Leaves of Fire: Part Two of the Newirth Mythology

by Michael B. Koep

  “As you wish,” Albion said, pressing his hand down upon Radulphus’ shoulder. “Our charge is firmly set upon healing—and may it please his Excellency, it has nothing to do with magic. Our hope, Robert, is this. Through the use of our remedies and bringing Bishop Gravesend back to health, he will stop his rampage, condone the advancement of our practice.”

  Radulphus added gruffly, “And beg the forgiveness of the hundreds of families that have had their mothers, wives and daughters torn from them.”

  “If only it were that simple, Master Aloyisus, Father Falio. I cannot say if his interpretation of scripture will change if your medicine plays a role in his recovery, but God’s will is God’s will. That cannot be changed by a man.”

  “That remains to be seen,” Albion said.

  Robert Peterson held Albion’s eyes and replied, “Four of Bishop Gravesend’s household wear the simple habit of monks. They are of the Benedictine tradition but they are also studied in arms and warfare. Though their vow of silence helps them to hear God’s voice, it also allows them to keenly hear others. Do not besmirch God’s word here, I warn. They, like His Excellency, will suffer no evil upon God’s earth.” The doctor added in a low voice, “Again, I caution you to choose your words carefully when in their presence. I share your disgust at their actions of late, and I share your passion for healing and restoring, but their methods are quite different. They would sooner hack a wounded limb off than heal it. They strike at the root of pestilence, not at its outward flourishes.”

  A servant entered the room carrying Albion’s case of potions. He set it at the feet of Robert and whispered into his ear. He then stepped to the door and opened it, holding it wide.

  Robert said, “Your case, Mr. Stell. Our own herb master found three potential poisons in your collection. They have been removed.”

  Albion raised his hands, “Those poisons, as you call them, are primary elements to many remedies. I do hope you will return them if we require their attributes. To be dangerous, we would need an overwhelming amount—”

  “Mr. Stell, they have been removed to assure the Bishop’s safety. Now, if you will follow me, His Excellency awaits us.”

  Albion lifted his case and said, his voice almost laughing, “As you wish. Let the healing begin.”

  The Final Trial

  April, 1988

  Coeur d’Alene, Idaho

  I have returned.

  Helen’s lids had been closed for longer than they should. She was daydreaming. She saw crystal goblets glowing red. She could smell the salt chop of the far off sea and the Venetian canals—the musk of Albion’s skin against hers. The flaking leather of old books. Her fingers gliding along the spines as she made up her mind which to devour. The hard sparkling rubies around the mask’s eyes.

  “Helen.”

  How many times had she felt the Rathinalya as she sent gods back across the seraphic gulf? She had lost count. The ravishing chills. A head plummeting to the sea out beyond the Canadian shoreline. The blood smeared leaves on Guam. The time she prowled through the streets of Cairo in search of a Bridger responsible for the death of thousands of Jews during World War II. Evil fuck. Found him.

  Always, always cut them to pieces.

  Have no pity.

  This was the good fight. And the new war. The silent war that the world would never hear.

  “Helen?”

  She had proven herself beyond doubt. Albion had said so. She felt a smile. She and Albion would have a child. Her womb ached for a boy. She would call him Edwin. Albion had promised that they would be together—but not yet. Not until after this final trial. After this, they would be one.

  “Helen Craven!”

  Florescent lights blurred her vision. She sighed.

  Standing just behind her was Mr. Ballard. His voice was angry and sarcastic, “If you’re going to sleep in my class, Helen, would you like me to get you a pillow?”

  Laughter chattered around her.

  I have returned.

  Helen Craven sat at her desk in a classroom of twenty-three other sophomore high school students. However, instead of the bell bottomed jeans of her former school years, she was now surrounded by tight, skinny jeans—hair was teased to massive proportions—earrings were the size of plates—bright neon colors were mismatched and worn together—collars were flipped up—denim was acid washed—MTV was god. The first thing she saw when she opened her eyes was the back of a WHAM! tour shirt, proudly worn by the student seated in front of her. She felt pity. Her first thought coming out of her daydream, What happened to music?

