Leaves of Fire: Part Two of the Newirth Mythology

by Michael B. Koep

  “Elliqui?” the priest asked.

  “Elliqui is the language of my kind. Older than the Earth itself. One day, I hope I can teach you what I know of it. William, too, for its words will ease his soul as the centuries pass. Now then, your wife had an affinity for leaves, yes?”

  “She did.”

  William’s eyes shot to the leaves shining in the candlelight.

  “Falio in the language of old means leaf, though, it means much, much more, as do all utterances in Elliqui. Let us call you Father Falio.”

  “Very well.”

  “We must instruct William to learn this new title.” Albion said. “Now, we must discuss the poisoning.”

  William shifted in the bed so that he could hear a little clearer. His movement caught his father’s attention. Radulphus rose from his chair and stepped to the bedside. William closed his eyes and let his face relax.

  “Still asleep?” Albion asked.

  “Yes,” Radulphus answered, sitting back down.

  Albion said, “In the morning, I will grind the plant into a fine power. I will then combine the powder with a honey mead and water. Gravesend’s Bane we shall call it. Into a vial I shall pour the mortal distillment and place it among the many remedies we bring to heal his Excellency. The vial will have a ribbon of red tied at its throat—a red sash to remind us.”

  William’s father said, “Very well.”

  Albion said, “There is much to chance, Father, but there is one thing on which we can count, we will not be trusted. We will be searched when we arrive tomorrow evening. Our arms will be stowed away. Our cargo of herbs will be taken to the manor’s garden, and we will be shown to our chambers. Depending upon the Bishop’s condition, we will either be given audience immediately or very early in the morning of the next day. Once we step through their doors, our choices diminish.”

  Albion’s voice halted abruptly. Then he added, “I will give William the vial and instruct him how to deliver the poison.”

  Radulphus’ voice growled, “You shall do no such thing, Albion. You will not place the choice of murder before a child. I will not permit it.” There was a subtle boom in his father’s voice. A familiar chill scraped up his back.

  Albion did not respond immediately. After a moment he said, “Father—”

  “No, I tell you. It was agreed that you would kill Gravesend.” His whisper rose in anger.

  “We will all be suspect, Priest. But least of all, a boy of six springs.”

  “I cannot allow—”

  “He will do no more than hand the poison to Gravesend, pour it upon the Bishop’s food, or into a goblet. That is all.”

  Outside, far away, a dog bayed into the night.

  William’s father: “Won’t they test the food or drink first? The Bishop must have an assayer.”

  “Aye, that he will. But Gravesend’s Bane is slow in its potency. If they suspect poison, they will expect a sudden effect. This is not so with our weapon. You could give the Eucharist and dole out bread, and still the poison would hide. But not much longer. We will be on our way to the horses and escape when Gravesend is retching. The plan, as I see it—the innocent boy will deliver the poison, the sweet mead will mask the pestilence, the delay will enable our escape.”

  “What of the monks? Gravesend’s sentinels?”

  “I am uncertain,” Albion said. “It is likely that they, too, must be eliminated. I doubt very much that we will leave the manor without a fight.”

  Radulphus sighed. “I am in doubt.”

  “It will not be the last time, Father.”

  The two did not speak again. William heard one rise and leave the chamber—he assumed it was Albion. Rolling over, William saw his father with his head in his hands.

  “Papa?”

  The priest wiped at his eyes and turned to the boy. “You heard us speaking?”

  “Yes.”

  “Everything has changed,” Radulphus broke. He hid his face and muttered inaudibly to himself.

  “I can do it. I will do it.”

  The priest looked at his son. William wondered why his father’s eyes were tearing.

  Sympathy For Nicolas Cythe

  August, 1987

  New York City

  “Helen, I suppose you were expecting something frightful? Something Satanic? Pentagrams? Some Plutonian iconography? Perhaps you would like the classic tale of the fallen angel of light? That is my personal favorite. And by all accounts, true. Or at least, partially. As far as you can fathom it.

