The First Stone

by Mark Anthony

  He was silent for a long moment. “Yes,” he said. “In the beginning at least. But now? I think we are no longer the same. Just as you are no longer the same as you were.” He smoothed my hair back from my brow. “I think it is time we said farewell to James. He served you well on the streets of the city. He was strong and clever and brave, but you need him no longer.”

  My weeping ceased, and wonder crept into my chest. “If he is gone, who shall I be, then?”

  “I believe you shall be Marius.” He smiled. “Yes, that’s a fine name. Marius Lucius Albrecht.”

  Sorrow faded away into the dark. A peace came over me. I was so tired, but it was a good feeling.

  “Marius,” I murmured, and fell asleep.

  Though there is little I need tell of them now, those next five years were the richest and happiest of my life, both since and ever.

  The majority of my time each day was spent in the comfortable confines of the manor’s drawing room, learning of the marvels of language and mathematics, history, music, poetry, and philosophy, and the study of the heavens. At first Pietro was my constant and patient teacher, but after that first year I worked with other teachers as well: learned men and professors whom the master invited to Madstone Hall. They came from Edinburgh and Glasgow, or sometimes even from York or London.

  Then, one spring morning, I entered the drawing room to discover neither Pietro nor some black-robed scholar waiting for me, but rather the master himself, his right hand—laden with rings—resting upon a book. The tome was thick, covered in worn leather decorated with tarnished symbols whose meanings I could not fathom, but which filled me all the same with anticipation.

  The hint of a smile touched the master’s usually stern mouth. My excitement had not gone unnoticed. “Pietro tells me you have made excellent progress in your studies, Marius. I am pleased. And I believe you are ready to begin a new subject— one I think you shall find of great interest.”

  Bees swarmed in my stomach. I did not know what was going to happen next, only that I was sure it would be wonderful. He gestured to an empty chair at the table, and I hurried to it and sat. As I held my breath the master opened the cover of the book, and that was when my education in the arcane arts began.

  The book—which had no name other than the mysterious gold symbols on its cover—contained many chapters. We began that morning with the first, which concerned the art of astrology, then in time moved on to divination, runic lore, numerology, and other occult sciences. Fascinated as I was with each of these topics, always my eyes seemed to skip ahead, gauging the thickness of the book, and wondering what lore was contained in the yellowed pages of its final chapter.

  It was some time before I found out. Far more often than not, when I entered the drawing room in the morning, I found Pietro or one of the black-robed scholars sitting at the table rather than the master. Doing my best to hide my disappointment, I would force myself to focus on the lesson at hand, and would try, though often without great success, not to wonder about the big leather-bound book with the gold symbols.

  “Where is the master today?” I would ask if it was Pietro who was my teacher.

  Always the answer was the same. Business had called the master out to one of the villages on his lands, or to Edinburgh, or sometimes even all the way to London. That last news always filled me with melancholy, for I knew it would be many days before the master returned, and that when he did he would be weary. Always he seemed pallid when he came back from London, and grimmer than usual, and he would have neither time nor energy for our studies together for many days.

  Eventually, I learned the master kept the book of the occult in his library, for I saw it on the shelf one evening when he called me in to speak with him. However, even if I might have been tempted, I knew it would be folly to attempt to steal a glance at its pages. Certainly the master would know if I entered his library unbidden, and while his wrath had never been directed at me, I remembered the way he had, with a look, frozen the two men who had tried to harm me in Advocate’s Close.

  Fortunately, I had other activities to occupy me. On my sixteenth birthday—an anniversary that we had come to celebrate on the summer solstice, for we could only guess at my true age—the master gifted me with a horse. It was a handsome roan gelding, full of spirit, but gentle and forgiving with its young and inexperienced rider. I named the horse Hermes, for I imagined he would run very swiftly.

  At the master’s bidding, his stableman, Gerald, gave me lessons in riding, and while he was neither as patient nor gentle as Hermes, before the summer was out I had skill enough that he left me to my own devices. Once released from my studies for the day, if the weather was even remotely fair, I would go out riding.

