David Wilson - Hallowed Ground

Brady bit his lip, then nodded curtly. "Fine. If folks want to attend such a service, it's not my place to stand in their way. I won't have it here in town, though. The church is boarded up, and it's been that way for quite a spell. I don't want it collapsing on anyone's head. One death’s more than enough for a small town, wouldn’t you agree?"

The Deacon nodded in return and touched the brim of his hat.

"Our main tent is big enough for ourselves and as many of your townsfolk who care to join us. Do I have your permission to spread the word?"

"Spread it all you want on the way out of town," Brady replied coolly. "I'll let the undertaker know to bring the casket out this evening. Word spreads fast in Rookwood – there won't be anyone who might want to attend who doesn't hear in time. I'll see to it myself."

"Then I'll be heading back to camp," The Deacon replied, "and I'll consider us well met."

Brady didn't nod this time. He stood and gazed at the strangers a moment longer, then turned and pushed back through the swinging doors of the saloon without a word.

Creed turned back to the bar and made a show of nursing his drink. He had no intention of riding back out to The Deacon's camp. He had other things on his mind, one of which was still the trapper’s camp he'd set out to find earlier. With Brady distracted, and the rest of the town concentrating on The Deacon and this funeral, it might be a perfect chance to get out and actually take a look-see. He heard the door swing open and shut as The Deacon and his men left the bar.

Chapter Seven

The wagon rolled slowly out from town, pulled by a pair of dusty gray mares. John Bender, blacksmith, undertaker, and general handyman, held the reins loosely in his calloused hands. Bender was tall and well-muscled with the wiry strength of the constant worker. His forearms were like ham-hocks, powerful from years working the hammer and tongs of the forge. He was a practical man; he built his coffins from the same wood with which he repaired doors and built tables. He usually wore a pair of threadbare dungarees so dark they might have been died black, and a blue work shirt, but this night was special.

John Bender had buried thirteen people since the last funeral was held in Rookwood – an unlucky number if ever there was one. Those bodies had found their way into the soil with no more than a handful of mourners, and only John himself to say grace. This funeral marked the first he’d attended in his Sunday best. His suit was as dark as the night sky. He wore a top hat that added to his already eerie height. A purple ribbon was wrapped around the brim of the hat and trailed down over his broad shoulders. He drove the cart slowly, not wanting to upset the coffin in the back, and because he didn't want to pull away from mourners walking alongside.

Most of Rookwood had turned out for the event. While it was sure to be a dreary affair filled with proclamations to a Lord they seldom paid more than quick lip service to, it was also the only thing to provoke even mild interest from the people of Rookwood in a month of Sundays.

Colleen and Mae, dressed in uncharacteristically austere gowns, walked beside the horses. The townsfolk fell in behind, shuffling along on the anvil of the sun. Silas was there, and at the rear, riding slowly with his hat pulled low over his eyes, rode Sheriff Brady. Provender Creed was nowhere to be seen, but that was hardly a surprise. Creed was a lone wolf, happier out away from people, and hardly the most religious man in town. Bender chuckled, rather inappropriately given the circumstances, but the notion of Creed crossing the threshold of a church was about as likely as Ma Kutter rising and taking her leave.

It took a long time to reach the camp, and even though they'd started in the early afternoon, the moon was rising above The Deacon's tents by the time they came into sight. Torches had been lined up to create a luminous trail into the camp, and Bender steered the wagon down the center aisle. There was something unnerving about that last, short part of the ride; it felt holy, like a ritual passage or crossing over, but that wasn’t it. Curious faces watched him every slow foot of the way. He tried to dismiss the mild discomfort, putting it down to the scrutiny of strangers and the business they were about, but that wasn’t it either. Bender pulled the cart up just to the right of the door to the main tent. The others filed past him and into the shadowed interior, finding seats where they could, making quiet, whispered introductions to the Deacon's flock.

Four strapping men stepped from the tent to stand behind the wagon. Bender introduced himself, but they didn't speak. He held out his hand in greeting. One of the men held his out as well, and they shook. It was a reluctant gesture at best. Bender wanted to ask questions. He wanted to know his part in the ceremony, to find out what was expected, but when the second man held out the mutilated, gnarled thing that had been his hand, and the third turned to show his profile, which lacked one ear and included a pronounced cleft in his left cheek the questions slipped from John’s mind. The effect was like witnessing the two sides of a coin. One was a face Bender could recognize, and the other? He didn't look at the fourth pall bearer. He helped them slide the coffin to the rear of the car, and walked in quietly behind them as they bore it in silence to the rear of the tent, and The Deacon's altar.

He refused to look left or right, fearful of what other deformities might mar The Deacon’s flock. Bender was a simple man who cherished his simple life. This place was far from simple. There was something about it that caused his flesh to creep and finally he was beginning to understand what that ‘something’ was: it was unnatural. Everything about the procession through the tent city, the morbid fascination of the onlookers and the ruination of The Deacon’s people was wrong. Ungodly.

John Bender took a seat in the rear of the tent and contemplated the repercussions of taking his cart, and his horses, and riding back to town alone.

Chapter Eight

The Deacon stood alone behind a grubby screen at the rear of the tent. The dust of the road clung to the fine gauze and shielded him effectively from those congregated. He was an intensely private man, at ease only in his own company. Among others his life became part of the carnival so he cherished these moments of solitude. Life out on that stage was almost surreal, trapped in the lights, everyone so desperately wanting to share his gift . There was an intense greed and selfishness about it all, but as far as they were concerned, he was doing the Lord’s work and they people looked to him to do what they could not – to save them.

The Deacon smiled and closed his eyes to savor the nearness of his flock and the love he felt out there, stronger even than the grief. He allowed no one near him prior to services. Not that any of his people would have dared, but it wasn’t only his own out there today. The tent was swollen with the mourners of Rookwood, so to prevent the curious from disturbing him, he had stationed Sanchez and the boy just beyond the screen.

The urge to pull the pouch from beneath his dark cloak and hold it was powerful. It sensed what was to come. Where he felt love, it felt the breath and tasted the blood that suffused the tent. He didn't dare to touch it, so he closed his eyes and withdrew his thoughts, emptying his mind.

"And thus do the faithful preserve the vessel," he said softly. "Thus shall His will be done on earth as it is in heaven."

The rustling and shuffling of feet and clothing slowly stilled. There was a low murmur of voices, but after several moments even that died away, deadened by the oppressing weight of the air. When even the dust had settled, The Deacon strode to the edge of the screen, took a deep breath, and stepped into the open.