No. That wasn’t it. My vision was clear. Clearer than it had ever been. I blinked. My eyelids ached and my peripheral vision faded into a blank, devouring mist. All that I could see was Basil’s last canvas. His final work. I tried to move a step in his direction, but my feet were suddenly heavy and impossible to move. Basil was gone, and I could not tear my gaze from the grisly sight before me.
It had already begun. Thin threads of light, bright as sunlit silver, slowly snaked out from a tiny point in the canvas center. One line of light for each person that stood before Basil’s final work. I have recently learned that those ropes of light, those tethers are called The Silk. When the slender sensual line touched my eyes I could not look away. It pulled at my thoughts like hands searching for something lost in the dark. And as it discovered me it pulled from my mind my recent past—and it played like a film—as if projected upon the canvas. Everything and everyone around me faded away, and I felt suspended and cradled. Upon the canvas I saw Basil standing on the beach, the grey waves of Priest Lake, Idaho, slapping at the shore. Was I there? Yes. Yes I was there.
Silence.
Flash.
Gone.
I had seen him there before. It was early in October—the day we had met for the very first time. He was standing on the beach outside of my lake cabin.
I stepped out onto the deck and closed the door behind me. The October chill sliced easily through my wool coat and I shivered. My breath puffed white and hung in the air. I turned to see Helen and Edwin watching from the window. Both of them were still in their pajamas. His little hand waved. I waved back. Helen was focused down the wooded trail to the beach. She was straining to see the stranger that stood there. I pulled my hat down over my ears. “Be right back,” I said.
The world was edged in crystal. Frost had sharpened the cedar boughs and they shined in the early light. Coming out of the trees onto the beach the cold sky glittered. A spray of stars in the purple dawn.
I could feel the lake jeering at me. Since I was a child I’ve feared large bodies of water. Purchasing a lake cabin was a part of my own self-imposed therapy. And it had helped, but not completely. Every time I came near to water I could feel a dread deep within me. A dread that I’ve learned to accept.
The man stood before the outstretched arms of the lake. He turned toward me as I approached—a slight smile on his lips.
“G-good morning,” he said. He wore a brown corduroy jacket with a long pointed collar, blue jeans, worn hiking boots, and a green stocking hat. His hair was dark and shoulder length. He looked to be in his early thirties.
“Hello.” I stopped a few paces from him. In a stern, but friendly tone, I said, “I’ve noticed you standing here on our beach a few times over the last couple of weeks—and that you’ve been looking up at our cabin. Can I help you?”
“Yeah,” he said keeping his hands in his coat pockets. He stared at me. After a few moments he said, seemingly to himself, “The big deep heavy.”
“Excuse me?” I said.
“Sorry,” he said, “sorry if I’ve freaked you out—not my intention.” He looked up at the sky and traced the surrounding mountains. “Beautiful up here. And cold.”
“That it is,” I said. “But you haven’t answered my question.”
“I know. Sorry. It’s strange. You’re a psychologist, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Yeah. Okay.” His tone was skittish. “Your name is Loche Newirth, yeah?” I made no response. “That’s your cabin up there?”
I turned and glanced up the path to where he pointed. “Yes,” I said, “it is my cabin. What is this all about? How do you know my name?”
“Right. Listen, I’ve never done anything like this before. I mean, I’ve never followed anyone around like this. But there’s some strange circumstances that I need to tell you about. Very strange. And I don’t know any other way to do this—and, yeah, I have been up here before—a couple of times. The first time I lost my nerve to talk to you. Then the next week I saw that you had your family up with you. Or at least, I think that’s your family. I couldn’t tell really—I was down here and it looked like you had a woman and a kid up there.”
I felt my body tighten, and I took a step backward. “Yes that was my family—and they are up there right now. What is this all about?”
“Whoa,” he said with a sudden sigh and raised his hands. “Hey, please don’t think I’m dangerous or anything—like I said I know this seems weird—look, I have some questions—and some information for you.”
