Leaves of Fire: Part Two of the Newirth Mythology

by Michael B. Koep

  “But what you are planning—dangerous. Dangerous. You must wait until we have defeated Albion’s advance. Then, I help you. I help you.”

  “We do not have the time. She is slipping—her memory.” He points at the documents, “Ravistelle has developed the science. He can reverse age to one’s prime and graft the missing rung to the ladder. He can make a mortal, immortal. Since my youth, I have given my soul and duty to the Orathom Wis and to you. I must now depart on an errand of my own. I go to save my love from death.”

  That’s what the documents were about, Leonaie recalls suddenly. She reaches to the pages and slides them around to remind herself.

  Samuel wrote this for her.

  Moonchild.

  The Melgia.

  The successful genetic experiments that Albion Ravistelle’s team has been working on over the last ten years.

  The Fountain of Youth.

  The Fruit of Life.

  Dearest Leonaie, here is a little about the science behind it all. They’ve found a way to keep telomeres, the lids on the end of the DNA chain, from deteriorating. As these telomeres shorten, we age. So, by introducing the ribonucleoprotein, Telomerase, which is a reverse transcriptase (a kind of enzyme that regenerates DNA production), voilà, you’ve got infinite cell regeneration, and immortal cells, and thus, biological immortality. And better still, age reversal, to what Ravistelle’s team calls, Prime—the biological age inscribed upon an individual’s DNA in which the organism is at its strongest, both mentally and physically. The point that cell and metabolic structure reaches full maturity in tandem with mental function. Brilliantly simple, really. Like making an apple pie (you know how to make those). The first keys to the science have been around since the middle of the twentieth century. The following decades brought huge technological strides, of course, but as with most controversial advances, the powers that be held their findings close. The science was solid, but there was no single organization authorized for human trials. This didn’t stop Albion. No. He kept on.

  Many did not survive the early trials—but finally, Albion introduced a secret gene—he managed to unlock a science that had long been a mystery. Combined with the very experiments that grew organs, kept rats going strong—well, he found it. It worked. It worked on humans. It will make mortals immortal.

  Leonaie shakes her head and blinks. George is staring at her. She feels Samuel’s gentle scratching between her shoulder blades, “Darling,” he says, “did you hear me?”

  Where am I, she thinks. “I was just thinking about making an apple pie,” she says. “You know, dear, when I was a little girl, my father would whistle and we girls would dance? I had three sisters. For some reason, I remember Mother making apple pies when we would dance. I always put those two things together. Oh, and you, too.” She winks at him, “You know what I’m talking about.”

  “Leonaie,” Samuel said. His face is concerned, but he is smiling. “George asked you a question.”

  “He did?” she laughs. “I’m sorry, I was thinking about pies and telomeres.” She turns to George and leans forward, “I’m sorry, George. Getting old ain’t for sissies. What did you say?”

  George smiles at her. Whenever they had met in the past, he was always kind. She likes his face despite its weird shape.

  “Do you want dis? You want to be like us?” he asks.

  “I want him,” she says pulling Samuel closer. “I want to stay with him.”

  George laces his fingers before his chin. “What plan?” he asks Samuel. “How will you do dis? You tell me. How?”

  “Corey Thomas will get us in. He has scheduled Leonaie for the procedure already. He’s put in order all of the official clearances through Ravistelle’s security. We need only arrive and check-in, have the procedure, and get out. Corey has already outlined our escape. Leonaie and I will return, hopefully, before the siege upon Mel Tiris begins.”

  “You will be recognized when you arrive at Ravistelle’s door.”

  “I will disguise myself. He will not know me. Nor will any in his charge.”

  George nods to Samuel’s missing hand, “Hard to hide dat.”

  Writing the Good Stories

  November 5, this year

  Mel Tiris, France

  “What’s wrong, Dad?” Edwin asks.

  Loche wipes at his tears. “Nothing. Nothing. It’s just the dust in this old room. It makes me sneeze, too.” Loche fakes a high pitched ach-hoo. Edwin echoes it and laughs.

