by Layton Green
His scowl deepened. “I’m far too old and impotent to control with whom our members associate. If I had my way there’d be no other organizations. There would be The Guild, and entrance would be rigorous.”
“I’m working on a case that might involve Somax. I know the Lazarus Foundation donates to Somax. I wanted to come to you first.”
He settled into a defeated slouch. “We give money to any organization that claims to be researching life extension. I don’t think it matters whether or not the claims are true. We have certain very wealthy members who are rightly concerned with the limited longevity of their greedy souls.”
“What about a biotech based in Cairo, New Cellular Technologies?”
He began to chuckle.
“You’ve heard of it?”
“Eh? No. Cairo, you said?”
“Yes.”
“I find it ironic that an Egyptian biotech is trying to produce the elixir of life in a laboratory. I assume that’s where this conversation is going.”
“Why do you find it ironic?”
“Because some of us believe that it’s already there.”
Viktor sat back. “That’s not a legend I’m aware of.”
The old man cackled. “Would you like to hear it?”
Viktor’s eyes slid to the array of bottles standing on the bar, emerald promise waiting inside. “Certainly,” he murmured.
“To understand the search for the elixir you must understand the origins of alchemy itself.” The old man gave a rapt sigh. “Ah, where to begin? We could discuss this point alone for weeks.”
“I don’t have weeks. The beginning, but quickly. I’ve heard much of it before.”
“Let me just let chappie know we’ll be staying for another pint… ah, yes. He saw me. Now. Alchemy has been with us for a very long time. Lao Tzu’s China, the Greeks, the rituals of the ancient Vedic and Dharmic texts, the great Arab alchemists, and of course medieval Europe—all students of alchemy. But all of these places were successors. Children. Do you know where the concept of alchemy arose?”
“My guess at this juncture would be Egypt.”
“Chemi, the Black Land, is the ancient name for Egypt. The Arabs adapted the word to al-kimia, the art of transformation. But linguistics will only take you so far. The word has always had a hidden meaning of its own, the alcamistere of Chaucer’s day. Mystery, my boy. Something secret, something so important that a conspiracy of silence must be kept. Something that only the most persistent and talented of adepts could ever hope to discover. Alchemy has never been a science for the dilettante. It’s a lifelong journey for enlightenment.”
“And a quest for unlimited gold,” Viktor said.
He snorted. “For real alchemists, transmutation of metal was an offspring of the quest for eternal life. Do you know why the ancient alchemists sought to turn lead into gold? Gold was thought to be immutable, eternal: the most powerful anti-aging substance on earth. The alchemists sought to transmute gold into a purer form, one with even more potential.”
Viktor pursed his lips. “And the elixir?”
“Some view the elixir of life as a divine quest unto itself. Others see it as a substance that can be produced with the Philosopher’s Stone.”
“And your opinion?”
“My opinion is that the elixir of life has no relation to the philosopher’s stone. My opinion parallels the legend of which I spoke.”
Viktor spread his hands. “You’ve piqued my curiosity, Professor. That’s not easily done.”
“Are you familiar with Hermes Trismegistus?”
“A syncretism between the Greek god Hermes and the Egyptian god Thoth.”
He wagged his finger as if chastising a student. “Not just a god. Thrice-great Hermes. Once a man, then a caste, then a god. The one who drank of the white drops, the white gold, the elixir of life.”
“And author of the Hermetic writings, one of which is the legendary Emerald Tablet, the alleged key to alchemical transmutation. ‘That which is above is as that which is below, and that which is below is as that which is above,’ I believe is the famous quote.”
The old man chortled his approval. “So you do know a thing or two about alchemy.”
“At times my specialty and yours coincide.”
“It is said the Hermetic secrets of ancient Egypt are hidden within these texts, including the origins of alchemy. Seekers of esoteric knowledge came to Egypt by the boatload, from Asia Minor and Greece and even more distant shores, because they believed the Hermetic priests had the answers to the eternal mysteries. To the secrets of immortality.”
