The Emerald Tablet

by Meaghan Wilson Anastasios

The crunch of cloven hooves behind them heralded the passing of a farmer and his cows as he herded them across the road towards a distant river pasture. It was the prompt Ben’s memory needed. He came to an abrupt halt and slapped his hands together. ‘Jesus! That’s it . . . That’s how I know that name. Hathor Protecting Psamtik . . . it was a sculpture in the Met Museum, or, at least, a plaster cast in the Met Museum. The original’s in Cairo . . . I was obsessed with that thing when I was a kid.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Ilhan asked.

  ‘Over there – the cows. Hathor was an Egyptian goddess usually depicted as a cow. She symbolised rebirth and renewal . . . the statue is exquisite – the figure of Psamtik is escorted by Hathor as his protector. That scarab – the one Sebile was so desperate to hold on to – that would’ve been placed on Psamtik’s mummified corpse before he was interred in his sarcophagus.’ He spun on his heel. ‘Come on! I need to look at that thing again. Besides. I’m fairly sure there’s something she’s not telling us.’

  8

  Niğde, Turkey

  In the tiled courtyard outside the Niğde madrasah where whispering drifts of autumn leaves eddied in deserted corners, a stream of spring water spurted from an ornate tap into a deep marble basin once used by the faithful to cleanse themselves before worship.

  A rusty stain spread through the pool as the man immersed his hands and forearms, sleeves rolled above his elbows.

  When he’d first learnt that the saying ‘death by a thousand cuts’ was more than just a pithy turn of phrase, it was a revelation to him. But despite his best efforts, he’d yet to find any subject who could endure more than two hundred and forty-seven. Granted, the Chinese torturers who had invented and perfected the art were not operating under the conditions he was forced to endure. He rarely, if ever, had the opportunity to work in an environment where he could exercise his skills without fear of interruption.

  As soon as he’d laid eyes on the slope-shouldered, timid-eyed curator at the Niğde Museum, he’d known the man’s pain threshold would be low. He didn’t bother counting how many cuts the Turk endured before he fell unconscious and received the final, mercy stroke that slashed his jugular vein and ended his life. But as predicted, his levels of endurance had not been worthy of note.

  As for the old woman in Kemerhisar the young man had spoken of as his blood pooled on the white stone floor . . . well, she was a woman. He suspected that just the threat of slicing her aged skin from her body would be enough to encourage her to tell him what he wanted to know.

  9

  Kemerhisar

  Even before they caught sight of Sebile’s house beyond the rise of the low hills surrounding it, Ben and Ilhan knew something was wrong. The sound of voices raised, one ringing in fear and the other a threatening baritone, carried through the heavy dusk air.

  Ben picked up his pace and broke into a trot, turning to Ilhan to raise a finger to his lips. Whatever might confront them when they crested the hill, it wouldn’t be wise to telegraph their arrival.

  A baying pack of men surrounded the old woman. Her back was pressed up against the wall of her house while the leader of the lynch mob pressed towards her, his neck craning forward and bulky shoulders flexing as he jabbed at her chest with his finger. In his other hand he wielded a rough-hewn wooden club. Sebile had removed her head scarf and held it pressed against her forehead. Blood from a wound was smeared across her cheek and her eyes were wide with shock.

  ‘My son!’ the man screamed. ‘You attacked my son! You’re a curse on this village, witch!’ He raised the club above his head.

  ‘You!’ Ben shouted as he ran down the hill. ‘Get away from her!’

  He heard the crunch of footsteps as Ilhan joined him. ‘Do you know what you’re doing here?’ the Turk panted in English. ‘I’m useless in a fight.’

  ‘There’s only five of them. We’re fine. Just try to look the part,’ Ben replied.

  Faces swollen purple with fury spun round to face the intruders. The ringleader looked the two men up and down. ‘Not your business, foreigners. You should fuck off if you know what’s good for you.’

  ‘This woman.’ Ben shouldered his way into the group and put himself between Sebile and her attackers. ‘She’s my friend.’

  Most of the men just stared, slack-jawed. But the leader’s eyes flashed with malicious intent. ‘Want to be more careful who you’re friends with, then. This one’s poison.’ He raised his club again. ‘Get out of the fucking way! Or do you want a taste of this, too?’

