“I wasn’t sure if I had you,” he said continuing his examination of her breasts, her stomach and abdomen.
“Oh, you had me. You’ve always had me.”
The doctor raises her blouse back up over her shoulders, buttons it and lets his hand rest upon her cheek. “You are more beautiful than anything I have ever seen.”
Leonaie laughs sadly, “Then I think your perfect vision has some serious issues, Samuel Lifeson.”
We Only Dream
April, 1338,
the village of Ascott-under-Wychwood, England
They were robbers, drifters, beggars. They wore no uniforms save a single swathe of dirty red slung across their chests like a wound. At the rear of the throng were nine horsemen. Four were English soldiers in the livery of the new King, Edward III. Four others looked to be monks, dressed in simple habits, but at their sides they bore long, jeweled swords. At the center rode Stephen Gravesend, Bishop of London. His cloak and the high minter upon his head glowed red through the haze.
The host poured into the abbey courtyard.
Geraldine pulled both the priest and their boy back, “We must go, now!” she hissed.
Father Grenehamer replied calmly, “There is naught to fear. The Lord will protect us from evil.”
“Ralph!” She cried. “The Lord is far from this place.”
“Stay. Believe,” he said.
Father Grenehamer strode a few paces into the lane before the church and lifted his arms, as if to embrace a long awaited friend. His staff held high, “My lords, you come to God’s House. Come, for all who enter these grounds are sheltered by his love. His peace.”
The jeering host encircled the priest, mother and boy. As the horses drew near, Radulphus called to the Bishop. “Welcome, your Excellency. Welcome. What is your errand here, pray?”
Bishop Gravesend halted his horse. The four monks positioned themselves like barriers. The largest of the four rose in his stirrups and surveyed the grounds. His horse stopped beside the bishop. The angry crowd fell silent. Gravesend stared at Father Radulphus for a moment—a slow scan from head to toe. He looked to the larger monk, and the monk nodded to him. Gravesend’s eyes then ticked to Geraldine and then to William. William felt the gaze as if a cold wind had breathed through his tunic. A horrible chill raked at his entire body, “Mama,” he whispered, “Mama.”
“Geraldine of Leaves?” he said.
William looked up to his mother’s face. What he saw was unexpected. She was calm. Firm defiance was seated there. And if William was not mistaken, the hint of a smile.
“Geraldine of Ascott?” he shouted again.
“I am,” she answered.
“You are hereby charged with witchcraft, sorcery and heresy. By the powers vested in me by His Holiness, Pope Benedict and his Majesty, King Edward III, for sins against God and His people, you will be purged of Satan by the trial of fire.”
“Mama,” William cried. Her hands clasped his shoulders and held him tight.
Geraldine lowered her face to William. Her smile was taut as wire. She touched his cheeks with her fingers. They were soft, like the petals of spring daisies. “Do not be afraid, my dear son. Soil and seed, sun and rain, fire and smoke, laughter, pain.”
“Take her to the village square,” The bishop said, turning his horse.
“Your Excellency,” Father Grenehamer cried out. “There is no evidence for this claim! She is a child of God. A Christian woman. You cannot do this, my lord. This is not God’s way.”
“As Bishop of London, Father Radulphus, I speak for God. If you resist, perhaps you are in league with Lucifer, protecting his spawn on Earth. Take her,” Gravesend said.
William watched his father’s staff spin from the gesture of welcome into a menacing angle of wrath. Before he could blink, there were two resounding cracks and two red sashed men lay unconscious in the lane. The priest paced backward while the staff spun like a windmill in a gale. One end then crashed through the teeth of an advancing foe. Another step back, the staff whirled again, this time splitting a man’s chin. Blood spewed from his nose.
William felt hands yanking him from his mother. He bit at the fingers. He tasted blood. He tore free. More rioters fell to the ground from his father’s vicious defense.
