The Second Coming

by David H. Burton

  Her mouth twitched into a smirk. “I suppose that's why you were lurking in the forest…to surprise me?”

  White Feather closed his mouth, and Brahm was sure his tanned skin contained a hint of red. She smiled inwardly and continued on.

  To their right a group of women tended a field of vegetables. Young corn stocks protruded from the ground, close to a patch of tobacco plants being cultivated by some men. Haudenosaunee warriors that were perched atop the entrance to the village hailed her in Iroquois. Brahm waved back and, for a brief moment, felt her troubles abandon her at the gates.

  They walked past row after row of elongated wooden buildings. Little had changed; everything was as she remembered. Small holes at the tops of each longhouse billowed out the aroma of smoked fish and made her stomach howl with anticipation. Animal skins stretched over crooked branches lay prostate in the sun.

  Waves and slight nods greeted her as she strode into the village; frowns and turned backs as well. Though she was Mohawk by adoption, there were many since Gray Wolf's death that refused to openly accept her as Haudenosaunee. She held her head high, preventing the stinging in her heart from showing on her face. It was the sole reason she did not visit more often. The last thing she wanted was to bring shame upon the Clan Mother.

  Children in tanned clothing dodged around her, carrying hoops and javelins. When one yelled out he was the Wendigo, the rest scurried off to hide among the longhouses.

  If only they knew the true horror.

  The women scolded the children for scoffing at such an evil, one they had not been privy to, and then shooed the children out of their way as they performed their daily routines. But not before they scanned the village in fear of the creature that had wreaked such terrible pain upon their people.

  Off at the far end, two teams played at Ga-lahs. Brahm watched the players run across the field and toss a ball with netted sticks. The game called to her.

  Brahm decided to take White Feather's advice and visit the Clan Mother first. Since being adopted into the Wolf Clan, she became like a daughter to Little Doe, despite some muttered protests. Yet none openly challenged the Clan Mother. Most assumed that if she chose to adopt her daughter's alleged murderer, then that was her business.

  White Feather left Brahm at his mother’s longhouse which was marked with the simple image of a wolf. She entered and walked the dark corridor, passing the living spaces of others to Little Doe's humble quarters. The air was saturated with the scent of sage.

  “Orenda! It is good to see you, my child,” the Clan Mother said with a wide smile that matched her open arms. Brahm's Iroquois name sang in her ears, a melody she did not hear often enough. The old woman looked well for her age, now seventy-five. Her white hair complemented her tanned, leathery skin; the results of a hearty existence of toil. Her face shone with the simple happiness of a life well-lived.

  “She:kon, Mother. It is good to see you,” she said and returned her hug. As with her son, the smell of the earth and a leafy richness emanated from the old woman. Brahm felt the worries of life dripping away like the wax of the bitter candles in the corner.

  “I have missed you, child. Have you met anyone?”

  Brahm rolled her eyes. It always was, and would always be, her first concern.

  “No, there isn't anyone. Not yet anyway. And I'm fine, thanks for asking.”

  “You look thin,” she muttered, poking Brahm in the stomach with a thin, strong finger. “Have you been eating?”

  She rolled her eyes. “I'm here on an important errand. The Witch Hunters have begun to gather in the south and we think they may attack soon. We have also recalled the Missionaries and need you to watch for them.”

  “How is Diarmuid? That one would be good for you.”

  She knew where this line of questioning was leading.

  “He’s fine. And we’re just friends, Mother.”

  “Sometimes good friends make good lovers.”

  “And sometimes they don't.”

  A mischievous look twinkled in the old woman's eyes, one that resembled her son's. “Well then, we'll just have to find you someone else.”

  Brahm just glared at her in return.

  The Clan Mother quickly changed the subject. “Well, we should have you talk to the Chiefs. War is the realm of the Hoyaneh and they should know about this right away.”

