Leaves of Fire: Part Two of the Newirth Mythology

by Michael B. Koep

  “I think so,” Leonaie replies. “I’ll be sore.”

  “I’m afraid that our departure time has just moved up to today. We must leave now.”

  The door behind them opens suddenly and Olivia enters. Along with her are two large male residents. All three are armed with long, steel blades. Olivia holds a cell phone out to Samuel. “I wish I’d known you were Samuel Lifeson,” she says. “I could have provided better security.”

  “I doubt that I would have been able to visit for the last few years, Olivia, had you known. But thank you,” Samuel replies.

  “It is the owner of the Greenhavens Community on the line. He said that you’ve not been answering, so he called me to get you on the phone. He’d like a word.”

  “Word? You mean words. He’s not one on short discourse,” Samuel places the phone to his ear, and with a grin at Leonaie he says, “Well now, William Greenhame, I told you to leave me be for a few hours while I play doctor with my lovely gal.” Then he begins to inspect the stump of his wrist, “I am afraid that I’m still in surgery. Can I call you back?”

  The Mandate

  April, 1338

  the village of Ascott-under-Wychwood, England

  William pushed against his father to be let down. Once on his feet he ran over to the escort. The man was now sitting up with one hand over his stomach. Blood was sloshing out onto his knees. The boy scrabbles at the grass and grips two handfuls. He looks into the escort’s face and then down to the wound. His mother would have done something like this, he thinks, and he cautiously presses the handfuls of grass against the escort’s stomach.

  The escort lets out a slight laugh and a sigh, “Why William, you’ve got your mother’s care, I see.”

  Radulphus knelt down beside his son.

  “Foolish fear mongers,” the escort said. “The fearful and ignorant are the worst of all humanity. They breed pain. And how the gods adore them.”

  Father Grenehamer crossed himself as he stared at the blood.

  “Priest, my apologies for the violence. It was unavoidable. Had these two lived, they would have brought the mob upon us and prevented our escape.”

  “Escape?” Radulphus asked.

  “Yes,” the escort said, “you two will come with me. There is much to discuss. We haven’t much time. A contingent is coming to take you to the Tower.”

  “But,” the priest said, “you’re hurt. What can we do to ease you?”

  William raised his head and looked at both men. The escort smiled. “Oh this? It’s nothing.”

  “My lord,” Radulphus said, “I’ve seen hurts before—and this is—” He broke off.

  “Nay,” he said. “For I think the kindness of your son has healed me.” He removed his hand from the wound. It had stopped bleeding. He lifted his tunic and showed them where the guard’s sword had penetrated. “You see?” He wiped at the wound, but there was nothing there save a trace of white foam.

  The boy and priest stared in wonder. “Who are you?” Radulphus asked.

  The man smiled. “It is a pleasure to share with you my name—my real name—for there are few that will ever know it.” William heard a change in the man’s voice. It suddenly had a thick accent from some far away country. “Our kind must have many names as the centuries pass. Many faces. Many disguises.” he touched William’s cheek with his fingertips. “But our childhood name—it never fades. It is always there. It helps us to remember who we are—to remember a time when we were not cursed.” He held his hand out to the little boy. “How I wish I had known you were of the Itonalya, before… Hello William son of Geraldine, son of Radulphus. My name is Albion Ravistelle.”

  William watched the firelight. It warmed his face as he stared into its deep caverns of orange coal. His father and Albion sat with him. An iron pot hung from a chain over the flames. It simmered. Nearby was a small pavilion with striped panels of deep green and yellow. Albion’s horse drank from the stream a few paces from the encampment.

  William’s tears surged and disappeared in throes. He felt sleep was close. He missed his mother’s voice and her touch.

  Radulphus put his arm around the boy.

  “What’s to become of us?”

  Albion looked at the two and sighed. Their bowls were still full of the stew he had prepared, and neither had lifted a spoon to taste. “Eat. Gather your strength.”

  “You saw Geraldine? She—she’s no longer?”

  Albion shook his head. “Father, she is gone. William, your mother has departed.”