Viktor smirked. “I don’t suppose any of them discovered it?”
“It is said that Nicholas Flamel, a 14th century French alchemist, found the elixir, and also the Comte de St. Germain. Both, or men claiming to be both, have been seen in various places around the world hundreds of years after they should have died. A man claiming to be the Comte St. Germain appeared on French television in 1973. Are you familiar with another adept, Rabbi Judah Loew, who lived and worked on this very street during the 16th century?”
“In Jewish folklore, the creator of the legendary golem: a homunculus molded into human form from clay gathered at the banks of the Vltava, brought to life by inscribing the name of God on its forehead. A monster created by Rabbi Loew to protect the Jews in Prague’s ghetto from religious persecution. The golem grew too powerful, and the Rabbi deactivated the golem by erasing the first letter of the name of God.”
The Professor clapped. “Bravo. But you left out one other very important ingredient Rabbi Loew used to create the golem.”
Viktor snapped his fingers. “The breath of life. In some versions, the elixir of life. Sprinkled over the name of God.”
“Good, good. Now for my long and windy point. The three adepts I just mentioned, Flamel, the Comte, and Rabbi Loew, have something in common in addition to being attributed with using the elixir of life. A detail you won’t find in the textbooks.”
Viktor folded his arms. “I couldn’t be more in suspense.”
“Weeks before Nicholas Flamel and the Comte allegedly discovered the elixir of life, each took a trip. To Egypt.”
Viktor started to chuckle, but the old man leaned forward, his eyes intense. “Documented by reputable historical sources. The Guild has the correspondence to prove it.”
“And Rabbi Loew?”
“We have the diary of one of his contemporaries. Before the Rabbi made the golem, Rabbi Loew sent messengers to select Jews in various countries—common knowledge. A cry for help for the persecution of the Jews of Bavaria. A week before the golem appeared in Prague, Rabbi Loew received a visitor. Another Jew, but from a faraway land. And do you know, old boy,” he crowed, “where this visitor called home?”
He uttered the word with the vigor of a zealot. “Egypt.”
This time Viktor did chuckle, and the old man took a long draught. “Not convinced?”
“The golem is a fairy tale. And I’d need to see verifiable proof that two European alchemists in the Middle Ages traveled to Egypt.” Viktor shrugged. “In every myth and legend there’s truth to be found. Whether or not the truth behind the myth has anything to do with extraordinary or supernatural forces is a different question entirely. We must separate reality from desire, or truth will forever remain hidden.”
“Still the nonbeliever, I see.”
“You know my work better than that. I don’t discount possibilities, nor do I take my personal beliefs into account.”
“The forgotten dungeons of alchemy are not the only source of the legend. The legend of a liquid that grants the gift of immortality is one of mankind’s oldest and most persistent myths.”
“Of course,” Viktor said, and ticked off the names as he spoke. “The waters of Eden, the Pool at Bethesda in the Gospel of John, the Hyperborean and Antediluvian legends, the Nag Hammadi texts, the Pool of Youth in Hindu legend, the Qur’an’s Al Khidr, the writings of Prester John, the cauldron of
Medea, the quests of Alexander the Great for the restorative spring. And of course, all the later versions, the search for the fountain of youth in the New World, Ponce de Leon and Bimini, countless other seekers of myth.” Viktor flourished. “And yet to be named, of course, is the oldest source of the myth of all. Would you like to do the honors?”
“The Egyptians,” the old man said, with a gleam in his eye. “Worshippers of the eternal waters before other cosmologies had even sprung to life, a culture whose lust for immortality inspired the Pyramids. The oldest attempt on record to create an anti-aging ointment comes from a sixteenth century Egyptian papyrus. That’s sixteenth century B.C.E. Alchemists have long suspected Egypt was the source of the legend. Now what the alchemists of old found there, that is the question.”
