He turns once more to the mirror and again tries to rub the bags under his eyes away.
“Got to find Loche,” he whispers to himself. “Chances are slim. And if you fail, then what, you old fool? You are too old to be running around like some swashbuckler. Look at you—a gun in your coat, your old life abandoned. A couch and a client, that’s where you belong. How the hell did you get here?”
His reply is steady and direct, “You know well enough. You wanted more. So more you’ve gotten.”
“I’ll find him,” he resolves, pointing a sharp gaze into the eyes in the mirror. “I’ll find him for Elanor. And after that, everything will return to normal.”
He flinches suddenly, as if a spider has dropped onto his shoulder. There is nothing there, but across the room he sees the red numerals of the digital clock blinking like glowing eyes. He fancies a thin silk line is threading out from them, reaching toward him. The clock squints and Rearden hears it speak, “Soon, Rearden, I’ll have both you and Loche. There are always two.”
“Leave me be!” the doctor yells at the glowing eyes. “I’ll find him before you do! I’ll deal with-”
The knock on the door silences him, and the slender web recedes into the eyes of the clock.
“Are you alright, Marcus?” comes Julia’s concerned tone on the other side of the door. “Who are you talking to?”
Rearden mashes his eyes shut and stammers, “Uh, Julia?”
“Yes. You okay?
It is gone, whatever it was, Rearden thinks, and he replies aloud to Julia with confidence, “I’m fine. I’m talking to myself. I’ll be out in a moment.”
As he reaches for the door latch he does not notice that his hands are shaking.
Julia is sitting at a small oak table beside the door. She looks up as he enters.
“Talking to yourself?”
Rearden does not answer. Instead he starts toward the door. “I’m going to go and see what’s keeping Father Whitely.”
Julia sits with the book on her knees. She nods and opens it to where she left off.
“Invasion of Heaven?” I asked.
The immortal nodded. “Tell me, Loche, when you were transcendent, searching for Rentana within Basil’s work, did you happen to see smears in your vision?” Corey squinted as if struggling for the right question, “Like colorful patches of moving fog?”
“Yes,” I said. “As the forms of Rentana joined into one I looked back at the fenced camp. Behind the fence were blurry shapes. Difficult to describe.”
“Did you hear anything?”
“I noticed that the gate was locked shut when we were out. It was rattling.”
Corey nodded again.
“And there were screams, or howls. They were different from Rentana’s cries.”
Corey turned away. He walked toward the bottle of The Macallan with slow thoughtful steps. The bottleneck plinked on the rim of his glass as he poured another shot.
“You aren’t the first to report such things,” he muttered.
“What things?” Basil asked.
“Wait,” I broke in. “Who else has seen these paintings?”
“I have,” Corey said quietly to me. His tone was woeful. “But not without unspeakable regret. I have seen several of your works, Basil. Yes, I have survived—but only because I have a body and mind that can regenerate health and hope. That does not mean that I don’t feel what a normal human being can feel, I do, and more profoundly. It took me days to recover each time I entered the Center. But it was necessary for us to learn the dangers that the two of you bring.
“To answer your question,” he turned to Basil. “We believe those blurs or smears are the imperfections of mankind left there to contaminate the Orathom, the Dream. Sit down, both of you. We haven’t much time and what I’m about to tell you is difficult to comprehend.”
“Oh, that’s a killer surprise,” Basil groaned, lowering himself onto a stool.
“Do you believe in the Devil?” Corey whispered.
“If you would have asked me that a few days ago I would have said no,” I replied, “but now—”
“Since the dawn of time, from Egypt’s evil Seth to Eve’s serpent in the grass, since the temptation of Christ, and all the different manifestations in between, It has been with us. All the stories, the books, all the human interpretations have been quite accurate in depicting It.”
“Red with horns and all?” Basil said with sarcasm.
