The Preacher nodded. “There is some wisdom in that point of view. We have all been tainted, there is no escape. We are all now creatures both mundane and magical.”
While he had spoken he had sat down upon the dead burned tree which now served us all as a bench in the parking lot. He stood up then, straight as a sword, and his face took on the stern demeanor I knew so well.
“But there is a line that can be drawn, I’m sure of it. Determining exactly where the line lies, however, is the difficult part. But it can be drawn, and I will be the one to draw it, if no other is up to the task.”
Again, as if excited by his mood, the thing on his belt shifted. It reminded me of an anxious pet, trying vainly to get its master’s attention. He turned blazing eyes to me. I blinked, there was wisdom and murder in those eyes, all wrapped into one. And, most strongly of all, what blazed out from those windows into his soul was stern, fixated stubbornness. I felt his strength of will like a warm fire and I admired it.
“And what of the thing on your belt, I don’t think you got to that part,” I said gently.
He relaxed somewhat, and breathed deeply. “Yes, our bargain,” he said. “I got the axe from Malkin. It was a gift from the fissures of hell, or heaven, or the primordial residue of creation itself-whatever these places connect one to. Unlike your sword, however, it wasn’t from an imprinted stone left behind, it was from a tiny cut upon his tiny foot, and a splash of his ancient blood that was left there. Like a magical oil, it brought the axe alive.”
“How did you catch him?” I asked.
The Preacher grinned and that grin was not entirely healthy and clean. “I was fascinated by him, and he by me, and when he did not accept the forgiveness I’m bound to offer even such a soul as his, I passed judgment upon him.”
With unnatural speed and grace, the axe appeared in the Preacher’s hand. He had reached down in a blur of motion and drawn it from where it begged to be drawn, ripped it from the loop of old stinking leather and pulled it out into the fresh air of the fall morning. It was big and black and it reflected the sunlight in white gleaming arcs. I was startled, but I could only stare at the curved black blades-for in the bright light of day I now saw the axe had two blades where I had seen it before with only one. The blades clouded over for a moment at the touch of my gaze and then, just as quickly, returned to a glass-like sheen.
The Preacher continued to grin his wise, but feral, grin. “For you see, Malkin is ancient and wise and swift-but my judgment was even more so.”
I had my hand on my saber before I knew it. I didn’t draw it; in fact, I doubt I could have drawn it before he could swing. He moved so quickly with that axe, it was far from natural. So I stared at him, meeting his gaze with my own. After a few seconds, he nodded and idly put away his living weapon. The axe seemed reluctant to go. I thought to myself, it knows the taste of blood now, and it likes it.
The Preacher continued as if he had never threatened my life. Perhaps in his mind he hadn’t. “I nicked Malkin,” he said, “and his essence both blessed and cursed my weapon. Since that moment, it has been warped in shape and nature, but not in purpose. I still use it to judge the wicked lost ones and free them from their torment.”
“Have you found any yet that could be redeemed and still live?” I asked suddenly. It had always been his position that some could be. He was the only person I knew of who didn’t completely condemn the monsters we fought, he was the only one who still held out hope for them.
He lowered his head sadly. “No,” he said, “but I will keep seeking such a creature.”
“John,” I said. “I’ll tell you one more thing and then I’ll ask you one last question about your travels.”
I told him then about my walk down through the waters to Elkinsville, about my encounters with the Captain and the Hag. I told him of our escape, and of our fight on the beach, and of the brass lantern we carried up from that dark place. I did not tell him why we fought or of how I had died briefly down there, clutching the prism in one hand.
He glanced at the hand I still had jammed in my pocket.
“Is that all you have to tell?” he asked me, and I almost told him all of it then, but I couldn’t.
“Yes,” I said.
He sighed, as if a great weight had been placed upon his shoulders. I watched him with some wariness. He spoke with high words, but was his mind as intact as his philosophies?
“What about the lantern? You just left it there on the beach?”
I nodded.
“She will come for it, you know. And she will come here,” he said.
“Why here?” I asked.
He turned and pointed. I followed the gesture and squinted in the sun. The daylight was just beginning to fade behind the growing storm clouds that blew overhead. I shaded my eyes with my good hand. There were two figures approaching from the northeast. They both appeared to be favoring sore feet. It took me a moment to recognize them. It was the Captain, and Doctor Wilton. Wilton had something wrapped in a dark cloth.
The dark cloth she carried was my own coat. It flapped up in the growing winds. The thing hidden beneath it shot out a beam of crimson light in my direction. It was blinding and beautiful all at once.
It was the Hag’s lantern.
Thirty-Four
I looked back at the center. I realized that there were several faces glued to various windows. I saw Holly Nelson’s, and Nick Hackler’s and Monika’s. My talk with the Preacher had not been as private as I’d assumed. I doubted they had heard the words, but they had gotten the gist of it, I was sure.
The Preacher and I stood side by side quietly as the Captain and Wilton approached us. We had our hands ready. Vance came out too, casually holding his rifle at waist-level. I saw no sign of the Captain’s M4 and felt relieved. Perhaps he had lost that weapon. Or perhaps he had stashed it somewhere for a special occasion.
They reached the gate and Wilton called out. “Let us in, I think we might be followed!”
The three of us walked toward the gate, which was chained tight. Barbed wire wound around the top of the fence now, and the empty guard tower built of plywood and two-by-fours loomed mutely over them.
“Well, Captain?” I said, eyeing them both.
The Preacher had been opening his mouth, and seemed startled that I had beaten him to it. He watched me with interest, but did not object or interrupt.
“Gannon,” the Captain greeted me. He had his knife at his side, but his hand was on the hilt. Both he and Wilton looked dirty and tired. I could only wonder what they had been up to while I slept.
“Do we still have a truce?” I demanded.
“Of course,” he said, attempting a smile. “There are worse things out here than you or I.”
I nodded, not buying his friendly show entirely, but finding his point hard to argue.
“And what about Wilton and the thing from the beach?” I demanded, coming up to the gate to face him. “I never meant to let either of them into the center.”
Wilton opened her mouth to speak, but the Captain waved her to silence. Wilton looked worriedly from face to face, but took the hint and held her tongue. I imagined it was difficult for her. She kept glancing over her shoulder and scanning the houses and streets behind them.
The Captain came up to the fence and clawed his hands in the chain links. “Look, Gannon, things are bad out here. I’ve seen bad things. You know what I mean. We are all going to have to work together tonight I think and use everything we have, or we’re all dead. Or worse.”
I eyed the Captain. “Explain what you mean.”
“Okay, but let us in first.”
I glared at them, undecided for a moment.
“If we let you in, you’ll bring it all right here, just like she did before,” said Vance, his eyes narrowly upon Wilton.