“I was born a slave,” Albion says, “though it may sound strange to hear it. During the reign of the great Charlemagne. So long ago.” He gestures again for her to follow him and leads her back into the dark. “Of course the moral King Charlemagne spoke out against slavery, but, as it is to be expected with humanity, such abominations take time to fall completely out of fashion.”
Ahead a dimly lit hallway appears, then a flash of spark, and Albion, with a flaming match, lights a series of candles. He prattles on. “The fortunate part of the story is merely this: my mother, also a slave, was beautiful and caught the eye of the master of the house, a relatively successful trader in Rome with a great many responsibilities, a large house, two wives, children and several slaves. My mother, like most female slaves, was subject to the master’s will—and his carnal appetite.”
The room is a smooth polished stone with two windows, comfortable sofa, a chandelier of crystal and gold, and at the room’s center is a black grand piano. He sits behind it, raises the keyboard cover and nods at the sofa. “Sit, please.”
He plays a chord like a sun shower, delicate and bright. It trembles against the walls—like a lit mist over Lake Pend Oreille—from her house high above the lake in Hope, Idaho.
“This was good because I had a home, you see. I was born into a household and my father was the master of that house—though he would never claim me as his son. I was a slave.”
Another series of chords. Sustaining single notes like leaves falling in spirals.
“As early as five summers, I had tasks to perform. Mundane tidying—errands carrying messages, things for a small child—for small fingers. At harvest we would pluck grapes—sneak a few—they burst like sweet August rain on the tongue.”
The textures of his playing drift into a steady pulse. A single, repeating chord.
“But as the ancient tales tell, a son will rise up against the father. One night, after I had been deprived of food as a punishment for some childish mischief, daydreaming, quite likely, my sweet mother managed to lay hold of a few figs and a small cake. As she watched my grateful face devouring the feast, the master paid a visit to our chamber for some—sport.” Albion smashed his left hand onto the keyboard. A booming, hallow bass punctuated the pulsing chord. “Seeing that his punishment was ignored, the master proceeded to beat my mother with his wooden cup.” His left hand starts into a circular succession of dissonant bass notes. Loud. Then his other hand, in a flurry, cascades into a dizzying melody. A sudden burst of water over stones.
“And why shouldn’t he have done this?” Albion shouts over the loud, circular rhythms. “He is the master of the house, is he not? It is to him that we owe our very lives, yes? He is above us, and we are his slaves. We have no possessions, no name, no family. Nothing but the good fortune to serve him. Such was the law.”
The music culminates into a final, satisfying chord. Full and complete. The strings fade to near silence before he raises his fingers from the keys.
“When she was nearly unconscious from the beating, the cup broke into three pieces. Exhausted, he tossed a splinter at me and pulled my mother by the hair down to her knees. He growled at her, ‘I said no food for the rat! And what is this I see here?’ He pushed her face down to the last fig that dropped from my lap. ‘Eat,’ he said, ‘eat you dog! Eat when I allow, share when I allow, do as I bid! Eat!’”
His hands begin a reprise. The delicate image of shining jewels of sunlit rain.
“As early as five summers, I knew enough to stab a man. The splinter I gouged into his jugular with all the force I could muster. His eyes gaped when it occurred to him what had happened. With one hand clawing the wound, he laid hold of me with the other and snapped my neck like a twig.”
He stops playing.
Julia feels her hands knot into fists—her posture tense and upright.
“Sometime later, I woke in my mother’s arms. She was bloodied, one eye would never see again. She thought me dead, of course, but she could feel me breathing. The master lay in a pool of his own blood, just a few feet away, in the room of a slave, in his own house—now he had no possessions, no family, no longer any name. I had taken from him what was dearest, his life. And he could not take mine. So, I laughed.”
“When I could not die, I laughed, and I laughed because I could not die.”
