Before entering into the nave, William cried, “Look, Mama, snow.” He turned his palm out to catch some of the falling flakes. Its descent was slow, hanging, almost weightless. When it touched William’s hand and his upraised face, it was not cold. Instead, it was like dust, and it smeared black and grey across his skin.
“That’s not snow. It is ash,” his mother said. “Come, get you inside.” Black clouds of smoke billowed over the sun.
Once inside, Geraldine crossed herself, William did the same, and they both called out, “Father! Father! Are you here?”
“Yes, my dears, I am,” came Father Radulphus Grenehamer’s voice. William ran up the aisle and into the arms of the priest. “Hello, my little one. And hello, Geraldine,” he said.
“Good afternoon, Father,” she replied. “I see an empty church.”
“Yes, it is true. I pray in solitary.”
“Will you take my confession?”
The priest studied her carefully, and nodded, “I will. Come.”
William sat on his mother’s lap inside the dark confessional box. Through the lattice he could see the priest’s profile. A crucifix hung on the grid between them. William studied the suffering Christ, his punctured, bleeding hands, the crown of thorns dripping blood into his eyes.
“Forgive me Father for I have sinned,” Geraldine said.
“Go on, my child,” Father Grenehamer replied.
“I have had,” she paused, glancing down at the young boy in her lap, then back to the priest, “I have had—thoughts.”
“What kind of thoughts?”
“Wonderful, loving, dear, exciting, thoughts, Father.” She cleared her throat. William studied the deep brown wood panels. Carved crosses and clouds. “Thoughts of closeness, of kissing, of desire. Thoughts that can be seen as impure, by some.”
“By some, do you mean the Church?” Father Grenehamer asked.
“I do.”
“I see,” the priest said.
“Would you like to see?” Geraldine grinned at the wooden grid. The priest didn’t answer. “These thoughts rarely have clothing, you know” she added.
The priest coughed suddenly. “Is your husband aware of these, thoughts, as you call them?”
“Oh, he is indeed.”
“Then, my child, the desire for your husband is not sin. It is only natural to long for the one you love.”
“I do not see it as sin, either. Father, my sin is much larger, though, only my husband, and his Church see it as sin.”
The priest shifted in his booth.
“My husband has not been to my bed in a week’s time,” she said, her voice charged with slight anger.
“Perhaps, his duties are divided,” the priest said.
“That is all too true, Father,” she replied.
“Perhaps he struggles each day from keeping both his soul and his heart from breaking.”
Geraldine lowered her face into her son’s hair. William began to trace the crosses on the back of the door with his finger.
“Perhaps, dear Geraldine, your husband is hearing a different call than yours. A voice that is not of just this earth, but of the moon and sun, the celestial spheres—the voice that brought all into being from nothingness. A voice that calls each of us to join in a life beyond this.”
The two fell silent. William was growing restless. Little of this conversation mattered to him. He wanted to go down to the church’s undercroft to where the wooden toy horses were. One was broken. He wanted to fix it.
Geraldine peered into the lattice. “As I said, my sin is not that I desire my husband, but rather, it is that I do not desire his Church. I detest it, father. I loathe it. I will accept his choice of god, but not his Church. And I am angry that he chooses it over me.” She again lowered her face into William’s light brown hair, “Over us.”
Father Radulphus Grenehamer sighed. “Do you choose your Crafts over your husband?” he asked. “Your gifts, your healings, your powers? Would you forsake them at his asking? No. No you would not. And he would not ask that of you. What you can do, I have witnessed. You bring light, healing and love into this world. And though much of my Church is fearful of powers like yours, I must believe that my God had your kind conceived in his design. For if there are countless stars there must be countless powers.”
“Father,” William said when he sensed a lull in the exchange, “Can we go down to the toys now?”
“Wife,” Radulphus said without heeding his son, “do not ask me to forsake my God, for he holds my undying soul. You possess my heart and all that is good in this life.”
