Alchemy of Glass

by Barbara Barnett

  The idea had implanted itself too strong to simply ignore, and his fear of its return refused to be shaken loose. Had Gaelan ever seen the disease? Of course he had not. His understanding came solely from reading the meticulous and comprehensive accounts of his grandfather from 1528 and 1551—the last known occurrences in Britain. And Grandpapa’s correspondence with other practitioners. But had reading them, and within the past day, biased his assessment of the current situation?

  Should Gaelan even suggest to Bell they might well be confronting the sweating sickness, he would rightly dismiss anything Gaelan might offer by way of treatment as ridiculous, illegitimate. Perhaps fraudulent! He would be laughed from the Apothecary’s Hall for suggesting anything so absurd. Remove from him the Licentiate of the Society of Apothecaries, which granted him his small modicum of legitimacy in the practice of medicine. Place him squarely amongst the street mountebanks with their piss-infused elixirs and cure-all tonics. It would ruin him forever. Yet . . . would he be remiss to discount the idea entirely?

  The symptoms and their progress matched Bell’s patient. Yet, mightn’t they also match the influenza—La Grippe—albeit not any manifestation Gaelan had seen? Was it not, however, a much more likely diagnosis?

  And what of the two men Gaelan had treated the day he’d moved to Smithfield? Their symptoms were similar to those of Bell’s patient, and he had not considered at all that it might be the sweating sickness. Perhaps Gaelan should not have been so quick to send them on their way with only a jug of the invigorating tonic, an elderberry fever elixir, and promise to visit before the week passed. What if . . . ? He would visit their home as soon as he finished here.

  He removed a blank paper from a stationery box and his pen, carefully opening the ink bottle before dipping in the nib to write down his own observations—and Bell’s. How well did they match with the account of his grandfather? Gaelan needed to create his own picture of the present illness, its nature.

  Devastating as it had been in England, the sweating sickness never reached the Scottish court at Edinburgh. Word spread, his grandfather explained in the journal, that a magical incantation had vanquished the disease. Or it had been divine judgment for the heresies of the English Crown, and the English Crown alone. Superstition before knowledge, he’d said, was the way of the world. No magic but his grandfather’s skill alone slayed what he’d called the demon disease, halting it at the border.

  Gaelan opened the journal, taking care with its ancient condition. The brittle pages were fragile with age, and the writing, though fine, had faded. A challenge to decipher.

  1528, 14th June

  There be little way to block this dragon of a disease at the border, and I fear its spread from England across the River Tweed and on to Edinburgh. Yet I feel it is within my powers as a man of science and medicine to fight its onslaught, protecting our sovereign nation and the young king, His Majesty, King of Scots, Seumas V Stiùbhairt. For the king has been in his short life through much all ready. No, I shall not, as the king’s physician, allow this fever, which already has devoured much of the English court, even unto King Henry’s household, to descend upon Scotland.

  The sickness is painful, to the head most especially, and sharp like a knife’s blade thrust behind the ear and lancing through to the other side. The pestilent fever sets the flesh ablaze, pouring forth sweat as if to douse it, but to no avail, until blistering the skin in the tenderest of places. But most worrisome be the fetid, corrupt, putrid, and loathsome vapors taking hold close by the heart and the lungs until such time as breathing constricts, which magnifies and increases and restricts of itself further until death take the sufferer.

  There be a cure for this in Airmid’s great book of healing, gratitude be given unto her and her fae kin, the Tuatha de Danann. For only in this book lay the recipe for the protective medication, which will prevent the disease from flaring unto these shores. I do not rightly know from whence comes their great knowledge, far beyond the ken of this humble man. Or any mortal walks this earth. If this be magic or this be medicine, I cannot tell ye. But only that it doth work to cure the sweate.

  Airmid’s book. “The ouroboros book,” and too far beyond Gaelen’s comprehension to wield it as skillfully as his forebears, as he’d learned during the Plague of 1625, when he’d used it to cure himself, only to leave him burdened with this accursed immortality.

