To be so near was galling, he had to find another source. At midday Jared pleaded fatigue and snatched a nap, and lay thinking. The place that had yielded the most hsiao had been the camel stables. The nearest thing here was the manor stables. The droppings of camels were not that much different to those of horses – that’s where he’d be sure to find it.
The caustic Master of the Horse, Harpe, would take instant suspicion if he asked to root around beneath his horses, so the only way was to go there unseen. He knew from a previous visit that the side gate to the quadrangle had a defective hinge, which the manor was too mean to send in for repair.
He left Perkyn to his frights, and once it was dark crossed quickly over the bridge to the stable and let himself in.
The first box was filled with the warm bulk of a horse, which whinnied softly at seeing him. Freezing, he listened carefully. Nothing.
There was no way he could risk a light but he was relying on the vivid white to show in the gloom. Even if he stuffed other material with it in his sack it could be extracted later.
He remembered it was usually layered under the straw, thin sheets of white, clumping occasionally, and close to the floor. Experimentally he lifted up an interlocking mat of rank and odorous straw.
In the gloom he wasn’t sure of what he saw, whether it was hsiao or common putrid rot. Should he taste it first or—
He felt a bump to the elbow. In a wash of relief he saw that it was a dog and shoved the animal away impatiently.
It was the wrong thing to do. Backing away it raised a din of witless barking, on and on.
Jared shot to his feet and ran out into the yard.
Opposite there was movement and shouts. He flung himself at the gate but the baulky hinge at first refused to give until with a manic heave he had it open. He fled for his life out and across the bridge, ducking down instantly into the passage between Nolly’s house and the smithy, emerging the other side to dive into the familiar darkness and smells of his workplace where he lay next to the forge, heart pounding.
The puzzled shouting and barking died away and he breathed again. But then he made out a figure standing outside, the unmistakeable shape of a club in his hands.
‘Come on out, you thieving bastard!’ Osbert snarled, slapping the weapon into his palm.
‘Jared – you!’ he gasped, dropping the club. ‘What in the name of Christ …?’
Thinking quickly, he hung his head. ‘The nightmares. They’ve returned.’
‘Like you had before? You poor wight! I had no idea … I thought you and Perkyn was on the piss all night.’
‘No, he’s been with me, a-following as I wander in my torment. You see, after I get to sleep, these wild dreams come, of all the foul and dreadful things I suffered in my exile in the land of the Saracens. Locked in my nightmare I ramble abroad, not knowing where I am or what I’m doing. I do pray they leave me soon or …’
Osbert’s eyes widened in understanding. ‘Such an awful thing, and you on pilgrimage and all,’ he murmured. ‘If there’s anything I can do – follow you about to give Perkyn a rest …?’
‘Oh, er, your charity does you honour, but Perkyn insists that as he served me in those evil places, so his duty is to me still. I crave only you keep this sadness to yourself and that this time of trial will soon pass.’
Lifting his head nobly he stepped out into the night. He’d have to be more careful while he looked elsewhere.
CHAPTER 41
In the morning Jared ambled slowly down the muddy street. At the end, Godswein’s widow kept a fowl-coop, small but raised off the ground. It was set away from the houses on account of its stink. The throat-catching reek of their droppings promised much.
As dark settled they set off. It was essential Perkyn played his part for Jared had to squirm under the structure and pass out handfuls of old ordure that had fallen below.
Jared crept up quietly, talking softly to the sleeping fowls inside so as not to alarm them.
The coop was set up three hands’ breadth on crude stilts and he found he was just able to wiggle in, choking and gagging on the thick ammoniac stench. Sudden scurrying erupted as rats scattered, some running over his body and past his face.
But he hadn’t bargained on the pitch blackness beneath which made it impossible to make out even a trace of precious whiteness. Worse, it made him bang his head on a frame which shook the structure and started the poultry off in an indignant squawking.
Backing out as quickly as he could, he rose up – and while Perkyn was nowhere to be seen, he soon made out a line of still figures that stood quietly watching him.
‘I … I …’
‘Don’t trouble yourself, Jared, we understand.’ It was the kindly voice of widow Godswein.
‘But I didn’t …’ he began and tailed off.
‘That’s all right, m’ honey, Osbert told us about your troubles, poor lamb. Is there anything …?’
Frustration made him bad-tempered and he lashed out at Perkyn when he got back.
He recoiled piteously. ‘M-master Jared,’ he whimpered, ‘I don’t understand! What are we doing, that we’re spending our nights picking over this old shit and—’
‘Are you going to puzzle me with a load of questions, or help me when I need you?’
‘I’m to help, but—’
‘Good. Now let me think.’
There was the common pigsty over the river but this was in with the villeins who could not be expected to be sympathetic. But their ox-house, where they kept the draught animals, had been there for as long as any could remember and he’d promised a new bolt and fittings. Straw was thrown over the dung and in turn trampled down, and if hsiao could not be found there, where could it be?
Not only that, he could go in daylight and would be able to see what he was doing.
Perkyn’s bag of tools held a sack inside and he had every intention of filling it before they returned.
