Jeri Westerson - Shadow of the Alchemist

The man sputtered and fluttered his lids, turning his face away from a possible blow. “P-please. Don’t hurt me!”

With a snort of disgust, Crispin let him go, even smoothed down where he’d wrinkled the man’s collar and gown. He helped the alchemist to his feet. His Adam’s apple bobbed as his widened eyes darted between Crispin and Jack.

“You have seen that woman before, the woman who brought me here earlier.”

“Yes. Too many times. I thought she was a beggar … or worse. She came sniffing around my shop and seemed far too familiar with my goods, as if she planned to steal them. Always touching, touching.” He wiped his hands down his gown from the memory.

“And yet once you discovered she was the servant of Nicholas Flamel…”

“Oh yes!” He seemed only now to remember that. “Well, then, of course, I … well. I would welcome her to, perhaps, talk. Though she does seem a bit strange, truth to tell.”

“She’s deaf and dumb.”

“Oh.” He wrinkled his brow and pulled down on his dark, greasy locks, stroking absently. “Pity. I should have liked to ask her … well.”

“Ask her what? Tell me, why is Flamel so well-known to you?”

He studied Crispin this time, looked him over with particular care. And when he was done with him, he turned to Jack with equal scrutiny. “We alchemists … we use ancient secrets to perfect our art. As old as Scripture. Sometimes our methods are judged badly by outsiders. The Church does not always approve of this science, and in truth, some alchemists are more sorcerers than craftsmen. I have known a few. Not myself, of course. I would never dabble to endanger my soul! No, not at all.” He touched his collar and adjusted it before he crossed himself. “It is just that there is much we have learned that cannot be understood by the simple laymen. And Nicholas Flamel has gained his own amount of fame through his skill and expertise … And one thing more.”

He motioned silence to Crispin before pushing him aside. He crept to the door, opened it a crack, and peered out to the street. Satisfied, he closed it again and threw the bolt. When he gestured for Crispin to draw closer, both Crispin and Jack stepped into the circle of his open arms.

“You see, Master Guest,” he said confidentially, “Nicholas Flamel has achieved the ultimate goal of all alchemists. He understands the transmutation of matter. He has worked out the science, he has transcended the planes of knowledge. In short, Master Guest…” He drew Crispin even closer. Stale wine breath gusted over Crispin’s cheek. “Master Flamel,” whispered the alchemist, “has discovered how to create the Philosopher’s Stone.”

Crispin rolled his eyes, disappointed. “You must be jesting.”

“No! No, not at all. He has gained fame far and wide for this remarkable achievement. Why, even pagan scholars from the East are said to travel over great distances merely to consult with him. And now you say he is on these shores! Well!” He rubbed his hands together. “I will beg an audience with him, naturally. Of course I will. Although, I doubt he will share his secrets with anyone other than his own apprentice. More’s the pity. But a man can try.”

“His apprentice is dead. Murdered.”

“Saint Luke!” He wrung his hands and wandered toward his fire, gaze lost in the flickering flames. “W-why did they slay him?”

“I wonder. If many others knew that Flamel made this Stone, then they might wish to have it for themselves.”

Jack smacked his forehead with his hand. “ Stone, sir! The ransom demanded the Stone, not the broach .”

“So I am beginning to see.”

“But begging your pardon, sir…” Jack addressed the both of them. “What is this Philosopher’s Stone? Why is it valuable?”

The alchemist stared at him. “You ignorant boy! Don’t you know about the Philosopher’s Stone?” He turned to Crispin. “Does he not know?”

“Clearly,” said Crispin.

The alchemist shook his head, disgusted. He grabbed more sticks and tossed them on his fire. They sparked with green and purple flames before billowing a black cloud up the athanor’s flue. “Some alchemists have spent their entire lives searching for the answers to its creation. It isn’t merely a simple combination of formulas. No! Everything must be perfection. The position of the moon and stars, the time of day, the time of year, the purest ingredients. Salt, sulfur, mercury … It is said that even pulverized unicorn horn might be used in the process-extremely rare, you understand. But such ingredients might be mere mythos, to send a lesser Adept off the scent. Hard to say. In order to achieve the Grand Arcanum, the Lapis Philosophorum, one must dedicate one’s life to this research, to experimentation.” He nodded with a greedy look in his eye. “Few Adepts can be found who truly understand the Lesser and Greater Circulations. A clear understanding of roots, herbs, plants … even poisons. And then the metals, so important, so complicated in nature.… Ah, but I have gotten off my course. The Philosopher’s Stone, the Lapis Philosophorum. Many men wish to possess it for its use in turning simple metals into the most precious of all, into gold. If that were all it did, then perhaps lesser Adepts might be able to accomplish it.”

“Isn’t that enough?” asked Jack, entranced.

“For fools, ” spat the alchemist. “But for true Adepts educated in the highest Arcana, that is only the beginning of knowledge. The true, the purest, use of obtaining the Lapis Philosophorum is to create the Elixir of Life.”

Jack leaned forward. Quietly, he asked, “What does that do?”

“Those who drink of the Elixir of Life are given immortality.”

“God blind me!”

“Indeed.”

Crispin’s hand clenched and unclenched on the hilt of his sheathed dagger. “But such a thing is a myth. A fool’s errand. Why would you believe such mad babbling? Unicorns, indeed!”

“Why should I believe? I can see that you are a man with little understanding, Crispin Guest.” He pointed an accusatory finger. “You are not an Adept. One would have thought that a man with your education could be more accepting. But I see,” he said with haughty pique, “that you are not.”

“Never mind me, you fool. What makes you think that Flamel has made this Stone?”

“All of the continent know it. I met some Greek travelers only last year who mentioned having met him in Paris. Oh, they did not mention the Stone, of course, talked around it. But I have a wily mind, you understand?” He tapped his temple. “I could see it behind their eyes and between their words. There are many and many who speak of the Philosopher’s Stone and Nicholas Flamel all in the same breath.”

“Nonsense. This is utter nonsense.”

Jack sucked on his lip. “Aye, Master, but if others believe it, like this man, then that makes Master Flamel just as vulnerable as if he did possess it.”

He nodded. “That’s true enough, Jack. Master Bartholomew, what does such a Stone look like?”

His brows clustered over his forehead. “Well … I have never actually seen it for myself, you understand. Rumor has it that it is a simple stone. Something nondescript. Like a lump of tin or of coal. And yet, I have also heard that it can be a very lovely stone, like a crystal.”

“So it would not appear as a fabulous gem?”

“It might. But with the materials used to make it, I should think not. And I would never attempt to facet it. That might render it useless.”

“I thank you, Master Bartholomew, for assisting me.”

“If you seek the Stone yourself, I should warn you, Master Guest. It is protected, not just by the secret nature of it, or by the spirits that watch over such things. But by the communion of other alchemists. I know nothing about it in other places, but in England the alchemists communicate with one another. We are a … a guild of sorts. We protect what is ours. Our secret knowledge that we have accumulated with toil and sweat is not to be given to just anyone. A man must earn his right to be allowed into the circle. It would be wiser if you left that which you little understand alone.”