  “So you’re okay to go with Granddad? He’s going to take you on a plane—to see Mom.”

  “Yes. I’m okay. It will be fun. How long will it take?”

  “Oh, about the same amount of time it took to fly here. A few hours, I expect. Not long at all. You’ll get to see the black boats on the water again.”

  “I remember that place, Dad. I remember.”

  “And if you ask Granddad, he’ll take you on one of those boats.”

  “I will ask him.”

  “Good.”

  “Good.”

  Loche shivers at the impossible situation before him. How could he ever make sense of it? He cannot believe that he is about to send his son off with his own newly found father, to his wife that has deceived him their entire marriage, to a militant group, this Endale Gen, intent on a kind of genocide—while he must uncover the shrouded paintings in this room and cross the threshold of death to find a way to save both humankind and divinities alike. To save existence. He presses his forehead against his son’s and breathes in the smell of him. This is really happening.

  “We’re writing the good stories—painting the beautiful pictures, right, Dad?”

  “Yes. Yes we are.”

  “And I get to go and see Mom?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you can’t come?”

  “No. I have to work here.”

  Edwin gives a solemn nod. “You need to write your book some more?”

  “Kind of,” Loche says.

  “When are you going to be done with your book, Dad?”

  “When I know the end of the story.”

  “Will the ending be good?”

  Loche stares at his son. “Yes. It has to be.”

  “When you’re done writing, can we go to Disneyland?”

  “Of course we can.”

  “Can we take Granddad, too?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” Edwin gives Loche a squeeze and stands up. “I need to get my wood sword before I go. Bye, Dad.”

  “You do as William—as Granddad says, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “I love you, boy. I love you with all of my heart.”

  “I love you, Dad.”

  William Greenhame peeks his head into the room from the door. “Get your sword, good squire Edwin. The plane awaits.”

  Edwin runs out laughing.

  Loche watches William’s eyes follow the boy down the circular stone steps to the chamber below.

  “He gets around this place quite well,” William says. “It must remind him of the castle you built for him in Idaho.”

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  “I have spoken to your mother, Diana. She wishes you hope, love and courage.”

  “Where is she?” Loche asks.

  “She is safe. I will not tell you where, for now anyway. Just know that she sends her love to us both. I will one day soon tell you all there is to know of my beautiful bride, your mother.” William places his hand upon the door. “I am not coming in to ease your concerns, son,” he says. “There is nothing I can say that will take your fears away. I know. Believe me, I know.” He tilts his head slightly, “But, Doctor, you have the tools to deal with all of this, I think.

  “I have watched you grow up, and I’ve trembled at every step you’ve taken since you were born. I had accepted that you would never know me—like a father, I mean. Too dangerous, of course. It is unfortunate that you only know me as a manic madman seeking therapy. Warranted, I grant, but the maladies yo
u’ve diagnosed me with are rooted in the despair and helplessness of not being able to, well, to read to you—to teach you about the sky and the stars and the sea. To show how to fight with a wooden sword through the living room and into the kitchen and out the back door into the trees. But I have always been near. And there is no father prouder than I am of you.”

  “Thank you, William,” Loche says. “But I—it’s still a little difficult for me to completely empathize—”

  “No, no,” William replies, “don’t try. Don’t try. Our relationship will always be—a little odd, surely. We will become what we become.” He laughs, “Imagine what it will look like thirty years from now—you will wrinkle and I will look like your son, I’m afraid. For now, we might appear as brothers, but that will change. Alas. The wheels turn ever.

  “But it seems that fate has provided me a joy that I’d not dared to dream of, Loche. Little Edwin has captured my heart. And he will receive the care and tutelage that I have longed to devote to you. All that is mine, is his. Your fears for him I cannot quell—but if we believe in the power of words, place these into your story, Loche, know that with every sinew of my being, all of the love I possess, I shall be to both you and he, a granddad. He shall return to you, I swear it.”

