“William? Where are you going?” she whispers.
“Circles,” he says to her. “Julia. How we drift in circles. Do we not?”
Above William, Nicholas Cythe steps out of the earth and into the starlight. He looks down and sees William a few yards away. His green helix eyes shine.
“Now,” Cythe says, “What does this remind me of?”
Pyramid
Within the portrait of Loche Newirth
Basil Fenn turns his face to the sky. Far off to the East a foreboding shadow has appeared. The blue sky is dimmed by its presence. The boy god points to the pyramid in the distance.
—What is with the pyramid? Basil asks.
—You know already, the god replies.
—I do?
—You do.
—Sorry, I just got here, and I’m not liking the look of the sky. Looks like a storm.
The god points to the pyramid.
—It is not a storm. It is hatred. The cloud is hatred. It will devour us if we stay.
—Hatred? Basil repeats.
Loche sees the ghastly cloud. It is enlarging. Black with arms of ragged grey.
—What do you mean, hatred? Loche asks.
—It comes from the many that have come through Basil’s work on earth. The paintings have drawn it from their souls like the last breath of the dead. If it reaches us, we will be, hate.
—Why do you point to the pyramid? Loche asks.
—Basil knows, the god says.
—I do? I don’t seem to recall. I mean, I dig the pyramids, and all that, but I’m not sure what you mean. Really, I’m still new at this being dead thing.
—Let’s start toward them, at least. Maybe we’ll figure it out along the way, Loche says.
—Sure. Sure.
The three start down the slope toward the shimmering pyramid in the distance. The glowering cloud reaching after them in pursuit.
Roots and Branches
April, 1338
The tunnels beneath Strotford Manor, England
Where was William running to?
The passage before him was pitch black save a single fleck of light far ahead like a guiding star. He ran without heeding the darkness, without fear of obstacles or a broken path—trusting somehow the tunnel was made for an escape such as this. Each whirl of his legs and arms was sure, precise and effortless. Each footfall landed and pressed off with accuracy and speed. The rush of air passing his ears and the brightening flicker dominated his focus. Motion and target.
Far behind him the echo of a voice brought his feet to a sudden halt. “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here! Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate!” It was Cyrus. He was in the tunnel.
William sped off again. Faster this time. The Rathinalya like pin-sharp cat’s teeth gnawing at his throat. The whispered hiss of Gravesend worming its way into William’s innermost fears—Lucifer. Lucifer. Lucifer.
He knew the name only as evil, as punishment, as fear. He knew the name from the teachings of his father at the abbey, in drawings and pictures he had seen in the village. The malevolent stone face in London staring down at him from a church cornice. The Prince of Darkness. The fallen angel. Was the man racing up behind him the very spirit that his father had warned him of? The ruler of Hell? The center of the inferno?
Fears tangled in William’s mind like winding vines reaching for sun—like roots digging in the dark. How similar they both were—the shapes like branches, like labyrinths—mirror images of above and below. Both ever reaching for some life giving force. One toward the light, one delving blind, hidden from our sight. He wanted nothing more than to lay his head upon his mother’s breast and breathe in the scent of her skin, lavender and calamus. To visit his father and play with the wooden horses. To accompany his mother as she shared her knowledge of root and berry with those in need. Watch as she would turn a room into a forest glade.
But they were gone. The boy of six springs was now alone and running. The Devil followed.
A cool draft swept across him. The tunnel continued forward, but two more dark openings branched out like a trident. Without hesitation, William wheeled to the right and kept his pace, unyielding and swift. There was no longer a trace of light ahead, but some inner confidence, some inner knowing drove him on without a concern of falling or smashing face first into a wall. It was as if he could see in the dark.
Cyrus would know these tunnels. William reckoned that they were made by Cyrus himself as a security measure for Gravesend—perhaps for himself. If there was a way out, it was known, and troubling that Cyrus probably knew where William was.
