Leaves of Fire: Part Two of the Newirth Mythology

by Michael B. Koep

  “Your Excellency, Apothecary Aloyisus Stell and Father Falio of London.”

  The servant opened the door and the three were shown into Bishop Gravesend’s chamber.

  The leaves inside William’s tunic seemed to tremble as he entered.

  In the wide room, the candles were like stars. They emitted light, but the surrounding walls remained cloaked in darkness. Even the glow of the wood fire in the hearth did not penetrate the corner shadows. An oil lamp was lit upon a table.

  The three stood just inside the door. William blinked his eyes as they slowly adjusted. He began to make out the opulent details of the bishop’s bed chamber. A four post bed was at the opposite end of the room with what looked to be thick velvet bed curtains. He could not tell a color. A table with a large clay bowl, two pitchers and towels was at the bedside. Rich, gilded picture frames shimmered with the firelight. Upon a wall to his right were two crossed swords over a shield. The device upon it was the Templar’s red cross. Heavy tapestries. A musky incense smoldered near the closed window. Despite its fragrance, William could not ignore the stale and sour underlying stench. He immediately thought of the ailing Thatcher and his family near his village, the bloated bodies upon the river, the horrible fumes near the conical piles of ash. The men and children hung by their necks.

  When he felt Albion’s hand squeeze his shoulder, he became fully aware of another sensation. A sudden and tormenting chill dragged across his shoulders. It pressed outward to the tips of his fingers. He knew, somehow, that Albion felt it, too. Raising his eyes, Albion was looking at him. There was the recognition. There was the Rathinalya. William’s mouth parched. A fierce thirst—the taste of dust.

  Then he saw them, the sentinel monks, and Bishop Gravesend lying in bed. His head was propped up so that he could hold audience. Kneeling at the foot of the bed with palms pressed together in prayer was the largest of the four monks. Standing back against the far wall, with hoods over their heads, were the other three. Robert gestured toward the bishop.

  Gravesend began to cough. Gravel in his lungs. “Come nearer,” he managed to get out.

  With Robert Peterson, the three approached the bedside. William stared at his face—the long nose and proud expression—the pale green eyes. Even in his infirmity, the man exuded a powerful dominance. But he was pale. His long, thin lips were dry and flaking. The Rathinalya stung and tingled without a lull.

  Albion bowed and said, “Your Excellency.” William imagined his mother’s raised chin and that flare of defiance in her eye when she faced Gravesend. There was no fear seated in her expression. No vengeance, no anger—but rather a conviction to ease and mend, even when her own life was at an end. Soil and seed, sun and rain—fire and smoke, laughter, pain, she said, as she had so many times before. The acceptance of all things and its indomitable circle. He pressed his hand to his chest and the leaves beneath, pining to hear her voice say, “Do not be afraid.”

  “Mr. Stell,” the Bishop’s voice rasped. “You must be thrilled to see me lying here—after all that I’ve done to stop you and your progress in the cultivation of your devilish remedies. You must, too, be surprised, if not insulted, that I would call you to bring your best medicines to liberate me from illness.”

  Albion smiled. The expression was dry and communicated the dissembling irony. “Your Excellency,” he bowed again. Another fit of coughing. The sound was harsh. “Robert has shared with me your condition and symptoms.”

  Gravesend nodded. “And you know then that my condition is indeed, dire.”

  “I do,” Albion said.

  “Is that why you brought your priest with you?” The bishop wheezed a crumbly laugh. “So that he could offer the last rites?”

  Albion and William looked at Father Radulphus. The priest’s eyes were narrowed and filled with fury. William pressed his hand in his father’s closing fist. The Rathinalya strengthened.

  “I have brought Father Falio to pray for us as we use God’s works of leaf and stem to heal you.”

  Raw and loud, the bishop hacked again. A trace of blood was on his lips when the fit ended. “I’m afraid, Mr. Stell, that it may be too late for me.”

  “As I’ve told Peterson, we have come to heal you—and that is what we intend to do. And it is my hope, Excellency, that once you’ve tasted the effects of my remedies, you will know my true intention—and the Almighty’s will.”

