Scott Mariani - The Alchemist

He touched her shoulder. ‘You are a loyal companion to him. You care for him deeply.’

She was silent. The words struck her.

‘But I will sit up with him while you take your rest,’ Pascal continued. ‘I have done little today except tend the chickens, milk Arabelle, God bless the dear creature, and hear two very routine confessions.’ He smiled.

Pascal sat until late and read his Bible by the light of a candle, while Ben tossed and turned fitfully. Once, around four, he woke and said ‘Where am I?’

‘With friends, Benedict,’ the priest replied. He stroked Ben’s clammy forehead and settled him back to sleep. ‘Rest now. You are safe. I will pray for you.’

Ben tried to move his legs across the bed. He’d been lying here long enough.

It was tough going, an inch at a time. The pull on his injured muscles was agonizing. He clenched his teeth as he gently lowered his feet to the floor and slowly stood up. His shirt had been washed and neatly laid out for him on a chair. It took him a long time to dress.

Through the window he could see the village rooftops and the hills and mountains beyond rising up to the clear sky. He cursed himself furiously for letting this situation happen. He’d underestimated the dangers right from the start of this job. And here he was, stuck in this backwater, hardly able to move or do anything useful, while a dying child needed his help. He grabbed his flask and took a deep swig. At least this is something I can do. He wished he had a whole bottle, or maybe two.

Then he remembered Fulcanelli’s Journal. He bent stiffly and fished it out of his bag. He lay on the bed with it, leafing through the pages, and resumed his reading.

3 rdSeptember, 1926

It has finally happened: the pupil has challenged the master. As I write, I can still hear Daquin’s words ringing in my ears as he confronted me today in the laboratory. His eyes were blazing, and his fists were clenched at his sides.

‘But master,’ he protested. ‘Aren’t we being selfish? How can you possibly say it’s right to keep such important knowledge a secret when it could benefit so many people? Don’t you see the good that this could do? Think how it would change everything!’

‘No, Nicholas,’ I insisted. ‘I am not being selfish. I am being cautious. These secrets are important, yes. But they are too dangerous to reveal to just anyone. Only the initiated, the adept, should ever be allowed to have this knowledge.’

Nicholas stared at me in fury. ‘Then I can see no point in it,’ he shouted. ‘You are old, master. You’ve spent most of your life searching, but it’s all for nothing if you don’t use it. Use it to help the world.’

And you are young, Nicholas,’ I replied. ‘Too young to understand the world you want so much to help. Not everyone is as pure of heart as you are. There are people who would use this know ledge to serve their own greed and their own purposes. Not to do good, but to do evil.’

On the table beside us was the ancient scroll in its leather tube. I picked it up and shook it at him. ‘I am a direct descendant of the authors of this wisdom,’ I said. ‘My Cathar ancestors knew the importance of preserving their secrets, at all costs. They knew who was seeking them, and they knew what would have happened if they had fallen into the wrong hands. They gave their lives trying to preserve this wisdom.’

‘I know, master, but…’

I interrupted him. ‘This knowledge we have been privileged with is power, and power is a dangerous thing. It corrupts men, and attracts evil. That is why I warned you about the responsibility I was giving you. And don’t forget-you swore an oath of silence.’ I hung my head in sadness. ‘I fear I have revealed too much to you,’ I added.

‘Does that mean you’re not going to tell me any more? What about the rest? The second great secret?’

I shook my head. ‘I am sorry, Nicholas. It is too much knowledge for one so young and rash. I cannot undo what is already done, but I will not take you any further until you have proved greater wisdom and maturity.’

At these words, he stormed out of the laboratory. I could see he was on the edge of tears. I, too, felt a knife in my heart knowing what had come between us.

Ben heard a soft knock at the bedroom door. He looked up from the Journal as the door opened a crack and Roberta’s face appeared.

‘How are you feeling now?’ she said. She looked concerned as she came in carrying a tray.

He closed the Journal. ‘I’m OK.’

‘Here, look, I prepared this for you.’ She laid a bowl of steaming chicken soup on the table. ‘Eat it while it’s hot.’

‘How long was I out of it?’

‘Two days.’

‘Two days!’ He took a slurp of whisky, wincing at the movement.

‘Should you be drinking, Ben? You’ve been on antibios.’ She sighed. ‘At least eat something. You need to get your strength back.’

‘I will. Can you kick over my bag? My cigarettes are in it.’

‘Smoking isn’t good for you right now.’

‘It’s never good for me.’

‘Fine. Have it your own way. I’ll get them for you.’

‘No, just-’ He moved too abruptly and pain shot through him. He leaned back against the pillow, closing his eyes.

She reached down. As she rummaged around in the bag, a small object fell out and landed on the floor. She picked it up. It was a tiny photograph in a silver frame. She studied it, wondering what it was doing in there. The photo was old and faded, creased and worn at the edges as though it had been carried for years in a wallet. It was a picture of a child, a sweet little girl of about eight or nine with blond hair. She had sparkling, intelligent blue eyes and a freckly face, and she was smiling at the camera with an expression of open happiness.

‘Who is she, Ben? She’s lovely.’ She looked at him and her smile faded.

He was staring at her with an expression of cold fury she’d never seen before.

‘Put that down and get the fuck out of here,’ he said.

Father Pascal saw the look of anger and hurt on Roberta’s face as she came downstairs. He laid a hand on her arm. ‘Sometimes when a man is in pain, he lashes out and says and does things he does not mean,’ he said.

‘Just because he’s injured, that doesn’t excuse him for behaving like a bas-’ She caught herself. ‘I was only trying to help him.’

‘That was not the pain I was referring to,’ Pascal said. ‘The true pain is in his heart, his spirit, not in his wounds.’ He smiled warmly. ‘I will speak to him.’

He went into Ben’s room and sat beside him on the edge of the bed. Ben was lying there staring into space, clutching his flask. The whisky was dulling his pain a little. He’d managed to retrieve his cigarettes, only to find the packet almost empty.

‘You do not mind if I join you?’ said Pascal.

Ben shook his head.

Pascal was quiet for a few moments, then he spoke gently and warmly to Ben. ‘Benedict, Roberta has told me something of your occupation. You have a calling to help those in need-a noble and commendable thing indeed. I, too, have a calling, which I carry out as well as I can. I must say it is less dramatic, less heroic, than yours. But the purpose the Lord has for me is nonetheless an important duty to fulfil. I help men to release their suffering. To find God. For some, that simply is to find peace within themselves, in whichever form it may come.’

‘This is my peace, Father,’ muttered Ben. He held up his flask.

‘You know it is not enough, that it will never be enough. It cannot help you, it can only hurt you. It drives your pain deeper in your heart. The pain is like a poisoned thorn. If it is not released, it will fester like a terrible wound. And not one that may be cured by the simple application of penicillin intended for a goat.’