Corey glared at him. “Basil, you would do well to not make light of what I’m telling you. If any image of It, in art or words has filled you with dread, or disturbed you in any way, it is of no comparison to Its true form. Does It have horns? Is It red? If you choose. I suppose It could appear in that way. But I’ve experienced something beyond what words can express. Blank and pure hopelessness, without face, without sight. The simplicity of fear would be wished for, even welcomed, for fear is a known feeling. What It possesses is beyond madness.
“But mortal man’s depictions do fall short, as usual. And most importantly, Man’s belief of what It desires is erroneous and shortsighted. In fact, Man’s belief as always, is rather egocentric.”
My thoughts drifted back through my college studies of Christian theology. Satan’s primary desire is to deceive mankind into rebelling against God. Sin. The old story.
“Man has told himself through the centuries that Satan, Lucifer, Hades, Pluto, whatever you want to call It, is the supreme corrupter; Its charge is to blind Man through sin. Bar him from everlasting life. It wants Man’s damnation.”
“You are saying that It doesn’t want this?” I asked.
“No, I’m not saying that,” Corey shook his head. “I’m saying that It wants it all. The arrogance of Man has always been rather comical to myself and those like me. Your kind has always believed that you were at the center of It’s desire. It has blinded mankind with their own magnificence and self-importance.
“It, gentlemen, wants Heaven, or what you might understand as Heaven. We call it the Orathom—the Dream. It wants every deity, every god, every saint, every human soul, and ultimately—everything. The real suffering will be if It succeeds in the life to come. The invasion has begun.”
“And Basil’s Center is the breach?” I shuddered.
“The Center is the breach,” Corey nodded and took a long pull of whiskey.
“But how can this be?” Basil cried.
“If humans are confronted with Basil’s Center, they cross the threshold into the abode of the gods—into the Dream—the Orathom. And they take with them their imperfections, their sin, their hate, their fear and their—” Corey broke off and dropped his eyes to the floor.
“Their what?” Basil asked.
“Their disease. Humanity.” He drew his gaze back to ours, “Humanity is beautiful, gentlemen, but beyond the Center it—it spreads and fouls what was never meant to be fouled. It suffocates the hope of what lies after this life. The gods visit your paintings, Basil, to feel the human spirit and its passion. A human that sees your work infects the Orathom with humanity in all of its glorious and damned manifestations. The blurs you saw, Loche, were Rentana’s horrors, which are now forever caught within the Orathom—forever gnawing away at the omniscient beings that are present there. The horrors of rape, murder and fear have been unleashed in a place that was never intended to be opened to such atrocities.”
Basil’s mouth gaped open.
“Rentana left her pain there and returned, unscathed. Unscathed because when she viewed the painting she was but a shadow of a human being. The mentally stable, however, will not be able to survive the experience, here in the Alya—the Life. Their minds will be forever scarred by the light of infinity. Ravistelle has begun showing paintings to the patients that you’ve met. This is only the beginning. He plans to bring Basil’s work to those who control government and those who have committed crimes—those whom he can assume possess the darkest and most potent evils.”
Basil struggled to r
espond but was only able to utter, “But, but, I—”
“It is no fault of yours, my friend,” Corey consoled. “It is the work of It and those who follow It. They have waited for you to come. And you, as well, Loche. Though I’m still unsure what part you are to play. I believe that It is also unsure of your part.”
“Is It Ravistelle?” I asked with trepidation.
Corey’s laugh was like lurid sunlight cutting through black storm clouds. “No, no. Albion is, like me, immortal. He could have been great, but he is plainly a shortsighted tool. I have plans for him. No, It has a name. It has taken a human form. It’s name is Nicholas Cythe. And It—he—is coming here soon, and now is the time for you, Loche, to escape.”
“Why me and not Basil? Why not all of us?”
Corey nodded with understanding. “I’m afraid we aren’t in a position to free all of you. Ravistelle now holds all the cards, and he will surely kill your son, Diana and Howard if both of you were to disappear. Basil will continue to paint regardless of Albion’s threats because that is what Basil does. And if I’m not mistaken, Basil, you can’t survive if you don’t paint.”
