“Dad?” Edwin’s voice again. “Was this your plan? Is this your gift?” The little boy rotates away and runs. Loche rushes to the glass. Outside Edwin speeds across a wide lawn, hand in hand with a gaunt, spindly limbed man. The man cranes his head back. A smile cut across his face. It is Marcus Rearden.
“Was this your plan? Is this your gift?”
Fireside Stories
1010 A.D.
The Realm of Wyn Avuqua
Loche wakes. He is lying on his side, spooned around his sleeping son. A small fire hisses and snaps a few feet away. He raises himself onto an elbow.
He had fallen asleep not long after arriving at what Vincale called, “A safe place.” Blinking heavily, he tries to scan the jagged stone walls of a cave. The fire is warm, his son’s face is peaceful and they are no longer under the cold, icy stars.
Through the cave’s mouth the silhouettes of two figures stand at the edge of the stream. Their voices are low in conversation. Julia is asleep on the opposite side of the fire.
“Was this your plan, Loche?” a voice asks. “Is this your gift?”
The words echo and resound in his mind. They are words he had written. And the voice speaking them is unmistakable.
William Greenhame sits with his hands folded in his lap. He is leaning now into Loche’s view signaling his whereabouts to his son. “I’m right here.”
“W-William…” Loche breaths out. A sudden rush of tears. Loche painfully sits up and extends both of his hands and William receives them.
“I ask you again, did you plan any of this?”
“William—I—”
“Your gift—it seems to keep on giving… or we just continue to unwrap it and discover new surprises as we go. For example, here we sit beside a fire in the year 1010, as far as I can tell, not far from the city of Immortals, Wyn Avuqua. The One God, Thi, the creator of the omnitude of existence, or insert any other whole ball of wax synonym here, has passed Its life force into your sleeping son—making Edwin the most powerful entity to—that—” he shakes his head and lets go of Loche’s hands, “words fall short, I’m afraid. And as such, Edwin’s new found position has certainly raised my station as perhaps the most proud grandfather to ever exist.” A frown develops as he studies the little boy, “Proud, and terrified, I must admit. And if these plot points are not enough to bludgeon your better judgment into whimpering submission as to what’s believable and what is not,” William dramatically spreads his arms wide, “behold, I am here —as far as I can tell. I am alive. You thought me dead, I know,” William says quietly with a quick glance to Julia. “And you would have been right to believe it.”
Loche can find no words.
William takes Loche’s hands again, raises them and presses the palms together. He then encases his hands over Loche’s for a long moment. Color in his face pales.
“Ithic veli agtig,” he says, a grim smile tangling in his expression. “I know now, without doubt, nothing waits for me,” his hands pull away and gesture to a faraway ether, “nothing waits for us lingerers—we Melgia—we guardians of the dream.”
“What happened, William?”
He touches his throat thoughtfully. “I told you did I not, that I would return my grandson and your beloved Julia?”
Julia is awake now, still lying bundled in a blanket. She is listening. Firelight glitters in her eyes as she watches the reunion. William smiles at her, “I’m sorry to wake you again, my dear.” She nods.
William’s fingers graze the scarf around his neck. He says to Loche, “My head, dear boy, was in a bag. My head was in the bag. Gavress, we call it. All that is me was cast into the sea. Linnasisg, the ending of the light.” He waits a beat and adds, “But you know of Gavress Linnasisg, yes? Of course you do, for you wrote of such a ritual in the Journal, though you failed to name it then. Poor Felix Wishfeill falls to Samuel’s sword in Venice. You remember. And in one of our favorite little restaurants—not far from Lord Byron’s home. You were listening to Joni Mitchell. Do you recall? Who can forget Samuel’s line, ‘How about I double bag these, what say you?’ Of course I do not believe that when you wrote about our lovely barmaid Maria bringing Samuel two plastic garbage bags that you intended for your imaginative head-disposal imagery to pullulate into a rite among those plagued with life ad nauseam. Alas, poor Samuel.”
“William, I—”
“Surely you could have no idea of how something as simple as a severed head and a sack could influence idioms and the time continuum.”
