Leaves of Fire: Part Two of the Newirth Mythology

By Michael B. Koep

Imagine paintings that hold the secrets to the meaning of life and death or scribbled words that can alter the past and reshape the present.

We know art imitates life but in Michael B. Koep¹s thriller fiction trilogy, the author brings the arts to life in an action-packed tale spanning seven centuries.

In the spring of 1338, young William of Leaves knows only of remedies, herbs and his mother¹s kindness. When he is forced to watch as she is dragged to a witch¹s pyre by a mob led by the Bishop of London, the mysterious immortal apothecary, Albion Ravistelle, promises the boy a chance at vengeance.

In present day, psychologist Loche Newith and Julia Iris must come to terms with Loche¹s prophetic writings that have changed the course of history and shaped the lives of William, Helen, and countless others. As a war breaks out between the immortals on earth and Albion Ravistelle, Loche must accept the realities he has authored and cross over into death‹he must enter again into Basil Fenn¹s paintings to find a way to end the conflict.

In Part Two of The Newirth Mythology, Leaves of Fire, Koep entwines these lives and lifetimes as he explores myth, memory, revenge and the hope of forgiveness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Will Dreamly Arts
• Release date: Jun 4, 2015
• ISBN: 9780989393560

Michael B. Koep

Michael B. Koep has been called an Inland Northwest "Renaissance Man." An avid world traveler, educator, accomplished visual artist and touring rock musician, Michael’s spirit is imbued in the arts. He is a co-founder of a North Idaho fencing consortium, but he is best known as a drummer and lyricist for the progressive rock group KITE, as well as the percussionist for the variety power trio The RUB. He is a winner of a Costello Poetry Prize. See Above A thoughtful, patient, discreet freelance book and screenplay editor working with writers of all levels. Writers who have agents, those who don't, writers who have sold books to publishers, and many who hope to. I help writers develop and shape their ideas, critique manuscripts, line edit, and ghostwrite material. My specialties are novels (commercial fiction, mystery, thrillers, women’s, historical, literary), memoir and screenplays. General Fiction and Non Fiction copy editor.

Book preview

BLAKE

The Newirth Mythology

part two of three

Leaves of Fire

Fated

November 3, this year.

Coeur d’Alene, Idaho, USA

Questions. Questions. Questions. Who is this man with all of the questions? There, on the other side of the glass. He is not from around here. An accent? Italian? Weird. The man’s chocolate brown fedora sits upon the linoleum counter and the the red telephone is pressed to his ear. "Did you really work with murderers? With all that you’ve seen and heard from these monsters, do you have nightmares? Do you sleep? What about art? Do you like art, Dr. Rearden?"

Marcus Rearden answers. The visitor listens with focused and bedazzled interest. What was his name again? Each time Rearden is about to ask, another perfectly phrased question chants into his ear: How have you managed your fame? Your successes? What is it like to be Dr. Marcus Rearden?

What is it like to be Marcus Rearden?

The old psychologist stops the questions with an abrupt raising of his hand. "I am incarcerated you son of a bitch! That is what it is like to be me. And who in the hell are you again? What’s your name?"

The visitor stares.

I see. I get it. You must be the resident shrink, Marcus sneers. You’re the poor bastard that was sent here to learn if I’m crazy as a shit house rat? The local jailor’s head doc, eh?

Not exactly, the man answers. "In fact, I would prefer if you were, indeed, as you say, crazy."

Rearden laughs and leans toward the glass, "Well crazy I’m not. And if there’s one thing that I can’t stand it’s some young, fifty-something shrink trying to analyze my mental state. Mine, of all people. Do you have any idea who I am? Marcus waits for a response that does not come. Listen, I know your job here is a piece of shit—here in this little town. Oh I’ve dealt with your pithy type on many occasions. He settles back into the metal chair and relaxes a bit. The thing I can’t seem to understand about your position is how you can stomach this level of our practice. How do you keep coming in to work each day? To the city jail house? How can that be an uplifting profession? Aren’t your usual customers meth users, and wife abusers? Backward baseball cap, tattooed, Blue Ribbon drinking drunk drivers that like to wrestle with each other? My god man, that must get terribly tedious. Bottom feeders, day in, day out. How do you keep going?"

