Leaves of Fire: Part Two of the Newirth Mythology

by Michael B. Koep

  “A good wife should always know who her husband is fucking.”

  A tinge of pain visits Julia’s mid section, the memory of the bullet wound—then the recall of that long snowy drive from the lake to Beth Winship’s funeral, and the reading of Loche’s Journal. Loche’s wife had inscribed the inside cover. She had betrayed him. She, too, is an immortal. “Helen?”

  “Clever girl,” Helen remarks.

  Julia now allows her eyes to quickly sweep the darkness surrounding them. The gloom has deepened. She takes another step backward.

  “I’d like to teach you a couple of things,” Helen says opening her coat and pulling from it a thin, lightweight blade, “about what it means to join the family.” The steel glints like a spark.

  The Ladder

  November 3, this year, Coeur d’Alene, Idaho

  Greenhavens Retirement Community

  Samuel Lifeson shakes his head and sits down beside Leonaie. She puts her arm around him. “Samuel,” she says, “you should be moving on, you know. My time is running out. Remember? We said a day would come when it would be time for both of us to move on? I’m nearly done here—and you should be heading out to another lifetime.”

  “You’ve been saying that for years,” Samuel replies.

  She lowers her head and rests it upon his shoulder.

  There is the buzz of a vibrating phone. It is muffled and apparently buried in his doctor bag. Samuel does not move to answer it.

  “How’s the memory?” Samuel asks.

  Leonaie sighs, “I don’t recall.”

  “Really, Leonaie,” Samuel presses, “still forgetting short term things?”

  The old woman nods and moves to stand up. Samuel reaches for her wrists in support. “Yes, I’m forgetting things sometimes, but that’s natural at my age isn’t it? I mean, it’s not bad or anything.” Leonaie looks at him with a flash of anger in her eyes. “There are some things that I wish I could forget.”

  Samuel nods.

  “But no matter how I try, you always come back to me. The poems you’ve written…” She pointed to the large Shakespeare book at her bedside.

  “I’ve written another for you,” Samuel says. “It is about our first trip to Europe in 1964.” Leonaie closes her eyes and breathes deep—a sigh of euphoric memory.

  “Oh dear,” she grins, “tell me that it is about France—our hotel near the Louvre—three days and we didn’t leave our room—”

  “Room service, the views, the wine, and us,” he joins. “And the damned Louvre right there—”

  “The Louvre,” she says sarcastically, “waste of time—you had me to look at. Louvre had nothing on me—at the time, at least.”

  “It still has nothing on you,” Samuel says.

  “Maybe.”

  Samuel places his hands on her shoulders and turns her toward him. “Do you remember where we are going next week?”

  “I seem to recall something. What was it? Are we off to France again?”

  Samuel waits.

  “Let me see,” Leonaie says. “I remember.”

  “Well?” Samuel presses. “What are we doing next week?”

  “Are you testing my memory?” Leonaie tries to hide the fear tugging at her expression—“We’re going to Italy for my treatments,” she says.

  “I will be with you. I will not leave your side. They’ve done it, my love. They’ve found the missing strand. The ladder can now reach. You will become the moon.” The old woman falls into Samuel’s embrace and hides her tears. “Do you still want this, Leonaie?”

  “Of course I do,” she answers. “But how can they be sure it will work. It has gone wrong so many times now.”

  Samuel holds her closer, “They have it this time. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. They are calling it the Melgia, the Moonchild Gene. It has been cultivated from the soil of the earth—from the very Tree of Life. You will be one of the first.”

  “They named it that?” She asks, “Leonaie would have been a better name.”

  Samuel laughs. “Moonchild has a better ring, don’t you think? Though this fountain of youth has been sought after since the dawn of time, if it wasn’t for you, I would have never pursued it to this end—or beginning, if you will.”

  The doctor’s bag vibrates again. Samuel sighs. Again, he lets the phone go to voicemail.

  Leonaie then breathes out, “I’m afraid.”

