David Wilson - Hallowed Ground

Sanchez lurked outside, waiting for his cue. The Deacon had drilled it in to him. So much depended upon timing, and worse, upon others. He hated being at the mercy of fools. Still, he was fairly certain he could trust that when the right moment in the ritual had been reached, Sanchez would bring Colleen and the child in. It was like a finely orchestrated dance, so many pieces in motion all at the same time, if one failed they all failed. And he was in the middle, controlling everything. There was at least one detail of the ritual he intended to change. He was fairly certain that despite their exceptional sight, the sisters did not know. With Longman it was more difficult to judge, but again, the Deacon thought he had kept this one last thing a secret.

The only thing he was sure and certain of was that the talisman in the pouch around his neck was unaware of his thoughts. He’d have known in an instant. The book and the ritual had a vice-like hold on him, but he only needed to twist its purpose for the span of a single word, and he was strong. Fools were forever underestimating him. It was like playing out a game of smoke and mirrors within his mind. He prayed for the strength to see the ritual through to its end. If he concentrated, played his part, and performed as expected right up to that telling moment, that single word buried within all of the others, he could pull it off. His life, possibly his eternal soul, depended on it.

He raised his hands again and smiled at the gathered folk of Rookwood, and those of his own flock.

"Thank you all for coming, one and all. Thank you for having the faith in the word, for having the love in your hearts and the spirit to unite and be one," he smiled his winning smile and spread his arms wide to encompass the entire congregation. "There is no better time than the present to do the work of the Lord. There is no endeavor more important than the salvation of the eternal soul. We have come together to raise our voices in praise, to bind our hearts in prayer, and to bring the blessings of the almighty down to bless this gathering.

"This tent is nothing more than canvas supported on wooden bones. This land is dry and forgotten, and yet, it was created by His hand, and is as blessed as any delta, field, mountain or riverbank. The power and soul of the Creator flows through the sand and stone, and it stretches up to touch us, each and every one.

"When we gather in his name and join in prayer, the ground beneath us is hallowed. What we share and think and believe is sacred. We leave behind our mortal shells and become something one step closer to the divine. Will you join me? Will you rise and bow your heads and pray with me?"

A few nodded, almost shyly. A few more clapped here hands. One voice called hallelujah. The Deacon’s smile broadened.

As though there had been some silent communication between them, McGraw began to play again. It wasn’t any hymn that The Deacon knew - not exactly - but one born of many melodies, as though a myriad of holy songs had been woven into one tight pattern. Patterns within patterns all coming together in a great weave, the Deacon thought. It took a moment of listening to realize that the composition could only have been written for McGraw; with his missing fingers, there were no missing notes. The melody flowed and skipped over what might have been and became something unique. The Deacon was fond of saying every man had his own song…McGraw had apparently chosen this moment in time to share his. It would have been difficult, if not impossible, for a pianist with a full complement of fingers to match it.

"Will you rise?" The Deacon intoned. He didn’t need to ask…he knew they would rise. They always rose. He held up his hands, palms turned out to face them.

Those gathered - all but Longman and the sisters - stood slowly. Some joined hands, others stood separate, like islands of faith. Every last man and woman dipped their heads, eyes lowered to the dirt-floor and closed tightly.

"Lord," The Deacon said, "we offer ourselves freely to you. We offer our lives, and our hearts, our words and deeds. Offer us, in return, your blessing and your power, your protection and your love."

He hesitated. His followers joined their voices and cried.

"Amen!"

They were his now, their purpose and their existence. In one word they had surrendered themselves to him. The Deacon lifted his head and cried out: "And now I will call to the powers of Heaven, and of Earth. I will speak the names of those with the power to change our hearts and our minds, our health and our destiny. I will call out for the power to help, and to heal. Are you with me?"

"Yes," those gathered intoned. The tent sang with the power of that one word.

The Deacon raised his voice still more, becoming thunderous as he repeated, "Are you with me?"

"Yes!" they screamed as one.

So he began.

"O Vsyr, Salaul, Silitor, Demor, Zanno, Syrtroy, Risbel, Cutroy, Lytay, Onor, Moloy, Pumotor, Tami, Oor and Ym, warrior spirits of our Lord, whose role it is to bear arms and to strengthen human senses wherever you wish I conjure and exort and invoke you by the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit, called the Holy Trinity, and by the creator of Heaven and Earth and of all things visible and invisible, and by Him who formed man of the mud of the Earth, and by the annunciation of our Lord Jesus Christ, and by his nativity, and by his death and passion, and by his resurrection and by his ascension."

‡‡‡

Brady, who’d taken a position as close to the back and the exit as possible, glanced up.

"What in hell?" he muttered. His skin prickled. Burned. He started to turn, but found that his legs were oddly weak. He glared directly at the Deacon and shook his head. He felt as though he’d been glued in place, and though he knew the Deacon was speaking, the words spilled over and around him without any sort of clarity. They were a jumble of sounds and syllables that swelled to fill his mind but made no earthly sense.

"Likewise I conjure all you aforesaid demons," though the word twisted in Brady’s mind, sounding more and more like ‘angels’ as he tried to focus on it, "spirits, by the gracious and most merciful and undefiled and incorrupt Virgin Mary, the mother of our Lord Jesus Christ, who underwent death for us miserable sinners and recalled us to the heavenly fatherland.

"Likewise, I conjure you by all the holy men and women of God, and by all the apostles, martyrs, confessors, virgins and widows, and by these most precious and ineffable names of the Creator of all, by which you all are bound, and which arouse fear in all things in Heaven, on Earth, and in Hell, to wit Aa, Ely, Sother, Adonay, Cel, Sabaoth, Messyas, Alazabra and Osian, Likewise I conjure and exort you by the virtue and power of all your princes, kings, lords, and superiors, and by your virtue and capacity and power, and by your dwelling place of which this circle is the form, and by all the figures present within it."

There was more, but those gathered never raised their eyes. They swayed in time with the majestic timbre of the Deacon’s voice. They murmured Amens and Hallelujahs into the few silent moments and crossed themselves. Energy crackled in the air, and it swept away their thoughts.

Brady struggled against it, fighting with every ounce of life in his bones. He managed a single stumbling step toward the aisle, as though he might either turn on the Deacon and confront him, or flee through the flaps of the tent and on into the night, but in the end, he failed to do either. The words surged and swelled, the rhythms blazed through his body, and he began to sway in time with them as his thoughts slipped off to some other place and time.

He didn’t have the breath left in him for a final curse.

Chapter Thirty