The Invasion of Heaven, Part One of the Newirth Mythology

by Michael B. Koep

  She looked beautiful and poised. She wore a long grey-green gown with thin straps over her shoulders. Her smile was glowing, and she looked to me. I returned the smile as she sat down without removing her gaze. She spoke to her translator, and Adam echoed, “She says, Dr. Newirth, that you look better than you did this morning.”

  I chuckled uneasily, “I suppose I do.”

  Rentana spoke again. “And your water glass is empty again.” I glanced at my glass. It was empty.

  “I’m still hydrating.” Adam repeated my words to her, and she laughed quietly.

  The rest of the dinner was spent listening to Adam translate Rentana’s experience inside the painting. She recounted the scenes from each metal building; each of which was an entirely different horrifying event that she had endured during the war. She recalled rising out of her body (or bodies), turning and watching the experiences as if she were a member of some surreal audience. My presence she remembered perfectly, and she told of how I struggled to save her from the soldiers. As Adam told the grisly stories, I noticed that the company had stopped eating. I, too, lost my appetite. Helen was captivated by the stories. She was leaning in on the table and waiting upon every translated word from Adam. Howard Fenn noted her interest and, nodding to me as the first tale began, politely rolled his chair toward Edwin and led him out onto the veranda to watch the boats. He returned quickly, not wanting to miss anything, but kept an eye out the window on Edwin playing with another young boy. Helen didn’t seem to notice.

  Rentana ended her story with what Adam struggled to articulate as joining together. The point at which all of her traumatic experiences, her many forms, blended into one. “She blinked and was behind the glass,” Adam told us. “Frightened, but safe. Safe when she saw Dr. Newirth.”

  “And so,” Ravistelle said, “you left it all behind you.”

  Rentana smiled. She whispered softly to Adam. Adam translated, “She feels good. A little confused, but she remembers everything. And it is okay now. It happened, and she must move on. There is no fear anymore. There is no hatred or anger.” Rentana spoke and Adam nodded, “It was like a bad dream.” The woman’s face was resolute and fearless. “And she has left it behind.”

  Albion Ravistelle placed his palms together and listened intently to Adam’s translation. “A bad dream,” he whispered to himself. He closed his eyes and tilted his head as if he were savoring every word. A subtle grin crossed his lips. I looked at his hands and thought about the stinging cut that lay there.

  But as Adam finished, Albion held his hands up. “It has been left in the dream world, Rentana,” he said. My eyes flitted from one palm to the other. There was no cut. No gash. No sign of any injury. It had healed. A sharp sting rose from the soft flesh in my fist. How is that possible? I thought. Albion didn’t notice my captivated look.

  “Tomorrow we shall carry on with our labors. Basil, I’ve another patient I would like you and Loche to meet.”

  Basil looked lazily at Ravistelle.

  “Why, Mr. Fenn, are you not elated with the day’s results?” Ravistelle asked, noting Basil’s nonchalance.

  Basil’s eyes flashed to me. “Sure,” he said masking his distaste, “I just hope it continues to work.”

  Dr. Angelo Catena rose from the table. Along with him rose Corey. “I hope that you’ll excuse us, but we’ve much to do to prepare for tomorrow’s tests. Congratulations, all.”

  Corey spoke next, “Mr. Fenn and Dr. Newirth, will you be needing anything else this evening?”

  “I may go to my studio and work awhile tonight,” Basil said. I could feel Ravistelle smile at the other end of the table.

  “That is well,” Albion said. “Your hard work is a stepping stone to our goal, Basil.”

  “If you need anything at all, please feel free to send for me,” Corey said.

  “Goodnight, everyone,” Angelo bowed, “Come, Corey.”

  I raised my hand to wave goodbye and Corey’s eyes shot from my hand to Albion’s. He turned and followed Angelo.

  A light tapping on the door startled me. I woke with my wife in my arms, her soft breathing warm against my chest. I carefully untangled myself from her and discovered that Edwin was lying close behind me. He was deep in dreams with his mouth wide open. I pushed my body up and over him and got out of bed. As I tied my robe around my waist I could see the moon arcing over the Venetian skyline. The digital clock read, 4:01 a.m. The quiet knock came again. I crossed the room and opened the door.

