“Don’t be too troubled, gentlemen,” the old man says, “I’m sure this is just a delay for you both.” Taking a final look around, and satisfied that there is no further threat, he points his focus upon his victims, studying the grisly wounds he has inflicted. The gore of it all is of no circumstance to him. He feels justified in what he has done. “It’s us or them,” he mutters, “and we won’t be taken.”
The fatal head wound is gruesome to behold, and Rearden thinks he sees a film of white foam forming around the hole. Looking closer he realizes the anomaly is merely blood gushing away from the white jagged fragments of skull.
There is a shuffling behind him. He spins his body around with the gun outstretched.
Julia’s eyes are two wide pools of still dread, devouring the macabre picture. The two men lying in the blood-speckled ice—Rearden pawing at them—the gun still in his hand. Rearden reads a profound terror in her face, as if she did not recognize him. He suddenly sees himself through her eyes, and he wonders briefly if he would recognize himself. Julia collapses across the seats.
Julia begins to stir, mouthing eerie sobs as the nightmare lets go. When her eyes flip open Rearden reaches out and squeezes her shoulder. He becomes aware of the rush of white noise, and the chilly breeze, and he tells her, “The back window of the car is out, so I’ve been cranking up the heater. It’s not too bad once you get used to it. Are you alright?”
She keeps her eyes on the road ahead. Rearden thinks she is considering the injuries she might sustain if she were to jump from the moving car.
“You had a tiny cut above your eyebrow. It isn’t serious. It’s stopped bleeding,” he chats on. “Head wounds bleed like crazy. A lot of blood for such a tiny cut. Typical.”
Rearden can sense her terror, but there is little he can do. Certainly, the journal has begun acclimatizing her to Loche’s world and circumstance, but she is obviously unprepared for the full reality of it. Rearden is also terrified, but calm, and at present relieved that he had the good fortune of beating those men to the punch. Us or them, he repeats in his head.
And further, Rearden has experience with such things, not that he has ever shot anyone, but his younger eyes had seen terrible realities, and they are a daily meditation. It did not occur to him immediately that his hand was steady when he pulled the trigger, or that he felt nothing in particular about his actions. It was made up in his mind by his usual dictum, there are always two, us or them.
“I’m sorry you had to see that, but we had no choice. Those men would have left us there and the journal—the painting —would be gone. And hope would be gone.”
Rearden sees her fighting back tears. He imagines the snapshots that must be firing through her memory. Loche’s cabin, the book, Basil dead. Art. Poetry. The Center. Murder. And to cap it all off, him staring up at her as he crouched over a dead body. She wants to run, he thinks, but knows her heart is screaming— screaming for Loche. If turning back means losing him, she will continue. Rearden sighs, confident that he, the crated painting in the trunk, and the journal are her only links to the man she loves. She is not going anywhere.
The smothering blanket of fear is now falling away from her. Hope is underneath it. Years of experience with watching clients have taught Rearden to see such things. He smiles at the next words from her lips. Words he thinks she never thought she would say and truly mean, “We’ve got to get off the road and get rid of the car,” she says.
“Yes. I think we can make it to Coeur d’Alene—maybe an hour—the roads are pretty slick.”
“I’ve got friends there,” Julia says. “They’ll put us up for the night.”
Rearden shakes his head, “We’re going to St. Thomas Church and Father John Whitely. I think a conversation with him might prove worthwhile,” Rearden says.
The two fall silent. Wafts of warm air mingle with the bitter chill coming from the shattered back window. Julia stares down the oncoming white road, pulls her coat a little tighter and then grips the key around her neck. Rearden mutters softly to himself.
Slowly, Julia opens the journal to the place where Marcus had left off. She takes a deep breath. “Marcus,” she says. “I’m scared.”
“No, Julia, you’re not scared. Not yet.”
“Read it,” Howard said.
Basil’s eyes blinked. He scowled and focused harder. Nothing. Finally he said, “I like it,” and looked to Howard.
“Nothing, son?”
“No.”
I took the page from him. “What does this mean?”
“I’m not sure,” was his reply.
Howard reached his hand out for the poem, but pulled back quickly seeing my reluctant expression. “No?” he chuckled. “I thought that I’d give it a try. No? I’ll wait.” He rolled his wheelchair back a few feet and let out a heavy sigh. “It seems to me, Loche, that you’ve not yet mastered your talent.”
“Apparently so,” I said.
“I think you need to familiarize yourself with exactly what your importance is and who you are to be.”
“Ah. That sounds simple,” I huffed.
“Well, let me share some of my thoughts on the matter.” From a countertop he pulled down a thick folder of documents. Flipping it open he rummaged through the pages. “Though my humble intimations on your importance might seem like egregious patchwork, I should admit that I have merely touched the tip of the proverbial iceberg. Since my accident I have developed an obsession for all those unanswerable questions, and because of my personal experience, I should say, harrowing experience with Basil’s work, I find little else that interests me these days. I suppose all of those belief systems that I had once considered to be purely mythical and metaphorical, even contemptible to me at times (for I’ve never been a religious man), have suddenly become filled with a new reality. A super-reality, if you like—a delightful and long-reaching game of connect the dots. Though some of my theories might sound like grotesque pseudo-intellectual blather, I hope you won’t repudiate the connections. There is a good chance that some of my notions might be propitious to my own want for clarity, and for that I apologize. But of the many caveats, there is one that should stand out before all the others, especially knowing what your arts have demonstrated. And that is it can all be true.”
