Hadn’t she done everything that he wanted? Test after test? Hoop after hoop? Years of estrangement? Trial after trial.
She recalls the day she met Basil Fenn in a high school class room in the United States. She was to be his muse. Love him. Get his heart to pulse, his brush to move, his heart to bleed. Get him to fall for her so his art would flow out into the divine.
For a time she thought she had the young artist. But he shut her down. She got too close, too quick. Basil dropped her like a stone into the sea. But she had one more chance—she could still complete the final trial that would bond her and Albion forever—Basil’s brother, Loche Newirth.
Becoming his muse was easy. Becoming his frustration, his longing, his desire, his hated addiction—simple. He fell for her, madly. And over a decade, she married him, she massaged poetry from his conservative, psychological mind. He became The Poet.
She can hear footsteps above on the deck. More are coming aboard. The rumble of the starting engine vibrates beneath her. She glances at the two guards. They stare at her, expressionless.
She managed to secretly visit Venice and Albion during her relationship with Loche—when Loche traveled to Europe to settle his deceased mother’s affairs. Helen lets out a slight laugh. His mother, Diana, was later discovered quite alive and well. But while Loche was in England, Helen was lying in bed with Albion Ravistelle in the very chamber where they had first made love.
The memory stings her. Helen was sent away the following morning. Her final trial was not yet complete. Albion said to her as she stood in the door, “You must make him break. You must bleed the poet’s words from him—he must produce work akin to his brother’s.”
Helen’s hands lace over her belly. A child would be the answer, she recalls thinking. An answer to inspire the poet and finally bring her and Albion together.
The boat’s engine roars. Her arms push to the wall to steady the jolt of forward motion. The guards also brace themselves. Her head jerks to the port window as four pops of obvious gunfire crack across the stern.
The boat is rushing away toward an escape.
A few minutes pass. The bow has planed out now, and she can feel the steady bounce of chop and speed. They are moving fast.
The cabin door opens. One of the guards steps out for a moment and then lowers his head back inside. He motions to the other guard to follow. The two ascend the stairway.
Helen is alone. She watches the door.
A woman’s feet appear first. High leather boots. Julia, she thinks.
As Julia ducks into the cabin, Helen notices that her face is flushed pink and streaked with tears. Something unexpected has happened.
Helen restrains a smile. She can see why Loche has fallen for this woman. Julia’s face is elegant, framed within long, gentle coils. A key hangs around her long neck. Helen knows the key well. As her eyes drop down the length of her body, she notes the athletic frame and the solid but delicate stance. Her eyes halt on Julia’s right hand. In it is a gleaming blade.
Helen’s focus darts to Julia’s face—wet tears are shining upon her cheeks.
A few short steps forward and Julia kneels down and brings her face close to Helen’s. Helen holds her gaze. Julia then looks down. She raises the knife with one hand, and stares at it.
It is Julia’s turn, Helen thinks. Her body tenses and prepares for pain. The cold steel hovers in the air between them.
Then, Julia squints and appears to shake off a dark thought. She raises Helen’s zip tied wrists. She slides the blade beneath the plastic and cuts the restraint.
Julia stands, walks to the door. With her back to Helen she says: “William Greenhame is gone. I thought you should know.”
Helen doesn’t respond. Why did Albion allow them to take me? she wonders.
Julia opens the cabin door, “His grandson is here to see you.”
Edwin Newirth peeks around Julia’s legs and sees Helen. “Mommy!”
Helen drops down to the floor with her arms open wide.
The boy runs to her. He smells like the sea, like trees, like warm sheets, like candles, like home.
Julia does not turn. She stands there for a moment with her back to the reunion. She then climbs out of the cabin and closes the door behind her.
“Mommy,” Edwin says, “Where is Dad?”
“I don’t know, baby. I don’t know.”
The Ancient Realm of Wyn Avuqua
Within the portrait of Loche Newirth
—Behold, do you not see the battle below?
The road to the pyramid opens on an overlook. Loche and Basil discern the shapes of men and streaming blurs of light rising and falling from the sky to the earth. On the ground, men and the luminescent forms clash—all are arrayed with weapons, armor and bright heraldry.
—What is this? Loche asks.
—Do you not know?
Loche looks again and strains to make out details. Immediately, he sees the banners of the Orathom Wis. The Single Eye on a field of green. He sees the outer walls of Mel Tiris, the high tower housing the paintings—a light within. Smoke rises from a blast point near the main gate. Many bodies lay broken, bleeding and dismembered. George Eversman is there. He rallies a counter attack at the third wall. Upon the ramparts, high ladders have been raised. Soldiers swarm the high battlements. They wear the livery of some strange device—a ladder capped with a moon. A helicopter thrusts upward and riddles the defenses with machine gun flak.
—Albion, Loche says.
Again, he blinks. The helicopter melts away. It is replaced with a flock of black birds exploding from a tree. It is no longer Mel Tiris. It is a conflict far older. The architecture of the stronghold transforms. There is a pyramid at the center. A lake stretches out southward like a ribbon of indigo on green grass. Pulses of light, prismatic and bright, pummel the structures below. Banners of the Eye burn on poles. More godlike forms return and flood through defenses like molten steel.
