Leaves of Fire: Part Two of the Newirth Mythology

by Michael B. Koep

She cannot see who has come. She feels faint.

  “Ah,” she hears a voice say. “Send word.”

  Another voice, quietly: “Target achieved. Preparing to cut. We’re on our way out.”

  Leonaie thinks that she hears a nearly inaudible voice say, “Copy,” as if from an earpiece.

  She lets her lids fall and listens. Her breathing is low. Her pulse is thick, sluggish. There is the sound of footsteps entering the room. Two? Three sets of feet? When they are in, they will close the door. They will close the door. Right now, they will close the door. They will see me.

  Then from the floor she hears Samuel, mocking a woman’s voice in shrill surprise, “Excuse me! I’m not decent!”

  The door pulls away from Leonaie’s face as her hands grip the painting and the syringe. To her amazement, she is not discovered. She shrinks back and sees one man to her left, his back to her, taking one last look into the hallway before closing the door. Another man, very tall is looking down upon her poor Samuel. Both men are dressed in casual attire. Golf shirts, Leonaie thinks. They both look as if they could have elderly parents residing here. The man to Leonaie’s left turns out and away, again failing to see the old woman three feet from him. He unslings a backpack and lays it on the bed.

  Samuel’s tone is jovial, “Really, you two, who’s the shooter? Hell of a shot. I’ve not been hit like this in… well… come to think of it, I’ve never been hit like this.”

  “This will be easier if you don’t speak, Samuel,” the tall man says without tone.

  “I assume that you would call such a target, the sweet spot, yes?”

  The tall man does not answer.

  “Perfect shot—base of the skull—severing the spinal cord—that satisfying puff of pink mist—resulting in, of course, paralysis.”

  The shorter man unzips the backpack and pulls from it a roll of plastic sheeting and a blue satchel made of what looks to be tarp material.

  “Paralysis, at least, for a short while, considering fellows like me. Just enough time to, well—”

  The man sets the sheeting on the floor, steps on the edge and kicks the roll away. It unravels a long swath. He then lifts from the bag, one by one, varying steel implements: a bone saw, a thick cutting blade and a sheathed dagger.

  “Enough time for,” Samuel continues, “some practice at meat cutting.”

  “Truly, Mr. Lifeson, your silence is best.”

  “I’m a little disappointed at your lack of courage, however. Guns are bullshit. Quite dishonorable.”

  “You will see a blade momentarily, Mr. Lifeson.”

  “It appears that you know my name, but, I’m afraid, I can’t quite place you.” Samuel says.

  “It doesn’t matter,” the tall man replies.

  “Oh, but it does indeed, matter, my boy, for if you are to do what you’re about to do, I believe that it is only proper that you introduce yourself to me. Might you roll me toward you? I think a nine-hundred and seventy-two-year-old man deserves to meet the children that have the balls to end him.”

  The tall man does not hesitate. He crouches down and lays hold of Samuel’s shoulder rotating him onto his back. The man then rolls him again. Harder this time. His shoulder blades crack on the tile. With one more pull Samuel’s body is framed on the plastic sheeting. Samuel’s head lolls to the right.

  Leonaie sees his eyes scan the room in quick darts. He does not pause on any one spot, but Leonaie knows that he’s seen her, cowering against the wall, behind the two assassins.

  Samuel then trains his focus on the two men. “And you are?” he asks.

  “The name is Wishfeill. Emil Wishfeill. ”

  “Wishfiell. Wishfeill. Hmm. Why do I know that name? I knew a Felix Wishfeill.” Samuel stops. “Wait a moment. This is quite out of character for Albion Ravistelle. Please tell me that he didn’t send Felix Wishfeill’s son on a quest for vengeance.”

  Emil Wishfeill is silent. He flings his open hand through the air and slaps Samuel across the face. The crack causes Leonaie to nearly lose her balance.

  “Aye,” Emil says. “You cut him up in Venice—tossed his head into the sea.”

