Avram Davidson - The Phoenix and the Mirror

Tildas Shaman, wise man of the Hunfolk of the Atrian Sea, had “donned the bearskin” at the funeral feast of Old King, father of Ottil, Osmet, and Bayla. The purpose of his doing so was to obtain the final message from the Old King’s ghost, and any message going from the ghosts of the puissant Sept-Mothers. But Tildas had not “taken off the bearskin,” Tildas had remained a bear, Tildas had conveyed no messages, as a result of which the kingship had become a triumvirate — a triumvirate, however, in name only, with Osmet and Ottil sharing the power and Bayla receiving only titular honors. Honors which did not prevent his being despised, mocked, abused. So it had gone, this much they already knew.

But while they were off to Cyprus, something had happened. The Fox-Mother was awakened one morning by the slave whose daily chore it was to bring food and drink to the long-chained Tildas-bear, and, following the frightened servitor, found chained to the pillar no bear at all, but the bewildered and angry figure of Tildas-man himself. Why the metamorphosis had been so long delayed, neither he nor anyone else knew… or cared. It had occurred; that was sufficient. And the message so long delayed was more than sufficient.

Videlicet, that it was and had been all along the pleasure of the defunct Old King and the ghosts of the puissant Sept-Mothers that Bayla alone be King, and that Osmet and Ottil serve him in all things.

The shrilling of the song and the banging of the timbrel came to an abrupt end. The silence was shattered by a great cry of “Bayla! Bayla! Bayla King!” And Bayla drew in his breath and drew himself up and looked at his usurpatous brothers and they cringed, they groveled before him.

“It would seem,” said the Red Man thoughtfully, as Bayla proceeded to give them each a hasty, hearty kick and a sidelong look and snarl, which promised more close attention at a later date, “it would seem, Ser Vergil, that you now have a powerful friend at court indeed.”

BUT THERE WERE no great tidings awaiting them as they made their last landfall, although from the once again increasing tenseness of the Red Man, who might have thought he expected such. No visible disappointment showed in his ruddy face, however, and Vergil — after reflecting briefly that, did he but know the Phoenician’s worry… did the latter but know his… it might well be that neither of them would exchange — saw only the well-remembered beauty of the Bay, Vesuvio’s white plume and Capri’s purple rock, ancient and teeming Neapolis climbing her steepy hills above the harbors thick with shipping. In order that they should not be seen together on ship in Naples, they set a course for Pompeii, where Vergil was to go ashore.

A breeze touched their faces. “And I smell the rotting garbage and the man-stale in the streets,” he said.

“This, too, is life,” said Vergil, after a slight pause.

The reaction astonished him. An-Thon Ebbed-Saphir’s face twisted and suddenly he seemed a thousand years old. “Oh, Melcarth!” he groaned. “Oh, Tyrian Hercules! Life! Life!” He gazed inland, mouth open on silent pain, as if seeking an answer. But none came; nothing and no one came — save only the harbor master’s clerk, seeking the manifest of the vessel, a possible bribe, and a probable free meal and at least a glass of wine.

“What is this?” the clerk exclaimed, surprised. “You left in ballast and you return in ballast? No cargo? No cargo? What kind of business — ”

Vergil flicked the corner of his cape, showing briefly the purple silk pouch with the monogram. “Imperial business…”

“Pardon, pardon, pardon…” The man’s voice died away as he stepped back, raising his hands and his eyes. But he was a true son of the city, and genuine reproach was in his voice as he said, “You might at least have brought a few women…”

All that Captain Ebbed-Saphir said as he and Vergil parted, was “We shall see each other again.”

And, “We must see each other again,” with a slight emphasis on the second word, Vergil answered; adding only that payment was ready at any time in the House of the Brazen Head. The curt, bother-me-not nod he received put him in mind at once of the Phoenician captain’s comments, when they were becalmed, of time and the payment therefore not being always tellable in money.

When he was in his own familiar street again, at his own house, “Watcher, what news?” he asked the guardian Head.

Whose eyes and mouth opened, moved, focused, spoke, saying, “Master, news from Tartis.”

This was confirmed soon enough by Clemens himself. The alchemist was seated in his favored corner of Vergil’s favored room, his leg crossed at an angle which put his left foot almost under his right ear, and he hummed and tutted to himself contentedly as he read from a small book. Looking up brightly at his friend’s entrance, he sang out, “What say you, Vergil, shall we attempt to employ ash of basilisk in this process? Ah… before you answer and before I forget… it’s come. What was sent to Tinland for. Now… ash of basilisk…”

But Vergil was not yet ready to discuss ash of basilisk. He sank into his chair with ineffable relief. “The bird of gold, the messenger bird, it’s returned?” Clemens slowly revolved his massy, maned head. A touch of cold was felt on Vergil’s heart. Had he now, having after all obtained the copper by going himself to Cyprus, to attempt himself the more than fabulous journey to Tinland? “But you said — ”

“I said not ‘What was sent to Tinland,’ but, ‘What was sent to Tinland for .’ That is, the tin itself. No, sadly, that curious and so useful creature never returned, and only one of the guardian falcon-eaglets… sadly battered, sadly torn, but bearing a purse of ore. The Tartisman called the Master of the Air was sadly bitter, I’m afraid. Now, concerning ash of basilisk…”

Concerning this substance, the great authority Roger of Tayfield felt it necessary carefully to distinguish between cockatrices and basilisks. The former hatch from the tiny eggs laid by old cocks on rare occasions, and are merely venomous, their ashes being antidotes to poison: but being thus dangerous — that if no poison were actually present to be counteracted, the patient might die instead from the poison of the cockatrice ash. Basilisks, however, were hatched from the eggs of certain hens, which, not withstanding they be so old that the cocks no longer tread them, in their unnatural lust seek out and gender with toads. That these unions are approved by the King of Hell — says Roger — is shown by the chicks having a tiny crest in the shape of a crown, whence their name from Basil, king. However, as the gaze of the living creatures causes almost instant calcification or petrification, it is customary to put them into opaque containers just before they hatch… else it is necessary to approach them from behind, walking backward… looking into a mirror… If these basilisks are burned to ashes they are of great effect in the making of gold and in other great work among metals. Thus, Roger.

“No,” Vergil said, bitterly, “I think not. The whole thing is far too chancy and uncertain. There is so much which must be done. Concerning which, my Clemens — ”

The alchemist, who had been nodding assent, lips pursed, now lowered his leg and sat up straight, rubbing his hands. “I think you will be well pleased with the preparations. We have, first, enclosed the larger portion of the yard and thus created a new workroom, untainted by the residues of any previous works. I have had windows installed of thin panes of alabaster which will admit a light clear and yet not harsh. Lamps have been hung and new ones, too, also chimneys of the same alabaster. The furnace is prepared, the hearth, the wood and charcoal, the kiln, the tools and implements, anvil and forge, sand and clay and wax, benches and wheels and iron. We have gotten ready, also, vessels of the finest earth, almost like glass, but less fragile. There are liquors of lye and potash, and pickles of aquafortis or oil of vitriol, as you may prefer, even sawdust of boxwood.”