One step, I remember thinking. One step and all of this is over. I could stop the Heavens and the Earth with one step. I could stop everything altogether. Stop. I stood like a statue, frozen with the thought of toppling down, through the Center, to the other side.
Stop.
Beth Winship’s face surged into my thoughts. Her word stop hung there before me in the fume of my frozen breath. I repeated the word over and over, “Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop.”
What could I stop by ending my life? I have no gift. I have nothing of what Ravistelle—William Greenhame—Howard —my mother—Basil—said I would have. No poetry to match the anomalous nature of Basil’s godlike craft. The gift was given to Basil and Basil alone. My death would mean nothing.
I saw my limits, my imperfections, my failed attempts. My craft could not breach the spiritual wall between Heaven and Earth. Basil was the door, not I. If I possessed any gift at all, it was my son. And Julia. They are my only Heaven.
I saw it then.
I was not to be gifted with some powerful art to aid a host of divine watchers. No. I am the gift to mankind. My words will save us all. Prevent both the invasion of Heaven, and preserve our gentle, beautiful human condition. The open door will be our doom.
I turned my back to the cliff and fell face first into a soft pile of powdery snow. As I lay there, the numbing chill revealed to me the only way to stop. The door must be closed.
I remember the sound of my voice moaning, “The painting, get the painting,” as they pulled me into the backseat of their car. “Basil! Basil! God no, Basil!”
William Greenhame’s arms were around me when I awoke. He was assuring me, “We’ve got the painting. It’s in the boot.” One arm held tightly around my shoulders while the other briskly rubbed my arms and chest. They had wrapped me in a thick blanket. From the backseat and over Samuel’s shoulder I could see the road winding down from my panicked diversion.
In the rearview mirror was framed Greenhame and myself. He cradled me, gently forcing blood back to my limbs while he scanned the oncoming road ahead. He was humming that familiar melody that I’d heard from him so many times.
“What is that song you always whistle?” I asked.
His hazel eyes pierced me. He smiled. “Oh, that’s a long story.”
“What in the name of Almighty God—” Samuel started, “were you doing running around in the snow with nothing on? You silly man! William, this lad is a sandwich short of a picnic.”
“I needed a little waker-upper,” I replied as truthfully as I could. Though I shuddered at the reality of temporary insanity.
“You’re lucky that you woke up at all, you git,” Samuel rebuked. “Don’t forget that you’re mortal—and running around in this weather bare pickle is not—”
“Believe me,” I said, “I know that.”
“Well, I think you’ll be alright,” William comforted. “You weren’t exposed long. We were just yards away when you fell on your face. Took us a moment to figure out which way you went. No one said take the right fork in the road.”
“I think I needed that terrible panic to get some clarity. I know what I need to do next.”
Samuel twisted in his seat and said over his shoulder, “We leave for Italy right away. A plane is waiting for us.”
“Your brother will be showing his work day after tomorrow,” Greenhame added. “We need to be there to stop it.”
In William’s eyes was a tinge of worry, and something else I couldn’t describe. “What is it, William?” I asked.
“Not a thing, dear Doctor. We just had a moment there where we were worried about you. It’s our job to keep you safe.” He added, “And you must keep yourself safe as well, Loche. We can protect you from others. I want to know if we can protect you from yourself.”
“I wasn’t going to jump, I was just—”
“You were just thinking about it,” he cut in. “There’s no way out by going that direction. Difficult are your days now. There are harder days to come. If you think the walls are coming down now, have patience. Ithic veli agtig, indeed. Do, Loche, please delay your death. The Dream is not ready for you yet. You’ve work to do here.”
We were entering Sandpoint. The sights of home cracked my heart, and I longed for the battlements of my house, the love of my wife, and the embrace of my son. But that life was over. Then the imagined soft line of Julia’s cheek against mine soothed me. For her I must end what has begun.
“Wait,” I said suddenly.
Greenhame turned in answer.
