Leaves of Fire: Part Two of the Newirth Mythology Page 4

  The Rest Is Silence

  Verona, Italy, November 3, this year

  Orathom Wis safe house

  Julia Iris turns her eyes to the star above the mountain, so far away—wishing she could sleep. She asks, “So, Helen, William, Samuel Lifeson, George Eversman, we’re all the same? We’re all immortal?”

  Loche turns to Greenhame and motions for him to answer. William stands and crosses the small living room, and lowers himself beside Julia. He takes her hand. “No one is the same as another. You are now part of a family that is suspended from many of this world’s absolutes, it is true. But just as those that are doomed to die are as unique and powerful as the stars in the sky, so too are you, my dear, Julia. Yet, you are now an enduring power. And you will find that your sameness with others will be defined by how you use that power.” Julia stares at him. Her expression is a mixture of wonder and fright—half of her face is lit by the yellow dawn, the other in shadow. “Sounds a little too make believe? I’m sure. All of this might appear archetypal in nature—such things are present in life—though they may be marginalized to our entertainments. To be clearer, the choice of light and darkness is one in the same many times. And not always easy to determine.”

  Loche interrupts, “William, now is not the time for your philosophical rant. She is still coming to terms with all of this. And so am I!”

  “I know well enough, son. But now is the time to determine a course, and set out—unwaveringly, mind you.” Greenhame points his finger at Loche’s heart with an urging, almost mocking gesture. “For we know all too well how you managed to internalize a reality you thought myth.”

  Loche winces. Words on a page or was it a real experience? Is it a memory, or a story he made up? The pistol angled below the chin—the stutter—the canvass that stretched out behind—the Uffizi—his brother Basil Fenn? A chill skitters along Loche’s spine, and he feels tears rushing to his eyes. He turns away as Greenhame stands. The warmth of his father’s hand upon his shoulder is healing, and strangely absolving. But it is uncomfortable, too. These new revelations, these vexing truths are not limited to only Julia’s paradigm.

  “Son?” Greenhame’s voice is low.

  But it is not just a story. Not now. These things really happened. And he must accept it, or go mad.

  Loche remembers when he wrote of Basil’s eyes internalizing the gift of the firearm—his own unspoken suggestion—it was as if Loche told his brother, “You must take your own life to save us all.” Did he think that? Or just write it? Of course Loche delivered that message to Basil through metaphor and insinuation, back in Venice, not two weeks ago (or in Priest Lake, when he wrote of the event). But it was the gun he had placed beside his brother’s hand that had finalized the conversation. And despite his intention, Loche remembers a fleeting feeling that Basil would not go through with it, or hoped that he would not. Yet, the terrible truth remained: there is only one way to stop the invasion of Heaven, and that is to eliminate the doors. Basil was now dead—one was now closed. Loche Newirth was still wide open.

  “What of the assembly at the Uffizi? What happened to all of those important people?”

  Greenhame scowls, “We are awaiting official reports.”

  “What of Howard Fenn? Is he alright?”

  “We have returned him to Sandpoint, Idaho. He is getting along.”

  “And the paintings?”

  “We, The Orathom Wis, have captured a great many. Albion Ravistelle has a goodly amount as well.”

  “What have I done?”

  “Son, no more. There is much to discuss. But not now.” Loche nods at his father. William returns to his chair. Loche sits down on the couch and lays his hand over the joined hands of Julia and Edwin. He watches her stare out at the drained colors of the Verona skyline. Her face is expressionless and statue-like.

  She says, “It seems strange to think that I’ve never been badly injured—my whole life. I’ve always thought that was weird. How could such a thing be real?”

  “Why, yes. Yes indeed,” Greenhame agrees. “There are qualities that our kind possess—subtle and simple qualities. Call it a second kind of focus. We call it Rathinalya or your life circle. Tell me, have you always been coordinated?”

  “What do you mean?” Julia asks.

  “I mean just that. Have you noticed a certain strength of dexterity?”

  Looking at her hands, Julia shrugs. “I guess so.”

  Greenhame frowns slightly and leans in closer to her. “Okay. Let me ask you this, when you have a knife in your hand and, say, you’re slicing vegetables for a salad—have you ever cut yourself?”