“William—”
“Etymologically speaking, the phrase head in a bag has joined with many such bag-centric phrases, you know. And since my head has been bag enveloped, if you will, I must admit, I’ve not been myself. I find myself talking more than is—”
“William,” Loche’s voice is raised slightly. His father jumps at the sound. “How did you survive—how did you—”
William chants, looking into the fire,
“There’s a head in the bag.
There’s a head in the bag.
The head is my head.
It is my head in the bag.”
The flames crackle. He then says, “Few would understand the historical meaning of such a stanza. Few would want to know the truth of it. Where the utterance came from or why the words bring a horrifying chill to those that perpetuated the phrase into an idiom is certainly not common knowledge.
“There are many phrases like it. Phrases that mention a bag, for example. Like a mixed bag. It was strange to think of that then, for I did, when my head was in the bag. Pointless, really. But I wondered. I wondered about it. Then the saying, It’s in the bag, crossed my mind. I tried to smile, but could not. Smiling stung like a cut spreading open. I recalled something about the New York Giants in 1915. Or 1916. I could not remember exactly—but the Giants were on a winning streak one of those years—anyway, when the bag of replacement baseballs was removed from the field, the New York crowd believed that the game would again be won by their beloved team. Thus, the game was in the bag. Today, in the bag has come to mean eminent success is near.
“At the time I was recalling this I did not think the phrase applied to my head.
“Then I thought, What of the cat is out of the bag? I had seen a market farmer attempt this trick once sometime around the middle of the nineteenth century. When selling hares, a wicked merchant might exchange a cat in the bag for the rabbit. The swindle would be discovered later by the duped customer. The cat is out of the bag has come to mean truth shall be brought forth.”
William shivers. After a moment, he continues.
“There’s a head in the bag.
There’s a head in the bag.
The head is my head.
It is my head in the bag.
“The verse is long known among the Itonalya. It dates back to the founding stones of Wyn Avuqua. Countless years lost in the mist.”
William clears his throat.
“It was black inside the bag. Then I could sense a rustling, a slight breeze maybe against the plastic. Movement, certainly. Jostling. Then vertigo, oddly.” He winces. “Then sudden light. Stunningly clear. Painful. Of course my eyes were frozen open, impossible to shut. Above, a breach in the sack widened. A grip of fingers clawed through my hair, then I was lifted up and out.”
“A flashing of images, sounds and smells followed: sea air, crying gulls, a far off shore, crests slapping against the boat side, spraying mist. The time had come. I knew. After all of this time, I knew, finally, the truth. The end was near. The ocean.
“But who has a fist full of my hair? I wondered. Before my existence was winked out, I wanted to know. Who will cast me to the nothingness that waits?”
William looks down at his hands.
“As if in answer, a voice spoke, almost chanting, ‘And at last,’ the voice said, ‘and not without great reverence and pity, I banish you, William Greenhame, William of Leaves, William, son of Radulphus. I grant you your wish—our wish. Your death is
no longer delayed. No dream, no waking—the water has no memory. Nor shall you. Gallina.’ The hand gripped tighter. Then Albion Ravistelle’s face appeared before my failing eyes. Albion Ravistelle. ‘My old friend,’ he said, ‘How I wish I could make this journey with you—to know finally if there is anything beyond for our kind. Fear not, young William, I shall avenge the fallen Itonalya. The gods will be torn from their thrones on high. Heaven shall be here. If only you could have seen clearer.’ Albion paused and stared deeply into my immovable eyes. ‘Why do I feel you hear me, Greenhame? Even now, so far from me—from this life? Can you hear me?’ I could see the shape of his tears. They dropped heavily and were swept away from his face by the ocean wind. Albion turned as if tracking the tears out to sea. He smiled watching them mix with the splashing mists spraying across the prow of the boat. ‘Go with my tears,’ he said. ‘William, go with my sorrow. I will never forget you.’ Albion then spoke the words of Gavress Linnasisg, in its entirety to honor my passing.”
William pushes a stick into the fire. He stares in silence for a few moments.
