Kiss Samuel.
Old Friends
November 6, this year
Venice, Italy
“Truly,” Albion says, “it never feels as you expect.”
“Truly,” William Greenhame agrees.
They stare at one another. Julia sees the two Itonalya search the past, the long, long years, the moments that only two estranged friends can know. Impossible to fathom the sinews of memory that link them—the countless years that bind them.
Julia smiles at the word Greenhame chose to echo. Truly.
“And here you are, alone. Unarmed. You bring some message from George Eversman, I suppose? Perhaps you bring my wife’s son, Edwin? Tell me, William, why have you come?” Albion laughs, unable to contain his wonted demeanor. “Why have you come?”
William scans his audience. Julia holds her hand to her heart when his eyes fall upon her. He smiles. His eyes drift to Marcus Rearden, his mouth muttering nonsense in whisper, to Helen Newirth, her hand upon Albion’s shoulder. Julia notes nine armed Endale Gen in the corner shadows.
“Where is my son?” Helen asks glaring at Julia.
“Nearby,” William says.
“Not near enough,” she says. “Have you come to watch Julia buried alive?”
William closes his eyes and draws a deep breath. He smiles at Albion. “Irksome, Helen. Always irksome. Why is it taking you so long to think like an Itonalya?”
“Oh sweet William,” Helen says. “It wasn’t me that started this war. The love for your children seems to have hurled existence to the edge of ruin.” She lays an open palm atop her bosom, and with her best Italian accent says, “We’re both part of the same hypocrisy.”
Albion’s eyes narrow. “Why are you here, William?”
“I am here to stop you.”
“I see.”
“I am also here to reunite mother to son, bring lover to lover, and friend to friend. I am here to offer you respite.”
“How auspicious. I applaud your intentions. Now, what do you want?”
William drops to a knee. He bows his head. “Give me Julia. Give me Edwin and release Helen with them. In return I vow that the Orathom Wis will no longer heed their ancient summons. Nor will they stand in your way. Your will on earth,” he paused and raised a glare at his old friend, “as it is in Heaven.”
Albion laced two fingers over his lips. “Is that all? You take from me my love, her son, and Julia, one that could become great, in exchange for the standing down of a decrepit Order that has outlasted its worth. An Order that is already on the verge of extinction. Slaves? William, even as we speak, I lay siege to Mel Tiris. Tomorrow, the Orathom Wis will be destroyed. Loche Newirth’s journal and the last collection of Basil Fenn’s work will be in my possession. Tell me again, how is this respite? Truly, my old friend, is that all you offer?”
Greenhame stood, “No,” he said. “I’ve not mentioned the threat.”
Albion laughs. “Threat? By all means, give me your worst.”
“If you refuse me, I shall be forced to destroy you and all that you hold dear. You have taken from me one son. I seek no revenge. If you were to take from me my other son, still I would stay my vengeance. For they have waiting a place in the Orathom. But refuse my simple requests, here, now, and I will cast both your ambition and you, into oblivion.”
Protectors
April, 1338
On the road to Strotford Manor, north of London
Two bright torches lit the road ahead. For the next mile, the only sound was the steady march of the horse’s hooves and the creaking wagon. Once they had passed the last of the campfires, William thought he could hear Albion muttering to himself—more curses and name calling.
Radulphus was the first to speak, “Bum sniffing pawn?” The priest wore a faint smile.
Albion laughed. “The bastards smelled to high heaven.”
William mouthed the words, bum sniffing pawn, but with no voice for he knew that his father would not approve. But he grinned at the insult.
Albion said, “I thought he was going to lose his head. I have no patience for such fellows—ignorant, fearful, power hungry—the worst of all humanity. Like rats in the dark.”
William smelled smoke.
“Dangerous,” the priest said.
