Miguel stumbled after the woman, holding Meega's tiny hand.
“What does Pope Joan have to do with what we are looking for?”
John sighed. “Have you ever read the works of John the Evangelist?”
The fat friar hung his head. “The Book of Revelation. I did not like what it said.”
John pulled a tattered bible out of his sack. He thumbed through it until he found the passage he was looking for.
“And the woman was arrayed in purple and scarlet color, and decked with gold and precious stones and pearls, having a golden cup in her hand full of abominations and filthiness of her fornication: and upon her forehead was a name written, Mystery, Babylon The Great, The Mother of Harlots and Abominations of the Earth.” He paused. “I always thought the Whore of Babylon was the Church itself.”
Miguel's eyes widened. “What are you talking about?”
“I was mistaken. The Whore is not the Church, but the head of that Church, the first woman Pope.”
Miguel's mouth fell open and he stammered, his fingers fumbling with the rosary. “Do you know what you are saying?”
John ignored the comment, and skimmed the passages.
Strange.
“It says nothing of her carrying a child,” he said.
Liesel eyed him. “Are you sure?”
John gave her a silent look.
“Is there only one woman mentioned in that little book of yours?” she asked.
One woman?
He flipped through the brittle pages. “A woman clothed with the sun, and the moon under her feet, and upon her head a crown of twelve stars: and she being with child cried, travailing in birth, and pained to be delivered.”
But what did it mean?
“Are you saying Sephirah was the second woman?”
“One of two, or two as one,” she said. She cast her glance upon the bible in his hands, and nodded.
Two as one?
He read further. “And there appeared another wonder in heaven; and behold a great red dragon, having seven heads and ten horns, and seven crowns upon his heads. And his tail drew the third part of the stars of heaven, and did cast them to the earth: and the dragon stood before the woman which was ready to be delivered, for to devour her child as soon as it was born.” He looked at the old woman. “But it says nothing about them being the same woman, and why would the Dragon devour his own child?”
Liesel cackled. “Are you a master of prophecy now, heretic? Do you know the mind of the Fallen One? Do not let your feet trip over the steps of literalism. Read further.”
His eyebrows furrowed at the old woman before he turned his gaze back to the fine script. “And the woman fled into the wilderness, where she hath a place prepared of God.”
She escaped Him.
“A place prepared of God,” he said. “But where did she go?”
“What place on Earth is mired in the worship of your God?”
The answer came to him, swift as the Lord's wrath. “The Confederation.”
John read further. “And the serpent cast out of his mouth water as a flood after the woman, that he might cause her to be carried away of the flood. And the earth helped the woman; and the earth opened her mouth, and swallowed up the flood which the dragon cast out of his mouth.” He eyed the old woman. “She fled over the sea.”
Mirth lit her eyes like a Nightwatcher's torch. “You are learning, heretic.”
The clouds rolled across the sky, laying the sun to rest in a grave of heavy gray.
“And the child is who I think?”
Liesel nodded.
Miguel pulled out his own bible. He fumbled with it. “Who?”
The words caught like phlegm in John's throat; this was worse to him than any evil he could have imagined. And he had had a hand in its making.
John grimaced. He was going to have to kill this child. He looked at Meega.
“The Beast.”
Chapter 9
The Westwood emanated a damp chill that seeped into Paine’s bones. Like a tentacled shadow the forest’s presence inched across the ground. It leeched the life and verdancy from everything it touched. The shrubs and trees withered as it crawled towards Paine. He side-stepped its reach.
The hunched, pale creatures that surrounded them somehow made him less uneasy than the forest. They gnashed their teeth and brandished crude weapons, but something was out of place. Three of the twisted creatures cocked their heads to the side, studying them like a new bird. Beneath their repulsive visage lay a look of curiosity. It left Paine unsure if he should laugh or run.
One of them stepped forward.
“Diarmuid,” he said. His appearance changed, from something that was one with the dark woods to something human, or almost human. He was regal and stunning with sharply defined eyebrows and angled features reminiscent of—
From the corner of his eye, Paine glanced at Lya. She was focused on the being that now clasped arms with Diarmuid. The two spoke in a strange language that sounded vulgar and clumsy. Paine clicked and twisted his tongue, trying to emulate the sounds.
The tall man put his arm around Diarmuid’s shoulder. Then the remainder of the host sheathed their knives and lowered their bows. They stepped forward from the forest’s shadow as well, yet for most, their hideous appearance remained. For only a handful, it melted away like yesterday’s lard on a hot, summer day.
Paine inched forward, cautious not to stir any hostility. He tried not to stare at the ones that looked almost freakish. It was difficult.
“Diarmuid, what’s going on?”
The pepper-haired man reached into his pack. “Here, take this. It will help you understand.” He pulled from his ragged sack three turquoise amulets, each on a leather string.
“What is this, and who are they?”
“Better yet, what are they?” asked Lya. The freaks shrank back into the shadows at her advance, weapons bared once more. Only the ones of beauty stood their ground.
Diarmuid raised his hands in an appeasing gesture. “Relax. They live near here. I was hoping to reach them. The amulet is a translator. Its craft is similar to how you talk with animals, Lya.”