“I must see Dr. Marcus Rearden before we leave.”
Samuel shook his head, “No time—”
“Yes, I know,” I agreed, “But, it won’t take long. Just a few minutes.”
Greenhame said. “As you wish.”
“Where are my clothes?”
The time read 7:40 a.m. and Dr. Marcus Rearden had not left his house.
I lifted the heavy crate out of the trunk and said to William and Samuel as I moved up the driveway, “Please give us a moment of privacy. Park around the corner.”
Greenhame nodded.
“Hello, Marcus,” I greeted him. I stood on his doorstep, the crated painting at my feet. The chill of the morning slid under my jacket.
Marcus’ eyes traced suspiciously from me to the crate.
“Are you alright?” he asked. “You look terrible.” I could see his old criminal psychology wheels turning.
“I don’t have much time, and I need to tell you something very important.”
“Loche, where have you been? Things have gotten very complex over this case. The police are looking for you.”
“Yes, I’ve read the news,” I said. He didn’t answer but instead studied me, as he had done so many times. “But that isn’t why I’m here to talk with you.”
“Well, why don’t you come in and we can discuss it,” he suggested with a shiver.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that. Listen, Marc,” I nodded to the crate, “I’m leaving this with you. It’s an important painting of Basil’s.”
His gaunt face squinted at me. “Loche, what are you talking about? This brother of yours, did he paint it?” He shook his head, “The police are asking questions. They’ve come to me for information about you. You need to clear this up for your own sake. Why don’t you come inside? This cold is too much for me.”
The warmth of his home eased my tension for a brief second. “Go on into my study, and I’ll be right there.”
“Marcus,” I said, the heft of the crate in my arms, “let’s put this in a place out of sight.”
“Whatever for?” he asked.
“This isn’t to be opened. You must leave it encased. Do not, under any circumstances, look at it. Don’t look.”
Rearden scrutinized my every syllable. Finally he pointed to the opposite side of the house—to the storage room. I carried the crate down the hall and set it inside. I stared at it and backed away. Behind me was Elanor Rearden. “Good morning, Loche,” she said. “What a surprise. Would you like some coffee?”
I closed the storage room door quickly and smiled. “No, but thank you, Elanor. I can’t stay.”
“What do you have there?” she asked, gesturing toward the storage room.
I opened my mouth to answer but no words came. I was suddenly afraid. Afraid to leave the painting behind. Rearden appeared at the end of the hall, listening for my answer.
“It’s a painting by a friend,” I said, my eyes on Rearden. “And, Elanor,” I said focusing on her, “frankly, I’d rather not say, exactly. It has to do with a client of mine. It should not be opened.” Her expression told me that she understood completely. I knew, as Rearden’s wife, she had experience with matters of confidentiality, but I still squeezed her arm. “Please, do not look,” I whispered.
She nodded, took me by the elbow and led me toward Marcus’ study. “Of course,” she said. “Of course. I am so sorry to hear about your client, Bethany Winship. What a tragic thing.”
/> “Thank you,” I said, watching Marcus. His head tilted slightly—still focused down the hall to the storage room.
“Coffee? Are you sure?”
“No, but thank you, Elanor. I can’t stay long.”
Rearden closed the door and circled around behind his desk. He faced me. Finally, after studying my crumpled appearance he asked a logical question.
“What is going on, Loche?”
“I don’t have anyone I can trust but you, Marc. I need your help.” The old man nodded slightly, but said nothing. “Basil has run into some trouble overseas—that’s all I can really tell you right now. The painting is very,” I paused, searching for the right word, “valuable. It’s been sealed up in a crate and should not be opened under any circumstances. It is dangerous. The painting, Marcus, don’t look at it.” Another squinting expression from Rearden and a slight shake of his head. I continued, “I will be back as soon as I can to take the painting away. For now it must be hidden.”
“Hidden? Hidden from whom?”
I shook my head. “I can’t explain it all to you now.”’
