A hundred or so men and women are gathered in the hall. Their ages appear to vary between twenty and fifty. Loche knows, however, that he is in a room full of immortals. He wonders at their different manners of dress and ethnicity. Asian, African, American, European, Middle Eastern—delegates of the world, Loche thinks.
There are two notable anomalies amid the gathering. The first is young Edwin, the only child in the room. He is sitting upon William Greenhame’s lap. The second is seated beside him. She is an elderly woman. Her hair is silver-grey and white. Though she appears to be carrying on a pleasant conversation with William and Edwin, Loche cannot help but notice an air of discomfort, as if the room is too cold, or the wooden chair is too hard for her. But despite her years, which Loche guesses to be ninety, at least, there is still a spark in her eye, and a natural, ageless beauty. Loche then considers the reality that she might be, after himself and Edwin, the third youngest in the room.
As George and Loche approach, Edwin leaps from Greenhame’s lap, runs and crashes hard into Loche’s thighs. Loche lifts him into his arms and kisses the boy. “Are you okay, Edwin?”
“I like this castle, Dad. Kinda like our castle. Can we make a room like this at our castle?”
“That’s just what I was thinking,” Loche tells him.
“In a way,” Samuel Lifeson says, rising from beside the old woman, “you have a Grand Hall already. Though, not quite as large.”
“And underground,” William adds.
“Aye, that it is,” Samuel agrees. “That is, if you remember the Hall beneath your home.” Loche recalls writing about the underground chambers below his house in Sagle, Idaho—a surveillance bunker. He extends his arm in a gesture to shake hands and stops suddenly. Loche notices that Samuel’s hand is gone. Quickly, Samuel extends his left, “In some cultures, this might be seen as an insult, a handshake with the left—please know I mean nothing of the sort. Nice to see you again.”
Loche shakes his hand, “What—what happened to your—”
Samuel smiles, “Never mind. Don’t you worry about it. A rather short story I will save for another time.” Samuel nods at Loche, “You’ve been out of sorts since we’ve met. This is the first time I’ve seen you—calm.”
“Perhaps it’s being here in a castle. Reminds me of home, I guess,” Loche says.
“Ah, well, for me, I cannot abide castles. Bad memories, you see. I only enter them these days when I have to. And regrettably, now is one of those times.” Samuel winks at Edwin, “Hello, little one. How do you like the castle?”
“I want to live here, but at home,” Edwin says.
Samuel then turns to the woman sitting beside William, “Loche, this is my dearest, Leonaie.”
The old woman’s eyes sparkle. The two shake hands as she nods to Edwin, “What a strong little boy you’ve got there,” she says.
“I’m five,” Edwin says flushing red as Leonaie stares at him.
Justinian Pierce steps before George again, “Anfogal, they are ready to begin.”
“Good,” George says, “let us start.”
Justinian motions to a group of three men and one woman standing at the end of the hall. They are raised upon a stage and appear to be wearing a kind of livery. Their garments remind Loche of a medieval surcoat—a long draping tunic rich in green and gold, belted at the waist with decorative swords on hangers. On the floor astride both sides of the stage are two helmed pikemen. Their long spears held point up—the tips gleaming in the firelight. To the right and left of the pikemen are two more coated and helmed soldiers, each bearing a drum slung before them.
One raises his mallets high and strikes. A thunderous boom reverberates through the hall. Edwin’s little arms latch tighter around Loche’s shoulders. The sound decays slowly into the ancient stones. Then silence, save the crackling fire. Then, another massive boom. The other drummer begins a series of echo strokes, matching the initial beat and then fading in increments. His mallets falling softer at each fall. The fire then takes its turn snapping out random pops, like a needle on a record.
The drummers repeat this echo cadence several times. At every first stroke a rush of adrenaline starts through Loche’s body, and as the echo drum fades his heart eases and calms. A kind of relaxed focus builds within him. A clarity of body and mind—hypnotic and wide awake. Loche feels as if he could both fall asleep and run miles without tiring.
“Verceress willo gos ~ Ithic veli agtig,” The surcoated woman from the stage shouts out.
The congregation answers in solemn unison, “Ithic veli agtig.”
The fire hisses and snaps.
