“Perhaps it is the sweat, perhaps not, but it must be something related—the symptoms match up too well. Its progress is far too swift for the influenza. You know this, otherwise you would have not consulted me.”
“Obviously. There exists no effective treatment for the influenza. Useless bleeding, elixirs, potions with ridiculous names that do nothing. In the end, one recovers, or one does not. I did not come here to be told—”
“Do you not see the resemblance in the presentation . . . from your medical education? Surely, it was discussed in lecture . . . in required readings . . .” Of course, he did not see it. He would have read of it, a single paragraph, perhaps a chapter in a medical text on an extinct disease. Why bother with it? History never repeats, then, does it? “Allow me, sir, to explain at least the method of treatment. I believe you will find it useful—whatever we wish to call the affliction—”
“And this ancestor of yours? An apothecary as well? An alchemist? Perhaps the court conjurer?”
Gaelan stalked across the room to sit beside the elderly patient, his hands clenched in frustration. He was in no mood to defend . . . “My . . . ancestor . . . served Queen Mary of Scotland as court physician. An accomplished alchemist and apothecary, but were they not all practitioners of medicine of the time? All curious of alchemy? Witness Sir Isaac Newton.”
Gaelan had no time to waste upon such debate. “It does not render the diagnosis—or the treatment—any less valid.” Gaelan hoped he did not seem overly defensive of a long-ago, supposedly long-forgotten relation. “He was quite famous in his time. A close correspondent of John Caius. It is said that his skill kept the sweat from the Scottish border. That is, at least, the family legend.”
Bell threw up his hands. “But, really, the English sweat? Surely—”
“At the least, do me the courtesy to hear me out. I’ve used his meticulous notes and those of contemporaries. John Caius included. You have read Caius, of course?”
“Anyone may acquire the Caius manuscript. It is famous, discussed in every medical college. The disease, simply put, no longer exists. Has not for a long time now. How can you expect me to accept what you say?”
Gaelan strode through the curtains and back into the shop, fuming, leaving Bell in the examining room. Bell’s grandfather had a far more open mind about medicine. Is that not always the way, resting for generations on the laurels of famed forebears? Bell would dismiss him. So be it.
Bell followed, taking up his coat and hat. “Those texts to which you refer were written three centuries past! You cannot be serious about attempting . . . You, sir, would be no better than the street mountebanks who hawk their salves and potions in the market. I came to you because of your reputation, and you tell me of ancient diseases and magical cure-alls. Perhaps if there was something more definitive. Persuasive. My dear sir, I’ve no wish to grieve you. Nor to suggest—”
“Well, then, what do you propose to do? I have nothing else. No proof, other than . . . I do aim to test my theory. The patients in my examination room would be the first to receive it.”
“I have already three dead from whatever this is, and four more ill in a neighboring house. I’ve no time to listen to any more of such imprudent, irresponsible theories.”
Three more? Bell had not before mentioned others. “Then pray, Dr. Bell, it does not sweep like a fury from home to home, until it reaches the Thames.” But Gaelan was certain, now, it would, spreading death like a black smoke settling upon neighborhood after neighborhood, choking all in its path. “Mine is but one theory—undoubtedly your fellow physicians at the Royal Academy and your club have theirs. And we shall see who fares the better taming this dragon!”
“Mr. Erceldoune, I wish neither to provoke nor to disdain you. For you appear to be an honest man and quite skilled, and I might see us do a good business together over time. Perhaps you are right that I may be better served following convention this time. And so, I bid you a good morning, so you might return to your . . . customers.”
“Dr. Bell, one more thing before you take your leave.”
“I am listening.”
“You must be aware that your own grandfather was a brilliant apothecary-surgeon.”
“Of course I am aware; my dear grandfather was the most gifted of all—a true innovator in both surgery and medicine. He died when I was boy, yet his—”
“And might I add, one who did not eschew a medical idea simply for its improbability or its, perhaps, obscure or arcane nature.”
“You speak as if you know him yourself.”
