David Wilson - Hallowed Ground

Just before he reached the tree line, a flash of lightning lit the sky. His horse shied, and as he fought it for control, something big and dark launched from the trees to his right. Huge wings beat the air and he heard an unearthly cry that nearly unseated him. His horse fought his control, wheeled in a circle and turned his back to the sound.

He spun the animal back with a grunt and stared upward as the largest owl he'd ever seen took flight. It glittered silver in a second flash of lightning, and was gone, soaring into the clouds before the thunder followed the flash.

"Jesus wept," Creed said. He turned away from the trees and spurred his horse forward. It was an hour to Rookwood, and the first heavy, wet splashes of rain dropped around him and slapped him in the face. The sky was as black as death, and his mind was filled with the sound of beating wings.

Chapter Seventeen

The Deacon sat in a leather chair built into the framework of his wagon. On the table at his side was a cut glass tumbler half full of golden brown whiskey. On his lap he held a book. It was a very old book, bound in leather with age-yellowed pages. A dark ribbon bookmark dangled off the end of the spine, where it had been bound in when the pages were sewn.

On the floor, Colleen slept, the child nestled against her tightly, wrapped in rough blankets with a rolled jacket for a pillow. From time to time The Deacon glanced down at them. His smile was grim – the upward turn of his lip unfamiliar and alien after so long.

He had carefully wrapped the leather pouch in dark silk. The silk had been embroidered with symbols and words in a pattern he'd purchased from a toothless old witch several months back. When he wrapped it, it slept, but not for long. Every time he did it, he wondered if it would be his last. If he waited too long, or it sensed his intent, he doubted the pain would stop at burning his flesh.

He hadn't touched the book on his lap since the last time he'd wrapped the talisman, but he knew it was time. He read quickly. The book had come from the pastor of a church back east. The man had been old, and his mind wandered. The book had been his responsibility for half a century, and none had stepped forward to take his place. He had come to The Deacon in the hope he might be healed – that the ravages of age could be wiped from his emaciated frame to leave him healthy enough to carry on.

The book held power, and the power was dangerous. The man had feared for his soul – feared deeply enough he was willing to remain behind when his own call to glory was at hand if it meant fulfilling his duty. The Deacon had lent a conciliatory shoulder. He'd gone through the motions of the healing, but kept the old man as far from the talisman as possible. After the ceremony failed, it was only a matter of days.

On his deathbed, the priest confessed his mission to The Deacon. He passed on a wooden box, carefully locked. Inside, the book was bound in similar silk to the strip that now bound the talisman. That first night, when the old man had died and The Deacon made off with his prize, was almost the last night.

The book was alive to the touch. The Talisman had sensed its presence and searched his flesh. It leapt against the material of his jacket, stretching out toward the musty tome as though they were opposite poles of a magnet. It had taken all his strength to fold the cloth back over the book and slam the box shut.

Study, bribes, payments he could ill afford, and great risk had brought him to the old woman and the dark silk. He remembered her eyes – the coarse, leathery feel of her skin as she stroked his cheek – and the deep, hollow tones of her laughter. Even now the thought of her price ran through his blood like ice water.

But the book – that book – was worth the pain. It was worth the corruption. It was worth any price. What he'd waited for was the proper time to use it – the right reason to risk … everything. The page he'd opened it to held a ritual, penned in even, symmetrical letters. He read it, and then read it again, though the words burned into his mind on the first pass. He started to go over it a third time – felt a twitch within the black silk, and slammed the covers closed. He wrapped the book and closed it in its box, then knelt on the floor, reached up under the frame of his chair, and slid it onto its hidden shelf.

He unwrapped the talisman quickly and rested it against the thundering beat of his heart. It pulsed, warmed, and then settled. With a sigh, he dropped back into the leather seat, downed the whiskey, and slumped against the wall. He was tired, but the day was upon him. It was going to be a long one.

Chapter Eighteen

Creed's rooms were dank and drafty. The tattered rags he had nailed up to serve as makeshift curtains dangled crookedly across the windows. Rain pelted the cracked panes of glass in uneven, fitful rhythms. It sounded like handfuls of grave dirt being thrown at the windows. The room was sparsely furnished with a cot that held his bedroll, a table with one leg propped by a block of wood, and two straight backed chairs. Creed had his oil lamp on the table, which he'd pulled up close to the fire. Beside the lamp’s brass base he'd placed the black feather, and emptied out the contents of the woman's pack.

There was also a dingy bottle half full of rot-gut bourbon. A tumbler with three fingers of the amber poison sat next to the bottle, but Creed ignored it, for the moment. There wasn't much in the old pack. The leather was worn, and the straps wouldn't have lasted very many more journeys without snapping. Wherever she'd carried it from, the road had not been an easy one. There were six treasures inside; a journal, bound with a red ribbon; a small bottle of ink and a quill pen; a purse with a few coins in it; a compact that opened on a tiny mirror; and a soft, silk dress rolled up carefully so that it would fit in the small bag.

Creed reached for the bourbon, took a sip, and tried not to think about the empty tents with their torn canvas, the winged – thing – he'd seen in the trees – or the image of The Deacon rising over the woman's thin, wasted body with that mewling, crying creature clutched tightly in his hands. Not thinking about it was impossible, though.

He took a longer drink, set the glass on the table and reached for the journal. The knot in the ribbon was not too tight. He tugged it free gently, not sure why he was being so careful with a dead woman's belongings.

"What’s your story then?" He said, almost reverentially.

Provender Creed was one of the few men in Rookwood who could read. He'd been raised on The Bible, and before coming west, he'd worked a spell at a newspaper back east. There were a few books in town, and he'd borrowed and read each one in its turn. Then he'd read them all again.

Holding a new, unknown book would have been magic enough in its own right. Holding the last record of this mystery woman transformed the dreary hotel room to another place altogether. He was afraid to turn the first page. If there was nothing inside, or only a few hastily scribbled notes – the moment would be ruined. As long as he held the unopened book in his hand, it was a tiny universe of potential. The fire popped. Creed shook his head, as if rattling the cobwebs loose, and opened the journal.

He thumbed through the first few pages. Each was crammed full from margin to margin with spidery, elegant script. The letters were small enough that more than once he had to squint to make them out, but the lines were even – almost eerily precise. Creed flipped to the last page. The final entry was dated six months in the past. Whatever the purpose of this journal had been, either she'd given it up when the pages ran out, or she'd carried it for some other reason. Creed turned back a couple of pages and began to read.