“Last chance,” Samuel said calmly. “You are not thinking clearly. Remember well what they say about our kind, we don’t join the Orathom. No afterlife for us. If we die here, we are cast into oblivion, to nothing, Felix.”
“Some believe that,” Felix spat. “Others say that we will rule the Orathom.”
Samuel emptied his wine and set the glass gently on the bar. “You’re an idiot, Felix Wishfeill.” With another slight stumble in his balance Samuel raised his sword. “But, very well, you’ve been warned.”
Felix scanned the condition of his enemy and noted that he had the clear advantage. Samuel was drunk.
Felix lunged across the room with the sword angled for Samuel’s throat. Samuel stood firm and waited for him. With a single flip of his wrist he batted the deadly thrust away and stepped to the side letting his opponent pass. Felix crashed into the bar with the flat of Samuel’s blade slapping him on the back of the head. He roared in anger and swung his sword at Samuel again. Samuel ducked, staggered and scuttled a bit of distance between them.
“Goodness gracious me,” Samuel laughed, “you are as boring as I am.”
Felix’s reply was a series of deadly thrusts and cuts that Samuel either parried or backed away from.
“So be it, Felix,” Samuel said, “we shant meet again—I am sorry for you.”
Another man entered the room. He, too, carried a sword. Before he could join the fray, Samuel quickly drew a dagger from inside his coat. It shot from his hand like a whirling wheel and embedded itself in the man’s throat. His knees banged to the wood floor, and his hands flew to the wound. His choking was joined by a cry from Felix.
Samuel had driven his sword into Felix’s right eye. His hands went limp and the sword dropped. “Gracious, Felix,” Samuel said to him. “Goodbye.” With that he twisted the blade ever so slightly in the socket of his eye.
Felix croaked out in agony as the blade scrambled the soft matter in his skull. “I will find you again,” he gasped.
Samuel paused, as if weighing what he was about to do— as if there was a finality, a permanence beyond death. Samuel’s sword then flashed from the wound and slid through the flesh of the neck, the bony spine and out the other side. Felix’s head clopped to the floor. His body slumped down after it.
The sound of the choking man in the doorway got Samuel’s attention. The dagger was now in the man’s hand and dripping with blood. White foam was beginning to form around the grisly puncture. White foam was splattered on the window along with the deep crimson of blood. “I don’t recall your name,” Samuel said. The man could not respond. “I’ve the feeling that you are of like mind with poor Felix over there. Yes?” The man writhed in anger and pain. “Will you yield? I’d hate to turn you to nothing.”
As a response, Samuel received a mouthful of the man’s spit and blood in his face.
The man’s head fell apart into two husks of grey and red.
“Maria, a bag please,” Samuel sang, wiping his cheeks with a napkin from a nearby table. The barmaid tossed a black plastic garbage bag to him and he quickly heaped the two severed heads into it. Then he paused a moment. “Um, Maria?”
The barmaid looked at Samuel with a question.
“How about I double bag these? What say you?”
The woman nodded, and tossed Samuel another black garbage bag.
“Sorry to meet on such ugly terms, Dr. Newirth, but I’m afraid it couldn’t be helped. My name is Samuel Lifeson. Corey has done his job. Now let me do mine. Come with me, quickly.”
He sheathed his sword back into his umbrella, thanked Maria for the nice wine, the Joni Mitchell, and with an apology for the mess, he hurled the heavy bag over his shoulder as he went for the door.
Outside the afternoon sun was bright and the grey was receding. The air still held a deep chill.
“There are more on the way. We were hoping that this wouldn’t happen, but I knew that it was inevitable. Certainly Felix called for backup, and Ravistelle knows now that you are with me. They must have recognized me. Ah well, what does one do?”
His pace was light and quick. I struggled to keep up with him. “Don’t run, Loche,” he warned, “We don’t want to call attention to ourselves. I can call you Loche? Yes?”
I wasn’t able to answer.