  Sometimes I visited one of the villages that were beholden to the manor, but most often I kept to the bridle paths that led past field and croft, through copse and heather, over bridges and near standing stones, out to the open spaces. There Hermes and I would race across the moors, the wild wind whipping our manes—his of rusty red, mine of bright gold—and my blood would rush with a sensation I could not name. All I knew was that it made me feel strong, and bold, and pure.

  One day Gerald saw me riding Hermes from a distance, and that night he swore to the master he had never seen a horse run so fast. I felt a childish pleasure, thinking simply that my horse was special, and that I was lucky to have him, and perhaps even deserving. The master gave me a sharp look, but I thought nothing of it—though I might have, if I could have seen the way my eyes sparked with green fire when I leaned over Hermes’ neck, urging him swiftly over heath and down.

  Winter was the hardest season for me to bear, for more days than not, once my morning studies were done, I could do no more than visit Hermes in the stable and watch the gray rain sheet down outside. Also, it seemed the master was gone more often in the winter, and when he was about Madstone Hall he was more likely than ever to be grim and silent.

  As time passed, his trips away from the manor grew longer and more frequent, and I knew he was often gone to London. I did not ask Pietro what he did there, I knew he would not tell me, but I thought of the visitors with the golden eyes, and I was certain his trips had something to do with the three who had once come to the manor.

  “Can I travel with you, Master?” I would ask each time I learned he was leaving for London.

  “In time, Marius,” he would say. “When the time is right, I will take you with me.” Then he would open the book of occult lore to a new chapter, somewhere in the middle now, though as always my eyes strayed toward the end of the tome.

  Seasons passed, and though I was happy and content, as I grew taller and broader, and the down on my chin and cheeks became a short beard as thick, gold, and curling as my hair, a shadow stole into Madstone Hall.

  The shadow was faint at first, like a fleeting cloud that dimmed the light of a long June day, hinting at the cool purple of twilight to come. Sometimes I would round a corner and see the master leaning against a chair or balustrade, a hand pressed to his chest, his face gaunt. Then he would see me and smile, and at that rare gift all dark thoughts were dismissed.

  On my eighteenth birthday, we walked together to one of the standing stones on the moor and, like the common folk, laid down our own offering of bread and wine. He gripped my arm as we made our way up the hill, and I was surprised at how thin his fingers felt against my arm, and how hot, but again it was easy to forget these things when he leaned against the stone and spoke in his deep voice of old gods now lost and forgotten.

  “Where did the gods go?” I asked, pressing my palm against the weathered stone.

  “Even I cannot say, Marius. Perhaps they returned to the world from whence they came.”

  His words caused me to shiver despite the warm midsummer evening. “What world do mean?”

  He sighed. “Or perhaps they are no more.”

  “But a god cannot die,” I said.

  He gazed at his hands. “Even gods die, Marius, when th
ey are old enough, and weary from the weight of long ages.”

  That was the first time I remember noticing the way the shadows gathered in the hollows of his cheeks. But it was only the failing light, I told myself, and we walked back down the hill, speaking of brighter things.

  However, if in summer the shadow had been easy to dismiss, in the pale blue light of winter its effect was far harder to ignore. The master was always cold, and Pietro commanded the servants to keep great fires roaring in every fireplace in the manor, so that all of us shed our coats and vests and still sweated in our shirts. Yet the master would sit in a chair, clutching a blanket around him with thin fingers. Sometimes, as I passed the closed door of the library, I would hear Pietro speaking in urgent tones. Never could I hear what he was saying, but it was clear that the old servant was pleading with the master, and that the master was refusing.

  Then, one night when sleep eluded me, I ventured downstairs to fetch a glass of wine, and again I heard voices as I passed through the main hall. Only this time a wedge of yellow light fell through the door of the library; it stood ajar. I knew I should hurry on, but like some insect compelled by the light, I approached, moving silently over the carpeted floor.

