Christopher Golden - Tears of the Furies

He twitched, pain lancing into his head from his empty eye socket. The patch that covered it was not a problem, though its strap itched the back of his head. For a moment, Mr. Doyle paused on the sidewalk and pressed the heel of his hand against that void, that eyeless hole. At times it ached profoundly.

Doyle had removed the eye himself. The pain had been like nothing he had ever felt. Worse, though, was the feeling of tugging, deep in his head, as he tore it loose from the optic nerve. It was a memory he would have very gladly erased. The man had done what he had to do, and it had helped to make the world safe — at least for a time. It was good, however, that he had not had any idea what it would feel like at the time. In retrospect, it wasn’t something he would do again.

A dry laugh escaped his lips. What a sickening thought. Only a lunatic would do what he had done. But perhaps in that moment, knowing that it was the only way, he had been a lunatic indeed.

Now, the question was, what to do about it.

His shoes scuffed the sidewalk. The sleeves of his crisply pressed white shirt were rolled halfway to the elbow, and he wore black suspenders that did not go very well with his beige trousers. By his outward appearance, he would seem to most a librarian or a museum curator who’d lost his way, perhaps an eccentric academic. That was one of the reasons he loved Boston so much. The city was old enough to suit him.

For he himself was, of course, far older than he appeared.

Mr. Doyle rounded a corner and came in view of a small sign that jutted from the front of a building. Ancient neon blinked off and on, forming the letters Rx. The symbol for prescription drugs. It was a pharmacy, of sorts, at least as far as the neighbors were concerned. Many of them had their prescriptions filled at Fulcanelli the Chemist.

It was old-fashioned, of course, for the pharmacist to call himself a chemist. Still commonplace in England, it was unusual in the U.S. But there were a great many things that were unusual in this little warren of old Boston. Fulcanelli carried most things people could buy at another pharmacy, and many things that could be purchased nowhere else in the northeastern United States.

A bell rang above the door as Doyle let himself in. He turned the hanging sign around to read closed and locked the door behind him.

There was no one at the counter when he entered, but in just a moment Fulcanelli emerged from the back of the shop, summoned by the bell. The man was bent with age, his pate bald on top, his white hair a thin curtain at the back of his head.

"Hello, old friend," Doyle said.

Fulcanelli nodded, grunting in the manner of the very ancient and very cranky. He waved a hand as if to say, let’s get on with it.

"Come," said the chemist. "I’ve got what you need."

Shuffling his feet, the aged shopkeeper moved to a cabinet. Though his fingers were yellowed and covered with age spots and his knuckles were swollen, they moved with the dexterity of a prestidigitator as he reached into a pocket and withdrew a key.

"You’re nearly there, aren’t you?" Doyle asked, concerned.

Fulcanelli froze with the key nearly to the lock. He paused and regarded his visitor with moist, yellowed eyes. "Don’t act as though you are overwrought with sympathy, Arthur."

Doyle stood a bit straighter, the hair on the back of his neck standing up. He hooked his thumbs in his suspenders and blew out a puff of air that ruffled his mustache.

"I take umbrage at your tone, sir. I take no pleasure in your pain."

The chemist studied him, the old man’s face like that of a hawk seeking prey. "If you’d shared with me your own secret, I wouldn’t have to suffer that pain at all."

The air grew thick with tension. They had had this conversation before. Fulcanelli had found an alchemical solution to the problem of his aging but it was complex. When his physical body aged and deteriorated to the point where it could no longer function, his skin would slough off and his bones would collapse and he would ignite in a burst of flame that would render his body nothing but ash. Then, from the ashes, a young man of perhaps sixteen would crawl, skin gleaming and new.

Fulcanelli had made himself a human phoenix. It was eternal life, of a sort, but the price was the agony of the process.

Mr. Doyle did not age. Fulcanelli envied that.

"We have been over this," Doyle said, narrowing his gaze. "Those secrets are not mine to share."

"So you say," the man said, sniffing in derision. But he scratched once at the side of his nose and then let the debate retire, bringing the key once more to the lock. "You have the money?"?Stinging from the man’s bitterness, Doyle made no reply. Rather, he strode to the counter and thrust out one fist, palm downward. When he opened his fingers, a dozen gold coins spilled from his grasp. They had not been there a moment before, but now they clattered down onto the countertop, several rolling or bouncing off onto the floor.

Fulcanelli smiled greedily. "That’ll do."

He opened the cabinet. It was filled with jars that contained strangely colored liquids, things floating in the cloudy contents of each jar. From an upper shelf, Fulcanelli drew down a jar filled with a viscous amber-colored fluid.

"Here we are," the ancient chemist said.

Mr. Doyle drew a deep breath and let it out. At last, he thought. The ache in his skull had been a terrible distraction to him. And the worst was when, late at night, the vacant socket would begin to itch.

"The patch," Fulcanelli instructed.

Doyle removed it gratefully, sliding the patch into his pocket.

The chemist whistled in appreciation. "That’s a hell of a job," he said, staring at the ruined eye socket. "Someone did nasty work, taking that out."

"Me, the first time."

"The first time?" Fulcanelli replied. "You didn’t mention anything about a second time."

"It’s a long story. I replaced it with… another. A more useful eye. Like I said, a long story. But that one was taken away."

Fulcanelli sighed, shaking his head. "I don’t know why you do it, Arthur. You could have such an easy, quiet life, and you make it so difficult for yourself. Set up a little shop, like mine. Salves and potions. Yours could have books and weapons as well. Much less dangerous. Less worry. Nobody tearing your eyes from your skull. Or even borrowed eyes from your skull."

Doyle smiled. The old man’s bitterness had receded, as it always did. They had known one another too long.

"I could do that," he agreed. "But then who would do the worrying?"?The ancient chemist clucked his tongue and unscrewed the top of the jar. He thrust two withered fingers into the amber liquid and withdrew, dripping, a tender, gleaming eyeball. The optic nerve hung from it like a tail, twitching and swaying, searching for something to latch onto.

Fulcanelli’s hand was shaking as he raised it toward Mr. Doyle’s face.

"Hold still," the old man said.

Doyle did not point out that he was not the one who needed to be still.

After wavering for several seconds, the chemist’s hand steadied and he slid the eyeball into Doyle’s empty socket. The optic nerve shot into the open space, and into the raw flesh beyond, like a striking cobra. A jolt of pain spiked through Doyle’s skull and he recoiled, cursing. He gritted his teeth together, groaning, and clapped his hands over his eyes. It felt like his whole head was going to split open, like that nerve was worming its way through his brain, tearing it to tatters.

Slowly, the pain subsided. He pulled his hands away and blinked.

Both eyes.

Relieved, and with only the memory of that terrible itch, he glanced at Fulcanelli. "You do good work, old man. You’re an artist."

The chemist beamed. "It is my calling."