Leaves of Fire: Part Two of the Newirth Mythology

by Michael B. Koep

  “You’re beginning to understand,” Albion said. “Indeed, he does. He has publicly denounced my practices. Though no official Church order has been issued to interfere with my business. We are doing some good, mind you, and we have some political power. Herbs from one of my monasteries cured King Edward’s niece just this past winter. The Crown will support us as long as we hold Christ’s Cross aloft, and we practice beneath it. If we do not, we are heretics, witches and fodder for Gravesend.” Albion sipped, chewed and sipped again, “Though I’m but a fly to Gravesend, he knows of me and my pursuits. He wants me finished and would gladly have my head on a pike if he could.”

  “And you want an invitation to his table? This plan of yours isn’t sounding promising.”

  “Ah, still don’t understand, Priest? Truly, what better company to invite to dinner than the one you intend to eat?”

  Alice entered. In her hand was a square folded parchment sealed with wax. She smiled at William as she handed the note to Albion. “A letter to you, my lord. Addressed to Mr. Aloysius Stell. From his Excellency, the Bishop.”

  “So, he has answered my request,” Albion said, setting his goblet down.

  “I think not,” Alice said. “For your missive left late last night. It could not yet have made it to him.”

  Albion smiled. “Then what chance is this, I wonder?”

  “Aloysius Stell?” Radulphus asked. “Is that you?”

  Albion took the note and broke the seal. “As I said, you know my real name, Albion—I have been Aloysius Stell of London some five and thirty years. In ten or more years I will need to fashion a new name. A new person.” He looked at William, “To appear natural to this world, our kind must change place, name, family and home—for if we remain, man’s fear will seek us out.”

  “I must say,” Alice broke in, speaking to William, “you look much better now than the drowned rat I met this morning.” William looked down at his clean clothes and full plate. “And I see that you are enjoying the food. Eat. We’ll put some meat on those bones yet.”

  Suddenly, Albion began to laugh. He slapped his hand down upon the table and rose. “Irony,” he said, “and what happy chance!”

  “What does the letter say?” Radulphus asked.

  Albion pressed both palms down upon the table and bowed his head. He was still laughing. “It is as if he were here with us.” He lifted his head and said to Alice, “Please have prepared my large wagon for a two day journey.”

  “I assume you are to be traveling north to Stortford?” she said.

  Albion nodded, smiling at her.

  “And you’ve been invited?” she asked.

  He nodded again. His smile widening further.

  “Please, say on,” she said.

  “He’s ill,” Albion said, simply. “Bishop Stephen Gravesend is ill. He did not return to London after his crusade. Instead, he has retired to his manor at Stortford. This invitation was written yesterday morning, signed in his hand. Aloysius Stell is summoned to bring what remedies he has for what his scribe calls the sweating sickness.”

  “The plague?” Radulphus cried.

  “I think not,” Albion comforted. “There is a chance, but I think it more likely that he suffers from a corzya or lagrippe. Coming away from Ascott and the reports of illness there, I am guessing he is taking precautions—and bending his ideology to save his own skin.”

  “What is corzya and lagrippe?” William asked.

  “Maladies not to be taken lightly, I can tell you that. Fever, coughing, plugged nose and filled ears—often the head hurts and the body is weak.”

  “Mama could heal that,” William stated.

  “Perhaps this illness will take his life,” Radulphus said.

  “It will not matter,” Albion was quick to say. “For his life will be taken. Either by illness, or by our hand.”

  Alice led William and Radulphus back to their chamber by candlelight. Once they entered she turned their bed down and lit a small candle near the window. “Sleep deeply,” she said before going out.

  William pulled off his tunic and stood beside the bed. From his satchel he lifted out the leather pouch—the three leaves were bright and sharp. His mother’s gaze in the shadow.

  Then he noted yet another experience that was to be unique: a mattress of feathers, clean linen sheets, heavy woolen blankets and two big feather pillows. Quite different from his straw mattress in his mother’s house. The boy looked at his father and said, “It is soft.”