  Loche’s eyes flood with tears. “Bring him home, William,” Loche breaks. “Bring him back to me.”

  “I will, and more,” William answers. “You had better be here for us when we return.”

  Loche feels the looming weight of Basil’s shrouded gallery behind him, and he turns toward the chasm that awaits. “Go,” he says over his shoulder. “Go.”

  The Bath

  April, 1338

  The House of Albion Ravistelle, London

  The beer was nearly gone and William’s eyes were heavy.

  “You will both sleep in this room tonight,” Albion said. He then chuckled looking at them. “The friars that make this ale know their business well, yes? I would think that you are both ready to drift off now. But not yet.” He stood and moved to the door. A long, thin chain hung from a hole in the ceiling. He gave it a gentle pull. Somewhere below a distant bell rung. “First you will bathe—and we shall see what we can do to dress you in the appropriate clothing for our venture. After that, we will sup. And then,” he smiled at William, “then you can sleep.”

  A light knock on the door startled William. “My lord, Albion? How can I be of service?” A woman’s voice called from outside the closed door.

  “Ah, Alice,” Albion said. He opened the door.

  Alice wore a long grey smock with a green mantle. Her hair was silver grey and eyes clear blue—like sky. Taking one look at William she said, “Goodness me, what have we here, a little boy or a drowned rat?” William looked down at his muddied cloak, and his hands, soiled and stained. He imagined that the rest of him matched. Alice shook her head, “And a Holy Father?” She bowed reverently and crossed herself, “God save you, Father.”

  A sudden expression of shock drifted across her face when she met with the priest’s eyes. With an abrupt glance at Albion and then back to the Radulphus, she squinted and smiled. Albion placed his hand on Alice’s shoulder, “This is Father Radulphus Grenehamer of Ascott.”

  The woman shook her head as if in anger and glared at Albion, “Oh dear, Father, did my lord Albion bring you both through a storm of mud? We must get you both cleaned up!”

  Albion sighed and nodded, “Thank you, Alice. Please have prepared hot baths and fresh clothes—and supper for—”

  “Yes, yes,” she broke in, waving a hand. Her tone was flustered, “I’ll see to it. We’ll have to find some clothes to fit the lad—I’ll burn the clothes he’s in—goodness me.” She fired another dagger at Albion, “You didn’t drag this Holy Father and young boy through London looking like this, did you, Albion?”

  “Alice, I—” Albion began.

  She waved her hand and smiled at the two visitors. “Ah, me.” She walked into the chamber, laid hold of William’s cloak and pulled it over his head. Pinching it between two fingers, she held it away from her as if it was something long dead and slimy. She took a look at the boy, “My word,” her voice was astonished, “have you eaten? Ever? This boy is thin as a sunbeam.”

  Again, William looked down at himself. His body was rail thin. The clothes he wore were overlarge and hung loose over his shoulders. Alice made a careful survey, scanned the priest’s condition as well, then turned to Albion.

  “My lord,” she said with a tone straining for patience. “I have noted that there are still unused provisions on the wagon, along with some extra clothing—or did you forget? These two could have certainly used what you yourself did not need.”

  Albion smiled, “Alice, I—”

  Another wave. This time with a single finger waggling between them. “I pack extra things for you to use when you are upon the road. Need and want is not hidden in this dark country, my lord, Albion. And we can provide. You need only look away from your blinding pursuit to see it, and so much more."

  “Alice, I—”

  “What is this boy’s name?” she said, turning away from Albion.

  Radulphus answered, “His name is William.”

  Her smile comforted William and she reached to shake his hand. “Pleased to meet you, William—Father. I am Mrs. Eloise Smith, you can call me Alice. I run this house for my lord, Albion Ravistelle. Welcome.”

  Albion tried again, “Alice, I—”

  “What is your will, my lord?” Alice asked, exasperated.

  He smiled at her. “If I may? A few items concerning our guests? William is the priest’s son.”