  “You called?” It was Corey Thomas.

  I stared at him blankly. Did I?

  “How can I be of service?” he said a bit louder this time.

  He could see that I was confused. He spoke loudly as if the walls had ears, and of course, the walls did. “A nightcap, Dr. Newirth? Why certainly. Won’t you come with me? Your brother has ordered the same.” He raised from his side a bottle of scotch —The Macallan. “Come.”

  I followed him down the long hall toward the elevator.

  Basil was deep in thought as we entered his studio. John Lennon’s crackly voice cried from the speakers, Come together— right now, over me. “Did you bring the goods?” he asked Corey.

  Corey nodded and placed the bottle on a table. Moving to a cabinet he produced three rocks glasses. He poured the scotch.

  Basil looked at me. “We’ve got to talk.” I looked at Corey. “Oh, don’t worry about him. We’ve been chatting it up for quite awhile now.”

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “We’re fucked,” Basil said simply.

  “What?”

  Basil looked at Corey. Corey was silent and took a long sip from his glass. He was eyeing both of us over the rim, amused.

  “Can we talk here?” I asked, glancing to the corners of the room.

  “Amazingly, yes,” Corey said. “Albion Ravistelle has allowed Basil’s request—no surveillance equipment in the studio. Why he allowed it I’m not completely sure. But it doesn’t matter now. He’s got you right where he wants you.”

  “And where’s that?” I asked with a tinge of impatience.

  Corey reached out with his glass and touched it to mine. “Here.”

  “Me and Corey have been sharing some stories, Loche,” Basil said gently. “And he’s on our side.”

  “Side?” I said. “What do you mean? We are here helping to cure—”

  “Not exactly, Loche.” Basil interrupted.

  “Let this begin the discourse,” Corey said producing an iPhone. He held it out so the screen was near to my eyes.

  “Wait, Corey,” Basil said. “I think he should sit down.”

  The man paused, sizing me up. “No,” he said after a second of squinting. “I think he’s getting better at taking shocks.”

  The screen lit up. There was Helen. She was being videoed from what looked to be a small surveillance camera from the ceiling. She sat quietly in the back of the gothic dining room looking out the window. Albion Ravistelle stepped into the frame and sat beside her—close beside her. My stance shifted slightly.

  He took her hand, raised it to his lips, and kissed it gently. Helen, with her other hand, stroked his cheek.

  “Diana was able to get a message through,” she said. “She’s not sick. Quite clever.” The tone of her voice was alien and hard. If I didn’t actually see her speaking I would have never believed that the voice belonged to my wife.

  “Yes,” Albion said still holding her hand. “It is no matter.”

  “Quite the ruse.”

  “Quite. A stunning performance,” Albion agreed. “However, Miss Goddell’s successful attempt will work to our benefit in the end.”

  “It has Loche thinking,” Helen said. “But I believe he is still on track.”

  “Keep encouraging him, Helen. Now it is just a matter of time.”

  “Will they rebel?”

  “Doubtful,” he said threading his fingers through her hair. The silk handkerchief was still wrapped around his hand. “We’ve an agree
ment.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Why, yes. A rather ancient blood brother handshake, as it were,” he said mockingly, showing her his makeshift bandage. “That should hold him for the time being. But as I said, it is no matter. If they rebel, what can they do? I’ve Basil’s catalogue, his closest family, his mother, Loche’s child and, of course. . .you. His dear wife.”

  “You wouldn’t kill me, would you, my love?” Her tone was laced with humor.

  He smiled and leaned his body into her. They kissed deeply. I felt the air sucked out of my lungs and the first traces of blinding tears.

  As they parted Albion said, “It won’t be long now.”

  Helen nodded. “I can wait. I’ve always waited. Since the day you found me.”

  “Tests have begun in the Sun Room. We’ve treated five patients—shown five works.”

  “And?” Helen’s tone was filled with desire.

  Albion didn’t answer but instead laid his palms together as if in prayer. With reverence he bowed his head. Helen kissed his fingertips.

