“You mean that someone who is suffering from a disorder might be—” My voice quavered, “Cured?”
“Whatever that means,” Basil said, “but yes. Maybe for those that are doing just fine in this life, living normal, happy lives—maybe seeing one of my works is a mind scramble. Potential killer. But for someone who is mentally ill—I suppose there’s a chance that it could pull that stuff away. The Center might pull it in somehow. Again, this is all in my gut, but either way, using it for anything other than their intentions is scary to me.”
I considered his words in silence. Could it be that Basil’s work was indeed the cure for the terrors that can haunt the human mind. Can a man in the throes of some maddening disorder be purged by looking into the face of a god?
Basil’s voice startled me, “And damn, not to mention, whatever else happens to be on the other side looking in—I still don’t know if I’ve done something wrong on the other side.”
“How do you mean?”
“Look, there’s always two sides, okay? We know that seeing my work is dangerous. We’ve got Howard’s experience, my gut fears, and your surreal drowning boy to support that, along with Albion and an armed compound of nut-job believers here in Venice dedicated to my work and the work that you’ve not yet mastered, right?”
“So it seems,” I agreed.
“Well, when you looked into one of my paintings, you weren’t injured at all. It just wised you up to your own potential. I think that’s because you have something powerful within you— the same sort of gift. But what happens to an average person or a sick person in this world must mean that something happens on the other side, as well.”
“You mean that a simple human being that sees a painting of yours can affect the world of the Divine?”
“In so many words. Shit, Loche, I don’t know much about quantum divination, supernatural weirdness—I’m an artist. But the last thing I want is to do something that will hurt my audience. I feel that if something changes here, something changes there.”
“How could you hurt your audience?” I asked. “You are a human being. They are gods, points of light, streams of spirit.”
“You’re right. It won’t be me that hurts them—it will be mankind.”
“How is your mother?” Helen asked as I entered.
I paused scanning the room, certain that we were being monitored. “Not well.”
“Did she know you?”
“Let’s take a walk,” I said, “let’s go visit the canals and have a glass of wine together.” Helen smiled and quickly rose from the couch. “We can leave Edwin with Basil and Howard. They’re going to look at the boats.”
“What about Albion? I mean, will he let us go out?”
I nodded. “Yes, I just spoke with him. In fact, he insisted that we visit the city. He has also suggested a couple of places to eat.”
“He’ll let us go alone?”
“Well, not exactly, but he said that our escort won’t bother us and that we won’t even know he is there.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “And for a second I thought we might have a romantic evening.”
“Albion just wants us to be safe—I’m sure that our watcher won’t interfere with us.”
“Okay,” she said, “I’ll get my coat.”
The late afternoon sun gleamed on the high spires along the Venice skyline. Albion stood on the dock holding hands with a teenage girl. “My daughter, Crystal,” he said. “If ever you need a sitter here in Venice, Crystal would love the opportunity. I know they would take to each other like brother and sister.” Both Helen and I greeted the young lady with smiles, and Albion motioned me toward the waiting gondola. “You should experience the entry way to the city, at least,” he told me. “From there you can take boats to wherever you wish. There’s so much to see.” He handed me a billfold of money and a map. “The Basilica di San Marco will be crowded with tourists, but that shouldn’t deter you. It is quite lovely. I’ve circled several other places on the map that are equally divine, less crowded places the average tourist won’t likely visit.”
“Thank you, Albion,” I said.
“Have a delightful time. And tomorrow, Loche, let us continue to discuss our path. Until then, buon pomeriggio.”
“Helen?” I called. She was still speaking to Crystal. She hugged the young lady and hurried over to join us.
“She’s lovely,” Helen said to Albion.
“Yes,” he agreed, “almost fifteen and just like her mother.”
“Where is her mother?” Helen asked.
“Away on business. But she should be returning soon.”
“We would very much like to meet her,” I said.
Albion nodded, “You will.”
He stepped back and the gondolier oared us out into the canal. The two stood on the dock watching us float out and away.
Speechless, Helen and I watched the Venetian architecture pass by as if in a dream, and I marveled at the beauty of the city’s elegant decay. Water-worn brick and stone twisted together into paled earth tones—the walls and foundations of men, made to age with immeasurable grace, lined the maze of canals, all snaking away to secret nooks and memories. Every direction sparked the feeling of romance, old books and candlelight. I heard myself sigh.
“Kind of reminds me of our castle,” came Helen’s voice suddenly. She was looking at me with an expression I’d not seen in years—excitement, desire, love.
“Yes,” I said taking her hand in mine, “built to last.”
I glanced back at the gondolier. Removing the billfold that Albion had given me from my coat pocket I pulled out the lira and set it on my knee. A plain black wallet, I thought. I thumbed through its compartments carefully.
“What are you doing?” Helen asked.
“Just checking to see if Albion sent a microphone along with us.” It was empty. I placed the money into my pocket and laid the wallet on the seat to be left behind. The gondolier took no notice.