“Well, what is it?”
He glanced up over my shoulder. He opened his mouth as if he was about to speak. Instead he issued a long exhale of white steam into the cold. Surprise was on his face.
“Basil? Basil Fenn, is that you?” Helen’s voice rang out behind me. I turned to see her and Edwin walking glove in glove down the path toward us. They were both bundled up in coats, hats and scarves. “What in the world are you doing here, Basil?”
Looking back to Basil, I studied him. His lips were still parted and his eyes were wide. “Uh, hello, Helen. Crazy.”
Helen rushed forward and pulled him into an embrace. Basil kept his hands in his pockets while Helen voiced a flurry of amazement. “I haven’t seen you since—I don’t know when. How have you been? You look great. It’s been so long.”
Basil didn’t respond immediately. He seemed to be struggling with an unexpected shock. Finally he pulled his hands out of his pockets and managed a courteous hug. He looked at me while he did this. “And this is your husband? And your son there?” he said.
“Yes, this is Edwin.” Edwin tucked himself behind my leg. Then Helen said, turning to me, “This is my husband, Loche Newirth. Honey, this is Basil Fenn.”
Basil extended his hand, and I shook it. “Pleased to meet you,” I said.
“So,” Helen said, her voice quavering slightly, “So, Basil and I dated in high school. Pretty much all through high school.”
“That’s right,” Basil agreed, still with an expression of wonder. “I can’t believe that you are—I mean, I can’t believe it. This is so strange.”
Helen stared at him for a moment and then looked at me. She was grinning. “Yes, it is strange. So what are you doing up here?”
“What am I doing up here?” he repeated. “Well, I, I was just passing by. I stopped here on this beach because of the view through those hills there.” He turned awkwardly and pointed. I could sense that Helen’s presence had changed his intentions.
There was something about his tone I liked, though at the time I couldn’t quite tell what it was. His nervous tick. His quirky mannerisms. Whatever it was, there was a genuine charm.
He carried on nervously, “I was having some breakfast at Elkins Resort just south of here and thought I’d walk the hash browns off. What a coincidence,” he looked at me. Basil saw that I was observing him. He looked at his boots in the frozen sand. He shuffled a second. “Well, I should get moving—”
“Are you still painting portraits that you won’t let anyone see?” Helen looked carefully at Basil and her tone seemed to contain a hint of caution.
Basil’s face lit up. “Yes.”
Helen said to me, “Basil never lets anyone see his paintings. The hardest worker—prolific, disciplined and driven. And has never shown his art. For the whole time we went out, I never saw a single piece.”
“Perhaps, Helen,” I said, “he’s got the right to do whatever he wants with his work. After all, it is his.”
She shook her head, “Then what’s the use of creating art if no one sees it?”
Basil began to laugh. “Helen, I can see that you haven’t changed either.”
“I suppose that’s true. At least where that is concerned.”
“Well, if it makes any difference to you, there is some interest in my work. Professionally, I mean.”
“Really?” Helen said with extreme interest. “So you’ve finally shown it?”
“Well, no, I’m not q
-q-quite ready for that.”
Helen ignored his quiet stutter. “How on Earth could anyone be interested in your work if they haven’t seen it?”
“Art isn’t confined to the Earth, Helen,” Basil said.
Helen stared at him and slowly shook her head. Her response held some old resentment, “Oh dear. The artist. Esoteric as ever. So what’s the interest?”
“Do you remember our friend John Whitely? Or I should say, Father Whitely?”
Helen laughed, “So he went to seminary and finished after all? That’s a miracle in itself.”
“Yes,” Basil agreed. “He wants some divinity paintings for the Catholic church, or something. I don’t know the whole story yet. Just talk so far.”
“Well, that’s no way to think—you should stay positive,” Helen said.
I changed the subject, “Would you like to come in for some coffee?” I asked.
“No, but thank you,” he replied. “Uh, maybe next time?”
“So you’re still living in Sandpoint?” Helen said. “Working?”
