by Nick Baker
Frankl smiled, his megalithic teeth flashing in the candlelight. He descended the ladder, his feet squelching in the steady trickle as he traversed the channel to greet them. ‘As ever, you’re right, Aurelia, but when you’ve heard what I have to say, you’ll understand,’ he replied, allowing his smile to morph into a steely glare. ‘I suggest we make a start. The sooner we finish, the sooner we can leave. I suspect the dearly departed Club would agree, don’t you think, Lex?’
‘You’re right, Josef, although I’d rather not think about it,’ replied Lex solemnly.
‘And you, Abel, I trust you’re well? Come in and sit down,’ Frankl said, ushering the trio towards the ladder that led up to the terraced steps.
As they sat down, Frankl clambered up the ladder on the opposite side of the channel, and after briefly composing himself, he stood soberly facing them from the dais across the divide. His face flitted in and out of shadow in the glimmering candlelight, giving him an otherworldly appearance. He glanced at his watch before clearing his throat, a strange guttural sound that echoed unnaturally in the high-arched space. ‘Thank you for joining me,’ he began earnestly. ‘Wren’s Cache was always Pearly’s favoured meeting place for his most trusted allies. Naturally, it is fitting that we should meet here to honour him and cement the destiny we must now face together.’
‘Er, quite so, Josef,’ replied Strange uneasily. ‘I’m sure our, er, presence affirms, at the very least, our desire to find out what you’ve discovered. Please, though, we must not linger any longer than is necessary. The sluices and floodgates that dictate the flow of water through these tunnels are unpredictable at best, but with the recent rain, it’s anybody’s guess what may happen. Don’t forget that this culvert is a, er, storm relief drain.’
‘Thank you for your rational words, Abel …’ replied Frankl, ‘as if I’d forgotten,’ he added sarcastically. ‘We’re safe here, and in any case, this won’t take long.
‘Now, firstly, let me say how grateful I am for all your aid in the acquisition of Piotrowski’s manuscript. Aurelia, for the beautifully wicked way you thwarted Price; Lex, for your sublime skills in acquiring the book; and finally, Abel, in deciphering the secret of the Esoteric Brotherhood. It exemplifies the solidarity we once displayed when the Order was in its prime, and augurs well for its resurrection. Listen carefully to what I have to say. There will be no dissenting voices by the time I’ve finished,’ he announced with supreme confidence.
‘Go on then, Josef, get on with it,’ said Aurelia.
‘Firstly, I’m pleased to report that, as we hypothesised, the Esoteric Brotherhood was successful in discovering one of the fundamental principles of alchemy, the living stone. Sadly, their secret was flawed and led to terrible consequences, forcing the Brotherhood to bury their secret until a time when they could perfect it. And so it was that Alfons Piotrowski devised a plan to hide the secret in two near identical manuscripts, one containing a codeword, and the other, a string of encrypted words.’
‘Yes, yes, we know all that,’ said Aurelia impatiently, ‘can’t you just get on with it?’
‘Please, don’t interrupt, Aurelia,’ Frankl snapped. ‘My preamble is necessary for you to fully understand. Now, where was I? Ah, yes. I was referring to the same discovery that Pearly made some years before his death, yet ultimately failed to unravel. It has taken me all of this time to uncover the convoluted trail that Pearly left for me, and, at last, discover the secret that, somehow, he also acquired for himself.’
‘What are you talking about, Josef?’ said Aurelia.
‘I believe that Pearly managed to uncover the very same secret as the Brotherhood, but by alternative means.’
‘I would, er, agree with your deduction, Josef,’ said Strange. ‘The secret compartment in the book showed no trace of tampering, suggesting that the piece of enciphered text had lain undisturbed since the time it was placed there.’
‘If so, then how did Pearly also discover this secret?’ enquired Aurelia.
‘That must, for the time being, remain the subject of our speculation, but for now, I suggest we concentrate on the secret itself,’ replied Frankl.
‘Come on, Josef, don’t keep us in suspense,’ said Lex, unable to contain himself. ‘Besides, despite your earlier assertion, the flow of water is already increasing,’ he added, inclining his head towards a stream of filthy black water that was tumbling out of the inlet pipe into the channel.
