Loche knows the names. “How can this be?” he says suddenly. “Samuel and Corey are made up. They are characters that I created—”
“And this woman beside you?” Greenhame asked.
Loche turns to Julia. There is a dim, blinking star in his periphery, like a familiar dream. “I was told her name was Julia Iris,” Loche points to the book, his gaze searching Julia’s face.
“You have never met?”
“No!”
“Interesting,” Greenhame says. “Do you recall the last time you and I spoke?”
“I do. It was in my office. The day you stood on my desk like a statue.”
“I see. So it was not at the Uffizi in Florence,” William’s voice quavers, “beside your fallen brother, Basil?”
“No,” Loche says shaking his head. “Basil does not exist. Julia, Samuel, Corey—they are not real. Why are you doing this? Who are you people?”
William rises and stands in front of the picture window. A red haze of paint is still smeared into the corners.
“It could be a mental break,” Samuel offers. “A kind of amnesia.”
“I think not,” William replies.
“He believes what he is saying,” Samuels says. “There is no doubt in his eyes.”
“Yes,” William agrees. “But I believe this to be providence. The Invisible Hand, The One revealing itself through its own story. A story within a story. Creating life within its creation.”
“The chicken or the egg?” Corey says. “You’re not suggesting that Loche has created us, are you, William? As if we suddenly winked to life out of his imagination.”
William says over his shoulder, “You may have winked to life—I was already alive. I was his client, remember? I would guess that my existence was augmented. But you, Samuel and poor Julia—”
Corey’s tone is skeptical, “But this is all too incredible. How can this be?”
“Incredible, yes,” Greenhame agrees, “though, no more incredible than the Judeo-Christian creation story. The whole of creation in seven days? Adam from clay. Eve from his rib. Come now. We’ve seen how entire cultures have fought and died to preserve that belief. Or what of the Egyptian creator god Atum— created himself and then sneezed out humans?”
“This is preposterous,” Samuel says. “Loche has merely written down what he has experienced in the last fortnight.”
“I agree,” Corey adds. “What you are suggesting cannot be, William. It would mean that Loche has not only created us from his imagination, but he is also the architect of the Alya and the Orathom—that his writing created Basil, Basil’s paintings, The Center, the divinities, the immortals—shall I go on? I have memories and a life of my own. Centuries of memories, William. He may be your son, but the story he has written here is nothing but an account of what is, and what has been, well before his time.”
“And I have memories too, Corey,” William says. “But that does not mean that Loche should know of them. Nor should he know of all of your experiences. He has brought you into the story by conceiving your shadow. But by doing so he has opened up the Alya for you to create your own destiny. You were a seed in his imagination—you have flourished on your own.”
Loche feels lightheaded again. His vision skips from the three men to the volumes of books stacked upon the kitchen counters and the piles of square Post-it notes—notes that outline the book before him. William is still framed in the picture window. Loche presses his knuckles into his eyes and lowers his head. “I wrote the story to capture the smartest man I know. To bring him to justice. I fed his already delusional perspective by giving him something fantastic. It was the only way to beat him. Something he would never expect. I lied to reveal the truth.”
“And beat him you did,” William agrees, still facing the blue sky. “At least for now. Myths have a way of causing men to act out of belief from the very beginning. Marcus Rearden is a dangerous man, Loche.”
Loche says, “You only know of Marcus Rearden because of what is readily known about him—”
“I know of Marcus Rearden because of what he knows of you,” William interrupts. “I have watched him for years, since the two of you met. And Marcus Rearden knows your mind better than any that live. Perhaps better than you know yourself. He has been your mentor, your confidant and your supposed friend since you began your practice. It is well that you have won this victory, but I feel that Marcus is still a threat. I believe that providence is again playing its part. How else does a drama continue without treachery? Without betrayal? Without death? What more could the gods want? A master betraying an apprentice. The apprentice outwitting the master. Chicken or the egg? Who made whom?”
“William?” Samuel asks. “You don’t truly believe what you are saying, do you?”