“I do!” Gaelan paused, shaken by the involuntary admission. “That is to say . . . his works. I have read every one of his treatises; he was, as you say, the most gifted of surgeons. His publications on everything from ulcers to anesthesia to . . .” Gaelan knew he had to stop himself. “Suffice to say I know his work very well, and I would think—”
“I’ve no time for this Mr. Erceldoune. Nor do you. I will bid you a good day, and best of luck in pursuit of a treatment for this unwieldy disease that so threatens London. If you like, I would be honored to share with you any effective treatment of which I might learn.”
Of course, these men of medicine would never enter Smithfield’s alleyways and overcrowded flats to treat the ill themselves. “And I would be willing to hear it. I will, likewise, be most interested to share whatever success I may have. Permit me one more question, sir.”
Bell nodded tightly.
“Is it unheard of for an ailment thought long ago disappeared to reappear quite suddenly and without explanation, taking all by surprise?”
“Possible, yes, but you, with your ancient remedies from an ancestor three centuries gone. Do you not realize how you harm your own reputation? Those of your trade?”
Bell had a point. A colossal error of judgment to mention the sweat at all, one that might cost many, many lives. Damnation!
“If you should be successful,” Bell continued, his tone softer, conciliatory. “If you should happen upon a genuinely effective treatment, I would be happy to hear of it.” Bell paused, his hand on the door, turning back to Gaelan, a satisfying sheepishness in his countenance. “Forgive me, but before I take my leave, I wonder, do you have additional bottles of that salt elixir to spare? I would pay you an excellent price for it.”
Touché.
“Of course. Without charge, for had you not come to me with your original patient, I never would have . . .” No, Gaelan had no time to repeat the argument. He removed three large amber bottles from beneath the counter. “This should serve your needs. It is quite concentrated, so you must mix with water two parts to one.”
“You are very kind. Then I bid you a good day.”
Gaelan bowed and left Bell standing in the shop as he disappeared behind the curtain to his examining room.
CHICAGO’S NORTH SHORE, PRESENT DAY
CHAPTER 29
Hours since returning from the glass museum, Anne’s fingers still tingled. Unable to resist just one more visit, if only to prove . . . something . . . to herself, Anne touched the glass panel, and again perceived Gaelan’s presence, if only out of the corner of her eye, a sputtering, grainy, colorless light going in and out of focus. A blink, and he vanished. She propped three pillows behind her and sank into the bed. Her imagination, and nothing more. A conspiracy of grief and a grand dollop of her bloody romanticism.
Pressing down on her eyelids did no good diminishing the tension behind her eyes. She sighed, feeling trapped, a tire caught in a muddy rut. At least, she’d be rid of Preston Alcott in a few days’ time, a polite apology that no, she was no miracle worker and could do no better than the several other physicians who’d already told him the same thing. She could get back to . . . What, exactly? Obsessing over a glass exhibit? Over Gaelan? For what possible purpose?
A vastly better, healthier choice would be to finish up with Erin Alcott, put Simon’s house with an estate agent, clear out Gaelan’s shop and flat, and get the bloody hell home to
the UK.
To what? To her mother, the rest of her family with their ceaseless barrage of questions about an inheritance that came out of nowhere from a relative of whom none them had ever heard? Back to Paul Gilles—bygones being gone?
Oxford. She could resume teaching, and Oxford would do quite well as a retreat to reset her life. One thing for certain, her intended midafternoon nap was not going to happen, tired as she was.
Oh God! It had been two days since she’d cleaned out her email inbox. No time like the present, eh? Days ago, she’d set her search engine alerts to the Galahad Society and all those cited in the article she’d read.
Cheers! Three emails, all pointing to the same item on a website of which she’d never heard. Two Minutes to Midnight Newsletter. What the bloody hell was that?
The Galahad Society Claims to Have Identified the Missing Piece for Human Immortality!
The Galahad Society. The name may be familiar to you only if you’re a fan of Arthurian legend. But it is a well-funded organization, dedicated to finding the Holy Grail as did the Arthurian knight for whom the society is named. Immortality is its high-stakes, high-reward game, and it aims to be the first to lay claim to it, to win the patent for it, and to make a fortune off it in the most mercenary ways. As our readers are well aware, whoever holds this key to immortality will wield the most power in the world. Wars have been fought over much less. And they’re still going on, underground, and increasingly in the light of day.
