Leaves of Fire: Part Two of the Newirth Mythology

by Michael B. Koep

  Her broad smiling face filled William with the first gladness since everything had changed. He heard himself giggle. Alice rose up and walked briskly into the next room.

  A Letter

  November, 1980

  Venice, Italy

  Helen closed the door behind her and ran to the table beside the window. The very table where she and Albion had their last embrace. As she sat, her fingers tore the envelope open. A letter from Albion. She had received only ten letters over the five year estrangement. Most shared Albion’s travels, advice for her training, and disparate pieces of history. But each missive always contained some outpouring of love for her—some shorter than others. The thought of his yearning was the fuel she needed. Desperately, she tore the envelope open.

  November 16, 1980

  Dearest Helen,

  Time has halted. Never has this happened in the millennia that is my life. Without you, days feel as decades. Without you, I feel age. Sweetly am I punished for my ardent discipline. Sweet is this longing I’ve never known. I have waited for you, Helen.

  I have heard of your recent journey to America, and I have been informed of your vengeful motive.

  DO NOT DO THAT AGAIN.

  Though I recognize a need to punish those that leave scars upon us, I insist that you take some time to consider your anger, pain and suffering now that you have acted upon the one you blame. Tell me, Helen, is the pain still there? As your victim lay in a deadly coma, are you still a victim? If you still feel pain from the past, from your recent revenge, you must acknowledge the pain to be in your own keeping. Cast it away, Helen. It was given to you, but you need not carry it. Your future life reaches forward, centuries ahead. Pack only what you need.

  History has taught man nothing with vengeance as a teacher, save what the gods love: our suffering. The less suffering, the less men will need a god.

  I return soon.

  All my love,

  —A

  Ocean

  Within the portrait of Loche Newirth

  —Behold, the ocean.

  —I cannot, Loche cried. Is there another way? You’re a god. Can’t you carry me? You can fly, right?

  —Yes, I am a god, at least to your mind. I can fly. No I cannot carry you, for you are human and not yet joined with the Dream.

  Loche stares out. What dreamless hours have passed? How long had he been within this forsaken painting? Hours? Weeks? Months? Before him stretched a fear from before memory. A fear of the sea. The size. Its sheer, all encompassing weight and strength. He could sense its might pulsing beneath the surface. Its depth and cavernous ranges of bleak cold. Breakers spraying brine into mist—coral, like needles of glass, spines as fine as fish bones, ladders connecting all life—shell cones and spirals whorling into crowns—countless tubes, bivalves, jelly, tentacles, pulp. And in the deeps, what creatures? What terrors lurk there? And its surface—mountains of water ever in motion—crests and valleys.

  —Yes, the boy says. It is vast. This is for you, the threshold of death. Pass beyond it and we may discover your brother in the Dream.

  —How? How can I cross it?

  —You must take your first step.

  The boy strides out and turns. With a blink, Loche sees his son, Edwin, standing upon the water, his arm reaching back.

  —Edwin?

  —Follow me, the boy says.

  A simmering mist tangles over the water. Loche takes his first step. It feels as if he has walked onto a floating log. Two more paces and he still floats. Unsteady, but buoyant.

  —How is it that we walk upon the water?

  —It is not the water that holds you up, Poet.

  Loche looks down to his feet. The veil of vapor parts enough for him to see. He is standing upon a surface of bobbing, human heads.

  The shock of the sight reels him into an unsteady struggle for balance. The boy reaches out and braces him until the terror eases.

  —I can’t! I can’t!

  —Be at ease. Be at ease. These are the heads of gods, the heads of immortals that once lived and breathed upon the earth. Walk now upon them. They live no longer, and they are your path to the far shore.

  The Poet raises his eyes and traces the bridge from his feet to the bleak horizon, to the faint star beckoning from the inky black. He is reminded of the single Eye—the abyss that he still has not managed to escape from.

  With his focus upon his son, he climbs to heaven.

  The Single Star

  November 6, this year

  Venice, Italy

  “I can’t believe Albion would let me see this place,” Julia says.