  Alice circled back and eyed Radulphus. Her face was expressionless. Radulphus placed his hand on the boy’s head.

  “And the boy,” Albion continued, “is Itonalya. He is of the undying.”

  The woman’s eyes ticked to William. He liked her face. It was broad and plump, and it looked capable of endless laughter. But now it was solemn and thoughtful. Motherly.

  She gave a subtle nod and said, “Oh, my sweet, sweet boy—so new to the world—so new.”

  William was surprised to hear his own voice, “Are you like us, too?”

  And there was the laugh and the joyous grin he had imagined. She howled, “Oh my!” She then knelt down and held William’s eyes, “Such curiosity. I like that. Let’s say that I know a thing or two about what it means to live—and good living starts with a hot bath, a hot supper and a soft pillow.”

  She whirled around and faced Albion again. “Your bath waits for you in your chamber.” Then back to William and the priest. “You two shall come with me.”

  “What is this place?” Radulphus asked.

  A hot vapor hung before William’s eyes. Moisture dripped from the stone walls and ceiling.

  Alice stood before a shut wood planked door. “This is the house bath chamber. There are not many like it in London. None that I know of, come to think of it. My lord Albion, had this room built after he visited a friend with one like it. In Rome, I believe it was. Or was it Japan? Or was it on the coast? All of Albion’s houses, from here to the East have a room like this. But this is the only one I’ve seen.”

  Opening the door, a plume of steam burst into the hall. The heat was a delight. William closed his eyes, and inhaled deeply.

  A fire roared in a thigh high square of rust colored brick. Its light was blurred by the steam. The ceiling, floor and walls were of mortar and rock—large rocks like those William had seen along the stream beds near to his home. They were round and smooth. A huge, copper cauldron full of boiling water hung by iron chains over the flames. One narrow cedar chute was angled from the cauldron down to a basin on the floor. The tub was big enough for William’s father to lie down inside. Another chute ran from the tub up to a small square door above. A green, woven mat of thick yarn hung upon a rail near the door and soft, white towels were draped on a bar just opposite. Four torches lit the room.

  Alice moved to the nearest cauldro
n and twisted a small, wood handle. It poured hot water down into the chute and into the basin. She then pulled an iron chain and a tiny door at the top of the wall slid open. From it issued cold water. It, too, ran down into the filling tub. The woman dipped her hand into the bath checking the temperature and made adjustments so that the water was, “Not too hot, not too cold.”

  While the water rose, she opened a cabinet and from it she took a cake of soap and a long handled brush. She handed them to William. “For your backside,” she instructed. Opening the door she said, “Wash now, you two. I’ll see to supper.”

  The Apple Upon the Book

  June 1975,

  Venice, Italy

  They had slept tangled together. For a brief moment, she had possessed him. A fading belief.

  Helen watched the curtain flutter. Outside the morning air was a rush of waterway traffic. The breeze from the ocean was sweet. Her legs searched the cool sheets again for his body beside her, but he was gone. She partly expected to wake alone. Then, she heard the distinct sound of a tea cup and saucer.

  Albion was seated across the sun-washed room, a newspaper open upon a table and a breakfast covered in chrome domes. He was dressed in a tie, his suit jacket hung over his chair.

  “Good morning,” he said.

  Helen sat up, pulled the sheets aside and stood. She waited for him to look. When he did, she strode toward him. Albion’s lips curved slightly as her naked body approached. Her hair draped in thick dark curls over her shoulders and breasts. She leaned down and kissed him. “Good morning,” she said. In a basket her fingers found a yellow apple. She plopped down in the opposite seat with one leg draped over the armchair. She leaned back and bit.

  Albion stared at her.

  “Off to work?” she asked, then added playfully, “so soon?”

  “I am,” he said. She watched his face. It was a mix of obsession and study. She felt as if she were the subject of a painting. “And I won’t be home for dinner.” He looked back to his paper.

  On the table was a large, hardbound book. Old by the looks of it. Helen gestured at it with the apple, “Why do I think that’s for me?”