The Alchemist
by Bryon L. Havranek
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Table of Contents parts: 1, 2, 3, 4 |
conclusion
“More like 350,” replied Voltaire with a sneer. “He was ever given to exaggerations. But, beneath the charm, I found a rather tired and dismal man who stood alone in the face of eternity. He seemed to be glad to have finally gained a comrade with which to share immortality, but I kept myself at a distance, refusing to become embroiled in his strange schemes. Despite my best efforts, I never could bring myself to like the man.”
“Who was he, really? Did you ever learn his true name?”
“That I did. The Comte was born one Nicolas Flamel, a late medieval scribe who had also dabbled in alchemy. He had chanced upon his own formula for the Elixir late in life, while on a mysterious journey to Spain. There, in the remote Pyrenees, he learned of the secret from an ageless Jew who claimed to be none other than branded Cain himself! Flamel was forced to modify the procedure slightly, since certain ingredients were no longer obtainable, but work it did.
“Despite his flaws, the man knew his craft, and it was from him that I learned that the alleged immortality of the Elixir was in itself an illusion. What the potion granted was a certain period of longevity but, if one wished to continue to stave off the Hounds of Hell, one had to continue to partake of the mixture, consuming it once every century on the reoccurrence of the stellar alignment. Failure to do so would result in a most ghastly death, or so he alleged at any rate.”
“Flamel...” mused the doctor. “Wasn’t he some sort of forerunner of Paracelsus?”
“One may conclude so, though most of Flamel’s notoriety came about from literature published in the 17th century, and how much of that is accurate I cannot say. Of the man himself I soon wearied and, though we kept up a correspondence that lasted years, I never saw him in the flesh again. He disappeared into the inferno of the Revolution, vanishing without a trace. Whether he met with Madame Guillotine or simply moved on, I do not know.
“But enough of the matter. I headed south, then east, ever searching for a solution to my dilemma and, in my obsession, I lost track of the passage of time. Years passed without notice and I drew no closer to my answer. Of those who talked with me, most were charlatans of one sort or another; and, of the two others that had attained the Elixir, both confessed to the same drawback as the formulae with which I was already familiar. “But I refused to surrender and pressed on. Ever eastward my path took me, until my weary feet trudged through the dust of fabled Cathay. And it was there, in that ancient land, that a tragedy most dire befell me; the shattering of my soul resonated like a thunderbolt flung from the heavens and in an instant my life was over.”
“What on Earth could that have been?” asked Mather, too caught up in the story to consider the pain that his question might cause to his patient.
Tears ran down from Voltaire’s eyes but he seemed oblivious to them. He cast his fevered gaze once more upon the portrait of his beloved Marie and bit his knuckles in anguish. “Oh I was such a fool,” he muttered at last. “In my obsession to gain for her the longevity that I had, I forgot all about her as a mortal woman! For every second that I trudged through foreign lands, a precious grain fell from her dwindling glass until naught remained... and then she was no more. If only I could have been there at her side as she entered into the twilight years of her life... I am certain that it would have proven a great comfort to her. But, as it was, I was far away when she needed me the most, and all I could do when I received the news of her passing was to mourn that she had died alone.
“I returned quietly to France and visited her grave to say goodbye, though my excuses rang hollow as I confessed them to her somber tomb. Would that I could do it all over again, but I am sure that I am not alone in voicing such regrets about life. Therein lies a fundamental tragedy, that the lessons we learn come too late to change things as they occur and, in the appalling aftermath, all that we are left with is empty wisdom, so bitter to the taste.”
Voltaire finished his drink and flung the glass into the dying embers, where it shattered into a thousand glimmering stars. “Would that she had at least tried the potion that I had left her, but I broke her heart when I abandoned her and, in her sorrow, she refused to even consider drinking it.”
Dr. Mather looked uncomfortably at the glistening shards littering the fender. “What did you do then, if I may ask?”
“What was there left for me to do but to end it all?” Voltaire’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “What would any man do when he was presented with such a catastrophic disintegration of his very essence? All that I had stood for, all that I had cherished, was taken from me by the inexorable scythe of time. But tragedy was not done with me just yet. For no matter how I tried to end my life I found myself immune to all attempts. No damage lingered, no toxin proved potent enough to render me harm in any way.”
“So you found yourself doomed to an eternity of suffering, is that what you are trying to say?” But then Mather shook his head. “But wait, surely you must have remembered the singular loophole in the longevity offered by the potion.”
Voltaire rose from his chair and stretched, the joints of his back snapping like a whip. “Therein you have reached in seconds what took me up until today to realize, my good doctor. The key to my salvation. To see an end to this sordid existence all I must needs do is refrain from imbibing the Elixir a second time.”
Dr. Mather rose from his seat as well, a chill running through his body. “But what of the horrible death that awaits you should you abstain?” he asked with a shudder.
“No death can be as horrible as the life that I have had to endure. I would gladly face a hundred such ends should I be guaranteed that oblivion awaited me at the finale.” Voltaire tilted his head as he listened to the grandfather clock’s toll and a faint smile came like the dawn to his haggard face. “At long last I have reached the end of my journey. I stand now at the threshold of eternity and know a joy that I have not felt in a dreadful century.” His smile grew as he gazed at the painting of Marie Louise Mignot and, reaching out a hand that trembled with emotion, he gave a gentle caress to her cheek. “May we meet again, and soonest.”
