Gods of Aberdeen

by Micah Nathan

  It was silent outside; the storm had stopped. The radiators started to tick.

  “So you do all the testing on yourself?” I said.

  Art shook his head, grimly. “Sometimes I use cats,” he said. “I wish there was another way but there isn’t…”

  They wanted me. They wanted me down there. They were clawing at my ankles.

  I’d seen Art that one night, carrying a sack to the pond. That’s where he dumps the cats, I realized. How many? I thought. Hundreds of bones scattered at the bottom of the pond.

  “Cats,” I said, with a shudder. “Art, that’s terrible.”

  Art looked unfazed. “Scientists test on animals all the time,” he said. “I use cats because they’re more complex organisms than mice and there’s no shortage of them, especially out here, in the country, where none of these old farmers neuter their pets. I would use dogs—seeing as how their genetic sequence is pretty close to ours—but I have an ethical problem with that. I had a dog, as a child, and can’t bring myself—”

  I remembered the conversation with Howie, that night on the boat:

  Don’t worry about it. They’ll tell you, if they want.

  Tell me what?

  I really can’t say. It’s not up to me.

  “Howie almost told me,” I said. “That night when he rammed your canoe. He almost told me something about the attic but stopped himself. Is that where you do your experiments?”

  Art shook his head. “Howie can’t ever keep his mouth shut,” he said, disgusted. “I used to think it was the alcohol. He’d run his mouth off at parties, telling people how he’s working on the secret to immortality. He’s not into it for the same reasons Dan and I are. Really, his behavior runs contrary to the whole spirit of alchemy. He’s like the charlatans who gave alchemy a bad reputation, duping kings into funding their con games. Howie has this insane notion that he’ll become independently wealthy and cut off relations completely with his father.”

  “He thinks alchemy is going to make him rich?” I said.

  “Sure. Transmutation. Converting worthless base metals into gold.” Art yawned. “It’s a natural by-product of the Philosopher’s Stone.”

  “This is all theory, though, right?”

  “Maybe,” Art said. “It’s all theory until we succeed. But it takes time. It isn’t like you pour in the ingredients, flick a switch, and stand back. Transmutation is a very difficult process, and the yield is often so small that it isn’t worth the trouble. Besides, transmutation is supposed to be the means to an end, not the end itself.”

  “Let me see the attic,” I said.

  Art shook his head. “The attic is off-limits.”

  “Why?”

  “Contamination. You don’t know your way around a lab. Most importantly, this isn’t your project. You need to focus on Dr. Cade’s work.”

  “Does Dr. Cade know about this?” I said.

  Art stood up and gathered the papers from the bed. “Professor Cade respects what I do during my own free time, so long as I’m up to date on the project. Frankly, I could be running a brothel out of my room and Dr. Cade wouldn’t know. He’s so concerned with his books that he’s blind to everything else.”

  “Is anyone else helping you?”

  “Cornelius,” Art said.

  Of course, I thought. Cornelius and his pigeons. Art and his cats.

  “Our methodology is different, though,” said Art. “He does help me with the occasional translation, but most of the time he’s just a babbling old man. I don’t pay him much attention.”

  I suppose I should’ve been freaked out but I was too excited. Everything was coming together, those shadows behind the curtain—from the footsteps in the attic to the pigeon grave and Cornelius’s weird story about Claude-Henri de Rouvroy, and even the three books Cornelius had wanted me to give to Art. They were rare-book guides. Art acquired rare books while searching for alchemical manuscripts under the guise of research for Dr. Cade.

  “What about those mushrooms,” I said. “That day I found you on the couch, passed out.”

  Art nodded. “The original alchemists—pre–Christian era, before Jesus allegories entered alchemic formulae and fucked everything up—felt the spiritual component of alchemy was just as important as the physical. They felt you had to be receptive to mystical knowledge before you could understand the scientific side. So they used hallucinogens, a shortcut to communing with the higher levels of consciousness. I’ve tried peyote, mescaline, and even a distillation of Claviceps purpurea, the same alkaloid that caused ergotism in the Middle Ages. Those mushrooms you saw that afternoon. Stropharia cubensis. Remember the night I rescued you from Peter?”

