The Invasion of Heaven, Part One of the Newirth Mythology

by Michael B. Koep

  Helen lagged a little behind as I got out—I could picture her face as she comforted the driver—we’ll be fine.

  Arm in arm we strode to the Uffizi. Before us we could see lines of photographers, celebrities giving interviews and the replica of the statue of David beyond. We joined several other finely dressed invitees and proceeded down the entrance route. Helen’s posed and gaudy performance matched the ostentatious atmosphere. Several times during our walk I took a step to the side and observed. She was a complete stranger to me. Her gown of silver-grey flashed like lightning behind a cloud, and around her neck she wore a tight necklace of tiny red rubies. I had noted the jewels as we were leaving Edwin with Crystal back at the hotel, and I asked her where they came from. She replied truthfully, “Albion let me borrow them,” and she pawed at them against her throat. “Aren’t they splendid?” Noting my lack of response, she smiled, “Loche, you’re not jealous are you?”

  “Of course not, darling,” I told her. “Why would I be jealous? They look lovely.”

  And now she stood in the Uffizi piazza, in the center of a sea of faces, dark evening gowns, and black and white tuxedos, barely able to conceal her euphoria. Soon she and her lover would be one step closer to their goal—one step closer to being together. I half expected to see the feigned bandage upon her finger from the night before, but when I inquired she explained that the cut was tiny. She held up her hand. “See,” she said, “it’s already healed.”

  “Isn’t that remarkable?” I had said.

  The narrow U shaped Uffizi piazza could be accessed from two directions. The statue of David stood at its entrance and at the other end was a stage that had been erected for this occasion. Behind the stage were the stone arched passages to the canals. I studied my surroundings and made mental notes of the possible routes in and out. The door to the interior of the four story museum was open to the left of us, as was the exit on the opposite side of the U.

  Above was a canopy of bright white silk, gently breathing with the evening breeze, and a web of black cables, woven with intricate care. Each thin cable hung down and was connected to its own black shrouded painting below. These ebony cloths that draped over Basil’s work were the only barriers between us and infinity. Monolithic and ominous, they loomed like a host of sleeping Grim Reapers waiting for the command to awaken, gather us all and marshal us to hell.

  “The artist Basil Fenn is endorsed by Albion Ravistelle,” I overheard a woman saying to a small group. “This is Mr. Fenn’s first showing.”

  “Stunning,” another woman commented. “And all of this international attention—all by private invitation.”

  The sudden interest in Basil Fenn was certainly a worthy subject, and it was expressed in varying ways. The collected audience of rich and famous figures only added to his mysterious public image. I mused on the old saying, people will like what you tell them to like. His work had never been seen, yet these people wanted to be seen near it.

  Howard Fenn sat in his wheelchair twenty feet from us. He was backed against a pillar. Standing beside him was Corey. They both noticed Helen and me. Perhaps it was Corey’s expression that made me look to the right, or maybe I felt eyes on me. I turned my head. Standing directly beside me was a thin-faced, orange haired man. It was George Eversman. His suit was akin to those that surrounded us, but it looked odd clinging to his lanky frame. His bare wrists jutted too far out of the cuffs and the pants rode a tad high over his shoes. George flashed me a wide, thin-lipped grin and held out his hand, “Stupid crazy,” he said. “You the Poet?” His smile disappeared.

  Behind I could hear Helen chatting with someone. Oblivious.

  “George,” I whispered, “I—”

  “You the Poet?” he asked again. His brown eyes wide as mud puddles lit by sunshine. “You better be. . .” He growled. “Hello, Helen,” he said lifting his eyes over my shoulder.

  Helen beamed. “I don’t think we’ve met,” she said charmingly, “Helen Newirth, and you are?”

  He reached out with his long thin arm and took her hand in his. He brought it to his lips and held it there for a long moment, eyeing her. Helen’s discomfort was barely muted.

  “I am George,” he said.

  The Duomo bells rang through the assembly.

  My wife trembled. Her expression shadowed. It was apparent that she knew the name. A voice sounded over the public address system near the raised stage at the end of the gallery, “Good evening ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to the Uffizi, my name is Albion Ravistelle.”