His pace slowed. What was the use of running? In the end, he would be found. Eventually, even if he escaped out of reach tonight? How does one outrun the Devil? Go to God? His mother’s voice on the abbey green reminds him, “The Lord is far from this place.” Even if William concocted some way to injure or even kill the body of Cyrus, It would find a way to return. Twenty years or a century from now. He said himself that he had returned for Albion. Now must Albion lie awake at night fearing every footstep out his glass window? Every twig snap? A trap around every corner? What would keep Cyrus from returning for William son of Radulphus?
Young William felt the tunnel curve, and ahead, another glint of light, starlight perhaps. Maybe the moon riding over the wooded ridge toward Ascott.
What use was there in running from gods immovable in their resolve? At least, he might see the sky before the end. He could forget about poisons, graves, bishops, devils and gods. He just might be able to breathe the night air one more time, remember his mother’s eyes upon him, his father’s booming voice—see the mysterious spheres of fire and ice sprinkled across heaven.
Gain the exit, he thought. Run.
What use was there in running from a god? They will track you, they will follow, they will find you and they will run over you. They will trod upon you like feet crushing insects. We are nothing to them. They run us down.
William arrived at the mouth of the tunnel. A moonlit world opened below him. Leafless tree limbs appeared silver beneath the glittered canopy. The moon was brilliant white. The path continued on down a steep hill into the cover of the woods. He could hear Cyrus running up the tunnel. He had discovered the boy’s turn.
He glanced down the path. If he was quick, he might escape.
What use?
The boy turned and faced into the tunnel. He then sat down and laid his head back onto the stones, his body half in the hillside, half beneath the stars. An owl, hooted somewhere below in the maze of branches. A gentle wind hurried a single cloud westward. Spring was near. He could smell the dozing green buried just below the soil.
Cyrus’ running feet thundered nearer.
He wondered if he would remember this when it was all over. He was told that his kind have nothing beyond. Nothing. It was hard for him to imagine.
The Rathinalya flayed his chest and back. The leaves trembled beneath his tunic. They felt like his mother’s fingers.
He thought of the steaming bath and the sweet apples on the cart in London. The warm scent of bread and yeast that pulled both he and his father to attention.
“Stop boy!” Cyrus shouted. “Stop!”
Lying flat on his back, William trained his eyes on the bright moon surrounded by the night, and raised his arms like two saplings with the dagger’s point aimed into the tunnel.
A moment later, Cyrus passed over the boy and exited the tunnel. He ran a few more paces and stopped, catching his breath. William lowered his empty hands and turned over onto his stomach. He could see Cyrus facing the downward slope to the trees. His sword was white from the moon’s glare. His breathing was heavy.
When Cyrus turned around, the dagger was embedded to the hilt through his abdomen. He saw William lying on the stone, only half of him was visible. Cyrus gripped the handle and pulled it from the wound. His shriek of pain shattered the placid silence. He banged to his knees. Both the sword and dagger rattled to the rock beneath
him.
Cyrus was silent. He stared at the dagger, dew-dropped with blood. He then inspected the deep breach in his stomach. A stream was flowing steadily out. He raised his green eyes and observed young William. The boy was still lying in the mouth of the cave.
William wanted to ask Cyrus, why? Why, with all of the assumed wisdom, expected benevolence and hoped for sanctity of divine nature, was he a killer? A murderer? A usurper? A defiler? What purpose? What reason? But William was not sure how to ask. He opened his mouth as he rose to his knees and began, “Are you—” but then broke off.
Cyrus stared at him.
William stared back. “Why?” he finally said.
Cyrus did not answer. Instead, the man laid back letting the starlight sparkle upon his swirling green eyes. William crawled to him on his hands and knees. He paused over the wound, flowing heavier now—the blood was black in the moonlight. He swiveled his legs and sat beside Cyrus’ upturned, pale face.
The owl called out again in the glade below. A distant crow answered. Cyrus’ chest rose and fell in halting rhythm.
William began to cry.
