrier, but men like that didn't play games, and she’d bet her bottom dollar they weren't here to talk.

She banged on the door to Creed's room.

There was no sound from within.  Mae frowned.  She lifted her hand to knock again, but before she could follow through, the door swung wide and Creed stood there.  He held his pistol in one hand, pointed at her face.

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Creed!" Mae ran the names together like they were one.

She backed out of the doorway and hit the wall behind her painfully.

"What do you want?" Creed asked.

"Oh, just piss off, Creed," she muttered, turning back toward the stairs.  "I don’t know why I even bothered.  Maybe they’ll kill you and do all of us a favor, eh?"

Creed moved.  He wasn't quite as quick as Brady, but he was much quicker than Mae.  He grabbed her by the shoulder.

"What the hell are you talking about, Mae?"

Mae shrugged out from under his hand, but she didn't leave.

"There's three strangers in the street with Brady," she said. "Say they’ve come lookin' for you."

Creed frowned.

"Are you sure?" he asked.

"Hmm, let me think . . . idiot.  Why in hell would I come up here to tell you if I wasn't sure?" she said, shaking her head.  Now that the initial shock of having a gun drawn on her had passed, Mae's temper threatened to get the better of her.  "And just what the hell is wrong with you anyway, answerin’ the door like that?  Who did you expect to be shooting?"

"No one with good intentions has any reason to visit," he said coldly.  He slipped the six-shooter back into its holster and flipped the snap tight.  "Count yourself lucky I didn’t just plug a hole in you through the door instead of opening it."

She sniffed.

"What do they want?"

"Hell if I know," Mae answered.  "I think Brady's gonna run them out of town. Silas went out with the shotgun to back him up.  You going to talk to them?"

Creed shook his head.  "I don’t think so.  Ain’t no one with a reason to be hunting me down," he said.  "But I want to get a look at them.  Do me another favor, seein’ as you’ve already done one.  Go down ahead of me and let me know if I can get to the window without being seen."

"One minute you pull a gun on me, and the next you expect me to run your errands?" Mae said.  "You’re a bloody strange one, Creed."

Creed reached into his pocket and pulled out a couple of coins.  He held them out to her.  Mae stared at his hand, thinking.  It didn’t take more than three seconds – one for each of the strangers – for greed to get the better of her.  She snatched the money, turned, and flounced back down the stairs.  Listening to the almost petulant slap of her feet on the wooden risers, Creed moved to the landing at the top and waited.  She reached the bottom, looked around and then ushered him down.  Creed descended slowly and carefully.  Three steps down – one for each of the strangers waiting for him – Provender Creed flipped loose the snap on his gun.

‡‡‡

The strangers didn't acknowledge Silas’ presence in any way.  For what seemed like forever they simply stared at the blind windows.  They didn't speak to Brady again – and for that he was blessedly grateful.  The sheriff stood his ground and watched as the three turned, at last, and disappeared down the street just as silently as they'd appeared.  He scowled at their backs.  There was more than something wrong about that little encounter, and he didn’t feel any better for the fact that they were headed on out of town.

"You think they're leaving?" Silas asked, as though reading his mind.

"Not sure what to think," Brady replied, scratching at the stubble above his top lip. "What I can’t figure is why they came into town without their horses.  Either there’s more out there, or a camp we don’t know about."

Silas nodded.  "I wondered about that," he said.  He coughed and spat a wad of chewed tobacco into the dusty street.  "But why?  What in hell do they want with Creed?"

"I wish I knew," Brady said.  He rubbed at his eyes.  He was bone tired all of a sudden.  He put it down the sudden release of tension and the relief he hadn’t had to fire his gun – yet.  He turned toward the doors of the saloon.  "Reckon I'll hang around for a drink, Silas.  Something tells me those boys aren't going to be as easy to get shed of no matter what it might look like right now."

Silas let the shotgun's barrel dip at his side, and he removed his finger from the trigger.  He held the door open wide to let the sheriff through to the taproom.  The patrons who'd been gathered at the windows turned quickly.  It was wryly amusing that they tried to make it look as though they had no interest in what had just gone down.  Moonshine was an old hand at the ‘Blind Eye’ they tried to foist off as disinterest. He wasn't fooled.

"They're gone," he said.  "For now.  I don't know a damn thing about them or what they wanted, so do me a favor and don't go asking, okay?"

As he stepped up to the bar, Creed melted from the shadows and joined him, leaning against the wooden bar.  Brady stiffened, his hand moving instinctively toward the shooter at his hip, but then he relaxed when he saw it was Creed.  The sheriff took in Creed's expression and noted the unclipped six-gun.

"Expecting visitors?" Brady raised an eyebrow.

Creed bellied up to the bar so Brady stood between him, the front door, and the windows.

"Nope," Creed said.  "Far as I know, everyone who knows I exist lives within fifty miles of here."

"Some fellas out front seemed mighty anxious to make your acquaintance, and I ain’t so sure they were being neighborly, if you take my meaning?" Brady said. "Not very long-winded boys.  Said 'Creed' a couple of times, then turned and hightailed it when Silas stepped out with the shotgun.  Downright creepy sons of bitches, if you ask me.  You want to tell me what that was all about?"

Creed shook his head.  "Your guess is as good as mine, Moonshine."

Brady sniffed.

"I was you," he said, thinking about what he was about to say next,  "I'd stay close for a day or two.  I trust my gut, and my gut says your new friends were a bellyful of trouble.  They left on foot." He let that hang between them for a moment, trying to judge Creed’s expression.  "Me and Silas, we was thinking they might not have gone too far."

Silas slid two glasses of whiskey in front of them.

"He's right, Creed," Silas said.  "Those boys were bad news.  I’m thinking they’re not the sort you want to be messing with, wherever they came from.  They come around again, we'll tell 'em you’ve moved on, but best you keep your head down for a while."

Creed sipped his whiskey and kept one eye on the door.  There were a couple of folks back east who wouldn't mind aerating his hide, but he hadn't seen them or heard from them in years and there was no way on God’s earth they’d tracked him out into the middle of nowhere.  He thought about the trappers’ camp, and what he'd seen out by The Deacon's tent.  Whoever had come looking for him, it wasn't because of anything he'd done in the past.  It was all about what was happening right now.

"I'll do that," he said at last.  "You'll let me know if you see them again?"

Silas nodded.  Brady knocked back the rest of his whiskey.

"I keep a pretty good eye on things," he said.  There was no arrogance in his tone – it was matter-of-fact and hard as steel.  He was the kind of man Creed would choose to watch his back any day of the week.  "I don't much like strangers hanging around town stirring things up, so I'll keep an eye out.  If I see those boys again, I'll send word."

"Thanks, Moonshine," Creed said. "I appreciate it."

"Not a problem."

He finished his drink and turned back to the stairs.  He wanted another look at the contents of the woman's pack.  More importantly, he wanted to think.  He climbed the stairs slowly, listening for any change in the level of noise below.  Too quiet most likely meant the strangers had walked in, too loud most likely meant trouble as well.  When he reached the upper hallway, he stopped and stood very still, straining to listen.

Something thumped.  The suddenness of the sound nearly made his bones jump out of his skin.  It came from the direction of his room.  He glanced both ways down the short stretch of carpeted floor.  None of the other doors were open.  Unless there’d been a rush while he’d been asleep, Mae and Silas were the only other people occupying rooms, and both of them were down in the bar.

He heard the sound again.  There was no mistaking where it was coming from now.  He pulled his gun and pressed his back to the wall, then started slowly and quietly down the hall.  When he reached his door, he clearly heard the shuffle of movement inside.  Things were being moved, and not gently.

Creed reached out and gripped the doorknob tightly.  It was icy cold in his hand.

He took a deep breath, cocked the hammer on his revolver, and turned the knob.

Two tall men stood inside.  They were hunched over his bed but whirled instantly at his intrusion.

"What the hell do you think you’re doing?" Creed barked.

One of them held the pack he'd taken from the trappers’ camp.  It was open.  He saw the contents spilled out across his bed.

"Creeeeeed."

The intruder closest to the window turned and lunged.  Creed shot from the hip.  The bullet ripped through the man's shoulder and slammed into the wall behind.  The impact spun the stranger half-around, but he didn't go down.  He screamed in pain, and the sound of that scream chilled Creed's blood.  He fired again.  This time his shot caught the taller man directly between the eyes.

Creed dove to the side.

The second stranger scrambled to stuff the contents of the leather pack back inside.  Creed fired at his hand, hoping to dislodge the bag.  The bullet went wide.  Behind him, he heard shouting voices and pounding feet.  The sheriff would be there in moments.  The man he'd shot in the face moved toward him with odd, stuttering steps.  Everything about the intruder’s gait was jerky and uncertain – and it bloody well ought to be, he’d taken a slug in the middle of his face.  He should have been laid out and ready to push up daises.

"Creed!" Brady's voice called out from the hall.

"Careful," Creed called out.  "There's two of them.  And the bastards won’t die!"

At the sound of the sheriff's voice, the intruder with the bag made a lunge for the window.  Creed emptied his gun, firing off three quick shots at the man’s back.  He couldn’t tell if they hit home, but if they did they did nothing to slow him down.  The man launched himself full-length through the open window, arms outstretched as though he thought he could somehow fly out of there.  The bag trailed behind him.

Creed pulled his second gun with his left hand and fired.  This time the bullet caught the diving man in the hand cleanly, punching clean through.  The sound that followed wasn’t a scream; it was another horrible screech that tore from his odd, motionless lips like the steam whistle on a train.  The bag’s worn-through strap gave way.  It spun out of the stranger's grip, the flap flying open.  The journal spilled out, landing on the floor.  The silk dress trailed after the fleeing man in a flutter of dark blue.

Moonshine stepped through the doorway.  It took a split second to size up the situation.  He saw the oddly gaited stranger tottering toward Creed, and saw Creed’s back as he stared out through the window.  Brady fired three quick shots. All of them struck the stranger square in middle of his pig ugly face.  Each successive bullet drove the thing back a step.  The screams died away – all that remained was the gurgling, phlegmy sound of sucking air.

The stranger  staggered back, hit the windowsill and toppled out into the night.

Creed threw himself forward, reaching out for the man’s arm.  He wasn’t about to let the son of a bitch get away, but as his hand closed around what should have been a wrist, he came up empty, clutching at air.  He pulled back his hand and staggered away from the window.  Brady rushed forward and leaned out, staring down into the darkened street, his six-shooter aimed at the night.  Silas appeared in the doorway with the shotgun.

"Bastards," Brady grunted.  He leaned a little further out the window, craning his neck to see up and down the length of the street.

"What is it?" Creed asked.

Brady pushed himself away from the window and turned to the door, already moving.

"They're gone," he cursed.

Creed stared at him.  It was impossible.  They couldn’t be gone.  He looked down at his hand.  He released his grip and stepped back with a cry.  He clutched a handful of oily black feathers.

Silas stepped aside quickly to avoid being run over by Brady, then stared at Creed.

"What in the hell…" he said.

Creed ran past him without a word.

Silas walked to the window and glanced down.  Then, without really knowing why, he looked up toward the face of the moon.  Two black shapes rose into the sky and wheeled off over the desert.  Silas blinked, and then glanced down.  He saw Brady and Creed, guns drawn, watching the street.  Somehow, he didn't think they were going to find anything.

Shaking his head, he lowered the barrel of his shotgun for the second time that night and closed Creed's door behind him.  He headed for the bar.  He needed a stiff drink.  There was going to be a lot off whiskey drank that night.  He aimed to get a shot or two down his throat first before the bottle ran dry.

Chapter Twenty-One

The Deacon sat at his desk, drumming his fingers on the leather surface.  He was impatient.  He leaned back in the chair and put his hands together to make shadow-birds on the wagon’s canvas wall.  The birds transformed into the gnarled silhouette of a hag’s face and again into rabbit ears.  He sighed.  He heard the creak of a wagon.  Sanchez finally returned with the four large earthenware bowls he'd been sent for.  Colleen sat on the hard sleeping boards that had been laid out at the rear of the wagon.  The child rested quietly against her shoulder.  She rocked him gently, glaring at Sanchez over the Deacon's shoulder.  There was no love lost between the two, the Deacon knew.  Under normal circumstances he would not have tolerated the kind of petty bickering and sniping the two traded, but the world around him was anything but normal now.

"You have done well," the Deacon said.  "The boy is with you?"

Sanchez nodded.  The Deacon couldn’t see the dirty-haired ruffian.  He didn’t need to; he smelled him.  The boy had a unique fragrance.  He skulked in the shadows.  It was where he was most comfortable.  Out of sight, out of mind.  If Sanchez whistled, he would come, grudgingly, but with The Deacon so close, he would stay hidden for as long as possible.  It was his way.  The boy didn’t exactly fear being seen; but he went out of his way to avoid the Deacon whenever possible.

The sun had vacated its high noon throne and slipped down the western skyline.  There were hours left before darkness, but the heat was slightly less stifling.  The Deacon brushed dust from his long, dark coat and stepped down from the wagon.  He cast a lingering backward glance over his shoulder, and met Colleen's gaze.

"Keep him safe, girl," he said, pulling a short thread from his pocket.  He stretched it taut between his fingers.  "Think of it like this, you are this string, bound to me and bound to the boy," he pulled the thread, twisting it until it snapped.  "If anything happens to the baby, I will snap you.  Understood?"

He turned his back on her and started out for the edge of camp without another word.  Sanchez followed with the bowls.  The boy flitted from shadow to shadow, always just an inch out of sight.  He carried a spade in one hand.  With the other he brushed his long, greasy mop of hair out of his eyes.

The Deacon stopped, shielded his eyes, and stared off in the direction the sun's fall.  He pulled a small round wooden case from the pocket of his jacket and rested it on his palm.  Carefully, he lifted off the lid.  Inside, a fragile sliver of magnetized steel quivered atop a pin.  It pointed arrow-straight to the north.  He turned it in his hand to get a fix on due west, and then followed the cardinal with his line of sight.  He grunted and snapped the lid closed.

The Deacon struck out beyond the edge of camp, walking until he found a spot between the scattered scrub and the half-buried boulders.  After a second glance at his compass, he nodded with slow satisfaction and turned, holding his hand out.

"Give me the spade, boy," he said.  He knew the boy was there.  The reek had followed with him from the camp.

All skin and bone, the urchin darted out of the shadows.  He offered the spade handle first, and scuttled away again the moment the Deacon laid his hand on the wooden grip.

The Deacon glanced up again.  He thought for a moment he saw something – a dark shape – flit across the sun.  Holding the spade he turned, three times in a circle, but there was nothing to see in the sky.

The Deacon slammed the spade into the earth and began to dig.  He worked quickly, hammering the blade in and working it deeper and deeper as he dug a circular trench a few inches deep.  He was sweating by the time he'd finished.  His shirt clung to his back.  Dark wet stains showed through beneath his armpits.  He wiped his brow and turned to Sanchez.

"Leave one of the bowls here," he said, nodding at where he meant.  "When we have the other three spots marked, come back and bury them flush to the earth.  The detail’s important; they must be flush.  Not a little low, not with the lip sticking out above ground. You understand?"

"Yes," Sanchez assured him.  "We'll have it done before nightfall."

The Deacon grinned.  It was a predatory grin.  "Perfect.  Tomorrow there will be another job that needs doing, but this one must be complete before you start.  It comes down to trust, Sanchez.  I am putting my trust in you.  My faith.  There is so much to plan, so much that I must oversee, and so much that I must do.  I cannot worry myself with all the little details.  I'm counting on you."

