The two men fell silent. William listened to the creaking wagon. The rain was falling harder now. He pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders. He imagined the roots in the leather bag drinking deeply.
Radulphus asked, “So how was it that you learned Bishop Gravesend was not of this world?”
Albion’s head turned and looked up at William. William felt the glance. “There are two signs: deed and sense. Their deeds are sometimes difficult to discern, especially in Gravesend’s case. The easiest is the sense. We can sense it.”
William’s father shook his head, “What do you mean?”
“William knows the sensation well, though he does not know its importance yet. We of the Itonalya possess a kind of forward thought—an inherent grace. There is no magic here, I assure you. We call it Rathinalya. That is, we are deft. Extreme dexterity in physical movement. We learn quickly and we are not prone to accidents. Along with that, we can sense when we are in the presence of divinity.”
William shivered.
Radulphus asked, “Sense?”
Albion did not answer immediately. He reached up and placed his hand upon Williams forearm. “Do you remember, William, when Gravesend was near to you? Do you remember a faint, far-off quivering, like a chill?”
The boy nodded. He recalled the subtle sensation of a thousand pin pricks tingling across his entire body. When Gravesend and his sentinel monks approached, the feeling was unmistakeable. “I felt a chill,” William said. “I was scared.”
Radulphus pulled the boy to him, “I was chilled to the bone, and scared, too. Such a sense seems natural given the circumstances.”
“Yes, yes,” Albion growled. “It can be understated. It can also feel like a million bee stings.” Then he said to William, “You felt the Rathinalya with your mother, too? Faint, yes?”
William nodded again. This time the memory was like his mother’s fingernails gently grazing the back of his neck or his cheek. His heart warmed at the thought. He longed for her.
“It is another aspect of the Rathinalya. This sensation will visit your skin when you are in the presence of a bridging spirit.” Albion dropped his gaze to the muddied ruts and dodged another deep hole.
“Deeds,” he said a moment later. “Geraldine’s works were that of leaf and root. She healed using the green earth. Some have claimed that she could shape her form into a tree-like goddess—and others say that she’s a penchant for mixing herbs and weeds into a restoring tea. A curing brew. Something that I have great interest in.”
“I have watched her gather roots and leaves for such teas,” Radulphus said. “Remedies passed down to her from her own mother. The Craft has helped many.”
“I am sure it did,” Albion agreed.
William glanced up at his father. Did he never see Geraldine’s fingers shape into vines, her hair flutter into leaves, her eyes glisten to green jewels? He then turned to Albion. Albion’s eyes were upon him.
“Which brings us to Gravesend,” Albion said, “and our challenge.”
“Yes, what of his chilling deeds?”
“One might think that the murdering of hundreds of innocent women, men and children, too, would be enough to prove Gravesend’s special power—or better still, his ability to rally the powers of the church to condone the killings. Trouble is, as I’ve said, it doesn’t always take a god to make a fool of man. Man is quite capable and willing to do that to himself. Abuses of power are in your blood. Gravesend might very well be an astute manipulator, but I have seen with my own eyes his real magic—if magic is the right word. And it brings us to the task at hand, and my delay in achieving Gravesend’s demise.
“I do not think we will catch Bishop Gravesend on the road,” Albion said. “For such a large host, they move with good speed. He is well protected.”
“I recall, indeed. There must have been over a hundred—and four of the King’s Guard, as well,” Radulphus said.
“My last count was eighty-seven. And yes, four of King Edward’s pawns, but they are not my chief concern. Nor is his rabble of red-sashed followers with pitchforks and clubs. If you remember, there were also four other horsemen accompanying him—long swords, simple habits. They wore the cloth of monks.”
“I do remember,” Radulphus said.
“Me, too,” William said.
Albion leapt up and over a wide puddle. His feet splashed. “They,” he said without a pause, “are his trained protectors. Considerably more dangerous than mere King’s men. And if you think that Gravesend is merciless and cruel—” He broke off.
“Who are they?”
“They are of Gravesend’s house. They are, Father, of Gravesend’s making.”
The priest cast a sidelong glance. “His making? You don’t expect me to believe that he made them? Like God made man.”
“No,” Radulphus said. “Don’t be a fool. Rather, he has manifested something within them that is unnatural. He has placed a kind of possession upon them. He claims them as part of his clergy. Monks, he calls them. They are indeed disciplined, studied, devoted to their faith and to the Bishop—they pray unceasingly, sworn to a vow of silence. And they worship Gravesend. I have never seen Gravesend without them present.”
William shuddered. He reached beneath his cloak and let his hand touch the cool pouch of leaves. He imagined his mother’s fingers squeezing his hand.
“Like Geraldine’s works of green, Gravesend has focused his powers into four men. They are human, but they carry a portion of Gravesend’s power. I do not know their strength, yet.”
“And it is they that have prevented you from your mandate?” Radulphus asked.
“Yes, among other complexities. Taking a life is never an easy task. Taking the life of the Bishop of London is, well, complicated. He is seldom alone, he is known and famous, he is protected by his own arts—his own sworn protectors—and, his home is a fortress. I had hoped for a bow shot on the road. As I pursued the host from London to your village, I once had him poised at the tip of an arrow. The opportunity was not certain. I did not risk it.”