Basil looked away gloomily.
“What do you mean,” I asked, “you can’t survive?”
Basil’s complexion greyed. “I guess you could say that painting for me is a kind of nutrient—a kind of food. If I don’t paint, I starve. I get really sick. I experimented with it. When I began developing better techniques at rendering the Center, the work started to feel dangerous. I guess, I sensed all of this stuff you’re explaining. I stopped. I was scared of it. I went maybe a week without holding a brush. My whole body hurt—it felt as if I was starving. It was awful. When I started up again, I was fine.”
“Can we destroy the paintings?” I asked.
Corey shook his head grimly. “We’re afraid to do that. The Orathom Wis had first believed that incinerating a portrait would be like trying to burn the ocean with a match. We concluded that the renderings had a kind of life of their own. It would be nearer to killing. We fear that the subjects of the paintings, those who Basil has rendered in the portraits, would perish—but so, too, something on the other side would also find its demise. Again, we know too little as to their power and super-nature. Destroying windows is always a messy affair, as my mentor, George, says. Much like breaking a mirror is bad luck.”
Basil said, “Yeah, after finishing a piece—I felt that it was alive, looking back at me.”
My scotch glass was empty. I gazed into it and struggled to make sense of all I was hearing. Thoughts of Helen’s betrayal mixed uneasily with Corey’s ominous stories. I desired to hear the comforting voice of Marcus Rearden. I imagined his understanding— his empathy. I imagined his help.
“What about our mother, Diana?” I said, still peering into my empty glass. “They know that she’s feigning—”
“That has already been arranged,” Corey said.
“What?”
“Your father will take care of it.”
“My father?” I gasped, looking up.
Corey nodded. He seemed to want to say more but held back. “You will be meeting with your mother again soon, if all goes as planned. The Orathom Wis have ordered me to get her to safety by tomorrow. I will say no more. You need only focus on what your muse instructs, Loche. Write. Bring your gift into the light. Let that be your mission.”
“I don’t know how to—”
“I know. But we must get you away from here so that when your gift comes, you may be in a position to use it as opposed to Ravistelle using it, and you. He’ll not do any harm to the others until he must. He’ll wait for your move. And if that time comes, we’ll be ready.”
“Where am I to go?”
“Anywhere but here.”
“Good evening, I’m Father John Whitely.” His cassock is a stark contrast to the surrounding white room.
Julia stands and reaches her hand out, “My name is Julia Iris. We’re friends of Basil Fenn and Loche Newirth.”
“Yes,” he says. “Marcus here has shared that with me. So how can I help you?”
For several awkward seconds the two travelers stare at John without speaking. The priest stares back. There is a knocking on the door. “Ah,” Father Whitley says. “I’ve had some tea brought for us.” He opens the door and receives a tray from the groundskeeper. “Thank you,” he says to the young man.
Marcus seats himself on the edge of the bed and gladly receives a steaming cup. Each of the trio take silent sips.
“Thank you for meeting with us,” Julia says and she explains how she and Loche became acquainted, and that she has fallen in love with him. Slowly she recounts the journey to the Priest’s door, leaving out the horrible scene in the snow. She is reluctant to divulge the incredible traits of Basil’s work. She wants to hear it from the priest’s mouth.
“You introduced Basil to a Bishop Alin?” she asks.
The priest nods. “I did. And I regret the day.” He says. “Basil has been my friend since childhood. We took different paths. Mine was God’s way. Basil’s was Basil’s. His was the path of passion, that’s the nice way of saying it. Several of my colleagues here might say the path of sin—but Basil has always been too close to my heart for me to view him in terms of black and white. He has a talent not of this world.”
Marcus’ body shifts on the bed. True indeed, he thinks.
“Basil had put together a series of paintings that celebrated the divine, or at least that’s what he told me. I felt that by showing his work to Bishop Alin, Basil might find some artistic success.”
“Did you see the paintings?” Marcus asks.