  Since he’d discovered he did not age, and healed with the rapidity impossible in a mortal man, Gaelan rarely opened the manuscript, except to savor the exquisite illuminations, painted in jeweled inks, nearly alive and of beauty beyond description. He hoped the diagnosis for Bell’s patient would require only consultation with Grandpapa’s notes and nothing more.

  Each symptom, one by one, must be by itself treated if the sickness is not discovered in the first hours. It is the only way. The sweating, the malign shivering. The breathing—that be the worst of it. And should each sign be attended and hastily so, the patient shall mayhap recover. Oftentimes the symptoms present simultaneous as one, and quick of onset and of swift progress. Even thus, we must discern them each unto itself as be possible.

  Yet, it be in the preventative preparation wherein lies the key to taming this dragon of a disease, which spreads as wildfire, knowing no distinction neither of station nor standing, afflicting the nobility as it does the poorest wretch in London town. It is a tricky thing the preventative potion, for to convince a soul with no sign of illness to allow the insertion of the medicine through an incision in the skin is unlikely, nay near impossible. But done it shall be, and by royal decree if required.

  Gaelan continued reading, forming his own opinions of it, of Bell’s patient, his own. By the time he looked up again, the light had dimmed, and hours had passed. The day had been as quiet as he’d hoped, and perhaps this all had been for naught.

  His grandfather’s account was far from definitive. Yes, the similarities were irrefutable; still, Gaelan doubted it. After all, the sweating sickness was quite contagious, and but for the two possible cases he’d seen earlier—and Bell’s single patient—where was the expected spread of it? Would it not already have sickened many more? And the likelihood for it to appear again after centuries . . . ? As for Bell, he’d yet to return. Perhaps with good reason.

  Gaelan stretched, and went out into the day, taking a step into the busy market.

  “Mind your feet, there!”

  Gaelan jumped out of the way as two large men ran at a near trot, carrying between them the carcass of what been an enormous hog, nearly knocking him off his feet. No. No sign of illness. The market was as bustling as ever.

  “Mr. Erceldoune! I am so sorry. I am hours past when—”

  Bell. Finally. “It is of little matter, sir, if your patient is—”

  “Recovered! I daresay, remarkable! He was dying; I would swear upon it. But for that tonic you prepared for me. Salts, you say?”

  “Please do come in, Dr. Bell.” Gaelan ushered him from the street. “Sit awhile. I assure you, the tonic was not intended to cure anything, simply to . . . I am afraid I cannot take credit for simply restoring your patient’s bodily harmony, as it were. I confess, I’ve some success with it, but the mechanism of why it works is quite beyond me. When it does, which I am afraid to say is not as often as it fails.”

  “You are too humble, my dear sir, not to credit yourself—”

  “Perhaps my success comes from my reticence in bloodletting. I do not believe in it, nor do I believe it works, and may in fact make matters much worse, despite the common and so-called wisdom of many physicians—”

  “Here, here, sir. Do not insult—”

  “No, I do not mean you, nor the truly wise amongst physicians, and yet . . .” It was useless to explain. Bell would take any blunt comment as an affront to them all. “I do know, Dr. Bell,” Gaelan continued, returning to safer territory, “the tonic revives one who has lost a great of deal of fluid—sweating, diarrhea, vomiting—perhaps, with your patient it was
a simple fever, in the end. In any event, I am glad to hear he is much improved—and that you thought enough to report it to me.” Gaelan bowed slightly. “And I am deeply grateful. Once again, I apologize for any perceived—”

  Bell bowed slightly. “Accepted. And you must be preparing to close for the day. I shall not keep you. As for that chess match, I would quite enjoy the prospect of winning against you. And playing upon that quite magnificent chess table of yours.

  “I must say, I would not mind the diversion of a good game, if you’ve the time now. I’ve been unpacking crates all week long, and the prospect of a match tempts me—perhaps over a glass of very old whisky?”

  Even after only a week, Gaelan missed the intellectual challenge of a good game. The goodly folk of Smithfield were much concerned with assuring their families had enough to eat and providing for the most meager needs of their children and wives. Little time for the pleasurable pursuit of a game when survival was forever in doubt.

