Alchemy of Glass

by Barbara Barnett

  “How did you do that? There is no candle. No—”

  Gaelan smiled as he set another globe on the workbench. He could tell her it was magic, and she would surely believe it. “It is but a chemical reaction. A small invention of mine. It casts less light than a candle might, but is safer up here, where fire is an ever-present danger, given all the paper and chemicals about. Besides which, the light casts fewer shadows, and makes for easier work.”

  He lit two more as he explained the process. Her gaze followed his every move. “Here, you try it.” Gaelan handed to her the orange powder and a second jar filled with a white, waxy semiliquid. “One spoon of the orange, one of the white.”

  She did as instructed and placed the globe. She shook her head as her eyes sparkled. “Incredible!”

  “Good. Now, tend to the remainder. This bench and the next only. After you’ve done, we must prepare the apparatus. Every flask, beaker, crucible, all of it, must be washed and dried—and very carefully. No breakage. And they must be absolutely free of any remaining residues. I’ve set a tub of soapy water by the window, and a tub of clear water beside it for rinsing. And rags. One rag for cleaning, another for drying. Let me know if the rinse tub becomes too soapy.”

  He watched as she moved toward the basins. “Wait.” Gaelan unboxed a small crate, withdrawing a stiff apron. “Place this over your clothing.” She set down the crate of glassware and metal implements at the far end of the laboratory, and satisfied she was busy at work, he went back to his own.

  Gaelan settled at his writing table and prepared two phosphorescent globes, which bathed the space in a bright blue-white light, perfect for the detailed work ahead of him. For just a moment, he lingered on the ever-changing leather cover of the ouroboros book, the tree at its center a living thing in the glow of the light globes. He ran his hand along the deeply engraved helices framing the tree; those, too, seemed so alive, undulating, entwined snakes joined like supports of a ladder, twisting in iridescent pewter and bronze.

  From within the tree, its scarlet heart of flame, yet another ouroboros, this one of fire, beckoned him. Bade him open its pages and bask in the radiance of its images.

  Opening to the dragonfly image, Gaelan matched it to the relevant page in Grandpapa’s journal, a copy of a letter to John Caius dated June 1553, after Caius had published his treatise on the sweating sickness.

  Removing a rectangle of blank parchment paper from a small inlaid wooden box, he retrieved the ornate metal pen he’d crafted, based upon the instructions of Mr. Frederick Bartholomew Folsch himself.

  My dear Caius, the dragonfly floats upon the winds of change, the harbinger of renewal—and of the enlightenment for which we and so many of our colleague yearn in these times, and has not yet been seen in our eyes, but which is coming. I feel it in my bones. Already it infuses our art, our music and literature, and only just beginning to inhabit science, if not the healing arts.

  The dragon is of the old world, steeped in the oldest tales of danger and war: the inscrutable mysteries of plague and disease. But it can be slain through the elemental world of the dragonfly as it takes up wisdom from the tiniest spirits of the plant world, its herbs and flowers, from the spirits of water—the essence of life, of healing. Forgive me, my dear colleague, if I wax once again poetical of the healer Airmid, for my own experience is entwined with her history, as I have before told you. Her legacy mine. Hers is the spirit world of nature, and its taming by means unknowable to the most of us, my poor self amongst them. Some might call it magic; I do not. It be only incomprehensible in the face of our own meager abilities.

  Yet, I know she is right. Simply put, as you and I both are keenly aware, that means little when it comes to scientific endeavour. You may think me mad, or dabbling in the sorcerer’s art, but I do think I have at hand the means for slaying this dragon fever we call the sweating sickness, and that you have so eloquently chronicled in your publication, and which during the great pestilence of it in 1528 I was able to keep from the Scottish border by the means I describe herein. I share this with you colleague to colleague by way of this correspondence, should the dragon Sweate again appear in our midst.

  Another entry suggested that Caius never replied, leaving his grandfather disappointed, for he’d risked much in disclosing the nature of the cure to his colleague. “Whatever John Caius doth think of me, I know what I know,” he’d inked in scarlet.