“Anfogal, with your leave,” she calls out to George.
George shouts out, “Say on!”
The woman steps back to stage left and one of the men steps forward. He looks at the assembly.
“It has begun. Our enemy has shown himself. He is known to us all. He has betrayed us. Albion Ravistelle. He and his followers have forsaken us. In the language of old, they are the Endale Gen. He has set the Endale Gen to eliminate us. This shall not be!”
“En dal ay jen?” Leonaie whispers to Samuel.
“New Earth,” he replies.
Another boom, but not from the drums this time. In percussive chorus the group shouts out, “Hoy!” Again, Edwin is startled and his limbs cling tighter to Loche.
“We are all that remains of the Orathom Wis of the great realm Wyn Avuqua of old. We are the door wardens, we hold the way between the gulf of Kingdom Come and the Kingdoms of Clay. We serve the One Law. We serve Thi. We serve humankind. We keep the fire from the fingers of gods.”
Loche watches as many of the assembly mouth the words along with the speaker. He wonders if this was some kind of mantra or prayer.
The room shudders again, “Hoy!”
The man steps back as another moves to the head of the stage. “Welcome all,” he says. His tone less formal. “As you know by now, many of the Wis have been slain. Please, let us Iyuv Talgeth.”
Like a wave, the congregation lowers themselves to one knee. Loche looks around, sets Edwin down on the floor and they too, take a knee. “What’s this?” Loche whispers to William.
“It is still uncanny, that you do not know.” He leans close, a tear rolling down his cheek, “You should know—you made all of this. Iyuv Talgeth is a prayer for the slain. Our slain. It means to pine for what is forbidden to us—a hereafter. We have nothing after this life. Our prayer is to those that have left us, and we lament and long for their place to remain somewhere in existence. Alas, all we have is here—and yet, what joy, all we have is here.”
One by one the assembly rise to their feet. It is not until George Eversman, the last to stand, his lips curved downward and his eyes teary, that the man begins to speak again. “Ithic veli agtig,” he says from the stage.
“Ithic veli agtig,” the group replies.
“Our intelligence tells us that Albion Ravistelle has targeted Orathom Wis across the globe, and has murdered at least eighty. There are still many unconfirmed reports. Latest intel from inside the Endale Gen is that Ravistelle will strike us here, at Mel Tiris. A siege is expected in the coming days.”
Loche hears Samuel groan, “I knew it. I knew it. I loathe castles.”
“You have been gathered here to repel this attack. We believe that the Endale Gen is intent on retrieving the remaining paintings of Basil Pirrip Fenn. We have close to half of Mr. Fenn’s work secured here at Mel Tiris, and we must protect it. All of you are aware of the power of these pieces of art—and you are also aware that in some ways, these paintings are in direct opposition with our mission on Earth. Basil’s paintings are the doors—the largest doors between the Alya and the Orathom that have been experienced. Anfogal and our top advisors believe that we have the chance to not only close the pathways to the Orathom by using these paintings, but there is a chance that through the paintings, we can end all deity intervention forever. That, my dear guardians, means mission complete for us.”
“Hoy!” reverberates through the hall.
“However, this feat will not be led by any of us in the Orathom Wis. It will be done by none other than Basil Fenn’s brother, the Poet, Dr. Loche Newirth. It is he and he alone that can traverse the astral plane unscathed. We must protect Basil’s paintings and defend Loche Newirth. We must provide him the time to end the invasion of Heaven.
“You know your places. Marshals, proceed to the weapon take. Squad leaders, report to Tower West for briefings. All others, please prepare to defend against the Enemy. Are there questions?”
A woman calls out, “Can we expect deity intervention in this fight?”
“I would expect anything,” the man from the stage replies.
“What of Cythe?” another in the congregation asks, “It was seen at the Battle of the Uffizi. What if It comes? Has Albion Ravistelle truly joined with—with It?”
Loche’s skin crawls. Fear stops his breath. Cythe. Nicholas Cythe. Loche had written the character as the Devil himself—It. The evil manifestation in every myth known. It is now somewhere in the world.
George Eversman steps up onto a tabletop. “Wis!” he yells.
“Hoy!” the gathering booms.
