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 –
'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