  The writings made no further mention of John Caius, which was of no consequence to Gaelan, for in his grandfather’s meticulous hand lay the cure to a disease that had been gone from these shores nearly three hundred years. Whether John Caius had believed it or not, Gaelan did.

  Symphytum, but only a small bit of the leaf, for too much renders the entire potion poisonous. Must be ground carefully fine, and according to the book of healing exactly, distilled then into a large crucible by fresh water to properly draw forth the curative humors and dried—before mixing to a syrup with dilute elderberry wine, made from a very strong batch, aged for a year at the least. Into the crucible place a faenugraecum seed, ground well with . . .

  Here, there were several symbols unfamiliar to Gaelan, referenced to the ouroboros book. And instructions for a second distillation extract, this one of pansies, violets, and narcissus, and several ingredients noted by the unusual symbols alone, all in proportions as prescribed in the ouroboros book. The two were to be blended in purified alcohol and dried to yellow needle-sharp crystals. Suspended in pure olive, oil, the preparation would be inserted beneath the skin by means of a simple incision into the buttock, thigh, or other fatty place on the body.

  Together, these herbs will mitigate the difficult breathing and drain the chest of fluid, which will calm the breathing and ease the heart and kidneys. Thus says the book of healing. The instructions called for ample water, clear, clean water, preferably from a mineral spring. The recipe for a preventive medication followed, utilizing many of the same ingredients, but with the addition of a small amount of blood from a living, but afflicted, soul.

  The symbols would match bottles and pouches locked in his father’s ancient apothecary box, which he’d kept close at hand for more than two centuries. Gaelan copied each symbol into a list with the amounts and order of combination.

  The leather pouches and small vials in the apothecary box were meticulously organized. Despite the age of the box, its deteriorating condition, the contents seemed fresh enough; even the herbs, though dried, were yet green. What if he needed to treat the whole of Smith-field? Each dose required only a small measure, but would he have enough? Yes, if he took care, but there was little room for error.

  The preparation would require hours. Gaelan glanced at the clock. Already near four and he’d yet to open the shop. It had been quiet all the day, no clamor at the door, no pounding on the glass. Perhaps all this was for naught—an academic exercise to file away, hoping never to have need for it.

  He stood, stretching, as he listened for the satisfying, gentle snap of sinew as it loosened.

  “Mr. Erceldoune. You’ve finished?”

  Caitrin. He’d forgotten her completely. Gaelan’s breath caught in his throat. “My lady, still you are here? I had . . . It has been many hours and I would have thought you’d returned—”

  “I finished the task quite some time ago, but you’d not dismissed me, and I did not wish to disturb you at your work. I busied myself. For a while at least.”

  And so she had. The benches were polished clean, the glass sitting neatly on the shelving, ready for him; she’d uncrated several boxes of book and other materials, setting them in good order. He was impressed by her enterprise, but she should not have so exerted herself.

  He had nothing to say that might make him look less a fool, less a brute to have neglected her for endless hours. He approached her, mortified. “You’ve done well, and I am ashamed for not having the simple courtesy to—”

  “You were hard at work with your work. My father would have thrashed me had I—�
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  “That, I assure you, I should never do—to anyone. Not a servant, not an apprentice, and certainly not one under my care and protection. I—”

  “I have never seen anyone so . . . so deeply . . . You seemed rather more scholar than what I imagine an apothecary . . . At least what I know of apothecaries, which is, admittedly, truly little.” She shrugged.

  The fading light added to her air of melancholy. What glimmer of joy might reside there—had resided there—once? Before . . . he’d seen a glimpse of it with the Rupert’s drop. Perhaps he would see it again. Perhaps . . .

  Gaelan’s eyes were gritty with the sands of sleep, urging his lids to give in to the rest eluding him for three days now. But Gaelan was unready to give up the fight just yet. Not now, when he was so very close.

