What began as a blur of pale yellow light slowly sharpened into sheer curtains glowing with bright sunshine. A terrific headache was crashing against my temples, and my body was sluggish. Blood ticked in my ears. For a brief time, the anxiousness of my waking nightmare faded, Basil, armed men, my family’s abduction—only a dream, only a dream. I raised my head from the soft pillow while trying to adjust my eyes, and the moment of relief dissolved into confusion. Fear returned. This was not my room.
Something beside me moved.
There, nuzzled against my shoulder was the tiny sleeping face of my son, Edwin. The scent of his breathing filled my heart with hope, and with great effort I was able to lift my left hand and gently touch his cheek. Tears welled in my eyes.
“Good morning,” I whispered.
The little boy stirred and his brow wrinkled—an expression I had seen every morning of his short life. With all my strength I pulled him to me, squeezing him to my chest. His arms wrapped around my neck.
“Hi, Dad,” he said, still half asleep.
“Where’s mom?”
Just as I had asked the question, a door at the other end of the room swung open and Helen came rushing to the bed. She flung her arms around us and wept, “Loche. Oh God, Loche. They told us you were in an accident—to get us into the car,” Helen told me. “Next thing I remember we were on a plane.”
“Are you hurt? Are you okay?”
Throbbing waves of nausea surged through my abdomen. Helen was obviously aware of my discomfort and sent Edwin to the next room. Rolling to my side I heaved in spasms over the edge of the bed. My wife’s hand was gently stroking the back of my neck. As quickly as the cramps had come, they dissipated, and I turned over onto my back. “Jesus,” I cried. “Where are we?”
Helen wiped my face with the bed sheet, “Venice.”
“What have they told you?”
“Loche,” she whispered, “why didn’t you tell me that Basil is your brother?”
I shook my head and told her the truth. What time was there? It had happened so quickly. At first I didn’t believe him. What more could I say? “Where is he?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Edwin and I arrived here at five this morning. They told us that you’d been asleep for over twenty-four hours.”
Every muscle in my body ached, and the lump on the back of my head throbbed. Pushing down on the bed I struggled to sit upright. The dizziness came without mercy, but I forced myself to bear it. After a few moments it was gone. I glanced at the clock. It read 6:30 a.m.
“Are you okay?” Helen asked.
“I think so,” I lied, though I could feel the effects of the drug beginning to fade. “Tell me everything.”
Helen’s eyes motioned toward the entrance to the room. Standing in the doorway was a vaguely familiar face and in his arms was my son. It was the face from the computer—Albion Ravistelle.
“Everything, Dr. Newirth? I shall do my best,” he said.
“Put him down,” I demanded. I attempted to spring from the bed and take him. Helen held me back.
Ravistelle’s expression was confusion mixed with humor. “Very well, Doctor,” he said simply as he set Edwin on his feet. The little boy rubbed his eyes and stumbled over to Helen and me, still lost in his sleepy dreams. I held him close and stabbed the man with my eyes. “What do you want with us?”
Ravistelle looked at Helen, then back to me. A strange sensation crept through my mind. Helen and Albion seemed to have a rapport.
“Doctor, I know that our measures may appear extreme, but I assure you they were necessary for the safety of your brother, your family and yourself. You are no longer in peril. Please try to calm your thoughts. I’m afraid I should have let you rest a while longer before visiting, but I admit, I couldn’t restrain myself. Meeting you has been my life’s mission.” He raised his hands in a gesture of retreat, “I will leave you to your family for the time being. We have arranged for a delightful breakfast on the terrace at nine. Basil and Howard will be joining us. I hope that you will join us, as well.”
“Is there a choice?” I scowled.
His smile surprised me. It was too genuine. “There is always a choice, Doctor. We will not force you to do anything more against your will. You are here now, and we only ask that you allow us to plead our case. After you’ve heard us you may then do as you will.”
Helen caressed my shoulder. I had no words.