  “Aye, that it is,” the priest agreed. “I expect we will sleep deeply, as Alice commanded.”

  William slid himself into the sheets. Radulphus blew out the candle laid beside him. After a few moments, William scooted his little body nearer to his father and nudged his head into the crook of his arm. The air was cool and the bed was warm. He could still see the green leaves in the dark.

  “I wish Mama was here.”

  “So do I,” he said.

  “Is she with God?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I know.”

  “How?”

  “Because that is where God’s children go after they die. God wanted her in Heaven”

  “Where is Heaven?”

  “It is above, in the sky. It is God’s Kingdom.”

  “Why did He put us here and He stays there?”

  Radulphus didn’t answer immediately. After a moment he said, “We must show Him that we love Him before he will let us come to his house.”

  “Mama didn’t love Him, why did He take her?”

  “God has a plan.”

  “Mama didn’t love—”

  “God has a plan.”

  “Is she in God’s house?”

  “Yes.”

  “But she did not love God. So she’s not in His house,”

  “You don’t know that, only God knows that.”

  The boy’s voice began to quaver, “Albion says that I don’t get to go to God’s house.”

  “You will, too, be in God’s house,” Radulphus said.

  “You don’t know that. You don’t know that.” William began to cry. “I won’t be with Mama again. I won’t be with you.”

  Radulphus lifted himself up on one elbow and looked down upon his son. William’s eyes flooded. All of this was too much—such certainty in God’s promise and such inability to explain suffering and chaos. William’s wants were simple. Radulphus sighed and rubbed the boy’s forehead.

  “You are right, son, I do not know. No one knows what is beyond—we have only the words and stories of God to help us understand. To help us heal.”

  William rolled over. A thin line of smoke coiled from the candle wick. Outside, cold stars glittered through a break in the clouds.

  All Better

  September, 1980

  Los Angeles. Helen Craven’s Diary

  September 27, 1980

  Had another dream about a little boy last night. I’ve lost count of how many I’ve had—I keep calling the baby Edwin. Albion and I nap with him in the afternoon. I can feel them both—it is so real. It is hard waking up and knowing it was just a dream.

  Oh, and the tally—

  5 years, 270 days without Albion. He’s in England, I guess. God, I miss him. I received a letter from him a few days ago. Cried for hours afterward.

  I really do hate it here in LA. I have bad memories. But, that’s why I’ve come, right? And do I feel better about it all? That’s the big question, isn’t it?

  But, I should start with the bad news first. I got a call from Jimmy yesterday and he told me what happened. Bonzo is dead. He got too drunk and didn’t wake up. I am crushed and hurting. I loved him. Everyone loved him. He could be an ass—but I loved him. Jimmy says that the band is in shock and not sure what the future holds. I cannot imagine the world without Zeppelin.

  Goodbye John—

  I’m staying at Tracy’s. She hasn’t changed too much. She went to see Van Halen at the Forum a couple of n
ights ago. She said they were good.

  We cried about Bonzo all night, drank screwdrivers—triples, and smoked. We spun all the records—cranked Moby Dick over and over. Cried more.

  Love you, John. I want to call Albion and talk with him about it, but—he wouldn’t want that. Not now. The time isn’t right. He probably knows already, anyway. So sad.

  Wow. A lot of tears over the last few days.

  The good news is I left the envelope at my mom’s with the account instructions. I put more money in—I didn’t think 50k was enough, so I doubled it. The letter was simple enough, I think. I’m sure it will freak her out, but at least she can move around a little bit—be a little freer now. Especially now. She’ll need it.

  Because now… second piece of good news… that fucking evil bastard of a husband of hers met with an awful accident yesterday. I shouldn’t go into details, but I can’t help it. After all, it’s the main reason I came back.

  Let’s just say that he won’t pee the same—EVER. In fact, they just may need to construct a new way for him to do that. Of course, he’ll have to come out of the coma first. Won’t happen. At least, I’m pretty sure my cuts were correct—according to my research.

