The Elusive Elixir

by Gigi Pandian

  My fingers hovered over the screen for a moment, then typed a search I hoped I wouldn’t use until I had an answer about how to save Dorian’s life. Flights home to Portland.

  The more affordable flights connecting to Portland left in the morning, but Madame Leblanc’s nephew would probably look for me the next day. I bought a ticket for the last flight that left that night. I would arrive home in the wee hours after a nineteen-hour journey, but I had little choice.

  I opened the floorboard under which I was hiding Non Degenera Alchemia. I’d chosen this apartment rental because the building had been around for centuries. I knew it would have little nooks where I could hide things I didn’t want anyone to find. Not that I was expecting trouble, but old habits die hard. Now I was glad I’d taken the precaution.

  The book was safely ensconced in its hole. In spite of my overzealous wrapping, two now-dead bees had made their way underneath the top layer of plastic. They had squished themselves to death in their quest to reach the book. Bees are a minor symbol in alchemy and they are used even more in backward alchemy. Many of the disturbing woodcut illustrations in Dorian’s book showed bees circling counterclockwise above a menagerie of dead animals. Beyond the scent of honey that permeated the pages as it aged, was there something more drawing the insects to it?

  I didn’t have to open the pages to see the woodcut illustrations. The twisted imagery was unforgettable. My mind saw bees filling the skies in a counterclockwise formation, stinging the eyes of the people and animals that writhed on the ground.

  From those unsettling coded images in the book, I’d taught myself how to create an alchemical Tea of Ashes that temporarily stopped Dorian from returning to stone. Superficially, the process looked easy—mixing ingredients in fire that quickly transformed into salt. Much easier than true alchemy, which in addition to basic ingredients involves pure intent, time, and energy. Backward alchemy is a shortcut, a straight line through what should be a labyrinthine maze of discovery leading to true knowledge. Because the shortcuts here were backward alchemy, it was a delicate balance between adding life to Dorian and taking it from me.

  Before leaving Portland I thought I’d found the right balance to make Dorian a large enough batch of Tea of Ashes for him to stay healthy while I was gone in Paris. I was wrong. The transformation had failed, and even worse, it left me sick for three full days—too sick to travel and too sick to do anything much beyond lie in bed. I’d lost so much time, and now I was being forced from Paris after less than a week.

  But I wasn’t giving up. I had five hours until I was due at the airport.

  The question was, with five hours left in Paris, could I do what I hadn’t been able to do in five days?

  Seven

  Sitting at the edge of the sagging bed in the small apartment, I rubbed a bee sting on my arm that was still noticeable and looked through the small set of tinctures and salves I’d brought from home. Traveling with the preparations was a force of habit, but in this case it was also necessary after I’d been sickened by the Tea of Ashes and stung by bees interested in Dorian’s book.

  After arriving in Paris I’d taken Non Degenera Alchemia to Notre Dame to compare its illustrations to the carvings on the façade of the cathedral. For the record, bringing a book of unknown power to an ancient cathedral to which it’s tied is a very bad idea. That experiment led to many stings as I shooed bees away from the book; I used my photocopies for reference after that. I’d also visited many libraries and bookshops in hopes of discovering obscure references to Notre Dame’s connections to alchemy that I hadn’t been able to find in my own alchemy books or in mainstream publications.

  One of the places I’d visited was a narrow bookshop within view of Notre Dame. Appropriately, it was called Bossu Livres—Hunchback Books. It was presumably named for the famous character Victor Hugo’s The Hunchback of Notre Dame. The bookshop’s specialty was the history of Paris, with a large section on Notre Dame Cathedral. The bookseller thought I was a graduate student conducting research for my dissertation, so he didn’t bat an eye when I asked about information on any secret societies that used to meet at Notre Dame. I bet it wasn’t even the strangest research question he’d received. He was the only bookseller who’d taken my request seriously and spent more than a few minutes looking through his files. Though he hadn’t been able to help at the time, he’d told me to check back in a few days.