  Julia thinks for a moment. “No. Not that I remember.”

  “Very good. When you are faced with some activity that poses any risk of injury—cutting tomatoes, playing sports, picking up broken glass—you are unknowingly protected by your Rathinalya. We have an innate awareness, albeit subtle, but enough to see one, maybe two steps ahead of our mortal counterparts—and that awareness keeps us from simple injury—sometimes lethal injury. For example, when picking up broken glass, our hands will perform the task with the utmost precision and forethought. Our eyes will map out the careful process without fail, and our hands follow. Simple as that really.” Greenhame drains his wine into his mouth.

  Loche flinches as Greenhame flings his wine glass from his hand at Julia’s face. There is a ring, like wind through a chime and then a click. Julia’s free hand is before her eyes, and tangled within her fingers is the stem of the glass. Her eyes are wide.

  Greenhame smiles. “Nice reflexes. You see, your Rathinalya is always circling your body. But it is not armor, nor is it perfect, as you’ve recently learned.” He gestures to her stomach. “Sometimes there are dangers that are beyond our instinctive skills to prevent. But those are usually things that are out of our control—accidents, if you will. A car accident for example. And so, too, is the occasional danger that is inflicted upon us, like the wound from a firearm,” William points to his temple and glances at Loche. Loche recalls writing the grisly head wound that William received during the siege on Basil’s flat in Sandpoint, Idaho. William then points to Julia’s abdomen. “Our Rathinalya is good, but it is not a shield against chaos.”

  “You said there can be a lethal injury. What does that mean?”

  “We may not die by any natural occurrence—but we can be slain, though, not easily.” By her squinting eyes William sees that he must explain further. “We can be vanquished if our bodies are destroyed. If we’ve the chance to heal from a terrible injury, say a bullet wound or a stabbing, or a terrible fall—which may take some hours, depending upon the severity, we can return anew. But if we are not allowed time to heal, or if our bodies are hacked apart and limbs are hewn away, and our head and body become estranged, or if we are burned and incinerated, we will cease to be.” His voice is again low, “And there is pain. We feel every pain just as mortals, only ours is more profound and enduring. Our memory of pain is everlasting. Once you find yourself at the threshold of some lethal harm, the pain is indescribable and terrible. Not because of the injury itself, but rather the agony of being barred from the Orathom. The agony of returning to the Life, the Alya. There is no pain that can compare.” Greenhame lowers his head into his hands and shudders.

  “But if we are indeed vanquished, a few of us believe that we can then enter into the Dream—the Orathom.” Greenhame shifts in his seat uneasily and adds, “Though, it is only a belief. A longing, I suppose. For it has been said since our very beginnings, we immortals will have no Dream to enter into. Our myths, our ancient stories—the mighty Thi, the maker of all. Our tomes say our lives are limited to the here and now, of this world only, and that if and when we die, we become—nothing. We fade into oblivion. The gift and curse of Thi. It is a terrible irony—immortal only here in this life, to protect this world, the mortals and their stories upon Endale. Nothing after. We were never meant to sleep. Never meant to dream. Rest is a gift reserved for those th
at want it not. Ithic veli agtig. The rest is silence.”

  The last of the sunset sparks and dies. Loche notes a darker patch of rain clouds forming in the west, like a shroud over the stars. He sees Julia close her eyes, and imagines that behind her lids her sight scours for some trace of a skyline—any single point of light—a star to comfort her. A single star that would, in time, begin to blink as the deep night approached, and the heavy mountains rooting her dreams to the earth would vanish into the night air. But there will be no stars out tonight, and sleep is far, far away.

  Julia leans into Loche as he pulls her close. “I love you,” she says. He opens his mouth to answer, but no words come.

  The Ladder In The Courtyard

  November 3, this year, Coeur d’Alene, Idaho

  Greenhavens Retirement Community

  “Can I come in, for God's sake? Why is this door closed?” It is a man’s voice. It is Leonaie’s husband, Charles.

