The Invasion of Heaven, Part One of the Newirth Mythology

by Michael B. Koep

  Blood dripped from my fist as I lowered it to my side. Albion Ravistelle still peered at me through the sharp slice of glass.

  “I don’t trust you, Albion,” I said. “And I am not convinced that we have any answers, yet. But I know that Basil’s work is something beyond our understanding, and that it is powerful. It has been used to heal, once. I have dedicated my life to helping those that suffer. We must try. If what you’re proposing is true, I’m in. Let’s share it.”

  Albion lowered his jagged eyepiece with an air of joy mingled with sober gravity. “This fate that you choose—it will be more than you imagine. You are prepared to face this?”

  I nodded slowly. Laying his palm open and setting his eyes firmly into mine he sliced the sharp edge across his skin. He then reached for my hand and pressed his cut grip to mine.

  “Here’s to the big deep heavy,” I said.

  Albion smiled. “Come with me.” He turned toward the door.

  It was as Basil had told me the previous evening. Our craft was larger than any of us. If we had the chance and the ability to heal the woes of humanity, it must be explored, and my intention was to do just that, with or without him.

  Albion led me to a lift at the far end of the east wing of the hotel. Jutting from the wall beside the door was a small black box and from its center shot a faint, glowing beam of laser light that crossed the pathway to the lift entrance. Albion angled his left eye into the ray.

  A computer-generated female voice droned from some hidden speaker, “Identita cresima—Albion Ravistelle.” The metal lift doors opened, and we entered. Instead of a control panel with a number of lit buttons there was only one. Printed on the plastic casing of the control panel was a symbol that, at the time, I couldn’t place, but I was certain I’d seen it before. It depicted a simple ladder capped by a crescent moon opening downward. Conjuring its meaning was far from my attention, and as vague as the distant life I had led in North Idaho. I let the thought pass as Albion pressed the button three times and the lift descended.

  White light shot into the compartment as the doors opened. Albion and I stepped out into an enormous pillared cavern. It was so large that I had a difficult time seeing the opposite walls. Bright lights bathed the room with perfect illumination, and each surface was brilliantly white. The further in I ventured I noticed that the room was round. Along the perimeter were numbers, barely detectible, embossed in the white marble floor.

  “Welcome to the Sun Room,” Albion said smiling. “I’ve long waited to show you this place.” He motioned to the walls, “This is our test facility. You see the shrouds?” He pointed to the fabric draped walls. “If you would, please stand on a number on the floor, any number.”

  Nearest to me was the Roman numeral one. I stepped onto it and waited for further instructions. “Please face the curtain, Dr. Newirth.” I obeyed. “Behind that curtain will soon be one of Basil’s paintings. In fact, his entire catalogue will soon correspond with each floor number in this room.”

  I gasped, staring at the closed curtain, “That’s well over two thousand paintings.”

  Behind me, Albion sounded as if he were grinning, “Two thousand seven hundred and ten to be exact.”

  “All in this circle?” I marveled. “Big room.”

  “Yes. But larger still. We have space for four thousand of his works. Works that we are hoping he will complete here in Venice.”

  I nodded hearing Basil’s defiance in my ears. “Where is his work now?”

  “I’m glad you asked,” Albion replied. “It has only just arrived—last night.”

  There was a slight fissure in the curtain before me. “So how does this work?”

  Ravistelle moved beside me. “Each painting will be placed behind each respective curtain.” Reaching into his suit pocket Albion produced a small device no larger than a cell phone. He held it up to his mouth and said, “Open number one.” Like a theater curtain, the fabric parted revealing a wall as black as night. There was no painting, yet.

  “I see,” I nodded. “But how will you manage to hang the work to implement your experiment? I can tell you now that you will have, for lack of a better word, casualties, if your associates attempt this. I would fear an accidental viewing.”

  “Ah, very good,” he answered. “We have a crew specially trained. A very special crew indeed.”

  “And what of the content of the paintings?” I rambled on, “How will you match painting to patient? We don’t know enough about that, yet.”

