A shrill whistle slashed the air and cracked splinters from the tree beside William’s head. It came from behind. “Get down!” William hissed, quickly grasping both Basil and me, and shoving us down into the mud. As fast as the first shot, there came another. It cracked and splintered again, only this time it met its target, William. He slumped against the tree with his eyes wide open, blood rushing from a small piercing in his left cheek.
Above us, all hell broke loose. The five robbers began to scatter and fire in all directions. More figures appeared, dropping from the trees, vaulting down, flames spitting from their weapons. I saw one of the five men fall when Basil grabbed hold of me and pulled, “Let’s get the fuck out of here!” he yelled. I felt a grasp on my ankle as I began to crawl away. It was Greenhame’s hand. Reaching back I pried his death grip away while staring at his pale, dead eyes. Why does my death delay, I remembered him saying not a day ago. Then I heard myself whisper the phrase he had used, “Ithic veli agtig,” as if I had known the language from childhood. “Ithic veli agtig, William,” I said again as I turned to flee.
The three of us got to our feet and scrambled back down the trail. As we lurched through the broken fence, Basil lost his balance and cried out as he clasped his weak leg. John and I reached down to help him up when I felt something hard and cold jab into my ribs.
“Dr. Newirth. Don’t you have a plane to catch?”
Revolvers were aimed at our backs as our captors marched us toward a white van, parked a block away. Basil’s arm was around my shoulders. I aided his awkward stride. “A little faster, gentlemen.” Basil caught my eyes and looked over at John Whitely. How much does John know, I wondered. Was he merely along for the ride only to be swept up by our dark unfolding fate? Was he interested in Basil’s work? In divinity paintings? Was that it? Basil let out a sigh of pain and looked up to me again. Let’s get him out of here, his eyes said.
Ravistelle needed us alive, that much I knew. These men wouldn’t execute us, but John. . .
I let go and our two captors stopped. I positioned myself between the gunmen’s pistols and John. With my back pressed against him I forced him to slowly step away, backward.
“Dr. Newirth,” A steely barrel raised up. It gleamed in the florescent street light. “Not recommended. Please stop.”
“Or what?” I said, still pushing John back. “You’ll shoot me? I don’t think so.” I noted a fearful tremor in the resolve of my words. To mask the shaky tone I added, “You’ve come too far for that.”
“No,” the other snarled, “I’ll shoot him,” and he placed his gun against Basil’s temple.
John stopped me, “Wait,” he cried.
“No, they won’t,” I told him. “They won’t shoot us,” and resumed pushing John away. There was another parked car along the street and some thick trees beyond that would allow John some cover. “Go! Now!” He turned and ducked behind the car and disappeared into the deeper shadows.
The first gunman started after him when the other called out, “Wait. Let him go. He’s not what we came for.” Once John was away I returned to Basil, still hunched down on the street.
“Dig your confidence,” he sighed as I lifted him back to his feet. “Glad you were right. Gun barrel and my skull—not a good combo.”
“Yes,” the second gunman scoffed, “we can’t kill you. But there are other ways to make you behave.” The side of his pistol crashed into the back of my head.
Later I would remember the cold, wet pavement against my cheek.
As I came to, a dream was ending. Vestiges of the dreamscape hung like a heavy fog in my mind. There was a rumble in my ears, gaining intensity like the rising wind and the raging sea together. Basil was there. He held a steel pick-axe and was chipping away at the back foundation of my home. My hands were tied and Helen was pacing to and fro in front of me saying, “Are you alright?” over and over again. I struggled to move and my eyes snapped open. I felt a sharp pain at the back of my head, and the left side of my face felt as if it was scorched.
“Are you alright?” Basil asked. He was seated next to me. His was in handcuffs. Struggling to sit up I could feel cold steel cuffs around my own wrists. Dizziness, nausea and fear intermingled.
“Where are we?”
“No idea.” The drone of jet engines explained the roaring in my ears.
“What—what?” I struggled.