“Geraldine! Boy! Get you inside!” Radulphus shouted. His voice, like he’d heard it at mass, was filled with the boom of a thunder god. Geraldine lifted William into her arms and turned toward the abbey door. But a sudden jolt sent them both to the ground. Rolling over onto his stomach, the boy saw his mother lying face up in the grass. Blood was streaming from a cut below her right eye. She reached for him. Then he heard his father’s voice again, only this time it was a cry of pain and rage. The mob had pulled him to the ground and they were striking him with fist, foot and club.
“Enough!” Gravesend shouted. His horse was now towering over them. The violent blows stopped. They dragged William’s father to his knees. “Enough, priest! Foolish choice. You are under arrest for treason against his Majesty and God Almighty. Take him inside, for now. We will send a contingent to dispatch him to the Tower. Keep him here until they come.” With a sidelong glance at the large monk at his side, the Bishop gestured to Geraldine now being hauled to her feet, “Take this witch to her stake. God’s will be done.”
“And what of the boy?” one of the red sashed men asked.
The Bishop peered down his nose at young William. He shook his head and sighed mournfully. He held up his right hand as if he were blessing the boy. William memorized his face, his red vestments, the cross upon his headdress. The man was pale, as if ill. An elliptical blister upon his cheek.
“Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live. Nor should we suffer a witch’s offspring to foul God’s people.” With another look to his Sentinel monks, Gravesend said, “Kill him.”
The howling voices of his father and mother together split the ears of those near. “Mercy! No! No!”
William heard a knife drawn from behind. The arms that held him in place bore down with strangling force. But as they squeezed, William’s body somehow shrunk inward and he wriggled free, back and down. He rolled forward onto his knees and pushed with his feet, vaulting his body at Gravesend’s horse. From the ground he caught hold of a short billhook and swung it at the first man that reached to seize him. The sharp blade connected and severed a finger. Two more men rushed in.
William managed to stab the weapon into the thigh of one as the other wrestled him down. William was roughly turned to his parents. Mother and father struggled toward him but were both forced to their knees, restrained by too many hands.
“Mama,” William cried.
The gaze of his mother lit into the boy’s eyes. Her smile glistened. “We do not die, sweet boy. We only dream. Seek for light in the dark.”
A silver blade gleamed before him then dropped below his chin. He felt it rest there, cold and sharp.
“Dream.”
The searing sting was quick. His head jerked slightly to the right. The bitter of blood. The flavor of steel. Air coughed out from his lungs. William, son of Geraldine, dropped onto the green grass beside the lane that led to the house of God.
Time To Go
Los Angeles, June 26, 1972
The Continental Hyatt House, Sunset Strip
The knock on the door went unnoticed—Jimmy Page did not move. He sat gazing at Helen with both desire and boredom. She could not tell which. When the door opened, Richard marched into the room, glanced at the topless Helen, and then leaned down and whispered quietly to Jimmy. Helen heard every word, “We have Lori. Should I bring her up?”
Jimmy nodded. Richard stood up straight, again let his eyes brush over Helen’s chest and tight skirt and he smiled at her. He sighed, “Well my lovely dear, it is time. Time to wake, I’m afraid.”
Helen’s eyes shot to Jimmy—now finishing his wine and standing—then back to Richard, smiling and scanning her—back to Jimmy, turning away toward the dark corner where
she had discovered him.
“Jimmy?” she cried, “Jimmy, can’t I stay for awhile? This can’t be over. Please don’t leave. Please stay!”
From over his shoulder Jimmy attempted kindness, “I’m sorry love, tonight I’ve had long standing plans. Maybe another time. Won’t you give your number to Richard. Next time we’re in town I’ll—”
“No, Jimmy,” she sobbed. “Let me stay. My whole life I’ve dreamt of being here, with you. And I’ve finally arrived. Please, please, let me stay tonight. We had a moment, didn’t we Jimmy?”
She watched Richard’s face twist to worry, as if this was all a mistake, and he would certainly hear of it tomorrow on the plane. Somehow she could hear him thinking, fans were one thing—crazy, freak-show, fanatical chicks were another. His eyes rose angrily from her chest to her teary eyes. “Time to go.” He took a step toward her, but Helen eluded his grasp and stumbled out of reach—toward the balcony edge. And then it came to her. Feeling the concrete ledge beneath her hands, she hurled her body up and stood—wavering on her platform shoes. “Jimmy!” she cried.
