The Second Coming (2 page)

After that,
and threats to send him off as a laborer, Paine censored what he
revealed. He held his tongue and took his beatings with a quiet
resolve because despite their firmness of discipline, he needed the
elderly couple that had raised him.

At least for now
.

Things had
even been calm for awhile; pleasant, in fact. Yet over the last few
weeks matters worsened. The change in his mother’s attitude was
noticeable. Slow was the indoctrination, but evident enough. The
beatings were becoming more frequent. Something was changing her,
and that something was connected to the arrival of the Reverend
Chapman.

It sat like a
bad apple within him.

Paine winced
as he leaned against the post; the strap marks had not yet
completely healed.

He watched his
parents as they waited, like bleating lambs lining up in front of
the slaughterhouse. Many of the parishioners waited to speak with
the good Reverend, thanking him for his eloquent sermon about the
evils of witchcraft. It was a message Paine thought typical of the
new Church of the Ascension and the man who came all the way from
the Confederation to lead it. Schooled at Ascension College he was;
a son of aristocrats; learned.

Arrogant was
more like it.

The Church was
in service four weeks now, replacing the battered chapel that had
been used for centuries. The relic sat like a forgotten silhouette
to the white, stone splendor that rose above the willows with a
single, shining pinnacle. Although he never enjoyed Sunday sermons,
Paine possessed a fondness for the old chapel, with its ancient
smell and creaking floors. Its stone foundation was from the old
world, from the time before the Shift ripped the Earth apart. That
made it over five hundred years old.

Paine’s
parents passed through the line at a lagging pace as they spoke to
all and sundry before finally reaching the good Reverend. The three
spoke at length. Gwen would raise her aged hands to the air as she
spoke, her words slow and precise. Due to her stutter Paine’s
mother spoke little, but when she did her arguments were deliberate
and sure. Charles, with his gray wisps of hair combed over the bald
spot on his head, paused to look at Paine. He gave a slight nod and
a smirk before Gwen pulled his face towards her and thrust the open
pages of her newly-minted Confederation bible in the Reverend’s
face. The Reverend nodded to her line of reasoning, yet his gaunt
face remained puckered.

Paine pricked
his ears to catch what words might flit across the road but two
young men stepped in front of him; Billy Chapman, son of the good
Reverend — seventeen and built like the blacksmith’s outhouse, and
Jake Notman, same age, same size, but more eager for trouble.

Billy sucked
on a stick of Confederation tobacco and exhaled through the corner
of his lips — something Paine once thought sexy.

Now it was
just plain ridiculous.

Jake squeezed
his own between his thick fingers and then flicked it away. “Good
sermon, huh Robertson?”

“
I wasn’t impressed.” Paine looked Billy in the eyes. The boy
averted his gaze.

Jake scowled.
“Why do ya think that is?”

Paine said nothing.

The fool could
think what he wanted.

Jake leaned
over. The smell of his breath was like ash. “I saw your sister
light a fire with her bare hands. I know she’s a witch.”

“
Prove it,” Paine replied. He let his gaze slide over to Billy
once more. The boy stared at his dust-covered boots.

Paine couldn’t
help but wonder how much Billy had revealed of their encounter.
There were too many rumors lately, ones that would not have cropped
up unless Billy had been squawking like an old hen.

Jake’s lips
curved into an unctuous grin. “I won’t have to. The Confederation
is planning to annex Fairfax and the surrounding farms. The Witch
Hunters are coming with them. And they’re ridding the land of filth
like you.”

“
I don’t know what you’re talking ab—“

“
Hello, boys.”

The two boys
jumped and turned to the voice. Paine did not. He knew she was
there, lurking. Like some hidden shadow upon his heart, he could
sense her presence. She was always there, and when she wasn’t, he
could barely stand her absence.

From the
corner of his eye he watched his twin, Lya, saunter towards them in
her black gown. She always wore that outfit on Sundays, despite
protests from Gwen to wear something less suited for a funeral.

She adjusted
the folds of her dress, like one of the high class ladies at tea
time, and nestled her head on Paine’s shoulder. He wanted to shift
over but was cornered against the post. Besides, it wouldn’t look
good if he seemed repulsed by his own sister.

Lya coiled her
black locks around her finger and then plucked one of the strands.
She examined it and then licked her teeth.

Billy backed
up and lowered his head further.

Any lower and he’ll be licking his own
boots
.

Jake ignored
her. He focused on Paine. “Watch yourself, Robertson. Your time is
short.” The two then departed, giving a wide berth around his
sister.

“
They give you trouble?” Lya asked. She backed away from
Paine, as if just as revolted.

“
Not much.” He glanced over to his parents. They were gathered
with the other members of the Village Council. “Looks like we’re
going to be here awhile. Let’s go wander.”

The two rose
and strode past a few shops and houses. Those on the porches did
not offer the customary greeting or even a nod of the head. One
woman hissed at them and some clutched the silver crosses that hung
about their necks. They continued on and strode past the Apothecary
where Old Lady Burns sat in front of her shop. She knitted a wool
blanket for her newly-born grandson. The child was born a month
prior, with knotted stumps for legs. It was the second such birth
for that family. There were tears in the old woman’s eyes.

Paine stepped
on to the wooden porch and the faint smell of mothballs tickled his
nose.

“
Good morning, Mrs. Burns.” He liked the old woman. She had
always been kindly to him.

She sucked in
her breath at the sight of Lya, an occurrence not uncommon among
the townsfolk. She covered it with a feigned yawn.

“
Interesting sermon this morning,” she said.

Lya
grunted.

