The Invasion of Heaven, Part One of the Newirth Mythology

by Michael B. Koep

  “But we were saved,” I said.

  “Yes, you were saved. And now the Orathom Wis protects you.”

  “But why? Isn’t that against the very purpose of your existence? If you are protectors of the afterlife, why did you save us?”

  Samuel again hesitated before he spoke. “I think that story is for another to share with you. You will understand in time. But I will tell you that, in a way, we exist because of you. If we had succeeded in your assassination, we wonder what our fate would be? We are unsure if we ourselves would have survived. It is all very difficult to explain.”

  He shifted his body to face the blue window. “You and your brother were prophesied, long ago. Back when the realm of the Orathom Wis was at its height—a place of peace, learning and hope. I’ve only heard stories about the great realm for it was well before my time. Some of us question that it ever existed. Our own mythology. The city was called Wyn Avuqua. It means, The Tears of Heaven. The city where the immortals of Earth sought to understand their curse. Where they once communed with The One through Elliqui. And where we learned that our lives are truly here and now, for we have no chance of an afterlife.”

  Samuel looked at me and sadly smiled. “Ironic, isn’t it? We protect Heaven and Earth from suffering—we live to insure that the human spirit has the Dream beyond this life—but we do not get the Dream. We do not get a Heaven. Once an immortal is vanquished, he is no more. He is cast into oblivion. He becomes—nothing.” Samuel turned away and whispered, “Nothing. Ithic veli agtig.”

  I stared at Samuel and struggled to empathize. As mortal men, we labor through our lives pining for more time. We turn our hopes, fears and questions into words and pictures with the vain belief that somehow our souls can find the strength to carry on for another day—and another—until our works survive us. We run out of days. I can see now this is our blessing, although, we think it is our curse. At least a mortal man can run out of days. And something waits for us beyond.

  But for immortal men like Samuel Lifeson, Corey Thomas, George Eversman—they cannot die, they do not grow old. Physical pain is quick, and quickly gone—but like us, their minds carry the weight of the human condition. For years beyond count, they must endure love, joy, hate and anguish. This surpasses all I’ve learned about psychological theory—this race of beings and their fortitude for living. Centuries pass, loved ones die, wars change societies, culture shapes and reshapes itself a new vessel —with each secondhand tick of the timepiece, the Immortal watches, remembers and lives on and through. It is impossible for me to comprehend.

  “And this mythical realm of the Orathom Wis? Where was it?” I asked.

  “The city of Wyn Avuqua was beside a lake,” he answered. “The city has been long decayed and swallowed by time.” Samuel stood and moved across the aircraft’s cabin to a small bar. He filled two glasses with ice. From the shelves behind the bar he lifted a bottle of scotch. He pulled the cork and poured. “The lake is still there, though it has changed over time. It was once much larger.” He returned to his seat and handed me a glass. “It is said that The One can sometimes be seen in the reflection of that lake, like an eye staring into the sky.” He plinked his glass into mine and raised it to his lips. Before he took a drink he said, “Your cabin is on that lake.”

  Julia Iris was smiling at me through the windows of The Floating Hope. She motioned for me to come in out of the cold.

  The room was crowded and this was certainly to the liking of my companion, Samuel. His last words to me as I started toward Julia were, “I’ll be close by. Don’t be long.” Then he added, “And order me an egg sandwich.”

  “Hello, Loche,” Julia said. As I stepped closer, her cheerful glow muted slightly, and her eyes were suspended in question. “What? What is it, Loche?”

  I realized that my face was not reflecting a simple greeting. With concentrated precision my eyes drank in the sight of her as if she was a far off island, and I was lost at sea. I attempted to lighten the heat of my glance, but it felt awkward—wrong. Often I could wear the gregarious mask of social propriety, but something had changed. It was obvious to me and it seemed obvious to Julia, as well. A slight blush stained her cheeks.

  “Hello, Julia,” I said quietly.

  “Is everything okay? You look very serious.”

  “Do I? I’m sorry. I’ve quite a bit on my mind.”