  “I have been here since the beginning—though, in many forms. I have been born as a man and a woman. I have recurred through the centuries. I have been killed by illness, accident, war, old age—by Albion Ravistelle. Many times by George Eversman, leader of the Orathom Wis. I am the only Bridger, as you’re wont to call our kind, fully cognizant of my real purpose and identity. At every crossing, I know what I am very early. Of your myths, I seem to match that darker creature—the devilish sort of fellow. Hades. Set. The bad guy in the stories of every culture. I am represented quite poorly, in my opinion. And I feel, of course, that because I am me, my opinion should be considered when we speak of defining me as a character. There’s always two sides to every story.

  “You see, my part in the grand tale of humankind is quite momentous. For after all, what is a story without a conflict? It appears, as does light in the darkness, that I’ve provided your existence a power beyond all powers. Your very lives, your dramas, your worries, joys, sorrows and fears are what fuels both the Alya and the Orathom. You are coveted by the gods because you possess what they cannot—fear and doubt. Joy and hope.

  “I am misunderstood, Helen. All of the tales about me fall short. I am depicted evilly. But it is because of me that joy exists. Both must exist to feel human. I am both.

  “Have some sympathy, won’t you? The world is changing. An end is near to the the old ways and the ruling powers beyond. You will see. You will see.

  “And your dearest, Albion Ravistelle? He is now my friend. We have met many times. I have fallen beneath his sword twice in centuries passed. But this time, Albion and I have come to a crossroad (forgive the allegorical trappings of that word). And he has given me life. He has built the ladders that connect the gods and man. He has now cultivated the tree of life. He has allowed me to eat of that fruit.

  “I am a crossing divinity. I am also an immortal. I am a god on earth that cannot die. I am, Helen, unlike anything in existence.

  “Very soon, two doors will be opening between Here and the Hereafter. Two young boys will become men, and discover through their arts the very Center that connects us. It is time to end the slavery of man. Simple evolution. It is time to look behind the veil, and destroy what we find there.”

  It Will Heal

  November 6, this year

  Venice, Italy

  “William,” Albion sighs. “I’m not one for ultimatums. Never have been. You know that about me, since you were young. You must have some memory of that. After all, ultimatums are based on a kind of time element, yes? This or that, right now, is really a bore for our kind, don’t you think? I can afford a few years—I could let you all go. Give you what you wish. Let you run free. In time, I would plot a clearer way to get what I want.

  “And I assure you, William, I will get what I want. Make no mistake.

  “But most importantly, I will not be ruled by you, the Orathom Wis, the gods—and certainly not by some ultimatum thrown out in desperation. Now, where is the boy, Edwin?”

  William answers, “Edwin is currently residing with one Alice of Bath.”

  Albion laughs. “Alice, eh?”

  Helen cries, “Who is Alice?”

  “Alice, my dear, is an old, old friend of ours. She was once my assistant. Part nanny, part housekeeper, part manager. A motherly woman without doubt.”

  “And she sends word, Albion,” William says. “She bade me tell you that you’re an idiot.”

  Albion smiles grimly. “One thing h
as not changed, Alice is always right.”

  Helen’s voice is now harsh, “William, I want my son. I want him brought here.”

  William replies, “I think, Helen, even as every part of me says that this is a bad idea, you will be coming with me—and together we shall visit your son. And Julia will join us…”

  “Nonsense, William. Absurd. You have nothing to bargain with. I am about to allow my dearest Helen to do what she will to sweet Julia to prove to you our resolve.” He raises his hand. Two armed men lay hold of Julia. One seizes her arm, the other her hair. They force her to the center of the chamber between Albion and William.

  Albion watches William’s eyes. “Leg,” he says.

  Julia feels the sharp cold of a short sword stab through her right thigh. Her eyesight flashes white and red for an instant. Then, searing pain. She cries out as the sword is yanked from the wound. Her fingers fly to the puncture, pressing down. She falls onto her side. Already, an airy white foam is oozing out.

  “It’ll heal,” Helen says.