  ‘I’m not moving.’

  ‘Don’t do this,’ Sebile whispered. ‘I can look after myself.’

  ‘Really? Doesn’t look like it. We’re here now, anyway. And we’re not leaving.’

  ‘OK, then.’ The man laughed and braced himself. Hefting the club back over his shoulder like a baseball bat, he swung it towards Ben’s head.

  As the wood arced through the air, Ben dropped down into a crouch to dodge the blow and swivelled, the side of his body facing his attacker. He thrust out his right leg and caught the man below the knees, throwing him off balance as his weight shifted with the club’s movement.

  As the Turk fell back and landed heavily on the ground, the club fell from his hands. Ben leapt to his feet and grabbed it. Before any of his comrades could help, Ben had pressed his boot into the soft spot in the man’s throat, wielding the club against his temple.

  The man’s friends pressed forward. ‘All of you!’ Ben shouted. ‘Stop right there! Or I’ll smash his skull in.’

  They looked doubtful but stopped just the same. ‘Now, I tried to warn you. This woman is my friend, and if anything happens to her after I leave, every man in this dismal place will be thrown into jail. Superintendent Hasan Demir in Istanbul is an old friend of mine. And if I command it, he’ll destroy this village.’ Ben dropped the club by the man’s side and removed his boot from his windpipe. ‘Now, get out of here!’

  Cursing beneath their breath but with their fury deflated, the men gathered themselves and disappeared back over the hill towards the town.

  ‘You’re going to “command” Hasan? To destroy the village?’ said Ilhan, who’d managed to stay well clear of the mob. ‘Good luck with that.’

  ‘The threat alone should be enough,’ Ben responded. He turned to Sebile. ‘Silly question, but are you all right?’

  She winced as she dabbed at the wound on her forehead. ‘Nothing time and a good shot of raki won’t fix,’ she replied. ‘Care to join me? Seems it’s the least I can do.’

  ‘Şerefe!’ Sebile hailed her companions as she raised her drink into the air.

  The two men raised their glasses in response. ‘So what brought the mob to your door?’ Ben asked.

  ‘Ah, it’s always one thing or another. Today, it was that man’s little piglet – the child you saw leaving with his tail between his legs when you first arrived, and a lump on his head for his trouble. He’s a little demon – always leading the other children in their pathetic war against the unmarried old woman living at the end of the lane. Easy pickings, the way they see it.’ She sighed. ‘I’d leave, if I had any choice. But I can’t. It’s my duty to stay here.’ She indicated the bottle of raki. ‘Another?’

  Ben and Ilhan both threw back the remnants of their drinks. ‘Certainly. Thank you,’ Ben replied.

  She stood and retrieved the bottle, filling the men’s tiny glasses to the brim. Golden late-afternoon sunlight shone into the room, reflecting off motes of dust spiralling in the air. Sebile brushed the dirt from her baggy black şalvar pants and lowered herself into a chair. ‘So. Tell me.’

  ‘Tell you what?’

  ‘Why you’re here. I suppose I should thank you. But I’m curious . . . why did you come back?’

  ‘The scarab. Or, at least, the name on the scarab. I remember now where I’ve seen it before.’

  ‘I see.’ She paused. ‘So you’d like to see it again?’

  ‘Very much.’

  ‘First, you mus
t tell me why you’re here. The real reason.’

  As Ben saw it, he had nothing to lose. The coincidence of the wall engraving in the catacombs was too great to ignore. And the appearance of an Ancient Egyptian artefact in a spot where it had no reason to be needed explanation. The more he thought about it, the more certain he was that Sebile would be able to give him some insight into its meaning.

  He took his journal out of his satchel and opened it to the page where he’d transcribed the inscription he’d removed from the book in Topkapı so he could study it without needing to find himself a darkened room every time he wanted to examine it. ‘This was in an edition of Jabir ibn Hayyan’s Book of Balinas the Wise on Causes.’

  Leaning forward, Sebile squinted to see the detail in Ben’s drawing. She started and pulled back as if burnt. ‘It was hidden?’

  ‘Yes – painted in ink that was invisible in the light.’