  Of course I remembered.

  “I came to that party to buy acid from Leon,” Art said. “The bald-headed kid with the German glasses who was hitting on your girlfriend Nicole.”

  “Nicole’s not my girlfriend,” I said.

  Art went on. “Leon sold me some supposedly new form of acid called ALD-52, derived from LSD-25. Touted it as very potent and totally ‘mind-blowing.’ It was all bullshit. I saw some colors for a few hours and then I got a wicked headache and fell asleep.”

  “Why?” I said.

  “Probably low quality,” Art said. “The good stuff isn’t supposed to—”

  “No,” I said. “Why are you doing this?”

  Art looked at me as if I’d asked the obvious.

  “I’m searching for truth,” he said. “Finding the balance between faith and reason. This is the root of alchemy. Can’t you see the symbolism? Lead to gold, transmutation…it’s all allegory. From the imperfect to the perfect. From death to life. Immortality. Can you imagine a more beautiful goal, a more noble pursuit?”

  I said nothing. Art looked exasperated.

  “Aren’t you afraid of death?” he said.

  I’ve deluded myself into thinking that if I’d answered differently and joined Art’s quest, then maybe I could have guided it in a different direction. Who’s to say—physicists claim a butterfly stirring the air in Beijing can influence weather patterns in New York. Maybe if I’d been more curious, or said something to Dr. Cade, or altered any of my behaviors in even the slightest manner, maybe the dark days ahead could have been avoided. But it’s more likely, however, that such beliefs are just vestigial ideals left over from the days when I thought I had such power.

  No, I told him. I’m not afraid of death at all, and even though I lied, at the time I believed it to be true.

  The next morning I awoke early and worked at my desk, pushing through the red haze of a hangover, while out my window I could see Howie and Nilus playing in the backyard under a brilliant sun that eventually melted most of the snow.

  Charlemagne emerged into darkness, into a 7th-century Western Europe devoid of learning that had suffered under the rule of the Merovingian dynasty. His vision looked toward the future and kept its roots planted firmly in the past: Roman civilization was to be restored, infused with a new breed of Christianity, and his kingdom, Charlemagne’s kingdom, was to be pleasing not only to the Church, but ultimately, and more importantly, to God.

  Francia lacked the scholars necessary for Charlemagne’s vision, and so he recruited from the surrounding lands. Paul the deacon, historian of the Lombards; Peter of Pisa, the grammarian; Angilbert, the abbot of St. Riquier; Theodulf the Visigoth came from Spain. Alcuin, the greatest scholar of his time, left his home of York and joined Charlemagne with even greater ambitions. Their kingdom was to be a reincarnation of antiquity, Hebrew, Greek, and Roman, risen from the ashes of a darkened Europe and restored to its former shining brilliance. Alcuin deemed himself “Horace,” Angilbert was “Homer.” Charlemagne the anointed king was now “David,” and his eldest son, Pepin, was “Julius.” Charlemagne’s first edict was that all monks and clergy were to be literate, and the Rule of St. Benedict was to be the standard for all monks. It was not enough that Charlemagne provided protection for his people; he saw his duty as nothing less
than the creation of God’s rule on Earth, and this was, in Charlemagne’s view, to be achieved by loving knowledge for its own sake.

  Art had mentioned something weeks earlier, I remembered, while walking with Nilus and me through Dr. Cade’s land. Dan and Howie were on another double date (which, I later discovered, failed miserably) and Art and I were fantasizing about our ideal futures in a way that only the college years seem to understand: no marriage, no kids, no real jobs. A bedrock of things never changing and loyalties always honored. Art made a vow that afternoon, that one day we’d emerge onto campus as professors ourselves, and usher in a revival of the Classical tradition, when knowledge was both sacred and profane, doled out to the deserving few and honed to a high art. Knowledge as an entity, rather than merely a commodity.