‘Very well. I shall be brief. You’ll recall our speculation regarding the Brotherhood’s secret and their pursuit of the living stone. The information that the Piotrowski manuscript yielded confirms we were correct.
‘Abel could bore you witless with a description of the documents written during the Middle Ages purporting to describe methods of distilling the stone, yet despite numerous attempts to replicate these techniques by some of the greatest alchemists of our era, it has never proved possible to validate this early experimentation. No doubt many of these alchemists believed that they had created the mythical substance that could transmute base metal into gold or purify and rejuvenate the body, but their methods have never withstood modern scrutiny. Piotrowski’s secret notes are assuredly different, and having analysed them at great length, I believe they’re genuine.’
Strange nodded vigorously. ‘You already know my, er, thoughts on this matter, Josef. Piotrowski’s technique to prepare the stone is extremely long and, er, arduous, but it’s like no other I’ve ever seen. While it will take many months to replicate, I too have read enough to convince myself that what he describes is authentic.’
‘And what exactly makes you think that his method is any different from all the others?’ said Aurelia.
Frankl nodded to Strange. ‘Please, Abel, if you will.’
‘The answer is somewhat convoluted, but bear with me. Until now, we knew little of, er, Alfons Piotrowski, but I’ve filled in the gaps in his life with the extraordinary revelations in his text,’ said Strange. ‘Piotrowski was born in Amsterdam towards the end of the fifteenth century and spent most of his life there. Like many startling discoveries, luck often plays its part, and Piotrowski was the subject of a rather fortuitous visitation that ultimately resulted in dramatic consequences. Piotrowski was well-established within the higher ranks of the Brotherhood, but he’d been struggling for many years with his alchemical experimentation until, one day, an acolyte from Spain mysteriously appeared on his doorstep.’
‘Spain?’ repeated Lex.
‘Yes. The link with Spain was not unusual as the Netherlands during Piotrowski’s lifetime was part of the Habsburg empire, and consequently under Spanish rule. The Spaniard claimed to be a descendant of a man known as Maestro Canches.’
‘Oh, for goodness sake! The floodwaters could come pouring in at any minute while you relate the story of Don Quixote; is this really necessary, Abel?’ burst in Aurelia, huffing impatiently.
Strange looked hesitantly to Frankl, who returned him a curt nod, suggesting he should continue. ‘I’m sorry, er, Aurelia, but I believe this is, er, important,’ he replied, sounding even more flustered than usual. ‘I realise you’ve never heard of, er, Maestro Canches, but it’s vital in, er, understanding precisely how Piotrowski stumbled on the information that transformed his work.’
Aurelia shook her head but passed no comment.
‘Canches’ descendant related the story of a Parisian bookseller by the name of, er, Nicolas Flamel, who lived and worked in France during the fourteenth century. Flamel was, first and foremost, a scribe, but he had also developed a passion for the Hermetic art through his love of books. He began plying his trade by opening a humble bookstall on the market next to, er, Saint-Jacques la Boucherie. Through hard work and diligence, he saved enough money to purchase a property on the Rue de Marivaux, which he converted into a bookshop. One night, soon after moving into the new premises, he had a vivid dream in which he was visited by an angel bearing a fabulous book. The angel commanded Flamel to remember the book, for
etelling that, one day, he would own it, although he would not understand its contents.
‘Many years later, a man desperate for money visited Flamel in his shop bearing a curious manuscript. The book was magnificent to behold with archaic bindings of worked copper engraved with strange diagrams, runes and, er, hieroglyphs. It was written, not on parchment, but on the bark of a young tree in a language Flamel could not discern, but he, er, immediately recognised it as the book the angel had prophesied he would one day own. Flamel paid the man well for the manuscript and spent many years dedicated to uncovering the hidden meaning of the text. From his research and what the angel had told him, Flamel was convinced that he had found one of alchemy’s ancient fabled texts written by a man known only as Abraham the Jew.
