Leaves of Fire: Part Two of the Newirth Mythology

by Michael B. Koep

  “Seems to be a pattern,” Greenhame agrees. “Samuel, in America, has not been answering, nor have several others of our people.”

  “I don’t like this,” Loche says.

  “Nor do I,” William says, his fingers typing a message on his phone. “I’m sending a group to seek for Julia.”

  “How did she slip away?” Loche asks.

  William shrugs, “Clever girl. And yet, careless. She is not yet aware of the danger at hand. Don’t be too troubled. She is, after all, rather dangerous herself.”

  Edwin bounds into the room and climbs into Greenhame’s lap. A wooden sword is in his hand. “Can we fight now, Greenum?”

  William looks into Edwin’s face, beaming. Loche notes how the man’s eyes suddenly glisten.

  Before William answers Edwin, he hesitates, glances at Loche, back to Edwin, and then again at the boy’s father. Holding Loche’s stare he says, with a sprawling grin, “Call me, Granddad.”

  Loche shakes his head, “William, I don’t think that I’m ready for that.”

  Edwin cries, “Granddad?”

  “That’s right, little one. I am your Granddad.”

  “You’re my Granddad?”

  “Correct. I am your father’s father.”

  “But you don’t look like a Granddad. Not old.”

  William smiles, “Ah, well that may be true. But I’m afraid that I am quite old, ancient, elderly—over six hundred years old.”

  “You are not.”

  “I am, too.”

  “No you’re not.”

  “If you don’t believe me, ask your dad, little one.”

  “I’m not so little, you know,” Edwin says with slight defiance.

  “Oh, yes you are,” William says. “Just look at these little mitts.” Edwin holds his palm up and spreads his fingers. He lays it into William’s hand. “You see, this is a wee, little claw.”

  “Excuse me, Greenhame,” Loche says.

  William, still speaks to Edwin, “But you see, this wee clamper can still wield a sword.”

  “Wield?” Edwin says. “What’s wield?”

  “That, my dear little fellow, means to employ, use, brandish, swing.”

  “William—” Loche says.

  “Swing!” Edwin cries, “I know how to swing a sword.” He climbs down and whips the toy sword through the air.

  “That is good,” William laughs, clapping his hands.

  Loche, “You two, please!”

  William stands. From beside his chair he lifts his umbrella and taps it against Edwin’s sword. Edwin retaliates with a series of chest high crosscuts that pushes the laughing William back a few steps.

  Loche watches the exchange. He tries to accept that what he is seeing is his son and, truly, his own father—having a play sword fight—a Granddad and a grandson. He wrote Greenhame into his life—as his father—and it came to be. Again, he tries to work it all out, like he has so many times in the last couple of days. Then their laughter together, the tapping of their imagined weapons, Edwin’s earnest attempts at besting his tall adversary, and their genuine camaraderie sweeps the surreal aside—presses the fear back—reminds him that somehow, this was all supposed to happen—that there is a reason for this. His boy and his father, playing together—something he never thought he would see.

  Edwin’s attack is fierce and he drives William back into his chair. The boy then drops his sword and rushes in to tackle. William gathers him into his arms. They are both laughing.

  “Why did you drop your sword, my little leaf?” Greenhame asks.

  “I’m done wielding, for now, Granddad.”

  William turns to Loche. Loche nods at him. “Granddad, huh?”

  “Well,” William says, “I’ve waited long enough—for you—and him. So, yes, Granddad will work nicely.”

  “Very well,” Loche says.

  “Now,” William says to Edwin, “why don’t you go into the kitchen. I put some cake and milk on the table in there for you.”

  Without a word, Edwin dashes from William’s lap to the hall leading to the kitchen.

  Loche watches him disappear around the corner. He reaches to his phone and checks it again. “Nothing. Where is she?”

  “Loche,” William says, “understand that the young woman is dealing with something you can only begin to imagine.” He lifts his fingers to his chin and turns his gaze away in thought. “Now, isn’t that something?”

  “What?”