  William did not stir. The fire was a comfort. Something about the heat. The way it devoured the wood with such beauty and light.

  “You’re sure?” Radulphus asked.

  “I am, Father. I am. If there is one thing about the fearful when they are incensed—they are thorough. She is gone. I was too late. But even had I arrived in time, at my best, I could not have overcome the mob.” Albion leaned closer to the fire, “And even still, saving her would have been against my mandate, for I was sent not to save your wife, but to eliminate her.”

  Radulphus glared at him, “To eliminate my wife?”

  Albion nodded, “Yes—two assassinations on this journey. One with pleasure. The other, your wife, with much discord.”

  “I do not understand. You were sent? Sent by whom?”

  “I pray thee, rest easy, Father,” Albion comforted. “All will be known in time. But what of your remarkable son? Are you not astounded at his swift restoration? What a gift. What joy to have him here at your side, alive.”

  “In truth, my lord, I know not how to feel or to conceive,” Radulphus looked down at his son. “I have never seen a miracle such as this. It must be the hand of God. Praise him.”

  “And that it is,” Albion agreed, “the hand of God. Or so I am instructed to say.”

  “What is your meaning?”

  “When the mob had done my job for me, my visit to the church was merely to offer you a fate outside of the Tower. I also have a keen interest in the woman’s herb lore—but we will get to that. But, it was when I saw this boy stirring, peeking, beside his grave—still living—I realized that here was one of my kind. He is of the Itonalya. Within his veins is the blood of immortals.”

  William pushes his gaze deeper into the fire. Faces appear in the coals. He imagines his mother staring back at him. She is smiling.

  “It was easy to see by your care and watch over the boy that Geraldine was more to you than a mere lamb of your flock. You are the boy’s father, and the woman’s husband. A simple riddle to solve, though, unexpected. I commend you. Love and desire should not be held prisoner to ideology.” Albion gestures to the stew. “Eat. It will strengthen you.”

  “But why do you speak of saving her when you were sent here to eliminate her?”

  He paused and thought before answering. “I was sent here to eliminate two. Your wife was one. Yes. In spite of her healings, her peace—her light, she brought joy—hope. These kinds of spirits we will let flourish, though in the end, it is against our ways and our laws. Eventually, she would have been eliminated. Either by me or another of my Order. No spirits cross into the Alya—good or bad. Other spirits, however, are not like Geraldine. I take great joy undertaking their vanquishment.”

  “Of whom do you speak?”

  Albion looked at the small boy. William was still mesmerized by the crackling fire. A sparkle of light glittered in his eyes. “The Bishop of London. Stephen Gravesend. He is not a man—he is a spirit of malice. A spirit that brings sorrow, fear and terror in the guise of God. My favorite kind of prey.”

  “Still, I do not follow,” Radulphus said.

  “Father, spirits from beyond this life, godlike powers, cross into our world. They grow within this weak flesh and exist as a man, as a woman—as a murderous bishop, as a healing witch. These spirits ache for what they themselves cannot possess: our delicate, limited, human condition. The passion of our existence—our pain and joy they themselves can only feel when they are amon
g us, living through us—as one of us. Their desire is a story long written in legend and lore. Their crossing is an occurrence as ancient as the belief in the gods themselves.

  “But such crossings are forbidden—forbidden by a power beyond all powers.”

  “The Almighty God?” Radulphus said.

  Albion nods, “If you wish to call It that. Though, `tis nothing near to the reality—but if it helps you to understand, then, yes. So much more, beyond faculty, beyond hope of sight. And yet, It sees all.” Albion bows his head. “It forbid all deity intervention with mankind. Time and again, a spirit will break through. And we are here to hunt them down and send them back.

  “I am of an ancient order that has been given the task of eliminating those that cross. The Orathom Wis, the Guardians of the Dream. I am Albion Ravistelle of the Orathom Wis. I am immortal. We hold the doors. Spirits of light, those like your wife, though against our mandate, we will afford them a lifetime, perhaps—but Gravesend—he that tried to kill your son—I will take great joy sending him back from whence he came.”

  “Father?” William said suddenly. Both men turned to him. The boy’s focus was deep within the fire’s core. “Is it wrong to kill men?”

