The Accidental Alchemist

by Gigi Pandian

  Almost as suddenly as the fog had swallowed me, the cloud lifted. But instead of scholar John Dee, charlatan Edward Kelley stood before me, balancing on the edge of the bridge. Kelley held a vial of mercury in one hand and wore a smirk on his face. As he steadied himself, the liquid metal bounced from side to side in its glass prison. Kelley caught my eye and winked. The man had fooled many people, including John Dee.

  In his hubris at taking his eyes off the ledge, Kelley lost his balance. His shout pierced my ears, as if echoing against invisible walls that held me in place. He splashed into the water below.

  My feet were my own again. I ran to the edge of the bridge and looked into the black water below. Instead of Kelley below me, the figure drowning in the water was Isaac Newton. He held the figurine of a dragon in his hand. His head sank beneath the water, yet he held the dragon tightly in his hand, keeping it above the dark waters.

  As I reached out to him, I lost my footing. I would have fallen in myself had it not been for a hand steadying my shoulder. Without turning, I knew his touch. It was Ambrose.

  As I turned to face him, Ambrose swallowed the substance of a glass vial. It was the vial of mercury Kelley had held in his hands. I tried to stop him, but he was now far away from me. His face contorted, as if feeling the effects of the mercury, then suddenly relaxed. He hadn’t been poisoned after all. He smiled. It was the loving smile I remembered. I reached out to him, but a thick fog swooped in between us. There was nothing I could do to reach him. I reached for my locket, but it wasn’t around my neck as it always was. Panic rose within me. The fog that carried Ambrose away was coming for me.

  My arms fought to escape the confinement—until I realized they were fighting against tangled sheets, not ropes of fog.

  I was awake.

  I felt for my locket, damp with the sweat that covered my body. My heart was racing, but I breathed a sigh of relief. I didn’t usually dream so vividly, yet I had done so multiple times that week. Perhaps I hadn’t been ready to return to alchemy after all.

  I took a sip of water from the glass on my bedside table, thinking over the dream.

  Prague achieved a pinnacle of alchemical enlightenment a century before I was born. I had visited the city many times, but not while its most famous residents had lived there. My hazy dream world had melded memories of my own with legends I had heard of in its alchemical heyday.

  The city of Prague holds an important alchemical legacy because it straddled the old ways of “magic” and new scientific methods. At the cusp of the Scientific Revolution, Rudolph II—a.k.a the Holy Roman Emperor, the King of Bohemia, and more—became a controversial leader because of his fascination with alchemy. Rudolph II’s Court in the late 1500s to early 1600s hosted hundreds of alchemists, including John Dee—but not Edward Kelley. In an ironic twist of fate, Rudolph imprisoned Kelley not for being the charlatan that he was, but for failing to share his secrets for creating gold. The king never doubted Kelley’s gold transformations were real.

  Rulers like Rudolph wanted to control alchemists because they believed the alchemists could truly turn lead into gold, which would wreak havoc on currency values—unless the rulers controlled the gold themselves. It came to be commonplace for rulers to grant licenses to alchemists to practice. They couldn’t have “just anyone” turning lead into gold.

  Alchemists also needed patrons to have the resources they needed to pursue their intellectual curiosity. It wasn’t gold or immortality that most alchemists were interested in—it was science. They were trying to understand the world around them, and they did make many breakthroughs that led to modern chemistry. Only long after his death was Isaac Newton publicly revealed to be an alchemist. He practiced alchemy in secret, and for years after his death the scientific community hushed up the secret that he had practiced alchemy, fearing of the impact of his scientific discoveries would be lessened. Newton’s favorite substance was antimony: the Black Dragon. That’s what he’d been holding in his hand in my dream.

