Leaves of Fire: Part Two of the Newirth Mythology

by Michael B. Koep

  Nye thi so zjoy goshem

  Thi nugosht bensis ensis

  Mel hamtik, del hamtik, enthu

  Sisg ag

  Orathom ethe

  Lithion talgeth

  Thi fafe wis

  Thi fafe wis

  A Wyn Avuqua

  Endale che

  Thi col orathom

  Tiris liflarin thi avusht

  Lithion nuk te lirych

  Orathom thi geth

  Fethe thi geth

  Ithic veli agtig

  Ithic veli agtig

  William rose. He picked up the leather pouch crowned with leaves and stepped through the tent door. The air outside was cold. A bitter fog clung to the trees.

  “Good morning, William,” Albion said. “I hope your rest was deep and pleasant. I am sorry if my song woke you.”

  William stared at the man.

  “Here,” Albion said, handing him a small wooden bowl of dried fruit and salted meat. William wasted no time. “Slowly, boy. You may be immortal, but you can still choke—and that is terribly uncomfortable—no matter what.”

  Albion watched him while the last morsel went down.

  “That’s better,” he said. “Now then, don’t you want to know where we’re off to today?”

  William nodded.

  “We’re to London, my lad.”

  “London?” William asked. “I’ve never been to London.”

  “Never to London?” Albion laughed, “What a wonder it will be for you. Your first city visit. And I will escort you. It shan’t be the last—for you will visit the greatest cities of the world in your long, long lifetime, my dear William. You will one day see my city--the heart of the earth, Rome. You will see its greatness, its towers, its riches, its art. But so too will you see a cities filth, and its destruction of the green earth. Alas, man’s art cannot be made without some pain left behind. Take a deep breath of these sweet woods. You’ll long for them once we enter the city.”

  William still stared.

  “How I wish we could both see the city of our ancestors, Wyn Avuqua, the pearl of Earth.” Albion paused. “Ah, I am sorry. Perhaps you are not ready for my philosophies and fears. You are young, my lad. Yet, not too young to begin—for if we are to eliminate the darkness that is Bishop Gravesend, you will need to be sure—you will need to believe in your heart that it must be done.”

  Albion grinned. He eyed the boy toe to top. “But before we get to all of that, a bath would do you well, a clipping to that tuft of hair and some decent clothes—if you’re to be my ward. We’ll then arrive at the matter of vengeance. Something that will require great deal of wit rather than brute strength. The deed which you will need to perform is something beyond your size, I’m afraid. ‘Tis nothing to do with your muscles, your arms, or even your sword. It is all in here, my boy.” Albion laid his index finger to his temple. “Your mind must be made up that this life consists of two things, the spirits that belong here, and the spirits that do not. Gravesend’s spirit cannot be harmed, but his body can be eliminated. This may look like killing, but it is in fact, far from it. It is simply the closing of a door.”

  “My mama is dreaming.”

  Albion’s face shadows. “Yes,” he said, turning toward the cart. His hand pulled at a strap. “Yes, she dreams. Or so it is said…”

  “My mama said—”

  “Aye,” Albion said, his tone became stern. “And she was right. She was right. And this evil Bishop—we will send him to the Orathom—to the dream.” Albion then spat, “Even the evil are allowed the dream.”

  “But will he find Mama again?”

  Albion laughed, “I think not. The gods do battle here, William. In our hearts and minds. On our very doorsteps—our green battlefields—our swollen market places. No, little one, whatever ancient grudge Gravesend has endured through the eons of stardust, only his kind will know of it. We, here, often pay the price. Perhaps your mother gave birth to you to win the final match. All happens for a reason, they say. It has all been written before.”

  “And when I dream, will I get to be with Mama?”

  Albion lifted his gaze from the cart to the fog in the trees. He leaned on his elbows and sighed. “Well, there is the tragedy, William. The Orathom is not open to our kind. Our gift is long life. Immortality. And no other gift. We are now. And beyond, we are nothing.”

