William then felt the Rathinalya again. He was now aware that Gravesend was no god.
It was Cyrus. It was Cyrus. He turned.
Father Cyrus pulled his hood back. Long black hair spilled out over his shoulders. He tilted his head slightly at Albion. Albion’s face paled.
The monk’s voice was low and loathsome. How long had he kept his vow of silence? He said to Albion, “The last time I saw you was just before you gouged my eyes out with your dagger. It was another lifetime. Another life. We meet again. I told you that we would meet again.”
“It cannot be,” Albion said. “It cannot be. Cythe?”
The monk grinned, “Yes, that was my name then.”
Gravesend, “Father Cyrus has sought for you for years, Apothecary. He has held hostage my house, my family, my life—and you are now within the trap he has laid for you.” The bishop’s eyes began to tear, “God save you. God save us all.”
“I shall keep returning, Albion. And it shall be my mission to destroy the Itonalya on Earth, now and forever. You, Albion the cruel, will soon face oblivion.”
William could not tell if the light in the room had dimmed, or if it was Albion’s weakened life force that darkened the chamber. His body shrunk. He was without words. He stared at Cyrus as if he were some phantom from a nightmare. “This cannot be. This cannot be.”
“I am beyond the others,” Cyrus said.
“Lucifer,” Gravesend whispered in terror. “Sweet Lord, protect us.”
“Shhh,” Cyrus said gently. “Bishop, you know not of what you say. You know only of a picture in a book. A frightful tale told to keep your flock in line. I am vast beyond the shadows of your imagination. Hold your tongue. This is a time for the soldiers of the void to hold counsel.”
Begin Again
November 6, this year
Venice, Italy
Leonaie’s father is whistling a tune. It sounds strained.
She has a fever. She is eight. It is early evening and the sky is the color of a penny. The glass thermometer sticks down jabbing into the soft flesh beneath her tongue. The blankets are heavy but she is still chilled. He removes the thermometer and squints reading it. She is in his arms. The light bulbs blur passing from her room, into the hall—then the blinding bathroom, white walls with flashing mirrors. The tub is filling with water. It feels as if she is crying, but the tears evaporate as they rise. He lowers her into the ice cold water. She moans.
Above her is fog. Her father’s face is disappearing.
Samuel is there.
Samuel’s face.
But something is wrong. He is concerned. His mouth is open.
“Darling,” Leonaie says. “Darling what’s the matter?”
She studies him. His hand is grasping the hair at the top of his head. Tufts are knuckled and shooting straight up.
She screams coming awake. It is not Samuel’s hand. The assassin, Emil Wishfeill, dangles Samuel’s head over the bathtub.
Leonaie Eschelle sits up. She is moving. Streaks of stone walls blur.
“Samuel?” she cries.
Stop.
William Greenhame is suddenly at her side. He is tucking the pouch of leaves into a small pack hanging over his shoulder.
“Sweet Leonaie. My dear, we are making our way out of this place.”
Tears. An ocean wave of grief.
William pulls her into his arms.
A thick coil of gray hair spills down over her shoulder. As her fingers reach to touch it, memories tumble out before her. The skin of her hand is smooth. Soft as moonlight. Beside the cascade of silver hair the hand looks out of place. Her mind rattles between what should be and what is. She has lost all age. Her body does not seem to recall the careworn aches. Her thoughts are not beaded up like drops of mist in the fog. A thumping of steady beats pounds within her chest. Energy and light tugs at the tips of her limbs. There is the quiet sound of water plinking into a basin of stone, far away. The hushed breathing of the woman behind her. The rumble of many running feet a floor above.
The ladder. The moon like fruit in the branches. Below, the courtyard with Samuel. Tea and sweet apples that taste like October sky. You will be the moon. You will be the stars.
“We cannot pause here,” Corey says through his teeth.
“I can walk,” Leonaie says. “Samuel would want me to walk. He would want me to run. To run with him.”
“That he would,” William agrees. She can somehow see Samuel in William’s eyes. They had known each other for years uncounted. “William, I—I do not know how I can—”
“You will heal, I swear it. Come with us, Leonaie. Come with us.”
