by Robin Jarvis
Through the traders and purveyors of fancy goods Doctor Spittle wound his way and wherever he went conversations ceased as folk gawked at him. A man selling apples tipped the entire tray on the ground when the alchemist sailed by, whilst the ragamuffins and street urchins pointed and called rude names after him. With his pale, greenish-white face framed by the violent orange locks, he looked like some horrendous apparition that had broken out of a tomb, and no one knew whether to laugh or be afraid.
Yet Doctor Spittle was blind to the ridicule and yelps of fright. He was so enamoured of his luscious hair that he actually believed they were all staring at him in admiration. Holding his head up high, he strutted along graciously waving to the startled populace as though he were a visiting king. Not one inkling did he have of the fool he was making of himself; he was truly an eyesore. But in his delusion, he was convinced that the splendour of his hair lent him a statuesque symmetry and it was only right and proper that the world should behold him.
Quite a crowd followed him through the streets, sniggering and elbowing one another and giggling at the old, misguided buffoon.
And then a chink appeared in the glory of his self-deception. As he pranced down towards St Paul’s, with the vulgar laughter rising like a swift tide behind him, his flesh began to creep and he itched terribly. Absently he rubbed the side of his face where his skin irritated and stung, then he scratched the top of his head, then his leg.
It was not long before he was scratching himself all over and the crowd hooted to see him doing this insane jig.
“Lo!” they jeered. “St Vitus has come amongst us.”
A tinker with a flute struck up a wild tune to accompany the alchemist’s jerks and frantic movements and all roared at his expense.
Doctor Spittle raked his fingers through his hair and clawed at his cheeks. His very blood seemed on fire and the raucous laughter resounded all around until he was caught in a storm of derision and mockery.
“What are you laughing at?” he bawled, wheeling round to confront his tormentors.
All he saw was a sea of leering faces and mouths that were wide with scornful mirth. Then the sun became brighter, for it dazzled his eyes and almost blinded him. He held up his hands to shield himself from the painful rays and at once the laughter stopped.
The faces of the mob took on terrified aspects and those at the front began to scream.
“The plague!” they screeched. “He has the plague!”
Doctor Spittle lowered his arms and he squinted in horror at the back of his hands. Already the marks of the Black Death were blotching his skin with ugly red weals.
“No!” he whimpered. “It cannot be—not now!”
The crowd pushed and jostled one another to escape from the old man and soon he was left standing alone in the middle of the street where he threw back his head and wailed.
An earthenware pot fell from Will’s hands as the shop door burst open and Doctor Spittle charged inside.
“The plague!” he shrieked holding up his hands for the boy to see. “I have the plague!”
Distraught, he raced upstairs sobbing and shaking his fists heavenward.
Will stood as one frozen and amazed, but the possibilities of the situation slowly started to unravel and a desperate glimmer of hope lifted his spirits. The alchemist was going to die—at last he would be free to return home.
Above the anguished cries of the doomed man he heard the attic door slam shut and he became troubled. Was his liberty worth the loss of a life—even one as vile and wicked as Doctor Spittle’s? It was a dilemma he had faced once before, when Sir Francis Lingley had tried to kill the old man. He had been spared the decision then but what would happen this time? Will sat on the counter. He had prayed unceasingly for his freedom; in doing so had he brought this awful fate down upon his captor?
At the top of the building the alchemist rushed over to his chair and flung himself into it. “Is this the end of Elias Theophrastus Spittle?” he murmured, tears welling up in his eyes. “Does my existence truly terminate here? Will all that I am, all that I have learned—all my genius be snuffed out for eternity?”
The room was filled by a cold blue light and the voice of Magnus Zachaire chuckled from the spirit bottle. “Ha! Vainglorious wretch!” he trumpeted. “Taste now the bitter bliss of death. Thy folly and conceit hath fashioned thine own demise. How much more bitter is that draught when it is drunk from a cup of thine own making?”
“What do you mean?” stammered Doctor Spittle in confusion. “How have I brought this upon myself?”
