The Imperial Alchemist

by A. H. Wang

  At that moment, the waitress arrives with their meals, serving up platters of indigenous fare. Today it consists of roasted wild boar, wild vegetables picked freshly from the forest, rice steamed in bamboo tubes, and traditional millet wine. Charlie and Georgia give appreciative praise as the dishes are served.

  Georgia sips her millet wine, watching as Charlie tucks into the meal with gusto. Strangely, this is one of the very rare moments that she finds herself unenthusiastic about the food laid out in front of her.

  In her mind, she is frantically sorting through all the things she wants to say, trying to single out the most important one. There are so many questions she wants to ask this man: a man who has seen the rise and fall of civilisations, who has experienced the greatest wars of mankind, and who has been there for every significant leap that the human species has made. The invention of the printing press. The Industrial Revolution. Women’s suffrage. Armstrong’s landing on the moon.

  The wisdom and knowledge accumulated over two millennia is contained within the person sitting directly across the table from her, and she finds herself at a loss for words.

  “Something wrong?” Charlie frowns, noticing that she has not started on her dinner.

  What do you ask such a man? What questions could possibly satisfy her desire to know more of this world, of life, of human existence?

  Struggling to form her enquiry, she blurts out instead, “Why fifty years?”

  Charlie raises an eyebrow, confused at her sudden question.

  “You make significant donations to museums every fifty years. Why?”

  “Ah,” Charlie says, understanding dawning in his green eyes. He lays down his chopsticks to address her question. “For purely pragmatic reasons. It is long enough time for people to forget who you are. And it also seems to be the amount of time that it takes for me to run out of storage space. If I hold on to the pieces for longer than that, the collection just gets too big for me to manage and to conserve myself.”

  Georgia nods, satisfied with the answer. “And Romance of the Three Kingdoms? You took on names from the book over the years: Sun Quan, Lee Yi, and Meng Jie—benevolent characters that all have green eyes. Why?”

  Charlie cocks his head to the side. “You know, I am surprised you even picked up the reference to that book. They were mostly minor characters that a person would not remember unless you knew the text by heart.”

  She shrugs. “I read the book a few times during school. And I’ve got a good memory, I guess.”

  He nods, his gaze lingering on her. “The opening of the novel, do you know it?”

  “Sure. It’s a famous line.” She conjures up the text in her mind. Switching to Chinese, she recites: “Thus it has been with the world: the lands under heaven, unify after lengthy division; then, after prolonged unity, shall divide.”

  “Thus it has always been, and thus it will always be,” he echoes her words in English. “That is the transient nature of our existence, and it is also the enduring warring nature of human beings.

  “The story of Romance of the Three Kingdoms has resonated with me. The book is metaphoric of our constant struggle as a species—for survival, for power, for a chance to rise above others. But more than that, in spite of all the destruction and treachery in our scramble for power, the story also speaks of the resilient sense of good and righteousness in people. Of loyalty, honor, and valour. I suppose it was a reminder to myself, to hold on to a sense of beauty for the world, to never forget the bigger picture.

  “As for the names…” Charlie pauses, laughing light-heartedly. “Perhaps I fancied myself a tad poetic, taking on the names of the characters with green eyes.”

  Georgia nods slowly, understanding that within Charlie’s lifetime, he must have seen so much of the ugliness and cruelty that is fundamental to humanity. Living for two thousand years without losing faith in mankind could not be easy, she realises. It is unsurprising, then, that Charlie holds such a gloomy view of the future for the human species.

  “There’s a lot of beauty in the world, and in people,” she agrees, “and that’s why I think you should give us the benefit of the doubt. I know that it didn’t end well for Naaya’s people after they found the elixir, but should the mistakes of others dictate our future? What about the human capacity to change, and evolve into something much more than we have ever been?”

  “Georgia,” Charlie’s smile fades into a forlorn expression. He shakes his head. “I understand what you are trying to say. Trust me, I once argued the same points myself with Naaya. But in the current condition that we are today, people are just not ready for the elixir right now. We may have evolved in technology over the years, but deep down we are still self-serving animals.”

  “But—”

  Charlie reaches into the pocket of his pants and brings out a piece of paper. Unfolding it, he places it in front of her. She looks down at a printed news article, dated almost ten years ago. The headline reads:

  Beloved Ballerina Dead at Thirty-Five

  Beneath the headline is a picture of a beautiful woman in a ballerina costume, gazing up at the camera with a soft smile. Georgia scans the first few lines of the article:

  Nola Lambert, former star of the London Royal Ballet Company, passed away last night after suffering long-term illness…

  Puzzled, Georgia looks up at Charlie. “What’s this?”

  “I was searching on the internet about Mark Lambert today and came across this. Nola was his sister. She died of Huntington’s Disease.”

  Georgia frowns, unfamiliar with the illness.

  “Huntington’s Disease is a hereditary disorder that causes the breakdown of the brain’s nerve cells,” Charlie explains. “Over a number of years the patient experiences progressive muscular problems, difficulty in controlling movements, and a growing inability to perform daily tasks. The condition is fatal and once the initial symptoms emerge, patients only live for up to ten years. The probability of Nola’s sibling also having it is at least fifty percent.”