  Julia turns her attention to William. He is staring at her. Concern and sympathy is haunting his eyes. But she lingers on his face for only a moment. His hands are cupped before him. He is holding something delicate. A leather pouch crowned with three luminous green leaves.

  Eat Of This Fruit

  November 6, this year

  Venice, Italy

  “You will be the third created immortal, Leonaie. The Third Melgia. Your cells will regenerate, your body will reverse to its prime, and you will not die, at least, by natural causes.” Catena smiles at her. Leonaie stares blankly back. “You will be a Moonchild.”

  “I’m not fond of that name,” Leonaie says.

  The three stand around the copper basin. Bathing in the bright silver light, upon a bed of dark soil, is a coiling plant of thick vines, dark green leaves and four whitish bulbs of fruit. The rising scent is sweet. The musk of turf and rain enter into Leonaie’s senses. She inhales deeply.

  “The treatment is merely, eating a piece of fruit?” Samuel asks.

  Catena nods, but adds, “More or less. Leonaie will ingest as much as she can and we will monitor her progress as the regeneration of telomeres and her DNA chain mutates. It will take a few hours for her system to fully respond to the metabolic change. But yes, eat of this fruit and your eyes shall be opened.”

  “I expected something very different,” Samuel admits.

  “The best science, I’ve found, is natural. Though we have manipulated this plant’s genetic structure to cause it to bear fruit. This plant is one of a kind. Something that Albion has guarded for centuries. It has taken us decades to cultivate what you see here. We hope, as you might expect, to produce orchards of the plant. Soon, the earth will be a very different place. And so, too, its people.”

  “May I?” Samuel says, reaching toward one of the pale spheres no larger than an apricot.

  “Please, yes.”

  Leonaie watches as Samuel’s hand breaks the hard stem from the plant and raises the fleshy fruit before her. Citrus and dirt, sweet and sharp. “Here, darling,” he says to her, laying it into her palm. “Ladder to the moon?”

  Leonaie raises it to her lips and wonders why this all seems familiar. Why was she here? Olivia Langley, her dear ginger-headed, green-eyed nurse from Greenhaven’s Retirement Community enters her thought suddenly, as if she were standing right beside her saying, Ah, to be young once more, with your dear Samuel, tell me the story of Paris again, of how you were picking apples when you met him, you wiggled your cute little bottom, just a tickle, tell me how those memories will never fade, tell me how love can last forever.

  Leonaie bites. The flavor of eternity is honeyed. Its juice is blood red.

  Gravesend’s House

  April, 1338

  Strotford Manor, north of London

  William’s mind repeated Albion’s instructions again and again, Do not touch the potion—I will show you the goblet or the food that you are to taint—when you pour the poison, do it quickly—I will tell you when—I will tell you. Have no pity.

  All that morning and into the early afternoon while Radulphus held the reigns, Albion instructed the boy on how to deliver the poison without it being seen.

  A vial, no longer than his index finger, was tied under his wrist. With a simple flick of the stopper with his opposite hand and held over a goblet, the potion spilled almost undetected. The poisoning was to be performed while his hands broke stems—while his wrist hovered over the cup or food and delivered the murdering serum, his fingers would appear to be preparing more ingredients. Albion made the boy practice the action over a hundred times while the wagon rolled toward Gravesend.

  Rain muddied the last few miles of their journey. With each splashing clop of the horses hooves, William etched into his memory Albion’s words. When they turned onto Parsonage Lane the sun bled out as it was setting, glowering beneath a gloomy canopy of grey. It bathed the approaching Manor of Strotford in red. Torches were lit along the roadside. William could see the day’s last light glinting off of the high, black windows. He wondered if eyes were watching from behind the glass.

  Albion pulled the horses to a halt. He looked at the boy and the priest. “Bishop Gravesend is a bridging spirit from beyond this life. Mercy is not to be granted. My immortal grace and purpose demands that I retire his spirit back across, to the Orathom. Do not come between me and my mandate. Do you both understand?”

  The priest took William’s hand in his, and both father and son nodded.

