Broken (27 page)

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.

“Come with me, heretic. You are summoned to the
Pope.” The guard pointed his spear at him. “Mind your
tongue.”

John said nothing, knowing his words would be wasted on one
such as this, and followed quietly, winking at Miguel as he stepped
into the passageway.

Soft torchlight lit the moss-covered corridors, the sound of
the guard’s polished black shoes clacking on the stone floor. Bells
chimed in the distance, but their music was muted by the stone
depths in which they walked. Numerous cells lay open, all with
decaying wooden doors and empty since long before the
Shift.

Only his was occupied.

They wound through the stone maze, John and the guard
stooping often to avoid the sheer tapestries of spider web.

Finally, after climbing an aged stairwell, they reached
ground level, and John covered his eyes from the bright glare of
daylight.

He stopped to let the sun’s rays warm his soul.

Something sharp poked him from behind.

“Keep moving.”

They continued, and when they reached the abbey Miguel and
the guard knelt to gesture the sign of the cross before they turned
and left him. The iron doors closed with a heavy clank.

John made no such signs of piety and strode amidst the rows
of wooden pews towards the pulpit, the floorboards creaking with
every step. The Pope waited for him, alone.

“Your Holiness,” John said, standing to face one
of the most powerful leaders in the new world. He could imagine
what she must have looked like in her youth. Even with white hair
and the fine lines that adorned her face, she was stunning. She
stood tall for a woman, almost rivaling him in stature. The Pope
was garbed in a white robe, her hair spilling over it. She held out
her hand to which he feigned a kiss, his lips not quite touching
the emerald ring.

“I want to hear your heresy,” she said as he
faced her. Her voice echoed off the vaulted ceiling. It was painted
with vivid images of the Archangel Gabriel.

John gazed upon the wings that adorned the angel’s frame,
pristine and white, and wondered how much more in this world he
would discover was a lie.

“The cardinal seems to think it is not for your
ears.”

Her round eyes hinted annoyance. “Cardinal Aloysius is
an overambitious fool who cares for nothing but his own
advancement.”