  Leonaie’s face darkens. Then, as if by habit, a forced smile pushes the cover back. She senses Olivia tense. “Don’t worry,” she says, motioning for the young woman to open the door, “It’s okay. It’s okay. It will all work out.”

  “But Samuel will be here any minute,” Olivia whispers.

  Leonaie grins at her. A kind of thankful expression—appreciating Olivia’s play acting skills. A grin that says, Charles can’t see Samuel, you silly girl, he’s in my head.

  Another knock. Louder this time. “Leonaie?”

  “Yes, dear,” Leonaie calls turning back toward the bedside.

  Olivia opens the door and in walks Charles Echelle. A man of seventy-four years, tall, thin and athletic for his age. His wiry frame still has a fair amount of lean muscle, and he is well aware of it. He wears a close fitting yellow shirt with a collar and grey slacks. His grey hair is thinning and in his eyes is a kind of inconvenienced distain for the environment around him. “Leonaie, why can’t those bastards out there remember who the hell I am?”

  “Visit more often, dear, and they might. Goodness, I just might remember you, too.”

  Olivia laughs.

  Charles huffs.

  Leonaie lowers herself down to sit. “Dear, did you know, in the afternoon, someone brings me a glass of wine. Delivers it to my room. And it is always a delicious, cold chardonnay. Did you ask them to do that?”

  Charles steps further into the room and looks around with a kind of scowl—“Not me,” he says quickly. “If there’s one thing you shouldn’t be having is wine—with your memory being the way it’s been.” He shoots a muted glare at Olivia.

  “Don’t you be mean to her,” Leonaie says sharply.

  “It’s alright, Leonaie,” Olivia joins. “The doctor said she could have a glass of wine every afternoon—he didn’t seem to think it would be a problem. In fact, he thought it was a great idea.”

  “Well, keeping my wife boozed up doesn’t seem like practical medicine to me.” Charles stands next to his seated wife and presses his hand on her shoulder. Olivia notes how awkward the gesture appears.

  Leonaie sighs and says, “Charles, it is so nice of you to visit. That always makes me feel a little better somehow.” Leonaie glances at Olivia and then up to her husband’s face—he is still scanning their surroundings with distaste.

  “And what is that smell, for God's sake?” he growls.

  “That’s pee, dear,” Leonaie says flatly. “Some of these old folks here can’t seem to pee in the designated pee-pee spots.”

  Olivia laughs suddenly and then covers her mouth with her hand. Leonaie always makes her laugh.

  “Well someone should open a window,” he says gruffly.

  Then from the door comes a voice in chorus, “I agree. Smells like piss.”

  Charles and Olivia turn to see Doctor Victor Živojinović, or as many of the residents call him, Doc Victor.

  “And why doesn’t someone do something about it Doc Victor? It’s terrible.”

  “I agree, Charles, but I’m afraid we’ve not found the right ingredients for pleasant smelling urine. Nor have we been able to develop a better method than diapers. Things could be worse. Take it easy.”

  “And I see that I’ve come when you have an examination scheduled?” Charles says to Leonaie.

  “Impeccable timing, dear,” Leonaie said. “But we won’t be long. Can’t you stay? I’ll be having tea with a friend today, won’t you join us?”

  Charles shifts in his stance and considers his wife’s words. She’s delusional again, his expression says, and he suddenly flashes a pleading look to Doc Victor. The doctor nods knowingly and points his pen into his clipboard.

  “No dear,” Charles says, “I have plans with our old friends the Gramms a little later today. But I’ll come back to see you tomorrow, or the next day.”

  Leonaie continues to stare out the window. “Very well, sweetheart. Have a great time. Tell them I said hello.” She has no idea who the Gramms are.

  Another awkward gesture, a kiss this time, on the top of his wife’s head. He turns toward the door and collides with the doctor as he exits.