  Corey Thomas closes the door behind them. “You’re immortal, Julia. He wants nothing more than your empathy. He has everything to gain by sharing all he has with you.”

  In the air is a hint of pot and oil. Shelves along the far wall are packed with records overflowing onto the floor. Easels, draping black fabric, containers of long-stem paint brushes, tables crowded with sketches, pencils—a couple of full ashtrays. On the walls are constellations of paint splatters. Even the ceilings trail long-tailed, crimson comets and distant yellow suns. A half finished bottle of The Macallan sits in the center of a round dining table with three chairs. And so much more. The entire room is a collage of color, photographs, sketches, random items linking into a single art piece.

  “Basil’s studio,” Julia says. “I read of this place. I know this place. It looks just like I imagined.”

  Corey laughs, “Yes. Or as Loche Newirth imagined.”

  She nods, squinting. “Yes.”

  “You look like you could use a drink.”

  “It’s early morning,” Julia says.

  Corey pours two glasses anyway. She takes the booze into her mouth.

  “Loche’s journal said there were no cameras or microphones in here. Is that true?”

  Corey nods. “One important reason for bringing you here. Are you okay?”

  “I still do not know what I am.”

  “Well, if I might help you into the present, you are ransom. You are immortal. You are being courted to become a part of the Endale Gen. If Helen’s son is not returned to her, or you refuse to join, Albion will have your limbs removed from your body. He will have them burned—and like the old customs, your head will be tossed into the sea.”

  Julia feels her eyes widen.

  “Oh, and you will cease to exist.”

  She dumps the remaining scotch into her mouth.

  “And if I join with him?” she quavers.

  Corey sighs. “You must go to war with the Orathom Wis. You go to war against the gods. You will do battle with the whirling tide of the Universe—a course that has been steady since Light appeared.”

  Julia holds her glass out. He refills it.

  “And you are a spy? You are Orathom Wis?”

  “I am,” he says. His chin rising slightly.

  “But you fought against Albion at the Uffizi. I don’t understand how he doesn’t know your secret.”

  “Albion believes that I spy for him. He was under the impression that if I fought at his side at the Uffizi, my cover would be blown with the Orathom Wis. Over the years I’ve managed to master the vocation of double agent. Things are not always as they seem.”

  “What about oblivion? What about Albion’s rebellion against the gods?”

  “It is true we face oblivion, or so it is said. But the Order believes Loche and Basil—Poet and Painter, are our salvation. They will bring an end to all that was and a beginning to all that will be.” He chuckles. “Though we do not know how. They are not gods—they possess something beyond divinity.”

  “Did you ever see one of Basil’s works?” she asks.

  Corey looks away. “No.” He reaches for the bottle. “No. But I have talked with some that have.”

  “Is Albion still showing Basil’s work to those with extreme mental disorders?”

  He nods. “As we speak.”

  Julia lifts her gaze to the paint spl
attered ceiling. Tiny ultramarine meteors race on a trajectory to the corners. A high spray of cool alizarin fumes from a thousand aureolin suns. She reads there versions of Cassiopeia, Andromeda, Cygnus—her eyes follow Diana’s arrow from the starry string to a flaring penumbra down into the room again. The horizon is made of leaning canvases, easels, shelves of records, collages of photos, hand scrawled notes and partial works, coffee maker and an unmade bed.

  “God, I miss him,” Julia says. The booze stings her lips.

  “Though I did not know him well, I, too, miss him.”

  She gazes back up into the spattered paint above. She can imagine his brush’s swinging arc.

  Then she sees it.

  Julia drops her glass and it shatters at her feet.

  “Oh my God…” she says. Her eyes are trained on a splashed paint cluster on a far wall. She rushes toward it. Corey follows.

  “What is it? What is it, Julia?”

  “It’s—it’s—” she falters.

  “What do you see?”

  Her hand rises to her lips as she stares. She feels a smile at her fingertips. She looks at Corey and says:

  “Find the single star

  And watch it blink.

  Until the mountains fade,

  And we to sleep.”

