“The truth is, Loche,” he continued, “You and your brother are, how do I say this, important.”
The sight of Greenhame filled me with rage. Every session that we’d had together raced through my mind, and all of his eccentricities, ill-formed perceptions and dramatic characteristics forced my body to suddenly lurch toward the phone—to call for help. I sprung for it, and as I lifted the receiver Greenhame was suddenly at my side. I thrust my arm out to push him away, but he was too quick. Catlike quick. He lifted my body from the floor and hurled me over the desk. I heard my bones crack as I hit the floor. When I raised my head, the phone dangled over my head. Greenhame was no longer there. He was behind me. Close behind me. One of his hands grabbed the back of my neck and the other dug into my spine. I struggled to move but I found that my body didn’t respond. I opened my mouth to call for help, but no voice came from my throat. William began to speak, though I didn’t hear words, but rather echoes, repeating chants in my ears, in my heart—I was unsure of which. He spoke poetry. Or was he singing? A melody that I recognized? The same melody that he used to sing after every one of our sessions, but now there were words in that melody. My words. Every tender sentiment that I’d scribbled down, I was hearing, echoing—“That bit about the Lily,” he sang, or said, I’m still unsure, “the flower that couldn’t reach the light through the sidewalk boards. . . The aged couple, on the porch at twilight. . . Seasons ending. . . The stopwatch in the pocket of man. . . Yes, I feel your words.” He did. He felt them. Not understood, but felt. The emotions I’d poured into my verse were communicated to another, not as mere words on a page, not the poetic devices or imagery, but the passion of the sentiment. As I felt them. . . As I felt them. . .
The music of that dream state seemed to cross-fade with William’s voice, but he was again speaking in a language that was foreign to me. He trailed on in round, lyrical tones and then began to repeat a phrase I’d heard him say once before.
“Ag shivcy. Ag shivcy. . .”
“Don’t fear?” I said.
“Ah,” he said gently, “yes, but in this case I mean, don’t panic. Don’t panic, my dear fellow. Relax,” Greenhame said gently. “I know, this is difficult to grasp. You aren’t ready to know everything, yet. Please, Loche, understand that I am not here to hurt you, but to protect you—and to teach you. Calling the police will just make things easier for the Enemy. Ridding me from your life would be catastrophic.”
William’s hand was still on my spine, but gently now. “Let go,” I said quietly.
“That’s my line,” he said. “But you are not ready for that, yet.”
“Let me go,” I repeated, “I will listen to you.”
The pressure of his finely pointed fingers disappeared. He leapt up and landed in front of me on his belly. We both lay stretched on the floor face to face. “How’s that?” he asked.
“Better,” I admitted, “I can feel my limbs again.”
“It’s amazing what one little pressure point can do to the rest of the body—what say you?”
I nodded but kept silent.
“Your importance is something that is too monumental for you to conceive at this time. Even if I were to share with you what I know, you couldn’t, or wouldn’t believe it.”
Greenhame could read my troubled eyes and he nodded. He knew that I was now well beyond controlling my own world and struggling for a wall to hide behind. “Patience,” he continued, “be at ease, if you can, but now listen to my tale.”
“Do you believe in God?” Greenhame asked simply.
I fixed him with my most rational expression, “I believe that god is what we’ve made it to be, an ideal to strive for, a compass for our morality and a hope that lies out there to counterbalance our fear of the unknown.”
“Good, good, my boy, now then, answer the question, do you believe in a god?” he asked again.
“I just told you what I believe,” I answered.
“Yes,” William said patiently, “but you haven’t answered the question, yet.”
“Do I believe in a god?” I repeated. Greenhame nodded enthusiastically with a huge smile. “You mean, do I believe in God the way most people believe in God?”
“How do most people believe in God?” William asked with an eager expression.
“Their belief is that God is the divine designer, the creator of everything.”
“Yes.” Greenhame nodded again, “Do you believe God exists.”