—Wyn Avuqua, Loche says.
—Yes, the boy god agrees. You know of Wyn Avuqua. You created it with words. It did exist.
—Why do I see it now? Why is it burning?
—You see it now because strife will always exist in memory. You witness the end of the great realm before the counting of years on Earth. The last revolt of the Itonalya against Thi, The One. If the doors do not close, the powers of the Orathom will descend again. They will destroy the earth. Now, behold, Wyn Avuqua as it once was.
The battle fades. The pyramid is silver in the sunlight. Its high tip sharp against the sky. Woodland and expanses of deep green enfold the structures below. A great wall encircles the citadel—low buildings of all sizes, and high castle-like towers of white stone. Glowing banners with the Single Eye fly high in the wind.
—The Orathom Wis adopted many traditions for their city. The influence of the pyramids of Giza, for example, found a place in the ancient realm.
—Julia, Basil says, suddenly.
—What?
The mention of her drops a stone into Loche’s chest.
Basil turns to Loche.
—She will meet us there. She will meet us there.
—What do you mean?
—I’m not sure. The pyramid—like the ones in Egypt. The smaller one…
—What are you saying?
The boy god interrupted.
—Pyramids were once used to bridge the gap between here and there, he said. Painter, you must return.
—Return? I just got here.
—I was sent to find you, Loche says. To find a way to close the doors.
—I thought I already did my part, Basil says.
With his hand in the shape of a gun, he holds his index finger to his temple and pulls the trigger.
—Wasn’t that the point? he asked.
Loche looks away to the massive structure in the trees. The dark sky on the horizon is moving.
—I do not know, he says.
—I’ve got an idea, Basil replies. Why don’t you jus
t sit down and rewrite the fucking thing? If all of this comes from your pen, and not my brush after all?
—It is not that simple, Loche says.
—Yeah? Try putting a gun under your chin…
The boy god again:
—You cannot truly return, Basil. Your place in existence is here. But your essence can cross over. You can bridge.
—What good can that do?
—You shall become what is called a muse.
—A muse? Basil asks
—Ah, I get it. The whole resurrection bit. Don’t I get three days here, at least?
—The clouds gather, the boy says. They multiply. Basil, you could not close the Centers of your paintings while you lived. If you return as a Muse, you can assist Loche in closing them, forever.
—How am I supposed to do that?
Thunder booms. Loche feels as if his teeth shatter from the recoil.
—Loche, you are being called, the boy god says.
His face transforms into Edwin.
—They call you. They call you.
—Basil, go to the pyramid, Loche says. Go to the pyramid.
Loche struggles against a current at his feet. Something pulls him.
The boy god, the pyramid, the grim sky to the east, his brother, Basil—disappear.
All is black.
The Water’s Eye #2
November 9, this year
Terciera Island, Azores, Portugal
Green divided by stone and ocean mist. Loche Newirth stares out the window. He has been awake for only a few minutes. It has not occurred to him to question where he is just yet. A fire still burns behind his eyes. With every blink to wet his dry corneas, come flashes of Basil Fenn—in a black suit, smoking a cigarette, and dead—a gleaming silver pyramid—a faceless, translucent blue god hovering just inches off the ground. Rotting heads in the surf. The green view through the window is like cool and delicious water. His eyes drink it in.
He is afraid to look at the ceiling above him. He imagines an eye is painted there. Streaked and slathered in red paint. He is relieved that there are no Post-It notes stuck to the glass. Hazarding a look to the walls he detects no evidence of another of his mental breaks—if, indeed, that is what happened to him a few days ago.
Moving his fingers, he realizes that his hand is interlaced with another. It is Julia’s. She stirs and lifts her bowed head.
“We have to stop meeting like this,” Loche says.
She rises and lays her body across his and kisses him. “Thank God,” she says.
“That was what I was going to say,” he replies. “I like the look of the world outside.” She kisses him again. “But, where are we?”
“The Azores, in the middle of the Atlantic.”
“How did we get here?”
Julia sits up and places her hand upon his chest. “That will take some explaining,” she says. Her voice is low, pained. “We lost Mel Tiris. You were unconscious when Athelstan and George pulled you out of the painting. There are only a few of Orathom Wis left.”
“What of the paintings?”
“Captured by Albion.” She pauses and squeezes his hand. “He has the journal, too.”
Loche sits up. His back is stiff. “Are you all right? Edwin? Is Edwin safe? Where is—where is my father?”
“Edwin is fine. He is asleep in the next room with Helen.”
“Helen is here?”
Julia nods. “And is she a piece of work…”
Loche feels his shoulders tense. Lines of stress gather at the corners of his eyes.
“She’s been fine. But Corey does not trust her, so they have people watching her closely.”
“I want to see William,” Loche says as he pulls the covers back. “He did it. He really did it. He brought all three of you back.”
Loche can not help but notice Julia’s eyes flood. She looks away.
“No,” Loche whispers. “No.”
