“I was guessing it was you,” she says.
“You’re a tad bit early aren’t you?”
“It’s only a little over an hour from Sandpoint. I left just as we hung up,” she says. “What, if you don’t mind my asking, are you doing?”
“Uh, tough question. I’m—I’m—” A little waker-upper. “I’m just waking myself up a bit. And well, I think I’d like to answer that question inside. Little chilly out here.” He clears his throat. “And oh, please don’t be afraid, I know this looks a little —”
“Odd?” Julia says.
“Right.” His head pops out from around the tree trunk, “Would you mind, well, not looking—”
“Way ahead of you,” she says, perhaps a little too emphatically. Julia turns away as Marcus enters the cabin. After a few moments Rearden opens the door, a robe and blanket wrapped around him. “Come in, won’t you?”
Closing the door behind her Julia glances around the cabin. Rearden had already started the shower in the tiny bathroom. “Make yourself comfortable, Julia,” he says, “I’ll be out as soon as I can warm these old bones. There’s coffee if you’d like some.”
“Thank you,” she says. “Take your time.”
A thick leather bound book catches her attention first—at the end of the single room upon a large, antique desk. Beside it is an unmade queen-sized bed. A large window above the desk provides a glorious winter view of the sloping forest down to the lake shore, not twenty yards away. Julia notes a strange smearing of red pushed into the corners of the window frame. The kitchen counters are filled with maybe a hundred neatly stacked books. Piles of yellow sticky notes, a folded map and a half eaten bowl of soup crowd the small table in the dining area. A bright fire is crackling.
Julia moves to the wooden desk and the book. She glances back at the bathroom door and then back to the book. Opening the cover she reads the cursive inscription.
To my husband, Loche—for your words.
I love you,
Helen
Julia’s heart feels a sharp sting. It is not easy knowing that he is married, and she has struggled to imagine it as only a dream —a bad dream—but seeing the feminine, cursive hand makes it undeniably real. She wishes that she could erase the words.
How little she knows about him, after all. She shakes her head and flips the page. Loche’s hand had scratched the date and place.
October 26th, Priest Lake.
Four days ago. She steps back, pulls her coat off and sits down at the desk. “Loche,” she whispers. “Where are you?”
Julia fixes her gaze on the hand scrawled manuscript. The world around her fades away. She reads. Greedily.
October 26th, Priest Lake.
What is real and what is make believe? Have I become what I have longed to cure? Have I finally gone crazy? I stood at death’s door this morning—I cannot stop the flooding memories —I cannot push aside the visions in my head.
Marcus, this chronicle is for you—for you are the best in our field. You know the darkest places in man’s mind. You are the only one that can help me—and in doing so, Marcus, you will help yourself. But beware of what you read here, beware of this story, for I cannot tell if what I am writing is memory or delusion. But then, what is true and what is real, after all?
Marcus, what is a man to do caught amidst Heaven, Earth and the fires that rage below? Is he to believe in a creator or in himself? Should we believe in the stories of an everlasting afterlife, or embrace the drama and passion of the here and now? Should we continue to accept delusion as our comfort and salvation, or will we finally discover the truth in that simple word equation we hear so often? It is what it is.
As a therapist, albeit, an idealistic and hopeful one, as you are fully aware, I allowed myself to imagine that there could be an answer. A cure—a cure for those that suffer the disorders of the mind. There was a time when I thought I had an idea of how life was to be lived. A notion of how to proceed through the short years we have to breathe. I’ve struggled to understand the human psyche. I’ve learned ways to help clients cope. Organizing chaos was my mission—but, with all I’ve learned, all I’ve studied and all I’ve endeavored to master, I have not found an answer, until now.
Something remarkable has happened, Marcus. Something I cannot explain. At sunrise I hiked to the upper lake north of my cabin. I stepped out onto a trail that led to a high cliff above the water. Gaining the summit I nearly tumbled over the edge at the sight, the water’s eye was sky, and the dawn’s light was reflecting itself over and over so that I, gazing across the lens, could see into eternity. I was forced to steady myself to keep from falling into the heavens. Sky water. It was, in every way, a magical sight. An eye had opened upon the water.