The spirit’s face glowed with triumph as it peered out of the bottle at him. “Beckett, thine orange rat!” he declared. “Knowest thou now that the pestilence is carried by the fleas which such creatures bear. When thou didst hold him to thy bosom the trap was sprung and thy days were numbered. But what an excruciatingly painful end Elias—it gladdens me that thou shalt perish in a torment equal to that thou hast forced me to endure. For such was my desire from the very beginning.”
Doctor Spittle was thunderstruck. “Have you done this to me?” he whispered in a crushed, tragic voice.
“Indeed I have!” announced the spirit proudly. “Ever have I guided and goaded thee into preparing the formulae which have been my design alone. Thou hast been working for me, Elias, and thou didst not suspect at any turn that it was I who led thee on and brought thee hither, condemned by thine own hand.”
The alchemist’s face was a picture of bewilderment as he realised just how much of a fool he had been. Then the mood changed to anger which burst into fury.
“No!” he screeched, tearing the books off the shelves and hurling the table over in his wrath. He snatched up the spirit bottle and his fingers tightened around it until his knuckles turned white. “I will not succumb to you,” he raged. “I will conquer you yet, treacherous and baseborn phantom.”
Magnus laughed all the more. “Proceed, Elias,” he urged, “crush the glass, release me even sooner than I did anticipate.”
“Oh no,” growled the alchemist, “I cannot do that—not whilst I still have a use for you. You know the true formula for the elixir of life—only that can save me now.”
The spirit smirked, highly amused at this. “Dost thou truly believe I would guide thee to the brink of death only to rescue thee now?” it mocked. “Thou art a greater simpleton than I did envisage.”
But Doctor Spittle did not reply. He took up a candle, lit it, then snarled, “Now I do what I should have done at the first.” He held up the bottle and placed it over the flame, turning it slowly until the glass became black with soot and scorching.
“AAIIEEE!” screamed Magnus from within. “AAIIEEEEEEEE!”
Now it was the alchemist’s turn to laugh. “Ho, Magnus,” he cackled grimly, “does the heat burn? Does it shrivel and blast? Is this more painful than death, oh vile and deceitful wraith? Until I die of the sickness I am quite able to keep you in such torture—in fact it will hearten me and keep me in a merry humour till the end.”
The spirit squealed in despair. The searing pain was more than he could bear. “Stop!” he pleaded. “Stop—I beseech thee!”
“Tut, tut,” muttered Doctor Spittle, momentarily lifting the bottle from the flame, “would you deprive me of my final amusement?” He lowered it once more and Magnus’s shrill shrieks rang in his ears.
“I submit!” the spirit shouted. “Spare me further suffering and the elixir is thine—I swear!”
Doctor Spittle kept the bottle in the flame for one lingering, sadistic moment, then he pulled it away—black and smoking. “Now tell me you foul, unwholesome undine.”
Utterly defeated and tamed by the violence of the heat, Magnus Zachaire revealed his secrets at last and, within an hour. Doctor Spittle had a complete and precise formula written on three sheets of paper. “Thank you,” he told him. “See how your plans have brought me not to death but life everlasting.”
Magnus wept to himself; his defiant spirit vanquished, t
he blue light dwindled and was extinguished.
For the rest of the day Doctor Spittle set about making the elixir. Time was his enemy now—he reckoned that he had only a few hours before the Black Death robbed him of his wits and so he hastened to complete what was needed.
Jupiter assisted his master as much as he could, watching over the seething crucibles and giving help when required.
“I shall be victorious,” the old man informed his familiar. “Death shall never garner me to his cold realm—I have too much to live for.”
And Jupiter hoped that he was right. He did not want to see the alchemist perish, though it was not really affection that he felt for him—rather the respect that one might show to an aged tutor. Besides there was still so much to learn and without Doctor Spittle the ginger cat doubted if he would be allowed to continue.