  “I would not lead you down a road that was not safe, nor would I bring you into a life that you do not want. You have the chance to become like me, immortal. Your age will reverse, youth will come upon you and we can return to our lives as man and wife again. Death will not part us.”

  Leonaie steps out of his embrace. “You have said many times that death would be a blessing. You have said over and over that the pain of life is never ending, and if only sleep could come, you would be at peace. Do you wish these things on me?”

  “There is a price, Leonaie. The price we’ve spoken of many times. I do not wish upon you the realities that come with this choice, but I also do not wish for you to fade into illness and death. I told you when we met that I am selfish, and I want you to stay with me. And I believe, Leonaie, that you can handle the ills of the eternal path. You of all people might save me from madness. For when you are gone, madness will be all that is left to me.” He pauses, searching her face, “Have you changed your mind?”

  “No,” she says without hesitation. “I am scared. That’s all. Everything is fading—my body, my mind—and it feels natural. To think that I can cheat death seems, well, unnatural. It seems wrong, somehow.”

  Samuel smiles at her and touches her cheek again. “Don’t see it as being wrong, my love. See it without fear. We’ve climbed from the sea to the sky. We’ve reached for the stars, and now, right now, we’ve managed to touch one.”

  “And you will place me among them?” Leonaie asks.

  Samuel pulls her close to him. She fits perfectly within his embrace.

  He whispers, “The ladder will reach.”

  Closing her eyes she sees him at the base of that ladder, all those years ago. His face pointed up to hers. A light is there. It grows brighter as he begins to climb. Apples dangle heavy around her. She is nervous. She thinks of pies. Apple pies. Delicious and sweet. Her grandmother’s recipe—passed down to her, so long ago. So long ago. As he rises to her she wonders briefly if the ladder can hold them both. The thought vanishes as she leans her face into his. Their lips meet.

  The branch above cracks.

  Two muted pops then the sound of glass crackling.

  Leonaie’s eyes flash open, the weight of the ladder slumps upon her. But, that didn’t happen, when we held each other there, high up in that tree.

  Her memory vaults her back—back into his embrace—in her room at Greenhaven’s Community. But something is wrong. His body is weakening. Then a spray of glass shards—a burst of dust in the air.

  “Samuel?” she cries. “Samuel!”

  She tastes blood.

  She feels his arms loosen and drop away to his sides. Leonaie struggles to balance him as he sways like an axed tree. Looking up, Samuel’s face is blank, eyes wide and distant.

  As Samuel’s body begins its heavy decent to the floor, Leonaie is trapped between. She does not have the time to understand what has just happened. He falls as if dead, crushing Leonaie Eschell beneath.

  Returning Color

  April, 1338,

  the village of Ascott-under-Wychwood, England

  “How is it, my dear son, that your skin is still warm? That here, crimson still stains your cheeks? My dear, William. My sweet boy, William. Oh Heavenly Father, mercy upon me!”

  The voice was familiar. He knew that it was his father calling to him. He had never heard that voice cry. There was a sprinkle of water on his cheeks. Gentle drops tapped upon his forehead and upon his closed eyes. Then, William could see.

  His head was lying upon his father’s lap. He felt crying breath warming his skin. Radulphu
s’ face was crimped in sobbing throes of despair, bowing nose to nose with the boy. Shifting his focus around, William could see the ceiling of the abbey and the dimming colors of the stained glass windows. There was a wet cloth bound tight around his throat. It was uncomfortable and he lifted his arm to discern why it was there. When his fingers touched it, his father’s breathing stopped. Their eyes met.

  “Papa?” William whispered. His throat was raw and sore, but better than it was a short while ago. “Papa, why are you crying?”

  Radulphus froze. William could see the color of his father’s eyes quite clearly, for they were opened so wide that they were surrounded by white. The irises were like full moons, and blue as the river on a bright winter’s day.

  “Papa?”