The CTO of the Galahad Society, Mr. John Brady, pictured left, owns a chain of blood banks one might better associate with vampires and Gothic fables. The blood banks are an essential arm of the Galahad Society and its long-term agenda, supplying it with ample reserves of fresh blood for its research goals, and, as an anonymous former member revealed to us, providing members an interim fountain of youth through direct transfusion of blood from the youngest, healthiest donors.
Very recently, the Galahad Society has stepped up its activities. Brady claims they have found “the final puzzle piece” just as they had begun to give up the quest—in a pint of blood donated by a walk-in client, he claims, at one of his Chicago, Illinois, blood banks. They are, he said, doing more extensive testing, including what they hope will be a promising in vivo experiment. Stay tuned for more news to come.
The missing link to the puzzle of immortality. How many times had she read that one? Heard it even at professional conferences. And this piece had all the signatures of a conspiracy theorist at his trade. And the name? Two Minutes to Midnight? Read: Two Minutes to the Apocalypse!
What was it Alcott had promised the day before? Something special to help along her treatment for Erin? Was it coincidence a Chicago blood bank was the source of the blood? It fit. What if Alcott or one of his cronies at the Galahad Society had stolen the samples? Or paid someone to do it. Hospital workers here in the U.S. were poorly compensated. What about the waste disposal company? And even sensationalist, conspiracy-mongering rags got it right from time to time, didn’t they?
She read the article one more time and the truth of it sucker punched her in the gut. The missing tissue samples. Had to be. She’d earlier dismissed the two phone calls as bad record-keeping or sloppiness in the lab.
She scarcely made it to the guest bathroom before losing the entire contents of her stomach. She sat on the bathroom floor, surrounded by the mess and stink of her own vomit, until she could stand without falling.
Her clothes were a ruin.
“Dr. Shawe, are you all right?” Mrs. O’Malley was running up the stairs, her feet thudding even on the carpeting. Did she have bat ears, that she heard the vomiting from all the way downstairs? Anne would have to remember that.
“I’m fine, Mrs. O’Malley. No need to—”
Too late.
“Dr. Shawe! Let me—”
Fuck. Anne slowly rose from the floor, catching a glance of herself in the mirror. What a fucking mess!
An hour later, Anne was cleansed by the freshening breeze wafting up from the lake, surrounding her in the sweet perfume of Simon’s garden. She sipped at the spice tea Mrs. O’Malley prepared. “Extra ginger,” she’d noted. “For your tummy, dear.”
Closing her eyes, she tried to shove all thought from her mind, but that fucking article, Samuelson’s phone call, and Alcott’s “surprise” lingered like a fucking colony of mosquitoes buzzing about her ears on summer’s evening.
She wanted not to believe. Two Minutes to Midnight Newsletter—really? But the evidence, circumstantial as it was, had piled too high to dismiss entirely. Erin Alcott’s GPC was real enough, and even if Alcott were the ringleader of the entire enterprise—for which there was absolutely no evidence—Anne was a physician, and she owed it to the girl. To do otherwise would violate every oath she’d taken as a doctor.
Twilight had rendered the eastern sky in dusky red, transforming the water into sculpted clay in the onshore breeze. It had been a long day, and she was more tired than she’d been since arriving in Chicago. By now, Erin Alcott’s genomic scans would be back from the lab. One quick look, and then off to bed, take two.
Thankfully, Mrs. O’Malley was nowhere to be seen.
Anne sighed as she sank into the down coverlet and feather pillows, which surrendered and swathed her in the softest of cocoons. Erin Alcott’s genome scans could wait until morning, couldn’t they?
As if her curiosity would allow her to sleep. And the gnawing anxiety from that article would eat away at the edges of sleep until she was full up and dawn had broken. She did not need a sleepless night. Fine. A quick look, and then to bed. Straightaway!
Wrapping herself in the down comforter, Anne retrieved her tablet, opening the relevant email. “Scans attached. Useable, however, unidentified artifacts present on all images. Should not affect visual inspection and analysis.”