  “Boy,” Gravesend said to William. “Boy, come closer. Let me have a look at you.”

  William obeyed. Radulphus advanced with him and stood just behind. Glancing up he saw his father’s face was turned and pointed at the monk kneeling at the foot of the bed. The expression was solemn and quaking with fury.

  At the bedside William caught the smell of souring flesh. The lesions were worse than he had ever seen, save the ones upon those that it was too late. But there was a slight pleasure in seeing the cankers devouring this murderous villain. He is reaping what he’s sown, William thought. Something he was sure his mother might have said, yet, he then wondered if it was just his own view—his own justice. Tears began to weigh below his eyes. Should one that causes suffering be made to suffer? Is that right? True? he wondered.

  The vial tied to his wrist felt hot. The leaves within his tunic flattened their soft skin to his.

  “Boy,” Gravesend wheezed. “I see that you are learning the ways of the good earth. Your good master here is teaching you herb lore?”

  A heavy tear rolled down William’s cheek. He did not answer. He could hear the bishop, but his mind was wrestling.

  “Do not fear me, boy. Can you hear me?”

  William nodded.

  Gravesend’s pale green eyes lit for a moment looking at him. Drawing himself up, William met the bishop’s gaze. The scuttling chill lessened as he held there. “What is your name, boy?”

  “W-william, Excellency,” he replied.

  “Live in London, do you?”

  Albion interrupted, “He does, Excellency. He is of my house.”

  “I see,” Gravesend said. His voice weak and rasping. “William Stell, is it?”

  The boy nodded.

  “Well then, William. William Stell. William Stell that is learning to become a healer. What if I were to tell you that I have been endeavoring to become a healer myself? As God’s servant, my words have helped many through these dark days. Praise be to God. Powerful are words. Potent, surely. But they are only words. They will not ease the pains and maladies of the flesh. I am dying, William. And from what I have seen of this illness of mine, I do not think that there is any remedy of your master’s that will save me. Slowly it has o’ercrept my poor body—my poor, poor body.

  “Oh, I would like to believe that Aloyisus the Apothecary can concoct a drink that will bring me to health. There are many that sing his praises—all of London tell of his miraculous gifts with leaf, berry and stem. Would it not be a wonder if he cured me? Especially now, as these purple sores poise themselves for their final onslaught? The story of my healing would be celebrated. The news would be sung throughout King Edward’s realm—Aloyisus Stell brought the Bishop of London a potion, and it healed him.” Gravesend laughed—the laugh quickly became another fit of coughing. Pebbles in a box. Recovering, he smiled at William, “People would believe it. Don’t you think?”

  William didn’t respond.

  “I would think that Mr. Stell would rather poison me, given the bustlings of a fearful church. Have you ever been out of London, William? Have you ever been east to a little village called Ascott, near Wychwood?”

  William felt his eyes widen at the naming of his home.

  “Nay,” Albion said, stepping closer to the bed. “This is his first time out of London—his first journey—visiting you, Excellency.”

  “I see.” Gravesend bore his focus upon the boy’s face. “I traveled through many small villages over the last month, William. There have been whisperings of many remedies—many healers—working their crafts in outlying villages and hamle
ts. Do you know the kind of healers of which I speak? The kind of craft?”

  William could not be sure, but the concealed leaves felt as if they were grasping and reaching—reaching toward Gravesend. William shook his head.

  Then he flinched from the shock of his father’s booming voice. “He knows the Craft well.” The raking thorns along his spine returned. He knew the voice. He had heard his father speak like this at Mass—a voice that was stern, worshipful and filled with both joy and command. But now, it was uncompromising and hard. “We know of the burnings, the killings—all in your name.” When William raised his gaze, his father was not looking at Gravesend. The priest was still scowling at the larger, kneeling monk. A challenge was burning there.

  Albion attempted, “Excellency, forgive Father Falio. He has had to weather much of the people’s suffering over the burnings—”

  “Forgive?” Gravesend said, holding back from coughing. “I should say, forgiveness should be granted to us all, if we could only bear the weight of such love.”