“What is this? Some sort of mafia-curator conspiracy?”
“Marc, please. After all the years that I’ve known you— will you please just do this for me? I need your help.”
He waved his hand, “Yes. Yes, of course. But Loche, is this more important than being wanted by the authorities? For murder?” He turned away, moved behind his desk, and stared out the window. “I’m afraid for you, Loche.”
I sighed deeply. If only you knew the real fear, I thought.
“I’ve been questioned by the prosecuting attorney and the police. They have a case against you. Believe me when I tell you, you’re facing some frightening allegations. They’ll be difficult to fight.”
His voice seemed strange, laced with distrust.
“I’ve gone over all of your notes in Beth’s file, and I was surprised to find—”
“How did you get access to Beth’s file?” I snapped.
He turned to me, “Well, since you disappeared, I’ve been afraid for you. So I’ve done as much research as I could. Carol gave the file to me.”
Carol, I thought, she’s owned by Ravistelle.
He was looking down his nose at me. “Did she ever mention the name of the person she was having an affair with?”
“No,” I said.
He nodded. “Well, that’s unfortunate. If there was foul play, that person would be worth questioning. Right now, you are the one in question. You must go to the authorities and get things straight.”
“I can’t do that,” I stated firmly. “Not now.”
“Loche, there is only so much I can do to help you.”
“You can help me by trusting me. Keep that painting hidden until I return. Don’t open it. Do you understand?”
“Loche, where are you going? If you run, you’ll surely be guilty in their eyes—” I caught a blur of movement out the window. It was William, just out of Rearden’s sight. He motioned for me to approach the window. I obeyed.
He smiled at me gently, pointed to his watch, then to the window latch, and then made a gesture that I wasn’t quite able to discern. He raised his hand over his head and with one finger he made a series of circles in the air. My confused face made him scowl. He did it again, and seeing my confusion he frowned and mouthed the word, “POLICE.”
“The best way for me to help you is to use my connections,” Rearden continued.
With my eyes on William, “Did you call the police, Marc?”
Marcus didn’t respond. Facing him, I asked, “Marcus, the police?”
He was sitting with his fingers laced in front of his chin. He replied, “I did. Loche, we can only fix this by following the rules.”
I spun back to the window, threw open the latch, lifted the pane and quickly maneuvered my body through. Rearden stood.
Greenhame took hold of my arm.
I paused and stared up through the window at Rearden. He was still standing behind his desk. “Marc, please remember what I’ve told you. Trust me, please. Don’t look inside that crate, no matter what.”
No response—only a countenance that said both yes and no.
Greenhame slipped around the corner and pulled me across the back lawn to the adjacent street where Samuel was waiting with the car running.
That was the last time I saw Dr. Marcus Rearden.
I leaned against the dark wood of my office wall above what I used to call home. Still disheveled, furniture broken, cabinets overturned—the room seemed to reflect my thousand attempts at writing something of worth—broken and chaotic. Helen had left none of my work behind for me to thumb through —but it didn’t matter. It was all rubbish. It was all bullshit. Behind my desk, splintered on the floor was another smashed picture of my family, posed in domestic bliss. The perfect portrait of what life was supposed to be. Lying beside the picture was an empty leather bound journal that Helen had given me as a gift, long ago. I picked it up and flipped through its pages. All blank. On the inside cover was her inscription—
To my husband, Loche—for your words.
I love you,
Helen
I stared at her name, reading it over and over. I didn’t recognize it. It had no meaning.
From underneath my top desk drawer I tore away a taped envelope of cash that I had placed there in case of an emergency. Some four-thousand dollars. I never thought I would actually retrieve it.
I was tired. I lowered myself onto the floor. With my back to the wall I looked up to the ceiling—the memory of Greenhame’s visit here, and his quiet disappearance—his feet pattering away on the roof. As if mimicking my recall, I heard the gentle tap of footsteps on the stairs. Greenhame appeared in the doorway. “Living the life, and the dream, I see.” He said with a smile.