  George let Helen’s hand free and stretched his weird smile across his face again. “Ah,” he said finally. “Time to pay attention, yes?”

  “Thank you all for joining us here in Florence. This will be a night to remember—”

  As George sauntered off into the crowd. Helen hissed into my ear, “George Eversman, that’s the leader of the Orathom Wis. We need to tell security.”

  I shook my head. “There’s nothing he can do here,” I said. “He’s only trying to get under my skin. Wait until the unveiling.” She was shaking. “Helen, we’re safe here. Just wait.”

  Ravistelle was charming from the podium. The ease and craft of his magnetism infected even me. For an instant, what he truly had in mind for us all fell away.

  “Before unveiling these answers, I would like to turn the stage over to this evening’s honored guest. . .”

  George’s words repeated in my head. “You better be. . .” It was a threat. I shook it off. I had played my role. Like my brother Basil, I would no longer be controlled.

  “Please welcome Mr. Basil Pirrip Fenn. Basil?”

  Basil limped up the stairs to the podium. My mind again filled with the reality of my proposed answer—the opposite of all I believed and desired. I blinked at the truth, a psychologist suggesting the unspeakable. And at the sight of him, there was relief. He had not gone through with it. But what now? I felt a tear welling. My eyes widened with fear. Breathe, I told myself. The impending horror of the Center being opened caused my hands to shake.

  “. . . No one has ever seen my w-w-work,” Basil was saying from the stage. The stutter in his voice made my skin crawl. His manner was frustrated and quite removed from the pomp that hung on his every word. Perhaps he thought it time to teach the world what art really was—to show them how art had been misused by those with fortunes—treated cheaply for personal gain—that society celebrated mediocrity, and by so doing found comfort in mediocre truths—that art was not a thing, but a way. Maybe what he was about to reveal wasn’t his fear, but ours—that gods do live among us, though we only see them when we are told to. We had forgotten how to seek them out for ourselves—we had forgotten how to question. Perhaps we had never known how.

  He turned his back to the audience and pulled a long cord attached to the red curtain behind the stage. As the cloth split across the back of the gallery it revealed a blank, snow white canvas as high as the pavilion ceiling. Basil scanned the crowd. His pause was long this time and I could feel an unsettled air rise from the assembly. His eyes stopped on me, and he smiled warmly. His expression said simply, the big deep heavy.

  “What is a man to do caught amidst Heaven, Earth and the fires that rage below? Is he to believe in a creator or himself? In the wonders of an immortal afterlife or the drama and passion of the here and now? The answer isn’t what you are about to see, but the answer lies in what I am about to do. I am protecting the q-q-questions. The questions are worth living. Goodbye.”

  The questions.

  Worth living.

  Worth living.

  Basil.

  I raised my hand and whispered, “Stop. Don’t. Please God no, Basil. My brother. No.”

  He smiled at me.

  He placed the small, snub-nosed pistol below his chin. With his eyes on me Basil pulled the trigger, and the back of his skull exploded upon the canvas behind him. His body crashed back and down. A light haze hung over the podium, and for a fraction of a second the assembly was
silent—then panic and chaos—then the Center opened for all to see.

  Silence.

  Flash.

  Gone.

  “Loche!” The sharp sting of a hand cracking across my face pulled my eyes from the Center. I fell away from the blow, my eyes aching and flitting across the gallery.

  “Loche!”

  Basil’s body was on the stage—the smell of blood in the air.

  “Loche!”

  I’ve killed my brother.

  “Loche!”

  Not five seconds had passed since the gun’s report. What had I seen? It had all replayed—my first meeting with Basil to now. So quick. So vivid. I had experienced it all again in the time span of a blink.

  Surrounding me was the entire assembly frozen in time like statues. Their eyes trapped within Basil’s last canvas. I reeled around searching for the hand that had struck me.

  “Loche!”

  A man—middle-aged—stood in front of Helen, studying her as she stood mouth agape, entranced by the Center. He gently traced his finger along the blood colored rubies around her throat. His hair matched the shadow of his tuxedo. When he turned his eyes to me, a chilling fascination stopped my breath. Green and gold flecks of light spilled from the sockets. It was beautiful.