  The world had blended into something unrecognizable since her last experiences in high school in the seventies. The antiquity of her Venetian home over the Atlantic seemed now to be her anchor. It was timeless. Timeless like her blood. Still, it amazed her that she was able to pass for seventeen—hair huge, make up thick, shoulders padded.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Ballard,” she said with a layer of practiced shyness, “I was up late studying.”

  Mr. Ballard made no more of it and continued his lecture.

  Helen looked down at her note book. She had drawn the logo for Led Zeppelin and just below a rough sketch of the burning Hindenburg airship—the song, Your Time Is Gonna Come, echoed in her memory. How is Jimmy, she wondered. I should give him a call. She pointed her pencil into the drawing and added a last bit of shading. Slowly she leaned her body to the left and nudged the drawing to the right edge of the desk. She waited hoping the boy behind her would see it. She was certain he would, fully aware that he had an eye for artwork of all kinds.

  Dark eyes. Long brown hair. His manner was devoid of the neon trend. He said little due to the ever-present headphones strapped around his head—introverted—few friends. She was not expecting him to be as cute as this.

  “Very cool,” she heard him whisper.

  Helen grinned. This would be too easy. Hell, she had not yet even begun to apply herself. She scribbled onto a sheet of paper a question. “What’s your name?” She already knew the answer. She passed it back to him beneath her arm.

  A moment later, the note was passed back.

  It read: Basil Fenn. She then felt the breath of his words in her hair, “Do you like art?”

  Sighting

  Within the portrait of Loche Newirth

  —The far shore. You have come to the far shore, the boy says. His appearance shifts. He becomes Edwin.

  Loche’s feet feel the heat of fine sand. Or, his brain tells him: sand, heat, fine, loud surf, blue air. He knows that with a single touch from the boy god, the facade would disappear, and he would be surrounded by some impossible chaotic light, hypnotic vibration and maddening vision of infinity. Think sand. Think beach. Think blue sky.

  Mixed in the rush of crashing sea, he detects another sound. High on the breeze. A kind of laughter, or singing. He’s unsure which. Children’s voices perhaps.

  Nothing is certain. Nothing can be certain. All we know is what we can perceive. And even that is illusionary. He is reminded of one of his earliest clients. The man had been in a car accident and his forehead had smashed into the steering column. He survived the crash, but he sustained serious damage to his frontal lobe. Many times during sessions the client would claim his soul had disappeared. His soul was taken from him.

  It is true that injury to that part of the brain could limit, if not disable, certain emotional and intuitive functions. But the comments, “I have lost my soul. I cannot feel spirit,” to this day, haunt Loche. He wonders suddenly if such an injury can eliminate the perception of god, afterlife—soul, do such things exist? It is said that centered just above the eyebrows is the third eye. What if it is damaged. Torn away. Is there still something to see?

  Loche stares at the beach and the green trees beyond.

  —Do we go that way? he asks.

  The sound of children’s voices?

  He walks away from the sea and into the green.

  Not long after he enters the trees he sees a
figure standing upon an incline. He wears a black suit and tie.

  All goes black.

  All air leaves Loche’s lungs.

  Vault Back

  November 6, this year

  Mel Tiris, France

  “Dr. Newirth! Dr. Newirth!”

  Loche’s mind flickers like lightning behind shut lids. A crushing pain sears through his temples.

  “Doctor!”

  Then, he is back. Athelstan is standing over him, attempting to lift his body from the floor.

  “An explosion has pulled your eyes from the painting, Doctor. I am sorry that I was not swift enough to brace you.”

  Loche is on his back. A burst of low percussive thuds. The muffled report of small arms fire. The stone reverberates from beneath the earth to the high tower where hundreds of Basil Fenn’s shrouded paintings are waiting. Another clap from below. Dust hisses from the vaulted beams and stone cap.