  Circles

  November 6, this year

  Just outside of Venice, Italy

  Leonaie falls silent for a moment. How long have I been talking? Does it matter? No. More than likely, no. Samuel is here. The little Edwin is here. William is here.

  But, who is this woman I’m telling all of this to? What was her name again? Never mind. Did I mention how we spent our evenings? I had best do that… She’d like that.

  “My sister Margaret learned how to tap dance from a friend of hers, a girl named Lavern. And I taught my dad how to tap dance when he was about fifty. He would whistle and sing and we girls would dance around. Mom would sit and sew while we all did that. She liked it. She got a kick out of it. And I was the littlest of my sisters, so I always slept in the middle.”

  “Did you listen to the radio?”

  “Oh yes,” Leonaie says. “Maybe I was in the fifth grade when we got our first radio. Dad would listen to Amos and Andy— and One Man’s Family—a big show at the time.”

  “I remember One Man’s Family,” the woman smiles.

  Leonaie loves the sight of this woman. Late fifties, maybe. Grey hair, dazzling eyes like blue ocean. She looks as if they could be friends. Old friends. Leonaie reaches out her hand and touches the woman’s knee. “Dear, I am so sorry. I get so forgetful. What was your name again?

  “Alice, dear. Alice Bath.”

  “Alice, of course. You see, I sometimes forget things. William and Samuel told me your name on the way here.

  “I forget things all the time,” Alice says. “But you must be exhausted—traveling all through the night into the morning—and without a warm, fuzzy blanket. And most importantly, without wine.” She fires a glare at William Greenhame. “When will you learn, William.” Alice then turns to Edwin. His eyes are swaying like heavy doors in the wind. “When did this little one last get to sleep?”

  “Alice, I—” William stammers.

  “Don’t Alice me,” she waves her hand at him and stands. “A granddad should know when to lay his grandson down for a snooze.”

  “I love that word snooze,” Leonaie says. “I use that word.”

  Alice nods, “I love that word, too. And I love snoozing.”

  Leonaie reaches her hand to Alice and pulls her close. “How old did you say you were, dear?”

  Alice leans down and answers. “Older than the hills, sweetheart. Older than the hills and twice as dusty.”

  “Alice,” William says. “I want you to come with us.”

  She shakes her head and begins wringing her hands. “I don’t think so, William. I’ve not spoken to Mr. Albion Ravistelle for at least a century—and I’m not about to change that now. He’s of a different mind—has taken a dangerous, selfish course. He’s forgotten the order of things—carving for himself, he is.”

  Samuel says, “He has changed.”

  “Nevertheless,” Greenhame says. “I need you to help me look after this beautiful little boy while Albion and I reason together.”

  “Perilous, William. Going to his door…”

  “I know. But it must be done.”

  Alice’s eyes drop down to Edwin. He is teetering on the edge of sleep. “He looks like you,” she smiles. “He looks like my little William. Like the day you were brought to me.”

  “Circles,” William says, placing his hand upon her shoulder. “We drift in circles, do we not?”

  The Healers

  April, 1338,

  On the road to Strotford Manor, north of London

  Far above black birds whirled against a bruised sky. William traced their paths. There was the clop-clop of the two horses. The air had sweetened at the last bridge crossing. High pines, oaks and spruce trees were now beginning to thicken, hiding the sky. Hiding the light.

  There had been very little talk. Albion spoke every now and then about the road ahead. It was past mid-day, though there was no visible sun. William watched the crows flutter like flecks of black ash blowing from tree to tree. He wondered if they were following the wagon. The turning wheels creaked.

  William cradled the leather pouch now sprouting another leaf, viridescent and luminous. “Take good care of your leaves, William,” Alice told him as she kissed his cheek goodbye. “And remember that you are a gardener. Protect your garden.”

  Along with the three travelers, the wagon also carried several boxes of rich soil and newly burgeoning herbs. Albion suggested that such a gift to Gravesend’s house would be well received. Dill and ginger for the stomach, mint and coriander for cough, juniper for pain, elm and aloe for cuts and burns, and sage for all and everything else. There was another box, small and black that Albion had separated from the others. It contained an ample amount of dried cowbane. Gravesend’s Bane, Albion called it when he placed it behind his seat.