No one we passed took notice of our pace. The man walked as if he were late for work. Two elderly women stepped out in front of him, and he halted with polite precision. “Ladies,” came his gentlemanly voice. They smiled at him as he gestured that they could pass in front, adjusting the bag of severed heads.
I was speechless. I kept my eyes on the bag that bulged heavily over his shoulder. He noticed. “Oh these? Trophies for my wall at home.”
My horror stricken eyes shot to his face. He was smiling, almost laughing. “What? You want them? I jest,” he said. The look on my face must have pleaded for reason. “Just making sure that these two won’t be visiting us again. You know, drawn and quartered and sent to the four corners of the Earth. I’m sure you’ve heard the saying before. The only way to be sure an immortal can’t upset another delightful afternoon glass of wine.” He set off again at an incredible pace that looked like a stroll. “Very sad, though. These were men that have lived for many centuries—but they will not live in the hereafter—no heaven for them, no Orathom. They are now truly, gone.”
Passing out into the free air we could see the canal snaking its way through a labyrinth of buildings. A power boat was moored at a small, rickety dock where several gondolas and gondoliers stood at the ready for tourists. One of the brightly dressed boatmen waved to Samuel.
Waving back, Samuel heaped the bag of heads into the boat and climbed aboard. Again, the stench of the canal. “Come, come, Doctor, no time to waste.”
I stepped down into the boat with obvious apprehension. My dread of water was noticed by Samuel. “Don’t you worry, Loche. I will bring you safely to the shore.” He fired the starter, and plumes of exhaust billowed from the revving engine. Slowly, the boat backed out into the canal and turned eastward. “I told you that I wouldn’t bore you,” Samuel said smiling. “But let’s to the open water. I hope you like the ocean.” My eyes drifted from the plastic bag to the oncoming sea. A spray of cold seawater misted my cheeks. I felt like I could not breathe.
“This is really happening, isn’t it?” I asked.
Samuel eyed me up and down. “I suppose it is.”
“You’ve got to go! And you’ve got to go now!” John Whitely shouts storming into Julia’s room. Her heart booms with adrenaline—
“What is it?” she cries, dropping the journal.
“The police, they’re on the way.”
“How did they find—”
“The murder is all over the news. Two Sandpoint detectives!” Whitely’s face is pale with fear. The last time he had felt this kind of terror was outside of Basil’s home where he found himself at gunpoint—before Loche helped him to escape.
Rearden struggles for his balance as he comes into the room. “Those were no detectives,” the old man growls. “Come on Julia, let’s go.”
Throwing the blankets back, Julia reaches for her clothes, “Marcus, I thought those two men were. . .” She snaps her eyes to Father Whitely and then to Rearden.
Rearden is pulling on his coat. “They were not detectives! Come on!”
Julia shoves her feet into her boots and grabs the journal from the bed.
“Take my van, the keys are in it,” Father Whitely says.
“Where is it?” Rearden asks.
“It’s parked on the street. Hurry!”
In the air is an uncanny humidity. Julia, Rearden and the priest rush toward the garage—and the painting in the trunk.
“How long do we have?” Rearden hisses.
“They are on their way, that’s all I know,” Father Whitely answers.
The old man’s back cracks as he hefts the heavy crate onto his shoulder. This thing is getting heavier, he thinks. Shuffli
ng quickly toward the priest’s van, Julia follows with one arm bracing Rearden’s unsteady frame.
A 1971 green Volkswagen van is parked at the curb. John slides the side door open and Rearden sets the crate inside as Julia starts the van.
“Thank you, Father,” Julia says.
“I’m doing this for Loche,” Whitely says to her while she struggles to get the thing in gear. “I owe him this at least. Be careful.” He looks at the old man. “Marcus, may God have mercy on your soul for the wrongs you have done.”
Rearden studies the priest’s face with a scowl. “God has done more wrong than I,” he replies. “And we’ll settle that score soon enough.”
Julia smashes the gas pedal to the floor, and pops the clutch. The van lurches, then slithers through the slush down the block. Father John Whitely stands in the rain and listens to the low hum of the van fade away. Rearden’s parting words make him shiver—the malice in his eyes. Colored strobe lights are suddenly flashing up behind. I’ve has let a murderer get away, he thinks. He feels a sense that it was God’s will.