"It will be done," Sanchez repeated.

"Precisely as I’ve instructed?"

"Precisely."

"Good."

The Deacon turned and started on an almost leisurely stroll around the perimeter of the camp.  Using the compass carefully to check and recheck himself, he marked three more circles in the earth at the North, South, and East edges of the camp.  He stood and watched as Sanchez placed the bowls in the center of each circle.

"Pack it in there good," he said watching Sanchez tamp down he soil with the flat of the spade.  "And mark them so we know exactly where they are.  When the time comes, there won't be any room for mistakes.  Everything has to be just so."

Sanchez trod down the last of the dirt around the bowl with his boot and turned back toward where they'd left the first bowl waiting.

The Deacon watched him go.  The boy went with him, scuttling along like a spider.  As they drifted out of sight, the Deacon saw Sanchez hand over the spade.  He hoped the old man would supervise carefully.  Just because there was no time for him to double-check every detail didn't keep them from niggling away in the back of his mind.

He had more stops to make, and more favors to call in.  It was going to be a long night, and a longer day to follow.  There was very little time to make the revival a reality, and if he was being honest with himself, there were few even among the most faithful that he could trust with anything more than the barest details of his plan.  They would follow him to the ends of the earth; he didn’t doubt that for a moment, but this time he was going to demand more of them than he had any right to.  This time, if they knew what was in his heart – and darker, in his mind – he might drive them all away.  He couldn't afford for that to happen.  When all was said and done, assuming all went as planned and he survived, there would be more work to be done.  He wasn’t a fool, he knew he couldn't do it all on his own.  Once the wheels were in motion there would be nothing any of them could do but to ride out the storm to its natural end.  He had to make sure they stayed with him until then.

He made his way past Longman's wagon toward the Sisters’ tent.  By day, it looked fragile.  The taut leather lent it the aspect of a cicada's shed skin; thin, brittle, almost transparent and ready to blow away in the slightest breeze.  He knew better – everyone in the camp knew better – but at least during the hours of sunlight it didn't take any great courage to get down on your knees and bank a campfire up.  There was something dark and powerful about that tent.  Whatever its exterior resembled at any given moment, the sensation was one of depth and otherworldliness, as if the flaps of the tent led into another place and time entirely.

Longman had been busy again, working his magic.  Beside the hanged man, he'd painted an almost comical looking skeleton that was a jumble of mildewed bones.  The boney apparition held a scythe over its head and its feet were awash in a flood of black and gold etched symbols and what the Deacon took to be arcane markings.  There were also hands and faces beneath the skeleton's feet, but in the background, almost obscured, was a rising sun.

The Deacon never questioned the little man's art, or his inspiration, but there were times when he couldn’t help but wonder.  Longman smiled far too often.  There was always mirth and merriment in his eyes.  Hell, he laughed out loud when there was nothing remotely humorous in a situation.  He was different.  And because of that, he bore watching.

There was no sign of Longman at that moment, so the Deacon stepped on past and stood just outside the ring of the sister's fire.

"Lottie," he called out, waiting for an answer.  "Attie?"

At first there was no response.  Perhaps they were sleeping?  He thought to himself.  They could just as easily have taken it upon themselves to wander off in search of some sort of root or herb or insect or God knew what to grind and pulp into one of their tinctures.  He rarely saw any of them by day.  When they had rolled out of camp on the wagon with Longman the day before, it had been . . . unexpected.  They didn't seem to mind the sunlight, but he still thought of them as nightwalkers.  The dark was their natural element.

Eventually gnarled, liver-spotted fingers curled around tent flap and pulled it aside.  Lottie peered out at him, face screwed up against the lowering sun.  "Eh?  Who is it?"

"You know who it is," The Deacon said.  "I need your help."

"Who has come?" Attie called from inside.

"Come back tonight," Lottie told him.

"Chessie rests," Attie added.  "She is tired."

"This will only take a moment," The Deacon said quickly.  "I need incense – a lot of it. I've installed braziers at the four compass points – they will burn during the revival.  I need enough to keep them going during the…ceremonies."

Lottie cocked her head to one side and studied him with those mawkish eyes of hers.  He felt his skin crawl, as though her bony fingers walked slowly down the ladder of his spine.  He fought the urge to shiver.

"It’s a revival," Lottie said.  "Braziers for a revival, he says."

"With incense," Attie added.  "Never been to a revival with the wards set.  Have you, sisters?"

"Keeping something in?" Lottie wondered aloud…

"Or maybe out?" Attie asked.

"Don’t know," Lottie said.  "In.  Out.  In Out.  Ward it all about.  Chessie knows…but she rests."

"Tired." Attie agreed.

"Do you have the incense or don’t you?" The Deacon cut across them before his temper could get the better of him.

"We have it," Lottie soothed.

"Yes, of course," Attie said.  "Who else would have it?"

"Enough?" the Deacon asked.

"Enough?  Depends how long you want it to burn," Lottie replied.

"Depends on what you want in, or out," Attie added.

"When the time comes, will you have it ready for me?" The Deacon asked.  "The braziers are in place, and Sanchez knows the locations.  I have … much to do.  Can I count on you for this, Sisters?"

"Whatever it is," Lottie said, "We don’t want it in…"

"Or out," Attie added.

"We’ll be ready." They said this last together, and it rang oddly, like a broken chord that hung in the air.

"Thank you," The Deacon said.

"Don’t thank us," Lottie told him as he turned away.

He strode back past Longman’s wagon, looking again at the skeletal feet and their painted symbols.  He had seen at least one of them before, in the book, but he could not for the life of him place the invocation it was a part of.  He shook his head and moved on.  It would come to him.  He had one more stop to make – one final task to hand out.  Sanchez would see to it, but he needed to be sure he arranged the details.

Very suddenly, every moment in his long, intricate life balanced on a very tenuous fulcrum of luck and timing.  What had been his own little universe, well controlled and tightly pinned beneath his thumb had become this fragile thing.  He’d always known he was working toward an end, but he’d assumed that end to be far in the future.  It was not.  The future was now.  Here.  Rookwood.

The leather pouch suddenly seared the flesh of his chest, right over his heart.  He clutched it and pulled it away from his skin before it could brand him.  It was cool in his hand, but his chest still burned.  He thought about the book, and then, suddenly terrified, he blanked that thought from his mind.  Instead, he turned his mind to snakes.

‡‡‡

Cy and Andy shared a battered tent on the westernmost edge of the camp.  The Deacon strode up to the door and called for them.  He had to force his voice to remain steady.

"Cy, you in there?  Andy?"

He heard a shuffle of feet, and then Andy stuck his head through the tent flap.  He saw The Deacon and scrambled out, scraping his knees he bowed so low.

"No time for that," The Deacon said.  "There’s work to be done.  I need the two of you to do something for me."

Andy waited in silence.  A moment later the tent flap was brushed aside again, and Cy came out to join his friend.  The man’s one eye watched The Deacon reverently.  Neither man spoke.

"Remember back in Crooked Fork?"

"Aye, that’s where we had the snakes," Andy said.

"Exactly right," The Deacon said.  "I believe we are going to need them again."

"But we let them go," Cy said.  He looked confused, and with the single eye the expression was bizarre.

"I know that Cy," The Deacon said patiently.  "I need the two of you to go and charm some more out of the sand for me.  The desert is crawling with them – I need you to bring me a particular sort, ones with diamonds on their backs.  Can you do that for me?  As many as you can get your hands on.  You have a day and a half.  Take them to Longman first – for preparation."

"He gonna milk ‘em again?" Andy asked, dusting his hands off on the thighs of his grubby pants.

"Of course," the Deacon said.  "We wouldn’t want anyone getting hurt – at least not too badly."

"When should we start?" Andy asked.

The Deacon made a show of looking up at the sky.  "There’s plenty of light left today.  See what you can find, then get back out first thing in the morning.  Don’t let me down, boys."

"We’ll find ‘em," Andy promised, grinning.  "We’ll find a lot of ‘em."

"You do that, and I’ll have something special for you both when it’s all over," the Deacon said.  "How does that sound?"

The two men gazed at him with such adoration that it made him uncomfortable.  After a moment he broke eye contact and turned away.

"Let me know when the first snakes are ready for Longman," he said.  "I have to speak with him before he starts."

"Yes sir," Andy said.

The Deacon walked away.  He made another mental notch on the tally he was using to keep track of all the necessities he had no control over.  As he walked, more sweat peppered his brow, but he didn’t reach up to wipe it away this time.  He kept his hand free, ready to snatch at the pouch if it flared up again, and his mind on the task at hand.  The world was like a giant hourglass, and the grains of sand were falling far too quickly.

Chapter Twenty-Two

When Elizabeth next woke, she still felt shaky, but much stronger.  She was hungry, and her lips were cracked and blistered from thirst.  The wagon had stopped again while she slept.  Outside there was only the sound of the wind blowing through the dust and the devils churning up the desert.  For a panicked moment, she was sure he had left her there to rot, alone and without food or water.  She shook the cobwebs from her head and sat up.

She hesitated with her hand a few inches from the door latch, sure that he would snatch it out from beneath her before she could open it as he’d done before.  It was the kind of thing Balthazar seemed to enjoy, proving his control.  She drew a deep breath, licked her lips, and grabbed the brass latch.  She pushed it open on a glorious morning.  All but the final, lingering signs of the storm had passed; the ground was bone dry and the cobalt sky stretched off to the mountains in the west.  There was still the wind, but it was pleasant with the backdrop of sunlight.  Mariah took the two steps down to the ground carefully, stretched the aches out of her back, and looked around.

The campfire was laid out in exactly the same place it had been each and every time she’d seen it.  For a single disorienting moment she wondered if they’d ever really moved at all.  Balthazar sat in one of the chairs, his legs stretched out, feet crossed at the ankles, hat tipped forward over his eyes to shield them from the sun, and his hands steepled in his lap.  He appeared lost in thought.  She approached quietly.  He did not look up.

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."

Chapter Twenty-Three

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."

Cy stood beside him, refusing to look at the snakes, or anything else in particular.

"Put the damn lid on it, Longman," Andy said.  He backed as far away from the box as possible, until he was pressed up against the wall.  "Before one of the bastards gets out."

Longman turned, and snapped the wooden lid back into place.  "No reason to cut loose in your pants," the little man said.  "They're locked up safe and sound."

"Found a nest," Cy said.  "Must have been ten in that one place.  Followed the bones, just like you taught us."

"Very, very good."  He turned back to Andy.  "You really have to get over this problem of yours," he said.  "The amount of times we've gone through this, you'd think it would be old rope by now."

"Damned things ain't natural," Andy muttered, still refusing to come away from the wall.  "Never going to be over my ‘problem' cuz it ain't a problem.  A smart man'd steer clear of those damned scaly bastards.  No good can come of this, mark my words."

"No good intended, I'm sure," Longman replied.  "We'd better get started before they get themselves riled up in there.  Don't want ‘em getting feisty now, do we?"  He winked at Andy.  "The Deacon left some new instructions this time - reckon it's going to take a little longer than usual to complete."

"You sure you and Cy can't handle this by yourselves?" Andy asked.  His voice rose in pitch.  He eyed the door hopefully.

"You can wait outside and make sure no one disturbs us if it bothers you that much," Longman said.  "I'd hate to think what might happen if, say, we were startled at the wrong moment.  Once the lid's open the last thing we want is someone barging in."

Andy didn't wait for further elaboration.  He edged around the wall, skirted the crate carefully, and slipped out the door.  Longman closed it behind him and turned back to Cy.  They heard Andy clatter down the wooden steps.  Neither one of them laughed.

"In the back of the wagon," Longman said, "there are shelves.  On the top shelf are several glass jars.  Bring one of them to me at the table, and then fetch the first of our friends."

Cy nodded.  He found the jar. It was a wide-mouthed container with a crude stopper.  He lifted it off the shelf carefully, afraid it might shatter in his hands, and carried it to the table.  Longman took it, popped out the cork, and set it aside.

Cy turned to the crate and lifted one corner of the lid.  Inside, the snakes were in constant motion, coiling, slithering around the very edge of their prison in search of an exit.  It didn't take long for the first one to rear up and make for the light.  The big man gazed into the shifting geometric patterns of skin and scales and leaned down, never taking his eye off them.  He reached casually into the crate.  As he did so, he spoke in a calm voice, keeping his tone even.

"They shall take up serpents; and if they drink any deadly thing, it shall not hurt them; they shall lay hands on the sick, and they shall recover."

"So says the Gospel of Mark," Longman agreed.

Cy gripped one of the rattlesnakes behind it's diamond-shaped head and lifted it free of the box.  With Andy gone, he didn't bother to close the lid.  He took the snake to Longman, who, instead of holding out his hand, simply lifted his arm.  Cy released the snake and it wrapped itself in a coil around the dwarf's forearm, slithering up toward his neck.  Cy turned back to the box.

He brought them one by one and each time the serpent wrapped itself around Longman, joining the others in constant motion until the little man wore a second, moving skin.  With the crate empty, Cy stood to one side.

Longman spoke softly.  His words were too low in pitch and tone to be made out, but the rhythm was smooth and powerful.  He drew the open jar closer and held his hand out, palm up.

One of the snakes wound its way down his arm until its head rested in his cupped hand.  With deft, careful pressure Longman opened the serpent's jaws, tilted it over the jar, and began milking its poison.  The snake gripped his arm, coils tightening, and releasing, then gripping again in syncopation with the continual flow of his hushed words.  He worked until he had milked the snake dry, and then held it out to Cy, who returned it to the crate, carrying it reverently.

They labored for an hour, and then a second.  Five snakes remained when there was a sharp rap on the door.  Without waiting for an answer, Andy pushed it open and stepped over the threshold.

"The Deacon says…" Andy’s words died stillborn on his lips.

Cy turned slowly.  Longman stood, momentarily startled.  The serpents dropped from him, some to the floor others to the table.  One reared, poised to strike.

The little man caught himself and began to speak again, the words rushing faster this time as he sought to reestablish control.  The snake shot forward - and stopped, fangs bared.  Longman held out his arm, whispering now.  The snake wrapped itself around his wrist, returning to his shoulder.  Cy stood among the others that had fallen.

"Behold, I give unto you power to tread on serpents and scorpions, and over all the power of the enemy: and nothing shall by any means harm you." He said.

Andy stood rooted to the spot and utterly terrified by what he saw.

Cy leaned and retrieved the first of the fallen snakes.

"So says the Gospel of Luke," Longman muttered, the words only a momentary break in the chanting, rhythmic susurrus of the incantation that fell from his lips.

He returned to his work, and Cyrus, a snake in each hand, watched Andy intently.  The small man backed slowly out the door, his eyes locked on Longman, and the snakes.

"I..."

He stumbled back, caught his heel on the jamb and the door swung shut behind him as he toppled into the darkness, leaving the wagon to its silence.

There were no further disturbances.  Drop by drop Longman gathered the poison.  Cy watched, waited, and when they were drained, carried the serpents to their crate.

On the stroke of midnight, the door opened, and Cy climbed down the steps silently.  Andy stared up at his friend, a question on his lips.  He bit it back.

"The Deacon said to report to him when you were done, I…"

"His will be done," Cy intoned.

Andy turned away in silence, and walked back to their tent.  In Longman's wagon, the lights burned flickered and danced.