  “If you’re here to see Basil, he hasn’t been in for days.”

  “I know,” I said.

  “Do you know where he is? I’ve been worried. All of us have.”

  “I just left him yesterday in Italy,” I told her. “He’s doing some important paintings over there.”

  Her eyes widened at the thought. “Italy? Really? How did that happen?”

  “That’s why I’ve come to speak with you, Julia. Can we meet today? After you close up? Perhaps a drink?” My anxiety was replaced by a reminiscent flash that I thought I’d never feel again. A feeling I hadn’t felt for years. I was as nervous as a schoolboy. I was asking her out.

  I watched her long eyelashes flit while she weighed the request. She barely knew me, and I hoped that my invitation didn’t seem too terribly ardent. As she considered, I allowed my eyes to study her hoping that she might take longer to answer, for nothing in the past weeks had given me solace until that moment, her face—

  “Sure,” she said. “I’m done around four.”

  “Shall I pick you up then?”

  “Perfect.”

  “Get a date?” Samuel teased as I closed the car door. My response was a tightlipped trace of a smile—he knew the answer. “What’s the story with Julia? Why is it so important that you see her?”

  A number of reasons went through my mind. Basil’s painting was certainly important, but there was something else. Something I wasn’t sure that I’d completely processed. Was I in love with her? Was she my muse? I’d barely spoken to her. I knew nothing about her. Something inside said that she was mine, and I was hers.

  I turned to Samuel, “You’ll have to trust me. I think she can help.”

  Samuel gazed thoughtfully at the road ahead. “Help, you say?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hmmm. Wanna-be poet, beautiful girl—sounds like a recipe for disaster.”

  “You’ll have to give us some space,” I said flatly.

  “Wait a second,” he argued, “that wasn’t the deal.”

  “You can follow us, but you can’t ride with us. And you can’t join us for a drink.”

  “Goodness gracious me! Aren’t we discourteous? I watch your back, teach you how to use a sword, take you to meet George, get you home, and I don’t get to have a drink with you and the pretty Julia. How terribly rude of you, Dr. Newirth.”

  “Do me this favor.”

  He pulled out and entered traffic. “As you wish. But keep your eyes open. We aren’t alone here in your neck of the woods. I’ll give you your space, but I’ll be closer than you might think. I’m quite good at that sort of thing.”

  As we drove south, I was feeling the calm of home. The sights along the roadside, the familiar colors and shapes shared both a soothing and haunting emotion. I had spent most of my time in Sandpoint with Helen and Edwin. And returning alone gave every turn and tree an alien, almost unnatural glow. But it was familiar. That, at least, was a cause to breathe easier.

  “Do you know where you’re going?”

  Samuel scoffed, “Do I know where I’m going? What a question for you to ask.” He then nodded. “Of course. I’m taking you to our safe house.”

  I remained silent. He drove the exact route to my home. At about a mile from my driveway he turned onto an unpaved road that snaked into the hills. He drove for another five minutes then pulled the car over into a lay-by and got out.

  “Come with me.”

  Twenty yards into the dense trees he stopped, stooped over and began scrambling through the crusted snow and deadwood on the forest floor.

  “What are you doing?” I asked
.

  “A moment, please,” came his patient reply. He found what he was looking for—a loop of earthen colored rope. Giving it a tug I heard a grinding squeak beneath us. It was a door. An underground cave entrance. Lifting the door on its hinge he held it open for me. A ladder disappeared down into the darkness, but far below there was a pale, almost indeterminate glow. “Down you go,” he said. “Careful on the ladder. It’s slippery this time of year.”

  The shadowed shaft was not inviting, and Samuel sensed my reluctance. I forced myself to the mouth of the hole and lowered my body down. Clutching my umbrella in my right hand I stopped and looked up at Samuel. “Go on,” he encouraged. The metal rungs were slick, cold and covered in mud. I placed each foot firmly and made a slow, but steady, descent. As the door closed over us I could see that there was indeed a light down there. Dangerously far down.