‘For twenty-one years Flamel attempted to unravel the secrets hidden in the book, but despite consulting some of the greatest minds of his generation, he failed to discover the true meaning of the text. He eventually learnt that the book was written in, er, ancient Hebrew and that he would have to seek the aid of the Jews who had been persecuted and driven from the land.’
Aurelia could sense herself becoming increasingly immersed in the curious tale. ‘Where did he go, Abel?’ she asked.
‘Flamel set out for Spain hoping to find a Jew schooled in Kabbalah who could translate the Hebrew and help interpret the ancient text. Unfortunately, the people he met refused to discuss the book and would not say why. After months of fruitless searching, he decided, er, rather despondently, to return to France.’
‘Another dead end,’ Aurelia said, shaking her head.
‘Ah, yes, but miraculously, on his return journey, Flamel met a French merchant in Leon who knew of an old Spanish sage named Maestro Canches, whom the merchant thought could help. The pair tracked down the recluse and arranged an audience, and although it took a considerable time to persuade Canches of his trustworthiness, when Flamel produced excerpts from, er, Abraham’s book, the meeting was transformed.’
‘What happened?’ said Aurelia.
‘To Flamel’s amazement, Canches knew of Abraham the Jew and recounted his story as a Kabbalist of no equal who had recorded his knowledge and testament in a long-lost book. After Abraham’s death, the book had been passed down from generation to generation, always seemingly falling into the hands of the, er, person destined to receive it. Finally, after many aeons, the book disappeared from all knowledge.’
‘Did Canches help Flamel?’ said Aurelia.
‘He did. Canches was convinced by the authenticity of Flamel’s notes. Together, the men translated the ancient Hebrew and deciphered the symbols originating from Babylon. Unfortunately, Flamel had only brought fragments of the book with him, and to his dismay, it was insufficient for Canches to unravel all of the book’s hidden meanings.
‘By then, Canches was captivated, and at once agreed to accompany Flamel back to Paris, but the old man was frail and fell ill in Orleans on the arduous journey north. On his deathbed, Canches revealed the whereabouts of his son, a man also schooled in Kabbalah, and urged Flamel to make contact with him. He also advised Flamel how he should dispose of the book after his death.
‘Flamel returned to Paris alone, and armed with the knowledge gleaned from Canches, he finally unearthed the secrets hidden in the book.’
‘What happened to Flamel?’ said Aurelia.
‘That much is known,’ boomed Frankl. ‘Despite his new found wealth, Flamel did little to change his frugal lifestyle, apart from the purchase of a new shop in his old stamping ground on the rue Saint-Jacques la Boucherie. He spent his money on the poor, building houses and hospitals, and endowing churches, and lived out his life in great happiness with his wife, Pernelle, while whiling away the time writing books on alchemy. He died peacefully at the age of eighty and was buried under the nave of Saint-Jacques la Boucherie.’
‘Following his death, rumours abounded about Flamel’s great wealth and alchemical prowess, suggesting that he had mastered the transfiguration of mercury into silver, and thence into gold, and that he had also transmuted his soul.
‘Not surprisingly, the places he had lived were ransacked, and even his tomb despoiled, but despite the archaic symbols and runes inscribed there, no sign of Flamel’s body or the book were ever found,’ said Strange.
‘Was anything ever found of him?’ said Aurelia.
Strange smiled nervously. ‘Er, not until Canches’ descendent turned up on Piotrowski’s doorstep.’
‘Go on,’ Aurelia urged.
‘Piotrowski was already familiar with the story of Flamel but was astounded to learn that he had never been, er, buried in Saint-Jacques la Boucherie. In anticipation that his final resting-place would be desecrated, Flamel had arranged to be buried in the Cemetery of Innocents. The only person who knew of this was Canches’ son, whom Flamel had contacted just as he had promised.’
‘What did Piotrowski do?’ said Aurelia.
‘He immediately dispatched one of his most trusted agents to Paris. Under cover of darkness, Flamel’s final resting place was located in the Cemetery of Innocents, and the body exhumed … or not as it turned out. There was no trace of, er, Flamel’s body in the stone sarcophagus, but the legendary book of Abraham the Jew was there, which was spirited away into Piotrowski’s eagerly awaiting hands.’