“This is true,” agreed Albion. “As a group, such folk will sour the world. Foul the thoughts and hopes of many. Though they might be redeemed, I admit, I am not their teacher—but they are too far gone—so rapt in Gravesend’s spell that they’ve lost themselves. And the horrors they’ve committed—”
Albion’s voice faltered as the horses led them around a bend. Radulphus crossed himself. William lifted the pouch of leaves to his nose. He imagined his mother’s touch steadying him.
In the torchlight, five men hung by their necks. Flapping and clawing at the shoulder of the nearest, a black crow stabbed at the gray flesh. Just beyond the makeshift gallows were three conical piles of ash, like the ones William had seen in the village square. They glowed with a muted orange and crimson. Feathers of flame waved in silence. The standard of Gravesend towered over the hateful sight—the branch hewn cross—its arms swathed with a long rag of scarlet.
Albion pulled the horses to a stop. A sign had been posted upon the forward post of the gibbet.
It read:
maleficum ne patiaris vivere eris
neque vindicum
--Cyrus
“And here we see the healing that John spoke of. They believe they heal the woes of this world…” Albion hissed. “Ithic veli agtig.”
“What does it say?” William asked, quietly.
Radulphus placed his arm around him, “It says, thou shalt not suffer a witch to live—nor those that protect her. It is by order of the leader of Gravesend’s sentinels, Cyrus.”
The dead eyes were frozen and distant. An expression that seemed to see beyond this life. Their faces reminded William of the statue he had seen when they entered London. That face peering out of this world.
“They dream,” William whispered. His palm felt for the sharp edged leaves.
Albion drove the horses onward.
Won’t You Guess My Name?
August, 1987
New York City
The martini glass was empty save the single olive. Helen pinched it out and bit it in half. Salt and gin and the heady buzz. The evening was cooling. The fume of hot asphalt and exhaust. She watched the foot traffic beside her table near Times Square. Both men and women noticed her, lured from her black heels and silk summer dress. Most attempted a connection. She allowed a few the joy of her smile, but for an instant only—not enough for any to stop and speak to her. The rest of her countenance was cautionary.
The waiter set another martini before her. The poor man. He followed the line from her bare shoulders to her earrings glimmering with the table’s candle. She unlatched her restraint and lifted her face to him, her lips were wet, and she filled his eyes with her light. “Thank you,” she said.
“My pleasure,” he said. A slight quaver. He fumbled reaching for the empty glass. It toppled—she saved it just in time.
The gin. The honey-pine vermouth. Her skin radiated heat. Sunlight tucked away behind a building. A slight chill crept through her.
But she knew the chill to come would be nearly unbearable. He would soon arrive and she looked into the busy restaurant trying to spot him.
Then she felt it, the Rathinalya. A blanket of tiny needles wrapped her body. Slowly it intensified into a mixture of stinging, chills and rapture. A nail dragged from her breastbone to her navel and down. Torment and pleasure. It was the Rathinalya—though it was unlike the others. She braced herself. She crossed her legs and squeezed them together trying to control it. She had a job to do. Again, she leaned and searched. Again, she scanned the restaurant.
“I know who you are,” he said. He was behind her.
Helen reached for her martini and brought the full glass to her mouth. She sipped it then r
eturned it to the table. Slow and certain, she craned her neck and looked up and over her left shoulder.
A middle aged man stood behind Helen studying her. She felt her lips part slightly at the sight of him. His hair was black. From his eyes gyred flecks of gold and green—or was that the intensity of the Rathinalya? Words ticked through her mind as she tried to describe him—exquisite and hateful—beautiful and terrible—glorious horror.
“I know who you are,” he said again. He smiled.
She turned back to her drink, “I doubt it,” she said.
“This is the third time you’ve been in my path. Three days in a row you’ve been here. Seems to me, we should have a drink together.”
“I’m waiting for someone,” she said.
“You’ve been waiting for me.”