He touched Viktor’s arm. “What you must ask yourself, what anyone who seeks the origin of myth must ask, is why did this legend arise? What is the basis in fact? Did waters once exist, a drop left over from the birth of the universe, a forgotten spring from the garden of Eden, an elixir that restored life, that restored soul? Do these waters exist still? The Kabbalists discovered something in Egypt, and what is the legend of the golem but a recasting of the myth of the mummy brought to life—think about it!”
Viktor stood and shrugged into his overcoat. He laid money on the table. He agreed the origin of myth must be sought, but this conversation had taken a turn for the absurd, and he could wait for his spoon and his glass no longer. They would have to catch up on memories another time.
He took the old man’s hand. “It’s been a fascinating evening. As always, I’m amazed by your scholarship.”
Viktor could hear him cackling all the way out the door.
– 30 –
They walked through the night. Grey felt as if he had fallen asleep and entered a giant forest dream world, dank and verdant and never-ending. They stumbled forward as the hours slipped by, surrounded by trees and insects, cocooned in a vast arboreal shell.
Grey worried they were hopelessly lost, but Stefan assured him he had roamed these woods as a child and knew them as if he had painted them. Twenty minutes after dawn they passed through a soft emerald glade sprawled beside a gushing stream, and Stefan announced that the monastery lay half an hour ahead. Then he sank to his knees beside the stream and shoveled water into his mouth. Veronica looked wary, and Stefan chuckled and drew a line with his finger from the stream to the mountain range in the distance, chipped grey peaks piercing the morning clouds like flint arrowheads.
They drank and pressed forward, renewed by the water and the promise of dawn. The forest had released its tenebrous grasp, and offered a gentle cloak for the remainder of the journey.
Fifteen minutes later they spied a magnificent sight through the trees, a tabletop of limestone cliffs stretching to the horizon in either direction. At the base of the massive shelf, on the far side of a clearing, they saw the curved arches and brightly colored cupola of an orthodox church, surrounded on three sides by forest and backed by the cliffs.
“There are many caves in the limestone,” Stefan said with a proud murmur, as Grey and Veronica stared at the beautiful sight. “During the revolution these cliffs hid our freedom fighters, and the monasteries provided food and arms.”
“It’s stunning,” Veronica said.
As they neared the ancient chapel a black-robed monk approached. Stefan called out, and a look of recognition overcame the monk. They embraced, and Stefan chatted with the monk in Bulgarian.
The monk gestured at Grey and Veronica to follow, and then walked arm-in-arm with Stefan towards the monastery. Stefan turned his head as he walked. “He’ll take us to spare rooms to sleep. No one will find us here.”
Grey spotted a barn and stable at one end of the clearing, and he pointed at a narrow dirt road that began on the other side of the stable, paralleling the cliffs and then disappearing into the forest. “Where does that road lead?”
“To a village many miles in the other direction.”
They drew closer, and Grey realized that behind the chapel a two-storied wooden structure had been built against the vertical shelf. The contiguous doors and stairways reminded Grey of an ancient hotel.
The monk led Grey to a sparse closet of a room, and Grey tumbled gratefully into bed. A few minutes later he started as Veronica opened the door. Without a word she crawled into bed next to him and buried her head in his chest. He held her as she trembled, and then they slept.
• • •
Grey woke late, leaving Veronica still asleep as he wandered into the small courtyard between the chapel and the monk’s quarters. A blue-hued fresco dominated the chapel wall nearest Grey: an artistic rendition of a wheel depicting the various stages of life. Angels on either side turned the wheel with ropes, carrying humans through life’s circular stages.
Grey saw a number of black-robed monks entering the chapel and the squat mess hall, but he saw only one in the courtyard, an elderly monk with a scraggly white beard, gray wire brushes for eyebrows, and the spare frame of an ascetic. He was sitting on a rock under a tree, feet crossed lotus-style, shoulders hunched, face sloped in meditation.
Grey’s eyes kept sliding back to the monk. The monk didn’t move the entire time Grey watched him. He had a transcendent aura, a man whose inner peace radiated outward and vibrated the air of the courtyard. Grey knew, without knowing how he knew, that he was in the presence of a very holy man.
