Hallowed Ground by David Niall Wilson, Steven & Wilson Savile Page A

turned to gaze at her.
    "Lives and stories are circular.   Everything is a pattern.   You are correct in guessing that this one is unfinished."
    He held up the torn document again.   Mariah's mouth dropped open as comprehension drowned coherent thought.   The bottom third of the document was missing.   It was torn directly through the signature.   What remained, as well as she could make it out, was the name Benjamin.
    Balthazar offered no further comment.   He rolled the document, tucked it back into its tube, and stood.
    "The night is upon us," he said.   "You'll need to eat, and then, it will be time for rest.   Battles are seldom won by the weak.   There are things you need to know before we can proceed – and things you need to remember.   I will … watch over you.   There is a bed in the back of the wagon.   It's not luxurious, by any means, but I believe you'll find it clean and comfortable."
    "Who are you," she asked him again.
    He stared at her, not a hint of emotion in evidence, and shook his head.   "Everything you need to know, you already hold here," he patted his head, "or here," he touched his hand to his heart.   "Don't ask me questions you'd rather not hear the answer to out loud…that is my advice to you.   Eat, sleep, get your strength back, and be patient.   All things come in their time."
    Mariah opened her mouth, and then closed it.   She stared off across the dancing flames of the fire, and Balthazar turned to his wagon.   In the shadows at the perimeter of the camp, shapes materialized, flickered, and disappeared.   They were tall, slender shapes.   Mariah thought she recognized them, but their forms were insubstantial, and every time she tried too hard to concentrate on features, or a face, they blew apart in the wind and left her grasping at memories.
    They were men, but not men.   At times, great black wings spread out behind them, like those of huge dark-eyed ravens, or crows.   Their faces were pale and draped in shadow, and if she watched long enough, and one turned, it seemed she could make out the long, sharp beak.   They ringed the camp as though standing guard, and though she knew she should be frightened by such a thing, what she was was curious – and frustrated.   Something itched at the back of her mind and tugged at her temper.   She knew these – things – but she could not draw the memory to the surface.
    At some point the scent of searing meat told her Balthazar was cooking again, and as hard as she tried to ignore him and concentrate on those others, her body betrayed her. She was ravenous. Her mouth prickled with it, and she licked her lips. Her stomach screamed to be filled, and she felt weak again.
    The shadows melted into the night.   When Balthazar handed her a plate, a slab of meat and some sort of vegetable he'd fried in the grease, she wolfed the food, unheeding of his warning to take things slowly.   The plate was empty in moments, and she glanced up.   Her first instinct was to ask for more, but then she suddenly realized she was no longer hungry.
    Balthazar took her plate and stepped back.
    "The bed is in back," he said again.   Then he turned away.
    Mariah was exhausted.   She lifted herself from the chair, where she'd sat all that day, and her legs nearly betrayed her.   She steadied herself on the arm of her chair, took a deep breath, and tottered to the wagon.   She worked her way down the side, using it for balance.   She wondered if Balthazar was watching.   She thought he wasn't, but she didn't waste the strength to turn and check.
    After what seemed like hours, she reached the rear of the wagon.   There was a single step, and it was nearly at her waist level.   Above the dark interior of the wagon waited.   She laid her cheek against the side of the rear panel of the wagon.   It was too far – too high.   She felt as if