  “No Mama?” William began to cry.

  “No, William. I am sorry.”

  “William,” Radulphus said, stepping out of the tent. The boy turned to his father. “Hold your tears, son. Do not believe everything this man says. If there are countless stars, there must be countless powers—and countless possibilities. What is a man to do caught amid Heaven, Earth and the fires that rage below?”

  “A good question, Priest,” Albion said turning around. His accent shifted. William now understood that Albion’s home was in Italy. “What is a man to do? Accept reality. Believing in what we want is quite different than what is. The sooner the boy discovers this, the better.”

  “You do not know the truth,” the Priest said.

  “Nor do you,” Albion replied. “Yet, let us quell this argument with this fact—I am over four hundred years old, and I’ve a rather profound and unusual perspective upon the misgivings and tragedies that belief brings.”

  “As do I, and I still say that—”

  Albion raised his hand. “Stop. This bickering is pointless.” He sighed. He sounded like a normal Englishman again. “Though it tears my heart that we Itonalya are barred from the Dream, I accept my charge—my duty I embrace. And you will learn to do the same, young William.” Albion smiles at the Priest, “It appears that your tutelage will be of two minds, for I don’t believe your father will allow me to teach you the finer points of actual truth.”

  “On the contrary,” Radulphus said, “truth is my aim.”

  “Mama,” William cried, suddenly. He was staring at the smoldering coals in the circle of stones.

  Albion looked at the priest and then back to William. “They burned her. She is dead. Now, we must move on.”

  “Have you no pity?” Radulpus said. He knelt down to his son. “William…”

  “Pity?” Albion asked. “It is the truth—and it is time for him to harden his heart for the task ahead. There is no greater teacher than tragedy.”

  “His mother believed love was the ruler of our experience.”

  Albion turned back toward the cart and adjusted the ropes, “Tell that to the hundreds of families that cry out for their daughters, wives and mothers this morning. Love will not end Gravesend’s need for suffering. He desires to feel the human experience and he is now drinking deep upon the anguish, torment and grief of others. He is drunk on the blood in his cup. We must end him. I would have ended Geraldine had she shared his cravings—but she did not. Her elimination would have been inevitable by our hand, eventually—but Gravesend did my work for me. So, let us take that pain and use it.

  “Gather up your things—London is three days away, if we don’t run into difficulties. And Gravesend is a day or more ahead of us. But who knows? We just might catch him on the road.”

  “And if we catch him?” Radulphus said. “Then what?”

  “You and your son may exact your revenge.”

  Radulphus pulled his son away and stood. “We cannot repay evil with evil.”

  Albion laughed. “Really? Evil? You cross bearing folk. Goodness me. The only evil you will do in this case, Priest, is allow Gravesend to continue his destructive path through your idleness. Oh, and rob your child the satisfaction of seeing justice done. I’m uncertain as to which sin of yours is worse—offering your other cheek to a murderer, or letting your son watch you do it?” Albion’s tone softened and he turned to them. “As I’ve told you, Gravesend is not a man. He is something altogether different. I know it is hard for you to conceive. Understand that God’s work is a mysterious list of tasks.

  “These things you do, Priest, love, guide, give, tea
ch—all noble pursuits, and most needed in these times. Indeed, they might very well be accounted as God’s work. Certainly, fighting evil with evil is insane—fighting fire with fire. Take some comfort that there is some truth in your scriptures. Recall this one—Vengeance is mine, I will repay, says the Lord?” He turned back to the tent and lowered it to the ground. “I do God’s work, too. I am Its vengeance.”

  They spoke no more.