“If It comes, I will deal with It. Do not fear. If you fear It, It wins. We are in dis. Yes? Tell me!”
“Hoy!” A fueled, powerful resound.
“Defend the keep. Let no one ascend the towers. If they come, they do not leave alive. We are the Orathom Wis! Be they man, immortal or god, if they come here, they do not leave alive. Go and be ready!”
A final, “Hoy!” nearly shatters Loche’s ears.
A Wider View
November 5, this year
Venice, Italy
There is the strange sensation of movement, as if a boat is carrying her across water.
“I think she’s waking, darling.”
Julia Iris knows the voice. There is a hiss laced within it. It belongs to Helen Newirth, and the last time Julia saw Helen’s face, heard her voice—there was—pain—the knife was in her mouth—the blade cut through the back of her throat—
Julia begins to cough. Her eyes flip open. A bright, grey light stabs into her vision and she raises her hands, covering her face. She feels the wetness of tears and saliva.
A comforting hand caresses her upper arm. Through the blur she sees that it is Helen. Julia recoils. Then two large gripping hands seize her.
“Don’t,” Helen’s voice says again. The tone is kind, but firm. “Don’t. Everything is okay. Everything is okay, dear. If you stop struggling he will let you go.”
Julia turns. Beside her is a massive, bald headed man. His arm is wrapped around behind her shoulders and he squeezes with frightening strength. There is no expression on his face.
She heeds Helen’s words and goes limp.
“Are you okay?” Helen asks. “Can you relax?” Julia nods, still studying the brute beside. His eyebrows raise at her as if he is double-checking her affirmation. Julia nods again. With emphasis this time.
“Carlo, let her be.” Carlo lifts his arm away and rests easy.
Julia then looks around.
Lounging across from her is Helen Newirth. She is leaning against a man that looks to be in his mid fifties. He is wearing a crisp, chocolate brown suit, white shirt and muted orange tie. Both are pinching the stems of full glasses of wine. There is a blanket over their legs. “Would you care for a glass of wine, dear?” Helen asks.
Above them and just behind another man is standing. His long tunic is striped black and white, and he wears a hat with a wide, round brim. He is pressing a long wooden pole down to his side. Old buildings pass slowly by beneath grey clouds. The movement suddenly makes sense. She is reminded of little Edwin’s words from the Priest Lake journal, Black boats! Black boats on the water!
“A glass of wine on a Venetian gondola is something not to deny yourself, Miss Iris.” The man says. His Italian accent is thick. Helen passes her glass to Julia.
“I am sorry, dear, for the violence,” Helen says, “but I knew you would be all right, after all. It is really the effect I was going for, you know. No real damage done. I hope you can forgive me.” Helen smiles. It is a lovely smile. The woman looks nothing like she did on the street in Verona. The hard, sharpened features, the killer instinct, the cruel, pitiless, unforgiving spirit—these aspects have vanished from Helen’s person. Across from Julia sits a flower—light and supple, soft and desperately gorgeous.
Julia stares at Helen as her hand rises to her throat—to the memory of her latest injury. How many times must she endure this uncanny and impossible mental scarring of physical pain. Pain that is quick and quickly gone?
“Oh don’t worry, Julia. It’s all gone, like I said it would be. We’ve even cleaned you up. We changed you out of those nasty, bloody clothes. You should see yourself. You look beautiful. Doesn’t she, darling?”
“That she does.”
“You know who this is, don’t you, Julia? This is Albion Ravistelle. This is my real husband.”
His eyes glint under the grey as the boat turns into a wider canal. He looks nothing like she had imagined from Loche’s writings. His face shines out a genuine benevolence. A caring from a deep seated resolve. He looks fatherly, and yet alluring and sensual. Julia shifts her eyes back and forth between them, and it somehow adds up. The two appear to be made for one another, as if they were both cut from some ancient cloth—as if the names of Albion and Helen could be included among the fateful marriages of classical antiquity.
Then, perhaps, it is merely the Venetian air. Maybe the gondola ride. The wine…
Julia sits up and looks at the wineglass in her hand. “Cheers,” she says. She tips it back and drains it into her mouth. Four large gulps and it is gone. “Nice,” she says. She sets the glass down on the floor between her feet.
