David Wilson - Hallowed Ground

The tent she did not believe. The men with faces like predatory birds were not possible. The only thing that she could see that made any sense was the pack – but even that took her back to the events leading up to her fall. She’d woken up in a casket. She’d been stoned by the minister who had baptized her as a child.

She managed to fasten the pants and felt slightly better. She rolled to her knees, rested for a moment, and then brought one leg up. In a moment she had both feet beneath her. She stood on weak and trembling legs.

Beyond the tent, she heard the crackling of a small fire. She stumbled toward the sound. She reached out to pull back the tent flap, but before she touched it, she glanced back at the pack lying on the ground. She felt as though she should pick it up – that it was important to keep it with her. She half-turned, taking the first step to go back for it, but a sudden sharp twinge in her belly – the baby kicking? – stopped her. Wincing, she pulled back the tent flap and stepped into the clearing.

She didn’t find a campfire. The dark men in their eerie coats and peculiar hats were nowhere to be seen. Four feet from the front of the tent where she stood, a pillar of flame poured into the air. The flame had a soft phosphorescent glow; the light radiating from the heart of it was almost subdued. It pulsed and writhed in a harlot’s dance. She thought, more than once, that she saw a face pass over the surface, or hands clutch at the edges of the flame and then, as quickly as they surfaced, they were gone.

Elizabeth stepped out from the safety of the tent. Only a single step forward at first. But then she took another, and then another. As she walked, she felt her weight shifting, and suddenly there was an imbalance caused by her compensating for her pregnant belly that Elizabeth didn’t understand. She laid her hands on her stomach, panic flaring in her mind. All she could think was that something was wrong. Her belly was flat and smooth. Her baby was gone. Her hands were thin to the point of emaciation. The bones stuck out against sallow skin. She stumbled forward one more step, coming closer to the flickering flames. She felt the heat on her skin. She heard voices. They were screaming and crying out but she couldn’t understand them. She reached out a tentative hand, expecting the flame to burn. She wanted desperately to touch it, to purge herself.

A hand clawed out from the fire, raking the air. Before she could pull away strong fingers wrapped around her wrist and heaved her off her feet. She fell forward, screaming, face first into the flames. She felt her skin sear, shrivel and crack, and the liquid in her eyes and mouth boil, then parch as all the moisture was burned out of her. Her skin flaked and charred – and then the overwhelming agony, the screaming, the fire beneath her skin, was gone.

She blinked; tears stung her eyes. She sat in the chair beside the low softly crackling fire. The storm still raged in the distance, forks of lightning flashing across the sky. She trembled violently.

"Ah, I see you have returned to me," Balthazar said. He sounded almost amused. He rose, and reached for her hand. "Come," he said. "We have work to do."

She stood shakily, unable to pull her gaze from the dancing flames.

"God in heaven," she said softly. "What am I?"

"You are my blade," Balthazar replied. "The hotter the fire’s flame, the sharper the edge."

He led her past the campfire to the back of the wagon and helped her up the steps and inside.

This time as she lay on the hard wooden floor, she felt the wheels turn, and the steady bump of ground passing beneath them. She dropped into deep, cleansing sleep.

There were no dreams.

Chapter Twenty

The moon had risen bright and nearly full. The streets of Rookwood were empty. Only the light from Silas' saloon, and the eerie, haunting strains of McGraw's piano offered any sign of life. Most folks retired to their own places when the sun failed. That was the story of Rookwood night after night. A few – panhandlers, trappers and drunks – would inevitably make their way to the saloon for one of three things: the conversation, the bourbon, or the chance of Mae's attentions. Money was scarce, conversation terse, and with Mae’s sociability dependent heavily on the almighty dollar, the holy trinity was a washout. Silas spat and polished his pitchers in a perennial foul mood.

Since, The Deacon's folks had started spreading word of the coming revival, business had perked up noticeably. Hell, it was positively booming. When the three strangers entered town on foot, dark hats tipped over their eyes and darker coats floating behind them in the breeze, the whispers spread like wildfire. By the time the three reached the saloon, a boy had been kicked out onto the dusty streets with the express orders to fetch Moonshine Brady. He ran as though his life depended upon it. Both of the saloon's windows filled with curious faces.

The strangers didn't enter the saloon. They stood in the middle of the street and stared first one way and then the other, as though looking for something. The tallest of the three tilted his head back and sniffed the air like a wolf trying to catch a scent. He cocked his head to one side and gazed at the upper story of the saloon. The other two turned, following the direction of his gaze.

Before the three could make their next move, whatever it would have been, Moonshine stepped into the street a block away. His stance was relaxed, but his hand rested on the pearl-lacquered butt of his gun. He flexed his fingers as he stared at the newcomers for moment, and then called out:

"Can I help you gentlemen with something?"

The strangers spun as one and regarded the sheriff with their dark opalescent eyes. They didn't speak. They neither advanced nor retreated. The tallest of the three ignored Moonshine and turned back to the saloon, continuing his scrutiny of the windows on the second floor.

Brady's smile dropped a notch, and he closed his fingers around the grip of his six-shooter.

"I asked you boys a question," he said, starting forward. "The way I see it, it’d be mighty polite if you was to answer. You walked into my town, and that makes you my business; we don't get many visitors here. It's my job to be sure when we do, they don't bring trouble. So, I am gonna ask you this once, you wouldn't be bringing us any trouble, would you?"

The tall stranger turned and met Brady's gaze. The lawman stopped dead in his tracks, and no matter the sudden urge he felt to turn and run, he didn't back down. The two stared in silence for a long moment, and then the stranger spoke. At least, it sounded as though he was trying to speak. The word he uttered was coughed up from somewhere deep inside his craw. It was guttural and deep.

" Crrreeeeeed ." The end of the word rose slightly, as though it was a question.

"You lookin' for Provender Creed?" Brady asked.

" Creeeeeed ." The stranger repeated. This time he gave a curt nod.

"I ain't seen him since earlier today," Brady said slowly. "You come back tomorrow when the sun's up, you'll likely find him right there in the saloon."

" Creeeeed ." The man insisted.

He took a step toward Brady.

Brady's gun was in his hand and aimed directly at the center of the stranger's chest so quickly it seemed to have appeared by magic. The stranger stood his ground and cocked his head to one side again. More and more he was reminding Brady of some kind of animal – a bird?

"I told you," Brady said evenly, "to come back tomorrow. I'm about to the point of tellin' you not to come back at all, if you get my meaning?"

Silas Boone stepped out onto the porch in front of the saloon then. A short-barreled shotgun rested across his arm. The light from the saloon's now open door sliced across the street. All three strangers took a step back to avoid it. Brady's frown deepened.