  I was fair, by the way. I let him get the first punch in. And the second. Pretty good ones, really.

  Sadistic fuck. He won’t hurt anyone again. And for that, I am glad. But as far as feeling better about this whole revenge thing that I’ve been dreaming about? I don’t know yet. It feels good to know he is suffering—that can’t be good for me… I don’t know. I could have killed him, but I thought justice would be better served—through a tube.

  I even put an insurance policy together for him a few months ago—just so that keeping him plugged in won’t be a huge cost to Mom. She’ll likely want to help him—but after awhile, she’ll move on—and she’ll have enough money to do so. That’s good.

  Fuck it. I won’t feel sorry for him. And I guess I should put some thought into how I really feel. Maybe I should see a psychologist.

  I fly out tomorrow.

  The Threshold

  November 5, this year

  Mel Tiris, France

  It is a rendering of Loche Newirth. A portrait in oil. The expression Loche knows. He has seen it on his face many times in mirrors—calm, thoughtful and careful. There is some tragedy in the eyes. The background is a wash of muted orange and grey. The image is loose, painterly, composed of simple, accurate strokes. Loche shakes his head. Then he blinks. He remembers.

  A small flicker of light captures him, like a flake of glitter pressed into the portrait’s right pupil. The glitter then multiplies and spirals outward. Gold and silver-blue streams of light gather and pulse, forming the rim of a deep abyss. Loche’s hands clamp down on his knees as he gazes into a framed chasm. All balance, all reason, all meaning—forgotten. The light spreads beyond the borders of the frame. Then it eclipses, an enormous pitch black circle, unimaginably deep. From the rim fire lines of color, stretching out in all directions, until his periphery fills with the unfathomable gulf.

  A hair thin line of silky light—The Silk—shoots from the Center to meet his gaze.

  He remembers.

  Silence.

  Flash.

  Gone.

  Loche is disembodied.

  The abyss pulls him in.

  A wide grey blur grows.

  Water. A wide, flat body of grey and black water. Mist laces over the waves.

  Just as he thinks his vision will plunge into the dark liquid, his senses hover. He is suspended above, nearly eye level to lulling ripples. Silence.

  Loche screams. He thinks, What remains? What remains? What remains?

  Memory, is the answer.

  —What remains? he cries out.

  He cannot determine sound as sound, sight as sight. All senses are as one. There is connection. Then an easing, as if there is something to hold.

  Stop.

  Loche Newirth stands on a nighttime beach. The sand is cold and grey. A single star glints high. Before him is a black ocean. The shoreline at his feet and the muted line dividing two values of black at the horizon are his only points of reference.

  The water lulls at his feet.

  Nothing.

  Quiet.

  Shhh. Shhh. Shhh, says the sea.

  Then to his right, far down the beach, a figure approaches. Small. The size of a child. A moving shadow in a shadow world. Loche turns toward the visitor and waits.

  It stops a few feet away.

  —Dad? it says.

  Loche’s eyes burst with tears.

  —Edwin?

  —Dad?

  Loche kneels down and the boy runs into his arms. But at the first touch, Loche reels backward.

  —Dad?

  —You’re not Edwin.

  Loche squints through the gloom at the small face and sees his little boy, but his smiling expression blurs and like a passing cloud over the moon, it changes to a sickly blue—featureless. No eyes or mouth or nose—only the shape of a head, pale and mute. Then Edwin’s face again.

  —What are you?

  Loche wonders if he is speaking words. There is no sound of voice—just impressions—thoughts in communication.

  The face morphs from his son to the featureless face.

  —I am a Watcher. And you are the Poet. We have met before. Yes, we have met before.

  Loche remembers. The pale, drowning boy. Loche remembers. In his imagination. Between real and made up.

  —Are these words that we speak? Loche says, or thinks.

  —This is the Elliqui. We commune in thought.

  Loche crimps his eyes and mouth shut. He searches for sanity.

  —But, Edwin. You looked like Edwin.