  William had been told about the herb, and it had been explained how it was to be used. Both Albion and his father showed him the plant. Albion had said, simply, “Enough placed into his cup or dashed upon his food, and Gravesend will be no more.”

  His father added, “If Gravesend is indeed a player in the miracles I’ve seen with both you and Albion, I believe it must be done. His murderous ways must come to an end.”

  The poison was crowned with delicate, white flowers, like tiny puffs of cotton. William wondered how the plant managed to live—itself, being poisonous.

  William looked up. The woods were now clawing at the sky. The crows followed.

  “Halt your wagon, Father. Where might you be going?”

  William was roused by the voice, harsh and cruel. When he opened his eyes he was startled by a bright torch held before the horses. Night had come on while he had slept.

  The smell of acrid excrement on the air made him wrinkle his nose. In the gloaming, surrounding them on all sides were twenty or more red sashed followers of Gravesend. William did not know where they came from, but in the failing light he could see makeshift shelters cluttered in the trees and several campfires, and he assumed that they must have rolled directly into one of their encampments.

  “Well, Father?” the sentry said to Radulphus. “The night is coming on. Where are you going?”

  William thought he looked vaguely familiar as if he’d seen him on the abbey grounds near his village. One of the raiders—perhaps they all would look the same, he thought.

  Albion answered, “We make for the monastery at Waltham tonight. Tomorrow we ride to Stortford. We have been sent for by his Excellency, Bishop Gravesend. Here is our summons.” Albion produced the note he had opened at the dinning table the night before.

  At the mention of Gravesend, the sentry’s eyes lit up. He grabbed the note with one hand, shook it open and held it up to his nose
. “I see.” A moment later he said, “So you are the apothecary? Mr. Aloysius Stell, is it?” He then leaned closer. He sniffed at Albion. “I’ve seen you before,” he said.

  “I doubt it,” Albion replied.

  “No, no,” he said, holding the torch higher, “you were on the road near Ascott, a few days ago.” He called out, “Jakes! Jakes! Come here, Jakes.”

  A tall, wiry framed man trotted up. His red sash was torn and stained. Another awful smell joined in the air. William scanned the unkempt group—the felled trees at the road side—the entrails of some creature they had obviously gutted and hauled off to roast.

  “Jakes, remember this fellow? Didn’t we see this fellow on the road near Ascott?”

  Jakes tilted his head at Albion. The man’s pupils were slightly maligned. “P`haps, p`haps, John. Was he the one with the white horse?”

  The sentry, apparently named John, said, “No, no. This one here, he rode through, not four nights back. A black horse, just like one of these here, pulling this wagon.”

  “P`haps, John. P`haps. The horse I seen before.”

  “Not the horse, Jakes, this man, here.”

  Albion’s eyes narrowed.

  “This man, here. This man, here.” Jakes appraised the three, one eye darting out and away. “Don’t know, John.” He said. “P`haps he did, p`haps he didn’t.”

  Albion scowled, straining for patience, “You may have seen me traveling to one of my gardens near Kindlington or Oxford.”

  “Yes, yes, that could be,” said John. “We were just out that way. A tidy way from here.”

  “A tidy way,” Jakes echoed.

  “And now you ride to Strotford?” John asked.

  Jakes, “Strotford?”

  Albion held out his hand gesturing to have the Bishop’s letter returned. “As you have read,” he said.

  “Well, if you’ve an invitation from his Excellency, we will send you on your way. We shan’t keep you any longer.” He handed the note. “God save you, Father,” he said to Radulphus, bowing and crossing himself.

  The priest nodded his head in acknowledgement and raised his hand to bless the man. A gleam of fire kindled in his father’s eye. Though his expression was not without its wonted gentleness and caring, there was fury lurking behind it. Seeing the subtle glare, William, too, felt his own heat rise. These were the very men that descended upon their abbey—upon his family. The leather pouch felt heavy.