  Taking Brahm's arm, the old woman led her out towards the Onondaga meeting house, where the Council sat. They entered the building and the smell of tobacco was so thick Brahm coughed. The room was barely lit and she waited for her eyes to adjust to see the circle of fifty men that gathered.

  “Welcome, Clan Mother.”

  “Hoyaneh,” she addressed Brown Bear, the Council Leader. “Orenda is here. She is on an urgent errand from Haven.”

  Knowing, silent nods passed around the circle.

  “She may speak.”

  “Nia:wen,” said the Clan Mother and gave Brahm's hand a squeeze as she left.

  Brown Bear rose to greet her. His hands were dry. “She:kon, skennenkowa ken?”

  She nodded. It was a lie. She did not really carry the Great Peace. She carried something else.

  Someone else.

  And she needed to get rid of it.

  “Orenda, we have not had the pleasure of your company for some time. We miss your bright smile.” There was affection in Brown Bear’s eyes, but frowns soured a number of the faces present.

  “I wish I were here under happier circumstances, but Haven needs your help.”

  He resumed his seat. “We know. We too have heard the rumors. We’ve been expecting you.”

  Brahm looked about the room, sensing trouble.

  “We must ask some difficult questions of you, Orenda. You hold in your head much knowledge of the Confederation.”

  She swallowed the lump in her throat. Her gut churned and the second soul that dwelt within her body stirred again.

  “The rumors of your past flit about like fireflies. There is some doubt about you among the tribes, but all have agreed if they leave here satisfied with your answers, there will be no doubt about your standing among us. We must have the truth, Orenda, and we must have all of it. Will you give it to us?”

  One of the Oneida Hoyaneh offered his pipe to her. Without hesitating, she accepted it and sat next to him. It would bring good thoughts. Perhaps the truth might help to purge her of the guilt, of the horrors of a past she kept trying to outrun, and of whom she had once served.

  The second soul inside her laughed and then screamed at her.

  -Repent!-

  “What do you want to know?” Brahm asked, and braced herself for the bitter remembering.

  Chapter 7

  Hours later, Brahm almost stumbled out of the building, her steadfast feet failing her. Her face was caked with dried tears. She felt dirty and used, and swore to herself she would not relive that again, for despite her hopes of redemption, there was no forgiveness, no cleansing. There was only the guilt, the remorse, and the shame. She half-wondered if Gregor knew she would be put through this. She smelled a conspiracy and decided she would have to have a talk with the old codger — a long one.

  The Hoyaneh were satisfied with her answers and would discuss the request for aid. They were going to send help, and her gut told her they would have despite her interrogation. The questions were a test of her loyalty. That was the sole reason she endured the humiliation of facing what she hated most about herself. She had bared the truth, every last scrap of it, and it felt like a steel bear trap around her heart.

  The Chiefs gained from the knowledge, as it would help in the coming war, but it was the proof of her worth they wanted, and she had proven it in a torrent of tears. There would never again be any question of her loyalty. Brahm was Haudenosaunee.

  Upon exiting, she found White Feather sitting on the ground waiting for her, hair shifting in the slight breeze that swept through the village.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, and reached to
wards her.

  She flushed and recoiled from his touch, a civil move on her part. He was lucky she didn’t lop off his arm and beat him senseless with it.

  “I need to get away.”

  He retracted his hand, nodded his head, and led her through the village, out the main gate, and into the woods. She followed him through the forest, her sole focus to put one foot in front of the other. She was capable of little else. She could do nothing. She felt nothing. She was nothing.

  After traveling for some time they stopped in front of an abandoned beaver dam, the water flowing freely in areas that had been neglected for years. Brahm dropped to her knees and immersed herself in the cool stream, trying to find redemption in nature's holy water, to wash away the grime and soot that clung to her heart. She cleaned the stains from her face and plunged her head in the water.

  - Murderer! -

  Brahm tossed her head from the water, venting her frustrations, her rage, and her bitterness in a growl that was worthy of a wounded grizzly. White Feather remained stolid behind her, unflinching.

