The Second Coming (11 page)

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.

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 towards
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
little 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.