  I pushed the damp sheets aside and found the photographed pages of Dorian’s book. I picked up a page that had an image of the Black Dragon, which symbolizes death and decay. Death and decay were a natural part of alchemy and of life in general, so I wasn’t disturbed by the existence of such an image. What I had found fascinating and disturbing about the image was the rendering of the flames coming out of the dragon’s mouth, which is why I had photographed it. I hadn’t, however, photographed the opposite page, which would have held an explanation of the woodcut.

  I shoved the troubling image into the drawer of the bedside table and finished the glass of water. Shedding so much sweat during my dream had left me parched.

  The dream had pulled me in opposing directions: past and present, scholar and charlatan, mercury and antimony, poison and healing.

  I don’t believe dreams are magic any more than I believe alchemy is magic. But I do believe my subconscious was trying to tell me two things.

  First, the mercury and other elements used by alchemists was for a purpose, unlike the poisonous mixture that had been used on Charles and Blue. It wasn’t gold or immortality that most alchemists were interested in—it was science. The experiments of alchemists were dangerous but pure. The poison I was dealing with here in Portland was impure.

  Second, this dream was fundamentally different from the “dream” I’d had after being poisoned. It was a hallucinogenic effect I’d experienced that day.

  I had it wrong. We weren’t looking for an alchemist who had stolen Dorian’s book. We were looking for a poisoner who had killed Charles Macraith.

  thirty-two

  In the morning, I found five text messages from Brixton on my phone. I felt bad that I hadn’t thought to check the previous night. I texted him back that everything was fine, but we didn’t know who had framed Blue. I asked him for Ivan’s email address. It was a school day, so hopefully he’d be awake and heading to school. His last text message had come in at two o’clock in the morning, so I wasn’t sure.

  Two minutes later, Brixton texted me Ivan’s email address—along with a passive-aggressive text thanking me for keeping him in the loop the previous night.

  ———

  After a quick oatmeal breakfast to warm up, I met Ivan in Washington Park. He received my email on his phone and told me where he was, inviting me to join him. He said I could find him at the park’s International Rose Test Garden. I wasn’t sure why he would be at a rose garden in the dead of winter. Unlike the lush cemetery grounds I’d walked through earlier that week, the barren landscape of a winter rose garden gave me a cold, foreboding feeling. Dark clouds hung low in the sky, but the rain held off for the moment.

  Ivan stood next to the brittle branches of a row of roses, their thorns more prominent for the absence of leaves and flowers. Though he wore a fedora, thick scarf, and a coat with the collar turned up, he was easy to spot. He was the only person there.

  “You wonder why I come here in winter?” he asked.

  “You appreciate the solitude?”

  “It reminds me,” he said, “that death is natural. My body is failing me, but I do not wish to feel sorry for myself. Sometimes,” he paused and ran his fingers over the gnarled remnants of a rose bush, “I need a reminder.”

  “Would you like to talk somewhere inside, where it’s warmer?” The chill in the air penetrated my coat. I could take it, but it didn’t seem to be a good place for someone with failing health.

  “The air is good for me.” Ivan rubbed his hands together and shook out his shoulders. “Shall we walk?”

  We walked side by side through the desolate rows of branches that had once been beautiful roses. I hadn’t yet figured out what I should say to Ivan. I had to strike the right balance between getting the help I needed from Ivan and not revealing why I needed it, or why there was such urgency.

  “I’ve been thinking about the woodcut illustrat
ions you showed me,” Ivan said as we entered the Shakespeare Garden. “They are unlike anything I have come across in my research.”

  “It’s an interesting puzzle, isn’t it? I was hoping you could help me figure out what the book is about.”

  “I miss an academic challenge, but would it not make the most sense to wait until the police have recovered the book itself?”

  “I’m anxious to get started,” I said. “It’s the one mystery around me that I feel like I have some control over.”

  “This,” Ivan said, “I can understand. Helplessness can lead to despair. Did you bring the images?”

  I removed the printouts from my inner jacket pocket. Ivan took them from me. He stopped walking and examined them in silence. I couldn’t tell if the frustration evident on his face was because of the tremor in his hands or what he saw in the images.

