Hallowed Ground

Chapter Twenty-Two

When Elizabeth next woke, she still felt shaky, but much stronger. She was hungry, and her lips were cracked and blistered from thirst. The wagon had stopped again while she slept. Outside there was only the sound of the wind blowing through the dust and the devils churning up the desert. For a panicked moment, she was sure he had left her there to rot, alone and without food or water. She shook the cobwebs from her head and sat up.

She hesitated with her hand a few inches from the door latch, sure that he would snatch it out from beneath her before she could open it as he’d done before. It was the kind of thing Balthazar seemed to enjoy, proving his control. She drew a deep breath, licked her lips, and grabbed the brass latch. She pushed it open on a glorious morning. All but the final, lingering signs of the storm had passed; the ground was bone dry and the cobalt sky stretched off to the mountains in the west. There was still the wind, but it was pleasant with the backdrop of sunlight. Mariah took the two steps down to the ground carefully, stretched the aches out of her back, and looked around.

The campfire was laid out in exactly the same place it had been each and every time she’d seen it. For a single disorienting moment she wondered if they’d ever really moved at all. Balthazar sat in one of the chairs, his legs stretched out, feet crossed at the ankles, hat tipped forward over his eyes to shield them from the sun, and his hands steepled in his lap. He appeared lost in thought. She approached quietly. He did not look up.

There was an empty plate next to her chair. The skillet rested on a rock beside the fire. It bubbled with bacon grease, but there was no bacon.

"Wasn’t' sure when you'd wake," Balthazar said from beneath his hat, startling her. He sat up, tipped the hat back and smiled. "Bacon’s in the tin over there." He nodded toward a flat rock not far from the fire. "Eggs are beside it. Help yourself. Coffee’s in the pot."

She had a thousand questions to ask, but the scent of the bacon grease was compelling. She knelt by the fire. Balthazar rose behind her, and she heard coffee pouring into one of the tin cups. Before long she had a couple of eggs and several long ragged rashers of bacon sizzling in the grease. She was certain that if it didn’t cook quickly she would eat it raw, she was that hungry.

"What do you remember?" Balthazar asked.

She turned and looked up at him.

"About the dreams?" she asked.

"There were no dreams, girl. Let me make that very clear. I will not tolerate denial or stupidity. You were there, and you remember. You were born Elizabeth Tanner. You died of consumption. That was your life. One of them, at least. You were born a second time without a name or a home, and then She found you and took you to the tents. Her followers are loyal, but not the brightest of souls. I called, and you escaped them. I gave you a new name, and shortly I will add to that – and give you a new purpose."

The bacon forgotten, she turned and rose.

"Died of consumption?" she missed most of what he said because those three words stuck in her head. "What do you mean…died?"

"You have traveled more than miles," he said. "Time does not flow at the same rate in every place that it exists. In some it rushes like the rapids on a swollen river – in others it is stagnant. Turgid. You died less than a week ago, Mariah, but I assure you – you were gone for months. Do you really doubt me? You walked through the fire."

She fought to sort the chaotic jumble of thoughts that scattered through her mind, trying to find the questions that needed answering the most. She closed her eyes and suddenly felt the flames licking at her flesh, the blood and marrow boiling. She opened her eyes quickly.

"My baby?" she said.

"Time was not what it seemed." Balthazar continued, ignoring her. "That is your truth, Mariah. The subjective nature of time. Quit trying to count days in your head, they won’t fit and you'll go mad, and mad you are of no use to me." He glanced over her shoulder and nodded curtly. "Your breakfast is burning, girl."

Mariah spun around, reaching out too quickly. She caught the handle and sent the skillet tumbling. She spilled the bacon grease, burning her hand. She flinched as her skin pinked and puckered, but she did not release her hold. The food had not tipped out of the pan. Wincing, she managed to get the eggs and bacon onto her plate.

Balthazar stood and sipped his coffee, watching her. He didn’t move to help her, or offer her salve for her wound. She wolfed down her food; once she'd had the first bite, she couldn’t help herself. She was ravenous. Balthazar's words haunted her: time passing differently in different places. Part of her wanted to rise up and scream that it made no sense, but then another part had her glancing back at the wagon. How long had she slept? How far had they come? Was it possible they’d been together more than the few days she remembered?

She scraped the last of the food from her plate, mopping up the thick grease with her fingers, and then set it aside on the table. She licked off the grease. She filled the mug from the pot by the fire. It was piping hot, and scalded her tongue, but she took another deep swallow to wash down the food. She used the pain to focus her mind.

"You said She," she shook her head. "Who did you mean? Who is She? I remember the tents, but…"

"The owl woman," Balthazar replied. He turned away from her, toward the fire. She couldn't tell if he was fascinated by the dancing flames and burning coals, or if there was something more – was he trying to hide his gaze? What didn’t he want her to see?

"Her name is Lilith," he continued. "At least, that’s the name she was first given. She has gone by many over the years. She took you, just as she stole something that was mine. She has been stealing from me since the beginning of the road you call time."

"Who is Lilith?"

Balthazar snorted. "I suppose that there is no reason I would expect you should know who she is. It isn’t as though you would have read about her in the butchered book you call The Bible, but your prophets knew her name. Your savior knew her, too, though of course there’s no mention of it in the gospels his followers penned all those years later. Elijah knew her, and Adam."

Mariah frowned, not following him.

"Lilith was the first woman," Balthazar said.

"No. That was Eve. Adam's wife was Eve," Mariah said softly.

Balthazar chuckled softly.

"Tell me, have you ever heard that old adage, Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned? Of course you have. Well, that first woman scorned was Lilith, and she has been working on her fury for an age."

"You aren't making any sense," Mariah said.

"You don't need to understand," Balthazar said. "You need to listen. Months ago, in the normal span of time, a man came to me with a proposition. He offered me his soul so that the woman he loved, the woman he'd planned to marry, could return from the dead. I honored that bargain. That is the kind of man I am. I keep my word, girl."

"Benjamin," Mariah said, understanding, at least in part. "You mean Benjamin. Benjamin came to you . . . for me."

Balthazar shrugged.

"The name is not important. It never is. Names are ephemeral. What is important is that there is a debt unpaid. Lilith stole a portion of our agreement and with it a portion of the flesh. Then she stole you, as well. There must be a reckoning. Debts left unpaid fester. I have waited a very long time to remind her of that, and you, my girl, will help me."

The fire rose suddenly, as though inflamed by his anger. Mariah stepped back as Balthazar stepped forward. He plunged his arms into the fire. Mariah stared, not sure whether she should be horrified, or intrigued. The flames didn’t touch his skin. He withdrew a bundle from conflagration and tossed it into the dirt at her feet. He turned away. "Dress," he said.

The bundle was actually fresh clothing. There was a silken black shirt, black jeans faded out through the thighs, scuffed snakeskin boots, and a belt. The belt held several knives in battered leather sheaths. It was decorated with silver and set with turquoise stones. A slender, almost fragile looking revolver hung in a holster.

"I don't know how to shoot."

"Who asked you to shoot?" Balthazar said. "I thought I told you to dress? I won’t ask again. If I have to turn around and dress you myself, I will."

She watched his back for a few moments longer, her face suddenly red with a mixture of anger, frustration, and fascination. She changed into the new clothes. The shirt felt cool and soothing against her skin. The jeans fit snugly, but were supple and comfortable. The boots wrapped around her calves like a protective second skin. The belt hung loosely down over her hip. And wearing them, she felt oddly – complete.

"Now," Balthazar said, slow smile spreading across his timeless face, "the devil makes work for idle hands and these hands have been idle too long."