‘What did he do with it?’ said Aurelia.
‘Piotrowski was, er, patently a learned man. With the Brotherhood’s network of influential European scholars to call upon, it was a far easier task for him to unlock the secrets hidden in the book. Armed with the mythical information the book yielded, Piotrowski eliminated the earlier mistakes he’d made in his quest for the stone, and within a few years, he’d replicated Abraham’s process to create the pinnacle of the Brotherhood’s dreams— their very own living stone!’
‘You said that Pearly also managed to acquire this knowledge for himself,’ said Aurelia excitedly, turning her attention to Frankl.
‘Yes, but, as to how … well … that remains a mystery,’ replied Frankl circumspectly. ‘Now, please, let Abel finish.’
Aurelia shook her head but kept her counsel.
‘I won’t bore you with the details regarding Piotrowski’s, er, technique,’ continued Strange, ‘but I’ve already begun the arduous task of replicating the process, and have, so far, encountered no obvious anomalies. It will take many months to complete the work, and I will, of course, er, keep you updated as I progress, but it’s a laborious process involving twelve steps, each taking a variable amount of time. First, there is calcination, and then, in the strictest of order: congelation, fixation, solution, digestion, distillation, sublimation, separation, ceration, fermentation, multiplication, and finally, projection, culminating in the production of the, er, Star Regulus of Antimony and Iron.
‘This substance is amalgamated with silver to create the Lunar Regulus to which is added a triple distilled quicksilver to produce a mercury capable of dissolving all metals, including gold, the so-called “cauda pavonis”, which translates to “the multicoloured tail of the peacock”. It goes by this name because the distillate hardens into a solid that’s as dark as pitch, but coalesces through many stages from grey to blue to green to white to orange, until finally, all that is left is a stone that is as, er, red as blood; this, my friends, is the living stone!’
‘Thank you, Abel,’ said Frankl, breaking the stunned silence that followed. ‘I’ll continue the story from here.’
Strange nodded, looking relieved that his speech was over.
‘So it appears that Piotrowski successfully recreated the living stone just as Flamel had done by following the method described in Abraham’s book,’ said Frankl. ‘It would be nice to think that the story ends there, but like everything else, I’m afraid it’s not so simple. Despite Piotrowski’s conviction that he had fabricated the living stone, the Brotherhood were less inclined to accept the veracity of this momentous discovery. Not one to give up, Piotrowski continued with his experimentati
on in secret, determined to prove that he was right.’
‘What did he do?’ asked Aurelia.
‘Piotrowski’s interpretation of the book in conjunction with the opinions of the experts he’d consulted, was that the stone could accrue or imbibe an individual’s characteristics if used in the correct way.’
‘I’m not sure I follow,’ said Aurelia.
‘Piotrowski deduced that the stone had to be incorporated into a person’s body to form a symbiosis with the recipient.’
‘Symbiosis?’ said Lex.
‘Yes. It describes a relationship that is mutually beneficial to two organisms, but without resulting in harm to either. There are many examples in nature where plants and animals demonstrate this interaction. I suppose, here, it’s slightly different, but by placing the stone in proximity to the brain, Piotrowski believed it would somehow integrate with a person’s nervous system.’
‘What exactly do you mean by “integrate”, Josef?’ asked Aurelia, eyeing him suspiciously.
‘Ah, that’s the crux of the matter, Aurelia, and perhaps the most difficult question to answer. If I explain how Piotrowski went on to use the stone, then perhaps all will become clear.’
‘Go on,’ she prompted.
‘Piotrowski was a trained physician as well as an alchemist, and with the help of a medical colleague, he performed a craniotomy on, of all things, his pet dog, Richelle.’
‘His own dog?’ said Lex incredulously.
‘Yes. Richelle was a wily old creature and had learnt many tricks during its ten long years of life. It was an ideal choice for the unique experiment Piotrowski was planning.’
‘And what exactly is a craniotomy?’ Lex enquired.
‘It’s a surgical term for the process of creating an opening in the skull. Piotrowski placed the stone into a pocket he had fashioned inside the dog’s Dura Mater—the tough protective lining that separates the skull from the brain.’