The Second Coming by David H. Burton Page A

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