“No.”
“Ah,” he sighed with an air of understanding, “just stories then, eh? Just mankind’s way of justifying his existence?”
“That is what I’ve already said,” I replied.
“Well then,” William said rising to his feet, “your answer tells me much about you.” He lifted himself up from the floor, moved behind the desk, placed the telephone back into the receiver and sat down in my chair. I stood and watched him stare into that statue-like distance. His palms were pressed together and his index fingers crossed his lips. He hummed that strangely familiar song again. At length he said, “What would you think, if I were to tell you that God is a real entity? That gods exist. With or without faith? Better still, a fact.”
I moved to the chair opposite him and replied, “I would have to say that you share the same feelings that most believers do.”
“And that is all?” he asked, “that I am just like my fellow believers?” I didn’t answer. “Loche, do you want proof?”
“Proof that God exists?” A smile came from a hidden space in my being. That smile I will always remember, for given the day’s events, no smile could possibly seem genuine. “Yes, if you can provide such a thing—if it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”
“Do you want the Jesus loves you bit, or the scientific facts, or what?”
I didn’t answer.
Greenhame glanced across the room, up to the ceiling, and then back to me. “Very well, I will provide you your proof. But first, let me tell you a story.
“Your brother, Basil, was born three years after you. And your birth mother entrusted both you and Basil to Rebecca Pirrip, and her husband, Jules. Your birth mother was Rebecca’s sister. Her twin sister. But Rebecca and Jules would not live to see either of you come of age. Basil was thought to be the only survivor of a tragic car accident that claimed the life of his new caregivers, and you, one chilly evening in November. Forgive the newspaper style of delivery, but I’ve read it over and over for several years.
“Jules, Rebecca and you were all declared dead on arrival. Basil’s right leg had been broken in three places. His family was gone. Hovever, undetected by the medical staff, you were barely clinging to life. You were set beside Jules and Rebecca in an anteroom while the small medical staff attended to Basil’s injuries. When the nurse returned to the anteroom she discovered only the bodies of the parents remained.” Greenhame paused and eyed me carefully, “You were pronounced dead on arrival at Moses Lake Memorial Hospital, then secretly resuscitated in that anteroom, and along with your little brother, quietly whisked away without a trace.”
“The accident at Moses Lake was an assassination attempt. The car accident was planned by those I was once associated with.” He paused. Color faded from his face. “But we must not speak of that just yet. It was an order from on high. You see, Loche, Basil was created for a purpose. And, so were you. The two of you were supposed to die that night. You shouldn’t be alive. Yet, you are.
“Basil was taken to live with Rebecca’s oldest friend Elizabeth Fenn and her husband Howard.
“Now, Rebecca’s twin sister, her name, my dear Loche, you know quite well— Diana.”
I wasn’t looking at him any longer but instead my eyes traced the curve of the moon that drooped across my window. I scanned its gentle glowing arc over and over. I quickly flipped through a series of memories— boarding school in Canterbury, my first love, my friends, my desire to attend college in the United States. Then my return to England years later to attend my mother Diana’s fu
neral.
Greenhame continued, “Diana was forced to flee the United States to Europe just weeks after she gave birth to Basil. You were so young, and Diana and Rebecca were identical twins, the switch was seamless and you were completely unaware. You forgot all about the accident and your younger brother and the man that you thought was your father. You and your real mother were brought together again in England.
“And the surprises just keep on coming, your mother’s recent death? Just awhile back?” he said with a curious eye. “Tragic, I know. The news must have been very difficult for you. But as they say, news is only news. Your mother, Diana, lives.”
I made no response, but just stared at the man.
“She is alive—in Italy. She has been made aware of the recent events and is looking very forward to seeing you again.” Greenhame’s head tilted in bewilderment. “I thought this news would please you.”
“This is impossible, Greenhame. Why are you doing this?” I cried in disbelief. “I spread her ashes.”
