by Robin Jarvis
“What care I? Is it right that Jupiter has everything? Why should he be the only one to understand the human’s writing? Why can’t I work the spells also?”
Magnus smiled. “Hmm, I saw thy attempts afore,” he said. “Did I not say then that it was a wasted effort?”
“Why do you say that? Have I not just as much right to work magic as my sainted brother?”
“You have no right whatsoever.”
Leech pulled himself up sharply; there was a definite ring in the voice. “Why?” he asked.
The spirit wagged a spectral finger at the kitten. “Dost thou not understand the laws governing magic?” he sighed. “In any family large or small, it is possible for only one member to practise the secret arts. Jupiter has taken the choice from thee. Leech. He sought to wield enchantments before you did and thus the right has passed to him. He is the one selected from your house, you cannot compete against him. The rules cannot be broken, they have held true since creation and thou must accept that.”
“Then am I doomed to a life of servitude under my brother?”
“Perhaps,” Magnus admitted. His hands drifted up to his face and a strange look passed over him. “There is much to learn on the other side,” he muttered, “many things, past, present and yet to come, are revealed unto you. I gaze now on some distant time, when science does strangle the world and life reaches for the stars.” He hesitated as the vision unfurled and his voice trembled with amazement. “If the present path is followed unswervingly then from the darkness deep beneath the earth a living god will rise and he shall be named Jupiter—Lord of All.”
“No!” hissed Leech furiously.
The eyes of Magnus Zachaire wrenched themselves back to the present and focused on the kitten before him. “This is written,” he said, “if circumstances remain constant—thy brother shall indeed become a god.”
A hideous sneer stole over Leech. “But what if my brother were to meet with some accident?” he whispered.
“Then the power that was his would pass to thee,” answered the spirit.
Leech grinned as malice filled his thoughts and the smouldering hatred he bore for Jupiter burst now into unquenchable flames. With his tail flicking in agitation he stared across at the sleeping figure of his brother. “I shall have to see what can be contrived,” he breathed.
8 - Adieu
Doctor Spittle slept long and deeply; the past few weeks had taken their toll on him. This was the first complete rest he had allowed himself for a very long time and he was reluctant to stir from it. Through dreams that ran with rivers of molten gold he pranced, flitting like an old, fat butterfly from one heap of treasure to another. The gleam of his fortune dazzled him and as he raised his hands to shield his eyes from the glare he realised that he had awoken at last. The bright light was in truth the rays of the wintry sun which was already climbing the sky. The alchemist blinked, grumpily squinting as the delightful dreams swiftly dissolved and the grey reality of the world greeted him.
Mumbling, the old man forced himself out of bed, but when his bare feet met the cold floor he whistled through his teeth and hopped back onto the mattress. Standing there in his threadbare nightshirt. Doctor Spittle stretched and his crooked back clicked with surprise. As he scrabbled through the messy heaps of clothes which surrounded the bed he chuckled merrily at the thought of what today might yield.
“With Zachaire’s assistance,” he said, “the Stone shall indeed be mine.”
The alchemist dressed hurriedly and ran like an excited child to the door of his bedchamber, so eager was he to commence the work. But on the small landing he paused as a familiar voice drifted up from the shop below.
“Vite, boy—vite! Fetch that rascally ragamuffin of an apothecary!”
Normally Doctor Spittle would have scowled at this insulting remark but nothing could mar his happiness this morning—not even Sir Francis Lingley. With his head set at a regal tilt he descended the stairs, his face wrapped around with a very large smile.
He met Will at the bottom of the staircase and waved him back into the shop.
This morning Sir Francis was dressed in an outfit of emerald silk. A hilarious but expensive broad-brimmed hat trimmed with feathers and silver tinsel sat atop the oval head and this finery drew the alchemist’s attention at once. His smile failed as he realised that he had neglected to put on his new robe that morning, but he rallied and welcomed the dandified customer with a warmth that made Will look up sharply.