“Loche Newirth,” he said as he backed away, with a slight bow, “it is an honor to meet you.” He turned and walked out.
Helen rose from the bedside, crossed the room and closed the door. With her back to me she said, “They told me everything. About you, Basil and what you are to become. They told me that your art will change the world.” She turned with tears in her eyes. “I don’t know how to make sense of any of this, Loche. Help me to understand.”
I kissed Edwin on the forehead and laid him down on the bed. “So much has happened in the last few days that it’s nearly impossible to describe.”
“Try,” she said.
I recounted the past day’s events, the drowning of Beth Winship, my discussions with Basil and Howard, the viewing of Basil’s art, the gunfight at Basil’s studio, and William Greenhame. At the mention of William, Helen stopped me. “Was he a client of yours?”
“For the last six years.”
“They told me that he was dangerous.”
“I suppose he was,” I remarked, “but not anymore. He was killed right in front of me.” Helen’s eyes grew wide. “Like I said, there is no way to describe it. Are you okay?” I asked.
“I don’t know what I am,” she muttered.
I reached for her hand. “I know how you feel.”
Basil was seated on the veranda, smoking a cigarette and gazing out over Venice’s Grand Canal at the Chiesa della Salute. The red table umbrellas and elegant white cushioned chairs of the Bauer Hotel were arranged along a wide dining platform beside the water. Opposite the water was our gothic hotel looming up like an ancient ghost in the morning sun. Beside Basil was Howard Fenn. He looked sleepy.
After exchanging awkward greetings, Helen, Edwin and I joined them. There were no other guests on the terrace that bright October morning. A single waiter stood beside a serving cart three tables away polishing silverware and eyeing us with great interest. I noticed two empty seats at our table.
Basil mashed his cigarette into the ashtray. “So Loche, you and I always seem to meet near the water. Remember the last time we ate together?” From what hidden place my slight smile came from I’ll never know, but I did recall our last lunch date on the docks of The Floating Hope in Idaho.
I nodded, “Yes, I didn’t believe a word you were saying.”
“Matters that concern my professional opinion take place in my office,” he mocked in his best impression of me.
I glanced at Howard. “Everything okay?” I asked.
Howard smiled. “As good as can be expected. Strange couple of days. You?”
“Well, the cocktails on the plane took a bit to recover from, but I’m feeling much better now,” I said.
Howard looked at Basil, “He had a tough time of it, as well, but he was up and on the terrace early, drinking coffee.”
“Yeah,” Basil added, “after blowing chunks.”
Albion Ravistelle appeared at the terrace entrance dressed in a grey business suit and tie. He approached with long, confident strides. Accompanying him was another man, also wearing formal business attire. His face reminded me of a ten-years-younger Marcus Rearden, thoughtful and excruciatingly insightful. His tiny, wire rimmed glasses rested down near the tip of his nose, and as he advanced toward us the grey-green eyes behind those glasses smiled with disbelief.
“Buon giorno,” Albion Ravistelle greeted charmingly, “and welcome to Venice. May I introduce to you Dr. Angelo Catena, psychologist and art curator of Venezia?”
“Good morning,” Angelo said in English dripping with an Italian accent. “It
is indeed an honor to meet you.” He removed his glasses, like one might remove a hat out of respect.
“Appropriate title,” Basil said, “psychologist and art curator.”
Angelo seemed uncomfortable, but his response was perfectly rehearsed, “I’ve much to learn about both of my vices, art and the human mind, but yes, in this situation I can say that all of us gathered here have something in common.”
“May we join you?” Albion asked, smiling. His well-mannered tone was flawless.
“It’s your date,” Basil quipped.