“What happened? Well, you’ve been out for close to two hours, and I’ve been sitting here in these plush leather seats waiting patiently for a drink. The dudes back there behind us need to brush up on their flight attendant etiquette.” I glanced over my shoulder. One was sleeping, and the other casually read a newspaper. He noted that I was awake and nodded. I quickly turned and faced forward. Blood surged through my temples as I raised my bound hands and held my head.
“You alright?” Basil asked again.
“That’s a good question,” I said incredulously, “am I?”
“Well, from where I sit it looks like we are both fucked.”
“This is really happening, isn’t it?”
Basil gave me a weak smile, “That was a brave thing you did for my friend, John. I didn’t think you had it in you—I mean, for you to risk your life for someone you’ve just met. You don’t seem the hero-type.”
I replayed the scene, felt again the surge of adrenaline and the disbelief that I actually did it, and I nodded. “Did he get away?”
“I think so.”
Inhaling deeply I tried to make some sense of what had just happened. Despite the throbbing pain in my head I felt strangely awake and alert. The nausea was beginning to subside and was replaced with bursts of much needed serotonin. How my view of reality was shifting. The terrible violence at Basil’s studio had changed my perspective on everything. Now Helen and Edwin have been kidnapped, two of my clients are dead, one suicide—one killed right before my eyes. I’ve been shot at, my personal belongings plundered, my work stolen. . . I clamped my eyes shut. How can this be happening?
“Isn’t it strange? It doesn’t seem real.”
“What doesn’t seem real?” I asked. “I assure you, Basil, this is real.”
“Is it?” he asked. “I wonder. I can become so completely immersed in my work, in my thoughts, that I sometimes lose track of what’s real, whatever the fuck that means. Since I’ve met you, I see the world totally different—a lot different. I truly have a reason to be. Maybe you’ve done that for me. You’ve got to understand, Loche, that I can create things that would make these men,” he gestured to our captors, “cry for mercy in the first two seconds. Shit themselves, to be clearer. Things that would blow their minds, literally.”
Watching him speak I thought of my portrait, and the pale blue god with swirling eyes, drowning.
“Problem is,” he said with gravity, “not only would my work scramble their brains, it would scramble the brains of the entire world. The big deep heavy. I guess that having some sense of the big deep heavy makes everything else seem not so real, or at least, not so important.”
For a brief moment, I saw Basil’s silhouette against the dawn sky at Priest Lake. “The big deep heavy,” I repeated. That phrase was now embedded in my memory.
“You had mentioned to Helen and me, the morning that we first met at the lake, something about John Whitely being interested in your art.”
Basil nodded. “Yeah, John wanted me to meet with a Catholic Bishop, Father Alin. Remember, John was there when I took the painting to my father’s hospital room. He watched the whole thing. He witnessed my father go from a coma to suddenly being able to speak. He’s never seen my work himself, of course.”
“Did you meet with Bishop Alin?” I asked.
“Yes, but only to win an argument with John. Ever since John saw the my painting helped pop, he was freaked out about how it fits into his faith as a God-fearing Christian.”
“Did Alin see your work?”
“Are you kidding? No! I wouldn’t want to scramble that
guy any more than he already is. No, we just discussed it. John did his best to describe what he had seen, I told him about what I do and the rest of the time was spent answering questions. The old guy was interested, that much was clear.”
“So he believed you?”
Basil shrugged. “I suppose so. Like I said, I didn’t pay too much attention. John and I have had many arguments about religion—which is the reason I had him come with me to show the painting to my father, in the first place—to give him some sense. After that, it seemed important to him to have an authority pass judgment. Enter, Bishop Alin.”
“Authority?” I said.
“Well, you know—those Christians seem to think they have a main line when it comes to spiritual matters. Alin is apparently a powerful bishop—lives in Rome for several months out of the year. If there’s something that doesn’t match up with the Good Book, those dudes want to be the first to know it.”
“So what did John have a problem with?” I asked.
