Hallowed Ground Read online

  "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 t
here 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."