  “Do you have it, Pietro?” I heard the master speak as I drew close to the door. “I am sorry to make you do this thing, but I have not the strength to ride out myself.”

  “Yes, I have it. But it will do you little enough good, Master.”

  “Bring it here, Pietro.”

  I heard a whuffling noise, and a muffled squeal, almost like the cry of an infant. All at once the squeal ceased, replaced by the gurgling sound of liquid falling into a metal bowl.

  “Give it to me,” the master said, and his voice shook with an eager, hungry tone. There was a long pause, then the master sighed, a soft sound, at once satisfied and full of revulsion. “There, Pietro. You see? I am much better now.”

  I could envision Pietro’s worried expression. “You should return to Crete, Master Albrecht. It has been long years since you have been to Knossos. You should leave this very night. You will be healed there.”

  “My good Pietro, all your life you have been loyal to me, since you were a boy, and you have received little in return. Always you have cared for me, and for that I thank you. But you know not what you speak. Life I might find if I were to return there, but not healing. This must be brought to an end, what we started long ago.”

  “But he is not ready, Master,” Pietro said, his voice shaking. “There is so much more for him to learn.”

  At these words, a thrill ran through me. I drew closer to the door, daring to bend my head so that I could see through the gap with one eye, into the room beyond.

  On the desk, still half-covered by the dark cloth that had wrapped it, was a suckling pig. The thing was dead, its neck slit open. A knife lay next to it, stained dark. The master still held the silver bowl that had caught its blood. His lips were tinged red.

  “He knows more than you think, Pietro,” the master said, and his golden eyes shifted, gazing toward the door.

  I stumbled back, clamping my jaw shut to stifle a cry. It was impossible that he had seen me. The library was bright with fire and candle, and the hall outside where I had crouched was dark. While I had grown, I had not lost my boyhood ability to melt into shadows. All the same, as I stole back to my chamber, I knew I had been seen.

  The next morning I found the master waiting for me when I entered the drawing room. I thought he wished to scold me for eavesdropping the night before, or perhaps to cast me out of the manor. Instead, he passed a hand over the worn cover of the book of the occult, then he opened it to the final chapter.

  “Everything you have learned until now has been a prelude, Marius. Prelude for this—the most secret and profound of all arts.”

  “What is it?” I said, hardly daring to whisper.

  “It has many names, in many different tongues. Some call it the Great Work, a name I prefer.”

  I bent over the book and read the word written in ornate script at the head of the chapter. It said, simply, Alchemy.

  Our lesson lasted all that day, but the hours seemed to fly by as the master and I read together from the book. When that was done, I asked him question after question, listening to his deep voice as he answered, trying to drink in every word he spoke.

  Grand and wonderful visions filled my head. I had always thought alchemists were rogues and charlatans who tricked people into thinking they could make gold out of lead. And most of them were. But there was a deeper art, more secret and precious. The transmutation of base metals was not the true goal of alchemy. Rather, transmutation was a symbol for something else—something greater and altogether more subtle than the making of gold. However, as people so often did, they found it more comfortable to think in literal rather than metaphoric terms.

  “People would prefer to simply believe something blindly, rather than think about what it means, Marius. Yet in believing without question, they lose sight of the thing’s deeper meaning, its true beauty and purpose.”

  I rested my chin on a hand, thinking about these words. “Sometimes, when I was young, I would creep through the doors of St. Giles and listen to the priests speak. They said the world was made in six days, but that’s mad. What would days mean to God? It’s just a story, that’s all.”

  “No, Marius, not just a story. Stories can have great meaning, and thus great power as well. And the story of alchemy is one of the greatest stories of all.”

  A strange feeling filled me: excitement, wonder, and an ache of longing. “But what does it mean, Master?”

  He shut the book. “That is enough for today, Marius. We will continue this lesson tomorrow.”

