Hallowed Ground

'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.'