  Minutes later I stood at the mouth of a long, green-lit passageway. The tunnel looked like an old mine shaft with crude, wooden beam supports at intervals of ten feet. Along the floor stretched a long plastic tube of green light, much like the glow sticks an outdoorsman would use at night. Although this was one long continuous light source extending down the length of the burrow. The air was stale and thick with moisture.

  “Come along,” Samuel said, brushing past me he took up a brisk pace. The floor was riddled with puddles and jagged stones jutting up and out. For the first time I felt a need for my umbrella, only now I used it as a cane.

  After five or so minutes and several twists and turns in our route, Samuel stopped. He turned and waited for me to catch up.

  We stood before a thick metal door.

  He smiled a gentle smile, “Ready for another disturbing sight?”

  I eyed him carefully. “Not much can surprise me these days,” I said truthfully.

  “Oh, this might.” Samuel pulled the door open and walked through. A comfortable glow of golden white light spilled into the dark passage. “Wipe your feet,” he said pointing down to a muddied rug.

  A dark hardwood floor led into a wide, gothic, rock-walled chamber the size of a small gymnasium. A living area with pillowed velvet furniture and a kitchen was sectioned off at the far end. Several computer monitors and filing cabinets made up an office-like setting to our right, with tall bookcases serving as partitions. To the left was an armory of swords, axes, shields and other medieval weaponry. Intermingled in the arsenal were modern automatic weapons, pistols and a smorgasbord of ammunition and explosives organized upon shelves and tables. In the center of the room there was a kind of circular boxing ring.

  Wide-eyed, I took the sight in. My companion laughed. “Nice, eh? Bathrooms are down the opposite hall, and the sleeping quarters are through the door at the end there,” he pointed out. “We just put in a claw-foot tub. Delightful.”

  My eyes strayed back to the shelves of weapons, and I scanned the collection quickly. A small snub-nosed pistol caught my eye—it sat on top of a box of ammunition. Samuel noted my curiosity. “Something of interest, Doctor?”

  “No,” I said turning back to him. “I’ve just never seen so many weapons before.”

  “Yes, dreadful things,” Samuel nodded. “If only we could get past killing. If things were only that simple.”

  “So is this what you thought would disturb me? I admit, it does.” I said.

  He only smiled and motioned for me to follow.

  We entered the hallway at the back of the room and began climbing a spiral staircase up into the darkness. At the top was a wall. No landing, no passage, only a wall. He took a step back and said, “Give the wall a little nudge. Not too hard mind you— just a slight push.” I obeyed and waited.

  “Now what?”

  “Half a second,” he replied. A tiny green lightbulb lit up before my face and quickly extinguished. The wall silently slid to the side and before me was what looked like clothing hanging on hangers. Women’s clothes. It took me a second to realize that they belonged to Helen. I was standing in the interior of my home, in the back of a closet in one of our guest bedrooms.

  “This is my—this is—” I stammered.

  Samuel nodded sympathetically. I stepped into my home from a door I never knew existed. The scent of the house flooded my mind with pictures and memories.

  “Disturbed?” Samuel whispered. The door behind us closed without a sound.

  I assumed that he could tell by my silence that disturbed wasn’t quite the right word.

  After scrutinizing my expression he added quietly, “No? Not yet disturbed? That’s good, because this is peanuts compared to what will be disturbing.”

  Samuel raised his finger to his lips. “Shhh.” He pulled his sword from its sheath and nodded to my umbrella. “You may need that.”

  I looked down at the hidden blade and quickly raised my eyes back to his. Before I could question, he stepped nimbly across the floor and into the hallway. I slowly unsheathed my sword and went after him.

  We passed Helen’s and my bedroom. I glanced into the darkness and breathed in the subtle aroma of her perfume. My heart ached.

  Down below there was the faint chatter of television. Samuel pointed to his ears and then motioned to the stairs that descended into the great room. I timidly nodded to him, and he began stepping down the long staircase.