The man smiled. “Ah, ash to ash, dust to dust. Silly rituals —” William seemed to suddenly recognize my frustration. “Oh dear,” he sighed, “I forget how little your kind can handle. I have known all there is to know and I often act and play as if those around me have the same knowledge. It’s a habit I’m afraid. In acting we find so much more truth than we do in real life. My dear Loche, it is indeed a pity that I must talk down to someone like yourself. But, you are quite unaware of your potential, just as most great artists are. You believe that you are in control of all you create and that the natural world has its laws, and science is its god. The paints that Basil uses to color his canvases are made up of this chemical and dust from that particular metal or soil or egg, but when splashed about and manipulated into some form, the laws that you so desire to obey suddenly disappear when passion takes over. The composition of paint is never considered when a rendering moves us.
“I am doing nothing to you, dear Loche. I am just showing you the pictures of your life. You would perhaps be quite pleased if you found that human psychology is an exact science. At least, that is what you pine for. An explanation for why we are the way we are. Is this not so? You would have your life’s riddle solved and all would be well? There is an answer to all of your wanderings despite the fact that you rarely understand yourself, much less others. By all accounts, you think me mad by my wild, unbelievable utterances. It is time you forgot the concept of belief and turn to the idea of knowing. Know this, your mother lives.
“And your writing. . .” Greenhame said as he lifted my notebook from the desk, “is a very important—”
I reached out and grabbed the book out of his hands. “The writing is mine!” I growled, “and not for yours or anyone’s eyes!”
William Greenhame rose from behind my desk and flung an open hand through the air. The crack of his palm across my cheek silenced me. His form seemed to change. He was no longer the long limbed, thin man suffering from mental illness, but instead a man like a great mountain with the wisdom of the wind in his voice. “Listen to me!” he roared. “Listen to me. Don’t think for a moment that the things I’m telling you are lies. You’ve been living too long behind these battlements. Your words will be the proof of God. The proof that mankind has been searching for. You hold the answers in your grip, at the end of a pen. Know what I say, my son!
“Think. Why does mankind believe—think God exists? Is it, do you fancy, that we’ve all met the fellow at one time or another? Did he stop by for tea? Pop in and tell you that you were a fine person, and then give you a piece of candy saying, ‘Good lad, keep up the good fight?’ No.” He must have noticed that my eyes were wide with terror. With an exhale his demeanor returned to the man I was accustomed to, and his eyes were again kindly.
“Who are you?” I demanded. “How do you know all of this?”
“We know of the Divine because of two important, simple things, words and pictures. Nothing more and nothing less. Oh, there are some who have claimed that they have experienced God first hand—and how did we find out about that? Was it written down? Why yes—yes it was. Did we see an artist’s rendering of the account? Why yes—yes we did. Does it prove anything? I’m afraid not. As you’ve said—now what was it? ‘I believe that God is what we’ve made it to be, an ideal to strive for, a compass for our morality and a hope that lies out there to counter balance our fear of the unknown.’ Well, said indeed. Thus far, that is all anyone truly knows, isn’t it? Yet, no matter how devout a believer might be, no matter what they say, they still wonder. Wonder why they are alive—why they’ve been put here in existence to worship a Divine host of kings and queens—to believe that they are real entities. A king they cannot touch or see, much less, understand without a world full of error. Their faith is based on what man has given them, poetry and paintings—art.
“You want proof that God exists?” A light chuckle filled his face with joy, “I’ve been waiting for this opportunity for longer than I can tell you, Loche. I’ve rehearsed what I’m about to say a million times. And I do mean, a million.” He took a step back and struck his dramatic pose. “Are you ready?”
Too astonished to reply, he gleaned that my answer was yes.
“You,” pause. “Will,” pause. “Soon,” pause. “Find out.” He grinned at me with complete satisfaction. I remained silent. “That is the proof. Let me explain. Your age is, what, thirty-seven?”