Chapter Twenty-Four

The Deacon sat at his desk reading.  The light of his lantern flickered gently, and shadows played across the walls.  Colleen sat on her bed, soothing the child.  In another place and another time it might have been an  idyllic slice of domesticity, but not here, not now.  Certain things set it apart, little details.  Anyone watching, though they might at first be taken in, would not be long in catching the chips and smears in the paint of normalcy.

The book was bound in leather with gold gilt print on the spine.  From a distance it looked like a Bible.  It was not.  The Deacon ran his finger over the words, first along the lines as though reading them by touch and then down the length of the page, skimming.  He was not sure what he was looking for, but it was there, hidden in the words, and he was obsessed with finding it.  What he planned was unprecedented.  That could mean he was a genius for conceiving such a bold plan, or, more worryingly, a fool for missing the reason why those others before him had decided against it.  The Deacon did not believe he was anybody’s fool.

The book was hand-lettered.  It had been pieced together from older scrolls and then translated from the original Greek by an alchemist named Bell more than a hundred years before.  The language was archaic and all the more cryptic for it, but the text was also incredibly detailed.  The Deacon had read the book from cover to cover more than once, and he’d learned a lot – both from Bell’s knowledge, and, tellingly, from his oversights.

This time he was reading in search of more obscure references.  He was looking for any indication of a particular ritual, performed in a particular manner.  He was looking for horrible failure, ultimate damnation – he’d been through every volume in his library in the span of two days.  There was nothing.  He thought of Longman’s Tarot cards.  More precisely, he thought of "The Fool," stepping off a cliff into an unknown void with a mongrel dog snapping at his pants.

Every time Colleen rocked closer to him, the pouch strung around his neck twitched.  It wasn’t regular enough to be rhythmic.  It distracted him, and more than once he turned to snap at her, but each time he bit back the words.

He didn’t want the baby to wake.  After a while he closed the book, sat, and stared.  The child was resting quietly, nestled against Colleen’s breast.  His form was nearly perfect.  He – it -- had a symmetrical body, all the proper limbs and digits, a pleasant face.  It was possible to make the mistake of believing one's eyes were honest.  And for that moment the Deacon might have been looking at a young mother and her child.

But the Deacon didn’t believe the lies of sight.  He didn’t balk at the creature’s gaze, he met it eye to eye, truth for truth, and whatever it might be, whatever it might become, he knew it was no innocent child Colleen cradled to her teat.  It was hard to reconcile what he knew with any sort of child.  He had looked deeper into the darkness of its eyes.  He had drawn it forth from its mother.

The Deacon’s life, to that point, had been a series of events beyond his control bound by long periods of time where he was in absolute control.  The talisman he wore was as much a curse as it was a gift.  He had come to believe it had its own agenda.  From the moment he’d come to this realization he’d been making his own plans.  It was one thing to be trapped in a sequence of events beyond your control but it was an entirely different thing to surrender to that fate willingly.  He had no idea if his labors would bear fruit, but he knew on a level bone-deep that the child – the creature – across the floor from him had its part to play.

His fingers strayed to the pouch as though seeking comfort from its contents.  The Talisman had been trusted to him by a woman.  It seemed that no matter what direction fate drove his life, women were doing the pushing.  He’d been traveling alone when he came upon the camp of a traveling evangelist.  The Deacon had seen the wagon from a distance, all lit up by the cheery fire that burned in front of it.  He had walked through rain and shadows to warm himself on that blaze.

He tried to concentrate on the book in front of him, but his mind wandered back across the months to that long ago night.

‡‡‡

When The Deacon saw the fire through the trees, his first thought was to flee.  His second was to barter.  His need for food won out and he walked toward the light.  Drawing nearer he saw that they were few in number, and his intentions shifted.  He was armed, and they didn’t know he was there.  It was as simple as that.  He reckoned on taking the wagon, the food, water, and because it had been so long, any woman they had that was worth scratching that itch with.  The other’s he’d either kill or leave stranded out here to let the heat do his dirty work.  As so often happens when one has a plan, things changed.

That night, before he could step free of the shadows, a hand dropped onto his shoulder from behind.  He’d heard no one approach, and he barely bit back a scream.  Before he could draw another breath and cry out, a second hand covered his mouth.  He smelled Jasmine.  It was such a feminine scent he knew his attacker had to be a woman, but that didn’t make a damned bit of difference.  He wriggled and twisted, kicked and threw his elbow back at her, but she held him.  Grunting, he threw all of his weight into trying to break free, but her grip only tightened.

"Wait," she whispered in his ear.  She was so close her breath prickled his skin.  "I can help you.  If you kill them, you will get the wagon, and a few days head start.  But that is not where things will end.  Look beyond tomorrow to next week, the week after.  Someone will find out.  They always do.  Someone will stumble across the bones even if they’ve been picked clean by vultures.  And then what?  It might be a wild world out here, but that doesn’t mean they ignore murder."

"Who are you?" he asked.

The grip on his shoulder released and he turned hesitantly, not sure what he expected.  Standing very close behind him was the most strikingly beautiful woman he’d ever seen.  Her hair and eyes were black as obsidian.  She was tall and slender, dressed in a long flowing gown that clung to her curves and should have looked odd and out of place, but looked, instead, as natural as the shadows – and darker.

"Who are you?" The Deacon repeated.  The question was the same but the need to know driving it couldn’t have been more different.

"I am whoever you need me to be.  I have had many names, and none of them are important.  You do not need to know.  Take this."

She held out her hand.  He had no idea why he took what she offered, why he hadn’t at least tried to pull his gun and get the better of her.  Or more disturbingly, why it never occurred to him.  She spoke, and he acted.

She gave him a long, slender leather pouch.  It was strung on a leather tie.  He stared down at it.  It was utterly unremarkable.  It wasn’t heavy, so there were no coins in it, but it wasn’t empty either.  He weighed it in his hand and felt something move inside it.  He lurched back from the unexpected motion and flung his arm out, trying to cast the thing aside but his fingers were tangled in the leather tie.

"You would spurn my gift?" she laughed.  It was a warm rich sound and all the more chilling for it.  "Too late.  Too late many things.  Wear it.  Take it to the preacher’s wagon and hold it to his heart.  Speak any holy words that come to mind.  One day, you will get the opportunity to thank me."

"For what?" he said.

The only answer was laughter and a sudden, impossible rush of wind.  He held his hands before his face and fell to his knees.  A huge dark form rose through the trees and the stormy clouds above with a banshee scream.

The Deacon felt his legs buckle and barely avoided voiding his bladder.  He stared upward after the shadow.  The rain pelted his face.  He shook his head and staggered to his feet.  In his hand, the small leather bundle squirmed.  He stared at it, and tried again to untangle his fingers.  He could not do it.  He shrugged, slid the thong over his neck, and tucked the charm up under the soaked collar of his shirt.  Something – a feeling deep in his bones – told him it was the right thing to do.

The wagon wasn’t far away, but the walk from the trees seemed to last an eternity.  He saw the fire, like a beacon, drawing him on.  There would be warmth near the flame.  There would be food.  He would kill for a decent mug of coffee.  He chuckled to himself at the thought.  He had intended to kill them all, coffee or not, but now his certainty was gone.  A peculiar sensation had taken root at the base of his spine.  Though he’d intended to kill them, he knew he would not.

When he was within a few yards of the wagon, he called out: "Hello!"

At first nothing happened.  He wondered if whoever – whatever – he’d met in the trees might have swept in and spirited them away, or more probably frightened them into flight.

"Hello!" he called again.

The cover on the back of the wagon rustled and a slender wrist poked out, drawing it aside.  A moment later a woman stuck her head out the hole.  She was thin with a scarecrow’s unkempt straw-blonde hair and deep-set haunted eyes that said in a single glance she’d seen all the suffering the world had to show.  Not quite all, he thought, scratching at his neck with a dirty finger.  She glared at him as though reading his mind.

"Who are you?" she asked.  "What do you want?"

The Deacon heard the tremble in her voice and smiled.  His strength was returning, and with it, his resolve.

"To answer your first question, I’m a traveler," he said, "to answer your second, nothing more than a warm spot by the fire.  I wouldn’t say no to food if you have it…and it has been a lifetime since I tasted coffee?"  He looked up at the sky, hoping it would help her make up her mind to trust him.  People fell for little innocent gestures.  "It’s cold and wet."

She chewed hard at her lower lip as she mulled over the rain and the bedraggled man who’d shown up uninvited on her doorstep.  "We don’t have much," the woman said.  "But what we have you’re welcome to share."

The canvas fell closed.  A moment later she climbed slowly out.  The woman was too thin, but her bones still gave her flattering curves.  The Deacon liked a woman with curves, but a bit of meat on the bones was a must for lust.  She was maybe thirty years of age.  He stepped closer.  An awning stretched nearly to the campfire.  The fire was walled in with a small circle of stones to keep out the worst of the wind and the rain.  It was a neat, tidy camp.  He sniffed the air.  A pall hung over the place.  He smelled it all the more potently in every intake of breath.

"Seat yourself," the woman said, pointing to an almost dry stone near one of the wagon’s wheels, "I’ll get you what I can.  There’s coffee.  It ain’t fresh, but it’s strong.  That counts for plenty in my book."

"I appreciate it," The Deacon said.  He dropped onto the stone and stretched his long legs.  His muscles ached.  It wasn’t exactly warm where he sat, but it was considerably less cold than it had been out in the rain, and it was still plenty better than the trees.  He massaged his forearms to get the blood flowing again, and rubbed at his cheeks, feeling the heat against his hands.  Slowly he felt his wits returning.

"I don’t mean to be rude, but seems to me there’s something … amiss," he said.

The woman turned.

"We travel with Pastor Ochse," she said.  "He’s an evangelist…a man of God.  He fell ill two nights ago.  Nothing we’ve been able to do has helped."

Her voice broke then.  The Deacon watched her – the world, it seemed, was presenting him with an opportunity he’d be a fool to pass up.  Even as he thought this the small pouch grew suddenly hot against his chest and he had to stifle a cry of shock and pain.  He winced and scratched at it.  He knew all that rooting around with his fingers made it look as though he had fleas.  It didn’t matter.  His skin burned.  As he bit back the pain, words sprang to his lips: "Perhaps I can help," he said.  "I have something of…a gift…for these things."

"Healing?" she said, turning to stare at him.  "Oh praise the Lord for his mercy! You’re a healer?"

The Deacon rose.

"Take me to him," he said, sounding much calmer than he felt.

The woman brought her hand to her mouth and gasped.

"He said you would come," she said.  "He said the Lord would provide and that he would be spared.  We thought he was fevered.  We believed…"

"Take me to him," The Deacon repeated.  It didn’t feel like a charade anymore.  He pressed his hand to his chest.  The woman stared at him.  She believed in him.

The woman turned away from the fire.  She disappeared into the wagon quickly, and a moment later, the canvas was pulled back fully.  Inside the Deacon saw three wretched figures huddled up against the inner wall.  There was an old, gray-bearded man with wild, bulging eyes.  He had the body of a brawler who’d been beaten one time too many.  There was a boy, fifteen at best, bum-fluff just starting to sprout from his cheeks, and another woman, older than the first and heavier.  They watched him warily as he swung up into the wagon.

Against the other side of the wagon a narrow cot had been raised.  The Deacon saw that a man lay across it.  Blankets were pulled up to his chin.  He was pale and jaundiced.  A stench clung to him.  Rot.  The lamplight shone off glistening beads of sweat that peppered his skin.

The Deacon knelt beside the man.  He didn’t want to touch him.  Instead, he studied the tortured, fevered face looking for any sign of fight behind the eyes.  He’d seen men in similar condition too many times.  None of them had survived.  The pouch burned against his skin with steady heat.  He knew he wouldn’t be able to control his voice much longer, or to bite back the scream as it continued to lacerate his chest.

He reached into his shirt and gripped the talisman, trying to pull it away.  His efforts only pressed the leather tighter against his skin.  He wanted to scream but behind the agony he heard something else.  He suddenly felt the weight of the woman’s hand on his shoulder once more, the dark woman from the trees.  He heard her voice in his mind. He tried to hold on to it, laying his hand flat against his heart despite the searing pain.

Speak any holy words that come to mind.

He reached down and pulled back the blankets.  As he worked, he spoke softly.  Now and again he tossed out the few lines of scripture he knew and most of those he garbled.  He unbuttoned Pastor Ochse’s shirt with trembling fingers and then, with a quick almost desperate motion, he drew out the talisman.  This time, as if sensing his intent, it came away from his flesh easily.  He held it in his the palm of his hand and was shocked to find that it was cool.  No trace of the heat that had so tormented him remained.  He touched his chest and felt the blistered skin beneath his fingers.  He didn’t try to understand what was happening.

The Deacon leaned close and pressed the leather to the Pastor’s chest, not knowing what to expect.

The man’s eyes snapped open.  He coughed, and a black cloud of … something … a wisp… smoke… ash?… curled from his mouth.  The Deacon barely ducked back in time to avoid it as it lashed through the air in front of his face.  The Pastor’s fevered body arched up off the sweat-stained sheets of the cot.  The Deacon pressed him back down.  He began to call out the words of The Lord’s Prayer, words he’d memorized as a boy and not spoken in years, in a deep, powerful voice.

"Our Father," he cried, "Who art in Heaven."

He never finished.  The cloud of darkness bled through the canvas walls.  At first it held that curious smoky quality but as his lips shaped around the word ‘Heaven’ it coalesced into something blacker and thicker until it looked like jags of black lightning tearing out through the canvas and into the night on the other side.  There was a rush of wind, and the flaps of the wagon’s sides slapped out and back so hard it cracked like thunder.  The Deacon reeled up and back, the talisman suddenly alive and squirming in his hand.  In that moment he sensed it – it wasn’t just alive, it wasn’t just hungry; it was malevolent.

He caught himself with one hand on the wall of the wagon and tucked the pouch back into his shirt.  It was cool and still, the magic burned out.  No one was looking at him.  The woman he’d first met had rushed past him to kneel at the pastor’s side.

Then The Deacon realized his first perception was wrong.  One person was looking at him.  The Pastor was awake, and staring up through blurred, reddened eyes.  The corners of those eyes sparkled with tears.  When he broke the silence his voice was pitifully weak: "Praise the lord."

The man shivered, his hands curled like claws around the sweat stained blanket.  He looked like hell, but it was obvious his fever had broken.  The Deacon watched a moment longer, and then he stumbled to the back of the wagon and half-climbed, half fell to the ground beyond.  The earth was mucky and moist, and it soaked through the knees of his jeans, but he ignored it.  He felt a surge of something inexplicable, a burst of energy and vitality that defied explanation.  Inside, he roared.  The pouch throbbed and pulsed against his blistered chest and he gasped for breath.

And then, as suddenly as it had come, it passed.  Whatever it was he’d felt drained from him in the time it took for him to lick his bone-dry lips.  He rose to his knees, panting for breath and soaked in mud.  He lost track of everything beyond the rise and fall of his chest and the ragged sound of his breathing.  The next thing he knew, hands dropped gently onto his shoulders.  He glanced up.  The two women stood, one on either side of him.  They lifted him to his feet seemingly effortlessly.

And he stood there, shivering and cold as they stared at him.

"He’s healed," the first woman he’d met spoke quickly.  "I don’t know what you did. . . I don’t . . . You healed my husband," she said, shaking her head.  "He’s sitting up.  He’s asked for food.  I never thought I’d hear his voice again.  I don’t know what to say.  I don’t know how to thank you.  You saved his life."

