David Wilson - Hallowed Ground

A simply crafted coffin rested on a makeshift trestle before the altar. The trestle had been created from crates and planks and draped with a moth-eaten blanket. The holes in the cloth wouldn’t have been visible to the congregation. Like so much else it was down to the eye seeing what it wanted to see.

The casket was open.

The Deacon walked to the altar and stared out at those gathered. The tent was full – as full as he'd ever seen it, truth be told. He knew they hadn't come to hear the word of God. These people had no particular faith that could help them reach everlasting peace. They weren’t here to be saved. They were here because it wasn't Rookwood. It wasn't another dead night in a dying town, drowning them in ennui and drying out their souls. It was different. It would give them conversation and dreams to carry them through another month, or year, until the next. It wasn't their fault that they'd stumbled into the spider's web. And another truth be told, he doubted very much that they would have walked away, even if they had suspected the danger they were in.

"Let us pray," he said, and every head bowed. That was the power of the word. He led them through the service. His voice was deep, offering comfort and condolence as it carried through the tent and into the night. A large, ornate Bible lay open on the altar, but he paid little attention to it. The scripture rolled off his lips, and if some of it seemed a little off, or if the words didn't quite sound the same as they had the last time the congregation heard them, who would argue?

He spoke of Heaven, and of Hell. He talked of rich men threading themselves through needles, and the great seal of Solomon. He told them that they lived every day in the valley of the shadow of death, but they need fear no evil, for God would comfort them. He was their strength.

Somewhere in those words, they lost themselves. Somewhere, the He the Deacon spoke of changed from an all seeing, benevolent creator to the man standing before them, another facet of the illusion his words wove. A collection plate was passed, and disappeared. The service for Ma Kutter drew to a close, and the casket was closed, but that was only the beginning.

The Deacon loomed over them, and his voice carried them like twigs in a roaring flood. He called out to them to revive their faith. He called out to them to trust him with their souls. He called out to the hurt, and the broken, the sick and the weak. He called them to him, and slowly, as if mesmerized by his words and the odd, swaying motion of his tall, lean form, they came.

He walked among them and heard their stories. He prayed with Mae over the loss of her mother at an early age. He laid his hands on Silas Boone's shoulders and chanted something very low – impossible to make out, while staring the man dead in the eye. He touched his palm to Silas' forehead and the man keeled over backward, barely having his fall broken by the Deacon's men. They’d seen the same thing so many times they'd known to be ready, and they caught him before he could strike the dirt of the floor. Silas suffered from a rotted tooth that had pained him nearly every day of his adult life. When he woke, he turned and spit, and that tooth hit the floor in small puddle of blood.

The night wore away, and The Deacon drew on their energy. The congregation became weary, but he waxed stronger with every passing moment. Then he called for a hymn, and his people began to sing. It started low and deep, then rose slowly through the octaves. The men and women of Rookwood did not know the words, but they sang as well, hesitantly at first, and then with full throats and pounding hearts. The song drew them in. The rhythm caught their bodies and set them in motion. It became a joyous chorus as they sang hallelujah.

They hardly noticed when one of their number shuffled forward. It was Colleen. She swayed, sinuous as a serpent, caught in the embrace of the music. She walked down the center aisle of the tent and stopped before The Deacon. He walked forward, but he didn't touch her, rather, he side-stepped left and circled her slowly. He held his hands up, palms toward the girl, and continued to sing. She stood very still.

"Do you feel it?" The Deacon cried out, breaking the notes of the song like glass against stone, sending it in all directions in bits and echoes, notes and chords. The silence that followed was so thick and heavy it felt as though they'd been submerged in molasses.

"Do you feel how it runs through her?" The Deacon called out. "It is dark – it is evil. I feel it. It is so black I can see it through her skin and swimming in her soul. I can TASTE it. Brethren, and I cannot abide it. It must be cast out. She must be freed."

"Amen." The word was spoken by a dozen mouths, all The Deacon's people, and all in a single breath.

"She must be HEALED." The Deacon shouted.

"Amen," again, and this time from every pair of lips in the tent.

"She walks in darkness," He said, his voice steadying out, and growing stronger. "But my footsteps are washed in the light. She lives in shadows, but I can lift her up. I can bring her to salvation. I can heal her. I WILL heal her. Together we will make it so."

"Amen."

The Deacon took Colleen's hands in his and lifted them so that they pressed against his chest. There was a pulse of light at that touch, but Colleen's body shielded it from the room. At some point during the ceremony someone had lit braziers of incense, and suddenly the smoke, which had drifted close to the floor, whirled and rose, surrounding the altar and dimming the light.

Those who sat in the rear of the tent would later swear they saw The Deacon wrestling with a great serpent. It writhed and flailed about, but he held it tightly, all the while his powerful voice cutting through the mist and smoke and shadows. Others saw a brilliant, greenish light pulsing between The Deacon and a shadowy shape they could not make out but that they were certain was not Colleen. Most remembered very little beyond the hymn, and the smoke.

There was a scream. It pierced the night and drained all other sound from the world, stilling the horses, and the birds. The air was stifling and motionless. Darkness hung like a shroud over the world. Then the words of the hymn began again, slowly and steadily, in The Deacon's voice. He walked from the cloud of smoke and blackness down the center aisle of the tent and into the night. He held Colleen's still form in his arms.

No one moved to block his way. Their voices, choked and dry, fought to join the song. They rose and stumbled out after him, leaving the tent to the dust and the breeze. The Deacon carried Colleen around the corner of his wagon and to the rear of his tent. They stood in the dying night, with the hint of dawn brushing the skyline until he was out of sight. They turned, and they saw the empty tent behind them. They saw that The Deacon's folk had drifted off to their own shadows.

Slowly, half aware and half dazed by what they'd experienced, they turned and climbed into their wagons. Those who'd ridden in from town found their horses, and those who'd walked climbed into the back of John Bender's wagon with the coffin. It was sealed, and though there was the vague sensation that it was wrong to do so, they huddled in beside it until the wagon groaned from their weight, and without a word, Bender slapped the reins and sent his team plodding homeward.

‡‡‡

As the dust from their passing settled, a lone form staggered out of the gulch. She was tall and thin. She wore a man's clothing, worn and dark with the dust of the road. Her hair was matted and had gathered brambles and thorns. Her face was streaked with tears and lined with pain.

She made her way into the circle of tents and dropped to her knees, staring at the huge cross topping the central tent. No one saw her enter. The only light in the camp came from the rear of The Deacon's tent, which was lit so brightly with candles it seemed to be on fire. Her gaze was drawn to that light, and like a moth to flame, she staggered to her feet and started forward.