  “What do you know of the history of the book?” he asked.

  “I only found it recently, so when it was stolen I hadn’t yet discovered its origins.”

  “And you found it—”

  “In Saint-Gervais,” I said, sticking to the truth as much as possible. That was the French town where Jean Eugène Robert-Houdin had been living when he brought Dorian to life. “I wouldn’t be able to find the seller again. I didn’t realize at the time what a find it was.”

  “That is unfortunate. Also unfortunate that someone stole it by accident, not realizing what they had.”

  I nodded but didn’t speak for a few moments. Had it really been an accident? A crime of opportunity, that happened to result in the most precious item in my new house being stolen? That was too big a coincidence, wasn’t it? Whoever took it had to know of its worth. The question was whether the thief took it for its monetary value—or if they wanted it to bring creatures like Dorian to life.

  “Non Degenera Alchemia.” I pointed at the photograph of the title page. “Strangely convoluted, don’t you think? Even for an alchemist.”

  Ivan laughed. “Not Ignoble Alchemy. Yes, very unnecessary. But alchemists have never been known for their simplicity. There are hundreds of words used to describe prima materia. Hundreds! The sun, the moon, water of gold, shadow of the sun, the garden, lord of the stones—the list goes on and on. No, it’s not the obfuscation that I find fascinating about this book. What’s most interesting here is that the book does not list an author.”

  The absence of an author wasn’t common, but wasn’t itself enough to signal that something was especially strange about the book. But along with the bizarre illustrations, I wondered why the author hadn’t at least used a pseudonym.

  However, that wasn’t the most interesting thing Ivan had said. He translated the book’s title as Not Ignoble Alchemy, whereas I’d translated degenera into untrue. That was an approximation, as any translation is. And my ecclesiastical Latin wasn’t the best. Degenera could also mean something closer to degenerate or ignoble. But even if I’d done a sloppy translation of the title, that didn’t help.

  “I wish it was real,” Ivan said. He spoke so softly that the wind nearly carried away his words before I heard them.

  “I examined the book. I’ve been working with antiques for long enough that I know it’s real. Hundreds of years old.” Based on the style of Latin, and my observations of the book itself, it wasn’t created before the Middle Ages, but dating the book could help me uncover its secrets—if I got it back.

  “You misunderstand me.” He pulled his scarf more tightly around him as the wind picked up, careful not to lose hold of the photographs in his hand. “I meant that I wished the theories expressed by the alchemists of history were true accounts of what could be accomplished with alchemy. That they could stop death.”

  Unlike the rose bushes that surrounded us, Ivan wouldn’t return to life with the spring. “Even if it were true,” I said, feeling my locket through the fabric of my sweater, “would you really want to live forever? It sounds lonely. So very lonely.”

  “That’s not a sentiment I’d expect from someone your age. But you’re right. Forever? No, I don’t wish that. Right now, I would settle for living to my sixtieth birthday. Blue’s teas have been part of the changes I’ve made to spend my last years as happily as possible. A few more years of good health is all I ask. That would be enough time for me to complete the book I’ve been working on.”

  “Related to alchemy?”

  “About the intersecting history of alchemy and chemistry that scholars have missed. Isaac Newton is the focus of many books on the subject, and so are other famous alchemists, but many others have been forgotten. I suppose you could say I’m writing about the unsung heroes of science. Max and I have talked about it at length at Blue Sky Teas.”

  “That’s why he was worried you might have done something drastic to get your hands on my alchemy books.”

  “He’s seen me on some of my bad days, desperate to complete the book but thinking I would not have time … Come, let’s continue our walk and mull over the meaning of these strange illustrations. You didn’t come here to hear the problems of an old man.”

  “Maybe,” I said, “but I don’t see any old men around here.”

  “Ha! I knew I liked you from the moment I saw how you held your own with Olivia. She’s not as bad as she seems at first—” He broke off. “Aha! I know what it is that was bothering me about these illustrations. I wonder if the person who carved these woodcuts did not realize the final image would be flipped once printed.”