"I am glad," The Deacon replied, not certain what he should say – what the woman wanted him to say.  "The Lord is pleased."

"He sent you," the older woman told him with utter conviction.  Her voice broke as she sniffed back the tears.  "We were going to be stranded here, alone, but He sent you. He provided."

The Deacon ordered his thoughts.  "Such is His way," he said, lowering his head slightly.

"Come back inside," the first woman said.  "My name is Grace.  What we have is yours.  You will not sleep in this weather while we have walls surrounding us."

Grace.  It was a fitting name; the gift that separated the angels from the filth of mankind.  The Deacon followed them back inside.  After so long alone the woman had something of the divine about her, he thought, watching the sway of her backside as she climbed back up into the wagon.  He followed her in.  The Pastor was sitting on the bed, naked to the waist.  The old man and the boy hovered over him, staring down as though they were sure the miracle was about to be snatched away from them at any moment – it was obvious in their eyes that they didn’t trust it. . . and with good reason.

The old woman screamed, and Grace fainted.

The Deacon caught her in his arms, though his own legs had lost most of their strength.

Protruding from the Pastor’s side, twin dead eyes gazing up at them, a face pressed outward from the ribcage.  The features were misshapen and stretched.  Where the mouth should have been, the skin rippled.

Pastor Ochse glanced up at the Deacon.  Instead of an expression of horror, he wore a beatific smile.

"It’s a sign," he said softly.  "I was dying, but now I am healed.  You brought the healing, and now there is…this.  It is a reminder, that I might not lose my faith, or take this life for granted.  You have given me life, and a new cross to bear – proudly."

The Deacon swallowed down the bile that rose in his throat, and managed the barest of nods.

"You have a great gift," Ochse said.  "A great and wonderful power.  I will follow you.  We will all follow you.  Such a gift must be shared.  That is God’s will.  That is your purpose."

Again, The Deacon nodded.  He laid Grace gently beside her husband. Without a word, he leaned out, retrieved his bag, and carried it to the bar end of the wagon, where he set it down on the floor.  He dropped then, utterly drained and unable to support his own weight.  He laid his head on the pack.  He slipped into a deep, dreamless sleep.  The others watched wordlessly.

That was the first.

‡‡‡

The Deacon sensed the presence of that dark woman, that spirit, again.  He felt the weight of the talisman as he never had before.  He felt things coming to an end, things outside of his ken.  There was an aura of imminence; the air was charged with potential about to be fulfilled, and that fulfillment chilled The Deacon to the bone.  He felt the weight of fate hanging over him.  Twice in the last hour he had glanced over his shoulder, sure she was there, looking at him.  He harbored no illusions.  Whatever she was, she had no interest in his future or in his desires.  More likely he’d be a casualty, tossed aside and forgotten, and that just wasn’t how he saw the story playing out.

He turned back to his desk.  On one corner sat a jar.  Longman had delivered it that morning.  It contained all the venom collected from Cy and Andy’s haul of serpents.  Normally when they performed a serpent handling ceremony, the venom was used to create anti-venin.  The Deacon was a man of many talents, and the snake-bite cure was worth good coin at nine out of ten stops along the road, but this time it was different.

He hadn’t told Longman, but he sensed that the little man knew more than he let on.  He sensed, in actuality, that Longman was more than he let on.  As with the sisters, and Cy, and a few of the others, he had come to believe that they joined his troupe for some greater purpose he had no part in.  The notion set a shiver running through his soul.  They followed him.  They took his orders, and they worked his revivals, but they weren’t like the others.

Most of his flock had come to him for healing.  Most of them had given to him – or to the talisman – at times there was little difference between the two of them – some part of themselves.  They were bound to him and served out of warped and broken gratitude.  Within the circle, another circle had grown steadily.  They had their own ways and their own ripples of influence.  The children gathered at Longman’s wagon to watch him paint.  Everyone in the camp went to the sisters and sat rapt at their fire, watching the falling bones and listening to their cryptic foretellings.

There were others.  Cy had a knack for dropping scripture into any situation that actually changed things.  He saw more with a single eye than most saw with two, and yet he was slow to speak and slower to act.  His time was not the time of the world, it was somehow distant and removed.

They gathered, and The Deacon observed.  They did nothing to impede his efforts, and more often than not, they served just as the others did.  The talisman drew them.  The signs compelled them.  Soon, he would know why.  Soon they would know that he was more than a pawn in their game – that, or finally, he would find out that he was a fool after all.

He returned to the book and continued to read as his lantern burned long into the night.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Creed and Brady kept watch on the streets through the night.  Both felt the same prickling unease but there was no sign of the dark strangers.  The sky was empty of fluttering wings and no strange cries rang through the shadows.  People stayed later than usual in the saloon, drinking.  The talk veered between two extremes, the fear of the gunfight upstairs and the excitement of the coming revival.

By the time the place had emptied, and Brady had stepped out onto the porch for the final time, dawn was tickling the rooftops with the promise of the new day.

Creed leaned on the corner of the bar with his hands wrapped around a warm mug of strong, bitter coffee.  Every now and then he glanced out at the street, but he was pretty sure the threat had ended, for the moment at least.  Still, his gnawing unease refused to fully quiet.

The door closed.  Silas slammed the bolts into place, locking the place up for the precious little of the night that remained.

"You'd better get some rest," Silas said, coming over to the bar.  "You look like hell."

Creed glanced up, and then grinned at the bartender.

"I feel like hell," he agreed.  "I guess you're right though.  This all night vigil ain't doing either of us any favors.  I don't reckon we'll see any more of those three ‘til sundown.  Just a gut feelin' but they don't seem the type to come for high tea.  Tonight's a different story; darkness has a whole different feel about it.  So I'm thinking we want to sleep, rest up and expect the worst come sundown."

Silas, who was polishing the last of the night's stains off his bar, nodded.  "Ain't you a cheerful soul?  The bitch of the matter is I don't think you're wrong."

Creed stood up and stretched.  Every bone in his back cracked.  Before he could turn, Silas leaned in closer.

"How'd they do that, Creed?" he asked.  "How in hell does a guy get shot to shit, throw himself out of a second story window, and God damned disappear?  It doesn't make a lick of sense.  Where'd the bastards go?"

"I wish I knew the answer to that, Silas," Creed said.

He felt the feathers in his pocket scratching at him through the denim.  The locket rested cool and smooth against his chest.

"Well, it gives me the fuckin' creeps, and I don't mind telling you," Silas grunted, scowling at the sun as it caught in the window.  "Think I'll bed down for a couple hours, catch some shuteye myself.  It's going to be busy with everyone getting ready for that damned revival.  Between you and me, I'll be glad when it's over and that Deacon fella moves on.  Things haven't been quite right here since he arrived, you know what I'm sayin'?"

"Still smarting over Colleen, eh?" Creed tried for a grin, but it fell short of humor.

"It's not just that," Silas said.  "There's other whores, and sooner or later one will wander through town.  Look around you, man.  Everyone's all fired up, and I don't see it goin' anywhere good."

"It'll be over soon," Creed said.  "They'll roll out there tonight, sing a few hallelujahs, and be done with it for another ten years, until the next guy comes through.  Can't blame them for being excited.  Next to dust blowin' down the road and stray tumbleweeds, this is the only thing that's happened here in a long time."

"I'd think you'd be about tired of things happening," Silas grunted.

Creed laughed.  "When a man gets tired of things happening, he's tired of life, my friend.  I ain't that far down the road just yet."

He mounted the stairs and climbed slowly up to his room.  He stopped outside his door, listening before he opened it.  A part of him didn't trust those peculiar strangers to stay gone.  Everything was as he'd left it.  He checked out the floor where the tall one had stalked him.  There was some sort of greenish gray substance on the stained wood, and more on the wall behind.  What there wasn't, and what there really ought to have been plenty of, was blood.

He pulled the feathers from his pocket and laid them on the table.  Then he gathered up the scattered remnants of the pack and its contents.  Nothing of importance was missing, as far as he could tell.  The three had obviously been after something, but he was fairly certain they hadn't gotten it.

He wondered if it was the journal.  There was a lot of it he hadn't read, but he had the impression that only the last bits mattered.  He thought about the Deacon, and what he'd witnessed a few nights back.  He wondered if the man knew about his three visitors, or if they'd be paying the healer a visit next.

Creed went across to the window and made sure it was shut, the latch twisted into place.  He could feel a draft where the wood didn't quite mate - but for all their weirdness his visitors hadn't been smoke ghosts, they couldn't simply drift in through the cracks in the walls.  He pulled the curtain and then lay back on his bed.

He kept the pack tucked up under one arm where it couldn't be moved without disturbing him.  He unholstered his six-guns, tucked one down along his leg with his hand resting on the butt and left the other one half-under his pillow.  If they came back, they'd find him ready, for all the good the guns had done him earlier.

He thought about the revival.  Everyone in the town would attend.  He knew them well enough to know they couldn't allow a thing like this to pass and only learn of it from others.  They'd all go, and they'd watch, and they'd sing hymns, and then they'd talk about the damned thing for the next two years, batting about every word that was said and every song that was sung as if it was the most interesting story in the world.  It'd become a part of the not-so rich tapestry of life that was Rookwood.  No one would want to be the one missing from all the stories.

No one except Creed.

He had no intention of going to the revival.

On the other hand, with the three strangers lurking somewhere and Brady being out of town, he sure as hell wasn't going to stay around here by himself either.  He didn't want them adding to their story by telling how they came back to find that no-account cowboy Creed dead in his bed, covered in black feathers.  No, he planned to clear out as soon as the last wagon-wheel hit the trail.

The problem of where he'd go was one he hadn't tackled.  Before he could give it much thought, the night's excitement - and drink - caught up with him.  As the town of Rookwood came to life and began to bustle as it hadn't done in years, Provender Creed tipped his hat down over his eyes to block the glare of the sun and dropped off into the deep, dreamless sleep of the damned.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Three whiskey bottles sat on a flat rock about twenty yards away.  Mariah stared at them, waiting.  Somewhere, she knew he was watching.  She felt his eyes on her.  She closed her eyes and sank deeper into the moment.  She'd practiced this until her mind blurred with fatigue.  Her feet were sore from standing too long on the hot sand.  Her throat was parched.

Where was he?

A slight breeze brushed a stray hair across her cheek.  She ignored it.  Something else moved.  She didn't hear it, exactly, rather, felt it and reacted.

Moving so quickly her hand blurred she gripped the hilt of one of the three knives on her belt with her left hand, drew it and flipped it so she caught the blade between thumb and forefinger.  Whatever she had sensed was moving.  She snapped back her wrist, and sent the blade slashing through the air.  At the same moment she dropped her right hand to the butt of the revolver, flipped it up, and, working the hammer with her now empty left, fired three quick shots.

The bottles shattered one after the other in a spray of glittering glass.

She turned, gun still drawn, and dropped into a crouch.

Balthazar stood, smiling at her.  He held the blade of her knife like it was some poisonous viper.  He flipped it back at her and without thought she caught it, just before it would have struck her face.  She spun it and slid it back into its sheath.

Only when she released the hilt did she start to shake.  The pistol felt suddenly heavy in her grip, as though it had taken on the weight of all the lives it had and would one day claim, and she flipped it back into the holster.  She turned away from Balthazar then, and stared at the shattered pile of glass that had been the whiskey bottles.

"That is it," Balthazar said, walking over to stand beside her.  "That is what I have been trying to bring you to.  It felt good, didn't it? Admit it girl, to yourself at least."

"It didn't feel good, or bad." She said.  "I didn't feel anything at all.  I just...reacted."

"That is the truth of battle.  There is very little time for thinking, it comes from here," Balthazar said, touching his gut, "and from here," he cupped his balls.  Tapping his temple he went on, "This up here only gets in the way.  It rushes to think ahead, act, react and counteract.  In the battles facing you, that delay will get you killed.  It is as simple as that.  The most dangerous of nature's predators kill instinctually, not methodically.  If you linger, take even a second to examine your target, you will die another death, one that I cannot rouse you from."

She glanced at him and frowned.

"I didn't die," she said.

"Well, my dear, you'll never really know the truth of that, will you?" Balthazar asked.  His voice held that faintly mocking tone she'd come to expect whenever she showed the slightest hesitancy or resistance to him.  "The fact is, you are alive now, and in the moment you fired that gun you were more alive than you've been at any other point in your life.  Deny it all you will, it is the truth.  Do you have any idea how fast you were, girl?"

"No," she said.  She met his gaze levelly.  "I don't care.  I don't want to be fast, or to shoot...none of it.  I just want my baby."

"All things in their own time," Balthazar said.

He turned then and started off across the sand.  Mariah had to hurry to catch up with him.  They were only a short walk from camp, but it was blisteringly hot.  A heat haze shimmered on the horizon.  They'd been standing out there for hours, the sweat puddling at the base of her spine.  She tried to remember how many attempts she'd made.  She couldn't.  A dozen?  A hundred?

Each time, he'd come up behind her.  Once he yanked her hair so violently she went down backwards and landed on her ass, hard.  Other times he'd slapped the side of her head and left her ears ringing, or simply stolen the knife from her grasp.  Each time she failed he shook his head, frowned, and walked away.  Each time he'd tell her to focus, to cut the world from her mind and step sideways into another place where she existed alone with her target.  She'd tried and failed.  Tried and failed.  So many times she wanted to scream at him that it was impossible, that he was asking too much of her and that she wasn't what he thought she was, or who he thought she was.

When she’d complained of hunger and thirst, he'd ignored her.  Her throat was parched, and she felt weak.  Despite this, it was hard to deny the sense of accomplishment she felt.  As they approached the wagon, he moved ahead of her without seeming to hurry his stride.  She tried to keep up, but somehow, no matter how quickly she moved, the wagon, and Balthazar, grew more distant.

She slowed her steps, and then stopped.  She grew very, very still.  The desert around her stretched out endlessly, as it had always done, but somehow it was different.  She listened carefully, then, not hearing anything beneath the low murmur of the breeze, she closed her eyes.  In that instant, she sensed it, and she moved.  It was all instinct, no thought.  She dropped to one knee, drew the pistol, and spun to her left.  The hammer was already thumbed back but before she could pull the trigger, something slammed into her and knocked her sprawling.

She rolled with the motion, drew one of the knives, and threw.

The air was split by a shrill scream.  It sliced into her temples like a driven ax and slammed her backward.  Somehow she kept her grip on the pistol.  Instinct again - she raised her hand and fired.  A second, weaker scream rose from her unseen foe. She rolled to her feet.

A man - no not a man - the vague form of a man, writhed in the sand.  Its skin was dark gray, and black fluid leaked from the hole in its temple where her knife was buried to the hilt.  She took no satisfaction from its pain.  She walked towards it.  She leaned down, gripped the hilt of the knife and drew it free with a soft grunt.

The thing lifted its head from the sand and glared at her.  One claw-like hand dug into the desert as it tried to draw itself forward.  Mariah took another step closer, and this time she did think as she aimed the gun between its eyes.  She watched it staring malevolently back at her, watched it crawl inch by wretched inch until it was no more than ten feet away her, and fired.  The thing shuddered, its head hit the sand, and then it was still.