  Samuel winces at the blow. “That I did. Your father was a misled tool. I do formally apologize that his actions have caused you and your family grief, but had he remained in service to Ravistelle, he would have been an accomplice to the end of humanity as we know it—quite simply. Such business makes for a bad reputation. Though I see the apple hasn’t fallen far from the tree.”

  Emil reaches into his coat and produces a pair of long plastic gloves. He pulls them on, keeping eye contact with Samuel. The shorter man, holding the bone saw rounds the side of the bed. “Here.” He hands it to Emil. The saw blade is thick and serrated. Emil examines it.

  “This is going to hurt,” he says to Samuel. “A lot.”

  Leonaie’s tears rise. She lifts the painting up as if it is a gun. Her grip is tight though she is trembling. The painting shakes at the end of her outstretched arm.

  “Do you think that this is the first time I’ve been dismembered?” Samuel asks. “I know this pain. I know it well. That is more than you can say, young Wishfeill. How old are you? What, thirty? Thirty five?”

  “Old enough to take you down. My father taught me the weaknesses of your kind, and your darkest fear.”

  “Did he?” Samuel asks.

  “No more talk,” the shorter man growls. “He’s stalling you. Begin before he has the chance to heal.”

  Samuel continued, “So instead of injuring me to unconsciousness, you intend to cut me apart while I watch? Is that it?”

  “You will feel the pain and you will watch your life force divide and fade. The greatest fear of your kind, watching the light die.”

  “Ah,” Samuel says, “vengeance should have no bounds.”

  Emil lays Samuel’s lifeless arm out onto the tile and rests the serrated edge at the center of the bicep. He stops, shakes his head and grins. “No,” he whispers, “I’ll get to that.” He then moves the saw down the arm to the bare wrist. “Let’s start at the extremities.” He smiles. “Ouchie.”

  “I will watch,” Samuel says, now eyeing the blade closely. “You will watch, your douche bag friend here, will watch. But I do not think your father, even with all of his ill chosen malefactions and untrained wit would want her to watch.” Samuel’s eyes tick up and over Emil’s shoulder. The two men turn.

  Leonaie feels their shock at the sight of her and it forces her to stagger back. As she thrusts the painting out in an attempt to remove their eyes from hers, to capture them, her grip fails. The canvass falls to the floor, face down. Leonaie drops to her knees to retrieve it. Emil’s companion steps toward the old woman and places a foot upon the painting as Leonaie’s attempts to claw it from the floor. “And what have we here?” he says. The man bends, takes hold of her thin arms, lifts her to her feet and presses her against the wall. He notes the syringe and easily pulls it from her hand.

  Emil, still kneeling beside Samuel, sighs and laughs. “Oh my,” he says. “This day just got better. So, the mighty immortal, Samuel Lifeson, calls to his defense his,” he pauses, searching for the right words, “his, old lady. This is too good to be true.”

  The other holds up the syringe. “It seems their weapon of choice is—what is this? Something to sedate us?” Leonaie begins to cry, staring at Samuel. She sees his face struggling with rage and helplessness.

  “Did you really think this old bitch could move fast enough? Really, Samuel? You could have sent her away. Instead, you’ve given me a sweet, sweet gift. A sweeter revenge. More than I could ask for.” He looks up to her. “Leonaie is the name, right?” Leonaie does not answer. She looks down at the painting still under the shorter man’s foot.

  “Leonaie.” Emil’s voice is gentle. “Watch this.”

  Who’s Grave Is This?

  April, 1338,

  the village of Ascott-under-Wychwood, England

  William took hesitant peeks.
<
br />   Outside the sun was setting. The smoke was still thick, hanging on the air like dirty lace over a window. All above was a lurid scarlet.

  The two guards drove their shovels into the earth. Soon, they were waist deep in the tiny grave. Radulphus had chosen a place behind the church out of sight of the lane and the courtyard wall. William’s eyes were shut. He could hear the shovels, the heavy shifting feet of a horse nearby, and he could feel his father’s hand upon his chest. With great care he cracked his lids open slightly. His father was on his knees beside him, looking around as if searching for something. He then noticed the tiny glint of light in William’s eyes. He covered them with his hand.

  “Deeper. And make haste,” the escort said.