William takes her hand as she steps down off of the rolling stretcher. She looks and sees four men dressed all in black brandishing automatic weapons with swords slung at their sides, Two women, one stunningly beautiful. A pistol is pointed into the back of her head by another woman. She is slightly shorter, dark hair, friendly smile, beautiful, too. Both women study Leonaie with great interest. She suddenly feels self-conscious.
“I am Julia,” the shorter woman says. A deep concern in her face, “I am sorry for your loss.”
The other woman says, “Welcome to the family.”
Poet and Painter
Within the portrait of Loche Newirth
Loche Newirth’s feet are wet. He looks down. The bridge. The bridge again. This time, however, he is not far from the shore. Yards only. He takes a step. The floating head of a god holds him above the surface.
Edwin is there—on the beach. No, not Edwin, he remembers—it is the boy god. It is only the boy god.
—I am here, Loche says. I am back.
The boy beckons to him.
Loche takes a last look down. Dead faces in the water. Then, dread overcomes him. Samuel Lifeson’s face rolls to the surface.
He leaps over and does not place his foot upon it. Tripping, he rolls onto the beach and looks back. Samuel’s face disappears beneath the water.
—That was—that was, Loche stammers.
—Just another immortal, the boy says. Another killer on earth.
—Samuel is gone, Loche says.
Loche backs away from the surf. Along with the crash of waves, the sound of children’s laughter is on the air. When he turns inland again, the boy is striding up the sand toward a cluster of green trees. Suddenly, fluttering leaves meet Loche’s ears. He follows the boy.
At the top of the slope is the figure he saw before he was shorn away from the portrait. A man in a black suit and tie. His hair is long. Light puffs of smoke drift away from him on the breeze. He is looking around as if he has lost something—turning this way and that—glancing at his smoke—raising his face to the sky—shaking his head. Just behind him rises a massive pyramidal structure. Loche cannot help but think of Egypt’s Giza Plateau. Only, the site is pillowed in green land, forest and waterways.
The man notices Loche’s approach. He tilts his head slightly and flashes a sardonic smile.
—Hey bro, he says, Looks like I pulled the fucking trigger, eh?
Loche stops, stares and then blinks a few times. It is Basil Pirrip Fenn. He looks like he imagined him to look—or at least close. Maybe the sound of his voice isn’t quite right. Or, perhaps, the setting isn’t something he could have possibly imagined.
—Hello, Loche manages to say.
—You look a little freaked out, bro.
—Yes, I suppose I am a little freaked out.
Basil looks around.
—Good news is that my mind is not blown. Out from the back of my head, I mean. Otherwise, pretty fucking blown…
—Right, Loche says.
—I see that yours is a bit blown…
Loche stares.
—You been writing? Basil asks.
—If only I had the time.
—You’ll never get a page with that kind of shitty excuse, Basil says. But, I’m a little out of it, at the moment. I have a couple of quick questions.
Loche nods. Thoughts are in slow motion.
Basil lets out a kind of sarcastic laugh,
—First, I’m dead, right?
—Yes.
—Thought so. Who’s this kid with no face beside you?
—It is a Watcher. A god. It sees your paintings.
—Far out. He smiles. Not too sure how I feel about the missing eyes. Makes seeing a painting a little tough.
He takes a long pull from his smoke as he looks the god up and down.
—I am not sure what is happening.
—Yes, Loche agrees.
—So, if I’m dead, why are you here?
—I am staring at one of your paintings.
Basil stares blankly.
—Yes, Loche agrees.
—But something tells me that you’re here for a reason.
—Your paintings are being used to destroy this place, this world, this existence. They are being used to infect the afterlife with the dreads, pains and pleasures of humanity.
Basil blinks.
—We must find a way to stop it.
Basil looks down at his bare feet in the grass.
—Don’t know if you know this, but I’m dead, he says, shrugging.
—There must be some way, Basil.
Basil’s voice is sarcastic again,
—Yeah, last time you said that, you gave me a gun.