Mariah stared at it, about to ask Balthazar just what the hell it was, and then the ground around it erupted.  She scrambled back, all thoughts and questions gone as the survival instinct kicked in.  Talons and tentacles slashed through the earth, sending rock, sand, and grit flying in all directions as it whipped up a swirling dust devil from the elements.  Mariah watched in sudden horror as the thing she'd shot was yanked downward, swallowed.  It shredded and bled and fell to pieces under the onslaught of whatever gripped it.  The earth opened, just for a second, and then it was gone.

Mariah looked up to find herself standing beside the wagon.  A few feet away, Balthazar stood watching her carefully.

"And once and for all you know it's a part of you, girl," he said.  "No more denying what you are.  You did very well, though he nearly got you."

"He?" Mariah said.  "What...was that?"

"His name isn't important, trust me," Balthazar replied.  "We had an arrangement that ran its course...unfortunately.  I am a man of second chances when the luxury allows.  I gave him an opportunity here.  It appears that he has failed a second time, though his loss is very much your gain, if you follow."

"He..."

Balthazar raised a hand to silence her.

"Do not be dense, my dear, it doesn't suit you.  It was a test.  A challenge.  A mark of your character.  I had no doubt you would pass it, but if I'd told you to expect it, you would have doubted yourself.  Doubt leads to thought, thought leads to failure.  Now you know.  It's a part of you - the focus, the speed.  When you need it, it will be there."

"But he..."

"Is not your concern," Balthazar said, his words ringing with absolute finality.  "He left his life behind long ago - yours stretches out before you.  Come.  You will be hungry, and I have one more gift."

Balthazar rounded the end of the wagon, and with little other choice, Mariah followed.  When she reached the far side, she found the campfire, just as she'd found it so many times before.  There was no comfort in it this time.  She looked at the chairs lined up just outside the stone circle.  She inhaled the rich aromas of the coffee steaming in its pot on the hot stone and a pan of meat and vegetables simmering over coals.  It was all so familiar and yet all so wrong.  She felt the weight of the gun on her hip.  Was that it?  Was that what had changed?  Or was it more, something deeper?  Was it her? Everything else looked the same, after all.

No, there was something else - a rod protruded from the low flames, but she couldn't make out what it was.

"Sit," Balthazar said, gesturing as though she were a mutt to be commanded.

She did as he told her, suddenly starved, parched, and bone weary.  The stiff chair was more comfortable than any bed she'd ever known at that moment.  She leaned her head back and closed her eyes.  She only intended to rest for a moment, but almost immediately her thoughts drifted.

"You have almost everything you need," Balthazar said.  His voice was soft, but his words filled her mind.  She didn't open her eyes.  She listened to him and to the soft crackling of the fire beneath his words.

"There is one thing left that I'd like you to have - a gift.  I can't always be there to look over your shoulder in case something goes wrong, as I was in the desert.  You will need to know when your enemies are near, and you'll need to know how to find me if things get out of control."

Mariah opened her eyes slightly.  Balthazar stood by the fire.  He was poking at it with a long branch.  She was so tired she felt as though she might fall asleep and stay that way for days, but at the same time she was afraid she'd miss something vital - that she might already be missing it by her inattention.

Balthazar stepped away from the fire and moved toward her.  He done it countless times, leaving the fire with the pot steaming with coffee in his hand.  But he wasn't about to pour coffee this time.  She started to rise, but grew disoriented as he leaned in closer.  She felt him slip long, slender flingers under her forearm.  She started to ask a question, but it never reached her lips.

Balthazar gripped her arm so tightly it sent a shock of pain through her body.  Her eyes flashed open - too late.  He pressed something into her flesh.  It seared.  She gasped, writhing in the seat as she tried to arch up and away, but he held her both tightly and easily.  The hot metal bit into her flesh, and the gasp became a full-blooded scream.

She lashed back and forth in his iron grip but there was no escape.  He pulled the branding iron away and tossed it toward the fire, but she was in no state to care.  Every nerve in her body screamed in pain, white-hot light flashed behind her eyes.  He leaned in close and began to speak into her ear.  At first she couldn't understand him - it was a babble of shapeless words and formless sound - and then something changed.  She fell silent, stopped struggling, and opened her eyes.

Balthazar stepped back and smiled.  There was no pain, but burned into the flesh of her forearm was a strange symbol.  It looked like three circles, forming a triangle.  Each of them had a trailing tail, making it look as if the entire thing was almost circular.  She turned her gaze to his, eyes wide.

"When your enemies are near," he said, "you'll know because it will burn.  When I am near?  It will grow very cold.  This, of all the things I have given you, is the most precious gift.  When the heat flares in your arm, do not think.  It means you are in danger, and you must act.  It will save your life."

He stepped closer, and she hissed.  It felt as though she'd plunged her arm into icy water.  He stepped away again.  "Now you will recognize me.  It's time to eat, have some coffee, and rest.  There will be work for you soon enough."

She started to speak, but again he held up his hand to silence her.  This time he cocked his head, as though listening to some far away sound.  He stood like that for a long moment, and then he smiled.

"It seems," he said, "that you may be tested sooner than I thought."  He licked his lips, as though savoring the thought.  "Something unexpected has begun.  Eat.  We will travel by night."

With that, he turned and left her.  Mariah brushed her fingers across the puckered skin scarred by the brand.  There was no pain, but it was deep.  The scent of roasting meat reached her, and she was wracked by sudden hunger pangs.

She rose, took her plate, and moved to the fire.

Far away, a wolf howled.  She stood still, listened.

There was a reckoning at hand.

She just needed to be certain she understood the stakes, and that when the time came she was strong enough for the payoff.

She ate furiously, shoveling the food into her as though it was her last supper.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

As the sun set over Rookwood, the last of the wagons and horses slowly moved out of town.  Brady stood in the center of the street, staring after them.  His own horse was saddled and ready.  He wasn’t a religious man, far from it.  What he was, was a careful man – and he took his job seriously.  After the night he’d lived through he wasn’t about to take any chances.

Every man jack and swaddled babe in a ten mile radius of town was headed for the Deacon’s camp.  There was no way in hell he could’ve protected them all, not the stragglers and the keen who raced ahead, so he’d deputized half a dozen men he grudgingly trusted and sent them around to fetch the reluctant and downright lazy.  No one was to be left behind.

For the most part it was easy enough.  No one wanted to miss the festivities.  Nothing this close to exciting had happened around Rookwood in years, the place was buzzing with talk of last night’s gunplay and the coming revival.  Suddenly there was life in Rookwood, and like everything else in this place it had a name, and its name was Danger.  Something, some sixth sense, set Brady’s skin to crawling.  He walked with his hand never more than a few inches from the trigger, alert to the point of edginess.

As it was, they flocked together as they headed out of town, like crows, he thought as he stood watching them. He didn’t move on until he was sure he’d seen the last of them go.  If the crow men chose to come back today they’d find nothing but dust.

Creed had lit out at the crack of dawn and not returned.  Brady hadn’t exactly been sorry to see him go.  The way he saw it, whatever was going on with those strangers Creed was slap bang in the middle of it.  It wasn’t about Rookwood, it was all about Provender Creed.  So, with Creed gone he could concentrate on getting the rest of the town out to the revival tents and back safely.

Behind him a door slammed.  He turned. Silas latched the tavern door with exaggerated care.  When the barman was done, he looped the key around his neck on a long leather thong and started up the street toward Brady.

"Reckon we’d better get on with it," Brady said. "The last of ‘em headed out a few minutes back.  We can catch up to them, watch the rear.  I got deputies all along the trail from here to the Deacon’s camp.  Don’t know how much good they’ll do if those…strangers…return.  Anything else, though, we should be able to handle."

Silas grunted and slid his shotgun into the sheath beside his saddle.  The two men mounted up, and turned toward the edge of town.  Behind them, the town lay empty and gray.  Every light had been snuffed out.  No one wanted to come home to a fire.  Brady glanced back, and couldn’t suppress the cold shiver that slid down his spine.  Rookwood looked like a ghost town.

He turned toward the road and jabbed his spurs into his horse’s flanks.  Silas followed a moment later, and they galloped off after the last of the good citizens of Rookwood.

‡‡‡

The Deacon stood at the edge of his camp and greeted each and every man, woman and child who entered, taking the time to grip arms, smile, offer reassurance and welcome.  He very deliberately positioned himself several yards inside the circle bisecting the incense bowls.  The main tent was lit up brightly.  The canvas pulled on its guide ropes, loose ends flapping in the wind.  Music played.  It wasn’t happy, it wasn’t sad, but there was something off about it and not merely that it was out of tune.  When the first wagon had rolled in, the Deacon recognized McGraw, the piano player from the saloon, and had him escorted to his own keyboard, an ancient, upright console that hadn’t carried a tune for several months.  With no one to play it, the Deacon had let it run to wrack and ruin, but listening to McGraw hammer away at the keys it was like the old soundboard had never been silenced.  The eight-fingered piano player had an oddly full repertoire of hymns and spirituals.  The music hung in the heavy air like shards of broken glass.

Somehow the missing digits on the musician’s hands fit the old piano, and the camp, in a way they’d never been able to merge with the saloon.  McGraw played with his eyes closed, lost in the music.  Several of The Deacon’s people gathered round and raised their voices, filling in the missing notes so that piano and vocals came together in what could only be called joyous noise.

Finally, the Sheriff and the barman rode in.  The Deacon held out his hand, but neither man made a move to take it.  He made no sign they’d ruffled him. He simply nodded, and they followed the rest of the citizens of Rookwood toward the main tent, dismounting and tying off their horses in silence.

When they were safely inside, the Deacon nodded toward the shadows.  Sanchez and the boy rose and took off at a trot.  Sanchez carried a small torch.  The Deacon’s instructions had been clear.  No more than fifteen minutes to make the circuit of the camp and light the braziers.  They were to be careful to remain on the near side of the four bowls – the camp side.  When they were done, they were to wait for him near his tent.  Near Colleen and the child.  The Deacon wasn’t certain what would come of the next few hours, but he knew that once the wards were posted and the circle was sealed, he wanted anyone he might call an ally on the inside.

When everyone had made their way into the main tent, The Deacon slowly followed suit.  He didn’t enter by the main door, but circled toward the rear.  He passed Longman’s trailer, and stopped, just for a moment, to peruse the latest design.

It was a skeleton, advancing on some unseen foe.  The beautifully rendered bony hands gripped a scythe tightly, brandishing it into the unknown. At the creature’s feet, decapitated heads glared up.  All of their eyes watched The Deacon as if alive and daring him to proceed.  In their midst, however, a sapling sprouted.  On that small, struggling branch a single leaf budded.

In the Tarot, he knew Death did not necessarily mean death, not in the same way as it did in life.  It meant the end of one thing, the beginning of something new.  It was a card of new beginnings and shifting power.  He walked on from the wagon, rounded the main tent and slipped between two flaps of canvas into the rear of the services, which were already in full swing.

Cyrus was speaking, faithful, dependable Cyrus.  He was a man of few words, and most of those he knew were culled from The Bible.  He read with passion and in the dim, candle-lit tent his oddly deformed features only served to enhance the already deep tones of his voice.  He read from Psalms, and then he led those gathered into song.

The Deacon pulled his watch from his pocket, glanced at it, and nodded.  There had been sufficient time for the braziers to be lit.  The circle should be solid.  It was time.  There was no turning back.  Along the back of the tent, the sisters had set up a rickety table.  On that table a kettle rested.  It was large and cast in iron.  The Deacon had mixed the refreshments himself.  Soon he would call for them to drink – to toast their lord – to wash away their sins.

He closed his eyes and saw the flash of serpentine coils.  He heard the deep, insistent rattle of warning.  He shivered, just for a second.  The pouch throbbed against his chest.  The Deacon smiled.  He heard the last strains of The Old Rugged Cross rolling across the tent…and he stepped from the shadows, raising his arms on high.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Off beyond the outskirts of town, in the direction of Deadman's Gulch, Provender Creed stood beside his horse.  The beast was skittish.  It dug at the dusty earth with its hoof, tossed back its head and snorted.  Creed rested a steadying hand on the animal’s neck, and then tangled his fingers in its mane.  "Gentle, girl, gentle," he soothed, whispering to the horse until it settled some.

Creed shielded his eyes against the glare of the bright, nearly full moon, and watched as the camp gradually filled.  The big tent where they'd held Ma Kutter’s funeral was lit within by kerosene lamps and candles.  Voices rose in song; only the vaguest hint of the melody reached him.  Creed frowned when he realized he was humming along.

He didn't know what he'd expected to find.  He didn’t even know what he should be looking for.  Since the first night the damned crows had flooded Rookwood, things had slipped a little further south each passing minute.

He thought about the woman.  He’d never found a trace of her, and the more he thought about it, the more it bothered him.  No two ways of looking at it, that was strange.  The Deacon’s men had rolled her out of that camp in a flat wagon.  There should have been sign of where they dropped her, even if they took the time to dig a shallow grave and shovel some dirt over her bones.  Buzzards should have circled.  There should have been flies, and stink.

Creed had seen death more times than any good man should have, and despite checking everything for a good ten mile radius around the camp, the woman was nowhere to be found.  It didn’t make a lick of sense.  It wasn’t as though she could have gotten up and walked out of there herself.  He couldn’t shake the damned image of her pale face, nor the way the Deacon had dragged the child from her.  It was seared onto his soul.  A whole lot of things didn’t make any sense, and they were worming away under his skin.

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.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

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.

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.

Chapter Thirty

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.

"It sounds as though things are going well," he told her.  "Perhaps one might venture so far as to say very well.  With a little luck, and I am always lucky, my dear, our work may prove a little easier than I originally expected."

He slapped the reins to the horses’ backs, and the wagon lurched forward again.  Mariah stared at the light intently as it grew brighter and more intense.  She didn’t say a word.  It wasn’t that she was listening to Balthazar, or even the curious ululating tones that weren’t quite voices, she was simply lost to the light.  Every now and then she thought she saw something more defined, a shadowed shape whirling within that luminous ray.  And occasionally, as those shadows writhed and twisted, they looked almost human.

She couldn’t tell if they were trying to get out, or if they were scrabbling desperately to find their way in.

Chapter Thirty-One

Creed crouched in the small clearing, keeping himself just out of sight of the Deacon’s camp.  Tension had his skin crawling.  He cracked his fingers.  He chewed at his lip.  It wasn’t just that something was wrong – everything was wrong.  He felt it like a frisson in the air itself.  He hid there for as long as he could bear, then pushed to his feet and started to prowl, circling like a wildcat.  He was almost sure there wouldn’t be a weakness in the barrier, but he’d been wrong before.  Supposing there was a flaw; he wouldn’t find it by sitting back on his haunches and waiting.  He reached out occasionally, to test its resistance.  As the darkness deepened he thought he saw an actual wall shimmer between his fingertips and the tents.  Again and again he tested it, causing the charge to flicker in and out of focus beneath his touch.  If he strayed too near, the locket grew icy, freezing into his chest, and the pain drove him back.

He moved slowly and carefully around the perimeter of the camp, always looking and listening.  He didn’t know who or what else he might be out there, but one thing struck him as pretty much sure, no barrier – whatever it might be – had ever been erected just to keep the likes of Provender Creed out of a camp.  So, thinking through it, Creed was fairly damned certain something else was out there in the darkness with him.

He paced the perimeter.

A little more than a quarter of the way around the circuit, he saw something.  A flickering light.  It was a fire, and not a small campfire.  This one was big enough to be a pyre.  It had been lit back a ways from the weird icy wall, in among the scrub of trees.  The blaze sent shadows dancing over the skeletal limbs, in turn sending more shadows dancing across the dirt.  Creed crouched and slipped closer, moving as quietly as possible.