  “Well, it seems that you did imagine it, yes?” Greenhame says. “But let’s just say that you cannot fully empathize. Not yet anyway. It would take you at least a lifetime. Julia will be fine. She’s intuitive, thoughtful and disciplined. Whatever steps into her fate, I believe that she will either dance with it or crush it underfoot.” Loche sighs. William eyes him carefully. “And, as I’m sure you’ve begun to consider, to love an immortal carries with it its own perils. A curse.”

  “You mean, the dangers surrounding Orathom Wis?” Loche asks.

  “No, I am not speaking of our defending of Humanity against the intervention of the Divinities. Though, it is a twisted, tricky, deathly business, indeed. No. I am speaking of the danger to your heart and soul, son. There are no perils like that of lost love.”

  Again, it hits like a wave. He had thought of it. He will age and die, she will live on. “I will prepare for it,” Loche says quietly. “Whatever time we have together will be enough for me.”

  William’s face shadows, “That is noble of you. But again, shortsighted. You may have written we deathless beings into existence, but for all your imaginings, you know naught of what you’ve done—what you’ve made—what it is to be, we.” William stands and crosses the room. “It is not of the danger to your heart that I speak, but of Julia’s. The time you have will be enough for you. For you will end and leave this world. To the Orathom.” He turns and glares at Loche, “But not her. Her love for you will go on, here, unrequited, alone. She will watch you wither. She will watch you forget her. That is how our kind dies, Loche. We are driven into madness by watching those we love, leave. Ithic veli agtig.” William turns toward the window. “You will be her curse.” He forces a smile, nudging the curtain to the side. The tone of his voice lightens. “But it is no matter. I will not question the ruling powers of love, damn them. Too long have I thought such thoughts, worried such worries, cursed such curses. You know that well about me, do you not, Doctor?”

  Loche senses his wonted therapeutic process, discerning each of William’s words, considering his body language, his facial expressions—seeking ways in which he can ease pain.

  There is a knock on the door.

  “Fear me not, Loche,” William says, moving to answer, “for I may have been mad once—but that was well before you made me immortal.” He pauses and stares into the dark grained wood of the door. “Now I’m both, it seems. Alas. The big deep heavy.”

  William turns the latch and swings the door open. He bows with reverence. “Anfogal,” he says.

  Loche stands to see the visitor in the doorway. Tall, gangly, long-limbed—a slight wavering as he stands there—slow, almost undetectable swaying from side to side. Loche is struck with a sense that he has met this person before. His hair is shoulder length, orange-brown, framing an awkward, long lipped smile, and two eyes lit like tea in the sunshine.

  “Anfogal,” William says again as the two shake hands.

  “Stupid crazy, eh?” the man says.

  Loche’s heart rate jumps. He whispers to himself, “George Eversman.”

  George takes a long arching step into the room and places his hands on Loche’s shoulders. “The Poet. The Poet. You been writing? Look like you find the gift, no?”

  Loche stares at the man.

  George laughs. The sound is bright and cheerful. Loche’s shock of meeting a character that he has written is eased by the sound. “No worry, Poet. We meet before, only you were not a Poet then.”

  William says, “Loche, this is the leader of the
Orathom Wis, George Eversman.”

  “Yes,” Loche replies, in awe—in shock, shaking his head, “yes, I know. I can’t tell you how I know, nor begin to explain what my mind is attempting to sort out—the crisscross of reality—reality and—”

  “Stupid crazy,” George adds.

  All Loche can do is nod.

  William’s phone rings. “Excuse me,” he says and steps outside.

  “Well, work we have to do,” George says, “and work we must begin now.”

  He gestures for Loche to sit.

  “The news is reporting about the battle at the Uffizi,” George says.

  “My God,” Loche breaths out. “What are they saying?”

  “Not good,” George waves his hand toward some vague place. “Not good. Many are gone. Most everyone is out of their mind. Ravistelle’s security did well to keep witnesses away. Only a few can tell what they saw. Barely.” George places his long fingered hand upon Loche’s shoulder. “News says that it was a kind of chemical attack—some terrorist plot.”

  Loche shakes his head. The nightmare of his writing reaches further. The story devours each coming day.