“With a sudden jolt, I felt a rounding arc—forceful and fast. The burning pain at my scalp eased suddenly as the world spun, sky over sea, bright blue tumbling to grey—somersaulting out above the whitecaps. Then sound muddled, deadened—vision blurred. I could sense the chill of water and the stinging bite of salt. I thought, this is how we end. The sea eats the life of the immortal. This is how it has always been.
“I bobbed to the surface, face upward, lolling on a wave. There was a drone of engines and the smell of petrol. Albion’s boat tore away back to the shore. Shrieking gulls circle above ——the water has teeth—thought drowned—I gave up.
“There is no knowing how long I floated on the surface of the Adriatic when light appeared again.” William laughs suddenly. “Light. I recalled the phrase let there be light. A good one, I thought. A fine line. A group of words that I wish I had come up with to begin one of my own books. But, alas, it has been commandeered by one of the better known tomes in the history of the earth. Nevertheless, my mind thought, what is this clear, unending light? A light beyond anything known. Perfection beyond its capacity to understand. Beauty and refuge and starlight. Is this Orathom?”
William raises his face to his listeners. Tears are in his eyes.
“Light. The brightest light I will ever know. And her voice —her sweet voice. She said, ‘My sweet William. My dear, sweet William. I’ve got you. I’ve got you. Come back to me, William!’ It was my Lady. Oh, the sight of her. She was light framed in the pink afterglow of the sunset. ‘It is me, my sweet husband. It is your Diana. I’ve got you now. I’ve got you now. Go no further. Stay. Stay. Stay!’”
A warm smile spreads on his lips.
“Your mother saved me—she always has saved me. Beloved Diana. She plucked my darkening thoughts from out of the deep, deep sea. The biting salt. The stinging fangs. She lifted my face to Dellithion, and showed me her radiant, shining face. Ah, my sweet. How many labyrinths have you led me out of, wife?” More tears suddenly overflow and tumble downward. He waits for the sudden squall to pass. When it does he attempts a thin smile.
“Our gifted dear Dr. Angelo Catena played savior as well. Though I cannot fully explain just how he reunited my head with my body nor would I want to. I was told in the simplest of terms that the process might resemble something like the grafting of stems and roots wet with rain and warmed with sunlight. Yet, truly, what I recall are sights, sounds and sensations best left unspoken. But here I am before you! Or at least, most of me. Always will the memory of pain seethe from where Nicolas Cythe’s blade did its worst,” he pulls at his scarf and reveals a raw, red scar encircling his throat. “And then Albion performed the rite and cast my mind to the Adriatic. Gavress Linnasisg. Had I floated much longer on the waves, I would have been beyond hope, or so sayeth the good Dr. Catena.” He shivers. “And I know now the horrors of how long the mind carries on after our end. Oft we have wondered and oft we have dreaded an answer. Alas that I now know.” He tightens the fabric of his scarf. “And I am also aware of the oblivion that follows. I am afraid of it, Loche, quite afraid.”
“Where is Diana—Mother?”
“I would think she is at home sleeping late, dearest woman. She sleeps more and more these days. How I wish I could be lying beside her.” William’s focus softens and his gaze falls into the fire. Loche watches as his father’s expression drifts from halcyon to uncertain to afraid like sunlight through ragged stone hued clouds on a spring day. “She bade me tell you to finish what you’ve started and come home. And, as is my wont, I am here to help you.”
Loche looks at Julia and says, “Home.”
“And what a charge your mother has laid upon us, yes?” William nods to the two figures conversing just outside of the cave.
“But how did you find us? Here of all places—of all times?”
“Ah, that was easy,” he answers. “I called George.”
“You called George?”
“I telephoned him when I was feeling better.”
The pressure in Loche’s ear throbs.
“George shared with me the events I had missed while I was in pieces. In pieces, dear me…” He shakes himself and picks up, “Clever that Basil left a message for you, Julia. Cryptic and wonderfully ripe with mystery. Just the sort of thing I enjoy. I learned you were to cross inscrutable Menkaure. And as the Middle Earth wizard, Gandalf, would say, ‘When I arrived there, I found you, but lately gone.’ Of course I did find some of Albion’s charge slouching about, these Endale Gen. Nothing more than treacherous, oath breaking Orathom Wis. They were little trouble.”