  “My dear Loche,” Albion said, “I believe this will be your first task. Your talents as a psychologist, as well as your ability to survive viewing Basil’s work, will help us determine treatment. But first, before we get to that, let us meet our volunteer patients. Shall we?” I followed my guide to the lift again and we descended further into my fated, unknown world.

  A smiling Dr. Angelo Catena, with his wire-rimmed glasses still angled down on the tip of his nose, was waiting for us a floor below. He wore a white medical coat buttoned at the chest over a suit and tie. The enthusiasm in his eyes was unmistakable. Beside him was another man wearing similar dress. Angelo reached out to me for a handshake. “Dr. Newirth. Again, I cannot begin to express my excitement and the honor it is to finally be working with you.” As we shook hands, he squeezed. I quickly reeled back wincing. I had forgotten about the fresh cut I had given myself. Angelo immediately noticed the blood on his hand, “Goodness, Doctor, you’re hurt. Are you quite all right?”

  I apologized, “I broke a glass in my room this morning, and I had all but forgotten—”

  Angelo said to his assistant, “Corey, will you rush to the infirmary and bring a bandage?”

  “I’m afraid Mr. Ravistelle also cut himself on the same glass,” I told Angelo.

  “I’m quite alright,” Ravistelle said raising his hand. It was wrapped in a white silk handkerchief. “A tiny cut. Here,” he said to me as he produced another handkerchief, “use this. He’s fine, Catena. We don’t have time for this—let us meet our patients.”

  Angelo’s assistant, Corey, nodded and took the white silk and kindly tied it around my hand. I noted that Corey’s eyes shifted from my bandage to Albion’s.

  “There you are,” Angelo said to me as he patted the top of my hand gently, “bene. Corey?”

  Corey, as if shaken from a dream pulled his eyes away from Albion’s hand, “Si?”

  “Would you get me a sanitary cloth?”

  “Si.” He dashed away.

  “Now then, gentlemen, this way.”

  Angelo led us down a long hallway that opened up into a massive ward. Fifty people, both men and women, were spread out, some seated at tables, some watching television or wandering aimlessly. Each wore a robe of light green.

  “Here are the Saved,” Angelo beamed. “The most difficult and unfortunate cases in Europe.” He turned to me and raised his head so that his grey-green eyes filled the lenses of his spectacles. “These are the lucky ones, Dr. Newirth—at least they are now. Two years ago they were the worst off. You see, each of these men and women have been institutionalized for their respective mental conditions—which are wide ranging. Schizophrenia, Alzheimer’s, acute psychoses, manic depression, post traumatic stress disorder, et cetera. They also share the unfortunate reality of having no family. Most of them have no official records, and as far as the European Mental Health League is more than insistent to point out, no money.”

  I took in the sight. I saw hopeless cases of perhaps every mental illness known. Visiting rooms like this in the past for me had always been an exercise in futility. Here are the Saved, Angelo had said. I felt a rush of adrenaline surge behind my eyes.

  The man in the corner who was quietly muttering to himself while he stared away to that place I’ve longed to destroy, was soon to be healed, healthy and aware. The woman seated at the table to my right, crying and wringing her hands will soon learn to smile. I shook my head. Soon. Just hold on. We are coming.

  I felt the to
uch of Albion’s hand on my shoulder at the moment I saw my mother, curled up like a cat in the corner of the room with two resident staff members standing nearby. “Your mother, of course, is a special case,” he said softly. “We will make certain that our tests are effective before her treatment.”

  “Yes,” I replied, keeping my professional and objective tone intact.

  “But, most importantly,” Catena said, “we have been given consent by the European Mental Health League to care for the rest of them, and to provide our new treatment. The EMHL is most hopeful.”

  “Do they know our methods?” I asked.

  Angelo glanced at Albion, and then to me. “The EMHL is fully aware.”

  “Believe me,” Albion interjected, “as the Director of the EMHL, we are honored to begin this new, enlightening treatment.”

  Albion couldn’t help but notice my wide-eyed expression. “At your service, Dr. Newirth. But come, we’ve one more stop to make before we embark on the journey to bring these people home.”