  “You think they’re accidentally backwards?” What had that made me think of? I took the stack of photographs from his hand and flipped through them. “That’s not the only reason these illustrations are creepy.”

  “No,” Ivan agreed, “but that is the thing that stands out. One cannot tackle all research problems simultaneously. You start with the ones that are easiest to identify, and then peel back the layers—”

  “Ivan! I don’t think this was an accident.”

  “They are clearly backward—”

  “Because it’s backward alchemy.” The fear I had been keeping at bay returned head-on. I looked up at the dark sky that was threatening to burst. “The title, as you translated it, is Not Ignoble Alchemy. I had translated it as Not Untrue Alchemy. Those two things aren’t different on their face, but there’s a subtle difference. Something ignoble exists, but dishonorably. I think we’re looking at alchemy’s ‘death rotation’—that’s why it’s not only the counterclockwise motions that make the images look off. The distorted animals in these illustrations are dead.”

  “To symbolize the death rotation of backward alchemy. Very clever.”

  “But working backwards isn’t possible,” I said.

  “I’ve read about some alchemists who tried it because it was quicker, but none of them claimed to have been successful, unlike the many alchemists who claimed to have succeeded at proper alchemy. Perhaps that explains the absence of an author identifying himself.”

  I couldn’t tell Ivan what I had meant by my words. It was, of course, physically possible to follow the steps of alchemy backwards. But it wasn’t right. It wouldn’t lead to transformation and creation. Only death.

  Earth, air, fire, and water. Calcination, dissolution, separation, conjunction, fermentation, distillation, coagulation. They all have a phase in alchemy, but the death rotation turns the process on its head. No good could come of it. Everything it created would eventually be undone.

  “Sacrificing one element for another to complete a transformation,” I said, feeling numb from the realization more than the cold. “Rather than striving for perfection, those alchemists were circumventing it. That would explain why any such transformations would deteriorate over time …” The full impact of what this would mean for Dorian was sinking in. If I was right, I could work with the book—but to do so, I needed that book.

  “This is an interesting puzzle you’ve broug
ht me,” Ivan said. “It is delightful to speak with someone who feels so passionately about a theoretical exercise. I hope the book is returned to you soon so we can uncover more of its secrets. Do you realize the implications this book could have, if we’re right?”

  I realized, then, that this was much bigger than Dorian and myself. Not in the way Ivan thought. This wasn’t about a theoretical history. There were real alchemists out there who had performed alchemy’s death rotation. I had proof. It wasn’t only Dorian this was affecting. Gold itself was crumbling.

  I hadn’t connected Dorian’s deterioration with the thefts of gold statues from European museums, but now that I knew what I was dealing with, it was obvious. The journalists were wrong. There were no brazen thieves who broke into high security museums and left gold dust in their wake to taunt the authorities. There weren’t any thieves at all. The gold statues were crumbling on their own. Turning to dust. The life force of the gold statues was fading—just as Dorian’s was.

  thirty-three

  After meeting with Ivan, I was so distracted that I nearly forgot I was going to stop at the library. I was now making daily trips there to get enough books for Dorian to read to stay awake. He spent several hours each day cooking, but I couldn’t keep him cooking twenty-four hours a day. As it was, the fridge didn’t have any more room for anything else.

  Picking up the heavy bag of books from the truck, I lugged the mystery novels Dorian had finished reading into the library. Before picking out a new batch of books, there was something else I needed to do. I knew very little about backward alchemy. Nicolas Flamel had mentioned it to me only once, to say it was a force not to be used. The reason I remembered it was because of the ferocious look on his face when he’d spoken the words. He had spoken not with the calm voice I had come to know from my teacher. It had been a warning he didn’t want me to forget. Because of that, I hadn’t ever pursued the subject, not even when I was trying to save Thomas’s life.