  “And those who don’t obey we conquer,” Art had said. “Like Charlemagne did to the Saxons. Give them a choice: conversion or death.”

  Writing the piece on Charlemagne for Dr. Cade, I finally understood Arthur’s comparison; perhaps he did see (or wanted to see) our home as Aachen revived. But it was doomed from the start, putting so much faith into knowledge, not realizing that knowledge by itself can be dangerous. We believed too strongly in our minds back then, and when I discovered the irony in Charlemagne’s life it should have then become clear—intent isn’t enough.

  Charlemagne slept with pen and paper under his pillow, every night. It was said he suffered from insomnia, and practiced writing when he couldn’t sleep. There are accounts of the warrior-king lying in his bed, candles burned to their stumps, all else quiet in Aachen except for the scribblings of his pen, and sometimes, other noises: a cry of frustration, papers tearing and objects hurled. The sounds of Charlemagne’s torment—despite all his efforts he died an illiterate king, having learned only to sign his own name.

  Later that day I went to the library and found Cornelius asleep at the front desk. He looked as if he had spent the night there. A thermos and empty cup sat near him on the desk, and he had a blanket draped over his shoulders. I opened the curtains, careful not to let any light fall on him, and spent the next half hour straightening the rugs and shelving stray books. A ponderous old tome lay in his lap, bound in dry, cracked leather, the last remnants of gilt on the fore-edge now just flakes of gold. A magnifying glass sat atop the open page. I moved closer until I could read the print on the white parchment. It was a page from Deuteronomy, written in vulgate Latin.

  Cornelius put his hand on the page, and I straightened up, startled. But he had no grumpy remark this time, just a tired expression and his creaking voice, dusty and stiff. “Aliquando bonus dormitat Homerus,” he said, and then shut his eyes again. Even good Homer nods.

  “Mutato nomine de te fabula narratur,” I said. With the name changed the story applies to you.

  “I know about the pigeons,” I said, quietly.

  I wasn’t sure if Cornelius heard me. He put one hand on his knee and moved to stand. His cane trembled under his hand but somehow, like an old, rusted machine, he hauled himself upward by unseen gears and pulleys.

  “Art told me about the Philosopher’s Stone,” I continued, gaining courage. “He said he does experiments on animals, and I met someone who used to work for you and he said you made him catch pigeons in the Quad.”

  Cornelius cleared his throat and held up a shaking hand. “A moment, a moment.” He coughed and spat into the handkerchief.

  “What is it you want to know?” he said. He stared at me.

  It wasn’t the response I’d expected. I had this whole scenario figured out, where Cornelius denies and I press on, and I’d even made a list before coming to work, of the facts of the case and how they were all connected. But Cornelius didn’t look like he’d been caught doing anything wrong. In fact, it was I who suddenly felt cornered. Maybe everyone knew about the pigeons. Maybe it was all a part of his eccentricity, a harmless symptom (harmless, that is, to everyone except pigeons) that the school administration accepted in exchange for keeping Cornelius content. Besides, I thought, why do you care if none of it is real, anyway?

  Cornelius tapped his finger on his cane. “Do you want to know if the Philosopher’s Stone exists?” he said.

  I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what I believed.

  He sighed and touched my arm. “Come with me.”

  He led me to his office, through a door set against the far wall. I had never seen so much clutter in my life—mountains of files and books, leaning precariously as if they could collapse at any moment. Mounds of papers covered the small desk, their yellowed edges curling out from among the piles. Drizzled over the mounds of papers were broken clasps, assorted book hinges, locks, keys, overturned inkwells, nibs, pens, cracked magnifying glasses, razor blades, dried tins of glue, and a pocket watch with a shattered face. The wastebasket was overflowing and the walls were filled with tacked-on sheets of paper, along with unframed maps, crookedly hung prints, and opened envelopes with the return addresses circled in red marker. This is what Cornelius’s brain would look like if you opened him up, I thought, and within the jumble I saw his diploma sitting behind a spidered piece of old glass, framed by dented and chipped wood. It looked like a religious icon for some extinct order and that now lay unused and forgotten.