“So now, what is your plan?” Radulphus asked.
Albion reached up to the horse’s reign and pulled back. The wagon came to a halt.
“We will not engage him on the road—we will not exercise the bravery of being out of range with bow or dart—we will not confront him with sword and call for a duel, nor gather an army and lay siege. No.
“I think,” he said thoughtfully, “we will enter into his life as pilgrims. As men of God. I will figure a way to gain an invitation to his table; we shall break bread and drink his wine. Once we are in his company, within his chamber, coddled beneath his shepherding arm, we will then decide how to best return him back across the threshold.”
“You will use us,” Radulphus said. “You will use us as a disguise for your goal?”
“I admit, yes. What better cloak than a humble priest,” he pointed at Radulphus, and then to William, “a young, motherless boy.” Then he paused and pointed at himself, “and the boy’s father.”
“You will play his father?”
William looked from one man to the other.
“I believe it will work,” Albion said. “I will figure a way through my vocation to gain audience.”
Radulphus shook his head. “This is too dangerous.”
“Think of it this way,” Albion pursued. “Consider what will be hidden—a true priest, dangerous with not only God’s word but a whirling staff, a boy of six springs that cannot die, and one of the Orathom Wis—an immortal god-killer. We three are not to be trifled with.”
Albion climbed up onto the wagon. He took the reins and snapped the leather on the horse’s hind. The wagon lurched forward.
“I have means to get us close to him. Our disguise will disarm him. I will place us at Gravesend’s table. And he will be upon the plate. You will have the chance to avenge the woman you both loved.”
The Respect
November, 1976
Prince Rupert, Canada
/> Be quick. Kill quickly. Do not hesitate.
Reduce suffering.
Kill quickly.
Have no contrition.
You are of an ancient order. The Orathom Wis.
You are a finger on the hand of Thi,
The One.
Take no pity.
They do not know that they are gods.
If you seek to avenge their wrong doing, don’t.
You are no judge.
You are a door warden.
Keep the doors.
Protect the innocence of Man.
They cannot know of us.
A god on Earth will destroy the fate of man.
Return gods to the Orathom
Always, always cut them to pieces.
No sense in taking chances.
For the love of Man do we serve
And those beyond this world.
Deviate from these laws
You become the hunted.
These are the fundamental dictums of the Orathom Wis, the Guardians of the Dream. The Law, as Albion called it. But now, Albion and many others had left the Order a couple of years ago. He had explained that his friend William went against the Order to protect his two sons from being assassinated. The boys were believed to be deities. Together, Albion and William saved them from certain death.
Helen felt a tug of righteousness.
November smothered the sun early. Ice cold mud caked Helen’s boots, all the way up her thighs. Crouching beneath a massive blue spruce, she lifted her eyes up to the darkness filling the branches. Soon she could move. But not yet.
She closed her eyes and imagined Albion’s lips whispering the instructions into her ear. For the love of man… The wet of his mouth sending chills. But he had instead lectured her on these items over and over from across a table, during trainings of all sorts—and now, on her tenth time out, of course, she had it all memorized. And there was more, but she was too cold to labor through it.
“But the Order has its job, and it is undeniably important,” Albion had said, “and there is no better way to prepare you for the Itonalya than to train you as a Guardian, as one of the Orathom Wis. Perhaps we will win the Order’s favor by doing our part. And one day we shall repair our disloyalty.”
She leaned back and sat, laying her gloved hand upon the canvas duffle bag. It was no larger than her gym bag back in her hotel room in Seattle that carried her running shoes, towel and toiletries.
Of all places, Canada. She shakes her head thankful snow had not yet clasped the coast. She was prepared for it, though. High boots, fur lined parka, thermal underwear. She had even bought ear muffs at a small gas and grocery stop just before crossing the border from the United States. They were warm, furry and purple. They would have made Albion laugh, she thought.
She smiled. If there was anything that thrilled her these days, it was the ability to make the older than the hills, holier than thou, Albion, laugh. Not an easy thing to do. Maybe it was because she had decided that no matter what, she would try to hang on to her youthful self even with all of this immortality heaviness. What’s to worry about? What’s to stop us from laughing all the way to eternity? Laughing. Loving. Leave the heavy behind.
Love had not yet kindled between her and Albion. She wrinkled her nose at the thought, and the cold breeze vaulting up through the valley.
On a couple of occasions, she felt the time was ripe, but she waited. The chances of connection seemed to be cultivated from a physical attraction alone—and not the respect that Helen so badly wanted from this strange and powerful man. One day she would share her body with him—and that would be something that he would not forget—but she wanted him to bow to her. She wanted her entire being to be coveted. That meant that she must learn all she could of his ways, his mandate and his past. But she must also expand her view of her new world, her new life.
And right now I’m at school.
Blackness. Helen stood up and stepped out of the cover of the tree. Squinting she could make out the cascade of falling hills pouring down to the ocean a few miles away and the city of Prince Rupert below. She rotated around the tree and looked back. A splatter of tiny lights glittered against the horizon a football field away. A small elementary school.
