Leaves of Fire: Part Two of the Newirth Mythology Page 18

  “It is, indeed,” he replied, lowering the paper and folding it.

  “What is it about?”

  Albion smiled, his hand caressing the cover. “It is a history. A tale of a race that have lived a long, long while. It is, Helen, about the creation of our world through the mind of Thi. It is the story of our ancestors and the gods. It is filled with terror and triumph, tragedy and harmony—it is about how a people, chosen to protect an afterlife at the quiet limit of the world—our reward is now. We receive nothing ever-after.”

  “Is there fucking?”

  “Much,” Albion laughed.

  He pushed the book across the table. “It is called the Toele.” Helen took another bite from her apple and placed it upon the cover.

  “I am leaving, Helen. It will be quite some time before we see each other again.”

  Helen sat up. “Where are you going?” She heard shock in her voice. Fear.

  “I have business around the world,” he replied. “And I will explain it all to you when I see you again.”

  “When will that be?” There was now a pleading in her tone.

  “It will be several years, my sweet Helen.”

  “Years?” she cried. “But I thought—I thought we were—”

  Albion stood and pulled his suit jacket on.

  “But I love you. You can’t go. Not now. Now is all we have.”

  “And I love you, too,” he said. The words were like a gale. “If we are to be together through these empty courts of earth, I must prepare our place—our home for forever.”

  “Albion,” she said, “take me with you.”

  “I cannot. Your training is not yet complete. And upon my return, you will face your final trial. If you succeed, we will not part again.”

  He rounded the table and knelt beside her. His fingers weaved through her hair and he pulled her close. His other hand tangled in hers. He was inhaling her, breathing her in, and she became air. She rose above the two kissing forms and looked down. Below, within a room of velvet, candles, wood and lace was a man in formal dress and a woman, winding her flesh into a coil around him.

  Moments later, Albion stood and walked out of the chamber.

  Before she let her body slide to the floor, she reached for the apple upon the book.

  Memory

  November 5, this year

  Mel Tiris, France

  All Loche Newirth can think of are black holes. He is in a castle chamber surrounded by hundreds of them. He hasn’t the faintest idea of what a black hole is save that it has something to do with a gravity so intense that even light cannot escape. Maybe in school he learned something about space-time and quantum theory. Maybe he has some inkling about general relativity. Maybe there is a vague recollection of what an event horizon is, but other than a few key ideas, he is at a loss. Way back in his childhood he recalls the Walt Disney movie, The Black Hole, and the terrifying pupil-black spiral upon the theater screen. A tiny starship eddying on the outer edge of doom.

  His own smile surprises him. He shakes his head and surveys the shrouded paintings. Each contains an inescapable vortex, a crushing and maddening Center. A direct vein to the eye of a god.

  These were Basil Fenn’s paintings. Not for the eyes of man, but for the gods themselves. Once they were completed, they served as windows upon the human condition where gods could feel the pleasures, the sorrows and the fear of humanity. It was believed that the works were in some way secret passages for the celestial host. An alternative to the dangers and pains of entering the forbidden home of humanity as a bridging spirit.

  The smile fades.

  But if man looks in, his fallibility, his imperfection, his sin, his fear and all that he is, is drawn into the hereafter like disease.

  A knock startles him. “Yes?” he says.

  The door creaks open and stepping in is a man that appears to be in his mid to late forties. His hair is very long. It reaches to his waist. He wears the livery of the Orathom Wis.

  “I am Athelstan,” he says, simply. “It is a great honor to meet you, Doctor. I am sent to guard your door and to assist you.”

  “I thank you,” Loche says, “But I believe it would be safer to be alone—”

  Athelstan nods. “True. True. Though, Anfogal insists that I remain in the chamber and help in any way I can. I will move paintings, lift shrouds from paintings, cover paintings, ease your hurts, bring food, water… I am your servant. And if the siege rises to this door, I will be your shield.”

  “Very well,” Loche says.