  The Painter

  Orathom

  There is a shushing in the air. Leaves rustle. He is certain that the sound is a tree in the wind. But there is more. What is it? Laughter? There are many voices. Small voices. The high, playful sounds of children, some distance from where he is. Why not open your eyes? He considers this. But the repose that he has been enjoying, a deep, thick, almost sedated sleep is still heavy upon him, and he is comfortable. Too comfortable. A soft breeze of warm salt air wafts across his face. Is that the ocean? He wonders where his face is. The breeze brushes against his feet. He wonders where his shoes are. Did I fall asleep in the park? Am I stoned?

  Basil Fenn’s eyes open. At first, only a twinkling of tiny lights register in his vision. Blurry gaps of sparkling sun through the boughs above. Then shut, open again and struggle to focus. Points begin to take shape, and colors wash in from his periphery —greens and blues—and just as a wind blows a fog aside, Basil sees what he had expected to see—what his ears had told him. He is lying beneath the branches of a broad, reaching tree. Its leaves are fluttering and whispering, and the light glinting through the canopy is gold wrapped within a sheer curtain of blue.

  Basil lays still, rummaging through his thoughts—posing open ended questions like, where did I? What is the? How the hell? Did I really? Then there’s the sound of the leaves, ever-present, hushing his hurried, fragmented musings. He is thankful for the calming effect. Last question, for now, can I move? Start with fingers.

  The index finger of his right hand responds easily and brushes from side to side. Blades of grass register at the touch. He raises one leg and bends at the knee allowing the bottom of his foot to nestle down into the thick turf—cool and soft. Movement, check, he thinks—now to raise my head and look around.

  Standing is not difficult. In fact, the movement of his limbs nudges the sleepiness aside, and with both feet planted firmly he checks his balance and rubs his eyes. Another wave of half cooked questions, What the? How the? The world he can see before him is green and wooded. From his feet there is a long stretch of road, covered with thick grass extending some twenty meters. The path enters under heavy limbs of old cedars and lofty maples. Basil can smell the sea and he can hear the rushing chop mixing with the airy voices of the windy tree tops. He inhales deeply, closes his eyes and breaths out. There is still laughter trailing in the air—the chatter of children.

  Basil looks down at his body and sees that he is wearing a jacket and tie, and his feet are bare. Then he slowly raises his hands and reaches to the back of his head, allowing his hand to stop, just inches away, hovering. He shuts his eyes again, squeezes them tight and feels for the jutting bone fragments, the matted hair, the lost piece of his skull, the back half of his brain that should be missing—it must have been torn from his head as the bullet crashed up from his chin and through. But his hand feels nothing but his thick hair and the solid roundness of his intact cranium. He presses his hand against the spot for several moments and breaths intently. He is thankful, he is happy and he is bewildered beyond comprehension.

  Vital signs: heart beat, skin is warm, breathing, seeing, smelling, hearing, mouth is dry but he can taste the salt of the ocean air. Check. Now the other vital information—what the fuck happened?

  He had always had a gift for painting, but the work was dangerous—and he had kept it hidden all of his life—right up until the end, that is. He met his estranged brother, Loche Newirth, a man that had a similar gift to his. They were in Italy together—abducted by men that wanted to use their works to heal the world and infect Heaven. His and his brother’s work was not for men’s eyes but for some other entity—gods—beings that were beyond mortal sight—he remembers now. He remembers all of that.

  Whatever the fuck.

  Basil remembers his only gallery showing—the audience —the faces that had gathered to see the paintings that he had worked his life to complete. Works that he knew would kill many of them if they were unveiled. He raises his hand and touches the stubbly skin below his chin. The cold barrel rested here—to save them, he thinks. I looked at my brother’s eyes—I tried to tell him that I understood what he wanted me to do—and I did it. I pulled the trigger.

  A smoke.

  Basil pats his breast pocket—both sides, then to the jacket pockets, then stops happily at the right pant pocket. He digs his hand in and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. Latching one into his lips he performs the pat-down dance again, this time producing a Zippo lighter. Click, ring, inhale, hold, burn, blow out—all with a raising of eyebrows and a smooth glance around. Relax, he thinks. Relax.