“A good day to you, My Lord!” he exclaimed.
“How good it is to see you in my humble shop once more. What service may I offer to you this chill morning?”
Even Sir Francis was taken aback by the profuse greeting. After his rude treatment of the apothecary yesterday he was expecting at least some coldness. He fingered the yellow lace which festooned his throat; how pleasant it was to be thought of so highly by the common sort. He was glad that Doctor Spittle was still well disposed towards him—it would make his request a trifle easier. Expertly he pointed a ribboned toe and gave a polite bow.
“You do me much honour, Apothecary,” he said coolly, “yet it is not your knowledge of herbs and simples which has brought me hither this day.”
The alchemist raised a bushy eyebrow. “Then what indeed has taken you from the court and led you here?” he inquired.
Will looked from one man to the other—he could sense that each was up to something. As he was considering what this might be. Sir Francis became aware of his curious stare.
“If we might be permitted to speak in private,” he whispered to the old man, nodding at Will to show his meaning.
Doctor Spittle turned to the boy and clapped his hands. “See to my workroom,” he instructed. Will left the shop and trailed up the stairs.
When he was sure they would not be overheard Sir Francis came to the point at once. “The King is giving a banquet next week,” he cried. “It is certain to be the most splendid event of the year. A childhood friend of His Majesty sails this very day from France and it is in his honour that the feast is given.
“A most perfect opportunity for advancement,” mused the alchemist perceptively.
Sir Francis gaped at him for a moment—this apothecary was a mite too sharp at times. “Exactly so,” he agreed, briskly covering his hesitation. “One who is friends with the Comte de Foybleau would also find high favour with the King.” He lowered his voice and flicked the curls of his periwig over his shoulders as he continued. “I have it on good authority that the Comte speaks little or no English and looks kindly on those with wit enough to use his native tongue when addressing him.”
“Then your future is assured,” Doctor Spittle returned mildly and the ghost of a mocking smile flickered at the corners of his mouth, “for do you not have the mastery of that language?”
Sir Francis gave him a withering stare. “You know full well I do not!” he snapped. “Was it not you who furnished me with what scraps of French I already possess?”
“It may have been,” admitted the alchemist slowly, “but you have surpassed those few words I first taught you.” He lowered his eyes and brushed an imaginary crumb from his grubby jerkin. “I do not recall including the word ‘mendiant’ in that original list—it means ‘beggar’, does it not?”
Sir Francis loosened his lace cravat to ease his discomfort and strained to keep calm. “As to that,” he mumbled, “and my tone of yesterday, there does appear to be an apology owing. But, the fact remains that I, and much of the court, know very little true French. What I do understand is merely a jumble of fragments that I have garnered from the chatter of others.”
“A most unkind chatter it must be to contain so many insults,” Doctor Spittle drily commented. “What a foul crew you must throng with, My Lord.”
The smile froze on the other man’s face; the apothecary was not making this easy. It galled Sir Francis to ask anything of this untidy wretch and his fingers twitched in their frilled cuffs, anxious to strike the
impudent fellow. After a moment’s careful thought, however, the smile widened and Sir Francis was laughing nervously—this was too important a chance to let slip. He dabbed at his sweating forehead; better to let the man have his fun than miss this marvellous opportunity. “You are, are you not, a learned soul?” he asked. “A scholar even?”
Doctor Spittle gazed at him with a steady eye. “It is true, I do indeed understand more than most,” he answered archly.
Sir Francis let that one pass, but it set his teeth on edge to do so. When this banquet was over and he was close to the King, then he would deal with this insolent rogue in a fitting manner. For the present he would have to suffer these barbed words and he turned to speak once again. “Then furnish me with more than the ridiculous phrases that I and everyone else bandy about the court,” he begged. “String together sentences which one would ask a native of France.”
“But if the Comte were to speak with you, you would be unable to comprehend him.”