Albion turns to Julia. His face is gentle. A sincerity glassing in his eyes. “From that day forward, I would not be ruled by any man.” He stands abruptly and offers his hand to her. She takes it and rises beside him. “Nor by any god.
“As I’ve asked of you, please be open and consider the future. I will not be ruled, but so, too, I will not rule others. I will merely point the way to the next evolution of human kind. It is the only way. As we spend more time together, consider joining this cause.”
Julia says, “I have seen senseless violence, heard of assassinations that you’ve implemented—a war that you’ve started. Why would I want to join—”
“My dear,” he stops her. “You do not yet understand. I want to survive. Survive. I want to live, Julia. We Itonalya—have nothing—nothing but the Now.”
He drops her hand and turns to the dark window. “Nothing!” he shouts. “Slavery is alive and well. Mortals are slaves to each other, to greed, to ideology, to ignorance. Even to their petty emotions. But they are allowed a place beyond.
“Not us! No, Julia, not you and I. Not those that share our blood. We are doomed to oblivion if we are vanquished here. To nothing. The gods in their infinite judiciousness grant us the pain of humanity without the escape. The rest is silence.”
Hail clatters against the window. Albion flattens his hand against the glass spreading his fingers wide.
“My vision is simple,” he says finally. “Through Basil Fenn’s masterpieces we will send the disease of humanity to the abode of the gods, and we shall evolve here into a race of immortal beings no longer shackled to death. We will make the earth our paradise.” When he faces her, Julia sees, for a moment only, a quaking, elderly man. Eyes cloven into caverns above the cheeks. A thin, wrinkled translucent skin gathered like pinned fabric. Sallow. Cold. “Simple,” he says again. At the word, the old face snaps away. Albion Ravistelle’s countenance is sharp and alluring. Distinguished. Not quite the face of a fifty-year-old-man.
He issues a slight laugh, “And if it is, indeed, Loche Newirth that has conjured Julia Iris and Albion Ravistelle to life, perhaps we can persuade him to spin a tale in our favor.
“Those that have joined with me, the Endale Gen, we will eliminate those that keep with the old ways. The Orathom Wis will be driven from the earth and marshaled to Oblivion. Bridging spirits, we will destroy and cast back to the hell they so desire. Yes, Julia, we are now at war. We fight for our place in existence.”
“What about the human race?” Julia asks. A horror filled whisper.
“Fear not,” he says. “I will heal them. I will heal them all.”
Via Martiri Della Liberta
November 6, this year
Just outside of Venice
“Are we there, yet?” Edwin Newirth asks.
“Not yet,” William Greenhame answers from over his shoulder. The windshield is dark.
Leonaie cannot get the street sign out of her head. It read, Via Martiri Della Liberta. “Ah. I get it. I’m in Italy,” Leonaie says to herself. “That’s why I can’t read the damn signs. I’m in Italy.”
“When we get there, my Mom will be there?” Edwin says.
“We’ll see your mom in the morning,” William answers.
“I thought you said it was already morning,” Edwin says.
“I did,” William admits. When the plane landed he had told the boy that it was indeed, past midnight, and now morning. 2:30 am.
“Will there be snacks? I’m hungry.”
“Yes lad, there will be snacks. We’ll stay tonight with a friend.”
Edwin didn’t answer. He looks up at Leonaie for a moment. She wraps he
r arm around him and scoots him close.
“Left lane,” Samuel says.
“Hey, who’s driving here?” William asks.
“You should have let me drive, mate. I know this country.”
“You’re an awful driver.”
“I am not an awful driver,” Samuel protests.
“Need I remind you of—”
“No, William, you don’t. And I would appreciate it if you would keep that night to yourself.”
“Very well,” William smiles. “Anyway, you’re missing a hand—best that I’ve got the wheel.”
Edwin, “Are we there, yet?”
Leonaie, “Martiri Della Liberta.”
“Not yet, Edwin. We’re getting closer all the time,” William answers.
“I may be the one missing a hand, my friend. But it seems to me that you’re the one missing a plan.”