  Radulphus placed his hand upon his boy’s back. “Yes.”

  William said, “But if the Bishop is not a man, is it wrong to kill him?”

  The priest looked at Albion. Albion answered, “This is true, William. He is not of this earth.”

  “Then it is not wrong, Papa?”

  Radulphus stared at his little boy.

  “He killed Mama,” William said, “but he could not kill me.”

  “No, my boy, he could not,” Albion agreed.

  “I will kill him,” the boy said. His eyes rose from the fire. A reflection of flame danced upon the tears rising there. William’s quavering voice said again. “I will kill him.”

  Albion studied the child—not yet seven springs. Innocence was gone from his visage. Lurking there now was charged anger and longing.

  Albion said quietly, “So be it.” He then rose and motioned toward the tent, “But first, eat. And then, to sleep.”

  Higher Learning

  Los Angeles, July 1, 1972

  Helen Storm’s apartment near Hollywood.

  Helen Storm felt self conscious as they studied her. Her Led Zeppelin t-shirt hugged tightly to her torso. She was pale and thin—delicate in every way. Her expression, glued to Jimmy Page’s face, was a mix between shock and delight.

  “Helen,” Jimmy said gently, “this is my friend, Albion Ravistelle.”

  The man sitting beside Jimmy wore a tweed suit and tie. A brown fedora rested upon his knee. Helen took little notice of him. She still could not believe that Jimmy Page was sitting in her tiny apartment in Hollywood. She pulled her longing gaze away from the guitarist to acknowledge the introduction. She nodded at Albion then swung her attention back to Jimmy.

  “At first I didn’t believe that it was really you on the telephone,” Helen said. “I told my roommate, Tracy, and she didn’t believe me.” Helen gestured to the girl behind her. Tracy, stood beside the sink with one hand gripping the counter and the other behind her back. Her eyes, like Helen’s, were whirlpools of wonder. Tracy didn’t seem to notice Albion either. Jimmy sighed and looked at Albion.

  “My dear,” Albion said to Helen, “Mr. Page tells me that you had quite a fall.”

  “I don’t remember much about that,” Helen replied. “I was pretty high. I think I just blacked out.”

  “Well something weird happened,” Tracy said suddenly, “‘cause when she got home that night she had blood all over.”

  “Yes, that was weird,” Helen agreed. “I must have—I must have cut myself or something.”

  “But you didn’t have a cut,” Tracy said to her.

  Helen turned and glared at Tracy. Tracy pressed her lips tightly together and obeyed some silent command. Albion watched the two with interest and reached to his water glass. The glass was cloudy and smudged. He took a sip anyway.

  “That is why we’ve come, Helen. We want to talk with you about what happened that night. My friend Albion here, well, he and I have spent a lot of time thinking about such strange and out of the ordinary things. He tells me that he has some experience with what you may be going through.” Albion listened and observed the young girl. Helen watched Jimmy’s lips.

  “I’m not going through anything,” Helen said quietly.

  “My dear,” Albion began again, “I believe you to be a very special young lady. If what Mr. Page tells me is true, you have a wonderful, dare I say, magical gift. Something that will serve you for the rest of your life. And it is a very lucky chance that my acquaintance with Mr. Page has brought our paths together.” Albion leaned toward her and with a kind, sonorous tone asked, “Tell me, Helen, what do you really think happened when you fell fourteen stories? What do you think is going on within your body?”

  Helen was now intrigued by this strange man. His accent was European, but she didn’t know what country. His face was creased with fatherly care. His eyes were gentle. And as she stared at him she felt as if he knew more about her than she could offer up. There was a magnetic pull, as if her innermost thoughts were drawn out by his comforting, empathetic glance.