John shakes his head. “No. And I know that sounds strange, but Basil doesn’t show his work very easily.”
“Then what prompted you to introduce his art to Bishop Alin?” Julia’s tone is confused.
The priest smiles simply. “Faith. I witnessed a miracle with his father, Howard. Basil placed a painting before his father’s comatose eyes, and the man revived. I can’t explain it in any other way. It was God’s hand on the canvas. I’m sure of that.” Julia and Marcus nod in unison. “Ever since then I have believed in Basil, even without seeing his work. So when he told me that his latest series dealt with divinity—and, what did he say? The Godlike, big deep heavy—something told me I could help him—that he may be able to help all of us. Sounds silly, I’m sure. But regardless, I followed my heart. It was clear that he was caught up in something that I feared was beyond his scope—and my knowledge. I felt that a man like Bishop Alin could help.” Father Whitely shakes his head sadly. “I had no idea that he was corrupt.”
“Corrupt?” Marcus repeats. “How so?”
“I don’t know directly. I only met the Bishop four or five times, usually at social functions. During that short time we had built a rapport. Most of us at seminary had heard about his influence at the Vatican. Well, I made the introductions, and Basil certainly made an impression. In fact, Bishop Alin made a point to assure Basil and me that he would get in touch with some of his colleagues in Italy—to look into the matter of his art.
“This is all my fault. I’d not heard from Basil since that meeting with Alin—then I got a call from him wanting me to meet his brother—next thing I know I’m standing in Loche’s destroyed home—watching a violent raid on Basil’s flat—a man was killed right before my eyes. It was because of Loche that I was spared from whatever fate they now face.” He puts his head in his hands and bows slightly. “To think that it’s my fault. And now he is missing.”
Julia forces herself to hold back the expression of sorrow. She recalls Loche’s opening passages, a revolver under Basil’s chin exploding upward.
“Loche has been in the local news, I’m sure you’ve both been keeping up on the Winship case.”
The two nod. Marcus speaks suddenly, “Yes, it is tragic.”
The priest studies Marcus. “Marcus,” he said contemplatively. “Marcus Rearden? Doctor and author?”
“I thought you looked familiar. I’ve seen you on talk shows, and I’ve read a couple of your books. You’re also mentioned in the Bethany Winship case as Loche’s mentor. I knew there was something—” The Priest then thinks another moment while Marcus shifts again, uncomfortably. “Elanor Rearden. Elanor Rearden was your wife?”
Silence from the old man answers the priest’s question. John reaches out and gently places his hand on Rearden’s shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said.
Rearden quickly looks at Julia then back to John and nervously lowers the cup to the saucer on his lap. The sound of the china seems extremely loud. Looking into his teacup he says quietly, “Thank you.”
Julia gasps. “Marcus. Marcus? What? What happened? Your wife—why didn’t you say?”
“Julia, it’s too complicated. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but it was so sudden.” It is too complicated, a voice warns in his head. He wonders, How could Whitely have heard the news?
“The priesthood always keeps an eye on the obituaries,” Whitely replies to Rearden’s thought. “And her passing this morning made the evening paper. After all, you are quite well-known.”
“What happened, Marcus?” Julia asks.
Rearden raises his head. Avoiding her gaze he says, “Massive heart attack. She died instantly.” The Center ripped her heart out of her body, screams a voice.
The touch of Julia’s hand on his seems to break him from a stupor. He smiles. “I’d rather not talk about it now, dear.” He is resolute.
“But Marcus,” Julia says. “Why didn’t you at least tell me? My God. . .”
“I can’t talk about it now,” he scowls. “You’ll know why in time.” All of you will know. “Right now, we have the chance to save Loche. I’ll mourn for Elanor later.”
“Doctor, will you be attending Beth Winship’s funeral?” The priest asks.
Marcus flinches, and as he does he nearly drops the delicate tea cup. “Funeral? Why, yes. Tomorrow isn’t it?”
The Invasion of Heaven, Part One of the Newirth Mythology Page 24
