Leaves of Fire: Part Two of the Newirth Mythology Page 16

  “Nectar of the gods?” Helen says, raising the bottle to pour more. Julia holds her glass out.

  The Window

  April, 1338

  The House of Albion Ravistelle, London

  “Now, not all monks are bad,” Albion had told William, “especially those that brew.” The beer was delicious. It made him dizzy. At the word monk, William shivered. The thought of the larger of Gravesend’s sentinels came to his mind.

  “One of the monks with the bishop,” William said, “he was big. Very big.”

  “Father Cyrus,” Albion said. “Yes, a large man. Frightening to behold. He is Gravesend’s right hand. I know little of him save his allegiance to the Church and to the Bishop—and the tales of his cruelty. Horrible. Horrible.”

  William turned away. His stomach tightened and the pace of his breathing increased.

  Albion had three foaming mugs brought to their chamber just a few minutes after they arrived. Two filled and one half full for the boy. William and his father sat staring through a large pane of glass. They sipped the beer and marveled at the view of the Thames, not a stone’s throw away. William pushed his fingers to the glass.

  “You’ve not seen a window before?” Albion asked.

  William shook his head.

  “Nor has he had beer,” Radulphus said. “And I have never had beer this good.” He took a long swig.

  “Yes,” Albion said. “One of the first things you learn, when faced with the condition of long, long life, is that money must be had, and much of it. You learn to grow your fortune. And that, of course, brings good beer.” He laughed lightly. “I would have windows in every room of my house,” he added, “if it did not draw too much attention. One day, every house will have them. But now they are limited to nobility and the rich. I felt that a single window in this room, to see the mighty Thames on cold mornings was worth the whisperings of my neighbors.”

  William traced the river as he took another sip from his mug. Sitting upon the window sill was the leather bag. The leaves appeared to be reaching for the sun.

  William felt a sudden ease from the beer’s effects. It somehow cushioned the thoughts of Father Cyrus. Slowly, his thoughts drifted to all he had seen on this day.

  They got their first view of London before noon. Albion had led the wagon out of a thick grove. The bright sky was like cold silver. His eyes stung coming under it. “Take a breath now, you two, and smell the last of the free air,” Albion said pointing down, “for the sweetness of the country is soon to be replaced.”

  They were perched on a high hill. Below, like a crosshatched drawing were the lines, roads and crossings of London. Chimneys belched woodsmoke and other fumes that William could not guess. Little grey roof peaks appeared like small toys on a board. Through the city center slithered the Thames River. Tiny boats appeared motionless on its surface.

  “Ah,” Albion whiffed. “The legacy of man. You can smell him for miles. But, the city is cleaner than some. At least they’ve begun to understand their footprint.”

  William stared.

  London.

  Houses were packed together with more houses. The smells became sharper. More profound. William was often forced to pull his cloak up to cover his nose and mouth. There were times that his eyes would water from some hidden stench as they rolled in.

  But the people were busy. The buildings, some of them two, three and even four stories, were structures beyond his imaginings. More horses than he had ever seen. Men and women of nobility passed—bejeweled and wrapped in velvet and fine leathers, hats with colorful plumes of blue and crimson. Soldiers with their silver tipped pikes and proud stares, helmed in iron—vendors calling out at market—exotic fruits, baskets of bright red apples (William’s mouth began to water), a skinned boar on a spit. A line of clergymen. A passing old man. A woman and her small son—the boy carried a toy horse.

  William looked up at his father. He reached for his large hand and gripped it. Radulphus looked down at him. “Did you see the apples? How I would love to have an apple,” he said.

  Albion stopped the wagon. “Just a moment.” He turned and walked a few paces back.

  The warm scent of baking bread wafted across the father and son. The two turned toward it, their noses both lifted in thankfulness. Just beyond the corner of the street they could see a small fire dancing within a domed, clay oven. A long wood table was crowded with loaves, golden brown.