He was not sure of the reason, but he reached into his tunic and pulled out the leather pouch of leaves. Their points turned toward Cyrus like flowers follow the sun. William tore a single leaf from the thick stem. He laid it flat against his palm and then pressed his hand to the sloshing wound. The Rathinalya became nearly unbearable. The green of the plant scalded into orange, blood-red, searing to a glowing white. It was like holding a cavern of fire coal.
It was life from flame.
Along the stone beneath them, tendrils reached. Long vines climbed the edges of the tunnel entrance and skirted the descending path. Shoots of leaves and bursting buds of purple and yellow erupted with the scent of sweet flowers and summer rain. William blinked his eyes and wondered at the sight. Wondered if it was real.
Cyrus moaned. The wound was closing. Color was returning to his face. Then, with a scream he sat up. William tumbled backward cradling his blistering hand. The healing vines and flower disappeared, if indeed, they were ever there.
Cyrus rolled over and seized William by the arms. The boy was face to face with Cyrus. His eyes were lightning keen. Twirling flecks of emerald light stabbed into William’s pupils.
“And it seems we both share the same question,” Cyrus hissed.
There was a sudden trampling of footsteps from the tunnel behind.
“Why…” the Devil said.
A sudden jolt and Cyrus’ face went blank. The light in his eyes extinguished like a torch in a stream. The grip on William’s arms loosened and the man fell over onto his side. Behind him stood Albion Ravistelle, his sword was cleaved into Cyrus’ skull.
“Are you all right, boy?” he cried.
Young William of Leaves could only look up. There was no expression the muscles of his face could find. Only the lens of tears. Albion Ravistelle pulled him into a tight embrace.
The Coin
November 7, this year
Venice, Italy
“What, indeed, is a man to do caught amidst Heaven, Earth and the fires that rage below?” Nicholas Cythe asks. He is a shadow against the hillside. “Such a big, deep, heavy question.”
The Rathinalya tingles. Julia watches William as he takes cautious steps toward Cythe.
“Care to see history repeat itself?” Cythe asks. He looks back into the cave and gestures with two fingers. Out of the dark runs Edwin Newirth. Nicholas pulls the boy to him by the shoulder facing him downhill. In his hand is a small wooden sword. William’s rapier drops to the stones. Julia’s hand claps over her mouth.
“Who’s that down there?” Edwin says.
Cythe answers with excitement in his voice. “Hard to see him in the dark, isn’t it. That’s what I thought.” He then says to William, “I’ll ask again, what does this remind you of?”
William does not respond. He takes another step up.
“Now,” Cythe says, “enter—Albion Ravistelle.” Striding out beside Nicholas, a second silhouette appears—with a slight limp and a cane. “We remember what happens next, right? Though, this time, Albion and I have reached an understanding about our positions in existence.” He laughs, “Bless my soul, we can play, This Is Your Life…” He gestures into the cave again and two men wrestle a heavy set woman out into the night. It is Alice Bath. “Didn’t you meet sweet Alice on your journey to Gravesend’s house? All those years ago?”
“William,” Alice cries, “William, I am sorry. They came just after you departed. There were too many.”
“Granddad?” Edwin says.
“Yes,” Cythe says. “That is your Granddad hidden down there in the shadows, lad.
“Let me go!” Edwin yells, attempting to pull free.
“In good time, boy. In good time.” Edwin freezes. Cythe’s grip is now visibly bearing down on the child.
“If only I could bring Geraldine and Radulphus from the earth to complete the game—but, I’m afraid, they are both dead.”
“What use?” Julia hears William mutter again. “What use?”
“The leaves, William. The leaves. We will have them. For this time, I hold the dagger.” He draws his blade and raises it, point up. “And this time, you face another immortal. I have eaten of the fruit of those leaves, William. I am the first Moonchild.”
Issuing from the tunnel now comes twenty or more Endale Gen. The soldiers spread across the upper path taking positions.
Whispers. Again. Whispers. Greenhame’s quiet muttering, “What use? Ithic veli agtig?”
Julia lowers her hand and steps carefully toward him. “Stay,” he whispered to her. “Stay where you are.”