The guitarist’s back was turned. “Jimmy,” she cried again, this time making sure the terror in her voice would whirl him around. Jimmy’s face paled. Helen Storm stood on the ledge, fourteen stories above the neon lit pavement, her top was around her waist, her arms stretched out wide and her thin legs teetering.
“Helen,” Jimmy sprang forward, carefully. “Helen, dear, what are you doing? Please don’t—”
“I want to stay for awhile, Jimmy,” she cried. “You can’t understand what it is like to always be ignored—you are Jimmy Page. I have loved you since I first saw you—heard you. I’m here, and now I want my dream to come true.” Turn that shit down, god damn it!
“Alright love,” Richard said softening, “You can stay, just come down and we’ll—”
“I want you to leave,” she hissed at him. “I want to be alone with Jimmy.”
Richard’s palms were faced out. He turned his head to Jimmy looking for some answer to his fuck-up. Jimmy didn’t look at him but rather trained his eyes on Helen.
“Helen,” he said, stepping nearer, his voice soft and sincere, “I don’t think this is the best way to get my attention, you know. Yes, please, come down and we will talk awhile longer. You’re scaring me. I don’t want you to hurt yourself. Won’t you please come down?” He held out his long, finely pointed fingers, reaching for her.
There it was again. That comfort. Like the Rain Song. Like the chorus of Tangerine, Tangerine, living reflection from a dream. Helen felt him. She felt his compassion, his goodness, his magic. She lowered her right hand and gestured for him to come closer, in awe of him as if he were an angel from out of the shadows of her dark childhood. She only made it through because of him. His music. His face.
Jimmy continued to move closer, his arm outstretched to her. But just as their fingertips touched, Richard lunged forward, grabbing for her legs.
“Stop, Richard!” Jimmy shouted as Helen kicked at the man. Richard managed to lay hold of her left ankle—but her other foot was in midair, and he caught a crushing blow from the right platform shoe. His head jerked to the side as his grip slipped. Jimmy lunged for her wrist, but too late.
The June night was warm. Up here she thought she could smell the brine of the ocean from a far off summer wind—the fingertips of a storm—rushing ever faster—from across the world, probably. Arriving here after a terrible journey—arriving here and cradling Helen Storm as she tumbled backward and down, head over foot to the land of dreams that waited below.
What It Means To Be Made of Stars
November 3, this year
Verona, Italy.
Julia’s abdomen aches. Or at least she imagines that it does. Apparently an immortal can have aches and pains? It has been said that pain exists only in the mind. With all that was now troubling her—the ache, pain and utter discomfort of her new life, her new reality is very real. She rubs along her navel. Her pace is slow upon the slick, gray cobbles.
She slipped out of the safe house unnoticed, nearly an hour ago. Her mind grapples for some anchor, some solid point between what she had come to know or expect of this life, we’re born, we age, we love, we work, we raise a family, we travel, we save our money, we retire, and hopefully, we die in our sleep. That, and this unbelievable truth, this inconceivable reality, this undying body. I cannot die. Or more accurately, I cannot die naturally. Again, these thoughts start an anxious series of deep breaths as she meanders listlessly through the upper streets above Verona’s Piazza Bra. The sounds of traffic and tourists fade away, and she focuses on the click of her boots on the cobbles, the cold dusk rain tapping on her hat. Little gold rectangles of light blur out of weathered facades and curve up and away like a candlelit hallway.
The sky is a quarry of grey clouds. Heavy, jagged bones of mist slog across the last smear of sun. Shadows in the alleys and cross streets trap reflections of light and mash them down to single dots, specks of white on black puddles—hedged smudges of silver on wet stone-paths. She keeps on. Very soon she will not be able to distinguish the rising hilltop from the sky. They are merging. Somehow it is a comfort to think that there just might be a kind of bridge, a ladder that can connect earth and the heavens. She wonders if she just keeps going through these darkened, antique streets, ever rising up, she just might find a way out of this impossible to believe circumstance. Perhaps there is a route through this labyrinth of houses to the hilltop, then an unnoticed step onto an airy plateau, through the boulders of rolling cumulous and eventually out of the blankets of grey mist, up to where those mythic immortals are sketched in starlight—those beings that she had read about when she was a girl—those gods that appear before us still today in films, on holidays, in greeting cards, as statues in ancient cities, in religions, in language—they are in our very DNA.