—I know, Loche says. I know. But you don’t understand—I wrote that I gave you a gun. I wrote you. I created you. All along we were waiting for my gift of words to arrive… and all along, my words were creating reality.
Loche waits and studies Basil’s eyes. His response is unexpectedly astute.
—So, for you, this is the first time we’ve met? Basil says.
Loche smiles, relieved.
—It is.
Basil reaches his hand out. Loche takes it.
—Nice meeting you. I’m your brother, Basil.
The Two Gods
April, 1338
Strotford Manor, England
Gravesend’s lungs heaved again. Blood spattered onto the sheets.
Cyrus’ sword tip touched Albion’s throat. A tiny cut dribbled blood. “You thought to remove a god from this world—you suspected Gravesend—but I have been at his side, ever. You failed to feel the disguise—I wore the church. Now, I daresay, the hunters have become the hunted. Do not move,” he hissed. “Watch, now. Kill the boy.”
“Nay!” came Radulphus’ thundering command. The sentinel’s sword that hovered over William did not move. “Nay, you shall not murder my son!” The monk wavered and stepped back as if against his will. His sword lowered and he looked at the hilt in his hands.
Cyrus let out a sigh. “Of course. Of course. Tell me, Albion, when were you going to kill the priest?” Albion’s eyes shifted to Radulphus. “Were you planning on gouging his eyes out, too?”
William felt a crushing wave of the Rathinalya. It began to make sense. There were two gods in the room. One held a sword angled to kill Albion, the other was pinned to the floor: his father, Radulphus Grenehamer.
“Enough!” Bishop Gravesend cried—“Robert! Do something!”
The room, again, swept into a spinning gale. Many things happened at once. Dr. Robert threw his body into the two sentinels that held Radulphus. They were knocked away as one sword clanged down, and Radulphus rose with a bellow of anger. The pummel of the other sentinel’s sword smashed into Robert’s head sending him to the floor, unconscious.
Cyrus, without hesitation, stabbed his blade into Albion’s throat, pulled it back and pounded it into his right eye. Albion sunk to the floor, blood flooding into a black pool on the wood. The air filled with the sound of retching and the smell of metal.
Radulphus now on his feet laid hold of the free sword, and flung it out in a wide circle. The searing edge caught the first monk at the cheek. It crushed the side of his head killing him instantly. As the sword continued its whirl it bore into the side of the other monk. Bones snapped like branches as it entered.
William stood blinking.
From the floor, Albion seized Cyrus’ ankles as he turned toward Radulphus. He toppled over onto his chest. Blood splashed up into his face.
The monk behind William shrieked in pain and fell back sending a table of candles down. The cry forced William to flinch and pivot back a step. Bishop Gravesend’s arm was extended out from the blankets. In his grip was a dagger. Its blade glistened red from tip to crossbar. “Run!” he wheezed between gravely hacks. He pressed the dagger into William’s hand. “Run!”
A lit, rolling candle smoldered at the fringe of a curtain.
A ring of metal against metal spun William around yet again—his father and Cyrus, both with gleaming blades, each were weighing their next move. The monk’s blade rose up into an overhead swing. Radulphus’ blade met the heavy blow as it fell upon him. The sword glanced away but returned circling to his head. Radulphus stepped back and out of harm.
“Run,” Gravesend wheezed, “through there, out into the yard.” The bishop pointed to a low, gilded frame. “Pull it open. It is a hidden door. Go! Go now!”
“William,” Radulphus shouted, “Do as he says. Run son. I will find you. I will find you.”
For a brief instant, William hesitated, frozen at the sight of Albion’s bleeding eye and throat, a milky foam leaked from the wounds; at his papa facing what Gravesend called the Devil, and at the horror of Rathinalya ripping the skin from his body.
“Son, away, fly!” Radulphus yelled again, this time pressing the boy with his eyes. Flames licked at the curtains. Smoke choked the light.
William reached to the gilded picture frame. It opened on a hinge. Behind it was a black void—a passage leading into the dark. Two more violent rings of metal and he turned once more to see his father’s face.