But there was more. Something pulling me. As I forced myself to turn away, my right ankle tangled in an unearthed root. I tripped. Trying to regain my balance I tumbled forward and down. I did not feel my body hit the water. There was no sound of splashing, no icy depth, no crushing chill. It was as if the eye took me in, and I fell through its center.
I have returned, Marcus. I will now share with you the events of the past two weeks of my life, the terrors that I’ve experienced, and the horrifying the realities that once existed only in my imagination. Some of these memories will be familiar to you because you will remember our exchanges, but most of what you will read, you do not know.
The pages recount my recent experiences with Bethany Winship, my wife and others, but most importantly, my short relationship with painter, Basil Pirrip Fenn of Sandpoint, Idaho. You have one of his pieces in your possession. My warning remains, do not look at it. His work, Marcus—his paintings are by far the most powerful pieces of art mankind will ever encounter, that is, if mankind ever sees his work. There is still a possibility of that happening. But for now, this chronicle must serve to tell of his grave importance and our shared connection. I will tell his story, and my own.
Forgive my attempts at crafting this tale. If only my skill with words could be as strong as my love for them. Maybe one day. But until then, believe in me. I will deliver you.
Read on, Marcus. Read on.
The last time I saw Basil Fenn was five days ago, on October 23rd, in Florence, Italy.
The sky was grey and ragged. As the sun settled on the mountains in the West, it shot its rays of gold below the cloud cover. It was the kind of sky that was too dramatic to be believable, gory and light. I shook my head at it through the passenger window.
Our limousine driver cursed at the Italian traffic. We were brought to a halt with no way out and a long wait ahead. I noticed that we were just three city blocks from our destination so I motioned to the chauffeur that Helen and me would walk the rest of the way. We stepped out into a sunlit mist of rain, but I kept my umbrella closed.
Approaching the Uffizi we saw the elegant, cut marble sign hanging above a newly constructed Roman-styled arch. It read, Basil Pirrip Fenn, A Collection of Answers. I chuckled softly, darkly, thinking of the night he told me the title to his latest collection of paintings. That chuckle quickly fell away as I remembered what sort of answer Basil was to share that evening.
Prior to moving through the arch we were forced to navigate a sea of photographers, journalists and paparazzi. Their designated area was a city block from the gallery, surrounded by a very efficient security force. We joined a line to the entrance, and I reached into my jacket for our invitations—but there was no need. A security guard spotted our approach and, recognizing us, quickly maneuvered us through the first security gate. We were ushered through the metal detectors and then allowed to proceed.
Within the Uffizi courtyard a smug host of the world’s artistic aristocracy had gathered. Along with them were leaders of the free world, including cabinet members of the United States Presidency, other politicians, celebrities and corporate executives. They glided across white canvas covered floors in their black gowns and black suits, tipping their champagne glasses as the scent of money, po
litics and the power of art rose into the chilled air. I suddenly felt an aversion to the pomp and circumstance. Many of these people didn’t seem to be here for the show itself, but rather for the fashion of it all. However, this event would prove to be the real thing, the real artistic experience—well beyond what any gallery enthusiast, art connoisseur or chatty socialite could conceive.
I paused on the threshold. Helen’s smile, her gown and her movement—she was glowing. I squeezed her hand as if trying to extinguish a flame.
One of Basil’s works stood just fifteen feet away. The painting and stone easel was covered with a thick ebony shroud. The sight of it filled me with dread. Helen pointed and smiled at the thing.
After showing our formal invitations and being searched a second time, we maneuvered our way into the crowd. All of Basil’s works were covered in a similar fashion. Each shroud attached to the white silk ceiling by thin black cables. All above was a complex matrix of cabling and pulleys drooping like a wet spider’s web. The white of the ceiling and floors contrasting with the black vertical cables resembled naked winter tree limbs towering over a white December landscape. The dark shapes swarmed the forest floor like a dreary funeral scene. A replica of Michelangelo’s David stood looking over the gallery. His weathered face tarnished by years of rain and wind was strangely comforting. I knew the expression the sculpture wore. Soon, I thought, everyone in the gallery would know it, too. Beyond the treelike cables, against the river arch stood a small stage, a podium and an enormous red velvet curtain just behind it.