Endlessly they toiled over the broiling pots, but every now and again the alchemist would pause and stare at the boils which festered over him. “More speed,” he would cry. “The sands of time run out too quickly.”
Leech crawled out of the shadows, fascinated by this macabre turn of events. Stealthily he crept over to the spirit bottle and whispered to the soul inside.
“Magnus,” he wheedled, “will the old human die? I should like to see him race into the darkness. I hear the plague is an agonising way to go—how long before he starts to shiver and sweat and when do the ravings fog his mind?”
There was no response from the spirit so Leech wiped the soot from the glass to peer inside.
“Leave me,” moaned Magnus feebly. “I have failed. All too soon Elias will be immortal and my real torment shall only commence. What have I done?”
Leech’s jaw dropped open and he let out a pitiful whine. “Then no doubt Jupiter shall also drink of the elixir,” he muttered. “My brother will endure beyond me—I too am lost.”
The faintest glimmer began to pulse from the bottle, and a cunning look stole over the spirit’s face.
“And yet who can tell?” he murmured. “There may still be a way for my vengeance to succeed.”
As the shades of evening deepened outside the attic window Doctor Spittle wavered in the yellow smoke that filled the room. “The two-headed dragon,” he whispered pouring five silver drops from a small jar into the bubbling mixture. He swayed and put his hand to his brow in an attempt to steady himself.
“Jupiter,” he mumbled, “are you there?” The billowing clouds of sulphur gathered thickly about him and it seemed that they entered his mind. A dark mist closed over his eyes and he felt all his energies trickle swiftly away. A blackness crept over him and the alchemist gibbered woefully, “I... I fear I am too... too late,” Even as he spoke, his legs went from under him and the old man fell to the floor.
Jupiter dashed to his side and mewed frantically.
Doctor Spittle shivered and beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. “I cannot continue,” he muttered. “I was too late—the grim gentleman has won after all,” He reached out a shaking hand and patted his familiar on the head. “And we... we had it... almost within our grasp,” he said bitterly, “so... close...” The alchemist closed his eyes and surrendered to the plague fever.
From the shelf Leech stared through the curling smoke and his hope soared. “It would seem my brother is denied immortality,” he chuckled.
But Magnus Zachaire was not so confident. “Do not underestimate the power of Jupiter,” he warned. “Did I not tell thee that he shall grow very great and his name will live on beyond the lives of men? Look now and witness the beginnings of his destiny.”
Jupiter gazed wildly about him—the elixir was so close to being completed. Just a few hours more and it would be ready, yet it was impossible to see to it alone. Then his golden eyes widened and the solution came to him. “The boy!” he said. “He can help me.”
In one tremendous leap he bolted over Doctor Spittle and ran out of the door. Taking four steps at a time he tore downstairs and charged into the shop.
Will had been pondering over what he should do; really the shop ought to be shut up and a quarantine period begin. But if that happened then he might catch the plague as well as the alchemist. He had just made up his mind to sneak out, telling no one, when Jupiter rampaged from the attic and came skidding to a halt at his feet.
He stared at the ginger cat, startled by its frantic and sudden entry. “Hello,” he said in surprise, “what are you doing down here?”
Then Jupiter revealed for the first time his power. He glared at the boy and, taking a deep breath, spoke in a hissing parody of a human voice.
“Quickly,” he said in a commanding tone, “my master is ill. If we are to save him you must do all that I say.”
Will fell off the counter.
He gaped at the cat then shook his head. “I’m going mad,” he breathed. “The plague must have touched me as well—my brains are addled.”
“Listen to me, boy!” shouted Jupiter forcefully, and such was the authority of his voice that Will had no choice but to obey.
“Upstairs Doctor Spittle lies dying,” Jupiter told him. “Come with me now.”
Still astounded and amazed at the familiar’s gift of speech, the boy followed him back to the attic.
“See,” the familiar cried, “my master is in a deadly swoon, he was overcome by the pestilence.”