The visitor grins.

Rearden feels a weird sensation, as if the grin is malevolent. During his career he had seen such twisted, leering smiles before. The psychologist narrows his eyes and he begins to scrutinize this person—this visitor suddenly seeming to be something more than a local correctional psychologist. Rearden keeps eye contact. His professional experience makes the subtle confrontation easy for him. What is it lurking behind that smile? That weird smile. Rearden knew weird. He knew to trust his gut when weird happened along.

You impress me, the visitor says finally, his grin fading, then reappearing in his eyes. I was told that you were quite potent in your vocation. It is easy to see why you’ve found success. And so, too, how you have become what you have longed to cure.

Who the fuck are you?

What if I were to tell you that I have found a way to rectify the horrors of the human condition. Fear. Pain. Crazy. What if I were to share that remedy with you?

Rearden’s eyes widen. The words are familiar as if from out of Loche Newirth’s journal. He feels himself blanch—an anxious release of adrenaline. He marks his tone with apathy. Let’s just say that I have a former colleague that would love to know of it.

The weird grin appears again. Ah, yes. I would very much like to know more about this colleague of yours. I presume you’re speaking of Dr. Loche Newirth? Rearden’s eyes flit slightly at Loche’s naming. He knows the staring match has been won by his opponent.

Dr. Rearden, I am Ravistelle. Albion Ravistelle. I am the Director of the European Mental Health League. I would very much like to learn more about your former student.

And it comes to Marcus Rearden in a flash—the journal—as if he, himself, was standing before the artist Basil Fenn at the Uffizi—when Basil Fenn blew his brains out—the way the journal described the event. Rearden’s recent past screeches through his soul: the journal, Julia Iris and the treacherous drive through the snow to find Loche. Rearden sees his wife’s pale face—terror is frozen there. Vengeance. Yes. It was his former student, Loche Newirth that had caused it all—all this fear—this pain—this crazy. Rearden feels a grin ooze onto his face. He imagines the smile must look—weird. Fate has not forgotten me, Rearden thought. Vengeance is fated.

He brings his face near to the glass. The heat of his words fog on the pane, What do you want to know?

William of Leaves

April, 1338

the village of Ascott-under-Wychwood, England

Young William watched as his mother’s fingers transformed to long wisps of green stems. They grew from her hands like yarn flung from a loom. Tiny purple and gold flowers burst from the vines filling the hovel with a moist, sweet scent. The slender shoots weaved across the floor, along the walls and over the small bed where Simon the Thatcher, his wife Margaret and their two daughters lay in a deadly fever. Their faces were bloodless, thin and hollowed by days without food.

Geraldine of Leaves stood in the center of the small room, her arms outstretched and her face raised to the thatched ceiling. Her eyes were closed, and she chanted a soft, rhyming spell. William watched tendrils climb and tangle. The room became a forest glade with his mother as the axis.

She had told William that she learned how to do this when she was a little girl—William’s age, perhaps—six-summers. It was her mother that taught her about the one Mother. The Earth Mother was where all love, hope and healing came from. There was only one seedling—one seed that brought all green, and healing and goodness to the earth—and if it died, so too would its fruits and the works of its healing.

Both the seed and his mother were the same thing, at least that was how William understood it. And he loved it when she would begin to speak the words—words he found difficult to catch for they somehow sounded like water rushing over stones, or wind in the tall, bowing grass. And he loved it even more when she would use the Craft—when her fingers would grow and sprout like ivy. He felt the air tingle all around him—and a delightful chill ran along his skin as he watched her.

His little fingers pinched at a single thin stem spiraling around his foot, and he broke it off. It was not quite as long as his forearm. He coiled it and tucked it into his tunic.

It was when Simon the Thatcher stirred that Geraldine’s words fell away. The man labored his head from the pillow and saw his bed, and his seemingly dead family beside covered in moving vines and bursting flowers. He marveled. His heavy eyes blinked at the sight. Have I gone? he asked. Loose stones rattled in his lungs. Am I in the grave, below the ground? Does the earth take me in?

Geraldine began to chant again.

The man asked softly, Geraldine? Is that you? What is happening, Geraldine? Simon then lowered his head back and stared at the ceiling. I am either dead or the sweating sickness is leaving me, for the pain departs. I feel—I feel the winter is passing.