  “Pleased to meet you,” he said, “I am Cythe. Nicholas Cythe.” I marveled at him and took a step backward. “You are the Wordsmith—the Poet. How I’ve wanted to meet you.” I felt my hand extend to shake his.

  There was a terrible, mournful cry from the stage, “Awe mines shoene chindes lip! O min chind!” Then silence. There was a clashing of metal behind me and cries of injury. The sound of feet shuffling and running. Then silence. In my periphery a shrouded painting was being carried away. I gripped my umbrella and couldn’t help but study the beautiful creature before me. The face of Cythe.

  “You are—you’re—”

  “I’ve many names,” he nodded. “Many I’m sure you’ve heard.” Attracted and repelled simultaneously, I couldn’t speak. “What have you done?” he asked gently, stepping closer to me, his eyes flashing from green-gold to fire red. “Listen, your brother cries out.” Then my body crashed down on the white canvased floor—an unbearable pain searing from my ribs. He had struck me with unfathomable quickness. Unmoving, pillar-like sets of legs were all around me, frozen, save one pair that shuffled up to me—one pair with pant legs a tad high over the shoe. A sword blade hung beside.

  “Stupid crazy, Poet.” I looked up and George’s face was crimped in anger, “Run, you silly man! Away!” Getting me to my feet and shoving me through the pillared bodies he quickly dashed to the side, evading Cythe’s lightning quick punch.

  Oxygen was returning to my lungs, but the pain forced me to hunch over. George’s orange head was now darting in between the crowd, bobbing up and down as Cythe pursued him. For the time being, I had been saved. The Devil was occupied. I turned back toward the entrance of the gallery and maneuvered through as quickly as I could.

  Weaving in between statues of onlookers, more figures in black moved in, funneling toward the shrouded paintings. Three passed me with barely a glance. Several of the works had already been pulled down and were being carried toward the Arno River behind the stage where boats waited to transport. George’s plan looked as if it would work. Now, it was my turn to finish my plan. The door was closed, and I had to escape. My hand rifled through my jacket pocket and I felt for the money and my passport. It was there. A fantastic pain throbbed in my chest. I lurched forward and floundered around the standing obstacles. The statue of David stood twenty yards away. I drew my sword.

  More paintings were being yanked down and moved, and I could hear the shrill sounds of clanging steel all around me. Albion must’ve had his own guards prepared for this. The two paintings at the opening of the piazza were still standing. Passing them, and then the David, would allow my escape. As I rounded the final static body and shrouded painting, I saw Ravistelle. And along with him was a group of finely dressed men in suits and ties—each holding long, flashing rapiers at their sides.

  I froze and backed into a tall, blanketed easel.

  “Leaving so soon, Dr. Newirth?” He hissed. “Come gentlemen,” he said to his entourage, “let us finish this. Please take Dr. Newirth to the car. The rest of you, inside!”

  Two men lunged toward me with swords outstretched. When they were within distance I hurled my sword counter clockwise and knocked both blades away as I shifted to the right of the painting. They recovered quickly and before I could lift my blade again I felt two razor sharp sword tips at my throat.

  “Let go the weapon, Doctor,” one of them ordered. I recognized the man—Basil’s and my escort on the plane—the one that had smashed his pistol into the back of my head. “I’m happy to say that this time I can do more than just knock you senseless.” I stood firm.

  “Senseless?” I replied, my fingers clasping the woven shroud behind me. “You don’t know the meaning of the word.”

  “Let go the weapon,” he repeated, pressing his sword-tip into my throat—hard enough to draw blood.

  “Senseless,” I said again, and with all of my force I pivoted back and yanked the fabric shroud down and away. Instantly, their rapiers fell to the canvased stone floor—their eyes widened and fixed to the gaping Center.