  “They have breached the outer wall,” Athelstan says. “But we hold them at the second. There has been minimal blasting, but it is increasing. If they keep it up, they will attract the outer world.”

  The pain is lessening. Loche rises to his feet and staggers to the slit of a window. Below he sees the inner walls. Flashes and blinks of gunfire. Men upon battlements defend with sword and spear. A high position spits machine gun flak across an open breach. Several bodies are cut to pieces.

  Athelstan says, “Did you find what you seek?”

  Loche turns, “Not yet. But I feel that I was close. I must go back.”

  “I will not fail you again. The next time you return from the Orathom it will be by your own will, or by my death.”

  Loche moves his chair and sets its back to the wall. Athelstan positions the shrouded painting before him. “At your command.”

  “Now.”

  Silence.

  Flash.

  Gone.

  The One Seed

  November 6, this year

  Venice, Italy

  “You remember my mother, don’t you, Albion?” William asks.

  Ablion Ravistelle was now standing. His hands are clustered into stone. Julia sees him training his focus on the pouch of leaves. She winces. The puncture wound in her leg is not yet closing, but it is surrounded with white foam.

  William speaks again, “My mother, Albion. You do recall her, yes?”

  “I do,” Albion answers.

  “She would often say that there is only one seed, and if it dies, so will all the earth.”

  Albion shifts uneasily. “I recall.”

  “The leather pouch? Of course it isn’t the same one. I fashioned this just so it might remind you of all those centuries ago when I was a boy.” William grazes his palm over the green edges, “I have cared for these three little leaves my entire life.”

  “William, I—”

  “So you understand that if I were to destroy this small plant I hold in my hand—if I were to uproot it—tear it apart, the plant’s offshoots, its seeds, where ever they are, will perish.”

  Albion raises his hands, palms out, fingers spread, “Don’t, William.”

  “If such a thing were to happen, all of your work, your ambition, your revenge against the powers beyond will be dashed. Whatever seeds that you’ve stolen from this plant, all those years ago will wither. I hold the seedling. There is only one seed.”

  “Why not kill him!” a voice barks out. “Slice him up, take the plant and be done with this.” Julia hates the sound. It is Marcus Rearden.

  “Dr. Rearden, please,” Albion says without turning from William. “The plant is delicate, as is this situation. I would ask you to refrain from voicing your opinion.”

  Rearden mumbles something dark to himself.

  “Release Julia and Helen to me and we will be on our way,” Greenhame says.

  Albion finds Helen’s eyes and holds them. “No,” he says. “I will not be parted from her.”

  “Albion,” she says, “I will go to Edwin, and I will return.”

  “No,” Albion corrects her, “You will not be taken from me.”

  “Nothing will stop me from coming back—” She tries.

  “No! No, I say again.” Albion takes his leather gloves from his belt and pulls them on. “Give my friend a sword.” From a sheath beside his chair he rings out a long swept hilt rapier. A long, silver blade. “I am willing to place the future I pine for at the tip of a sword. William, let’s settle this now. I will not be ruled. I will not allow you to leave, nor will I suffer my love to be taken from my side. No. This time I will err on the side of haste.”

  Helen protests, “Albion, I will go and bring my son back—”

  “Silence!” he growls in command. “Edwin can wait. Patience!”

  Julia sees Helen’s eyes narrow in anger and she steps away.

  A guard offers the hilt of a sword to William Greenhame. He draws it from the scabbard and strides into the center of the room. In one hand, a glinting spike of silver and in the other a supple pouch crowned with three radiant leaves. He assumes a deliberate pose with the sword outstretched and his legs crossed—a kind of ballet posture. Julia thinks of Loche Newirth’s journal and the descriptions of William as an effigy upon the psychologist’s desk. She glances at Rearden. The two share brief eye contact. A knowing.

  “William of the Leaves, son of Geraldine, son of Radulphus, at your service,” he says. “Come, sir. Let us, you and I, start anew.”