“I’ve been wanting to know the answer my whole life,” a voice mocked, standing in the center of four or five gallery dwellers. The two ladies in the huddle laughed at the remark. One added, “Oh, Philip, the answer is right there underneath the black cloth. And look, there’s another answer.” The group gave a collective giggle and continued to discuss what could possibly lay beneath Basil’s mysterious pall.
“Basil Pirrip Fenn,” another voice commented, “Who in the hell is Basil Pirrip Fenn? And at the Uffizi? No one has seen any of his pieces? That is unbelievable.” Helen snapped her head to respond to this person at my right, but I gripped her hand again, stopping her. “Yes, it is unbelievable,” a bejeweled woman made the reply, “he must be in powerful hands.” Powerful hands, I thought. Yes, Basil was indeed in powerful hands.
We moved through the forest of blanketed easels, listening to the rising pitch of the crowd’s questions, a hopeless murmur of queries and tones of impatience.
I scanned the large rectangular courtyard. Basil was not in sight, but his adopted father sat at the far end of the gallery. Howard Fenn, in his wheelchair, was backed against a stone pillar. Standing beside him was Corey, a recent acquaintance. Howard gazed thoughtfully at those that had come to see his son’s work. It was easy to see that he was uncomfortable amid these people. Looking our direction he nodded.
The knelling of the Duomo bell brought the gallery to silence. The pavilion lights dimmed as the carefully placed directional lights shot down onto each black shroud in the gallery. The thick bell struck seven times and stopped. A spotlight filled the stage and two men that looked to be in their mid-fifties climbed the stairs and approached the podium. Helen and I moved near the center of the crowd as it funneled toward the stage like a wave of nighttime surf. I could sense Helen’s excitement pulling me closer to the stage.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” the man began, adjusting his tie. The other man stood a few feet to his left and with a microphone he translated in Italian. “Welcome to the Uffizi, my name is Albion Ravistelle. Thank you all for joining us here in Florence. This will be a night to remember—a night when we will see an entirely new form of artistic craft and expression. On this night we will enter into the universe of Basil Pirrip Fenn.” An excited round of applause began as the Italian voice began translation. There was another wave of clapping.
“To be here in Florence, within these timeless walls of the Uffizi, is indeed a magical occasion. Basil Fenn’s work is now held firmly in the embrace of Michelangelo, Botticelli, Credi, Francesca, Weyden—whose muses have touched and changed our souls and made possible the rendering of our delicate, beautiful, human condition. Tonight we shall all experience a passion that is beyond their hands. The gods themselves will be peering in to see tonight’s unveiling. These works will bring us all into the new millennium with open eyes and a new, powerful understanding of the essence of art. I’m proud to announce that after tonight’s exhibition, Basil’s work shall forever remain here. A new room has been constructed behind the Belvedere Terrace that will house fourteen of Basil’s first forty-two works.” The statement caught the gathering by surprise, and awestruck they slowly began to applaud. I, too, stood wide-eyed and shook my head in disbelief. Basil, immortalized at the Uffizi, and his work has never been seen. I glanced over at Howard who was still in thought, studying the gathered onlookers. He didn’t appear to hear, nor did he acknowledge anyone speaking. His hands gripped the wheels of his chair as if he was hanging from the crumbling edge of a high cliff. I suddenly became aware of my own hands. One tightened into stone, the other clutched my umbrella handle.
Ravistelle seemed pleased with the applause. “Before unveiling these Answers, I would like to turn the stage over to this evening’s honored guest, a young man that I have learned much from and shall endeavor to serve as he continues to make the art that will ever transform, reveal and deliver us. Please welcome Mr. Basil Pirrip Fenn. Basil?”
