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