  What We Block

  November 6, this year

  Venice, Italy

  Leonaie’s feet are dancing. She watches them glide and tap. Her hair dangles and swings down both sides of her cheeks. Beside, her two sisters move in unison. A high whistle is lilting a bright and happy melody. She looks up and sees her dad clapping his hands beside the fireplace. Her mother knits. Bread bakes. Flour dust on the kitchen board.

  Then, hundreds of Post It notes cascade like leaves on a breeze. Piles of thousands at her feet.

  Here’s one:

  November 3, Samuel is coming at 3.

  Don’t forget.

  3pm

  Leonaie reaches into the whirlwind and plucks another:

  Your medication is in the top drawer. Take twice a day

  Another:

  I love him. I love him. Oh god, I love him.

  And another:

  Secret courtyard meeting.

  It is between us, alone.

  Each scribble is a reminder. They are obvious. The memories surrounding each thought, words on paper, memory after memory—experience after experience.

  She plucks a handful out of the air. On the first note is a fight between her husband Charles and her. He is furious, violent, out of control. She is cowering, unable to explain her feelings in a way he can understand. She screams that she is leaving. He shouts at her, telling her to go.

  She crumples it and scowls.

  On the next note is her face in a mirror. Her finger glides along a deep wrinkle across her forehead. Her hair is greying despite her recent salon coloring. Samuel is dressing in the room behind her. He looks as he did the day they met.

  The next is death of her mother. She feels truly alone. A bottle of wine is spilled on the kitchen floor. Her son is knocking at the door. She won’t answer.

  The next note is tears, the following is hate, after that is depression, then there is one with a single word. It reads:

  Young.

  Leonaie Eschelle opens her eyes. The first thing she sees is Samuel Lifeson. He is leaning over her. His expression is difficult for her to describe. He is smiling but tears have drawn streaks down his face. Awe and confusion are seated there.

  “Hello, my beautiful man,” she says. “Have I been sleeping long?”

  “About an hour,” he replies.

  “I’ve got to say, strange dreams. But I feel rested.”

  “Leonaie?”

  “I feel very good. I could eat something, though. I’m very hungry.”

  “Leonaie?”

&
nbsp; She waits. “What?” It is as if her smile causes tears. “Samuel, what is it?”

  A mirror rises from the bedside. He angles it so she can see. “You are the moon. You are the stars.”

  Leonaie recognizes the woman staring back, but it takes a few moments to know her—it had been over sixty years, nearly a lifetime since she had seen that face.

  The Seed of Poison

  April, 1338,

  Strotford Manor, England

  William could feel the leaves pressing against his skin beneath his tunic. Albion had told him to conceal the plant when they arrived because the servants would insist that it be included with the other herbs that they had brought along. It felt strange to conceal the small pouch. But there was much that was concealed, William thought. A deadly poison was hidden within his own sleeve. In his father’s soul was an unseen rage quaking for the chance at revenge. Within his own and Albion’s blood was a secret power that would fend off death. And in the guise of healers, murderers were in the house.

  William thought suddenly that Gravesend’s intentions seemed quite similar to their own. He believes he’s doing good. He believes he’s healing the world in his own way.

  He shook his head. Too much thinking. The thought of the carved wooden horses came to his mind as they began to climb the stairs to Gravesend’s bed chamber. Simpler things. Then a rushing panic and the replaying of Albion’s instructions. Do not touch the potion—I will show you the goblet or the food that you are to taint—when you pour the poison, do it quickly—the vial will have a red ribbon tied at its throat—I will tell you when—I will tell you. Then the colder directive, do not pity him.

  As they ascended the stairs, Robert Peterson described the Bishop’s condition and symptoms. He was not hopeful for the lesions, the cough and fever all pointed to plague. Albion’s voice in William’s memory again, For his life will be taken. Either by illness, or by our hand. When they arrived at the door, a servant stood just to its right. Robert asked the visitors to wait a moment as he entered. They could hear the doctor speaking quietly, and then louder, he announced them.