  His father did not speak. Instead, his eyes, face and hands began to examine William’s little body with ferocious speed. His breathing was a combination of sobbing and laughter. When the bandage was torn away from his throat, Radulphus gasped in a hushed whisper, “Oh sweet God. My sweet boy. My sweet, dear boy.” His eyes flooded. Tears again dropped heavily upon William’s cheeks. “There is no cut—there is no wound—oh my sweet William, you are alive. You are—you are—”

  William stared at him. He recalled the bitter flavor, the gushing of air, the sting. And now, he was here. And he was fine.

  Then, from some deep place within, William heard his own voice whisper, “Mama?”

  Radulphus’ arms coiled around the boy, hugged the child to his chest and wailed. “Shhh,” he said through his weeping, “Shhh.”

  “He’s dead, priest!” A voice of jagged stone. The coarse yell came from the other side of the abbey near the entrance. Two of the armed rioters sat drinking wine. “Best you bury the little rat!” he said over his shoulder. He wore a hood.

  “Aye,” the other said turning. William could see his sallow complexion and squat face. “You’ll have a little time before the Bishop comes—then you’re to the Tower.” He turned back toward the fading light from the open door. He tipped his cup into his mouth, swallowed and added, “Cryin’ won’t help you, and prayin’ won’t do you no good, Priest.”

  “And after that, you’re to the pits of Hell for trying to save a witch.”

  “Aye,” the thickset one agreed, “God’s will be done.”

  “God’s will.”

  “Mama,” William whispered.

  “God’s will, indeed, brothers,” another voice entered the conversation. William strained to see but could only make out a looming silhouette of a man framed in the doorway.

  The two guards stood, “And who may you be?” the hooded one asked.

  “By order of Bishop Gravesend, I have come to escort the priest to the Tower,” the man replied. His tone was carved in royalty and command.

  “Do you bear the seal from his Excellency? We were ordered to release the priest only with such token.”

  “Knave!” the man shouted. “Look you upon these vestments. Tell me what you see?” The shadowed figure unsheathed his sword and held it point up before them. “The gold upon this hilt? Does it not shine like the summer sun? And do you not see that I carry the ensign of King Edward the Third engraved upon the pommel? Bring the priest to me. Now!”

  The two guards did not hesitate. They placed their mugs upon the floor and marched down the aisle toward the priest. William squeezed his eyes shut.

  “Come, Priest. Your escort commands.”

  As they drew near, Father Grenehamer struggled to replace the red stained bandage. He whispered to his son, “They think you dead, William. Pretend to sleep, boy. Pretend to sleep.”

  William’s body went limp. The priest stood, cradling his son, his face still stained with tears and blood.

  “You can’t take the boy with you!” The stocky guard huffed, “Drop him or I’ll drop you.”

  “I will bury him,” Radulphus said. “He must be given his rite to Heaven.”

  “No time for that now. Drop him.”

  “My Lord,” the priest called to the King’s escort. “Surely, you will see this boy laid to rest under the eyes of God?”

  “Drop him or I’ll pay you with this,” the hooded guard raised a billhook and wriggled it before Radulphus’ eyes. William felt his hands cluster into fists.

  “Nay!” the escort shouted. “Let the boy have a proper burial. Come, you two can dig the grave. Priest, bring him. This shall be the last mercy you receive—remember it well.”

  Buzzing Lights

  Los Angeles, June 26, 1972

  The Continental Hyatt House, Sunset Strip

  “Can you fucking explain what happened? Because I surely can’t make any sense of it! Christ! I’m not losing me fucking mind am I? You saw her. We both saw her. She fell fourteen fucking stories, Jim! Fourteen fucking stories—hit the pavement—sounded like a fucking sack of watermelons. It should have—it should have ended her!” A line of saliva hung from Richard’s lower lip. “By the time I got down there to figure out what to do next, she’s sitting on a bench staring into space. What the fuck, Jimmy?”

  Helen saw Jimmy Page’s eyes slide from Richard to the two huge Zeppelin body guards that stood beside him and then back through the square window in the swinging door to Helen. Helen was seated on a plastic chair in the hotel’s main floor kitchen. Florescent lights sterilized the room: bright, stark and unforgiving. The band’s on-the-road physician was examining her for injuries. He seemed to move in slow motion.