“Ralph, I won’t ask that of you,” she replied, “but it is your Church that vexes me. It keeps you from my bed. And these thoughts I have, are torture.” Geraldine smiled at the priest. “Husband, when will you come home?”
His response was a whisper, “Wife, quiet now. I had hoped to come tomorrow after Vespers. I will spend the next two nights with you. But, I’m afraid, we must be more careful.”
“Do not say that, Ralph,” Geraldine said. “Do not be afraid. Everyone knows you have a wife and son, anyway.”
Father Radulphus Grenehamer took his wife by the hand and with William in his arms and straddling his hip, he led them back to the night stairs down to the undercroft below the altar.
Once they stood enclosed within the small stone chamber, Father Radulphus set William on his feet.
The priest asked, “Have you tended your work at home? Tended the chickens? Mended the fence? Stacked the wood?”
William nodded. “I carried the black soil from the stream that Mama wanted, too.” He smiled.
“Very well then, you know where they are.”
The boy dashed to the corner of the room and opened a large cabinet. From it he pulled four carved wooden horses, one green, one black, one grey and one blue. The blue horse had a broken leg. He set them on the floor and looked up at the couple. Their fingers were enlaced.
William turned his attention to the toys, specifically, the blue horse. From his pocket he pulled out the thin vine he had plucked from the Thatcher’s house. It was now brown, withered and without leaves. He wrapped the horse’s broken leg with it.
He whispered to the horse, “I am sorry our last adventure hurt you, mate. I borrowed a magic vine to bind you.”
“He looks more and more like you everyday,” Geraldine said.
“And it appears he’s a healer.” Radulphus said.
Geraldine smiled, pulling the priest close. He leaned down and touched his nose to hers.
“How are you today, Wife?”
“I am missing my husband. You don’t visit as often as you should. We are only a short walk away, you know.”
“The Lord’s task list is long and has kept me from being idle, I’m afraid.”
Geraldine raised her fingers and laid them across his lips. “Afraid. Again, do not say that. Do not be afraid.”
“I know, my sweet wife. I am sorry.”
Radulphus kissed her forehead. He crossed the room and returned with two goblets of wine. They sat watching William play on the floor.
William had now tied a short stick onto the blue horse’s knee. He set the toy on its feet and tested its stability. He looked up at his parents.
“And how is Simon and his family?” Radulphus asked.
“They will be well by evening. Weak, but well.”
“Did they witness your Craft?”
“Simon claimed that he felt the earth pulling him in—that he saw leaves and vines. I assured him that it was the fever.”
The priest nodded. “And was William with you?”
She did not answer, but took a long pull from her wine.
“Geraldine, you must shield him. We spoke of this. The Craft will be dangerous for him—dangerous for all of us.”
“I know,” she said. “But husband, he must know the truth about me. He knows to keep these things to himself. He knows the dangers.”
“I know the dangers, Father.�
�� William said suddenly. “Mama made the Thatcher’s family a drink with herbs in it. It made them get well. That is all.” The boy nodded with a sure, brow wrinkled expression. “Look,” he said raising the toy. The blue horse’s leg was firmly wrapped with the stem—healed.
The Priest smiled. “Very good, William.”
When the three ascended back into the nave, William could smell the smoke again. His father took no notice. Smoke drifting through the village was not unusual, and often it would sneak its way into the abbey.
They stood before the door and embraced. William watched his father kiss his mother’s lips for a long moment. When they parted they stared at each other smiling. “Tomorrow evening, look for me after dark,” he said.
She grinned at him, “I will have a fire in the hearth and bread on the board.”
Opening the door and stepping outside, William sensed something was wrong, though he could not verbalize it. It was still well before Vespers, and the spring sun should be high. A cloud of deep ashen smoke choked the light. Both his mother and father gazed up into the fume and wondered at it.
William said, holding his hand out, “These aren’t snow flakes. It is ash. See?”
“So it is,” the priest agreed.
Across the abbey courtyard was a gathering of a dozen people. There was panic in their voices. The priest reached back inside the church door and laid hold of his walking staff.