True, she thought, suppressing a compulsion to say it. She wondered suddenly if she had replied or not. True, I’ve been waiting for you, to slice you limb from limb and toss your head into the sea. She could do it here, or in private at a nearby apartment. At a word, he would go with her. Here or there? Helen’s eyes slid to a nearby sidewalk garbage can where a short sword was buried, hilt up and ready. The scenarios appeared like blue prints in her head: the two police officers two blocks away, one man inside the restaurant, possibly carrying a firearm, the escape route and change of clothes at the flower shop on 8th, her driver waiting for her on 9th. Or, in private?
The Rathinalya was beyond anything she’d felt before. Thrilling and addictive. Painful. Prolonging it might be unwise. Stop his heart, stop this torturous chill. Here. Now.
“True. I’ve been waiting for you,” she said, her hair coiling down over her naked shoulder as she looked back up to him. “Let’s have that drink right now.” She gestured to the seat across from her. A short leap to the sword, three steps away.
She turned back to her martini. As she reached for the stem another man was approaching the table. Raising up she felt both the Rathinalya and an explosion of euphoria burst within her.
“Albion!” she cried. “Albion!” she rose in shock.
Albion Ravistelle took hold of her wrist and pulled her to him. Every fiber within her quivered in pain and delight. Tears flooded her eyes.
“My darling, Helen,” he whispered in her ear. All of her strength coiled around him.
“Albion,” she said, unable to let go. She pressed her mouth to his. She bit his lips. “Oh God! Oh God! Oh God!” She wept between each kiss.
After a few moments, Helen pulled her face away and stared at him. He looked just as he did the day he went away. Keen eyes, elegant and handsome. She could see that he had missed her, too. She was certain of it.
“Helen, I want you to meet someone.” His focus was over her shoulder—the man she was sent to assassinate. She turned, still ravished by a million pin pricks and the joy of Albion’s return.
“Pleased to meet you,” the man said.
“Helen Craven, this is our new friend.” Albion’s voice then quavered, “Mr. Nicolas Cythe.”
The Building Bridge
Within the portrait of Loche Newirth
The star remains. Does that mean that darkness has an end? Does it mean that the black hole does not exist—that this is all a dream—I can wake now—I can wake?
Day is bright blue, though, the boy had informed Loche that it is not really day. It is what one might call an illusion for, given their particular place in existence, day, night, and time itself is indefinable. Loche, as he tries to unfold the thought, spits. Too much, he thinks. He lurches and leans to another floating face. It carries him.
—It’s day. The sky is blue, he tells the boy.
The boy does not reply.
Ahead, the far shore has revealed itself. The face of Edwin had said, Look, there lies the window’s edge. Basil is somewhere out there.
Loche strains his eyes. He sees a sandy and green shore stretching like a cord between the sea and sky.
—Tell me, the boy says. What will you do when you find him?
—I don’t know, Loche answers. We must find a way to close the doors—or the windows, as you call them.
—Yes, the boy says.
Loche moves to take another step and notes that the bridge is ending. It is ending well before reaching the shore. He stops and does not move.
—Wait, the boy says.
At that moment, hundreds of heads float to the surface connecting the bridge to the beach. Heads that the acidic brine of sea had not yet tasted by the look of them. The faces still wear shock and pain and fear. Death is new upon them. Loche takes an uneasy step and moves forward. Another and another. He moves faster.
A head turns face up and it halts Loche. He recognizes the eyes. It is the immortal, Justinian Pierce of the Orathom Wis. Two more roll over and glare into the blue. More Guardians from Mel Tiris he had met—when? An hour ago? A week? Ten years?
The boy sees what has captured Loche.
—The War of the Immortals on earth has begun. The siege of Mel Tiris. It will not be long before the fight will be before your very door, he said.
Grasshopper
November 7, this year
Venice, Italy
Leonaie, hand in hand with Samuel, follows Dr. Angelo Catena down a long, sterile-white hallway with many doors. White coated personnel with clip boards and rolling stretchers, and vital sign monitors and other gadgetry are busy bustling about. Voices clatter off of the polished floors and shiny walls. Passing a door that is slightly ajar, Leonaie catches a glimpse of a man sitting and rocking back and forth. Something has his arms fastened behind his back.