“I still live in my studio. And I’m washing dishes at The Floating Hope. I was the dish-pig down south at the Rustler’s Roost, but the commute got to be a bitch.”
“Oh,” Helen said, a little embarrassed for asking, but Basil’s tone was firm and certain. He didn’t seem to notice Helen’s judgmental air. “I’ve never heard of the The Floating Hope. Where is it?”
“On the lake in Hope, Idaho. It’s both an amazing meal and a breathtaking view.”
“Well, that’s great, Basil. We would love to have you for dinner sometime,” Helen said with a weird enthusiasm. “We’ve just built our house out in the boonies—right in the middle of a beautiful glade in Sagle. You’ve got to see it.”
“I’d be honored. So you don’t live here?” He pointed up toward the cabin.
“No,” Helen answered, “this is just our little hideaway. We come up as often as we can. Mostly in the summertime.”
“I see,” he said. “Well, I really should be going. Starting to get cold. Nice talking with you both.” He looked down to Edwin and gave him a wink.
“Nice meeting you,” I said.
“Yeah. Hope to see you again soon.” He said making sure to meet my eyes. He turned and started down the beach. There was a limp in his stride.
After a few moments Helen said quietly, “That was weird.”
“You’ve never mentioned him before.”
“No,” Helen said, “I haven’t thought of him in years.”
“Before you came down here he said that he had something to share with me. Me specifically. When you showed up he changed the subject.”
“Weird,” Helen said. We watched Basil limp down the beach until he disappeared around the point.
Rearden’s voice startles her. She quickly slams the cover shut and spins around. “When I found the book, I was elated,” he says.
How much time has passed, she wonders.
“Loche has been out of contact for too long, especially considering his recent issues with his client, Bethany Winship.”
Rearden is a few feet behind her dressed in what he has recently named his traveling clothes, grey polyester slacks, black high-top hiking boots and a thick, black turtleneck sweater.
“Sorry about that. Didn’t mean to scare you. I’m glad you’ve begun reading it.” He sees tears streaming from her eyes. “Are you all right, my dear?”
“Is this true? Is Basil dead? Oh my God. What is all of this?”
Rearden lays his hand on her shoulder. He says gently, “I know. I know. But Julia, there is so much more. So much more.”
She brushes at her tears. “Is Loche alive?”
“I have reason to believe he is. He was here very early this morning. But as far as his mental state, I am unsure.” Julia notes a professional tone in Rearden’s voice—confident. A tone that she immediately connects with his achievements in psychotherapy.
“What are we going to do?”
“Well,” Rearden says rising to his feet, “we need to get the hell out of here for starters.”
“Where are we going?” Julia asks.
“We are going to try to find him.”
“Where?”
“South. Let’s go.”
The mountain road follows the river down from the north end of Priest Lake. The incoming storm conditions make the going dangerous, though Julia drives fast, or at least, as fast as she can—faster than Marcus is comfortable with. His hand grips the door handle.
“Who are they?” Julia asks.
“They are dangerous men,” Rearden says. “You’ll learn a little more about them as you read, Julia. But I can tell you, they want to find Loche just as much, if not more than we do. And I’m afraid they’ve learned that I am his psychologist.”
“You are Loche’s psychologist?”
“Why yes. We shrinks must keep an ear to each other. It’s all a part of the job.”
“Does any of this have to do with the painting that Loche left with you?”
Rearden does not answer immediately. A burst of that surreal light stuns him, the horror stricken face of his wife rattles his senses—and the painting he refused to look upon. “Yes,” he says, “in a way. I know what is in that crate.”
“You didn’t open it, did you?”
The death-pale face of Elanor blinks into his memory and he flinches. Then the echoing chant, the painting, don’t look, the painting, don’t look. “No,” he said, “no, I didn’t open it. But I know what’s inside. Loche told me.”
Julia nods and breathes a little easier.
Rearden, however, holds his breath.
They had both loaded that crate from his car to Julia’s before leaving the cabin. And strangely, he could feel it back there, like a body in the trunk.