  Athelstan moves to the door and locks it. He unsheathes his sword and leans it against the wall. “How might I serve?”

  Loche wonders, where to start? “Is there a way to know the subject matter of these paintings without lifting the shrouds?”

  “There is, indeed,” Athelstan says. “Upon the backs of each painting, in the lower right corner is Basil Fenn’s signature, but also there is often another name below it. We believe those names are the subjects of the portraits.”

  “Very good,” Loche says.

  “Is there a name you would like to begin with?”

  “Yes,” Loche says, “Mine. I feel as if I should look into the first painting that I wrote about. Basil’s portrait of me.”

  Athelstan walks around the perimeter of easels and inspects beneath the shrouded backs. “Here,” he says. “Here.”

  Loche enters the circle and sits in the chair. He rotates and stares at the still covered work. Athelstan is positioned behind the easel, one hand gripping the shroud.

  “At your command,” Athelstan says.

  “Do you know what a black hole is?” Loche asks him.

  “It is what remains after a star dies,” Athelstan answers.

  “Okay,” Loche says. “But what remains?”

  Athelstan shakes his head. “Memory. Only memory.”

  “Remove the shroud.”

  Just Stories

  November 5, this year

  Venice, Italy

  “You see,” Albion says, “the story is the most important thing. Stories are traps by their very nature. Paragraphs assembled to confound current perception, delineate altered states and offer plausible alternatives. They suspend disbelief, of course. Make us forget our surroundings and change our very behavior.”

  Julia cannot keep eye contact with him. Every few words out of his mouth, she looks away. Perhaps to another escape route. To the cruel beauty of Helen’s face watching Albion pontificate. To the fading light in the windows—the crystal goblets, red velvet bed curtains, the paintings on the walls—to Rearden just off to her left and behind—likely his head tipped back and his legs crossed, like Loche had described him in the—

  “The journal,” Albion continues, “Loche’s journal—the story is everything. Paramount. I would very much like to see it for myself.”

  Julia looked at her hands laying upon her lap. Marcus Rearden had already shared his firsthand experiences with Albion about Loche Newirth and his poetical gift. Loche was the named Poet. The one fulfilling a long known augury among the Orathom Wis. If Basil Fenn’s paintings were the doorway for the intermingling of Heaven and Earth, Loche was foretold to be the wordsmith.

  “Let us make this simple, shall we?” Albion said.

  Julia looked up at him.

  “Let’s begin with a biggie. Loche Newirth, in the journal to ensnare Dr. Rearden, wrote of a woman named Julia.” Albion points at her. “That’s you. And because of this epic work of fiction—you came to life. Better still, he created you.”

  “I don’t know,” Julia replies.

  “Very well. How’s this, Loche’s tale has changed the very fabric of reality?”

  “Sure.” Julia says.

  “His writing was guided by some force greater than all of the divinities together to spin a yarn that can alter existence? The very mind of Thi, Itself. If these things are so, then I wonder if he has considered any rewrites. I wonder how we might improve upon his first draft?”


  Julia looks away.

  “Perhaps pen a new system of belief, and of gods? A new fate for our abandoned kin, doomed to nihility.” Albion leans toward Julia, “Do you believe in what he has done? Created me? Created you? Restructured reality and all that is—and has unwittingly placed himself at the center of it all?”

  Julia shrugged and twisted around. Rearden met her eyes. She replied, “You’d have to read the book.”

  Click

  November 6, this year

  Somewhere over Italy

  Both William Greenhame and Edwin are asleep. The little boy is slobbering on William’s shoulder. He had climbed into his granddad’s lap an hour or so ago, just after takeoff, and quickly went out. Greenhame followed.

  How cute, Leonaie thinks. And, amazing to think that they are related. William doesn’t look to be thirty five. A thirty-five-year-old granddad. Samuel said that he was over six-hundred-years-old? Is that right?

  Leonaie studies the two sleeping forms. She pictures her own children when they were Edwin’s age. She would scoop them up in her arms, sit on the davenport and whisper to them until they fell asleep. The quiet of their breathing. The afternoon amber on the window.