  Hoping to continue the research Madame Leblanc had interrupted that morning, I hurried across Pont Notre-Dame to the small Île de la Cité island where the cathedral stood. Normally I took time to appreciate my surroundings, especially when I was in a city as storied as Paris. But not today. If I let myself slow down, I knew I’d imagine Madame Leblanc and her nephew over my shoulder and the ghost of Jasper Dubois in front of me.

  It was a warm day, close to the start of summer, and the scents of Paris swirled around me. Strong coffee, smooth wine, freshly baked bread, and … something smoky that stirred a memory I couldn’t quite place. I glanced upward. The Gallery of Gargoyles was visible from the ground, though the personalities of the stone creatures were left to the imagination at this distance. “What are your secrets?” I whispered.

  I pulled my eyes from the limestone façade, once painted brightly but now a natural golden tan, and continued to the narrow street that housed the bookshop. The shop was barely wider than I was tall, probably the same square footage as the interior of the Airstream trailer that was parked in my driveway in Portland. The small space was filled with treasures, stacked from floor to ceiling.

  I pushed on the solid door, painted a bright blue. It resisted. The brass handle didn’t budge either. I peeked into the window. A ray of sunlight shone over a display in the window of Paris-based poets from the nineteenth century. Aside from that illuminated corner, the interior of the shop was dark. A sign in the window read Fermé. The shop was closed.

  I leaned against the stone wall and tried to keep my spirits from being completely crushed. At every turn, I faced another obstacle.

  I gave a start as the bell jangled and the door of the bookshop swung open.

  “I didn’t mean to frighten you, mademoiselle,” said the man who opened the door.

  “It’s quite all right. I’m pleased to find you’re open after all.”

  He waved me inside. Only then did I realize it was the same bookseller I’d previously spoken with. A plain man in his forties, he had a forgettable face. The impression was rounded out by thinning brown hair, leathery skin, and the hint of a stoop. If he were to lean against a shelf of his leather-bound books, I had the feeling that he’d blend in and be invisible to customers. He’d told me his name just yesterday, but I struggled to recall it. “It’s good to see you, Monsieur Augustin.”

  “Please, call me Lucien.” He turned the sign from Fermé to Ouvert.

  My eyes swept over the shelves as I breathed in the scent of books made over the centuries from various wood pulps and animal skins. These books were decaying as normal books did, with a faint hint of mildew detectable in the older ones and nary a bee in sight. Normally I loved spaces crammed full of books, but the haphazard nature of this room kept me off balance. If they had a filing system, it was unlike anything I’d ever encountered.

  “I was wondering if you’d had a chance to look for the book on Notre Dame secret societies you mentioned,” I said. “I know I told you I’d check back with you in a few days if I didn’t receive a call from you, but I’m leaving Paris sooner than expected.”

  “Finished the research for your thesis already?” Though he spoke with a French accent, the inflection in the question suggested he’d lived elsewhere for a time. Under other circumstances I would have asked him about it, because linguistic nuances tell you so much about a person, but that conversation wasn’t meant to happen today.

  “Unfortunately a family emergency came up. I have to leave Paris immediately.” I feig
ned interest in a photographic history of the cafés of Paris to avoid meeting his gaze as I lied.

  He frowned. “I’m so sorry to hear that. Because I found something of interest.”

  My eyes snapped up. “What is it you’ve found?”

  “A slim volume, probably produced in the fourteenth century.” He hesitated. “Probably not what you’re after. Never mind.”

  “No, please tell me what you found.”

  “It’s called The Backward Alchemists of Notre Dame.”

  My breath caught.

  “Bizarre, no?” Lucien said. “I didn’t think it was what you were looking for,” he added with a shake of his head, misinterpreting my expression. “Dommage. I thought it was worth a try. It sounded like a secret society. The type of thing you mentioned as a possible interest for your thesis.”

  “I’d love to see it.” Hope welled in me again. It was exactly what I needed. This could lead me to a backward alchemist.

  “Bon. I am glad I requested it. The book is being sent here to the shop from a storage facility. Perhaps if you came back tomorrow morning—”

  “I’m leaving Paris tonight.” I didn’t want to think about what awaited me with Madame Leblanc pressuring her nephew to flag my passport.