We eventually stopped at a small wine nook near the Basilica of San Marco. I drank deeply and knew that it was time to discuss with Helen the reunion with my mother—a woman that my wife had never met.
“Strange,” I began. “I wish we were here under different circumstances.”
She leaned in and kissed my cheek. “At least we are here. And you’re about to bring hope and healing to the world.”
“Strange,” I said again. The wine was slowly performing its medicinal duty on my nerves. I stood up and studied our surroundings. There didn’t seem to be anyone watching and there was no one near enough to hear our conversation.
“Loche. . .”
“I’m just making sure that we can talk.”
“You are acting paranoid,” she mocked.
“My mother isn’t ill, Helen,” I said, sitting down.
Her face flushed. “What?”
“Albion is not telling us everything.”
“Wait,” Helen stopped me. “Wait a minute. Your mother is fine?”
“She’s doing a hell of a job fooling everyone.”
“How do you know this?”
I explained to her the incident and watched her eyes widen with awe. When I shared my mother’s warnings her hands gripped the table.
“I can’t say that I’m surprised by anything,” I said. “Especially with all that’s happened. Of course, it’s too early to trust Ravistelle and his intentions, but my Mother is terrified of something—and it seems she’s doing all she can to survive right now.”
“Why would she fake being sick?”
I shook my head, “I’m not sure. My guess is that she knows something.”
“Like what?” Helen asked.
I shrugged. “She told us that Ravistelle can’t be trusted.”
Helen turned her head toward the canal. A breeze brought a faint sour stench from the waterway. “We should get back,” she said coldly.
“Don’t you have an opinion on all of this?”
She look
ed at me. Whatever magic was in her eyes a few minutes earlier was gone. I sensed that thoughts of Edwin in danger were now triggering her mood. “Are you okay?” I asked.
At those words her eyes softened. “Yes. . .well, no. I don’t understand any of this.” She looked back out over the water, “Why would she lie?” Her tone was frustrated, as if she were talking to herself.
“I don’t know. But no matter what happens, we can’t share this information with anyone.”
“What did Basil say?”
“He wants out. And he wants out now.” I lifted my wineglass and took a sip. “He believes that his gift is for a divine audience, beyond this world, and us manipulating his work, using it for our own ends would be catastrophic. Not only to the world, but for the other side, as well.”
Helen’s eyes squinted. “He told you that?”
“Yes.”
“What is he going to do?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “But he’s adamant about not letting his paintings be seen by anyone.”
“How can he stop that now? Albion has all of his work.”
I shook my head. “I think we need to let Albion think that we’re playing along until we know what to do next.”
“What about you?” she demanded. “What do you want to have happen here?”
I let my eyes trace the grid of red and white stripes on the tablecloth and took a deep breath. “Loche,” she pursued, “What about you?”
“Basil may be right, and he may be wrong. I think if he can heal the human condition—and I will one day have the same ability—then it is without question our duty to examine it— regardless of anyone involved, my mother, you. . . even Edwin. If we have the power to heal, it should be used.”
Her hand squeezed my wrist. “I’m glad that’s what you want.”
5:30 a.m. I could see a dark grey and foggy morning through the window. Sitting up I saw that Helen was not there. I stood, put on a robe and entered into the living room.
“Good morning, Doctor.” Sitting on a chair was Albion Ravistelle. In his hands was an open book. His greeting startled me, and I recoiled.
“Do not fear,” he said closing the book and placing it on the coffee table.
“Where is Helen?” I snapped.
“Loche, I’m afraid it is time we become better acquainted. Please—” he motioned to the sofa.
“I’ll stand. Where’s Helen?” I demanded.
“Dr. Newirth, we need to discuss your brother’s reluctance to our shared endeavor. It is paramount that he understands the gravity of our intentions as opposed to resting on his own selfish integrity.”
“Helen?” I snapped again.
Albion’s always graceful expression was now gone. He glared at me. “It is good that you care so much about her. That, my friend, is the key to your fulfillment.” His face lightened. “Helen is fine. I’ve asked her to allow you and I some time to speak together.”
I remained silent, uncertain what to say.
“I need you to convince Basil that his part in this is more important than his pride.”
“Basil’s craft is his own, and he won’t be told what to do,” I stated. “Forcing him to do anything to the contrary could be disastrous.”
“So he says, does he?” Albion stood, “Ah, dear Basil.” He turned his back to me and lowered his head, letting out a deep sigh. “Throughout history, mankind has developed powers to further our evolution. Medicines, weapons, technologies—and with each good that comes, so does evil knock upon our doors. Today, for example, we’re mapping the genome, and thus rages the argument of stem-cell research, and the resistance to such godlike science. Science is the path to building the perfect human. We can reverse our physical imperfections—create longer life, disease-free, potential immortality. And the soothsayers whine with fear of immoral uses—for after all, there are always two, and if the findings can produce greatness, there will always be someone to use it for just the opposite—our demise.” He turned and faced me.