William turns slowly. “I suppose it doesn’t matter, does it? What is, is. Whether or not Loche created us, we have work still before us. But I do, Samuel, believe that Basil’s brother here, Loche Newirth, is the one prophesied. He has made us what we are by writing that book, and he has made a way for the divinities to peer into the Alya. A way that none of us could have expected.”
“William,” Samuel says, “you’re saying that Loche prophesied himself—as the Poet—the one to open the doors to the Orathom.”
“That is exactly what I am saying,” William agrees. “Perfectly paradoxical.”
Loche looks through the window, through the layers of sunlit blue. A cold and clear October sky. The sight brings no relief. His thoughts reel and break against each possible scenario. William sits down at the desk and lifts the pen from its surface. He inspects it, holds it gingerly like it is made of delicate glass.
“Have you ever heard the tale of The Tears of Heaven, Wyn Avuqua?” Greenhame asks Loche quietly. He turns slightly and points through the window, down the treed slope to the ice blue water. “Just across the lake and slightly north there was once a city called Wyn Avuqua. Many, many centuries ago. It was there our distant brothers and sisters communed with The One—on these very shores.”
“I made that up,” Loche says sharply. “It’s not real.”
William’s eyes narrow at Loche’s words and he smiles slightly, “It was said that an Eye would sometimes appear on the surface of the lake. The water’s Eye would fill with sky.” In his face is a solemn question, “Loche, did It look upon you? Was there an Eye in the water?”
Loche’s legs weaken suddenly. He braces himself against the wall. His side can feel the smack of the water, the sting of cold in his bones. “I fell. Five days ago now. I fell into the water. I thought I saw an Eye there, but I can’t be sure.”
Corey stands and asks, “Did you or did you not see an Eye?”
“As I said, I think I saw something. It’s difficult for me to describe, especially after the ordeal of getting lost—the hallucinations brought on by the incident.”
“And after you fell—after this incident, as you call it, you returned here and wrote?” Samuel asked.
“I did,” Loche answers. “I was in a kind of trance, I guess. I emerged three days later. I was staring at the page. There was a spot of ink—” Loche breaks off pointing at the book. He shivers at the stabbing chill of the memory. “I was near to death.”
Both Samuel and Corey look at William. “Loche,” William says, “I believe that you have arrived. Your writing is now an open door. I believe that your muse arrived when you faced your deepest fear—standing upon the threshold of this world and the next, here in this enchanted place.” William thinks a moment. “It matters not how you’ve brought existence and reality to our story —what matters now is how we handle the terrors you’ve created. And how to prepare ourselves for the next time you commune with the water’s Eye. The next time you write.”
Loche’s face whitens and he quickly glances at the door. “I must go,” he says. “None of this can be true. I must go.” He takes a nervous step toward an escape. William moves and blocks the way. Loche freezes.
“Where will
you go?” William asks. “You are better off staying with us. Safer.” Loche stares at William’s chest. “Have patience and you will soon understand.”
With all of his strength Loche throws his weight into William, shoving him back. William pivots slightly and crosses his ankle into Loche’s stride. Loche tumbles to the floor. Corey and Samuel move to help Loche back to his feet. Loche slaps at their hands. As he does this he sees his umbrella leaning against the wall. Stretching his arm out he takes hold of the handle, climbs to his feet and swings the tip around catching William’s cheek. Samuel and Corey quickly restrain Loche and pull him back toward the door.
William touches the cut on his face and then looks at the blood on his fingertips. “Loche,” he says, “did you learn nothing from your sword teacher, Giovanni, in Padua? Twist and pull at the handle of your umbrella. I think you’ll find it much more affective.” Corey and Samuel release Loche’s arms. Loche looks down at the grip and rotates the silver latch. The umbrella falls away revealing a gleaming blade. Loche stares at it.
“Weren’t expecting that, eh?” Samuel says.
From behind William, “Loche?” It is a woman’s voice. “Loche?”
William steps aside and turns. Loche sees Julia sitting up in the bed, her hands still covering her stomach. Suddenly there is something familiar about her face, as if from a dream. From a wish.