“What can all be true?” I asked.
Howard’s smile was comforting somehow. “Think of every myth, every god, every deity you’ve ever heard of—Greek mythology, Norse, Egyptian, Sumerian and on and on, Christ, Cupid and Calliope. Think of their stories and how they continually meddle in the affairs of us mortals. Our beginnings, our reasons why, our hopes, all resting on the shoulders of gods. The stories that man has made to define our history, our existence. Stories that men have fought and died for—for faith— for ideology. And, I should add, there is not a shred of scientific proof that any of the stories are true. Not one shred.”
He then shook his head and said with some incredulity, “Like most people, I am wonder-filled by the back and forth religious dialogue between what believers take literally versus what should be accepted as simple moral teaching. So often these days, leaders of the church, when challenged, will rightly rebuke the sadist and evil characteristics in their tomes and belief systems, but simultaneously purport that those characteristics are only seen as evil because they are taken out of context. In other words, some passages in these divinized compositions are to be taken metaphorically, not literally. Sometimes it’s the other way around depending upon if the church is winning or losing the debate. It’s all really a matter of convenience. Monstrous, really. But to challenge the church leaders further, I ask that we actually lean more and more into literal interpretation and see what comes of it. Hopefully, we can steer clear of as much evil as possible.
“So, for example, there is a whole lot of supernatural in religious writings. The Christian bible is no exception. Since you’ve some familiarity with the Christian version (which is really a retelling of older myths), we’ll use it. For now
it’s the easiest route.
“Christian writings tell of the one God, of course, but they also speak of others. There were, or I should say there are other gods, but no longer on Earth (as far as we know). If you want the Old Testament’s account there’s that tired mention of the Sons of God and the Daughters of men—the Nefilm, in chapter six, during the days before the great flood. These Genesis passages have been overused by nearly every pseudo-scholar that has tried to prove the existence of everything from Atlantis to UFOs to God himself. However, given our circumstances, the Nefilm may now have a more concrete meaning. The word Nefilm is used throughout the writing and it can be translated as giants or as men of renown. But the surrounding passages are also wrapped in some rather saucy and interesting events that inevitably led to the smothering of all the inhabitants of the Earth by a great flood. Because of the Sons of God, the world was a rather dirty place, so it was washed clean of them.”
I stared without expression at Howard, but I was listening.
“It can all be true. The same sorts of records can be found in nearly every faith-based religious text. Even the Ancient Greeks had accounts that play a part here. There has even been scientific evidence of a great deluge.
“The terms god, men of renown, giants, connote some interesting imagery for us these days. What or who exactly determines what a god is and then defines a being as such? Yet another one of those mind mangling questions. The Sumerians and the Egyptians depicted these gods as flesh and blood beings that were subject to third dimensional laws, but possessed superhuman powers with technology beyond comprehension. Can it be assumed that ancient civilizations were ruled by these beings? It’s not difficult to imagine how men of ancient times could call these beings gods, or Sons of God. I suppose a flashlight could have been pretty mind boggling for those folks.
“So, in short, these were flesh and blood gods, setting up kingdoms on Earth and rising to god status—living and experiencing life alongside human beings. The ancient writings that we’ve interpreted as morality tales—well, let’s entertain the notion that those tales were that, and more. In fact, let’s say that there is truth in those fairy tales. How much of it is bullshit and how much of it is used to keep mankind under the yoke is still in question here. So why? What’s the motivation? And, I guess, we should ask the biggie, why are we here?”
“Always a show stopper,” I added.
“Ironic that you should say that,” Howard joined.
“What do you mean?”
“We are the show. There’s your why.” He said flatly. “All ancient texts stem from the Sumerian legends dating back some six thousand years. These myths tell of an administration of twelve gods that the Sumerians named Anunnaki, which translates as, those who fell from the sky. The ruler of these gods, Enlil, was credited with the Great Deluge. Another god named Ea was responsible for preserving mankind, and saving a select few by strongly suggesting that they build an ark.”
“What does Noah’s Ark have to do with Basil and me?” I asked, with as much patience as I could muster.
“We believe that the event had everything to do with you. Loche, truly, it is quite simple. You were born to give the gods access to the Earth again—through your art. Through your work they can again feel the passion of the human condition. Since the beginning of time these entities have been meddling with us until the One forbid them to come here.”
I shook my head. “They are gods—why can’t they do whatever it is they—”
“The flood,” he said raising his hands. “Washing the Earth clean of the gods was the One’s primary purpose. No more interaction—no more mucking about in human affairs. Or, it is also possible that the darker powers, Satan, if you will, had no more takers for coming here. After all, how could they survive against the One’s strength? After that, the One forbid these gods with interfering with the Creation.”