“No matter,” Sir Francis said confidently. “I can tell by tone of voice whether a nod or tut is needed. Just give me the rags of a conversation and I shall tailor them to suit my needs.” He looked keenly into the old man’s face then added, “I should be eternally grateful.”
Doctor Spittle bowed. “Return here on the day of the banquet and what you desire will be ready.”
“The day of the banquet?” the other spluttered. “But I must commit it to memory. How shall I do so in such little time?”
“That is a problem for you to overcome,” replied the alchemist. “Alas I can do the work no swifter.”
Sir Francis snorted impatiently then nodded as he accepted this. “So be it,” he said, “only be sure ’tis done, for I will be knocking on your door at first light that day.” With a flourish of his feathered hat he marched from the shop.
Doctor Spittle rubbed his hands together. “At last,” he cackled, “that beribboned maypole has entered my web and is in my power.” With a spring in his step he almost skipped upstairs.
Dab pushed her cheek against the boy’s palm and purred. Will stroked her head then scratched under her chin. The kitten rolled onto her side and closed her beautiful amber eyes as she yawned. From her place before the hearth, Imelza came forward. She gave the boy a wary look then sat beside her daughter.
“Stop that at once,” she hissed, “it is most unseemly—you are not tame, child.”
Shyly Dab looked up at the boy then remembered the proprieties. “Forgive me, Mother,” she said, “I forgot myself.”
“A hunter never forgets,” admonished Imelza. “The life here is too easy, that is the problem. Your instincts grow dull. When the weather turns we shall escape.”
Dab said nothing, but her mind revolted at the thought of leaving the attic. Of course she wanted to see the outside world, but not stay there and have to kill for survival.
Will watched the cats and laughed; anyone would think they were talking to one another. He gave Dab one last pat on the head and Doctor Spittle entered.
“The time has come,” he cried excitedly as he rushed over to one of the shelves. A flurry of parchments was thrown over his shoulder as he rooted amongst the jars and pots. A terrified screech issued from the shelf as a small black shape darted out and raced behind a cupboard. “Cursed slug!” roared the alchemist. “Why is it always underfoot? Aha!” He brought out the small bottle which contained Magnus Zachaire and set it spinning on the table.
A prolonged whine echoed from within and the blue light pulsed in fright. “Enough!” pleaded the spirit. “Dost thou reckon my suffering too small that thou wouldst seek to compound it?”
Promptly the old man slapped his hand upon the bottle and put a stop to its revolutions. “Good morrow, Magnus,” he uttered. “I trust you are ready to unravel the conundrums you have set?”
“I am.”
Doctor Spittle took the robe and spread it out upon the table with the embroidered lining uppermost. “Then let us begin,” he said.
The ethereal face appeared in the bottle; a fierce glint crept into the eyes as they surveyed the velvet gown and a strange smile formed upon the lips.
“What has amused you?” rapped out the alchemist sharply. “Is there a matter here to cause merriment?”
The smile disappeared and the spirit shook its head. “’Twere only old memories which haunted me,” it said quickly.
“Well, we don’t want any of that to bore the breeches off us,” sniffed the old man tapping the table in irritation. “Kindly get on with the task set.”
Magnus turned his attention back to the message embroidered on the lining. “He who wouldst seek the Philosopher’s Stone must know this,” he began.
Doctor Spittle nodded eagerly and reached for his notes as the spirit continued.
“This most wondrous element is a stone yet not a stone, it is of God yet not of God, it is flesh yet mineral also, it is secret but known to all.”
“Yes, yes, we are all aware of that tired chestnut, but of the formula? Explain the symbols you have used!”
“So be it,” returned the spirit.
For the rest of the morning they worked together. With grudging reluctance Magnus Zachaire translated the meaning of his riddling code and Doctor Spittle gleefully annotated his notes, declaring from time to time, ‘Of course’ or ’Surely not’. By the middle of the afternoon all was explained and the alchemist happily puffed out his chest.
“Now fulfil thine end of the bargain,” demanded the spirit.
