The Impossibility of William Greenhame

1010 A.D.
The Realm of Wyn Avuqua

Two long pulls of scotch, a slight wavering of balance, a subdued cough (or chuckle), the cork planted back into the throat of the bottle. William of Leaves says in slightly slurred Anglo Saxon to Cynthia, “I know what you’re thinking. You’ve seen me before, yes? Or perhaps not. We drift in circles. Such wide, whirling, magnificent circles.” He leans and sets the bottle on the stage beside his right foot. “Nothing?” he says rising and pointing to his own face, “This visage doesn’t ring a bell? Ring-a-ding-a-dildo?”

Cynthia stares blankly.

William stares back. A moment passes.

“You know, ring a bell.” After another beat he says, “Ah! Of course. A little early for you to understand Dr. Pavlov’s bells. Let me see, that would be an early twentieth century idiom. You see, Dr. Pavlov offered, or rather, will offer much to the fields of physiology and neurological science. His experiments were the foundation of classical conditioning. It is really very simple. Each time he fed his dog, he rang a bell. After a time, the dog became conditioned to expect that when the bell was rung, food would follow. Much like if you and your brood, here,” he motions to the crowd, “hears the suffering of an Itonalya or a human being—and at the sound, each of you toss yourselves in a twitterpated orgasm and lose all sense of your godlike potential. So, when I ask if my face rings a bell, I’m really asking if you’re truly ready to have your head handed to you, by me, for by now, you should know what happens when we meet.”

Cynthia’s green eyes study William from head to foot while he speaks. She does not appear to be listening, but Loche imagines that by some twisting or folding of the void between Cynthia’s divinity and her human form, some essence of William Greenhame lingers within her memory—even if they have not met yet. We cannot alter what is to come. Corey’s whispered statement settles over Loche’s thought like a net.

“There is something about you that is odd,” Cynthia says stepping closer, her course circling around behind. “Something odd, indeed.”

“Understatement,” William clarifies, his index finger raised between them.

“Will you champion for the Old Law?”

“You’re a tool, Cynthia. But yes. And be warned, it is my turn to win—despite my pain in the neck.”

“Your turn? What might that mean?”

“Oh come now, Cy,” William says. “May I call you Cy? You don’t recall my magic trick? The bit with those precious leaves? The trick that has yet to be played upon you? Well, let us recollect together. To do this we should take a short look back on one of your many popular biographical moments: you, slithering about in the limbs of the aptly named Tree of Life. Let it not be said that you’ve never had an interest in botany. Goodness, you have, without a doubt. Especially the forbidden kind—the kind of plants and fruits that some claim created Hell and damnation. At least that is what Eve might say, and has she got a bone to pick with you over the whole affair! And so it goes that you’ve not given up on that nefarious little hobby of yours—wanting to taste a little of that magic plant—wanting a piece of what was forbidden—so you persevered.

“Thanks to my loving mother, I’ve an in with the aforementioned tree, or at least a distant seedling relative—and when last you and I met, I pulled my full strength abracadabra bit upon you and your rather unsavory crew, and managed to prevent you from getting your dirty mitts on it. Tell me you remember,” William burps. “Perhaps I shouldn’t go into too much detail. There exists a very real possibility of damaging not only the future, but more important, the magician’s creed: never share the illusion’s secret—or, if you prefer, keep safe the prestige. I can see this has you frustrated. Don’t be too troubled. In time, you’ll remember, though I dare say, by then, it will be too late. Or it will be the other way around.”

He bends, seizes the bottle, rises, chirps the cork from the throat, pulls, packs the cork back, bends, and returns it to the wood slat beside his right foot.

He blurts out, “My, my, how wonderfully befuddling to speak of a shared experience as both memory and predestination. There should be a word for such a puzzling quagmire. Oh, let’s gather and surmise, shall we? Let me think.”

William lays a finger along his chin and considers. Cynthia continues to circle her prey. She has given no response, nor has any expression appeared on her face save that of complete control. But Loche senses a mask hiding a profound and seething contempt.

“The word must encompass a paradoxical truth, yes?” Greenhame deadpans. “Promises to be tricky.” He brightens with mock enlightenment, “How about, impossible? Yes, Impossible. What we are yearning to define is, I suppose, for the most part, impossible. One of those rare words lacking vicissitude, for it rests firmly in that dreaded absolute category. I’m not one who appreciate absolutes, of course, save in matters of love, perhaps. I will always love love, you see. Always.” A tender smile spreads, “As George would say, Stupid crazy.” He nods determinedly, “I say that this vexing conundrum betwixt you and me should be called, impossible. And yet, I dare say, it may not be that in truth. Ah, here we are, Cy, you and I, twisting together on the wheel of time. How we circle back…”

Cynthia, still pacing a gentle gyre, says, “You know nothing of impossible.”

“I’ll grant you that,” William says, his attention straying to the scotch bottle, then to the crowd, “especially given present company.” He addresses the audience, “You know, impossible?” and then rattles off the word impossible in several different languages, Greek, Chinese, French, Arabic, and others. Loche hears them each articulated, though in his mind, the maddening meaning of impossible, impossible, impossible pounds against his reason.

“And speaking of impossible,” Greenhame segues with a lilt, “do you truly believe that killing this boy will set any of you free?” He faces Cynthia. “Free…whatever that may mean? This is, of course, the year of your lordlings, 1010, and while I must accept that cleverness and simple intelligence for you and your hooligan host is challenged at best, you cannot tell me that by simply ending Thi’s mortal life here, such an act will eliminate Thi from the continuum of existence. If so, I must suggest that we spend some time discussing the definition of impossible.”

Cynthia replies, “As I’ve said, Itonalya, you know nothing of impossible. And clearly, you know nothing of the Old Law—”

“Come, come,” Greenhame says, waving her off with his left hand and raising his sword with his right. “Let’s not bandy words—ah, you likely have never played the game of bandy. No. Not yet. A game a few centuries from now that will involve batting a ball back and forth. Much later it will be called tennis. To bandy words means… Oh never mind.” Greenhame shakes his head with a kind of humored frustration.

“But you speak true. I am Itonalya. The Earth’s chosen guard. I am Melgia. I am no crossing deity. I am no trespassing god come to leech upon Thi’s masterwork. I am no seraph sent to deviate humankind from their intended course—beauty and truth. I am no fucking Devil, Cymachena, like you, you misguided bitch, a killer of innocence in the name of your Old Law. I’m the New Law. As one of my sons might have said, ‘Fuck that shit, I’m the big, deep heavy!’”

Corey’s voice from behind hisses, “Now! Get Edwin out through the east door!”