Her father had taught her about the constellations when he would help her to sleep. A simple rhyme: Find the single star / And watch it blink, / Until the mountains fade / And we to sleep. To think that there above is her ancestral fabric and that she is woven into it brings on another series of deep breaths. It has been said that we are all made of stars, but few of us share that same, unending light.
Julia rubs her stomach. She walks on. Her eyes take turns lifting to the dull dark above and then to the glistening stones beneath her plodding feet. She is lost. She doesn’t care.
The new phone that William had given to her vibrates. She looks at the screen. It is Loche. The third time he’s called. There are also texts from him:
Where are you?
Julia come back- it is not safe
Call me!
She smiles at the letters of his name. She imagines his face, the feel of his arms around her, the taste of his skin. Her fingers touch the key hanging from the necklace at her throat. The phone vibrates again. Her thumb hovers over the answer button, but she declines, shakes her head and tucks the phone back into her pant pocket.
Out of professional habit, her mind drifts to the restaurant she owns, The Floating Hope, on the lake north of Sandpoint, Idaho. The administrative tasks that occupied most of her time are nagging at her: personnel scheduling, food and alcohol orders, the wine tasting group on Thursdays, the remodel of the back board room, the accounting, et cetera. Somehow, this newly discovered immortality does not completely eclipse all that she has accomplished in her short life. It seems that it should, she thinks. How can anything mean what it did? What of business, networking, clientele? Of family, friends and love? What of love? What of Loche Newirth?
Deep breath.
She shudders. She will outlive him. She will watch him age and wither away while she remains unchanged. The years will pass and she will linger. She will remain. Alone.
Her feet halt and she peers up to the sky pouring over the hilltop like a black, cresting wave. She feels tears.
Behind her she hears the faint tap of footsteps. She spins toward the sound and squints
into the dark. A single figure comes to a stop some twenty yards behind her.
“Who’s there?” Julia gasps, suddenly aware that she is long overdue to return—that Loche and William are indeed worried—that she has wandered too far and is lost. Then, the fear fades as quickly as it has risen. A confidence. A resolve. An untapped strength. “Who’s there?” she calls again, only this time with a tone of command.
The figure makes no answer. After a moment it begins to move toward her with slow precision. Without looking away from the approaching stranger, Julia’s mind quickly accesses several things at once. Two possible escape routes. The first, and nearest, is an alleyway ten paces to the left, and the second is ahead of her where the path branches into three separate directions. She does not take the time to consider just how these possible scenarios formed from out of her subconscious, nor did she give the possible routes any notice when she had scanned across them earlier. A rapid inventory is next. Did she have anything she could use as a weapon? No. Then lastly, she feels the muscles in her legs and torso tense. She feels vigor and a warm rush of energy charge through her. Her focus sharpens and she begins to make out details. The figure is her size, arms to the sides, graceful stride, long hair—it is a woman, still in silhouette—long overcoat, scarf, gloves. Steadily the woman moves closer. The heels of her boots tapping and scraping the cobbles. At about ten feet Julia calls again, “Who are you? What do you want?”
Her pursuer stops. Though she is still draped in shadow, Julia can detect attractive features, shapely eyes and the line of a slight smile.
“I should kill you right now, Julia Iris,” the woman says. The word kill bounces into Julia’s ears and reverberates there for a moment.
“Good luck with that,” Julia replies, quite uncertain just where such a response came from. But despite the sudden rush of courage, Julia takes a defensive step back—her thoughts rifling through the escape routes. “How do you know my name?”
Leaves of Fire: Part Two of the Newirth Mythology Page 5