  —Yes. I did.

  —Why?

  —I reflect your deepest love. And your darkest fear. There has been a crack in the All. Pain and joy, ends and oblivion have come to us. It exists here. It invades. You invade.

  —I do not understand.

  —Your brother’s gift. It has opened a fissure into us. We cannot escape. Once we could turn away from you. No longer. And your words have begun the invasion of Heaven. The void fills with questions. The questions that haunt the greatest of all creations. The love of Man.

  It extends a long, thin finger and points into Loche’s eyes.

  —And you have written it all, Poet. You have written the end to what was meant to be eternal.

  —I must find my brother, Basil. I must find Basil.

  The pale boy steps back and away.

  —You seek the dead?

  Loche looks around at the empty black landscape and the chilling waste of water and sky. He could not answer. How to answer? Was he, himself, dead? Was Basil, dead? Isn’t this the undiscovered country?

  —You are not dead, Loche. But your brother exists out there somewhere.

  —Can we find him?

  —Perhaps. But he is not here.

  —Where is, here?

  —Within the borders of his feeling and imagination, Loche. We are visiting what the painting was meant to convey. The emotion surrounding it. The spirit it evokes.

  Loche stares around again at the bleak terror.

  —I don’t understand. The painting of me evokes a dead world of black seas and dying land?

  —Yes, in part. You see and feel a mere sliver of it. There is more, but now, your painting contains augury. Your work has brought chance. It has placed oblivion into creation. Forever is no longer sure.

  Loche’s mind grapples for something solid. The figure senses it. Its pale blue skin transmutes. Upon the faceless visage appears Edwin’s tiny eyes. At the sight of his son, Loche breaks into tears.

  —While you remain with me, you will see what your fragile being can withstand. Now you see barren seas and lifeless skies.

  The boy draws Loche into an embrace.

  —It is only a sliver of the all. Of Thi. The real state of being, look now.

  Loche flinche
s.

  A vibration, continuous and jarring rattles through him. Deeper and louder than a bow drawn across a bass string. A tingling high-pitched ring weaves in and through the drone. Orange and red flares of stringing light coil around him and the boy, like ropes suspending them in a cloud of light and stars. The beach is gone. Nothing he sees is familiar save the single star that is still burning above. Loche focuses upon it. He thinks for a moment that it is an eye staring at him.

  The boy lets go and his appearance smears to faceless.

  Darkness. Grey sand. Black sea. Black sky.

  —Allowing you sight much longer would end your life. You would remain here.

  Loche is suddenly thankful for the recognized environment, despite its sinister appearance. He knows sand, water and sky.

  —We now stand within the borders of this window. Just one of Basil’s windows. Basil is far from here.

  —How do we find him?

  —You must cross the sea to the edge of this thought. Then we shall see.

  Loche’s spirit crushes.

  —I fear the ocean.

  —This is not the ocean. It is the threshold of death.

  A Wider View #2

  November 5, this year

  Venice, Italy

  “When I could not die, I laughed.” Albion says. He beckons Julia to follow him. She watches as Corey, Marcus and Helen step out. Helen lingers at the threshold and looks back in before the door shuts.

  Albion says, “Ah, to be alone with another of Loche Newirth’s creations.”

  Sleet and rain sparkle across the window. Outside a single lamp illuminates the freezing downpour. It crackles on the pane and the balcony floor. Lights along the canals are sparse. The spires atop the basilica domes of Santa Maria della Salute glow like two crystal spikes in the dark. Julia Iris turns from the window to face him.

  Albion is standing in the center of the room. A tangle of filigree clamors up the walls into an overhead canopy of vines and sharp leaves, gold and silver. A divinized vineyard. It glints like sun on frost. Though the artisanship astounds her, it makes her uneasy. Many of the paintings upon the walls are familiar, though just beyond her ability to recall why. Monet maybe? Could that be a Raphael? Tucked further back are four tall bed posts, and an inviting, soft bed filled with pillows. Crimson bed curtains.