The two men took their seats as three white-coated waiters appeared out of nowhere and approached the table with trays of champagne. Albion must have noticed my skeptical expression and said, “The drink is not tainted, Dr. Newirth. I assure you that you won’t experience any ill effects. We felt that sedating you aboard the plane was necessary for a number of reasons. First of which was that we didn’t want the two of you to become rebellious, and second, you’ll find that your jet lag will be lessened.” He smiled, “And finally, we thought it important for you both to become more acquainted here in Venice rather than over the Atlantic ocean. I do apologize for the ill effects that you experienced upon waking. I’m afraid your overzealous escorts may have given you a bit too much.” He paused, and with a troubled expression added, “I also understand that you were assaulted by one of our associates. That individual has been punished for the incident. I’m very sorry that you were struck. Completely unacceptable.”
My scowl at Ravistelle quickly faded as the aroma of food rose before me. I was surprised at my sudden hunger. Warm breads, fresh fruit, jam, scrambled eggs and waffles were brought to the table.
Albion scanned the faces around the table with an expression brimming with sincerity. “I must also apologize again, to the entire group this time, for the drastic measures that brought you to this country, and simply, things are not always as they appear. We will not harm you, though it may have seemed as such. I hope that by now you understand the serious danger that you were facing. The danger has not disappeared, but I assure you that you are now dining at the safest place on Earth. What may seem like a luxurious hotel is truly a fortress sustained for one purpose, or rather, for two purposes, Basil and Loche. But so, too, will it protect the ones you love,” he nodded to Howard, Helen and Edwin. “Inside these walls are men and women dedicated to preserving and protecting the greatest of human artistic endeavor, and it was not until all of you arrived safely that we have rested easy.” He nodded upward toward the building’s windowed face and I could see several figures peering down at our small gathering. “You see?” Ravistelle said. “You are quite well-known here. The excitement is difficult for our associates to repress.” I looked at Basil. He was glaring at our host.
“The men under William Greenhame’s charge, the Orathom Wis, will never stop in their mission to end both of your lives, and it is by our persistent watch that we’ve managed to keep that from happening.” His next statement was tinged with sorrow. “Many men and women have freely given their lives for your protection, and for the work you produce.”
“But why?” came Helen’s voice.
Albion fixed her with his eyes and smiled slightly. “They hold the answer, dear Helen—the answer that there is life after death—the answer to human suffering—the answer to our inhumane, warring religious ideologies. An answer to the questions Helen, that this little one here,” he gestured to Edwin, “will never be troubled with. The arts that these two possess can rid the world, once and for all, of sorrow, pain and illness.”
“And how do you propose their art can do that?” Howard cried as he tapped the wheels of his wheelchair. His voice was shaking. “I know firsthand just who and what their art is for, and I assure you, it isn’t for mankind.”
Dr. Angelo Catena held up his hand with gentle patience, “Mr. Fenn,” he consoled, “what happened to you was a tragedy. It was a terrible accident. You were not meant to see Basil’s work, and the effect of it has stayed with you. The physician that treated you in Olympia, Washington, is still a colleague of mine, and I might add, while you were unconscious I visited you many times. But what you must realize is that you were brought back. You were brought back.”
Howard blinked and shook his head. “You see,” Angelo continued, “Basil had the foresight and the ability to create a work that was conceived as a treatment. It was he that healed you. Without his craft you would still be suffering from the many diagnosed mental disorders you sustained by looking into his work.”
“So what you are saying,” Basil interrupted, “is that you want me and Loche to work for you? Is that it?”
Dr. Catena looked at Albion and then back to Basil. “I suppose you could say that.”
“But there is much to learn,” Ravistelle added, “much to train for and discuss before we jump to such hasty conclusions.”
“What are you saying?” I asked. The sound of my voice startled me. My tone was both angry, and surprisingly interested.
“Dr. Newirth,” Angelo said, “you and your brother have the ability to heal. Or I should say, will have the ability to heal others by transcending the barrier between this life and the next, through art. You can learn to manipulate your work to heal the human condition. The answers are within reach.”
