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 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.

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.

It was a vindictive hoax of nature and one the Firstborn did not find amusing. They wanted them dead, half-breeds and Lastborn. If they could, they’d rid themselves of humans as well.

John wrinkled his nose at the heavy scent of musk and sweat on the air. Miguel sneezed. Tattered garments hung about on makeshift clotheslines all about the clearing.

Meega approached one of the small huts. It was surrounded by a sea of torn fabric. She knocked on a chipped wooden door.

Something shuffled inside before a raspy voice spoke. “Come in, Meega. I'd know that timid knock anywhere.”

John ducked into the small hut, and once inside had to adjust to the dim light offered by one lone candle that stood on what appeared to be a stone altar. Standing before it was a pile of rags that covered a wisp of a woman with wild gray hair, fine slanted eyebrows and pointed ears. She was Revenant. John stared into the piercing blueness of her repugnant gaze.

“Old and ugly am I, Churchman?” she asked.

John looked at her with calm. “I didn't say anything.”

“I didn't say you did, and I wasn't talking to you, heretic. I was talking to the fat one.”

Heretic?

The woman hobbled over to Miguel and poked him with a bony finger. “Old and ugly, am I?”

Miguel stammered and then closed his mouth. Even in the dim light, his face crimsoned. Meega covered her mouth and giggled.

The old woman patted the little girl on the head and then shuffled over to a wooden chair. It creaked as she settled herself in it.

“No matter. I've been called worse in this life and I can't deny I am old. I've lived longer than anyone should.” She reached into her rags, pulled out a small vial with a blue liquid and took a hearty swig. She belched and wiped her mouth with her torn sleeve. “So you're looking for someone?”

“Yes.”

“You won't find your quarry here.”

John’s nose twitched. The place smelled of defecation. “Are you Liesel?”

Her mouth stretched into a toothless smile. “Sometimes,” she said. “When I remember.”

John eyed her with care.

She has lost her wits.

“Do you know who I am looking for?”

A light flashed in her eyes. “I know all too well.” The old woman gave a mad cackle.

“Has he taken physical form? I must find Him.”

She gurgled, something akin to laughter. “I suppose the Pope sent you.”

John nodded.

“And what makes you think you can find Him?”

“My soul is cursed. I can find him.”

A shadow of understanding passed across her pallid face. “I see.”

He hesitated. “What can you tell me? How much do you know?”

“Enough to drive a woman mad. And no one believes this crazed old fool.” She took another swig of blue liquid. “You won't find Him, but you may find something just as important.”

“Oh?”

The old woman motioned him closer with a crooked twig of a finger. Her breath was sour, and a cold smile crept across her lips. “His child.”

John shifted under her gaze. “His child?”

Liesel nodded, the light in her eye getting brighter before she gurgled once more. “You have trouble with your ears, heretic?”

John tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry as the deserts of Babylon. “Who would have borne such a child? Was it Lilith?”

At the mention of the ancient name, Miguel made the sign of the cross over his ashen face. He reached into his robes and pulled out the rosary.

John cast him an inward smile.

Futile gesture.

“Lilith?” remarked the old woman. “Bah, she knew the truth before any did. That's why she left Eden, and why she was cursed to bear only demon children. She would never have borne such a child.”

“Then who?”

“Sephirah.”

The first woman pope.

Oh, God.

He had known her.

The reality of his past settled over him like a burial shroud. John could think of nothing to do. He fidgeted where he stood. And in the end he, too, gestured the cross.