“This is going to make attending the funeral tomorrow a little tricky,” Julia says loudly. The hollow, can-like interior of the van reverberates with engine noise. “Why didn’t you tell me about the funeral? And your wife, Marcus? Why?”
A wall goes up in Rearden’s mind. It is a familiar feeling. He dislikes people trying to read him. He had been able to keep his life private even while his career as a psychologist grew beyond the goals that he had set as a young man. Rearden is a well-known figure, and he has achieved a status of importance and renown that has fed his pride. One of his greatest fears is to have it all fall down. He has vowed to protect his achievements and his reputation—at any cost. If Marcus has sinned, no one will know of it. And if the almighty God takes note, Marcus will find a way to silence him.
“Tell you what,” Rearden replies, “I’ll answer those questions when we find Loche. It will mean more to you then. Right now we need to find somewhere to go.”
She veers onto the freeway. “We’ll head into the woods. I know a few spots where we can spend the night.”
A half hour later Julia parks the van beside a stream thirty yards off of the main road. They are surrounded by thick, old growth forest, and when the headlights go out, the darkness is threatening. Julia immediately hops out, circles around and opens the sliding door.
“Let’s see what we’ve got for supplies,” she says. There are several cabinets and drawers affixed to the interior walls. Rifling through she finds a propane heater, blankets, candles and water. Everything they will need for the night.
A candle flame pushes the darkness back slightly. “Marcus, why don’t you sleep on the bed back here. I’ll sit up front. I want to continue reading.”
When Rearden begins to snore, she opens the book again. She tilts the page toward the candlelight while rain taps out a rhythm on the van’s roof.
The severed heads were gone. He tossed them overboard as soon as we met the open sea. “Gallina,” he had said to the lumps in the bag, lugging them up and over. I wondered if they could hear him.
We left the boat on a beach some distance north of Venice. From there Samuel led me to a light grey Audi parked a short walk away from the surf. The car looked rather new though there were several deep scratches in the finish and one nasty dent in the passenger door. Opening that door was a process for him. After pulling on the handle a time or two he eventually threw his body weight against the door, pushed in and pulled up with his hands on the latch. It popped open like a can of soda. “In you go,” he said.
An hour later we were speeding toward the city of Padua. The blur of the Italian countryside was framed in the passenger window and it rushed by as swiftly as my thoughts. I had not yet come to terms with my new companion. Smoke from his cigar hung in the air before my eyes, and every now and then he’d curse the traffic on the motorway.
Samuel didn’t look to be older than thirty-five. Beneath his long deep grey overcoat he wore a black turtleneck sweater. On his head was a black stocking cap that fit tight against his skull. The cigar he held in his teeth. He had spoken more to the traffic than he had to me. “Move it, you git!” he cried at the driver in front of us. “Long pedal on the right! Bastard!” Strangely, he didn’t seem as if he were in a hurry despite his obvious road rage. He was enjoying himself.
“Funny,” he finally said to me, “I’m centuries old and it’s still the fuck-head drivers that get to me.”
I didn’t answer.
With a sidelong glance he asked, “You okay?”
“Difficult question,” I replied.
“I’m sure.”
The car jerked a left to right lane change. My fingertips were clutching the leather seats.
“We are on our way, Loche. I can call you Loche, can’t I? You didn’t answer me on that one back at the pub.”
“You can call me Loche.”
“Very nice. You can call me Samuel. Charmed.”
“Where are you taking me?”
“Cinque Terre. The Five Cities—Italian Riviera. Monterosso.”
“How far?”
“Other side of the boot. Tonight we’ll stay with friends in Padua—catch a plane tomorrow.”
“And then?”
“Once we reach Monterosso we’ll lay low for a day until I receive orders. Monterosso is a place I like to call home.”
Home. What is that? At the mention of the word I felt the images of what home meant crash down like shattering china. The small screen that revealed Helen and Ravistelle—I pressed my fingers into my temples.
