Hallowed Ground

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