  “Let me check on the status of the shipment. Maybe we’ll get lucky.” He disappeared through a door shaped like an embrasure of a castle and nearly as narrow as an arrow-slit. I let my eyes wander across the high shelves crammed full of books in a dozen languages, all related to the history of Paris, but none of them organized with any system I could discern. I picked up a book on unique Parisian architecture from the nineteenth century with a focus on abandoned buildings. I turned the pages, stopping at a photograph of le Cabaret de L’Enfer. As was typical of the French, the old nightclub was a complete embodiment of its theme: The Nightclub of Hell. It typified the quirky French ethos.

  I knew the famous nightclub. Le Cabaret de L’Enfer had been one of Ambrose’s favorite late-night clubs in the early 1900s. He was a country lad at heart and always felt most comfortable when we lived in the countryside. But because I could help more people when we lived in more populated areas, we always returned to Paris. After a time, he came to love it as I did. Le Cabaret de L’Enfer was one of the places that captured his imagination. He wasn’t alone. His son Percy had once thought of opening a similar club in London, but he was a lazy, lazy man, so his talk never turned into action. But more ambitious entrepreneurs had opened a parallel nightclub next door to the Paris cafe: Le Ciel. Heaven.

  I was stirred from the memory of a bygone Paris by a movement at the corner of my eye. Lucien had returned, shaking his head. “Je suis desolé, mademoiselle. No luck.”

  “Could you mail it to me in Oregon? I’ll pay in advance for expedited shipping. Plus extra for your trouble.”

  “Extra is not necessary, mademoiselle. But you are kind.” His eyes turned to the book in my hands. “Le Cafe de L’Enfer. You know of this landmark? It has quite a history.”

  “I’ve read about it. It’s too bad it wasn’t preserved.”

  “I have something you might like. I believe I have an old postcard of the Hell-mouth doorway.”

  He flipped through a stack of postcards on a stand near the cash register, then drew his hand back abruptly. “Merde. Damn these frail fingernails.”

  I winced as he held his finger, clearly in pain. “I might have something that can help, monsieur.”

  I wound a finger around my white hair as I reached into my purse with my other hand. I carried a tincture with me that would be good for frail fingernails. It was an herbal remedy that helped me with my hair, which would have been thin and brittle without extra care. Through healthy eating and topical treatments, I was able to keep it looking and feeling similar to how it did when I was young. Though I’d never again have thick, long hair, my hair was healthy enough to fool people into thinking I dyed it white as a trendy fashion statement and that I followed a vegan diet because it was the latest fad.

  Lucien gratefully, if skeptically, accepted the tincture. I wrote out instructions for how to use it while he completed my order. I’d just have to hope that the book would provide useful insight whenever it did arrive to me in Portland.

  The bell above the door sounded. Lucien’s friendly eyes turned dark as the young woman with an overzealous application of eyeliner asked if he had any books containing maps of the catacombs of Paris, the tangled tunnels lined with human bones.

  “Je suis desolé, mademoiselle,” he said, and the customer departed.

  “I think I saw a book on the subject in a pile over there.” I pointed to a jam-packed bookshelf. “I bet I can catch her.”

  Lucien shook his head firmly. “Moutards. Maps of the catacombs are not for them. They sneak into the catacombs with complete disregard for their history. They use it as a bôit de nuit, their own personal nightclub. As if it were le Cafe de L’Enfer. This desecration of the catacombs has become acceptable!”

  “Urban explorers,” I said.

  He narrowed his eyes at me.

  “I’m not one,” I added hastily. “But I’ve heard about it. Adventurers, kids staging raves, artists.” They seemed harmless enough to me. Kids enjoying their youth in Paris. I was too old to understand the appeal myself. Or perhaps the underground crypts disturbed my alchemical sensibilities. Relics like human bones were to be revered, not made into entertainment. I’d visited the ossuary once, shortly after the underground graves had been opened to the public in the late 1800s, when an appreciation for macabre curiosities turned the rows of skulls and bones into a tourist attraction. I’d never had a desire to return.