  “He knows nothing of his own divinity—he knows only his position and power. But he is not above fear. Do not let him into your hearts—do not pity him.” With that, he produced the vial of poison and tucked it into William’s sleeve at the wrist, tying it with a strip of leather.

  The wagon lurched forward. William’s mind recited the list again—he added, do not pity to it.

  There was little or no ceremony upon their arrival. Three of the household servants met them at the doors. Their greetings were kind but abrupt. Albion’s sword and dagger were requested. He gave them over without a word. The wagon was led to the stables, their luggage was taken to their chambers. Albion’s case of remedies and potions was taken and given to another servant that rushed it inside before all else. They were brought out of the chill of the evening into the great hall. A bright fire snapped at the far end. Two long tables with seating benches ran parallel down the center of the room, and at the opposite end was another table upon a raised platform. It was dressed in a deep plum fabric with gold fringe. Above the table was a wooden crucifix taller than William. A carved Christ hung at its center.

  Radulphus led William near to the fire.

  A servant entered with a tray of goblets, a pitcher of wine and a basket of bread. Albion thanked him. Then they were left alone. The three did not speak. The fire crackled.

  Albion stood and began to pace the room. At first it seemed that the man was merely appreciating the finer decorative elements: a sculpture in the corner of Mary, more embroidered fabrics, stained glass. But William then understood that Albion was making a thorough appraisal of the room and its contents. Where were the doors? How many paces to an exit? What can be used as a weapon? William couldn’t be sure, but he was suddenly aware that he was making his own list in his head.

  Finally, he joined Radulphus and William at a table. “And here we are,” he whispered. “We have been invited inside.”

  They sat for some time in the hall. A servant entered two times during their wait to attend the fire.

  “Welcome to the Manor at Strotford,” a voice said. The three turned. A man in a long black robe was standing in the doorway, his hands joined together before him. “My apologies for the delay in greeting you, Apothecary Aloyisus, but I am afraid that His Excellency’s illness has this household quite out of sorts.” He stepped into the room, “I am the Bishop’s physician, Robert Peterson.”

  The doctor’s hair was both dark and grey. W
illiam liked his face, for in some ways his looked akin to his father, but slightly older.

  “How is His Excellency?” Albion asked.

  “Ill,” he replied. “Quite ill.”

  “Will we be granted audience this evening?”

  “You will, yes. But he is now sleeping. Rest is the best medicine.”

  “That it is. Let me introduce Father Falio and my ward,” the boy stood, “William.”

  “Welcome to His Excellency’s House,” Robert said.

  Albion’s tone then shifted. “Tell me, Robert, if I may be blunt—why is it that His Excellency publicly denounces our herb-lore and its uses—calling the practice witchcraft and demon worship—and he then calls upon me when illness knocks at his very doors? His attacks have been vehement and hurtful. Though I come with my best medicine to ease his suffering, it does not ease the injuries I have sustained from his ideological campaign against me. Does it not seem garishly hypocritical asking his enemy to heal him?”

  The physician’s response was quick, “It does, and His Excellency will speak to you on this matter, and much more. He is aware that his stance may appear shortsighted, yet, I implore you to proceed with caution,” the doctor’s voice hushed, “for he is not alone in his convictions.”

  “I should say he is not,” Radulphus’ voice boomed. It sent a cold chill through the room. William felt Albion’s eyes upon him and he looked up. Only for a moment did the two stare at one another. Albion looked away and placed his hand on Radulphus’ shoulder in an attempt to steady him. Radulphus tone sharpened, “For we have met his followers on the road. We have seen the smoke. The piles of ash. The crosses sashed with ribbons of blood. What is this crusade?”

  “I beg you,” Robert whispered, “lower your voice.”

  “Why should we provide remedy to one that has raked fear and harm across the countryside?” Radulphus asked.

  “Bishop Gravesend’s actions are not yours to judge,” Robert stated. “It would be wise to hold your tongue and wait to hear His Excellency’s thought before you step too far beyond your position.”