Then to Nicholas: “I will as you say. Release Alice and my dear Edwin. Once they are aboard the boat and away, you shall have what you seek, Nicholas. You shall have what you seek. Though, it will not be what you expect.” He raises the leaves for a moment.
At the sight of the shimmering green leaves, Cythe unclenches Edwin’s shoulder and tousles his hair.
Albion encourages Edwin, “Go. Go to your Granddad, Edwin. Go to your mom.” He adds over his shoulder, “Alice. You may go, too. We will meet again.”
Alice sighs, “You shouldn’t hope for such things.”
Edwin runs. His head leaning forward all down the slope. William lowers himself to his knees and catches the boy and lifts him up. “I don’t like this place,” he says, his head upon William’s shoulder, his little arms squeezing tight. “Where’s my dad? Where’s my mom?”
“Don’t you worry my little knight,” William says, kissing the boy’s cheek. “Go with Alice and Julia. They have a very special surprise for you on the boat.” He then whispers to the boy. Julia can catch only pieces. Words from a granddad to grandson. Love—go fast—magic—see you soon.
“Hi William,” Julia says, now just behind. William peels Edwin from around his neck and places him into Julia’s embrace. The boy’s arms are crossed at his chest as if cold. As she takes him he leans in and wraps his legs around her. He hides his eyes in her hair.
Alice’s face is worried as she approaches. William touches her cheek. “Do not fret, Alice. There was little you could do.”
She smiles at him, “Don’t you go and do anything rash. Give them the leaves and come along.”
William nods. “Get you both aboard.” He turns his eyes up the dark hill.
Julia carries Edwin down to the dock. Corey helps her aboard. Alice steps up and faces the shore as the boat pulls out into the waves.
From the deck Julia can see William. He is watching them depart. He waves and turns away as Albion and Nicholas descend to retrieve the leaves.
The three converging men are only shadows now. The sun is rising. A sienna glow touches the distant spires and rooftops of Venice.
The three stand together for a moment. Julia longs to turn away.
Edwin moves his head slightly, “Go fast,” he says.
“What?” Julia asks.
>
“Granddad said go fast. He said, Corey go fast.”
Julia looks to Alice. Alice nods. “Corey,” she calls, “hit it. Lean on that thing.”
Just as the boat lurches forward, Julia peers through the daybreak. William is being forced to his knees. Alice’s whispers, “God, no.” A sliver of light flashes and swings. Cyrus’ sword. A moment later, William Greenhame’s head falls and rolls down the slope into the canal. His body slumps over.
Four shots whistle across the deck. They miss.
The wind and the cool ocean air envelop Julia with chills. Cold tears draw lines of ice across her cheeks. Edwin is warm in her arms.
The boy is muttering something. It is hard to hear with the drone of the engines and the wind.
“What? What are you saying?” Julia asks.
“See?” he says, leaning back and looking down to where his arms are crossed. “See?”
Three luminous leaves of green are planted there, as if sprouting from his heart.
“Abracadabra,” Edwin says.
Below The Deck
November 7, this year
The Adriatic Sea
Helen Newirth is wringing her restrained hands. The compartment that they have chosen to hold her in has two easy routes out—and a port window—a few well aimed kicks might make a third escape possibility. The two Orathom Wis are staring. One has a nervous tick. It could be useful. Certainly, he is the one that will fall first. I could smile at him. Make pleasant conversation. It would be too simple to gain the advantage. The zip tie around her wrist might be a problem—at least while they are watching her.
But wait.
Just wait.
She slows her mind.
Why did Albion allow her to be taken? He had said that he would not be parted with her. He made it clear. She is a known enemy to the Orathom Wis. If one thing is sure about this conflict, and the wrath of immortals, they do not forget. The nature of the Itonalya is resolved, accurate, and they make few mistakes. If they wanted her dead—dead she would be. But Albion is willing to risk it? It doesn’t make sense. He must have some plan.
Leaves of Fire: Part Two of the Newirth Mythology Page 29
