Leaves of Fire: Part Two of the Newirth Mythology Page 12

  But he was away on business. And they had not held hands before. Not yet.

  The air was warm—a light September breeze from off of the Adriatic. She would have never known about the Adriatic Sea to the East if it had not been for Albion. She’d never known about a lot of things—Italy, fine food and wine, clothes—celebrities, too. Dinner and parties and laughter. And more time with Jimmy Page. One night she danced with Albion on the veranda while Jimmy played a piece he had been working on called The Rain Song. The moon was a white thorn in the black sky. Venice was sparkling. The champagne was sweet and dizzying. Helen smiled.

  Across the waterway were the basilica domes of Santa Maria Della Salute, or what Albion called simply, The Salute. Something about how he had a hand in seeing it built. What year was it? Sixteen something? Helen shakes her head. It is crazy to even imagine. After the city survived a terrible outbreak of the plague in medieval Venice, Albion worked with artists and architects to construct a kind of monument to the city’s deliverance. The pestilence took hundreds of thousands of lives, and Albion wanted to show the world (this one and the next) that the plague could be overcome, and hope could be restored. But there was more to it, for Albion claimed that the Black Death was not a natural occurrence. Certainly, Helen could remember a thing or two about The Plague—infected rats, and fleas, and how the disease spread, and Albion agreed with all that. But then he went on and on about a crossing spirit or deity that engineered the death of millions by introducing what later became known as the Black Death. Albion said that he and his old friend George hunted, caught and eliminated the perpetrator. The monster, Albion called him.

  And for Albion, The Salute, was the gravestone. At least, it was supposed to be. Originally, the structure was to be twin spikes, like stone spearheads aimed at Heaven. A kind of warning to the gods. “One spear was mine, the other, George’s.” But it did not turn out that way. Albion explained that it became impossible to build anything monumental during those times without the assistance of the Church, and when they got involved, the project became wrapped in Roman Catholicism. What’s more, the Orathom Wis had always been hidden from the eyes of mortal men, so it was foolish to attract attention. The spears turned to domes. It didn’t matter much to Albion in the end, he had told her. “Things you believe in, your hopes—often fade.” He offered, “You’ll learn that the longer you last, the more your heart breaks, the less you care.” Sometime later, when they were talking about another of life’s vagaries, Albion added to the maxim, “The less you care, the longer you last.” Helen could see the phrase made a circle, and she could sense its sad beauty.

  She could smell the sea. It was better here near the bay than the stinky cloistered canals further west. Here, the eastern silver sky and sea were separated by a thin line of land, a ribbon of green. The gentle gusts from out there were like everything else she had experienced in the two months living with Albion, new and needed. I have arrived, no longer held the same meaning. “There is no arriving, Helen,” Albion said. “And if there was, how boring. For once you’ve arrived, you’re through. And no, by the way, it is not the journey either. Journeys are tedious and tiresome things. Why would we yield to endless travel and difficulty? No—arrivals, journeys! For us, life is only life. It is all we have, and all we’ll know. Keep it. Use it. Protect it. Such metaphors are not for us, they are for those that will one day die—that will one day age, face illness, decay. They need such trifles to appreciate the life they’ll lose. We live on and on.”

  She closed her eyes. The two months had passed with incredible speed. Each day had been filled with life lessons, most of which contained a seeming counter-intuition. What might be acceptable for a normal human being would be completely offensive to Albion and those like him. Littering and pollution, for example, were an outrage. He told her about the first time he watched a pipe spewing sewage into the Thames, or the first time he watched black smoke billow from a coal chimney, or the tragic and foul contaminations of the Industrial Revolution. He knew that there was something inherently wrong with humanity to allow such poisonings. Throughout his long life, he had been an advocate for the preservation of the environment. Large sums of money he had pushed around to lobbyists, ad agencies, artists and politicians to help educate the world as to the dangers of unchecked waste and pollution. Though many of his efforts were now becoming a part of the 1972 media vocabulary, he was still extremely concerned about the damage that had already been done.