For even as Voltaire had reached up towards the picture, the doctor saw that the man’s flesh had started to smolder; a cloud of bluish smoke was beginning to erupt from his hands and neck. The patient was soon enveloped in a thick cloud of choking vapors and, despite the desire to help, the doctor was driven back by the sheer intensity of Voltaire’s immolation.
Fortunately the heat proved to be of short duration, for which Mather was grateful, or else the entire sanitarium might have caught fire. Coughing horribly, he waved at the smoke in a futile effort to dissipate it and, holding his handkerchief before his face, Mather moved hesitantly to the spot where he had last seen Voltaire standing.
His ears caught the sound of opening shutters as the footmen rushed to open the windows, and soon a refreshing gust of sweet-smelling air rushed into the chamber, driving away the lingering vestiges of the ghastly fog. Able to see at last, the doctor bent down to examine what remained of his patient, and could only shake his head in wonder. For where Voltaire had stood now rested only a thin mound of the finest gray ash, all that remained of the once-great man.
Heart sinking with sorrow, Dr. Mather turned away and bit back a sob. Only at the very end did he realize the truth of what Voltaire had been saying, and he, too, felt the futility of hindsight. He staggered towards the door and paused as he opened it, looking over at the fireplace. “You men, when you are done here, I would appreciate it if you were to bring that portrait to my office. I would consider it an honor to preserve it in memory of... the recently departed.”
He then left the dingy room, entering once more the bewildering maze of passages. The other patients were all surprisingly subdued, as though the melancholy that he felt in his breast were being shared by one and all. Reaching the door to his office at last, Mather dashed inside and made straight for the liquor cabinet. He poured himself a stiff drink and drank it in a single gulp, then poured a second and shuffled over to his waiting chair.
Mather sat and rubbed at his bloodshot eyes, not knowing whether it was grief or the smoke that had made his eyes feel so raw, but before he could dwell further on the matter he looked down and saw a small chest sitting atop his inbox. He reached out towards the box with a feverishly-shaking arm, knocking over his forgotten drink.
The small chest was ornately carved from some sort of dark hardwood, and amidst the decorative scrollwork on the lid was a singular monogram, a stylized “V.” Mather’s heart skipped a beat as he drew the surprisingly heavy box towards him, and he sat in silence for several minutes trying to summon the courage to open the lid. Feeling a bit like fabled Pandora, the doctor wondered at what sorts of forbidden secrets might await him within the casket’s mysterious environs.
Eventually, he tired of empty speculation and released the catch, lifting the lid and exposing the interior to the stygian light of late afternoon. Squinting in the dimness, Mather gazed at the box’s contents and felt his breath catch in his throat. Within lay a thick glass vial filled with a bubbling green liquid that seemed to pulsate with an emerald-colored radiance and, immediately to its left, rested a thick leather-bound book, the weathered binding speaking of much usage and age: Marie’s untouched potion and Newton’s notebook to be sure.
Mather lifted the cover of the book and saw a small envelope resting atop the very first page, his name clearly spelled out in a strong and vigorous hand. The doctor picked up the envelope and sat back in his chair, studying the small white rectangle that he held in his quivering hands. Licking lips gone suddenly dry with anticipation, the doctor recklessly tore open the sleeve and yanked out a single folded piece of paper.
Fingers going numb, he awkwardly unfolded the document and held it up close to his face to see what the message said. Only three words marred the otherwise pristine whiteness of the page, the brief message conveying a profoundness that staggered the doctor’s imagination:
SO MUCH POTENTIAL...
The doctor sat the note aside and carefully pulled the journal from the chest, placing it atop the small envelope for later scrutiny. His attention now focused entirely upon the glowing green bottle, Mather lifted up the cool glass and held it before him in hands clenched in unspoken prayer.
The Elixir must have become enlivened even as Voltaire had met his grisly fate, both occurrences being brought about by the centennial astronomical conjunction that was no doubt taking place at that very moment. Mather let out a breath that he had not remembered holding and tugged at his beard. What could he do with the invigorated Elixir of Life, he wondered to himself. A hundred thousand possibilities raced through his mind like a raging wildfire of conjecture, the whirlwind of his thoughts spinning out of control, centered exclusively around the eerie little bottle.
Altruism warred with selfishness, optimism clashed with cynicism, leaving the good doctor in a state of absolute conflict that threatened his own well-grounded sanity. Hours passed unnoticed, time itself both racing forward yet standing ominously still as a hypnotic paradox of conflicting forces held the doctor firmly within a steel-clawed vice of indecision.
It was only with the faint crowing of a distant rooster, an anonymous harbinger announcing the birth of a new day, only then did the strange spell finally renounce its hypnotic grasp upon Mather’s soul. The very faint rays of dawn began to pierce through the dingy glass of his office window, not enough to pierce the many deeper shadows that clung tenaciously to the deep recesses of the room, but enough to cause certain objects of a lighter color to almost glow with living contrast.
The doctor’s eyes tore away from the flask and fell once more upon the small note left by that most mysterious and tragic of patients, and it was as if a veil had been lifted from his tormented heart. There was, he decided, only one practical thing to do with such a gift as had been bequeathed to him. Mind made up at long last, Dr. Rosseter Mather summoned all the courage that he could muster and reached out for the pulsating vial with a shaking hand.
Copyright © 2019 by Bryon L. Havranek