Their eyes met. But in that instant, Cyrus’ sword punched through the soft flesh of the priest’s midsection. The entire blade flashed scarlet from out of his back. Cyrus twisted his wrist and the blade turned in the wound. He then drew it quickly and turned away. Father Radulphus fell to his knees. “Run, William.”
William slipped through the low door and ran into the dark passage. He could feel the sharp leaves flattening to his skin as if trying to encase the bursting heart within his chest. The dagger in his hand was like a spike of ice.
Déjà Vu
November 6, this year
Venice, Italy
Corey Thomas leads the group through a network of dark turns and dizzying rights and lefts. Leonaie is beside William. Julia has lost her sense of direction. Helen jogs ahead of her. Two of the Orathom Wis train their weapons at her back. The other two follow at the rear.
“How much further?” William asks.
“Not far. We are well under the canal now.”
“Verily, Ravistelle must know of this route.”
“Yes,” Corey agrees, “but it is one of many hidden escape routes. He will have to make his best guess at which I will choose.”
The rock walls are wet. Julia can taste salt in the air. Her hair is matted and dripping from the moisture. In places, small streams of water cross the stone floor.
“I expect resistance once we begin the climb out. Endale Gen will certainly be alerted to all exits.”
They run forward. At another sharp bend the tunnel floor begins a steep incline. A cool breeze wafts in from the opening ahead. There is little light.
“Hurry now, we’ll miss our ride,” Corey says. But even before he finishes speaking, his feet slow them all to a stop. Julia knows why, without a word. A sensation of tiny ice crystals, as sharp as broken glass, skitter along her spine. She is certain that William and Helen feel it, too.
Leonaie trembles and sucks air into her lungs as if she is about to plunge into freezing waters. “What is that? What is that?”
William says, “That, my dear, is Nicholas Cythe.”
“They are near,” Corey says. “Come. Make haste!”
The labyrint
h is setting them free. Julia can see a round opening in the darkness. A porthole of sky filled with stars. But it is still far ahead.
Corey pauses and holds his hand up signaling for silence. The group halts. Reverberating through the passage is a host of marching feet coming up behind.
“How far to the boat?” William asked.
“Once we are out, fifty meters,” Corey answers.
William lifts the leaves to his face and lets the sharp edges scrape along his jaw line. He peers back into the dark.
“William, come. What’s the matter?” Corey says.
Julia touches his shoulder. “William?” There is only the tromp of pursuit. It is gaining, drawing ever closer. Footfalls in the pitch black. “William?” she says again as a thousand pinpricks roll up her legs.
“Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate,” Greenhame mutters. The sound is sorrowful. “What use? What hope is there?” he says to himself. Julia feels his hand take hers. “But for you, we must. Run!” he says.
The company makes for the exit. Steadily, the round door of sky grows wider. At the edge, Corey pauses. William positions himself across on the opposite wall. The two peer out. There is no sign of resistance. A short path jutting down and to the left leads to a dock. A boat is tied there. Corey pulls a thin penlight from his belt and emits three flashes. A single flash returns.
“Clear,” Corey says. “They are ready to receive us.”
“Then, let’s away,” William says.
The company rushes out of the tunnel and charges to the dock. The night is cool. Helen is taken aboard first. “Take her and restrain her,” Corey says. Two guards escort her immediately below. The other two take firing positions upon the bow and the stern of the boat. Corey lowers his hand and assists Leonaie onto the deck. He extends his hand to Julia. Before she takes it, she turns to find William. Not seeing him behind her she steps back and turns toward the uphill path. “Where’s William?”
He is standing halfway between the boat and the mouth of the tunnel. His unsheathed rapier glimmers by the light of the moon, his other hand cradles the pouch of leaves and his face is upturned toward the hole in the hillside. Words she cannot catch are in the air. He is reciting something. Talking to himself. With each murmur, he paces haltingly back to the tunnel, as if in a daze.
Leaves of Fire: Part Two of the Newirth Mythology Page 28