“Loche, don’t worry about your little son. He’ll be taken care of. I’ve known Corey for years beyond count. And he’s got everything under control. You’ll see your son soon.” With a gentle tap on my shoulder he added, “And Helen? Well, sorry about that, mate. Frailty thy name is Helen. I was never a big fan of your wife. Especially when she was going for Basil. Couldn’t get to him—too much into his art. You, my dear fellow, though I hate to say it, you were fodder for her.”
I looked at him.
“Corey didn’t tell you?” He let out a sigh of frustration. “Damn it, Corey!” he said to his distant friend. “Helen has been around for at least sixty or so years. Born sometime in the mid to late fifties. Young by our standards. Newly discovered immortals happen every now and again. I guess she was discovered by Ravistelle back in the seventies sometime. He’s been grooming her for this task ever since. Hell of an actress that one.”
“What task?” I asked.
“You and Basil. When she failed with Basil, you were next.”
My focus returned to the blurring landscape. “So none of it was real?”
Samuel took a look at me and breathed an empathetic sigh. “I’m sorry, Loche. Heartbreak, deception—despite all of that, you have a beautiful son. There is something true in that.”
“He is my son then, right?”
“As far as I know, yes,” Samuel said, his eyes on the road. “And besides, who cares? Edwin loves you, and knows you as his father.” He took a drag from his cigar. “So, look at the bright side. At least now you know. Ravistelle had hoped that she might be able to bring your muse out of you by loving you, and caring for you—you know, providing that little bit of daily drama. Didn’t work. My advice is to let her go, and think of your work and your son.”
I looked down at the wedding band on my finger. Samuel noticed. Pulling the ring off I held it in my palm.
“I’m so sorry, Loche,” he said, “I wish I could tell you more. You’ll get your chance to ask her all of these questions yourself one day. That is, if we’re quite careful.”
I placed the ring inside my coat pocket.
Arriving at our destination, Samuel had muttered something about not liking the fact that his friend Giovanni lived too far outside the city walls of Padua. “Silly bastard—doesn’t have a clue about history. Stay behind the walls, I always told him. Hell of a swordsman, but he�
�s young.” He turned to me and included, “He’s mortal, by the way.”
Giovanni’s home was, however, surrounded by high stone walls. We were shown into a warmly lit dining room. An elderly woman sat at a table reading. A steaming cup of tea at her right hand.
“Buona notte, Sylvia,” Samuel said.
The woman did not notice the greeting.
“Sylvia?” Samuel pursued, “Buona notte.”
No response. My companion looked at me and smiled, pointing to his ear. “Smart as a whip, but doesn’t hear very well,” he told me.
He touched her wrist and Sylvia looked up. Her eyes shone in acknowledgement. “Buona notte, Samuel,” and she spoke on in Italian. Though I couldn’t understand her, I could discern by Samuel’s body language that he was saying things like, no I’m not hungry, thank you, good to see you, too, yes I’ve been taking care of myself, my wife is fine, you look well, no I’m not hungry, and so on.
Finally he introduced me. She looked me up and down and again rapidly chatted out a string of phrases. “Are you hungry?” he asked me.
I politely shook my head and said, “No. Grazie.”
She spoke Giovanni’s name and pointed toward the stairs.
It was heavy, but not unbearably heavy. I held a swept hilt rapier. An old sword, as Samuel had described it, its seen its share of war. Before me stood Giovanni, also holding a sword. A blond-haired, solidly built young man of maybe twenty-eight years. He held the blade pointed out at me and took an aggressive stance— his fiery eyes, stout arms and steel sword poised to run me through.
“No, no, no, Loche,” Giovanni commanded. “Center body between your feets. Si, better. Now, you stand like I stand, yes?”
I had little desire to take a sword lesson, but Samuel had insisted. He leaned against the far wall and watched Giovanni struggle to communicate with me in broken English. “He wants you to mimic his stance,” he offered.
The Invasion of Heaven, Part One of the Newirth Mythology Page 26