  The bookseller looked from his dim sanctuary to the vibrant street outside. “I do not know what this old city is coming to.”

  The wind was picking up as I stepped out of the shop. I turned up the collar of my silver raincoat, touched a hand to my locket, and glanced at my watch. I had time for one more errand. It was time to see a possible member of the family: Dorian’s brother.

  Eight

  The previous month, a gargoyle resembling the chimeras of Notre Dame had been found on the Charles Bridge in Prague. There were no witnesses aside from a drunk who slept outside near the bridge. The man swore the five-foot statue had limped onto the bridge by itself as dawn was breaking. Needless to say, his testimony was dismissed as the ravings of a drunken fool.

  Authorities thought there must have been at least one other witness, because a half-empty bottle of absinthe was cradled in the statue’s stone arms. The liquor had been bottled this year. Yet no witnesses could be found. It must have been a prank, the police surmised. Someone who shared a similar sense of humor with the thieves who were leaving gold dust in place of gold figurines in museums across Europe, offering no trace of how they got in or out.

  I knew the true explanation for both of these occurrences. There were no thieves, and there was no prankster. Gold created through backward alchemy was reverting to dust. And this was a gargoyle like Dorian, who was brought to life but was now reverting to stone.

  Architectural scholars recognized the statue as being one of Viollet-le-Duc’s creations for Notre Dame, and it was quickly asserted that this was the stolen carving that hadn’t been seen in over a century.

  Only sketches of the gargoyle existed, and without any photographs it was all scholarly speculation. It was determined that more study was needed, and that architects and stonemasons would be the most appropriate people to study the beast.

  The Czech authorities readily handed it over to France. Now the gargoyle frozen in stone was under study at a Paris university’s architecture department.

  In spite of my deferential tone and fluent French, I’d been denied admittance to study the statue by the scholar in charge, Professor Chevalier. I’d been confident I’d win him over with enough time, but time was no longer an option. An idea
began to take shape in my mind. One that my young friend Brixton would undoubtedly call “wicked.”

  As I walked back to my apartment to pick up Not Untrue Alchemy, I made a phone call to check with Professor Chevalier’s secretary, making sure he wasn’t allergic to bees. I claimed to be a nurse who wanted to check how an allergic patient was doing, and the secretary assured me I had the wrong number, because she was certain the professor wasn’t allergic to bees. If I wished to hear it from his own ears, I could call back when she expected him to return to his office within half an hour.

  Perfect.

  I freed Not Untrue Alchemy from its hiding place, made sure the book was carefully bundled, and pressed the few possessions I’d brought to Paris into my rucksack. Hurrying down the stairs and into the courtyard, I cast what might be my last glance at the centuries-old building. Would this be the last time I was ever in Paris? Instead of walking toward the university, I made a two-block detour to a spot I’d been working my way up to visiting.

  Two minutes later, I stood outside the Auberge Nicolas Flamel, the Michelin star restaurant and oldest house in Paris. It had also once been the home of my mentor.

  The plaque that adorned the building began with the words Maison de Nicolas Flamel et de Pernelle sa femme. Pour conserver le souvenir de leur foundation charitable. The home of Nicolas Flamel his wife Pernelle, honoring their charitable work.

  I ran my fingertips across the rough stone that had stood since they built their home in 1407, and that had served as a restaurant for over a hundred years. His building had stood the test of time much better than the building that had housed Elixir. Because of the fire … I pushed thoughts of poor Jasper Dubois from my mind.

  Alchemical symbols were carved into many of the stones on the Auberge Nicolas Flamel, though I knew for a fact they hadn’t been made by Nicolas or Pernelle. The carvings came later, long after they had faked their deaths and abandoned their city home for the French countryside. These symbols hadn’t been made by true alchemists, but were instead laymen’s ideas of what alchemical symbols would look like, added once Nicolas had become infamous. The decorative letters and animals of the faux alchemists had worn smooth over time, but were still visible. As was a loose stone.