  Must be dead.

  What’s the first thing you do in Heaven? Have a smoke would be top on the list.

  But this can’t be the afterlife, Heaven or, what did Corey call it? The Orathom? I pulled the trigger, I’m certain I pulled the fucking trigger.

  The beach is inviting. He wonders if it is truly a beach. There is something synthetic about it. Something artificial. It might be because of the pyramid spiking up through the green land beyond. The pyramids of Giza, Egypt? He doesn’t recall an ocean near to the monuments. Something is terribly strange about all of this, he thinks.

  Basil raises his hand and waves. Very strange. Walking toward him from up the beach is Loche Newirth—he looks a little freaked out.

  The Kiss Goodbye

  November 6, this year

  Venice, Italy

  Leonaie Echelle thinks of her mother’s antique vanity with the two side drawers, the small mahogany table in the center and the gilded frame around the mirror. When she was a little girl she loved to sit and watch as her mother’s hands would glide over the vanity’s little chrome boxes, fluted glass canisters and bottles. All were filled with instruments as delicate as feathers. Powders and paints that smelled like flowers. Magic happened there. A puff of perfume, sweet lotion and the soft touch of shimmery rose blush, and then she would stand, kiss her daughter and leave for the evening. Leonaie would be left staring into the mirror with a tiny bow of red lipstick upon her forehead.

  That was long, long ago.

  When her mother passed away, Leonaie brought the Victorian vanity home. Her husband, Charles, helped her to set it up in their bedroom. She crowded the surface with glass jars and bejeweled boxes, as her mother did. She hung her favorite necklaces on the side hooks beside the drawers. She filled the cabinets with delicate things: silk scarves, a velvet box with dried flowers, a bottle of rose water. Once everything was in place, she sat on the cushioned bench and drifted back to that little girl before the mirror. She searched the glass for her mother bustling about behind her, trying this dress, trying that dress. Leonaie was thirty. She lifted a tube of red lipstick and drew a tiny kiss above her brow.

  And how did this face return? This must be a thirty something face. Not a wrinkle to be seen. Not a crease near the eyes or a single ridge where millions of smiles had dawned. No rivulets of tears. No years. Leonaie is ninety-four. />
  “I am ninety-four,” she whispers.

  “Yes, yes you are,” Samuel says.

  Memories surge. She is clear. She looks at him. He is glowing.

  “You’re back,” he says.

  A light laugh lilts in the air, “So forever is ahead? Forever comes fast.”

  “Can you sit up?” Samuel asks.

  She wonders, can I? Her body feels fine. Great, in fact.

  Samuel says over his shoulder, “Dr. Angelo, can she sit up?”

  Dr. Angelo Catena does not answer. Samuel turns. The doctor is nowhere to be seen. “Doctor?” he says again.

  Leonaie rolls her head to the right and scans the room. “Doctor!” she calls. “He is there, Samuel.” Leonaie rises up onto her elbows.

  Catena is sitting on the floor with his back against the far wall. His head is in his hands. Samuel rushes to him and kneels. “Doctor? Are you alright. What has befallen you?”

  “Samuel? What’s the matter?” Leonaie asks.

  “Doctor?” Samuel pursues. “What is—”

  Angelo Catena mouths out a kind of drone, “No alone—here…”

  Leonaie sees Samuel pick from the floor a piece of square cotton, or washcloth. He lifts it to his face and reels. He throws it, stands, and pivots back and away. She can now see Dr. Catena. His head is leaning back and his eyes are swimming in stupor. “Desflurane,” Samuel mutters. “He’s been drugged.”

  She sits up. The room whirls.

  “What is happening?”

  There is a gleam in her periphery. A quick shimmer. Three heavy steps then the sound like a whistle in the air and a subtle snap.

  Samuel Lifeson staggers to one side and faces Leonaie. He bangs down to his knees—a scarlet line across his throat. His eyes are wide and his mouth opens as if to speak. As his body falls forward, his head tumbles over his shoulder and rolls to the wall.