  Her face blanched and she clenched her lips into a thin line. ‘You’ve found it . . . you’ve found him.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Here . . .’ She pointed with a spindly finger to the stylised skull above the mountain peak. ‘The caput mortuum . . . the death’s head. It signifies the alchemist’s nigredo experience – the blackening that occurs when the soul withdraws from the physical world and exits the body. Balinas’ death.’ Sebile drew a deep breath. ‘I’d heard of an ancient map that revealed his final resting place. I never dreamt I’d one day see it. His remains were never found – some of his disciples have said it was because he had physically transformed himself into the Philosopher’s Stone . . . the perfect marriage of the One Mind and the One Thing and ascended to the firmament. But the less romantic among us believed his body was entombed in a hidden cave with the Emerald Tablet and that a map was kept to record its location for the day his disciples decided the world was ready to receive his gift. So why do you want to find it?’

  ‘I didn’t know I did.’

  ‘More fool you.’ She shook her head. ‘“As the wise man points to the moon, the idiot looks at the finger.” Either way, you seem to know more about the esoteric arts than you care to admit. Those symbols you found in the cave beneath us. Let’s assume they have alchemical significance. What do they mean to you?’

  ‘So you had noticed them before.’

  ‘Of course! I may be old, but I’m not blind. Now, answer my question.’

  ‘Well, the crescent and the circle could represent the sun and the moon – the chemical marriage of the Red King and White Queen. Am I on the right track?’

  ‘What on earth are you talking about?’ Ilhan was getting impatient.

  ‘Doesn’t matter. I’ll explain later,’ Ben replied. ‘So, is it the union of opposites?’ he continued.

  ‘That’s right,’ Sebile said. ‘And the serpent and staff?’

  ‘If the snake had been eating its own tail it would have meant something to me.’ Ben knew that Gnostics and alchemists used the circular symbol of a serpent devouring the tip of its tail, a motif called the ‘ouroboros’, to represent the infinite cycle of life. The oldest depiction he’d seen had been found in Tutankhamun’s tomb, where two ouroboroi encircled the boy king’s head and feet.

  ‘This one, though . . . it’s different,’ he continued. ‘This snake is prone. As for the staff . . . well, it could mean many things.’

  ‘So what would you say if I told you that Balinas was a healer, an adept of Asclepius –’

  ‘Christ!’ Ben exclaimed.

  ‘No,’ she said with a wry smile, ‘he doesn’t have anything to do with this.’

  ‘I’m sure he doesn’t. A staff . . . a snake . . . you’re talking about the caduceus!’

  ‘Really, Dr Hitchens. I expected more of you.’

  He rapped his head with his knuckles. ‘You’re right. I’m an idiot. There’s only one snake here. It’s not the caduceus . . . it’s the Rod of Asclepius.’

  ‘Easy mistake to make. The caduceus is the symbol for Hermes Trismegistus, adopted from the Greek symbol for their messenger god, Hermes. But it has two snakes and was topped with wings. The Rod of Asclepius is the attribute of healers and doctors. It’s wingless and has only one snake. But here, the snake isn’t entwining the staff. Why not? Here, it’s showing us that the rod of healing is fractured. This is the promise of what might have been if Balinas had deemed humankind worthy of the Emerald Tablet’s healing gifts. To discover the tablet would be to unite the rod and the serpent.’

  ‘Excuse me for interrupting again,’ Ilhan said. ‘But what, exactly, are those “gifts”? What’s the Tablet supposed to do?’

  ‘I suppose you could call it a shortcut. Those master alchemists who study their entire lives and manage to attain the “Great Work” may, if they are blessed, learn the art of transforming matter. The Emerald Tablet was made using that sacred knowledge. If it fell into the hands of men of science, it wouldn’t take them long to decipher the processes used to create it. They could then replicate alchemical transformation, but would do so without any understanding of its true meaning and power. To put it bluntly, it would be like putting a machine gun in the hands of an infant.’

  ‘I’ve heard all this before,’ said Ben, hands clamped on his hips. ‘Science has moved well beyond what it was even half a century ago. I think it’s damned insulting to suggest that we’re not responsible enough to handle some “magical” artefact created thousands of years ago. Civilisation has progressed.’

  ‘That it has, Dr Hitchens. But not always in the right direction. Alchemists wish to achieve salvation through perfecting the soul within. And although very few people recognise the fact, every human being is trying to do the same thing. That’s the tablet’s true gift. Not showing scientists how to turn one thing into another. It’s a path to spiritual purification. But most of those who seek to find the tablet see it only as something to be exploited.’