Most of the villeins were out in the fields and an awed maid showed them the building, long and broad and gratifyingly thick-smelling. The beasts at their troughs looked up in interest at his entry.
‘What? Still with oxen? I must have them out or how might I work, woman!’ Jared demanded.
It was easy. Left on their own, it was minutes’ work to lever up a lifetime or more of filth and there, in plain view, was a skein of white, in places thick enough to peel away. Within a short time they had the sack full.
At last! The only remaining task now was the wresting out of the hsiao and then they would have everything necessary for their awesome creation.
Carefully, Jared planned out what was still needed. Only a substantial cauldron, like that Cathayan three-footed bronze kind.
Where on God’s earth could he find something like that?
It came to him quickly. The quenching tub next to the forge. Four feet of it, but of heavy beaten iron and intended for warm work.
And just as important, he must have washing lye. Lots of it. The washerwoman in the manor house was most obliging, giving over a generous pail of strong bleaching lye she swore by. The greyish-brown slop looked different to what he’d seen in Persia but later he dropped an egg in it, and saw with satisfaction that it floated jauntily, a sure sign of quality.
It was a struggle to heft it all through Wolfscote Forest to the priory.
‘A fire, Perkyn. Good and hot.’
He looked at Jared wretchedly. ‘You’re going to … cook it?’
Jared sensed the edge of hysteria at his evidently moonstruck acts and softened. ‘Rest your soul, Perkyn. Here I’m driving out the dross to leave the hsiao which hides in its midst.’
He dropped handfuls of their hard-won muck into the tub of boiling water and after an interval began ladling out the impurities. The rank effluvia was overpowering at first but he persevered, remembering how Wang’s crew had to take it in turns.
Hour after hour Jared laboured on in the ghostly ruins. When the mixture was half-gone he decided to let i
t settle and left for home.
The next night the work continued until it had boiled quite away. Jared snatched the oil lamp and peered into the bottom of the tub – and there, dully glistening, was the miracle of the white crystals of hsiao!
His heartbeat quickened. The last step!
Taking the keg of lye Jared carefully poured it into the tub, watching it gushing in a hissing roil of eye-watering steam until it steadied. He topped up the mixture with water and with the crystals now dissolved the boiling started again. And again. He was determined to do it right, for Wang had said that hsiao was the chief of the elements.
After three nights he had it. A fair pile of pure-white crystals.
Hard work and sorely won. But he had it!
Jared allowed himself a night free, for the last stage was very short. Mixing the ingredients to make the live huo yao. And then …
CHAPTER 42
‘Hurry, Perkyn. This night we shall be well rewarded for our pains.’
Jared laid out the elements neatly on the table.
Charcoal, small uniformly blackened twigs in a basket.
Sulphur, a startling pristine yellow in a basin.
The hsiao. Pure-white crystals that gleamed in the lamplight.
And then the mortar and pestle. Cleaned spotless, it had an iron bowl and bronze pestle, easily up to the job it faced now.
With Perkyn looking on nervously Jared started with the charcoal. Heaping it into the mortar he ground it down, feeling the gritty resistance gradually give as he worked.
The bowl was soon half-full of fine dust – with the same for the rest he would have plenty for the first trial. He set it aside and cleaned the bowl.
Then the sulphur. A careful crunch and twist, crunch and twist until it too was a fine-ground dust.
Finally the hsiao. He gave it everything he had until it fell through his fingers, a perfectly consistent waterfall of tiny glittering crystals.
‘And this is our finish, Perkyn,’ he announced gravely. ‘Each of these will now be brought to embrace the other closely, but when they are roused by fire, they fly apart in a terrible rage.’
Jared emptied in some ground charcoal to the bowl and added the sulphur, grinding away until the yellow swirl had been subsumed into a grey-black. Then the hsiao was ground into the mixture and when the result was a uniform dull-grey coarse dust with the barest suggestion of a sheen he stopped work.
It was done.
It looked like huo yao – and a tentative sniff instantly brought it all back to him. This was it!
Jared didn’t have bamboo but he’d made up some tubes from moulding clay of the same dimensions. He carefully poured the grey powder into one of them, sealed it with a twist of cloth and took it to the end of the cellar.
‘Perkyn. I’m now about to release the demons. It will be loud and dreadful – do stop your ears if you don’t want to be frightened.’
‘No, not yet – I’m going outside!’ he gulped and scrambled to get away.
So he would be the only witness. Jared shrugged, but there was no stopping now.
Setting the tube down on a shelf he took the lamp and taking a deep breath applied it to the cloth, then rapidly retreated.
He tensed for the shock.
The flame progressed merrily until it reached the end of the tube. It died momentarily – then there was only a feeble pop and show of flame and a suddenly mounting cloud of grey-white smoke.
Hardly believing what he’d seen he approached gingerly. The clay tube had split lengthways, revealing a blackish ash inside, but as a show of violence it was pitiful.
He’d followed everything scrupulously, and to be let down like this!