Behind his closed lids the bridge bubbles to the surface of that inky sea. He refuses to look down. He refuses to take another step.
“He is gone, Loche. But there is more,” Julia says.
Loche opens his eyes. Julia raises a closed notebook from her lap. The cover is red—slightly worn. A crease across the center.
“When they got you out of Mel Tiris, they took you to a safe house before flying here. Athelstan witnessed you rise from your bed and—” she breaks off and pushes the notebook into Loche’s hands.
“And, what?” Loche asks.
“Seems you’ve been writing,” she says.
Moons and Ladders
November 9, this year
Terciera Island, Azores, Portugal
Leonaie Echelle is looking out over the stone fences, hundreds of squared green pastures and the ice blue Atlantic beside.
The symmetry of the grid-like partitions netted over Terciera remind her of the Tuscan vineyards she saw on the flight away from Italy.
That memory reminds her of wine.
Wine reminds her to look at her cell phone to press that single button that shows the time—it could be time for Olivia to bring wine to the courtyard for her secret meeting.
The secret meeting, of course, reminds her of her Samuel.
Then she recalls Shakespeare’s All’s Well that Ends Well, and Samuel’s poem tucked in at page 713. Though Samuel may have been a mediocre poet, the words are to Leonaie, a prayer. She whispers:
How did we raise this ladder
From under that heavy husk
Of water, waves and still, empty space?
And where are we off to now,
Climbing together
Out of the grave deep,
Upon this wooden, swaying ladder?
Up and up.
Now it all connects. Maybe that is what memory is—just a ladder, rung after rung, connecting thought to thought, feeling to feeling. Lifetime to lifetime. Eventually you circle back to the place you started. It occurs to her that the grid-like landscape looks like a ladder—a ladder beside the sea. And she is now an Itonalya as Samuel once was. She has reached the moon.
I will be the moon.
I will be the stars.
I am no longer an empty shell,
Come from the sea filled with the sound of the void.
Immortality, it was thought, could only be achieved through memory. Through what one leaves behind in words or deeds. Names kept alive through the centuries. We can choose the stories we wish to remember. Sometimes it is hard to forget the darker rungs on our ladders.
Leonaie can see her transparent reflection in the window. Her mischievous smile curls slightly in the corners of her eyes. In the last couple of days her hair has lost much of its silver sheen, returning to her former light brown. Her body has tightened, tummy flattened, and her breasts have climbed back up and taken their rightful place at the center of her chest. Her bottom, too, has firmed. How Samuel would melt if she were to wiggle it just a tickle for him now. He would melt right here.
She bows her head.
What now?
What now?
The sneering face of Emil Wishfeill enters her mind. Her hands compress into fists at her sides. She inhales and struggles to calm her rage. To deaden the sudden thunder of hate. Memory. Emil will be the disease to break from the ladder. A rung to be removed. A rung serving no purpose. She will replace his memory with a foothold painted with his blood.
She presses her hand against the glass. She waits through the afternoon and into the evening until the moon rises. When it climbs up over the ocean, drifting high above the cross-hatched land below, Leonaie says goodnight to Samuel Lifeson. She steps down that imagined ladder, turns from the window and closes the curtain. She removes her clothes, slips into bed and prays for him to visit her dreams.
Action Figures
November 10, this year
Terciera Island, Azores, Portugal
Loche peels Edwin out of his underpants and adjusts the faucet on the tub. The boy stands with his h
ands on the edge waiting for the go ahead to climb in. Loche drizzles bubble bath into the water. A white mountain of suds froths up on the surface.
“Now?” Edwin says.
“Now,” Loche replies.
“But I want Luke and Han and Spiderman and the monsters.”
“Where are they?” Loche asks.
Julia, in the next room, calls out, “I’ve got them.”
A moment later, a handful of plastic action figures fly from the doorway and plunge into the water.
Loche sits on the marble floor. Julia enters and sits beside him.
“He was starting to smell,” he tells her.
“How was the meeting?” she asks.
He does not reply. He looks at Edwin, and then his eyes move to her. Then back to the drama unfolding between monsters and men.
“What?” she asks.
“It is set. We leave for Cairo in two days.”
“All of us?”
“You and I, Corey, George and Leonaie.”
She nods to Edwin, “What about… stinker, here?”
“Edwin will stay here with Helen, Alice and the few remaining Orathom Wis.”
“Will she try to run?”
“If she does, George assures me that she’ll fail.”
“Do you think Basil will be at Giza?” she asks.
“I don’t know.”
He sees it crash in on her, again—death, afterlife, immortality—the unstable walk in between. Her hands rise to her weary eyes and she covers them. “My God,” she says. “So crazy. All of this. In the painting, what—what was the first thing Basil said to you when you met him?” She lowers her hands.
Loche smiles. “He asked if I had been writing.”
Julia laughs. “Really? What did you say?”
“I told him that there hadn’t been much time for it.”
She grins.
Edwin interrupts, “Dad, are you done with your book yet?”
Leaves of Fire: Part Two of the Newirth Mythology Page 30