“Doesn’t your head already hurt?”
That it did.
He continued, “John’s problem is really about why his almighty God would allow deity intervention—especially after Christ’s crucifixion and resurrection. My work certainly doesn’t fit into his Christian model so, is it the work of Satan? That’s the biggie for him. It’s got him all wound up.”
Hamlet’s words to his dear friend drifted through my mind, There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.
“Father John bases everything on biblical interpretation. Everything. And he couldn’t wrap his head around what he had seen. Finding a reason for my work is hard for him. Some say seeing is believing. Christians have a bit of a different view, believing is seeing. At any rate, he continues to be faithful to his religion, but he’s bothered by my work and what it represents. It’s changed him. At the end of our meeting with Bishop Alin, John was on my side.”
“What side is that?” I asked.
Basil shrugged again, “The big deep heavy side.”
I turned my gaze to the window. The horizon was pale with morning, and our flight was tearing toward it, the controls set to the heart of the sun. Something inside of me desired to write all of this down—to keep track of it all. The urge came on as if nothing else mattered. Tilting my head back and closing my eyes I began to see words stringing together. Colors, sounds and perspectives all under a single theme, whirling like diamonds in an endless sky of possibility.
“I want to write.” I said unconsciously.
“I’m sure you do.”
Raising my head I asked, “Why don’t I have that—for lack of a better word, power, yet? The power you have?”
He held his hands up and demonstrated the effectiveness of handcuffs. “You aren’t free, yet.”
The cold steel was cutting into my wrists.
“Why do you write, Loche? What is it that makes you want to put pen to paper?”
He could see that the question was disturbing. “What is it,” he continued, “fame? Power? A need to let everyone around you know that you have an opinion—or a view? Is it money? Do you think that because you are writing people will take your word and nothing else? Entertainment maybe? What is it?” His tone was laced with condescension.
“My interest has always been centered on stories. When I was very young I remember wanting to write stories, and I did. Composing in a way that brings a reader in and takes them on a journey. Poetry is something that has always intrigued me because of the different ways the work can affect a reader, with few words – to provide an experience.”
“Sure,” Basil said, “that’s all well and good, but you don’t have any readers now, do you?”
I frowned at him, “And what sort of audience do you have?”
His reply was a face tinged with sadness, and silence.
“I’m sorry,” I said finally.
What more is there for an artist than to have recognition for the work? To know that a creation has aided in the development of another’s life journey, or at least mirrored it in some way?
“Giving it back has always been the best way for me to define the whys of my ambition.” I said to Basil. I explained that I wanted to give it back to the desire that inspired it. The Greeks called that desire the Muse, and by addressing the soul an artist could invoke inspiration from those lofty seats on snow-covered Olympus. Throughout history artists have credited these Muses as the true inspiration of art. A Muse’s gift of enthusiasm and ecstasy to a mere mortal that pines to put his own spin on the imitation of nature allows for godlike traits on Earth. But so, too, could the Muses take away what they have given leaving the artist as barren as orchards in drought. Thus, Ovid’s prayer, Salve vocem! Salve linguam nobilem! God save my voice! God save my noble poetry! And thus, his poetry was given back to the Muse through placation, as well as shared with an audience, his fellow man.
My fascination with writing has also been dominated by the way stories can influence people to act. They are vehicles of inspiration. Certainly, my interest in writing and my desire to help troubled minds to cope has been integral in my ability to provide treatment. Stories that reveal our nature, reveal a path to healing. Rearden would often say, a good story can change the game—feed them what they need to get them to change. Sharing stories, fictional or no, has allowed my clients to form new perspectives, attempt to swim deeper waters—to try harder. Stories are what we are. We are what we share, and what we have experienced. But most importantly, we become what we manifest. The stories we envision, become us. This is the real gift. The real gift to give back.
But my writings had never been seen or shared. It was clear that whatever divine quality they were supposed to possess was absent. But still, I hoped that if one were to read my work, they would be moved to believe. To read on and on, until they allowed the fiction to become something more than mere words on a page. Perhaps my stories could deliver someone—suspend their view of reality, and make them accept a different course.
