Scott Mariani - The Alchemist

‘You’re saying that Klaus Rheinfeld stole your father’s important documents?’

‘And the gold cross too.’

‘A gold cross?’

‘Yes, very old and beautiful. Discovered by Fulcanelli, many years ago.’ Clément broke off, coughing and spluttering. ‘It was the key to great knowledge. Fulcanelli passed the cross to my father just before he disappeared.’

‘Why did Fulcanelli disappear?’ Ben asked.

Clément shot Ben a dark look. ‘Like me, he was betrayed.’

‘Who betrayed him?’

‘Someone he trusted.’ Clément’s shrivelled lips twisted into a mysterious smile. He reached under his bed and, clutching it with reverential care, brought out an old book. Bound in scuffed blue leather, it looked as though mice had been nibbling at it for decades. ‘It is all in here.’

‘What’s that?’ Ben asked, peering at the book.

‘My father’s master tells his story in these pages,’ Clément replied. ‘This was his private Journal, the only thing Rheinfeld did not steal from me.’

Ben and Roberta exchanged glances. ‘Can I see it?’ he asked Clément.

The alchemist tentatively opened the cover for Ben to see, holding it close to him. Ben caught a glimpse of old-fashioned handwriting. ‘This was definitely Fulcanelli’s own writings?’

‘Of course,’ the old man muttered, and showed him the signature on the inner cover.

‘Monsieur, I would like to buy this book from you.’

Clément snorted. ‘Not for sale.’

Ben thought for a few moments. ‘What about Klaus Rheinfeld?’ he asked. ‘Do you know where he is now?’

The old man clenched his fist. ‘Burning in hell where he belongs, I hope.’

‘You mean he’s dead?’

But Clément was off in one of his muttering fits again.

‘Is he dead?’ Ben repeated.

The alchemist’s eyes were far away. Ben waved his hand in front of them.

‘I don’t think you’re going to get much more out of him, Ben,’ Roberta said.

Ben nodded. He put a hand on the old man’s shoulder and softly shook him to his senses. ‘Monsieur Clément, listen carefully and remember this. You have to leave here for a while.’

The old man’s eyes slid back into focus. ‘Why?’ he croaked.

‘Because there are some men who might come here. Not nice men, you don’t want to meet them, you understand? They’ve been asking questions at your brother’s house and they may know where to find you. I’m afraid they might want to hurt you. So I want you to take this.’ Ben took out a thick wad of banknotes.

Clément’s eyes opened wide when he saw how much there was. ‘What is that for?’ he quavered.

‘It’s to pay for you to leave here for a while,’ Ben told him. ‘Get yourself some new clothes, go to a doctor if you need one. Take a train as far away as possible and rent yourself a place somewhere for a month or two.’ He reached back into his pocket and showed Clément another bundle of notes. ‘And I’ll give you this too, if you’ll agree to sell me that book.’

‘Interesting reading?’

‘Pretty interesting,’ he replied absently, looking up from his desk. Roberta was sitting gazing out of the window, sipping on a coffee and looking bored. He returned to the Journal, carefully turning the age-yellowed pages and scanning through some of the entries composed in the alchemist’s smooth and elegant hand.

‘Worth thirty grand?’

Ben didn’t reply. Maybe it was worth what he’d paid Clément, and maybe not. Many of the pages seemed to be missing, others damaged and unreadable. He’d been hoping the Journal might contain some clues about the fabled elixir, maybe even a recipe of some kind. As he leafed through it he realized that that was probably a naïve expectation. It seemed to be a diary like any other, a day-to-day account of the man’s life. His eye settled on a lengthy entry and he began to read.

February 9 th, 1924

The climb up the mountain was long and perilous. I am getting far too old for this kind of thing. Many times I nearly fell to my death as I found myself inching my way numbly up near-vertical rock and the falling snow grew into a blizzard. Eventually, I dragged myself up onto the summit of the mountain and rested my weary body for a few moments, wheezing, muscles trembling from the exertion. I wiped the snow from my eyes and looked up to see the ruined castle in front of me.

The passing of the centuries has not been kind to what was once the proud stronghold of Amauri de Lévis. Wars and plagues have come and gone, warrior-dynasties have flourished and died out, the land has been passed from one ruler to another. It is over five centuries since the castle, by then already ancient and battered, was besieged, bombarded and finally wrecked in the course of some long-forgotten clan feud. Its strong round towers are mostly reduced to rubble, the battle-scarred walls covered with moss and lichen. At one time fire must have devastated the inside of the castle and collapsed the roof. Time, wind, rain, sun have done the rest.

Much of the ruin is overgrown with gorse and brambles, and I had to cut a way through the Gothic archway of the main entrance. The wooden gates have rotted away to nothing and only their blackened iron hinges remain, hanging by rusty rivets from the crumbling stone arch. As I entered the gate, the deathly silence of a graveyard hung over the empty grey shell. I despaired of ever finding what I had come for.

I wandered inside the snowy courtyard and looked around me at the remnants of the walls and ramparts. At the bottom of a winding, descending stairway I found the entrance to an old storeroom, where I sheltered from the wind and lit a small fire to warm myself by.

The blizzard trapped me inside the castle ruin for two days. The meagre rations of bread and cheese I had brought were sufficient to sustain me, and I had a blanket and a small saucepan for melting snow to drink. I spent my time exploring the ruin, fervently hoping that what my researches had revealed to me would prove true.

I knew that my prize, if it existed, would be found not above ground in what remained of the ramparts or the towers, but somewhere down below in the network of tunnels and chambers carved out in the rock beneath the castle. Many of the tunnels have collapsed over time, but others remain intact. At the lower levels I discovered dank dungeons, the bones of their miserable inhabitants long since reduced to dust. Wandering through the dripping black passageways and winding staircases by the light of my oil lamp, I searched and I prayed.

After many hours of cruel disappointment I crawled through a half-collapsed tunnel deep underground and found myself in a square chamber. I raised my lantern, recognizing the vaulted ceiling and crumbled coats-of-arms from the decayed old woodcut I had found back in Paris. At this moment I knew that my quest was fulfilled, and my heart leapt with joy.

I circled the chamber until I came to the spot. I scraped aside thick cobwebs and blew away clouds of dust, and the time-smoothed markings in the stone block appeared before me. As I had known they would, the markings directed me to a particular flagstone in the floor. I dug the damp earth away from its edges until I was able to get my fingers underneath, then with great effort I heaved it upright. When I saw the stone hollow it had concealed and realized what I had found, after a lifetime of searching, I sank to my knees with silent tears of relief and exultation.

My heart was pounding fearfully as I dragged the weighty object out of the hole and scraped away the dirt and the decayed remnants of its sheepskin wrapping. The steel casket is well preserved. There was a hiss of escaping air as I prised the box open with my knife. I reached inside with trembling fingers, and by the flickering glow of my lantern I drank in the sight of my incredible find.