The old man glanced up from his sheaf of paper and smirked. “My dearest colleague,” he said, “that would be most unwise of me. How am I to know this is the true formula? I must experiment with it first before I can be sure. No, I think you will have to be patient a little longer.”
The light inside the bottle turned almost white with rage. Thou reneging knave!” Magnus boomed. “Hast thou no honour?”
But the alchemist only laughed.
The rest of the week was taken up with the collecting of the necessary ingredients and once he was sure he had them all, Doctor Spittle locked himself away and set to work. Throughout the daytime Will saw to the shop and attended to the needs of the customers. By now he knew what went into most of the cures and philtres the apothecary sold and coped with accomplished ease.
The fourth day saw the beginning of February and the boy grimly reflected that he had been in London for nearly three months. He tried never to think of his previous life now—dwelling on that time only brought home the misery of his present situation. Adcombe now seemed to be a far-off dreamworld and the boy who had idled away his childhood afternoons there was a separate person from the one who now slaved for the alchemist.
Doctor Spittle was certainly busy during this time—Will hardly saw him as the great experiment neared fruition. Occasionally a wisp of green smoke stole down the stairs to remind him that the work was still in progress, or an evil smell enveloped the whole building and was enough to keep the customers away.
On the night of the fifth day. Will was roused from sleep by the sound of laughter. In his bedchamber above the shop Doctor Spittle was enjoying some fine joke but the noise was horrible, not the carefree, glad sound of true mirth; this was tinged with hate and wickedness. Will pulled the sackcloth over his head and immersed himself in sleep once more.
A harsh knocking awoke him the next day. He rubbed his eyes. The light was still dim and he doubted if the morning cock had yet crowed. Peering through the gloom he perceived a tall figure hammering on the shop door. Immediately Will hurried over to see who this could be. A delicate and beringed hand shoved him out of the way. This was followed by the velvet-cloaked Sir Francis Lingley, resplendent in orange satin and white frills.
The apothecary!” he demanded. “Fetch him. I have no time to dally this day for there is much to do before the court bestirs itself—and I have an appointment with my tailor who refuses to be kept waiting, bothersome fellow. I shall be at costs of twenty pounds for the coa
t he is making for me to dazzle them with tonight. I hope it will prove a wise investment.”
Will ran up to wake Doctor Spittle who for some reason seemed almost benign and pleased to hear of Sir Francis’s early arrival.
“You are well come, My Lord,” the old man said some minutes later. This time he sported the robe for the other to see and he swished about in it pretending to examine an earthenware vessel on a high shelf.
Sir Francis eyed the gown with some surprise and his expression was almost envious when he saw the shining stones and silver lace. But he consoled himself with the fact that such a thing was not really fashionable and brought himself to the matter in question. “Do you have what you promised?” he asked bluntly.
The alchemist took a roll of paper from beneath the robe, allowing him a glimpse of the fine embroidery within. “I have indeed,” he returned with a bow.
Sir Francis had the scroll from his hand in a trice and hastily unfurled it. Doctor Spittle had been true to his word; in one column there were a score of possible topics of conversation. These included ’I trust the weather was clement for your journey from France?’ and, ‘London is a sweeter place for the arrival of you and your delightful wife’ or ’I have heard that you have three charming children, I pray the Lord keeps them well whilst you are from them’. The opposing column contained the French translation of these worthy sentiments and it was clear that Sir Francis was overjoyed.
“Precisely what I needed!” he exclaimed. “I am ever in your debt Apothecary. I shall have a word with the cook tonight and see if there is aught he can spare for you. Some delightful dessert perhaps—a syllabub or pear tart?”
“Most gratifying I’m sure,” replied the alchemist with little sincerity. “You will see. My Lord, that I have also included several compliments which you may like to pay to the Comtesse: ‘What lovely shoes’; ‘You look radiant tonight’; that sort of thing. Oh yes, there is also something which you might care to say to the King, commenting on his noble choice of friends.”