“That it is,” Albion agrees. “It is only a Rüdesheimer Apostelwein, bottled, 1727. But never mind. It was made to be drunk.”
Julia looks over the side of the boat. She searches the possible escape routes—over the side to the dock ten feet away and through the narrow alley, jump from the boat to the passing window ledge—
“Don’t,” Helen says, almost as a whisper. “Julia, don’t run. Just wait? There is a lot to talk about.” Julia senses Carlo tensing at her side. She doesn’t hesitate.
Her feet push and she springs toward the water. Carlo is too fast and just as she rises, her body is slammed back into the padded seat. She struggles a moment longer until noticing Carlo’s expressionless face again. While he is near, she thinks, I’m going nowhere. She stops and waits. Carlo eases his hold. She reaches gingerly down to her wineglass and lifts it before Julia and Albion. She wiggles it, gesturing to be refilled. Her focus is trained on the massive Carlo.
Albion leans forward with the bottle and pours. “Very well,” he says. “Let’s slow down, shall we? You’ll learn what it means to slow down, Julia. Let’s start with how to enjoy a vintage with grace.” She sips from the glass and looks at the two cuddling before her.
“What you must think of us. What you must think of me. The things you’ve been told. The stories. Ah, the stories,” Albion says, “Odd, isn’t it? The three of us here? The way things appear. The way we interpret another’s actions, words and deeds. How quickly we can pass judgement without knowing the whole story. There is of course, your side of the story. There is mine. There is also a version called the truth. Yet, as these many centuries have crawled by, I’ve learned that even truth has its own sides, its own agenda. Truth, for mankind is a limited resource.”
Julia watches him speak. She takes another sip.
“Truth. Let’s speak of truth, shall we, Julia Iris, immortal? The truth is, I should have had you cut into pieces and incinerated. Such a swift act would have saved me and our cause some trouble. I know that sounds inhuman. But, we are not really human, after all, are we? No. We must live by a different set of standards, we undying people. We I
tonalya. And because we strive for a higher excellence, I give pause in mandating your execution.
“Let’s alleviate the suspense, shall we? I want three things from you, Julia. Very simple things the first of which may appear medieval in its process. You will serve as ransom for my wife’s son, Edwin. We are holding you to see his safe return to his mother. I am sure you can understand this.
“Second, I want you to be open-minded, behaved and a good listener. I want very much to share with you, my side of this long, long tale. A wider view. Oh the stories they must have told you. Again, it pains me to entertain what you must believe about me—my intentions, my mission, my hopes. I think you’ll find reason behind my method. Reason, sweet Julia, that will lend to your new found reality.
“And finally, once you have heard and seen, once you have measured the depth of my plight versus what you know already, once you have listened to your heart, I want you to join my cause. Only then can I pass judgement on your survival. I have given every known immortal this choice. Most have found the wisdom and have joined with me. George Eversman and the remaining Orathom Wis have chosen oblivion. They can, and will, have it. You, Julia, are one of us—you deserve your chance to choose. And you shall have that chance.”
The boat exits the narrow water streets into a wider, busier canal. Julia turns toward the bow. Ahead of them is a yellowing stone structure, looming up against the overcast sky like an armored knight. Gothic windows reflect the churning waters and traffic of the venetian boats. The lower floor is hemmed in crimson balconies. Below is a waterside dining area. Julia recalls Loche’s descriptions of this place in the Priest Lake journal. She imagines Basil Pirrip Fenn sitting at a table with his cigarettes and his coffee—his dark eyes tracking boats as they pass.
Julia feels the wine. Its effect is calming, and strangely energizing—a sensation unlike she’s ever felt before.
At the landing, a man wearing a suit and tie waits. Small, wire rimmed glasses sit low on his nose. He waves. “Dr. Angelo Catena,” Julia whispers. Then, stepping out from the dining area another man, similarly dressed, joins Catena. It is Corey Thomas. She had met him just days ago at Loche’s cabin, with William and Samuel. The surprise and joy at seeing him nearly causes her to raise her arm to wave. She refrains, and turns back around reaching for her wine. Albion watches her as she drains another full glass into her mouth.
Leaves of Fire: Part Two of the Newirth Mythology Page 15