  However, the next morning Pietro told me the master was ill, and that I should go riding if I wished, for the late-winter day was fine and bright. I did go, but I hardly noticed the landscape as it blurred past, or the feeling of Hermes’ strong back rising and falling beneath me.

  I did not see the master the next day, or the next, but on the fourth day Pietro brought him from his chamber to a chair in the hall, where he might sit and receive some sun. He looked gray and brittle, like a tall tree withered by blight. All the same I went to him gladly, kneeling and laying my head on his lap, and though I craved to ask him more questions about the art of alchemy, a stern look from Pietro silenced me.

  Nor were my questions answered as the weeks passed. Spring brought life back to the land, but not to the master of Madstone Hall. He spent more and more time in his chamber, allowing only Pietro to see to him, and when he did emerge his tall form was stooped. His dark hair had gone silver, and it occurred to me that perhaps the master was not ill, but rather was simply growing old. Yet how could age have come upon him so suddenly? When he took me in, he had been a man in his prime. Now he looked older than Pietro. His eyes, though, remained brilliant gold.

  Then, one fine day in June, Pietro came to me in the drawing room. I was gazing at the book of the occult, which the master had left there after our last session together. I flipped through the pages, but my mind was dull, and mysteries that had seemed so clear when he explained them now confounded me as if I were the simplest child.

  I looked up at the sound of Pietro’s limping gait. An anguished light shone in his brown eyes. I shut the book and stood.

  “You must go to him, Master Marius. He is waiting for you.” When I entered his chamber, I did not see him at once. So small he had become, so shrunken, that it took my eyes a moment to pick him out amid the tangled bedclothes. I sat beside the bed, taking his hand in mine. It felt as if I held a bundle of sticks.

  “Master,” I murmured, not knowing what else to say.

  “It is your birthday, Marius,” he said, and his voice was still deep and clear. “Yet I fear I will not be able to walk to the standing stone with you today.”

  My birthday? I had forgotten. I was nineteen. A man, I suppose, though at that moment I felt like a boy again, lost a
nd frightened, crawling through the tunnels beneath Edinburgh.

  “Why did you not go to Crete, Master?”

  His gold eyes pierced me. “Why do you say such a thing, Marius?”

  “I listened to you and Pietro speaking.” The words poured out of me in guilt and misery. “He said you would be healed if you went to Knossos. I read about it in a book. It was the palace of King Minos, where the minotaur was imprisoned in the labyrinth.”

  His thin chest heaved in a sigh. “No, I cannot go there, Marius. Never again. It is ending for me at last. That is my choice.”

  Tears streamed down my cheeks; I felt no shame. “But why, Master? What lies there? Could I not go and fetch it for you?”

  “No, Marius, do not seek it!” His voice was sharp, and his eyes flashed. “I thought, when I first found you in the city, that perhaps . . .” He shook his head. “But I was wrong. I want you to live your life, Marius. I’ve adopted you—the papers are complete. Madstone Hall is yours now. You must marry, and have children, and live your days to their fullest.” A spasm passed through him. “And you must beware, Marius. Once I am gone, they will come. You must not trust them. I am sorry. There is so much I should have told you, and now there is no time.”

  “No, Master,” I said, clutching his hand to me, kissing it, too full of despair to truly hear what he was saying. “No, you must not leave me. I still need you.”

  He smiled, and it was like sunlight upon my face. “My dear Marius. Everything you need is right here.”

  His hand touched my chest, lightly, then fell to the bedcovers. A soft breath escaped him, and I watched as his eyes changed from gold to lead gray, as if the alchemy of life had been worked in reverse. I sat with him for a time, my hand upon his brow. Then, as the evening sky caught fire outside the window, I went to tell Pietro he was dead.

  The weeks that followed remain dim to me. Pietro brought me food, but I do not remember eating it. I rose before dawn each morning, but I do not recall sleeping. Every day I walked to the grave on the hill behind the manor, but I have no recollection of when it was dug. There was no marker, save for the ancient standing stone we used to visit together, its pitted surface without writing, worn of memory long ago by wind and rain.