“Father! Father! You must help us. Father!” they cried hurrying to the priest.
“What? What is it? What is this smoke? You there, Robert, Robert Emory, pray, what is this fearful disquiet?”
“Father!” Robert said, coming forward. “Father, you must come to the village square. They are burning—” his words broke off. Fury and tears stained his expression. He placed his face into his hands. “They are burning… Rioters have come from London, they carry the banner of Christ, and they are righteous in their madness. They are killing those they believe to be witches. They’ve burned seven already. They are scouring the village for more.”
William saw his father’s countenance shadow.
Robert looked over the priest’s shoulder to Geraldine. “They seek you, my lady. They seek you.”
“She is a Christian woman,” Father Radulphus shouted.
“It will make no difference,” Robert cried. “They are incensed and without restraint. They bear the device of the Almighty. They claim that resisting them is to renounce God himself. They are driven on by Gravesend, the Bishop of London.”
William felt tears. Sudden. Stinging. He looked to his mother and clung to her leg. He hid his face.
Radulphus’s instinct forced him to take a step, shielding Geraldine. William heard his father’s booming voice, as he’d heard it in mass, controlled, focused and clear. It always brought a chill. “Come, all. Let the bells toll. You are called to God’s house, all! Bring them, Robert. Bring God’s people to His house.”
“I will,” Robert said. He and his followers took to the path, running.
Geraldine said, “Ralph, you will bring the riotous host. We must flee.”
“There will be no greater protection than God’s house.”
“This has nothing to do with God,” Geraldine cried.
The priest turned to her. “Trust in the One that created us, my darling wife—let his power protect us. His design does not favor the misguided.”
Before Geraldine could respond, a high pitched call like a cat’s wail drifted across the abbey courtyard. A line of torches had entered the lane from out of the wood.
“Jerrrreeee. Jerrrreee.”
William pushed his hands against his ears. “Mama,” he cried, “Mama.”
Geraldine pulled him close.
“Jerrrreeee. Jerrrreee,” came the howling summons in chorus. Others in the crowd were crying out, “Witch! Bring the witch to God! Fire! Bring fire!”
Robert Emery and those with him froze before the advancing host and stepped a few paces backward before fleeing across the churchyard to the trees.
There were fifty or more. A small army. Held high were several crude crosses draped with red sashes. They carried long poles, axes, sickles and billhooks. “Jerrrreeee!” William went cold all over. He felt his mother’s fingernails on the back of his neck.
Arrival
Los Angeles, June 26, 1972
The Continental Hyatt House, Sunset Strip
“My name is Helen Storm. I am all yours.”
Helen saw by Jimmy’s expression that she had conjured some effect, but not what she wanted—his face told Helen, you are not Lori. Not even close. But she waited—bathed in golden candlelight. She did not waver. She seemed to float in midair within a ring of twinkling points of fire. They stared at each other, he from the shadows, and Helen from within a candlelit star. Neither of them smiled.
“My name is Jim, Helen. I’m pleased to meet you,” he said finally. Oxygen returned to Helen’s lungs and she allowed her chest to slowly heave the relief in. “Won’t you join me for a glass of wine?” Jimmy entered the circle and offered her his arm, and she took it. His long dark curls dangled in his eyes and he laid his hand over hers as he escorted her to the open balcony. She looked up at him as they walked. She was strangely comfortable—safe.
What was it about this band? About this man?
Jimmy wore an open deep-blue satin blouse with creamsilk piping, and shining pearl snaps like wet forget-me-nots. Tiny red poppies were embroidered into the loose fitting sleeves. Flaring at the knee, his bluish-black pant-legs resembled a flowing skirt. Jimmy was beautiful. Beautiful in a way that was familiar, like a friend. Like a girlfriend.
