Hallowed Ground by David Niall Wilson, Steven & Wilson Savile Read Free Book Online Page A

Heaven.   The Deacon licked his lip and forced himself to wait a heartbeat, then another, before he touched a finger to her throat.   The pulse was there, but little more than a weak flutter.
    He closed his eyes and focused on the flow of the blood beneath his fingertips, the rhythm of it.   Slowly, he let himself sink into that trickle of life.   He fed his strength into her through that contact and felt the sharp draw on his vitality that he knew so well.   It was not magic; not in the tribal or shamanic sense, it was God – or some other power equally compelling - moving through him, channelled through his flesh into the dying girl’s blood to make it stronger.   That is the story he told, that the creator used him for repairs that he was only roadway for a higher power to walk.   Sometimes, alone at night and staring into the heavens, he even believed it.   He concentrated, and the outpouring of energy slowed, stilled, and then reversed.   The Deacon closed his eyes, relishing the heat as it flowed back into him.
    The laying on of hands drew almost as much from him as it gave to those in need of his talents.   It was two sides to the silver coin that paid the Boatman, a blessing and a curse and all of those other truisms connected so virulently to the Lord to exemplify that He both gave and took away when divine whimsy struck.   It never passed without leaving its mark, and it was an intricate dance.
    "Not yet, child, not yet," he murmured as the warmth spread out from his fingers, supplementing her pulse and passing the blood flowing to her brain.
    He savoured her heart beat as it echoed within him, racing at first but then slowing to match his.   She showed no sign of waking.   Sometimes The Deacon liked to watch the fear and understanding spread across the face of a penitent as he performed a harrowing, but this time he sensed everything was different, and he was glad for the lack of distraction.   He pulled the rest of her dress away from her shoulders and down to bare the glorious mound of her belly.   He slid his hands down to rest on either side of her stomach, feeling the outline of the child beneath the protective sack of the mother’s flesh.
    There was no life there.
    The Deacon closed his eyes.
    "Give me a sign, Lord.   Guide my hand so that it might serve your will."
    As though in response, the winds around the tent gusted, churning the dust from the surface of the hard baked dirt into devils that blew along the pathways forming the wretched canvas settlement.
    "Is this your will? Is this as you would have it?" He raised his hands and thrust them into the air above his head.   The winds answered, the dry crack of thunder rumbled over the distant hills.   The Deacon grew very still.   His head cocked to the side, as if he discerned words in that dull roar.   His voice shifted when next he spoke, dropping a full octave and becoming thick with gravel.   "Then so it shall be done."
    There was no rain.
    The wind rose and tore at the flaps of the tents surrounding them.   Guide ropes thrummed like plucked guitar string and tugged against the stakes anchoring them to the earth.   The taut canvas walls beat a wretched cacophony to rival the wing beats of the hundreds upon hundreds of black winged birds that had descended upon the town the night before.   The Deacon's hair whirled about him wildly.   His jacket threatened to tear back and blow free of his shoulders.   Still the noise rose, accentuated by the scratch and scrap of claws on the canvas of the tent roofs.
    The crows had returned to carry the shriven soul away into the night.   The Deacon thought for a moment that he could distinguish voices in their calls and in the cry of the wind and the snap of the heavy canvas where it tore free of its restraining guide ropes.   Was that what the Lord sounded like, a voice too huge to be heard?
    Savoring the taste of them on