  “I’ve the time, if you’ve the whisky—and a set to match that table!”

  Gaelan smiled. “That I have. A moment, if you will, and I shall set the board.”

  A frisson of guilt as Gaelan thought of Cate upstairs, but he’d set a fresh kettle and cakes by her as she slept, so she could take tea when she arose. She’d no need to know Simon Bell was about.

  Gaelan brought over a decanter of the spirits from behind the counter with two tumblers. “I’ve only just uncrated the pieces. They’re quite delicate—old. A family heirloom.”

  One by one, Gaelan withdrew and unwrapped the pieces, setting each in its place.

  Simon drummed his fingers on the table, his gaze roving the spare shelves and Spartan appearance of the shop, which contrasted unfavorably, Gaelan knew, with shops in more fashionable parts of London.

  “I need no pretense of refinement, Dr. Bell. You see, the people here neither desire nor can afford the sorts of lotions and perfumes the residents of Hay Hill may consider essential. To them a dab of rose water is to stem the stench of a meat market—a practicality here, I am afraid.”

  “Why here?”

  Gaelan shook his head. “Why what?”

  “Why would you move . . . here, of all places? It is quite the subject of gossip amongst physicians in London. It is said you vanished with nary a word!”

  How to explain? Time came for Gaelan to move his shop to a new venue, lest inquiring eyes begin to notice that after ten years, he’d not aged a day. His patrons’ faces lined with age and their bellies fattened with realities of too much living, Gaelan was ever frozen at a fit age of eight and thirty. Not young, but never to grow a day older. Never a gray hair would infiltrate the dark auburn of his fine, long hair, no salt and pepper in his beard when he would be too lazy to have a shave. Someone would notice, if they had not already.

  “Did you not pay your rent? Slip it away to . . . shall we say . . . more humble quarters? Perhaps it was a lady made you flee.” Bell’s grin was as broad as it was smug. “Or,” Bell whispered, leaning in conspiratorially, “have you fallen in with the resurrection men, who’ve their headquarters no so far from this very spot, hmm? ‘Tis said quite a lucrative trade may be made by a surgeon with a steady hand and a taste for riches.”

  “Black or red?” Ignoring the interrogation, Gaelan held out his fists toward Bell, who tapped the left hand. “Red it is, then.”

  “So it shall remain a mystery.”

  “I suppose it shall. No, I have my reasons, and, I can tell you, naught to do with the goings on at the Man O’War!” Gaelan thought of an answer befitting the cheek of Bell’s suggestions. “No, sir, my move has perhaps more to do with the fact that despite the proximity of St. Bartholomew’s to this place, few of your colleagues would dirty their gloves beyond its gates, and certainly not in the service of those for whom payment is too dear.”

  It was as good an explanation as any. Better for the grain of truth to it. Gaelan was curious about Bell’s reaction. Would he take it as provocation?

  Simon’s head bowed. Touché. Perhaps the inquisition would be at an end.

  “These chessmen are rather unique. Quite old, you say? Are they bone? I confess I’ve never seen their like.”

  “Indeed. Carved walrus tusk . . . I am told. They have been in my family many generations into antiquity.”

  The board was new; the pieces belonged to his great-grandfather.

  Bell hoisted the queen in all her contemplative solemnity, examining her before setting down the piece, laughing. “They are quite comical, do you not think, with their bulging eyes and rotund forms? And the bishop, biting his shield in terror whilst hiding behind it—”

  “I do not believe they were intended as comical. But I concede the point. Your move?”

  Bell made his first move. Pawn to queen’s four. After three more moves, Gaelan could guess Bell’s next five, all predictable. Clearly, the physician was not as good a player as he believed himself to be.

  Gaelan seldom repeated his own openings, preferring to confound his opponent. Of course, he had two hundred years’ experience playing the game, not all with pieces and a board. A strategy of surprise. Ever a contingency plan at the ready.

  “Tell me more of your patient, Dr. Bell. Was his revival sudden or over some hours?”

  Gaelan moved his queen across the board with great relish. Not so many years ago, Her Highness could move but one square. “Check.”

