David Wilson - Hallowed Ground

Still Creed didn’t move.

He crouched, transfixed by the macabre theatre of it all, staring slack-jawed as The Deacon raised the child to his lips and kissed its death palled forehead. The child writhed, then squirmed in his grasp. Creed's stomach lurched. The newborn coughed wetly, and then a moment later cried, announcing itself to the world with tears of grief and shock and horror. There was no life or joy in that cry. It was the voice of ultimate suffering.

As The Deacon turned, Creed saw the hideous deformity that marred the child in his arms. That child had no place on God’s green earth. All he could think, seeing it squirming in The Deacon’s arms, was that it was dead. No, not merely dead, soulless.

And yet it screamed.

The sudden lurch of the wagon startled him from his reverie. It rolled forward, and Creed drew back involuntarily. He watched, knowing that he should follow, that he should see what became of the girl, if only to be certain she received a burial, and wasn't dumped in the cold of the desert to feed the vultures. He knew it was the right thing to do, but he turned away.

He watched as The Deacon carried his burden to the back of his wagon, silhouetted against the canvas walls of his tent, beyond which candle flames still danced. Those candles should have toppled in the wind. That wagon should have gone up in flame. Now the wind died to a whisper, and The Deacon vanished through the entrance at the back of his home, joining the dancing shadows within.

Creed turned, stumbled once, then caught his balance and ran. He'd left his horse in the gulch. He dropped over the rim and slid down the shale and gravel, digging the heel of his boot through stone and bones. His breath was ragged, and his heart raced. He thought he still heard The Deacon murmuring to the death-child in his arms.

He hit the far side of the gulch at a dangerous gallop, shot through the trees and off toward Rookwood, riding as if the devil's breath warmed his back. The night air was cold, and the sky was a deep mottled gray, peppered with the soaring wings of crows.

Chapter Eleven

The Deacon's people left Mariah's still body on a rough bed of stone. They drove far enough into the desert that it was unlikely she'd be found by anyone out of Rookwood - at least not while what was left of her was recognizable. The vultures would not be long in discovering her, once the sun rose, and even as the wagon's wheels creaked off toward camp, coyotes caught the scent. They were cautious, tricky hunters, and they would move in slowly, but once they found her, she wouldn't last long. The bones would be picked clean within a week's time. Insects and the sun would do the rest.

The group had been almost gentle in laying her out. All the roughness they'd exhibited in the vicinity of The Deacon had slipped away. They were a sad lot, life-worn and broken. They sensed a kindred spirit in the thin, broken frame - and maybe something else.

When the wagon's mournful voice had faded, she lay alone. Though it was cold, she didn't shiver. If a shard of silver had been held to her lips, the faintest mist might have clouded it. Nothing could have lived within that ruined frame, and yet the crows remained perched atop the trees and stone outcroppings, watching patiently.

The silence gave way to a slow, rhythmic thump, the creak of leather, and the soft clink of glass on glass. It began as a distant murmur and grew louder with each passing moment. The moon was high and bright. A tall, ornate wagon rolled into sight on the horizon and made its way cautiously across the rough desert floor.

The wagon stopped beside the stones where Mariah's ruined body had been laid out for the scavengers. The driver sat still for a while, as if he heard something in the wind, or saw messages in the stars. He glanced down at Mariah, and a flash of white betrayed a crooked smile.

He was tall and slender. His hair and moustache were dark and well groomed. His suit was darker still in sharp contrast to the white of his shirt. A silver watch fob dangled from his breast pocket, and he wore a worn but elegant silk hat. On his hip the pearl handled grip of a well-oiled revolver peeked out from beneath his jacket. He rode easily, and the matched team of black horses pulled the wagon intuitively, barely requiring a touch of the reins to shift, or to stop.

The man cocked his hat back on his head and rubbed his chin, then climbed gracefully down from the wagon. He walked around to the rear of the wagon, fished a skeleton key out of his pocket, and inserted it into a large padlock. The tumblers spun smoothly.

He clambered up inside, rummaged about a little, and came out with a small bag, a folded blanket, and his tinderbox. He unfolded the blanket and laid it out on the ground closer to his wagon. He gathered a handful of stones and placed them in a circle. To the left of where he stood, a small stand of shrubs shot up at unruly angles. He laid his hand on one thick branch. The sparse leaves grew limp, curled in on themselves, and fell away from the branch. The wood lightened in color, then grew pale. Moments later, with a flick of his wrist, he broke the small tree free of the ground. He snapped the trunk into shorter logs and carried them to his stone circle, carefully laying a fire.

He sat cross-legged on the ground, just beyond the ring of stones surrounding the sticks, and reached for his tinderbox. He withdrew a small handful of dried sage and slivers of wood, and his flint. He tucked the tinder in beneath his carefully stacked branches, and began tapping the flint, waiting patiently for it to spark. As he worked, he cast a glance at the pale, still figure lying a few feet away on the stone.

The flint sparked, and the kindling caught. He leaned in close and blew gently, fanning the flames to life. The dead wood caught almost instantly, and in moments he had a healthy, crackling blaze. He stared into the flames as if they called to him, watching them lick and tease their way up the wood. Then, with a gentle shake of his head, he set aside the tinderbox, stood, and turned to the girl.

"So," he said softly, "you have come to me after all."

He stepped closer and leaned down, lifting her in an easy, graceful motion. She dangled over his arms, limp and lifeless. The moonlight on her skin shone pale silver, giving the illusion he held a wraith, or a body formed of clouds. He carried her to the blanket he'd laid out before the fire and lowered her onto it gently. He brushed back her hair and studied her face.

His expression was curious – almost amused.

"Such a pretty thing," he said. "Beneath the scars and the dirt."

He returned to the rear of his wagon and came back with a second blanket. This one he laid across her naked, ruined flesh, ignoring the dirt and the blood. Her body had not yet begun to stiffen with rigor, and her lips were opened gently. In that second, she almost looked peaceful.

"It seems a shame," he whispered, kneeling at her side, "to wake you to this world when you are so close to that other, but there is work to be done."

He leaned down, placed his palm on her cheek gently, and kissed her. He breathed and mist curled from the points where their lips touched. A long, rattling shudder shivered through her thin frame and her back arched off the blanket. She drew in his breath in a gasp that echoed across the desert and through the hills. The crows, still roosting nearby, burst into flight, curving back toward the gulch, and The Deacon, toward the town and those near to death.

As he glanced up and watched them go, he held Mariah's shivering, shaking body in his arms.

"Go," he said. "There is nothing for you here."

As if they heard him, the crows banked toward Rookwood and disappeared into the dying night.

Chapter Twelve