Stefan approached from the woods. “Father Goldmund,” he said quietly, and Grey didn’t respond. “Come,” Stefan said. “We’ll take a meal and coffee in the dining room.”
“Then we talk,” Grey said.
Stefan nodded slowly.
• • •
Veronica met them for a simple meal of yogurt, bread, honey, and light fried pastries similar to doughnuts. They washed it down with thick Bulgarian coffee. After the meal Stefan led them to a secluded spot past the stable, at the edge of the woods. Five hard-backed chairs were arranged in a circle.
Grey chose a seat facing the road, and turned to Stefan. “It’s time to clear the air. If you want my help, I need your word you’re coming clean.”
Stefan hesitated. “I owe you my life. I will share, but… I must also have your word that anything we discuss does not leave present company.”
“I have no problem with that,” Grey said, “except I’ll need to inform my employer. You don’t have to worry about his discretion.”
“Your employer?”
“Professor Viktor Radek. We’re private investigators.”
“And you were… investigating me?”
“I’ll get to that in a moment.”
Stefan turned to Veronica as a breeze drifted off the ridgeline. Veronica was wrapped in a blue shawl the monks had given her. “I’m a reporter,” she said, and Stefan stiffened and glanced at Grey. “Don’t worry, Grey hasn’t told me anything. Trust me on that one. I didn’t know about the lab until you blurted it out after we were attacked in your house.”
“A reporter. Tsk. You’re investigating Somax?”
“I’m following Grey.”
“The press has spread many lies about my company.”
“It’s past that,” Grey said. “She has a job to do just like you. We need to work together now.”
“I cannot expose my company to slander,” Stefan said. “I won’t speak further until I have her word that nothing will be reported without my consent.”
Veronica folded her arms. “If you haven’t noticed, I’m in the middle of the story of a lifetime. If your company’s legitimate, you don’t need to worry. If it’s not, then,” she spread her hands, “what can I say. It’ll be me or someone else.”
“It’s not that simple,” Stefan snapped. “We have corporate secrets to protect. If you print before our research is finished, we’ll both be fools. You’ll do nothing but print inaccuracies and help our competitors.”
“Corporate secrets? Like the African villagers?”
; “Filthy lies!”
“That’s enough,” Grey said, and faced Stefan. “Maybe you’re not worried about the people out there who tried to kill us. Maybe you have other protection.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was told Somax has ties to the Bulgarian Mafia.”
Stefan shook his head and gave an ironic snicker. “My friend, my friend. Why do you think the police did not come sooner? Did you hear sirens from the hill? The police and mafia are one in Veliko. Somax has not accepted this type of help, at least not that I’m aware.” He paused, then shook off whatever thought he was having. “I have no other protection.”
“Who else knows about the lab?”
“All of upper management.”
“Can Somax protect you?”
“You shouldn’t worry about me.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
Stefan hesitated. “Bulgaria can be a dangerous country. It is likely the men who attacked us have… permission… to operate in Bulgaria.”
“Which means Sofia isn’t safe either.”
Stefan started to respond, then closed his mouth and looked away.
Grey addressed Veronica. “I need to know what he knows. You’re the only one without critical information. If you can’t agree not to report what you hear, then Stefan and I need to have a private conversation.”
Veronica’s mouth dropped. “You’re taking his side? After the track record of his company?”
“Someone just tried to kill us. I need his information.”
Stefan drummed his fingers on the side of his chair. “Maybe there’s a solution. I’m well aware of the reputation of my company. We are misunderstood, and it’s time for that to change.” He stopped pacing and looked at Veronica with an almost pleading expression.
“If you agree to my condition,” Stefan said, “I’ll tell you a story. One you might have trouble believing, but which I give my word is the absolute truth. This story died with the destruction of my lab, but if we can revive it, the public will need to know, because this is a story that can change the world.” Stefan’s voice pulsated, and Veronica was fixated on him. “I’ll let you tell the world on Somax’s behalf,” he said. “I’ll give you full rights to the story.”