Fucking brilliant. As if she weren’t already in a black mood. Artifacts? How the bloody hell had that happened?
Tomorrow. First thing, she’d examine them, artifacts or not, and be done. She didn’t want to redraw Erin’s blood; she wanted to rid herself of Preston Alcott—stat.
Right? Now . . . to bed!
With the bedroom windows full open, Anne hoped the rhythmic sloshing of the waves back and forth, back and forth, cascading over the rocks below and drawing back would lull her to dreamless, deep sleep.
Yeah, right! As soon as she closed off all thought of the scans, her suspicions about Alcott rose up to harass her. Finally, to the music of Vivaldi, Anne managed to force Alcott and his daughter from her thoughts. The music faded as she floated between sleep and wakefulness, thinking of the exquisite glass panel Gaelan had created so long ago, in another lifetime.
The images danced in the far reaches of her retinas and reflected on her eyelids as they closed, drawing her in until she found herself somehow inside Ariadne’s labyrinth—circles within circles, hedgerows within concentric hedgerows, like those at her cousin’s large country home, but in a palette of impossible color, shimmering like the lake at sunrise.
The Minotaur grunted and sputtered in the distance, spoiling for combat. With whom? Her? Who was she, Ariadne or Theseus—or a mere spectator, sitting among the throngs on the sidelines waiting, watching?
A wind chime pinged and tinged, gentle, but somehow discordant at the edges of sleep, an anchor beyond the labyrinth as she drifted beyond wakefulness. The melody familiar yet completely foreign, a single note played on the harmonics of her old, beat-up guitar. The twelfth fret vibrating beneath her index finger, clear and high as fine crystal, piercing, yet barely audible. The lone note resonated, diffusing into undulating waves, encroaching upon her field of vision until the labyrinth exploded into a fractional dimension of blazing color.
Then she saw him. Theseus at battle with the Minotaur and being savagely beaten. No! That is not the way it’s supposed to go. That’s not the story at all. The Minotaur split itself into six and surrounded the wounded Theseus. She cried out, willing him on to pre
vail as he had in the myth, as depicted in the glass panel. Theseus turned toward her, as if he’d heard her pleas. But the face was not that of Theseus; Gaelan’s piercing black gaze bore through her from the center of the labyrinth just before he fell, and the Minotaur leapt upon him with a howl, igniting the very air. Gaelan skittered out of reach, and Anne was grateful for the Minotaur’s lumbering efforts, slow and clumsy, powerful as it was.
“Gaelan!” she shouted. “Watch out!” But the strange harmonic tones of the wind chimes stifled her voice; nothing emerged that she could discern.
The labyrinth gave way to reveal a new tableau, bathed in the strange luminescence of refracted light, painted on a black canvas of gleaming rock. Here too, Gaelan took center stage, speaking to someone, but none she could see. His lips moved, yet she could not hear his voice. He sat on the floor beneath a spiral maze of glass prisms, differing shapes casting colored patterns that arced against every surface, projecting in bridges of color, wall to wall, a surreal crystal forest, blinding as it was brilliant.
“Gaelan!” She called his name repeatedly, but her voice was swallowed by the constant hum of the prisms vibrating through the room, louder and louder, finally waking her. The scene disintegrated into her pillow, minute fractals of color and sound, the wind chimes gently pinging in the cool late spring breeze drifting through the screened window.
Perspiration had dampened the bedcovers, waking her and leaving her hot and sticky despite her shivering. Her pulse was racing—better than one hundred beats per minute. Anne flung away the covers and ran to the window to breathe in the fresh air wafting through the screen. Slowly, her respiration leveled as she shook free of the nightmare.
The rough-smooth facets of the labyrinth necklace caught the moonlight. It twinkled against her collarbone in harmony with the reflection of the full moon against the lake. In the distance, a chorus of cicadas added rhythm, out of time, but somehow fitting the strangeness of her life these days.
Anne was completely awake, wired and restless. Who was she kidding? She’d never fall back to sleep, not now. May as well get some work done. Tackle Erin Alcott’s genome scans. And those supposed artifacts. Hopefully, they’d not catastrophically affected the relevant chromosomal regions.
Alchemy of Glass Page 24