Geraldine’s voice silenced. Her arms dropped to her sides. The vines, the lush leaves and blossoms vanished. There was still sweetness in the air, like after a spring rain. William watched the sleeping family. One by one they opened their eyes. Simon sat up again, turned himself out of the blankets and placed his bare feet on the dirt floor. His face was coloring. He reached over and touched the foreheads of his wife and daughters. Joy and tears filled his eyes.

He looked up at Geraldine. She stood smiling at him. I had the strangest dream, he said to her. I dreamt that the earth was pulling me to its bosom. Burying me, and at the same time, lifting me skyward. The room was a forest of roots and vines.

Fevers will make one see things, it is true, Geraldine replied. Sometimes the plants and herbs can bring a strange reverie—from out of darkness they seek light. That is the path to life. All we need is here, soil and seed, sun and rain—fire and smoke, laughter, pain. We do not die, we dream. We only dream.

She lifted a small wood cup from a steaming pot of water. Let this cool, then drink. Make sure each of you drink it until it is gone. Heed no more thoughts of the grave.

Helen

Los Angeles, June 26, 1972

The Hyatt Continental House, Sunset Strip

I have arrived.

Helen Craven considered the statement with a giddy, champagne-buzzed smile. She was not yet too drunk to walk, luckily, and the quick fingernail scoop of blow whiffed with a droplet of 1966 Dom Perignon and a light cherry snuff that some giddy English woman had gracefully administered on the elevator ride up gave her feet the confidence she needed—as well as increasing her smile to climactic, euphoric proportions. She felt elegant. Everything was bright. Colors were lush. And the raging echoes of the band’s performance at the LA Forum were still singing in her ears—ringing as if the very air surrounding her chimed and tingled with joy, electric youth and godlike beauty.

Top floor.

Here we are darling, the man said. His name was Richard. He was English, too. A good looking guy, maybe ten or fifteen years older.

She had met Richard just a few hours ago, backstage with the band’s manager, dark eyed, goateed, Peter, a massive hulk of a man. At their introduction, she held out her hand, and Peter’s smile flashed. She noted something sinister. Something powerful. As it should be, she thought, for if he was indeed the caretaker of the gods she had witnessed on stage tonight, the man must have a mighty swing, with a power that could outweigh any hammer of heaven. And the man had weight, without a doubt. Helen Craven looked at how tiny her hand was in his—her bare, rail-thin braceleted arms reaching into Peter’s well-fed heft and meaty grasp. He, too, used the word, "Darling," and nodded to Richard. Again, that smile laced with cherry powder.

Helen Craven, or as she was known on the Strip, Helen Storm, was not new to the reality and language behind such smiles. After all, she was fourteen. She wasn’t really, but for some reason, fourteen was a number Richard liked.

She’d had some backstage experiences. Seven that she could recall. But the last time she was at the Hyatt Continental on the Sunset Strip was with the drummer for Green Apple—a Blevel British band that was warming up for T-Rex a couple of months ago—his name was Terry, and he was beautiful. Glitter and silk and sex. Her first time. And Miss Storm learned quickly the code that came with the lifestyle—most of its elaborate constitution communicated with a simple smile.

And Helen Storm was ear to ear. Her thin ivory chiffon tightly crisscrossed over her heart and tiny breasts, her black hair dancing along pale shoulders, and the sparkling of glitter hazed eyes, she strode beside Richard like a sacrificial bride, arrayed for the hands of a god—a god that waited for her in the penthouse suite, room number 1400. He was a guitar player. She heard Richard call him Pagey. His real name was Jimmy.

Now do us all a favor, will you, love? Richard said quietly as they approached the door, as I said before, he’s expecting someone else, and we can’t seem to find her just now, but we will, so until then, please spend a little time with Jim. And do enjoy yourself, yeah? Helen nodded, suddenly nervous. She couldn’t think of what to say. She just smiled at him. I knew you would be perfect for this. And have fun. Jim is truly a lovely man. With that he knocked on the door, waited a moment and then opened it for her to enter.