  CHAPTER 28

  Long-necked flasks and tubes twisting and turning in spirals awaited Gaelan’s skilled hands as he fixed ground glass to ground glass joint, flask to tubing to beaker to retort—a crystal castle. A genuine work of art had it not such practical use as it bubbled and brewed, capturing the impurities, diverting them to a waste vessel, collecting the pure extract in another.

  Gaelan enjoyed the challenge of a truly perplexing disease, and this one had puzzled medicine for hundreds of years. Yet, would it not be better this one be not what he thought at all, a simple, fleeting fever instead? Not the epidemic he feared?

  And if it were the sweating sickness, from where had it arisen? And how? The riddle was hardly solved, then, was it?

  Gaelan collected the distillate into cobalt blue cylinders, protecting the liquid from direct light, before adding the remaining compounds, sealing each with paraffin, melted and secured. The final instruction, to craft a device to inject the substance just beneath the skin, where it would take hold and course through the blood to transform the dragon into a harmless dragonfly.

  The good people of Smithfield would likely resist the idea as absurd. Who would believe that a small amount of liquid, inserted beneath the skin, would cure much of anything? Gaelan himself was not fully certain the medicine would work. What if Grandpapa was wrong within the limitations of sixteenth-century scientific knowledge? Even years after being proved and proved again, Jenner’s smallpox vaccination was looked upon with suspicion by many men of medicine.

  Gaelan crafted an instrument of glass and fused hollow metal, an improvement over Jenner’s original device, and vastly more sophisticated than the primitive tool used by Grandpapa. Silver was too soft, but combined with nickel it would do quite well, and be more precise and a bit less terrifying and painful than the method employed by Jenner for his variolae vaccinae smallpox medicine.

  For now, it was enough. The preventative medication could wait until the need arose—if ever it did. Gaelan sighed, relieved to at last be finished, as the sunrise sky of pink and indigo filtered through the early morning steam and mist, painting Smithfield in unearthly hues. The view from the laboratory was what Gaelan appreciated most about his new location. The tall mullion windows surrounded the turret shape of the room, offering him the gift of the sky in three directions: east, north, and south.

  Once he located his telescope, and this crisis—should it materialize—passed, he would take advantage of the view to observe the asterisms and constellations, galaxies and planets, ever changing, ever constant. He ventured the lady Caitrin might find it amusing as well. He would explain to her the lenses and mirrors—the way glass reflected and refracted within the tube, drawing the heavens closer and more spectacular than imaginable . . .

  Stop! Whatever was he thinking? He must be more exhausted than he thought. The girl would be leaving, and soon. She had to go. Somewhere. Anywhere.

  Perhaps if he might only sit a moment, close his eyes . . . come back to his senses. A minute or two would suffice . . .

  “Mr. Erceldoune! Mr. Erceldoune!” a woman wailed from below. The shouts were loud enough to be heard from the third story. Had she not thought to use the doorbell?

  “Yes, yes. I’m coming!” he muttered, carefully placing the medicine vials and the injector device into a large, soft leather pouch before flying down the two flights of steep stairs.

  He’d reached the second landing when he heard it. A long, keening wail from the street below through the open windows of his flat. A loud commotion, equal parts terror and confusion. Then pounding on the window glass of the shop.

  Taking the stairs two at a time, he managed to tuck his shirt tails into his trousers and fasten his waistcoat. A sweep of hair from his brow—a useless endeavor on any day—and he thought himself modestly presentable.

  A crowd had gathered in front of the shop. An elderly woman, breathless and red-faced, stopped slamming her open hand against the door. At the front of the crowd was Simon Bell, staring through the window glass.

  Gaelan opened the door a mere crack, anxious that none be trampled coming over the threshold.

  Bell came through first, followed by the remaining crowd, as Gaelan pulled the door wider. “I shall be a moment; please be patient.” He ushered Bell behind the counter. “What is it? What’s happened?”

  “Mr. Erceldoune. My patient took quite a turn overnight. He succumbed just an hour past. And these . . .” Bell gestured behind him. “Your own neighbors. I have taken the liberty to enquire . . . The symptoms they describe would seem to suggest that . . .”