  The compartment shudders.

  “Just a little turbulence,” a voice says.

  There is a hand in hers. She looks down. It is a strong, long-fingered hand. She follows the interlaced fingers up to the wrist, to the cuff of a white shirt, suit coat, up the arm to the shoulder, a solid jaw line, a faint smile, and arriving at two, keen bluish-grey eyes, she flinches meeting them.

  “Not long now,” he says.

  Leonaie nods. What a handsome face. What a highly kissable face. She stares. She notes that his expression tangles into concern.

  “Leonaie?” he prods.

  “Yes?” she says.

  “Are you alright?”

  Glancing back to the sleeping William and Edwin she lets out a sigh and breathes in. Sweet oxygen. That is William, that is Edwin, she turns to the man whose hand she is gripping, and that is—that is—

  “You know,” she hears her voice say, “when my sisters and I were little girls, Dad would whistle and we would dance beside the stove. He could whistle a pretty tune. And we would ice skate on the lake in the winter…” She smiles at him. A click, as if the gears of a lock had been keyed. He’s heard me tell this story before. Of course he has. Sweet Samuel. My dear, sweet Samuel. Samuel is his name. Goodness me.

  “Oh Samuel, I’m fine, dearest,” she says, suddenly clear. It all floods back. “Will the treatments hurt?”

  Relief rises into Samuel’s face. “I wouldn’t think so,” he replies. “Though, we can expect some discomfort. Your body will go through some metabolic changes, surely. We’ll know more when we arrive.”

  “Where is Charles?” she asks.

  Samuel nods and assures, “He is fine. Greenhaven’s has informed him that you have joined several other residents on a week long retreat to Priest Lake. He was thrilled.”

  She raises his hand to her lips and kisses it.

  “Can’t stand that control freak,” she chuckles. She turns again to the young boy adrift in dreams upon his granddad’s chest. “Look at that little fellow. So peaceful.”

  A few minutes later, she is asleep. Her grey curls, like a scarf of spun silver, drape over Samuel’s shoulder and chest. Her own weight cannot be much more than little Edwin’s. How similar they are, she and he. Like beginnings and endings. The young and the old—their dreams in the embrace of immortals.

  The Pharmakiea

  April, 1338

  The House of Albion Ravistelle, London

  Cut into thin slices and garnished with apples and onions was a plate of beef. William’s eyes were wide at the sight.

  “You are blessed, Father,” Albion said to Radulphus as he stabbed his knife into the meat and began to fill his plate. “For lent has ended. Please, partake.”

  Radulphus smiled and looked at William. The boy was mesmerized. Not only by the beautiful plate of cooked meat, but the cakes, the bowl of figs, and another plate filled with something he did not recognize. But best of all there was a warm loaf of golden brown bread upon a board. Albion noticed him staring. “Here,” he said, “you be the first to break bread here at my house.”

  William received the loaf and admired its perfection, its color and its heft. It smelled of unknown spices. His fingers squeezed and tore the crust. He set his portion on his plate and passed the rest to his father.

  He had never known food like this. His mother had prepared him many good meals in his short life, but nothing with these seasonings. Albion spoke of mustard, clove, coriander, and a type of ginger called the grains of paradise from places like Sri Lanka, India and Byzantium. The flavors and the descriptions of their origin filled William’s heart with a longing to see those far away places.

  A goblet of sweet water and a half goblet of wine were set before William. “The water is good, so have your fill,” Albion told them—then with a grin to Radulphus, “But the wine is better.”

  William looked at his father and could hardly recognize him. His face was clean shaven, his hair was neatly trimmed and there was no trace of the stain of travel upon his brow. Radulphus bowed his head and gave thanks to God for the feast before them.

  After their bath, Alice had brought both visitors new garments. For Radulphus, a new ivory colored alb that dropped well below his ankle. The long garment was tied at the waist with a cincture and around his neck was draped the linen stola. The embroidered crosses were green and gold.