  Were these men immortal? I couldn’t take the chance. With both hands gripping the hilt of my blade, I swung it like a baseball bat at the first man’s neck. It slid through his flesh and nearly snapped his spine. His head dropped onto his shoulder as he fell. Still attached by cartilage I deemed it good enough. I raised my sword again to swipe at the other man, but was only able to thrust. I missed. Instead of his throat I had skewered through the soft flesh of his gaping cheek and out the other side. He fell away—my blade slid out of his face, ringing from the slide across teeth. On his knees he had only a moment to spit out a mouthful of white tiny bubbles and look up at me before I struck again. The foam was a clear sign. I swung. This time his head dropped to the floor and rolled to a stop at some woman’s high heels.

  A blow to my left shoulder knocked me to the floor. It felt as if a bowling ball had struck me—followed by a burning sting. I’d been stabbed. Looming over me was Albion Ravistelle, sword in hand. His other hand fumbled with the shroud, placing it back over the painting.

  “Gentlemen,” he said again, “please, take Dr. Newirth to the car.”

  At the sound of a familar voice, Ravistelle jerked around,

  “Goodness gracious me, Albion, you silly fuck. You’ve stabbed a poet.”

  It was Samuel Lifeson. He held a thin cigar in his teeth. As he smashed his fist into Albion’s acknowledging expression, I struggled to stand.

  “Get up! You’ve been going the wrong direction.” Samuel sang as Albion reeled back from the punch. He reached down to help. I stood, barely.

  Ravistelle remained with his back turned to us. Four of his men remained at his side. The rest had entered the Gallery.

  “You can’t stop this, my brother,” Albion said. “Heaven shall fall.”

  “Don’t call me brother. Brothers stick together,” Samuel scoffed.

  Albion said nodding to me, “Your George Eversman ordered them to be killed. William and I saved the boys—it was he and I that rebelled. Imagine if they had died in that crash. Would you and I be enemies?”

  Samuel didn’t answer.

  “In the end it is really because of Greenhame that Heaven will fall. He and I convinced even George that if the boys lived they would play a role in the eternal plan. And the entire Guard went along with us, believing that fate can be changed. I have come to agree, fate can indeed alter. I have seen the path to greatness—survival. And so have many others of the Orathom Wis. They have joined me.”

  “You are such a douche bag, Albion,” Samuel said, raising his sword.

  “You are brash, Samuel, but I have a certain respect for you—and William Greenhame, as well. Though he and I have become estranged,
I still admire him. But he has always been shortsighted and content with being a slave to the gods. I will no longer live under their dominion.”

  “You will bring another calamity to all of us,” Samuel said. “It was this kind of yearning that destroyed Wyn Avuqua.”

  “Wyn Avuqua,” Albion sneered, “fell because they struck before they had the right weapons.” He motioned to the frozen figures surrounding them. “Only now we have the right kind of weapons. I look forward to talking with George about all of this, for he will always be a slave.”

  “Yes,” Samuel replied, “I know George would love to have a little chat with you, too. It will happen yet.”

  Albion raised his sword. “Oh, I doubt it. You see, he’s having a bit of a chat with someone else right now. Unfortunately I don’t think he’ll have the head to speak after they are done.”

  Samuel stepped back slightly and turned to me, “Time for you to go. You know what to do.”

  I was well aware of where I was supposed to be—on the boats with the paintings. I had my own plan.

  “Oh, so soon?” Albion mocked. “He shall be coming with us. No matter how worthless his gift seems to be now, we will help him develop it.” He pointed his sword at me, “I’m sorry, Doctor, that I couldn’t have been more honest with you—but I believe you were fated to be with me. And that is a fate that I will not be deprived of.”

  I raised my sword. Samuel’s arm thrust out and halted me. “Go now,” he said, “I’ll see you shortly.”

  “Does he know why his life was saved? Why the assassination failed?” Albion pursued.

  “Loche, go!” Samuel snarled.

  “Oh dear,” Ravistelle mused, “he’s doesn’t know. Surely, Samuel, he knows the feeling well enough. A father would risk everything when his children are in danger. Greenhame was willing to risk man’s existence itself.”

  Samuel lunged toward Albion with eyes like a snake. I ran into the still frozen audience behind us, back toward the stage. The sounds of Samuel’s parrying blade quickly mixed with the din of other skirmishes. Ravistelle’s men followed after me.