The fire was blazing hot.  Whoever had set it wasn’t too concerned with it being seen, that was certain.  The flames crackled.  The sound masked Creed’s approach.  He felt like his heart would drive itself out of his chest if it got beating any faster.

"Damn," he whispered.  "Just what in the hell have I gotten myself into?"

Three tall shadows surrounded the fire.  Two had their backs to him, and the third stood directly across the fire.  They each had long poles in their hands.  It seemed as though they were intent on stirring the coals and keeping the fire burning hotter, but as Creed eased back a low hanging branch to get a better look, it was all he could do to bite back a scream.

The fire pit was maybe three feet across.  It was deep, and even from where he stood, twenty or thirty feet back, the heat was stifling.  It was like a bowl carved into the earth, filled with glowing coals.  To one side they’d stacked a pile of dead branches to feed in when the heat died down, but it didn’t look like that was going to happen anytime soon.

None of that mattered.  What mattered was the man – thing? – trying to claw its way free of the inferno.  Creed recognized the three immediately.  They were the strangers who’d invaded his room.  He reached instinctively for the reassuring handle of his six-shooter but stopped no more than an inch from the grip when he realized how useless the weapon was.  At least one of them ought to have been dead; he’d been pumped full of enough lead put down a horse.

Long arms covered in blackened, searing flesh groped for the sides of the pit.  There was a mewling, mindless sound that might have been a voice, once, but whenever it rose, one of the three slammed the end of their pole into the side of the thing’s head, or its shoulder, pressing it back and silencing it with the force and shock of each new blow.

Something beyond the obvious was wrong.  It took Creed a moment to sort it, and then he frowned.  Fire.  Meat.  Wood.  Charcoal.  But there was no smell.  Any one of those things ought to have been giving off some sort of smell.  The meat, a sickly sweet stench – he’d burned bodies before – during a bout of plague further west – but all he smelled here was the maddening, cloying sweetness of the fog of incense.

The man-thing lunged to one side.  It rose half out of the pit, and Creed reeled back, biting his lip hard to prevent any sound from escaping.  Where the man’s torso should have met hips and leg, nothing but charred trailing guts and blood dangled.  One of the crow men lashed out with his stick, and the thing tumbled back, an almost surprised grimace of pain crossing its ruined features.

Creed didn’t know what to do.  He knew he was no match for the three.  Together with Brady he'd barely managed to chase them off.  They were like a pack of crows – chase them out of your field all you wanted, they’d just circle and come back.  He didn’t know what that thing in the pit was either, though he suspected that – at least at some point in its existence –it had more in common with him than the others.  There was nothing he could do to help, but he couldn’t just stand there and watch it being tortured and burned.

He reeled away from the translucent barrier as a heart-chilling cry broke like shattering ice over the clearing.  In the silence between heartbeats a huge shadow enveloped everything, snuffing the light from the fire and plunging the world into utter, impenetrable darkness.

Creed staggered back and hit the wall.  He winced as the cold, icy pain tore through his body.  He opened his eyes again.  The darkness was gone, only the pain remained. No, he realized, a tall willowish woman stood beside the fire-pit.  She glared down into it contemptuously.  Creed’s hand slid instinctively toward the six-shooters on his hip.  He tried to slow his suddenly rapsing breath.  His hand shook.  He gritted his teeth and pulled the gun.  The woman turned her head slightly and looked right at him.  She shook her head, just once, very slightly.

"I wouldn’t do that if I were you," a voice said inside his head.  The crow men fell away before her in a flutter of dark clothing and shuffling feet.  If she frightened them, Creed wanted no part of her.  So far, she hadn’t told them he was nearby, and he thought – for some odd reason – that this was reassuring.  He holstered the gun.

She turned toward the camp and strode up to the shimmering barrier.  It brought her closer to Creed.  He backed away step after stumbling step as she neared.  She didn’t acknowledge his presence at all.  When she reached the wall of light she placed her hand flat against it and scowled.  Luminous rings rippled out from her fingertips along that transparent surface.  For a dozen feet either side of her the barrier was suddenly lit by a bluish glow.  Stepping closer, she placed her other hand beside the first.  And pushed.

A jag of blue light arced down from somewhere far above and sheered through the barrier between her outstretched hands.  Creed watched, fascinated.  The fault in the otherwise perfect surface pulsed angrily.  The crow men let their poles dangle, taking only random pokes at the wretch struggling weakly in the fire pit.  They focused all of their attention on the woman.  Miniscule fissures rippled out from the fault, breaking the barrier open inch by inch.  The whole thing reminded Creed of ice on a river – though it had been years since he’d seen water freeze.

The three crow men turned to the fire and jabbed violently with their poles.  It was, Creed thought, as though a single thought controlled them.  They speared the wretch in the blaze from three sides, the red hot iron tips driving deep though his charred living corpse, and lifted him above the fire.  They held his writhing body easily.

Creed was torn.  Did he watch the crow men or the woman?  He thought about Brady, and Silas.  He thought about the woman whose locket he wore.

The crack widened.  The barrier screamed like a living thing.  The sound was worse than any death rattle he had heard.

Creed saw things – faces, hands, oddly elongated bodies that glowed and writhed, trying to make their way to the widening rift.  Something held them back.  It was as if the woman had opened a hole and rolled the edges back, forming a wall.  The fissure was narrow at first, but widened slowly.

When Creed looked back toward the fire the crow men turned toward him.  For a heart-stopping moment he thought they had seen him, but they weren’t looking at him, they were staring at the woman’s back.  Whatever was going on in that camp, he wasn’t going to be able to do anything if he was stuck on the wrong side of the barrier.  That said, he couldn’t believe the woman, or the crow men, breaking their way through was a good thing, either.  All he could do was watch as she tore the fault wider.  When it was wide enough for a man to slip through, he made his move.

Keeping low to the ground, he ran, hard, fast, parallel to the fire.  He had his gun in his hand before he took the first step.  It was habit.  Even though he knew on a gut level it was useless, it felt good to hold it.  The first of the crow men started to turn as he drew level with the fire.  Creed spun and fired from the hip.

Three shots.

Each bullet caught a crow man full in the face, splitting bone and feather as they went in deep.  That single second of gunplay was without doubt some of the best shooting he’d ever managed, but he didn’t have time to savor it.  They staggered, and the poles they were using to brace the wretched thing between them shivered.  One of the iron tips tore free, unbalancing all three crow men.  As one, they loosed a horrifying screech – it was halfway between the cry of an eagle and the laughing bray of a hyena.

The woman, as though startled, turned a fraction casting a backward glance over her shoulder.  Creed didn’t hesitate.  He charged at her.  At the last possible moment, as she raised her hands to protect herself, he threw himself to the side, scrabbled in the dust and, even as she twisted, hurled himself headlong into the gaping fault she’d opened in the barrier.  With a scream of rage she clawed at him, but that broke her contact with the shimmering wall and the fault sealed itself in an explosion of light and sound.

On the other side Creed scrambled to his feet and turned back, guns raised.  He saw the woman staring at him in fury, and then her expression changed.  Of all things, she smiled.  Then, with no warning, she threw back her head and laughed.  The sound was distorted by the barrier.  For a moment it sounded eerily like a parliament of owls screeching.

Creed turned his back on her.  She was on the other side of the barrier and as much effort as it had taken her to open that one crack, he was pretty sure there was nothing she or her bird men could do to hurt him through it.  He crouched low and started into the Deacon’s camp.  Heart pounding, he started out around a row of camp wagons and headed for the back of the great tent.  Whatever was going down in there, he didn’t think it was going to be long before things started to get interesting.

He wanted a good seat.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Lilith strode to the fire and pushed the nearest of the crow men aside contemptuously.  She stared down at the wretched, struggling carcass that was all that remained of their prisoner.  She pulled a small pouch from the folds of her long, dark dress and teased it open.  She took a pinch of powder and – blowing on it once – she sprinkled it over the fire.

The thing in the pit stiffened.  Its skin crackled, grew as red as the coal feeding the flames that tormented it, and blackened.  As the undead, pleading eyes stared up at her from the fire, the earthly remains of Benjamin Jamieson fell away to ash.

Seconds later, the pit was cold and dead – nothing but blackened soot remained.  The woman pulled out a larger pouch, leaned down, and very carefully scooped the cinders from the pit.  She let them fall through her fingers and into the pouch.  When she was done, she sealed the drawstrings and touched the leather to her lips before handing it to the nearest of the crow men.  It nodded, taking the pouch from her.  The feathers had reformed around the wound in its face, leaving no trace of the damage caused by Creed’s lead.

"When the time is right, you will know," she told it.  "You know where the weakness lies."

The bird man turned, and with a harsh cry took to the air, losing his human form in a flurry of wing beats as it blurred into the shape of a very large, very dark crow.  The others followed.  The woman stood for a moment, watching them depart, and then stepped back to the barrier and stared at it as though she might penetrate the shield with the force of her gaze alone.

"Soon," she said softly.  "Soon all debts are paid."

Then, with a soft whisper of silk, she melted to shadow and was gone.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Nothing moved.  He heard the music from the main tent, and he heard The Deacon’s booming voice.  It carried clearly but for some reason he couldn’t make out the words. The sermon was oddly rhythmic.  Creed listened to the roll of the preacher’s voice.  It wasn’t like any sermon he’d ever heard, but given the Deacon was about as far from any preacher he’d ever come across it didn’t surprise him.  Walking away from the invisible barrier and all of the hells he’d seen on the other side of it, Creed doubted if much could surprise him anymore.

He kept to the shadows.  Just because he couldn’t see anyone outside the main tent didn’t mean there was no-one out there.  He didn’t trust appearances where the Deacon was concerned.  The man was almost certainly paranoid when it came to his own safety, which meant he’d be pretty much aware of every shadow worth jumping at and would have set one of his weird flock to watching them.  Creed didn’t want anyone getting in his way before he at least figured out what in hell was going on.  Actually just knowing half of what the hell was going on would have been nice.

His mind raced, thoughts like blind horses stampeding: what had happened to Brady?  The thought of the sheriff in that tent listening to the odd, chanting sermon with the flickering candlelight didn’t seem right.  Scratch that, it seemed damned wrong.  Creed had known Moonshine a long time, and he’d figured to find the man outside rolling a smoke and waiting for the rest of Rookwood to come back to their senses.  There was no sign of the sheriff.  Creed sniffed the air but there were too many peculiar fragrances mixed up in it to pick out Brady’s smokes.

The front of the main tent beckoned.  It wasn’t exactly inviting, but there was something about it that gnawed at Creed’s curiosity.  He stood and watched the shadows play against the canvas walls, trying to harness a few more of those stampeding thoughts.  He could just step inside and take his chances, but that wasn’t much of a plan.  Either everything was fine for those inside, or something very wrong was happening.  Given the way the last few days had rolled, Creed was inclined to expect the worst.  So, assuming that worst, then something had almost certainly prevented Stick from getting out.  Creed’s skin itched; every damned inch of him.  It wasn’t exactly a great idea to waltz into the revival all guns blazing.

There was a smaller entrance in the rear.  He knew it was there, the Deacon had come in through it that first day when he’d ridden into the camp.  If he came in at the back of the main stage, maybe he’d get lucky.  At the very least he ought to be able to creep close enough to gauge the temperature in the revival, and if it turned out to be hell-hot, figure out what to do.  It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was what he had.

He slipped past the wagons to the left of the central tent, keeping low and moving quickly.  There was the sense of something imminent in the air – something wrong on levels he could barely understand.  Everything felt strange.  But feelings were just that, feelings.  He needed something more concrete than a ghost dancing on his grave.  He had the distinct sensation that there was very little time to spare.

He came alongside a long wooden framed wagon just before he passed behind the tent.  The walls were painted with wild designs.  He couldn’t make out colors in the moonlight, it all washed to shades of black and gray, but he stopped, just for a moment, and stared at an image of a man, his feet tied in a noose and hung from a branch, but the head to the sky – as if he were falling upward. He’d seen images like it before.  In saloons back east there were gypsy women with gaudy, brightly colored cards.  They claimed to read the future, to gaze into tea leaves and trace the lines of a man’s palm – and to read the world in decks of multi-colored cards.  He had no idea what it meant, or why it was there.

What stunned him about this hanged man was the poor wretch’s face, or rather the familiarity of it.  Creed could have been looking into a mirror so perfect was the likeness.

He tore his gaze from the disturbing gallery and continued.

He slipped around the back corner of the tent and stopped dead in his tracks.  Without a sound, he pressed against the outer wall of the tent.  Ahead, two figures stood just outside the rear entrance.  One was a man, about Creed’s own height.  The other was either a small woman, or a child.  They stood in the shadows by the door, not hidden, but too close to allow Creed to slip past easily.

He stood still for a moment, trying to decide what to do.  Creeping dread stole into him then, everything culminating in the single sure notion that if he didn’t move, and move fast, he wasn’t going to move ever again.  It was as ludicrous as it was irrational but he knew the truth of it down bone deep.  If he didn’t do something right then, nothing else was going to matter.  Ever.  He had no idea who those two behind the tent were, but they worked for the Deacon.  Why else would they be there? So if they saw him trying to sneak into the back of the stage, they’d raise the alarm, that, or try to stop him themselves.  Either way, the outcome was hardly likely to be quiet.  That meant Creed had to make a choice, and he had to make it quickly.

"Oh hell," he said softly.

He pulled his gun and moved toward the tent.  As he drew nearer he saw that the taller of the pair was an older man, possibly Mexican.  A young boy stood by his side.  They stared into the interior of the tent, mesmerized.  Creed thanked his stars and decided to push his luck.  Even as he drew very close, they didn’t look up.  If they heard him approaching, they gave no sign of it.

"What the hell is going on in there," Creed said.

He kept his voice low.  He knew he was going to startle them, but he hoped he could contain it.  If they looked up and saw his gun, maybe they wouldn’t cry out.  Maybe they’d hold their silence long enough that he could make the decision whether to try and silence them, or just kill them and be done with it.  He didn’t like the idea of shooting an unarmed man, and the thought of killing a boy ate at his gut, but there were a lot of people in that tent.  Some of them he’d been saying howdy to for years, others had cooked him dinner and shared his whiskey.  A few less he’d bedded, either with coin or a smile, depending on the woman in question.  It all boiled down to the same thing.  He couldn’t let it go, and so he had no choice.

In the end, it didn’t really matter.

The old Mexican glanced over at him.  He didn’t look surprised, and he didn’t make any kind of move to stop Creed, or to pull a weapon.  Instead, he grabbed the boy by his thin shoulders and drew him away from the door.  Creed watched until the two were far enough back that he could slip past them.

He caught the old man’s expression, and in that moment he understood.  They served the Deacon, but it wasn’t a service they’d chosen.  Apparently they’d had no orders to guard the entrance, and so – they wouldn’t do it.  Whatever Creed was going to see or do inside, he was on his own.  The two of them backed out of it.

He tipped his hat very quickly, not holstering his gun, and slipped into the tent.  The old man didn’t so much as twitch a muscle never mind move, and within seconds Creed was sucked into a world of light, sound, and energy such as he’d never experienced.

As he moved cautiously up behind where the Deacon stood, Creed jerked to the side and cursed very softly.  He bit off the sound even as it tried to escape his lips.

He barely avoided the strike of the first snake.