Puck donned the amulet without hesitation. Seemingly excited Lya slipped it over her head just as quickly. She frowned when nothing appeared to happen. She hid it beneath her shirt. Paine examined it before placing it over his head. Like for the others, he felt nothing.
“Welcome to the Westwood. I am called Truitt,” said the man who greeted Diarmuid. He appeared to be a few years older than Paine, with brown hair that flowed just past the shoulders. He wore a neatly trimmed goatee and a stern look upon his face. He was garbed in a green tunic and blue pants, matched by the others. He glided toward Lya, taking her hand in his. There was something in his eyes that Paine found unsettling; it was part caged animal and part something else, yet he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.
Restraint?
“Feel welcome in our lands, friend.”
The others lowered their weapons once more, seemingly placated by Truitt’s ease.
And for the first time in Paine’s life, Lya looked like Gertrude; eyes unblinking. Except it wasn’t that stupid look that lay in her eyes. It was the same forced restraint that lay in Truitt’s.
Paine stifled the groan that surged up his gullet. He rolled his eyes instead.
“Lya,” she finally sputtered.
Truitt continued to hold her hand along with her gaze. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Lya. I am at your disposal should you need anything.” Had Truitt’s voice been oozing with fake charm, Paine would have made more sense of the situation, but the exact opposite was true. The man was sincere. And it looked as if he was ready to rip off her clothes and take her right there in front of the lot of them.
Paine couldn’t help but snicker.
Lya glared at him for a moment and then cleared her throat. The tension that permeated the group was suddenly saturated with her cold, self-possessed air. The freaks were smili
ng and it was obvious they were all thinking the same thing; whatever it was.
“Thank you,” she muttered. “I’ve heard of strange beings in the Westwood, but you look—”
Truitt stepped back from her. “Surprising, I thought you were… well, never mind. By the look on your faces, I can see your travels have not been kind. There is something afoot in the Westwood, sightings of devils and strange spirits. I would prefer not to linger much longer, even upon its borders. The Westwood is agitated of late and I would not care to scrape your remains off the trees.” There was no humor on his face.
Diarmuid eyed the forest. “We're being tracked by Witch Hunters and we need safe passage through your lands.”
“You’re fortunate we did not shoot you on the spot. You’re one of the few outsiders we allow to walk these lands, Diarmuid.”
Truitt then slung his bow across his back and led them into the forest. The others followed in his wake.
From his shoulder bag the man pulled out a small furry rodent. It had large ears and a small tail. It was the cutest thing Paine had ever set eyes on. Truitt slit its throat before Paine had a chance to even get a further look. Then the man cast a blood spell that created a circle of protection about him. The others chanted a similar spell to surround them all, each of them slaughtering more of the small fuzzy creatures. Paine shuddered.
The spell cast nothing Paine could see; it still felt as if their skin was coated in thick oil, but there was something less dark about the vicinity of the small troupe. It was a trifle easier to breathe; barely, but noticeable. Paine looked to Lya, but she was busy studying the forest as they traveled. Puck shifted in the saddle, his gaze focused on some distant place within the trees.
Truitt and the others flung the carcasses into the forest and Paine noticed the remains being dragged through the shrubs by an unseen force.
A shriek pierced the silence, and a chill tickled Paine's spine.
“What's out there?”
Diarmuid stared into the forest. “I don't know.”
“I thought we would be safer here.”
“I didn’t know the Westwood had spread this far. We will be safe once we are in Lindhome. They will guide us north out of the woods from there. Then we'll have a clear path to Haven.”
Paine felt as though the trees cast hidden eyes upon him. He did not want to think of what might happen if he fell behind. Especially with the freaks bringing up the rear. They were nattering behind them, often pointing at him and Lya, whispering with their twisted mouths. He made sure Shadow remained right next to Diarmuid.
After a time the Westwood changed, and Paine welcomed the sight. The area was less dead, if there could be such a thing. The slick feeling on his skin lessened here.
“Welcome to Lindhome,” Truitt said.
There was likely something beautiful about this place once, but now it looked like a hideous face caked in makeup. The buildings flowed with delicate lines, cloaked in afghans of trailing ivy, but the leaves were wilted. Rounded doorways peeked out of the rolling hills, each wrapped in a blanket of dying grass.
“Ugly,” whispered Puck. “Cabra … nicer.”
Truitt harrumphed. “That’s because they give up their maidens to Pan. He’s sworn to protect their town, but he might have difficulty with the Westwood. Even his power has its limits.”
“Who is Pan?” Paine asked.
Truitt did not look impressed. “Someone who thinks too highly of himself.”
He escorted them towards a colossal tree, one of many that dotted the landscape. Its roots had been shaped to embrace a round wooden structure. Its bark was pale and chipping off. A gathering of men and women congregated at its base, all of them staring in their direction, primarily focusing on Lya. She either ignored the stares, or appeared as if she didn’t notice.
Paine leaned towards Diarmuid. “Why are they all staring at Lya?”
A middle-aged, bald woman strode towards them. She was draped in a long, gossamer dress that slunk along the ground. There was a significant gap between her teeth, but she was what Paine would consider one of the beautiful ones. She extended her hand. Her grip was like iron.