Through the choking yellow fog Will gazed down at the alchemist. The Black Death was devouring him completely; not one inch of skin was left uncovered by the sores that almost glowed with a greedy, red malevolence. Not even Jack Carver had looked so awful, but in the boy’s heart he felt neither pity nor remorse. “What do you expect me to do?” he asked coldly. “I cannot save him.”
“No, but I can,” Jupiter replied. “Shortly the elixir of life will be ready, it can restore him to health and all will be well.”
“Not for me,” returned Will.
“Are you going to help me or not?”
The boy coughed amid the thick smoke and shrugged. “Well, this atmosphere won’t be doing him much good,” he said. “I’ll take him to his bedchamber.”
Scrunching up his face, to block out the sight of the alchemist at such close quarters. Will put his hands under the old man’s arms and began to drag him out of the attic. “Well you’ve done it now, William Godwin,” he told himself, “the plague’ll get you for sure.”
It took fifteen awkward and uncomfortable minutes to lift and pull the alchemist down the small flight of stairs to his own room. Once Will had heaved him across the floor he hauled him onto the bed and the old man fell against the pillows. He was totally unaware of what was going on around him and, in his delirium, he groaned and mumbled unintelligibly.
Jupiter jumped onto the bed and looked at Doctor Spittle’s face. “We do not have much time left,” he said. “Come, we can do nothing down here.” He leapt to the floor but turned when he realised Will was not following him.
“Why do you stay?” the cat asked. “Is not the need for urgency plain?”
The boy was staring at the alchemist and he fought with the emotions that heaved in his breast. “His life depends on me,” he murmured, more to himself than Jupiter. “Should I save him?” He thought of all the misery he had been forced to endure because of this vicious old man; John Balker—Molly’s father—had been murdered on his instructions and she had died in a pest-house in trying to learn the truth. The months of his own hard toil and cruel starvation filled Will’s mind and his face hardened.
“I won’t do it,” he spat. “Let the monster die!”
Jupiter moved forward and pawed at the boy’s leg.
“I know little of what my master has done to you, human child,” he said softly, “but whatever the evils he may have inflicted upon you is it right that you should now destroy him? Does that not make you even as he?” His golden eyes gleamed and Will could not withstand their intense stare.
“You’re right,” he whispered. “If I stand by and do nothing I become like him. W
hatever happens to me. I’ll not be dragged unto his depravity. No matter what he does to me I could never be so cruel to him—or anyone.”
“Then come,” said the cat kindly, “let us rescue the old villain, and I think your life will be sweeter once we are done.”
Into the night the two of them worked together, for the task took longer than Jupiter had anticipated. The smoke burned in their eyes and changed colour a thousand times before it was done. But, just as the hour struck two in the morning, the elixir of life was ready.
13 - The Depths of His Black Heart
Will rubbed his tired eyes and gazed at the glass jar in his hand. A clear liquid filled it and the candlelight rejoiced in sparkling over its shimmering surface. “Is this really it?” he asked wondrously.
The cat nodded. “It is. Come—not a second have we to spare.” He ran to the door and hurried downstairs.
Doctor Spittle lay still; the ravages of the pestilence had left his face cratered and swollen, but the skin had lost its livid glare and a blueish pallor now bloomed in his cheeks with a ghastly luminescence.
Jupiter leapt onto the bed and a frown furrowed his brow. “Master,” he began. “Master, it is I, Jupiter, come to save you.”
The old man did not stir and the familiar’s lips trembled. Quickly he put his ear to the alchemist’s chest and listened. All was silent; no faint pit-a-pat fluttered and not one breath issued from Doctor Spittle’s lungs.
Jupiter staggered back. “I am too late!” he cried. “He is dead!”
Bearing the elixir, Will came into the bedchamber. The ginger cat shook his head tearfully. “Alas,” he sobbed, “all our labours were for nothing, the old one is no more.”
“Are you certain?” Will murmured. “Perhaps he is only in the black swoon.”
But Jupiter stared at the alchemist and sighed, “No, he is gone, and beyond recalling.”