The door shut behind her and she stood with her back pressed to it. The large room was lit with several candles. The windows were open and the soft hush of the Strip traffic wafted through the suite. Back in the dark, in the far corner, Helen could make out a seated form—silhouetted—a fedora on his head and his hand atop a long cane. She could not see an expression, but she imagined that his eyes sparked faintly like jewels in the shadows. Helen would never forget the sight, the moment, the high. I have arrived. Quietly, almost in harmony with her ringing thoughts, with a quality of calm and welcome came the man’s voice. Though it wasn’t exactly what Helen wanted to hear:

"Hello, Lori. What took you so long?"

Helen held her breath. Despite all of the smiles, and her incredible fortune (standing in Jimmy Page’s hotel suite, for God’s sake), she knew that her response to the question would either invite an extended stay, or a cold dismissal.

Richard had explained it plainly enough: "Jimmy has a fancy for a model named Lori and we’ve been working on arranging a meeting, but she is delayed. So until she arrives, please keep him occupied. You and she look alike, and that should appease him. Well, not really, alike. But you’re the same age, at least." Alike enough from a distance or from across a candle lit room, Helen mused. She had seen pictures of Lori, and thought that she may have even met her once at the Rainbow. Either way, Helen believed herself to be much prettier and certainly luckier (again, she was standing in Jimmy Page’s hotel suite for God’s sake), and the model Lori was not. But none of that helped her come up with a response to Jim’s lingering question: what took you so long? Then she heard words coming out of her mouth:

"I have arrived." She felt a rush when the sound of the statement lilted in her voice. It sounded sexy and real. She trained her eyes on the seated form across the room. She sensed him smile.

And so you have. Since I saw your face, I’ve thought of nothing else, he said leaning slightly forward. I’ve waited for you.

Again, Helen suspended her breathing. What now? She lowered her gaze and looked at her long legs, her ice-blue wrap of a skirt and her bare stomach. How did she get here? What did she want? Just hours ago she was let in backstage—and that was a dream come true—admission into the mysterious and hypnotic world of Led Zeppelin—but now to be within reach of Jimmy Page’s bed, his touch, his magic, was all too much suddenly. To think that her beauty and her need to be needed brought her here, and the power of that yearning could actually bring a god to his knees. The scent of cherry snuff was fading. But replacing its sweetness was her confidence made up of things wholly pure and simple: her eyes, her petite body, the curved line of her hips and the earnest hope in her eyes. Her heart. The way she could make him feel like a god, and how he could do the same for her—if only to say the right thing. The right prayer.

I’ve waited for you, he had said.

Helen took three strides forward into the candlelit room. She stopped and rooted her feet firmly, feeling a sudden invincible wave crash through her. She assured him quietly, "Yes—and now I am here. My name is Helen Storm. I am all yours," she said.

Loche, Julia and William

November 3, this year: Verona, Italy

Julia Iris’ quiet voice begins to recite a poem. Loche Newirth stares at her—his five-year-old son Edwin is asleep in her lap.

Now, find the single star

And watch it blink,

Until the mountains fade

And you to sleep.

Above the deep blue sea?

Just watch it sink.

When sky and water join,

Sail off to sleep.

It hides sometimes in trees

Like owl eyes wink,

It soon will fly away

Take wing, you. Sleep.

High over desert sands

Right where you think.

Through snow and rain and skies

Of clouds, so sleep.

If there’s no sky above

If all is black as ink,

There’s light—

Oh yes, there’s light indeed.

Just blink and see it

In my eyes,

Where I will always keep you bright

My single star,

It’s time to sleep. It’s time to sleep.

The room is silent now save the sound of traffic below.

Why does that poem sound familiar to me? Loche asks.

Julia smiles at him, her fingers threading through Edwin’s hair. "I wonder if it was you that wrote it, she said. As you’ve written me. Just as you’ve written William, Helen… history."

I don’t remember writing it, Loche says.

Across the room, William Greenhame sighs, It is no matter.

Julia drops her gaze to Edwin, now deep in dreams. Loche stares at the two of them. Edwin is breathing low. They are holding hands. Julia’s face is lit with the gold of the day’s end. Her eyes are weary, red and sad. On the table beside her is the glass of wine that she had been given when she arrived, two hours ago, and she has not yet finished it. The crushing realities of the last few days have been hard on her. Sleep has been impossible. Loche understands.