  Through a one-way mirror behind the coffee counter, I watched my brother. Again I felt that twinge of guilt—that godlike viewing position. I saw the thin, yarn-like wisp of smoke coiling from the cigarette Basil’s fingers. “Si,” he said to the waitress. She nearly missed his coffee cup while she poured. She was obviously fascinated by the American artist—his dangling hair and his dark eyes that were far away. “Grazie,” Basil said quietly and smiled. She smiled back with her eyes, perhaps wanting to say more. And I imagined that she considered it. I imagined her thinking, I could tell him exactly what I felt, what I wanted and he wouldn’t understand a lick of it. Safely experiencing what it would be like to say what she would never say to a stranger. A stranger that was as mysterious as the feeling of her own self-restraint.

  The face of Julia Iris filled my mind suddenly—the morning she served me coffee at The Floating Hope in Idaho. I wondered briefly if my eyes had made similar suggestions. Would I have dared to say aloud the flood of imagery that she created for me in those few precious moments on our first meeting? I shook off the memory.

  Albion, Angelo, Corey and I watched Basil and the waitress from behind the mirror. “He knows he’s being watched. He has a talent for that, you know,” I offered.

  None of my new companions answered. We watched my brother in silence. As the waitress turned, Basil pulled a pen from his breast pocket and began to draw on a napkin. The waitress leaned over to get a look at what he was sketching. Noticing her, he abruptly yanked the napkin from the counter. “No, no,” he said to her gently. Startled by his quick movement the waitress drew back.

  “Escuse,” she said, embarrassed, and retreated toward the back kitchen. Basil watched her go. The look in his eyes was both stern and disappointed. My brother’s bane—never share your work.

  He turned his attention back to the napkin. A few moments later he placed his pen back in his breast pocket and took a long sip from his steaming coffee cup. Setting the cup down he raised his head and looked into the mirror behind the counter. He grinned.

  “Albion, Angelo, Corey,” I said, “please turn away.”

  “What, why?” Angelo asked.

  “Just do it,” I warned.

  “What do you fear?” Albion asked.

  Basil stood and began to limp around the counter moving steadily closer to the mirror.

  “I’m not sure,” I said, “but he can render the Center. And if he puts that in your way, you can join the people a few floors down. So, please—”

  Albion and Angelo immediately turned away from the mirror. Corey remained still, staring at Basil.

  “Corey! Do as I say,” I warned.

  Angelo added angrily, “Corey, turn away.”

  A subtle smile hinted upon Corey’s lips as Basil now stood staring directly into the mirror. His face was expressionless. He raised the napkin and slapped it up against the glass. “Corey!” I yelled.

  Corey’s eyes narrowed slightly, and his smile faded.

  Pressed against the mirror on the thin porous paper was written, “I’M IN.”

  “A lot of mirrors in this place, Al baby,” Basil quipped. “Not a whole bundle of trust?” Basil now stood with us in the surveillance room behind the coffee shop’s mirror.

  Albion shifted uneasily in his stance. I could see that Basil’s irreverence bothered the Director of the EMHL—a man who had pledged his life to the betterment of others through patient academia was now forced to place his trust in a cheeky, self assured, pot-smoking American. An artist. I wondered if Albion thought of the word artist as a rude expletive.

  “Only for your protection, Basil,” Albion replied.

  Basil tapped the mirror, looking through at his still steaming cup. “Even in the coffee shop?”

  “Yes, dear Basil. We will forever pride ourselves on your safety. While you are in our care, no one will harm you.”

  Basil nodded in long, barely suppressed sarcastic ups and downs. “Nice,” he said finally. “Good to know. Good to know.”

  I decided to interrupt. “Basil, what prompted you to change your mind?”

  He didn’t respond. Instead he moved to the opposite end of the room and said, “So, how do we get started? What do you need me to do?”

  Angelo eagerly stepped forward. “Miss Rentana. We would like you and Dr. Newirth to meet her. Dr. Newirth will provide for you a prognosis. Hopefully from there you will be able to find the right imagery to bring her to health.”

  “That simple, eh?”