Jared paced up and down, barely noticing the rank stink that lay on the air. What could have gone wrong? He’d followed his mentally rehearsed instructions with meticulous attention and was certain that he’d missed nothing.
It just had to work – he’d try again with double the powder.
But this made no difference.
Was it the quality of the ingredients? With the possible exception of the hsiao they had been identical to Wang’s.
Was it that the tube had not been bamboo? The principle was to stop the fire-maddened elements fleeing each other until they’d called on heaven’s thunder to free them. This had been done.
Dispirited, Jared concluded it had to be the ingredients – and he’d have to start again from scratch.
He left the cellar heavily and saw Perkyn rise shamefacedly from behind a tombstone. They trudged home together.
CHAPTER 43
The next morning Osbert was in a foul temper. Not only had some rat-faced thief some nights ago taken off with their quenching tub – handed down from Jared’s father’s father – but now, their mortar and pestle had gone missing.
Jared muttered sympathies but his mind was elsewhere.
He’d try willow twigs from the opposite bank this time for a new batch of charcoal.
Wagge the pedlar was surprised to take another order for best sulphur but suggested he would be more than satisfied by a sack on its way to the leper hospital.
The hsiao? Jared gave it much careful thought. The wet, stinking material he’d been so careful to select didn’t particularly look much like what the Cathayans had gathered, even if it yielded very similar crystals. The dry heat of that land had made it seem more dense, friable almost. And they’d always preferred scrapings of those white icicles from stone mausoleums and sepulchres. Was England’s cool and misty climate not infusing sufficient fervency into the hsiao?
He’d no way of knowing. Better to go for the stone scrapings.
There hadn’t been a good haul at the priory. The other place that suggested itself was the parish church and its ancient crypts, but Jared knew he’d not get away with ransacking that.
The manor pigeon-cote? This lord of the manor was not partial to pigeon pie and it had been empty these years. Stone-built with a domed roof it had all the makings of a prime source.
The door was not locked: empty, it had no attraction for thieves or other. Jared entered and looked up. The entire ceiling was gloriously white with encrusted hsiao, a princely haul!
An old ladder stood against the wall and with Perkyn holding it Jared clambered up.
The roof was out of reach but he transferred his feet to the multitude of pigeonholes in the wall and was soon up among the rank efflorescence that sprouted like flowers from all parts. Gleefully he plied his scraper and in no time had a bag weighty with good, reeking hsiao.
‘That’s enough for now,’ he called down to Perkyn and descended.
They opened the door and to his horror saw the bulk of Harpe standing outside, impassive, holding back an eager mastiff on a leash.
‘Er, Saint Michael’s blessing upon you, this fine evening,’ Jared managed.
‘Master Blacksmith. And can I ask what you’re doing here?’
‘Oh. Um, looking.’
‘For what?’
‘F-for treasure.’
‘Treasure? Give me that bag.’
Harpe glared inside, sniffing and frowning, then handed it back expressionless, distancing himself.
‘Ah, and I hopes you feel better in the morning.’
CHAPTER 44
It was utterly frustrating. Even with fresh ingredients purified over three nights it was still a miserable pop and gouts of smoke, nothing that would frighten even a mouse.
He had used the best contents in his concoction he could find, and if they were not good enough there were no others he could lay hands on.
Unless he could find an explanation he was finished.
Was it simply that he’d been fooled? Had Wang misled him in some way? But he’d followed the process eagle-eyed from start to thunderous finale and was certain there’d been no foul play.
Jared was staring into his ale at the tavern three days later when he it came to him. The proud alewife took care with her brew to make it distinctive and lip-smacking
. She added alecost and pennyroyal, other herbs, to make her gruit that which gave her particular ale a right true flavour and the proportions of which were always a jealously guarded secret.
Could it be … that his ingredients were sufficient in themselves but that they had to be mixed in due proportion?
It made sense – where nothing else did.
The first trial, an extra handful of sulphur, produced results. An angry red and blue blaze but no concussion.
Another, less charcoal, and it was a fitful spitting.
Yet another, more hsiao, produced a sprightly flaring for some seconds but no violence.
It could go on for ever. No wonder the alewives could keep the secret of their brews. The combinations were endless.
He had three elements. If he went by tens, he could try one-tenth of the first and ten-tenths of the others. Then two-tenths of the first to ten-tenths of the others and so on, but even with his elementary arithmetic, didn’t it come out to, er, ten times ten times ten – a thousand trials?
Any reasonable man would give up in the face of these odds.
But he would do it. However long it took, using a small wooden spoon as the standard measure and seeing it through to the very end.
There was little Perkyn could do so Jared attended to his combinations alone.
Some of these resulted in a bright flaring but most ended as a dull sputtering, all producing gouts of rank-smelling smoke.
At one point he nearly broke down when he realised that to be thorough he should, by rights, at the end of this cycle, brew a fresh batch of the first element and run through the entire cycle of combinations again. Which would mean that at this rate he would be an old man before he’d half-completed the interminable course.
Doggedly, night after night, as the weather grew colder and blustery rain made the trudge to the priory a misery, Jared persevered.
The Powder of Death Page 14