  Doc Victor sighs. Leonaie watches Olivia finish up tidying the room. The woman pauses a moment to catch a look at the doctor, his pen still scribbling. Doctor Živojinović looks younger than Oliva. He looks to be in his early to mid-thirties. Leonaie had overheard Olivia and several other of the Greenhavens Community female residents often place him into the center of what Leonaie calls, saucy talk. The man is quiet, intelligent, gentle and (Leonaie suddenly suppresses a giggle), wildly fuckable. His physical appearance is not stunning, though it is attractive despite the weird mustache and wire rimmed glasses. He is tall, with finely sculpted features, dark hair, dark skin, but what twitterpates Olivia, her friends and even Leonaie is the rare occurrence of coming under his gaze. His eyes are in some way similar to Leonaie’s, but they are greener and filled with a compelling depth, as if he can see through one’s thoughts—as if he can read one’s mind—and the rest of his face shines out a genuine like for what he reads there.

  With his head still bent down into his clipboard, his eyes shift up to Olivia. She is caught staring. Her face flushes with red suddenly and she spins toward Leonaie. Her voice wavers,“Leonaie, is there anything else that I can—you need?”

  “No dear,” Leonaie says, looking at her, a slight smile on her lips. “Just set a place for my meeting today in the courtyard, won’t you?”

  “I will. And doctor?”

  “No, thank you Olivia. I’ll take it from here.”

  The door closes behind her. Doc Victor continues to scribble on his clipboard.

  “We’ll have to make this quick, Doctor,” Leonaie says, still her gaze points to some place well beyond the parking lot outside, the Denny’s sign above the freeway, the mountains in the haze. “I have a friend that’s about to visit.”

  “A friend? I thought he was much more than a friend.”

  “Fair enough. He is my very best friend.”

  “That sounds more like it.” Doc Victor stands between Leonaie and the window. He stoops over and looks carefully at her face and her color. He cradles her chin in his hand and then slowly reaches to her neck. “Any more pain?” Leonaie doesn’t answer. His fingers continue the examination, moving to the glands along her throat.

  “I hate that fucking mustache,” she says quickly. Doc Victor pauses, his hand now behind her neck, feeling the tightened muscles along her cervical spine. “Please tell me that you don’t think it looks good.”

  He barely smiles. “Maybe I do think it looks good. I’ve had beards in the past, but never a mustache.” His hands glide to her shoulders.

  “You look like a pimp’s bookkeeper,” she says, eyes still tracing nothing. “Of course, a cute bookkeeper with those little wiry glasses. Are those new?”

  “No, I’ve had them a long while,” he replies, his hands now unbuttoning her blouse. Her green-gold lit eyes shoot to the glasses and study them a moment. They look old. Very old.

&nbs
p; “How long have you had them?”

  Victor watches his hands unfastening each button as if he is stepping slowly down a ladder, then he raises his eyes to meet hers.

  “I found these glasses in London—1813 was the year, I think, so yes, a long time. I didn’t need glasses, of course. My eyesight is perfect. It always has been.”

  “There must have been a woman that first said you looked good wearing them?” Leonaie asks.

  Victor nudges Leonaie’s blouse off of her shoulders and it drapes down across her back. Her arms are thin, white and wrinkled. Her chest is now bare. Victor lowers his face into hers and waits. “You were the first to say that I looked cute wearing them,” he says. Leonaie lets a smile curve into her eyes and lips.

  She leans and kisses him softly. When she pulls away, Victor’s eyes are closed, reveling in some memory, some distant pleasure—an expression she has seen on his face many times.

  She wonders what consumes him. Is it the taste of her? Or the memory of her when she was younger, standing upon a ladder, her little butt poked out just a tickle—or perhaps he is recalling her shape framed in a hotel window with the Parisian skyline lit behind her. A smile slowly spreads across his face. The smile is so large that one side of his mustache comes loose and begins to sag—the glue giving out.

  Leonaie reaches her hand up to press it back down. “Ridiculous,” she says shaking her head. “You don’t have to wear a disguise all the time, you know. Besides, it doesn’t make kissing you an easy thing with that fucking porcupine on your lip. How about the next time you visit, you fake shave?”

  “As you wish, dear,” he agrees.

  “And if you don’t mind,” Leonaie shrugs, “these babies are getting a tad nipply out here, and they’re not what they used to be,” she nodded to her topless torso. “So if you have some examining to do, have at it.” She then flashes him her mischievous grin, “And thanks for the seduction bit. Very sexy.”