He thinks of the danger that may lie ahead. “We must risk it,” he says gloomily.
“Risk what?”
“Julia,” he asks, “you know what’s in the crate, right?”
“I was told that it was one of Basil’s important paintings. I’ve never seen it—or any of his work for that matter, but Loche told me that it was dangerous to open it. I didn’t ask why.”
“Julia, you must prepare yourself.” Rearden pats the leather cover in his lap. “There are things that you may not want to know in this book—things that will change your life. Yours in particular.”
“I need to know the truth. What happened to Loche?” She asks.
The doctor watches the fields of snow pass in a blur. Shaking his head he turns to her. “Remember Julia, it will change your life. I don’t know how, but it won’t be easy for you to comprehend.”
Julia turns her eyes from the road onto Rearden, “My life has already changed. It feels like it has just begun.”
“Is this decision for me to make?” Rearden asks himself aloud. “I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t think—I don’t think it’s my—”
“Yes,” Julia interrupts, “you can make this decision.”
Rearden does not seem to hear her. He is talking to himself. “She was meant to know—to know everything. Yes or no, Marcus. One or the other? It is time to choose. Oh my, there’s always two. Always two.”
“Two what?”
Rearden is decided and he gives a determined nod. He will bring her in to it all. After all, that is why he called her up here in the first place. She is his only hope.
“Okay,” he says. “Let’s talk about Loche Newirth.”
“Let’s.”
“Loche Newirth is by far the most inquisitive, curious and thoughtful fellow I’ve ever met. Doctor Loche Newirth. A psychologist like myself, but Loche is a young man, unlike myself. He’s thirty-eight, if I remember right.”
“Thirty-seven,” Julia says.
“Yes, that’s right, thirty-seven. He began practicing four or five years ago. Quite a remarkable young man. I am his psychologist, and he has shared his life with me, his frustrations and his anger toward me
ntal illness. He wants nothing more than to figure out how to heal the mind, restore the hope and answer the questions that plague human nature. Obsessed is nearer the mark.
“For as long as I’ve known him, he has always been extremely conservative, reserved and dedicated to his profession. He’s always kept a close eye on the time, has a pressed stack of shirts in the bottom drawer of his desk, and is never without a rational explanation for every client. A student of the mind.
“He and his wife, Helen, live very comfortably. Loche’s profession has afforded them a freedom that most folks in northern Idaho only dream of. They built their castle, as Loche likes to call it, out in the woods of Sagle, Idaho. And it is, indeed, a castle. It’s small, but a castle nonetheless. High stone walls, medieval architecture—there are even battlements. Loche is very proud of the work he and his wife have done there.”
Julia studies the frozen oncoming road and tilts her head slightly. Yet another sting—another sting from not knowing enough about the man that has turned her life upside-down. A montage of Loche’s home life drifts across her imagination, his wife Helen planting spring flowers in their garden (what, she wonders, does she look like?), Loche returning home from a long day at the office, a warm embrace, coffee in the kitchen, family portraits lining the hall to the bedroom—Julia can feel the tugging of some far away discipline that she has honed all her life —the part of her that is steadfast in her career—focused on doing the right thing. She wonders how she got into this position after all of her preparations and the focused effort toward her ideals. As the cold, colorless path ahead lengthens and curves like a question mark, her awareness returns to Marcus’ voice. She is here, now. And it is not her way to second-guess her choices. The book is the key to understanding. Maybe the key to understanding herself.
“The type of man who would proofread his signature,” Rearden continues. “When I found the book in his cabin, needless to say, I was stunned that he would leave it behind for someone to discover.” He pauses and stares at the cover, considering his next words.
“I was also quite surprised to find his hand had scribbled out lines of poetry. Writing prose is one thing, but poetry? Can you believe that? Ha! Loche a poet. Never once in all our years has he mentioned an interest in poetry.”
The Invasion of Heaven, Part One of the Newirth Mythology Page 4