  Helen did not mind him rambling on about such things. She hadn’t given much thought to any of it. It was no big deal for her to toss a soda can into the canal, drop her cigarette butt into the street—yet, to Albion, these acts were intolerable. “Because you’ll still be here when the sun is blacked out and the flowers won’t bloom—you’ll be here when all the water is sour and the food is gone. You’ll still be here. Humanity does nothing to care for their children, leaving them a future smeared with filth and darkness. Death prevents them from truly seeing the mark they leave behind, and the suffering of their offspring. Selfish, shortsighted idiots! And they speak of the journey.” Helen smiled at how animated he had become on that particular tirade.

  “More wine?” a voice said.

  Turning, Helen saw Corey Thomas holding a bottle. “Hi Corey, I would, yes. Thank you.”

  Corey poured and sat down opposite her.

  “I was told that Albion was away on business so I thought I would join you for awhile. I have tasks I must attend to shortly, but a few minutes near the water would do me well.”

  “Right on,” Helen said.

  “So, how are you faring? I understand that since you’ve joined us you’ve been learning much.”

  “Yeah,” she replied. “But my head is spinning, you know. There’s so much. It’s really hard to believe sometimes.”

  Corey nodded and sipped.

  “Like, all of this stuff that Albion says can only really make sense if you are like us—oh, and you, too. Like, Itonalya, and all that.”

  “Yes,” Corey agrees.

  “I don’t remember if you told me, but how old are you?”

  Corey shifts in his seat. “I am well over four-hundred-years-old, Helen.”

  “How long have you known Albion?”

  “A goodly amount of time. I met him after I became a part of the Orathom Wis. Our first meeting was sometime around 1850. I forget exactly.” He laughed lightly, “One thing you might consider, Helen, is to pay attention to your day to day dealings. It would serve you well to place memory exercises into your routine.”

  “Yeah, probably, right?”

  “Very probably. I have trouble sometimes recalling all that I’ve seen, all that I’ve done, the age I’ve lost and won.”

  “Me too,” Helen giggled.

  “Well, it’s best to start when you are young.”

  Helen turned to the Grand Canal again and sighed. “So, both of you were a part of this, Orathom Wis?”

  “We were,” Corey said.

  “And why did you leave it?”

  Corey paused a moment. “Albion must have shared that story with you—given the lectures you’ve had to endure.”

  “Yes. He told me that he split because of his friend William and his kids—what were their names? Basil, and Alexander or Loche? Something? I dunno. That he wanted to help save them—that they were crossing spirits and the Orathom Wis was supposed to eliminate crossing spirits. Right? And he and William saved them. Right?”

  “Yes, that is fairly accurate,” Corey said, “and all fairly recent. Loche and Basil were thought to be crossing spirits, so naturally, the Orathom Wis were to eliminate them. George Eversman ordered it. But William Greenhame, the boys’ father disobeyed and with the help of Albion, they managed to save them. The boys are in hiding now. Even Albion doesn’t know where they are.”

  “Won’t this George person come looking for Albion?”

  “Very probably.”

  “And where is his friend? What was it? Wil
liam?”

  “He, too, has disappeared. He’ll turn up again, eventually. Eventually, we all come back.”

  Helen shook her head. “Sounds like a movie.”

  Corey nodded, “I think it would make a very good movie.”

  “So when all that went down, you joined up with Albion?”

  “That’s right,” Corey said. “William is my friend—and Albion and myself, along with a few others, believe that his sons might very well be the two prophesied—to change the pathways between this life and the next.”

  “Yes,” Helen sat up straight, “yes, Albion told me about that. Like, an omen or something.”

  “Correct.”

  “Like something out of the Bible?”

  “Vaguely, yes.”

  “From some ancient civilization, like Egypt,”

  “Correct.”

  “He told me the name of where your—our kind first lived—what was it?”

  “Wyn Avuqua.”

  “Yeah, yeah! Wyn Avuqua. But it’s gone now?”

  “Yes.”

  “There was a huge war—a really, really, really long time ago.”