  Angelo nodded, with lights in his eyes, “We hope so.”

  “Very good. I’ll need a studio.”

  “A studio has long been prepared for you, Basil,” Albion said. “I think you’ll be quite at home.”

  “I’m gonna need some weed,” Basil said.

  “Not an issue,” Albion replied.

  “And a kick-ass stereo.”

  “Already done.”

  “With a turntable. No digital shit.”

  “We can make that happen.” Albion said, “It might take a few days--”

  “And the entire Rush discography on vinyl, to start.”

  “Very well.”

  Basil’s eyes squinted and he took an awkward step toward Albion. “And no cameras, mirrors, microphones, or any of that shit in my studio. Nothing. Believe me, when I’m working, I’ll know. I’ll know. Nothing in there, got it?”

  Albion paused, looking at the artist. “It will be done. No surveillance.”

  My brother took out a cigarette, raised it to his mouth and grabbed it with his teeth. “Okay, then.” He sparked his lighter and lit it. Angelo was gazing at Basil in wonder. Basil looked at him thoughtfully and said, “So, you got any Floyd?”

  I had spent nearly an hour educating Basil on Rentana and her illness later that afternoon, at least what I was able to determine from her records. Despite his aloof demeanor I lectured carefully, mindful that Basil’s knowledge of mental illness was limited. I took care to choose words that he would understand and often ended particularly important diagnostic statements with, “Is that clear?” Sure, he’d say from time to time as he hobbled around his new studio, inspecting every inch. Dejected, I finally challenged him.

  “What’s the problem? Does anything that I’m telling you matter?”

  “Yes, and no,” he said, thumbing through the delicate, long-handled brushes that were laid out like surgeon’s instruments.

  There was no need for me to respond. He could see my body language saying, What do you mean, goddamn it?

  He sighed with impatience. “Yes, in that Rentana is wacked-out. No, in that all that crap that you are throwing out doesn’t mean shit to me—nor will it to her. If we’re lucky, she’ll be walking and talking and having a grand old time by this evening. She’ll even remember who she is—or better, why she is, and she’ll be what Albion Ravistelle might call, the perfect human. You just need to watch, take notes, and pay attention. I’m making this shit up as I go. And besides, once you learn how
to use your gift, I am out. Get it?”

  “Basil, don’t you understand what it’s going to mean to the world—what you are about to do for the sick—what you are about to share?”

  He paused, staring, into some distant place. “Not exactly. And let’s just hope we get lucky.”

  “Why did you change your mind—to do this?”

  “Three reasons,” he said reaching across and picking up a handheld device. “No turntable yet—instead there’s this—an iPod,” he said with disdain. “Four thousand songs in this little thing. Makes me feel cheap using it.” He looked at me with one brow raised, “Listening to music should involve some responsibility, shouldn’t it? Like pulling out a record, caring for it, reading the lyrics, being dazzled by the artwork, something, right?” He circled his thumb on the white plastic dial, “Ah, who gives a shit these days anyway? People are fucked.”

  “What reasons?” I asked.

  “OK Computer.” The room vibrated with distorted electric guitar as if a chainsaw was tearing through the wall. Basil smiled broadly. Moving around the table he stood close at my side and spoke into my ear as the studio speakers raged.

  “No matter what assurances Albion gives that I’m not being monitored, I’m not taking any chances.” He turned the volume knob a click louder. “They want to manipulate me. I’m not entirely sure how, but I won’t let it happen.” He chuckled with a frown. “It is my art. No matter what happens. And yes, something tells me that I can help these people. But I’m not entirely sure how. But that isn’t the biggest problem. I just don’t know what it will mean for my work. What it will do to the other side.” He paused and stared down at the marble tiled floor. “I don’t trust Albion Ravistelle and his minions. There is something more happening here. I’m afraid he’ll hurt you, Diana, Howard. . .all of us. Something tells me that if I don’t cooperate—” he broke off.

  “He’ll what?”

  Basil shook his head. “Funny,” he spoke into my ear. “I just found you. I never thought I’d be as glad as I am to have real family. Reason one.”