I nodded.
“And you have roughly fifty or more years to breathe in this inexplicable thing called, merely, Life? Alya? Inevitably you will pass away, to the Orathom, to the Dream. And then you will know. Be patient. Yet, I am confident that you will find the answers you seek much sooner than you think. When I say you will soon find out, I mean that very soon you will see the world very differently. Very soon.”
“But why now? If you have known all this time, and as you say, the Enemy has known, why didn’t they intervene long ago?”
“Tricky question, but simple. There’s been a war going on for quite some time. And you have been at the center, but you would have never known it. Why now? First, because of your meeting with Basil. The two of you together will move the foundations of all, and second, because Basil is reaching a peak in his craft. It is his work that has brought the winds of war with it. The Enemy has long known your location. They know much more about you than perhaps you know yourself. And they have been watching Basil, too.”
His eyes then moved from me to the moon-filled window and began to recite verse—his own I suspected.
“There are only two,
And they have always been.
The Alya.
And the Orathom.
The Life, and The Dream.
“You are the Poet and he is the Painter of the Alya, the Life.”
The moon now filled the corners of the window. Its pale face blurred with ecliptic flares, and my vision was pulled toward the glow from the dark side of the room.
“The Alya? The Orathom? I don’t understand.” I asked, without tone.
Greenhame leaned toward me with his hair dangling in his eyes and his sculptured features completely relaxed, he replied, “The Life.” Then he smiled with a wrinkle of his nose. His hazel eyes focused on mine. I struggled to return the gaze. He then turned away and looked back over his shoulder. I leaned to my right and saw my little son Edwin standing in the doorway. I rose to my feet moving toward him.
“Hey there, what are you doing up here? It’s past your—”
“Who are you talking to, Dad?” he asked as his head raised up with my approach.
I lifted him into my arms and said, “Just a—just a visitor.” Edwin didn’t look at me, but instead looked up and focused on the ceiling. I looked up to see what had captured his attention and found nothing there. Lowering my eyes I found Greenhame gone. I took a startled step back and scanned the room. He had vanished. I thought I heard a gentle patter of footsteps on the roof above.
“A friend?” Edwin aske
d. His eyebrows wrinkled together in question.
I held my son a bit tighter and looked up to the ceiling. I couldn’t answer him.
“Why are you stopping? Keep going.” Julia says.
Marcus stares out the window. He struggles to track the speeding landscape.
“Doctor?”
Marcus finally turns. His eyes are cast downward and narrowed as if in the process of making a difficult decision. There is little he can do at this point, he thinks. He places a white fabric bookmark in the book and closes the cover while muttering to himself, “There’s always two.”
“Are you alright?”
The old man studies Julia’s face—a face that seems to glow in spite of the dreadful weather outside. Her hair is pulled away from her face and it coils down over her shoulder. “Julia, how much do you love him?” he asks.
She holds her response until she has taken a very deep breath. “I’ve already told you. And I suppose the answer to that question you should know already.” She gestures toward the book.
The doctor nods and sighs. “Can you tell me about the last time you saw Loche? He mentions your last meeting in the book, but I would like to hear your side of the story.” She squints her eyes. “Were the two of you intimate?”
Julia nods toward the journal, “Is that book censored?”
“No,” chuckles Marcus.
“Then you can believe what you’ve read,” Julia says.
Marcus’ smile broadens, but with a slight shadow, “Do you believe what you’ve heard already?”
Julia reaches for the key hanging at her breast. “If Loche wrote it,” she says, “I believe it.”
“Good.” The old psychologist shifts in his seat and flips the journal open again. “Because if she doesn’t believe there is no sense in going on is there?” Marcus mutters to himself. “If she didn’t love him, she wouldn’t be here, would she? Oh Marcus, what shall we do now?”
The Invasion of Heaven, Part One of the Newirth Mythology Page 11