  “I’ve killed—” his voice falters.

  “Don’t worry, you,” George comforts. “Dis was all to happen. Dis was all supposed to be.”

  “But I—”

  “Stop, now.” George scowls. Loche wonders if there will be an end to what he’s created. His mind ticks through the plot points—the dire consequences of his imagined worst case scenario. What if Albion Ravistelle succeeds?

  “We leave soon,” George says, “Your work as Poet is just begin. But you no write now. Not now. Now, you living in your poems, right? You understand? You living in your work, now.”

  Loche leans forward and listens.

  “But your work no happen here,” George raises his spindly fingers and grabs at the air. His peculiar grin stretches out. “Not dis place. No, you go to the other place, where the gods are. Your job is there.”

  “What does that mean?” Loche asks, finally.

  George answers, “You go with me. I take you to see your brother’s pictures. Your job is in there.” He laid a flap-like hand upon Loche’s shoulder, “You go and find Basil. You find Basil. Help him close the door on the gods, for good.”

  William enters quickly placing his phone into his vest pocket. He is holding Edwin’s hand. Edwin’s mouth is smeared with dark chocolate. The little boy looks sleepy. William leads him to the couch and lays a blanket over him. The boy immediately begins to doze. Loche, too, suddenly feels the fatigue of travel.

  “Are you going to tell me a story, Dad?” he says.

  “Not tonight. It’s too late,” Loche tells him, pulling the blanket up.

  “Are you done with your book yet?”

  “Not yet,” Loche answers.

  “Are we writing the good stories, Dad?”

  Loche grins. “That’s all we can do.”

  The boy closes his eyes. Loche watches him drift off.

  “Anfogal,” William says, turning to George. He bows again. “Corey Thomas has called and confirmed—it has begun.”

  “How many?” George asks.

  “Three are gone, so far.”

  George sighs. He drops his gaze to the floor. William continues, “The attacks are widespread. The Orathom Wis is at war.” William is calm, but Loche detects some inner rage being held back.

  “What has begun? What attacks?” Loche asks, pulling his son into his arms.

  “Albion Ravistelle,” William replies, “has ordered the assassination and vanquishment of the Orathom Wis. He moves to destroy our Order on Earth.”

  “We must go,” George says. “Ready your people, William.”

  “I will as you say,” William replies.

  “We retreat to Mel Tiris. Send the summons.”

  “I will as you say.”

  “Mel Tiris?” Loche asks.

  “A castle along the Rhine River. North. It is our last stronghold. Reminiscent, they say, of the majesty of Wyn Avuqua in deli aun.”

  “You mean the civilization above Priest Lake?”

  “Correct.”

  “Samuel,” George interjects. “Where, where is Samuel?”

  “In America, Anfogal,” William answers. “He has not called in. We have attempted to contact him—”

  “Why is he not here?” George says. After a moment, George snaps his fingers, “Leonaie. Try phone Leonaie?”

  “Of course,” William says shaking his head. “He’s with Leonaie at Greenhaven’s in Coeur d’Alene.”

  “What?” Loche says.

  “Greenhaven’s Retirement Community,” William answers, dialing. “I own the franchise. My dearest friends are often near the end of their lives. They are really the only ones with some sense of life’s meaning. I’ve a fascination with the elderly, you know. I’ve used much of my fortune to ease their passage from here to there.”

  “Leonaie?” Loche asks.

  William waits as his call rings through. “Samuel’s love,” he answers, “His curse.”

  Julia.

  As if in answer to his thought, Loche’s phone rings. But it is not Julia’s name that appears—instead, a number. The Idaho 208 area code does not immediately register. It isn’t until he presses answer that the number suddenly makes sense to him. He holds the phone to his ear and waits. His eyes slowly drift to Edwin.

  The boy is asleep. His little chest rising and falling—deep in dreams. His mother is calling.

  The Assassin

  November 3, this year, Coeur d’Alene, Idaho

  Greenhavens Retirement Community

  Leonaie Echelle straddled Samuel’s naked body, her thighs gripping his pelvis and her fingers clasped behind his neck. She covets his face—a face haunted with the sight of her, lit with awe and joy. She could see him watching her as the arc of her body slowed to a stop. The only movement she now felt was her breathing, her rib cage rising and falling, and the surge of blood coursing beneath her skin.