“You’re doomed.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Look, you aren’t doing anything but writing for others, period. Besides, you don’t have a clue as to your potential, yet. Giving it back? What kind of bullshit is that? The way I see it, you aren’t required to give back anything to your fellow man or to that other audience. The sooner you understand that you, and you alone, are able to create the works that are solely yours—the better. No one can make you write, especially the kind of writing that carries that godlike quality, just like no one can make me paint. I paint because I must. Sure, every artist would like to have an adoring audience, but the day your work hurts someone close to you, you’ll see things very differently. Once you see yourself, and forget all else, is when your work will mean something.
“And once you reach your full potential, the only thing that will matter is your creation. It will live on its own. The characters you create will become real and mean something to you. Don’t let this heavenly audience control you. You control them—without you they’ve got nothing.” He craned around and motioned to the two men behind us, “And these douche bags— they’ve got no clue as to what they’re dealing with.”
I nodded along, almost frightened by his rebellious tone. “You aren’t any ordinary artist, Loche,” he kept on, “you are what every artist wants to be—extraordinary, and more. But you’ll have to learn how to forget what you think art is, stop trying to control it, and for your own sake, let it give to you!”
His passion continued to surprise me. Since I’d met Basil I had become accustomed to his taciturn speech and uncommitted nature. Suddenly, I was aware that he was far more cognizant of our situation than I had wanted to believe, and his seemingly detached manner was merely the product of living his true art and accepting it as his self-determined identity. He is who he is, I thought. My mind raced back to my walled-in home and my reserved day-to-day world that I had so intricately constructed to
protect Helen, Edwin, and ultimately, myself. Too often had I dealt with clients whose eccentricities slowly led them toward mental illness. It seemed to me that the only way to keep myself from such a fate was to keep a vigilant eye on passion, and not let it get out of control.
And now, my family has been kidnapped, I’ve seen men killed, and in the blink of a few hours everything I knew to be true had been shattered and taken away. And far below my awareness, in a dark place that I’d not yet delved, a distant voice called out, Take it back.
“Ah, food,” Basil said. “And drinks—killer! Nice faire for prisoners.” One of our expressionless captors brought us both trays of perfectly prepared lobster, fresh bread and wine. I couldn’t remember the last time I had eaten, and as the food and alcohol eased into my limbs and my mind, I could feel a heavy sleep hanging on me. After the meal, Basil lit a cigarette and grinned at the no smoking sign. “What are they going to do?” he mocked.
The white noise of the Learjet’s engines lulled me into an unnatural dream. Basil lowered his cigarette, leaned his head back and said sleepily, “There’s a lot for us to catch up on, Loche.”
“Yes, there is,” I muttered. My vision began to blur. Every muscle began tingling. It wasn’t until I rolled my head to the side and saw Basil asleep with the cigarette still between his fingers that I thought, what was in those drinks? With heavy eyes I sensed someone approaching from the rear of the plane. A voice from over my shoulder was my last memory of the flight, “Time to sleep, Dr. Newirth.” My eyes fell shut.
Another dream.
Beth Winship’s arms groped from the churning water. My desk was on the beach and I watched her struggling against the throes of hypothermia. With a final, desperate cry, the face and the pleading reach sunk below the bleak surface. Silence. I stood up from behind my desk and called out, “Beth! Beth!”
“She’s gone,” a voice said. It was Rearden, holding a stack of paperwork and flinging single pages into the surf. Basil stood just behind Rearden with his brush aimed into a painting. I rushed to the water and dove deep, reaching for Beth’s body. Murky darkness and blurred shapes on the lake floor drove my thoughts into madness. She’s gone. The sharp chill of the water stung my skin. My limbs seized, my strength was failing, and I began to rise like a log to the surface.
The Invasion of Heaven, Part One of the Newirth Mythology Page 17