I didn’t answer.
“Loche, are you quite alright?”
“Quite,” I responded sarcastically, but with a slight smile.
William strode to the center of my office and took up the pose of a graceful ballet dancer, frozen. Eyeing me from this memorable position he whispered, “Dol en ai.”
I smiled and repeated, “Woe is me.”
“Six-hundred and thirty or so years and counting—and still, why does my death delay?”
“Do you really want to die?”
He began to dance, whirling and floating in graceful ballet steps. And while his slow and beautiful movement captivated me, I recalled all of the times he’d struck that frozen position. Statuelike. And now, here in my office tower he delicately hovered over the floor like a feather in the breeze.
He answered, “Sometimes, yes. Sometimes, no. I cannot say it has not been wanted, even needed. Death, that is. There are two things that have kept me from truly wanting that path. You are one of them. Your brother is the other. There will be a time for me to go. Until then, I will keep a watch over you both. That is why I am here, and truly, my only reason for being. After we bring you and Basil together again with your mother, there will be much to discuss—and to hope for. But now, we’ve an enemy to face.”
He spun one last time and then reached out his hand to mine, and offered his best Polonius, “Aboard, aboard, for shame! The wind sits in the shoulder of your sail, and you are stay’d for. There, my blessing with thee. Come.” I took his hand, and he pulled me to my feet, then gave me a sort of slap on my back. “Tehefil Dratehem,” he offered grinning.
“What, more Elliqui?”
“Not exactly,” he said, “Tehefil Dratehem.”
“Ah,” I sighed, shaking my head, “another word scramble? I don’t think I’m quite in the mood for this, William.”
He repeated it again. Seeing that I wasn’t in a playful mood he offered a hint, “Alya, Orathom.” I smiled.
“The Life, the Dream,” I said.
He nodded like a proud teacher. We both turned toward the stairs and began descending the spiral tower to the car waiting outside. The leather bound jou
rnal I placed in my coat pocket.
At the landing William stopped. He held out an object wrapped in black cloth. “It is my hope that you will never need to use it, but one never knows. It will ease my heart to know that you’ve some added protection. I think it is well chosen, though your umbrella holds greater charm.” Placing it into my hand I could feel the hard chill through the fabric. It was the small pistol I had seen in the armory.
“I know how to stop the showing of Basil’s work,” I said quietly.
Greenhame halted. Staring forward he asked, “How?”
I looked down at the wrapped firearm, “With words.”
“You’ve found your gift?”
“I believe so. But first I must win back the trust of Ravistelle. If I can do that, we may have a chance.”
“And what will that achieve?” William asked.
“It is up to Basil and me to stop things. I need to see him before the showing.”
Greenhame was unmoved. He stood staring ahead weighing my words. “It will be dangerous,” he said finally.
“Yes,” I agreed, “but it is the only way. I’ll go to Ravistelle when we arrive in Venice, but you must be ready to intercept the paintings if we fail.”
“Plans for that have already been made,” he said.
“Then I will take care of the rest.”
I could see a shadow of concern. “What will you do?”
“I will use my gift.”
My brother, Basil Pirrip Fenn, sat cross-legged on the floor in his studio with his back to the door. A pounding drum kit thumped from the speakers. He didn’t notice my entry. Nearly every inch of wall space was crowded and covered with pencil sketches and half rendered pieces. At the far end of the room there were four shrouded easels. The glass room was empty.
I reached for the volume knob and turned it down. He immediately looked in my direction. He asked, “Want a drink?”
I explained meeting Samuel and George, my journey to Sandpoint, and my reuniting with the supposed-to-be-dead, William Greenhame. When I described the subterranean quarters below my house, Basil’s face lit up, and he quipped, “And I thought I was being watched. That place sounds killer. After this is all over, can I rent it from you? I’ll live in your basement.”
The Invasion of Heaven, Part One of the Newirth Mythology Page 31