  “Leonaie.”

  There was nothing that would pull her eyes from his. She felt her body relax and her weight gently drop pulling him deeper inside.

  “Leonaie, my darling.”

  Then she rolled off and laid beside him. She touched her nose to his. “Let’s not visit the city. Paris will not miss you today. Let’s stay in, eat, drink and make love,” she had said.

  “Leonaie. You must wake.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Leonaie! Wake!”

  Leonaie’s eyes bat. Hard particles of what she guesses is glass plink down her cheeks. In her sight is Samuel, lying on his side, staring at her. She nuzzles her nose to his again. “Hello,” she sighs.

  “Leonaie,” Samuel says, “are you with me? Are you hurt?”

  The question is strange. Why would I be hurt? I am in bed in a Paris hotel, she thinks. As if in answer to her question, a throbbing ache and sting visits her senses from several points in her body. The pain rouses her to the present.

  “Don’t panic, my darling,” Samuel says in a voice straining for grace. “But in about thirty seconds, men are going to enter through the door. They will cut me apart. And, I’m afraid, I can’t move.”

  Leonaie gapes. Samuel’s smile is grim.

  “What? Why? What has happened?”

  “Seems they have quite a good marksman outside. I’ve been sniped. A well aimed bullet has severed my cervical spine, at least, this seems evident. I can’t—well, let’s see, I can’t move from my—my shoulders, no, wait, my neck down. Nope. Quite paralyzed. Alas.”

  “Samuel, my darling—”

  “There is no pain, my sweet dear, however, I won’t be able to defend myself, so I will need your help. Listen closely. Can you move?”

  Leonaie feels a surge of adrenaline, each of her limbs flex and she sits up. “Yes,” she says. Barely, she thinks.

  Samuel continues, quick but calm. “Inside my bag, beside the bed, is a syringe of Dem
erol. You will also find a square velvet bag—it is black. Shrouded in the bag is a five by seven painting on canvas by none other than Mr. Basil Pirrip Fenn.” A chill ripples through Leonaie at the recognition of Basil’s name.

  She starts, “You warned me to never look—”

  “That is correct,” he says, “do not look at it. But you will need our visitors to look. Hold the syringe in one hand and force the painting into their line of sight. Raise it to their faces, Leonaie. Once the Center takes them in, you must sedate them.” Samuel shrugs his shoulders suddenly, “Ah,” he cries, “yes, I am coming back—but still not quite there—it will take a few minutes for my body to recover. You must succeed or we will both die here today. Can you manage it, my love?”

  “I don’t—I don’t know if I can—”

  “You can do this. Hurry, Leonaie. Hurry.”

  The old woman struggles to stand. Her lower back and right leg shoot with a ferocious pain. She moans as she straightens and takes hold of Samuel’s Doctor Victor bag. She immediately spots the syringe. It is oversized, full of the drug with a long needle capped with a plastic tip. She tears it off and tosses it away.

  Samuel’s phone is within. It begins to vibrate.

  There are footsteps in the hall.

  “Did you find the demerol?” Samuel calls from the floor. He is faced away from the door. “Leonaie, I can’t see you. Did you—”

  “Yes,” she answers. “I’ve got it.”

  “The painting, Leonaie. You will need the—”

  “I have it.” Leonaie feels the velvet bag and lifts it out. Its top is rimmed in elastic. She recalls the dangerous nature of Basil Fenn’s paintings.

  “How will I know which side has the Center?”

  “You will know,” Samuel says.

  Leonaie’s finger runs along the edge of the wood frame. She determines the correct way to hold it.

  The door handle begins to turn.

  Samuel whispers, “Courage, my love. Courage.”

  Leonaie limps her feeble legs before the entrance. The knob rotates without sound, then the door pushes toward her. It moves slow. But Leonaie is too close, and as it opens into the room it presses her slippered feet quietly back until she is pinned between the wall and the open door.