  Simon surveyed the board before castling, protecting the king. “Ha! No, it was only after he drank the contents your tonic. What was in it, really? Or is it an apothecary’s secret?”

  “As I said earlier. Salts: magnesium, sodium, potassium. It’s an old formula, learned long ago, and as I told you, I’ve no idea why or how it works, other than to infuse him with liquid—and salts.”

  “Still, I would not mind knowing how to prepare it myself.”

  “Then you would have no reason to consult me—and pay me the exorbitant sums you shall.”

  “So it shall remain a secret. How much do I owe you for—?”

  “This game is payment quite enough. Perhaps you might supply the whisky next time.” Gaelan sighed and took Bell’s queen. “Checkmate, I believe. Would you mind jotting down your patient’s full range of symptoms, onset times, the path and time of his recovery?” He eyed the board, careful to keep his index finger poised atop the knight until Bell felled his king in resignation.

  “To what possible end?”

  “Curiosity, I suppose. An odd illness crosses my path . . .” He made no mention of the sweating sickness. The point was, at this juncture, irrelevant. Gaelan carefully replaced the pieces on the board. “Another go?”

  “I should be off. I shall be meeting several colleagues; supper at the club. Would you care to . . . ?” Bell stopped midthought; his face reddened, as he looked away, his gaze roving everywhere but toward his host.

  “Would I care to . . . what?” Gaelan tensed, keenly aware Bell could never finish that sentence without causing great offense.

  Bell stammered. “I don’t . . . It is not that . . . You see, the club requires . . .”

  “I do . . . see . . . quite well. I’ve not the time in any event!”

  Bell stood, stopping at a tall built-in bookshelf. He ran his finger along the spines, wide-eyed, removing a large volume from its place, turning to face Gaelan. “May I?”

  Gaelan nodded, deciding to let go the slight.

  “Is this a first edition Culpeper?”

  “Aye, it is at that. Dated 1659, if memory serves.” Anticipating the inevitable question, he added, “Found in a dustbin, if you would believe it!” It was a lie, of course; Gaelan acquired it from Nicholas Culpeper himself. “His life might have been . . .” Mine—Gaelan nearly said it aloud, thinking about his friend and colleague, shunned and humiliated as a witch, much as befell Gaelan’s own father. “He died at too early an age, before his work had been recognized and accepted.” It satisfied that Bell was so admiring of the work of a on
ce-discredited . . . apothecary.

  Gaelan recalled when Nicholas had gone off to war, the Battle of Newberry, to prove himself, and he never returned the same. “Consumption.”

  Bell looked up from the page. “Consumption?”

  “Yes. Erm . . . Nicholas Culpeper. He died from it, you know. A terrible loss to the trade—to medicine.” Gaelan struggled to not betray the wistfulness in his voice. “He was a gifted apothecary, Dr. Bell. Now, as you have your supper awaiting you at your club, so have I, upstairs in my flat. Then if you will excuse me, sir—” Gaelan bowed from the neck.

  “Of course—”

  Both men leapt, startled at the frantic pounding at the door. It rattled the blinds and threatened to loose the wood from its hinges.

  Gaelan opened it a crack, and a tall man pushed through, nearly toppling the apothecary from his feet. The man was panting as if he’d been pursued for miles on foot. His gaze was wild, terrified, darting from Bell to Gaelan and back.

  “Which of you be the apothecary . . . Erceldoune?” he croaked between breaths.

  “I am Erceldoune.” Gaelan observed the coiled demeanor, the way he seemed poised to pounce like a rabid dog. He bid Bell to leave, and quickly, but the physician did not move an inch from his place, transfixed.

  “Mr. Erceldoune, you must come with me quick as can be.”

  “What is the problem, Mr.—”

  The man suddenly lunged toward Bell, grabbing hold of him about the neck. “Who be this man, if man he be? Satan! Satan, I tell ye!” He collapsed in a heap at Bell’s feet.

  CHAPTER 18

  A moment later the man was again awake; he scuttled to the corner, his wild glare akin to a frightened wolf. By now, Bell had retreated to the other side of the shop, his fearful gaze never leaving the madman.