  William’s new clothes, he was told, once belonged to Alice’s son that had passed away some years ago. They were of a rich green and brown linen and elegantly made. They fitted him well, and it was similar to Albion’s mode of dress, rich, but not gaudy—it proclaimed nobility.

  William looked down at his tunic and noted how unstained it was—how clean. He looked at his scrubbed fingernails and spotless hands. His hair had also been trimmed. He frowned, feeling how much had been sheared off.

  Albion lifted his wine, “I drink to my own dear Alice. She has transformed you both. Clean, smelling of flowers and sage, and dressed as if we’re off to mass at Saint Paul’s.” He brought the goblet to his mouth and gulped.

  William felt a heavy drowse upon him. He yawned.

  “Nay, Gravesend will never recognize your faces.”

  “Can you be sure?” Radulphus asked.

  “I can,” Albion said, his words slurring. “For I’ve journeyed with you for three days, and even now, as you sit at my table, I can scarcely place you. Have no fear.” He shoved a cut of beef into his mouth.

  “And how shall we gain an audience with his Excellency?” Radulphus asked.

  Albion nodded at the question while chewing. “Simply,” he said, his mouth still full. “I have been in his company before. You see, I am no common man struggling for a scrap from his table. I am a respected business man here in London. I have made my reputation through apothecary and materia medica—I have a hand in creating, and I supply, many of the latest medicines to the city of London. This food’s spice, these flavors that you are both finding great delight? The delicious beer and wine? These are from the same monastery gardens that cultivate the herbs and oils for my remedies. For the last one hundred years, I have endeavored to learn all that I can about the human body, its ills, its failings and how it can be improved.”

  “Like Mama,” William said.

  Albion smiled at William, “Yes, my boy, like your mother. Geraldine knew herb lore, and she practiced it with much success. We, also, have healed and cured a great many maladies. But too often we find contradiction in our effort—and too few consistencies. What will aid one might hinder another, or do nothing at all. Still, we labor on to find answers, and most importantly, we strive to change the fears of medicine and its use.”

  “The very fears that brought Gravesend to our village? The very fears of my wife’s Craft?” Radulphus aske
d.

  “Yes,” Albion said. “Using a plant to heal is not the Devil’s work. If wood is used for fire, to warm our bodies in winter, using aloe to treat a wound and heal it has nothing to do with the shadow of the Underworld. Whipping one’s self and begging the Lord to forgive you for your illness won’t do much either, other than give you more pain and include your name in the long list of man’s idiocy.

  “And blood letting? What insanity! Cutting a man to allow a sickness to escape? Dear me. A man needs all of his blood. Spilling it is messy, painful and does no more good than asking God to intervene. God will not. And also, wearing donkey skin will not eliminate rheumatism, gulping down a young frog will not take away asthma, and washing your hair in a man’s piss will not remedy ringworm.”

  “Prayer to God will cure—”

  “Father,” Albion interrupted, “the next time you are cold and without a fire, will you pray for God to set one alight, or will you light it yourself?”

  Radulphus did not respond.

  “Forgive me.” He sighed. “It is true that words can be powerful in the healing of our woes. Words themselves are made of thoughts—made up of letters. Their formation are a kind of magic—of course, that is why we call their combining, spelling. Proclaiming our desires is like casting a spell out into the void. Whatever powers that are out there do, indeed, listen. Though, their listening, and our crying out are not enough to combat man’s madness, man’s sickness. Perhaps one day, I will find the answer to cure us all.” Albion took a thoughtful pull from his wine, “Perhaps one day.” He looked at William. William stared back.

  “So you are an apothecary?” Radulphus asked.

  “No,” Albion said, “I am an herbalist, a pharmakiea, a student and a supplier of medicines to those in need. I have been called an apothecary, but I do not practice as they do. Though, I do endeavor to understand and create cures.”

  “And this will gain us audience with Bishop Gravesend? Doesn’t he view your efforts as inspired by the Devil himself?”