  “Correct.”

  “And since then you all have been waiting on this omen thing from that place.”

  “Correct.”

  “And Wyn Avuqua was in Idaho? Idaho. Weird.”

  “Correct.”

  “Is that next to Pennsylvania?”

  “No. It sits between Washington, Montana and Canada.”

  “Right. Right.”

  Corey smiled. “You learn quickly.”

  Helen grinned. “Yes,” she said. “It’s funny that you were talking about memory exercises. I’ve been thinking the same thing since I met Albion, because if I want to be with him—” Helen stopped and reached for her glass. She looked into it. “If we are going to be together, I’d better get a move on learning as much as I can. He’s really smart—and really worldly. And if I—” her words fell off. She felt her cheeks flush. “I dunno.”

  Corey watched her. “You’re in love with Albion?” he asked, simply.

  Helen’s eyes flashed and she looked away. “Am I stupid? I mean, would he really even think about me that way? I’m so young.”

  “Ithic veli agtig,” Corey said. It came out like a mournful sigh. “Love for us is a quite a tricky thing, Helen. We have all loved. Loved desperately. Deeply. And we have all lost. Terrible heartbreak. As with all things, and like our human counterparts, we must weigh what is worth bearing and what is not. Albion was married once—centuries ago. Her passing was something he almost did not recover from. Such loss for our kind is something we must learn to endure. The less you care, the longer you last.”

  Helen thought a moment. Her gaze reached out to sea again, out over that ribbon of green between the sea and the sky. “But first your heart must break, right? So that means that no matter what, you risk it. Even as we last. Even as the time goes by—a hundred years, we still care, don’t we? Well, I’m young enough to risk it. I will love no matter what. No matter what. I will try. I won’t wish for my death to come soon. This ithic veli agtig stuff. If I can do almost anything, I will. I will.”

  Corey didn’t answer. He, too, looked out to the shining sea and the darker clouds brooding further out—distant lightning flashed.

  The Prestige

  November 4, this year

  Somewhere over the Swiss Alps

  Loche Newirth stares out the window of a private DC-3 commuter plane. Below, the Alps lay crumpled like a white bed sheet. The morning sun is rising steadily and glaring into Loche’s face. He lowers the window shade and looks down at Edwin, his head resting upon his thigh. His eyes are open.

  “Dad?”

  “Yes, Edwin?”

  “Where’s Mom?”

  “Mom is visiting some people right now.”

  “What people?”

  Loche recalls what he had written in the journal, and the compound of Albion Ravistelle. “Do you remember when we went to Venice? Where they had the black boats? The black boats on the water?”

  “I remember that place. Yes. I remember.”

  Loche shakes his head. His only memory of the Bauer Hotel, Albion’s stronghold, is in his imagination; the recollection of a story. “Well, that’s where Mom is.”

  “When are we going home, Dad?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Are we still the storytellers?”

  “Yes, we’re writing the good stories—painting the beautiful pictures.”

  “We will always do that?”

  “That’s all we can do.”

  “I want to go home. Do you want to go home?”

  “Yes, I want to go home, too.”

  “Will Mom be home when we get home?”

  “No. She will be staying in Venice for a while longer.”

  “I miss her, Dad.”

  “I know. I know. Things are going to be a little different from now on. We need to fix some things. It’s time for some changes, and we shouldn’t be afraid.”

  “Like what, Dad?”

  “Well,” Loche pauses.

  William Greenhame sits down beside them. “Mutantur omnia nos et mutamur in illis.”

  Edwin twists over, sits up and scowls at the words. “Huh?”

  “All things change, and we change with them,” William says. Edwin’s scowl deepens as he climbs into William’s lap.

  “I’ve never seen him be so comfortable with anyone but Helen and me—and Julia.”

  William does not appear to hear Loche. Instead, he holds up a coin in front of the little boy’s eyes and performs a sleight of hand magic trick. The coin disappears. Edwin’s eyes sparkle with wonder. “Abracadabra,” William says. The coin appears again from out of Edwin’s ear.