Now that’s strange, she thinks.
“Tell me the myth, again, Samuel,” she says. “Tell me how we’re not going to let that happen to us.”
“Tithonus,” Samuel says, his voice low, and a little frantic, “was the prince of Troy—and he was loved by the goddess of the morning. She stole him away to love him and be with him forever. But Tithonus was not immortal, so she pleaded with Jupiter to grant the prince immortality, but failed to ask for eternal youth.”
“I hate this part of the story,” she says as the trio turn a corner into another long, white hall. “Are you listening, Dr. Catena? This is important.”
Catena thumbs his glasses. “I am, Miss Eschelle. I know the tale well.” He walks fast.
Samuel continues, “After a time, it was clear to the goddess that her lover was aging. He soon wrinkled, then he could not walk, then he could not move at all. She cared for him as long as she could, but eventually she was forced to hide him away within her palace. When she could no longer endure his cries, she turned him into a grasshopper.”
“Hear that, Doc?” Leonaie says. “We would like to forgo the grasshopper feature.”
Catena stops at a door and slides his ID card into a slot. A red light blinks. The doctor groans. He slides it again. Another red light.
Samuel’s voice is straining for control, “You did get the memo that we’re in a hurry, yes?”
A green light illuminates upon the panel and the interior lock in the door unbolts.
“Come in,” he says.
The three enter into a large, warmly lit chamber. It looks nothing like a hospital room, though it does have the monitors, instruments, and expected medical supplies. The room is wood paneled, the floors are of a deep mahogany and the furniture is rich in golds and greens. A huge copper basin, the size of a bathtub dominates the center of the room. A single, silver light is directed into its center.
“Did I tell you that we had a claw foot tub when I was a little girl?” Leonaie says suddenly. “And at night, my sisters and I would dance to Dad’s singing and whistling. We sure got a kick out of that. Then it would be bath time.”
Samuel says to the doctor, “Is that it?”
Catena thumbs his wiry glasses again and nods. “The fountain of youth. It is. It is indeed.”
Sworn
April, 1338
Waltham Monastery, north of London<
br />
“Is he asleep?” Albion asked. His voice was hushed.
“It appears so,” William’s father said. “Though, I find it hard to believe that the boy will ever sleep well again after such sights. I, myself, must fend off nightmares.”
William laid on his side facing away from the two. From the flickering candlelight, faces appeared in the shadowed fissures of the walls. He was wide awake, though he did not want the two men to know it.
Once they had arrived at the Waltham Monastery they were shown to their bedchamber with a plate of fruit and bread, and a pitcher of wine. Without a word, William removed his boots, tottered to the bed and climbed beneath the blanket. Albion and Radulphus sat at a small table near the window.
William listened as they sipped their goblets and took a few morsels of food.
Albion said finally, “I believe I have it, Father. How to remove Gravesend.”
“Do tell.”
“I must first learn your mind in full. I must know that you are sworn to this bloody deed.”
Radulphus paused. William heard him sigh. “I am. It is against my conscience, yet with the miracles that I have seen between you, my son and the graces of my late wife—if what you say is true, and Gravesend is not of this world, I will do what I can to eliminate him. It sickens my heart—” he broke off. Another few moments passed. “A sickness that is not unlike a forbidden pleasure—as if this killing will be justified—as if revenge is allowed. I find it difficult to describe.”
“I think I understand, Father. Your vengeance in this matter is justified. And your obligation. I daresay, that when it happens, know the act is truly righteous. And it will be rewarded.”
“Then I say to you, I am sworn.”
“Very well. Now to the purpose. Your names we must change. William, I believe, can remain, William. It will be easier for him to remember—you however, Father, should go by another name. Father Radulphus Grenehamer is a name too well known. Let me think… I have it. In honor of your lovely bride, and in light of your changing view of this world, let us give you an Elliqui name.”
Leaves of Fire: Part Two of the Newirth Mythology Page 23