David Wilson - Hallowed Ground

A tall dark blotch moved toward the center of the tent, the shadow image of The Deacon, hands upraised to the heavens in a sustained supplication. Creed knew it was the man’s shadow from the way he moved. It was something Creed noticed. The way a man carried himself was the kind of thing he tucked away without thinking about it. If you studied how a man walked, it could tell you a lot about him, enough to keep you alive if it came right down to it and Creed had a knack for surviving. The Deacon moved like a man so sure of himself he’d walk into the pits of Hell and have the balls to tell the Devil to turn down the heat. The thing about men like that, men so blinkered by their own holy importance, was that more often than not they underestimated their enemies.

A few minutes after stepping to the center of the tent, the Deacon raised his voice, coming close to reaching the volume of the entire gathering when they belted out their hymns.

Creed listened, for what good it did. The words made no sense. He’d attended church services as a boy, and before the old preacher had died, he’d stopped in from time to time to pay his respects to him and Him up there. He wasn’t exactly God-fearing, but he was hardly a stranger to the Word. What he heard now sounded almost like it could have been from the Old Testament, the thunder and lightning vengeful God stuff, it was damned loud, for sure. He listened as the strange words rose. He felt them deep in his bones, resonating with his meat and the belly of the earth beneath his feet. He felt an icy tingle from the locket.

"Michael, Sword of the Maker, Wrathful Warrior, Archangel, defend us in this our battle. Be our shield against the wicked snares of Satan and his cursed minions. May God rebuke him, we humbly pray. And you, Prince of the heavenly host, by the power of God, thrust into Hell the Fallen Son of Light and the other evil spirits who prowl the world for the ruin of souls. Protect those who need you more now than ever. Be our armor and our sword. Amen."

There was a momentary silence, and Creed saw that The Deacon, who’d been facing down the centre aisle, away from the altar, east, turned. It was impossible to read from his shadow whether he faced north or south.

"Uriel, Guardian of the Garden, Watcher in the Wilderness, Archangel, carry our praise of Glory to God in the Highest High. Praise him for his deeds, for everything that is good and wonderful. Holy Archangel Uriel, protect and look after the rains and the rivers and deliver us from the mighty rush of floods. Give us of your water to drink, for life springs up from it and so long we sup at it we are eternal, and as you bless us we have no fear."

Again, The Deacon turned.

"Archangel Raphael heal and align my body, mind and soul, I beseech thee. Make my flesh a vehicle for the healing of others. Channel thy gift through my bones that I might reach out and raise them all, the sick and weary, the wounded and the dead. Grant me focus and give me the strength of Creation. Help me to dedicate myself to the path of ascension for Earth and self. Help me to pierce the heart of the world and draw forth that vital spirit that is needed to heal separation and fear."

The Deacon’s shadow made a final turn.

"Archangel Gabriel, assist me in the resurrection of emotion, thought, and spirit. Hold my physical form away from the clutches of sin. Grant me the eternal hope necessary to sustain my strength during the doubts that plague your humble servant. Guide me in this time of transformation and acceleration. Energize me so that I may walk in purity and bring the sweet essence of harmony to the conflict that spins out upon the face of this Earth. Rise with us on the path of the Divine!"

"What the hell?" Creed muttered to himself. The locket iced across his breastbone, driving its chill in deep, all the way into his heart. The ring of cold separating him from the camp had widened. He didn’t know how it had happened, only that it had. It tormented him beyond reason to hold his position. He gritted his teeth against the pain. His heart froze and his mind raged with the words he’d heard. He didn’t know what they meant, but they were not a normal prayer, nor a part of any tent-man revival he’d ever witnessed. No, this was wrong. More than wrong. Unnatural. The Deacon had set something vast in motion, something vast and dangerous.

Creed could only hope that whatever prevented him from crossing into the camp would protect him when all hell broke loose. Finally the pain became too much. He stepped back a dozen paces and settled in again. The moon had ascended to her throne high overhead, and the air crackled with energy. The scent of the incense permeated the air – no, he amended that; the scent of innocence permeated the air, innocence that would burn bright, innocence that would burn furiously. God help them all, innocence that would burn out.

In the big tent, The Deacon continued to speak.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The wards were set, and The Deacon turned to face the hungry eyes of his extended flock. He smiled at them. There was no warmth in the expression, but from where they sat they couldn’t tell the difference. A few even smiled back at him in blissful ignorance. For them it was the beginning of a Revival, just as he had promised. For others -particularly those of his flock who were more aware than the rest - it was different - more than it had ever been in the past. They leaned forward in their seats, lips parted, grins feral, like a pack of hungry dogs. They suspected, but they did not know. None of them knew. If they had, they’d have panicked as he raised the ritual walls and penned them in like cattle.

The three sisters huddled in a corner, the shadows and the black folds of their dresses melding into one so that from where the Deacon stood they appeared as a single three-headed beast, a hydra or one of the dogs guarding the passage to the underworld. They whispered as they watched everything at once. Did they know his intentions? Light from the oil lamps glittered in their eyes. Occasionally their heads dipped toward one another, and words passed between them. As much as he loathed ignorance, the Deacon had neither time nor inclination to discover what those words might be. It was too late for divination. He grinned fiercely.

Longman sat on a stool that was almost as tall as he was. He had positioned himself to the back of the tent, near the door. He perched on his seat cross legged and expressionless. He paid no attention to what happened around him, but it was obvious he was concentrating all the same. Again, the Deacon shook it off. Whatever the little man was thinking about painting on his wagon next, even if it was Old Papa Death himself, it no longer mattered.

The Deacon hadn’t brought the book with him to the tent. He’d planned to because he had originally believed he needed to read the incantation, but the words had burned themselves into his mind the first time he set eyes on them. He didn’t need to see them inked on paper. He didn’t need to see them ever again. They were alive within him. All he had to do was open his mouth and they would rise.

He felt the circle close around them. He hadn’t been sure he would, but like the invocation, the entire ritual was alive in his mind and coursing through his veins, attuned to him. His flesh quickened. He felt the thrill bone deep. He’d caught the scent of incense on the wind, and the pure, unadulterated satisfaction when the first ward woke. It was like building a prison brick by brick until they were all walled in, alive but with the air running out gasp by gasp, and no one but himself aware of the danger.

The faithful didn't notice, but why should they? They were meat and bone; they were neither divine nor daemonic. There was no good reason for them to so much as sense a prickle on the nape of their necks. The world would continue to spin around the sun, as it always had. That was all they cared about. The Deacon knew what was to come would be tricky. There were words that needed to be spoken. There was a pattern that could not be broken. He needed to weave the incantation into something they would understand, or, failing that into something that would fool them into believing that they should understand and keep them in their seats until he'd finished.