  Over his desk was a black-and-white print of a labyrinth with a citadel at its center. Amphitheatrum aeternae sapientiae alchemicae, the title read. In thin script, below it, the illustrator’s name, in small type: Heinrich Khunrath. The picture was typically medieval in both proportion and style—men dressed in tunics and triangular hats wandered within the walls of the maze, some were on horseback, others traveled on foot. Some had stopped to talk with one another, or were looking at the sky as if trying to get their bearings. A few explorers had scaled the wall but could only peer over the top at the citadel that stood in a body of water filled with writhing sea serpents. There was one way to the tower—a wooden bridge with a dragon at the end, the dragon’s coiled body resting atop an arch and looking down at an old man in a robe who had stopped at the entrance. The man held a beaker with lines emanating from it as if light was shining forth.

  Cornelius stood at my side and pointed with his cane to the drawing on the wall. “Twenty false paths, all connected, so that an initiate may wander for years, thinking he has found the true way.” He traced the labyrinth with the end of his cane, moving the rubber tip in a circle around the citadel. “There is no exit from the maze once entered, save for the twenty-first path.” He stopped on the dragon. “The guardian of the tower of knowledge. Look here.” He traced a line to the bridge. “The twenty-first path is a rite of passage. The dragon is the snake, you see. The archetypal tempter. Its head points north, its tail points south. Two choices, caput draconis or cauda draconis. Which path, which direction? As above, so below.”

  He stared a moment longer, then moved his cane to a man who was lying on his stomach within one of the walls. “This one has fallen and lies dead. And this one here—” He pointed to a man standing over the dead man, his hand in the dead man’s pocket. “What do you see?”

  “He’s stealing from him,” I said.

  “Stealing what? Money? Food?”

  I looked again. “I don’t know,” I said.

  “He steals knowledge,” Cornelius said. “That is why these impostors will forever remain lost. They think knowledge is something you can take. Look, here…” The point of Cornelius’s cane stopped at the top of the illustration, at a man caught within the labyrinth whose pockets were overflowing with gold.

  “He has found nothing extraordinary,” Cornelius grunted with disapproval. “Transmutation, silver to gold, mercury to gold, amateur accomplishments…and yet he believes he is close—see the anticipation on his face? But look in the next room.”

  The next room showed two men locked in combat—one was choking the other, his face contorted in rage, the other held a knife overhead and was about to strike. Around them were tables covered in books and alchemist’s
tools: flasks, cylinders, bowls, scales. Black smoke billowed from an open furnace, almost enveloping the two combatants.

  “This is what happens to the impure,” Cornelius said. “The answers will only reveal themselves to the virtuous, and all others will destroy themselves in the heat of their own blind covetousness.”

  Cornelius smiled, his mouth black and cavernous. “Is this what Art has shown you?” he said.

  “He showed me his research,” I said. “He said you help him, sometimes. With translations.”

  Cornelius lost his smile. “And what do you think?”

  Art had given me some alchemy books to read, and made me promise I wouldn’t show them to anyone, not even Dr. Cade. I’d done my part and gotten through them as best as I could, but I was under deadline, again, and had an economics paper due. I wasn’t able to finish some of the more obscure sections on the Rosicrucians and Masons.

  “I don’t know,” I said. Was it fascinating because I believed some of it, or because, like all lonely boys, I sought solace in the unknown?

  Cornelius nodded and sifted through some papers on his desk, licking his fingers methodically, pushing the papers into little piles and humming to himself.

  “Do you know how long Gerald Hughes will be on sabbatical for?” he asked me.

  I shook my head. Gerald Hughes was a philosophy professor, and I didn’t know what Gerald Hughes had to do with alchemy and dragons and immortality, but at that point nothing would have surprised me.

  “Such a shame,” Cornelius said. “There are too few good philosophy professors at Aberdeen. Gerald was our best, but Russell Gibbs may one day approach greatness…He teaches the Aristotle course—what was that called? Either his rhetoric or logic class, I can’t remember…”