  “He is pleased. Very pleased,” Albion said without raising his head.

  Helen sat back quickly. “You’ve shared the news with him?”

  “He will come here soon. He is proud of us.”

  My wife wrapped her arms around herself. The gesture was strange. It was as if she were struggling to master an explosive joy that her body could not contain.

  “No more of this now,” Albion said. “Go to your husband. I will call for you soon.”

  The screen went black. Corey lowered the device and watched my face. He put his hand on my shoulder and softly offered, “I’m sorry, Loche.”

  I staggered back a step and lowered myself down onto a chair.

  Basil lowered his face to me. “From the first day I met Helen, way back when we dated, I always felt that I couldn’t trust her.” I saw her sleeping. Her warm body holding my young son. I could smell her skin. “Looks like she’s always had another agenda—the bitch. When she couldn’t get me she went right to you—”

  I jumped back to my feet and shoved him. Basil’s riposte was a similar push. “That’s right,” he said, “get pissed!”

  Before I could think, I threw my fist into his ribs sending him to the floor. He folded over and coughed, windless.

  Corey stepped between us, holding me back from another blow. “Loche,” he said, “please stop.”

  I lunged again only this time I felt a sharp, cold stab of pain shoot down my spine. “Brothers,” sighed Corey. His hand pressed on the back of my neck. My body stood motionless. The memory of William Greenhame and his nighttime visit to my office, so far away from here, funneled through my mind—the paralyzing pressure point.

  “There is more for you to hear. Please restrain yourself.” He let go, and I dropped heavily back on the chair.

  Basil was recovering. He held an arm protectively over his stomach. “Sure, he’s getting better at taking shocks,” he managed to breathe out.

  I lowered my head into my hands. “This is really happening, isn’t it?”

  “There is much I could tell you about your wife, Helen. But she is of little importance to us right now. What is important is that you know her betrayal. Albion Ravistelle wants Basil and his work. He’s got it. All of it. He also wants you, Loche. He wants your gift to work for him—he’ll do anything to get it.”

  “But I don’t know how to do what Basil does.”

  Corey’s eyes sparkled. “Have patience. You will.”

  “Why are you telling us this?” I asked.

  Corey shook his head, continuing to size me up. “Dr. Newirth, let me see your hand.”

  I raised it. A red blot stained the center of the bandage. “I see you’ve cut yourself,” he said playfully. From the table next to us he lifted a ball point pen. “Watch carefully.” He lifted his own hand and without hesitation drove the pen through the soft flesh like a nail. A barely perceptible wince tugged at his eyes. Removing the pen a grisly hole remained, and thick blood slowly oozed from the wound. I looked up at Basil. He was transfixed.

  “Wicked,” Basil marveled.

  “I said, watch carefully,” Corey ordered.

  I obeyed. Tiny clear bubbles formed on the outer edges of the hole and rapidly turned to a white foam. The bleeding had stopped. Corey watched the process with a blank air, as if bored. Corey wiped the foam away with his other hand. The hole was gone. He turned his hand over and over before my eyes and said, “You see? All better.”

  “What the fuck was that?” Basil exclaimed.

  “That is what happens to an immortal who’s been skewered by a ballpoint pen,” he said.

  I blinked my eyes.

  “Albion has a similar gift—your blood brother ceremony?”

  “How did you know about that?”

  “I have complete security clearance here. I am, after all, Dr. Catena’s chief assistant.”

  Not knowing what to say, I stared at his hand. Corey’s next utterance was yet another surprise. “You’ve the look of a statue, Dr. Newirth.”

  Your statue-like life will crack, and all beneath will melt into motion, came Greenhame’s voice from just days before. His words taking shape—the shape of reality. I shivered.

  “Yes, William Greenhame, dear fellow. I miss him terribly. I, too, am Orathom Wis, a Guardian of the Dream. Though, as of late, I’ve been trundling around behind Dr. Catena saying things like, ‘Oh yes, that’s a grand idea, Doctor. Yes, I’ll get you a coffee. Yes, I’ll get you a sanitary cloth.’ Quite funny really.”

  “And what about Angelo? Does he know about Ravistelle?” I asked.

