David Wilson - Hallowed Ground

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The wagon rolled into town. The two mules pulling it were old. One appeared to be blind in one eye, and the driver – a dwarf – steered carefully around the ruts in what passed for the road and the muddy holes left by the night’s storm. The sun had risen bright and hot. Steamy shimmers rose from the puddles as mud dried and cracked.

Provender Creed and Silas Boone stood at the hitching rail outside the saloon and watched its slow progress. Neither made a move to step into the street and greet the newcomers. It wouldn’t be long before Brady showed up, and first words were always his privilege. Best to watch from the shadows and see which way the wind blew, Creed thought.

He hawked and spat a wad of chewing tobacco into the mud. Despite the storm that had savaged them the night before, the wind didn’t blow at all. On the contrary, the air was stagnant and dead. Flies had gathered where the moisture lingered. They buzzed in fat clumps. There was a stench of decay in the air that was uncommon in Rookwood. It wormed its way beneath Creed’s skin. He had no liking for the smell, nor the sight of the dwarf riding his wagon down the muddy street.

The wagon stopped by the abandoned church. The dwarf dropped to the ground, waddled around the side of the wagon, and hitched the horses to the post. On the seat beside him, three old women sat huddled so close together they appeared to be a three-headed beast. Creed couldn’t quite make out their faces from where he sat, but he knew they were watching him, and that sensation crawled over his skin like maggots on a dead wolf.

"What you reckon they want?" Silas asked.

Creed saw the barman studying the rear of the wagon and knew his only concern was that Colleen might be with them. Several passengers dropped to the ground behind the wagon, but none of them was Silas’ whore. There was a tall, one armed man, a young, dirty looking boy in clothing a size too small that looked as though it hadn’t been washed once since it fit perfectly, a woman with dirty brown hair who limped oddly as she walked, as if something might be wrong in her hip, the dwarf, and the three old women. They were a motley crew of misfits, for sure.

Most of them carried small bundles. The dwarf carried nothing. The sisters did not immediately clamber down from their seats in the wagon. They sat on the bench, staring up and down the street. At least two of them did, Creed amended. The third sat between then, staring straight ahead. At him.

"Damn," Silas muttered. "Feels like the hag’s starin’ right through me."

Creed glanced up at the man, and then turned his attention to the dwarf, who was drawing nearer with each labored step. The little man moved with an odd, rolling gait. One of his stunted legs was slightly shorter than the other, pitching him awkwardly to the side and taking three inches off his height. He couldn’t have been more than four foot boot heel to hat brim. He was smiling, and despite the oddity of the little man’s appearance, and the glare from the three crones on the wagon seat, Creed grudgingly returned that smile.

"Morning, sirs," the stranger crowed. "And a fine morning it is, I might add. No rain, no storms, the sun in the sky and the Good Lord watching over us."

"If you say so," Creed said, tipping the brim of his hat.

The little man’s smile didn’t dip, and he never missed a beat. He hopped up onto the walkway and held his hand out to Creed.

"Name’s Longman," he said. "I don’t believe I saw you at the funeral, but you know, I miss things from time to time. Anything above here," he held his hand a foot over his head, around the level of Creed’s chest, "starts to lose focus."

Silas chuckled.

"Longman?" he asked.

"Indeed," Longman replied, lowering his voice so it sounded conspiratorial. "I believe that God watches over me, and I’ll tell you a secret. I’ll tell you why I believe. It’s because of my name. Some folks would say it’s a cruel joke. Others would say – and I tell you, I fall into the second group – that it’s proof that God has a sense of humor. I could have been born to a family named Short, or Tallwood, and it would be the same, but Longman seems to fit me just fine. I’ve always been contrary, you see…so why stop at the name?"

Creed turned, squatted so he could meet the shorter man’s gaze levelly, and took the offered hand.

"Provender Creed," he said. "You mind tellin’ us, Mr. Longman, why you and your folks have come into town today? Seems a mighty long ways to ride just to take some air."

"Indeed, indeed," Longman said. "That would be odd indeed, and I can understand why it would confuse you, but no. We have a purpose here, a grand purpose. A mission, you might call it. We bring word from The Deacon."

"Do tell," Silas said. "And what does the holy man have in store for us this time? We’re plumb out of corpses, for the moment."

Longman glanced up at the barman and chuckled.

"Much better than a funeral, I hope," he said. "There’s going to be a revival."

Creed looked at the sorry houses up and down the street, then back at the dwarf. "I think he’s about ten years too late for Rookwood."

Silas chuckled, and the dwarf joined in, but just at that moment the one armed man wandered over. In his hand he held a small stack of hand-lettered flyers. He held them out, and Longman took one from the pile.

"Thank you Rupert," he said. "I’ll explain it to these gentlemen. You go on down the street, see who you can find. Make sure you leave one with Mr. Bender. The Deacon was particularly appreciative of all his help at the funeral services."

"Yes sir, Mr. Longman," the one-armed man replied. He tipped his hat to Creed and Silas and started slowly off down the road. The three men watched him go. When he was a dozen paces away Longman turned back to Creed.

"He’s a good man," the dwarf said. "Works hard. When The Deacon took him in, he was half dead. Kids in his home town threw rocks at him. One hit him in the head. They thought he’d die, but they didn’t count on the healin’."

"You believe that?" Creed asked. He was hard pressed to keep the edge of cynicism out of his voice.

"My friend, I saw it," Longman replied. There was no guile in the smaller man’s face, and his smile had gone, leaving his face flat and serious.

"Seems like a lot of folks The Deacon has healed have…new problems," Silas cut in.

"Everything comes with a price," Longman replied. "Rupert lives a good life. He works hard, eats three squares and has a place to sleep at night. No one in The Deacon’s flock throws stones at him. I’d say that’s a better life, wouldn’t you?"

"Who are the ladies?" Creed asked, changing the subject.

Longman turned back to the wagon.

"The sisters?" he asked. "That would be Lottie, Attie, and Chessie. They’ve been with The Deacon as long as I can remember. I guess you’d say they’re…spiritual advisors."

"Well, they don’t look especially spiritual," Silas said. "But I guess they’re one day closer to death than the rest of us."

Creed glanced up at him.

"Unless you carry on watering down your whiskey. Then there’s no accounting for what might happen."

Longman cackled. He laid a hand on Creed’s arm. "They’ve been watching you since we arrived," the little man said. "The sisters, I mean. You go talk to them, keep them company a while, you might learn something important."

"What would that be," Creed asked.

The dwarf glanced at down at the street, and Creed followed his gaze. In the dirt, just beyond the rail, a black feather lay, coated in dust. He didn’t need to pick it up, or to look more closely. He knew that feather.

"What do you know?" he asked.

Longman shook his head. "Me? Nothing. I don’t know things. I get vague notions, time and again. I paint. The sisters? They know. There’s a difference."