  The guitarist turned his attention back to Richard. The man’s face was pale with shock and disbelief.

  “And you shouldn’t be down here,” she heard Richard saying as he took both of Jimmy’s wrists and pulled him toward the elevator. “She’ll be in a cab to who-knows-where in a few minutes. This is the last place you should be.” Jim resisted. Richard let him go. “Jim, please.”

  “No one saw anything, right?” Jim asked. “Like you said, you got her out of there without being noticed?”

  “I think so,” Richard nodded, “but we shouldn’t take any chances of getting you involved in—in—whatever the fuck this is.” He shook his head. “So let’s go. And besides, you’ve got a date. Remember? Lori is waiting.” He motioned to the body guards to escort Jim back upstairs.

  Jim held up his hands. “Both of you, back off. Richard, stop it. I won’t stay long, but I want to learn more about this.”

  “Oh Christ,” Richard sighed, “this isn’t some of your magical mystery research, is it? Hey, buying haunted mansions and witchy books are all fine, but a badly bleeding fourteen-yearold in the back kitchen of a Los Angeles hotel with two brutes and the Satanic guitar player from Zep—this is another thing entirely. Let’s go.”

  Richard again moved to take hold of Jim, but this time he stopped. Jimmy’s eyes were intent, angry and communicated a clear and concise message. All Richard could do was sigh, let his head sink and his hands drop to his sides. “This is bad. This is really fucking bad.”

  “It would be worse if she were dead,” Jimmy said.

  “You saw it. Right?” Richard looked up quickly as his mind replayed the event. “The chick fell from the top of the building and got up, walked to a bench and sat down to think it over. What the fuck? Things are getting weirder and weirder out here on the road.” Richard covered his eyes with his hands and sighed. He then repeated, “What the fuck?”

  Again Jimmy’s eyes strayed to the young girl through the window. Her face was smeared with blood, black clouds of mascara streaked down her cheeks, and her eyes were as wide as the moment he met her—still hopeful, still glittered, but there was something else lurking there. A question was screaming out, though she struggled to secure it behind a mask.

  Run

  November 3, this year

  Verona, Italy

  “Don’t,” says Helen Newirth.

  Before she can recognize the decision, Julia pivots and runs—escape route number two—the lane ahead that breaks into three different alleyways. Attaining the fork, she t
akes the left path leading up to Verona’s Roman Theater. Turning a sharp corner she sees two men in long coats blocking the way. They carry unsheathed blades. Her mind flashes two alternate routes. She whirls to the right and down through a narrow fissure between two buildings. As she does this she hazards a quick look behind her. Helen is there, dangerously close. She hears her boots rapping on the stones.

  A gleam of wet pavement is the only light ahead. She topples two trash cans as she passes, crashing them into Helen’s path. The cadence of Helen’s boots does not lose rhythm, save a momentary pause, as if she had hurdled over the obstacles with ease.

  Julia reaches the opening and tacks to the right, heading uphill again. From an adjoining street, a black vehicle screeches out into the lane. The headlights blind her. Without thinking, she jumps into the air just as the car clips her at the thigh. A crushing wave of pain jolts through her body. There is the sound of crackling glass. Julia rolls limp from the smashed windshield to the wet pavement. The car slides to a stop beside her. Two men get out. They wear long, dark coats.

  She can still hear Helen’s boots clicking. Still running toward her. Then another thick stab of pain, this time to the side of her head. Helen’s right boot, midair, kicking at her face. Julia raises her arms to block, but all is blurring.

  “I said, don’t,” Helen says. Her tone is calm, punitive, “I said, don’t.” Helen then places her knees down upon Julia’s biceps and begins a series of harsh punches to the face. Helen speaks to her between each blow. “I want—” strike, “you to understand,” strike, “that pain,” strike, “can be,” strike, “neverending.”

  Julia Iris passes out.

  Sons and Fathers

  November 3, this year

  Verona, Italy

  “She’s been gone too long,” Loche says.

  William Greenhame nods. “This is true. Have you tried to call again?”

  “Four times now. She isn’t answering.”