“Please,” he offered, pulling a chair out for her to sit, “table for two.” She moved to the chair and sat down. The view was perfect. Surrounding them was the Hollywood, California skyline: block clusters of homes etched into the surrounding hills, the hazy high-rises outlined by the distant twinkle of lit windows and the orange Sunset Strip snaking west into Beverly Hills. Then, a glass of candlelit red wine being filled before her eyes—Jimmy filling his own glass and seating himself.
“Richard brought you here, yes?” Helen nodded, and stared. She reached for her wine and took a gentle pull. “So I’m sure you’re aware that I am expecting someone else.”
“Lori” Helen said. “Yes, he told me. He wanted me to keep you company until they found her.” Helen set the glass down nervously, then added with as much confidence as she could, “But it was really me that you have dreamt of.”
Jimmy squinted at her and nodded slightly. “Ah, I see. So fate has intervened? And here I am thinking that I knew what I wanted—but you apparently have other ideas. Is that it?”
His tone was kind, but it was laced with something that she was not familiar with, sardonic wit, clever rhetoric. She was suddenly aware that she was out of her depth. Jimmy Page’s interests in such things, the occult, philosophy, art, and certainly fate and self determination, were well known. And she flushed at the thought of entering into a discussion with those themes—with him. But she started it. She was the challenger. In an attempt to disguise her hesitation she reached into her purse and lifted a cigarette to her lips. Before she could pull out a lighter, Jimmy extended his long, thin arm and lit it for her.
“So I take it by your silence that you are here for a reason?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied. I have arrived. She wanted to share it all with him—to be wanted, coveted, adored by the sweet and beautiful guitarist for Led Zeppelin. She had ached for him ever since she had heard him play in 1968—a record given to her by her neighbor. Posters of the band on her walls, Jimmy Page’s eyes staring at her naked body, her fingers between her legs as the turntable churned out his grinding riffs—her father shouting and pounding on the door, “Turn that shit down, goddamn it!”
“And what reason is that, pray?” he asked swirling the wine in his glass. She couldn’t help but let a subtle smile curl to her lips. He did not mirror it—instead
he lowered his eyes down into his wine as if troubled. This was the first tremor of failure. The first time in this glorious dream that waking was near. Turn that shit down!
She leaned toward him and said, “I believe in dreams, and that I am supposed to be here, with you” a little too childishly. “I mean, I believe in fate. And for me to even be here, is crazy.” He did not respond. His gaze falling deeper into the red, glowing wine. Slow down, she thought, but her words gained momentum. “Richard saw me, just as I was calling him—like in a dream, he heard me. You know? And it was the first step toward you. The first step of my arrival, and I…” Slow down.
Helen Storm stopped. She saw that Jimmy was not looking at her anymore. Instead he seemed apathetic, bored—not the magical creature of her reverie, worshiping her. She reached for her glass and tilted it to her mouth as sensually as she could. She then drained it and set it back upon the table. Jimmy was miles away. Had she blown it? How many times had Jimmy Page encountered a giddy fan rambling on about crushes, serendipitous meetings—meant-to-be scenarios? But, of the thousands of girls at the Forum that evening, it was her sitting across from him. Didn’t that count for something? Self conscious and feeling inadequate, intellectually at least, she remained silent. She fired her wide eyes into the guitarist, filling her mind with the kind of manifestations that she believed brought her to the attention of Richard—that brought her to this seat overlooking the Sunset Strip, the Hollywood Hills, the land of dreams. Love me, she commanded him, love me.
It was time, she thought.
Helen shook her head lazily and her long black locks draped down. With one hand, she reached up to the tight fitting chiffon stringing along her shoulder and nudged it over her bare arm. Her eyes clung to Jimmy, pleading with him as if she were falling from a great height. Jimmy watched and traced the line of her cheek to her shoulder to her hand pulling—the edge of the crossed fabric tugged at the tip of her breast. She bit her lip and stood—her chair tumbled over backward. She lowered the other side of her top and peeled it down around her middle. Tucking her thumbs deep into the waistline of her skirt, she hooked downward.
Leaves of Fire: Part Two of the Newirth Mythology Page 3