Chapter Thirty-Four

The Deacon was aware that something had changed behind him, but he ignored it. He sensed Colleen and the child at his side.  They’d entered from the rear earlier.  He closed his eyes, breathing in the heady rush of sound and scent permeating the tent.  He opened his eyes, turned, and smiled at Colleen.  The serpents twined in and around her legs and slithered off into the crowd.  They’d been released in the tent some time earlier by Longman, but had remained dormant.  All of this fit the pattern nicely.  Then something changed.  It was as simple and absolute as that.  Something rippled through the steady rhythms and sent rings of energy running against the grain of his will.

It wasn’t enough to stop what he’d set in motion – he was sure of that.  The ritual was too far along.  The disturbance, though, was sufficient for him to be aware of, and enough to change the way things felt.  After the initial surprise, he welcomed it.  He felt the inevitability of the power he controlled.  It flowed through his veins.  He was connected to it in ways that went beyond flesh, blood and bone.  He was part of something bigger, something ancient.  Whatever else happened in the tent, or in the world surrounding it – didn’t matter at all.

In fact, it made him smile.

‡‡‡

Behind the Deacon, Creed danced to the side, barely avoiding the first striking serpent.  He looked down at his feet.  The floor was alive with diamondbacks.  Not one or two or even a dozen.  The floor was a writhing mass of them.  Most slithered away from him toward the pews at the far side of the tent, but a couple, as though aware of his presence among them came together determined to prevent his advance.

Creed didn’t hesitate.  .  The head of the first viper disappeared in a spray of blood and scales, and a second later the other joined it, bone splattering across the ground.  Creed's six-guns spit fire.  He saw the snakes blown to bits, but impossibly, he heard nothing.  There was no sound.  The bullets took chips out of the wooden floor, but the impact was silent.  The only sound in the entire place was the swell of the Deacon’s voice.  It soaked into Creed’s thoughts and confused him.

He stood there for a long moment, the snakes coiling around his feet then found himself taking a step backward.

The locket at his chest flashed hot tearing a cry from him.

The pain cleared his mind for a moment, and in that heartbeat of clarity he did the only thing he could think of.  He holstered his guns with quick flips of his wrists, drew two bullets from the loops on his belt, and jammed them into his ears.  It didn’t silence the chanting, but it muffled it.  He glanced down at the floor.  The serpents seemed to have lost interest in him.

Colleen stood behind and to one side of the Deacon, and Creed saw she held something in her arms.  She swayed from side to side, and despite the rapt stares of everyone in the tent, she wasn’t watching the Deacon.  She was intent on the bundle clutched tightly to her chest, and in a moment of ghastly realization, Creed knew it had to be the child he’d seen ripped from its mother the last time he’d been in this accursed camp.

He drew his guns again and moved slowly up behind the Deacon.  He thumbed back the hammer, knowing it would be a second’s work to silence the preacher but he wasn’t quite ready to shoot a holy man in the midst of a sermon.  It wasn’t that he was afraid of going to hell.  Far from it.  Come the time, he’d happily put a slug between the Deacon’s eyes.  No, it was all about the numbers.  He needed to know the stakes.  He needed to know what was going on with Brady and the others.  They appeared to have slipped into some sort of trance, lulled by the Deacon’s weird chant.  That was enough for the preacher to earn a bullet as far as Creed was concerned, but not until he was certain the shot would set the others free.

He was only a few paces away from Colleen, so Creed targeted her and started forward.  The closer he came to the ex-whore – to the child – and to the Deacon, the more difficult it became to take that next step forward.  Each was harder than the last.  Despite the bullets in his ears, the words of the chanted sermon were working their mind-numbing magic.  He wasn’t sure how long he could hold them off.  With a quick snap of his jaw, he bit his lip, drawing blood and bringing enough pain for another short moment of clarity.

Creed didn’t hesitate.  He stepped up beside Colleen, brushed her shoulder with the back of his hand, and leaned in close.

"Colleen!" he rasped.

His words died soundless.

Like the gunshot, they failed to find life in air thickened by the Deacon’s voice.

He leaned closer and spoke again, louder this time.

Colleen didn’t react.

Creed saw his breath lift the hair from her neck, but she stared blissfully at the Deacon’s back as he spoke.  She rocked very slowly back and forth.  The child squirmed now and then; apparently oblivious to whatever held the rest of those gathered in thrall.  It didn’t scream – or if it did, Creed had no way of knowing.

There was no time.  Creed reached up, tucked the barrel of one gun under her chin, and pulled up and back hard.  At first it seemed as though she’d resist him and let the metal tear her throat out, but after a moment she spun.  Her eyes were glazed and unfocused, and he felt her pull against the tentative hold of the gun barrel on her chin.

"Colleen!" he screamed.

She blinked.  She stared back at him, her features shifting from the distant, empty void to some semblance of the girl he’d known.  She blinked, and then glanced stupidly down at the child in her arms.  Creed followed her gaze.

The thing glared back at him through the face of an infant but it was no child.  The eyes blazed with intelligence and hunger.  The tiny hands groped impotently at the air, fueling the creature's rage.  Colleen mouthed his name, and then she turned back toward the Deacon, and that fragment of clarity was lost.

Creed stared past her into the sea of faces, each set of eyes locked on the Deacon as his voice roared like a storm, raged like each of the named winds, tolling out the words and sounds and spells in some lost, ancient tongue.  Each of them held either a tin cup or beaker in their hands.  As Creed watched, they raised them.  Creed saw Brady standing at the end of the aisle, swaying as though mesmerized.  He raised his cup to his lips.

"That’s it," Creed said.

He stepped up behind the Deacon, just as the Holy Man dropped his arms in a motion of completion.  The congregation drank their communion and the Deacon mouthed a single, final word.

"Remliel."

Creed stepped forward, drew both guns, and fired.  He was so close he expected to jam the barrels of both guns into the Deacon’s back, but he met resistance.  It was like walking into a wall of clear mud.  It didn’t stop him, not exactly, but it slowed him.  Light flashed from above, a huge burst of brilliant white light that should have blinded him – but didn’t.

The Deacon turned and smiled.  Serpents struck, latching onto Creed’s ankles and calves.  He fired again, and again.  The Deacon glanced down and smiled.  Blood oozed from the front of Creed’s shirt where the bullets had failed to penetrate  their target and the agitated air had turned them back on him.  Colleen stepped up beside them, and the Deacon took the child from her arms.

A second flare of light exploded from somewhere near the Deacon’s chest.  It pierced the child.  In that moment, whatever force protected the Deacon wavered, and Creed lunged forward, clutching the preacher tight.

A great cry rose, and the canvas roof was wrenched aside by huge talons.  Dark winged shapes swooped in low, and a rain of something – dirt?  Sand?  Something that glittered like diamonds and seemed to adhere to the Deacon like feathers to tar.  They clung to Creed as well, and the child.

Finally the light grew too bright, too intense, and the sound too loud.  Creed felt his lifeblood pulsing way, staining his shirt and pooling on the floor at his feet.  The snakes lapped at it.

"Damn you," he choked, spraying more blood with each syllable.  "Damn you to hell."

And everything grew dark.

Chapter Thirty-Five

The angel Remliel felt a shift in the essence that bound him to the Heavens.  He reached out, as he had reached out countless times, for the silver thread that tied him to his Lord.  It was the conduit of purpose, the beginning and end of thought.

He carried light to the world below.  His was the task of bringing the divine to the corporeal, the essence of God to the flesh of man.  He awoke the spark inside them that helped them divine their true nature…that was his purpose.

The flow of energy to the divine was a cool wash of strength, the thread that bound him to those below was tenuous, a glittering shimmer of light so weak - so frail - that it took all of his concentration and all of his will to maintain it.  His was a sacred duty.

Now something had changed.  He stretched out toward the shift with his will, intending to close the growing rift and set things right.  The change was not subtle.  It tore at the fabric separating the Heavens and the Earth - a veil protecting one from the other. The veil was so vital to the essence of creation that Remliel would gladly have divided his essence and healed the rift through eternity if his immortal flesh could protect it.

He reached back for the strength he needed, but again, something had changed.  Instead of growing wider and flooding him with energy and power, the conduit to his Lord shriveled.  Beneath him, a bright funnel of light descended.  He clutched at its walls.  He drew back and spread his spirit, blending it with his surroundings and weaving it into the fabric of heaven, but each time he made contact, that contact was ripped free, and the pressure from below - the remorseless drag where there had been no more than the most tenuous leak of light - yanked him downward into a soaring, diving spiral.  Behind him, the thread that bound him to his maker thinned and stretched and thinned some more.  It did not break, but it felt as though a blade of black ice had pierced his heart.

And then…it was dark.

Chapter Thirty-Six

The Deacon feared his heart would burst.  The heat and the pain of the talisman seared his flesh and threatened to erase coherent thought.  He dug his teeth into his lip to buy himself a different pain, a distraction to give him strength as he fought to hold on.  Colleen held the child out to him, and the ridiculous cowboy, already a dead man with the poison of vipers flowing through his veins and the lead of his own bullets buried in his flesh, reached out to him as well.  It was pitiful.  Comical.

The intensity of the light washing over and through him felt as though it ought to have burned, but it burst through his skin and made contact with the earth beneath his feet.  It bathed him, and it bathed the child, it bathed Colleen, whose face had first gone slack with surprise and now glowed with shock and wonder.

The cowboy’s head dropped, and his grip loosened.  The light bathed him as well, but it would be a final experience before death.  The Deacon grinned fiercely and whispered the name again - the single word of power he’d changed in a ritual so ancient and powerful it transcended the boundaries between worlds.

"Remliel."

The cowboy lifted his head, despite the blood draining from his wounds and the venom coursing through his veins.  Something important shifted, and if he could have, in that instant, the Deacon would have pulled back and away.  The talisman burst its bonds.  A beam of light pierced the Deacon’s flesh and joined him to the child.  It shot through the young flesh with the ancient eyes and found the cowboy as well.

The Deacon gasped, dragged air into tortured lungs, threw his head back…and screamed.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Creed felt the life seep out of him by slow degrees.  The snake bites burned like fire, and his grip on reality slipped.  He knew what it meant. He was as good as dead.  He had pierced the barrier, whatever it might be, but his bullets had fallen short, and then – like traitorous partners, had rebounded on him with lethal accuracy.  He thought back to the dark woman and the crow men.  He felt the locket burning like a shard of ice into the flesh of his chest.

The Deacon said something - something unexpected.  It shifted the ring of power and shot threads of light out into the tent, illuminating the faces of the crowd.  An arrow-slim shaft of light slammed into Creed’s chest.  It drove the locket back into him so hard it felt as though the circle of metal was embedded in his chest.  He raised his head, saw the look of exultation and triumph on the Deacon’s face, and felt a surge of power – bright, intense power – flood his being.

Something grappled with his thoughts, fighting for control, or to break free, but Creed seized the moment. He lifted both guns with reflexes like trapped lightning, snapped both triggers at the same time, and this time he drove his hands forward, drawing on the new strength that filled him.  The barrels pressed into the Deacon’s belly and when the hammers fell, there was sound.

Creed couldn’t remember how long it had been since he’d last heard sound of any sort.  The twin reports brought a grin to curl the corners of his mouth.  The Deacon stared at him in shock.  Colleen gasped and staggered back with the child.  Creed felt another flash of light sear his soul.  It went beyond the flesh.  The locket and the bright golden light combined and in that instant Creed felt something snatched from the child -- something dark and squirming and vital.  It drove into him, sucked from the tiny form and pounded through the bright silver and the graven images.

Memories he’d never lived cascaded through his mind.  He saw the girl, Elizabeth.  He saw a town he’d never known, and a mountainside.  He saw a crossroads, and the dark woman, the woman who seemed to become an owl on a whim and whose servants were sometimes crows, sometimes men, sometimes neither.  He fought to control his mind, but another voice - a third consciousness - screamed and screamed and screamed and Creed staggered back beneath the onslaught of it.

Behind him, breaking the sudden silence like the sound of a thousand shards of shattered glass striking the earth, a voice spoke into the void.

"Well, well, well, what have we here?  Oh my, this is new."

Creed turned.

He saw a tall man in a dark suit.  There was a watch chain dangling from his pocket, and his eyes were as dark as night.  Beside him, a woman stood.  She was dressed in leather, very much alive, and her eyes blazed with the manic intensity of a soul that had seen too much.  Creed felt the power in that gaze, the weight of her hatred.  He raised a hand to ward it off - forgetting he held the guns.

She drew and fired, and Creed closed his eyes in resignation.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Creed heard the duel roar of the woman's guns.  He felt the whisper of air across his cheeks, so wrong after the thunder of the shots, but it wasn't until he heard a pair of unearthly screeching screams that he finally shook free of the moment and moved.

He whirled around.  The crow men had crept up directly behind him and had been reaching out to grab him with their jet-black talons when her bullets struck – now they stood very still, stupid emotionless expressions on their predatory avian faces.  As Creed watched, the two staggered back, almost as one, their balance awkward as their knees buckled beneath them.

Creed didn't trust the reprieve.  He'd personally plugged at least one of the creatures full of enough lead to sink a boat, and they'd walked away – not to mention falling two stories to the street before taking wing.  This was different.  The girl fired again, and part of the nearest crow men's head exploded.  It screeched, turned, and tried to leap into flight but only managed to rise a few yards, before it veered crazily first one way and then the other, caught on the torn fabric of the tent's roof, and swung back toward the ground.  It hit with such force the ground shivered.  It did not so much as twitch.

The second crow man made it into the air, but the girl was unnervingly quick.  She dropped one gun into her holster with a slick spin around her palm and gripped the hilt of one of a series of wicked knives sheathed on her belt.  She whipped her arm forward and released the knife in one smooth motion.  The blade flashed end over end after its target.  It drove through the side of the thing's head, slamming into the bone with enough force to send it veering to the side, and ended its short flight in a desperate dive into the camp.

"Christ," Creed said.

He spun back.  The Deacon still stood, lurching back and forth.  He clutched something at his chest, but somehow Creed knew instinctively it wasn’t his heart.  Without thinking Creed holstered his gun, unconsciously mirroring the girl’s motions, and lashed out.  He struck the Deacon hard in the chest, and at the same time he drove his hand down, parting the man’s hands, and snatched the thing he held from his grasp.  As he yanked his arm back he felt resistance, so he pulled all the harder.  The thong around the Deacon's neck snapped, and the pouch tore free.

Creed's hand snapped back, moving of its own volition.  His hand moved of its own volition and slammed the pouch into the spot where the icy cold locket still rested.  The sudden surge of energy that came with the contact rattled his teeth and sent him staggering back.

The pouch, suddenly limp and empty, fell through his fingers and hit the ground.  Out of the corner of his eye Creed saw the Deacon fall.  He felt his own balance begin to slip away from him, and he tried to turn, thinking that he could roll with it and break at least part of the fall.  A strong hand fastened onto the neck of his shirt and hauled him back up straight.

Creed turned to see the dark-haired woman looking back at him.

More than half the candles in the tent had gone out.  The moon shone down bright and silver.  Its light played along the length of her hair and glittered in her eyes.  In that instant, Creed thought she might have been the most beautiful creature he'd ever seen.  He didn’t think woman, he thought creature.  That difference sent a shiver down the ladder of his spine.

He turned back to the tall man who'd last spoken.  He knew it had been only seconds since those words had rung out, but it seemed like years.  The woman, Elizabeth, spun on the darker woman and raised her gun, but the man beside her – moving with incredible speed, and yet managing to make the motion appear casual – pressed the barrel down and shook his head.