“But you and I are standing on the fringe of a greater power. The ability to eliminate pain. Not only mental illness. I’m speaking of the possibility of human psychic harmony. A single path toward godliness and goodness—the destination that is desired by all. By achieving a quantified common good, there will be no need to fear progress. The true destiny of our race is to eliminate man’s desire for power, for control and for domination.” He reached out and gently touched my arm. “And it is you and your brother that can share this gift with us all. Don’t you see, Loche, that you and Basil are the keys to the door? Can you not see that it all begins with the two of you?”
“The elimination of power, control and domination?” I asked. “You’re telling me that Basil’s work can achieve such things? That I will achieve such things?”
“Yes. With the right training. But not without commitment, time and desire.”
“But as you say, and history shows, something could go wrong. We are human, and we can’t have good without its counterpart. There are always two. We are fallible.”
“So true,” he breathed. He laced his fingers together before his face. “But I believe that we have one other part to this good and evil equation. A part that the shortsighted animal of man has never conceived possible.”
“What is that?” I asked.
He paused with unmoving eyes pointed sharply into mine. “Omniscience,” he answered. I shook my head and struggled to fully comprehend his meaning. “What are you willing to do to achieve this?” Ravistelle asked simply.
Omniscience, I recall thinking with disbelief. Omniscience, the knowledge of all things, good and evil. What would it mean to know all? Could it be possible? The questions ripped through my thoughts like a raging torrent of ocean wind. A hurricane is coming, I thought.
What would it mean to not only the billions who suffer from mental illness, but to those regular people, like Dr. Marcus Rearden? Or to my close friends whose daily lives are ruled by dreary routines and deadlines, for the sake of earning money to survive? What if we managed to evolve? Tunneling through each of our souls, digging inward through our grey matter is this worm, shaped like a question mark, whispering, Why am I here? Is there a reason?
What would it mean to have such questions answered? I closed my eyes and imagined myself lying on Rearden’s couch, sharing with him my crazy dreams of a cure—a cure for those that suffer. And out there, through the closing distance, through the fog and rain, I could see the breaking shoreline, and the lighthouse looming—its thick beam of light tearing out through the dark storm. Only a short distance now, I thought.
“It can be done,” Ravistelle’s voice interrupted my thought. “Everything is up to you, Basil, and us. We have the chance. Let us take it. Let us go and heal ourselves. Let us share it with the world.”
It can all be true. And then Rearden’s voice again, what if I can’t help, can’t handle it or I go in with them? It seemed to me suddenly that the only way I could help manage the pain of their suffering was to indeed, go there with them. To Ravistelle, I must have appeared fragile and overwhelmed for my hands began to tremble, but I felt a smile curve across my thought.
“I know,” he said gently. “It is difficult to take. I can only imagine what it must have been like for the martyrs—men told that they were in some way a part of a divine plan, men fated to suffer for mankind.”
“Fate?” I cried, turning away. “I do not believe in fate. We can change our lives through our actions.”
“True,” Albion smiled and pointed to a glass placed on the table. “You see the glass of water there? I am fated to pick it up, right now.” As he began to reach for the glass I jerked my hand down to seize it, thinking that I could alter what he thought was fated. The move was awkward and my fingertips slipped, tipping it over. The glass shattered.
“Of course,” he smiled, pushing my hand out of the way and brushing the broken glass nimbly off of the table and onto the cover of a book. “And so it is.” Albion hel
d the broken shards up for me to see. “You see, as I thought. Like you, I believe that a man can change his fate, only if he chooses to do so. But fate, it seems, tends to play tricks on us. Sometimes it has its own plan. Mingled like the moon that changes and the sun that is constant, our futures are both choice and destiny, controlled by omniscience. The invisible hand.” He lifted one of the pointed shards of glass and raised it to his right eye, gazing at me through it. “Your choice will be your fate. What fate will that be?”
“What if-”
He interrupted, “What if? What if you had chosen not to get in the way of my fate with this glass?” His eye grew wider in the glass. “A bit less of a mess, I would think. And what if is not a question to be taken lightly, or to be carried into the twilight of our lives. Unless, of course,” he smiled darkly, “that is your fate. One longing regret to haunt you. We’ve the chance now, Loche, to share with the world the remedy of our suffering condition. What is your fate?”
Raising my arm I pointed my trembling fingers toward the broken pieces of glass atop Albion’s book. They were jagged and sharp, but clear as ice in spring. I lifted one from the pile and placed it firmly into the meat of my hand and squeezed. The hot sting of it cutting my flesh brought the words of old Rearden echoing through my memory. Mental illness is not like a cut on the arm, but it is exactly like a cut on the arm. The only difference is that this kind of cut can think. This kind of wound can learn to cut again. This kind of cut can talk itself into never healing. It has hands, eyes, experiences and a wealth of understanding of its host. But it also understands you. The medical doctor uses sutures and bandages. We psychologists use words. You must outthink it to stop the bleeding and try to pull the knife from its hand. I wish I could offer you something more than mere words, for if I knew how to stop the pain, the bleeding, the hopelessness, I would most certainly share it. I’d share it with the world.
The Invasion of Heaven, Part One of the Newirth Mythology Page 20