Loche says, “So George and the others are alright?”
“To my knowledge, yes. Though, we spoke not long after you three had crossed from the Azores to Egypt—and shortly after they had repelled Albion’s attack at the Omvide. Since then, I’m afraid, I’ve been rather busy tracking you across both the world and through time. Miraculous, is it not?” He chuckles as he pats the slung bag hanging at his side, “I’d simply call him again, but I’m afraid my mobile is quite void of bars.
“There are five of us. The three that preceded you to Giza, Alexia, Neil and Gary. Ever faithful Corey and I met at Giza and crossed some hours after you. It is good to have some of our own along, is it not? We also have the Wyn Avuquains—of which, Vincale is one. They will aid us. And, let us not forget, we have an army of people that were born here. Yes, those you’re likely calling Native Americans.” William shakes his head, “A wretched name if you ask me—grouping an entire continent’s population together with a name that describes nothing and was derived from someone who in no way discovered this continent. Barbaric. Idiots. No, these people simply don’t call themselves anything other than what they are: human beings, or people. They do offer distinguishing traits in terms of regions, however. Our new friends claim to be from the flat land above the lake, or so Vincale tells me. Not unlike how the Franks, or the French denote the place where they are from: Western Europe.” William puzzles a moment as if trying to recall something. His index finger searching beneath his scarf, “Though, if I’m not mistaken, the word French may come from the Germanic word for javelin. Nevertheless, even the name English, or Angles, another word originally rooted in the Germanic tradition—again points to a location. Angles means narrows or narrow waters—likely referring to the Sclei estuary along the Baltic Sea.”
Loche watches and listens to William pontificate. What was it, two, three weeks ago that he discovered William posed like a statue upon his office desk? Loche’s paperwork, coffee cup and family portrait swept to the floor. The manic depressive man was dressed like an eighteenth century nobleman, held a kind of ballet dancer pose, and out of the corner of his mouth requested coffee with cream and sugar. As William continues to elaborate on the etymology of the word Indian, Loche’s mind becomes saturated in wonder at the thought.
“—of course sail-happy, Columbus arriving in t
he Caribbean thought he had landed somewhere near India, so he labeled each and every soul without proper knickers Indian. Complete ignoramus, Columbus was. Not stupid, mind you, he just lacked progressive intention and the benefits of a well chosen think tank. And being low on the mental food chain he and his fellows, raped, pillaged and enslaved the populations they encountered—spread small pox and a number of other particularly nasty bugs. The villainy! Ignoramus, I say again.” William sighs. “Notwithstanding, there is another school that believes the word Indian truly stemmed from the Spanish words en dios—in god—or more accurately, the people of god. Such a claim might cause a time traveler (one quite frazzled from over thinking the egg, chicken, egg riddle) to think that maybe our En Dios friends will have a hand in naming themselves when eventually they share these events with the droves of future colonialists. Events in which we are now playing a role—gods and immortals at war upon these flat lands above the lake. For they are wrapped up in gods, no? It is obvious they do not regard the Godrethion army we just escaped from as gods—for those bastards, I sense they harbor a rather profound contempt. No, I suspect they witness godlike traits in those that dwell within the walls of a city not far from here. The city of our Itonalya ancestors, Wyn Avuqua.”
William reaches out and tilts Loche’s head slightly. He examines the dried blood caked below the injured ear. “So, do not be too troubled, my boy. We have friends—and that, too, is a gift.” He frowns. “I do wish I had a leaf to press upon your injury.”
“You escaped the encampment.” Loche says
“Why of course! A few well placed explosives is enough to baffle even the most sophisticated modern warrior, never mind a Northumbrian grunt that still considers fire to be a pretty neat idea. Scared the absolute shit out of them, to be exact. It is unfortunate we did not bring more—but then, as Corey quite providently warns, ‘We must not alter what is to come.’”
The Shape of Rain Page 24