  The sound of the digging sped up.

  “Priest,” the escort asked, “you knew the witch?”

  “I did,” Radulphus replied. He moved his hand to William’s forehead and caressed it.

  “Did you know of her Craft?”

  “I knew that she brought light and healing to many.”

  The escort sighed. “Yes, I have heard tell of that. Simon the Thatcher. The plague has been purged from their house—from their blood. I have heard tell that she was a master of herb lore.”

  Radulphus did not respond. William peeked one eye open His father’s head was turning this way and that, as if searching for some sign—some path to take. The two guards were now chest deep in the ground. William chanced a look in the direction of the escort. He could see his high boots and richly fashioned garments. A long sword with a gold hilt was sheathed at his side. His face was proud. William was fascinated by the noble expression and attractive features. Then, with a sudden burst of fear, William realized that the escort was looking at him—straight into his peeping eye. William let his lids relax and all went black again. His heart pounded in his chest.

  “Well bless my soul,” the escort muttered. After a moment he asked, “Was the boy the witch’s son?”

  “He was,” Radulphus answered.

  “Troubling. Had he a name?”

  “William.”

  “I wonder if he carries with him any of her charm?”

  “He carried only what a son should—the beauty of her eyes, and the warmth of her love. He was too young to carry more.”

  “Ah, so he does not possess traces of her Craft?”

  “He now possesses nothing. Not even breath.” William heard his father’s voice break into weeping.

  The escort’s tone became stern, “Which of you drew the knife across the lad’s throat?”

  The digging stopped. The coarse voice of the squat-faced guard replied, “God’s will, my Lord, `twas I. I put an end to the murderous tyke, on Bishop Gravesend’s word.”

  “I see,” the escort said. “And did he bleed?”

  “Aye, the little devil did. Like a coney on the board.”

  “I would very much like to see the wound. Where did you slice him?”

  “Across the throat, my Lord,” the man said.

  “Priest, remove the cloth from his throat. Show me this knave’s handiwork.”

  “Leave the dead in peace,” William’s father said—his voice booming. William felt a raking heat across his skin.

  William heard the escort shift in his stance and cough. suddenly. “Priest, I think I know what lay behind that bandage. And if I am correct, I am overjoyed. But, do show these gravediggers that things are not always as they seem. Do but peel it away.”

  William felt the air still. He dared not open his eyes. Yet, some strange confidence quelled his fear. An unexpected comfort. It was something about the way the escort spoke. A kind of caring and sympathy. Empathy. Behind his closed lids, William imagined his father and the escort staring at each other—the escort gesturing that all will be well.

  William felt his father’s fingers pulling at the bandage. Flakes of dried blood skittered down the sides of his neck. The cool of the spring night chilled the skin on his bare throat.

  The boy heard the two shovels drop into the dirt. One of the guards gasped and began whispering a sacrament. The other cried out, “This cannot be—there is some evil afoot. The Devil! He’s the Devil I tell you!”

  “William?” the escort said. “Bring terror to these riotous knaves.” There was a ring of a blade unsheathing. “Do open your eyes, boy. Open your eyes to a life never-ending.”

  William saw the two guards. Their heads and chests rising a little above the ground. Like faces of sculpted shock and fear, they gaped at the boy. The smaller of the two raised his shovel and climbed toward him. “You shall not live. By God, you shall not!”

  Then a flash of silver metal streaked across William’s vision as the escort’s sword sliced the man’s head from his body. It lolled to the side and dropped into the grave. The rest of him followed.

  Radulphus pulled William back and away.

  The escort remained still and held his ground. “Come, come, tool,” he said to the other guard, “if you must kill the boy, you must kill me first.”

  The squat-faced guard rolled his body out of the grave. He plucked up his sword from the grass and unsheathed it. “You devil!” he spat. “I’ll gut you.”

  “I would expect nothing less.”

