David Wilson - Hallowed Ground

"17 May

I have never felt so ill. My hand shakes as I write this, but I feel that if I fail to record my hours and days, I may blow away, forgotten by this world and the next. Benjamin is with me every moment possible, but when he is here I see my own face through his eyes, and it frightens me.

Father will not come near. He says that he fears I have been inhabited by an evil spirit, but I know the truth, and I do not blame him. He fears the consumption. He believes that I will pass my sickness to him, and that he – too – will wither and die. I do not want others to suffer, but I am glad for Benjamin's company.

He listens to my dreams, and holds my hand. He does not shy away from me, though I am certain I must have the pallor of death himself to my cheeks. He is warm where I grow so cold. He has promised to stay with me forever, and though I know it is a promise no man can keep, it is also a promise that only true love would attempt. Forever is not so long now, I fear.

Sometimes I wish that God would take me and bring and end to his suffering, as well as my own. I believe he has a destiny, and I do not want to anchor him against it.

28 May

I am much weaker. Benjamin still comes to me and comforts me, but he has grown distracted. There is a shadow on his face, and across his heart, and I fear that it is more than my illness that troubles him. He won't worry me, and so he tells me nothing except how beautiful I am, which is a lie and not even a sweet one now. I feel so tired deep down in my bones and he still talks of how we will soon be together in the big white house by the church. I do not know how he can lie to himself so convincingly, but I love him for it.

Our wedding was to take place in less than a week's time, and though my father would be angered to hear it, I have spent several days and nights in that house already. Benjamin often speaks of children. I burn to tell him what I know but fear that he would do something rash. Each time I draw a breath I'm afraid that it will be my last, and it is difficult now to keep my eyes from closing. I believe that soon I will sleep and never wake.

I will take my secret to the grave."

Here, the journal fell silent for nearly a week. A single entry was centered near the middle of the next page, written in a different hand.

"These are the words of one loved beyond life. May she rest in peace – Benjamin Jamieson."

Creed stared at the book. Something about that last inscription slid through him like the steel of a cold blade. He reached for his drink. His hand brushed the silk dress and it unrolled slightly. As it did, he saw a silver chain poking out from one of the folds. Drink forgotten, he laid the journal aside and reached for the dress, unrolling it so that it fell open across his lap.

There was a seventh treasure: in the center, nestled into the deep blue material, lay an ornate locket. He picked it up, turned it over in his fingers a couple of times, and then flicked the release with his thumb. It opened to reveal two tiny, exquisitely detailed portraits, one on either side. On the left was a young man, well dressed and very proper. Even on such a small scale it was obvious the artist had captured a glint of humor in the eyes. Across from this, on the right, Creed met the painted gaze of the woman from the camp. She was dressed in lacey finery. Her hair was intricately bound up with ringlets dangling over her ears and a single loose curl in the center of her brow. Creed was not certain how he knew this tiny face belonged to his mystery woman, but he had not a shred of doubt.

His fingers trembled. In the center of the locket there was a third oval, solid silver, that the two sides folded over, and inside that, judging by the portraits, a lock of the man’s hair. Inscribed on the surface was "B.J. & E.T Forever"

He thought back to the Journal. If this had belonged to Elizabeth, then that put a name to his mystery woman beyond doubt. But where was this Benjamin of hers? There had been no sign of him at the trappers’ camp. And that begged the question: why did the entries in the journal end six months in the past? And why was the final entry an epitaph?

Almost without thinking, Creed snapped the locket closed and slipped the chain up and over his head . He pulled his collar out and slid the cool silver pendant down beneath his shirt, where it nestled against his chest. He rolled the dress up carefully and tucked it back into the pack, and then tied the ribbon back around the journal, being as careful as possible to match the original knot. It was almost superstitious precaution, but it was a dead woman's journal and anything less seemed somehow wrong.

When the remaining treasures had been returned to the pack he took another long drink of bourbon. The black feather still lay on the table. He studied it. When he'd first picked it up, he'd assumed it belonged to the owl he'd heard, but looking at it now it was obviously no owl feather. It was deep black, like a raven, or a crow, but too large to have come from either one. He reached out and ran his finger over it, then recoiled.

Rather than the soft, silky sensation he'd expected, his finger came away sticky, as though it had been coated in some sort of oil. He still had the crow's feather he'd found outside The Deacon's tent. It had no such taint.

Wind whipped bullets of rain into his window in a sudden loud crash of sound. Creed jumped back, nearly toppling the table and its contents. The feather fluttered to the floor. He watched it, but made no move to pick it up.

Something heavy thumped into the wall outside. He thought it was probably one of the loose, half-rotted shutters, but it didn't change the queasy sensation of dread that spread from his racing heart out through his limbs. He rose, tucked the pack underneath his bedroll where anyone breaking in would not immediately catch sight of it, and headed for the door.

Before he stepped into the hall he straightened his gun belt and let his hand rest on the butt of his pistol. He stood very still and listened, though he wasn't sure if he was listening for sounds in the hall, or outside his window. He sensed the feather on the floor behind him, but did not turn to look. He was almost superstitiously afraid that if he did, it wouldn't be there.

The hallway was empty. On a stormy night only the regulars would make their way to the saloon. Silas would be in a foul mood with sales down, and Mae had been in a state since Colleen up and moved in with The Deacon out at his camp.

The only one that seemed unaffected by the change was McGraw. The old man pounded out what might have served as a jaunty melody to an empty room, earning his one beer an hour with gusto and competing with the slashing, windblown rain for attention. The rain and wind even served to fill in some of the ghost notes. Creed thought about McGraw's maimed hands.

He'd never given it much thought, but now he wondered what had happened. After seeing all the freaks in The Deacon's entourage, he'd grown particularly sensitive to missing body parts. The missing notes in the melody, a thing that he'd long grown accustomed to, were jarring. Listening to it now, the eight-finger boogie sounded more like an off-key dirge.

Silas stood behind the bar, half-heartedly polishing a dusty glass with a dirty rag. Mae sat on a stool across from him, one leg crossed over the other in a way that hiked her skirt up so most of her thigh showed. She was all business as she glanced up hopefully at the sound of his footsteps, but scowled and turned back to the bar when she saw Creed.

Creed ignored her. He stepped to the end of the bar and leaned on the counter. A moment later, Silas wandered down to him.

"Give me bourbon, Silas," he said.

"You took a bottle up two hours ago," Silas observed.

Creed glanced up at the bartender for the first time. "I said give me a bourbon, I didn’t ask when was the last time I had a drink," he said. He stared at Silas, and whatever devils lingered in his gaze were enough to turn the other man away, fast.