  “As you wish,” they heard Albion’s voice. When they turned he was holding three shining apples. He bit into one, held it in his teeth and handed the other two to both Radulphus and William. William held it in his hand and stared. It was cool to the touch.

  “Come now,” Albion said, a chunk of apple falling from his mouth as he spoke. “It’s only an apple. Just wait until you taste the cakes at my home.” He smiled. He sniffed the air and added, “And the bread.”

  Not twenty paces from their wagon, at the entrance to a chapel, William caught sight that made him shiver. Clawing itself out of stone cornice on the chapel facade was a demonic face. Its sneering lips and watchful eye glowered down at the boy. Looking away William saw, in seeming opposition, a tall figure carved in stone. It was in the shape of a woman in flowing robes. One of her arms was upraised and in her other she cradled a small child. Elegant angelic wings rose up at her back. William thought he caught the likeness of his mother in the cold features of the stone face. He would not forget the expression the sculpture wore. It was staring at something beyond William’s sight.

  William took a bite of the apple. It was crisp and sweet. He could not help but smile.

  The Mirror

  June, 1975

  Venice, Italy

  Helen stared at herself in the mirror. She wore a work of art. It sparkled in the candlelight. The piece was her favorite of Albion’s collection, and it nestled against her cheeks and lips as if it were made for her face alone. Of the many Venetian masquerade masks he possessed, this was by far the oldest. Midsixteenth century, encrusted with tiny rubies around the eyes, plumes of carved deep green leaves rising up at the forehead, and light as a feather, its lines were as sensual as the gliding silk curve from her smooth breasts to the slope of her thigh.

  “We wear masks to be equals, Helen,” Albion said. He sat behind, his legs crossed and his gaze absorbed her.

  She pivoted back and smiled at him, her fingers feeling the cold gems of the mask beneath her fingertips. “It’s beautiful,” she said.

  “You are beautiful,” came Albion’s echo.

  She loved the feel of the leather against her cheeks. With it on, she was no longer Helen Craven. Her past did not matter, her deadly deeds of late were nothing, and what was to come was as hidden as her identity.

  “Equals?” Helen asked.

  “Yes,” he said. “The Venetians took to wearing masks to hide their social status. Politicians, the rich, nobility, the clergy and the everyman—the fish monger, the mason and the beggar—all were without identity, without rank and most of all, without culpability. Wearing the mask at Carnival enabled the priest and the miscreant to come together and experience human pleasure without consequence.” He laughed quietly and added, “Well, for the most part.”

  Helen felt her abdomen tighten. “So, if you put a mask on, you and I would be equal?”

  “If I noticed you at Carnival, and you did not know me, and I did not know you, yes, we would be equal. We would be free to tease and trifle.”

  “I think you’re flirting with me now, Albion.”

  “That may be so,” Albion agreed. He stood and moved close behind her. She looked at him in the mirror, his eyes glinting from over her shoulder. “You have made me very proud.”

  Helen beamed. “I have?”

  “You have. You have exceeded my expectations. Of the many Itonalya I have trained through the centuries, you have shown an unrelenting focus—promise, spirit and skill rivaling the most powerful of your immortal family. I am proud—and you should be proud of y
ourself.”

  A bead of tear glistened. She watched it swell and drop, threading itself down into the maze of rubies below her eye. She removed the mask and noted that the expression on her face was filled with gratitude. Albion laid his hand upon her cheek and chin, and grinned.

  “There, now,” he said, comfort in his voice. “You’re not used to such compliments. The torture of your youth is a mere blink in time, Helen. I am sorry for the abuse you were made to suffer. But you survived. And it is over now. Look, now, at this woman in the mirror. This is a face gods envy. The woman angels fear.”

  Helen spun and pressed her mouth to his. She heard herself let out a quiet sough of yearning as she felt him pull her in, his hands falling to the small of her back.

  How many gods had she killed? Twenty? Thirty? And in how many countries? She had followed his instruction without fail. Studied. Learned. All to be closer to him. She would give all to be his possession.