  Radulphus joined Albion in disassembling the tent. William watched the two for a short time until the purling of the stream caught his ear. He walked to its edge and sat upon the tiny smooth stones. The small inlet was laced with lush leaves and thick, bright green vines. He thought of his mother and her peculiar Craft—her magic—her leafy hands, vine-like fingers, her hair wreathed with stem and berry. The rush of the water over the rocks reminded him of her voice. When she’d chant he always thought he heard a rustle of wind, or the whisper of a stream. He set the leather pouch of leaves on the stones and leaned his ear to the water. Was she speaking to him? Was her voice mingled with the stream’s swishing murmur? He closed his eyes and imagined her smiling face. He imagined her lips whispering into his ear. He could not catch the words.

  Basil Fenn’s Collection of Answers

  November 5, this year

  Mel Tiris, France

  A circular stone room—Loche feels comfortable. He smells the old dust and the stain-trodden planks beneath him. He closes his eyes and imagines his home, that he is hidden in his own fashioned castle tower surrounded by his locked cabinets. He drifts through his old life, wishing that none of this had happened. But he is not home, and turning in a wide gyre, he sees that the size of the room is three or four times larger than his study. There are no cases of books, no desk or portraits of his family. Instead, the room is filled with hundreds of covered paintings leaning against the brick walls. Many are secured within wood crates. Some ten easels are positioned in a circle. Upon each is a rectangular shape draped with a thick black shroud. In the center is a padded leather swivel chair.

  “Good, no?” George Eversman says.

  Loche considers his words.

  “No good.”

  George slaps Loche on the back. “Don’t worry, you. You can do dis. I know you can do dis. You must do dis.”

  “George,” Loche says, “I’ve only written about Basil’s paintings. I’ve written them to be something that can wipe out rational thought. That they can literally destroy the human mind, leaving the observer in hellish madness.”

  “Right,” George says. “You want some water while you work?”

  “George, I’ve never looked at one of these before. I’ve only written that I have.”

  George scratches his chin at Loche. “You must live within your writing, you. Silly man. When will you get it? Yes you have been in there before,” he points into the blackness of one of the fabric covers. “You have. You have. You just don’t remember.”

  Loche scowls at the scene. “No, George, I wrote about it and I—”

  “Stupid crazy, you. You have done it before. You must go again. Find a way to stop them visiting. Block the path forever.”

  Loche sighs heavily.

  A man enters the chamber, large limbed and tall. He bows, “Anfogal,” he says to George, “the last have arrived.”

  “Ah,” George says to him. “Good, good. Meet in Great Hall. We come right away.”

  “I will say so,” he replies. Before he turns the man extends his huge hand to Loche. “We have not met yet, Dr. Newirth. We have crossed paths—though only briefly. I saw you during the battle at the Uffizi.” Loche studies the man’s size again and remembers writing of the two Orathom Wis that defended him when he reached his brother’s body upon the Uffizi stage. The word mountain came to his mind, suddenly. “I am Justinian Pierce. It is an honor to meet you.” He bows again.

  “Pleased to meet you,” Loche replies.

  Justinian again addresses George, “Anfogal,” and turns toward the long spiral stair to the lower chambers.

  “Good fella, Justinian,” George says.

  “They call you, Anfogal. What does that mean?”

  “You don’t know your Elliqui? Hmm, another thing to learn for you, eh? It mean much. Too much to say in words. Maybe closest is God Leader. I am he who leads gods back home. So are we all, we Orathom Wis. We send them back. Maybe Anfogal might be Master, too. So many things when we speak Elliqui.”

  “Arrived? Who has arrived?”

  “The last of the Order. The last of us in the wide world. In the wide, wide, wide world. You meet them, come.”

  George moves out of the room. As Loche follows he stops in the doorway. He imagines the shrouded paintings behind reaching for him with arms of shadow.

  To Kill A God

  April, 1338

  On the road to London, England

  When it started to rain, Radulphus said, “You cannot expect this boy of no more than six springs to kill a man.”

  William pulled his hood up and turned to Albion. The man’s stride was long and tireless. He strode beside the wagon with his hand resting upon the rail.

  Radulphus rode on the seat beside William. He said again, “You cannot expect that, Albion. Do you?”