"No sense wasting good ammunition, girl," he said.  He turned to the woman.  "It's been a few years, Lilith, though not so long as our last separation.  It looks as though time has treated you well enough."

Lilith inclined her head.  Creed stared first at one, and then the other of them.

"What the hell?" he said, trying to follow the twists and turns of the last few minutes.

"Very apt," the man said, turning to him and actually tipping his hat.  "Very close to the mark, young man.  Most perceptive.  Now, don’t take this the wrong way, but shouldn't you be dead?"

Creed glanced down.  His shirt was soaked with blood.  He knew he'd been bitten at least a half dozen times by the snakes.  His chest burned like wild fire.  Despite all of that, he felt surprisingly strong.  He glanced up, and was about to speak, when something shot up through him – something bright and cool, terrifying and powerful.  He felt it rise from deep inside, lancing up through him as though it would shatter his skull, burst free, and slice into the sky beyond.

Creed staggered, a long, broken wail escaping from his lips.  The rush of energy drove through him again, tearing him apart from the inside – or trying.  This time he reached out – with his mind – and tried to force the thing out of his head.  It was all he could do to focus on the gun in his left hand.  He gripped the butt until his knuckles blanched white.  It felt as though the bones would splinter and the flesh split, but whatever had gotten inside of him gave up the fight, though it did not depart.  Then it spoke with Creed's voice.

"I am forsaken."

Creed realized half a beat too late that the thought had voiced itself, and it was not his own.

A third voice spoke up, taking advantage of Creed's moment of confusion.

"Elizabeth?" it said.

Creed clamped his mouth shut.

"Oh my," Lilith said.  She began to laugh, and the sound of that laughter was like water rushing down a mountainside, or the breeze through soft green grass.  It was as though the Earth itself had laughed, and that moment of unfettered joy eased Creed's struggle in some strange way.  The inner turmoil lessened, then grew stronger, just for a moment, and then – while he was distracted, Lilith stepped forward and touched his arm.

Creed screamed.  It was only the slightest of contacts, but it dropped him to his knees.  He hit the dirt and gripped the sides of his head.  He collapsed face first into the dust and writhed in agony.  Things inside blended and knitted, lashed and bound and though he fought it with every ounce of will remaining to him, it was a useless struggle.

"Most unexpected," the man said, looking down at Creed.

Creed grew still, and then raised his head.  He pressed his hands into the ground and rose shakily.  He turned to Lilith.

"What have you done?" he said.

The voice, and the words were his, and yet they were not.  He knew things he could not have known.  He knew who she was.  He knew who the girl was.  He knew who he was – all the things and creatures he had become.  His voice was sad and melancholy and beautiful as spun gold.

"I have made you whole," she said.

‡‡‡

"Well now, isn’t this interesting." The tall man stepped forward and Creed turned to meet his gaze.

"I had just finished telling the moon lady here it had been a long time since we’d talked … but you?  It is beyond an age.  Almost beyond time itself.  Well, well, well."

"I have nothing to say to you," Creed said.  "You gave up that right."

"Did I?  And when might that have been?" the dark man asked smoothly,  "The fall?  I mean, are you telling me that since I have lost grace, that I am no longer worthy of your notice, brother mine?  Am I so low as to be beneath even your words?  Let me see…what is it about this that bothers me?  Oh yes," he snapped his fingers as though hitting upon a revelation that had been avoiding him,  "I know.  You are here.  Now what does that mean, eh?  I wonder.  I would hazard that your fall could well be a match for my own, realm to realm, except of course that when I was banished, we were legion.  You, Remliel, appear to have been singled out.  You must have made someone angry, old friend."

"We were never friends."

"Yes we were.  They call me Balthazar on this plane, but you know my name.  You’ve spoken it in light and love.  Whatever brought you here, whether you are fallen, simply corrupted by that puny flesh bag that’s holding you, or by the bit of my stolen property that got swallowed in the bargain, it seems you have mastered the first lesson of humanity: how to lie."

Creed ignored Balthazar.  There was too much inside him, too many thoughts and fears and memories for him to harness them, and too many wills.  He turned to the woman with the guns, seeing her, knowing her in ways he hadn’t even a moment before.  An overpowering sense of loss and sadness engulfed him.  It was someone else’s loss, and then it was his.  All of it.  And it was such a burden he nearly staggered beneath it.  In that moment of earthly epiphany, Remliel learned the single most powerful need, ache, hope he had ever felt: love.

"Elizabeth," he said, his voice catching on her name.  "It’s been…a lifetime.’

"My name is Mariah," she said.  "Elizabeth died.  I rose.  It was not a pleasant experience."

Lilith stepped forward and laid her hand on Creed’s shoulder again.  This time there was no pain.  He turned and met her gaze.

"I believe," she said, "That our bargain is complete."

"While ours remains – questionable at best," Balthazar said.

He reached beneath his jacket and pulled out the cylinder.  He cracked the seal and opened the tube.  The torn parchment slid out, and he let the empty container drop.  It vanished before it hit the ground.  Balthazar paid it no heed.  He unfurled the parchment, studied it for a moment, and shook his head sadly.

"I don’t suppose you’d consider honoring the bargain?" he asked, turning to Creed.  "I suppose that you are aware?"

"I am aware of the treacherous bargain," Creed said.  "I am aware that you used a man’s love to trick him out of his soul, and that despite using all of your cunning, you failed.  Would that be a fair summation of your predicament, old friend?"

Balthazar’s eyes flashed dangerously.

Creed found himself grinning.  "Tell you what, hoss," he said, and it was impossible to tell who was bargaining, Remliel, Benjamin or Creed himself, "I’ll make you a deal."

"I’m listening," Balthazar said.  He raised an eyebrow.

Creed turned, bent, and grabbed the Deacon by his shirt.  With no noticeable effort he lifted the big man off the ground.  Blood poured from the twin gunshot wounds, but there was breath in him still.

Creed turned, nodded at the Deacon, and smiled.

"An eye for an eye?" he said softly.

"A soul for a soul," Balthazar replied.  "An interesting notion, my newly fallen friend.  But, tell me, what makes you believe his soul is not already mine?"

Creed met Balthazar’s gaze evenly.  "You already know the answer to that," he said.  "He had a choice, and when the time came to make it – he called to me.  He turned your own power against you."

"One might argue he turned it against you, as well," Balthazar said.

"Perhaps, but he called on me for protection.  He could have called on you, or any of your minions, but he turned the power back on itself."

"It’s conceivable, possible, even.  But why would you make the offer?" Balthazar asked.  "If he called on you to protect him, why would you surrender him?"

Creed tossed the Deacon at Balthazar’s feet.  He crouched and scooped up the leather pouch.  He held it in his hand and closed his eyes.

"Are you praying for them?" Balthazar sneered.

The thing that had been Provender Creed replied

"No.  They are praying.  Every one of them that this liar ‘healed,’ every physical body he warped and every mind he broke, they are all a part of me.  I will find my way back to my Lord, and I will carry them with me, but it would not be necessary if it weren’t for this man."

A sound rose, and they all turned.  The men and women of Rookwood lay curled and bent and sagging over their seats.  Moonshine Brady had fallen forward into one of the tall poles supporting the tent.  With the roof torn, the pole leaned dangerously.  Creed walked over and lifted the Sheriff upright for just a moment.  Brady’s head lolled on his shoulder, and Creed let him go.  He fell to the ground, and in that instant, the strange noise grew louder, rising from a sigh to a wail.

Creed stepped back and pressed his hands to his ears, but nothing could block the sound.  He stared as wisps of blue, glowing light drifted up and out of the bodies.  They swirled and spun in ever narrowing circles, winding themselves around a silvery hair-width thread of luminescence.  That thread disappeared into Creed’s temple, and each time one of the wispy forms freed itself from flesh and sifted into the mix, he threw back his head and screamed.

The piano sounded, just for a moment, a short off-key hymn missing two out of every ten notes, and then it died.  Creed dropped to his knees.  Tears streamed down his cheeks.  He turned his eyes to Heaven and watched the beautiful flashing magic of souls following that wispy powerful thread to glory.

"Do not forsake me, my Lord," he breathed, willing himself to follow.  He raised his hands and called out with all his being to God for escape.  The blue ghost-lights flickered and rose, and died.  He did not follow them.  He lowered his head.

"I believe we’ll call it even," Balthazar said.  "For now."

Creed rose slowly.  His gaze was oddly disjointed, seeming to be lowered to the ground, raised to the heavens, and glaring straight ahead at the same time.

"Come along, my dear," Balthazar said, holding out his hand to Mariah.

She stood her ground and stared at Creed.

"I am not in the habit of repeating myself, girl," Balthazar said.  His voice was sharp as shards of ice.

"She stays," Creed said.

Balthazar turned to him.  "I don’t think so.  She is mine.  I have trained her, and she is mine."

Lilith stepped up beside Creed.

"That wasn’t the bargain, and you know it, you old liar," she said softly.

Balthazar looked at her, his shake of the head barely perceptible.  He licked at his parched lips.  "It seems," he said after a moment, "that we are at an impasse."

"Let her go," Creed said.

Balthazar thought about this for a moment, and then he smiled.  He pulled the watch from his pocket as though time was suddenly of the essence.  He inclined his head and raised an eyebrow.  "For now," he said.  "We will meet again, I promise you that, and I make good on my promises, always," he said.  "But you knew that.  These are interesting times."

Creed didn’t answer.  Lilith only smiled, bowed, and stepped into the shadows.

Mariah said, "Benjamin?"

Creed and Mariah met in an embrace that erased the darkness and the others in the ruined tent completely.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Creed might have held her all night, but the sudden deep silence was broken by an unexpected wail.  It was filled with hunger, with anger, and yet it sliced the darkness as cleanly as a knife.  Mariah pulled back to arms length.  She turned, looking around for the source of the cry.

Colleen stood, very still, the child clutched in her arms.  It wailed and waved its tiny fists in the air while she hushed it.  Creed glanced around the tent.  Balthazar was gone.  There was no sign of the woman, Lilith, and even the bodies of her crow men had disappeared.  The stench of death was heavy in the air, but it had yet to turn rank.  It would, when rot set in.  Only the Deacon, lying in a pool of blood, buzzed with the first of the flies.

"My son," Mariah said.  She didn’t move.  Couldn’t.

Colleen clutched the child.

"He gave him to me," she said.  She couldn’t meet Mariah’s gaze.  Looking down at her feet she said, "He said it was the child I would never have."

Smiling softly, Mariah eased free of Creed’s embrace and took a step closer.  She looked at the child swaddled in his blanket, his face red with anger and hunger, but nothing more.  He struggled feebly.  She reached out and ran a finger down the baby’s cheek.  Her son was warm and alive, but he didn’t feel like her son anymore.  There was no recognition to her touch and he only had eyes for the woman cradling him.

"What was mine has passed on," Mariah said softly.

She turned and glanced at Creed, then turned back to Colleen.  "He might share my flesh but he’s no son of mine.  Look at the way he adores you; you are his mother in every way that matters.  Care for him.  Feed him and brush his hair, hold him when he cries and when his heart breaks, rock him at night and tell him stories.  But do not tell him about his other mother…there is no need for him to know the truth."

"Here, dear," a voice cut in.

They all turned.  The sisters stood to the side.  Lottie held a blown glass bottle.  There was a cork in the top – up through the center a glass tube ran, and the end of that tube a soft rubber nipple glistened.  It was wet with the milk filling the bottle.

"The child must eat," Lottie said.

"He hungers," Attie added.

Colleen took the odd glass bottle, stared at it for a moment, and the light of comprehension came into her eyes.  She tipped it and placed the rubber teat to the baby’s lips.  It suckled hungrily.  She held the bottle carefully and glanced up at the old women in gratitude.

"He’s special." Lottie explained

"Great things one day," Attie agreed,  "Important things."

Chessie said nothing.  She stepped closer, reached out a thin, clawed hand, and stroked the child’s cheek.  Her ancient face, which seldom showed emotion, was awash with wonder.  Her lips moved, but she said nothing.

Creed turned to Mariah.  Tears flowed down her cheeks.

"I am not Benjamin," he said.  "At least, not Benjamin alone.  I was … much more.  I was Remliel, though now I am Provender Creed."

"I am not Elizabeth, either," Mariah said.  She laid a hand on Creed’s heart.  "But we are bound.  I knew it the moment I set eyes on you."

"We could read for you?" Lottie suggested.

"Chessie could throw the bones," Attie agreed.

Chessie turned, just for a second, her lips parted.

Creed shook his head.

"The bones have a way of building their own roads into the future," he said, "and then urging men to follow them.  I did not choose to walk the roads of this Earth, but if I must, I will make my own trail…and choose my own companion."

He reached out a hand and drew Mariah to him.  She didn’t resist.

"What about me?" Colleen said softly.  "What about the child?  Where will we go?  What will I do?"

She turned and she scanned the ruined tent.  Bodies lay strewn across the floor and the chairs.  The night sky was clearly visible through the rent in the canvas overhead.  The only sound was the child, suckling on the odd rubber nipple.

"You have us, child," Lottie replied.

"You’re not alone," Attie cut in.

"I reckon we’d like to throw our hats in that ring," a voice cut in.

Everyone turned.  In what had once been the doorway of the tent, Longman, Cy, and several others stood.  Longman stepped forward.

"The tent is ruined," he said, "and we don’t have a healer.  Doesn’t mean we can’t move on.  Cy here – he has a voice people will listen to, and I’ve never met a man more versed in the scripture.  The sisters…they have a purpose no matter where we stop.  We’d be pleased if you’d join us."

Colleen didn’t answer.  She stood, and she rocked the child, tears streaming down her cheeks.

"There are a lot of dead," Creed said.

"We’ll take care of them," Longman replied.  "We will see them on their way."

"Rookwood was a good town," Creed added.

"We’ll stay a while," Cy said.  "We’ll put things to rights."

Creed nodded.  He turned to Mariah.

"And what will we do?" he asked.

Mariah met his gaze, and then she glanced down at her guns, and her knives.

"I only know two things," she replied.  "I know how to kill, and I know that – whoever and whatever you are – I have always loved you. That has not changed in this new life."

Creed lowered his eyes, but a smile curled his lips.  It was tragic, and bittersweet, but it was a smile nonetheless.

"There are others," he said.  "Men like the Deacon, powers like Balthazar.  They live on pain and suffering.  They feed on misery and death.  If this is to be my life, then perhaps stopping them is my purpose?"  It was every bit as much a pledge as it was a question.

Mariah smiled.  There was no humor in the expression, but there was love.

"The night is still young," she said.

Creed grinned.

"That it is.  Shall we ride?"

They came together, walking with their arms wrapped around one another’s shoulders, moving like twin shadows through the doorway of the tent and into the night.

Those few who remained stared after them.  The baby burped, and the Sisters gave a soft chuckle.

Longman smiled.

Cy stepped to the door, watching the couple depart.  The moon cradled them as they walked toward the horizon, both more than human, both damaged, both saved and forsaken, both fallen and risen again, both more together than they ever could have been alone.  Cy spoke in his deep, sonorous voice: "In the beginning, there was the word …"

"And the word was?" Lottie asked.

"Remliel," Attie said.

"Amen," Chessie whispered.

At that sound, a thousand crows launched from the trees by Deadman’s Gulch.  Their cries sounded like a hymn of promise.

Content

Wilson David Niall Hallowed Ground