  When he pulled away, Helen remained frozen. Her eyes still closed, her chin upraised and her lips swollen and empty.

  “This cannot be,” Albion said, retreating to the other side of the room. “There are too many things yet to be determined. Too much at stake.”

  Helen relaxed and let her hands fall to her sides. “Will I ever be yours? What must I do?”

  Albion did not answer. With his back to her, he said, “Look into that mirror, Helen, and tell me if you can carry on with your training. If you can be two people. One with a mask, one without. Can you change your identity and become another person?”

  “Why? What do you mean?”

  “Turn,” he said.

  Helen turned back to the mirror. She was startled to see anger in her eyes.

  “Our kind must possess this skill—the ability to change our lives and forge a new name, perception—position. We must do this to survive. We cannot simply carry on through the centuries and not be noticed.”

  “I am not yet twenty.”

  “True,” came his voice from the darkness. “But now is the time to begin—”

  “So how do I start?” She squinted into the mirror trying to locate him in the room behind. “For you, I will do anything.”

  Albion’s dark eyes then rose over her shoulder, the rest of his face hidden behind the black of a leather mask. He lifted her hands up and pressed them flat against the mirror, then she felt the silk skirt being drawn into a ball and raised up. When he entered her, his heat was the first thing she noticed. Then, her legs spasmed as he pulled her pelvis back. Again she let out a moan of triumph. She narrowed her eyes at him in the mirror and noticed his lips smiling below his mask.

  As he pulsed within her, she pressed back, taking him fully inside. It was painful and gorgeous.

  “Equals?” she whispered. “You can try. You can try.”

  A Little Waker Upper

  November 5, this year

  Venice, Italy

  Corey Thomas’ face had remained expressionless when they were introduced. Julia struggled to reflect the same, but she couldn’t keep her eyes from lingering a little longer upon him. They had met at Loche’s cabin—briefly. How he had managed to keep his loyalties to William and the Orathom Wis out of Albion’s mind is beyond her. He fought against Albion at the Battle of the Uffizi—how was he able to hide that fact? Regardless, it is a relief to know he is a friend.

  Dr. Angelo Catena’s eyes were troubled, and darkened a bit further when Albion suggested the first stop on the tour of the compound would be The Sun Room. At its mention, Julia too, felt her anxiety rise.

  Now Julia stands before a black curtain. At her feet, carved into the white marble is the number nine.

  “Eyes forward,” Albion commands.

  She obeys.

  “Mr. Ravistelle,” Angelo says, “I believe it would be safer to begin her initiation on two or three. Nine has been proven quite powerful and—”

  “Dr. Catena, please. Julia is of our blood. She is quite capable of returning.”

  “There have been damaging effects reported by even those of the Itonalya—”

  “We will not allow her to remain within long enough for anything permanent. We need only expose her to the truth. Though it will burn, it will surely teach. And Julia needs an accelerated education.”

  “Let it be said, then,” Catena says, “that I opposed this viewing.”

  “Noted,” Helen sneers.

  “Catena,” Albion says, “I understand your concern. And I appreciate it.”

  Julia risks a look around. The room is circular and massive. It was several floors underground—underwater. The walls of white glare so brightly that she was forced to squint when she first entered. Around the perimeter are numbered viewing stations before black shrouded stages. This is the very Sun Room Loche described in his journal.

  “Julia, yet another lesson for Itonalya,” Albion said. “I guarantee that after this viewing, you will consider my invitation to join our cause. You are about to look upon infinity, the godhead, ever-last and beyond. The majority of mankind cannot withstand such a sight. These works of art pull from mankind their sin, their imperfection and their humanity and hurl these attributes into the Orathom—it will, in time, destroy the afterlife. For those that are the sickest at heart, the most disturbed, the maligned, the paintings can bring them to perfect health—but so far, such cases are few and far between. You, Julia, will return alive, but the memory will forever stain your thoughts. Once you behold what is beyond, we will be able to converse about what is now before us.”

