Scott Mariani: The Alchemist

He swept the lighter-flame around him. Rows of golden crucifixes glinted in the flickering light. A huge altar stood in front of him, sculpted from solid stone and heavily adorned with gold.

He was in a church. A medieval Gothic church carved out inside a mountain.

Ben lit the altar candles. There were scores of them, all held by massive solid gold candlesticks. One candle at a time, the church gradually filled with amber light. He gasped at the size of the carved-out space. The wealth of it was staggering.

Then he saw the stone chests that lined the walls. There were dozens of them, knee high and a metre square. He moved closer. They were filled to the brim with gold. He sifted through one, his fingers raking through solid gold coins and nuggets, rings and amulets. There was enough gold in the church to make its finder the richest man in the world.

Carrying a heavy candlestick to see by, he went over to the towering altar. Carved in smooth stone, two white lions converging into a single head supported a circular stone basin that was some eight feet in diameter. Candlelight glimmered off the dark water inside. Around its smooth edge, carved in flowing letters, were the words:

Omnis qui bibit hanc aquam, Si fidem addit, Salvus erit

He who drinks this water shall find salvation, if he believes

At the feet of an angelic statue was a gold pedestal, and on it rested a long leather tube. Inside it he found a scroll. He delicately unfurled the cracked, archaic document on the floor and knelt down to study it. It was obviously medieval, though fabulously well-preserved. The writings on it were in a strange form of Latin that he couldn’t understand, mixed with what looked like Egyptian hieroglyphics.

He blinked as the truth dawned. So was this the legendary manuscript that everyone had been looking for? It was clear now that the papers Rheinfeld had stolen from Clément, the copy he’d made in the notebook, had never been more than Fulcanelli’s own notes. They were the alchemist’s record of the clues that had led him to find the manuscript itself. The same clues that would guide the next seeker who followed in his steps.

Now, faced with it at last, he understood the power of this mysterious document and the terrible hold it had had over so many people. There was no telling how much blood had been spilled on its account through the ages, either to protect it or to acquire it. It had the power to inspire evil. Did it also have the power to do good?

Something else had fallen out of the leather tube. It was a folded sheet of paper. Ben opened it. It was a letter, and he’d seen that handwriting before.

To the Seeker:

My Dear Friend ,

If you have come so far as to read these words , I applaud you. This secret, which has eluded the great and the wise since the dawn of civilization, is now in your brave and resolute hands.

It remains to me only to pass on this warning: When success has at last crowned his long toil, the Wise man must not be tempted by the vanities of the world. He must remain faithful and humble, and forever be mindful of the fate of those who were seduced by the powers of evil.

In Science, in Goodness, the Adept must evermore KEEP SILENT.

Fulcanelli

Ben looked up at the stone basin at the foot of the altar. The elixir vitae was right there in front of him. His search was over. There was no time to lose.

He jumped to his feet, looking around him for some vessel he could use to take the elixir back to Ruth. He remembered his flask, and without a second thought he unscrewed the top and poured out his whisky, the liquor spattering on the stone floor. His heart thumped as he dipped the flask into the water and filled it. Did he believe? Could this special substance really cure?

Drops of the precious liquid splashed from the mouth of the filled flask as he raised it up from the stone basin. His curiosity was overwhelming. He put the flask to his lips.

The foul taste of it almost made him vomit. He spat and gagged, wiping his mouth in disgust. Holding the candle closer he poured more of the water back into the basin. It was full of greenish scum.

Ben fell to his knees, his head hanging. It was over. He was at the end of the road. He’d failed.

The sudden crashing explosion in the chamber was like a knife through his eardrums. One of the white stone lions split apart and collapsed. The basin cracked and fell in two. The stagnant water gushed down over the base of the altar and spilled in a slimy greenish slick across the floor.

He scrabbled to his feet in a panic. Before he could have the Browning out of its holster he was staring down the barrel of a heavy Colt automatic that was advancing towards him out of the shadows.

‘Surprised to see me, English?’ Franco Bozza rasped in his hoarse whisper as he stepped into the flickering light. His face was wild, bloody, a mask of pure hatred. ‘Drop your gun.’

Beneath his bullet-proof vest Bozza’s upper torso was still aching badly from the slamming impact of the three 9mm bullets. The long, twisting fall down the cliff had been broken by a tree. Its branches had ripped his flesh and almost impaled him. Blood seeped from a hundred cuts and his right cheek was torn open from mouth to ear. But he’d hardly felt the pain as he’d scrambled back up the cliff and made his way over the hillside in the raging storm. His mind had been focused on one thing alone-what he was going to do when he caught up again with Ben Hope. Things that even his most wretched victims hadn’t experienced.

And now he had him.

Ben stared at him for a second, then moved his hand across and slid the Browning from its holster. He dropped it on the floor and kicked it away from him, not taking his eyes off Bozza’s.

‘And the Beretta,’ Bozza said. ‘The one you took from me.’

Ben had hoped he’d forgotten that one. He slowly drew the concealed.380 from his waistband and tossed it.

Bozza’s pale, thin lips creased into a twisted grin. ‘Good,’ he whispered. ‘And now here we are together alone at last.’

‘It’s a real pleasure.’

‘The pleasure will be all mine, I assure you,’ Bozza croaked. ‘And when you are dead I will find your little friend Ryder and will have some fun with her.’

Ben shook his head. ‘You’ll never find her.’

‘Oh no?’ Bozza said, with what was almost a laugh in his voice. A black-gloved hand reached into his pocket and waved Roberta’s red address-book. After this I am going on vacation.’ He smiled. ‘To the USA.’

A sickening wave of horror washed over Ben when he saw the book. He’d told her to destroy it. It must have been in her bag when Bozza kidnapped her.

‘She will be the last to die,’ Bozza continued, grinning to himself. Ben could see he was relishing every word. ‘First she will watch as her family are cut slowly to pieces in front of her. Then, before I kill her, I will show her the little trophy I have brought her. Your head. And finally, I will turn my attentions to Dr Ryder. For strong is the Lord God who judgeth her Bozza smiled sadistically and lowered the Colt, aiming down at Ben’s left knee. His finger tightened on the trigger. First he’d blow out one kneecap, then the other. Then one arm, then the other. Then, when his victim was wriggling helpless on the floor, the knife was coming out.

Ben had been trained years before in the techniques of disarming a hostile gunman at close range. It was all a question of distance, though it was a desperate manoeuvre at the best of times. If the opponent was close enough it was relatively less insane to try to take the weapon away from them. If they were standing just one step too far away, it was virtually impossible to move fast enough. All it took was a flick of the finger and you were dead.