It’s time.
Helen yanked the small canvas bag up and slung it over her shoulder. It was heavy. She then pulled her umbrella out from under the boughs and began her descent.
She wondered if all elementary schools smelled the same. It was true that she had not been in an elementary school for a few years, but today, when she entered, she was transported back to her own school days. Glue, wet coats, Fritos and banana. Windows were plastered with gold stars—tiny scissored mobiles hanging from doorways. Helen loved elementary school, and she recalled how she would often be the last to leave class—the last to get on the bus—the last to want to go home.
The way was dark, muddy and in places, steep, but she moved easily along, making sure to step upon large stones as often as she could, careful to move like a breeze and minimize the breaking of a branch or the bending of grass. She also tried to cross diagonally, zigzagging to hide her trail. There would be no erasing her presence, of course, that was sure, but the added effort would buy her a few hours, at least. Her breath was a ghostly vapor. She thought of herself as a ghost. A moving spirit of mist.
As she crossed downward her thoughts lingered on the small faces she’d seen this afternoon. Tiny eyes filled with innocence and rainbows.
Helen stopped. Rain began tapping at her umbrella.
Would she ever be a mother? Would she bring a child into this world? Take him to school? Brush his hair? Teach him the alphabet? Sway to Led Zeppelin with him?
Pack a lunch with Fritos, a banana and a PBJ?
Helen knelt and set the heavy bag down. She listened to the rain pockmarking the mud. Somewhere out there in the dark a rivulet was spilling over stones. She thought it sounded like unanswered questions.
Will I be a mom? Is that the answer? Is that why I’m alive?
The gush of runoff strengthened.
She stood and hurried further down.
The land flattened. Helen crept to the edge of a clearing and strained to see if her ride was still waiting. She was certain that she’d made the right turns, even in the pitch black. From her belt she lifted a small flashlight and shined two brief winks into the dark. The answer was like an echo—one tiny blink of light, then two, then black again.
Helen dashed out into the clearing, the bag thudding at her side as the rotors began to whine to life. A metal door slid open and two arms reached down to assist her aboard. Moments later the helicopter was far out over the Pacific ocean veering South.
Will Albion be the father?
Could we be the parents of a child?
What a father he would be to a little boy… the things he could teach him… that we could teach him.
She pulled off her purple earmuffs and strapped a headset on. The cans were cold.
A static hiss and a voice, “Ansisg?” he asked. “Ansisg?” It was Elliqui for god end—a way to confirm the mission of ending the life of a bridging spirit had been a success.
Helen nodded.
The pilot raised his thumb.
The language of Elliqui had come fairly easy. A number of words shot through her mind:
child: gia
mother: afa
love: thia
parent: shaf
joy: ad
tomorrow:______
The Elliqui word eluded her.
Outside was nothing. Cold, black, blindness. She knew the icy Pacific churned below. To the east rose the ragged coast. Above and beyond the empty sky and clouds pregnant with rain, ice and snow. She shivered feeling the lonely chill of flight—the solitary ache of this new education.
The goosebumps suddenly reminded her of the Rathinalya that she had felt when she slid her umbrella sword through the neck of the Bridger, as she was wont to call them. It was po
werful. Pinpricks and shortness of breath. It was always a relief when a Bridger’s heart stopped beating and the menace of the Rathinalya faded away.
She reached to the canvas bag and pulled it between her feet.
“Far enough out? This good?” her voice crackled in the headset.
The pilot raised his thumb.
Helen thought about little boy names: James, River, Raine, Hunter… there were so many.
Edwin? Edwin is nice.
She raised her arm and lowered the side door window. A whipping gale swirled into the compartment. She unzipped the bag, reached in and tangled her fingers into a thick tuft of hair, gripped and lifted.
Always, always cut them to pieces.
No sense in taking chances.
It was either the wind or a trace Rathinalya that dragged like icicles over her scalp.
The head was smaller and lighter than ones before. She had not killed a child Bridger before. The eleven-year-old boy’s head appeared strangely peaceful. She stared at the little face. He had no idea it was coming.
Kill quickly.
He only cried for a moment when he saw the sword.
Take no pity.
They do not know that they are diviners.
Helen pushed the severed head out the window and let go. It spun out into the darkness.
Have no guilt.
You are of an ancient order. The Orathom Wis.
You are a finger on the hand of Thi.
Helen closed the window, sat back and pulled a blanket around her shoulders. She could see her dim reflection in the black glass of the window. She wondered if Edwin would look like her. If he would understand.
The Muster of the Itonalya
November 5, this year
Mel Tiris, France
Another stone room—massive—brick and mortar rising some fifty feet to thick ebony beams above. A roaring hearth lights the room from one end. Long tables, wood plank chairs, iron railings and couches make up the furnishings. Loche’s mind returns home again. This was the kind of Grand Hall he had envisioned all of his life. On the walls hang long banners of rich gold and green bearing the device of a single eye. Flaming torches light the chamber with a warm, welcoming glow.
Leaves of Fire: Part Two of the Newirth Mythology Page 14