  The television screen at the far end of the room silhouetted a man’s head. He seemed to be transfixed in what looked to be a History Channel program. The strobe effect of the screen flashed against the various fixtures, sending long shadows against the walls and floor.

  Samuel touched my shoulder, gesturing for me to go to the right and he would take the left. I replied with a fearful nod. He stealthily took a position some five or six feet behind the man, and I crept up in tow, staying right. When I came to a breathless stop, several things happened all at once.

  The silhouetted figure was now in the air with one hand supporting his weight on the back of the davenport in an elegant somersault. In his other hand was a flashing silver blade. Samuel’s reply was a quick and prepared defending back-step, for even before the airborne man’s feet hit the floor he had managed to throw at least three deadly strikes with his blade.

  I lurched behind the attacker and raised my sword to cut. I felt the tip of my blade batted twice by his. It was so quick and unexpected that I flinched uncontrollably. The third connecting parry left my sword hand empty. My blade flipped behind me and landed point up, leaning against the couch. As I turned to retrieve it, I fell head over feet from a blow to the back of my head—a slap from the flat of his blade. The blow brought a sudden flash into my vision.

  I flipped over, reached for the hilt of my sword and stood. Samuel had now been pushed back to the dining room. Their swords glinted in the TV screen light. I sprang back to the fray moving quickly up behind. He was ready for me. As I rushed up, the man reached out with his left hand and grasped a table lamp, shade and all. Shoving his sword against Samuel’s blade, he batted my thrust away and smashed the stiff fabric of the lampshade against my right ear. The lightbulb shattered, sending dust-like chards into the air.

  I stumbled over and swung blindly. Miss. Two more parries with Samuel and, again, the lamp shade—this time it slammed against my left ear, sending me down again. I felt the wet of blood against my cheek. And then it happened—

  Samuel cried out and his sword fell and rattled against the floor. In the flickering light I could see him, his back to the wall with our opponent’s blade buried in his chest. His body slowly slumped down.

  I sprang again to my feet and rushed the man. Again the lamp swept out of nowhere, and stopped me in my tracks. The warped metal hoop at the top of the shade hammered into my throat. He extended his arm and pushed me against the wall with the lampshade holding me there. Like a falcon with outstretched wings over its prey, he had us both.

  The television blinked and chattered at the end of the room.

  “Dol en ai,” the man said. Over my choking I heard the words. I knew the voi
ce.

  “No,” Samuel groaned. “Woe is me. Easy there, mate. That hurts.”

  “Well, you shouldn’t sneak up on a fellow who’s trying to learn a bit about how inaccurate the History Channel is,” the man replied, “it makes one rather cross.”

  “What, the fiction channel or the sneaking up?” Samuel ventured.

  “Both.”

  I felt the pressure of the lamp on my throat ease off. “William?” I choked. He lowered the lamp and set it down.

  “Hello, Dr. Newirth. I see that you’ve had a sword lesson from Giovanni. He must have left out how to defend against a table lamp.”

  “I thought you were—I saw you—you were killed!”

  Greenhame gently pulled his sword from Samuel’s chest and gave him a brotherly slap on the shoulder. “If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times, dear Doctor—I’m immortal. What part of that confession did you miss?”

  Samuel took a deep breath and held his hand over the wound. “Disturbed?” he asked me.

  “I don’t know if that’s the word I’d choose,” I replied.

  “Good,” he said with a slight cough. “That’s good, because we’ve still not gotten to the disturbing part.”

  In spite of the mess left behind by our skirmish, my house was in better order than the day I was forced to leave. William had done his best to tidy up.

  As Greenhame tended to Samuel’s temporary wound, I walked through the home I had built letting each sight fill me with the ache of missing. From Edwin’s toy-filled room where I heard him speak his first word—Mommy—to the photograph atop his dresser of Helen and me embracing on the beach at Pend Oreille Lake, the warm blues and greens of summer surrounding us. There was little sense to make of any of it—these memories— lies and truths all tangled up. My past was as unknown as what was to come. I gripped the umbrella handle in my hand, and sunk to my knees at my son’s dresser, and wept.