  Two large rocks waited for them, places in which to let the summer breeze caress the skin and carry away the troubles of life. Brahm let the sun warm her soul and listened to the sound of the water trickling over the edge of the dam, trying to let the memories wash away. For a long time they sat in silent meditation, and somewhere in her drifting mind, she thanked White Feather for having brought her there. It was precisely what she needed.

  Time passed like the water that flowed over the dam and Brahm let herself float in its passing. Until something niggled at her. Someone was watching her. She opened her eyes, irritated her rest was being interrupted.

  Standing before her was a man like none she had ever seen, tall and majestic, with brown skin and long black hair that remained still, despite the wind. His eyes shone with an ancient knowing, and he stood three heads taller than she. Brahm held her breath. She knew who stood before her, from tales spoken among the tribes — the great Peace Maker, the being of Iroquois legend who had helped to found the Haudenosaunee nation hundreds of years ago. How she knew it was he, she could not explain, but she possessed enough sense to remain still and wait to see what he would do.

  The man said nothing, but motioned for her to follow him as he walked into the woods. Brahm took a quick moment to look at White Feather who was so deep in his supposed meditation he was now snoring. Cautious not to disturb him, she stepped along the rocks and followed the Peace Maker into the forest. He ran far ahead of her and she hurried, fearing she might lose him. None had seen the Peace Maker since the Shift, when he guided the Haudenosaunee to re-settle in these lands.

  One single question troubled her as she pursued him.

  Why had he come to her?

  ***

  Friar John eyed Miguel squirming in his saddle. It was now the morning of the fifth day on horse, and despite the fact the portly friar filled the saddle well, he struggled to keep from falling out. John could not help but grin. His own upbringing on a farm had given him the skills to ride. Sitting in the saddle was as comfortable to him as the overstuffed chairs of the Vatican library; a place he had spent his early days researching. That was when the truth had unfolded. It seemed a lifetime ago.

  Their journey took them past the Pillars of Hercules, and up the south-eastern coast of Iberia. They traveled through countless olive groves, fig farms, and orchards, and now faced one of the last remaining cities of the old world — Barcelona. It had been reborn from the ashes of the Shift, a place of trade and commerce now, where markets sprouted to replace the rubble of the ancient world.

  The Temple of the Sacred Family loomed over the city. Built from the designs of the ancient world, it was born again in blocks of bone white. Its tapered spires stretched towards the heavens, the tallest with a great cross sitting at its pinnacle. Each spire, as well as the south entrance, appeared as if stone wax had melted down the sides, giving the gothic Temple the appearance of a giant candelabrum.

  John had once seen its majesty in his youth, and remembered well the intricate statues that littered the elaborate structure, yet he had never set foot through its holy doors. Imams, priests, and rabbis all gathered and spoke around its base, debating theology and aspects of the great Joining.

  There were still some among the new Church that thought the joining of the three religions a mistake. But after the Shift, with the appearance of devils, apparitions, and fiends from a cursed realm, the three religions banded together and did everything they could to maintain control. The Shift had changed everything. Spirits openly walked the Earth once more — good and not so, and unknown beings inhabited barrows, deep wells, and the hollows of trees once more. And then there were the Firstborn, a fey race hell-bent on imposing their dominion over humans. They brought with them their dark witchcraft and religious sacrifice and it took decades to truly bring order once again. At least the Church was consistent in its thoughts on only one God.

  Fools.

  John covered his eyes from the glare of the white walls of Casa Milá — a building with sinuous curves and elaborate ironwork that wrapped about it in a twisted spiral. Its great chimneys of masked heads craned their necks far above the rooftop to stare out upon the city. It was another re-creation of the old world, and home to the King of Iberia — a man with a taste for wine, a fondness for lavish parties, and an eye for powerful women.

  John urged his white mare down the cobbled road, Miguel groaning behind him. The late morning sun rose above the central pinnacle of the Temple, casting the shadow of a cross upon them as they descended into the city.