Her hands pull slightly away from the bullet wound and move down to the bottom of her blood soaked shirt. She pulls the fabric up exposing her bare stomach. There, just below her rib cage is a fading pink blot. Surrounding the mark is a halo of white foam. The wound is gone.
“Loche, this is really happening, isn’t it?” Julia asks.
Here ends part one of The Newirth Mythology
Acknowledgments:
The character of Basil Fenn appeared in my journal one afternoon while I was on a concert tour through the Mediterranean in 1998. Basil died before dusk that same day at the Uffizi (see Chapter 2, To Marcus Rearden). The time between then and now has been spent trying to figure out why—and thus came more and more questions (and confusion), as is the case with such pursuits. The Invasion of Heaven is a kind of answer to those questions, or an attempt, at least.
So for better or worse, I wrote the book you’re holding. But not without a substantial amount of support and love from nearly every person I know. Many of which may not be aware they were in any way lending a helping hand, but they did. Many were kind enough to read some of the early drafts, some were kind in giving thought to the project, and some humored me, kindly. Getting to spend time and learn from them was the best part of writing this book. And so, too, the giants whose shoulders I teeter upon—their influence started this whole writing affair in the first place. I’m fairly certain they aren’t aware of their involvement either.
If only I had the kind of time that William Greenhame has—for if I did I would most certainly ramble on for pages providing a thorough record of each and every influential encounter and contributing relationship—then I would end with a pantheon of writers, musicians, film makers and painters that dinted the hard shell that is my head. But that kind of time isn’t available to me, nor would such a list be worth your time perusing—and Greenhame, I’ve been told, talks too much and for too long. I happen to love it when he does that, but never mind.
So I’ll try to be brief.
I have dedicated this book to my mother Diana who has battled depression for most of her life. Though this first installment may not provide the kind of cure that Doctor Loche Newirth is after, it is a son’s attempt to fight the malady.
Mom, Dad and brother Bob (Bobbi and Bean) put space wizards, music and books in front of me. I haven’t enough gratitude for these things. My uncle Stan Koep served as my first editor when I was twelve and to this day he inspires me and is always ready to discuss Elliqui lore and the prospects of the Orathom. Professor Michael Herzog has guided me, encouraged me, enlightened me and fed me countless ass-kicking breakfasts. Scott and Dani Clarkson (and the Prusiedoodle), have been unwavering listeners, offered thoughtful suggestions and continue to be fanatic about the project. Many thanks to Scott Clarkson (caw minle) and Mark Rakes (my band mates, KITE) as well as Cary Beare (teavoy Belzaare) and Cristopher Lucas (my band mates, The RUB). Their camaraderie, and their love of ideas and music are key components to my ever developing process. My dear friend, Psychologist Michael Roberts, has been vital in helping me to imagine Loche Newirth. Andreas John at Will Dreamly Arts, my editors Allison McCready (Luminaare ~ dech fo ag shivcy fafe fogal) and Marlene Adelstein, along with Diane Duthweiler and Gail DiRe at Book It Northwest, and Erik Korhel at EDK Distribution. Eric and Laurie Wilson for steadfast vision and support (and scotch, song, joy, autumn breakfasts and sweet pipe smoke in the study). To The Core, Mark Lax, Greg and Sara White, and Lisa Koep—thank you for mingling the Alya and the Ora, holding me up and clearing the way—and we’re just getting started.
And more thanks for the delightfully long-winded conversations, imaginings and in-depth mischief: Jeff Hagman, Joe Lynch, Bob Kelley, Tom Brunner, Jolynn Koep, Calvin and Majorie Langley, Monte Thompson, Jason Williamson, Rich Chatfield, Dave and Heather Dupree, Bob Burdett, Doug Smith, Jane Mauser, Andrea Brockmeyer, Margaret Hurlocker, Greg and Jillian Rowley, Randy (Vlad) Palmer, Dan Spaulding, Darin Schaffer, Aman Nothere, Geri and Walter Perkins, and The Heren Sindaril.
And of course, my dear wife, Lisa, and son, Michael.
thia alyoth thave ni tunefore
The Newirth Mythology, Part Two
in 2014.
The Invasion of Heaven, Part One of the Newirth Mythology Page 36