  “Not a bit. In fact, I don’t think our inquisitive Doctor is in league with Ravistelle. He is convinced, as you were, that you are here to aid the sick and mentally disabled.”

  “But isn’t that why we are here?” I asked.

  Corey smiled. “Oh sure. Partly. The two of you have shown great promise. Catena is delighted. So, too, is Ravistelle. You’ve found a way to end the woes of man’s mind. But there is much more to it. Ravistelle plans to share your gifts with more than just the Saved mental patients.”

  Basil’s voice was filled with rage, “Who?”

  “The leaders of the world, the inmates of every prison, the average person. He’ll get your work out there for all to see, but he’ll start with those who are powerful.”

  “I’ve seen these works, Corey. People won’t be able to handle it. It will be damaging beyond recognition. It will likely kill—”

  “Yes,” Corey agreed. “But I’m not so concerned about that.”

  Basil and I stared at him in disbelief.

  “Oh,” he noted our expressions, “don’t mistake me. That would be tragic, as death always is, but the death of the innocent, or not so innocent, is not my chief concern.”

  “What is your chief concern, then?” I asked.

  “The invasion of Heaven.” Corey emptied the last of The Macallan into his mouth, let the booze rest there for a moment, and then set his glass down beside the bloody pen.

  Julia looks up. Ahead, the high steeple of Coeur d’Alene’s Saint Thomas Catholic Church rises from the corner block. The lofty spire shines like a spike of silver in the early evening sky.

  “Here?” Julia asks. The car slows and stops. “I think this is a bad idea,” she objects. “Don’t you think Ravistelle would know how to find Father Whitely?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Rearden argues. “I want to see him. He might be able to help.”

  Rearden looks up at the cross twinkling above the quaint neighborhood and thinks for a second. John Whitely owes Loche a favor to be sure. He saved the priest’s skin, so why not collect on it.

  A grey-green stone building stands just yards from the church with an open garage door—it is vacant. He eases the car inside and shuts off the engine. The silence is strangely deafening without the constant drone of the heater fan. Julia looks at Rearden. His hands still hold the wheel, and his
face appears uncertain. She hastily opens the door and steps out. For an instant, the notion of fleeing grips her.

  “Wait,” Rearden says, his hand sliding into his jacket, feeling for the gun. The side door of the garage opens, and a young groundskeeper enters.

  “You can’t park here,” he says, slightly perturbed. “This is reserved for—”

  “We’re looking for Father Whitely. Is he here?” Julia’s tone is more of an order than a question, and it startles the young man.

  “Yes,” he answers, “but you can’t—”

  “Will you please let him know he has visitors.” Again her voice is authoritative—too rigid for the youth to dispute.

  “What are your names?” he asks.

  “Get Father Whitely,” she repeats.

  Her demand is clear—and the conversation is over. The young man stares at Julia, then quickly turns and walks toward the church.

  Rearden’s face fills the bathroom mirror. “I hate churches,” he growls at himself. “How can these people believe such nonsense? Created sick and expected to be well. Insane.”

  Who is this person in the mirror? Does he look older? “Yes, you do,” he says, rubbing his fingers into the soft patches of tissue sagging below his eyes. “Older by the day,” he sighs. The old man is tired. Turning, he lifts his arms over his head, and stretches his sore back. “Long, snowy drive, killing people—”

  “It was necessary,” he assures himself, “besides, those were no ordinary people.”

  The air smells of sweetened bleach. He stands inside the sanitary white of a 1960s style bathroom that is kept assiduously clean. A small digital clock blinks beside the door. The glowing red numerals flash the wrong time, 2:00 a.m. Not many of God’s people visit this bathroom, Rearden thinks.

  The groundskeeper had led Rearden and Julia down into the undercroft of the church. Rearden’s first thought as he descended below the mortared walls of the chancel was—bunker.

  One long, well-lit hallway links together the furnaces, project rooms and storage areas. At the very end are two windowless living quarters that share a single bathroom. The bedrooms are relatively small, plain and painfully white. But the beds are soft, and after a day like today, Rearden wants nothing more than to fall onto one and sleep.