  She stares at him, realising his point. “You think this is why Mark Lambert has commissioned me for this search. Because he’s sick?”

  “I believe it is safe to assume that. And it is also safe to assume that he is intending to keep the elixir for himself rather than share it with anyone else.”

  Georgia falls silent, mulling over this new information and battling with an unexpected sense of dejection. After a long moment, a thought presses at the back of her mind, and she asks quietly, “What was he like?”

  “Who?”

  Looking up, she meets Charlie’s emerald eyes. “Emperor Qin. What was he really like, as a person?”

  She catches a glimpse of emotion flittering across Charlie’s elongated face, a brief contortion of his features that settles into solemnity.

  “He was…” Charlie begins. “He was one of the loneliest people I have ever met.”

  Georgia raises her brows. She opens her mouth to ask more, but is interrupted by the hotel director speaking loudly on the microphone, making a lengthy welcoming speech to the guests. He announces proudly that an Aboriginal cultural show is about to begin, performed by the staff of the hotel. Young men and women dressed in traditional Buluowan clothing amble onto the stage, breaking into tribal song. Soon, some of the women begin to dance, inviting guests from the audience to join them. A young teenage girl beckons them with outstretched hands.

  “Shall we?” Charlie smiles at her, all hints of the weight of their previous conversation gone.

  Georgia pauses, then shakes her head, laughing. “Nah, you go ahead.”

  She watches as Charlie joins the group on stage, dancing, laughing, and learning the song with the others. For all of his wisdom and seriousness, he seems to be able to really let go and have fun. Georgia looks down at her now cooling food, and abandons it to wander around the dining hall, admiring the traditional carvings and decorations on the walls. She notices a small store selling souvenirs in the corner and saunters
over, curious about the local handicrafts on sale.

  The elderly indigenous woman behind the table greets her with a toothless smile. Her face is creased with age and covered with the tribal tattoos of the Truku people. Wide bands of geometric designs inked in dark green spread across her cheeks and join around her lips, a tradition that was performed on young girls to symbolise their rite of passage.

  Georgia browses the colourful bracelets, key rings, wallets, and other trinkets. A necklace catches her eye and she picks it up to study it. A thin, hand-woven band of red, purple, and white, it holds a small circular pendant made of clay, a symbol carved in its centre:

  “Hello,” the elderly woman greets her, moving closer to make a sale. Like many indigenous people, her Mandarin is accented. “Looking for a gift, or something for yourself?”

  “I’m not sure,” Georgia smiles at her. “This is beautiful.”

  “My daughter made it,” she says proudly, reaching over to trace the design with her finger. “This is an especially important sign for my people. It symbolises the mountain god, Zai.”

  “Oh?” Georgia raises her eyebrows at the woman, expressing interest.

  “You should buy one,” the old woman goes on. “It will bring you good health and everlasting youthfulness. Look at your beautiful skin. If you buy one you’ll never end up looking all wrinkled like me.”

  “Is that right?” Georgia smiles with mirth. “I guess I will have to get one then.” She reaches into her pocket to pay for her purchase.

  The old woman beams, obviously delighted with her first sale of the night. Georgia leaves her smiling widely and returns to the table, finding Charlie back at his meal. She sits down, still looking at her newly acquired souvenir, feeling a strange familiarity as she studies its simple design.

  “Hey Charlie,” she says, eyes not leaving the pendant. “Remind me again, where did Naaya’s people believe the elixir had come from?”

  Charlie looks up. “From the mountain God of the north: Zai. Why?”

  57

  Sarah paces the room with growing agitation.

  She is getting hangry. Very hangry.

  The kidnapper must have been satisfied with their most recent session, because he hasn’t returned for a while. Sarah estimates that it’s been almost twenty-four hours, but she can’t be sure without a watch or any other means to tell the time. She has been sitting on the bare mattress butted against the wall, dozing in and out of the haze of the drugs, covered in a sheen of cold sweat.

  It’s a blessing that she hasn’t had to see his ugly face again, but unfortunately it also means no one’s brought any food or drink since. Will the man ever return at all, now he has what he needs? Or will he just let her die here, undiscovered until her flesh has rotted to the bone?

  Chilling fear courses through her at the dreadful thought.

  She rises, shuffling towards the sink beneath the staircase with her hands bound behind her. Reaching at an awkward angle, she grasps to turn the tap.

  Nothing. Of course.

  “Fuck,” she mutters. “Mind-fucking arsehole.”

  Her mouth dry, she swallows against the grating in her throat as she eyes the toilet bowl beside her, hoping that it’ll never come to that. Then, feeling indignant about the whole situation, she stomps up the concrete staircase again.

  “Hey!” Sarah yells, kicking at the door. “Hey! I’m starving here! Let me out, you freak!”

  Unsurprisingly, there’s no response. She presses an ear against the smooth, unpainted surface of the door, holding her breath to try and detect any minute sounds from the other side. Other than the hollow whistle of the wind, there is nothing.

  There hasn’t been much noise from the outside world throughout her time here. Nothing from a nearby street, or even minor vibrations from distant traffic. This tells her she’s probably in the middle of nowhere and not likely to be rescued anytime soon.