  “Do it again!” Edwin cries.“Again!”

  “I remember when my father had that kind of power. He taught me this trick, you know. Simple, isn’t it?” William says.

  “What’s that?” Loche asks.

  “The trick is simple. But it isn’t the trick at all, it is Edwin’s simple lack of understanding that can make a disc of metal vanish and then fall out of one’s ear. Make the impossible, possible. I just created a new reality for him.”

  “Do it again!”

  “Abracadabra,” William says. This time, he pulls the coin from Loche’s ear. The boy takes the coin and examines it closely. He laughs.

  “A new reality until he figures out that it is just a lie. A trick,” Loche says.

  “True,” William agrees. “But until then, he thinks we can have money fall from our ears. When he does finally get it, he’ll have another new reality.”

  “A much more difficult one.” Loche takes a deep breath and exhales. “So this is going somewhere, right? You’re moving toward a point?”

  “I am, indeed. Don’t I always arrive at one, sooner or later? Stay, I will be faithful,” William replies. He looks away, at some seeming distance, “Did you know that the word abracadabra is all about change and making?”

  “I don’t know the etymology, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “It’s Aramaic. There are many ways to translate it, though, where you’re concerned, I prefer this meaning: I create like the word. Now, isn’t that remarkable?” Loche turns and lifts the shade. He squints at the division of stunning clear blue and the white range of ice below. “Words. Words. Words. They are made of magic. The arrangement of little characters—vowels, consonants. Language. Amazing isn’t it? You know, that is why they call the construction of words spelling.”

  “Spelling?” Loche asks.

  “Yes, my boy. Spelling. Spells. Wonderful, yes? And the use of spells—words bring about change. And you must now deal with the changes that you have created. You must live within your words and seek a way to close the doors between us and what comes after.”

  “I cannot let Julia suffer,” Loche says. “I will not let that happen.”

  “When we arrive at Mel Tiris, you w
ill be led to the high tower. You will be placed within a stone room that is filled with hundreds of your brother Basil’s paintings—the very windows that look upon Elysium. You will remain within until you have found a way to stop our existence from colliding with theirs.”

  “William, I don’t know if I can—”

  “My son, you can. You are the only living being that can enter those doors and return unharmed. You must succeed.”

  Loche’s mind returns again to his hand scrawled pages. The impossibility of Basil’s art—the ice-blue Eye beyond—the sight and envelopment of omniscience. The madness.

  “And I,” William takes Loche’s hand. “I will take my grandson to his mother.”

  “What?”

  William closes his eyes and nods sympathetically. “I know, I know. Please listen. I will take my grandson to his mother. And I promise you, he will return to you, safe, and with Julia. And, quite possibly, with Helen.”

  “Mom?” Edwin says.

  “William, I cannot—I will not allow you to—”

  “Loche, this is the only way to save Julia. And if you fail, it won’t matter what happens to Julia, Edwin or any of us. As you’ve said, it is time for some changes, and we shouldn’t be afraid. And so it is. You will roam about in the astral plane. Edwin and I will have an adventure. I will create a new reality for Helen, and bring Julia home. I will make the impossible, possible. Something that even Helen will not expect.”

  “How will you do that?” Loche asks. His eyes pleading.

  William sets a warm glance upon his grandson. “I still possess some of the same magic my mother gave to me, all those years ago, when I was Edwin’s age. It resembles every mother’s love for her children. It is healing. It is magic.” Loche shakes his head.

  William grins, “Abracadabra.”

  Vengeance Is Fated

  April, 1338,

  outside the village of Ascott-under-Wychwood, England

  Through the tent opening William could see the dim light of morning. Albion was packing a small cart hitched to his horse. He moved at a brisk, efficient pace. Within a short time he had tied down the last of the camp’s gear. The final task was to break down and pack the tent. He was singing a quiet lament. William could not understand the language, but as each word lilted and fell, pictures appeared in his mind—a great walled city—ancient and silver in the sunlight—anger, sorrow, then finally flames as its high towers crumbled to dust.