“Because she has the look of the Firstborn of Valbain,” the woman said. “Although perhaps she is something else.”
Paine watched his sister’s unflinching expression. She remained silent.
“I am Alwhin,” she said. “Feel welcome, friends.” Her face cracked with a pleasant smile, yet there was something firm and dark about it. “I will come to you later as I am sure you will have many questions.” She then disappeared and a light muttering plagued the host who gathered. Among the freaks, some looks of distrust were cast in Lya's direction.
His sister leaned in close. “What did she just say about me? Firstborn?”
“I don’t know,” he said.
“Well I intend to find out. And I know exactly who to ask. Where’s that fine young man who was so polite earlier?” Lya disappeared among the crowd to search for Truitt.
Paine waited, fiddling with his clothes. Diarmuid was off speaking to some of the members of Lindhome. An ugly little troll of a man was doting on Diarmuid’s every word. Paine wanted to see him removed from the picture.
He shook his head and laughed at himself.
Jealous already?
Paine distracted himself walking around a fenced in area that held hundreds of the small rodent creatures, obviously being bred for one reason.
When Lya returned, Truitt offered them a tour. They departed quickly, Paine eager to extricate himself from the stares and hushed murmurs.
As they walked, Puck ran his hands along the flaked surface of the wilting trees.
“D-D-Dying?” he asked.
Truitt nodded. “Yes. There is a barrier that protects Lindhome, but its effect is weakening.” He returned to his rather private conversation with Lya.
“H-H-How?” Puck asked.
Truitt rolled his eyes, obviously irritated with a simple mind.
“B-B-Blood,” he mocked, and eyed Puck with a condescending look. He smiled suddenly. “And a special jewel. It’s magic!” He waved his hands and made conjuring gestures in the air.
Puck clapped his hands. “Jewel!”
Truitt turned to Lya and Paine caught some of his words to her.
“We hold some of it back with spells, but the blood sacrifice requires a constant flow now. And the Westwood has been growing more deadly, out of our control. But there is a powerful charm at the heart of Lindhome that keeps the Westwood at bay. It still holds. For now.” Truitt took Lya's arm in his own and walked ahead, speaking of other, more private, matters.
Diarmuid then took it upon himself to show Puck and Paine around during the remainder of the tour, as the other two eyed only each other. The three chose to remain a short, but polite, distance behind.
Paine still had a curious itch. “Diarmuid what is the Westwood?”
“One giant, living entity. It is alive, and I don’t think Lindhome expected it to grow this far. It’s completely covered the town.” He paused, staring at the border of the woods. An abrupt wall of darkness was trying to push past the barrier. “I haven’t had a chance to find out what problems they’ve been having.”
They journeyed along a leaf-strewn path that snaked around the giant trees. Paine felt lured to this place, with its once intricate gardens. The flowers had withered and dropped to the ground. They now decayed with the foliage upon the forest floor. Regardless, it seemed a place of peace. They continued past the stone statues that littered the path.
In the midst of the garden towered the statue of a woman. She was not fully human, appearing more like the taller, majestic-looking members of Lindhome — the beautiful ones. Blue stones were set in place for eyes and they sat above a streamlined nose and full lips. She stood close to a stone doorway, leading into the earth. Puck ran over to inspect the door and the writing etched into its arches. There was an inscription inset at her feet.
To Sep
hirah. Lest we forget your courage.
Her features were strong, unforgettable. He figured she was related to one of the members of Lindhome.
Diarmuid urged them to hurry along before he could ponder the matter further. Yet something about the statue bothered Paine, something not obviously visible. Whatever it was, it remained out of reach, like a forgotten word.
He let it fall into the piles of dead leaves at his feet, shrugged, and followed the others.
***
John closed the tattered bible and wiped his sweating palms on his robe. He suspected for some time that the Dark One was stirring once more.
Wasn't this what the Virgin had shown him?
The reality of his predicament wrapped about him like a burial shroud, suffocating him in fear.
And he was to find this child?
Miguel rounded on him, his usually composed face aflame with rage.
He spat his words. “This is your heresy?”
John said nothing, but returned the brother's anger with a look of calm.
Miguel stammered, as if he might say more, but he was interrupted as a swarm of men and women stepped out of the cork oak and almond trees, weapons bared. All of them were half-breeds.
Hollers and screams pervaded the small encampment. The children among the decrepit village attempted to run, but the entire clearing was surrounded. They were sectioned off. Ugly children on one side, pretty ones on the other. He didn’t want to think of what was going to happen to the ugly ones and the use they were going to be put to.
Liesel grabbed Meega and put the little girl's hand in John's.
The old woman offered him a stern look. “She has no one, Churchman.”
What?
A gray-cloaked man stepped through the crowd, plucking out some of the children, separating them from the rest. By the ease with which he lifted them John knew his heritage.
Lastborn.
He approached and spat at John’s feet. “Come to preach to the outcasts, Churchman?”
John returned his cold stare. “Do you now collect children to fight your war? Or do you collect them to breed?”
The Second Coming Page 10