I shook my head in disbelief and echoes of conversations past with Marcus Rearden replayed in my mind. I am merely pointing out, Marc, that we, as psychologists should pursue an answer, not an excuse. I want to steer right through the problems instead of going around them. I want the ability to cure, not ease. I want the knowledge to heal and repair. Not merely help one to organize their darkness. I know that everyone suffers. Whether it be a disease, a mental disorder or just the plain problems of being human. Each and every one of us wonders about why we exist and why there’s no clear answer. I hear that question so often, Marc. Why? I want the answer.
A sharp chill scuttled across my shoulders, and for a split second my thoughts raced, my art will be the antidote to my nemesis, mental illness.
“Gentlemen,” I interjected, my voice chilled by cold restraint, “I am fully aware of the power that Basil possesses, and I am told that I, too, carry a similar gift, if you want to call it that. I’ve been made aware of the threat of William Greenhame and his so called cohorts—I’ve witnessed how dangerous he can be —and for the protection you have given us we are truly thankful. However, you must realize that the gravity of this situation has left all of us out of sorts.” Both Albion and Angelo nodded sympathetically. “Your tactics, despite the dangers and this show of courtesy, are deplorable. Trust is a virtue that is earned. And, you are correct, there is a great deal more that we need to learn about you and your intentions.”
Albion nodded with certainty. “My sentiments exactly, Doctor. Remember, things are not always what they seem. I will have delivered to your room a box of documentation that I believe will interest you greatly. Your distant and most recent past is outlined in great detail. I believe you’ll find your official birth certificate from Moses Lake, Washington, secondary school and college transcripts, as well as your marriage license to Helen here. Furthermore, you will find literature that will educate you as to who your enemies are, the reasons why the two of you have been gifted and the scriptures that prophecy your coming—our involvement, our intentions and what our combined futures hold —it’s all there.” I looked at Helen, wide-eyed. “Doctor, I implore you to take some time and allow your new and world changing life to introduce itself to you. Prepare yourself to change humanity.”
“Well, you can count me out,” Basil said suddenly. “Albion, Angelo, you guys are clueless. This is some bad craziness to be sure and I think the best thing you can do is stay out of the healing the world business. I’m learning that the audience for my work is not of this Earth, and I can’t imagine that they would take too kindly to a change of style. And no one dictates my work, but me.”
“Mr. Fenn,” Angelo responded in delicate tones
, “I think we should—”
“Look, there are some questions that make art worthy, and knowing what you call the answers destroys what I do,” Basil said flatly. “So what’s next? When does our plane leave?”
There was a long pause. Albion Ravistelle’s gracious style intercepted the complicated silence. “We can have a flight prepared for you,” he began, “but I think it would benefit you to learn just a bit more about our intentions.”
“It sounds to me like you want to control us,” Basil growled as he lit up a smoke. He shook his head slowly. “Not gonna happen.”
“Our intention is not to control you,” Angelo broke in, “but to teach you—”
Ravistelle held up his hand, wordlessly stopping Dr. Catena’s voice. A barely detectible loss of patience crossed Albion’s face. “Please, Mr. Fenn, as I’ve said, there is more to know. If you would only take a few days to look over the materials we’ve provided and spend some time communicating with us and our colleagues, you will begin to gain a clear picture that—”
“What part of no don’t you understand?” Basil sneered. I turned and saw in his face a wall, guarded and barbwired. “I’ll take my chances with this Greenhame and his pals. Don’t fuck with my work. Believe me, it won’t go the way you want it to.”
Albion sighed deeply, keeping direct eye contact with my brother. And Basil held his gaze.
“Mr. Fenn,” Ravistelle said, “doctor Catena is treating a woman here in Italy that suffers from schizophrenia and manic depressive disorders. She is kept in a psych ward outside of Venezia. I cannot begin to describe the suffering that this once vibrant and outgoing woman has endured over the last three years as these maladies crashed down upon her with vicious speed. Dr. Catena has struggled to develop several new treatments, including cutting-edge medication and other types of therapy, but with no results. As we speak she has been placed in a padded room due to two unsuccessful suicide attempts.”
The Invasion of Heaven, Part One of the Newirth Mythology Page 18