  Screw waiting. It’s time to take matters into her own hands.

  First, she needs to lose the ropes tied around her wrists.

  Sarah looks around the windowless basement and begins tracing its walls, searching for anything that can break her out of the bonds. Her eyes roam over the bare concrete walls and floor as she walks along, looking for a nail or something sharp to grind her rope against. When she comes up with nothing, she repeats her path again.

  Again, she finds nothing. She tries to quell the rising panic in her gut.

  C’mon, Sarah, think.

  Her eyes fall on the stairs leading up to the door, and the toilet bowl and sink underneath the staircase. Whoever had built the basement wasn’t a stickler for surface finish. The concrete is rough and unpolished, and every corner is a jagged edge.

  She walks to the space under the stairs, turning to bring her restrained wrists up to a corner, and begins to awkwardly rub the rope against the rough concrete.

  This will take a while, but it’ll do.

  58

  Georgia pauses as she stands at the beginning of the Zhuilu Old Trail: a suspension bridge barely a metre in width, spanning the gaping chasm a hundred metres above the Liwu River. Beneath her, white churning water rushes past giant, marble boulders. Natural hot springs spill out of the rocky cliff face, tiny steaming waterfalls that are prevalent in the area. She eyes the foot bridge before her suspiciously, noting several broken vertical cables. It looks in desperate need of repair.

  Charlie is ahead of her, already walking down the narrow passage with the ease and speed he always moves with.

  “Georgia? Everything okay?” He turns, sensing that she has stopped behind him.

  “Yeah,” she replies, making no move to walk towards him.

  “Are you scared of heights?” he asks, knitting his brows.

  “No,” she says defensively. Then she mutters, almost to herself, “Just have a healthy respect for them, that’s all.”

  She readjusts the weight of her pack, making sure that it’s strapped securely over her chest and hips. They have prepared enough supplies to last for a whole week. She steps gingerly onto the bridge, the wooden boards creaking beneath her feet. Her grip on the guiding cables tightens involuntarily.

  Charlie watches her walk slowly towards him with amusement. Then, apparently knowing better than to say anything, he turns to continue his path towards the end of the bridge.

  When she joins him on the other side, she lets out a breath that she doesn’t realise she’s been holding on to. From here, there is a long, steady climb of almost a kilometre.

  “All good?” Charlie smiles at her with encouragement.

  “Sure,” she nods.

  They set a steady pace as they climb upwards. Georgia has maintained a good level of fitness over the years with her love of running, but it’s the middle of August in Taiwan, and even though it’s still early in the morning, the stifling, humid heat has her struggling to keep up. Charlie, on the other hand, ascends without apparent effort, pausing every now and then to let her catch up.

  The climb seems to go on for aeons, and Georgia imagines what it must have been like for Naaya to make this journey alone as a young girl. The clear-cut path would not have existed then, and the climb would’ve been much more difficult to tackle in the untamed terrain.

  They finally come to a small plateau overgrown with grass, and she pauses to catch her breath, wiping the sweat off her brow. Charlie offers her some water from his canister, then walks over to a couple of old, crumbling concrete pillars jutting out of the shrubbery. Eying them with curiosity, he places his hands on one of the pillars.

  “This is the old settlement of Badagang,” Georgia explains. “It’s one of the villages that accommodated the Japanese soldiers stationed here. The clearing should be just up the hill somewhere. It used to have a clinic, a school, and even a hostel for travellers.”

  “The Japanese? Out here?”

  “Yeah.” She sits down on a nearby rock. “Before the Japanese took over, the whole island was largely undeveloped. The J
apanese treated Taiwan as a resource-rich colony that they could pillage. The ripe soils, sub-tropical climate, and abundant seas meant there were plenty of fish and valuable crops to be harvested.

  “The Truku people around here put up a fight, but after a long conflict with the tribe, the Japanese finally won a major battle. Then the military built the Zhuilu Old Trail to improve their control over the area. It allowed their soldiers to patrol the villages quickly on foot. There are ruins of fortified police stations all along this trail.”

  Charlie nods, still gazing at the pillars in silent contemplation.

  “I’ve been thinking…” Georgia clears her throat, deciding to broach the subject that’s been floating around her mind. “What’s going to happen if we find the cave? I mean… what will happen if you drink from the pool of water?”

  Charlie turns to look at her, an amused smile on his lips as he comprehends her question. “What you mean to ask is, will I disintegrate into dust immediately, or die a horrific death right before of you?”

  “Yeah.” She wrinkles her nose. “I really don’t think I want to stick around to watch that.”

  He laughs, a deep rumble in his chest. She smiles at the sound, realising that she has grown to like this man, however brief their acquaintance may have been.

  Charlie pauses for a moment, thoughtful, and when he speaks again his voice is more sober.

  “Honestly, I do not know. But I am certain it will not be quite as dramatic as that. Frankly, I am not even sure if this plan will work. Naaya never gave me much detail, nor did she explain why she thought that taking the elixir again would reverse its effects. She really did not want to talk much about the elixir at all.”