Silas Thornwood's Arc

Chapter 1 of 1

Silas Thornwood knelt in the dust of his dead hometown and prayed, but the shadows only laughed at him. He had crossed the desert to bless these graves and lift the plague that chained the dead here. His faith was strong. His hands were empty. A blessing needs holy water or oil or blessed salt, and he carried none. His prayers passed through the shadows like wind through a fence. The dead did not rest. They stood at the edge of town, dark and silent, watching him with hollow eyes. Silas felt their hunger. His duster stirred, black as smoke, and the cross at his throat felt cold and useless. He rose and turned his horse toward the one building still standing whole. The old chapel sat at the end of the street. Its stone walls wore green moss. The bell hung crooked in its tower. Silas pushed the leaning door and stepped inside. Dust hung in the light. Someone had swept the floor, though. Fresh candle stubs sat on the altar. A gray-bearded man came from the shadows behind the pulpit, broom in hand. He wore a black robe and a gold cross. His eyes went to the pistol on Silas's hip, then to the cross at his neck. Silas had heard of this man. A killer once. A priest now. The one soul who never left. "You're the last living thing in fifty miles," Silas said. "Why stay?" "Someone has to keep the door open," Father Crane said. He set the broom against a pew. "You came to bless them. I can see it. And you came empty-handed." "My prayers can't touch the shadows," Silas said. "I need something holy. I've got nothing." The old priest studied him a long moment. Then he walked to the altar and knelt. He pried up a loose stone with his fingers. Beneath it sat a small clay jar sealed with wax. "Water from a blessed spring," Crane said. "I carried it from far away when I first repented. I've kept it for the day someone came to finish what I couldn't." He held it out. "I've killed men. I can't bless the dead. My hands aren't clean enough. Yours are." Silas took the jar. It was heavier than it looked. Warm, almost. "You're sure." "I'm sure." Crane closed Silas's fingers around it. "But hear me. Bless one grave, and the plague will feel it. It won't wait quiet after that. Whatever binds these dead will come for you." Silas stepped back into the street. He knelt at the nearest grave, broke the wax, and poured a thread of water on the sunken earth. He spoke the blessing. This time the words held. The shadow over the grave thinned and broke like fog in sun. Then the ground shook. Across the town, a low bellow rolled out. Cloud and lightning gathered above the graves. Steel hooves struck stone. The plague had a shape now, and it had heard him.