He can see her mouthing the rhyme again, attempting her usual trick for sleep, her father’s poem: Find the single star and watch it blink, until the mountain fades and you to sleep. Her father used to whisper it into her ear—when she could not drift off—or would not. It had always seemed to work.

How do I know this? Loche wonders suddenly, did she share this story of her father with me? He cannot answer himself with certainty. She knows the stars. The constellations—all because of her father’s rhyme—so she could find her way home. Just see the star and think of nothing else, her father had said. Let everything fall away and sigh. The mountain below will turn from blue to purple and finally to sky. All the mountains eventually fade into the sky. It’s okay. It’s okay, he would say.

Julia smiles. And Loche sees it—and he is better for it.

You alright? Loche asks.

Julia turns to him. I don’t know, she says. Did you write the poem? My father’s poem?

Wondrous strange, William Greenhame says.

No, Loche says, I mean, I don’t think so. But it is familiar to me somehow. All I know is that I wrote about you for the first time at my cabin at Priest Lake. Though, I’ve dreamt of you my whole life. I seem to remember new things about you each moment. It is hard to explain.

Like what?

Like your father’s rhyme. The little song to help you sleep?

Julia is transfixed. I’ve never shared that with you, she says.

No, Loche answers. But I know of it, somehow. It just came to me, just now.

Can you read my mind, or something?

Loche shakes his head, No. Not that I know of.

Perhaps, William interjects, as the Author, the Poet, you have meditated long on the very essence of Julia whilst you wrote her. Whilst you created her. Oh, how the mind wanders when we are in the throes of making. We uncover subtlety and potent substance with the penning of a single heart crossing word.

Loche closes his eyes and attempts to return his memory to his desk at Priest Lake. The pooling ink, the cramp in his hand, and the whirling rage within him. When he conceived of Julia, did he know her past? Did he write it in his thoughts to help with her rendering?

I can’t—I can’t, Julia begins to rub her eyes and shake her head in frustration. I don’t get it. How can any of this be real?

Loche reaches to her. She senses him and pulls away. And I, she forces a whisper, I’m like William—I am like Samuel and George? I can’t die? Is that it?

From across the room William Greenhame chants in answer, and to himself: "Ithic veli agtig."

Without moving his eyes from Julia, Loche translates the Elliqui phrase: Why does my death delay?

He sees her fingers brush across her stomach. Three days ago, Dr. Marcus Rearden’s gun went off during a struggle and a bullet struck her in the abdomen. She woke at Loche’s cabin—there was a ring of white foam around the fatal wound, and then, nothing. Healed. Since the terrible event—miracle—she must have checked and rechecked her stomach every few minutes. Searching for a scar she would never find, save in memory.

She struggles to conjure her father’s eyes. The star glinting there.

Leonaie

November 3, this year,

Coeur d’Alene, Idaho, USA

Moonladder

Half way up the ladder,

Ladder to the moon,

She turns to me and says:

"Here I am.

Do not be afraid."

Do my eyes

Give away my hiding place,

These shadows in my face?

Here beneath the mirror moonlight,

Can you see into my shell?

Here upon this rung

Where my grip is slipping?

She wraps her arms around me,

Presses her fingers to my skin.

And there below,

Is the sea. The sea skimmed with stars.

Oh the sea.

How did we raise this ladder

From under that heavy husk

Of water, waves and still, empty space?

And where are we off to now,

Climbing together

Out of the grave deep,

Upon this wooden, swaying ladder?

Up and up.

"Here I am.

Do not be afraid."

What are the chances of one more step?

Of five or ten?

Can you climb, my darling?

The ladder will reach.

Leonaie Echelle, eyes green, gold and grey

Pulls me in closer and I hear her say:

"It is not the moon that I am climbing to

Nor the stars pinned to the sky.

Not back down to those black waves

Speckled with the hovering face of heaven.

No,

I will be the moon.

I will be the stars.

I am no longer an empty shell,

Come from the sea filled with the sound of the void.

If it is the moon you are climbing to

Or the stars you are trying to reach,

Here I am.

Here I am."