“
I thought it was a pile of horse shit,” Paine said as he
looked over to the Church. The Reverend spoke with a
broad-shouldered stranger. Whether he was with the Confederation,
or if he was just another traveler heading south to the ruins of
ancient Dallas, it was hard to tell. The pepper-haired stranger
glanced in Paine’s direction for a fraction of a moment.

Old Lady Burns
continued knitting. “The Reverend is not here to make friends. He
is here to convert others to his way of thinking.”

“
He spews garbage from that cesspit of a mouth,” Paine
muttered.

“
Not everyone follows him gladly.” She offered him a timid
smile, but one with enough reassurance to ease his
anger.

Old Lady Burns
had been accused of witchcraft countless times, especially after
the birth of her grandson. It was common knowledge she did not get
along with her son’s wife. Yet few believed she was capable of such
an atrocity. Paine had seen true witchcraft, and its power was
beyond anything an innocent mind like Old Lady Burns could
conjure.

He nodded. “We
better get moving. Have a pleasant afternoon, Mrs. Burns.”

“
Thank you, dear.”

The two then
wandered towards the cemetery, almost directly across from the
Apothecary. It sat behind the old chapel.

They strolled
through the maze of haphazard tombstones to the oldest part of the
cemetery. Upon one of the newer monuments sat a mourning dove. It
cooed and barely masked the croak of an unseen raven.

Lya always
kept Paine silent company on the trips to the cemetery, although
she had her own notions about this place. She had mentioned several
times she wanted to come into town at night to call forth the souls
that resided there. It was an intriguing notion, but some things
were better left undisturbed.

At least for
now.

Usually when
Paine called upon the dead, more than one emerged. And commanding
one to do your bidding was challenge enough; commanding an entire
cemetery was begging for a permanent possession.

Paine
shuddered at the thought. Two towns over, a man invited a legion of
souls unto himself. The man went insane and threw himself off a
cliff, squealing like a pig.

Paine’s feet
led him, as if by rote, to stand before a statue of an angel whose
wings had long crumbled to dust. He could barely make out the words
etched into the base.

In remembrance of Catherine and her beloved
Ben
.

The dates were
no longer legible. He then moved on to the others.

The mourning
dove cooed again and they ambled towards the old chapel. Paine
gazed through a crack in the boarded window. Three shafts of light
pierced the battered cedar roof and lit the pews. Fresh prints
disturbed the neat carpet of dust that covered the floor; prints
that appeared as if someone had let a cow loose in the derelict
structure.

“
Odd,” he commented, and walked up to the double wooden
doors.

Lya was at his
side. “What’s going on?”

“
There’s footprints inside.”

She shrugged.
“So?”

“
Hoof prints.”

She shoved
past him to peer through the cracks in the doorframe. “What are you
talking about?”

Paine examined
the doors and found no sign of forced entry. He pulled on the iron
handles. They were locked.

He was about
to go back to the boarded window, but noticed the stranger watching
them from the Apothecary. Paine swallowed the lump in his throat,
but stared the man down.

“
What was that about?” Lya asked, poking him with a thin, iron
finger. “Do you know him, or has someone else in this little spit
of a village caught your eye?”

He shook his
head and turned. “No, I do not know him.”

As they walked
back towards the Church, the dove cooed a third time.

***

Within his
cell, Friar John hummed; there was little else to do. His
imprisonment was now at four days — four days of praying and
meditation. Oddly, he found little to complain of. The feather bed
was comfortable, if a little musty, and not quite long enough for
his lanky frame, and his captors were as good to him as their
conscience allowed them to be.

His punishment
for heresy was a little severe, but his musings were not well
tolerated. He wondered when they might release him. The Iberian
monastery was a prison, placed at the southern tip of God's
wilderness, where few would hear his truth.

Not my truth
, he corrected
himself,
the truth
.

He continued
to hum, a refrain from a hymn that always brought him comfort.

Crow's-feet
lined his face, every one earned over the last forty-three years,
as were the gray flecks in his mud-colored mane. He cinched the
belt about his brown robes to suit his narrowing midsection. His
appetite had waned of late.

The smile on his face was wry. He wondered when the cardinal
would realize that shutting him away like a criminal would do
little good. It was
him
the Pope wished to see. He laughed when they told
him he was to remain in this dark pit of a cell, in the deepest
reaches of the monastery. The ears of God's representative were not
to be tainted by his words.

They were in
for a surprise.

He sat in
silence, watching as a cockroach scurried across the dirt floor,
looking for the scraps of his morning gruel. He tossed some crumbs
in its path, knowing even the lowliest of creatures needed to
eat.

It was difficult to tell the passing of time in this place. A
moist chill permeated the stone walls, unwavering — day or night.
Yet the faded glint of torchlight seeping under the door gave him
some indication that the noon hour had recently passed. His humming
continued, but for only a few bars of
Ave
Maria
before he was interrupted by a
clamor outside the door — the sound of heavy panting and fingers
fumbling with keys.

Miguel.
The breathing was
unmistakable.

John waited
with the patience of Job as the man made attempts with numerous
keys, but exasperation sighed from someone else in the hall.

“
Hurry, man. The Pope doesn't have all day.”

The clanking
of keys increased and after countless attempts, the door finally
opened. Flickering torchlight danced its way into the cell and the
cockroach scampered towards a crack in the stone wall.

“
Good day to you, sirs,” John said. “You're a little late for
our morning walk. The noon hour must have passed by
now.”

Miguel, large
as life, had a dejected look upon his round face. The morning walk
had been cancelled, yet John knew fault did not lie at the feet of
the good brother. Miguel had always been kindly to him and the only
one to request that they not confine him to the dungeons.

Yet his frail
voice of support was of little help. The cardinal always got his
way.

Except this time
, John thought,
taking in the striped, billowing uniform and plumed helmet of the
other man who stood in the entrance — a member of the Vatican
Guard.