  Gaelan barely listened as he observed the gathered crowd for their symptoms, prioritizing the most urgently in need. Still, how might he attend to so many sick at once?

  Only two showed any obvious sign of the illness. The remainder? Perhaps; perhaps not. Yet they would require examination, if only later. Showing the two men into the examining room, where they might be seated, Gaelan turned his attention to those standing about the shop.

  “I would ask that if you do not require medical care for yourself, to please return this afternoon.”

  Several protested, shouting over each other about sisters, mothers, wee ones at home.

  “If you would all be so kind to write your addresses and names, I promise I shall call as soon as I am able at your homes. Await me there.” He pulled a sheet of paper from a box, placing a quill and ink bottle on the counter.

  Some nodded their assent; others stood, glancing about, expressions vaguely confused. Of course. This was not Hay Hill.

  “If you cannot write . . .” He turned to Bell. “Would you be so kind, Dr. Bell? And then follow me, when you are finished, into the examination room?”

  Bell froze. “Mr. Erceldoune, I did not come here to . . . You would dare ask of me to act as clerk? To an apothecary? I have heard—”

  Of all the . . . Gaelan had no time for . . . He called on all his will to avoid rolling his eyes and escalate the conflict. Indeed, to Bell, it would seem the insult, never considering the practicality of it while Gaelan attended to his own patients. He’d no inclination to argue the subject. Not now.

  “Please, sir. If you would do me this service, I would be most in your debt.” Gaelan punctuated each word with a solicitude he did not feel. “Now if you do not mind, sir, I must attend to my examining room. Please follow as soon as you might. I’ve prepared something during the past night that might prove effective against this disease!”

  Where to start? Each patient exhibited the same symptoms he and Bell had seen earlier, but at differing stages. All suffered lancing headaches and quaked with chills and extreme sweating. One clutched his chest, his breathing laborious and noisy.

  Bell came through to the room. “I’ve done it.” Bell handed the paper to Gaelan, smiling.

  “Look here, Mr. Erceldoune, I apolo—”

  “Have you used one of these?” Gaelan handed Bell a small wooden tube, wider at one end, ignoring the Bell’s irrelevant apology. “I can better hear the heart sounds, but also the lungs.”

  “I have only read of it. Stethoscope? Laennec. In France? It is an odd-looking device.”

  “The idea, yes, Laennec, but they ar
e yet too hard to acquire. This is of my own design. It works well.”

  Bell raised an eyebrow. “Indeed.”

  Gaelan handed him the device. “I have prepared a treatment.” He declined to suggest that he also had the means to prevent the disease entirely. Bell would certainly balk at the notion.

  “Truly? Well done, you. And this stethoscope, quite the instrument!”

  Gaelan retrieved a bottle of clear liquid from a shelf, pouring a small amount in each of several cups. “Hear me out before you dismiss what I say.” He handed the cups to Bell. “Would you mind? One for each.”

  Bell scoffed but did as Gaelan asked. “Is this your treatment?”

  “It is but the same salt solution I gave to you earlier. No. I have come across something quite old—an ancestor who’d served the Scottish court long ago. As you likely are aware, symptoms such as these appeared during Tudor England—decimated the court of Henry VIII, and several of his family succumbed.”

  “You are serious, sir? Henry VIII? Tudor England. Do you mean to say . . . Surely you do not suggest this is the English sweating sickness? This is beyond comprehension. I’ve no time to—”

  “Yes.” Gaelan knew this would be difficult, near impossible, but at least that Bell would hear him out. “Indeed, I am well aware that sudor anglicus,” he continued, using the disease’s formal name, “disappeared from these shores by the mid-sixteenth century, yet . . .”

  Bell was having none of this—that much was obvious as he impatiently tapped his foot and pinned Gaelan with a cold, disbelieving stare. Gaelan had erred in suggesting it; perhaps a less potentially controversial suggestion might have better served, but it was now too late. He’d assumed Bell’s mind was as open to the unconventional as Benjamin’s. A particularly vicious influenza would have been far easier for to Bell accept. An error of tactics.