  Since the fall from that high balcony, Helen began the difficult tracing of her past. Something she hated—and at one time vowed that she would never look back. She tried to block out the numbing winters in Salt Lake City, her stepfather’s booze-blurred face, the steel clasp of his belt whistling through the air, the locked bedroom doors, voices screaming at each other in the adjacent room. Fear. The first time he beat her, she was ten. She could still feel the searing burn of the leather. Echoes of his slurring voice yelling things like, shut up, worthless, stupid. Her mother apologized for him, pleading for her to understand his position. “He’s had a hard time and work is hard to come by,” she would say, we need to support him. But her mother was never there, and she never witnessed the abuse. Helen was forced to keep silent, keep the secret—threatened that if she told he would hurt her mother. So Helen quit speaking altogether. The beatings continued.

  She remembered the terrible bruises, purple and black welts swollen and hard to the touch. Her stepfather seemed pleased when he saw her pale skin blemish into lesions. She would watch his face, his eyes reddened with fury and wonder, his cheeks jiggling at each blow, his expressionless mouth open, breathing in her cries, wheezing out grunts of exertion—sharp boozy fumes. He would leave her on the floor of her bedroom when he finished. The door would slam shut and Helen would tremblingly trace her fingertips over the burning lumps. She would watch them swell up and tighten. Their surfaces would fill with a blackish stain and quickly fade to pink like a sunrise beneath a storm. Minutes later, the pain would fade, the pink blot would wash out and her wounds would vanish.

  Even if Helen were to appeal to her mother for help, she had no physical evidence. And her stepfather, either too enveloped in his drunken fog to notice or freakishly delighted that his handiwork disappeared so quickly, he would never remark about the anomaly. Helen was trapped.

  The final beating from her stepfather was last December, The pounding rhythms of Led Zeppelin blaring out of her stereo speakers drew him to her bedroom. As each savage blow landed, she could hear Jimmy Page’s guitar weeping and calling for her. Robert Plant’s voice seemed to herald her next move. Cryin' won't help you, prayin' won't do you no good. When the levee breaks, mama, you got to move. When the door slammed behind him, she rolled over and stood. She paid little heed to the injuries that were already healing. She stared at her grey eyes in the mirror, checking her courage, then she pulled a suitcase out of the closet, opened the window, thrust one leg out and rested it upon the fire escape. She paused and looked back into the room. The needle on the record crackled against the center label. She climbed back in, raised the needle and gently rested it back down on the third track. She turned the volume all the way to the
right and snapped the knob off the silver stereo face. The tender drone of Jimmy Page’s acoustic guitar vibrated through the walls and her spirit. She left the window open. Before she stepped onto the bus, two blocks away, she could hear Robert singing from her window. Made up my mind, gonna make a new start. / Goin’ to California with an aching in my heart.

  And Helen would not fully consider her body’s swift ability to heal as unusual until a day or so after she met Jimmy Page. Along with the rest of her past, she had blocked out this special gift. And Albion’s question—what do you think is going on within your body? Helen could only shrug. But she now knew that she was different. And she wished her heart and soul could mend in the same way.

  Albion said, “I have spent my life studying ways in which I might ease severe injury, cure disease, stop the body from aging. Long ago, I planted a seed with my fellow scientists to solve the riddle of mortality. Every year we are getting closer to an answer. But you—you are one of us. You are one of us. Tell me, have you ever been on an airplane?” Helen shook her head. “What would you think about joining Mr. Page and myself, to Italy? To Venezia? To Venice? I’d like to offer you a job, Helen. And an education.”

  Custody

  November 4, this year

  Verona, Italy

  “Aren’t you going to say, hello?” Helen says to her husband.

  “Hello, Helen,” Loche says. His grip on the phone tightens.

  At Helen’s naming, William ends his call to Samuel in the United States. His expression is filled with concern.

  “Oh how I’ve missed you, dear.”

  Loche clenches his jaw.

  “Shouldn’t we talk?” she asks. Her tone is sugared.

  Loche shivers. Another jolt of bewilderment as he weighs his writing’s verisimilitude. In the journal, he left his wife in Italy. She had betrayed him. She was never really his wife—she was a weapon that Albion Ravistelle was using to spy. To manipulate Loche’s gift—to be his muse. Helen had also been with Basil Fenn for a short time—for the same purpose. To inspire, to exasperate, to delight—to draw out the best and the worst of the artist—to be the catalyst behind it all.