William glances at Samuel and then back to the road ahead. “I will entreat him to a peace,” he says. “And while Albion entertains us in his court, you and Leonaie will slip in easily with Corey. But you must be swift. I have informed Corey that the treatment must be immediate. Otherwise, if things go ill for me, you will miss your chance.”
What does Martiri mean? Leonaie wonders.
“Entreat him to a peace?” Samuel says. “Really? At least I have Corey, a disguise and an appointment for a treatment—also an exit strategy. Peace? With Albion? That’s your plan? William, he won’t be swayed, you know that.”
Traffic is light. Leonaie watches the buildings pass. Sleep is hanging heavy on her.
“We go way back, Albion and I,” William says.
“I have a history with him, too. Do not forget, he has betrayed the Order. He threatens Light itself.”
“He will listen to me,” William says.
Samuel’s voice is fierce, “He betrayed you. Because of him, Basil is dead. Now you will bow before him and pray for peace? Peace with the one that has killed your son?”
“I did not say I would bow.” William muttered.
“He will try to kill you.”
“I hold the root of his aspiration.”
Leonaie, “What does Martiri mean?”
Samuel turns. She notes a slight flash of incredulity in his eyes.
“The name of this road,” she adds. “Vee-ah Martiri Dellah Lib-er-ta-something other. Does Martiri mean martini? Like a Vesper or a gin martini?”
Samuel faces forward again. William smiles.
“Martyr, darling. It means martyr.”
The Seed of Poison
April, 1338
The House of Albion Ravistelle, London
Before he opened his eyes, William’s hand searched for the soft leaves beside his pillow. They were not there. He rose up, frantic. A soft, grey light clung to the window. William tossed the pillows and pushed down the blankets. He did not find his leather pouch, nor did he find his father. His feet hit the cold floor and he rushed around the bed with a quick, thudding run. He put on his clothes. “Papa!” he called, opening the door. “Papa?”
There was no answer.
Some thirty paces through the dark, at the end of the hall was a dim glow and a stair leading down. A menacing gauntlet of tall, closed chamber doors were between him and the light. There was no knowing what might be lurking behind those doors. He took his first step. Both arms he crossed over his chest.
“Papa!” he called. Tears rose.
No answer.
“Mama,” he whispered.
“William?” a voice called. It was Alice. “William?” Her shape appeared rising up from the stair. William ran to her with his eyes squeezed nearly shut, and his arms held close in.
Within steps of her, William caught her smile and he stopped.
“Frightful, this hall in the dark. It has always given me the shivers, too. Come down and let’s get you some breakfast.” She reached a hand to his shoulder and gently guided him.
William paused at the top of the stairs and raised up, “Where are my mama’s leaves? Where’s my papa?”
“Come, come,” she said, gesturing him to descend. “You will see soon enough.”
Upon the dining table was a plate of sliced fruit and a small loaf of bread, but most importantly, the leather pouch of leaves. William climbed up into the chair and pulled it to his chest. The leather was moist, “Your father brought it down and bade me water it. I believe it has grown a finger’s length since.” William’s eyes traced the radiant midribs of the leaves.
She gave him a cup of cider. It smelled both spicy and sweet.
“Your father is assisting my lord Albion—preparing for your ride to Strotford,” she said, taking a long look at William. This made him nervous. Her appraisal seemed concerned.
“Boy,” she said finally, “you know little of what is happening, is that true?”
William let the pointed leaves tickle over his chin and lips.
“Answer me, boy.”
“I do not know if I should say,” William said. His voice hushed.
The woman sat down beside him. She laid her hand out on the table with her palm up. “May I hold your hand, William?”
Slowly, William placed his hand in hers. She closed her fingers over. They were warm, and calloused, but soft at the same time. The woman stared, still with a face of disquiet and worry.