  The guard rushed forward and threw his blade in a round sweep toward the escort’s throat. The escort simply took a single step back. “You see, William,” he said, adjusting his stance, “the best defense, always, is to stay out of the way.” Again the guard swung, this time in a cleaving motion, aimed at his opponent’s shoulder. The escort stepped to the right. “Another perfect example,” he continued, “there is no sense in parrying this knave’s sword just yet, for he does not have the skill of a master.” Another poorly aimed swing and another dodge. “As a swordsman, you will learn that the first few moments of a duel are paramount to understanding your enemy and his abilities.” The guard roared with fury and frustration. With a slight pivot, he stabbed forward. Finally, the two swords connected, the escort easily deflecting his attacker away. “You’ll also find that words are a much better weapon than the sword. You see, this poor fellow is easily angered. Ah pride. What weakness.”

  The guard paused, heaving and enraged. Fear tugged at his eyes. He glanced quickly at the body and the severed head piled in the grave and then back to the escort.

  “Something to keep in mind, William,” the escort said, “when faced with a wild, uneducated man with a sword, is that they can be evermore dangerous than a master, for one cannot anticipate their movements. There is no poetry in them. No strategy. His only concern is survival—and when faced with death, a desperate man will do nearly anything to live. He will become savage.”

  The guard narrowed his eyes at the escort. He gripped his sword with two hands and held it up in defense and waited. The escort smiled. “And here, the knave has learned. You see, William, words can be deadly. If the prideful cannot master what he hears, he has no armor.”

  The escort stepped forward and dealt a series of blows. Slow and precise, each swing was given with intention so that the guard could defend with ease.

  “And now,” the escort said, taking a defensive step back, “is the end of the lesson. Watch carefully, for this is something even he won’t expect. Remember, every duel should have surprises, a story, poetry and meaning. There’s nothing worse than two brutes swinging wildly trying to break the other’s limbs. I prefer dance and elegance before the end. Now watch carefully.” The escort lowered his sword and sniffed the air. He then said to the guard, “Come now, sir. Bring your best violence.”

  Before the escort could finish his invitation, the guard pressed. The escort batted the blade aside twice. “Yes, very well, you’re in earnest,” the escort said. The third thrust met with its target and slid deep into the escort’s belly.

  The escort let out a wheezing groan and fell to his knees. His hands covered the wound as he collapsed onto his back.

  William turned his head into his father’s chest and clung to h
is robes.

  “Who’s the knave now?” the guard spat.

  Radulphus climbed to his feet and lifted William into his arms.

  “Bring the devil rat here!”

  The priest backed away but was halted by the touch of the guard’s blade upon his cheek.

  “God’s will, Priest. Drop the tyke.”

  “I won’t,” Radulphus said.

  “Then I’ll kill him in your arms.”

  Then the voice of the escort, “I’m not dead yet.”

  William saw the guard turn. In the air, whirling toward them, was a silver gleam of light followed by the sound of a snap, like a branch cracked against the trunk of a tree. The guard sunk to his knees and fell back onto the ground. A dagger from the escort’s hand was impaled in his forehead.

  Why and How—The Gift

  Los Angeles, June 27, 1972

  The Continental Hyatt House, Sunset Strip

  The doctor finally took a step back from Helen and turned. He looked through the window with an expression that was crimped and bewildered. He exited the kitchen and joined Jimmy and Richard.

  Helen could see him through the window, his head in his hands. She heard him say, “Well first of all, mates, I think you can let me in on the joke now.”

  Richard took a step forward, “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, she’s fine—and there’s no way she could have made that fall without some kind of cut, or worse. I mean really, what are you two smoking? What’s the joke? Where did the blood come from?”

  Richard jerked his head to Jimmy and his mouth opened to protest.

  “I don’t get it,” the doctor said.

  “Neither do I,” Jimmy agreed as he pushed the door open and walked through. Helen’s eyes shot to him. A wave of relief washed over her—and the same kind of excitement that she felt earlier in the evening. Only now, the sharp light erased the mysterious glitter, the haze of a candlelit buzz and the plushy excess of rock riffs and red crushed velvet shoes. This was the real backstage to this lifestyle, Helen thought suddenly. The blood on white tiled floors in a bright hotel kitchen—a bloodied, young female fan, and a guitarist. She scowled. I hope he doesn’t think he caused all of this.