—Samuel Lifeson, 1953

Leonaie Echelle folds the poem back into its envelope and holds it upon her lap. She stares at it for a few moments and considers just how the paper has yellowed over the years. The address scrawled across its face is still crisp and legible, as is the return address—all in Samuel Lifeson’s distinct hand writing: little hooked loops, and winged fringes on the S and the L. She places the envelope beside the lamp. Leonaie takes her reading glasses off, and lets them hang by the cord around her neck. She smiles at how decorative the envelope looks combined with the gilded framed portrait of her and her husband, Charles (twentyeight years ago), an antique pen upon its olive velvet box that her mother had given her (forty years ago), a pair of baby shoes (her son’s, who is now 63, or 64?), and the lamp she bought when she was just a girl in France. Green, gold and grey glass beads hung from thin iron arms—a stained glass shade—a black base.

Then, curiously, there is a small sticky note on the table before the picture frame. She hadn’t noticed it before, or perhaps she did, she isn’t sure. She pulls it from the table top and lifts her glasses to read it. It is written in her handwriting. It reads:

November 3, Samuel is coming at 3.

Don’t forget.

3pm

Her heart leaps. What day is it? She stands up from the bed, as quickly as her body allows, and grasping her cane she hobbles over to her small kitchenette to get her cell phone. Damn things, she thinks. Her son bought it for her, and she can rarely remember how to use it. But she loves it as a time piece. One press of a button and it appears, the true reminder—the real date—the real time:

2:47pm

November 3

Another leap of the heart. Setting the phone down her hands rise immediately to her hair. Up or down, she wonders. She has always been fickle about her hair. Leonaie moves a couple of steps to the mirror beside the door and studies her face. Her hair is long and silver white, still thick. The wrinkles along her cheeks and forehead are bothersome and infuriating. She is surprised every time the mirror reveals them to her. Were these new wrinkles around her eyes there yesterday? Not that she can recall. And the pink pouches of skin below her eyes—where did those come from, for God’s sake? Am I really ninety-four? Leonaie rubs gently, but the pockets remain, and she sighs. Then, she catches a spark of light. Her eyes are gold today, more gold than green, and that is a good sign. Leonaie’s eyes are hazel: green, gold and grey, and the colors would shift back and forth from time to time. There is one thing that never changed about her eyes, they are always lit as if from behind, illuminated and piercing, like the face of the sun on a forest stream.

She knows the person behind those eyes, and quickly forgets the imperfections, forgets the pain in her right hip, forgets the wrinkles and the long years that put them there. She feels better and gives herself a little wink. The reflection in the mirror smiles her devious little smile right back.

Leonaie turns, limps back to the bedside and notices the picture frame of her and her husband, Charles, again, and the yellowed envelope that contains a letter. Or was it a poem? That shouldn’t be out on the table, she thinks and reaches over to the envelope, slides her fingers inside and pulls out a worn piece of parchment. Unfolding it, a sticky note catches her attention, in the direct center of the bedside table. Something is scrawled on it. She plucks it up, places her glasses on her nose and reads:

November 3, Samuel is coming at 3.

Don’t forget.

3pm

Her heart leaps. She rises toward her cell phone upon the kitchen counter. Damn thing. She presses her favorite button on the phone and there appears what she needs:

2:53pm

November 3

That’s today. She leans over to the mirror and wonders if she should wear her hair up or down.

Leonaie? comes a voice and a light knocking at the door.

Leonaie doesn’t answer but instead stares deeper into the glass and those damned wrinkles.

Leonaie? says Olivia Langley. Her bright smile, Irish green eyes and deep red hair are all peeking in from the door way. Do you remember what today is, Leonaie?

How did I get this old so quickly? Leonaie asks, her gaze still points into the grooves and lines along her cheeks and brow. And look at the suitcases under my eyes, for God’s sake. What’s become of me?

Olivia steps into the room and joins Leonaie in the mirror. Olivia watches the old woman struggle to erase the lines—press the weary years away—the envelope still in her hand. We should put that away, don’t you think?

Leonaie stops and stares at the envelope and the sticky note. You’re right, she agrees. Would you put it back in the book? Oh and close the door, won’t you dear?

Sure, Olivia says. She closes the door. Taking the envelope she crosses the room and places it back inside Leonaie’s worn copy of The Complete Works of William Shakespeare—at page 713, at All’s Well That Ends Well. The sticky note she crumples and tosses into