“I know a thing or two about growing herbs. My lord Albion has taught me much about how to keep a plant green and growing. About how to keep the ones we want alive and how to protect them from other plants that will overshadow them. Harm them. You see, William, some plants are of value to us, the apple tree, the beanstalk, garlic, thistle and mandrake. But they are delicate and hard to come by and if we do not care for them, there are weeds and thorns and tall, leafy plants that will grow beside—and slowly choke out their stems and starve their roots.”
William nodded. “Mama grew herbs.”
“Yes,” Alice smiled, “I’ve been told. And she knew how to care for them. And how to protect them.
“William, my lord Albion has told me your tale—how your mother died.” She squeezed his hand. “I am sorry, lad. And today you ride to the door of the one that took her away. He is a bad man, William.”
William fidgeted. “Albion said he is not a man.”
Alice agreed, “That is right, he is not a man. He is from a place beyond this life.”
William wondered a moment. “Does the Bishop know that he is not a man?”
Alice’s gaze lowered to the shining leaves brushing at William’s chin. “That is a very good question. The answer is no. No, he does not know that his spirit is of the otherworld, that he is a god. He believes he is like us. He is not beyond fear. He is as delicate as any mortal, though he is covered in thorns and bramble—and his great arms block out the sun. He chokes the light from many.”
Her expression softened as she studied him. Releasing William’s hand she reached for the leather pouch of leaves. William drew back, hesitant to give it over, but he let her take it. Alice raised the leaves to her nose and breathed in their fragrance. William caught a hint of mint, pine and some distant scent he could not place. It brought an image of grey rain over the sea—though, he had never seen the wide ocean before.
“How did your mother kill the weeds that threatened her herbs?” she asked.
William laid a finger along his chin and thought back. He pictured the long wood boxes behind their small house. Rectangular containers of rich, black soil in rows. Lace-like stems and green leaves climbing out of the dark onto ladders his mother had erected, “To help them,” she had said. And then the weeds would spring up. She would pull them by the roots. But she would always study them first, he remembered. She would study them, as if there could be some quality that she may have missed. She cared for the plants she knew, but was ever curious about those that seemingly held little or no value. “Perhaps one day,” she told William, “I may discover their worth. Everything that lives has some worth.”
“Mam
a tried to heal most everything,” William said, finally. “Even weeds.”
“I see,” Alice smiled. “You know, William, in our monastery gardens, we have discovered a way to keep weeds from growing. We have found a way to poison them before they ever go to seed.”
“There is only one seedling,” William said, almost unconsciously. “And if it dies, so will its fruits and all of its leaves where ever they are.”
“What is meant by that?” the woman asked.
“Mother said that often.”
“Perhaps she meant the seed of goodness. If that dies, all else does, too,” Alice offered.
William shrugged. “Those are hers,” he said. “And she was goodness,” William stared at his leaves, still held near to the woman’s face. He suddenly did not like the mention of poisoning plants. “Mama didn’t make poison.” He reached for the pouch. She pressed it gently into his hand.
“I know, dear boy. Your mother would not have such a thing made. But poisons have a purpose—and when something undesirable grows and becomes unmanageable, it is a kinder way to protect the ones you love.”
Alice stood, leaned down and kissed the boy on the forehead. William lifted up his eyes. The woman again had worry seated in her stare. She touched his chin, “What must be done, must be done,” she muttered. “When you finish your breakfast, join your father and Albion below, through the door there, and down the stair.”
Alice stared. William felt uncomfortable.
“If—if something bad happens, William, and you’re alone—come back here to me. Say you will.”
“I will,” the boy said.
She began to turn away when she stopped and leaned down again, almost nose to nose with William. She crossed her eyes and grinned, “But most of all, dear, sweet boy, don’t forget to smile when you can. Poisoned or growing, good or ill, fixed or broken, the days carry on—and there’s no sense in worrying as you go along. You will do what is best, and all will be well. In the end, all will be well. Everything circles around.”
Leaves of Fire: Part Two of the Newirth Mythology Page 20