“Satan?” I asked in disbelief.
He fixed me with a troubled and intense stare. “It can all be true. Iblis, Set, Mara. Pluto. Yes. There are many names. And, given the super-reality of what we are discussing here, I think you would do well to be wary as the days and months ahead unfold. One consistent theme in religious dogma that hasn’t been overly wrapped in metaphor is the notion of this dark figure. The devout believe that it exists. You are stepping into the abode of the gods, and they have an enemy. And so do we. But the show must go on. And the show is real. It can all be true. All those stories, all those myths. What is real can be made up. What is made up can be real.”
The ring of my cell phone startled me.
“Dr. Newirth here.”
“Doctor! Thank goodness you answered,” came Carol’s voice. “Roger Winship is here to see you. He’s very upset.”
“I see.” I looked at both Howard and Basil. “How long has he been there?”
“He’s just arrived.”
“I’ll be there in a half hour,” I said without emotion and hung up.
“Your office?” Basil asked.
“Yes.”
Howard leaned forward, “Sorry to hear about your client, Mrs. Winship. It’s been in the news.”
I nodded and rose to leave.
“Difficult few days,” he added.
Basil followed me to the door and I extended my hand. He took it and gave it a firm grip. “There’s something strange about that client of yours, Beth,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
He let go of my hand and dropped his gaze to the floor. “Something about it, I don’t know—since I left you with those police officers at your office. I heard the conversation through the door. Anyway, I came back here and started a painting.”
“Can the two of you come to my home this evening?” I asked.
Basil looked at his father, “I can, but the old guy here needs his rest. What time?”
“How does eight thirty sound?”
Basil nodded. “Sure.”
“Loche,” Howard called, rolling slowly from around the corner. “Do you understand what we’ve discussed today?”
My eyes searched his face and then Basil’s. No, I thought, not in a million years could I understand this. “Everything ever written about religious deities is fact and not myth, an all powerful God put a fence around the Earth to keep these Sons of God, gods and whatever else from entering into our little day to day dramas—and Basil and I were born to write and paint for them so they have an outlet for their stressful, god-lives—so they can feel what it is like to be human. Is that about on target?”
Howard smiled. “Dead center.”
Carol met me at the front doors. “He seems angry.”
“Don’t worry, Carol, it’ll be fine.”
Carol didn’t seem to share my confidence.
I let my mind calm as I walked down the hall to my door.
He turned as I stepped in.
Roger’s eyes glared. I couldn’t muster a response nor could I hold his gaze. For a fraction of an instant I thought I saw the symmetry of the grid-like wallpaper behind him bend like tree limbs in the wind.
“It has been over twenty-four hours since her death, Dr. Newirth, and I wonder why I haven’t heard a word from you?” He asked. His expression trembling on the verge of fury.
“Roger,” I said, my voice even and steady. “I am sorry for your loss.”
“My loss? My loss?” he yelled. “I want an explanation! You had to have seen this coming.” The word stop plinked through my memory. Maybe I should thinking altogether—stop everything. Stop, she had said.
“Why haven’t I heard a word from you? God damn it.”
“Please,” I said, “please calm down.”
A voice from behind gave the answer, “He’s had much to deal with, Mr. Winship, and I would assume that his attorney asked him to refrain from comment. I believe the best thing we can do right now, Roger, is mourn.” Marcus Rearden entered, removing his coat. His voice was gentle, like a light through a shadow.
“And you are?” Ro
ger asked sharply, stepping toward Rearden.
“I am Dr. Marcus Rearden.” Marcus placed his hand upon Roger’s shoulder and held it there. The cadence of his condolence was slow and gentle. “I am sorry about your wife.”
A skilled listener seldom responds. Rearden was the best —especially over a drink. We sat across from each other at a pub just blocks from my office. Once we finished with Roger Winship, Rearden suggested we talk things over. “You look like you could use a drink,” he had said.
I felt as if someone was watching me. Any one of those surrounding us in the pub could be watching us—listening in— and I felt it would be best to keep quiet the fantastic revelations of the last couple of days. I desperately wished that I could speak with Rearden about all of it in the same way I had communicated with the boy god—in a telepathic, nonverbal manner.
As I began the labor of telling the story since my return from the cabin at Priest Lake, I felt a sudden wave of hesitation. He’s not going to believe me, I thought. I began with meeting Basil, and how he and Helen had once dated, and slowly progressed toward us as being brothers.
“My God,” Rearden blurted, briefly drawn out of the pressing issue of Beth Winship. “You learned this just yesterday?”
I nodded solemnly.
“Did he have proof?” he asked plainly. “How do you know he’s telling the truth?”
“I know,” I said with resolve. The memory of my portrait staring back at me—a window into oblivion. “I have no official records, yet. But there are things that are undeniable—things that are beyond mere paperwork.”
But how to explain Basil’s art was not going to be easy without sounding completely mad. Especially to Rearden’s ears. I explained that Basil was a portrait painter and that no one had ever seen his art.
The Invasion of Heaven, Part One of the Newirth Mythology Page 15