  “A boy of any age that has seen what he’s seen, can do anything. When I was young, I knew enough to stab a man,” Albion said. “He can know it, too.”

  “I forbid it,” Radulphus said.

  “I can learn,” William said.

  Albion laughed. “You will learn, William. But your father is right, I believe. I do not think that you will be up to the task for a number of years, at least.”

  “I do not like this,” Radulphus said.

  “What’s to like?” Albion said.

  Water began to drip from William’s hood brim. He lowered his head and watched it puddle between his feet. From out of his cloak he pulled the leather pouch and let the rain tap upon the leaves.

  Listening to his father and Albion discuss what he would do or not do over the last day was becoming of greater interest. Days ago, his life was one of watching, listening and waiting. Mostly working and reciting the prayers his father had taught him. Beyond that, life was simple. Now he was off to London. A journey to take a life—the life of a Bishop. To avenge his mother, or to kill a god. Or both.

  Simple.

  The road ahead curved right into a cluster of trees. Overhead, deep grey clouds pressed down and in between the new spring leaves.

  “I will kill Gravesend, Priest,” Albion said finally. “I will need your help, but the killing will be my doing.”

  William’s father did not respond.

  “Gravesend’s treacherous and wicked past is a long tale of woe. We have only just discovered his divinity in the last year.”

  “A year?” Radulphus said, astonished. “You’ve known about this for a year? Sounds as if you are taking your time.”

  “Please,” Albion said, his tone a little irritated. “You do not know of what you say. It may seem like a long while, but it is nothing to the permanence of death. Before we take a life, it must be determined the life’s origin is indeed that of the divine. We are not murderers. We remove deities from this world, not men and women.”

  “And how do you determine that?”

  Albion laughed, “Not without difficulty. And, I’m afraid, it takes time. There are many clues—for example, your wife was easy to see—healing a hurt that cannot be healed. A power of earth and sky and root was present in Geraldine’s very essence. I, myself, know a thing or two of herb lore. She was, in truth, a witch. Though she was careful to keep her power and deeds on the perimeter of her community’s gossip. When curing horrible pestilence becomes the topic of conversation, Geraldine’s name was often whispered—sometimes sung. We’ve known of her for years. Again, with a blind eye.

  “But not all bridging spirits are as easy to see, simple to know. There is a great deal of wonder in the natural world. Things impossible to explain—things
that are not driven by divine intervention. And there are a great many evil people in the world. Many that may, indeed, deserve death, though I am no judge in such matters—and I was not born to administer punishment. Such extremes are, here beneath the spheres and the stars, sometimes simply human.” He spat. “Shortsighted, ignorant and intolerable.”

  He navigated another wide puddle. “Then there are telltale signs.

  “Bishop Gravesend has been clever to conceal his divinity beneath the mantle of the Church. Ironic. His power is in manipulation and the ability to persuade the common man to do his bidding. The trouble is, Churchmen have been doing that for centuries, be they evil or no. Those that claim a connection to a god, and a punishment for nonbelievers, have a particularly powerful influence upon the weak. Not really a godlike trait for a man, but a rather diabolical place for a god to hide, if you ask me. Gravesend has found the perfect outlet for his bloodlust. He is protected by the very people his word can condemn. He is protected by fear.”

  Radulphus said: “You bring God low. You reduce his word speaking like this. This is blasphemous!”

  Albion laughed.

  “Do not mock me,” Radulphus said.

  “I do not mock,” Albion replied. “And yes, it is blasphemous—to you, at least. And to half the world that believes as you do. I do not attack your precious faith, Priest. I attack your fear. Now, let it be. In your words, If there are countless stars there must be countless possibilities. I dare say, with such thoughts, there just may be some hope for you. You’ve seen your son killed and resurrected—a wife with the gift of healing—and I am an immortal—according to your ways, you are surrounded with sacrilege. Take heart, there is more to the story. There is always more to the story.”