The gathering cheered and moved to get a clearer view of this mysterious new artist. Basil limped up the stairs and shook hands with Albion Ravistelle. The two leaned into some quick, unheard words and smiled at each other. My eyes smiled sadly— Basil’s walk, a result of a childhood leg injury that had haunted him all his life—the unsteady, but strangely purposeful confidence in his broken stride had charmed me since our first meeting, just weeks ago. He wore a black tie and jacket and his face was grave. He paused and a barely perceptible hint of joy rose in his face. It passed as he approached the microphone. All fell silent.
I will never forget his eyes in that moment, knowing and silent—eyes that see but have no need of sight. No echoing questions in them. All the eyes pointed up to Basil were filled with loud questions, needs, wants and desires. Mine, too, I thought. One characteristic we all share as human beings is the constant question mark in our vision—in our hearts. Basil looked out and smiled his nervous smile.
“I’m not much for speeches,” he quaked, “so I-I-I hope I can speak to you well. And I won’t take too much of your time.” He paused nervously and looked out at his covered works as the interpreter echoed. “No one has ever seen my w-w-work in this way. I was told when I was a b-b-boy that my paintings were for the eyes on the inside,” he held a fist to his heart, “and that it was d-d-dangerous to look at them with these eyes,” he pointed to his wide, dark brown eyes. Basil paused again and began to fidget with his hands. “Because these eyes can lie. These eyes are unsure. You might believe that what they see is the truth, but it is only a belief. Nothing but. The eyes on the inside always tell the t-t-truth.” His eyes stared out, and he sighed. I sensed abject frustration. I knew his thought, what’s the point in talking to these people?
He turned his back to the audience and pulled a long cord attached to the thick red curtain behind the stage. As the cloth split across the back of the gallery it revealed a blank, snow white canvas, as high as the pavilion ceiling. Returning to the microphone he continued, “I can’t make you understand what you are about to see. Each of you will see something different. If you can see with your inside eyes you will understand better. And please, p-p-p-please be careful.”
Basil scanned the crowd. His pause was long this time, and I could feel an unsettled air rise from the assembly. His eyes stopped on me, and he smiled warmly. “I hope that you will go away from here tonight and tell of what you saw. Write it down. I’ve been told that art is something that lasts forever. Whatever t
hat means. Forever is impossible to understand. Those who have made art have become immortal to all of us. Their names w-w-won’t be forgotten. From what little I know about immortality, I don’t think I would like it. What is a man to do caught amidst Heaven, Earth and the fires that rage below? Is he to believe in a creator or himself? Should we believe in the stories of an everlasting afterlife or embrace the drama and passion of the here and now because that is all that there will ever be? The answer isn’t what you are about to see, but the answer lies in what I am about to do. I am protecting the q-q-questions. The questions are worth living. Goodbye.”
Basil took one quick step back from the microphone. He lifted a small revolver that he had concealed in his suit jacket. Piercing screams came from those near to the stage and the assembly reeled backward. Helen’s voice in whispered terror, “Oh my God, no.” Basil pressed the barrel firmly below his chin and angled it back toward the canvas behind. His eyes fixed to mine. He smiled calmly, almost playfully and pulled the trigger.
Screams. Chaos. Basil had dropped to the floor but my eyes were drawn to the canvas behind the podium that was now filled. A thick splatter of blood blotted the center. Its white surface was misted with speckles of red—hair, bone and brain.
What others saw, I know not, for what I perceived was the color of a spirit, the hue of innocence, the mirror of nature and a door to the answer.
I’m fighting myself writing these lines. I should have the ability to make sense of the event. I’ve listened to my clients tell me about their trauma and their pain. Some have told me of near death experiences. All of their stories contain one thing in common—their past sweeps into their present like an ocean squall. Is this really happening?
The piercing screams, the metallic pulse of bells, the cries of a bewildered crowd and the sound of distant sirens all swirled together into one gnashing white noise.
Was I swooning? About to faint?
The Invasion of Heaven, Part One of the Newirth Mythology Page 3