  ‘But, alchemy . . .’ Ilhan said. ‘I’m sorry if I’m being obtuse, but it’s just about making gold, isn’t it?’

  ‘If only,’ Ben retorted. ‘But it’s not that simple. Once the alchemist learns how to transform matter, and could – technically – turn lead to gold, apparently he or she no longer wishes to do so.’

  ‘Really? If I got to that point, I think I’d still have a try.’ Ilhan laughed.

  ‘You’re sceptical,’ Sebile said. ‘Why is that, Dr Hitchens? You’ve spent your entire life searching for things of this earth. But perhaps you should ask yourself what you’re really trying to find?’

  She walked over to one of the alcoves lining her walls. ‘The Emerald Tablet is only a tiny piece of the puzzle, you see – the key that lets us into the endless life cycle of matter . . . birth, life, death and decay. It can show us how to shift around the building blocks and transform them into something else.’ Running her finger along the rows of books, she withdrew one. ‘But true alchemical wisdom is the pursuit of the divine spark of life. It’s in every living thing. Even those beastly men who attacked me and their ghastly children.’

  Sebile resumed her seat. ‘Stop, listen, and think. You both seem to have been blessed with good minds. This shouldn’t be too challenging for you . . . Your heart beats, pumping blood around your body. But what made it jump to life the first time it throbbed in your chest? Who teaches a newborn lamb how to stand? How does a dormant seed fall to the ground and decide to grow? Even those idiots’ children knew to suckle their mothers’ teats the minute they slithered out of the womb. Why? How?’

  ‘You don’t need magic to explain any of those things,’ responded Ben, frustrated. ‘If I have any religion at all, it’s science. Everything you mentioned can be attributed to natural instinct. And the seed? Give it dirt, water and sun – and it grows.’

  ‘Yes, but why? Where does that “instinct” dwell? Where in a seed are the instructions that tell it to sprout when it encounters the base elements – earth, air, water and fire from the sun? Isn’t that enough to hint at the existence of the divine
in every living thing? Alchemy isn’t magic. It doesn’t stand in opposition to scientific theory – it is the consummate science. It shows us that we’re ignoring the most important aspects of existence by never looking past the material.’

  Sebile opened the book she’d selected and read a passage aloud. ‘“When the body is exhausted, the soul ascends, full of contempt for the brutal, miserable slavery it has suffered. So it is for everything in the world below. When it is defined by matter we can see it, but when it sheds matter, it becomes invisible. So why do we carry this false notion of birth and death? A human being is brought to birth through his parents, not by them. Authentic transformation is not caused by an individual being’s visible surroundings but by a change in the One Thing contained in every man.” Balinas’ words, of course. He spent his life searching for the unseen force that exists within every human being – the soul, as Christianity would have it. It’s an immortal presence, and one that evolves and is reborn many times over as it seeks perfect expression. The human body is only a vessel for something much more important. You speak of science – did you know that Isaac Newton was also an alchemist? A translation of the Emerald Tablet was found in his papers after his death.’

  ‘Yes, I was aware of that.’ Ben clenched his fists. He’d heard all this before and thought it no more sensible today than when he’d been studying under Ethan Cohn. He responded through gritted teeth. ‘And I don’t see anything contradictory in it. It always made sense to me that one of the greatest scientific thinkers would have been interested in the foundational documents of the tradition that gave birth to one of the major branches of science . . . alchemy . . . chemistry. While the alchemists were on their misguided quest, one thing they did do was pave the way for the very rational discipline that grew in their wake.’

  Sebile shook her head. ‘The metaphysical dimension of the study of matter was forced underground in the Christian era only because it contradicted the ambitions of a Church that wanted to keep its flock under its thumb and profit from humanity’s search for salvation. The solitary pursuit of enlightenment advocated by Balinas was a threat to Christian dogma, so alchemists had to hide the spiritual aspects of their studies in arcane language for fear of persecution. That map,’ Sebile said, gesturing towards Ben’s journal, ‘was drawn to protect the hiding place of what is – for want of a better point of comparison – our Holy Grail. It is physical proof of the truth of alchemical wisdom.’