  “Corey,” Albion says, “please have them open number nine.”

  Corey steps between Julia and the black curtain. He grips both of her shoulders as if to position her at the proper angle. He steals a quick look into her eyes—a brief flash of warning and comfort. You’ll be okay, the expression seems to say, I’ll be right here. He steps behind her, “Open nine.”

  Julia braces herself and scowls into the splitting black curtain.

  She expected a fine, silky line of light to appear. A kind of spider’s thread that would reach from the surface of the canvas to her eyes. And then, as it had been described in Loche Newirth’s journal, a maddening journey to some inexplicable vision of the afterlife—a sight beyond what the human mind can fathom—an experience that could kill the viewer. This was the artwork of Basil Pirrip Fenn, Loche’s brother. Paintings not meant for the eyes of human beings. Basil’s work was for them. For the gods. The paintings, as she understood it, were a kind of peep hole for them to look in upon us—to feel what we feel.

  Gods. An infinite population of divine, celestial beings existing along the astral plane. Dwelling in a place reserved for us after death. Heaven? Afterlife? Elysium? Valhalla? Nirvana?

  She thinks of her father’s rhyme to steady her. Find the single star / And watch it blink.

  She squints as the curtain moves, and recalls the three words Loche used in the journal to describe what comes next:

  Silence.

  Flash.

  Gone.

  But there is no burst of light.

  She sees a pair of shoes first. Black. Grey slacks. A man standing there upon the stage. There was no painting. No gilded frame. Instead a man of seventy or so. Greying hair. Gaunt.

  “A little waker-upper?” he says. A long, thin smile.

  “Oh God,” Julia whispers.

  “Not exactly,” Dr. Marcus Rearden replies. “But I knew that I wasn’t crazy. Or, at least, not completely.”

  Behind Rearden, heavy upon an easel, is a black shrouded rectangle—much like the one he had propped up beside Bethany Winship’s coffin, the last time she saw him.

  He casually pulls the cloth down and it cascades to the floor revealing a painting that Julia knew. She flinches at the memory. The lurid reds and blacks, Rearden’s murderous eyes bearing down upon his beloved Beth. The very painting that she and Rearden transported from Priest Lake to Beth Winship’s funeral. It was Loche that had painted it. He had done it to capture his men
tor.

  Rearden watches her face and then leans to the side to take sight of the painting.

  “Isn’t this something?” Rearden says. “Tormenting, to be sure. I’ve not thought of much else since the moment I saw it. It haunts me more than the act of holding Beth’s head underwater—the quaking of her shoulders.”

  A sudden wave of nausea. Julia raises her hand to her stomach.

  “The thing is,” Rearden continues, turning his eyes back to Julia, smiling, “I loved her. Isn’t that something? I loved her.”

  The Timeless Pie

  November 5, this year

  Mel Tiris, France

  George Eversman’s eyes dart back and forth from the page in front of his face to Leonaie. What an odd looking man, Leonaie thinks. She has always thought that. From the first time she met him in the late sixties. Of course, she cannot seem to recall where that was. Through the years she’d known George as Samuel’s boss. Though, she was aware he was much more than that. Older than any of their kind. She squints, searching for his age. She was told before, that is sure. Was he over one thousand years old? Goodness, that’s a long while. She watches him. What an odd looking man—deep set eyes, long, thin lips—now what does that remind me of, she thinks. Who was that rock singer? Stephen Tyler? My goodness, yes. Strange to remember that. He looks a lot like that fellow.

  George lays the documents down upon the table. Leonaie looks at the paper, trying to recall why he was reading it.

  “I know about dis already, Samuel,” George says. “But I need you here.”

  “I know, Anfogal. I know.”

  George stares at him.

  “Anfogal,” Samuel says, “you’ve always known that this day would come. I must now choose between duty and love.”