  The markets bustled with trade and activity. The two friars dismounted, choosing to walk through the busy streets, leading their horses through the goods-laden market. John waved off numerous peddlers; rugs from famed Persia, stallions from Phoenicia, oils and wine from Rome, and even antiques from the old world; all carried by the Portuguese galleons.

  Whores waved from windows, peddling their own merchandise, and children danced through the streets, selling small trinkets to any who would pay them mind. One of the children tugged on his dust-ridden robes, a scarlet-haired street urchin with a bashful smile. John knelt, dwarfing the girl's hand in his own. She could not have been more than seven years old. Her pointed ears revealed her Firstborn heritage, though her face appeared somewhat human. She was a half-breed and almost as much an outcast here as she would be in Valbain.

  At least here she was free and let to live.

  “What can I do for you, little one?” His words were in Iberian, but she wore a turquoise charm about her neck — a translation amulet.

  The gleam in her eye indicated she understood as she pulled from her red rags a handful of the same stones, each attached to a leather cord. John reached into his robes and took out a small silver coin from his drawstring purse. He took two of the amulets from her, and passed one to Miguel after donning his own.

  A timid smile crept across the girl's face. She spoke Valbain, but the charm worked. “You have paid too much.”

  “No I haven't, little one. But if you feel it is too much, you can do me a favor. I need information.”

  “Are you from the Temple? There are others like him, with his hair.” Her delicate finger pointed towards Miguel, and his manicured patch of round baldness. The tonsure was something John had refused. Instead he grew his hair in a great shaggy mane.

  A warm smile decorated Miguel's face. “No, we are not from the Temple, but I would like to visit there.”

  The girl frowned. “I'm not allowed.”

  Miguel's eyebrows furrowed. “Why?”

  “My mother doesn’t like your God.”

  John chuckled. “What makes you think He is my God?”

  The look of surprise on her face was mirrored by Miguel.

  She smiled. “I like you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “What do you want, Churchman?”

  “First of all, what is your name? I can't keep calling you l
ittle one.”

  “Meega.”

  “Well, Meega, I am looking for someone called Liesel. Do you know that name?”

  Meega leaned in close to whisper. “She's crazy.”

  “Can you take me to her?”

  She nodded, and smiled a toothy grin. “Follow me, Churchman.”

  The half-breed led them through the market square, past the scents of coffee from famed Eritrea, as well as cinnamon and curries from distant India. Scattered throughout the marketplace, standing sentinel at every corner, were the King's Infantry. The soldiers were dressed in sand-colored pants and tunic, black breastplate, and masks that matched the faces on the castle rooftop. Each held a long pike, with dark feathers hanging from the base of a diamond-shaped spear. They watched as stone-faced statues.

  Meega led them along the beach, with the sun reflecting off the still waters of the Mediterranean in a pillar of blinding yellow light. The beach followed a small escarpment on which were perched rows of small houses with stucco walls and brightly painted window panes in hues of yellows, oranges, and blues. Finally, she took them up the escarpment to the borders of the city, to a region shrouded in a cloak of treecover.

  They strode deep into the thicket of cork oak and beech, the shade giving little relief to the humid forest. Yet it was not long before they came across a small assembly of derelict structures — crude homes constructed from the debris of the city. Scattered among them were half-breeds milling about.

  John knew he walked amongst the forgotten and the frail. All were either old enough to be nearly dead, or too young to be of use to the Rebellion. Most of the half-breeds stared daggers at the two friars. They did not trust anyone, human or Firstborn; especially the latter. John understood why.

  The half-breeds were the result of a Firstborn breeding with a human; Revenants they were called. They were mostly beings of incredible beauty, but there were those that had been born as hideous mutants. And the repulsive freaks, in the unfortunate event they bred with themselves, strangely produced children that bore the strength of two Firstborn and, when angered, the cruelty of four. They were called the Lastborn.