Avram Davidson - The Phoenix and the Mirror

But Clemens remained below and directed the casting of the second half.

Presently, when Vergil had recovered from his exhaustion of body and spirit, they broke open the well-cooled molds and removed the two parts of the speculum. He then had them boiled in a strong liquor of potash until all residual dirt was removed, and rinsed in hot water and dried. The discs were then annealed in fire until red-hot, the utmost care being taken that they were not made white-hot. Should any dirt or impurities have remained, they were now gone, and the metal made softer and fit for the burnisher — but it was not yet his time. The bronzes were cooled and then placed in a pickle of one part of oil of vitriol and three parts of water. “I prefer aquafortis,” Clemens said.

“Ordinarily, so should I,” Vergil said. “But you wouldn’t use ‘new’ acid for this, and that which makes ‘old’ acid desirable, namely the presence of much metal in solution, obviously disqualifies it for our present purpose. The entire status of this bronze as virgin bronze would be annulled.”

The pieces remained awhile in the solution, then were removed and rinsed in clean, cold water, thoroughly scoured with clean, wet sand, and then placed in a wooden pail of water. Thence they were removed for further dippings in strong solution and rinsings in water, and now care equal to that employed on behalf of the bronze had to be maintained on behalf of the workmen. The dipping was done in the open air, their clothes were covered with special, thick aprons, three, of carpeting; and while some dipped and quickly rinsed, others stood by with vessels of asses’ milk — to drink, if the fumes affested the lungs, to pour on the skin, lest the acid at least stain it and at worse remove it, to dash instantly into the eyes to “kill” any stray splash. But these precautions, perhaps because they had been taken, proved unnecessary. After the last dip and rinse in cold water, the bronzes were next washed finally with boiling water and then dried with dust of sawed boxwood, and then — care being taken that they at no time be touched with naked fingers, they were covered and wrapped in the softest of chamois leathers.

And now came the time of the burnishers.

Isacco and Lionelo were their names. Isacco was stooped in age, but blindness had come on him gradually over the course of many years, and he had gradually adapted to it. Lionelo was still in his time of vigor, and his sight had been lost to him suddenly by the kick of a runaway horse whose frenzied rush he had no time to avoid. Each had been a burnisher and each had been fortunate to work for good masters who had allowed him to continue in his craft; their touch was knowing, and — so the master burnishers had reasoned — others could always look and say where sightlessness had left some spot for further care. As the years went on, though, this outer vision was needed less and less. Lionelo said that he could tell by tapping and smelling, Isacco offered no explanation: he knew without knowing how he knew.

“I have hired your time from your own masters,” Vergil told them, “but I shall pay you double for your work. A room has been fitted up for it, and I think it lacks nothing — benches and brushes and boxes, lathes and wheels and water and soap, hook, spear, round, and long burnishers, buff leather and chamois leather, crocus powder and dilute beer, vises and poles and sawdust and vinegar — ”

“Ox gall, master? Is there… ?”

“No, Lionelo, the work is, I think, too delicate to risk the strong stench of ox gall.”

Isacco said, “Vinegar will do, it will do prime, and so will beer. Is there a good small fire, master, and pots with handles?”

“All that. We are not yet ready to commence burnishing the prime pieces, and in the meanwhile I want you to familiarize yourselves with the layout of the workroom. We will rearrange it any way you wish, and then there are items of lesser importance which you may begin with to try your hands, so to speak. I need give you no specific further directions, except this — and this is most important. The door will open only from the inside and you are not to open it when the bronze is exposed. You must cover the bronze first. And also note that the stove is set in a sort of cabinet or closet by itself — this, too, must be closed whenever the bronzes are uncovered. You must polish them from behind. No one can be here to check on you. I must — and I do — rely upon you utterly.”

They nodded. At first they groped, then they moved with confidence, later with absolute unthinking familiarity. Finally, when the Moon began to pass through Scorpio and Pisces, the discs and all of their smaller fittings (made from the superfluous bronze that had filled the sprue channels during casting), carefully wrapped and boxed, were handed over to the two blind burnishers and the door closed upon them… and upon the light. There, within, the opaque surface of the mirror would gradually become fit for reflecting. But it would reflect nothing, and, even if by rare happenstance it did, no one there could see it. And there in the blackness the lid was fitted on and all the clasps and fastenings put in place. And so wrapped again, and boxed again, and returned to the world outside again.

Vergil placed around the box a series of knotted scarlet silken cords alike to those which bound the perestupe or mandrake. “Pull” he invited Clemens. “Try your strength.”

The alchemist shook his head. “I thank you, no. I am an alchemist and not a magician… Ah. What I desired to show you before I go — evidently there was a loose leaf in my copy of the tractate On Cathayan Bronze, as I found it last night in my library, it will not appear in your transcript. Listen:

Inscription on a Mirror

Round, round precious mirror,

Bright, bright on the high altar;

The phoenix looking at the mirror dances to its own reflection,

Reflecting the moon, the blossoming flower.

Over a pond, shining like the moon,

It appears to the beautiful one, to her.

“Lovely, isn’t it? I wonder what it might mean… Well! I have a multitude of things to attend to at home, but of course I will be on hand at the viewing, though Father Vesuvio himself intervene to prevent me. Absit omen. ”

Again the phoenix, and once again the phoenix! It was night and Vergil walked out on his balcony, thinking to try a sortilogy from whatever stray utterance of old Allegra’s might come to hand. And her remark, crooned as she bedded down her cats and herself, was cryptic enough. “ On the sea, my lord, walk without water if you would find her … ” The Woman of Delphi herself would have been satisfied. But, riddle it as he would, clear as its obvious meaning was, Vergil could read in it nothing about the phoenix.

There was a belvedere set into the upper part of one of the upper rooms in the House of the Brazen Head, with twelve windows, through each of which, during its proper month, the sun at its meridian cast a beam of light; and the tessellated pavement below was further marked off with annotated areas, some of them overlapping, for day and by day; so that the chamber formed one great sundial. Vergil had been at work with his astrolabe, checking and rechecking and setting and resetting his horlogues. His face was yellow and sunken and he did not even look up as Cornelia entered; then, suddenly, he did. It was their real meeting since his return, and one might have admired the restraint she showed in not vexing him with the frequent visitations she must dearly have desired to make. Their eyes met now. It was she who, almost instantly, withdrew and broke the gaze. Almost, her look pitied him. Almost, she did not see him. Silently she approached the box and looked at it, extended her hand, hastily and almost fearfully drew it back. She was very pale, and the skin about her eyes was dark violet. She sighed, compressed her lips, clasped her hands, Vergil took hold of the clew and gave the silk cord the slightest of tugs, murmuring a word as he did so. All the elaborate cordings and knottings fell open and slack, the sides of the box parted slowly and settled back onto the table.